Day 29 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2016

Day 29 . . . counting today, two National Poetry Month days left. Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: "Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem based on things you remember. Try to focus on specific details, and don’t worry about whether the memories are of important events, or are connected to each other. You could start by adopting [artist/poet Joe] Brainard’s uniform habit of starting every line with 'I remember,' and then you could either cut out all the instances of 'I remember,' or leave them all in, or leave just a few in. At any rate, hopefully you’ll wind up with a poem that is heavy on concrete detail, and which uses that detail as its connective tissue." Robert Lee Brewer’s PAD prompt: "For today’s prompt, write a haphazard poem. The poem itself could be haphazardly put together, I suppose. But it could also be about a haphazard situation. Or whatever haphazard thing you can bend the poem into." First one done today was Jed. He worked with just the NaPoWriMo prompt on memories. The Poetics Aside blog was apparently down for several hours and so the "haphazard" prompt was not available until late afternoon. Two Memories I remember wetting my pants, The only time I ever did. I was four, I think. I’m not sure. I hurried out of the chapel. There was a sort of metal clasp On the pants, easier than snaps. Because snaps and buttons are hard. The bathroom by the baptistery Was all hard tiles, nothing soft. I don’t remember what comes next. Did I have to stay there at church, With my pants all wet and itchy? I remember mother asking If I would move on to cub scouts, Or just remain a tiger cub. The plastic baby-bath baskets In the laundry room were arrayed For sorting our clean clothes into Before we put those clothes away. My basket on a metal shelf, And in my mind I’m mentoring The younger, newer tiger cubs. “I’ll stay a tiger cub,” I said. I was so literal-minded, I didn’t understand the choice. The choice was cub scouts or nothing. I think a whole year passed before Anybody asked me again. I always used to just wait for Life and choices to come to me. But I only wet my pants once. —Draft by Jedediah Kurth    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Second one done today was Alan, with a really gorgeous memory poem. Happenstance My large, red ball rolls into the packed car bay of our gray, weathered garage, its shed closed and packed             with its own mystery. I crouch, trying to catch it before it rolls in. I miss it, picking it up only once it rolls to a stop. I hold it, facing the interior of the garage as I stand in the cool spot, the heat making the roof’s tin pop. I turn. Covering the upper half of the bay’s opening, a large orb web shifts in the breeze, lit by the sunlight,             hundreds of articulated interstices, larger than me. At its hub, at my eye level, waits the largest spider I remember having ever seen up until that time, its             abdomen large, round, and orange, positioned between my ball and the sun, magnified by my             silent, frozen surprise. I stoop and slip under, into the grass. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Third one done today was me, after the Poetics Aside blog came back up, so I was able to incorporate haphazardness into my catalogue of memories. Haphazard Childhood Memories tin robot, yellow and blue, ’50s style, playing on stone steps, bright sun in mountain forest we hike to a waterfall all green, green, splash hum alone in a park I see statues creak to life, chase me . . . I wake up huge orange tabby follows Dad around the house like a shepherd dog I’m four, my parents’ closet, Mom rubbing lotion on Dad, nude, can’t move a tall 50-foot robot decked in red and green lights, Christmas road trip —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Fourth up is Ven's bravura list of inner mementos. I Remember Awkward silences and clumsy lyrics. Short drives and meandering conversations. Smoke lazily spiraling to the ceiling. Never ever cleaning. Mean tongues and soft fists. Procrastinating on demand. Fucked up colors and fuzzy lips. Gas station improv and fake accents. Scrabble bukkake and lists of philias. Acting weird to hide our weirdness. Cherry tobacco OD and Rizla runs. Windshield wiper beat downs. 2am Ludacris in car parks. Greasy DVDs that somehow never skipped. Music, so much music, always to everything. The Velvet Sky and the Silver Soldier. Riven and Cloven and Back to One. Believing. When London in Love felt big and the sky felt small. Thinking we had forever. —Draft by Ven Batista    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Thanks for the poems again, all. And you readers, thanks for visiting. Last time tomorrow? Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. To comment, look for a red line below that starts Posted by, then click once on the word comments in that line. If you don’t find the word "comments" in that line, then look for a blue link below that says Post a comment and click it once. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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