Writing Prompts

Wednesday Prompt [1]

Today’s prompt is…

“Dear Diary, last night went on a date with the DuoLingo bird.”

Have fun with it!

Find more prompts at http://instagram.com/poesyprompts

Writing Prompts

Sunday Prompt: [1]

Every day I see such beautiful original pieces posted on blogs from all over the world. Creative expression is so important, especially through the difficult times. It’s been a tough year for everyone and at times it can feel like the finish line keeps moving further and further away.

Something that I find particularly soul-cleansing is to move my mind away from everything real for a moment and to write something short and silly about, well, nothing. To briefly forget about the heavy stuff and scribble a paragraph or two about something that is completely unimportant is truely therapeutic.

As we’re all looking for that bit of respite in these strange times, in my small attempt to help out, I will be posting a writing prompt every Sunday that will (hopefully) inspire your mind to move to the realm of the silly, even if only for a while.

If any of my prompts inspire you to put pen to paper (or fingers to keys?), I would love to read whatever you come up with (link it in the comments below so everyone can visit your post), but even if it hides away in your notebook never to be read by anyone, I hope you have fun writing it.

Onto the main event! Today’s prompt is:

“Who knew a tea cosy could be so deadly?”

Get writing!


The Cure at Troy – Séamus Heaney

On the day of President Joe Biden’s inauguration, I thought I would share with you a dedication by Irish news network RTÉ that was broadcast the day he was elected. Playing over the clip is audio of Joe Biden himself reading an excerpt from Séamus Heaney’s The Cure at Troy. It is both poignant and beautiful. I hope you enjoy.

Human beings suffer

They torture one another,

They get hurt and get hard.

No poem or play or song

Can fully right a wrong

Inflicted and endured.

The innocent in gaols

Beat on their bars together.

A hunger-striker’s father

Stands in the graveyard dumb.

The police widow in veils

Faints at the funeral home.

History says, Don’t hope

On this side of the grave…

But then, once in a lifetime

The longed-for tidal wave

Of justice can rise up,

And hope and history rhyme.

So hope for a great sea-change

On the far side of revenge.

Believe that a further shore

Is reachable from here.

Believe in miracles

And cures and healing wells.

Call miracle self-healing:

The utter, self-revealing

Double-take of feeling.

If there’s fire on the mountain

Or lightning and storm

And a god speaks from the sky

That means someone is hearing

The outcry and the birth-cry

Of new life at its term.