Day 25 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2022

Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “[W]rite a response poem. Your poem could be in response to a popular poem by another poet, sure, but it could also be a response to a poem you wrote earlier this month. ” Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt today “is based on the aisling, a poetic form that developed in Ireland. An aisling recounts a dream or vision featuring a woman who represents the land or country on/in which the poet lives, and who speaks to the poet about it. Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that recounts a dream or vision, and in which a woman appears who represents or reflects the area in which you live. Perhaps she will be the Madonna of the Traffic Lights, or the Mysterious Spirit of Bus Stops. Or maybe you will be addressed by the Lost Lady of the Stony Coves.” Today, following Brewer’s prompt, I’m responding to a poem I wrote on Day Ten: "Ode to Chicharon," the iconic snack of the Philippines, pork belly chicharon, fried to a crispy goodness: chunks of meat, fat, and luscious skin. Following Thorson’s prompt, I’m imagining an aisling visit from my mom in a dream, done in tanka prose, a Japanese combination of prose text with a tanka, a five-line poem that traditionally has a syllabic pattern of 5-7-5-7-7 (at least in the US, though not all American tanka writers follow that convention these days). 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!                 Candida Fajardo, 1947             Image by lester56 on Pixabay. Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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Day 24 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2022

Maureen Thorson's NaPoWriMo prompt begins today by noting, "Hard-boiled detective novels are known for their use of vivid similes, often with an ironic or sarcastic tone," and quoting some great examples from "[n]ovelist Raymond Chandler," then following up with a challenge "to channel your inner gumshoe, and write a poem in which you describe something with a hard-boiled simile. Feel free to use just one, or try to go for broke and stuff your poem with similes till it’s . . . as dense as bread baked by a plumber, as round as the eyes of a girl who wants you to think she’s never heard such language, and as easy to miss as a brass band in a cathedral." Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “[W]rite a superhero or supervillain poem. It's OK to write a poem about an established hero or villain, like Thor, Green Lantern, or The Tick. But it would be more fun to have poems about lesser known (as in, you just invented them) heroes and villains. People like The Recycler, Dr. Dirty Dishes, or the diabolical Pie Bandit. Save the day; wreck the day; but please, write a poem.” Merging both prompts, I turn again to the aswang myth. Not the monsters in my novel-in-progress, but an earlier aswang from a previous century, a manananggal — a woman who can split off her upper body, growing wings to fly off to hunt human prey, leaving her lower body standing below, waiting to reunite. I wondered what a high-born Philippine woman would be like as an aswang, a kind of superhero or supervillain. This is my eighth curtal sonnet this NaPoWriMo. Aswang Lady in Crinoline, 1875 She stands in a forest clearing, looking up at the moon, dressed in an evening gown, a Maria Clara with a hoop skirt. Her waist ripping, she lifts off, torn satin shreds hanging, like bloody kite tails, while down on the forest floor, bright against the dirt, is the bottom of her dress, a church dome glowing in moonlight, hoops holding the round shape whole. Dark goddess flies above the earth, hunting a treasure hidden in a womb,                                    thwarting another birth. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Here's a photo showing a Filipina from the 1870s in a fancy dress with a voluminous skirt, called a Maria Clara, from the article "The Filipiniana Dress: The Rebirth of the Terno," from Vinta Gallery.             Image from Vinta Gallery. 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 2022

Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “[W]rite a conspiracy poem. Line your ball caps with aluminum foil, cover your walls with cryptic sticky notes, and write a poem that exposes (or refutes) a conspiracy. Is the Earth flat? Are all professional sports (and entertainment awards ceremonies) fixed? Did people really talk about Bruno? Write your poem, because I want to believe.” Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: "Today I’d like to challenge you to write a poem in the style of Kay Ryan, whose poems tend to be short and snappy – with a lot of rhyme and soundplay. They also have a deceptive simplicity about them, like proverbs or aphorisms. Once you’ve read a few, you’ll see what I mean. Here’s her 'Token Loss,' 'Blue China Doorknob,' 'Houdini,' and 'Crustacean Island.'" Here's what really happened today, folks, at least before the conspiracy stuff kicks in in the second half of the poem! Conspiracy of the Wind Today, my daughter Amelia and I — we're the band Groovy News — played an outdoor gig for Good Neighbor Iowa, a non-profit that tries to change people's lawn and garden practices to stay away from using pesticides. It was a very blustery day, and Amelia's music stand blew over. Her music binder flew open and sheet music scattered in the wind. The audience ran around snagging the tumbleweed pieces of runaway paper, and stuck them willy-nilly in the binder. Later I discovered all the music was there; We had lost not a single sheet! What had conspired with what to make that happen? Had the pro-pesticide folks schemed with the wind gods to interrupt our music hour? And then had the wind gods, behind the backs of their erstwhile partners, made a deal with the chaos god to ensure our music sheets were not lost? And why did any of them do that? Was there blood money afoot? Were there invisible sprites making sure all the people caught every single sheet? Should Amelia and I pick up some lottery tickets right now? Who knows? Somebody knows! Give us a sign, whoever you are! —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Here's the logo of the Good Neighbor Iowa program. Check them out at Good Neighbor Iowa .org. Worthy cause. Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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Day 22 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2022

Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “In honor of today’s being the 22nd day of Na/GloPoWriMo 2022, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that uses repetition. You can repeat a sound, a word, a phrase, or an image, or any combination of things.” Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day prompt: “[W]rite an organism poem. The really cool thing about our planet is that it is loaded with a variety of living organisms, from one-celled prokaryotes and eukaryotes to complex creatures (like blue whales and rhinos). Write about several organisms, or pick one and make it the title of your poem.” These prompts reminded me of a news story: "[S]scientists . . . have created a new biological organism that can self-replicate [and] swim through liquid, navigate through tubes, work together to collect particles into piles, heal themselves when injured, and even store information from their experience. . . . For human applications, one could envision creating bots that produce insulin, regulated by built-in sensors for glucose levels. 'We could . . . put bots into a patient to home in on areas of tissue damage such as spinal cord injury, and release regenerative compounds to help with the repair process,' said [Douglas] Blackiston," one of the project scientists. (Tufts Now). Today's poem is, as I've written several times this month, a kimo, a variation of the haiku from Israel, with three lines of 10, 7, and 6 syllables. Melding both prompts. Xenobots make more xenobots and more xenobots . . . some day they will heal humans, microscopic doctors. —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.] Here is a photo of a xenobot self-replicating. According to the caption, the "the 'parent' [is] colored red and the “baby” [is] green." Photo by Doug Blackiston and Sam Kriegman from Tufts Now . Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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Day 21 ... NaPoWriMo / Poem-a-Day 2022

Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem-a-Day suggestion: “For today's prompt, write a sound poem. We've already done smell, taste, and touch; I hope you can see where this is headed. For today, write about sounds in general or hone in on one particular sound.” Maureen Thorson’s NaPoWriMo prompt: “[W]rite a poem in which you first recall someone you used to know closely but are no longer in touch with, then a job you used to have but no longer do, and then a piece of art that you saw once and that has stuck with you over time. Finally, close the poem with an unanswerable question.” In melding today's prompts, I was able to work in an old job, in the U.S. Army back in the '70s, and also someone I used to know, my Army drill sergeant. I happened to hear that he got cancer, and I sure hope he survived that. I'm working here with a curtal sonnet, so I didn't have enough room to fit in a piece of art, but I did work in a question at the end, which is not exactly unanswerable, but maybe is, because I don't recall my drill sergeant's first name, and an online search could be difficult. It was a lot of fun getting in the various sounds of Basic Training, so I'm grateful for Brewer's prompt today. My Old Drill Sergeant U.S. Army Basic Training, 1972 Being a soldier meant a lot of noise. Rifles at the range, yells of Ready on the left, ready on the right, fire at will! M16 barrage fired by lonesome boys. Live grenades, marching cadences, machine gun practice, boots tramping on long hikes, drill sergeants up in your face, What’s wrong, private, missing Mama? Even the nights were full of sleeping troops’ loud snores and grunts, soft moans. Then 6 a.m. — screams of Get up, maggots!                     Where, now, is Sgt. Bowles? —Draft by Vince Gotera    [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]             Image by Stephen Standifird on Wikimedia. This photo doesn't match my basic training experience exactly because during the Vietnam war, we wore green fatigues, olive drab. But the face of the troop being schooled by three drill sergeants, that's forever! Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking. Thanks! Ingat, everyone.  ヅ

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