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

Day Five . . . about to finish counting on one hand. Gonna need two hands tomorrow. Robert Lee Brewer's PAD prompt: "For today’s prompt, we’ve actually got two prompts (that is, a Two-for-Tuesday prompt). Here we go: (1) Write an experienced poem. Or . . . (2) Write an inexperienced poem. The word “experience” can be applied to a multitude of things and situations. So . . . there’s a lot of possibilities today!" Maureen Thorson's NaPoWriMo prompt: I’ve recently been paging through seed catalogs, many of which feature “heirloom” seeds with fabulous names. Consider the “Old Ivory Egg” tomato, the “Ozark Razorback” or “Fast Lady” cow-pea, “Neal’s Paymaster” dent corn, or the “Tongues of Fire” bush bean. Today, I challenge you to spend some time looking at the names of heirloom plants, and write a poem that takes its inspiration from, or incorporates the name of, one or more of these garden rarities. To help you out, here are links to the Southern Exposure Seed Exchange and the Baker Creek Seed Company. Also, here’s a hint – tomatoes seem to be prime territory for elaborate names. And who knows, maybe you’ll even find something to plant in your garden! Happy writing! When I facebooked Jed this morning with the day's prompts, he said, "Too late; the Muse got to me first. Though you could easily pretend this is an 'experienced poem.'" Well, okay, there you go, folks, here is Jed's "experienced poem"! Writing Prose When I wrote stories When I was younger, It was just phrases, Stilted reminders Of something in my head. As I grew older I had to study Life for the Other, And what eyes would see If those eyes were not in my head. When I wrote stories, When I was older, They grew much longer Each time I revised, Packing in everything that was in my head. I’m older still, now; I start to learn how To say just enough To push my thoughts through Into your head. —Draft by Jedediah Kurth    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] About today's poem, Ven said, "So this one was also a lot of fun. Heirloom seed names was a pretty freaking random prompt." Jimi’s Muse With his mouth full of Cherokee Purple, haze lifting from his hung-over gaze— he saw a foxy lady with manic depression come out of a red house: “Hey Jo . . . this is far out but would you feel love or confusion if I told you that I don’t live today?” “Listen brother, my name’s not Jo, put yo’ ear to the ground and you gon hear the wind cries Mary when it whistles my way. Now this may be love or it may be just fire, you dig? But we don’t gets much time on this third stone from the sun so before we swing I just need to know one thing — are you experienced?” —Draft by Ven Batista    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] About merging today's prompts, Alan said, "Exotic seed name and experience — I made something that lilts when read aloud." Sweet Wormwood Sweet wormwood, sweet wormwood, sweet broken-down buried, beloved and bedecked in your finery all of those summery weeks we exhumed our relations before the new highway went in to grant access to Wal-Mart, who promised us jobs. I pitched in, a graduate student aware that my time in retail would be shorter than time I would spend with my uncles who taught me to finesse as I lowered the blade of their backhoe to spoon up the headstones and scrape clean the vault lids to wench up the newer graves, coffins still sealed, and cradle the much older graves long exposed to the dirt and the insects and elements, earth and seeped water diluting old time to a tarnish and wither diluting old kin to mere bone frame and leather. We love them, we moved them, we look at new pavement and grieve for those dead who had not found old peace in a family graveyard all bordered with cypress and cedar and fern and sweet wormwood, sweet wormwood, sweet broken-down buried we mourn. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Sarah riffs today on Adam's garden, a pavane of myth, geology, history, and beginnings, starting with a melon seed. Eden's Gem A name of gentle mythicality for a bit of peach-pale flesh, rippling to vitalizing shimmer of green light, hidden deep within ribs of snake-scaled shell. But my mind’s eye leaps beyond sweet nectar to a garden, almost unreal in such perfection. Scholars puff up and call it the Cradle of Civilization, proud in their half-way formed guesses and gambles. They point on ancient maps and dance graphite circles around origin zones (so called). Pangaea is their angel, history their god. Such experience in knowing absolutes of nothing except “maybes.” Maybe degrees in sociology are unneeded to hear a story told: a genesis, a clean slate stained black, good and evil. Humanity in lockstep with the Devil and God’s gorgeous, green gem desecrated. Maybe chipping through stone and sediment will bring us more knowledge, but absorbing words of truth brings wisdom. The intricacies of tectonic shifts escape me; love and sacrifice do not. I wonder if Adam farmed muskmelons, experiencing in them his Eden; the layers of delicate beauty, sharp contrasts, and carefully concocted balance. —Draft by Sarah Smith    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Melded all three today: seed names as well as both experience and inexperience. Fun prompts to shuffle together. On Helping Kathy in the Garden Amaranth (Love Lies Bleeding), Bachelor’s Button (Black Ball), Cosmos (Memories of Mona), all the way down the alphabet to Yellow Torch (Mexican Sunflower), and Zinnia (Thumbelina) seed names seem to beg for fables and rhymes of lost loves and broken promises, of some dark danse macabre where the bachelor’s button is sabered off his belly by Zorro’s keen blade or, worse, Satan’s forked, sinewy tail. I boast both experience and innocence, inexperience and expertise in such fairy-tale shenanigans and quests. All I can tell you, my love, is this: I’ve horsed a garden tiller before, wrestled its wheeling tines down a line of backyard earth. I don’t mind sweat on my brow like a son of Adam as long as you, my daughter of Eve, will feed me the sweetest Pink Lady and Irish Peach apples, pick for me the bluest Morning Glories at dawn. Let us dine on Avalon Plums and Maiden’s Blush Cherries. Ornament our table with coronas of sunflowers: Inca Jewels, Evening Sun, Velvet Queen. —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

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

Day 4 is the cruelest day.  ヅ  No, just kidding. See the first prompt immediately after this. Kind of a poetry in-joke. Maureen Thorson's NaPoWriMo suggestion: “And now, for our (optional) prompt. In his poem ‘The Waste Land,’ T. S. Eliot famously declared that ‘April is the cruelest month.’ But is it? I’d have thought February. Today I challenge you to write a poem in which you explore what you think is the cruelest month, and why. Perhaps it’s September, because kids have to go back to school. Or January, because the holidays are over and now you’re up to your neck in snow. Or maybe it’s a month most people wouldn’t think of (like April), but which you think of because of something that’s happened in your life. Happy (or, if not happy, not-too-cruel) writing!” Robert Lee Brewer's PAD assignment: “For today’s prompt, write a distance poem. As a runner, I automatically think of running when I think distance. But hey, there’s long distance relationships. Or why not get beyond geographic distance and consider distance in terms of time or emotional distance. Or some other interpretation.” Okay, here's my poem merging both prompts. Good ones today, Maureen and Robert.  Long Distance Relationship                                                 — for Kathy  April is the cruelest month. But not just April.  How about September, October, November,  and also January, February — in short almost all  the months that we have school. Not December ’cause there’s always the possibility that if  our gift-shopping budgets will flex a bit for  plane fare, I can sky to you. That’s a big if  though. And not always a given. March can  be less cruel. Some of our students fly off  to Orlando or Daytona Beach. Our Cancun  is your living room, with spring snow in NY,  answering committee emails and grading  student papers. Ah, but May, June, July,  August . . . lemonade and light, you and I.  —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] It's a terza rima sonnet. Not haiku stanzas this time. Meter, yes, kinda, roughed-up. Alan says, “Combining a ‘worst month’ prompt with a ‘faraway’ prompt was easy for me because I have been on the road so much for the past few weeks.” March Roads Those March roads took me far from home, away from my own mountains, north to Maryland (almost — I crossed the river border break of day from West Virginia). Weeks before, I took to Tennessee’s west end, so flat past Nashville I was wanting hills and asked, when someone leaves the green and rounded east, where tree-lined ridges rim between the earth and limb-laced sky, why one would wend out west and settle in that shamefaced way, but then I closed the month again, twice more beyond my home, west past the great plateau, both times to show my son remoteness, rootless, lost between the borders, more than boundaries and ways of thought, but being so far gone, when every intersection stops to praise itself that someone’s path might sometime cross in level sight for miles, to celebrate what company one finds, brief courtesy permitting folks go first at four-way stops. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Alan, I love how you play with m sounds, alliteration and consonance, to highlight (I think) the operative word "month." You have, from the top, March, me, home, my, mountains, Maryland — just in the first two lines! Dipping in and out of the poem: from, someone, rim, limb, shame, remoteness, more, sometime, and company. Beautifully done. Jed wrote two poems today. He says, “I couldn’t get the fan letter prompt [from yesterday] out of my head. This happened.” Dickinson Emily, I have to apologize. (The poet Emily, not my sister.) I changed my major; I won’t even try To build that time machine to come rescue You from loneliness. I’ve moved on in life. Anyway, it was arrogant to think You’d want me if I could get there. My shelf Still has a place for you. But I don’t look Through your poems often anymore. True, I still recite the ones I memorized, To remember you. You carried me through Dark times. Life is better because you lived. But if your shade is angry because I’m Moving on, please, come haunt me anytime. —Draft by Jedediah Kurth    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] “Or,” Jed continues, “if you want one for today’s NaPoWriMo prompt.” Friction February is the worst month. I was born. It’s not that I regret my life, But I’m torn When my “special” day comes around; Do I tell? I hate the attention. I’ve found I feel small Making that sort of plea. Just leave Me alone. But my inner child wants me To have one Special day, where everything’s right. Then I say, “That’s idiotic. The world’s not There to pay Attention to me. Now grow up.” Happy birthday to me. Happy . . . —Draft by Jedediah Kurth    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Jed is playing some interesting, understated games with rhyme here. Notice in “Friction” how he buries the rhyme in those short lines, to disguise them, to hide them. And then a flurry of internal rhyme: the long e sounds in the final line, as well as in the one before it. Above that, in “Dickinson” the occasional, subtle rhyme uncovers the poem as a disguised sonnet. Where the Shakespearean a rhymes would go: the long i in apologize and try; b: sis in sister rhymed with res in rescue; c: the l and f in life and shelf; d: think and look; e: the almost full rhyme of True and through; f: almost an eye rhyme in -ized and -ived; and finally the g couplet: a full rhyme of I'm and -time softened by enjambing line 13. Brilliant! Okay, we've seen several months take "cruelest" . . . March, February, my own laundry list of distance-tinged months. Here Ven gives us a paean to the beginning of the year.  January Sucks.  Joy from Christmas swiftly fades  And darkness bookends working days.  Now the pure white snow is a slushy grey,  Upsetting stomachs and dulling brains.  Adventureland’s closed for winter break, all  Road trips verboten due to fearful brakes.  Year-end resolutions thaw faster than the miles of snow piles lining the interstates.  Some switch screensavers to beaches and waves,  Unspoiled landscapes, distant vistas, hot deserts, old caves. ’Cos this month invites procrastination,  Knife-edge depression, and obsession with sun-deprived shames.  Suck it up and smile if you can—it’s just a New Year with the same old psychic pains.  —Draft by Ven Batista    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Before we finish, I want to tell you something about Ven and this poem. Well, first about Ven and poetry: the man hates capital letters at the start of lines only for the sake of having them capitalized. If that first word in the line is neither a proper noun nor a sentence start, Ven deplores, deprecates, despises, detests, and disfavors capitals there. But for this specific poem, Ven told me, "I had to overcome my dislike for the capitals." Now, knowing that, go back and read Ven's poem again. Following in Ven's seasonal footsteps here is Sarah, giving us a poem with widely varying line lengths. Caution: Ice Ahead Falling is easy. It starts when the sunrises are black and the moonrise is blacker, when days are eternally reoccurring reenactments of trudging through quicksand, and every step over undulating pavements of ice is a marathon of anxiety. Winter slips inside, shadowing the soul like a cheesy horror movie effect; rotten CGI. Fading away hurts friends and they reach out, but it’s hard to close the distance when you’re numb. —Draft by Sarah Smith    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Sarah, an apt evocation of winter and also your cruelest month. Thank you. Just as with Ven's, read down on the left. 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 Three ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2016

Day 3. Day 3. Day 3.  ヅ  Maureen Thorson's NaPoWriMo prompt: "Today, let’s turn our vision outward, and write fan letters. I challenge you to write a poem in the form of a fan letter to a celebrity. Now, this could be a celebrity from long ago, and needn’t be an actor or singer (though it could be). You could write to George Washington or Dorothy Dandridge, Marie Curie or The Weeknd. Happy writing!" Robert Lee Brewer's PAD prompt: "Take the phrase 'Three (blank),' replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write your poem. Possible titles include: 'Three Blind Hippos,' 'Three Muskrats,' 'Three’s Company,' 'Three Movies Is Too Many for The Hobbit, Peter Jackson (just saying),' and so on." Let's start with Alan today: "Thorson wants fan letters today, and Brewer wants a poem that has to do with three something, so I am going autobiographical and thinking about three songs that I wish lasted longer because while I think they are perfect, they leave me wanting more. Honestly, I could play all three of these for hours on a continuous loop and love them all. (Had it been four, by the way, I would have included Ringo Starr's 'It Don't Come Easy.')" Three Songs I Wish Were Longer Alex Chilton wrote a song that makes no sense to my kids, the idea of heading home because his girl sends a letter instead of making a call or sending a text. Joe Cocker knew that we needed more than to hear a plane take off while music fades, and Alex, damn it, left me wanting more; I called those Box Tops back again and again. Neil Young wrote a song to a cinnamon girl but I heard him sing about some other song that had saxes and a bow-drawn bass while he played the damnedest solo I’d ever heard, a high D, thirty-two beats in all, split by a ragged arpeggio that I wanted to run through the night while I cooed in Crazy Horse harmony. Neko Case wrote a passionate song in an amplified minor key meant for night as I drive the old country in East Tennessee while I hear her confess being mean, to feel the tear of the terminal solo rip through the air’s fabric and my choke as my lips move hopeless to the lie repeating just to “hold on, hold on,” cold. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Alan, loved that first song when I played in rock bands in high school. I recall wondering why The Box Tops sang "aer-O-plane" rather than "airplane"; I assumed they were a British band because of that lyric. And I totally agree about the damnedest-ness of Neil Young's solo in the second song: he often played lead ax repeating the same note, for example, in much of the guitar solo in "Down by the River," among other songs. Sarah also merged both prompts today, while simultaneously using the appropriate inherited form, a sonnet. Three Years Clean: Confessions of a fangirl Three silver screen shows in particular; plus one interview where you were the real Captain America, dripping in blue and red, your words rolling like pure white stars into my heart’s void; these made me slaver for your attentions and daydream of full reciprocation: your own soul in thrall. Help me — addicted to an Avenger. But I have left off searching blogs at night for the latest leaks of buff images from your set crew. Your Wikipedia page can rest at ease from the stalking blight of a former hormone-driven teenage girl. Break-ups are hard but it’s me, not you. —Draft by Sarah Smith    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] I love the "-ia" (sounds like "ya") rhyme with "you," Sarah. So cool! Jed's poem today also does cool stuff with rhyme. Unity How lovely it would be If you all thought like me. We’d all be right. (Because we’d all agree.) You’d all do what I say, Because I know the way. (’Cause if you thought like me, You’d know I know.) But wait. If you all thought like me, Would you expect to be The one to lecture On the way to go? Say it ain’t so. Let’s just agree That I think better; That I should lecture. That I’m the one who knows The way to go. I’m glad we had this talk. Now all of you get back To work. —Draft by Jedediah Kurth    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Jed, I like how the closing stanza is essentially a triplet in slant rhyme. Ven's mix of "Three (blank)" and "fan letter" is equally entertaining. Three Muskehounds. Dear creators of Dogtanian and the Three Muskehounds: In 1985 my world was small. I wasn’t aware that: Live Aid was a thing. Or that Gorbachev came to power. Or that Route 66 ceased to be. Or that Windows 1.0 was released. Or that 9000 people died in an Earthquake in Mexico city. Or that Palestinian terrorists hijacked an Italian cruise ship. Or that the Hezbollah hijacked TWA Flight 847. Or that the wreck of the Titanic was found. Or that the Unibomber killed his first victim. Or that South Africa invaded Angola. Or that Coca-Cola released New Coke. Or even that Michael Jordan was named NBA rookie of the year. All I knew was that sword-fighting cartoon dogs dressed as musketeers was the coolest shit ever. It’s been thirty years, please revive your show because my list of things to ignore is even longer now. Thanks. —Draft by Ven Batista    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] And thanks to you, Ven. Love it. Here's my little mashup of "fan letter" and "Three (blank)." In normative rhyme. Three For Rock of Ages Dear Jimi. How’s it going up there in paradise? They give you a Strat? Or better yet, an SG? A wall-to-wall Marshall stack? Man, you should put together a new power trio. With wings. Buddy Miles could be the drummer, right? Yeah, I know you and he were already in Band of Gypsys. Cut you some slack: if it works, it works. ’Cause you playing for the King of Kings. Get Jack Bruce on an SG bass. Two SG’s! That would be a true irony: devil horns on each cherry—no, candy-apple-red—ax. Rocking and knocking on heaven’s door! Yours truly, Vince. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] And here's photographic proof that Jimi Hendrix did play a Gibson SG. Not red, but we'll see that in heaven! 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 Two ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2016

Welcome to Day Two, everyone. About to double our poem output for the month! Maureen Thorson's NaPoWriMo prompt: "I challenge you to write a poem that takes the form of a family portrait. You could write, for example, a stanza for each member of your family. You could also find an actual snapshot of your family and write a poem about it, spending a little bit of time on each person in the picture. You don’t need to observe any particular form or meter. Happy writing!" Robert Lee Brewer's PAD prompt: "Write a what he said and/or what she said poem. Maybe he or she said a rumor; maybe he or she gave directions; or maybe he or she said something that made absolutely no sense at all. I don’t know what they said; rather, each poet is tasked with revealing that knowledge." Okay, here are today's poems by our small community of poets, including Thomas Alan Holmes, Sarah Smith, Jedediah Kurth, and Vince Gotera. "I have attempted to blend two prompts again today," says Alan, "the Thorson prompt for a family portrait and the Brewer prompt about a 'he said/she said' situation. It just seemed natural, somehow, that a revelation would happen when someone started talking about a family portrait, which is always a gossip prompt, anyway." The Widow Remarries There’s always risk in family, I guess, especially the great big shots with all the fiancés and newlyweds, the ones who soon break up or get divorced and, then, within a year or so, we have a face we might forget, an inconvenient face we might regret. We miss our dead, of course, but when your grandchild asks about the man who’s hugging on his mama, you can’t lie, but you can’t tell the entire truth, that he was used, that she had reconciled enough to make a child, a grandson for her dad before he passed away. Just wrap it up, and when I settle in with you know who while being newlywed again, I can decide where it belongs in my new home. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Very interesting, Alan. As with Robert Browning's Duke of Ferrara, I can't help but wonder who did what? who knew what? and if this family portrait is in some way cognate to the last Duchess's portrait? Like Alan, I have also melded the prompts (family portrait and "he said/she said"). This poem will be part of my ongoing narrative sequence — a novel-in-poems, I think — about two aswang, mythical Philippine monsters who, against type, fall in love, marry, and move to the US to escape oppression in 1937. Aswang Christening: A Family Photo Radiant parents and bouncy baby, all silken and crinoline, taffeta and three-piece wool, are posed in this portrait next to the baptismal font at St. George’s. The baby smells of milk and, slightly, of turned earth. They name him Malcolm. The mother, Clara, whispers to herself, she’ll swear off womb water, that sweet foetal liquor, now that she’s bearing children. Santiago, the father, thanks the parish priest but thinks to himself how plump the man is. Imagines Father Simon running for his life, pale skin glimmering in dim forest. Behind them, in stained glass, a drenched black bird, the Holy Ghost’s wings have turned dark. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Today Sarah merged the family portrait and he said/she said prompts with a sestina. An excellent formal choice, Sarah! When she left Dad doesn’t say much of anything at all, but then again, he never does. His fount of wisdom doesn’t splurge in sudden bursts, but trickles slowly, coursing through well-worn rivers’ paths to lap at the bare toes of children who splash with delight. He does crack a joke and his hug is the longest. Mom quickly devolves into conversations of the longest quality known to man. She adamantly claims to hate any and all attempts at prosy eloquence, but her continued delight lies in long letters and cute post-its filled with the wisdom only moms can bear. These she hides along daily paths to be found later, hoping that the memory of her will fade slowly. Best friend of a sister slides on a brave smile but slowly the façade begins to slip as time ticks away. Her love is the longest, not by years but by moments. She reminisces about wayward paths from a childhood full of ethereal palaces and illusory adventures for all. Worn out ballet shoes, lumpy pillow forts, a handful of chipped Legos; her wisdom has found residence in these bodies, like horcruxes of delight. Warrior brother actually grins with genuine delight because he knows that true bravery flowers slowly and being alone catalyzes the action of true wisdom sometimes. The gaps between words are the longest in his world, but he stands straightest and speaks most honest of all, trusting the silver bond that has been forged and tested on many paths. Popular sister feigns disdain for someone who chooses paths she never would, but when mentions of visits arise, delight fires in her eyes and even she can’t hide all her exhilaration. A past filled with battle slowly falls translucent and disappears. For years, the longest reach was the door just across the hall, despite conventional wisdom. Adoring brother shares quips of his boyish “wisdom,” discovered somewhere amid Little League football helmets and dirt paths trodden by a sixth grade Boy Scout troop. To him time passes longest when a chair is empty, so a newcomer is always treated with puppy-like delight. He clowns through life to a soundtrack of laughs and slowly teaches others that joy is the best philosophy after all. Baby sister’s wisdom is not passed on without giggles of delight from listening ears. She will find her path too, slowly, as the longest years pass and her whisper echoes, “I love you most of all.” —Draft by Sarah Smith    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Ven went with Brewer's "she said" prompt, combined with a family vibe. Bravo, Ven! Cheers my Dears. She said your brother’s off his meds again he’s climbing up the walls. She said I love him dearly but he’s clearly headed for a fall. She said your brother’s life is a pink muscato that bubbles until it spoils. She said your sister’s kids are somehow doing okay in school. She said I gave her another loan but I really laid down some rules. She said your sister’s life is a cheap shiraz that stains everything because she drools. She said your other sister’s gaining weight and still making lots of money. She said I went to choir with her but kept on slurring the harmony. She said your other sister’s life is a Dom Perignon that looks great but yet tastes funky. Mother—you wonder why I never call but I always wonder what you’ll say to someone who pops round your house for a little tipple, tomorrow, or the next day. I imagine you say my life is like a double Jack—a bit too strong for polite company. Bottoms up. —Draft by Ven Batista    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Jed went with his own muse again today, eschewing the two "official" prompts. Bravo to you too, Jed. Collector Cards or Running Away 11:10 to 5:08 is all night. Or so the ticket (5 am) would have me think. $10 (extra) over budget. Money for the midnight game? Sure. I planned for it; a special break. (I justify.) A “Magic” night. But. I’m poor enough; $10 hurts! I wanted to talk to the cop still in his car. Momentum makes me pull away. Driving. Thinking. Where is the harm, if I just ask: Was it all night if I’m leaving? I circle back. The long blonde hair of one of two seated on the curb catches my headlights. A flashlight’s glare. Doors are open. The officer is peering here and there in their car. I do not stop. An SUV with flashing lights is coming up. I keep driving. $10? That’s not so much. I’m going home. —Draft by Jedediah Kurth    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] The photo above, by the way, is a little Photoshopped image that's making the rounds online as a play on family relationships in Star Wars: The Force Awakens, from a SlashGear.com article titled "The Curious Case of the Star Wars Family Portrait." 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

National Poetry Month / NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2016

Hello, poets and poetry fans. It's April again, not the cruelest month as T. S. Eliot famously opined but rather time once more for NaPoWriMo and PAD — "National Poetry Writing Month" and "Poem-a-Day." As always Maureen Thorson will give out ("optional") poetry prompts at NaPoWriMo.net and Robert Lee Brewer will do the same at his Poetic Asides blog . . . the two "HQs." Here is Maureen Thorson's NaPoWriMo prompt for Day One: "Today, I challenge you to write a lune. This is a sort of English-language haiku. While the haiku is a three-line poem with a 5-7-5 syllable count, the lune is a three-line poem with a 5-3-5 syllable count. There’s also a variant based on word-count, instead of syllable count, where the poem still has three lines, but the first line has five words, the second line has three words, and the third line has five words again. Either kind will do, and you can write a one-lune poem, or write a poem consisting of multiple stanzas of lunes." And here's Robert Lee Brewer's Day One PAD prompt: "Write a foolish poem. It’s April Fool’s Day, after all. Let’s loosen up today with a poem in which we’re fools, others are fools, or there’s some kind of prank or tomfoolery happening. Fool around with it a while." You can also see Robert's sample foolish poem here. Those of you who have followed my April poems in the blog before know I always try to merge the "official" prompts. I think it was 2012 when I merged three prompts most days. Well, today's installment is pretty silly, but hey, it's a foolish poem, right? Maureen pointed out that the lune could be 5-3-5 syllables or 5-3-5 words, so I did both of those things. And also rhymed abba. Foolish Lune —with apologies to the Jackson 5 1 2 3 4 5 A B C Do re mi. We're live! —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Some of my students at the University of Northern Iowa will be writing daily poems and sharing them in the blog. Here Ven Batista gives us a lune/fool poem, deftly melding the two prompts. Untitled I play the rascal. She chokes on laughter. Old memory of new love. —Draft by Ven Batista    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] My poetry student Sarah Smith's Day One poem responds to the NaPoWriMo prompt for a lune with a short, image-rich story. Untitled Cerebral light envelops entwined bodies; kissing, grasping, gasping; when the roommate walks in. —Draft by Sarah Smith    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Another student, Jedediah Kurth, did not respond to the prompts but rather to the enterprise overall of the daily poem. Untitled Poems written for the sake of writing a poem are fundamentally different than those which tear themselves untimely from the womb of your unconscious mind, go rampaging across unresisting paper, tire themselves, then settle down to pretend they were always well-behaved. —Draft by Jedediah Kurth    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Our good friend Thomas Alan Holmes will again be sharing his daily poems with us here. He's got TWO for today! First his merging of the prompts: Alan says, "Robert Lee Brewer asked for a poem about foolishness, and Maureen Thorson asked for a 'lune,' punning aurally on 'fool,' so I have managed to comply with both." GOP Primaries, 2016 Some people would have Donald Trump for our president. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Here is Alan's intro for his second daily poem: "Folks, I feel kind of guilty that the combination of prompts for today permitted me to take a warranted cheap shot at the Republicans, so I offer another piece from today where I am playing with sound while putting conventional sense aside. Be patient with me." Exposure As I am on a Friday thrown from rides of fiery wheels and far too many wings for natural, symbolic, welcome things like circling birds, my tied insides, yes, bound and tightened, coiled, like what resides beneath the sun-warmed rocks beside the springs, beside the foot-worn patch beneath the swings, its warning body’s end from bite, what hides in memory and habit that’s denied or, grudged, accepted once exposed to light and, nudged to show itself, a new delight until one’s need for new is satisfied and now, known novelty, sun-blanched to white, must find much deeper covert in the night. —Draft by Thomas Alan Holmes    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] I hope all y'all won't mind too much if I take a cheap shot as well. Alan, I don't feel guilty at all.  ヅ  And thus it begins. See you here tomorrow? Friends, won't you comment, please? We'd 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