Tag Archives: writing

Questions on a Sunday

Does the Little Tykes Cozy Coupe
against the gray house long to
hop the gray fence, go driving
down the gray street?

Do the flowerpots know what
they’re waiting for? Have
last year’s dead leaves
tried to give them hints?

Does the bathtub on the
back staircase wonder what
it did to get tossed out of
the breakfastless B&B?

If the whirligig of the fisherman
in yellow slicker and red boat
on blue water is completely
still, does it need a new name?

Do I need a new name, too?
Should I change it with every
season? Or is it better to keep
some small things the same?

 

 

For NaPoWriMo, Day 6. The prompt was to look out the window and write down some nouns, colors, and verbs.

 

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That Was a Sweet World

I once knew a girl named Ginnifer Green,
whose hands were like a pair of Buddhas.
Somewhere, she had a switch, always “On,”
so you never knew if you were going to the
movies, or over the fence to steal rotten fruit.
We’d get buzzed until we could hardly stand
it — that enervating joy of being what we
were. I’m sure I’ve had better things to eat,
now that I’m an adult and can afford the
luxury of discernment. But Ginnifer’s smile
is something I can never have again, and
that was a sweet world, in our boozy spit.
What would I trade to once again be out
on Ginnifer’s white driveway, toeing the
gravel? That laugh. That flash of teeth.

 

For NaPoWriMo, Day 5. The prompt was to write a Golden Shovel, which is a bitch of a form, let me tell you. Here’s the poem I worked from:

Watermelons

Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth.

— Charles Simic

Do you see what I did?

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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.

 

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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.

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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.

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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.

 

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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.

 

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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.”

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