The prompt for today, assigned by grandmaster poet Robert Lee Brewer in his blog is: "a visitor poem. The poem can be from the point of view of a visitor — or the people receiving the visitor. The visitor could be expected or unexpected. The visitor could be welcome or unwelcome. The visitor doesn’t even have to be human."
I'm actually typing this blog in the lobby of the Country Inn and Suites in Ankeny, Iowa; my colleague Grant and I are on the road, scheduled to give a fiction and poetry reading in West Des Moines in the morning for the Des Moines Area Community College's "Celebration of the Literary Arts." I wrote parts of the following poem in the car on the way here, and I'd like to tinker with it some more but it's 11:40 p.m. and the poem's gotta go up. So here goes . . .
The Visitor
Feathered hair silver as Kenny Rogers', wings
swept back over ears that peeked out a moment
. . . wait, were they really pointed? Eyes hard
as pebbles, shiny blue marbles flanking a nose
like the honed edge of a cavalry saber. Knife
slash of a mouth, lips slim as limestone strata
straight across the face of an Indiana cliff.
Chin sloping inward to the blunt point of a Flash
Gordon rocketship. This grim visitor at my door
like a pale Ming the Merciless sans facial hair,
in a savagely tailored steel-gray suit. Shiny
cowboy boots, each sleek as a navy destroyer.
"I hear you've been looking for me, friend."
A voice like antarctic wind, silent echoes
of wolf howls on the flaky edge of hearing.
"I'm Jack. Jack Frost. Been expecting me?"
Handshake firm and sharp, bones like crystal
spines of an ocean fish bucking the current.
"I hear you've got yourself some complaints."
Stroking pointy chin with skinny, skeletal
fingers, taut skin translucent as old vellum.
A mirthless smirk lifting the ends of the lips
slightly baring fang tips glistening with spit.
I feel as if I'm in an elevator in free fall, cold
waves of adrenaline washing over my body.
"Nah, April Fools! I'm just kidding ya, buddy.
My name's Jackie — Jacqueline. Not Frost."
A woman! A woman? Why didn't I see it before?
Her lips break out into a genuine smile, the sun
slipping out from behind a darkling storm cloud.
"Yeah, I'm bringing ya a poem. You know? A poem?"
She turned on her heel, winked over her shoulder,
then took off briskly down the bright-lit street,
bright silver sparkles drifting in her sprightly wake.
—Draft by Vince Gotera [do not copy or quote ... thanks]
Catherine's poem for Day Two is much more graceful, dealing with a much more serious topic than my light-hearted story above.
The Coming of Age
I smooth a ponytail into place,
fluorescent bulbs spotlight
fine strands of silver snaking
next to my face, warning you are near.
Unprepared for your appearance,
I blend oil and balm into creases
along the length of my neck
blood pulses beneath my fingertips
quieting the sounds of your approach.
This well-worn shirt, its blue cotton
grazing my wrists, clinging to biceps
shaped by lifting babies to my breasts,
then firm with nourishment, youth,
desire, another reminder of what you’ll take
when you arrive an uninvited guest.
—Draft by Catherine Pritchard Childress [do not copy or quote ... thanks]
Okay, that's Day Two. Just twenty-eight poems to go. Ain't this grand?
Please leave a comment below for Catherine and me. Tell us what you're thinking after reading our drafts. Well, her poem and my draft. Take care, everyone. Ingat.
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