How it glistens in the candles’ glow,
the star of every luncheon plate.
Who is it who could ever say no
to the salad dealt to her by fate?
With mayonnaise from a crystal dish
too elegant to contemplate–
the flavors of lime and tuna fish
meet at last, in quivering embrace.
What more could any hostess wish
than to see such joy on every face?
For NaPoWriMo, Day 15.
Hello … If I may step away from the NaPoWriMo poems for a moment, I’d like to let you know about some big progress on the chapbook front.
You might recall that my chapbook Secret Rivers received the 2013 Helen Kay Chapbook Prize from the fabulous Evening Street Press. It now has a cover photo and an author photo and everything, and is due out in June — and it’s available for preorder here! You’ll need to indicate which chapbook you want, mine or the finalist’s — but of course, you really want both. 🙂 I’ve ordered Lucia May’s Blond Boy and look forward to reading it.
That’s all for now … Tomorrow is NaPoWriMo Day 15 — hard to believe, isn’t it?
So, will it snow today or not?
Will I wake up again in the middle of the night?
Will I be sure that I have lost my mother’s amethyst ring?
Will I roam around, fruitlessly, trying to find it?
Will I realize that I still have it (though not my mother)?
Is the day coming when I don’t wake up filled with dread?
Is another day coming after that?
Is it going to be OK, everything that I’m worried about?
Would it help if I could call my mother?
When I could call her, why did I so often not?
When she called me, why did I so often pick fights?
Why did I so often take the bait?
How did I think I’d feel now?
Does it ever really satisfy, being right?
Am I ever really sure that I am right?
How do other people manage their lives?
What do they do with their big griefs and small griefs?
Is it possible for grief to be plural?
If I lose my front teeth, can I afford to buy new ones?
How long would it last, the grief for my teeth?
I check every few minutes but still don’t see snow.
For NaPoWriMo, Day 14.
Come, my swan of blood. Let us feed the eagle.
Our wave-swine, our sea-steed, stands ready
under the sky jewel, this glory of elves. Come
Unsheath your onion of war, your wound-hoe.
The lord of the gallows calls us; the wolf’s father
already prepares our reward. Will we find it,
the serpent’s lair, before our sleep of the sword?
O, my breaker of rings, breaker of trees. I will be
your girl of the houses until I am flame-farewelled.
For NaPoWriMo, Day 13. The prompt involved Nordic kennings.
Desire was designed for use on a boat and is
traditionally worn without socks. Modern desire
was invented in 1935, inspired by a dog’s ability
to run easily over ice without slipping. Desire
is used by sailors and has become fashionable
in America, Argentina, China, France, Portugal,
Spain, and the UK. Desire is usually made of
thick cloth and has a rubber bottom. It is low
and nonslip. Here is a very cute ladies’ desire
with all the benefits of Dubarry’s performance
expertise. And here is desire for a trendy male;
the comfort and style are beyond comparison.
For NaPoWriMo, Day 12.
Meet me here by the 3/4 box of Franzia,
and I will tell you the new plan. Unscrew
the cap on the Boone’s Farm Wild Island;
let it breathe. Let it speak to us softly of
pineapple Life Savers and tropical
dorm-room nights. There’s something
in the air; it smells of supermarket jelly
doughnuts and the joy of our union.
You and I do not waste time on fine wine
and artisanal baked goods–not when
there’s so much work to do: Can we
build a new, sweet world before
the old, sweet world expires?
For NaPoWriMo, Day 11. The prompt was to write about wine and love.
Have you thanked a solitary bee today? Have you
put some pollen in the pockets of its pants?
Whether you’re a squill or a crocus, a snowdrop
or a winter aconite, your local solitary bee is ready
to assist you with all your reproductive needs.
Discreet. Friendly. Professional. That’s the kind of
service you can expect when a solitary bee comes
to drink your nectar with its strawlike proboscis
as its head wings legs pockets collect your pollen
and as you realize–for the first time–why it is
that you’re alive. So don’t be shy. Don’t be lonely.
When a solitary bee comes knocking, open up
your sepals, your petals. Stretch out your stamens.
Bloom.
For NaPoWriMo, Day 10. The prompt was to write a poem advertising something.
We are young, my dark horse of Pompeii. We are
young, and headed straight for the volcano. Ashes
everywhere. Cinders. It’s easy to talk dirty when
you’re already dirty. It’s hard to be in love when
you already know that love is a stereotype.
For NaPoWriMo, Day 9. The prompt was to use a list of five random song titles. Can you spot them?
I really don’t care what day it will be, or where,
or what kind of weather, when I die. Do you? Really?
If so, I’d venture to say that you’re fooling yourself —
or indulging some romantic notion about how these things go.
If you die in Coshocton, Ohio, on a snowy February night, you will be
equally dead as if this occurred on a rainy day in Paris.
I’m sure I’ve driven through Coshocton, and I went to Paris once. Both are
OK places to die, no matter which way you wear your arm bones.
Marilyn Cavicchia is dead, or maybe you are. Maybe both of us.
No one beat us with sticks. We missed our final shot at drama.
We thought there might be a rope, but of course there was no
rope. Who said we merit witnesses? There are no witnesses.
Just put your arms back on, and lie down. Be quiet. Try
to think about other things for a while, if you can …
NaPoWriMo, Day 8. The prompt was to rewrite a famous poem, and this one was suggested.
You spare me the worst of
dishpan hands. I suspect you are
ancient. From my daughter’s bed,
through the wall, you sound like
a motorboat plying Lake Michigan,
heard from a big white porch
as the sun sets — the hour of
Vernors and distant dinner
preparations, when I was
younger and didn’t have to
help with dinner, or with dishes,
or feel guilty for not helping.
When I was younger, and I
didn’t know you yet.
For NaPoWriMo, Day 7. The prompt was to write a love poem to an inanimate object.
Marilyn Rauch Cavicchia 