Today’s poem is short but there are many doors in the photos, including some for the First Annual Thursday Doors Writing Challenge. Read on.
Prompt 29: “This one (=prompt) is called ‘in the window.’ Imagine a window looking into a place or onto a particular scene. … What do you see? What’s going on?“
“No no, not window, door!” I mumbled to myself as I read the prompt. But then I got an idea.
Yesterday I wrote in my poem:
why is it that today, on a rare walk without my camera, I find a door at our trash heap, clearly left there for a door lover but only good enough to take home in a photo?
Well… I went back. And good that I did since today the door is gone and it has been replaced by something especially for Dan. First the poem and then photo evidence.
A door from a window The door on the floor, the hole where the head should be, discarded in the night. A woman and a dog circle it from all sides, she returns with a camera. The neighbour texts the hitman: “She has evidence. Now.”
My poem is (more or less) in the form of a sevenling, written from the position of a woman watching from this window:
Our Thursday Doors host Dan at No Facilities is organising the First Annual Thursday Doors Writing Challenge. Until Saturday photographers, taking part in Thursday Doors, will be designating one or more of their doors for this challenge in their posts, and then anybody who would like to participate can write a poem, a story or a book (or anything in between) based on a chosen designated door until May 29th.
I wish to make it perfectly clear that any door that I have ever posted for Thursday Doors (and five plus years mean many Thursdays) may be used for this challenge, but for today I had in mind both doors above: the one on the floor with the hole and the door of the machine. Let’s see them again:
Dan will decide whether my poem above is already a candidate for this challenge.
More doors coming up. First a special postcard from the Azores sent in today by a friend. Much appreciated. Thank you!
And finally, a photo run-by the gates I did today especially for this post, no matter that it’s been covered and murky, in order to make a visual confirmation that I’m going crazy from these same doors that I’ve been passing daily since October. I need a doorsfusion.
This day in my NaPoWriMo history (2018):
Beyond the Tulips By Sylvain Plathless (a.k.a. MM) after Sylvia Plath's Among the Narcissi Rigid, sunny and not gray at all, like those October stones, Agatha straightens, out of her red beanpants, beyond the tulips. She is falling ill to nothing on the brain. Neither the tulips straighten away from any small soul : they silence its stripes below the yellow cave, nowhere where Agatha doctors the joy of her wounds, and runs and doesn’t walk. No dignity out of that; here isn’t an informality- the fruit plain, nothing like wounds, or the women breaking. We straighten or fall : should we bear other come-hithers? Or is it that preteens hate big loners? She isn’t very red; the lovely calm can’t try her breathlessness. The tulips don’t look down unlike adults, either slow or black.
This day in my NaPoWriMo history (2019):
This is one of those posts that you have to read in full. Oh, things I tell. 😀 Proud, not proud.
This day in my NaPoWriMo history (2020):
My pet Carries the heart on the windowsill, this one. Would buy the world a bone. Even better: cartilage. Doesn’t even shoo away the birds. Just smiles at them. “Amici,” she tells me, when they are clearly invading our air space. Sometimes she hides a treat for me to find, and I pretend to search for a while. It amuses her, like when I choose the wrong hand, without the treat. So funny. It can be hard to take her out, though. Can’t see it’s for her own good. Won’t leave the screen. Stubbornly sitting, like a mule. But frankly, all things considered, I couldn’t ask for a better pet. Owner. Pet owner. That’s what I meant.