|Receding patches of snow with rainbow. Ootischenia, end of March|
So here we go. Poetry Month is upon us. The reading I was part of scheduled for the Ides of the month at the Kootenay Gallery has been cancelled. Or postponed. Funding from the LCP or Canada Council (I'm not clear on which) is still going forward so likely we'll do something digital. We just haven't decided what yet, but you can be sure that when we do I'll let you know via all the appropriate channels.
The NaPoWriMo 2020 website is up and running and here's today's prompt:
"...write a self-portrait poem in which you make a specific action a metaphor for your life – one that typically isn’t done all that often, or only in specific circumstances. For example, bowling, or shopping for socks, or shoveling snow, or teaching a child to tie its shoes."
So this poem came to be over the course of the day while I worked with a friend who was getting FaceBook messages from a fake me. Fake Me is into promoting bitcoin, it seems. But in a nice, fake, round-about way. Good job, Fake Me. Now get a real one!
To begin with, I thought I was heading somewhere else with this, hence the title that doesn't seem to make a lot of sense but then I think of all the poems I've read where the poems didn't appear to make sense and I can't think of another one right now and in half an hour we're having another family Zoom get-together so I have to go prep something for us to eat while that's happening.
She Was Never Prompt
As last patches of March snow recede
behind a land awash
in dirty leaves and gravel
and a tiny, deadly speck
is killing people
I realize life’s a book
you make up as you go along
and I'm in the poetry section
but not a couplet or a sonnet
no tight, cohesive little lyric here,
I'm a longer poem in that book
one that always finds a way
to be challenging for someone—
I’m sorry I need
two weren’t enough
yes, long, but still
no we can’t double up those lines
oh, you don't read poetry—
invitation to passing glance dance
received and understood
of the longer poem
may be found in groups
made merry by each other,
await the deep, restoring breaths
a longer poem invites,
always keen to listen.