Day 16 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2013

Day 16 of National Poetry Month. Rather than say anything cool and hip about the number 16, I'd just like to talk for a moment about the bombing at the Boston marathon yesterday. My heart goes out to the injured and to the families of those who were killed. I am sorry for your pain and for your loss. Too bad that such a normally joyous occasion has been marred by this awful act. From Poetic Asides we have Robert Lee Brewer's "Two-for-Tuesday" prompt: "a possible poem" and/or "an impossible poem." In the NaPoWriMo site, we have Maureen Thorson's suggestion "to write a 'translation' of a poem in a language you don’t actually know. . . . use the sound and shape of the [original poem's] words and lines to guide you, without worrying too much about whether your translation makes sense. . . . Once you have your rough 'translation,' you could leave it at that, or continue to shape the poem." I have heard the products of such naive "translation" called translitic poetry. To write a translitic, I chose the Afrikaans poem "Toemaar Die Donker Man" by Ingrid Jonker (1963) from Poetry International. In my Poetry Workshop today, we played with this text to produce translitics. Here's what I ended up with, on the right below. Kinda fun, playful. I considered titling it "Impossible Poem" to get Robert's prompt in there, but I thought that might be in bad faith. So we're all Maureen today. Toemaar Die Donker Man vir Simone Op die groen voetpad van die horison ver om die aarde skat, stap 'n ou man wat 'n oop maan dra in sy hare Nagtegaal in sy hart jasmyn gepluk vir sy oop knoopsgat en 'n rug gebuk aan sy jare. Wat maak hy, mammie? Hy roep die kriekies Hy roep die swart stilte wat sing soos die biesies, my hart en die sterre wat klop tok-tok liefling, soos die klein toktokkies in hul fyn-ver kring. Wat is sy naam, mammie? Sy naam is Sjuut Sy naam is Slaap Meneer Vergeet uit die land van Vaak Sy naam is toe maar hy heet, my lam Toe maar, die donker man Mammie . . . Toe maar, die donker man by Ingrid Jonker (1963)                 Tamara, the Thank-You Mom for Simone Over the green boat pad, when the horizon’s pure and the hardy skate, stepping under the moon, white. Knife-men drive in ice shared, entangled in ice heart, Just men, gay plucked, for ice in knife-gate and rage bikes against ice jewels. What makes you high, Mommy? “Hey, rap the crikeys. Hey, rap the sweet style with song.” says she, buzzing, my heart in the staring white clipped tick-tock leaf-fling, says the clean tick-tockeys in whole finery, crooning. What is thy name, Mommy? Thy name is Shoot. Thy name is Sleep. My near fire gate, out the line, vain Vox. Thy name is Tamara. My heat, my lamb. Tamara, the Thank-You Mom. Mommy . . . Tamara, the Thank-You Mom. Naive "Translation" or Translitic by Vince Gotera [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Here is Ingrid Jonker's poem again with the real published English translation, once more from Poetry International. It's interesting to compare the actual translation with my translitic and how I got lucky with some words and was way off on others. It's all for fun, though, right? Ingrid Jonker, apologies for messing about with your poem. I hope, wherever you are, if you should happen to see this, that you'll agree it's all in good fun. Thanks for your lovely poem. Toemaar Die Donker Man vir Simone Op die groen voetpad van die horison ver om die aarde skat, stap 'n ou man wat 'n oop maan dra in sy hare Nagtegaal in sy hart jasmyn gepluk vir sy oop knoopsgat en 'n rug gebuk aan sy jare. Wat maak hy, mammie? Hy roep die kriekies Hy roep die swart stilte wat sing soos die biesies, my hart en die sterre wat klop tok-tok liefling, soos die klein toktokkies in hul fyn-ver kring. Wat is sy naam, mammie? Sy naam is Sjuut Sy naam is Slaap Meneer Vergeet uit die land van Vaak Sy naam is toe maar hy heet, my lam Toe maar, die donker man Mammie . . . Toe maar, die donker man by Ingrid Jonker (1963)                 Hush Now, The Darkling Man for Simone On the green footpath of the horizon far around the earth little one, an old man trudges who wears an open moon in his hair Nightingale in his heart jasmin plucked for his buttonhole and a back bowed down by his years. What’s he doing, mummy? He calls the crickets He calls the black silence that sings like the rushes, my sweet and the stars which throb knock-knock my love, like the tiny little beetles in their thin far ring. What’s his name, mummy? His name is Hush His name is Sleep Mister Forget from the Land of Dream His name is hush he’s called, my sweet Hush now, the darkling man Mummy. . . Hush now, the darkling man Translation by Antjie Krog & André Brink (2007) That's all for today, everyone. I hope you'll comment below, please. Look for a blue link 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, friends.   ;-) POEM-A-DAY 2013 • 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 23 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2014

Here are today's "official" prompts. Robert Lee Brewer suggests "a location poem," which might be "physical [or] emotional, psychological, metaphysical, or some other kind of word that ends in -al" (Poetic Asides). Maureen Thorson challenges us today to write "an oldie-but-a-goodie: the homophonic translation. Find a poem in a language you don’t know, and translate it into English based on the look of the words and their sounds" (NaPoWriMo). This is also called a translitic poem. The phrase "Day 23" reminds me of The Number 23, a 2007 movie starring Jim Carrey. This psychological thriller portrayed Carrey's character becoming more and more obsessed with the number 23, believing that his life and all events around him are connected to 23 or some permutation of 23, and developing extreme paranoia. I'm writing this after struggling mightily for hours with Maureen Thorson's prompt (described below), and I'm feeling a bit like the hapless hero of that movie. Ack. Theatrical Release Poster I wrote that last paragraph several hours ago, and it's now 5:37 P.M. after an afternoon of dealing with proofs and meetings and poetry selection at the North American Review. I feel a little better because somehow the translitic started to flow, and here it is. My translitic plays with Rainer Maria Rilke's great poem, "The Panther," given in German to the right. I'll also quote a proper English translation of the poem at the end of this blog post. The Pain There Where cutthroat business reigns Shane's block-buying more bargains from Steve, So mad Gabe warned Dave or Nick. More heat in those tales of the thousand Steve gave and hints at the thousands Steve can wield. Dave's rich gang guesses might make Steve shit. They're sick in all their claims. Shane, Christ, rat. This way intense crap hemming more middle in their business than Gabe will state. Nick monkeys more shit that overhangs people. Such a lot lost of Dave getting billed. Insane. Good dirt there, gloating, and Gabe's plan for Steve would hurt him personally and sue Shane. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]               Der Panther In Jardin des Plantes, Paris Sein Blick ist vom Vorübergehn der Stäbe So müd geworden, daß er nichts mehr hält. Ihm ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt. Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte, Der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht, Ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte, In der betäubt ein großer Wille steht. Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille Sich lautlos auf. — Dann geht ein Bild hinein, geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille — Und hört im Herzen auf zu sein. —Rainer Maria Rilke (1902)    [Translation into English below.] I think I might have satisfied Robert's suggested "other" locations (emotional, psychological, metaphysical): the poem that arose out of the homophonic translation seems to hint at that metaphysical location where business takes place heartlessly, and the title suggests there is pain there, wherever that is. I feel okay about it how turned and I think I can claim to have mashed up prompts today. And now to Alan, who says, "Heartsore today, folks, I haven't looked at prompts." Applied Mathematics When I was a senior in high school, I took college calculus taught by a Benedictine born in Belgium, and old Father John kept a disciplined classroom and guided us through calculations and problems with high estimations of what we could learn to achieve; to this day, on occasion, when I see quadratic equations and some old Greek symbols, I think of his bad lower teeth in his open content to show teenagers how to find meaning in variables. I don’t apply calculus now as I average grades or I balance a checkbook or figure which bill can be paid, but it’s all algebra at the most as I might help my kids just a bit on some homework until they take off as if they’d just learned how to ride bikes. But when they were all small I would read to them so much it never occurs to them now that their dad, the lit prof who’s to elbows in dishwater, would take it as quite an honor to talk about novels they’re reading at school, look at stories they write, recommend a good play. Still, I’ve never been asked to present on a parent’s day, be the odd professor/poet sat next to a firefighter, medic, and cop. So, sums, mainly, I didn’t need to keep calculus, don’t have it now, but I think I should learn it all back. I don’t figure x of a bully’s ineptitude making it more economical to take away half the job and to give it to someone who’ll get a promotion, assuring that that job is done. I don’t figure n of devoting attention to something that matters when fixing it is no concern of its maker — my three hours of editing seems of more value than one’s thirty minutes of cutting and pasting. I don’t figure y of someone’s leaving home but retaining a presence so that the new quantity, less than, feels equal, then only to have a return so that what should be equal is now greater than. I was once much more comfortable, number two pencil in hand and the hard sibilance of encouragement, “Yes, Mr. Holmes, you’re correct!” —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes     [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Alan, this poem really speaks to me. When I went to the Jesuit high school in San Francisco, my 9th-grade Algebra teacher, Fr. Jacobs, sounds a great deal like this Benedictine calculus teacher of yours. He was a tough old bird, and the grumpiest priest who ever lived, Fr. Jacobs, but we could all tell he cared about us. I also connect with your feeling here that life was simpler in those days when math would provide a clear answer with an elegant route to get there. But life, or living life, is probably more art than science, and as in writing poems or painting illustrations we don't always know where we're headed, and no one tells us when or if we're correct, but there's nonetheless beauty and reward in it. 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 P.S. Here's the Rilke poem in English. The Panther In the Jardin des Plantes, Paris From seeing the bars, his seeing is so exhausted that it no longer holds anything anymore. To him the world is bars, a hundred thousand bars, and behind the bars, nothing. The lithe swinging of that rhythmical easy stride which circles down to the tiniest hub is like a dance of energy around a point in which a great will stands stunned and numb. Only at times the curtains of the pupil rise without a sound . . . then a shape enters, slips through the tightened silence of the shoulders, reaches the heart, and dies. —Rainer Maria Rilke (1902)    Translated by Robert Bly.             Der Panther In Jardin des Plantes, Paris Sein Blick ist vom Vorübergehn der Stäbe So müd geworden, daß er nichts mehr hält. Ihm ist, als ob es tausend Stäbe gäbe und hinter tausend Stäben keine Welt. Der weiche Gang geschmeidig starker Schritte, Der sich im allerkleinsten Kreise dreht, Ist wie ein Tanz von Kraft um eine Mitte, In der betäubt ein großer Wille steht. Nur manchmal schiebt der Vorhang der Pupille Sich lautlos auf. — Dann geht ein Bild hinein, geht durch der Glieder angespannte Stille — Und hört im Herzen auf zu sein. —Rainer Maria Rilke (1902)

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 30 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2016

Last day of National Poetry Month. Sad. But also glad about all the poems. The full complement of 30 for me! Here's a little meme to post in your social media sites to celebrate. You can see this image larger by clicking on it, but unfortunately you won't be able to share from there. However, you can find a share-able version in my facebook from three years ago. Robert Lee Brewer’s PAD prompt: "For today’s prompt, write a dead end poem. Of course, I was thinking in terms of the challenge, but a dead end can literally mean the end of a person’s life, a dead end road, a dead end job, dead end mortgage, and so on. Take the phrase 'dead end' and apply it to a noun, and the possibilities are nearly endless (except, well, there’s the whole 'dead end' finality to it, I suppose)." Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: "Because we’ve spent our month looking at poets in English translation, today I’d like you to try your hand at a translation of your own. If you know a foreign language, you could take a crack at translating a poem by a poet writing in that language. If you don’t know a foreign language, or are up for a different kind of challenge, you could try a homophonic translation. Simply find a poem (or other text) in a language you don’t know, and then 'translate' it based on the look or sound of the words." This "translation" poem form is also called a translitic. Thank you VERY much to Maureen Thorson and to Robert Lee Brewer for a great NaPoWriMo and Poem-a-Day once again! Here is Jed's "translation" poem. See if you can figure out what he's doing rhyme- and meter-wise. Lost In . . . Human behavior is a poetry Of sorts, packed with hidden implication; A delicate dance, gradually evolved Over each life, and all of history. Her forlorn sigh can be inspiration Enough to tell him he’ll never be loved By her. Learn to hear the message wrapped in Silences. The science of emotion Is really art. The meaning of a pause Had better be received, though. It’s a sin If you make a faulty calculation; If you don’t match the rhyme, it’s defiance. Humans know you understand, even when You don’t. Ignorance will never excuse Not knowing the rules laid down by their hand. Well, madmen and children are forgiven By some. But you have everything to lose If you show that you sometimes understand. They’ll think your mistakes were calculated To throw them in disarray. All you say Wrong will be taken not as error but As anger, mockery; they’ll think you led The dance astray through malice. “You can play The game. Why won’t you?” And then you’re shut out. —Draft by Jedediah Kurth    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Here's what Jed wrote me about the poem: "So it's more metaphorically about translation than a literal attempt at translating something. My ASL isn't really fluent enough for me to do a good interpretation of ASL poetry . . . And I really wanted to do a fun, 10-syllable, ABC-ABC rhyming poem for the last day, not an approximation of something that wouldn't fit well into English." Did you get all that? The poem's in pentameter, first of all. And Jed's using normative rhyme: each set of three lines rhymes with the next set of three lines . . . line 1 - poetry line 2 - implication        line 3 - evolved line 4 - history line 5 - inspiration line 6 - loved . . . and so on, all the way down the poem, to the drop-line at the end, where the last word out rhymes with but three lines before. A jaunty, loose slant rhyme. Fun indeed. Bravo, Jed! Sarah's contribution today ia a haiku that hearkens to today's NaPoWriMo prompt. Signs Fingers tangle and weave in intricate dance, but not a sound flies forth —Draft by Sarah Smith    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Above Jed mentioned wanting to interpret a poem in ASL (American sign language) and here is Sarah writing about ASL. Brava, Sarah! Here's the story of my poetic adventure today. Along with her prompt above, Thorson provided links to a couple of poems one could use for a homophonic translation or translitic. One of these poems was "Den halvfärdiga himlen" by the Nobel laureate Tomas Tranströmer; I tried for quite a while to write a translitic from this text but it just wasn't happenin'. I also attempted to find other texts to work with but to no avail. I've successfully pulled off translitics in other Aprils, but not this time. So I turned instead to erasure. Wave Books has a website, Erasures, that offers up brief texts one can partially erase, leaving visible a found poem. The text I chose was "The Authoritative Life of General William Booth" by G. S. Railton. Here is that text as it appeared, before erasure, in the website. And here is my found text, after partial erasure. Then I finished the poem with my own "dead-end" conclusion. So, unlike Jed and Sarah, I have followed Brewer's prompt. 3-Point Turn men and women rarely bring up forces vast and difficult passed through fire instead we treat them like a dead end we slam into reverse back out and go another way —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Between and among the three of us, Jed, Sarah, and I covered the two "official" prompts. "Going rogue for the last day because the prompts are meh," Ven says, "and I feel this poem should live on somewhere. I've fiddled with it somewhat to make it have a story sort of." What Ven is talking about needs a bit of backstory. Thursday being the last day of class for my Poetry Workshop class, we sat in a circle and played Exquisite Corpse. In this version of the old surrealist game, everyone writes down a line of verse on a piece of paper and passes it to the left. Then each person writes another line of verse based on the first line already on the paper. You fold the paper back so only one line (yours) is showing and pass again. Then everyone writes another line responding to the one line showing, and so on, until you get your own sheet back, after it's gone completely around the circle. You then write a closing line to finish off the poem. Afterward, everyone takes turns reading the poems out loud. It's an incredibly fun game, which can sometimes be raucous and even inappropriate. Ven's contribution for today, then, is not his alone. It's the Exquisite Corpse poem Ven ended up with. The title as well as the opening and closing lines are his, but the rest were written by members of the class. I should warn you the poem will be NSFW for some, and others may be offended by the last line, but I'm not going to censor. Disco Queen           (by Vince's spring 2016 class, not just me) I made her cum like a train in the back of the car. While stars and condolences and the moon's kisses tangled in her hair. Her skin had the sweet perfume of jasmine flowers, and her eyes an opalescent moonstone glow like the soul's disco balls. But disco got old fast and she did too. And I remember now how much I abhor ABBA. Fuck ABBA in their stupid Swedish faces. —Draft by Ven Batista and others    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Alan also went rogue today. He pointed out to me that he worked with the prompts almost every day in the month but he happens at the moment to be on the road. Now that is devotion. Alan wrote and posted this poem while away visiting family! Thanks so much, Alan. In Memoriam In my widowed mother’s living room, in front of the window facing south, on a pecan-stained dropleaf table decades old, in a silver-colored metallic frame, in a photograph taken on the occasion of my maternal aunt’s fiftieth wedding anniversary, in a gray suit I brought just for the occasion, a suit almost identical to another gray suit I own in a size that would have fit me far better than the one I brought with me by accident, in a distracted mood when selecting the suit and in another distracted mood as captured in the           photograph, self-conscious, uncomfortable, bursting at the seams, almost aware of my size and           wrestling with my awareness as I realize I should be celebrating in a nevertheless at that moment happy posture, standing with my brother behind the couch where my           parents sit, my brother with an expression of good-spirited dignity, my mother beaming, my           father with that expression so often easy to mistake for reserve when in fact he feels           disorientation from middle stages of dementia, capable to pass among many as if he is well or           only slightly confused, a small American flag pin mounted on the left lapel of his dark jacket, in a pensive posture, I, standing, humbled by my waistline, my cutting belt, my yet-to-be overcome           vanity, in a pensive posture, he, seated, face raised and not with his yet-to-be persistent smile masking his           deepening confusion to come, in a family portrait, the last of us all together, in an artificial pose, in uncertainty of times to come, in commemoration of a relationship older than my memory. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Such a self-aware confessional poem about family and the fears of potential parental inheritances. Thank you, Alan. Alan, Jed, Sarah, and Ven . . . many, MANY thanks for your poetic contributions to the blog this month. Wonderful work! For the last time this year, Happy National Poetry Month! 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 2016 • 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 21 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day

Day 7 x 3. Or, applying the commutative property of multiplication, 3 x 7. See? Never let anybody tell you all that math you learned won't be useful someday! I've always been enchanted by 21 and its factors 3 and 7, always thought those three numbers were magical somehow. As long as I can remember. Or at least since I learned multiplication in school. Much gratitude today to Maureen Thorson, whose prompt at NaPoWriMo suggests trying the hay(na)ku. She mentions Eileen Tabios as inventor and me as namer . . . thanks for the shout-out, Maureen. At the always stalwart Poetic Asides Robert Lee Brewer suggests an "under the microscope" poem, literally or metaphorically. At Circle the Block Andrea Boltwood suggests a palindrome poem, which mirrors itself, beginning to middle with middle to end, forward then reverse. Again, I've mashed up all three prompts along with one of Maureen's previous prompts from Day 12: the homophonic translation or, as some call it, the translitic. Under the Microscope auto-translitic palindrome opening with a hay(na)ku Amoeba. Paramecium. Spirochetes. Algae. Planarian eyespots. Oh, gee. Plan your own ice pets. Pair of mice, yum. Spiral cats. I'm over. —Draft by Vince Gotera     [do not copy or quote ... thanks] Boy, these mashing-ups of daily prompts — four today, more than my usual two or three — are making for silly and sillier poems. Fun, though. I should really try for something more straightforward tomorrow. Just having trouble resisting those mash-ups! Catherine sent me this poem, but said, "I can't seem to settle on a title," so I've come up with this great gem of a title: Untitled You told me once you were going to paint a coffin, brush it with bones and flames, like the lizard-skinned race-cars and motorcycles that speed away from your garage, emblazoned with your name. Asked me if I would place you in it, put you on display, bury you in your own creation. So claustrophobic I can’t even be comforted by a down-coat on a cold day, I agreed, only if you promised I would have no coffin at all. Instead, split the wood, prepare the pyre, wrap me in red, lay me on a bed of oak, throw the first torch, kindle the consuming fire, dance in my smoky haze, wail your grief, then surrender my body to the blaze. —Draft by Catherine Pritchard Childress     [do not copy or quote ... thanks] I love that phrase, "dance in my smoky haze," Catherine; I also like the occasional end rhyme. Brava! Our featured NaPoWriMo blog today is Moon Junkee where Leslie LaChance is writing weird, wild, surreal poems. My fave is Leslie's parody of the divine Miss Em on Day 15. Enjoy! Okay, done with 3, 7, and 21. Blackjack! Hope you've had a wonderful poetry day. See you back here for Double 11? Please take a moment to leave a comment below. We'd love you to hear what you're thinking here at Blue Guitar Man (that's what my wife Mary Ann calls the blog). Ingat. POEM-A-DAY 2012 • 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 Five ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2018

Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: "Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that . . . reacts both to photography and to words in a language not your own. Begin with a photograph. Now find a poem in a language you don’t know. Ignore any accompanying English translation (maybe cover it up, or cut-and-paste the original into a new document). Now start translating the poem into English, with the idea that the poem is actually 'about' your photograph. Use the look and feel of the words in the original to guide you along as you write, while trying to describe your photograph. It will be a bit of a balancing act, but hopefully it will lead to new and beautiful (and possibly very weird) places." Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: "For today’s prompt, write an intelligence poem. Of course, intelligence is subjective. What is common sense for one person makes no sense to another. But intelligence is more than IQ and test scores. There’s artificial intelligence, intelligent animals, and military intel. And I’ve found that many poets have a special intelligence of their own." I'm doing two out of three today: mashing up Maureen's idea of looking at a photograph (though I'm looking at a political cartoon instead) and Robert's "intelligence" theme. I'm not attempting Maureen's "translitic" angle this time . . . perhaps I'll do one of those later in the month. I googled "Trump" and "intelligence" and found this political cartoon by Chris Britt, dated 20 March 2017, poking fun at how Trump doesn't bother to look at the briefings the US intelligence community prepares for him. Chris Britt cartoon, 3-20-2017, creators.com/read/chris-britt/03/17/200121 And here's my poem — once again, a tanka — that uses for fodder an internet claim that Trump's IQ is 156 (a myth busted by Snopes.com) and Trump's own tweet about his intelligence from January 2018. Intelligence Trump doesn’t look at his intelligence briefings because his IQ is 156 and he's “like, really smart,” he tweeted. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] 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 Six ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2023

Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “write a poem that smells. Or at least, write a poem that involves the act of smelling or a scent of some sort. ” Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “Take a look around Poetry International for a poem in a language you don’t know. . . . Now, read the poem to yourself, thinking about the sound and shape of the words, and the degree to which they remind you of words in your own language. Use those correspondences as the basis for a new poem.” The poem I chose from Poetry International is [The sky is a generator] by Norwegian poet Tone Hønebø. My "conversion" (or translitic as it's often called) of the poem into English via spelling and sound and diction is below. Just for fun, you could compare her original text with mine. Smelling your craftwork somewhere heel dog ingredient smelling constructive systems some fang over my Betelgeuse from blades, insects and minks in industrial expansion, descent after descent, copying the self. For example, Hønebø's line "fra blader, insekter og mennesker" I changed to "from blades, insects, and minks," of course with no idea if that means anything remotely like the original. The end of the poem, "kopierer seg selv" became "copying the self," again, just through some kind of similarity in sound and feel. Then I extracted some language to create the poem below. Working both prompts again today, though the "smell" aspect is only the word itself and nothing sensory. Constructive Expansion Dogs smell your craftwork, blades, insects and minks. Systems descend and descend, copying the self’s industry. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] I don't know if this exercise was successful. I don't know what the poem says or means. Maybe it will make sense to someone. It's part surreal and part business-y . . . certainly not something I would typically write. Here's what Alan told me about his poem today: "O.K., Vince, I think I got this one worked out. Brewer wanted a poem about smell, an easy enough assignment. However, if I understood Thorson correctly, I needed the sounds of an unfamiliar language to set me off with related sounds, although I was not supposed to attempt to garble the foreign words into English soundalikes (another unfamiliar language, as my writing attests). So, I selected the poem 'Expectations' by a friend of mine, Isabel Gómez Sobrino, who released Whispering Ashes from Valparaíso USA last year. Her poem begins as follows: Lucho, vivo, creo algo bello. Pienso, discuto, leo. Soy madre. Doy y recibo amor. These stanzas translate as follows: I fight, I live, I create something beautiful. I think, I argue, I read. I am a mother. I give and receive love. You can learn more about her work here: http://valparaisoeditions.us/374_gomez-sobrino-isabel. The volume features Isabel’s poems in Spanish, with English translations by Savannah Aigner and Matthew Fehskens." And now, here is Alan's poem today: Expectations To be home is to brew what someone has roasted; as a boy I could smell from the house’s far room sizzling grease and the spice of scorched sausage—my mom always sears it around the edges, and I woke with my mouth watering, sometimes unexpecting bologna aroma, the biscuits burnt a bit, the toast scorched. She’d scramble the eggs in that hot grease and make spicy gravy I remember with tears welling up. Give me dark roast, so dark I will eat some of the beans before I get out of the car to carry them inside, where my morning routine means I brew my coffee, aroma waking one who stirs in our shared room, carry her my too-full cup, get a kiss, let her sip be the only sweetener, and face the routine day. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Evidently, Alan and I understood Thorson's prompt completely differently. That's all right. Lots of room in the poetry world for different manifestations and understandings! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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Day 12 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day

Happy dozen, friends. Hope National Poetry Month is being good to you. And now to the prompts . . . Today, Maureen Thorson suggests: "try finding a short poem in another language (one you don’t already know!) and translating it homophonically" — "a translation based on the way the words sound, without any care for what they actually mean in the original." I've known this process under the form name translitic. Maureen continues, "Just cut and paste a poem into your text editor (ignoring the English translations that the site provides) and go to town!" At Poetic Asides, Robert Lee Brewer's prompt is: "take the phrase 'Something (blank),' replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write the poem. Example titles might include: 'Something New,' 'Something Strange,' 'Something at the End of This Book,' or 'Something Something.'" Prompts sound promising, don't they. Something. Something. Dulce et decorum est. Dull, so eat the corn, hmm? Missed. Fought with this all day. Nothing. Doldrums. Dog days. Sargasso. Prompts not much help. Evidently Catherine had similar problems today. When she messaged me the following poem, she said, "I think I'm running out of steam. Do with this what you will (including nothing at all). Hope your poem is coming along alright." Abnormal None of the things that always make her laugh served as we marked the hours to her appointment one mile at a time. No sarcastic remarks about girls in her class, the ones we call “Cheetahs,” not the offer to trade my Lucinda Williams for her Lady Gaga, not even my most obnoxious impression of Olivia Newton John’s “You’re the One that I Want” summoned the dimple in her right cheek, Instead tears painted her bronze eyes As dark as the coffee I’d been nursing for eighty miles, and she wondered how anyone could set right her spine its curve like a displaced smile. —Draft by Catherine Pritchard Childress     [do not copy or quote ... thanks] Actually, I think this is better than Catherine thinks it is. It certainly speaks to me as a parent loud and clear and true. (If this isn't fictional, by the way, I hope the appointment went well and that the dimple's back in her cheek, though of course this is none of my business as your reader.) Thanks for the good wishes about my poem coming along alright, Catherine. I don't know, though. Here's my best shot for the day. When in doubt, write about the block. Attack the block. 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! On a happier note, I'm glad and honored to feature a blog with an "in-your-face" title: I Hate Poetry: The New Buddah Moskowitz Archive. Check it out. El Moskowitz may hate poetry but he speaks loud and clear and true. (I don't think he hates poetry. Do you?) Check out his fascinating schtuff and let me know. Oh, incidentally, my poem above is in a form for which I am godfather, ninong: the hay(na)ku form. Tercet . . . first line, one word / second line, two words / third line, three words. Brilliantly simple. Eileen Tabios invented this form and at first called it something like a Filipino Haiku. I was the one who eventually named it "hay(na)ku." A pun on the Filipino "ay naku," which is something like "oh my god" or even "oh my gosh" — for example, like "not that again." Untranslatable, really, but nonetheless a very common human feeling. My idea for the name was to disassemble the word "haiku" and reconstitute it as a Filipino saying. Although Eileen's inventing and my baptizing happened almost eight years ago, this is my first attempt at hay(na)ku. Why don't you try it too. I think you'll discover as I did tonight that the hay(na)ku has its own music and spirit that will shape your poem in intriguing ways new to you. For more, see the blog HAY(NA)KU POETRY run by Eileen Tabios. Okay, friends, here's to hoping for a more productive visit from the muse(s) tomorrow. Day 13. Ay naku, that's Friday the 13th! Don't let any black cats cross your path. Just to be safe, how about commenting below? Good for the old karma. Ingat. POEM-A-DAY 2012 • 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