“Never forget me,”
she said, but memory fades
quicker than spice.
For NaPoWriMo, Day 4. The prompt was to write a lune, a form that has three lines with three, five, and three words in each.
Tag Archives: poetry
A Charm to Find a Box Turtle
Orange of eye and quick of pace,
with your handsome carapace,
show yourself — now, don’t be late —
and you’ll find berries on this plate.
For NaPoWriMo, Day 3. The prompt was to write a rhyming magic charm.
And Aosaginohi, Luminescent Heron of the Night
Aka Manto, I do not wish the blue paper or the red —
no paper for me, thanks. I’ll squat and drip dry,
and thus be neither strangled nor sliced.
Akaname, you are welcome to come and lick my
bathroom clean. I’ll think of you like a house centipede;
we’ll agree to unsee each other as we make our living.
Azukiarai, what is the sound of your azuki beans
being washed? I imagine it as shook shook shook.
Abura-akago, I’m afraid we don’t have the right
kind of lamps for you. Your infant tongue might burn
on the coils of our lightbulbs, and still not find any oil.
Ameonna, do you sometimes make rain for Amefurikozo
to play in? I would do this for any little boy, if I were you.
For NaPoWriMo, Day 2. I wrote based on this list of creatures from Japanese legend. I regret that I couldn’t give the little boy in my last stanza the long accent over his final “o.” I’m still figuring out this new blog theme.
Only the Sound
I used to be mystified by whale-shaped volcanoes.
Now, I know it’s all just so much razzle-dazzle,
a certain belching of acid or fire, a little rumble
shaking us up toward our only glimpse of sky.
Sometimes I think our whale volcano might be
on a birthday cake, white frosting under our feet
if only we could dig far enough. If only we had
any inclination, or enough shovels. Sometimes
I think we’re all alone, and there’s no such thing
as birthdays. Only saltwater. Only lava. Only
the sound of our own breath, repeating.
NaPoWriMo 2014 is Almost Here!
April brings NaPoWriMo, or as I call it, the month when I throw 30 poems down a well.
Actually, the truth is a little more nuanced than that: I’ve found that it’s possible to get poems published even if they’ve appeared on your blog … IF you first check the guidelines for any statement to the contrary and IF you divulge this sort-of previous publication when you submit. (Editors don’t like surprises.)
Anyway … Starting on April 1, you’ll find a new poem here each day, based on the prompts at the link above. If you’re doing NaPoWriMo, too, please let me know in the comments here, and I’ll make sure to include you on my circuit of blog visits.
And if you are a poetry appreciator but don’t consider yourself to be a poet, I highly recommend NaPoWriMo as a way to try your hand at it. The prompts are challenging but approachable. And while you don’t have to blog your results, if you do take that risk, I bet you’ll find that people are supportive. April seems like a time to try something new, doesn’t it?
See you next month — allllll month long.
Home to Roost
Never a twilight kitchen curtain closes—
apple gingham blocking apple tree,
roosting swifts, twittering in aggregate—
as never inside a silence falls, bereft of
any comfort. Never think that these
evenings will be embroidered on towels,
suspended in amber, frozen in memory.
Time has curtains of its own, divides us
from seeing each other, the drift of clouds
scudding treetops, until it is too late.
Listen: All our dead mothers call all our
dead selves from all our dead doorsteps
at all our dead back doors.
Luncheon
Now I am a sandwich loaf
frosted in cream cheese,
with mushrooms and small
tiles of ham. Now I am the
ham, or else I’m still the pig,
caged and oblivious. Now
I am a duck among thousands
starving on the lake ice, or
one of hundreds fishing
in the river water. Now I
am the fish, swimming in
the river or lying on a platter,
a new face drawn over my
old face, in cream cheese
or mayonnaise. Now I am
lighting the candles. Now I
wait for my guests. I will
serve them what I have,
what I was, what I am.
Leave It a Lost Soul Making Something
Writ large on the side of an underpass was this message:
Ham aspic never solved anyone’s problems. Which, if you
really come right down to it, I guess it never has. Still, that’s
quite a thing to read on a Sunday morning, when you’re out
for a drive and minding your own sunny and blameless business.
Who would bother to write that? And what about perfection
salad? Has it ever rendered the world any more perfect?
Somewhere, there is a masked lover of everything gelatinous.
Somewhere, he raises his forearms over his plate, like a
mantis, thinks, “Everything I love only causes grief.”
It Will Be a Sea Change
Old rockers don’t like eating dinner at 4 in the afternoon.
They know at least a hundred cool ways to die.
Old rockers wrinkle in ways that are bad-ass.
They flash devil horns at the retirement home staff.
Old rockers trick out their motorized scooters.
They never go to bingo night without something in a flask.
Old rockers stare out of smoked-glass windows.
They like to watch the young punks pass them by.
Ripe Plums Indeed
Slept late again.
I guess they only go to sleep
if they are out in the cold.
Oh, I couldn’t sleep again!
My mind kept racing along
at fever-pitch; she said I didn’t have
the courage of my convictions.
Gisela likes to talk and tell secrets
and give counsels.
Couldn’t sleep—lurid dreams.
Had insomnia again!
Slept a long time.
There was a far-off gleam in her eye;
I could have shot him in the head.
That killed the day for me.
But there were cocktails, of course,
a long, fascinated conversation—
I felt dreamy.
This is a rather dizzying account
of the creation of the universe.
It’s an awfully good story,
and one expects momentarily
to be pelted by raindrops
as big as ripe plums.
If it’s Tuesday p.m., check out Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.
Marilyn Rauch Cavicchia 