no mother needed – apparently; simply born within the patriarchal legacy, aromatic right from the start and already robed in the royal purple of kings
no mother needed as he rises full of promise, strong of his own accord, self-sufficient, one-of-a-kind, anointed with the frankincense and myrrh of his father’s own funeral pyre.
no mother needed, but the father is revered, his honor and reputation preserved and feted for eternity, ancestral ashes hidden away lest the paternal lineage become tainted by the scrutiny of daylight
no mother needed to nourish him, to prepare him for flight, to remind him of inborn vulnerabilities, no reference for humility and compromise, no haven for non-transactional love
"Pull yourself up by your own bootstraps!" ah, but the phoenix wears no such pedestrian footwear
and in the end, in his nest alone, consumed by the flames of his own making, his only solace is that a son will emerge to give his life meaning
Day Twenty prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: write a poem that uses an animal that shows up in myths and legends as a metaphor for some aspect of a contemporary person’s life. Include one spoken phrase.
They wrote it all down. The good (not much of that), the bad (though with surprisingly little judgment), and the ugly (so, so much of that).
They recalled the local boys who went from zero to hero just by donning a uniform, the surreal images of those same boys heading off to war by the trainload,
the newfound responsibilities of keeping up the homefront, the thrill of stepping out of constrictive roles: flexing freedoms, flexing muscles, revealing capabilities; still a wife, a sister, a nursemaid, a supportive prop, but now also a train conductor, a delivery driver, a farmer.
They spoke of the loneliness, the longing, the yearning, the carnal lust (“the wild cave-woman spoke”); outgrowing the “good girl,” the “good wife” roles, the soldiers, briefly passing by on their way to something horrible or coming back from something horrible, more than willing to fulfill the women's desires, allay their fears, divest them of their virginity.
They described the ubiquitous mud of the battlefields, how it turned uniforms brown (“the new style of clothing… the chic of mud”), how it disabled firearms, swallowed up artillery, drowned soldiers.
They told of the homecomings, the soldiers no longer soldiers, the bodies no longer breathing, the heroes who would rather not have been,
the mothers who weren’t mothers when their men went to war, the sainted helpmates who became whores in the eyes of unforgiveness, of hypocritical judgment, the fatherless children left to be raised by mothers who could no longer hold the jobs the men now reclaimed.
They sat opposite the empty chairs, where their partners in life once sat. They regretted scoffing at the the local boys in crisp new uniforms who became soldiers, who became heroes, who became disillusioned, haunted shells of men.
They suffered loss, but did not suffer bullet wounds, they sacrificed all but received no medals. They rose to the challenges but were shoehorned back into their stifled caricatures of weakness and dependency once deemed no longer needed in the workforce.
God bless the soldiers who fought for freedom and justice. God bless the women who fought for stability and sanity. God bless the female poets who lived it all and wrote it down so that we – a century later – might understand.
Day Sixteen prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: write a poem in which you respond to a favorite poem by another poet. Not quite on prompt today. In looking for a poem to use (as I have no favorite), I found myself falling down a rabbit hole of female poets writing about WWI. Stark, moving poems depicting all facets of the war from a woman’s perspective.
A Sampling of Poems written by women about World War One:
He enters through the laundry room, passes off his domed metal lunch pail, heavy with the stainless steel thermos that clips into the top of the box.
Boots off. Faded denim overalls and wrinkled red handkerchief dropped onto the dirty clothes pile. Now in his “suntans”: a khaki shirt and loose-fitting trousers reminiscent of his wartime uniform.
At the deep utility sink, water so hot it turns his skin red. With lava soap and a bristle brush he attacks the black tarry substance stuck to his hands and arms. Soap lathers up past his elbows.
Face washed, hat-flattened hair tamed with a black plastic pocket comb; only then does he enter the kitchen and greet his wife with a kiss. Supper is cooked and waiting for him.
Day Twelve prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: write a poem that recounts a memory of a beloved relative, and something they did that echoes through your thoughts today.
(Text presented at bottom of post if you don’t want to wade through the erasures. )
Law Gone! Introduction: A Neatly Cut American Dream
Since the development of our earliest law, a privileged founding father of America sought to elevate our nation's fence for keeping out lives. He envisioned a wall like the aristocrat model. Drive the streets today and you'll see one law flowing into the next.
It's easy to see how the law became so popular. When maintained with regular grooming, it can be used for play and relaxation. Installing a law is fairly tidy.
Law culture applying -- and suppressants -- became firmly entrenched and today many councils have codified standards for a front. Just look at the law -- packed with big business.
The Grass is Always Greener
The fact is, traditional laws aren't well suited to our country. The particular, as well as the drought-prone law, often require copious toxic cover, require several hours of maintenance and the power comes with a high cost. Today we have a better understanding of the law's impact. We're tainted.
All around the country you can find a nation differentiated. We deserve better -- and we can make it happen.
People hardly use the law, and it can seem awful to maintain something that you never use. Other types do a beautiful job of covering, and help reduce the law that afflicts so many. Adapt and ultimately use fewer. You'll have the satisfaction of harming the environment. Let's reclaim our space.
Law Gone!will show you how to remove the law. Walk through the methods of law removal and install your new guard. If you have rules or ordinances to contend with, minimize their impact. Find picks and experts to pinpoint plans.
Day Eleven prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: Today, we’d like to challenge you to write your own erasure/blackout poem. You could use a page from a favorite book, a magazine, what have you. It can be especially fun to play with a book you don’t know, particularly one that deals with an unfamiliar topic.
I chose to usurp the introduction from the book Lawn Gone!: Low-Maintenance, Sustainable, Attractive Alternatives for your Yard by Pam Penick. My apologies to the author.
I grieve for lives lost because of others’ greed. I grieve for dreams crushed and opportunities denied because of prejudices and abuses of power. I grieve for hope dying, for hope lost.
I celebrate silly memes whose sole purpose is to express creativity and humor and joy in life; proof of the indomitable vein of humaneness within us. I celebrate sober acts of love, good will, humility, generosity and bravery of everyday people coming together to support, care for and protect one another.
I challenge myself to not look away, to not try to distance myself from the brutality, the callous disregard of suffering, the shortsighted squandering of natural resources that are the very foundation of life on earth. I challenge myself to right the wrongs.
Day Ten prompt from NaPoWriMo.net calls for “a meditation on grief.” I didn’t entirely meet the criteria of the prompt, but I’m still on track for a poem a day in April.
I can read minds, you know, and it’s not always pleasant. Like right now, you’re showing interest and kind of nodding along like you totally buy into what I’m telling you, because that’s the persona you want to project: openmindedness. But what you’re really thinking is that my purported ability to read minds is totally bonkers, and I must be, too.
We all have personas that we try to sell. Intellectual, confident, bad ass, honest and open… Yep, that last one is a projection, too. I mean, maybe you are honest and open. I’m not saying you aren’t. But you also want to be seenas honest and open, because that’s your persona.
So here’s the problem with reading minds: I can read who you are, who you think you are, who you think other people think you are, who you wish you were, who you wish others would think you were… That's a lot of reading, and -- as I said -- not so pleasant.
So, what about me? Who am I? Who do I think I am? Who do other people think I am? Besides bonkers, that is. I really haven’t a clue. What do you think I am, a mind reader?
Day Six prompt from NaPoWriMo.net: In your poem today, try writing with a breezy, conversational tone, while including at least one thing that could only happen in a dream.
Day 5 of National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)
Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt is a bit complicated to explain.
… inspired by musical notation, and particularly those little italicized –and often Italian – instructions you’ll find over the staves in sheet music, like con allegro or andante.
We are presented with three columns of words, and instructed to
First, pick a notation from the first column below. Then, pick a musical genre from the second column. Finally, pick at least one word from the third column. Now write a poem that takes inspiration from your musical genre and notation, and uses the word or words you picked from the third column.
I won’t reproduce the full columns, but the notations include gems like, “play like you are about to start crying,” “tempo di murder” and “with a hint of frenzy.” Musical genres include, “yacht rock,” “jazz fantasia” and “breakup anthem,” among others.
My selections were: genre “power ballad;” notation “improvisatory screaming;” and the word vampire.
Thus, my poem:
Screaming Meemies
A ballad not for faint of heart this story I’m about to [scream] a tale so foul [a shuddered moan] derived from Satan’s basest dreams.
The clock tolled noon one fateful day. A lightning strike; earth split a seam and from the depths of hell arose a fiend astride a golden gleam.
This incubus [a prolonged shriek] this vampire spewing blood and greed loosed upon our hallowed grounds to feast upon our direst needs.
A knight in armor tarnished gray, and yet a hundred score and five, fell at his feet [cue gnashing teeth] to save careers (and ruin lives).
Such devastation [Banshee’s screech], depriving souls their tended dreams, all done to fatten Satan’s purse and trample those of lesser means.
This [haunting howl] yet to resolve, to hell consigned or fait accompli? No hero comes to save the day. It rests on you, it rests on me.
What Rhymes with Stanza? 