PAD Challenge – Day 30

The End. Finito. The Final Day. I feel both relieved and rueful that today marks the end of the April poem-a-day challenge. It’s been fun, frustrating and enlightening, as so many of the prompts I’ve followed have allowed me to try new things. And I hope it’s not the end for some of the poems I’ve written. From revision comes afterlife.

For today’s poem, I took the “dead end” prompt at Poetic Asides and combined it with This Is Not A Literary Journal’s suggestion to write a poem to a place you’ve never been.

 

Addressing the Road

 

The mystery is too inviting,

so we choose you, trackless road

with your shadowy mouth,

and moss-coated branches

that crook and join

their sisters on the other side.

And we do hear the crows calling

deadend deadend deadend, but

crafty as they are, what do they

know about adventure?

It’s a gamble, we know, but

we’ll take our chances, road.

We’ll know when

we’ve found the place.

We’ll hear it in the swish of leaves,

whispering, where you end

is where you start.

 

The NaPoWriMo site has been celebrating poets in translation all month long. It’s been wonderful discovering the work of poets who write from a voice and experience outside the North American one I’m so often exposed to. And it’s been a great reminder that the best poets create images that are universal. Because it’s “the end” of the PAD journey for this year, I was reminded of this stellar poem “After a Death” by Swedish poet Tomas Tranströmer.

And a final note: to anyone who’s read even one of my posts this month, thank you so very much. I’ve been writing all month to stretch my own poetic muscles, and posting to keep myself on track, but to know there are readers out there who’ve joined me in the experiment is extra sweet icing on the cake.

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PAD Challenge – Day 29

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt asked for an “I remember” poem, in the vein of poet and artist Joe Brainard’s book-length poetic memoir I Remember. This Is Not A Literary Journal asked for another “word salad” prompt incorporating a list of random words. I decided to write a memory sentence for each word, to see if any theme emerged. I had twelve meandering memories, that I then pared down to this, using the words pocket, weep and lump from the list. I don’t think it’s complete yet, but it was an interesting exercise. I might even be able to grow other poems out of the discarded memories.

I Remember

 

The brushed velvet softness

of the crumpled tissues

my Mom pulled from her coat pocket.

 

Once, I watched her weep without a sound,

after the call about the suicide, and wondered

how the deepest pains could be the quietest.

 

Later that year, visiting my uncle’s farm,

I poked a lump of hard dirt with a stick,

and stood rapt as dozens of sow bugs

erupted from its core.

PAD Challenge – Day 28

The end of the poem-a-day challenge is near, and I realize I’ve been avoiding the “form” prompts all month. So today I decided to give it a go, combining the tritina challenge at This Is Not A Literary Journal with the Poetic Asides suggestion to write an “Important ______ ” poem. Got a little sappy with this one, as is often the case in my first drafts, but in the spirit of the PAD challenge, I’m posting it anyway.

 

Important Moments in History

 

Starting small in a city so big,

bachelor suite, in a muddle of buildings that blocked the sun.

My hand-carved table and your vintage Pepsi cooler, sharing the room.

 

From the dirty window of the hospital room,

you looked for proof of something this big.

A photo of the rising sun.

 

We bulged like the sun,

finding ways to make a little more room.

The space a child fills is infinitely big.

 

This house isn’t big, but there’s sun in every room.

 

 

Today’s emphasis on what’s important reminded me of the wonderful, tongue-in-cheek poem, simply titled “Poetry” by Marianne Moore.

PAD Challenge – Day 27

Going for a prompt combo again with the Poetic Asides suggestion to write a “take off” poem, and the NaPoWriMo site’s advice to experiment with long-lined poems. I am currently part of a mentorship program with the Writer’s Guild of Alberta, and my skilled and wise mentor Sue Sinclair has been encouraging me to play with longer lines too — both in new poems, and during the revision process with older poems — just to see how things might change or improve. It’s so interesting to see how a poem’s meaning and impact can change depending on the line lengths and breaks.

 

Taking Off

 

She ran faster than I knew she could, her giggles growing louder

with every footfall, unconcerned or maybe spurned on

by my shouts to Stop! Please sweetie, stop!   A game.

Discovering her legs and going, the way only kids can go,

loose-limbed and barreling ahead, wearing joy like a helmet,

outpacing my longer, stronger strides, and my terror as she

veered off the sidewalk and into the road, oblivious to harm.

Blessed with sun, and no traffic, that summer afternoon — she ran

clear to the other side, then stopped. Beaming, as she called back

I won, Mommy! I won!

 

The “take off” prompt reminded me of a famous Canadian poem, “High Flight” by John Gillespie Magee, which is now used as the official poem of the Royal Canadian Air Force.  Whether or not we’re pilots, I think all of us have dreamed of slipping “the surly bonds of Earth”.

 

PAD Challenge – Day 26

It’s often said that every poem is a love poem. I think there’s a lot of truth to this, probably because the word “love” encompasses so much. Today’s Poetic Asides prompt asked for a love or anti-love poem. The first thing that came to my mind was this (overly) sentimental memory of my first daughter’s birth.

A Photo I Wish I Had

 

My husband’s profile, the strong jaw

as he held my hand,

held me to the moment,

of our daughter’s reluctant arrival

into our brighter world.

 

 

To me, the best love poems are nuanced with the bittersweet. I think the poem “Adolescence” by P.K. Page captures new love and innocence so well, and the shift to a more mature love, which is usually less than perfect.

 

PAD Challenge – Day 25

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt suggested taking a line from someone else’s poem to use as a starting point for your own. What an interesting exercise! So naturally I decided to combine it with the Poetic Asides prompt to write an “exercise” poem. ** The opening line comes from “A Hand”  by Jane Hirshfield.

Hand Exercises 

 

A hand is not the thick thatch of its lines

with their infinite dramas,**

or the hardness, length or polish of its nails.

 

A hand is not defined by everything it’s touched,

or everything it’s wished to.

 

A hand is a tool, for work fine or heavy,

and that it feels makes the work

possible, wonderful or unbearable.

 

And it shouldn’t take practice,

yet it does

to reach it out, offer it up,

to lift, pull, hold,

let the purpose in the fingers

overrule the jaded brain

when it chides:

you alone can’t make a difference.

PAD Challenge – Day 24

Today’s Poetic Asides prompt asked lost and found. I found myself a little lost for words, but did squeak out a few micro-minis.

 

lost art –

handwriting

the letter

*****

planting time

uncovering

the squirrel’s stash

*****

so easy to lose

so hard to find —

my patience

*****

pregnancy weight

never lost

but so much gained

*****

 

This Is Not A Literary Journal suggested writing a poem about who or what you dreamed of last night. I have mined my dreams for poems before, but this morning I couldn’t remember any specific details. When I do remember my dreams, they are often about the people I love, and sometimes people I’ve lost, which is maybe why I am so drawn to “Dreaming About My Father” by Ed Ochester, The details about the garden are my favourite part.

 

PAD Challenge – Day 23

Today’s Poetic Asides prompt called for a poem about footwear. I cheated a little, and morphed something I had previously started into this haibun of sorts.

Ouroboros

I’ve accepted that the oceans will grow to gobble cities — mostly the too-big, grimy ones. Polar bears will be drawn like unicorns on children’s stickers with rainbows and hearts. Mangoes will grow in Canada. I guess what I’m saying is, it’s not all bad. Sure, the ancient Greeks  never dreamed of globalisation. Twitter. 24-hour Wal-Marts. But wouldn’t they be dazzled? Wouldn’t they gape at our toys, the parasitic progress? Say: this isn’t what we meant when we talked about Beauty and certainly not Justice but we know you’re trying to mime Good. We applaud your effort. Maybe they’d tell us that when we’re long gone, circles will still be imperfect. The sky will still be blue. Nothing changes that much.

Sneaker sale —

whose soul’s been sold

for this sole?

 

Sonnets are the theme of the day at NaPoWriMo. I’ve attempted sonnets before with little success, which is perhaps why I am so enamored with the ones that work — both classic and modern style. One I am especially fond of is “Blank Sonnet” by George Elliott Clarke, our current Canadian Parliamentary Poet Laureate (with darn good reason!)

PAD Challenge – Day 22

Happy Earth Day! The NaPoWriMo prompt today asked for poems to Mother Earth, and the Poetic Asides prompt suggested starting or titling poems with Star____.  I decided to do some micro mashing with these:

stark beauty
desert lily
full bloom

*****

starving
for attention
lost dog

*****

star maps
catching dust
in his new condo

*****

star anise
celebrity
of the spice cupboard

*****

starfruit
a taste of heaven
in my smoothie

*****

starlings
trembling
in the aspen

*****

I liked the prompt suggested by This Is Not A Literary Journal to take 8-10 words from your favourite recipe, and mix it into a poem. Short on time today, so I will have to bookmark that for another day. However, I did decide to see what came up when I searched other “recipe” poems, which led me to this celebratory poem called “A Recipe For Whisky” by Scottish poet Ron Butlin.

PAD Challenge – Day 21

Playing the mash-up game again with the NaPoWriMo prompt to write a poem in the voice of a minor character from a fairy tale or myth, and the Poetic Asides prompt to write a response to another poem. Tailor-made for fun! I chose to step into the skin of one of the “ugly stepsisters,” portrayed as villains in almost every version of Cinderella. I’m a fan of the “Revolting Rhymes” by Roald Dahl, but never much liked that his “Cinderella” was still the heroine, so I decided to spin that a bit with this:

The Real Gory Truth

Sister Number Two, indeed.

I have a name, it’s Dorothee

A family name, my grandma’s yet,

a clever and sweet, blue-eyed coquette.

While I didn’t inherit her pretty looks,

I’ve got the brains, read many great books.

Which is why I’m here to set things straight,

about heinous young Cindy, and our cruel fate.

My sister and I were not blessed of face,

but villainous? No, it’s just not the case.

It’s Cindy who excelled at malice,

conniving, convincing and always so callous.

My sister’s face was blistered and scarred,

when Cindy caught her quite off guard,

and threw hot ash upon her skin

said I’d be next if I told of the sin.

She trained her rats for nasty work,

into our rooms at night they’d lurk,

and bite us both from nose to toe,

then Cindy claimed we were the foes.

Wolfsbane she cooked into our stew.

We thought we had the deathly flu.

But it did not kill us as she planned

so Cindy devised a scheme so grand.

Involving the Prince, if you can believe,

he’s a handsome one, but quite naive.

Cindy arrived like light to the summer ball,

her choice in footwear had the Prince enthralled.

It was always the rumour, his fetish I guess,

and silly me spent so much time on my dress.

At midnight dashed Cindy, leaving her slipper behind,

whomever the owner, the Prince needed to find.

It was she he would marry, and worship those feet,

but those nasty trained rats helped our Cindy to cheat.

They switched up the shoe for my sister’s old sandal,

when the Prince made the fit it was too much to handle:

so repulsed was he by my sister’s maimed face,

that he dropped to the ground, writhing in place.

Cindy didn’t miss a beat, grabbed for his sword,

then whacked my poor sister right in the gourd,

Her head, it rolled, my heart nearly did stop,

but then Cindy took mine with one skillful chop.

When the Prince came to, Cindy shrieked and said,

“This royal brut struck my poor sisters dead!”

They locked up the Prince, for the good of the land,

and some stupid jam maker took Cindy’s cold hand.

They’re married, with a daughter, growing wicked as her,

she’ll be just like her mother, demon child for sure.

This whole tale I write from the other side,

that you believed her so long leaves me quite mystified.

Leave it to Cindy to beguile with her wiles,

but remember the beast behind her bright smile.

 

 

April 21 is also Poem In Your Pocket Day! Please share the love of verse in any way you can. The League of Canadian Poets has some great ideas here.