Day Five ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2021

Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt challenges us “to find a poem, and then write a new poem that has the shape of the original, and in which every line starts with the first letter of the corresponding line in the original poem.” She continues, “I have found this prompt particularly inspiring when I use a base poem that mixes long and short lines, or stanzas of different lengths. Any poem will do as a jumping-off point.”

Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “[T]ake the phrase ‘The First (blank),’ replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles include: ‘The First Kiss,’ ‘The First Day of the Month,’ and/or ‘The First Time I Rode a Bike’ (which, by the way, ended with me in a fence, because we didn’t cover how to brake).”


I followed both prompts today. My source poem is Sharon Olds’s “The Pope's Penis” — a snarky little ditty that probably offends some people though I find it quite gleeful.

First Face Mask

It hangs on a hook on the back of the door:
covid orphan, the only covid survivor.
The mask pines for its owner, misses
holding the form of Dad’s nose and lips.
Shapeless, a flag in heavy air, the mask
waits like an old sleepy hound for its master.
It dreams of kissing the old man once more.

—Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]

Alan also worked with both prompts. But I won’t tell you his source poem; Alan didn’t tell me, and it was fun guessing. Can you figure out his source? Tell us in a comment below?

The First Retreat

I will pack up and head out, and go to Harrogate,
            and hole up in a trailer the internet can’t reach
near a small town I favor, that will not stay open late,
            and scratch an old familiar itch.

And I will read some books there, away from all these tasks,
            discuss some inconsequential subjects with my host,
till twilight draws me to the question some dear one asks,
            answered like thoughts broken and then lost.

I will pack up and go now, find pieces that I can—
            I dream of mountain barriers, some peace to reclaim,
woods’ shelter, water’s murmuring, wind’s whisper, “Poor man,
            imagine how we’ll speak your name.”

—Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]

Lovely poem, Alan. Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks!

Ingat, everyone.  ヅ 

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