Ladies and gentlemen, I made it!!! I could not have done it without the support of my fellow poets, Stephanie and Emma. Today is the final day of NaPoWriMo2020, and we write about something that returns. I elected to do this via pantoum, a poetic form brought to my attention by Stephanie in which each line returns in a later stanza. Much has changed since you last were here.
¿Te divertiste allí en México? Come, feast in the garden I prepared for you. Such a long journey for one so delicate of frame. ¿Te divertiste allí en México? Tasting exotic nectars and flirting with the sun? Such a long journey for one so delicate of frame, But the summers here are lovely , to be sure. Tasting exotic nectars and flirting with the sun! I'm grateful you've chosen to return, But the summers here are lovely , to be sure, Y tu presencia me hace olvidar del largo invierno. I'm grateful you've chosen to return. Much has changed since you last were here, Y tu presencia me hace olvidar del largo invierno. Come feast in the garden I prepared for you.
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Today
I did not want to write, And as I crept like a thief To the back room To steal a nap From what remained Of the rainy afternoon, She came along Without question, Without invitation. She curled herself into a ball On the small bed Next to mine. This is her act of loyalty. She never gets up Until I move, Even if I sleep 'till eleven And everyone else has been up For hours. And if I stay up All night grading, She passes the noche en vela With me, Though the rest of the world Has gone to bed. She will sit on others' laps And beg for their affection, But "bedtime" (Her favorite word) Belongs to us. She is a good dog In so many ways And deserves a better poet than I To sing her praise. So though I could bore you Like a proud mother With her many attributes, The many tricks And words she knows, I will say only That she is the most loyal Companion I have ever known, Fictional or factual. When I go Where she cannot follow, I am instantly Forgiven And greeted with such joy Like the Prodigal Son On my return. As I move from room To room, I am diligently followed By her tinkling tags And her wagging tail, Though I rarely repay her loyalty As I should. And when I sleep, I know She will never leave me To dream Alone. Today we describe a bedroom from our past. I keep a bedroom from my childhood in my basement in a tote
In a closet full of Christmas, canning jars, and coats. A couple times a year I might remove it from its home To use with friends or family, but never on my own. Hexagonal in shape, it boasts two windows and two doors. The walls are grey and thin, but they protect you when it pours. It smells a bit like campfire, sunscreen, joy and DEET And when I get it out, I know I'm in for such a treat! "Sleeps six" seemed so appropriate back when I was small; Backpacks, sibs, and cousins squeezed in one and all. Truth or dare, a place to share - secrets, giggles, songs Daddy long-legs on the other side, a place where we belonged. Today we write a review of something that isn't normally reviewed. I give them one and a half stars.
If you are looking for only the most basic functionality And you don't care about appearance, These might be fine. They cause minimal issues when walking Even with low grade inclines or declines. However, with many everyday tasks like Ascending or descending stairs, They make a horrible grinding clicking noise And cause some discomfort. I would not recommend these For any kind of athletic endeavor. Their unstable construction can lead to Serious injury When attempting to jump Or change direction, And even when care is taken to avoid These particular triggers, They require considerable pre and post activity maintenance. Unfortunately, the seller offers no warranties Or exchanges. There are places that offer repairs And modifications, But these are costly And provide limited improvement in product performance. I give this item one and a half stars, because While these are not completely useless, And they do come as a pair, There are much better models out there. Do yourself a favor: Do Not purchase these knees! Today we had five minutes to fill in (I could not finish although I thought I was going fast) this Almanac Questionnaire. You can find my mostly completed one below today's poem. We then used the answers as a jumping off point/inspiration for today's writing. Dandelions are the color Of sunshine And happiness, The raw materials for the crown Of an honorary fairy, But if left, The youthful blossoms Will grow up to be genies And fairy godmothers At the disposal of Passing terrestrial puffer fish Willing to prove their pulmonary prowess. This magical wish garden belongs To a grown-up Disney princess Who walked barefoot in the summers On hot asphalt Hopping like Aladdin and Abu In the Cave of Wonders On bubbles of lava about to burst, Because she wanted Tough Hobbit feet, Who hid under the covers Solving mysteries By wand light, And who today sprinkles Birdseed On the parapet of her cursed tower In hopes Her friends will find her, But the curse on her tower Is strong, Guarded by invisible thorns And unseen dragons, Isolated As a lighthouse at the end of the pier. She walks to the border and hears Silence She looks For True Love's Kiss Or its curse breaking equivalent To approach Galloping on a white horse Across a field of tulips, no, Dandelions, But seeing nothing, She retreats T o search every door in her tower For the entrance To Narnia And to wait, As her hair grows long, For her wish garden To mature. This was the prompt for today. I read through the free writing suggestions, listened to while simultaneously reading the model poem, "Hymn to Life" by James Schuyler, fixed and ate lunch, watched an episode of Gran Hotel, set the timer for 20 min, and began my free-write while ignoring most, if not all, of the suggestions. Oh well. If God is the all-powerful conductor of the universal orchestra,
And everything tends toward entropy, who am I To fight the chaos? Does dusting make me a bad Christian? If God created the universe, and the universe wants to be dusty, Why do I try to clean it up? Will I next try to vacuum up the star dust? Even the great vacuum of space hasn't succeeded. Besides, You can never really clean. You just make something else dirty. It's just a transference. Conservation of matter and all that. As I collect the dust in my rag, What am I really accomplishing? The transference of dead skin cells From a shelf, to a cloth, turning it grey, later to the water, turning it grey, later to the ground. The ground is full of weeds. Weeds are just plants That aren't growing on purpose, at least not according to human purpose, But that is silly. If little white flowers sprouting up from vibrantly green moss Is what Nature wants to grow here, who am I to discourage them? I think this place would rather be a deciduous forest of tall oaks. In fall, The tall oaks drop their leaves all over my yard, and I am the European house guest Who doesn't understand the concept of leftovers, garbaging "lo que sobra," Unaware that it was meant to nourish my tall hosts at a later time. Do I know better than God? Or Mother Nature? Or whoever orchestrated The cycle of life that led to the shedding of those colorful leftovers on "my" "lawn?" One look at the drooping leaves and pallid color of my ever dying houseplants Will give you your answer. Today's prompt is to write about a fruit. Now, my friends and I have been having philosophical fruit discussions for years, and have long since chosen our agreed upon spirit fruits as it were . I therefore take this opportunity to write my self-portrait poem as the humble Kiwi.
"C is for cookie. That's good enough for me!" Well, not today it's not! Here is my ode to the letter C. We were asked to write about a letter of the alphabet and use its shape as a jumping off point. Whether claiming Clark or choosing Chu
It comes as my constant companion. That cleanly curving crescent the C Corporeally consistent in cases upper and lower Clings clearly to its cursive curl But uses decidedly different diction When chatting with changing chums. Classic comprehension commands it elocute like K But while constantly a consonant, the C has more to say. Y, I, and E inspire subtler, softer sound In simplicity eliciting snakelike hissing And chaos can commence Cavorting with clever comrade H Speech chosen by Chance, A childish character, but chic. Check around. C's many sounds abound. A flourish for form and varying voice For my monogram, C is my choice. Today we use an idiom from a different language and culture as the inspiration for our poem. I had my Chinese hubby help me out with this one and asked him to provide me with a couple of idioms/proverbs to choose from. I always get a kick out of when he uses Chinese idioms in conversation with me, responding to my look with, "Is that not a thing in English?" I went with one he's talked about multiple times before, coming at it from two different angles and incorporating the related Chinese superstition he's talked about which says that children are the reincarnation of their parents creditors from a past life come to reclaim what was owed them. A clever elf spun straw to gold
Demanding a steep price. From fathers now a debt is owed The elf to claim it twice. "A father's debt, son to give back" Can mean so many things. When proper means the fathers lack The elf in triumph sings. Offspring must pay what sire could not In service to the elf. Erasing fathers' debts, his lot Life lived not for himself. Yet elf and child, one and the same From father always take. Creditors now with father's name His debts' repayment make. Today we do a "homophonic translation" poem. I find these super fun and weird. I chose a poem in Greek by Titos Patríkios. I've been learning Greek for a few months now, and the beauty of it is that I know enough to be able to pronounce the words in the original poem without knowing what more than a couple words actually mean. This means my brain is not busy trying to translate (as it would be with a romance language), and I am free to focus just on sound. It's like playing a game of Mad Gab! Below is an audio file of my best attempt at reading the poem aloud in Greek. I struggled a bit and definitely placed the emphasis wrong a few times, but this should be about what it sounds like (as read by a child still sounding things out and not reading with fluency).
Today we write about a homemade gift, and I reflected back on some really good ones. Thank you, Aunt Elaine, for the beautiful quilt. Thank you, Joey, for the rocking chair and the mancala board. Thank you, Shavahn, for the wedding photos. And thank you to so many others along the way, but good luck to anyone ever attempting to out-do my Aunt Linda!
Today we were supposed to write a poem based on a "walking archive." So I walked around my yard and created my archive of smartweed, dandelions, wild violets, acorn caps, a winter cap, a nickle, and a weathered soccer ball. Unfortunately, what I thought was going to be a poem about my appreciation for flowering weeds in early spring turned into more of a lamentation about the state the previous owners left my home in. Seeing their old soccer ball and the disgusting hat that had been hiding in the weeds last summer, the leaves last fall, and the snow all winter now exposed brought back memories of how we found the place on move-in day, and as I sat down to write, my brain went on a walk of its own. In the end, we have a contrasting poem about two very different move-in experiences, both true accounts. Ladies and gents, while you needn't be as perfect as the first sellers, please don't be the second. Sincerely, every future homeowner.
Today we write an ode to life's small pleasures, and I'm pretty happy with this one! Gaia's invigorating breath rushes into the lungs of this home Her oxygenated exhalation, exaltation of the spirit, the life-giving inhalation it needed to WAKE UP from winter's hibernation. Rejuvenation. Air dancing in through every orifice, heightening sensation, Nature's divinely choreographed masterpiece of energy creation: Respiration. Today we write about forgotten technology, and while I know the home phone isn't yet forgotten (they still ask for it on every form), the etiquette that went with it has certainly fallen to the wayside. Let me take you back to the days before caller ID and individual cell phones... Today we were asked to write a poem of over the top compliments, and well, I took it pretty literally. Combine that with yesterday's musical prompt and today's minimalist resources, and I give you: Today's prompt was difficult for many reasons. One: How do you reduce the musical experience to words on a page when music itself often elevates and enhances those words? Two: How do you choose just ONE favorite kind of music? I mean unless it's like death metal, I probably listen to it and I probably like it. From Tchaikovsky to Taylor Swift, from Gregorian chant to Garth Brooks, and from Enya to Enrique....It all has a place in my collection and my life. I move through a few in my "poem" which is more like four poems that are loosely connected. To inspire myself I listened to Queen's album A Night at the Opera, some of my old choir performances, A Gente de Zona playlist on YouTube, and the Best of Peter, Paul, and Mary along with some John Denver. Today's prompt took me hours. Don't judge. We were asked to write about the poems, poets, and people that inspired us to write poetry, and while I could come up with a list right away, how to honor them all in a single cohesive poem proved challenging. At first, I was thinking I wanted to incorporate each of their styles, but they are so different. Then I thought of doing a hay(na)ku for each, but didn't feel like I could express what I wanted. In the end, I think I failed to convey just how awesome I think they are, but at least succeeded in conveying how they have influenced my own style. Maybe. Also, Pablo Neruda is not included, but perhaps should have been. He at least deserves honorable mention. Anyway... From my youth I grew to love
Shakespeare, Silverstein, and Frost Wordsmiths, all, inclined to rhyme Without whom I'd be lost. Stories, humor, imagery Employed by each respectively Inventing words as they saw fit I'm grateful to all three. More famous poets may not exist, But please don't think me trite. I appreciate the depth With which these writers write. I never much liked Ezra Pound. Poetry should rhyme. But then I met a poet Who opened up my mind. Her free form words made my heart ache as if it were being s t r e t c h e d too far for comfort, and yet that was a comfort. Her soul in words on a page like the string between two tin cans, a private line for childhood secrets between sisters. Today we are asked to write a non-apology for things we have stolen, and at first I could think of nothing, and thought I would have to go with something cliche like hearts or moments, but then my husband reminded me of a particular kleptomaniacal tendency I possess... In the past I have struggled to make a new friend,
Small talk the awkward means to an end, But the motivational speakers all say, "Where there's a will, there is always a way." My wonderful friends are not mine by right- I stole them away like a thief in the night. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm willing to share, But if we part ways, well, in love all is fair. To Jordan, I'm sorry, but Nick is now mine. You'll make other friends. I'm sure you'll be fine. To Steph, I'm so glad we're stuck with each other- My thieving will never hurt you or our brother. To Alvin, my brilliant partner in crime, Keep reeling 'em in and buying me time. A strong first impression is so hard for me Which is why I resort to base thievery. It's not that I want to steal from you, It's just that I want them to be my friends too! Happy Easter! Today, we have been prompted to write a triolet which follows the rhyme scheme ABaAabAB where the uppercase letters represent repeated lines. Prompts that ask me to stick to a particular form are my favorite! The Math side of my brain gets all excited for the problem solving aspect it poses. Bopping about like a '50s wife
In a flowered dress to be seen by none Living her best domestic life Bopping about like a '50s wife Sharpening the edge of the kitchen knife To carve the turkey once it's done Bopping about like a '50s wife In a flowered dress to be seen by none
On this Good Friday, we are asked to write a hay(na)ku or hay(na)ku sonnet which is a line each of one, two, and three words in that order, or four such stanzas ending with a couplet of three words per line. I went for the sonnet. Pilot
Washed Hands Still Gets Blamed Death By Crucifixion Nails Pierce Flesh Father Unto You I Commend Life Immortality For Man From Divine Sacrifice Wait Three Days Death Is Impermanent Today, we (attempt to) bring a more visual experience to our poetry by writing a poem in the shape of its theme. As I read it aloud, it feels very Dr. Seussy, but who doesn't like Dr. Seuss? Anyway, in honor of the hubby's birthday, I give you: Today we use a line from a poetry twitter bot as a seed from which to grow our poem. I found inspiration in two lines from https://twitter.com/carsonbot. The borrowed lines are in italics.
Consider incompleteness as a verb Yearning, wondering, searching, seeking, mourning And rolling at the feet of the Great Sphinx I shall uncover for myself new skin Polished by desert sand But that youthful glow will soon fade And traversing the peaks and valleys of majestic ranges I shall steal for myself new veins From mountain streams and waterfalls But that rushing lifeblood will soon dry And meditating in Buddhist temples of the Far East I shall create for myself a new mind From incense and birdsong But that enlightenment will soon dim And kneeling at the edge of the transparent sea I shall shape for myself a new heart From salt and mud Collecting, wandering, dying... Consider incompleteness as a verb Today's prompt is to write a poem based on a news article. So, I went to BBC Mundo (figured I could get a little Spanish practice in while reading the news) and looked for articles that were not Coronavirus related or only tangentially so. ...I only found four, and I chose to use them all. So today we write from the point of view of a character in Hieronymus Bosch's "The Garden of Earthly Delights." I have never liked this painting. It is freaky. It is supposed to be. Don't get me wrong, it is creative and detailed and chaotic, but it is disturbing. So studying it today was not my favorite, but I kind of like the poem that came of it. My Math brain didn't have to come up with strange imagery. It was already there. Nude acrobats balance on flesh colored towers
Of spikes and spires and lust and flowers. Above, I am the star of a show Unseen by the self-involved orgy below. I spy my opponent with his fruity flail, A suit of armor with a silvery tail. He flies on a fish that was plucked from the sea. This maritime duo is no match for me! Gaseous courage, this sweet heavy air, My mount carries me, a bird, and a bear. Naked, astride him, I yearn to begin My moment of glory in this world of sin. With strong arms I lift up my living lance, Certain of victory in this aerial dance. I charge on my griffin, Proud and tall Forgetting "Pride goeth before the fall." |
AuthorHi, my name is Ember. Yes, like the glowing bits at the bottom of the fire. Archives
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