It’s been a busy few days, and all I’ve been able to squeeze out for the daily poems are micros. My hope is to come back to a line or word or even the entire prompt at some point, and take another stab. For now, on this Easter Sunday, I’ve gone with the 30/30 prompt “lost in space.”
The right thing
got lost
in the space
between what
I shouldn’t have said
and the look on your face
A micro, responding to today’s 30/30 prompt “first word.”
Trying
to make the first words
of every morning
sound like Thank You
Today’s NaPoWriMo.net prompt asked poets to challenge themselves by writing a poem about something they have absolutely no interest in. Though I generally think of myself as curious, and interested to know more about most things, coming up with a topic was surprisingly easy.
NFT
My 12-year-old daughter
can better explain “Non-Fungible Token”
than I ever could. The obstinate me,
does not even try.
The future of art, writing, music, creation,
some say, but I don’t understand
a “digital asset,” coveted
like a Rembrandt masterpiece,
rudimentary clipart, auctioned like
an antique vase at Sotheby’s,
or how a Tweet can be valued
as though it were a Rumi original.
Just today, I have heard birdsong
through an open window,
held a rock in my hand, story-striped
in geographic history, and watched
as cirrus clouds feathered a blue-grey sky.
Tangible beauty, not non-fungible.
I may be destined
to live like an ignorant relic,
who will not get with these modern artistic times,
but as long as there is real wonder,
just out my window, for this I’ve got
No F*$?ing Time.
Going super short today with the prompt “stray post-it.”
post-it life advice
revealed through a torn corner
‘Don’t forget to b’
To combat the superstitious unluckiness of the number 13, or to embrace its good fortune, today’s NaPoWriMo.net prompt asks for a poem that, like the example poem here, joyfully states that “Everything is Going to Be Amazing.” On Twitter, to combat my own anxiousness and anger at the world, I often post something good that I’ve noticed, using the hashtag SmallJoysInTheShitshow. This poem is sort of like that.
13 Things That Don’t Suck
Dark coffee, consumed quietly in early light
A clean kitchen.
Catching the avocado, its neighbour the banana, in perfect ripeness.
Green apple scent of my daughter’s freshly washed hair.
Sexy shoes, on sale.
A purring cat on a lap.
Fresh cookie smell, greeting you as you walk through the door.
Opening a novel to the exact right page, even after the bookmarks slips out.
A heart emoji that would be a hug if it could.
Turning on the radio at the start of a killer song.
Pen strike across the worst thing on a to-do list.
Finding the sunglasses lost since last summer.
The chance to consider these 13 things, knowing there are many more to count.
Yesterday’s NaPoWriMo.net prompt was about something big, so naturally today’s is about something small. I went with found tiny poems about tiny, sciency things.
Four Tiny Poems
1.
huge discovery
something smaller than a quark
inside everything
2.
infinitesimal
an incredibly long word
for something so wee
3.
computer of note
always runs on sun
4.
how many phonons
make up the colossal sound
of ‘yes, I love you’?
Today’s NaPoWriMo.net prompt called for a poem about “a very large thing.” Yesterday, on Twitter, I saw an amazing video of a colossal sturgeon swimming in a Canadian lake. I took my title from the comments, and used the Canadian Encyclopedia entry on sturgeon to create this blackout poem.
Large
Primitive
Bony
class
in fresh rivers, lakes
some venture
into brackish water.
An ancient group,
fossils with long snout
toothless mouth
tail, long and slender.
They grow slowly
attain great size.
Female sturgeon
spawn
where the current is
rapid.
Feed
on the bottom
their protruding, sucking
lips.
Flesh —
delicious.
Fetch a high price.
Vulnerable. Declining.
See also Endangered Animals
Day nine, and going with a prompt that keeps me in line. NaPoWriMo.net suggests trying the nonet! A nonet has nine lines. The first line has nine syllables, the second has eight, and so on until you get to the last line, which has just one syllable. I had a hard time finding a subject, so went with the action I always seem to take whenever there’s a form that calls for counting.
Rat-A-Tat
At least once in the month of April
you will catch a poet’s fingers
tapping rhythm and meter
as though they were Ringo
magic-ing their way
to the perfect,
enchanted,
final
beat.
I have been a day ahead all week, not on my poems, but in my mind. But today actually is Friday.
Had to get the poem done early, because of other things that have to be done, so it’s short again. If I had more time (or when I do!) I would try the NaPoWriMo prompt calling for poets to name your alter-ego, and then describe him/her in detail. Then write in your alter-ego’s voice. Maybe your alter-ego is a streetwise detective, or a superhero, or a very small goldfinch. It sounds fun and creative.
Instead I’ve gone with the 30/30 prompt “roadside distraction,” which is also the title of the poem.
Roadside Distraction
The way a mother moose,
bold against a frozen
ditch pond, a snowy field, a colourless sky,
stands with head tilted back,
waiting for her awkward calf
to stagger its new legs across the ice.
If I could stop to take their photo,
I would — tourist imposing on quiet nature —
but in the backseat, you sleep fever restless,
hair stuck to sweaty forehead,
red cheek pressed against the window,
trusting me — for a long time yet —
to get you somewhere comfortable
and safe.
Today there were two prompts to choose from: “message in a bottle” or write an acrostic poem where each line starts with a word that, when read down, reads as its own line of original or classic poetry, or a headline, etc.
I had energy to do short poems for both (or maybe I was just procrastinating…).
The first, a “message in a bottle” micro:
my
message in a bottle
sent blank
rescue
is an easier word
to say than accept
And the second, with war and atrocity so heavy on my mind, I wrote an acrostic (below) that takes title and line inspiration from “The Soldier” by Rupert Brooke, which you can read here.
In Some Corner of a Foreign Field
If there is one benefit of war, to the snarling wounds of those who are caught,
I can’t see it. I will never forget her hand, edge of the photograph cutting off what
should be grasping a hot latte, or brushing her son’s hair before school. Thriving. To
die is always our fate, but not like this. No one should. When I can’t
think about it anymore — (she was wearing a watch, a wedding band) — can’t have
only these images of life stilled, stopped, in
this most horrifying way, I turn up my music, sweep the floor, make a list
of everything I need on my weekly grocery run, wallow in some life of
me that seems, now, utterly selfish and necessary.
Writing by Theodora Sterling
National Poetry Writing Month
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@Homegrowngirl2
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