Today I chose to go with the 30/30 prompt “borderline.” I tried my hand at a short acrostic, both because I am a bit busy today, and because I was a little stuck. Sometimes working with the constraints of a form is exactly what I need to get something written.
Today I tried to blend two prompts, the first being “another word for salvation” and the second being to write a poem in the form of a prompt. Intriguing, right? The example given was by Mathias Svalina, who posts his surrealist prompt poems on Instagram. You can find examples here, and here, and here.
I am absolutely wild about this style of poem, and wish mine had turned out half as cool as his are, but I will share it anyway:
Writing Prompt
In your notebook, with a black pen, write three words that remind you of salvation.
Say them out loud.
Tear them from the book, crumple or fold the paper, and offer it to the wind.
Place your hand on your chest and feel
it rise, as you suck a portion of that wind deep into your lungs.
Hold.
Think of the taste of an orange.
Your eyes are shut, but you know there is sunlight because it is not completely dark.
Not even in here.
Think of the first time you made someone’s face blush with playful embarrassment or
lust. Remember the first time it happened to you. If the memories match, you can hold
on longer to that breath. If they don’t, you can too.
Think of the sound of a closing door.
Count backward from four as you release what you’re holding.
For today’s PAD challenge, I went with the 30/30 prompt “corresponding with ghosts.” Fitting, because today would have been my Mom’s 79th birthday, so ghosts of a sort are on my mind.
I came up with a short poem, inspired by a ouija board, that I might expand on at some point. My one line to share is:
I don’t needa planchette to lead me to you. There are always dreams,
For this year’s poem-a-day challenge, I’m following the 30/30 prompts and writing with my local poetry group, Stroll of Poets.
Today’s prompt comes from Robert Hass’s prose poem, “A Story About the Body.” The idea is to write your own prose poem that, whatever title you choose to give it, is a story about the body. The poem should contain an encounter between two people, some spoken language, and at least one crisp visual image.
I write a lot of prose poetry, so I was excited about this prompt, and it came out rather quickly compared to some poems. I’ve tentatively titled it “It Doesn’t Even Sting” and my one line to share is:
Later, at home, when you’re peeling potatoes for supper, their skins sliding off in elegant curls, falling on your cutting board, you’ll think of the spot again.
Hooray, hooray, it’s the first of…April. Well, in a few hours. I think this is the sixth year I’ve decided to try to write a poem a day for National Poetry Month. However, it’s also one of the busiest Aprils I’ve ever experienced, so the goal to do this and polish (sorta) and post is probably too lofty. I hope to still write something from daily prompts, and will try to post at least a line from the daily work-in-progress as a way to keep myself on track.
What other poem-y things am I up to this month?
From April 22-24, I’ll be taking part in CV2’s 2-Day Poem Contest again. Always SO MUCH fun. If you’re up for it, you can find out more and register here.
The Edmonton Poetry Festival is back, and I am thrilled to be part of the Board this year! Events will run from April 24 through May 1, and I will be hosting a climate crisis workshop and reading on April 30. I’m very excited about that! Details and registration information coming soon.
It’s almost over! Do I write this with happiness or regret? Maybe both. Certainly finding the motivation to write some days this month has been a challenge, but it’s also been a kind of comfort to have a routine, and so many other new poems from others to inspire me.
The final NaPoWriMo.net prompt challenges you to write a poem in the form of a series of directions describing how a person should get to a particular place. It could be a real place, like your local park, or an imaginary or unreal place, like “the bottom of your heart,” or “where missing socks go.” Fill your poem with sensory details, and make them as wild or intimate as you like.
How to Get to the Back Deck to Drink Your Coffee
Never assume a short journey is an easy one.
Begin by preparing for diversions — a phone call you
don’t want to answer; the broken glass you’ll have to carefully
pick up, when a too-quick pivot to answer a child calling
from another room results in an elbow knocking last night’s
wine glass from the counter. Allow time for a loud expletive,
then a sigh. Embrace exasperations that end in small relief.
When it seems there is quiet — a gifted moment when no one
remembers you’re there — pour coffee into your favourite mug,
or your favourite right now, one that knows the shape of your hand.
Take soft steps toward your destination. Watch out for
the squeaky spot between the kitchen and the dining room.
Keep your hip clear of the metal chair, pushed back from the table
after someone’s hurried breakfast, now collecting sun
from the bare window. Casting shadow on an unswept floor.
Turn the lock on the deck door cautiously, with one foot out to
the side, that experienced stance to block escape artist cats.
Open only as wide as is needed for you to slip through. Don’t
pause at the threshold, overcome with birdsong or
the welcome wash of cool air. Just get out there. Sit.
And stay. Even after you’re needed on the inside again.
Stay, sipping hot coffee and staring at clouds.
Let a part of you remain.
It’s the penultimate day of Poetry Month! I think I say that every year on the 29th, mostly because “penultimate” is a fun word. Today’s #NaPoWriMo.net prompt asked for an “in the window” poem. Imagine a window looking into a place or onto a particular scene. It could be your childhood neighbor’s workshop, or a window looking into an alien spaceship. Maybe a window looking into a witch’s gingerbread cottage, or Lord Nelson’s cabin aboard the H.M.S. Victory. What do you see? What’s going on? I decided to look into someplace both completely familiar and always a mystery to me.
Head Windows
I’ve said how I wished
a tiny window existed
just above your right ear,
under a flap of brown hair
that I could part
to peek inside,
so I could see them
forming and burrowing —
your great and terrible thoughts,
your swirling spectrum dreams,
the shy ones that slowly emerge
from shady corners —
but if you had such
a window, wouldn’t I too?
And however would I justify
keeping it permanently
shuttered?
Today’s 30/30 prompt was simply “skyline.” The NaPoWriMo.net prompt asked for a poem that poses a series of questions. The questions could be a mix of the serious (“What is the meaning of life?”) and humorous (“What’s the deal with cats knocking things off tables?”), the interruptive (“Could you repeat that?”) and the conversational (“Are those peanuts? Can I have some?”). I decided, based on my ongoing obsession with the sky and constantly taking photos of it, to combine the two for a super short poem that I could potentially build on later.
5 Questions to Ask The Sky
How does it feel to hold the sun?
Which clouds are the teenagers?
Do you feel less alone after the release of rain?
What’s your favourite song?
Can anything, even blue, really be limitless?
Today’s NaPoWriMo.net prompt challenged writers to create a poem inspired by an entry from the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. The entries are very vivid, but the sorrows do have potential to strike a chord, or even get you thinking about defining an in-between, minor, haunting feeling that you have, and that does not yet have a name.
The “sorrow” that first jumped out at me was lachesism. The poem is still a work-in-progress, I think, so I’m not posting. But the definition itself is beautifully crafted.
lachesism
n. the desire to be struck by disaster—to survive a plane crash, to lose everything in a fire, to plunge over a waterfall—which would put a kink in the smooth arc of your life, and forge it into something hardened and flexible and sharp, not just a stiff prefabricated beam that barely covers the gap between one end of your life and the other.
makes/me/so/digress 