ROW80 Week 6: Measured

This week has reminded me of the importance of working on goals first.

I did write on five days, and recite poems on as many, but I wasn’t as focussed as I was last week. Nor was it as much writing; I only got about 60 words written towards Conkers.

But I’m starting this week well rested, and with high hopes.

Good luck and happy writing!

Since the usual linky doesn’t seem to be working, look at the check-in post for other participants.

Building Blocks

Upon each stone, a face: a soul denied
And left to linger on this beach of lies,
That rings the turbid sea where kings reside.
This is the place a dream goes when it dies.

And huts and towers high each take a stone,
To rest beneath the basement, dark and sealed,
With all the things we'd rather leave unknown.
A stony beach becomes an empty field.

When next a roof is raised, and gods demand
The soul of one a monster newly named,
Who will be lost to honour the command?
Who live on knowing that a life was claimed?

In dreams I saw the place these stones are laid;
My waking mind forgets — or is afraid.

ROW80 Week 5: Hard to Measure

(other participants)

Despite my late start, this first week went well.

Since I joined the round on Tuesday, I went over the poems I’m memorising every day, and wrote on five of those six days. I’m pretty happy with my writing progress: about 400 words on Conkers, and another 600 on a different writing project.

Seeing as I was on leave until Wednesday, I probably could have done more than that. But I’ll wait until I’ve done a normal week before I change any goals.

Good luck and happy writing!

ROW80 Week 4: Joining Belatedly

(other ROW80 writers)

My ROW80 participation has been in hiatus while I was in Europe, hence the late goals post.

Regarding Europe: the most memorable part of the trip was probably the war memorials in Berlin. I feel like I should be talking about the enormity of the Holocaust, but it was the occupation of Poland that most frightened me.

New Goals

Since I’m still trying to keep up with the roleplaying group, I don’t want to aim too high this round; on the other hand, I really don’t want my other writing to stagnate.

Put time towards memorising poetry at least five days a week.
Iambic pentameter has become a bit of a rut for me; I can slip into it easily, even when I want to write something other than a sonnet. Hopefully learning poems in other styles will help me get around that.

Write at least 300 words on Conkers each week.
This gives me about half the time I was spending on Conkers spare to use for roleplaying stuff.

Write at least five days a week.
Reducing this since I couldn’t really keep up with the six-day goal.

Good luck and happy writing!

Moths to a Flame

"A hero died today." These words alone
Were posted on the door of Daltham's Inn.
That was enough to make the tale known,
So often has the news of late come in.

Once did the Dalthams serve a well-worn road
Where travellers, traders, priests and troops would pass,
And often stop to set aside their load;
To sleep, or dine, or sip an honest glass.

But now a dragon soars above these hills
And asks a toll that few but lords could pay.
With flesh of those too poor, its larder fills.
Now only fools and slayers come this way.

Today they lost the last they'd hoped could win;
Tomorrow, armed, the staff will leave the inn.

What Was Left

In piles high, the gold of olden kings
And silver goblets set with polished jade;
Great iron gates and dainty wire-wrought things.
The cream and crest of all the Earth once made.

A sword of steel unmatched before or since:
Damascus wrought, the proof its patterned sheen.
A cut-quartz circlet fit to crown a prince,
With single, giant emerald glinting green.

The heady scent of spices stored in bulk
And clearest honey, in the rarest jars.
A bottled squid — formaldehyde-drenched hulk —
Its wall-set jar a window to the stars.

A treasure ark, on dying sunbeams hurled,
To bear the wonders of a finished world.

Long In Returning

Prepare now for the plunge into the deep:
To slumber through that sea of currents strange,
To flee the storms rampaging as we sleep,
And know we'll waken to a world of change.

We fall to face the grim Leviathan,
Who once survived the storms that now return.
From such an ancient mind, we'll dare to learn
A history we hope contains a plan.

To floods, we leave the rooms that were our home.
To thunderstorms, the towers of our song.
To leaf and thorn, the lands we made our own.
To hope and pride, our boasts when we were strong.

Our wisdom, both witheld and not yet won,
We'll save till we can rise and face the sun.