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

Day Three. And Good Friday too. As a person raised Catholic, for me the phrase "day three" resonates: "On the third day he rose again in fulfillment of the Scriptures." I suppose today in NaPoWriMo/Poem-a-Day Land, there will be many "third-day" poems. Okay, on to the poetry prompts. Here's Maureen Thorson's NaPoWriMo prompt for day three: "I challenge you to write a fourteener. Fourteeners can be have any number of lines, but each line should have fourteen syllables. Traditionally, each line consisted of seven iambic feet (i.e., an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable, times seven), but non-iambic fourteeners also exist." Maureen points out that the renowned poem "Casey at the Bat" by Ernest Lawrence Thayer is made of fourteeners. "The form is versatile enough to encompass any subject matter, but as the example of 'Casey at the Bat' shows us, it is particularly useful in narrative poetry, due to the long line and the step-like sense of progression created by the iambs." Robert Lee Brewer's PAD suggestion today is to "write a machine poem. A machine could be a car or a robot, obviously, but simple machines include levers, pulleys, and screws. There’s also 'machine learning' and 'deus ex machina'." Robert wrote a particularly fun machine poem sample today. You can read it here. I didn't come up with a "third-day" Easter poem, although I hope many other April poets who wanted to did. You can't push these things; if the Muse ain't there, she/he/it just ain't there. But I did manage to combine the fourteener and machine prompts. Here you go . . . my best shot. Machine tick tick tick the clock punctuates tick tick close dark tick tick tick tick my bedroom tick tick tick safe thick warm tick tick tick heart thumps tick tick tick ribcage embrace tick tick tick timepiece counting tick tick tick counting seconds tick tick since my birth tick tick my lungs fill tick tick tick sweet air tick tick whew tick tick whew tick tick the body tick tick tick pumping tick tick whoosh tick tick tick liquids tidal tick tick swoosh tick tick flux broth tick tick tick elixir rivers tick tick tick bones thick rocks cliffs tick tick tick skyscrapers city tick tick tick streets flowing metal tick tick rust juts up into sky tick tick tick tick ore vein dips down tick tick into earth tick tick tick earth home all tick tick tick engine counts down tick tick tick years months days tick minutes tick seconds count down tick tick until tick tick we go tick tick go tick home tick tick home tick but till then tick tick may motor rev tick run tick long tick yeah —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Alan brilliantly merged the machine and fourteeners prompts today, using one of the most basic of machines, the hinge. When I first read this, the first thing I said, with some chagrin, was, "Fourteeners rhyme?" I had merely gone for the fourteen syllables per line. But Alan really mined well the English ballad tradition here, both in form and substance. Enjoy, friends. Thomas Crofts and the Miracle Hinge His dissertation finished, and his future in the air, his focus softly clouded by the ales of everywhere, the campus quad enshrouded by a fog before the dawn, our Thomas Crofts, medievalist, met Satan on the lawn. He didn’t look like Satan first, more Mephistopheles, with coat sleeves pushed to elbows, coatskirt hanging to his knees, suggesting eighties throwback or Neil Gaiman on a tear. Enlightened Thomas Crofts is not thrown off by what folks wear. For Thomas, in his studies, somehow found forbidden text, so Satan, prone to confidence, thought he’d take Thomas next and showed him something marvelous that no one else had seen for decades, except Thomas, on a microfiche machine. It was the hinge of miracles, a relic from a time when Roman lords awash in wealth still dreamed of perfect crime, commissioned corrupt metalsmiths and priests without restraint, demanded means to steal from gods their wealth without man’s taint. The hinge of miracles, it’s said, when opened and placed flat against a surface makes a panel open, just like that, to walk into a stony vault, or reach into a box, or violate a sacred place, defeating seals and locks. And Satan, then, without a word, held in his outstretched hand the hinge of miracles, which looked at first like plain iron band but glowed of hidden elements in fog and overcast enough to snare the interest of intrigued young Crofts at last. When I tell you what happened next, I’m sure that you will cringe to think that Thomas Crofts, medievalist, took up that hinge and opened it and pressed it flat against the Tempter’s chest and ripped his heart out, one, two, three, and tossed it to the west. They say that still in Madison there lies a hard dirt patch that never can grow grass and always smells like a lit match, a heartless figure walked into the state house in due time to tempt some weaker souls committing legislative crime, and he might run for President, promoting reckless rules attractive to Fox viewers and some more demented fools, but here in Appalachia, Thomas Crofts, medievalist, keeps open mind for learning, but for evil, a scorched fist. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Genius. Especially if you know Alan's other Thomas Crofts, medievalist, poems. Crofts is a good friend of Alan's, a colleague at East Tennessee State U, who is in fact a medievalist. Click here to see some more Thomas Crofts, medievalist, poems. You'll see this page first but if you scroll down you'll see the other pages with the poems. In the picture below you'll see Thomas Crofts, medievalist, himself. With sword, of course. Thomas Crofts, medievalist To get a sense of the man, click here to read an article by Thomas Crofts, medievalist, about joy and poetry. Or click here to see the ETSU faculty page of Thomas Crofts, medievalist. By the way, Alan has also got a Christ connection in this poem, or at least an allusion, since we see Satan tempting the good medievalist as he did Jesus once in the desert, the temple, and a high mountain. Of course the poem is also a political satire, and it's very witty of Alan to get the word "walked" in here. 'Nuff said. And another "by the way," Alan's poem can be sung, as can all ballad-style fourteeners. Try it using, say, the tune of "The Yellow Rose of Texas" or the theme song to Gilligan's Island. Any other suggestions for melodies one could use to sing Alan's poem? Oh! . . . "Oh! Susanna" would work, and also "Amazing Grace." Have fun singing, everybody. Friends, won't you comment, please? Alan and I would love to hear from you. 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. Hope National Poetry Month is not being cruel to you.  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 25 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2015

Day Twenty-Five. Today is the end of the fifth group of five, with one more group of five to go. Five more days. Five more poems. Though today, both Alan and I really up the ante and the numbers. Maureen Thorson's NaPoWriMo prompt: "It’s the weekend, so I thought we might go with something short and just a bit (or a lot) silly – the Clerihew. These are rhymed, humorous quatrains involving a specific person’s name." Robert Lee Brewer's PAD prompt: write an across the sea poem. This could be a love letter, an electronic submission through cyber space and time, or a travel poem (by air or sea, though probably not car). Modern travel or back in the days of rugged explorers. Wandering or wondering, your choice. Combining Robert's "across the sea" prompt with NaPoWriMo.net's clerihew prompt. Here goes. Clerihews for a Famous Literary Sailor Herman Melville Was into whale kill, So he wrote the famous Moby-Dick Although harpooning was not his schtick. Herman Melville Couldn't spell well. The real guy's name was Israel, But Herman misspelled it as Ishmael. Herman Melville Didn't sell well. Thousands of Moby-Dick copies left over, In his attic, his basement, and his mom's, moreover. Herman Melville Fished for bluegill. He said it was almost as fun as whale, If you don't consider matters of scale. Herman Melville Visited Nashville. Where Moby-Dick didn't get him too far 'Cause he couldn't sing or play guitar. Herman Melville Scared a Paris demoiselle. She said, "Mon cheri, with you it's wrong. Your Moby-Dick is just too long." —Drafts by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] If you've been following Alan's bravura poeming all month, the cornucopia of clerihews below probably won't surprise you. Alan says, "The first two fulfill the two prompts. The rest are extra." Crossing the Sea Clerihews Annabelle Ridgeway began her day by taking a lone three a.m. bus trip for a Slushie and thereby became (albeit briefly) more well-known than Salman Rushdie. Vince Gotera wished to emulate Peter Cetera, and single-handedly brought about a Midwest embargo on touring bar bands who cover Chicago. Billy Collins is no Henry Rollins, but he’s sold a zillion volumes at Books-a-Million. John Boehner, the Orange Complainer, has proven himself no smartier than the average Tea Partier. John McCain, explain what your next war is for. Dick Cheney belongs in American political miscellany for being calculating though artless and for living while being literally heartless. Mitt Romney, in spite of his bum knee, ran for months just like a dunce. Rafael Edward “Ted” Cruz is bound to lose if he runs out of wingnut sloganeering ammunition and contributes to GOP voter attrition. Scott Kevin Walker, the Koch brothers’ stalker, has moved from their position on immigration and compromised his bid for the GOP nomination. Marco Antonio Rubio screwed up in the studio by lunging for water while delivering a GOP response like a kindergartener who discovers his pants are unzipped during the Pledge of Allegiance. Mike Huckabee, really, is the most effective thing you can say is that folks should eat at Chik-fil-A? —Drafts by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Some of those are really quite hilarious, Alan. Depending on which side of the aisle you're on, so to speak, I guess. Well, since you wrote a clerihew for me, I am only too glad to reciprocate. Associate Dean Thomas Alan Holmes, of ETSU’s administrative catacombs, got royally — as the British say — pissed with his buddy Thomas Crofts, medievalist. Thomas Alan Holmes, associate dean, writes poems that rhyme and scan and chiefly consist of the exploits of Thomas Crofts, medievalist. —Drafts by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Thomas Crofts, medievalist If you're not familiar with Alan's poems about Thomas Crofts, medievalist, click here. There are quite a few of them here on the blog as well as out in the world, both online and in print. At right is Thomas Crofts, medievalist, himself, brandishing his favorite blade, with which he doth smite all miscreants. Click on the image to see it lo! full magnified. I got a bit of help with these two clerihews from my girlfriend Kathy. She came up with "catacombs" to rhyme with "Holmes" — a brilliant word given what Alan often says about administration. Wait, did I say that? And also "exploits" for the storied derring-do of Thomas Crofts, medievalist. We both hope to "goon on pilgrimages" to Tennessee — mayhaps this summer? — to finally meet in person Thomas Alan Holmes, associate dean, and his estoc-wielding sometimes-accomplice sometimes-literary-character Thomas Crofts, medievalist.  ヅ  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 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 14 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2014

Hello, everyone. Day 14. A fortnight in. I've always found it interesting that "fortnight" and "fourteen" share the same opening sounds. Is there a connection there, do you think? A shared root sometime in the past, perhaps. If you know, would you share in a comment, please? Thanks. And now, as always, the "official" prompts. "For today's prompt," Robert Lee Brewer says, "take the phrase 'If I Were (blank),' replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write the poem. Possible titles might include: 'If I Were President,' 'If I Were Smarter,' 'If I Were a Little More Sensitive,' or 'If I Were Born on April 14.' If I were you, I'd get poeming about now." (Poetic Asides). "Today's prompt (optional, as always)," Maureen Thorson begins, "is a little something I'm calling 'Twenty Questions.' The idea is to write a poem in which every sentence, except for the last one, is in the form of a question. That's it! It can be as long or short as you like. The questions can be deep and philosophical ('what is the meaning of life') or routine and practical ('are you going to eat that?'). Or both!" (NaPoWriMo). Okay, mixing the prompts, as usual. And lowering the number of questions from Maureen's 20 to 14. Why? Because it's April 14, and because the poem I'm presenting below is a sonnet, at least in shape if not in argument. Here we go. If I Were a Sonnet, I Would Ask 14 Questions How do I love thee? Or should that really be "you"? And of course, I would ask how do you love me? Or should that be "I"? Does linguistics figure into How one asks questions of lovers? Should we Even care about linguistics at a time Like this, when one is writing a love poem? Should we rhyme? Full rhyme or slant rhyme? Capitalize each line? One could write a tome Or at least a monograph about whether Or not grammar — or spelling, for that matter — Should even, in a romantic sonnet, matter? Shall we count the ways? For example, whether We should be like Bill Clinton? Debate what is, is? Is there no answer? If there be, the answer simply is . . . —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Just for fun, here's Bill Clinton. Let's imagine that he's pondering the questions in the poem. Or maybe he's actually laughing at how ludicrous the whole thing is. Or was. Speaking of "ludicrous," I'm pretty ludicrously proud of using identical rhyme in the last six lines: rhyming a word with itself. You gots to take your humor where you finds it.   ヅ    I used full rhyme throughout the poem because the other day my girlfriend Kathy (lucky Kathy from a couple of days ago) asked me why I use so much slant rhyme. I just want to prove, ha ha, that I can do full rhyme. But slant rhyme, I think, is harder to do and less chime-like. All right, on to Alan's poem for Day 14. Here is Alan's set up: "After noting that Vince did not allude to the Stevie Nicks/Tom Petty collaboration 'Stop Draggin' My Heart Around' in his 'Dragon Sestina' yesterday (April 13), I joked that I would write a Stevie Nicks poem for today. I'm bringing in an old friend to help." The old friend to whom Alan is referring is his real-life colleague Thomas Crofts, medievalist, who appeared as a character in several of Alan's NaPoWriMo poems last year. Alan, I'm glad to "see" Thomas Crofts, medievalist; I was starting to despair that he wouldn't make an appearance this April. Thomas Crofts and I Encounter a Cosplayer Dressed as Stevie Nicks I like the subtle ones the best: the preppie in the suit with tie askew, his open collar just revealing blue beneath, a red line of a symbol scarce in sight; the Goth girl, Horus sigil black mascaraed right eye, silver ankh around her neck, and startled I, of anyone, would recognize the Endless Death; that quiet guy who never spoke in class and wore a power ring, symbolic strength through will. These plain-sight, camouflaged creative ones who soon will see how many of us cycle through identities throughout our days, relying on acknowledgment of mere allusion, grateful seen, not wanting to attract. And so it was that colleague Thomas Crofts, medievalist, and I first saw Rhiannon in the flesh, her hair in ringlets, doleful eyes, her lips bee-stung and full, her macramé handmade hemp vest and silken blouse, her matching scarf a band tied loose around her top hat’s crown, our nod, and Thomas, “Taken by the sky?” She smiled and twirled and kept in step. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes     [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Fun poem, Alan. Thanks for taking on yourself your own challenge to me to slip Stevie Nicks into my "Dragon Sestina." You saved me a lot of trouble and heartache. Wink wink.  ヅ Stevie Nicks in a top hat (2011) Hey, let's watch YouTube videos of Stevie Nicks and Tom Petty singing "Stop Draggin' My Heart Around," shall we? Here's a reunion version of the two of them reprising the song in 2006. And from just last week, here's a re-creation with Stevie Nicks doing the song on the Tonight show and Jimmy Fallon cosplaying Tom Petty. Actually, Jimmy does a spot-on impression of Petty. And, you Nirvana fans, look who introduces them. Fun, huh? Won't you comment, please, friends? To make a comment, look for a blue link below that says Post a comment; if you don't see that, look in the red line that starts Posted by Vince and click on the word comments. Ingat, everyone.   ヅ

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

Day 29 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2014

Day 29. Two days to go. Or, at the time I'm writing this, one day and one hour to go in National Poetry Month! Robert Lee Brewer has a two-for-Tuesday prompt in honor of Gabriel García Márquez: "Write a realism poem" and/or "Write a magical poem . . . Or write like Gabriel Garcia Marquez and do both!"(Poetic Asides). Maureen Thorson's "prompt is called the 'Twenty Little Poetry Projects,' and was originally developed by Jim Simmerman. . . . the challenge is to use them all in one poem" (NaPoWriMo). Twenty Little Poetry Projects     by Jim Simmerman   1.  Begin the poem with a metaphor.   2.  Say something specific but utterly preposterous.   3.  Use at least one image for each of the five senses, either in succession or scattered randomly throughout the poem.   4.  Use one example of synesthesia (mixing the senses).   5.  Use the proper name of a person and the proper name of a place.   6.  Contradict something you said earlier in the poem.   7.  Change direction or digress from the last thing you said.   8.  Use a word (slang?) you’ve never seen in a poem.   9.  Use an example of false cause-effect logic. 10.  Use a piece of talk you’ve actually heard (preferably in dialect and/or which you don’t understand). 11.  Create a metaphor using the following construction: "The (adjective) (concrete noun) of (abstract noun) . . ." 12.  Use an image in such a way as to reverse its usual associative qualities. 13.  Make the persona or character in the poem do something he or she could not do in "real life." 14.  Refer to yourself by nickname and in the third person. 15.  Write in the future tense, such that part of the poem seems to be a prediction. 16.  Modify a noun with an unlikely adjective. 17.  Make a declarative assertion that sounds convincing but that finally makes no sense. 18.  Use a phrase from a language other than English. 19.  Make a non-human object say or do something human (personification). 20.  Close the poem with a vivid image that makes no statement, but that "echoes" an image from earlier in the poem. Okay, here we go. Not trying to channel Gabriel García Márquez at all. Just trying to channel both real and surreal (which I hope evinces some magic) while trying to do the Simmerman projects in order. Thus mixing all three prompts. Carnac the Magnificent & Dancing Cactus The sun rises in the east like a bubble of lava, streaking the sky with stripes of flowing magma that smell like pine tar & taste of cinnamon, loudly sounding red & white like candy canes forged by Santa Claus & his elves in Hell. Yes, the sky was riddled with Christmas suns, riddled wth Easter grass, riddled with Chinese firecrackers that sh-boom sh-boomed merrily. The sky's blue was caused by the fireworks. &, speaking of fireworks: "sis boom bah!" The magnificent Carnac of happiness brings us the Light of Truth: "Describe the sound when a sheep explodes." Johnny Carson will surely rise from the dead, just as Vince will not. Incandescent water, the hard texture of incense smoke . . . let's get real. Let's get down & dirty. Johnny Carson lives in all our hearts, a celebrity who was respectful of all people & all cultures, who raised a diseased camel from its egg to its coffin. El camello enfermo de amor. Let's get back to the real world. Where a saguaro cactus pulls its legs out of the ground & dances a poisonous tarantella, a lovely fandango, bowing to the west like a man of green lava. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] I don't know how Johnny Carson came to be in the poem but when I was driving to Chicago last week (a five-hour trip) I heard a talk show about TV comedy and heard the Carnac the Magnificent "sis boom bah" bit. (That's when I actually heard this "piece of talk" recently.) I bet not many people know anymore that "sis boom bah" was connected in the late 1800s to fireworks watching and then later in the mid-1900s to cheerleading. Now on to Alan's poem for Day 29. "I think that I have managed to merge Maureen and Robert's prompts for today. I am not certain what to make of this attempt, though." Thomas Crofts and I Consider Haruspication and Routine Examinations of Middle-Aged Men Outside the English building, near the street, I hold the map to my most inner self, the pink and rounded corridor of flesh, provided me when I awoke from dark in digital, 600 dpi, my name in bold across the top, results of tests, the endoscopic plumber’s snake they probed down my esophagus, to foretell all. My printout prophecy provided me and Thomas Crofts, medievalist, the chance and welcome opportunity to mourn the mystery of life, now mapped the way an unmanned Google car can plot a town. I told him how the sweatbee sting, a vein on my right hand, felt nothing like the bland green plastic guide they had me bite down on so that the camera probe would never touch my teeth, my swollen, bitten lips, my fog and doubt of what I might have said as I awoke from anesthetic sleep. “And yet,” he said, “far more routine and comic goes the colonoscopy, in through the out, as Led Zep punned, another orifice, another oracle, to the same end, to read our guts and tell us times to come.” “In times to come”—before us stand in scrubs of rainbow hue to designate the role of each, a surgeon’s staff encircling one who lies beneath an arc of burning white, his abdomen split open to reveal the sum of what has been and what’s to come. The surgeon speaks, “Let’s have a poke around. He has a chance at twenty years, but see his gut distended, tears in tissue here, the liver knobbiness—just close him up.” Supine, the patient turns to smile at us, to gesture Blue Cross has o.k.’ed our turn, extended palm of state-insured in full. I smirked to mask my gasp of churning guts, reminded of a vivisected frog my fourth-grade teacher, Mrs. Freeman, flayed in front of us, its spinal cord in two from her deft ice pick plunge. Her thumb was black from silver nitrate. She had stopped me once when I was wiping off electrolyte from naked wires my partner had plugged in. “If diagnosis tells the future, I’m an ass!” Regret I said it followed; here I was, aware that part of me is mess and tubes, aware Yossarian has learned the same, “There, there,” a spoken breath as Snowden shows a truth that I have printed on my desk, refute it as I might, repeat, “Wo ist der Schnee vom vegangenen Jahr?” I taste that blank white bitterness and nurse my ruptured lip. Then Thomas said, “Entrance intransigence!” and laughed that anyone would transfix on his frailty. “I guess nobody told you, Cousin, why it is that men die early? ‘Cause they can!” I heard it echo from the science hall. Then I fell hoarse from laughing, flecks of blood sprayed on my wrist, and I took off alive, relieved to have a rank companion free to chide me, send me home to feed my kids, to fall asleep turned on my side to grasp my sweet one’s side, behind me the machine that forces breath down through me as I sleep. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes     [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Well, Alan, that was fun. Though I gotta say, I have no idea what to make of any of either of our poems. I certainly am not sure how to even come close to illustrating your poem with an image! Won't you comment, please, friends? To make a comment, look for a blue link below that says Post a comment and click it once. If you don't see that, look in the red line that starts Posted by Vince, then find the word comments and click it once. Ingat, everyone.   ヅ

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Day 24 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2017

24 Divisadero. If you're San Francisco born and bred, like me, that's what the number 24 conjures up: a bus line. But let's get to today's poeming. Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: "write a poem of ekphrasis — that is, a poem inspired by a work of art. But I’d also like to challenge you to base your poem on a very particular kind of art – the marginalia of medieval manuscripts. Here you’ll find some characteristic images of rabbits hunting wolves, people sitting on nests of eggs, dogs studiously reading books, and birds wearing snail shells. What can I say? It must have gotten quite boring copying out manuscripts all day, so the monks made their own fun. Hopefully, the detritus of their daydreams will inspire you as well!" Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: "write a faith poem. For some people, faith means religion. For others, faith means trusting in science and mathematics. Still others, think George Michael’s 'Faith' just as some immediately conjure up Faith Hill. Regardless of where you put your faith (or don’t), today’s poem gives you an opportunity to express yourself." Okay, here is my medieval marginalia — marginalium? — a bit of nunnery humor in a "bas-de-page" or bottom-of-the-page illustration found in a mid-14th-century manuscript of the Roman de la Rose, attributed to manuscript illuminator — illuminatrix? — Jeanne de Montbaston. Yup. That's what they are. A little pale . . . I suppose they grow where the sun don't shine. Sister Marie Considers Faith A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, thought Sister. Since I have two in my basket, and four more in yon tree, I'll soon be the happiest woman in Christendom, so long as I keep faith they can make me fly. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Here is Alan's medieval illustration: “Jael and Sisera” (from Speculum Humanae Salvationis, Westphalen, c.1360.) You can read this Bible narrative in "The Song of Deborah" (Judges 5). If you click on the image above, you can view the full illustration — a two-parter. Jael Unwieldy the tent peg and heavy the maul, how easy to give its tip purchase, sleeping Sisera in his exhausted assumption that she, peasant woman, oppressed by his occupation, would watch at her tent’s flap to warn him, his bearing a foil to his cowardice, retreating and hiding, asleep. Unwieldy the tent peg and heavy the maul, how easy to give its tip purchase, through an eye socket of the unseeing commander, through the ear canal of the unhearing oppressor, through the open mouth whose voice could level her camp, suffering and hurting, bereft. Unwieldy the tent peg and heavy the maul, how easy to give its tip purchase, choosing his temple, not obscuring his face or his recognition of his last mistakes that her subjugation meant weakness, that homely implements are not weapons. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Alan tells us more about his process today, "Of course, one of the first things I did was ask Thomas Crofts, medievalist, if he had a favorite image that he might recommend. He directed me to a British Libraries site, where they offer a digitized version of The Luttrell Psalter, and it is a lovely work that deserves far more consideration than I have the luxury to spend today. I will return to it, however, for its variety of images. I told Thomas that I was going to start drawing in the margins of all of my books. Get a look at this fine webpage here." Alan also told me, "I used to draw flipbook animations in lab manuals, so I am happy." An interesting quandary today, with regard to the blog being "family-friendly" or not. With these illustrations and their matching poems, we have the old problem of PG-13 vs. R vs. NC-17 ratings: which is worse? Sex or violence? I like the old Saturday Night Live joke: sax and violins . . . what's so bad about that, really? 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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Day Ten ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2017

Good day, everyone. I've just realized that every April day, I have “Day __” in the post title, and I start off with “Day __” in my opening text. I think I’ve done that here in the blog for going on four years, I bet. I might have started starting with the numerical date when I used to riff on the number, so that for example today I could say something like “10 fingers, 10 toes,” or 10 this or that. Okay, so . . . not doing that “Day __” malarkey today! Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “write a poem that is a portrait of someone important to you. It doesn’t need to focus so much on what a person looks (or looked) like, as what they are or were.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “write a travel poem. Your poem can be about the process of traveling, planning to travel, vicariously traveling through television programs, or however else you’d like to take this prompt.” Mixing both prompts today in a plain-spoken sonnet . . . a portrait of my mother and her reluctance to travel.  My Mother’s Fear  My mother was an alien, a legal alien.  That is, she had a green card, while my father  and I were the family’s US citizens.  As a kid, I wanted to visit Mexico, but my mother  was afraid. Now, she was a brave woman,  a doctor, the only female in her med school  class, during a time when only men  could do such things. But for her, no Mexico.  She was scared they would stop her at the border  on the way back, and she would get stranded, alone.  I thought that was foolish and silly, I remember.  How could that happen? America was the land  of the free! Well, Mama, today you’d be right.  America great again. You were always right. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] I’m realizing now my mother was actually a permanent exile. She also never visited the Philippines, never visited her homeland, probably because of those same immigrant fears. Sad. Too bad there are people in our country now who still harbor those fears. Purely by coincidence, another poem about my mom was published yesterday by Silver Birch Press: “Mama’s Ring We Thought Lost — Stolen — Then Found.” I hope you’ll go read it . . . click here. Alan’s poem today comes with no intro, so I’ll provide an intro based on my understanding of the events that transpired. The poem uses the prompts in an interesting way: a portrait not of a person as we usually think of that word, but rather a kind of collective “person,” a hive, that’s of great importance to Alan, which then must travel to survive. The Karen Cajka Bees Go to Jonesborough Palm Sunday morning we stood in dew and waited for the tattooed bee guys to come and take away the Karen Cajka bees, the bees who came to live in my family’s front yard the spring before our beloved friend left us too soon and reminded so many of us the ache of a heart feeling depleted and too full at the same time. They gave a hollowed sassafras a different life a while. A bit more than a dozen years before, the sassafras had triplet trunks, one bent to touch the ground, an arch of leafy trunk that I was sure would root again, but one who came to cut black locusts out convinced us that the arch would kill the tree and lopped it off, its upright twins remaining with a stump, its twins surviving not too long, the branches broke, the trunks broke too, and, creaking, dead, and hollow stood to die in time. Across the street, a schoolyard lot then underwent development, and old trees that had ringed the paths got taken down, and, soon, one afternoon, I found the bees had nested in the hollow trunk. I felt myself brand new, like blossoming; for weeks before, I’d circled near wildflowers in our lot, in hopes of some assurance of a bee, that life was working as it needs to work, but now I had new neighbors in a hive, to greet as I passed by, to say aloud what thoughts I had to say to understand. New life, new living life, the trunk a thrumming drum I felt when resting hands upon its weathered bark and speaking to someone I couldn’t see but felt. But what old body holds a life too long? I saw where bark in patches fell away, I found a big gnawn hole too near the hive that lay exposed, I watched the wind bend both twin trunks until they creaked. I spoke to Thomas Crofts, medievalist, who farms and would keep bees, an apiculturist in heart, and we began our search to save the bees and found a pair prepared to salvage them. Palm Sunday morning we stood in dew, my wife Barbara, Thomas and Molly, Adam (our student), and I, and watched the eastern face of the trunk grow brighter as the sun rose, watched first stirrings of the hive, some huddled bees not ready yet to fly, and waited for the bee guys to arrive. The day before, one of them came to scout the situation, gauge the piece to be transported, make the choice to keep the hive intact instead of tearing down the trunk to take the queen, but here he was, he and his friend, with little more than masking cloth, a ladder far too short, a piddling chain saw, and a Subaru to take away the trunk, the kind of situation that makes a person think about financial liability that’s covered in a homeowner’s policy making me question, making me doubt. But, with the extra hands, my own ladder, and the rack on my three-quarter ton pickup, we eventually eased the angry trunk down, its surface warming fast, its buzzing loud, its scent of hive grown stronger in the heat. Lashed to the rack, each entrance closed, the log gum rode to Jonesborough, down Market Street, a dreary stretch of car parts stores and laundromats where vapers count their change as nervous tics, to be lashed again to a tulip poplar trunk on a small farm with a big, friendly dog. We ripped the fabric covers from each entrance and expected angry bees would spill outside, but few would leave the hive at first, transported to this new home so the hive can thrive, releasing swarms of life exchanging life. A single creaking trunk remains, I’ve left the ladder in the yard, I walk among the older trees in our back lot, in hope of bees. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]

Alan, I hope another queen finds one of your trees to start a hive. Thank you for a wonderful story.


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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