Just a brief blurt today, in response to the Poetic Asides prompt calling for a poem built around a metaphor. Had to make it a quickie, because I’m still working on my poem for CV2‘s 2 Day Poem Contest (with little over 12 hours to go) and I’ll be heading to read at this fun Stroll of Poets Magpie Poems chapbook launch later this afternoon.
Anxiety
A tornado in the dark
twisting
past get-over-its &
future but-what-ifs
into a rapidly rotating
system
of sleep destruction.
Went weird, and steam of consciousness for Friday the 13th. I combined the NaPoWriMo.net prompt asking to upend or change a popular saying, with the Poetic Asides prompt asking for an insect title poem. I settled on the phrase “barking up the wrong tree” and changed it (I don’t know why) to “whispering into a flower’s ear.” That naturally made me think of bees.
The Bees
There have been first-hand reports of bees in the area. Bumbling from one rare patch of exposed, dead grass to the next. Carrying a dusting of post-season snow on their backs. An old woman in line at the grocery store told me she saw one hovering at her window, its oversized eyes fixed on a potted daisy inside. (Her niece sent it to her after the cataracts operation — a total success. Everything looks much sharper now!) The bee, she said, was whispering into the flower’s ear. Reciting an incantation through the glass. Stayed for a full ten minutes, and three more bees gathered at the window. A barbershop quartet of bees, bedecked in their striped suits. All that was missing was the little hats, and wouldn’t that be cute? When their serenade was done, she said, she watched the daisies grow. Green stems stretching up, up. Bright white heads bending toward the grey light of a spring morning masquerading as December. Their yellow centers grinning, because they’d been asked to join the call. An uprising of chutes and flora, persisting despite winter’s insistence. Then, the old women said, a burst of purple through the snow. Then another. A whole crop of crocuses, their petals parting, yearning for the sweet bee kiss.
Today’s NaPoWriMo.net prompt called for a haibun, and included a link to this excellent essay on the form. I mashed it with the Poetic Asides prompt asking for a poetic lament.
Lament for Downtown Living
I miss things. The barista at the coffee shop who knew not to ask, “Room for cream?” The friendly nod of the man who always got to the bus stop before me. The thundering bass from the apartment above, rhythmic declaration that the weekend had arrived. The chorus of cooing pigeons on the balcony, calling us awake before the alarm. The jagged shadows of the leafless trees, back lit by a row of streetlamps. The smell of fresh-baked croissants sneaking into the apartment lobby. The overheard banter between students walking back to campus after last call. The consumption limits, imposed by small spaces. The naive faith we shared, that a 2-bedroom apartment would be plenty of room for us and a baby. The ease of slipping a rent cheque in a slot. The ignorance about the pros and cons of variable or fixed mortgages. The righteous opinion that suburbia was for the old and boring.
picture window
neighbour stops shoveling
to wave
Got a late start today to the poem creation, and when I finally got there, I let my tired mind experiment. I attempted to follow the NaPoWriMo.net prompt calling for a poem of simultaneity – in which multiple things are happening at once.
Mind Exercises
Imagine a mahogany dinner table, a family of five around it.
Forget it, if you can, the nightly rituals you’ve seen and lived.
See the pea green plates, a wedding gift to the parents
The dull eyes of those parents who once made each other
the wife has always hated, but they are good quality and not
tingle, who used to bite each other’s lower lips during kisses.
yet cracked or chipped, even after 18 years of use. Funny, right?
There was once an entire month where they didn’t touch at all.
How the things we care least about can be so steadfast? Like the
Shell, it was like a shell, growing over each of them. House beetles,
meal the husband made, because it’s Monday, and that’s his night,
black and prone to hiding in their own corners. Quiet, creeping
so the kids expect something simple, mostly pre-packaged — spaghetti
life. After awhile they didn’t have to try to forget, it boiled away
with a jar of bought sauce, or hot dogs with a side of carrots because
on its own, down to the dry bottom of a saucepan, the sickening smell,
you gotta have some vegetables, right? And after they’ve eaten,
smoke, clouding up the kitchen, choking down the hall to the kids’
it will be the wife who cleans up, while the others take to screens
rooms, though the parents didn’t notice because it was all so grey.
or books, for the daughter. In the kitchen the wife will sigh, and
The windows didn’t open anymore, or no one thought to try them.
the cat will meow, almost in response, but mostly because he’s hungry.
Fish, in an aquarium, floating limp at the top, but inside the tank, green
Tomorrow, or 6 months, imagine it again, but cracked, chipped and with
real plants, the son insisted on it. They swayed when the filter glugged.
a gleaming blade, because reality can slice you in half if you let it.
They started to flower, bright red buds everywhere, if you can believe it.
Today’s NaPoWriMo.net prompt asked for “poems in which mysterious and magical things occur. A spell, for example.” I liked that example, and mashed it with the Poetic Asides prompt asking for a “family” poem. This one was strange and mysterious for me, as I so rarely attempt to write anything with rhyme.
Endurance Incantation
Strand of hair shines
with mother’s mothers’ whim
Strength of fifty golden
mothers before them.
Drop of carmine blood
we grow, share and shed.
Dancers in the shadows
of a full moon, red.
Never silent, mother’s mothers,
even shackled voices swell
humming in the pulse
stories born to tell.
Glint in daughters’ eyes,
lines etched on their skin.
Mother’s mothers’ journey
unbroken, within.
Mixing the Poetic Asides prompt to write a “senses” poem, with my local, Stroll of Poets prompt to write a “climate” poem. I recently read an article about how people in my province are the least likely in Canada to “believe” in climate change. This is so disheartening to me, as while I believe we can debate strategies on how we operate in the world now, and plans for better environmental practices, climate change is real. And I worry for the future of our beautiful planet if we continue to spin in a cycle of denial, rather than take action together.
Assessing the Patterns of Variation
You wouldn’t think it’d be possible
in my (relatively) short life.
Firs would know better,
the dry soil at their base.
The petrichor hanging
less often in the air,
the welcome quench of rain
climbing their roots,
sparkling in drops
that dangle from their sharp needles
like earrings. Can they taste it?
The small changes, over seasons and years,
drawing the facts
in concentric circles
at their core.
It might not be evident, they say
until you look at the evidence.
Some patterns are best seen close-up,
under a microscopic lens,
but I know I’ve heard the change
in the summer winds, roaring.
Different than the breeze of my youth.
Breath, blowing hotter.
Dragon flare, warning.
Tree souls darkening
summer skies.
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
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.
Doing a little prompt mixing today with the NaPoWriMo.net challenge to write a list poem in which all the items are made-up names. I found intriguing thoughts and phrases from my Twitter feed to inspire imagined poem titles. And my title comes from the Poetic Asides prompt asking for a Stop or Don’t Stop poem.
Found: Titles; Wanted: Poems, or Stop Scrolling Twitter and Write Something
I Know Saying This Makes Me Sound Like A Baby
Calculations Prove It
Working Dog Needs New Home
Meeting Planned
Lactation Room
A Welcome Shift
Suck It, Racists
Sped-Up World
The Longer I Stayed, The Worse It Was
The Manipulations We Suffer
Are You Done In The Middle Yet?
Some Otters
Guilty Of Conspiracy
Mostly Giant Fireballs
Pull Up A Chair, Ladies
See The Entire Incident From Multiple Angles
Combining the NaPoWriMo.net prompt that suggested a poem that played with voice and the Poetic Asides prompt asking for a portrait poem. Today would have been my Mom’s 75th birthday, and I have been thinking a lot today about birthdays past, as well as the tendentious nature of memory.
Birthday Memory
1.
I remember another birthday, Easter weekend too,
thirty degrees above zero and all of us sticky
in the K-Car on the long drive to Auntie Deb’s.
I remember your face, Mom. Soft.
Young, though I didn’t recognize it then.
You hummed when Tom Jones came on the radio.
I remember the conversation between you
and Dad, farm kids gone city, speculating
on the state of the fields, the summer ahead.
I remember you holding a bouquet of pink tulips.
We asked Dad to buy them from all of us.
Afterthought gift from the gas station.
2.
If you could feel the heat then, daughter
from the sun and family, too close.
Even affection can be stifling sometimes.
If you could paint my portrait
there’d be lies in the brushstrokes.
Smoothed over wrinkles and anger.
If you could hear only what was said
and not what was meant, I wouldn’t
blame you. Your optimistic child’s ear.
If you could see my fingers rubbing
the plush flower petals. Not meaning to
wear a hole in something I loved so much.
National Poetry Writing Month
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@Homegrowngirl2
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