Today's prompt: "I want you to title your poems "Never (blank)" with you filling in the blank with a word or phrase. Then, write a poem based off your title, which could be "Never look both ways when crossing the street" or "Never blush in public" or "Never ever" or "Never write a poem with the word never in the title." You get the idea, right?" Poetic Asides
Never Look Behind You
Apparitions and ghosts appear, accumulating
in a mass thousands of tens deep, your very own
circus parade of history. The collective breath
of unfinished business lifts the hair on the back
of your neck, rattles the frame of your glasses,
the keys fist-clutched to your side. Spirited
confrontation is something to avoid, a battle
to unfight—you can't win against the weight
of the past, ancient conflicts drawn on the sand
table of your heart. Eyes front, or enter the mirrored
room on the midway, where everything you know
becomes shrouded in the dense fog of ambiguity.
If you must return, take a sword for the dragons,
a roll of bandages, maybe a notebook and quill pen,
because even Don Quixote might have toppled
a windmill or two, when no one was looking.
.
29 April 2009
28 April 2009
April 28 - Poem A Day Challenge - Sestina
Today's prompt: "I want you to write a sestina. So start figuring out your 6 end words and get writing. But wait! Today is Tuesday, so you have one other option. You can write a poem about the sestina (your love, hate, frustration with, etc.)." Poetic Asides
Sestinas are a form of torture invented by the French. Whereas the haiku structure excites me, the sestina structure fills me with dread, and a curious pain right behind my eyes, left of my funny bone. Hence today's poem.
101 Uses For A Beast Of Burden Sestina
If by chance you travel around the world,
sometimes you'll wish you'd stayed at home
when you run across a strange new recipe
made with a substance resembling meat.
Not wanting to insult your host family,
you pray it is at least somewhat edible.
Because if the substance is not edible,
but rather a flavor new to your world
you could embarrass yourself and family
despite the good story you take home
about the time you ate wild yak meat
and were given a hide with the recipe.
It might become an ongoing joke, this recipe.
Your brother announces, "Eww, yak's not edible!".
Your aunt proclaims it's not really a kosher meat
despite the Discovery Channel view of the world.
The teasing rekindles whenever you come home
until you wish you'd never told your family,
though being a bona fide member of this family
meant you were inclined to share that recipe,
flush with excitement at finally being home,
you never even thought about it being edible,
just a sharable part of your tour of the world.
Like a snapshot of the various cultures you meet
where most ingest some form of protein - like meat.
Why couldn't vegetarianism run in the family?
Then the relatives' brains wouldn't be whirled
by the thought of tasting a brand new yak recipe-
not that roots and plants are always that edible,
at least not the way they prepared them at home.
About now you wished you'd never come home,
never informed your kin about sampling yak meat,
didn't confess you found it deliciously edible
for fear of being disowned by your weird family.
Just maybe you could return the ill-favored recipe,
necessitating another trip around the known world.
You'd be far from home and your pesky family,
in possession of the tasty meat of wild yak recipe,
wandering Mongolia, where edible yak is the whole world.
.
"The sestina follows a strict pattern of the repetition of the initial six end-words of the first stanza through the remaining five six-line stanzas, culminating in a three-line envoi." Poets.Org
"A sestina is a highly structured poem consisting of six six-line stanzas followed by a tercet (called its envoy or tornada), for a total of thirty-nine lines. The same set of six words ends the lines of each of the six-line stanzas, but in a different order each time . . ." Wikipedia
Sestinas are a form of torture invented by the French. Whereas the haiku structure excites me, the sestina structure fills me with dread, and a curious pain right behind my eyes, left of my funny bone. Hence today's poem.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
101 Uses For A Beast Of Burden Sestina
If by chance you travel around the world,
sometimes you'll wish you'd stayed at home
when you run across a strange new recipe
made with a substance resembling meat.
Not wanting to insult your host family,
you pray it is at least somewhat edible.
Because if the substance is not edible,
but rather a flavor new to your world
you could embarrass yourself and family
despite the good story you take home
about the time you ate wild yak meat
and were given a hide with the recipe.
It might become an ongoing joke, this recipe.
Your brother announces, "Eww, yak's not edible!".
Your aunt proclaims it's not really a kosher meat
despite the Discovery Channel view of the world.
The teasing rekindles whenever you come home
until you wish you'd never told your family,
though being a bona fide member of this family
meant you were inclined to share that recipe,
flush with excitement at finally being home,
you never even thought about it being edible,
just a sharable part of your tour of the world.
Like a snapshot of the various cultures you meet
where most ingest some form of protein - like meat.
Why couldn't vegetarianism run in the family?
Then the relatives' brains wouldn't be whirled
by the thought of tasting a brand new yak recipe-
not that roots and plants are always that edible,
at least not the way they prepared them at home.
About now you wished you'd never come home,
never informed your kin about sampling yak meat,
didn't confess you found it deliciously edible
for fear of being disowned by your weird family.
Just maybe you could return the ill-favored recipe,
necessitating another trip around the known world.
You'd be far from home and your pesky family,
in possession of the tasty meat of wild yak recipe,
wandering Mongolia, where edible yak is the whole world.
.
27 April 2009
April 27 - Poem A Day Challenge - Longing
Today's prompt: "I want you to write a poem of longing. You or someone (or something) else should be pining for someone or something. Maybe a cat is longing to get outside the house. Maybe a teenager is longing to get away from his or her small town. And, of course, there's always the longing poem of love." Poetic Asides
Instamatic Retrospective At The Family Museum
The pictures throughout the album are faded,
colors mute as twice captured memories.
Names, dates, places flow across the reverse
of the snapshots in an elegant script, serving
as broken-handled spades not quite capable
of digging up the garden dirt of the past.
Placed in cemetery rows on the kitchen table,
the photographs formed the arc of a misplaced
childhood. No circuits fire-jump across the gap.
She might as well study the countenance
of strangers. The name on the back is her
name, the face on the print has dark eyes,
her eyes, but the expression is not the one
cross-examined in the mirror every morning.
It is far too bold and open, staring straight past
her shoulder to a future that never did happened.
.
Instamatic Retrospective At The Family Museum
The pictures throughout the album are faded,
colors mute as twice captured memories.
Names, dates, places flow across the reverse
of the snapshots in an elegant script, serving
as broken-handled spades not quite capable
of digging up the garden dirt of the past.
Placed in cemetery rows on the kitchen table,
the photographs formed the arc of a misplaced
childhood. No circuits fire-jump across the gap.
She might as well study the countenance
of strangers. The name on the back is her
name, the face on the print has dark eyes,
her eyes, but the expression is not the one
cross-examined in the mirror every morning.
It is far too bold and open, staring straight past
her shoulder to a future that never did happened.
.
26 April 2009
April 26 - Poem A Day Challenge - Miscommunication
Today's prompt: "I want you to write a poem involving miscommunication. It can be miscommunication between two people or misinterpretation of some sort. I will leave it up to you guys to deal with it however you want." Poetic Asides
What can I say, I came home to find a ten dollar bill leering at me from the cover of my laptop - son two repaying me money he owed. Yeah, I know, I'm reaching, but hey, driving home from Casper last night through 80 miles of thick fog - the kind that resembled flying through clouds at 20,000 feet - sort of warped my perceptions, not to mention my eyesight. It's late, I'm tired, fill in your own excuse for me here ____________________.
Monetary Tentacles
The eye of providence reaches
out from the pyramid capped peak,
sees us all, knows what material
goods are the base of our longing.
Cash, c-notes, legal tender, jealous
god, greenbacks filled with rectangular
greed, a contact poison. A slave-driver,
chameleon-like, it revels in its role
as primary miscommunicator, starts war,
finishes peace, taps into sacred spaces
and countless lives, eradicates trust,
rearranges perceptions. Money can't be
reasoned with, I know, I've tried—placed
crisp bills on the kitchen table and spoke
sternly to the frozen faces, pleaded
and begged for relief from its insidious
magic. . . well, I meant to plead,
but the knowing look in those flat, green
eyes was my undoing. The cash wanted
to move, not nestle in my pocket. A new
order for the ages, turned on edge it all
but disappears. Some years from now,
tomorrow even, currency will grow fangs,
bite, drop off to whither and die
by the side of a road paved with
side-stepped intentions.
.
What can I say, I came home to find a ten dollar bill leering at me from the cover of my laptop - son two repaying me money he owed. Yeah, I know, I'm reaching, but hey, driving home from Casper last night through 80 miles of thick fog - the kind that resembled flying through clouds at 20,000 feet - sort of warped my perceptions, not to mention my eyesight. It's late, I'm tired, fill in your own excuse for me here ____________________.
Monetary Tentacles
The eye of providence reaches
out from the pyramid capped peak,
sees us all, knows what material
goods are the base of our longing.
Cash, c-notes, legal tender, jealous
god, greenbacks filled with rectangular
greed, a contact poison. A slave-driver,
chameleon-like, it revels in its role
as primary miscommunicator, starts war,
finishes peace, taps into sacred spaces
and countless lives, eradicates trust,
rearranges perceptions. Money can't be
reasoned with, I know, I've tried—placed
crisp bills on the kitchen table and spoke
sternly to the frozen faces, pleaded
and begged for relief from its insidious
magic. . . well, I meant to plead,
but the knowing look in those flat, green
eyes was my undoing. The cash wanted
to move, not nestle in my pocket. A new
order for the ages, turned on edge it all
but disappears. Some years from now,
tomorrow even, currency will grow fangs,
bite, drop off to whither and die
by the side of a road paved with
side-stepped intentions.
.
25 April 2009
April 25 - Poem A Day Challenge - Event
Today's prompt: "I want you to pick an event; make that event the title of your poem; and then write a poem. Think birthday. Think holiday. Think whatever." Poetic Asides
The Dog's Fifth Birthday
We showed pictures of you at three days old
cradled in eldest son's baseball cap, cupped
in his hands, snuggled next to your brother
and sisters, eyes sealed. At three weeks,
you already had a nickname, "Bruiser"—
not an indication of trouble to come,
but a hint of your need to serve and protect.
Some may find it funny, to bake a dog
a birthday cake of flour and oatmeal, peanut
butter, cheese, bacon and applesauce. I think
it appropriate. You are a family member
after all, child-chosen to add canine
perspective to an otherwise ordinary life.
.
The Dog's Fifth Birthday
We showed pictures of you at three days old
cradled in eldest son's baseball cap, cupped
in his hands, snuggled next to your brother
and sisters, eyes sealed. At three weeks,
you already had a nickname, "Bruiser"—
not an indication of trouble to come,
but a hint of your need to serve and protect.
Some may find it funny, to bake a dog
a birthday cake of flour and oatmeal, peanut
butter, cheese, bacon and applesauce. I think
it appropriate. You are a family member
after all, child-chosen to add canine
perspective to an otherwise ordinary life.
.
24 April 2009
April 24 - Poem A Day Challenge - Travel
Today's prompt: "I want you to write a travel-related poem. It can be human travel, the migration of swallows, the trafficking of drugs, etc. Some sort of movement from point A to point B." Poetic Asides
Crossing Wyoming
It's as if someone took a map,
gave it a shake, and tugged
on all four corners, stretching
the given distance to absurd
proportions. The plan resembles
an anxious child's attempt
at destination origami.
The land is pre-charted.
No matter how you fold
it, the problem remains.
To go west you must first
go south. North is flat, except
where it rises at a perpendicular
angle even the tattered atlas.
can't hide. Towns no longer cozy
up to one another and blend
together as they do back East.
Instead they vanish altogether,
not to be seen again
for indeterminable miles.
The sporadic ranch house sits,
stands, or kneels on lonely hill,
under cottonwood trees,
or on the side of a distant dirt
road. Driving reveals more cows
than people, more sheep
than cows, more open ground
than possible to comprehend.
Eventually, the three dimensional
model outside the windshield
crinkles and for brief moments
resembles the creased diagram
on the front seat, the one
that was supposed to guide
ardent travelers to a place
marked Paradise.
.
Crossing Wyoming
It's as if someone took a map,
gave it a shake, and tugged
on all four corners, stretching
the given distance to absurd
proportions. The plan resembles
an anxious child's attempt
at destination origami.
The land is pre-charted.
No matter how you fold
it, the problem remains.
To go west you must first
go south. North is flat, except
where it rises at a perpendicular
angle even the tattered atlas.
can't hide. Towns no longer cozy
up to one another and blend
together as they do back East.
Instead they vanish altogether,
not to be seen again
for indeterminable miles.
The sporadic ranch house sits,
stands, or kneels on lonely hill,
under cottonwood trees,
or on the side of a distant dirt
road. Driving reveals more cows
than people, more sheep
than cows, more open ground
than possible to comprehend.
Eventually, the three dimensional
model outside the windshield
crinkles and for brief moments
resembles the creased diagram
on the front seat, the one
that was supposed to guide
ardent travelers to a place
marked Paradise.
.
23 April 2009
April 23 - Poem A Day Contest - Regret
Today's prompt: "I want you to write a poem of regret. Get creative with this one, but there should be some form of regret either expressed or hinted at (even if ever so slightly). You do NOT have to use the word "regret" in the poem, though it's fine if you do." Poetic Asides
I think I read too much when I was a kid, about climbing and flying and exploring. Oh, and I also played too much baseball . . . Not that you can tell.
Hanging Out In The On-Deck Circle
The peak of Mount Everest
remains bare of my flag,
sherpas backs unburdened
by my burdens as I choose
to go mountaineering in other
places. Neil Armstrong didn't
have to share moon dust
with my sneaker-clad footprints
or endure my back seat Apollo
11 driving. - Are we there yet?
Somehow, Lewis and Clark
discovered the Northwest Passage
without me tagging along
to tell them where to set up camp
for the night, or swapping baseball
cards with the Yankton Sioux.
And although Amelia never
asked for my advice, I still
wouldn't have told her not to go.
The New York Yankees could
have used my pitching skills
most years, but managed
the Boston Massacre quite nicely,
without once calling me down
to the Bronx Zoo. If I had it all
to do over again, I would
have majored in ornithology,
and spent my days wandering
through some vast Canadian
wilderness making bird sounds,
without a cell phone or map.
.
I think I read too much when I was a kid, about climbing and flying and exploring. Oh, and I also played too much baseball . . . Not that you can tell.
Hanging Out In The On-Deck Circle
The peak of Mount Everest
remains bare of my flag,
sherpas backs unburdened
by my burdens as I choose
to go mountaineering in other
places. Neil Armstrong didn't
have to share moon dust
with my sneaker-clad footprints
or endure my back seat Apollo
11 driving. - Are we there yet?
Somehow, Lewis and Clark
discovered the Northwest Passage
without me tagging along
to tell them where to set up camp
for the night, or swapping baseball
cards with the Yankton Sioux.
And although Amelia never
asked for my advice, I still
wouldn't have told her not to go.
The New York Yankees could
have used my pitching skills
most years, but managed
the Boston Massacre quite nicely,
without once calling me down
to the Bronx Zoo. If I had it all
to do over again, I would
have majored in ornithology,
and spent my days wandering
through some vast Canadian
wilderness making bird sounds,
without a cell phone or map.
.
22 April 2009
April 22 - Poem A Day Challenge - Work
Today's prompt: " I want you to write a work-related poem. Work doesn't have to be the main feature of the poem, but I want you to "work" it in somehow. And remember: There are different types of work. Of course, there are the activities that gain you fortune and fame (or not), but then, there's also housework, exercise, volunteering, etc. I'm sure you'll "work" it out."
Poetic Asides
Projectiles, concrete, cold wars . . . .
Um, yeah - you know, it's probably best not to ask about this one . . . .
My Very Own Underground Vertical Cylindrical Storage Container
Sometimes it's a chore
just to get out of bed
in the morning, to find
the motivation to pull
oneself upright, to awaken
the personal inertial navigation
system and launch to surface
consciousness in dread anticipation
of possible decommissioning, reluctant
to punch the ignition sequence, knowing
full well it could fail, and leave me fumbling
through the day in slow-motion, brain
a half a beat behind the body. Living
on the launch pad of a missile silo
means perpetually glancing up
at the blast doors, a lengthy distance
over head, wondering about the weather
outside the entombing concrete walls.
I am a patient daughter of Titan.
I wait for relief, a support squadron
to knock on the subterranean
access portal and allow me
to deploy to a sunnier location.
.
Poetic Asides
Projectiles, concrete, cold wars . . . .
Um, yeah - you know, it's probably best not to ask about this one . . . .
My Very Own Underground Vertical Cylindrical Storage Container
Sometimes it's a chore
just to get out of bed
in the morning, to find
the motivation to pull
oneself upright, to awaken
the personal inertial navigation
system and launch to surface
consciousness in dread anticipation
of possible decommissioning, reluctant
to punch the ignition sequence, knowing
full well it could fail, and leave me fumbling
through the day in slow-motion, brain
a half a beat behind the body. Living
on the launch pad of a missile silo
means perpetually glancing up
at the blast doors, a lengthy distance
over head, wondering about the weather
outside the entombing concrete walls.
I am a patient daughter of Titan.
I wait for relief, a support squadron
to knock on the subterranean
access portal and allow me
to deploy to a sunnier location.
.
21 April 2009
April 21 - Poem A Day Challenge - Haiku
Today's Prompt: "Here are the two prompts for the day (you only need to choose one, unless you're all about pushing yourself to the limit):
1. Write a haiku. The haiku is not just a form but a genre of poetry. People sometimes go into writing a haiku and end up with a senryu or a faux-ku, but it's all good (and all poetry).
2. Write about the haiku. I know there are some poets (in this very group even) who are anti-form. So, I'm giving them the option to write their anti-haiku manifestos. Of course, if you pay attention to this 2nd prompt, it doesn't need to be anti-haiku; your poem could be questioning or even praising the haiku. Or something." Poetic Asides
I like haiku. I like the constraints and the need to reduce everything, distill it down to an essence. They aren't easy to write well. I think I spent the same amount of time on these two haiku as I did on longer poems. I know haiku rules aren't cut and dried, and I will bend them if necessary, but part of the fun is trying to work within the constraints of the form. I did one, then another came to me, and I played with it a while, finalized and posted it. Yes, I overachieved. Don't tell.
A pair of haiku
sudden morning rain
earthworms rise to the surface
become hieroglyphs
twin lambs stand, totter
new mother grazes head down
eagles soar overhead
.
1. Write a haiku. The haiku is not just a form but a genre of poetry. People sometimes go into writing a haiku and end up with a senryu or a faux-ku, but it's all good (and all poetry).
2. Write about the haiku. I know there are some poets (in this very group even) who are anti-form. So, I'm giving them the option to write their anti-haiku manifestos. Of course, if you pay attention to this 2nd prompt, it doesn't need to be anti-haiku; your poem could be questioning or even praising the haiku. Or something." Poetic Asides
I like haiku. I like the constraints and the need to reduce everything, distill it down to an essence. They aren't easy to write well. I think I spent the same amount of time on these two haiku as I did on longer poems. I know haiku rules aren't cut and dried, and I will bend them if necessary, but part of the fun is trying to work within the constraints of the form. I did one, then another came to me, and I played with it a while, finalized and posted it. Yes, I overachieved. Don't tell.
A pair of haiku
sudden morning rain
earthworms rise to the surface
become hieroglyphs
twin lambs stand, totter
new mother grazes head down
eagles soar overhead
.
18 April 2009
April 18 - Poem A Day Challenge - Interaction
Today's prompt: "I want you to write a poem with an interaction of some sort. The interaction does NOT have to be between people, though it can. For instance, you could write about the interaction between a bee and a flower; or an owl and a field mouse. Or just write about a traffic cop getting into an argument with a speeder. Just as long as there is some sort of interaction going on." Poetic Asides
The image that came to mind was how the mountains appear on the horizon after a long drive from the east to the west. Most of the time they take me by surprise, one minute there is nothing but endless prairie, next thing I know, there are mountains, with little transition in between. I used to think I was just not paying attention, but there are places where they appear to just rise out of the plains like divine monuments.
Horizontal, Vertical
Comfortable as night married
to day, steadfast as the shore dashing
down to kiss the sea, mountains
spill forth on the horizon
without the midwife of foothills
to intervene. Thrust abruptly
from the earth by unseen Titan
hands, a symbol of hopeful transition
never intended by an impartial
nature, who buries her malice
amidst snow-capped peaks.
An almost imperceptible
tilt of plain and prairie leans
travelers forward in anticipation.
From a great distance, traversing
the security of a horizontal
world, the muted wall of mountain
appears tranquil, mirroring
distant ocean before a storm.
.
The image that came to mind was how the mountains appear on the horizon after a long drive from the east to the west. Most of the time they take me by surprise, one minute there is nothing but endless prairie, next thing I know, there are mountains, with little transition in between. I used to think I was just not paying attention, but there are places where they appear to just rise out of the plains like divine monuments.
Horizontal, Vertical
Comfortable as night married
to day, steadfast as the shore dashing
down to kiss the sea, mountains
spill forth on the horizon
without the midwife of foothills
to intervene. Thrust abruptly
from the earth by unseen Titan
hands, a symbol of hopeful transition
never intended by an impartial
nature, who buries her malice
amidst snow-capped peaks.
An almost imperceptible
tilt of plain and prairie leans
travelers forward in anticipation.
From a great distance, traversing
the security of a horizontal
world, the muted wall of mountain
appears tranquil, mirroring
distant ocean before a storm.
.
17 April 2009
April 17 - Poem A Day Challenge - All I Want
Today's prompt: "I want you to write a poem with the following title: "All I want is (blank)," where you fill in the blank with a word or phrase of your choosing. Some example titles, then, could be: "All I want is to eat fried chicken"; "All I want is world peace"; "All I want is for everyone to tell me I'm beautiful"; or "All I want is a handful of quarters."" Poetic Asides
All I Want Is Not
A simple give
and take of
complex
aspirations.
All I want
is to not want,
to have no desire
or unexamined
wishes, covet
nothing of my
neighbor's—
not to crave
possessions
or long for people
I know will be
difficult. No
yearning after
material objects,
immaterial subjects
immortal status.
I want requirements
to be straightforward,
less complicated.
All I want is not
to want.
.
All I Want Is Not
A simple give
and take of
complex
aspirations.
All I want
is to not want,
to have no desire
or unexamined
wishes, covet
nothing of my
neighbor's—
not to crave
possessions
or long for people
I know will be
difficult. No
yearning after
material objects,
immaterial subjects
immortal status.
I want requirements
to be straightforward,
less complicated.
All I want is not
to want.
.
16 April 2009
April 16 - Poem A Day Challenge - Color
Today's prompt: "I want you to pick a color, make that the title of your poem, and write a poem that is inspired by that color." Poetic Asides
Probably the hardest prompt yet for me. For some reason, I was immobilized by choice. I started several poems, one with the color white, another focused on a different take on brown, but neither worked for me. It wasn't until I read about stars and their stellar spectrums that it started to click. Another weird one for those who ask "Where do you get your ideas from?" I get them from out there... somewhere.
Categorically Misunderstood
Nobody likes the color brown
I was told once upon a time.
It's such a bland, insipid shade.
Much too close to nature,
a down-to-earth color except
when astronomers hypothesize
about the presence of brown
dwarfs. Pity those poor balls
of gravity-ridden plasma, doomed
to be known for eternity
as sub-stars, too underweight
to sustain stable hydrogen fusion,
core temperature not fierce enough
to burn lithium. They fail to pass
the tests, overshadowed by red,
yellow or white stars, forced
to depend on the gravitational
collapse of material for heat,
a bum huddled around a burning
galactic trash barrel. Scientists
scoff, and call their patinas de-
saturated yellow, when feeling
generous, reddish-orange. Doomed
to the status of co-star, of mere
binary companion, it doesn't matter
how many X-ray flares the brown
dwarfs orbiting Epsilon Indi send
out, their winking infrared emissions
will never signal more than failed
planet in some space gazing eyes.
.
15 April 2009
April 15 - Poem A Day Challenge - Altered Poem
Today's prompt: "I want you to take the title of a poem you especially like (by another poet) and change it. Then, with this new altered title, I want you to write a poem. An example would be to take William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow" and change it to "The Red Volkswagon." Or take Frank O'Hara's "Why I Am Not a Painter" and change it to "Why I Am Not a Penguin." You get the idea, right? (Note: Your altered poem does NOT have to follow the same style as the original poet, though you can try if you wish.)" Poetic Asides
Hmm, Robert Burns? Emily Dickinson? I already riffed on William Blake last week. I almost settled on Adrienne Rich, Diving into the Wreck (Driving into a Wreck) but couldn't quite figure out how to warp it. (Of course I want the bigger challenge of following the same style.) I even debated doing Lawrence Ferlighetti's Baseball Canto. Couldn't make it work without the Cubs looking bad. Then my warped brain latched on to Allen Ginsberg's Howl - I love that poem for the sheer density of the language – and I had my epiphany of how to rewrite it. Let's just say Ginsberg and the zombie apocalypse aren't so far apart as you'd think.
Foul
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by starving, naked zombies, it was hysterical how they dragged themselves through suburban streets before dawn looking for a brain fix,
empty-headed corpses yearning for a tasty connection of white and gray wrapped in dura matter,
whose lipids and neurons and glial cells are but fodder in the supernatural darkness of the soul of rotting flesh floating across the top of open-sore craniums
who attack mindless in waves the haven and see other Romerian zombies staggering on shambling, putrid limbs,
who pass on recruiting at universities with discolored eyes not wanting to hallucinate Sartre and Camus from feasting on the flesh of philosophy majors,
who were reanimated from the academies for crazy - pushing obscene odes to the density of the skull,
who cower in infected rooms in long underwear, saving their medullas in wastebaskets and listening politely to the Terror through the wall,
who got decomposed in their tender graves returning through reanimation with a desire for middle-class flesh from New York,
who ate cerebellum like candy or drank cerebrospinal fluid in death, or purgatoried their tissues night after night
with bad hygiene, with infection, with waking nightmares, rotting teeth and rotten nails,
incomprehensible screaming of shuddering crowds at the light-in-the-mind staggering past cases of Bartles & James, illuminated by the motionless soldiers in riot gear
Payless shoes on detached feet, shuffle through cemetery dawns, wine-drunk survivors fleeing over the rooftops hiding behind storefronts joyriding with cricket bats ignoring neon blinking traffic lights, as they roar over walking corpses and smash the apocalyptical plague upside the head . . .
(. . . Original Poem- Howl by Allen Ginsberg)
.
Hmm, Robert Burns? Emily Dickinson? I already riffed on William Blake last week. I almost settled on Adrienne Rich, Diving into the Wreck (Driving into a Wreck) but couldn't quite figure out how to warp it. (Of course I want the bigger challenge of following the same style.) I even debated doing Lawrence Ferlighetti's Baseball Canto. Couldn't make it work without the Cubs looking bad. Then my warped brain latched on to Allen Ginsberg's Howl - I love that poem for the sheer density of the language – and I had my epiphany of how to rewrite it. Let's just say Ginsberg and the zombie apocalypse aren't so far apart as you'd think.
Foul
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by starving, naked zombies, it was hysterical how they dragged themselves through suburban streets before dawn looking for a brain fix,
empty-headed corpses yearning for a tasty connection of white and gray wrapped in dura matter,
whose lipids and neurons and glial cells are but fodder in the supernatural darkness of the soul of rotting flesh floating across the top of open-sore craniums
who attack mindless in waves the haven and see other Romerian zombies staggering on shambling, putrid limbs,
who pass on recruiting at universities with discolored eyes not wanting to hallucinate Sartre and Camus from feasting on the flesh of philosophy majors,
who were reanimated from the academies for crazy - pushing obscene odes to the density of the skull,
who cower in infected rooms in long underwear, saving their medullas in wastebaskets and listening politely to the Terror through the wall,
who got decomposed in their tender graves returning through reanimation with a desire for middle-class flesh from New York,
who ate cerebellum like candy or drank cerebrospinal fluid in death, or purgatoried their tissues night after night
with bad hygiene, with infection, with waking nightmares, rotting teeth and rotten nails,
incomprehensible screaming of shuddering crowds at the light-in-the-mind staggering past cases of Bartles & James, illuminated by the motionless soldiers in riot gear
Payless shoes on detached feet, shuffle through cemetery dawns, wine-drunk survivors fleeing over the rooftops hiding behind storefronts joyriding with cricket bats ignoring neon blinking traffic lights, as they roar over walking corpses and smash the apocalyptical plague upside the head . . .
(. . . Original Poem- Howl by Allen Ginsberg)
.
13 April 2009
April 13 - Poem A Day Challenge - Hobby
Today's prompt: "I want you to write a poem that incorporates a hobby (either yours or someone else's). That's right: Now is the perfect opportunity to write about your comic collection or your scrapbooking activities. And for the purposes of this challenge, I also think activities such as fishing, running, bowling, photography, birding, and gardening count as hobbies."
Relief
From a carved matrix, an impression
of ink on paper gives way to graphic design.
Cherry plank, shina plywood, linoleum—
serve as a base. I gouge the surface to fashion
a raised line here, a span of nothing there, cutting
away anything unworthy of the final contours.
I mix dry pigment into liquid, feel for the proper
viscousness, enthralled by the tack, the rhythmic
spread of color by brayer or brush.
Sometimes I work in transparent layers, print
one color over the next like glassy stratum. If I
feel bold as the illustrators of the past I let lamp
black ink spotlight itself on the bone white paper.
Multiple images resemble twins, triplets, quads,
etc. but aren't, really. Minute variations in pigment,
the way I rub the bamboo baren across the back
of the translucent paper creates fluctuations, tiny
imperfections to show it was made by hand.
Peeling a fresh print from the oily block never
grows old, I'm as excited to see the last image
as I was to pull the first. I look with satisfaction
upon the edition hanging from clothespins
in my studio, as a mother looks upon her children,
not as clones of one another, but as distinct entities,
destined to depart for a new life far from home.
.
Relief
From a carved matrix, an impression
of ink on paper gives way to graphic design.
Cherry plank, shina plywood, linoleum—
serve as a base. I gouge the surface to fashion
a raised line here, a span of nothing there, cutting
away anything unworthy of the final contours.
I mix dry pigment into liquid, feel for the proper
viscousness, enthralled by the tack, the rhythmic
spread of color by brayer or brush.
Sometimes I work in transparent layers, print
one color over the next like glassy stratum. If I
feel bold as the illustrators of the past I let lamp
black ink spotlight itself on the bone white paper.
Multiple images resemble twins, triplets, quads,
etc. but aren't, really. Minute variations in pigment,
the way I rub the bamboo baren across the back
of the translucent paper creates fluctuations, tiny
imperfections to show it was made by hand.
Peeling a fresh print from the oily block never
grows old, I'm as excited to see the last image
as I was to pull the first. I look with satisfaction
upon the edition hanging from clothespins
in my studio, as a mother looks upon her children,
not as clones of one another, but as distinct entities,
destined to depart for a new life far from home.
.
12 April 2009
April 12 - Poem A Day Challenge - So We Decided To_
Today's prompt: "I want you to take the phrase "So we decided to (blank)" and fill in the blank. Make that your title and write a poem. Some possibilities include "So we decided to plant a tree" or "So we decided to burn a hole in the sky."" Poetic Asides
Our neighbors got a new refrigerator yesterday, and had the audacity to just throw the box away. The horror. And no, I didn't go pick it out of the trash.
But I thought about it.
Almost Paradise
So we decided to run away to Tahiti,
packed our treasure in a grimy Army
duffel bag and dragged it outside.
The situation rapidly deteriorated
as we argued whether to ride horses
or fly. Horseback seemed more
romantic, and in line with past
expeditions. My brother disagreed,
a plane would get us there faster.
We compromised on a boat, because
Tahiti was on the other side of the world
across two oceans. A plane might run
out of gas and ditch us like Amelia
Earhart. It was cruel of him to invoke
one of my heroes but there was no
arguing with the logic. I was assigned
to portholes, while he steered us down
the Hudson, along the Atlantic,
around Cape Horn into the South
Pacific. We ended up in Australia.
My brother thought wombats
and kangaroos were more interesting
than an island with a sandy beach
and palm trees. I decided then and there,
someday, I would buy my own refrigerator
and leisurely sail the box to Bora Bora,
or even Auckland. Alone.
.
Our neighbors got a new refrigerator yesterday, and had the audacity to just throw the box away. The horror. And no, I didn't go pick it out of the trash.
But I thought about it.
Almost Paradise
So we decided to run away to Tahiti,
packed our treasure in a grimy Army
duffel bag and dragged it outside.
The situation rapidly deteriorated
as we argued whether to ride horses
or fly. Horseback seemed more
romantic, and in line with past
expeditions. My brother disagreed,
a plane would get us there faster.
We compromised on a boat, because
Tahiti was on the other side of the world
across two oceans. A plane might run
out of gas and ditch us like Amelia
Earhart. It was cruel of him to invoke
one of my heroes but there was no
arguing with the logic. I was assigned
to portholes, while he steered us down
the Hudson, along the Atlantic,
around Cape Horn into the South
Pacific. We ended up in Australia.
My brother thought wombats
and kangaroos were more interesting
than an island with a sandy beach
and palm trees. I decided then and there,
someday, I would buy my own refrigerator
and leisurely sail the box to Bora Bora,
or even Auckland. Alone.
.
11 April 2009
April 11 - Poem A Day Challenge - Object
Poetic Asides
Today's prompt: "I want you to write a poem about an object (or objects). Though you don't have to confine yourself to straight up description, I do want you to focus on object and/or make it a central piece of your poem. One of the more famous poems of contemporary literature does this wonderfully in William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow."
Max and Merlin's collars were lying on the table. I picked them up, to go hang them on the hook in the kitchen, but the mere whisper of tags brought both dogs to my side in a flash, eyes wide and non-existent tails wagging. Collars are magical objects in my house, the ticket to faraway places in Corgi eyes. I could read their thoughts--"Oh, joy, we're going for a walk/ride!!" They were about to quiver apart from happiness. Max stuck his neck out for the collar. Merlin did his moonwalk-happy-twirl-o-joy. You know what happened next.
We went for a ride.
Choker
A plastic click locks the nylon circle
around your neck. Instead of rebellion
I get a tail wag and lick of gratitude.
You don't feel oppressed, enslaved,
or even bothered by the implications
of collar and jangling tags. Meaning
is simple-we're going for a walk,
or better yet, a ride in the car. No
subjugation of your inner canine,
merely another step in daily ritual.
Synthetic, cotton or leather, lined
with sheepskin or plain, red, blue,
paw print patterned or stylized
bones, it's all the same to you. I
choose to wrap the latest behind
your tall ears-a band emblazoned
with your name and phone number,
so everyone sees, and all will know
that I am the one responsible.
.
Today's prompt: "I want you to write a poem about an object (or objects). Though you don't have to confine yourself to straight up description, I do want you to focus on object and/or make it a central piece of your poem. One of the more famous poems of contemporary literature does this wonderfully in William Carlos Williams' "The Red Wheelbarrow."
Max and Merlin's collars were lying on the table. I picked them up, to go hang them on the hook in the kitchen, but the mere whisper of tags brought both dogs to my side in a flash, eyes wide and non-existent tails wagging. Collars are magical objects in my house, the ticket to faraway places in Corgi eyes. I could read their thoughts--"Oh, joy, we're going for a walk/ride!!" They were about to quiver apart from happiness. Max stuck his neck out for the collar. Merlin did his moonwalk-happy-twirl-o-joy. You know what happened next.
We went for a ride.
Choker
A plastic click locks the nylon circle
around your neck. Instead of rebellion
I get a tail wag and lick of gratitude.
You don't feel oppressed, enslaved,
or even bothered by the implications
of collar and jangling tags. Meaning
is simple-we're going for a walk,
or better yet, a ride in the car. No
subjugation of your inner canine,
merely another step in daily ritual.
Synthetic, cotton or leather, lined
with sheepskin or plain, red, blue,
paw print patterned or stylized
bones, it's all the same to you. I
choose to wrap the latest behind
your tall ears-a band emblazoned
with your name and phone number,
so everyone sees, and all will know
that I am the one responsible.
.
10 April 2009
April 10 - Poem A Day Challenge - Friday
Today's prompt: "I want you to write a poem about Friday. Do you like Fridays? Despise Fridays? Of course, you can also write about something that happened on a Friday--or write an ode to Fridays. Or, as you know, I'm all for seeing you attack this from an angle I haven't thought of yet."
Deify Friday
Frigg this—enough with the veneration.
My Friday is someone else's Monday
and it's already tomorrow in Australia.
What of Wednesday? Odin gets short
shift again, reduced to hump day despite
magical connections to poetry and war.
I suppose Friday-worship was inevitable
given the Roman adoration of Venus. Far
be it for me to disdain the myriad
complexities of date love.
.
Deify Friday
Frigg this—enough with the veneration.
My Friday is someone else's Monday
and it's already tomorrow in Australia.
What of Wednesday? Odin gets short
shift again, reduced to hump day despite
magical connections to poetry and war.
I suppose Friday-worship was inevitable
given the Roman adoration of Venus. Far
be it for me to disdain the myriad
complexities of date love.
.
09 April 2009
April 9 - Poem A Day Challenge - Memory
Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer
A poem conjured from looking at pictures from one of many afternoons spent hanging around Piazza del Campo in Siena, Italy.
Piazza Afternoon
A spiral of pigeons s-curved,
dropped in.
The widow hawked
cracked corn in paper bags.
Dusty schoolchildren twittered
and flitted about.
Three black-robed priests flew
across the cobblestones.
Couples preened and posed
by the trickling fountain.
The sun trilled warmth
across the square.
.
08 April 2009
April 8 - Poem A Day Challenge - Routine
Today's prompt: "I want you to write a poem about either a specific routine or routines in general. Maybe something related to taking out the trash each week or washing the dishes every night--or something more bizarre (yet still a routine)." Poetic Asides
Routines can be good, or stifling, or a little bit of both. But for people who can't remember where they left their shoes the night before, routines are a Godsend – because then there is a 50 percent chance the shoes will be where you're supposed to leave them. On the other hand, routines are safe, mundane, predictable... boring. How do you get out of one? You can wait for someone to give you a shove, or you can turn left instead of right for a change. Which, for the directionally challenged (like me), isn't usually a problem. Every day is a new driving adventure, especially in a town with continual major road construction. Figuring out how to get home with a minimum of left hand turns across dug up streets is my new hobby. Can't autopilot to work any more, for fear of accidentally driving up a line of barrels going the wrong way. Not that that ever happened to me. Not more than once...
Grooving
My rigid schedule wears a furrow
in the fabric of the universe.
Caught in an continual loop
I long for the day the record
skips, the tape slips, a stutter steps,
anything to rupture habits out
of complacency. From deep
in the dank abyss of my rut, I peer
up at a Prussian sky and wait
for someone to drop me a line,
or a hand. Even my car has turned
against me, driving to work,
the store, home without my active
participation. I am a pod person, Stepford
wife, zombie- victim of inertia
and the inability to shuffle my notes.
.
Routines can be good, or stifling, or a little bit of both. But for people who can't remember where they left their shoes the night before, routines are a Godsend – because then there is a 50 percent chance the shoes will be where you're supposed to leave them. On the other hand, routines are safe, mundane, predictable... boring. How do you get out of one? You can wait for someone to give you a shove, or you can turn left instead of right for a change. Which, for the directionally challenged (like me), isn't usually a problem. Every day is a new driving adventure, especially in a town with continual major road construction. Figuring out how to get home with a minimum of left hand turns across dug up streets is my new hobby. Can't autopilot to work any more, for fear of accidentally driving up a line of barrels going the wrong way. Not that that ever happened to me. Not more than once...
Grooving
My rigid schedule wears a furrow
in the fabric of the universe.
Caught in an continual loop
I long for the day the record
skips, the tape slips, a stutter steps,
anything to rupture habits out
of complacency. From deep
in the dank abyss of my rut, I peer
up at a Prussian sky and wait
for someone to drop me a line,
or a hand. Even my car has turned
against me, driving to work,
the store, home without my active
participation. I am a pod person, Stepford
wife, zombie- victim of inertia
and the inability to shuffle my notes.
.
07 April 2009
April 7 - Poem A Day Challenge - Clean
Poetic Asides
It's "Two for Tuesday", twice the prompts in half the time. :) I picked only one, however.
Today's Prompt:
Prompt #1: "I want you to write a clean poem. Take this however you wish. Clean language, clean subject matter, or cleaning the dishes. Of course, some twisted few will automatically link "cleaning" with hired hitmen. That's okay, as long as your poem is somehow linked to clean."
The first thing that hopped into my mind was Tabula Rasa - blank slate. A clean start. The fact that in life, you don't get 'do-overs'. But what if you could? On my blank slate I mixed and matched a bunch of philosophical theories from the studies of my past (gotta put that degree to some use!) and spackled together The Epistemologist's Guide To A Reboot.
Tabula Rasa
I want a do-over.
The ability to jump start,
begin again, fresh, clean,
original. Smooth the clay
tablet of my past,
limit the scope
of my knowledge
to the here and now.
Dissociation is my goal.
Let what is recognized
be true beyond all
my doubts. Erase
this empirical being,
give me a new account,
any justification will do.
Trust me, I'll have multiple
ways of knowing, intrigued
by the pure potentiality
of reason. Better yet,
send down a mind
from somewhere
in the heavens,
it's pre-existence not
my experience. Sensory
data can be acquired. Observed
or derived, it doesn't matter,
I bow to the hypothetical. I can't
categorically state that this do-over
is entirely necessary, but it would be
nice.
.
It's "Two for Tuesday", twice the prompts in half the time. :) I picked only one, however.
Today's Prompt:
Prompt #1: "I want you to write a clean poem. Take this however you wish. Clean language, clean subject matter, or cleaning the dishes. Of course, some twisted few will automatically link "cleaning" with hired hitmen. That's okay, as long as your poem is somehow linked to clean."
The first thing that hopped into my mind was Tabula Rasa - blank slate. A clean start. The fact that in life, you don't get 'do-overs'. But what if you could? On my blank slate I mixed and matched a bunch of philosophical theories from the studies of my past (gotta put that degree to some use!) and spackled together The Epistemologist's Guide To A Reboot.
Tabula Rasa
I want a do-over.
The ability to jump start,
begin again, fresh, clean,
original. Smooth the clay
tablet of my past,
limit the scope
of my knowledge
to the here and now.
Dissociation is my goal.
Let what is recognized
be true beyond all
my doubts. Erase
this empirical being,
give me a new account,
any justification will do.
Trust me, I'll have multiple
ways of knowing, intrigued
by the pure potentiality
of reason. Better yet,
send down a mind
from somewhere
in the heavens,
it's pre-existence not
my experience. Sensory
data can be acquired. Observed
or derived, it doesn't matter,
I bow to the hypothetical. I can't
categorically state that this do-over
is entirely necessary, but it would be
nice.
.
06 April 2009
April 6 - Poem A Day Challenge - Missing
From Poetic Asides-
Today's Prompt: "I want you to write a poem about something missing. It can be about an actual physical object or something you just can't put your finger on (like "love" or "the spirit of Christmas" or something)."
Borderline Patrol
Nothing is real. Tripping about the perimeter,
truth turns malleable, cloaked in black
and white. For regulation I don the self-image
du jour like others put on socks and shoes,
knight before battle with no squire to dress
him. A modern-day minefield of buried passions
waits between inner and outer personalities.
Within rigid boundaries, logic is bible,
the flinty outer edge of existence. Emotions
are a passport I can't afford to carry—in fact,
I believe I left them in my other jeans, the ones
worn all the way through a forgotten childhood.
.
Today's Prompt: "I want you to write a poem about something missing. It can be about an actual physical object or something you just can't put your finger on (like "love" or "the spirit of Christmas" or something)."
Borderline Patrol
Nothing is real. Tripping about the perimeter,
truth turns malleable, cloaked in black
and white. For regulation I don the self-image
du jour like others put on socks and shoes,
knight before battle with no squire to dress
him. A modern-day minefield of buried passions
waits between inner and outer personalities.
Within rigid boundaries, logic is bible,
the flinty outer edge of existence. Emotions
are a passport I can't afford to carry—in fact,
I believe I left them in my other jeans, the ones
worn all the way through a forgotten childhood.
.
05 April 2009
April 5 - Poem A Day Challenge - Landmark
From Poetic Asides.
Today's prompt: "I want you to write a poem about a landmark. It can be a famous landmark (like Mount Rushmore or the Sphinx) or a little more subdued (like the town water tower or an interesting sign)."
Things were a little tougher today, the prompt brought up all kinds of possibilities, almost too many to choose from. I had to narrow it down somehow, so I chose to concentrate on a Wyoming landmark. Something that isn't quite as famous as Devils Tower, but has all the wallop of a punch in the gut.
Driving around Wyoming, I've tried to imagine what it must have been like one hundred fifty years ago, when people were migrating across the land. Even travel by horseback gives you a very different perspective than driving in a car. The prairie seems to stretch out forever, and the horizon is so distant it's almost unfathomable. It's hard to think about walking across the state, as the people traveling the Oregon Trail did. Despite the companionship of your fellow emigrants, it must have seemed a lonely world. The closest I've come is to get out of the car and walk, to stand in the middle of the prairie, grass waving and wind whipping around my ears, no civilization in sight... it's as humbling as looking up into the vastness of a night sky. Throw in a few howling coyotes, and you start to get a picture of the past.
Parting of the Ways, Wyoming
It's not much. Wagon tracks carve a scar
through the heart of a sagebrush prairie,
an empty space in a state known for empty
spaces. Amidst the wide-open lonesome,
a pile of rocks, mounded like grave markers,
some chiseled with the names and dates
of those who passed on the Oregon Trail.
Dual ruts diverge—southwest, toward Fort
Bridger, or west, across the Sublette Cutoff,
fifty miles of waterless plain until
the promise. Even those that hated chance,
gambled here. On this spot, under distant
blue skies, on a day much like today, emigrant
decisions broke partners, eroded friendships,
split entire families between California
and Oregon. The division remains etched
on the land. Left or right, it was miles until
either party traveled out of sight of the other,
days before the pain of separation was forcibly
swallowed by the endless Wyoming horizon.
.
Today's prompt: "I want you to write a poem about a landmark. It can be a famous landmark (like Mount Rushmore or the Sphinx) or a little more subdued (like the town water tower or an interesting sign)."
Things were a little tougher today, the prompt brought up all kinds of possibilities, almost too many to choose from. I had to narrow it down somehow, so I chose to concentrate on a Wyoming landmark. Something that isn't quite as famous as Devils Tower, but has all the wallop of a punch in the gut.
Driving around Wyoming, I've tried to imagine what it must have been like one hundred fifty years ago, when people were migrating across the land. Even travel by horseback gives you a very different perspective than driving in a car. The prairie seems to stretch out forever, and the horizon is so distant it's almost unfathomable. It's hard to think about walking across the state, as the people traveling the Oregon Trail did. Despite the companionship of your fellow emigrants, it must have seemed a lonely world. The closest I've come is to get out of the car and walk, to stand in the middle of the prairie, grass waving and wind whipping around my ears, no civilization in sight... it's as humbling as looking up into the vastness of a night sky. Throw in a few howling coyotes, and you start to get a picture of the past.
Parting of the Ways, Wyoming
It's not much. Wagon tracks carve a scar
through the heart of a sagebrush prairie,
an empty space in a state known for empty
spaces. Amidst the wide-open lonesome,
a pile of rocks, mounded like grave markers,
some chiseled with the names and dates
of those who passed on the Oregon Trail.
Dual ruts diverge—southwest, toward Fort
Bridger, or west, across the Sublette Cutoff,
fifty miles of waterless plain until
the promise. Even those that hated chance,
gambled here. On this spot, under distant
blue skies, on a day much like today, emigrant
decisions broke partners, eroded friendships,
split entire families between California
and Oregon. The division remains etched
on the land. Left or right, it was miles until
either party traveled out of sight of the other,
days before the pain of separation was forcibly
swallowed by the endless Wyoming horizon.
.
04 April 2009
April 4 - Poem A Day Challenge - Animal
Today’s prompt: "I want you to pick an animal; make that animal the title of your poem; then, write a poem. You could be very general with your animal title (“Bees” or “Lion”) or specific (“Flipper” or “Lassie”). You could even be very silly with something like “Tony, the Tiger,” I guess (that tiger on the cereal box)."
For some reason, my mind decided to warp William Blake in my own weird image... I know the poem well, I have it memorized, but this is how it insisted on coming out in response to the prompt.
I blame the snow. Yes, we've had more, another 4-6 inches. Nothing like the blizzards of the past two weeks, but... enough is enough already, you know? Let the sun come out and stop me before I get my grimy mitts on another unsuspecting poet.
The Tiger
Tiger, tiger flying kites
Claw to string in great delight
Broad-beamed head and topaz eye
Balanced stripes, not one awry.
In foreign land 'neth sapphire skies
He stands erect, logic defies
A manner of being he acquired
Now a creature much admired.
For more than attitude and smarts
Tangle the presence he imparts
Feline allure and grace elite
Recognized the incomplete.
What of the need to entertain?
In what was once a cub's domain—
Delighted sounds, a growling rasp
Escape between fangs tightly clasped
When gusting winds did blow and shear
Kite from string to disappear
The black-striped cat snarled no plea
Acknowledging they both were free
Tiger, tiger flying kites
Clawing string with great delight
Playful gaze and distant eye
Tethered to a silk ally.
.
For some reason, my mind decided to warp William Blake in my own weird image... I know the poem well, I have it memorized, but this is how it insisted on coming out in response to the prompt.
I blame the snow. Yes, we've had more, another 4-6 inches. Nothing like the blizzards of the past two weeks, but... enough is enough already, you know? Let the sun come out and stop me before I get my grimy mitts on another unsuspecting poet.
The Tiger
Tiger, tiger flying kites
Claw to string in great delight
Broad-beamed head and topaz eye
Balanced stripes, not one awry.
In foreign land 'neth sapphire skies
He stands erect, logic defies
A manner of being he acquired
Now a creature much admired.
For more than attitude and smarts
Tangle the presence he imparts
Feline allure and grace elite
Recognized the incomplete.
What of the need to entertain?
In what was once a cub's domain—
Delighted sounds, a growling rasp
Escape between fangs tightly clasped
When gusting winds did blow and shear
Kite from string to disappear
The black-striped cat snarled no plea
Acknowledging they both were free
Tiger, tiger flying kites
Clawing string with great delight
Playful gaze and distant eye
Tethered to a silk ally.
.
03 April 2009
April 3 – Poem A Day Challenge - The Problem With _
Today's prompt: "Take the phrase "The problem with (blank)" and replace the "(blank)" with a word or phrase. Make this the title of your poem and then write a poem to fit with or juxtapose against that title. For instance, you could have poems with the titles of "The problem with government," "The problem with advanced mathematics," or "The problem with bipolar penguins." You know the drill: have fun, be creative." Poetic Asides
This is another one of those oddball poems that comes from my fascination with science – quantum physics, mainly, a subject on which I have little knowledge and less instruction, but still remain interested enough in to fight my way through books I have no business even picking up. It leads to some bizarre mental contortions as I try and figure out how to write on a subject I know nothing about. Yet some how the idea of a "Theory of Everything" has found its way into my poetry and a few short stories.
According to Wikipedia, "String theory is a developing branch of theoretical physics that combines quantum mechanics and general relativity into a quantum theory of gravity… In particular, string theory is the first candidate for the theory of everything, a way to describe all the known natural forces (gravitational, electromagnetic, weak and strong interactions) and matter (quarks and leptons) in a mathematically complete system."
Couple this with the random, Jeopardy-like bits and pieces that stick in my brain… including a tidbit about cat's cradle being one of humanity's oldest games, found throughout all cultures in the world… and you get today's poem.
The Problem With String Theory
The opening move involves the transfer
of wrapped string from one player
to another, fingers and thumb weaving
diamonds between the empty spaces.
It's a game as old as mankind, and elegantly
explains the whole lot—all known natural
forces, what the world is made of down
to the subatomic composition of the universe.
It's in the passage of filament from one
person to another where theory goes astray.
In the rush to take possession of the loop,
gravity falls out the holes and rolls away,
leaving us unable to explain the one thing
that would help us explain everything.
In the end, it doesn't matter, because
it won't be mathematical precision
that pushes theoretical physics out
of the nest, but a length of cord
oscillating back and forth from player
to player, starting at Opening A, cat's
cradle, and continuing onward
in infinite combination.
.
This is another one of those oddball poems that comes from my fascination with science – quantum physics, mainly, a subject on which I have little knowledge and less instruction, but still remain interested enough in to fight my way through books I have no business even picking up. It leads to some bizarre mental contortions as I try and figure out how to write on a subject I know nothing about. Yet some how the idea of a "Theory of Everything" has found its way into my poetry and a few short stories.
According to Wikipedia, "String theory is a developing branch of theoretical physics that combines quantum mechanics and general relativity into a quantum theory of gravity… In particular, string theory is the first candidate for the theory of everything, a way to describe all the known natural forces (gravitational, electromagnetic, weak and strong interactions) and matter (quarks and leptons) in a mathematically complete system."
Couple this with the random, Jeopardy-like bits and pieces that stick in my brain… including a tidbit about cat's cradle being one of humanity's oldest games, found throughout all cultures in the world… and you get today's poem.
The Problem With String Theory
The opening move involves the transfer
of wrapped string from one player
to another, fingers and thumb weaving
diamonds between the empty spaces.
It's a game as old as mankind, and elegantly
explains the whole lot—all known natural
forces, what the world is made of down
to the subatomic composition of the universe.
It's in the passage of filament from one
person to another where theory goes astray.
In the rush to take possession of the loop,
gravity falls out the holes and rolls away,
leaving us unable to explain the one thing
that would help us explain everything.
In the end, it doesn't matter, because
it won't be mathematical precision
that pushes theoretical physics out
of the nest, but a length of cord
oscillating back and forth from player
to player, starting at Opening A, cat's
cradle, and continuing onward
in infinite combination.
.
02 April 2009
Day 2 - Poem A Day Challenge - Outsider
Day 2 of the April Poem A Day Challenge at Poetic Asides.
Today's Prompt: "Today, I want you to write an outsider poem. You can be the outsider; someone else can be the outsider; or it can even be an animal or inanimate object that's the outsider. As usual, get creative with the prompt and don't be afraid to stretch the limits."
If I'm going to be an outsider, I'm going to be WAY outside. I always wondered if they will do personality typing before they nominated someone to go meet the alien hordes, or if it will be a kind of "You're Up!" type of deal.
I wouldn't be a good alien greeter. The powers that be are better off just leaving me down in the engine room...
Left at Alpha Centauri, Proceed With Caution
I peer out from behind
the relative safety of my face
plate at the gathering of alien
life forms arrayed before me.
Recycled air from the home
planet swirls before my two eyes,
not the four or eight mismatched
pairs. One of the creatures gestures
for me to come down the ramp, away
from the ship. Another indicates
it's absolutely safe to remove
my helmet and breathe their air.
I'm not fooled by the general
gregariousness. I've met foreigners
in other places. I trusted before,
on other planets. Not this time.
You don't live to my advancing
age by being less than cautious.
I pretend to misinterpret the signals.
Before the crowd can turn uglier,
I take a few steps down the ramp,
launch into the canned speech
I give all extraterrestrial beings
who attempt to pry me from my
safety zone, hand out multi-colored
food bricks from stored rations.
They ignore my reluctance to join
them, chatter, eat, wave anemone
antennae. Another few minutes
and they will forget the gawky
Earthling in the ill-fitting space
suit, the one that remains tethered
at all times to the mothership.
Today's Prompt: "Today, I want you to write an outsider poem. You can be the outsider; someone else can be the outsider; or it can even be an animal or inanimate object that's the outsider. As usual, get creative with the prompt and don't be afraid to stretch the limits."
If I'm going to be an outsider, I'm going to be WAY outside. I always wondered if they will do personality typing before they nominated someone to go meet the alien hordes, or if it will be a kind of "You're Up!" type of deal.
I wouldn't be a good alien greeter. The powers that be are better off just leaving me down in the engine room...
Left at Alpha Centauri, Proceed With Caution
I peer out from behind
the relative safety of my face
plate at the gathering of alien
life forms arrayed before me.
Recycled air from the home
planet swirls before my two eyes,
not the four or eight mismatched
pairs. One of the creatures gestures
for me to come down the ramp, away
from the ship. Another indicates
it's absolutely safe to remove
my helmet and breathe their air.
I'm not fooled by the general
gregariousness. I've met foreigners
in other places. I trusted before,
on other planets. Not this time.
You don't live to my advancing
age by being less than cautious.
I pretend to misinterpret the signals.
Before the crowd can turn uglier,
I take a few steps down the ramp,
launch into the canned speech
I give all extraterrestrial beings
who attempt to pry me from my
safety zone, hand out multi-colored
food bricks from stored rations.
They ignore my reluctance to join
them, chatter, eat, wave anemone
antennae. Another few minutes
and they will forget the gawky
Earthling in the ill-fitting space
suit, the one that remains tethered
at all times to the mothership.
Fabulous Blog Award
A few weeks back Carla bestowed this award on me. I'm to name five things I'm obsessed with, and name five other blogs I think are fabulous.I tinkered with the award a bit to fit the unofficial 'theme' of my blog - and to annoy Anonymous.
Since Carla downgraded 'obsessed' to 'enthusiastic', I'm going to sidestep and do my restrained version of 'quite interested'.
Five things I'm Quite Interested in.
Poetry – That's pretty much a given. Reading, writing, and contemplating poetry occupies a significant portion of my writing brain. I've listed some of my favorites over on the Every Day Poets staff page, so I won't repeat myself here. I'm sure the astute have picked up on the Usual Suspects I write about.
Corgis - Bet you didn't see that one coming. My first love will always be Basenjis, and we were looking for the right Basenji rescue to adopt, but the right one wasn't coming along quick enough. Actually, the Corgis were supposed to be a German Shepherd, but we got bumped down the waiting list, and then Eldest Child was introduced to three day old Max and fell in love with him. A pint sized German Shepherd in convenient pocket form. So we have Corgis. They're pretty special, they think so, and don't let us forget it.
Design - Be it Knitting, Printmaking, Engineering, web pages, or anything involving figuring it out with pencil and paper first. My early training was as a visual artist, and I can't get away from that. I set out for college many moons ago to be an illustrator, before I got seduced by the Dark Side of Fine Arts and Philosophy.
Wyoming Landscapes – which includes hiking over them, driving around in them, taking pictures of, and in general just loving every minute of living in the wide open wild west. Yes, even the snow. Mostly. *grumbles*
Paper - This comes closest to the 'obsession' of which the award speaks. I love paper, in all its various guises. Drawing, watercolor, printmaking, pastel papers, and illustration board. Cardstock. Vellum, parchment, and handmade paper. Newsprint and cardboard. Blank legal tablets. Old fashioned wrapping paper and new baseball cards. As long as there is space to draw or write on, I'm there.
My five nominees go to... any one who is interested in being obsessed. Have at it, and if you ask real nice, I'll even personalize your award a bit.
01 April 2009
April 1 - Poem A Day Challenge - Origin
Having taken momentary leave of my senses, (I blame the recent snows) I decided to participate in Robert Lee Brewer's (no relation) April Poem A Day Challenge over at Poetic Asides.
He's offering up poetry prompts each day, which can be a help. 30 days, 30 poems. Given my anal-retentive need to edit every poem many times, this could be interesting. Can I relinquish control long enough to actually write and post a poem every day in April? We'll see. I managed to get one finished for Day 1 – between reading the prompt, thinking on it, and posting it to comments, it took me four hours. And that was with about an hour of fiddling with the poem, rearranging line breaks, pondering word choices… and being able to post from work. For some reason, Poetic Asides is not on the blocked list. (Must not sound threatening, or fun) I'll take advantage while I can.
I thought I'd also try and document a bit of what went into the creation of the poem, both for my self and for those who always ask, "Where do you get your (weird) ideas?" Being a process junkie, I can sympathize.
Today's Prompt – "For today's prompt, I want you to write an origin poem. It can be the origin of a word, person, plant, idea, etc. Have fun with it.(Note: Through this challenge, please feel free to use the prompt as a springboard to being creative. There is no right or wrong way to interpret the prompts--so take them in any direction you want.)"
I happened to have been reading mythology and creation myths of late, Gilgamesh, the Bible, Slavic and Hindu as well as pondering my own stormy relationship with higher deities. I love the language in Genesis, especially the first line. "In the beginning…" Ranks right up there with "Once Upon A Time" for me as a story starter.
Poem A Day Challenge
Genesis, Too
In the Beginning, you called us
your children, offered land,
life, beliefs, a son. Now
you don't communicate
much at all. You used to dial
direct –
Moses,
Abraham,
Job.
And it was good.
Angel, prophet, or saint,
we were all related, one happy,
life-sized family.
Suddenly, everything changed.
Conversation was a dying art.
Layers of bureaucracy grew
between us. Your people
would contact my people—
bishops,
pastors,
priests.
It wasn't good.
No offense, but I miss
the personal connection.
Intermediaries don't sprawl
on their backs in the grass, search
for redemption in the clouds. Look,
I don't want to be a burden
or complain without cause,
and the state of telecommunications
being what it is today, I have to say it.
Talk to me.
.
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