Friday, April 3, 2015

NaPoWriMo Day #3

So, here we are at day three!

I've been spending a majority of my days reading and writing.  If this is any indicator of the rest of the month, my eyes may well be worn out by the 30th!  Ah, but I'm loving every minute of it.

I wrapped up the book of poetry by Jane Shore.  I was pleasantly surprised and totally lost myself somewhere between her descriptions of Guatemalan Indian Dolls and Rattlesnake for dinner.  Today I began Spoon River Anthology by Edgar Lee Masters.  I actually was first introduced to his work when, way back during my middle school years, some of his poetry appeared in one of my Literature textbooks.  Talk about a good memory!  I'm glad, though, to finally get the chance to read it in full.

Today I wasn't really inspired by the prompt at the official NaPoWriMo.  I just really can't write in form, it feels so limiting to me.  And the process of counting syllables or meter just totally stifles whatever creative flow I get into.

So today I'm doing one of my own NaPoWriMo prompts.  I created a 30 Day Poetry Writing Challenge for the April Writing Almanac over at Pink.Girl.Ink.  If you're looking for inspiration, it's totally worth checking out!

Here is the day #3 NaPoWriMo Prompt from Pink.Girl.Ink.:
My Grandmothers' Kitchen
Write a poem about your grandmother's kitchen.  It may have been a long time since you've seen it (if you can't remember, or for some reason never actually saw your grandmothers kitchen, then use your imagination!).  Perhaps you were just there last weekend, how did it look? What did you do?  Describe the kitchen, the furnishings, the belongings....allow those descriptions to tell a story.


And below is my poem:


Becoming Vegetarian

Two weeks into summer break
And one more late evening spent
Perched on the rickety wooden seat
Of my grandmother Rushie’s cluttered kitchen
While my parents searched for a new car.
We spent most of the day
Sitting beneath the sweetly cool air
Of the inside-wall air conditioner
Watching the O.J. Simpson court drama
And placing silly bets on Murder She Wrote.

In the steamy kitchen I drank
Milk straight from the carton,
A deadly sin in my father’s house,
As grandma threw hands-full of pasta
Into the empty iron belly of a pot
That looked old enough to have
Belonged to her late grandmother.
I always loved that about her kitchen,
The old things in their out-dated names,
Brands the factories no longer made,
And the eyes of vintage kids who stared
Sadly from the shiny ends of coffee cans
Where sugar cemented or flour staled
Of all the forgotten recipes
For simple cookies and cornbread muffins.

Hungry smells swam the air,
Invisible acrobats, as she drank cream soda
And pushed a bowlful of chilli powder,
Onion, and raw meat towards me.
Ravenously, I mixed, pausing all-at-once
To remember that this meal was a gift 
from some dead animal, given unwillingly.

Two hours later,
Planted against the tattered
Blue velvet couch of her favorite sitting room,
Heaping bowls of Ghoulash and
Plates-full of collard greens balanced
Atop our knees like spinning saucers,
and tin cans of soda crunched between
The grip of our thighs, inescapable,
She laughed across the room at the TV.
“Better eat,” she said as she turned to me,
smacking her lips and twirling her fork
between the soft pasta like a botched lobotomy.
That was the first time I ever refused.
I crossed the faded gray brick of
Her front steps that night, angry at
the newfound truth of my personal epiphany.
And I went home hungry.

1 comment:

  1. this was nostalgically nice. your description of the old pots and brands no longer made. your sitting on the couch while watching the O.J. Simpson trial and placing bets on who did it for Murder She Wrote. yes, i remember them days. oh but your epiphany.while going home hungry. i too have contemplated this but my ravenous hunger for certain meats and fish always gets the best of me. hope Nature's spirit forgives me.

    note: i too am not tethered by the traditions of meter and rhyme. i prefer free verse where my thoughts fly free with an occasional rhythm that coincidentally might rhyme

    gracias

    ReplyDelete

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