The January Batch (of poems)

On January the 2019th, I embarked on a journey to publish a poem every single day. At first the idea of bulk poetry may seem like a rather terrible concept, but then you remember that Primark exists, and that’s proof enough that people love quantity over quality. I also expected to give up after a month or so, so really, it wasn’t that much of a commitment. I didn’t though, and now the whole gosh darn thing is a colossal, and indeed confused, unorganised mess. 

There’s far too much content for any but the most ardent fans to keep track of, and, let’s be honest, some of it is a bit crap. I knew it would be going in, despite my talents, I can’t be publishing a masterpiece every day. That’s almost inconceivable. I of course gave it my best shot, and I think I just about hit a 50:50 ratio of masterpieces to absolute rubbish. That’s quite good, isn’t it? One good poem every other day, some people don’t even write a single good poem in a lifetime, yet here I am, masterpiecing it up.

Back to the matter at hand, I've decided to write a few things like this in order to solve the aforementioned confused mess. So, here we go, travelling all the way back to January 2019, digging through the faeces to drag out a few champions of the poetry world. I pulled together 10 of them, so I could say it’s a list of the top 10 greatest poems of all time. Published on this website. In January. The 2019 one. I hope Google likes that, and Bing, etc.

The poet and his partner sit atop a hill in the Lake District.
Looking to the sky she points out a bird.
"Two birds" he says, spotting another in the distance.
"Yes, two birds."
They hold hands, clammy due to the effort exerted so far and continue on.
Thoughts drift towards man's inhumanity to man.
Neither mention it.

Ah, a poem about the Lake District. Never been. But I have plopped myself there via Google Maps, which is the same sort of thing, just without any of the effort.

Uri Geller invited some friends over for soup.
His mother passed out the wooden spoons.
"I'm sick of it all Uri" she sighs.
He ran to the cutlery drawer,
Seeking the stainless steel he so desperately craves,
Scattered the drawer's contents across the kitchen floor.

In case you are unaware of whom Uri Geller is, he’s a person famous for pretending he can bend metal spoons with his mind. In this poem, his mother, like the rest of us, has clearly had enough of him. I have no idea what their relationship is like in real life.

The heroic knight rode fearlessly into battle.
He fought a mighty dragon.
The dragon ate him.

Mark began to regret nailing himself to a plank of wood.
He didn't feel anything like Jesus.
And his feet hurt quite a lot.

Braving some religion there. It's daring, boundary smashing poetry. That's what the people like.

Spider-Man ran straight into the glass door.
He felt like such an idiot.
He considered it a failing of his Spider-Sense for the lack of warning.
He didn't really know what to do about it.

I was never really sure on the legality of this one. I figured if Marvel wants to come after me then at least it’ll be fantastic publicity. Not that I have any idea who Marvel is, of course.

Standing naked dread enshrouds me.
Powerless to appreciate the remnants of my shower.
I realise on this cold winter morn
My towel lie forgotten in a frosty room.
Help I cry, help, and help once more.
Nobody replies for I am alone.

Just a little dramatised showering. It probably was cold that day though, this is January after all.

She entered the darkness and her imagination raced.
Light filled the room as the switch was flipped.
There was nothing worth seeing anyway.

Donald Trump tries to look compassionate.
He kills some children,
Gurns and departs for golf.

Ignore me, I have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about. No child has ever died due to decisions made by politicians, and they never will. Who would even suggest such a thing? Perhaps this is one of those positive killings. He killed it with his wit and charm. Yes, that must be it.

The pirate always felt undermined by his parrot.
When he issued orders his companion would often remark snidely.
Being unsure if the parrot meant what it said really affected his confidence. 

A woman discovers a bite on her arm.
It feels rather itchy.
She sits back and appreciates that something wanted to be close. 

There you go, a collection of 10 poems from January. The first few months might be a bit of a struggle to be honest.