Day 5/30 (we'll catch 1-4 later maybe)

With thanks to NaPoWriMo for the prompt:

This country is a child with a grandfather’s history

and here, I am a newborn.

So the light blinds, life’s soundtrack deafens, each new smell becomes

an instant shared taste while phantom electrics prickle my flesh.

I feel the smells. I taste the lights and the sounds

dance in the air.

In Táiwān, my name is Freedom. Zìyóu. from the motto of Clan Wallace,

and here, I am a grandmother.

Who on this earth loves their chains?

My whip is only three or four horses;

because of this I am always outdoors.

“Nǐ hǎo,” they say, or if they really mean it, “Lí hé.”

The genuine greeting of a people mixplaced.

Snaking roads take you straight to where you should be

and I fly with my horses to every home I find.

Zìyóu and her tiny team of horses

will never tire of traveling here,

this raucous country, these patient beaches, these smoking hills.

Born 150 degrees from here but this is my home.

Lí chia̍h pá bōe? Chia̍h pá-ah!

My three horses together are one humble scooter, carrying me like a newborn,

a grandmother, feeling the language on electric skin.

Day 3/30: Eulogy for the Disinherited

Some things must first be cut away.  From behind my knee,
an old Victrola, playing your song.  An antique key pulled
from under my tongue, and like that: I've forgotten
your name.  There are birds that must be shook loose
from my ears before I knock out the sound of the beach
the night we built that fire.  Once the smoke clears,
the entire city of Tucson.  The name of the street
on which we lived, and then the real challenge:
my Hydra heart.  Each time I cut out the parts that loved you
two more hearts grow in their place.  Until I am left,
blossoming vines blooming from my chest, growing over
all the rubble, one thousand new organs that have never
sung your tune.

Day2/30: Three Attempts

Attempt the First: Screw around with proverbs.

When the going gets tough, the tough unravel. Undress.  I'll cut off
my own skin just to show I'll
do it first.  My knife is mightier than my pen.  I stay in a stone house
throwing glasses out windows
just for the sound.  Diamonds are for never. Better never than early.
I invite my birds of a feather to dinner, but go to bed
with my enemies, holding them close and closer.  Make them omelets
for breakfast without breaking any eggs, all my eggs
in one basket, counting chicks, then scrub up:
cleanliness is my key to damnation.  I'll fix anything not broke.
There's no time like the past to do it right, by myself.

Attempt the second: Take the final word from each line in the previous poem, make them the first word of each line in a new poem.

Off with my dread instead.
I'll find you, I'll creep from house to
House, say I won't, peeping in
Windows, mail slots, chimneys, keyholes,
Early in the morning, early enough you're still in
Bed.  Without me, of course.  Cold enough for
Omelets in the morning, scramble the
Eggs like your thoughts, wishing for a proper punch-
Up, get too drunk at the evening, fall off the barstool,
Broke as a whole stand-up act.
Myself, I'll just lean back and laugh.

Attempt the third: Take the final letter from each line in the previous poem, make them the first letters of each line in a new poem.

Don't.
Only
In
Sin can I
Never
Remember
Every
Hateful
Lie.
Truth
Halts.

Welcome Back, April

National Poetry Month. It's already the First here in Taiwan, where it isn't national poetry month at all, but whatever. Here's a resource for people that I hope can help, my compiled bookmarks of poems to read, advice for writers, places to submit, and most importantly for this month: PROMPTS.

Link here!

August challenge to myself: 31 days of editing and submitting.

21/30: Whoops?

The prompt was to give a gift to someone you dislike, to kill them with kindness.  I think I failed?

------------------------------------------------------------------

For him, a bouquet.  A parade,

an award.  Rows and rows of medals.

For him, the winning ticket

to the lottery. An all expense paid

vacation.  A new suit, a new ride,

a new house, a smile as wide

as a dozen dozen Niles.

For him, a bouquet

of bees that know exactly

where to sting.  Then parade him

through the streets, a sign hung

round his neck like an award,

“I Fuck Women Without Their Consent.”

A one way ticket

the hell out of town, off this planet,

shoot him into space, one way,

what a lovely vacation, eyes plucked out

so he can’t enjoy the view.  For him,

a freshly-fitted iron maiden, dressed

to the nines, with a pair of concrete

shoes.  A prison van to deliver him

to his own personal Alcatraz

where he’ll never be admitted.  Because I’ll

be waiting

at the gate

with a knife

to carve
in the soft flesh
of his neck

a smile as wide

as a dozen dozen Niles.

SHARING A RESOURCE WITH POETS

I've been working on these bookmarks for a long long time now.

CLICK HERE FOR A LOT OF AMAZING HELPFUL POETRY STUFF

My bright idea has been to start saving awesome poetry links and organizing them.  It'll never be perfect, but from time to time I click alphabetize on them cuz why not or try to sort out stuff that hasn't made it into a folder yet.

Anyway, within you have some general poetry related stuff, and then folders.  One is links to super amazing awesome poetry if you want to have a read or watch a video.  One is a folder with links to amazing sites for prompts.  One is a folder of links to publishers and publishing resources.  There's a folder of scholarships and a folder of advice.

Share it if you'd like, but please let people know (and know yourself, too) that I'm always looking to tighten this resource up so if you have stuff I should add holler back, or find a link to a dead end let me know.

18/30 - A Gram of &s

An eleven line form whereby the theme/title of the piece, its letters are used to make new words that end each line.  Get help finding your words here.  No fair changing words - adding "s" or "ed" or any of that nonsense.

Infatuation:
What it boils down to is I think it would be fun
if we spent a fortnight, just you, me, a futon,
and a kitchen full of food.  We fuck like Titan
gods, all thunder and smolder, like we might attain
some immortality from this electrified union.
After this, after us, after you I find myself unfit
for any others.  I want to curl myself into
the concave of your body like some infant,
like your skin could become my new outfit.
I think of your mouth and feel hungry and faint,
missing the way it makes me come like a fountain.

11/30: Another year, another ghost line from Morgan Coleman

Whole heart

-edly.  No half measures.  No

holding back, nothing barred.

Altogether.  Completely.  Not

without fear, but without letting

fear win.  As though I’ve been doing it

my whole life already.  Like a rock star.

Like a natural.  Like my life depended

on it.  Because my life may depend on it.

Because I don’t know how

to do shit halfway.  Because you

are worth everything I’ve got I will start

as I mean to go on.  Because I mean

to go on.  Because within

this spark I have found

my whole self.

6/30: the rooster photo

Yesterday I took a photo of a rooster in the street.

I live in Taiwan now.  Things happen like that here.

When I show the photo to my friend, he says,

“Did you ask him why he crossed the road?”  No,

I say, but I did watch an old woman try to catch him.

When I asked if he was hers, she said no and grinned.

I liked that grin.  I understood it entirely, in the way

that anyone who has tried to catch something not hers

can understand.  So crow, rooster, and puff up

your pretty white feathers, and strut, and scratch,

and preen all you like, because I got my eyes

on you and I've been practicing moving

with the precision of a wise hungry crone, and one day

soon

I will get my hands on you.

5/30 chop and screw a quote

3/30, prompt from Megan Falley

Write about the past in the present (simple, continuous) and then chop and screw the sentences.

We are holding hands in a cup of hazelnut milk tea.

I smoke your profile as the sun sets.

We are drinking the dead coral.

The sand is changing what I thought I knew.

I suck rocks on the balcony while you watch.

The waves are crashing against us in the bedroom.

I am climbing on your skin like seaweed

You are unzipping my soft belly.

My skin is your new jacket.

Your hands are invading everything.

The wind is gripping us like a hungry snake.

Your eyes are shaking the trees around us..

I marvel at the taste of your ocean.

Your lips are cradling me in the dark.

My legs unravel when you touch me.

The music is threatening to knock us down with every step,

but we are exactly everywhere we should be.

Your sea is foaming at my belly.

We are naming the stars and then dancing among them.

saw my rapist ex-boss at the convenience store today

When you spot a monster on the street

you must not scream.  That raw, wet ripping

of your throat is medicine for him.  When you go

to park your scooter, don’t look up

if you hit the curb, act like you meant to, of course

he hasn’t flustered you.  He can smell fear

and nerves and can hear your teeth tremble

in their cages, don’t look up, don’t

look up.  Don’t move, in fact, just sit there

like you mean to, like this space

is your space, and if he can smell fear

can he smell war if you think on it?  Smell

wet earth soaked with blood, smell battlefields

dusted with gunpowder, smell the soldier

of you?  Be warrior, be pride, and when

he shakes his umbrella

and leaves, his footprints

puddles of oil, only then

may you raise your growling head, and stand

in the doorway, your hand over your

shuddering heart, pledging allegiance

to the monster you know you can become

if you must.

2014 30/30 NaPoWriMo Challenge Kick-off: Day 1

Day 1 is a visual poem, because I can, damnit, and a love poem because I have an awesome requited crush.  So look out for that this month.

I took the longest writing Jenith Charpentier's poem because I think she's such a swell poet. I re-read her chapbook for inspiration and noticed that the poem August Woman had delicious words ending every line. So I took all of the end-line-words and put them in backward order to start the lines of the poem I would write for her. August and September have always been my favorite months - the last slow punch of summer, the first flirt of fall, and here we find ourselves now, in August turning into September. So here's a first draft of September Woman, for Jenith. Thanks, Jenith.

Monosonnet with Parenthetical

When
Holland
Taylor
Slapped
My
Mother
I
Thought

(or perhaps realized, for the first time, that I'd always wanted to do that myself, but I was so small and she was my model for God, authority, and the nature of what I should become, and the fact that a child had slapped this mountain this monarch over something so trivial when I had good reason but had always held back shook basements of thinking, made me quake in my small jelly sandals, planted some kind of seed in my guts until finally the day came when I no longer had any buttons left unpushed and the world went grave-dark and silent and when it came back there stood the woman who was my first home but her face had been punched and my fist was singing its loudest, highest notes, and all i could think was how neither of us had told the other "i love you" in years)

I
Should
Have
Done
That
First.

Synonyms for Pleasure

Synonyms for Pleasure:

BRIE.
My long arms and the way they reach so many things,
the way they move me through water,
water.
The sound of the ocean with its solid teeth, its
stoic feet, its cheekbones, its eternal change.
Rooftops.
The wild wind in my hair, the distance
between people, between places, the electric
geography of absense.
My dog when he snores.
The songs of crickets,
the syrup of memory,
the chlorine cologne of the hotel pool at
the birthday party, the family reunion.  The year
you learn you can't possibly ever learn everything,
the smell of sun-soaked skin.
Wisteria, honeysuckle, magnolia, mimosa.
Your sleeping breath.
Avocados.
The smell of your scalp.
Mangoes.
Your loveless arms and the day
they pushed me away.

the 9/4 makeup: day8pome3

Look, this is silly and it's also fun.  It's meant to be like the Big Rock Candy Mountain, except it's for my friend Linda and her wonderful daughter and granddaughter (who are also my friends) who live on this mountain I love to visit.  But Linda's the matriarch now so it's mostly about her.

-------------------------------

One morning down in Arkansas

as the summer sun was rising

Down the road came a poet driving

and she said, “I’m going climbing

up a winding road that twists and turns

with joys that can’t be counted;

Let down your hair, we’ll see what’s there

when you go up Linda’s Mountain."

When you go up Linda’s Mountain

there is birdsong in the air

and she’ll welcome you into her house

and she’ll offer you a chair

And she’ll brew you up some coffee,

or a tea if you prefer

with a lemon slice

if you think it nice,

or a little bit of honey

if that might entice,

When you go up Linda’s Mountain.

When you go up Linda’s Mountain

she may take you for a stroll.

There will be some conversation

and some doggies on patrol.

You can count her lovely chickens

and you might just leave with eggs.

Walking through the trees

in the lovely breeze

and underneath your feet you’ll hear

the crunching leaves,

when you go up Linda’s mountain.



When you go up Linda’s Mountain

You can meet her lovely crew

like her daughter named Vanessa

and her grandchild, Stella, too.

There are smiles and laughs aplenty

and adventures, crafts and jokes.

You can join the club

with a handmade mug,

and I hope you did your stretches

cuz there’s lots of hugs

when you go up Linda Mountain.

When you go up Linda Mountain

you will see the land anew

with a sun that shines like Stella’s smile

and a sky that’s crazy blue.

You can solve the whole world’s problems

if you simply think and talk

Can’t wait to go

where the gardens grow,

can’t wait to see their faces

when we say hello

When I go up Linda Mountain

…

I’ll see you soon one afternoon

When I go up Linda Mountain.

RESUME PLAY

The challenge was to write one poem every day for the month of April.  Thirty poems in thirty days.

Before I paused, I did miss a couple days, and on the following days I would write two.

I wrote on a total of twenty-one days out of thirty.  I missed nine days.
I wrote a total of twenty-six poems out of thirty.  I missed four poems.

Does this mean I have nine days in which to write four poems?  Does it mean I have four days in which to write nine?

I'm going to write poetry for nine more days and hope that four decent pieces come out of the mix.  Cuz why not?

Today, 1 May, day one of nine, is from prompt #1 here:

I believe in oak,
spiral leaves with lobbed margins,
serrated leaves with smooth margins,
flowers called catkins that give birth to acorns,
bitter fruit in tiny cups.
I believe in holding on to dead leaves
until spring gives you new ones.
I believe in strength and resistance
and making liquids more precious
just by holding them a while.  I believe

in pine, in fire and resin, in needles
and cones, in growing fast
and dense; I believe in hickory,
in being native to the whole world
and being prized world-wide, in giving
foundations to stand upon and flavor
to your food.  I believe in pecan.

I believe ash can betray you.
I believe teak should never be broken.
I believe mahogany should be treasured
and respected, not just for its strength, not just
for the beauty of its song.  I believe cedar
is a word you can smell when you hear it,
I believe maple is a word you can taste
when you hear it, I believe sawdust
is sacred.  I believe the sound
of a bandsaw is a fine violin, a nailgun
is a snare drum, and sandpaper
sounds finer than the ocean at night.
I believe in carpentry.  I believe

it is possible to build a whole house
from nothing, to build a whole home
from a house, to build a whole family
from a home, I believe dovetailing makes
the strongest connections, and there
are also joints named knee joints,
lap joints, and my father had knees
and a lap and my father knew how
to build a house and the value of each
type of wood and my father was sacred
as sawdust and strong as hickory
or oak; I believe father is a word
you can feel when you hear it.

Today is the 24th.

Back on the 18th I wrote four poems.  I figured that didn't put me ahead, as I still wanted to write every day.

I got a little behind on the weekend.  Been working on an application for a master's degree.

So, I still want to write for the days I missed.  I'm two behind, plus today I haven't written yet either.  

I'll post two tonight, and we'll see what happens tomorrow, as I work a double then.

I’m not excited about tonight’s quality, but then, the April 30/30 has never been about quality, I don’t think, as much about writing every single day no matter what.  Or, missing a couple days and then writing two afterward ;)

She Dreamed of an Old Shoe:

Comfort, said her daughter.

Shedding layers, said her friend.

Your childhood, said her therapist.

You’re tired, said the quiet voice within.

It’s me, her tired husband.

The urge to run, said her lover.

From this prompt by Nicole Homer:

First, she lost her comb,

the one her mother left her.  “You must not have really

loved it,” said her husband.  How quickly the flames

consumed him.  Out of the ashes crawled a spider, carrying a song

her mother used to sing, and faster than light, she realized

she had to swallow the song.  When the comb reappeared,

she did not cry, said only, “I knew you’d come back.”