Day 25 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2017

April 5/6 gone . . . 0.833333333333333333333 . . . etc. Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “In 1958, the philosopher/critic Gaston Bachelard wrote a book called The Poetics of Space, about the emotional relationship that people have with particular kinds of spaces — the insides of sea shells, drawers, nooks, and all the various parts of houses. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that explores a small, defined space — it could be your childhood bedroom, or the box where you keep old photos. It could be the inside of a coin purse or the recesses of an umbrella stand. Any space will do — so long as it is small, definite, and meaningful to you.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day Two-for-Tuesday prompt: (1) “Write a love poem. The poem could be about lovers, but also the love of family, love between friends, or even loving your job, chocolate, or music. Or . . .” (2) “Write an anti-love poem. Maybe you’re a hater; that’s fine. We’ve got the anti-love poem prompt for you.” First up is Alan, merging today's prompts. Cigar Box It had dovetail joints — it was made for a finer brand of cigars, but it was not special — there were hundreds of them, and the King Edward cigar plant in my hometown was happy to let our elementary school class have them. We spread newspapers on our desks, and Mrs. Trimble, the only single mother I knew at the time, showed us how to brush varnish on the outside, to move the banded clasps to assure that every outside surface got two coats. Although the clasps were a little rusty, they held the wooden lids secure, each hinge square and fit enough to have preserved some of the rich tobacco smell that we associated with Saturday and Sunday afternoons. The next day, we each cut green felt to fit and glued it to the bottom inside surface of the box. Mrs. Trimble knew something about children and boxes, how a special box could make any content a treasure. I kept mine many years and think it had some trading cards, some nesting dolls shaped like penguins, some plastic Disney figures, and a wallet portrait of Christana Ellison, aqua cateye frames, ribboned pigtails, and puffed white blouse sleeves under her blue jumper. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] And here's my fairy tale about a beautiful wooden house and the creature who lives there, blending all three prompts. Gibson was a little invisible sprite, three inches tall, who lived inside a guitar. This small ghost named himself after the guitar, a Gibson acoustic that looked just like a house within, A shapely wooden enclosure, curved walls, that smelled like poplar sawdust and sun. Gibson loved it when the guitar's owner would strum and play. Chords raining down in the house through the roof's round hole. What Gibson did not love were scales. Notes rising and falling like wheeling bats in predictable patterns, so damn boring. But Gibson knew the owner also hated scales, and so he felt most at one with the guitarist during those interminable intervals, knowing sweet true music would soon return. Bliss. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] The impressive view inside a Gibson J-200 acoustic guitar — Gary Deacon Blog 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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