Today marks the end of NaPoWriMo’s challenge to write a poem a day during April. I took the challenge (the poems are here) and I must say I found it oddly liberating.
Mainly, it liberated me from having to fuss too much over any individual poem because I knew tomorrow would offer another opportunity. It became like dipping a bucket in a stream each day. Some days the bucket brought up sparkling, fresh ideas. Other days not so much. But it always brought up something.
I usually think of daily writing more as a habit of prose writers, but I learned that I was simply writing down what flows in the stream in each of us every day and trying to say it honestly with a minimum of fuss or “art” around it. Some poems are obviously better than others, but that isn’t really the point.
If you have never tried this as a poet, I highly recommend it! And you don’t even have to wait until next April.
They were always there.
I climbed past them dozens of times, unknowing.
Cut from the massif,
threatening in their way–
alive with guttural voices like wolves.
It took the deepest rain
and drifting skeins of cloud
to make them stand out
and pierce my wretched
wandering mind with wonder.
A homeless person
sitting on the sidewalk.
Another homeless person walking by
gives the first one a quarter,
then turns to me–
It isn’t that corporations are people,
it’s that people become corporatistas.
Stockholm syndrome is a mild
form of this affliction.
Mind and synapse, instinct and
marrow all turn inside out
until Santa at the company Christmas
party is just that–all bag and no man.
“Captain Ahab stood upon his quarter-deck. There seemed no sign of common bodily illness about him, nor of the recovery from any. He looked like a man cut away from the stake, when the fire has over-runningly wasted all the limbs without consuming them…you saw a slender rod-like mark, lividly whitish, like a lightening strike in a tree.” — Moby Dick
No thing in the flesh
burns more searingly
than this hatred.
It is a hotter fire,
a pain more cutting,
a sorrow more eviscerating–
this diamond pure
rancor and loathing.
And yet –and yet–
it can bring a Fletcher Christian
and his crew out of the maw
o Pitcairn island.
It seems nothing good
in this world
comes without alloy.
One hundred miles from Tonopah, Nevada, a narrow, unmapped canyon holds five hundred years of Shoshone dreaming. The arching stone walls are alive with petroglyphs of the Great Mother’s sacred yoni.
The odor of sage here is so strong it smells like all the world’s grandmothers are baking turkey. The sense of place is overwhelming.
Some three hundred miles away is the nowhere where nuclear weapons were born and where Robert Oppenheimer “became death, the destroyer of worlds.”
Today the Canyon of the Vaginas, earth’s birth canal, lies waiting for who or what, comes next into the world.
Once there was a seance that left everyone with a shimmering feeling of being inside on a snowy day.
Even the TV sat up and took notice, stopping its own snowing.
One can be in two places at the same time if you don’t mind being both substance and shadow.
Now the winter won’t let go.
The birds still call each other by their winter names.
They resemble maracas that can’t stop clacking when they are left on the table. Music swallowed by frozen water.
It is still beautiful to see a newborn in the womb, feet askew on the glass skin.
An aquarium fish looks out at you
and asks if we are related.