The April 21 prompt from NaPoWriMo.net appealed more than what was on offer at The Found Poetry Review, which has suggested a number of prompts that would require a week’s efforts. Here’s the prompt: “Write a poem in the voice of minor character from a fairy tale or myth.”
Of course, always blame the woman
with hair growing out of her mole,
which is as old as I am, which is…
pointless for me to quantify. I’m forever.
Can’t help it that I’m always dressed in rags.
When you’ve lived as long as I have
you outlast the threads.
And the hair, well, how would your hair look
after centuries of dust and lice? Exactly!
Ah, my hair: Long, to my waist,
blond almost to silver
it caught sunlight and moonglow
once upon a time.
.Well, no point dwelling in the past.
What’s done is done.
That ancient troll’s curse made me
what I am and will stay.
No wonder I spike apples with
my special brand of wormwood
and slick it on needles in haystacks,
thorns, spindles, whatever sharp will
pierce the soft, white skin
of anything young, anything happy.
Wouldn’t everything lovely
make you angry, too?
Day 21 prompt: Fairy tale skew
The April 21 prompt from NaPoWriMo.net appealed more than what was on offer at The Found Poetry Review, which has suggested a number of prompts that would require a week’s efforts. Here’s the prompt: “Write a poem in the voice of minor character from a fairy tale or myth.”
Of course, always blame the woman
with hair growing out of her mole,
which is as old as I am, which is…
pointless for me to quantify. I’m forever.
Can’t help it that I’m always dressed in rags.
When you’ve lived as long as I have
you outlast the threads.
And the hair, well, how would your hair look
after centuries of dust and lice? Exactly!
Ah, my hair: Long, to my waist,
blond almost to silver
it caught sunlight and moonglow
once upon a time.
.Well, no point dwelling in the past.
What’s done is done.
That ancient troll’s curse made me
what I am and will stay.
No wonder I spike apples with
my special brand of wormwood
and slick it on needles in haystacks,
thorns, spindles, whatever sharp will
pierce the soft, white skin
of anything young, anything happy.
Wouldn’t everything lovely
make you angry, too?
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