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This time a month ago was our last night in La Manzanilla. We were packed and ready to leave and more than a little worried about the virus that was suddenly being taken very, very seriously by Canada. It feels like about a million years ago. Words aren't coming these days. But I'm making poem-notes on today's prompt because I might turn it into a real poem later. When I get back to feeling inspired again. About anything.
NaPoWriMo's thought for the day is to write a poem based on what they call a "walking archive". Fairly self-explanatory, I think. I was down in my studio today, moving furniture around again in order to avoid doing anything constructive. This is something I realize I have done forever. Anyway, here it is, the bones of poem. Maybe.
Relics
china cup from a shop at the Tokyo airport
leather-bound collection of poems the size of a credit card
hash pipe that was new in the sixties
Swarovski crystal book the size of a quarter
lacquer box from summer Olympics boycotted by the USA
copulating jade bears
blue glass beetle
a crystal from my friend who died of AIDS
hardwood stingray from a Mexican market
—if trinkets could talk would they say keep us,
we are the tiny relics of a life
or would it be enough
to simply keep them as words
instant recall
almost as good as the real thing
and so much easier to pack
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3 comments:
This is very vivid.💜All the poem notes carry in them the seeds of real poems!
And I guess if we plant enough seeds, eventually something may grow. Thank you so much, Romana.
I think this is more than the bones of a poem, Linda. It's a poem. Leave it alone!!! ;o)
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