Cut boards apart, then reassemble. Drill holes, then fill them in. Brush on stain, then wipe it off. Break stained glass, then tack together. Melt solder lines so they will harden. Build a window to block the view. Artisans are fine crafters of contradictions.
It’s been a dry summer,
no word play to spare.
What little comes forth
dissipates in the air.
Pen poised above paper,
ink eagerly flows.
A doodle emerges;
no poems or prose.
A rhyme – ‘haps a reason –
to brighten my day?
But no, merely dust
on my laptop’s display.
Perhaps chalk on the sidewalk
if not paper or screen.
but when the dust settles,
not a word to be seen.
I’d settle for tropes
or cliches worn and frayed.
word choices so bad I
must rhyme “marmalade.”
I’ll spare you, dear reader,
‘til rains settle in, when
words fall from the sky
in a glorious din.
When parched brain receptors
rehydrate and breathe,
I’ll come waxing poetic,
my soul on my sleeve.
A new April morning, a new prompt for a poem. My thoughts had gone hither – or was it thither? – to roam. And so I zipped off a quick five-seven-five, to keep my NaPoWriMo challenge streak alive. I tapped the blue button to publish my poem. At just that same moment I heard a loud groan. “Oh, hey there, Muse.” Quickly, I closed laptop lid. “Too late!” Muse cawed smugly. “I see what you did!” “You can toss words like salad; even frost them like cake. Count the syllables, divide lines, but it still does not a haiku make.” “You thought you could do this Na-Po-gizmo sans me. But this faux form space filler shows an obvious need. I’ve sat on that bookcase ‘tween Webster and Roget, my rhyming riffs roiling and ready to play.” “Are you through with the pep talk?” My sarcasm seethed. “I’ve muddled through without you, although not with ease. A sonnet on sunshine, triolet carved with care, and a shanty so swashbuckling you can smell the salt air.” “You’ve been absent for months now, with nary a sneer. My quill pen has molted; a goner, I fear. My blog has been starved, on it’s penultimate gasp, the only sound left: a lone cricket’s rasp.” “I took a hiatus,” Muse confessed with chagrin. “But I did it for you, so it’s hardly a sin. In the Andes I found adverbs; (in Morocco, great stew;) In Europe, interjections like, ‘Ach!’ and “Mon Dieu!” “Just stop!” I admonished. “Your excuses are worn. But at least ‘twixt us two today's poem has been born. Perhaps you will deign to remain here awhile?” “Just like the old times,” Muse agreed with a smile.
Day Twelve of National Poetry Writing Month. The prompt from NaPoWriMo.net:
… write a poem that addresses itself or some aspect of its self (i.e., “Dear Poem,” or “what are my quatrains up to?”; “Couplet, come with me . . .”) This might seem a little “meta” at first, or even kind of cheesy. But it can be a great way of interrogating (or at least, asking polite questions) of your own writing process and the motivations you have for writing, and the motivations you ascribe to your readers.
I didn’t quite follow the prompt, but hey, my muse isn’t always cooperative. Other posts featuring Muse:
I recently visited the Vancouver, WA public library and came across the Mary Granger Sculpture Garden, a collection of four sculptures on the library property, all created by regional artists.
I’ll share them here as part of Marsha’s Photographing Public Art Challenge (PPAC).
I thought I’d come across a fifth piece of public art, but upon further investigation, it turned out to be a bike rack. Oh, well. Perhaps art is in the eye of the beholder.
Bloganuary prompt: What do you like most about your writing?
When I write, I can share parts of me that
would have and will likely continue to be
unspoken.
I can share my sense of humor and remain
blissfully unaware as to whether anyone else
senses my humor.
I can share my self-ascribed wisdom, when
It might otherwise be unwise
to do so.
I can think before speaking, and then
think again before hitting the
“publish” button.
And if a reader doesn’t find me compelling
or funny or wise, I will most likely
never know.
It’s kind of like the freedom of expression
that I otherwise only feel
when talking to my pets.
April is always a challenging month on this blog. I am of course referring to the blogging/poetry challenges that take place this time of year.
For 2021, I’m participating in the Blogging from A to Z Challenge, where one commits to 26 posts in April (every day except Sundays) with daily topics A to Z as the month progresses. Specific theme optional.
I participated in this challenge in 2016 and 2017, then skipped three years to do the NaPoWriMo (National Poetry Writing Month) challenge. But I’m back!
My theme: as I did in 2017, I will post a 5-7-5 alliterative poem each day (a poem in the form of three lines with corresponding syllables per line of 5, 7 and 5). Not a bona fide haiku, just a similar syllabic sentiment.
I will be the angel of alliteration, the beacon of brevity, the clutterer of clarity, the de– … well, you get the idea. If you want to see how that played out in 2017 you can read those posts beginning here.
Anybody can participate in this challenge. How about you? Are you game?
Tap tap…
“Is this thing on?”
I am answered with the squeal of feedback from my microphone.
Squinting through the bright spotlight, I see vague outlines of a few forms in the audience. I hear the shuffling of feet, some random coughing, chairs chirping as they scrape the floor.
“So, it’s been a while.” My breath stirs dustmotes from the mic.
Silence.
I clear my throat.
“Anyway, as you know, it’s almost April, and April is National Poetry Writing Month, or NaPoWriMo for short. And I’m here to announce that – even though I’ve only posted once on my blog so far this year – I fully intend to meet the challenge of writing a poem a day for the entire month of April.”
Silence.
Apparently, I’ve lost a few audience members in my absence. Or maybe a lot. Not that I had many to begin with.
Sigh.
“Looks like it’s just you and me,” I say to my muse. “Muse?? Muse!!” Now where has she gone off to?
Well, I’ll find her and bring her back well-inked and ready for the challenge.
See you then. If you’re still out there…
You are the funnel circling the bathtub drain.
You gurgle incomprehensible complaints and accusations.
You suck vacuously at lavender scented air,
all the while choking back the bile of sewer sludge
that tickles your throat.
Your vortex pulls in stinky sock lint –
flushed out of hiding from between unsuspecting toes,
clumps of sloughed off hair and slimy scum.
Lots and lots of scum.
I watch and silently will the tub to drain faster
so as to leave as little residue as possible
once you are gone.
And for the umpteenth time, I wonder how it is
you ever got elected to office.
The prompt today deals with:
“the concept of meta-poems – which are poems about poems! In this video, the poets Al Fireis, Lily Applebaum, Dave Poplar, and Camara Brown discuss Emily Dickinson’s ‘We learned the Whole of Love.’ …
And now for our daily (optional) prompt. As you may have guessed, today I’d like to challenge you to try your hand at a meta-poem of your own.
So this is maybe not a proper meta-poem, but after watching about half of the video provided as a resource, this is the impression I was left with:
Large canvas yawns on studio floor
Cigarette ash lengthens with neglect
Eye sizes up canvas and looks for inspiration
Brushes, paints, splatters, spills
Colors, contrasts, movement, perspective
Figure steps back, surveys result
Artist, art? Crafts-person, handiwork?
Custodian, drop cloth?
♦ ♦ ♦
Blank page of crisp, white paper
Pen taps desk, ink smears
Hand looms over paper and waits for direction
Verbs, nouns, phrases, thoughts
Colors, contrasts, movement, perspective
Figure lifts page, reads and reworks
Poet, poetry? Wordsmith, story?
Shopper, grocery list?
♦ ♦ ♦
Canvas is framed, hung on wall in gallery
Viewers study the painting
Discuss what the artist intended
with each brush stroke or nuanced hue.
Writing is published in journal
Readers study the piece
Discuss word choice and tenor
Delve into the poet’s mindset and meaning.
♦ ♦ ♦
Custodian goes in search of missing drop cloth.
Shopper wonders where they misplaced their list.
NaPoWriMo, Day 22. The prompt:
Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that engages with another art form – it might be about a friend of yours who paints or sculpts, your high school struggles with learning to play the French horn, or a wonderful painting, film, or piece of music you’ve experienced – anything is in bounds here, so long as it uses the poem to express something about another form of art.
While I did struggle with French horn in high school, stained glass is much more fun. And so I give you:
It is Summer.
The trees are full of leaf chips:
green and yellow with black stringer twigs.
I haven’t done glass work in ages.
I will do straight lines.
Lots of straight lines. And lead,
not copper foil. Foil is harder to do.
Birds come to mind.
I don’t really know why.
I spread my wings and begin cutting glass.
It is Autumn.
The leaf chips have turned gold and burnt orange,
and a deeper shade of yellow.
They are falling.
The birds chatter amongst themselves.
Is it time to head south?
It’s getting colder. They hold their wings close in
to their weightless bodies.
I turn the heater on in my studio.
It is Winter.
White snow, blue ice.
This pattern is no longer in production;
the birds need to be larger.
Two fat cardinals land on bare branches and
consult with a larger bird, whose tail feathers
splay a bit to accommodate
smaller pieces of background.
I love the dark red of the cardinals;
a smooth rolled glass that cuts like butter.
It is Spring.
Leaves are returning.
Delicate lavender flowers
buzz with the breeze of bee wings.
It is time for building nests,
laying eggs,
feeding hatchlings.
How does one differentiate
a worm from a slender tree branch?
I will allow curves this time.
After three seasons,
I think I’m ready.
What Rhymes with Stanza? 