NaPoWriMo Day 22: "Dear Joan Baez"

Today's NaPoWriMo 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."

Today's PAD Challenge prompt:  "For today’s prompt, write a correspondence poem. Maybe write a poem that would fit on a postcard or in a letter. Or write a poem about correspondence school. Or jump into newer forms of correspondence like e-mail or text messaging. Of course, not all correspondence is connected to communicating; sometimes one thing corresponds to another by being similar."

My admiration for and identification with Joan Baez when I was around ten years old (not that I've ever really lost it) came back to me in a prompt-writing group last weekend. What hit me strongly for the first time then was how instinctively I knew myself; while I did not continue to want to me a musical performer, there is so much in her songs and singing and persona that resonates for me as a poet, a kind of lyrical correspondence (come to think of it) I continue to want to embody. It's a prose poem today; I wanted that kind of run-on rhythm.

Dear Joan Baez “I was born gifted,” you said. I wanted to be, maybe I was. You were what I loved before poetry. The first concert I ever went to, with my mother, where was that in New York. The records were my parents’ but I played them again and again. My cousin Phoebe taught me guitar. I tried to write folk songs so I could sing like you; “She’s sinking, she’s sinking, the Mary Queen of Scots” went the one I still recall. I recall how my classmates went still and listened, that one time in fifth grade. I wanted a dark and serious beauty. I did not want to date Bob Dylan. I vibrated to what was old and strange and full of longing. If I knew what justice was, of course I longed for it. I wanted it not through arguing but through the sounds that would ring in my throat. I wanted to stun the world with listening. Decades later I think how neither of us are exactly white, not when the lines are drawn. You knew where the lines were drawn. You knew what matters is which side are you on. You said the first gift was having the voice and the second was wanting to share it.

This record cover; oh my, such a piece of memory.

--Draft by Anne Myles. Do not copy, cite, or quote without permission.

NaPoWriMo Day 21: "Another Lake"

Today's NaPoWriMo prompt: "Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that . . . incorporates wild, surreal images. Try to play around with writing that doesn’t make formal sense, but which engages all the senses and involves dream-logic."

Today's PAD Challenge prompt:  "For today’s prompt, write a sketch poem. My initial thought is to write a poem that’s like a sketch of a moment or an object. But you can play around with sketchy people or situations. Or just sketch something else together."

At the NAR conference today I attended a session on "The Resurgent Sonnet" and it got me eager to write more sonnets, and realizing any way I want to do them is fine and open to being well-received. It was enjoyable to hear poet Allison Joseph talk about how quickly she can knock them out and how much pleasure it gives her. So I wrote a Petrarchan sonnet for today's poem -- very quickly, in about half an hour. While I did sort of do the prompts (I admit I only got surreal up to a point, that's not my strength at all) I was more energized around formal issues. At lunchtime I also revised my "Kindred Spirits" sonnet from April 4 some more, too (not posted) -- I think that one has a real future.

Meanwhile I've decided not to resist how many lakes show up in my poems, and indeed to cultivate them as a motif. There might be a trace of something usable here.

Another Lake

In the bare corner of the notebook page

half-thinking, she sketches a familiar scene:

an oval curve, the edge of yet another lake

bordered by a fringe of spruce or pine.

A fishing boat’s half-pulled onto the shore,

the curly pen-line rippling at its side.

What else? Why not a small cabin--chimney, door--

and above, the inevitable hint of sky and cloud.

She does not draw the tiny angels trudging

the surface in sodden boots, nor the mastodon’s

tusk gleaming in its temple. She does not draw

the lost city of the Lenape with its fires smudging

darkly through the water, nor the hungry maw

of the drowned moon, that feasts on what is gone.

(Not anything I drew)

--Draft by Anne Myles. Please do not copy, quote, or cite without permission.

NaPoWriMo Day 20: "Friendship: A Dialogue"

Today's NaPoWriMo prompt: "Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem that “talks.” What does that mean? . . . While it isn’t a monologue, it’s largely based in spoken language, interspersed with the speaker/narrator’s own responses and thoughts. Try to write a poem grounded in language as it is spoken – not necessarily the grand, dramatic speech of a monologue or play, but the messy, fractured, slangy way people speak in real life. You might incorporate overheard speech or a turn of phrase you heard once that stood out to you – the idea here is to get away from formally 'poetic' speech and into the way language tends to work out loud."

Today's PAD Challenge prompt:  "For today’s prompt, write a dark poem. Cave poems, poems at night, and no electricity poems–these are all appropriate for today’s prompt. Of course, dark has several other connotations as well. An underdog is often known as a dark horse, a villain may have a dark heart, and Batman is known as the Dark Knight."

I've taken an hour out from the the wall-to-wall NAR Conference to write a weird little dialogue that probably isn't a poem, except in the most extended sense. It's a fictive conversation with my best friend, trying to get at the real way we talk to one another. She's going through something hard right now and is very much on my mind. The first exchange (about the saying I wrote on earlier this month) is based on one I actually had, though I can't remember if it was with the friend I'm imagining here or another specific person. The friend here is also a literature professor and loves poetry, so we do have these discussions with poets (especially Victorian ones) cropping up on a regular basis.

Friendship: A Dialogue

--It’s cold as a witch’s tit out there.

--That’s such a weird saying. I bet witches have very nice tits. 

--Yeah, I know it’s misogynist, the sound play is just so good, it’s a pleasure to say the  words.

--We could come up with new sayings. It’s dark as a frog’s bumhole out too.

--Oh good one. Down in the lake, in the muck. Their bumholes would be extra dark. Did you know I had pet frogs as a child? We caught them in the lake and kept them in a terrarium. One day my father came home from work and I said all excited, “Dad, Dad, the frogs croaked!” and he thought I meant they died.

--You could write a poem about all the metaphors for it being cold or dark.

--What are some famous poems about the dark? I am blocked all of a sudden.There must be tons.

--There’s that Hopkins sonnet, “I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.”

--Oh good one. But I’d need to google, is he talking about real dark or spiritual darkness, there? Surely there must be a Dickinson one too.

--I’ll look. Here you go-- “We grow accustomed to the Dark -- / When Light is put away --”

--It’s got that mixed quality too, doesn’t it? Poor darkness, everyone makes it a bad thing. Like witches’ tits. And that gets all wrapped up with racism too.

--The dark, dark soul of Donald Trump. 

--Yeah. Though what did darkness do to deserve that. It’s like I always think, what did a horse’s innocent ass ever do to anyone?

--I wonder if his soul is dark, or only empty? I wonder which member of his administration truly has the darkest? If you had to choose, to rank them.

--Hard to decide. But I’m pretty sure women like Betsy DeVos have witches’ tits too.

 --Draft by Anne Myles. Please do not copy, cite or quote without permission.

NaPoWriMo Day 19: "A Goteran Abecedarian"

Today's NaPoWriMo prompt: "Today, I’d like to challenge you to write an abecedarian poem – a poem in which the word choice follows the words/order of the alphabet. You could write a very strict abecedarian poem, in which there are twenty-six words in alphabetical order, or you could write one in which each line begins with a word that follows the order of the alphabet. This is a prompt that lends itself well to a certain playfulness."

Today's PAD Challenge prompt: "For today’s prompt, write a license poem. There are many different licenses available to people. Fishing license, driver’s license, license to plate, license to kill, and marriage license. Poem doesn’t have to be about the license, but it could mention a license, happen at a licensing office, or well, use your poetic license."

In a little crack between other things I'm doing today, a rather meta poem following the lead of Vince Gotera, who names himself in his abecedarian today -- so I name myself and him too. Getting at my weird half-inspired, half-competitive streak that's got me trying to do double prompts every day the way he does. Although I do use the word "license," maybe what really fits the second prompt is giving myself license to write something less serious.

A Goteran Abecedarian

All right, Anne--

before you go off half-

cocked and crazed,

desperate at the difficulty of

executing an abecedarian,

find those daily

guidelines once more.

Have at it, they say,

instructing you to

just write a poem, any

kind of poem.

License is granted to

make up your mind;

nose to the grindstone

or follow your impulse,

prompts or no prompts.

Quit always trying to

reach for the stars!

Sure, if the poem turns out well,

that’s terrific.

Unbelievably, somehow

Vince Gotera always pulls it off, but

why worry if you can't keep up?

X marks the beautiful flaw.

You're still writing anyway:

zest is the better half of art.

  

                   

I'm sure Vince won't mind me using the cover of his new book of selected April poems, The Coolest Month (Final Thursday Press, 2019) as my image for the day.

--Draft by Anne Myles. Please do not copy, quote, or cite without permission.

NaPoWriMo Day 18: "Little Elegy"

Today's NaPoWriMo prompt: "Today, I’d like to challenge you to write an elegy of your own, one in which the abstraction of sadness is communicated not through abstract words, but physical detail. This may not be a “fun” prompt, but loss is one of the most universal and human experiences, and some of the world’s most moving art is an effort to understand and deal with it."

Today's PAD Challenge prompt: 'For today’s prompt, take the phrase “Little (blank),” replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then write your poem. Possible titles include: “Little Guy,” “Little Richard,” “Little Mermaid,” “Little Italy,” and “Little Words That Pack a Big Punch.” I think if you think about it for a little bit, you’ll find a big (or little) poem to write.'

I am exhausted and getting ready for company and the North American Review conference, and these prompts weren't triggering any inspiration; I was afraid I wasn't going to get it done. I've written so many elegiac poems already! But instead of my usual griefs, I thought I would write about an object that evokes the loss of my beloved greyhound Beth (B for Beth, 2006-2015). It's just a tanka, but hey it's a poem, and sorta-kinda does the prompts.

Little Elegy

A floral collar

fine as the greyhound who ran,

no, flew across fields,

rests now, tacked by a pawprint

in a glass memory box.

           

--Draft by Anne Myles. Please do not copy, cite, or quote without permission.

NaPoWriMo Day 17: "The Fire's Sermon"

Today's NaPoWriMo prompt: "Today, I’d like you to challenge you to write a poem that similarly presents a scene from an unusual point of view. Perhaps you could write a poem that presents Sir Isaac Newton’s discovery from the perspective of the apple. Or the shootout at the OK Corral from the viewpoint of a passing vulture. Or maybe it could be something as everyday as a rainstorm, as experienced by a raindrop."

Today's PAD Challenge prompt: "For today’s prompt, write a reason poem. If this prompt seems unreasonable, just remember all the reasons you write poetry or enjoy cooking, dancing, singing, etc. Or provide a reasoned argument for your lack of reason. Only you know your reasons."

I added another poem to the heap I've already seen appearing at The New Verse News and elsewhere this week inspired by the Notre Dame fire -- though I ended up thinking along more Buddhist lines about it. Oops, I realize I forgot the part about presenting a scene -- although of course we all have the same scene in mind this week without my saying anything.

The Fire's Sermon

You love me if cold.

If hungry. If seeking to erase

what you no longer need.

You hate me if burning.

If scarred. If ravaged

by letting go.

You make me a symbol:

For you I am love. I am anger.

I am war. I am justice

that wipes the world clean,

I purify what you call a soul.

I am in all your gods.

For myself, I know no meaning.

I am combustion,

atoms rearranging themselves.

I am pyrolysis.

If a spark strikes, no more reason then

than why you breathe

then breathe again.

I exist, I cease.

Something is different after.

You look for reasons;

you mourn for change.

There are three things I know:

on this earth, I am impermanent.

I breathe the same air you do.

And nothing that you love

cannot be fuel.

             

--Draft by Anne Myles.  Please do not cite, copy, or quote without permission.

NaPoWriMo Day 16: "Ten Things to Do While Fishing with Your Parents as a Child"

Today's NaPoWriMo prompt:  "Today’s prompt takes its inspirations from Christopher Smart’s “Jubilate Agno.” Fundamentally, this is a poem about a cat. It’s also a structurally very straightforward poem – every line begins the same way, and is about some aspect of the cat at issue. But from these seemingly simple ingredients, Smart constructs a poem that is luminously, joyously weird. . . . Today, I challenge you to write a poem that uses the form of a list to defamiliarize the mundane."

Today's PAD Challenge prompt:  "Time for our third Two for Tuesday of the month! Pick one prompt or use both…your choice! [1] Write a catch poem. Catch a cold, a ball, a fish, or someone’s eye. [2] Write a release poem. Release your anger, a ball, a fish, or someone’s head (from a head lock while wrestling, of course)."

I feel like this combo could generate a ton of good ideas, but the second prompt immediately reminded me of the phrase "catch and release," which made me think about the many hours I spent in a fishing boat with my parents, occupying myself in various exquisite states of boredom. But so resonant now, as I imminently face selling our house on a lake where many of these memories take place. As the memories came back to me, I was sharply aware I was experiencing my own catch and release process too. I decided it would be ten things at the outset, to serve as a formal container.

  Ten Things to Do While Fishing with Your Parents as a Child

1. Cast the shore with them for a while. The crisp snap of rod and line, the thrill of the lure hitting the spot you aimed for.

2. Say “hey!” when one of their errant lines sprays you with wet. Duck to avoid the hook-prickled rapala.

3. Watch the edge of the woods for mysterious animals that might or might not appear. Watch the sky in the evening, wondering if those are birds or bats.

4. Trail your hand in the water as the electric motor ferries you slowly to the next spot.

5. Trail a homemade, blocky wooden toy boat on a string in the small wake, and ask your mother to make up a new Willy the Whaler story.

6. Create grotesque “salads” for display with weeds, dead minnow bits, and anything else you can find.

7. Lie across the uncomfortable middle seat, head propped on a flotation cushion, and read thick classic novels that are probably too old for you.

8. Sit up for the excitement when one of your parents catches something and reels it in. Feel sorry for the fish. Feel proud that they practice catch-and-release. Still feel sorry for the fish.

9. Try not to worry that whichever parent has caught fewer fish that day feels sad. Parental sadness is unspeakable, a scarcely perceptible mist over the water.

10. Smell that smell on your life preserver, the cushions, your father's jacket and everything -- fishiness, dried weed and algae, a trace of oil, sweat, the clear and bitter lake. Years later it will come back to you, to breathe it and let it go.

--Draft by Anne Myles. Please do not city, copy, or quote without permission.