Sunday, April 22, 2018

Daily Prose Poem



"Typical"

Opposite of the girl with the bright umbrella, handle poised across its handle like the stem of a flower she swirls between drops of rain, their substance more like dew or a delicate drizzle.  Her waiflike figure spins in and out of traffic, bright bobby socks light as air between her steps.  She looks like no one else on the street, tender heart of a child, fingers stained of paint.  I imagine she lives in a secret world only she can create, her unlocked windows absent of danger, her morning tea never bitter.

Saturday, April 21, 2018

Daily Prose Poem




"Chill"

Feet propped atop a table.  Head thrown back behind sunglasses.  Lazy lashes not busy.  A day too boring to gaze into.  A girl so quiet, so aloof that you have to wonder who she is.  She checks her watch, delicately lifts a cup of java to her lips for a sip.

Friday, April 20, 2018

Daily Prose Poem




"Classified"

Contained on the last page of a newspaper, or maybe the back flipside of a magazine cover.  The too-small type with promises you can't quite read, you just drop your check in the mail and await the surprise miracle.  Perhaps its someone's lonesome reverie: single white female with a love for vintage decor and cats, marriage comes equipped with Antebellum mansion.

Thursday, April 5, 2018

NaPoWriMo 2018: Day 5

And now for our (optional) prompt. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that, like the work in Translucence, reacts both to photography and to words in a language not your own. Begin with a photograph. Now find a poem in a language you don’t know (here’s a good place to look!) Ignore any accompanying English translation (maybe cover it up, or cut-and-paste the original into a new document). Now start translating the poem into English, with the idea that the poem is actually “about” your photograph. Use the look and feel of the words in the original to guide you along as you write, while trying to describe your photograph. It will be a bit of a balancing act, but hopefully it will lead to new and beautiful (and possibly very weird) places.


The Wintering

I apologize for the lack in all my letters, Spring tip-toed past my window so quickly.  Is October thick with winter where you are?  My mind wonders avenues toward you too often.  Summer skies, air between us heavy of stars, myself barefoot on some random earth-walk.  You know how love is, even when it's gone.  You can't help but untangle how it all went wrong.  How something so meant to be, so proper could accidentally unravel when you weren't watching, like a cashmere sweater on the eve of some gala event and so you're forced to change into a less-favorable color.  Right now the winter has wedged itself between the leaf-less trees.  And the cold emptiness, wherever it came from, is inescapable.  I wonder if its winter where you've nested?  Are your shoulders shaking of cold like mine are?  The clouds here are the color of ice prisms, they carry whole invisible islands across their backs.  The wind is strangely still and I'm wondering if this is how it ends:  my heart rolling across the edge of tomorrow like an old stone.  If we ever meet again I'll ask you about the anatomy of wild dandelion.

Wednesday, April 4, 2018

NaPoWriMo 2018: Day 4

And now for our (optional) daily prompt. Our craft resource today focuses on the use of concrete nouns and specific details, using the idea of “putting a dog in it.” Today, we challenge you to write a poem that is about something abstract – perhaps an ideal like “beauty” or “justice,” but which discusses or describes that abstraction in the form of relentlessly concrete nouns. Adjectives are fine too! For example, you could have a poem about sadness that describes that emotion as “a rowboat tethered with fishing line to a willow that leans over a pond. Rainwater collects in the bottom, and mosquito eggs.” Concrete details like those can draw the reader in and let them imagine the real world where your abstract ideal or feeling happens.



Happiness...

Was a lily pond
surrounded by an ocean
of babies breath,
the wind orchestrating
a series of chimes between
whispering willow eves
and ivy branches;
Easter dogwood bending
a Namaste bow to
such untethered tranquility.
And beneath the skies,
robin egg blue and devouring
the world a rainbow hue,
we bloomed, she and I.
Our twisted roots uncoiling
from the frayed dirt of an old life,
into the new petal skin of one flower.

Tuesday, April 3, 2018

NaPoWriMo 2018: Day 3

Today’s prompt (optional as always), is inspired by our interview with Peter Davis. As he indicates there, his latest book is rooted in endlessly writing ideas for band names. Today, we challenge you to try this out yourself by writing a list poem in which all the items are made-up names. If band names don’t inspire, how about a list of titles for romantic novels? Or new television cop dramas? They can be as over-the-top as you like, because that’s (at least) half the fun.

I actually wrote my poem using some random book titles of V.C. Andrews, since there's a huge shelf of them sitting right next to me.


Shelf Reading

Some poems are Orphans,
intricate as Whitefern.
Twisted Roots of their lines
swinging ancient
Dollanganger synonyms,
a metaphorical pendulum
for Secrets in the Shadows;
bitter of winter
and awaiting April.



Monday, April 2, 2018

NaPoWriMo 2018: Day 2

Today I did my own thing in terms of prompts.  I modeled this poem after a poem written by Natalie Goldberg, hers is titled 'Wanting Men.'


Butch Girls

I fear their soft palms,
a magic-trick their skin
pulls across your naked eye.
I love the measure of mystery
they force upon you by the sweet
smell of cologne not meant for femininity.
I believe such women are Goddesses
and I long to have them teach me
of their ancient Kama Sutras.
I want women with short hair,
I want to prick my fingertips
of their style, dip my fingertips
into the essence of what it
means to be a woman.
I want to ride the smooth
skin of their thick thighs
toward the barren stretch
of an open-star sky,
the total absence of inhibition
as they lather my skin of their love.
How I love the way their thick,
lank bodies fill a mens pair of jeans,
how they blink in deep sleep, and smile.

I love the way my girl
chews the edges of her tongue
while sleeping and I wonder
if she's tasting me.
I love how she raises her
cushion-pillow lips across
her teeth, a ruby-curtain smile
that melts the clay between my ribcage.
Her body, a magic lotus flower,
how she rises above me,
hip against hip, my woman warrior.

I love the way she drives us
into night, reimagining some
eternal childhood flaw, headlights
two steady stars we follow into oblivion,
wheels swerving dangerously toward
out-dated bell-curves, reckless on caffeine
and it terrible need of sleep.

Magnetic Poetry

Forevermore

Sensual muse
was a girl
in the storm,
broken but brave,
a renegade of
coffee bean and
morning talk.



Sunday, April 1, 2018

NaPoWriMo 2018: Day 1

And last but not least, here is our (optional, as always) prompt for the day. It’s based off of Lauren Russell’s collaborative poetry exercise. Today, we challenge you to write a poem that is based on a secret shame, or a secret pleasure. It could be eating too many cookies, or bad movies, or the time you told your sister she could totally brush her teeth with soap. It’s up to you.


On Loving My Girl

I adore the adventure
of being lost
and her body
is my wonderland.

And when the world
rolls me between the
calloused hands of its
bewitching clock-ticks,
her kiss is my oasis.

I would dare you
to touch the soft-silk
of her unmarred skin,
except love is the only exception
and you may fall into
the blissful abyss of her eros.

Saturday, March 31, 2018

NaPoWriMo 2018: Early Bird Prompt

Today’s prompt is one we’ve used before, but it gets great results, and who can argue with results? So today I’d like to challenge you to write a poem in the form of a love letter . . . to an object. Ideally, the poem will be a kind of riddle, where it’s not totally obvious that the addressee is your beloved childhood pogo stick, or a dish of pad thai from your favorite restaurant, until near the end. This is a great opportunity to play with some of the clichés and tropes of love poetry. But while this kind of poem can be a great way to explore humor in verse, you might also surprise yourself with just how deep and true your feelings toward an object can be.



An Ode to Iced Latte

I first found your form
at the Fuzzy Duck café.
You were a brown-mamba
crescendo to early-morning chimes
and so my tongue began the dance.

I chased the velvet feel
of your hot-lava java from
campus-library doorway
to hipster-café counter,
always my magic star-bean muse.

And, always, like any proper lover,
you strummed the panic-chord
to my finger-jittery poets-page.