Written for NaPoWriMo’s day 30 prompt: write a minimalist poem. “What’s that? Well, a poem that is quite short, and that doesn’t really try to tell a story, but to quickly and simply capture an image or emotion. Haiku are probably the most familiar and traditional form of minimalist poetry, but there are plenty of very short poems out there that do not use the haiku form.”
Also written for Real Toads’ day 30 prompt: “Write a poem in praise of a source of inspiration — your muse, your life, your own web of thoughts, your dreams or sleeplessness, your daily tasks, a favourite artist or musician, nature and environment, et al. Also, let’s keep it between 30-60 words — there is a certain beauty in brevity after all.”
The poetry gods have spoken, and the word is brevity.
This was a challenging, but fun NaPoWriMo. Thank you to all my fellow poets who participated and/or offered feedback.
This month, I eclipsed one-thousand views for the first time ever in all my years of hosting a poetry blog. Obviously, I don’t do this solely for the views, but it’s good to know that my silly little stories from this corner of the world are being read globally.
I chose not to reply to any comments for the duration of NaPoWriMo, hoping to focus all my energy on creating (hopefully) quality poems. I’d like to take this time to thank you all for taking time out your days to send some love my way. I truly appreciate it more than I can say. Thank you, my friends, and I’ll see you soon.
(Yeah, I know I owe you one more poem. I haven’t forgotten!)
Their pain is born from fissures
in a ruptured union, leaking black bile,
becoming tidepools of resentment
under moonless night of regret.
Intensity of emotion
has brought her into this world
blind and formless.
After the begging had ceased,
after the demands rose,
floating away as all hot-air does,
after the tears dried and crusted
in corners, after goodbyes
scattered wounded elements
the way all stars fall,
a series of electro-chemical sparks
ignite her coalescence into
nebulous idea,
as hurt, shame, and love commiserate
with introspection, perspective,
and empathy; her formlessness
is shaped into a proto-philosophy,
the light splitting her darkness
is an empty notebook, opening.
Her energy not lost, but transferred
as all pain is, she reclaims herself
after a lost cause, opening, pouring
her dark tidepools onto pages, her bile
shaped into words they wanted to say,
but were too prideful, too shameful,
too fearful to voice to one another
when it may have brought them closer
to joy; their Shakespearian tragic timing
cooling, on paper, appropriately,
into a poem which begins as:
“She is born as all are; from their pain.”
***
Written for NaPoWriMo’s day 28 prompt: write a meta-poem, or a poem about poetry.
It was just a dream; I grasp at the vapors.
Lying between them, I hug their legs close.
Unworthy of wholeness, I hug their legs close.
I can’t see their faces, yet I see their beauty.
I feel where they ache; yes, I feel their beauty.
It wells up within me knowing I am unworthy.
Their pain becomes mine and I’m so unworthy.
We lie there, and I talk of light we won’t see.
The night shines above; starlight we can’t see.
They take in my words in a naked silence.
We strip away lust, leaving naked silence.
Revealing softness, we bare our raw fears.
In dark, quiet space, we share our raw fears.
In dawn’s softened light, I relax my grip.
They scatter, taking flight when I relax my grip.
Released from a dream, still grasping at vapors.
***
Written for NaPoWriMo’s day 26 prompt: “write a poem that uses repetition”.
Recently, I’ve done more than a few repetition poems using various forms, but I haven’t dabbled in free verse repetition. I thought I’d give it a go while writing about a semi-lucid dream I had recently.
Granted, I (poorly) aped Jerico Brown’s brilliant style, so technically it’s not a free verse, but I don’t know what else to call it besides “style-jacking” so, here we are.
Oh, and I’m all caught up now, so it’s bourbon time!
Most take you to your future
– or to be more precise, they
get you to your present sooner.
But a select few can take you
to your past; a portal to a
magical era not too long
ago when books existed.
The right connection can
transcend barriers, linking you
to decades ago when you dozed,
commuting, curled within the arms
of the love of your life, before
things fell apart, or if you ride
to the end of the line, you find
your beginning at the local
community college, planning
what to be when you grew up, not
recognizing the tempered
greying reflection of what you’ve
become. Walk among the ghosts, but
you cannot interact to tell
your younger self when to be still,
patient, like a Zen monk; and when
to attack your barely sketched fate
with zeal, unbridled aggression;
some enchanted barriers are
not so easily breached, even
when using our trusted snow routes.
***
Written for NaPoWriMo’s day 24 prompt: “write a poem that, like ‘Dictionary Illustrations,’ is inspired by a reference book. Locate a dictionary, thesaurus, or encyclopedia, open it at random, and consider the two pages in front of you to be your inspirational playground for the day. Maybe a strange word will catch your eye, or perhaps the mishmash of information will provide you with the germ of a poem.”
This was almost an elegy about me not being able to find a single book – let alone a book of reference – at my current workplace (to be fair, my entire department is packing to move to a new floor, so most books are packed). Thankfully, I found a bus route booklet and flipped it open to a route I never rode on, but somehow it connected my present with my past and my distant past.
Yes, I’m behind a day. I mentioned writer’s fatigue in an earlier post, but that’s not what happened this time. I just have an awful lot happening in my life all at once. Don’t worry; I’ll catch up this weekend.
Also written for NaPoWriMo’s day 22 prompt: “write a poem that engages with another art form – it might be about a friend of yours who paints or sculpts, your high school struggles with learning to play the French horn, or a wonderful painting, film, or piece of music you’ve experienced – anything is in bounds here, so long as it uses the poem to express something about another form of art.”
(Blogger’s Note: I couldn’t choose between the two music selections, so I added them both. Whoopsie!)
She was beautiful,
long before learning
a self-butcher’s trade.
Long before swinging
lifelessly
from a tree in a park
– her final act completed publicly
after countless private attempts – her end
was pre-assisted
by the animal kingdom.
Nature was a
giant killer hornet colony
nesting in her head.
Nurture was meat
for a Komodo dragon
ignored by farmhands.
She was banished from
purgatory paradise
by serpent-creator.
The meat became her own
expert butcher, carving
fortune from flesh.
A successful vendor,
despite the killer hornets
devouring their share.
But she dared to be
discerning in company of
lurking painted wolves.
Scavengers and hunters
combined to consume her
to the marrow, leaving only
her final act of defiance,
her final words to
the animal kingdom,
a day before her final act;
“Fuck y’all”.
There is no solace
in burying the bruises,
as only the living bruise.
She ended her pain
alone in a park
by focusing its sum
upon her kissable neck,
compressing the noose;
a temporary evisceration
for a lasting peace
that eluded her infested skull in life.
Perhaps not the beautiful ending
a beautiful butcher like her deserves,
but an ending all the same.
***
Written for NaPoWriMo’s day 21 prompt: write a poem that “incorporates wild, surreal images. Try to play around with writing that doesn’t make formal sense, but which engages all the senses and involves dream-logic.”
I interpret that as “go nuts with abstractions and strange metaphors”, and so I did my best with this tragic tale.
April walks hand in hand with us. Her smile
brings uncertainty in climate, stormy chills,
carefree warmth, dovetailing into longer
days, the promise of rebirth capturing
everyone in a mania as the wind
forgets its origin frequently, blending,
gradually with our fickle visions
holding court with breathing, inhaling our
intimate fragrances, nostalgia heralding
jamborees, seeds of barren winter split, cracked by
kindness photosynthesized when the sun
learns what makes us yearn to prosper, renewed,
mitosis divides us, uniting us in singular
newfound gardens of song; cross-pollinating
orchards slowly showing vibrant colors that
permeate pigmentation of lucid-dreaming
quixotically and practically within the now;
romance feels like fantasy and yet tangibly
shimmers, like sun-showered raindrops, flowers
trembling within a sudden downpour
upending earth-tones with budding-green
visions of her saying yes to a stroll
within our botanical commons, our own
Xanadu, regardless of weather, storm or sun
yields promises, warming, refreshing us like
zephyrs announcing arrival of essential change.
April brings carefree days.
Everyone forgets gradually,
holding intimate jamborees.
Written for NaPoWriMo’s day 19 prompt: “write an abecedarian poem – a poem in which the word choice follows the words/order of the alphabet. You could write a very strict abecedarian poem, in which there are twenty-six words in alphabetical order, or you could write one in which each line begins with a word that follows the order of the alphabet.”
I decided to challenge myself a bit by doing a strict abecedarian poem and turning it into a type of opposite golden shovel, where each word of the last three stanzas is the first word of the first stanza, which means that I kind of did both abecedarian forms in one poem. I skipped a day, so this was my self-imposed penance.
It began with the kind of rain
that made me change my shoes
a healthy April shower needed
for continuity of respiration
as trees kneed saturated soil
roots rooting for their share
new leaves are budding, color
restored to pre-bloomed florae
vivid hues contrast with a heavy sky
unending clouds spill themselves
rolling in from faded sepia photos
I wonder if you’re enjoying rain now
just as I am, about two-thousand miles
and the rain-soaked earth between us
a miracle of technology at hand
and I couldn’t retrace my soggy steps
to you even if I tried, but I hope
you have a good view of a budding oak
I hope the rain humbles blossoms’ heads
showing you proper respect,
attracting good bumble-bee company
for reproduction and continuity of
respiration, for as long as this rain
is doing more service for you,
you who can no longer feel it,
as long as it does more for us
than forcing me into dryer,
sturdier shoes, then I ask you,
how can I not be content with it?
***
Written for NaPoWriMo’s day 18 prompt: “write an elegy of your own, one in which the abstraction of sadness is communicated not through abstract words, but physical detail.”
I almost skipped this prompt. Not because I didn’t find the prompt interesting, but because I did, and yet I struggled mightily. I’ve lost count of the elegies I’ve written for folks I lost, but I’ve never tried to keep the scope of my loss contained within the tangible world before.
If I’m dissatisfied with my resulting poem, it’s only because I had to restrain myself from bleeding wailing abstractions everywhere. This challenged me in ways I never envisioned, and I’m glad for it.
Hephaestus’ Waste & Cosmic Rubble 