Day 2 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2025 // Stafford Challenge 76

Today is Day Two in April and also Day 76 in the Stafford Challenge. Here are today's prompts: Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “[W]rite a "from where I'm sitting" poem. . . . From where you're sitting (or standing) at this moment, find something, someone, etc., that interests you and write a poem.” Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “[W]rite a poem that directly addresses someone, and that includes a made-up word, an odd/unusual simile, a statement of 'fact,' and something that seems out of place in time (like a Sonny & Cher song in a poem about a Greek myth).” I have been writing quite a few ekphrastic poems of late, particularly of Grant Wood's images. In March, I was the featured Guest Poet in the Stafford Challenge, where I read some poems and then presented several of my Grant Wood ekphrastic poems. Today, I'm merging the two prompts again with another ekphrastic poem on Grant Wood — a tanka again like the one on his Woman with Plants a couple days ago. Doing the "requirements" of the Poem-a-Day prompt and then the NaPoWriMo prompt in order (and staying within the tanka's syllabics!). I really enjoyed writing this one. After Self-Portrait by Grant Wood (1941) From where I’m sitting, I see you, Grant Wood, golden, floateriffical, flesh balloon by farm windmill . . . no, an alien spaceship! —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] By the way, I cheated a little: rather an "odd/unusual simile" I used a metaphor, odd and unusual enough, I hope. "Self-Portrait" by Grant Wood (1941) https://www.wikiart.org/en/grant-wood Alan also did both prompts. He wrote me, "Directly address someone? Yes. Made-up word? Yes (try looking up the title). Odd/unusual simile? Yes. 'Fact'? Yes. Out-of-place something? Yes (see the simile). “From where I’m sitting”? Yes." Also, Alan has written an acrostic — where the first letters of the lines spell out something. Vermicastigational Really, you want chickens sick? From where I sit, I doubt you Know the consequences. Stunned Rural communities need Funds to prevent illness—you Know that. Herd immunity Rarely works in theory, Forget real life. Again, you Know that. Is this suicide Revengeful, like a worm dead From eating rotten brain cells? Kennedy or not, listen, Junior, you’re killing people. RFK would disown you. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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National Poetry Month • Day One, NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2025 • Stafford Challenge 75

Well, friends, we're back! Going to be working NaPoWriMo and Poem-a-Day (typically merging their poetry prompts into one poem), plus continuing with the Stafford Challenge, all in that one poem. Also, Thomas Alan Holmes will be joining us again this season. Hurray! Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “As with pretty much any discipline, music and art have their own vocabulary. Today, we challenge you to take inspiration from this glossary of musical terms, or this glossary of art terminology, and write a poem that uses a new-to-you word. For (imaginary) extra credit, work in a phrase from, or a reference to, the Florentine Codex” (an encyclopedia of 16th-century indigenous Mexico). Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For the first Two-for-Tuesday prompt: 1) Write a "Best of Times" poem, and/or . . . 2) Write a "Worst of Times" poem. . . . Write a poem about the 'best of times,' 'the worst of times,' and/or 'the everythingest of times.'” Alan's poem today is a Petrarchan sonnet, with an unusual closing sestet that brings back the a and b rhymes. He said, "I call my variation of the Petrarchan sonnet the Uvalde sonnet, because the expected terminal couplet occurs prematurely." Alan merges all three prompts: both the best of times/worst of times ones along with the musical terminology one, using the word waltz. First the Right Foot, Then the Right Foot, Then the Left Foot It is the worst of times, three-four, the waltz that trips misstepping, like a misspent text, a signal sent corrupted. What comes next is slipping, old denial, placing faults on those who speak only the truth. Trump halts analysis, in his denials vexed by probing questions, even more perplexed that these, his best of times, when as he salts the wounds of those descrying villainy and also those caught in his calumny, ransacker of our nation’s courts and vaults, should be series of days of infamy, diminishment through stumbles, slides, and halts dismissed, denied through obvious pretext. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] You may have noticed that the word "waltz" in the first line is, by coincidence (or perhaps not), the National Security Advisor's surname. I was also successful today in melding all three prompts: like Alan, both the best of times/worst of times prompts as well as the musical terminology prompt — the first term was somewhat familiar but the second term was completely new to me. Bass No Pain When I’m on stage playing my bass it’s the best of times, my sciatica pain in diminuendo. It’s the worst of times when I’m not playing bass. Sometimes I can barely walk. Basso profondo . . . bass as musical medicine, a miracle. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

https://vincegotera.blogspot.com/2025/04/day-two-napowrimo-poem-day-2025.html

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The Stafford Challenge, Days 61-74

Here are two weeks' worth of poems in The Stafford Challenge. The last poem (Day 74) is not only a Stafford Challenge poem; it's also a response to an early-bird prompt from NaPoWriMo.net. On Day 61, 18 March 2025, another dream poem, a real one, from last night. Doing a monotetra again: quatrains in monorhyme, 8 syllables per line, last line a twice repeated 4-syllable phrase. Not Quite a Nightmare —a monotetra In last night’s dream I was on tour with some famous country rockstar, and I found in the stands, my poor broken guitar, broken guitar. We were doing an afternoon sound check. Then someone shouted, “Vin, come see!” That axe wouldn’t play then ever again, ever again. I’d had that guitar since high school. I knew that it was just a tool, but that Gibson was super cool. I’m just a fool. I’m just a fool. Broken into many pieces: firewood and bent metal traces. Gathered up the whole sorry mess, back in its case, back in its case. Schlepped that axe the rest of the tour. The pieces inside the case were rattling, rattling. So weird and rare: a ghost guitar, a ghost guitar. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Photo Photo by Eva Rinaldi from Wikimedia On Day 62, 19 March 2025, I was hoping to write another dream poem again today, but alas, no dream last night, or rather no dream remembered. Instead how about a haiku on today's weather here. Hail: little ice balls bouncing off the car. Nature’s BBs . . . ping! tink! Argh. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Photo by LoraPalner from Pixabay On Day 63, 20 March 2025, back to ekphrastic poems today. Responding this time to a photo of Grant Wood's living room in 1940. A titled tanka sequence. Nan Wood and Grant Wood at Home In pride of place, Nan’s portrait is the centerpiece of Grant’s living room. Brother and sister reading the news . . . domestic life in the heartland. After his death, Nan always defended against people saying Grant was gay. Protesting too much? —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Photo in an article from Sothebys(dot)com: "The Heartfelt Story Behind Grant Wood's Portrait of his Sister" (2018) On Day 64, 21 March 2025, started this one as a haiku yesterday, during the spring equinox, finished today as a tanka. vernal equinox: days supposedly warming . . . still pretty damn cold, but yellow is busting through, soft sunlight out of the ground —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Photo by Grey85 on Pixabay On Day 65, 22 March 2025, Saw a Facebook ad for a Dragon Mug, and voila — a tanka. Fun getting the 5s and 7s with good line breaks. That's why I still stick to the 5s and 7s ... great lineation puzzle game. Drink out of the top of a dragon’s head. That’s how the trouble begins: first, throat burns; second, skin scales; third, eyes glow; fourth, mouth smokes. Yikes. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Photo from a dragon mug advert. I'm really tempted to get this mug. But how do you drink out of it!? On Day 66, 23 March 2025, trying out a cherita today, thanks to Karen Johnson McCaskey's example yesterday in the Stafford Challenge community facebook. The cherita is a poetic form invented by the poet ai li . . . three stanzas with one line, two lines, three lines, respectively. World Poetry Day was two days ago . . . I missed it the globe spinning with words poems constructed of fire and ice, sweltering summer and snow blizzards, the storms of human entropy right now —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Illustration from Pixabay On Day 67, 24 March 2025, check out today's Google doodle ... an animation in anticipation of cherry blossom festivals. Here's a haiku, 5-7-5. sakura — cherry blossoms — trees blooming bright pink here and in Japan —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Illustration from dandelion_tea on Pixabay On Day 68, 25 March 2025, a light tanka today. Hope you're havingh a wonderful day, everyone! Got a doctor’s “app” today . . . the rest of the word is “-ointment” — salve, cream, unguent, medicinal, balm, herbal, anointment. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Photo by NinaCliparts on Pixabay On Day 69, 26 March 2025, a little late getting to the epulaerya form, related to food: 7/5/7/5/5/3/1 syllable lines, ending with an exclamation. (When I say "a little late," I'm referring to the Stafford Challenge community facebook, where there were a lot of epulaeryas showing up for a few days a couple weeks ago. Hmm . . . epulaeryae?) All-You-Can-Eat Lunch at Izumi Sushi, Des Moines edamame start, sushi (crab, avocado, spicy salmon), beef udon, crisp shrimp tempura, clam nigiri bites, amazing tastes! —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Here's a photo of my lunch from 7 March 2025. On Day 70, 27 March 2025, driving across Iowa today. A contrast in my mind with my hometown, San Francisco. road trip: light blue clouds arc over brown fallow land . . . upside-down ocean —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Here's a photo of the landscape/skyscape. On Day 71, 28 March 2025, still on the road. Picked these up at an Aldi's in Omaha. Eating them now in the car. And writing this haiku. dried mango slices: sweet bites from the Philippines, mouthfuls of sunshine —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] On Day 72, 29 March 2025, got back from visiting my partner's folks last night. A 5/7/5 haiku again. home from the road trip: our own blankets and pillows, welcome oasis —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] On Day 73, 30 March 2025, a childhood memory ... a 5/7/5/7/7 tanka sequence. Car washing today made me think of my dad’s Ford Falcon Futura in 1964, long time ago, when I was 12. I still love that car’s intense bright blue-green color: cyan, turquoise, teal, aquamarine, electric blue nudibranch sea dragon. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] On the left is a photo of me at 12 with my dad's 1964 Ford Falcon Futura. Since that pic is faded, on the right is a photo that shows the color better. On Day 74, 31 March 2025, a 5/7/5/7/7 tanka based on NaPoWriMo.net's early-bird prompt on the eve of April poems: "try penning a portrait poem ... inspired by an actual painted portrait." Here's an ekphrastic poem on Grant Wood's portrait of his mother. After Woman with Plants by Grant Wood (1929) Madonna with plant, not a plump baby savior . . . stiff spine ramrod straight like the upright stems she holds, strict, unswerving, heaven-bound. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Grant Wood, Woman with Plant (1929) Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

Fighting Kite (pages 32-33)

Here's the last poem in Fighting Kite.         Midnight upon midnight, I and my Macintosh computer wrestle for an audience—the voiceless ghost of my father. Our simple playing field: this ephemeral chess board constructed of fluorescent dots on a glass screen, tickled to life by an electronic finger. An everyday magic like Oprah, the Simpsons, and The Price Is Right on TV. I once tried to explain on the phone to my father how TV worked, and all the century's panoply: semiconductors, computers, microwave ovens, word processors. To him, it was all just magic. Like men in tuxedoes pulling rabbits out of hats, said Papa. No tougher than horse-drawn calesas, window blinds, screen doors, or crescent wrenches. You want something tough, take chess. Now there's something subtle and intricate for you. Chess: the supreme game of military strategy. Teach you to be a general, a leader of men. No bullshit. No screwing around with scientific gimmicks. And I said, Computers! The army used computers in Vietnam! My father and grandfather had both been soldiers—the word army was like magic to them: a secret password. But he wouldn't let himself be magicked— We lost that war, Vin. You know that. I couldn't believe it. Jeez! Did Papa speak those words? This man who'd dreamed of fathering a military dynasty, like some epic three-night-long miniseries on TV? All I'd really wanted was to tell him that I had a computer that could play chess—the board and men all on a CRT screen. That I missed him. That the board looked 3-D on the screen. That maybe he'd like to take the machine on, feel the magic of challenging the Grand Master living deep inside the computer. He'd wanted me to be the next Grand Master, an 8-year-old reading chess strategy manuals. We never played again. In memory's television, a cockroach large as a carved rook waves its antennas near my father's Page 32         head in bed—it was the last time I saw him. I left on a plane. Papa died two months later. And now I try to penetrate, enter the screen of my Macintosh. In my mind, like some nature show on public TV, the cockroach on the pillow and Papa's eyes closing, all in the magic of slow motion, their movements rehearsed and mechanical like chess. I play game after game in cybernetic space—and the computer always wins. This morning at dawn, I rose from computer chess and stood at the living-room window: a TV screen lit up by a magical saffron sunrise. I whispered into the glow: It's your move, Papa. Page 33 Chess was a huge part of my relationship with Papa. Here's part of the story in a blog post from 2009: When I was about six, he decided he would make me into a chess Grandmaster. So every day, we would drill on the chessboard, sometimes for hours. The King's Gambit. The Sicilian Defense. The Ruy Lopez Opening. (I only now learned, via Google, that there's an interesting irony here because the Philippines was named after King Philip not by Magellan, it turns out, but by the Spanish explorer Ruy López de Villalobos. Fancy that. Ruy Lopez. I wonder if my father knew that.) We would replay famous chess games, such as the 1956 so-called "Game of the Century" in which chess master Donald Byrne lost to 13-year-old Bobby Fischer; as we duplicated the moves in these replayed games, Papa would have me analyze what made each move weak or strong. I suppose Papa was probably glad he taught me to read early, because he had me begin reading chess strategy manuals at this time. We spent a lot of time with endgame puzzles and checkmate tactics. (The only result of this training is that I ultimately lost my love for chess and now play only seldom.) I've often wondered if I disappointed my dad by not continuing to play chess as I grew older. Because of that intense chess training as a kid, I really lost my interest in chess. I was probably only playing to please my dad, not for myself. When I became a dad, I never pushed any of my kids to be this or that — it was more important to let them find their own passions. Anyway, when I wrote this poem, it was, in a way, a little bit out of guilt. And also the understanding that, after my dad died, that I would never be able to play chess with him again. By the way, with regard to poetics, this is a sestina. This medieval form, based on a six-line stanza (a sestet), takes the six final words in the first six lines and juggles them until each word has ended up in each of the line endings of the following sestets. This process takes up six stanzas. Then the last (seventh) stanza (a 3-line envoi) contains all six words (called teleutons, by the way) with three of them at the three line endings; the other three teleutons appear usually in the middle of the lines, so generally two teleutons per line. I have a good breakdown of the sestina form in this 2009 blog post. Here is another useful source about sestinas. And one more how-to source. Try writing one of these . . . sestinas are fun! As always, I'd love to get some feedback or discuss anything with all y'all. Comment, okay? Thanks. Ingat.  FIGHTING KITE   INTRO FRONT CONTENTS PREVIOUS NEXT LAST

Fighting Kite (pages 30-31)

Here's the book's title poem, an elegy for my father. There's a 2009 blog post that might be worth consulting.         — 1930 — Just outside Manila, it was my father's ninth birthday, but all he could think about was his duel with fighting kite that afternoon. For weeks, he'd been grinding glass between rocks: green for luck. The kite string soaked in glue then dipped in powdered glass. In the sun, the string would gleam — filament of emerald. His kite emblazoned with a vermilion hawk, talons of shiny hooks and razors hammered from tin-can lids. At 3 P.M. sharp, his hawk dancing a red tinikling in the sun, my father stood by the Pasig River, his twelve-year-old opponent on the other bank, the wind blowing downstream. In the sky, the other kite was a silver mantis with bat wings. The hawk and mantis swiveled and faked like mongoose and cobra. My father gauged the wind like a cat's paw on his cheek, waiting for the breeze to hold its breath, then the whiplash crack of his wrist. Hawk whirled around mantis, razors flashing — kite strings twining, sliced. The bat wings ripped away in tatters. He'd won, my father had won. Page 30         — 1989 — Swimming in that white hospital bed — IVs like kite strings in reverse piercing his arms — Papa must have longed to soar, to leave behind his sick and scarred heart, his breath trapped in emphysemic lungs . . . O to fly like some red-feathered bird, to dance free in lucid air above the sparkling Pasig. How far, then, you could see: the jungle green rock of Corregidor leaping from Manila Bay, the Pacific stretched flat out, an aquamarine mirror, endless and new. The razors of Papa's soul slashed at his lines — invisible strings tethered deep in the ground — then Papa launched into gold and purple sky like the sun's first flash breaking from the east, his fingers uncurling slowly from a clenched fist. Page 31 Here's some of what I said about this poem in the previous blog post from 2009. As far back as I can recall, my father told me tales about flying fighting kites, a sport he engaged in throughout his youth. Kite fighting is done in many countries across the world; the sport is a major motif in Khaled Hosseini's 2003 novel The Kite Runner, which was made into a feature film in 2007. But for me, the fighting kite was (and still is) a thing of romance, a source of adventure and fable in bedtime stories I heard from my father. I wrote several versions of the first half of this poem over a number of years, versions that simply didn't do justice to my dreams and fantasies about kite fighting. But it was not until Papa's death in 1989 that the poem came together, as I realized that the fighting kite was, for me, a symbol of his difficult and fascinating life. The book's description on the back cover reads, in part, "Fighting Kite narrates, in verse, the life of Martin Avila Gotera — son, trickster, soldier, schizophrenic, visionary, lawyer, workingman, father &mdash a life that glimmers like a node, a shimmery knot, a glowing nexus . . ." And that's what the fighting kite is: a "nexus," a connection, a symbolic gathering of the threads, strands, strings of his life. In fact, I learned recently that the proper term is "fighter kite," but I am sticking with "fighting kite" because I think of my father as continually acting, constantly striving to make a better life for himself and his family, ultimately his people, despite illnesses and obstacles. This poem originally appeared first in Hawaii Pacific Review in 1992. I remember that they rejected it at first because of a perceived problem in the ending, but I don't recall what the note was about: I think it might have been that they felt the ending trailed off, didn't end sufficiently strongly. I rewrote the couplet to have a slant rhyme — "east" and "fist" — and that fixed the demurral, and they accepted the poem. As always, I'd love to get some feedback or discuss anything with all y'all. Comment, okay? Thanks. Ingat.  FIGHTING KITE   INTRO FRONT CONTENTS PREVIOUS NEXT LAST