I originally started up The Typewriter Poetry Project in January of 2015 as a new creative outlet that would allow me to find inspiration to write more short fiction and poetry. But between running this blog, my studies and other writing ventures, I didn’t have as much time for the TTPP blog as I would’ve liked. I really want to get back into the project so, I’ve decided to incorporate it into Moon Child!
So, here’s how it works…
TTPP is a project that aims to create personalised pieces of poetry and short fiction based on a prompt/starting point/idea given by the individual, meaning that you will receive a piece that is unique and personal to you; original and handmade with care and precision.
If you would like a letter with a personalised poem/short short story made specifically for you, please provide details of: your full name and postal address, your email address and a starting point for your piece. When I say starting point, this could be: a poem using your name or the name of a loved one; a toy or object that has a special meaning; a photograph you have taken; a situation you are going through; something you are anxious about; a feeling you want to express, etc.
- “I’d like to receive a poem based on this photograph that I have taken”
- “I’d like to receive a poem made up from the lyrics of my favourite song…” or whatever you like!
Be as specific or as vague as you want.
For this service, I ask for a small fee (usually around £1) to cover the costs of paper, stamps, ink etc. which can be made payable through PayPal, but if you would like to donate more for your personalised poem/short short story, that would be fantastic and very much appreciated.
To request your own poem/short short story, visit the “Sign Up” page for more info and contact details!
Once I have received your request, I will get to work to create a piece designed especially for you. You will receive your piece of writing on white paper and in black ink in the post along with a short letter from myself and a thank you note. Your letter will be sealed with a custom wax seal stamp and a TTPP sticker. I conduct the whole project by myself and create the pieces with my 1950s Smith Corona typewriter.
Find below the pieces I have created through TTPP and feedback I have received. (If you have received a piece and would like to leave feedback, please do so in the comments section below.) Scroll down further to find non-TTPP related examples of my poetry or click on the “My Writing” page above.
Click on the images to zoom in closer…
More examples of my poetry…
Click on the images to zoom in closer:
Textured grey layers, thick and woollen. Itchy. They must be opaque for lessons. Criss-crossed over tightly, to guard the hallowed chamber; taboo and sacred. A long draping hem for further protection; sweaty clasped hands over the knee, trembling fingers. Look down. Cover up. The footsteps, sniggers and shadows of good little school boys patter and hurry by. They are permitted to leer at, lust after and attempt to tickle what the keepers are told is shameful, disgraceful. Subliminal whispers seep through the impressionable brains, clinging to the dividing cells like fungus. The older ones say it soothes but the symbol burns; a crest, branded, as the excess skin slides off, dropping to the floor like melting plastic as He watches on. An ornamental woolly mammoth, frozen in time, stares at me from across the ornate ritual room as it happens. I am the only one who can see the ancient creature as lacerations are delicately carved onto my body. Decades after escaping, the scars still resurface; blister and prickle. “Never ever go out alone at night,” they teach. “Fight back if you can. Kick, punch, scratch, spit. Spread your DNA and collect theirs. Shout ‘fire!’ Use your whistle. Close your eyes. Wait it out.” Forcing themselves on their prey; they blame appearance and behaviour. The creatures secrete their oozing poison. The venom tarnishes the soul but keeps the hollow vessel alive, plagued, with seeming immortality; a ghost’s existence, not a life. While one is robbed of virtue, another is tucked into bed. A little girl gazes from her bedroom window, watching the burning stars, dreaming of a world with no fear for her. They are doing it all wrong. “Girls are never safe,” they continue to warn.
– STANDARD POETRY –
You lived within a sphere of scorching sun, tropical rain and green grass.
A thick bubble floating in time, upside down from the outside.
A small infinity, containing a million squashed stars, rich with sparks.
We have a never-ending story that repeats in loops, rewinding yet again
when the end comes too soon. Replaying through my light-projecting eyes,
gradually becoming more bitter than sweet. If I tilt the compass to the west,
I can still talk to you, see your fair skin and dusky hair; fading to translucent tones
as I question everything. I bounce the looking-scope and shake it in my hands
to see if the memory will blur or waver; to make sure you were real,
to confirm if you ever existed at all. You happened in a time lapse
that cannot be touched before or after but only within – even the time machine
is beginning to forget the heat from the summer sun, the drips from sweating
ice cream cones. I try to grasp the smells and sights as they dwindle and evaporate
into the air like the steam from the burger stalls opposite us. The magnets from our poles
slip more each day; the particles lose their pull as the sphere ticks and creeps over.
I push the buds into the little holes, either side of my head.
A lyrical, portable magic that bounces off the walls
inside my china skull; drowning in my ears. Frenzied screams.
Such impossible volume that no-one can even faintly hear.
The earth hardens, cracks, crumbles under my shoes;
I am swallowed whole, slipping, tumbling in a sinking cyclone.
Hazy irises, as dreamlike as sight through kaleidoscopic water.
The waves pulsate, vibrate, through my limp veins;
through the very core of my milky, hollow bones.
The words, the beats, the pauses, the myriad sounds
sprout like roots in soil around my limbs;
enticing me further, pulling me under.
The baby spiders legs crackle as flames do. They intertwine
around and through my body, intricate as fine lace is.
Oxygen is sparse, the air grows crispy in texture;
thick, with clusters of fresh bone marrow frost.
My lungs shrink to tiny dry oranges, insignificant to me.
I am cocooned completely, a helpless fly bound tightly
inside layers of sticky inescapable silk.
My predator’s pincers protruding, shrill; ready to pounce.
A gauze of lub-dub sound cloaks around me and cushions my frailty.
I nestle, like a new born into the bare rosy skin of its mother’s chest.
Cosy. Radiating soft, yet, thick humid heat. Licking lips for moisture.
I smile, giddy, even though my eyelids are gummy, glued shut.
The smudged luminous yellow light glows from the miniscule screen.
Daisy-like buds growing from shrinking ears into my pink brain.
An umbilical cord from the sound to the soul.
Contently wiggling toes. I am the last rooted in this world.
The rest have faded into fuzzy flickering images
of murky black and pristine white; bleeding ink.
Growing old, more delicate with each tired replay.
The swinging city’s spherical milk star shakes awake and rises in the dome;
it pours rippling liquid light reflections onto the dark, forever buzzing cobbles.
Crowded with millions of creepy crawlies by day, deserted by nightfall.
The frozen starry air so crispy it could snap, like gingerbread.
A white eclipse ignites the metamorphosis of the wolves.
Their skin slices and blood oozes in great glugs,
fur stretches through follicles, dark claws split their fingernails.
Wails ring hollow through the startled streets, shattering glass.
The eyes of houses pace back and forth as the bricks shiver.
Absence of the sun prompts the spread of ice on the pavements;
crackling with the shredding sound of a sharpened sickle.
The thick smoke that slithers and coils in clusters of silver scales
escapes the dogs fluffy jaws and circles their tracing paper skulls.
The foil snakes tie around, entice, grip even the youngest pups.
Prowling in packs at midnight, they target a length in a Skirt.
Creeping silently under the towering clock, curled tight to pounce.
Paws and tails let loose like arrows in open air, exposed claws for the Girl.
Her head spins round with the snap of a clean neck break, Her
pointed ears spring upright. Her shrill fangs gash through the furry napes.
Our poor wolves yelp as the white poison penetrates,
courses, contaminates their maroon blood.
They scatter and scuttle back to their alleys like rats as She
wipes dripping red from Her lips with the back of Her hand;
a black smile. The beasts scurry away, tails between shuddering legs
and melancholy, past a white roughcast canvas vandalised with: London Moon.
Pitch perfect precision on the end of the board,
I need to show symmetry and strength.
A taught steel string sprung into the air.
For a moment, I freeze and hover ten metres high,
I stretch out my wingspan before plunging down.
Rapidly, I fold my body into a tuck and spin
but I blink for a millisecond too long and lose direction.
Now I am flailing and falling, grasping and grabbing at thin air.
The soft turquoise water adopts the consistency of concrete
as I slam onto my stomach. My whole body instantly bruises
purple like watery paint on fresh paper.
I drift underneath the heavy, pressurised sea.
Time passes lethargically.
All I can hear is my own stunted breathing and
the sound from inside seashells.
I am weightless now, merely a little white feather.
I close my puffy, black eyes and sink to the bottom.
The pungent scent of hot chlorine floods through my nose.
Opening my bubbly eyes, I can see the depth of
the blurry blue pool. I soak my wounds in the warm
liquid before it embraces and carries me up
towards the bright lights, to the surface, to try again.
All compressed into a few short seconds.
All original work by Sophie McNaughton ©