POETRY MONTH DAY # 30 — LIGHT, BIRDS, FISH, BIRCH

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A poem about something that returns is on today's menu from NaPoWriMo.


Light, Birds, Fish, Birch


Each day the light returns,
sometimes later, sometimes sooner,
but always, it returns.

Hummingbirds come back
each spring, to the feeder.
If it's not out, they buzz the window, looking.

Paper birch in the curtilage
rolls out the catkins,
promises leaves to come.

Late summer finds the redfish
swimming up their birth creeks
to spawn the next generation.

We are all the light, the birds,
the fish, the birch, off on our adventures,
coming home.

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POETRY MONTH DAY # 29 — ODE TO NED

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"Today," says NaPoWriMo, "I challenge you to write a paean to the stalwart hero of your household: your pet." 

Sisu and Kiisa came into our lives a year and a half ago. Found them on the K.A.A.P. site on Facebook, a Kootenay-based animal rescue group. I'd been keeping an eye on their "looking for a home" posts for at least a year, and there was something about the face looking out at me; Sisu's, it turned out. Grey with the faintest of tabby markings. The other was full-on black. After a few day's deliberation (and being firm with the husband) we arranged to meet them. Imagine our surprise when Sisu came to greet us, all 21 pounds of him (9 ½ kg). Long story short, they moved in about a month later. It's an open adoption; before Covid their former family would drop in when they were back in Castlegar. Every now and then I send pictures and/or videos of cats being cute. It's what they do. We look forward to seeing the boys' boys once this social distancing thing calms down.

Sisu attempting to get all of himself into the patch of sunlight

Kiisa loves the Irish blankets that are usually found on my chair

The two of them, during an altercation

But a poem about them? I dunno. I sort of stopped writing cat poems after my first one which happened when I was in my early teens. It went something like this:

ODE TO NED

I turned the corner and there he lay

a little ball of white and grey

basking in a golden ray

of sun.

I wondered as I saw him there

what charms he held to make me care

thankful, I offered a little prayer

for Ned.

It truly worries me that I still remember that!

And here are a couple of pictures of the aforesaid Ned:

And I'm done. One more day in April! This was the longest, shortest, fastest, slowest month I've ever lived through. 

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POETRY MONTH DAY # 28 — SANCTUARY

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Welcome to the world of Emily Dickinson! NaPoWriMo is digging around in our memories today.

"Martha Dickinson Bianchi’s description of her aunt’s cozy room, scented with hyacinths and a crackling stove, warmly recalls the setting decades later. Describe a bedroom from your past in a series of descriptive paragraphs or a poem. It could be your childhood room, your grandmother’s room, a college dormitory or another significant space from your life."


Sanctuary

Pale yellow walls

built in shelf

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OOPS!


April 30, 2020 — 

Last night I was reading this on my phone and saw a typo. Somehow I deleted most of the poem and I hadn't gotten around to saving it anywhere so it's gone. This may be a breakthrough—I really can get rid of everything! Anyway, Sanctuary is now a two-line poem. I thought of adding 'Ootpik' for a third and final line because I know one was mentioned in the original and how often am I likely to use it again?

This is writing and letting it go. The August PoPo Fest is about writing directly onto the card. First draft stuff. Quality varies greatly, but now and again you get a line or two. I wrote Santuary directly into my blog, likely quite late at night which is how this month of daily poeming has gone. 


Sanctuary

Pale yellow walls

built in shelf

Ootpik

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POETRY MONTH DAY # 27 — OAK LEAVES

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A poem in the form of a review of something/someone that doesn't normally warrant one.

And I fell asleep after dinner and just woke up and it's ten to midnight, my time.

Don't expect miracles!

Oak Leaves

While some may speak of acorns
and how you grow from one
I'd like to point out how your leaves
make such a mess
before they're done.

They worm their way inside the nest
of boughs of lavender and such.
They're picked out one by one
and then they don't break down,
at least, not much.

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POETRY MONTH DAY # 26 — HODGEPODGE

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Today is all about creating a sort of poetry blueprint after jotting down your answers to an "almanac questionnaire." Too sleepy to do much with it.


Hodgepodge

thank you for coming,

the fox is back in his bedtime story,

cowering dog 

to the cold, hard, nothing

of confrontation.

bluster of a day

sprigs of yarrow still coming up 

legacy of a former resident 

who planted it everywhere, 

its roots as determined to stay 

as I am for them to go.

black bear      garter snake      

rainbow trout,      

five-year-old’s scary wolf-face nightmare

footprints of the past

in an ordinary life.

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POETRY MONTH DAY # 25 — A NON-GARDINER'S GARDEN MEDITATION

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NaPoWriMo's prompt today looks like way too much work so I'm going the light and fluffy route and I don't even care!

A Non-Gardiner's Garden Meditation

it's been three days 

since I hurt my hands

but healed my soul in the yard

flower beds I thought done-for
—two years since last we spoke—
are greening up already

the one tulip the deer missed 
raises its head in disbelief
considers its options

a little rain, a little sun,

clouds speeding overhead 

as if they had somewhere to go 

I'm grateful for the greens 

of maple, larch, and aspen,

for the world just as it is 

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POETRY MONTH DAY # 23 — LITTLE f

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What to do with this one, NaPoWriMo? "Today’s prompt (optional, as always) asks you to write a poem about a particular letter of the alphabet, or perhaps, the letters that form a short word. Doesn’t “S” look sneaky and snakelike? And “W” clearly doesn’t know where it’s going! Think about the shape of the letter(s), and use that as the take-off point for your poem."


The past couple of days I've spent a few hours out in the yard. Because I was running back and forth to Nelson three or four times a week last year after my mother broke her hip, I didn't do anything in the side yard and it was an overgrown mess. I've been avoiding it like the plague, but then an actual plague arrived on the scene so I figured I might as well get out there. Cannot believe what a difference already. No pictures yet but I did get this one this morning of sunlight hitting the newly-leafed (like yesterday they went BOOM!) aspens.

 

Little f

The shape of f as it forms her name 

is a serpentine stroke

reminiscent of feathers,

an effervescent fan, 

a falcon in a swift, determined dive. 

Among family she's known as Little f,

the f always lower case thanks to Little. 

The name itself arrived when I was five

and made up a song 

about a little fat mommy  

who chased down a cougar.

(When the animal referred to 

was just the animal referred to,

not some hyper-sexed forty-something 

looking for a bit of action on a Saturday night.) 

Once, one of her kids sent flowers for her birthday,

spent some time with the florist

making sure everything was right.

They arrived with a card that read

LOWER CASE F. 

The shape of f as it forms her name 

is a serpentine stroke

reminiscent of feathers,

an effervescent fan, 

a falcon in a swift, determined dive. 

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POETRY MONTH DAY # 22 — YOU HAVE TOMATOES ON YOUR EYES

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NaPoWriMo wants to challenge us " to find an idiomatic phrase from a different language or culture, and use it as the jumping-off point for your poem. Here’s are a few lists to help get you started: One, two, three."

I found two such phrases I liked and decided to incorporate them both into my poem. 

You have tomatoes on your eyes  (German) which means "You are not seeing what everyone else can see."

I see the sun on your back  (Kazakh) which translates as "Thank you for being you. I am alive because of your help.”


You Have Tomatoes On Your Eyes

I see the sun on your back,
its mission to coat the day with light.
You anticipate its warmth, shed layers,
break a sweat.
When you began to work this garden
it seemed impossible to break the tangled earth,
yet tiny shoots blundered up too soon,
managed to survive the curiosity of birds,
an unanticipated frost,
to flower, fruit, and feed.
Feed us you will—spirits first, then bodies,
the sky awash with summer
as you pick what will be dinner,
your fingers are lithe as runner beans
and you have tomatoes on your eyes.

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POETRY MONTH DAY # 21 — ECOLOGICAL POEM

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Because my habit this year for doing these poems is to write my poem late in the evening by which time NaPoWriMo has usually posted the next day's prompt already. When I read the prompt for today my immediate response was I hate this exercise! Which pretty much means I ought to do it, I think. Comfort zones, and all that.

I chose the Romanian poet Magda Carneci and am going to play with the first couple of stanzas of a long poem.

In her language, it begins

POEMUL ECOLOGIC (3)

Se face de dimineață :
Se aud șuierături, țipete, croncănituri, ciripituri
  o boare animală electrizează aerul, apa
  impregnează câmpurile arate, străzile și metroul
Am început.

Mă înalț încetișor deasupra Pământului
   sunt pelicula vie care înghite tot și excretează un pic de căldură
Acopăr cu sputa mea dulce relieful muntos și turnurile civilizaționale
    pulsez delicat în creșe și pe fundul oceanului

And from that I give you this:

Ecological Poem

This diminutive face

This odd, sweet, timid, crotchety, chipper 

   bored arial, animal electric, ah ha

   pregnant companion irate, sterile has merit

And insipid face.

May inept incestuous despair Pământului

   such a peculiar life ignites total if excruciating picture of calm
Cooped up spume my dulcet relief means civilization turning
   a delicate pulse of crèche found in all oceans

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POETRY MONTH DAY # 19 — RELICS

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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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POETRY MONTH DAY # 18 — ODE TO AN ALMOST NORMAL MORNING

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And what does NaPoWriMo have for us today? It would have us "write an ode to life’s small pleasures." Here are a couple.


Ode to an Almost Normal Morning

Thud of cat on bed,
coffee delivered by husband,
I settle down to read a story 
written by eighteen of us 
over three-and-a-half weeks, 
an effort to mitigate the challenge 
of life in isolation.

In the old apricot tree outside the window 
chickadees and finches dart from branch 
to clothesline to bird feeder to branch, 
retaining one seed, spilling a bunch on the ground
for deer that come in the night.

Cat dissolves into sleep, 
coffee attempts to wake my sleepy mind,
I examine the story for seams between authors,
find them lacking as hive mind takes over the plot
in the way of a good collaboration.

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POETRY MONTH DAY # 17 — OF PARTY LINES, WALL PHONES, AND TRANSISTOR RADIOS

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This was the fourth time a little sliver of family has converged on Zoom. Fox is growing! It's certainly better than nothing, getting to get together like this. But it's wearing and we have no idea how long this is going to go on.

Today NaPoWriMo would have us

"...move backwards in time away from such modern contrivances as podcasts. Today, I challenge you to write a poem that features forgotten technology."

Which got me thinking about how phones used to be attached to walls so privacy was always a bit of a challenge which got me thinking about party lines which got me thinking about how much fun those little three-line poems are so here we go again and besides, I just discovered a wonderful Pink Floyd video on YouTube so I'm out of here!

PARTY LINE

are

you listening 

again you asshole

WALL PHONE 

phone

not portable

broadcasts your conversation

 PORTABLE RADIO

transistor 

smuggled upstairs 

hunt for music

inevitably

fall asleep

burn out batteries

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POETRY MONTH DAY # 16 — NEEDLE DEEP IN PINE FOREST

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NaPoWriMo, that marvellous font of ideas for things to write about, has this for us today:

"today we challenge you to write a poem of over-the-top compliments. Pick a person, place, or thing you love, and praise it in the most effusive way you can. Go for broke with metaphors, similes, and more."

Got as far as this and couldn't think of a damn thing I wanted to praise. Then Kim Goldberg posted this fabulous quotation on social media and I just love it! Also, I have no green thumb at all and now I can't even have indoor plants because the cats will eat them.

"Cover your bookcases with rugs and linens of fine quality; preserve them from dampness and mice and injury; for it is your books that are your true treasure.... Make books your companions; let your bookshelves be your gardens: bask in their beauty, gather their fruit, pluck their roses, take their spices and myrrh. And when your soul be weary, change from garden to garden, and from prospect to prospect." -Spanish Jewish scholar Ibn Tibbon, 12th century

Just watched a wonderful book launch event with Caitlin Press and Betsy Warland who is launching her new collection of prose poems, Lost Lagoon—lost in thought. This was done via Crowdcast, yet another platform allowing us to all get together, yay yay yay, being as how we can't. I liked how today's worked, even thought a couple of times my screen froze, but that is to be expected, I think, given the fact the almost the Whole World is online these days.

So I'm not writing to the prompt because I can't think of anything I love enough to respond to the prompt. Today, that is. I love lots of things (she says, defensively).

Instead, here are two of those three line/six word poems we did a week or so ago. I like that form!

Needle Deep in Pine Forest

Silence
needle deep
in pine forest

Feel
I'm wading
through thick molasses

Hush
be present
in the moment

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POETRY MONTH DAY # 14 — HOMAGE TO MY WORD PEOPLE

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NaPoWriMo says to write a poem honouring our poetry forebears who inspired us to the point we find ourselves scratching or tapping away every day during April, attempting to write a poem. Well, there are just too many to do proper justice to so this riff will have to do.


Homage to My Word People


It wasn't one poet who spoke to me
                    spoke to me

rather a multitude
                    lifting me up

James James Morrison Morrison
                    Little Boy Blue and his little boy toys

remember me, won't you
                    Christina Rossetti

sing me some passion
                    Bob Dylan and Leonard

sweet Joni from mountains
                    and me from them too

shelf in a library
                    who's Margaret Atwood

a class in Etobicoke
                    Wayman and work

time off for time out
                    and rock-a-bye baby

then back with a vengeance
                    is this what I want

I discovered my tribe
                    in the lanes of Glenairley

and a band of Georgettes
                    with our chickens and trains


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POETRY MONTH DAY # 13 — THE CHEESE STANDS ALONE

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Lucky 13, is today's date. Almost half-way through the month. How's everyone doing?

Like many of us, I turn to food for comfort during trying times, and I can tell I'm succeeding in the comfort department by how not comfortable my jeans are getting! Yesterday, after reading several of my friend Jane Byers' blog posts on the meals she's been creating thanks to the Whitewater Cooks series of cookbooks, I was moved to make the Christmas Breakfast Strata from the latest in the series, Whitewater Cooks More Beautiful Food, a delicious concoction of sautéed vegetables, eggs, milk, and three different kinds of cheese combined with  torn-up croissants. Being the carnivore I am, I un-vegetarianed it by adding strips of Black Forest ham. It's touted as a Christmas dish because you make it a day ahead so it's ready to pop in the oven first thing in the morning when you might be otherwise occupied. Today, it's an Easter Monday Breakfast Strata!

A poem in a dish! 

Ted, looking forward to digging in. On another note, do you think we need haircuts?

Today, NaPoWriMo suggests we "write a non-apology for the things you’ve stolen. Maybe it’s something as small as your sister’s hairbrush (or maybe it was your sister’s boyfriend!) Regardless, I hope this sly prompt generates some provocative verse for you." 

In keeping with the Christmas theme born at breakfast, I think I'll go here:


The Cheese Stands Alone

It is true that I ate the silky blue cheese
my sister gave you for Christmas
from the tony specialty cheeses store.

I thought it was something
you didn't particularly like
and as it turned out, I particularly did.

I didn't eat it all at once, however,
so you might have noticed
the white paper it was wrapped in

shrinking from a fat little package
to a flat, crumpled envelope
over the course of the week.

I expect it would have gone well
with the Prosecco we uncorked
on New Year's Eve,

the smooth, sharp wedges
brought to room temperature
and smeared on a snap of cracker

a contrast to the champagne's
fruity spray of bubbles,
but we'll never know.

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POETRY MONTH DAY # 12 — ABBA INCITES A TRIOLET

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I like tackling form poetry as a rule, but the triolet has always escaped me. It's ten after eleven so I have left myself with exactly fifty minutes to write, blog, and post. Why oh why oh why must I torture myself like this! ? !

Triolets are "eight-line poems involve repeating lines and a tight rhyme scheme. The repetitions and rhymes can lend themselves to humorous poems, as well as to poems expressing dramatic or sorrowful moods" according to NaPoWriMo. Near as I can make out, the rhyme scheme is ABAAABAB. Kind of makes you wonder if you could write one about ABBA. Hmmm. Let's call it

Born of ABBA

Spawn of ABBA


ABBA Incites a Triolet


Fernando, Francesco, whatever your name 
you come to me now in dreams not my bidding 
you played me hard but I wasn't a game
nor was I the person you thought you could tame
after you left I was never the same 
you said you'd be back but I knew you were kidding
well, look at you now; you're dead—what a shame
and all that you left is a newspaper clipping.

~~~~~~~~~~~

There. About to post. Ten minutes to spare. My new byline? "It ain't Shakespeare but it's fun!"

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POETRY MONTH DAY # 11 — OF ROSES AND MARIGOLDS AND IMITATION LOVE

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On Wednesday (April 15th) our poems will be online; links will be added soon as I have them. Wish we could be doing this live, but this is the next best thing.

So. A poem to do with flowers today. Okay. Here goes...

Of Roses and Marigolds and Imitation Love

I'm listening to the radio 

well, not the radio, to some music channel on the Internet 

as we do now, listening to old stuff 

because sometimes you just want to know all the words

so you can sing along and blot out reality 

and who comes on but  Anita Bryant,

you know, the anti-gay orange juice chick,

and she's singing about paper roses and imitation love 

and all I can think of is the first gay couple 

who I knew was actually a couple,

decades before same-sex marriage was legal 

or even considered a possibility 

and how one time one of them brought a bouquet of flowers 

to the office for his friend, his partner, the love of his life 

to celebrate a birthday or an anniversary or spring, 

I don't remember, but someone asked him

what happened to the marigolds 

—apparently there were supposed to be marigolds in the bouquet—

and he said he couldn't abide orange thanks to Anita 

and I wonder what he'd think about the colour now

 given its frequent mention in politics these days 

and when I remember that couple all I know is 

if that was imitation love I think we all could use some.

~~~~~~~~~

There. Boy, you just never know where these prompts are going to take you, do you? 

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POETRY MONTH DAY 10 — SEVEN AFFIRMATIONS DURING COVID

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NaPoWriMo today would have us behave thusly:

"Today’s prompt (optional, as always) is another one from the archives, first suggested to us by long-time Na/GloPoWriMo participant Vince Gotera. It’s the hay(na)ku). Created by the poet Eileen Tabios and named by Vince, the hay(na)ku is a variant on the haiku. A hay(na)ku consists of a three-line stanza, where the first line has one word, the second line has two words, and the third line has three words. You can write just one, or chain several together into a longer poem. For example, you could write a hay(na)ku sonnet, like the one that Vince himself wrote back during NaPoWriMo 2012!"

I sat outside for a bit this afternoon. It was a gorgeous day.

—oh yeah, I can show you! 

Late in the afternoon we had another family Zoom get-together. Baby's getting big. So good to see everyone.

Kiisa and Sisu, not practicing social distancing

So I've spent the entire day sorting out reading poems, videoing same, and now (still) getting them into Dropbox. I'm so done. So in response to today's prompt, this is all I've got, the majority of which were written when I was outside. 

Seven Affirmations During Covid

Friday

Good Friday

not so good

Neighbours

don't remember

the lovely horses

Is 

joy still 

possible, months later

Trees

still hung

with Christmas balls

Sun 

eats up

the last snow

Leaves

he rakes

blow across yard

Listen

there's music

in your life

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