PAD 2019 – Day 27

Blending today’s Poetic Asides call for a “direction” poem with the Stroll of Poets prompt, “where the heart beats.”

 

Behind the sternum

 

is where the heart beats

in the most literal sense,

but also wherever it is that you

are closest to me.

 

It all comes down to impulses,

electric and erotic.

The zap of every kiss.

 

How fitting that it’s

about the size of a fist,

because of the punch I feel,

the pow, right in the chest

when I look at you,

remembering you’ve

chosen me.

 

PAD 2019 – Day 9

Writing about love is hard, isn’t it? Especially when you’re not really the romantic type. So here’s my attempted response to today’s “love or anti-love” prompt from Poetic Asides.

The Non-Romantic Defines Romantic

 

adjective

conducive to or characterized by the expression of love

noun

a person with romantic beliefs or attitudes.

 

By definition then, who isn’t this? Who hasn’t

felt this?  Only monsters  unwilling to consider

the way the features of the person most desired

adopt a kind of supernatural glow at sunset.

Or the way electrical impulses of the heart disrupt

when the person most desired brushes their hand

against your thigh. Or the way hunger of the belly

dissipates when thoughts stutter over the person

most desired and  hunger of the soul takes over.

Or the way the voice of the person most desired

becomes the most pleasing vibration to pass through

the inner ear. Or the way scribes of every language,

every age, have fumbled for millennia to write a single

phrase that can capture the emotion stirred when the

person most desired looks at you and moves their

mouth into that gratifying shape known as a smile.

Ruth’s Pancakes

Ruth’s Pancakes

I adore Pancake Tuesday, and not just for the obvious reason that it gives me an excuse to indulge in tasty, tasty pancakes.  It’s a day that also brings back warm childhood memories for me. I didn’t grow up in a religious household, but we did partake in many of the Christian traditions that have become the norm in Canada — Christmas, Easter and Shrove Tuesday (though we certainly never gave up any vices for Lent). My Mom made the best pancakes. I know everyone probably thinks that about their Mom, but “Ruth’s Pancakes”, as they were called by the many friends and family members who had the chance to taste them, were something special. We didn’t need Pancake Tuesday as an excuse to eat them, because the delicious cakes were also on the menu for many weekend brunches and even random breakfast-for-supper days. She’d make them into fun shapes, long before pancake art was a thing, and always let me eat way more than was necessary.

My Mom died just over four years ago, and since then I’ve realized just how many of my fondest memories of her, and of childhood, are ones that incorporate food and cooking. Food was love for my Mom, and it is for me too. Trying out a new recipe with my kids, or telling them stories about my family as we make a tried and true classic, is important to me. Emotion, nostalgia, that feeling of comfort and security that is especially treasured once you lose someone so close to you — all of these are ingredients in my best food memories. So of course I’ll be making “Ruth’s Pancakes” for supper tonight, to keep the tradition alive with my kids, and to feel just a little closer to my Mom.

Ruth’s Pancakes

4 large eggs

1/4 cup sugar

1/3 cup oil

3 tsp. baking powder

1 tsp. salt

2 cups milk

2 cups flour

Separate eggs. In a small bowl, beat egg whites until stiff and stand in peaks. An electric hand mixer works best. Set aside. In another large bowl, beat egg yolks, sugar and oil until light and fluffy. Add baking powder, salt, flour and milk. Beat only until mixed. Fold in egg whites. Let stand for 5-10 minutes. Spoon batter into desired size, or fun shape, on to hot griddle and bake until bubbles begin to form on surface. Flip and bake until golden brown.

 

 

NaPoWriMo – Day 17

Another natural fit day for the prompts. NaPoWriMo.net asked for a family anecdote poem, while Poetic Asides suggested a love or anti-love poem. I went with love, based on a memory of my brother and our cat.

Mistaken Identity

 

What convinced a bellicose boy of sixteen

to walk towards the chain link fence,

unprompted, but with a heavy head,

shovel in one hand, box in the other,

ready to gather what remained of our

orange tabby from the edge of a freeway?

 

It could only be love.

 

There it glistened in his reddened eyes when,

just as he was about to climb the fence,

he heard a croaky meow from below,

felt the nudge of our adventurous Rusty,

who’d been missing for three days,

pushing his head against my brother’s boot,

asking to be taken home and fed.

NaPoWriMo – Day 6

The NaPoWriMo.net prompt today suggested playing with line breaks to emphasize, or de-emphasize sounds, rhythm and thoughts. Over at Poetic Asides, the instructions were to create a poem with a food item as the title. A good one to mash up.

Pie Crust

I stopped trying
to make pie dough

You always told me
it was easy
only a few ingredients
just a little practice

Like the way they retire
an athlete’s number
the process is honoured
the recipe stored

You never wore
an apron — too fussy
just dig in and get it
done
but I should’ve
kept one
of your threadbare
tea towels

Mounted it in a shadow box
a smattering of flour
still
dusting the corner

 

 

NaPoWriMo – Day 4

The Poetic Asides prompt today asked for a “case” poem, and NaPoWriMo.net focused on the importance of nouns in poems, especially when trying to convey an abstract idea. I’m not sure what I wrote here actually meets either of those challenges, but maybe. I saw a photo of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s briefcase, circulating online today because of the 50th anniversary of his assassination. The short poem came quick as a response. A few words that can in no way encompass all the emotion inspired by one photo.

 

still-open briefcase

it’s the hairbrush that gets me.
too personal. like knowing the particular
cadence of a heart when your
ear’s pressed against a bare chest.

the newspaper, read and reacted
or kept for a later, quiet moment,
bare feet up on the sofa, giving in
to the heavy pull of rest.

but the book, tucked there like a message
in a lunchbox. don’t forget. I’m thinking of you.
still. it takes strength to love, true, but it’s there.
a second after the shot or fifty years later,
when you need it most.

NaPoWriMo is here!

Hooray, hooray, it’s the first of … April! I always get excited about NaPoWriMo and the poem-a-day challenge. For one, it forces me to write. Secondly, I’ve learned that doing these quick drafts where I just let things flow and lay off the self-editing can actually take the writing to new and fun places. Bad writing can be made better later, but it has to exist first.

This year I’m aiming to write a poem every day in a local, closed group with other adventurous Stroll of Poets members, but when I can I will try to post here as well. I will also try to respond to either the NaPoWriMo site prompt, the Poetic Asides prompt, or a combination if it works. Today’s prompt was certainly harmonious, with my local group, NaPoWriMo and Poetic Asides all asking for a version of a “secret” poem. Here’s what snuck out.

 

 

 

Seclusion

I know it’s hidden

under a span of cold mornings,

beneath a crust of snow,

below the hardened soil,

in the throat of a robin.

 

I hear the whisper

of a season

ready to emerge.

 

But still

I hold this secret hope

that tomorrow might bring

another Arctic gale,

another lash of winter,

another frigid night

with nothing to do

but make each other

warm.

 

November PAD – Day 28

Today’s prompt asked for a “love” or “anti-love” poem, or a mashup.

28.

It’s been a hard year to love. With every headline, a thickening of the skin, a shell forming around a once hopeful heart. So, necessity has invented new passions. Balms, for myself and my kids. Dance parties to pop songs I used to hate. More time reading — escaping into fairy lands, fantastic realms, places where the heroines discover the light, no matter how dark the journey. I look at old photos with new eyes. My cousin, gone now, but beaming then, so near the end. The radiant smile everyone mentions in their tributes. My baby niece smirking in her sleep, not just contentment, but happiness that she is here. Existence itself a marvel. A photo of my daughters on my sister’s lap, summer sun making them all squint. Determination engraved on their faces, like a monument to great change ahead.

 

 

November PAD – Day 17

Today’s prompt asked for a “What I meant to say” poem. I recycled/added to an older poem I had started,  because it seemed to fit the prompt quite nicely.

17.

No one ever believes the unwatched candle will burn down the house. Or things not said can turn to tumours. In his garden, knees to the dirt, the sting of thistle on his thumb, he remembers why he started that kiss all those years ago. Remembers the why, not the kiss itself. Heat beneath her maroon sweater, but not her tongue. Something festers. Some things fester for the better, he used to think. Last he heard, she was living in California. He wonders if she’s growing anything other than older.

November PAD – Day 7

Today’s prompt asked for a “days of the week” poem, or a “weak” poem. I may have inadvertently written the latter by trying to write the former. But I was inspired by goddesses, as I often am. Thinking about them always makes me feel powerful.

7.

We’ll meet on Friday. Frigga’s day. ‘Oh, Odin’s wife?’ you might ask, if you dig that Norse mythology stuff, and I’d bristle, lip pulled into a sneer. The default, still, to define the her by the him. Male adjacent. And it bugs me. But it might not bother Frigga, love goddess and all. ‘It’s unity, not hierarchy,’ Frigga might whisper in my ear, weaving my hair as she wove the clouds. ‘Love is perfect balance, do you see?’ And I might. The feathery breath of divinity warm and soft on my neck. And did she see, with her powers to do just that? Her own future, a uniform unfolding, one day into the next and the next? What good is precognition if you’re powerless to move? When you’re destined to sit, spin at the wheel, know and know you can do nothing? Friday is on the cusp, the end and the start. For Frigga, I open to you all I was and hope to be.