Day 19 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2023

Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “We've already written poems related to smell and to sound, so let's keep the senses fresh with another sensory poem. For today's prompt, write a taste poem. ” Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “One common feature of childhood is the monsters. The ones under the bed or in the closet; the odd local monsters that other kids swear roam the creek at night, or that parents say wait to steal away naughty children that don’t go to bed on time. Now, cast your mind back to your own childhood and write a poem about something that scared you – or was used to scare you – and which still haunts you (if only a little bit) today.” Today, I'm writing an aswang poem. The aswang is a mythical Philippine monster that comes in many forms: shapeshifter, ghoul, vampire, and others. In this poem, I bring you a manananggal, a woman who splits herself at the waist, with the top half growing wings and flying into the night to hunt. Both prompts again, though my parents never told me stories about aswang, unlike other Filipino parents. I discovered the aswang through reading. "Taste" is incorporated into the poem both through a mention as well as through form. Horror Story The manananngal lifted into the Air, her leathery wings Shimmering against the stars Twinkling in the heavens. Every light in the dark town Twinkled as well, constellations Above and below. She hovered Softly outside an open window, The pregnant woman breathing Evenly in her bed, unaware. The monster slipped her tongue, All ten feet of it, into the window Snaking slowly. She could almost Taste the woman’s amniotic fluid, Ever so sweet and pungent. Then, a few minutes later, the Aswang flew silently away, Sated, satisfied, full of new life. The next morning, a miscarriage, Everyone would call it, so sad. The aswang then turned back into An ordinary woman, living her Safe, uneventful life in plain sight: a Tame girl hardly anyone noticed. But Every night she was a fierce hunter. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]             "Aswang" by sweett00th on deviantart.com I don't know if you noticed that each stanza above is an acrostic, where the first letters in the five lines spell out "taste." I have just finished a novel-in-poems about an aswang couple, where the woman is a manananngal like the monster in this poem, and the man is a weredog. Many of the poems in the book have appeared in the blog over the last few Aprils. Wish me luck: the book is out, looking for a publisher. Alan's poem today is equally scary! But in a different way. :-D Medicine When we were barefoot summers long, our mother got prescriptions just for prophylactic use—we took “worm medicine” for months. Its taste was artificial cherry—red as plastic, awful stuff—I’d drink glasses of water just to wash it down. Our mother’s love could force us kids to face our fears once she could corner us inside the house. —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

NaPoWriMo / PAD 2023 • Pick a day: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Day Six ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2018

Maureen Thorson has a cool NaPoWriMo prompt today: "write a poem that stretches your comfort zone with line breaks. That could be a poem with very long lines, or very short lines. Or a poem that blends the two. You might break to emphasize (or de-emphasize) sounds or rhymes, or to create a moment of hesitation in the middle of a thought." Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt today is focused on topic: "pick a food, make it the title of your poem, and write your poem. It can be a food you love, food you hate, or food you’ve never even tried before. Your poem can be about the food — or not. Your choice." Okay, here we go, mixing the two prompts. Well, this is interesting. This poem just happened, pretty much typed like it was dictated by the speaker. Maybe 3 or 4 minutes? Tongue For some people, a favorite food might be sweet milky flan or roast pork lechon or perhaps green mango wedges doused in salt. I love all that too, but for me there's nothing more tasty than tongue. Tasty . . . tongue. Ha ha ha. I have to be in shapeshifter mode, black dog, and it has to come after an exhilarating chase through ancient, centuries-old trees, ripping through tangled undergrowth, silver moon full, the air teeming with insect clicks and sampaguita scent. Then that ecstatic moment of tearing the tongue out of the quarry's mouth with my long snout, so they can't shout. Words at least . . . often they scream without meaning. Ah yes, sweet sometimes still wriggling tongue. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] I tried very hard to make line breaks that are very different from my typical practice. I wonder if that contributed to how easily and swiftly this poem flowed out of my brain. Glad to have an aswang poem appear. This is part of my ongoing novella-in-poems about two aswang (mythic Philippine monsters) who fall in love — she a self-segmenting vampire, he a weredog (he's the speaker of this poem) — and try to live as ordinary humans in plain sight. 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

NaPoWriMo / PAD 2018 • Pick a day: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Day 13 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2017

The number 13 always reminds me of a radio station from my youth in San Francisco, the soul station KDIA at 1310 AM on the dial. I can still hear the station-identification jingle, "K - D - I - A, lucky thirtee-een." (You can hear the jingle here . . . blast from the past for me!) Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: "write a family poem. It could be about your family, someone else’s family, a big family, a small family. It could be about one person in the family or a group picture. Your call. Just write that poem." Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: write a "ghazal. The form was originally developed in Arabic and Persian poetry, but has become increasingly used in English . . . A ghazal is formed of couplets, each of which is its own complete statement. Both lines of the first couplet end with the same phrase or end-word, and that end-word is also repeated at the end of each couplet. If you’re really feeling inspired, you can also attempt to incorporate internal rhymes and a reference to your own name in the final couplet." One of my favorite ghazals — pronounced like "guzzle," by the way — is Patricia Smith's "Hip Hop Ghazal." Her repeated end-word is hips, preceded by the rhyming sound ooo. Smith also incorporates her first name in the last couplet. Fun. Full of sass and 'tude. Ooo. ヅ I'm so pleased at today's prompts. I have been writing a poetic narrative, a novella-in-poems, about two aswang, mythical Philippine monsters — Clara the winged vampire and Santiago the shapeshifter weredog — who fall in love and attempt to live like normal humans, in plain sight, in daylight, trying to outrun their monsterly selves. They marry and bear a son, whom they name Malcolm, baptized in the Catholic church. The question they dread is this: is Malcolm doomed to be like them, an aswang? Or will he be something new under the sun? Today, with a challenge to write a ghazal on family, I can advance my aswang project and explore the existential quandary these two lovers face in their quest to be "normal." P O E M   R E M O V E D while being submitted for publication.   Please come back later. The poem may return at some time in the future. Thank you!       Instead of using my own name in the last couplet, I cite the two aswang lovers as well as the baby's name. They are, after all, the poets here, the "makers" in the root sense of the Greek word poesis. This is the second ghazal in my aswang poem cycle. By the way, just for fun, there is now a toy aswang action figure made by Funko POP. Isn't that cool? Aswang action figure by Funko POP Alan has been very busy at work of late. He is involved in a two-day literary conference at East Tennessee State University, and Catherine Pritchard Childress (who did NaPoWriMo with me in the blog five years ago) has played a principal role in keeping everything rolling. Alan gives a small intro to his poem today: "Here is a ghazal about a family member. If you're looking for my name at the end, I have relied on the root meanings of two of my names." Byrum “Where are you going now? How long will you be out, Byrum? Why are you on the road? What is that life about, Byrum?” Your mother hung on you, and would have kept you close to her, child of her dreams, her baby son, so big and stout, Byrum. Unlike the scrawny ones, so like their father, wiry, small, and meek of disposition, prone to mewl and pout, Byrum, You had the best of land, because you were her favored son; were you confined by farming on a rural route, Byrum? You used to tell us tales of selling goods for easy cash but listing “damaged freight” when you were logging out, Byrum. You got yourself a wife who kept a well-swept home for you, including your own room, a housekeeper devout, Byrum. She did not keep herself, she was not waiting home for you, but I suspect you knew and never suffered doubt, Byrum. You had no despair either, legacy outside your cares, where one neglects to plant, one does not plan for sprout, Byrum. Those secret distances, adventures meant for men like you, the romance of the road, you yearned to feel its clout, Byrum. Twin harmony of road, a secret kept from jukebox song, you played your life and bearded rules you loved to flout, Byrum. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Excellent ghazal, Alan. I appreciate how you have incorporated a rhyming sound (-out) in front of the repeated end-word Byrum. Brilliant! 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

NaPoWriMo / PAD 2017 • Pick a day: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Poems Eligible for a Rhysling (Part 3)

On Friday, I posted a list of my 2016 speculative poems that are eligible for a Rhysling Award. Of those poems, these are the ones that appeared only in print in Popcorn Press's Halloween anthology Lupine Lunes: Horror Poems & Short Stories. Available at the press and also on Amazon. This first poem has to do with the aswang: a mythical Philippine monster. The specific kind of aswang featured here is the manananggal, a woman who can sever herself at the waist: the top half grows wings so she can fly in search of prey, leaving her bottom half wherever it is standing when she transforms out of her human-appearing form. Encounter on Good Friday — Cutud Village, north of Manila, 1936 On his straw mat, his banig, under the inky susurrus of the mosquito net hung from the walls of his nipa hut, a bachelor farmer named Santiago de la Cruz lounges half asleep, half dreaming of the Easter sunrise mass day after tomorrow and of today’s penitentes flogging their own backs into bloody crosshatch, a couple crucified for a handful of long minutes. Tiyago gazes up toward the now charcoal-tinged underside of his thatched palm-leaf roof and starts at an indistinct shadow above, shaped darkly like a crucified person. What? Tiyago rolls out of the net and fixes his eyes above. Yes, there is something there in the pitch black. Wait, is it a dark brown woman with her arms outstretched, gripping the almost invisible bamboo supports of the roof? A ghost? A hallucination? Tiyago rubs his eyes and looks again. Her eyes are dark red like dying coals. He crosses himself quickly, notices a rippling behind her like a mourning-dress curtain. Susmariosep, Tiyago whispers, she got wings like a bat! He slowly realizes there is nothing below her waist but a few brackish red loops of, what, guts, torn intestines? Wait, it’s not a whole figure. She has no legs. No legs! O my Jesus, an aswang . . . putang ina, she’s a mananananggal! The aswang smiles, teeth a dingy slate gray, and from her mouth slips a dingy blood-red thing like a snake or maybe more like a thick dark earthworm that writhes wildly, closer and closer to Tiyago. It’s her tongue, a ten-foot-long tongue. Hold on, she’s trying to suck my blood, the black harpy! He clenches his arms, his fists, shuts his eyes hard. The aswang’s tongue slinks, inches, nearer to his neck. His body in the shadowy center of the room seems to sprout fur, arms and legs thinning and crackling into wolf-like limbs. Tiyago is growing taller and bulkier, T-shirt and boxers ripping apart like tissue. He growls, dark yellowish fangs flashing out of the lengthening snout of his face. Tiyago is also an aswang, a shapeshifter churning into a huge black dog, larger than a man, standing wide on hind legs. The two monsters growl and snarl at each other, a tableau carved into the dusky sweaty air of the room. Then it stops. Both of them laugh, they snicker and snort, convulse in dark shrieks and screams of black humor. The manananggal pulls in her slimy tongue, waves at Tiyago, and swoops out of the window, her pterodactyl wings sighing velvety tik-tik, wak-wak sounds. Tiyago lifts his noble black head to the heavens and howls. —  Vince Gotera, Lupine Lunes: Horror Poems & Short Stories (Popcorn Press) In this next poem, the two aswang from the last poem have fallen in love. Clara, the manananggal, has been under suspicion by her fellow villagers of being an aswang. One night, they attack — almost like in the first Frankenstein movie, when people with torches and pitchforks hunt Boris Karloff's character. Santiago, the shapeshifting farmer from the previous poem, changes into his aswang form to rescue Clara. Villagers at Clara’s House, After Dark — hay(na)ku Ay, dios ko, malaking aso! Giant black dog attacked, rabid, rending . . . Aswang! . . . jumping up toward our necks, faces. Threw our torches, bright fangs. Aswang! Swung bolos against black fur, useless. Guns, no good, too fast. Aswang! We scattered, scared for our lives. Next day, Clara was gone. Aswang! —  Vince Gotera, Lupine Lunes: Horror Poems & Short Stories (Popcorn Press) In case you weren't able to figure it out from the context, the opening sentence of the previous poem, "Ay, dios ko, malaking aso!" means, in Tagalog, "Oh my god, a huge dog!" Aswang Wedding: Early Saturday Morn The aswang lovers held each other’s hand, kneeling at the teakwood communion rail of La Iglesia de San Agustin, the simple granite-walled Spanish chapel not far from the shores of Manila Bay. Heads lowered, the humble country couple waited while the parish priest, Padre Rey, drowsy, wished he was asleep in his bed. Raising his hand he droned, In nomine Patris et Filii . . . Dawn, a faint red, kindled stained glass the deep dark shade of blood draining from a body torn and shredded. Rings, sign of the cross, yes, but Padre would later tell how his heart sank at the end: fangs glinting in the bride’s smile, the groom’s mouth. —  Vince Gotera, Lupine Lunes: Horror Poems & Short Stories (Popcorn Press) The three poems above are part of my novella-in-poems, currently in progress, telling the story of these two aswang in their attempt to live a normal life — normal if one is a human, that is. After marrying, Santiago and Clara emigrate to the US, feeling they won't be persecuted there because most Americans don't know about aswang. In this next poem, the priest is not the same priest in the wedding poem directly above. Some readers have thought they were the same person, perhaps because in Lupine Lunes, these two poems are next to each other. The Good Father The folks at St. Mary’s Church thought well of their priest, Father Joseph Paolo. Every Sunday, after each of the masses, he would stand in the narthex and greet every person, shaking their hands, while above in the tower, the church bells would sonorously ring. The parishioners often recalled, our last priest would be damned rather than greet anyone. Father Joe was at his best with weddings, so friendly, so accommodating, so gracious, and each wedding couple felt genuinely special. Yup, no one better than Father, everyone always said. But Father Joe had a secret so damning some days he could hardly believe his vocation. His secret would send him to hell, he frequently thought, to the deepest, darkest ring of the Inferno. Sometimes, unable to sleep at night, his hands would burn and sting, and he wondered how his flock’s hands couldn’t feel the hot guilt in his grip. Every week, on Wednesday evenings, he would hold Bible Study and his voice would ring with authority and wonder, but inside his soul, he’d feel farther than ever from God. And truth. Because his own truth would keep him exiled forever from heaven. His secret? He’d damned someone to hell. Not just someone, his beloved. She was damned to perdition as if he had killed her, body and soul, with his own hands. In his last year of college, Joe Paolo had fallen in love. He was just wild about Francesca. And she adored him. Often they talked about a wedding: a silver dress, champagne, a four-tiered cake. Joe even went to her father and asked for Francesca’s hand—truly old-fashioned. He bought a ring, a lovely one with three diamonds, got down on one knee, and put the ring on her finger. But Joe got scared. And ran. Ran all the way to the damn seminary. And Francesca hanged herself. Even after he became a Father, Joe never told anyone, not even during confession. He ached for her hands to give him absolution, cool water from God’s font. With every wedding he hoped for peace. Then, one evening in the church, she came. It wouldn’t be as he thought: Francesca floating above, in a silvery gown, and she would forgive him. No. She appeared as an angry ghost in the dark chancel, ringed by fire, glowing chains of molten iron holding her down, apparition wedded to blackness and stinking filth, the smoke-heavy shrieking of the damned wafting around her. Francesca was whispering. She held out flaming hands and beckoned. Come to me, come to me. He fell to his knees, the poor Father. That night Father Paolo felt the closest ever to being eternally damned: an imprint appeared up on the cross, a woman’s hand burned into the wood, sweet Francesca’s softest caress, with an unburned gap for a wedding ring. —  Vince Gotera, Lupine Lunes: Horror Poems & Short Stories (Popcorn Press) Apropos of the next poem, I hope there won't be a full moon during the upcoming Presidential inauguration. Lupine Lunes, Starring Donald Trump Donald Trump, werewolf, turns in wash of moonlight, presidential, with fangs. Donald Trump sprouts wolf fur in tailored shirt, fresh from China. Donald Trump’s canines glow like radioactive little fingers, fluorescent plastic teeth. Donald Trump’s tail wags while he whines, howls at harvest moon. Donald Trump: “I’m The most handsome werewolf ever, believe me. Handsomest!” Donald Trump’s paws fumble in the voting booth, no opposable thumbs. “Donald Trump, President. And also Wolfman, so what? Everyone loves me.”                                 "Here's Donny," Daily Mail, 16 October 2015 —  Vince Gotera, Lupine Lunes: Horror Poems & Short Stories (Popcorn Press) I got the idea for this poem from the anthology's title "Lupine Lunes," announced in the book's call for submissions of poetry and fiction. The phrase is a truly witty title by the editor, Lester Smith, founder and editor of Popcorn Press, because of course werewolves are turned by the moon — la lune in French — when full. "Lune" is also the name of a poetic form, invented by Jack Collom: a three-line stanza with three words in line 1, five words in line 2, and three words in line 3. Friends, do check out Popcorn Press. For a number of years now, Lester Smith and the press have published a Halloween anthology. Always fun. Popcorn Press has published many wonderful collections and anthologies. And pick up a copy of Lupine Lunes at the press or on Amazon. 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  If you got here from my list of Rhysling-eligible poems, please click here to go back to the list.   P.S. I just realized today (11 May 2017) that I left a poem off. All Zombies, Coming and Going —  a somersault abecedarian ... read first down left column and then down right column same words, new punctuation All Bury Caskets. Doom’s Exhausted. Forever Green Horrific Inside Jujubes Kissing Lips, Miniature, Never Oblique. Plan Quiet Reveries, Secure Trees. Under Visible Wound, eXit Your Zipper.                     Zipper Your eXit Wound, Visible Under Trees’ Secure Reveries, Quiet. Plan Oblique Never Miniature Lips Kissing Jujubes Inside Horrific Green. Forever Exhausted, Doom's Caskets Bury All. —  Vince Gotera, Lupine Lunes: Horror Poems & Short Stories (Popcorn Press) (Added 11 May 2017)

Poems Eligible for a Rhysling (Part 2)

Continuing from yesterday's post about Rhysling Award–eligible poetry . . . here's one of my speculative poems this year that appeared only in print, in the excellent poetry magazine Dreams & Nightmares, edited by David Kopaska-Merkel. Aswang Christening: A Family Photo Radiant parents and bouncy baby, all silken and crinoline, taffeta and three-piece wool, are posed in this portrait next to the baptismal font at St. George’s. The baby smells of milk and, slightly, of turned earth. They name him Malcolm. The mother, Clara, whispers to herself, she’ll swear off womb water, that sweet fetal liquor, now that she’s bearing children. Santiago, the father, thanks the parish priest but thinks to himself how plump the man is. Imagines Father Simon running for his Life, pale skin glimmering in dim forest. Behind them, in stained glass, a trick of the light turns the Holy Ghost — a dove — black, not white. —  Vince Gotera, Dreams & Nightmares (Issue 104, September 2016)                     I just remembered that when I started this blog almost ten years ago, I used to comment a little bit on the poetics of the poems of my own I would post on the blog. I originally envisioned the blog as an extension of my teaching so that both my creative-writing and my literature students could come to the blog to learn. Let me go back to that practice now. This is a hybrid sonnet (part English, part Italian, or part Shakespearean, part Petrarchan). It uses the Petrarchan envelope quatrain (abba) but is structured with a Shakespearean architecture: three quatrains and an ending couplet. I'm particularly happy with the rhyming in the third stanza: it's abba (or, in the context of the whole poem, effe) with "priest" rhyming with "forest" in lines 1 and 4, as well as "is" rhyming with "his" in lines 2 and 3. But that's not all. There's consonance in "priest" and "forest": p-r-s-t echoed by f-r-s-t (where the /p/ and the /f/ are related consonants. Besides that, the last two lines of that stanza are a couplet with two-syllable rhymes: "for his" and "forest." Ain't rhymin' fun? I should also point out this poem is part of my in-progress novella-in-poems about two Philippine monsters — mythical aswang — who fall in love, marry, and move to the US to try and live a normal (i.e., human) family life. Do check out Dreams & Nightmares. It's one of the premier speculative poetry venues in the US. And subscribe! 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  If you got here from my list of Rhysling-eligible poems, please click here to go back to the list.

Day 18 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2015

Day Eighteen. The number "18" is fascinating . . . in many countries and cultures, it marks the age of majority. So 18 is a borderline of privilege: the boundary between child and adult. It's interesting to google images of 18. Click on the sign to the right and you'll see. Be warned: some of the images are — how shall we say? — naughty.  ヅ  Maureen Thorson's NaPoWriMo challenge: "And now for our (as always, optional) prompt, which takes us from 2015 back to the 1700s. After all, it’s the eighteenth of April, which means that today is the 240th anniversary of the midnight ride of Paul Revere! Today, in keeping with the theme of rush and warning, I challenge you to write a poem that involves an urgent journey and an important message. It could be historical, mythical, entirely fictional, or memoir-ical." Robert Lee Brewer's PAD suggestion: "For today's prompt, pick 2 vowels and write a poem using words that only contain one or both of those vowels. For instance, write a poem with words that only have a 'u' and 'o.' Also, the letter 'y' is wild–so the words 'my' and 'gypsy' are freebies. And I’ll allow text-speak (or maybe I should say 'txt spk')." Well, today I couldn't combine the "official" prompts. I really wanted to do something weighty with the journey/warning prompt and the two-vowel approach seemed too constrictive for that intent. You may remember that on April 4 my poem was in the voice of Clara, one of my two aswang lovers, about her man Jesús. He's a shapeshifter, a werewolf, and she's a body-splitter whose top half can grow wings to hunt and feed while her bottom half is safely hidden from monster-killer eyes. Today, I imagined a crisis for the two lovers: she is being suspected by the people in their town of being an aswang and he realizes he must save her. The poem is a curtal sonnet — like Clara's on day four — in the mind of a fearful Jesús. Aswang Peril Dios mío, I must warn Clara right now! Rumors have been flying about how she Was missing the night a manananggal was seen In the moonlit sky last week. And also how She seemed to wince in the market yesterday when someone handed her garlic. Tonight my cousin says men are gathering with guns. I bow my head and feel the pain of bones grinding as they lengthen and shift. As fur sprouts, my skin burns. I howl. The moon is flaming red.                                                         My love, I’m coming! —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] After I finished that curtal sonnet, I wondered if I could manage another curtal sonnet fulfilling the two-vowel prompt. I hated the idea of not writing to both prompts. Since allowing just two vowels would severely limit the words that could be employed, I decided to use just two words per line, meaning then only one word in the closing tail line. Instead of meter, syllabics: two syllables per line and a one syllable tail. Here goes . . . hope it works. Cyberbullying spin grin tell fell slid skid thin skin belle shell did mid teen scene yell hell kid hid screen seen                         rid —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Today, Alan had an interesting, alternative approach to merging the prompts. "Of course, it was going to be TCm's journey, and I made a character repeat a single vowel sound. It sounds better read out loud. I hope I successfully fit the two prompts together." (Alan and I have taken to abbreviating Thomas Crofts, medievalist to TCm.) Thomas Crofts and the Cold Ghost Where does Thomas Crofts, medievalist, search to find the secret of life? An artesian spring rises past Elizabethton toward Roan Mountain. One day a woman dressed in a gray winding sheet sat at the spring’s mouth. “Go home, lone soul! Go!” she spoke, her lips thin as rime, as was her garment. “Rolled stones show old woes; hold close those woes; know those bode lone roads for bold souls.” Thomas did not stop. He asked her name. She replied, “Rose Jones,” and fell still. Thomas, shivering, saw ashes near her bare feet. “No hope for cold bones.” He gathered bracken, lit brown, dried grass for kindling, and built a good fire. The figure came near the fire and melted away, dousing the spent flames. Mist rose from the ash. Thomas cupped his hand to drink from the cold, clear stream. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Alan, I love the ghost's round, single-vowel utterances. Nicely done. And a very convincing ghost as well. Thomas Crofts, medievalist, is of course as lifelike as ever. Great idea to use linked haiku as a skeleton — sorry! — for the narrative. Bravo! 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

NAPOWRIMO / PAD 2015 • Pick a day in April: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Day Four ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2015

Day Four. We're just a smidgen over 1/10th of the way through National Poetry Month. So pretty exciting . . . lots of good poems to go yet. Hope you're writing poems too, and that it's going well. April doesn't have to be "the cruelest month," as T. S. Eliot wrote. Let's cut to the chase. NaPoWriMo: "loveless" love poem. PAD: departure poem. You want the longer versions? Here you go. Maureen Thorson's NaPoWriMo prompt: "I challenge you to write a 'loveless' love poem. Don’t use the word love! And avoid the flowers and rainbows. And if you’re not in the mood for love? Well, the flip-side of the love poem — the break-up poem — is another staple of the poet’s repertoire. If that’s more your speed at present, try writing one of those, but again, avoid thunder, rain, and lines beginning with a plaintive 'why?' Try to write a poem that expresses the feeling of love or lovelorn-ness without the traditional trappings you associate with the subject matter. Robert Lee Brewer's PAD prompt: "write a departure poem. Many people depart to school and/or work every day, and they depart on a plane, train, or automobile — some even walk or ride a bike. Of course, that’s keeping things rather physical; there are also emotional and psychological departures. You may even decide to make a departure from your normal writing style in tone or structure today." Alan this morning wrote me on facebook, "Ah, Vince, there's already a perfect combination of these two poetry prompts, and it's always a joy to teach: "The River-Merchant’s Wife: A Letter" by Ezra Pound." Yes, indeed. I don't think I can probably hope to match that matchless poem, but you just gotta try, right? "Aswang" by Bobby Baredo  http://bit.ly/1CpKsVL Once again I've mashed up the two prompts in today's poem. But before you read it, let me give you a little background. This poem will be part of a sequence I'm composing about two aswang in love. The aswang are Philippine monsters that come in different varieties: shapeshifters, were animals, ghouls, vampires. The last group includes the manananggal — a woman who can break her top half from her bottom half, grow leathery wings, and fly in search of prey, typically babies or fetuses. My aswang lovers are a manananggal and a werewolf. In the first two poems in the series, the manananngal Clara and the shapeshifting Jesús (pronounced the Spanish way, hey-SOOS) meet and fall in love. The third poem I've already finished occurs during their honeymoon, after they wed. This new (fourth) poem falls in between: Clara, just before meeting Jesús for a tryst, meditates on her love for her man . . . er, wolf. Aswang Love Once more I lift, depart my legs, my hips, sprout wak-wak bat wings like a manta ray in air, and fly to you, black wolf, my sweet. My love true as the ruddy guts that dip below my torso, my dusky breasts that sway, hungry for your red tongue, your whiskered snout. I want your claws to rake across my back, so you can drink my body’s wine, my blood. How I love you — let me count the ways — more than newborn meat and bone, fresh womb suck.                                   My monstrous beloved. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] The poem is a curtal sonnet, a poetic form invented by Gerard Manley Hopkins in the 19th century. The word "curtal" is a now archaic term meaning "short"; the curtal sonnet is 3/4 of a regular sonnet. Instead of 14 lines, it has 10 1/2 lines: a six-line section and a four-line section followed by a half line or "tail line." The curtal sonnet has a tight, rigorous rhyme scheme: abc abc dbcdc (or dcbdc). I really enjoyed working the curtal sonnet today. It almost felt as if the poem wrote itself, as the cliché goes. Alan introduces his poem for day four with his take on today's suggested approaches: "The combined prompts are to write (a) a love poem without saying "love" and (b) to write of departure. Here goes." Sundowners I’d hurried back. I’d sensed that Christmas, days before, would be the last we all would sit together at the table, one so lost but sitting at the head, his focus down, directed to his plate and not to us who’d been his focus all his life but now some conversation he refrained to join, it being uninvolved with where he was at this warm time of tasty ham and pie. And so again, before semester’s start, I drove back down, my daughter, too, so she could go and shop with Mom, to get her out and let me drive him through the towns he knew for all his life, in hopes his stories might return. I drove him by the snake-filled swamps at Lacon, out to Falkville, Hartselle, back around the old way, his old school and church and home, and nothing came but comments, what he saw that day along the way, no past apparent in a thing he said. I woke regretting work and school would make us leave and packed as quickly as I could to spend some time, more coffee my excuse to sit, delay, but saw sundowner’s toll on him and Mom as well. They needed rest. I called my daughter from the other room, where she was playing with their dog, and said we had to go and saw from Mom’s expression she could tell what I had figured out but would not say. The effort of his standing up contracted me, and, bending down to kiss his forehead, I could feel the faintest brush of fingertips along my ribs where he had missed embracing me. He left the house days after us. I wish that it had been a tickle I still feel now that he’s gone. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Alan's always so good at these family situations and relationships, teasing out the deep and tough emotions that accompany being a parent or child or a brother or sister, and so on. Such a poignant moment at the end, where all of us share in facing mortality among our loved ones. Friends, won't you comment, please? What do you think? 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

NAPOWRIMO / PAD 2015 • Pick a day in April: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Day Two ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2014

Two / dos / deux / dalawa. The number two in languages I have some knowledge of: English / Spanish / French / Filipino. Wait, I forgot Klingon: cha’ . . . nah, I don't really know Klingon. That's Google "knowledge," right there. Well, as you know from Day One, all this month, you'll see TWO poets here. My friend Thomas Alan Holmes and me. Since he writes in the morning before the NaPoWriMo and Poem-a-Day prompts appear, Alan is writing today from yesterday's NaPoWriMo Bibliomancy Oracle prompt. Here's the quote the Oracle gave him: "For reasons unclear, and in circumstances unknown, the Ideal ceased to be content with itself." (From “Plato, or Why on Earth” by Wislawa Szymborska, translated by Justyna Kostkowska) And now here's Alan's poem based on this Szymborska passage. Piercing the Sphere I'm driving the teens like a chauffeur, playing the current pop I've heard from their rooms and their smartphones, listening to the pronouncement one makes that in Nature one finds no perfect circle. In 1983, Michael Stipe murmured about a "perfect circle of acquaintances and friends," but the song speaks of leaving and suggests regret to come in that moment of saying goodbye. I had one of these kids in this parking lot last Sunday, making him circuit around the lot in reverse, preparing him to maneuver this Suburban for his driving test, expecting him one day to make it home on his own. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes     [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Ah yes, I've taught four kids how to drive so far, and my fifth child Gabe will be turning 16 in a few months, so I'll be doing this again soon. I have driven teens for many years, and yes, one hopes they will always make it home on their own. Thanks for the excellent poem, Alan. Okay, now to the TWO official prompts for Day TWO . . . Poem-a-day guru Robert Lee Brewer's suggestion today is "a voyage poem," reminding us "the process of writing a poem is a sort of voyage all its own" (Poetic Asides). "There are many good poems based on myths," NaPoWriMo guru Maureen Thorson says. "Lots of these use Greek or Roman myths. . . . But today I challenge you to write a poem based on a non-Greco-Roman myth" (NaPoWriMo). Okay, you regular readers of the blog out there — all TWO of you, probably — I bet you can guess that my mythological figure will be an aswang. Actually, given what today is, TWO aswang. And you can probably also guess the voyage will involve the Philippines or California. Remember a couple of NaPoWriMo seasons back when I wrote an aswang poem starring a shapeshifter who could turn into a wolf? Jesús de los Santos was his name. And then a couple of weeks after that, I wrote another aswang poem about a manananggal who falls in love with Jesús. Today, these TWO aswang go on vacation to my hometown, San Francisco. Lovers at the Golden Gate — May 26, 1937 "Isn't that simply magnificent, Jesús?" Clara pointed above the steamship's prow as they sailed under the brand-new bridge, its orange towers gleaming in setting sun. Jesús could only nod, speechless at the beauty of the orange cables shimmering as they swooped in graceful arc. Thousands of San Franciscans had walked across the Golden Gate that day, a grand feat never before possible. Clara and Jesús hurried but got to the bridge too late, almost dark. The next morning, at the dedication, people had laughed at the loony old man, the bridge watchman who swore he'd heard leathery wings wak wak and saw silhouetted against the moon a bizarre flying thing, holding a gigantic dog. "Holding a dog?" Nearby listeners laughed, pantomiming drinking from a bottle behind the poor man's back. "Crazy drunk," they whispered to each other, smirking. How beautiful it must have been on top of the eight-hundred-foot tower nearest to the glistening lights of San Francisco, tiny diamonds strewn on jet black cloth. The bride's wings beating slow and soft, the groom's wolf fur shining sable and sleek, holding hand and paw in the velvet night, a thousand stars showering glittery light. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] A narrative poem, which I don't do often. Blank verse quatrains. TWO lines rhyming at the end. Gotta get a TWO in there again. Double fun! Alan and I would love to hear from you, friends. Won't you comment, please? Look for a blue link below that says "Post a comment"; if you don't see that, look in the red line that says "Posted by" and click on the word "comments." Ingat, everyone. See you on day three?

POEM-A-DAY 2014 • Pick a day in April: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30

Aswang Wars: Interview with Enita Meadows

Hello, everyone. Re-starting the blog. Just now pumped the pedal a couple of times and turned the key. A little sluggish, but the engine turned over. Coupla puffs of blue smoke and here we are, humming okay. Checking the mirrors and the seat adjustments. Ready to go. Seat belts, everyone. Okay? Ennnnngage. Earlier this month, on March 7th, the TV show Grimm aired an episode titled "Mommy Dearest." The cool thing about this episode for me as a Filipino American is that the spine-chilling creature of that week — the Wesen, as they say on Grimm — was an aswang. Yes, the Filipino aswang. If you're a regular follower of this blog, you know of my extreme interest in the aswang . . . three poems and some illustrations on the blog. Turns out the Grimm character police Sergeant Wu is a Filipino, a Chinese Filipino probably, who grew up in the Philippines, raised on the aswang and other Filipino legends. (The actor who plays Wu, Reggie Lee, is also Filipino and hipped the show to the possibility of using the aswang as a Wesen.) I'm a pushover for anything and everything aswang. Well, friends, Enita Meadows, a Filipino American author of paranormal/fantasy YA lit ("young adult," ya know), is now two-thirds through publishing her aswang trilogy, The Aswang Wars. Wait, what? A Filipino American literary series centered on the aswang? Who'd a-thunk it. Gotta find out more, right? Well, I'm pleased and honored today to present an interview with Enita Meadows, author of The Aswang Wars trilogy. I won't say anything here about her life and work . . . she can fill us in on that herself. Here we go. Vince:  Enita, welcome! Can you tell us something about yourself? Where were you born and raised? How did you become a writer? How did you get into writing YA books? Enita:  Of course, Vince. I grew up in Seattle, Washington, so I was raised with a lot of diversity in the cultures all around me. I've always been fascinated by cultural mythology and folklore, so as a kid with an overactive imagination, I started coming up with lengthy stories around the age of ten. That's when I started writing, and I actually ended up crafting a full-length fantasy novel based on Chinese mythology. That one never saw the light of day, but my writing grew as I got older. By age 18 I had already signed the contract for my first paranormal YA novel, The Messenger, which is based on Native Northwest lore. Vince:  That's wonderful that you started writing so young and have continued. Congratulations on your literary successes. Would you please talk about your previous published books before we discuss The Aswang Wars? Enita:  Gladly! I currently have two books out aside from The Aswang Wars. My first contracted novel, of which I spoke just now, The Messenger, is a YA Paranormal Romance novel based on the Native American folklore I was exposed to growing up in Washington State. The second, Eire, is a novel I chose to self-publish, and it's done quite well so far. Typical of me, it's also based on cultural folklore, this time largely on old Gaelic. The novel's title character is a young gryphon who, with his bondmate Ashling, sets off on a reluctant journey to rebuild the Otherworld. Vince:  You're being too modest, Enita. I know that besides the book-length works, you also have short stories out as e-books, "Password," "O Clever Wolf Am I," and "Chainmail." But let's get to The Aswang Wars, shall we? What is an aswang, first of all? Enita:  As an American, that's hard for me to answer even after writing three books on them! In the Philippines, the term aswang covers a wide range of fantastic but terrifying ghouls. The Philippines has many different cultural variations between provinces, but in general an aswang is described as a shapeshifter — popular forms include beautiful young women, and common animals such as dogs, cats, pigs, and bats — who feasts on the bodily organs and fluids of human beings. They usually have a sweet tooth for pregnant women and young children, and very few true weaknesses. The scariest part is that they hide in plain sight, and you may not know that even your closest friend is a blood-sucking monster! Vince:  I know that The Aswang Wars is made up of three books, two of which are out and a third due out soon. What is the larger arc of the trilogy as a whole? Without giving away any spoilers, of course. Enita:  The books become more involved as you read through them. The overall arc of the story involves this seemingly emotionless and indifferent monster and his search for the memories that were blocked out of his mind. The first book, Manduruko, is a step in to test the water, following Jei Rivera in a journey that leads him to discover the things that others are hiding from him. In the second, Mantahungal, he has to discover things history has hidden from him. And the third, Segbin, . . . well, I guess you'll see. Vince:  Does The Aswang Wars trilogy fit somehow into the overall vibe of your work in fantasy YA? Enita:  The reaction I got from my editors when I submitted this series for publication was that it was really unlike anything they'd read before, and I'd have to agree. I've never heard of an American aswang novel before, and on top of that, the writing style is very different from my other books as well. There's very little dialogue, especially in the first installment, Manduruko. Additionally, the writing style within the series changes slightly with the character. Jei Rivera starts out an indifferent club fighter and changes dramatically as the books go on. The writing reflects that. None of my books are set specifically, as I write how the story feels to me as its creator. However, I will say that The Aswang Wars is the first series I've seen through to absolute completion including publication, with good reason. It truly is something no one has seen before. Vince: What are your plans for The Aswang Wars? Both in terms of the characters and also with regard to any future stories and publications? Enita:  The Aswang Wars trilogy is contracted with MuseItUp Publishing for another couple of years. After that, we'll have to see what makes sense when the contract is up. The characters of The Aswang Wars will not have any more books written about them specifically. The world in which The Aswang Wars is set, however, leaves a lot of room to experiment with. Time will tell. Vince:  Wonderful, Enita. Thanks for talking to us about your work. Where do you see yourself as a writer in five or ten years? Enita:  I'm still growing as a writer, with several stories already locked up inside. In five or ten years I'd hope to have written a book that would reach a vast amount of readers. Although it seems every author dreams of money, a bestseller list spot, and movie adaptations left and right, my definition of success is to not have wasted the creativity. If my stories reach readers and entertain, that is where I want to be in five or ten years. Vince:  To finish . . . what is the weirdest question you have ever been asked in an interview? And how did you answer? Enita:  I get a lot of random questions when I do interviews, but I think one of the strangest ones was for The Messenger, my debut novel I metioned earlier: "What three items would your main character bring if marooned on a desert island?" Not only was that weird, but it was tough to answer. My characters are made of fantastic abilities and ancient lore, so the thought of them choosing objects was difficult. I believe my female protagonist brought survival supplies and a good book, while my male protagonist brought his special necklace (a big plot point in the story), a jug of water and a childish toy. Definitely a strange answer for a strange question! Vince:  Well, I'm glad I didn't ask that question, though I guess I did ask it just now! Thanks so much, Enita. It's been fun interviewing you. Enita:  Thank you for having me!     Okay, that's it, friends. To find out more about Enita Meadows, check out her blog. There are also an Aswang Wars website — and a Facebook page. The Aswang Wars first and second books Manduruko and Mantahungal are available as e-books; in addition, the first book has come out in print. The third, Segbin, is appearing soon, so watch out for that. It'll be quite a treat to have all three books available all together. Won't you please comment to Enita or me below? We'd love some feedback. Look for a blue link below that says "Post a comment"; if you don't see that, look in the red line below that starts "Posted by" and click on the word "comments." On keeping the blog humming along . . . in a couple days, National Poetry Month starts, and I'll be doing the NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day challenge. Come on back and check that out! Oh, by the way, I'll be a guest judge for the April Poem-a-Day challenge (take a look at the Poem-a-Day link in the previous paragraph). Maybe I'll get to read one of your poems if you take part in PAD. Take care, everyone — ingat.