This will be my last "poem a day" entry for April. It's sort of bittersweet. On the one hand, I'll be happy to leave this self-imposed challenge aside for a while. On the other hand, writing a poem a day does pique my creativity and my zest for spring. In other words, this "chore" brings on a personal rebirth of sorts. Not sure if I should let that settle down again.
My prompt for the day will be: http://poetryprompts.tumblr.com/post/142634525032/national-poetry-month-prompt (Write a love poem to your hometown.)
*
Love Poem for Pittsburgh
Dear steel city, Burgh of black soot
and rotten air, milltown of ethnic neighborhoods,
Appalachian twang, and borderline Midwest
politesse, thank you for taking me in
when I was three, for introducing me
to Elmer Street and ginkgo trees and
Mr. Rogers (my television friend),
for Liberty Elementary and Falk School,
for EJ across the street with his Big Wheel
(first fiancee) and for The Catman
with his marmalade beast
on a long stalking leash.
Thank you for cracked sidewalks, for
potholes and Negley Hill, for sledding in
Mellon Park on snow days, and for the slush
that froze our jeans as we schlepped home
in a bunch, all the neighborhood kids,
dragging the toboggan. Thank you for
Carnegie Mellon, where I learned
to be a writer and started my journey,
for Shadyside and Squirrel Hill and Oakland,
for Dave and Andy's ice cream, for your
global smorgasbord and greasy spoons,
for three green rivers and fireworks
on the Point, for art festivals
and brick houses and Mom's apartment
on Wightman -- her sanctuary.
I didn't love you in middle school
(in fact I probably hated you). It seemed
you were callous, that you wanted us
to break our adolescent hearts against
each other, and I was happy to leave you
for Mexico, but distance must make
the heart grow fonder, and so I returned
and learned to love you again
as helped me come of age.
Dear Pittsburgh, I wish you all
the best, though we'll never be together
again. Keep Mom safe. Hold my memories
in place. I'll lie, then, and call you
"home," and say I loved you best.
Saturday, April 30, 2016
Friday, April 29, 2016
29 is fine
I almost clicked "Publish" before actually writing this blog.
Ugh.
I'm going to do this one today: http://writeaboutcomma.tumblr.com/post/143496644130/write-about-what-youve-outgrown-what-you-can
Gonna make it a list poem.
*
What I've Outgrown
My pants.
Winter.
Board games (though to be honest I never liked them).
Lollipops -- these days, I prefer suckers.
Petty jealousies about so-called "talent" and other peoples' accomplishments. I have my own.
Romance novels.
Pushing the limits by talking about sex and sexuality openly.
Freud (see above).
Lacan (sticks tongue out at Lacan and makes gagging gesture
[not yet outgrown, apparently] re:
Lacanian analysis of literature.
Fear of driving.
Parties, dancing, dance parties, flirting, clubs,
dressing up for dance parties and flirting,
dressing up in general, and, yes,
too-high heels.
Nylons. Definitely nylons.
God, they're nasty little vag traps.
Gunne Sax dresses and little girly girl fashion for grown ass women. Kinder-whore apparel.
The Junior section of any store.
Ballet flats.
Stories about Dad and his boring problems which create my boring problems.
My boring problems.
Whining? Not sure about this one.
"Desire."
Daquiris.
Strawberry ice cream.
Diet Coke?
Backpacks as book bags.
Mini-skirts and plunging necklines.
Attempting to get a suntan. (I've given up impossibility.)
Culottes. Stirrup pants. Shoulder pads. Big hair. (If the 80s come back, I'm already
over them. Don't take a message.)
Maybe Halloween.
Gum drops, cotton candy, bubblegum, taffy, Now & Laters.
Swimming pools.
Bikinis, most certainly.
Girl mags like Glamour and Vogue.
Giving a shit about celebrities. In fact, I've outgrown TV.
Mistaking anxiety for infatuation; misreading loneliness for love; confusing gratitude with attraction.
The "seven year itch."
Perfection.
Random corners in my memory.
Did I mention my pants?
Ugh.
I'm going to do this one today: http://writeaboutcomma.tumblr.com/post/143496644130/write-about-what-youve-outgrown-what-you-can
Gonna make it a list poem.
*
What I've Outgrown
My pants.
Winter.
Board games (though to be honest I never liked them).
Lollipops -- these days, I prefer suckers.
Petty jealousies about so-called "talent" and other peoples' accomplishments. I have my own.
Romance novels.
Pushing the limits by talking about sex and sexuality openly.
Freud (see above).
Lacan (sticks tongue out at Lacan and makes gagging gesture
[not yet outgrown, apparently] re:
Lacanian analysis of literature.
Fear of driving.
Parties, dancing, dance parties, flirting, clubs,
dressing up for dance parties and flirting,
dressing up in general, and, yes,
too-high heels.
Nylons. Definitely nylons.
God, they're nasty little vag traps.
Gunne Sax dresses and little girly girl fashion for grown ass women. Kinder-whore apparel.
The Junior section of any store.
Ballet flats.
Stories about Dad and his boring problems which create my boring problems.
My boring problems.
Whining? Not sure about this one.
"Desire."
Daquiris.
Strawberry ice cream.
Diet Coke?
Backpacks as book bags.
Mini-skirts and plunging necklines.
Attempting to get a suntan. (I've given up impossibility.)
Culottes. Stirrup pants. Shoulder pads. Big hair. (If the 80s come back, I'm already
over them. Don't take a message.)
Maybe Halloween.
Gum drops, cotton candy, bubblegum, taffy, Now & Laters.
Swimming pools.
Bikinis, most certainly.
Girl mags like Glamour and Vogue.
Giving a shit about celebrities. In fact, I've outgrown TV.
Mistaking anxiety for infatuation; misreading loneliness for love; confusing gratitude with attraction.
The "seven year itch."
Perfection.
Random corners in my memory.
Did I mention my pants?
Thursday, April 28, 2016
28 -- Literary Awards tonight! :@
Dearest St Norbert writers and friends -- hope I get to see you come out of your various caves for tonight's celebration of our campus writers. It's always an exciting time for all. And there will be cookies. I can't emphasize enough the cookies.
Bring your friends and family. Hell, bring your enemies and expose them to a little culture.
Today's poem will be short because I'm giving myself a 15 minute time limit.
*
15 Minute Poem
Like toast, it pops out of my mind
lightly brown on top
and perhaps a bit raw
on the bottom,
and I slather butter on it
(maybe a bit of cream cheese),
chew it while sipping
lukewarm coffee
and dinking on my device.
Like my device, it's smeared
with butter fingerprints
and greasy cheek kisses.
A few crumbs cling to its case.
It's seen hard use --
fingered and flung and dumped
in purses and bags.
And it's constantly on vibrate,
which means I never hear it
on the rare occasions
when it happens to ring.
The 15 minute poem rings
when I'm in the shower
or trying to fall asleep
or dreaming about tidal waves
and zombies
or driving madly to work,
switching lanes without the blinkers,
listening to an accidental romance
(fuck these romances! give me murder!)
on the battered device.
The 15 minute poem doesn't answer
when I finally manage
to pick up --
it butt-dialed me
while it was in a museum meeting --
and I get into a major panic
when I call it back
and don't get an answer
or even the voicemail I was expecting,
thinking perhaps the poem's lying hurt
even dead
on the floor of its kitchen,
cat licking
its dull eyes,
so I call my sister and brother,
alert them,
and the fear spreads
dial after dial
until the poem blows up
with missed calls and text messages
and it runs out into the marble hall
in a panic of its own
thinking we might be lying hurt
even dead
Oh, sorry, we tell it.
We didn't mean to go supernova.
It's just that we got worried
we'd have to live without you,
we got a taste
of that terrible truth,
and we remembered
we hadn't checked in with you
for a while,
so we felt guilty and
disconnected
like the children we used to be
and we just wanted
another chance to tell you
how much we love you.
Bring your friends and family. Hell, bring your enemies and expose them to a little culture.
Today's poem will be short because I'm giving myself a 15 minute time limit.
*
15 Minute Poem
Like toast, it pops out of my mind
lightly brown on top
and perhaps a bit raw
on the bottom,
and I slather butter on it
(maybe a bit of cream cheese),
chew it while sipping
lukewarm coffee
and dinking on my device.
Like my device, it's smeared
with butter fingerprints
and greasy cheek kisses.
A few crumbs cling to its case.
It's seen hard use --
fingered and flung and dumped
in purses and bags.
And it's constantly on vibrate,
which means I never hear it
on the rare occasions
when it happens to ring.
The 15 minute poem rings
when I'm in the shower
or trying to fall asleep
or dreaming about tidal waves
and zombies
or driving madly to work,
switching lanes without the blinkers,
listening to an accidental romance
(fuck these romances! give me murder!)
on the battered device.
The 15 minute poem doesn't answer
when I finally manage
to pick up --
it butt-dialed me
while it was in a museum meeting --
and I get into a major panic
when I call it back
and don't get an answer
or even the voicemail I was expecting,
thinking perhaps the poem's lying hurt
even dead
on the floor of its kitchen,
cat licking
its dull eyes,
so I call my sister and brother,
alert them,
and the fear spreads
dial after dial
until the poem blows up
with missed calls and text messages
and it runs out into the marble hall
in a panic of its own
thinking we might be lying hurt
even dead
Oh, sorry, we tell it.
We didn't mean to go supernova.
It's just that we got worried
we'd have to live without you,
we got a taste
of that terrible truth,
and we remembered
we hadn't checked in with you
for a while,
so we felt guilty and
disconnected
like the children we used to be
and we just wanted
another chance to tell you
how much we love you.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
27
It's sunny today! I should be outside frolicking in the sunshine, but instead I'm in my office with the lights on, ugh florescence, tapping this out.
Thankfully, I've eaten most of the dark chocolate in my desk, so it's not tempting me. (My pants are too tight.)
Today's poetry prompt: http://poetryprompts.tumblr.com/post/143381248700/you-are-not-exactly
*
You are not wise: a poem to myself
You are not wise, exactly,
but you have a somewhat pleasing way
of stating the obvious.
People come to you for advice
which you are happy to give.
After collecting advice for years,
it's a relief to give it away.
You like to imagine that you're a
good listener
but admit that it's hard
to keep still
long enough to hear
the actual words.
Lately, you've decided that you
have gained a certain perspective
that allows you to stop
giving a shit
and so think of yourself
as immune
to the tides
of anger and insult
that sweep your colleagues
into tirades
with every shift of the moon.
My friend, you are not wise.
You confuse distraction
with maturity,
age with experience.
Inside you,
even at this minute,
the old tides rise
and the black winds
begin to howl.
Thankfully, I've eaten most of the dark chocolate in my desk, so it's not tempting me. (My pants are too tight.)
Today's poetry prompt: http://poetryprompts.tumblr.com/post/143381248700/you-are-not-exactly
*
You are not wise: a poem to myself
You are not wise, exactly,
but you have a somewhat pleasing way
of stating the obvious.
People come to you for advice
which you are happy to give.
After collecting advice for years,
it's a relief to give it away.
You like to imagine that you're a
good listener
but admit that it's hard
to keep still
long enough to hear
the actual words.
Lately, you've decided that you
have gained a certain perspective
that allows you to stop
giving a shit
and so think of yourself
as immune
to the tides
of anger and insult
that sweep your colleagues
into tirades
with every shift of the moon.
My friend, you are not wise.
You confuse distraction
with maturity,
age with experience.
Inside you,
even at this minute,
the old tides rise
and the black winds
begin to howl.
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
26 is four days away from the finish line -- woot!
Another gray day. At least the trees have buds and the flowering trees (which I love as much as I love tulips for the same reasons) are popping.
Signs point to summer.
Today's prompt:
About Deadlines
On the way in
to the office today
under fragile buds
and wet skies
I talked to a philosopher
and said
we never know --
any one of us could just
drop dead
boom
then laughed
and said
wow
that's a nice way
for me to start
the day
(with truth:
we don't know
how and when
we'll go --
could be today or
tomorrow
could be
thirty years from now
a summer afternoon
at the lake
our children safe
on the other side
of some state divide
after all
life in context
is a shallow
breath
surrounded by dirt
we creep
toward singular
deadlines
every second
no matter how many
lives or stories or religions
we instigate)
Signs point to summer.
Today's prompt:
Use all of the following words in a poem: deadline, boom, children, shallow, dirt, creep, instigate. (http://www.writingforward.com/category/writing-prompts/poetry-prompts)*
About Deadlines
On the way in
to the office today
under fragile buds
and wet skies
I talked to a philosopher
and said
we never know --
any one of us could just
drop dead
boom
then laughed
and said
wow
that's a nice way
for me to start
the day
(with truth:
we don't know
how and when
we'll go --
could be today or
tomorrow
could be
thirty years from now
a summer afternoon
at the lake
our children safe
on the other side
of some state divide
after all
life in context
is a shallow
breath
surrounded by dirt
we creep
toward singular
deadlines
every second
no matter how many
lives or stories or religions
we instigate)
Monday, April 25, 2016
25 ... and I'm still alive.
It's another Monday at the Academic Ranch, where we wrangle ideas and dogies. I will not comment on the weather (because who cares?) except to note that the tulips are up and still tightly budded. I can't tell you how happy I'll be when they pop, but will confess that the joy is nearly sexual.
Today's poem prompt:
*
before practice
5:20 am
we come alone
with rolled mats
tangled thoughts
bed heads
Monday fears
light blue light
rises slowly
behind
half wrecked buildings
light poles
screaming gulls
and lie quiet
warped wood under us
warmed by
decades of feet
steam breathes on us
from black vents
soaking hot music
into our skins
our legs and arms
stretched loose
in corpse pose
palms up
and ready
to receive
chests rising
and falling in
a regular tide
soon we'll be called
to move
bend and stretch
then stand tall
raise our arms overhead
press them
to heart center
dive down
to forward fold
halfway lift
flat back
fold down again
step out to plank
press the mat away
light and strong
lower down halfway
press our chests
to the mirrors
(upward dog)
then bend back
rolling over our feet
to a deep inverted vee
(down dog)
hearts drumming
(sun salutation 1)
then again
and again
but now
it's enough
to lie still
let our souls
simmer up
mingle
like flames
in the dim room
energy leaping
and flickering
between us
to wake up
air and breath
to fill us
with each other
completely
Today's poem prompt:
For today’s prompt, write an exercise poem. The poem could be about a specific exercise, or it could just incorporate exercising into the poem. Or it could be dedicated to a piece of exercise equipment–so an ode to an elliptical machine or those hand grippers or something. Of course, not every exercise is physical; there are military exercises, mental exercises, and so on. (http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/2016-april-pad-challenge-day-25)Good. I want to write about yoga. Shout out to Jaci Stempski, my favorite yogi, and her most wonderful studio, Grace Yoga, on Broadway in downtown Green Bay. If it weren't for Grace Yoga, I'd be a crazy unbearable fret ball that no one (least of all myself) would be able to stand for more than five minutes.
*
before practice
5:20 am
we come alone
with rolled mats
tangled thoughts
bed heads
Monday fears
light blue light
rises slowly
behind
half wrecked buildings
light poles
screaming gulls
and lie quiet
warped wood under us
warmed by
decades of feet
steam breathes on us
from black vents
soaking hot music
into our skins
our legs and arms
stretched loose
in corpse pose
palms up
and ready
to receive
chests rising
and falling in
a regular tide
soon we'll be called
to move
bend and stretch
then stand tall
raise our arms overhead
press them
to heart center
dive down
to forward fold
halfway lift
flat back
fold down again
step out to plank
press the mat away
light and strong
lower down halfway
press our chests
to the mirrors
(upward dog)
then bend back
rolling over our feet
to a deep inverted vee
(down dog)
hearts drumming
(sun salutation 1)
then again
and again
but now
it's enough
to lie still
let our souls
simmer up
mingle
like flames
in the dim room
energy leaping
and flickering
between us
to wake up
air and breath
to fill us
with each other
completely
Sunday, April 24, 2016
24 seems mature but it's really the same old silliness
Today's weather is making me want to hunker down on the couch with a blanket and a good book, maybe curl up with the dog for a snooze.
Yesterday had me out on the bike, riding until my back/butt seized up. And then we had a little party full of friends to celebrate an impending birth (very exciting), which involved eating a lot of snacks and drinking a bit too much wine.
I began the day with yoga, which was nice, even though it was hard to get my seized muscles going and to break through the sugar haze I've created for myself. Then I treated myself to a big breakfast, a soaking bath, and now I'm clean as a whistle and listening to Prince while I tap this out. Am I recording a bunch of mundane details? You bet.
Today's prompt: http://poetryprompts.tumblr.com/ -- Write a poem without using the letter E.
Hm. This challenge seems pretty hard, seeing as this sentence alone uses a buttload of Es. This will be a short poem.
*
Zen Moment
Sitting with dog,
writing and
avoiding rain,
fists of tulips
plumping up
from dirt and sod,
husband shaking popcorn
two rooms away --
sifting thick hot oil
into gold air
to lift my gray
lamp gloom.
How can I contain
this calm, this still wait
in words?
How can I grasp
contrary thoughts --
flight and rich ground,
spring infusing
brain and body.
Unfurling,
uncurling,
world out and
out
and also
just this couch,
this warm animal,
our lungs cycling
in and out,
making us
now air,
now nothing.
Yesterday had me out on the bike, riding until my back/butt seized up. And then we had a little party full of friends to celebrate an impending birth (very exciting), which involved eating a lot of snacks and drinking a bit too much wine.
I began the day with yoga, which was nice, even though it was hard to get my seized muscles going and to break through the sugar haze I've created for myself. Then I treated myself to a big breakfast, a soaking bath, and now I'm clean as a whistle and listening to Prince while I tap this out. Am I recording a bunch of mundane details? You bet.
Today's prompt: http://poetryprompts.tumblr.com/ -- Write a poem without using the letter E.
Hm. This challenge seems pretty hard, seeing as this sentence alone uses a buttload of Es. This will be a short poem.
*
Zen Moment
Sitting with dog,
writing and
avoiding rain,
fists of tulips
plumping up
from dirt and sod,
husband shaking popcorn
two rooms away --
sifting thick hot oil
into gold air
to lift my gray
lamp gloom.
How can I contain
this calm, this still wait
in words?
How can I grasp
contrary thoughts --
flight and rich ground,
spring infusing
brain and body.
Unfurling,
uncurling,
world out and
out
and also
just this couch,
this warm animal,
our lungs cycling
in and out,
making us
now air,
now nothing.
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