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.
Mind rolled off your plate
rig in the ditch
stuck down so far
no Jesus winch could pull it out.
God damn I hate
seeing you this way.
Just dropped by
I shall build up my poems
from individual nerves firing
like birds do
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–
“Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world. ”
Audre Lourde on Shelley’s quote:
“Poetry forms the quality of the light within which we predicate our hopes and dreams toward survival and change, first made into language, then into idea, then into more tangible action… The farthest horizons of our hopes and fears are cobbled by our poems, carved from the rock experiences of our daily lives.”
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.