Day 26 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2023

Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “write a portrait poem that focuses on or plays with the meaning of the subject’s name. This could be a self-portrait, a portrait of a family member or close friend, or even a portrait of a famous or historical person.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “write a response poem. The poem could respond to one of your poems from earlier this month (or ever). Or it could respond to a poem by another poet, whether it's Emily Dickinson or Ocean Vuong.” Today's curtal sonnet arises from both prompts. For Thorson's name/portrait assignment, I'm going with Emily Dickinson again, partly because Brewer mentioned her today. To fulfill Brewer's response assignment, I am responding to Dickinson's poem "How many times these low feet staggered" (238). Emily at Work             a response to Dickinson’s “How many             times these low feet staggered” (238) Emily Dickinson’s given name means rival, laborious, eager. Would these be the qualities you connect with her? She: “Indolent Housewife — in Daisies — lain.” Emily labored hard on poems, no ease there, “Vesuvius at home.” Calm fervor. She did not do housework. “[A]damantine fingers / Never a thimble — more — shall wear.” And “the cobweb swings from the ceiling.” Swish a broom? Not she. Poets do not need a clean                                           house. Just words on fire. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] I am grateful to the article "Domestic Labor in the Dickinson Family Households" from the Emily Dickinson Museum for information about Dickinson and housework, especially with regard to her poem "How many times these low feet staggered" (238). Also, the phrase "Vesuvius at home" comes from Dickinson's poem "Volcanoes be in Sicily" (1691). Alan's contribution today is a prose poem. He told me, "Pat Cronin was a member of the East Tennessee State University faculty until recently. During the early days of the pandemic, I encountered him and his wife at a local supermarket, at a time before anyone of us common folks had any real idea of how we should conduct ourselves in public, how often we needed to clean everything, and, sometimes, how to be cheerful. So this poem is based on that experience." A Kroger in Johnson City What thoughts I have of you tonight, Pat Cronin, for I walked over the sidewalks under dogwoods and black oaks, listening to the mockingbirds on campus,             Exhausted from another long day now three years into the pandemic now termed an endemic yet forcing additional cautions nonetheless,             Relieved to be among the company of others nevertheless, although sometimes feeling jarred by the renewed acquaintances in their new appearances. Some of my younger friends have grayed, others have lost their youthful step, some have mourned to creases.             I saw you early in the pandemic, Pat, at a Kroger, and we recognized each other despite our masks, my hair gray and woolier than it had ever been, since I kept it trimmed up until the pandemic forced me home after I stopped patronizing the barber who grew more racist as the Trump administration continued and I decided I owed it to someone to let it grow,             And there you were, bright-eyed and cheered to be among folks although we still in our ignorance of the coronavirus kept our arms-length distance from each other, reluctant to touch even the packaging on the ground meat for what its surface might harbor.             Entering the supermarket, I had heard your voice pitched to reach even the SRO members of the audience, ringing from the meat case to the produce on one side of the supermarket, the dairy case on the other, lifting above the shelves of breakfast foods and canned vegetables.             Would we have hugged were we not afraid that doing so might lead the other to a premature death? I believe so.             Where were we standing, Pat Cronin? Your spouse ducked away as we talked, maybe to purchase ordinary items. What did we talk about?             (I wonder if she calls you “Patrick” sometimes, because I just can’t.)             I know we spared ourselves the talk of work for a bit, you being so close to retirement, and I being underwater with the sudden demands that all classes shift to online delivery in spite of the unequal access to the internet because the GOP congressmen during the Obama administration struck down the proposal to make the internet a utility like water and electricity.             I know we talked about health and our eagerness for a vaccine to be discovered and for the hasty end of the Trump administration.             I remember, you old iconoclast, that like me you sometimes express affection in reverse by condemning those who punch down, and so many punch down and enlist too many of our thoughtless neighbors in their ranks, and I will never have your stage presence or your film credits or your ability to draw an audience, but I can tell folks that while many people radiate their personal hell around them, you sop yours up like an unlucky spill, as I hope to do, too. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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