I really did write a poem today, but I’m not sure it’s fully dressed to face the world, so instead I will post the prompt I used: a 30/30 call to incorporate “constant / transient / permanent” into a poem.
Photo by Jakub Novacek on Pexels.com
Month: April 2021
PAD 2021 – Day 18
Using the 30/30 prompt “susurration” to build on a recent moment with my daughter.
There Will Be Gentle Things I miss normal she whispered to me as I rubbed a circle over her back, some kind of dial to move her toward sleep, toward an even quieter place than this darkened bedroom, where the hard edges and jagged ridges of the last year have dissolved into only soft S sounds, the small swish of two pages closing against one another.
PAD 2021 – Day 17
Using the NaPoWriMo.net suggestion to stop fighting the moon. Lean in. Accept the moon. Do what poets have done and keep on doing and write a poem that is about, or that involves, the moon. I added a dab of the 30/30 prompt, “house I used to live in,” too.
Another Moon Poem Nothing new can be written about the moon. No question or tribute that hasn’t been said better, brighter. How its round face has been held responsible for madness, but also revered. Relief in the dark. I’m remembering it now, on the back deck of our first house, no-cloud night with a handful of stars tossed in patterns that scattered differently than the ones we looked to growing up. I know you’ve marveled at it too. Felt tethered, just like the inevitable ocean.
PAD 2021 – Day 16
Both short on time and inspiration today, but tried to work the 30/30 prompt “dystopic diagram” into a micro.
apocalypse sketch a large circle in the dirt we trace for answers
PAD 2021 – Day 15
Today I took inspiration from the Writer’s Digest prompt to write a poem with a “_________ Story” title, and the NaPoWriMo.net prompt from Juan Martinez. It asks you to think about a small habit you picked up from one of your parents, and then to write a piece that explores an early memory of your parent engaged in that habit, before shifting into writing about yourself engaging in the same habit.
Kitchen Story She moved through the small space too quickly for me to keep track of her hands, mother magician with a whisk for a wand, tea towel for a cape, throwing the threadbare plaid cloth over her shoulder with a flourish when concentration was at its highest. I feel it now too, the furrowed expression of attentiveness on my face, a meditation almost, kitchen work. Poring over a recipe, looking for the unwritten instructions that will make for a close imitation, if never as good as hers. The way, I too, wipe my hands, then throw the towel across my left shoulder, as though the ritual will result in big reveal: here she is! Again, all along.
PAD 2021 – Day 14
Today I used the NaPoWriMo.net prompt calling for a poem that delves into the meaning of your first or last name. The example was this poem by Mark Wunderlich, appropriately titled “Wunderlich.” I went in a different direction, after finding some meanings of my surname, Mannix, here and here.
Name this green field after a rainstorm, the way the clouds cast shadows over a treeless meadow. Call the first blooming daisy little monk, for the way it lifts its face to the sky, gathers sun like faith. Mark your place on a well-worn path with the letter X, crossed sticks or the stems of two dandelions, so when the next traveller comes along, O' Mainichin or MacNeice, they will see something familiar in the inscription, knowledge that though the sounds may vary, over the course of one life or generations, something simple connects us to this place. Both as important and as plain as a blue pen, signing us into history.
PAD 2021 – Day 13
A quick snippet to go with the 30/30 prompt “ambiguous sunrise.”
Window Gazing All this waiting asking wishing yearning is exhausting. Sometimes it’s as simple as believing it’s there even without a clear view.
100-word story
I’m happy to have one of my 100-word stories featured today at Microfiction Monday Magazine. I’ve pasted my story below, but if you love microfiction as much as I do, please check out the entire issue here.
A Departure As he boarded the train, she drew a tissue from her pocket, thinking the tears would come any second. They didn’t. Numb. I’m just numb now, she thought, dabbing at the corner of her eye anyway. In case he was watching. “Last trip for the year,” he said on the drive to the station. “Then it’ll be just us together for months.” “I can’t wait,” she said, grateful he was looking at the road instead of her face. After his train pulled away, she stepped up to the ticket booth. “One way for whatever gets me the farthest,” she said.
PAD 2021 – Day 12
A klutzy accident and unexpected trip to one of my most anxiety-inducing destinations today — the hospital ER — served as inspiration for today’s poems. I tried to incorporate the 30/30 prompt calling for an “anticipation” poem, and the League of Canadian Poets prompt asking for connected haiku.
hospital thoughts is the opposite of anticipation, anxiety? hum of the air vent its whirring does not drown out my pounding pulse nurse asks for pain scale but there is no number for stress we screen fevers not people, says the nurse bring purse to x-ray rolling stool worn at the edges like this nurse exam 1 tired woman says to daughter it will be ok
PAD 2021 – Day 11
Working from two prompts today: the Writer’s Digest challenge to write a poem including a prime number, and the vague but interesting 30/30 prompt, “tomorrow today.” Apologies for sappiness, but that’s the way I get about my kids.
At Eleven Our heads are together and I can smell citrus shampoo in her still-damp hair, toothpaste on her breath when she tells me I’m worried about growing up. I know it’s not so-much the body she inhabits, the lengthening limbs and widening nose, that brings on this mental weight, but the bigger world. The thing I have no explanation for. The thing I too feel the press of, and understand that at eleven, she can already sense the goodness of childhood sullying, the way a frenzy of expanding bubbles start to pop and fade the minute the water stops. Inevitable slide into something new, that will contain so much greatness, yes, but also expose harsher truths. Tomorrow things, seen without sheen or shadow disguise. I cannot admit that I too worry about her growing up, not because I lack faith in her, but because I know it’s harder to walk once you notice what you’re carrying. And I want to shoulder it for her as long as I possibly can.
makes/me/so/digress 