Monday, April 18, 2016

NaPoWriMo Day #17

the prompt over at NaPoWriMo today was:
Today, I challenge you to find, either on your shelves or online, a specialized dictionary. This could be, for example, a dictionary of nautical terms, or woodworking terms, or geology terms. Anything, really, so long as it’s not a standard dictionary! Now write a poem that incorporates at least ten words from your specialized source. Happy writing!

I chose my words from a dictionary of artistic terms.  My wordlist was:

art Nouveau
narrative art

Is This Narrative Art?

I feel sorry for women
who marry men
of other class.
Men of silver and high timber,
their corridors waxing Art Nouveau.
Women who burn  nocturne
behind red-velvet silkscreens,
etching mere seconds of
their real selves into days
made to well-pleasure
the life of someone else.
The leading-role female
in some other person's personal cinema.
Animation minus heart-glass,
Forced always to answer to
Mirror-idiots, cold-souled
and expressionless,
counter-clockwise corkscrew
in the bland mouth-turns
of idiot-savants who always
ask, "But you are happy?"

From the tinkle-laugh of his
drink-glass to the panorama export
of his live-in-maid,
such a privaledged woman with
the gall to reminisce better days,
her memory-wish smolten
by wall-grave and the green-paper
haze of blue-speckled diamond,
the blind-iris half of a band that
ill-fits her fingers-turned-fat
from caviar and dark, fattening
alcoholic drinks with names she
can't even properly enunciate.
She lays her noon daze
across armchairs with prominent
names of Kings and Queens
she knows nothing of,
just syllables to trip across her tongue.
Like a silly child, she longs
for childhood, the happy-heart poverty
of mud-stacked back-creeks
where feet still roam, penniless but free,
her father's voice singing from a cave
of broken window panes,
something smoking on the grill.
A cafe where her mother ruins aprons,
or a cafe, anywhere, and ordinary names.

She rescinds, she's one of them:
the certain women of red jaguars
and wrap-around antebellum porches
who've come to understand that
there's a hidden black market
for men with superfluous bank accounts:
girls like herself, snatched from
college diners in their prime,
lackluster marvels for wall- street
and the court of supreme.
And the grand-hall mirror
is the real truth-teller to
the pulp of some woman
whose real heart she can't remember,
well-dressed now and rendered helpless.
She touches the glass face of
her twin, an unknowable,
and understands why
the princess drank the poison.

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