Month: February 2023

Swami Ponders

SWAMI grows uneasy: to transcend Samsara seems assumed,
DOGMA of a kind, but he wonders if desire itself forms the
SIEVE in which knowledge ebbs away, leaving only Avidya, or whether we are
BOUND, chained, not by desire itself, but by desire’s end.

Whither Turbo

TURBO, this if your third appearance; first time, I did
STRAY, redirect you to TURBOt, mispelled fish. Second time, forgoing
FRILL, I invoked your sense of speed. Perhaps, next occasion, I won’t
CLOWN, and wield you for an engine, if poesy can there be found. Perhaps.

Note: I tagged this with a tag, “meta”, which can be used to point at Quordle poems that go meta (i.e. they speak to mechanisms or the history of DQP itself–reflecting on the act of using words in a Quordle poem, say, or on the process of participating in DQP). The tag can be browsed at https://dailyquordlepoem.com/tag/meta/. Also, there is a “tag cloud” at the bottom of DQP’s web pages. The size of a tag shows you how often a tag has been used. This is what it currently looks like:

What the tag cloud at the bottom of DQP looked like on February 11, 2023.

Tongue-tied

We pronounced his name GAZER – he was Gaza Fraknovari, a
Hungarian boy whose family had escaped the revolution.
He had to find a way to LUNGE into the Kiwi-English all around him
Tongued by schoolboys careless of whether he could speak or understand it.
Unlike Audras Kuzma, who spoke BADLY, and never learned to speak
Better, Gaza’s mind was quick; in adult life he took a degree and passed
Easily. The mind of one GAUDY with the colours of the English language, the
Other, still fluent in his native language, lost in the language of his new country.

[Partly true, partly not. And totally out of the normal DQP format. Sorry!]

Running Out of Time

BADLY managed temper, faulty sense of pride–now a duel to fight.
LUNGE of epee mistimed, opponent ready with counter, and then: so little time left.
GAUDY seems the world with its colors as sight is ebbing,
GAZER laid out, looks up at trees and clouds, the last impression. Takes one more breath, his last.

Note: I guess this balances out the hilarity of Steven’s poem. Not that that was my intention.

Dance

LUNGE across the dance floor like an electrocuted giraffe, the room changes from

GAZER into guffawer with literal spit-takes as glasses shatter around

GAUDY dresses and tuxes and shoes. Someone––anyone––please help. I, I mean, he needs it––

BADLY.

See more at Notes by Steven.