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 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)

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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 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