The Lingering Lemon of Death

wrapping up NAtional POetry WRiting MOnth

in case you just tuned in, april was national poetry month.  the poets looked with jealousy on NaNoWriMo ( internet community of writers who all write a novel in the month of november ), and so now there is also a NaPoWriMo, where poets all sign up to try and write one poem per day, for the month of april.  this was my first year attempting this.  here is my report.

*phew*

i made it.  i feel like i have just run a marathon.  both in the sense of having accomplished something difficult, and in the sense that if i had to write another poem, i just might collapse.

thanks all of you for reading the poems when you could.  continuing the marathon metaphor, you were the support crew, giving me water and carbs so i could keep running.

if you missed it because you were busy, here are some helpful links, with which i will close the book on this exercise.

people's choice ( looking at blog stats, these two, by a huge margin )

• this is not for trayvon
• cause and effect

most interesting ( by number of facebook comments ):

• shut up and consider the rose

my favorites: pretty much all of them.  much to my surprise.  i expected a few keepers and a large pile of valiant attempts.  maybe my bar for "good enough" is low, but almost all of them felt good enough to keep.  ok ok, here are two favorites.

• mad men, really?
• the word of the lord

linda's favorite:

• coming home

finally, if you want to read them all, just follow this link, and click "Next" at the bottom of each page until all the goodness has passed.

napowrimo -- how to write poetry

how to write poetry

the first step in writing a poem
is thinking of something you care about
otherwise why wrestle with lines and language

the second step is usually
trying to think of something ELSE you care about
because no way are you writing about that

the third step is writing, searching
maybe at least a poem is in there somewhere
about being afaid to write about the thing you care about

the fourth step is "select all"
and pressing rectangular button on your keyboard
labled delete

repeat steps one through four
until there are no more of those kinds of poems
and the page is now frighteningly blank

there is nothing to write about, there is only writing,
a strange travelling, your cares are now on the page
when moments ago they were trapped inside you

 

napowrimo -- iPoem

I talk small for a big man.
No weighty issues for me.
Weather, sports,
picnics and my bicycle.

Wouldn't it be wonderful,
if I could see someone,
a little nip and tuck,
some pounds dropped
from my midsection,
to take up residence
in my discourse.
Gravity for gravitas.

-- pecked poetry from my smartphone

napowrimo -- conundrum luncheon

conundrum luncheon

tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwich
the soup must be the horrible canned kind
the stuff of warhol's dreams
that doesn't taste anything like tomatoes
and the sandwich must be crushed while grilled
so that the yellow cheese oozes out

it makes complete and total sense,
that if you pick ripe tomatoes
and cook them with fresh herbs
that would have to be better than the canned stuff

who in their right mind would prefer
that squashed oozing object
which looks like roadkill
to a thick lightly toasted hunk
of crusty sourdough
and aged new york cheddar

and yet i would rather eat the inferior
version, the canned and processed
the-same-as-everywhere-in-america
and feel the glowing warmth in my soul

that other thing, no matter how
orgranic and bursting with flavor and energy
only makes me weep for the lost chance
to eat the real thing

it is because of this meal that i know
that the things that matter to me
do not always fall from the tree of logic

which is why, even though it makes no sense to me
i really can't blame people for voting republican

 

napowrimo -- i thought the moon was my friend

i thought the moon was my friend

i thought the moon was my friend
all those quiet walks
the way she helped me see things
in a different light

if i was sure no one was watching
we would even dance a little
when she was away for a few days
i knew she would come back
she was always there for me

i'm not even sure what happened
one night i went out to see her
and my friend was gone
there was just this big rock
orbiting the earth, reflecting sunlight
where she used to wait for me

the wind, i know what happened there
i don't really want to talk about it
except to say that i am pretty sure
it was my fault, and we aren't speaking

spring and i get along fine,
i don't think the thing we have
is that serious
too much competition

i've been seeing this tree
i don't want to say too much
except that the way she holds herself
the things she says
i'm hoping we can become good friends

 

napowrimo -- good trade?

good trade

once we were wizards
we each had our own inner sanctum
where we could delve into the mysteries
solitude and contemplation were central
to safely wielding the power of programming
four walls, and a door.

now we are knowledge workers
and the managers look down on
the floor of the software factory
crammed with tiny workstations
checking to make sure things are humming
and then they close the door
and return to their arcane spreadhseets

once there was a small carboard tray
filled with stale candy bars
and if you were lucky
a way to make your very own
crappy diner coffee
and the company cafeteria
was never an option
"lunch" meant leaving the office

now we have espresso machines
glass doored refigerators
filled with soda and juice
a weekly delivery of fresh fruit
and chefs creating every day
some taste sensation, just for us
and we never leave

i wonder if we have made a clever trade
and used our powers to get something valuable
or if our enemy has found our weakness
and we sit dazed and well fed and content
as the essence is efficiently extracted

 

napowrimo -- larryfallen

larryfallen

larry never wanted this
his church is so large you can see it from space
his hair is an architectural wonder
his wife is some kind of marvelous smiling machine

he wanted to serve the lord
not in a half hearted, in between football games way
that so many people seem content with
he wanted the crazy enough to change the world way

it always seemed like if they just got a little more money
then they could really bust this thing open
really start doing things, things that would matter
but you have to spend money to make money

when ten people became twenty, he was just so honored
to be able to do something to bless people
when two hundred became five hundred,
he knew he was on the right track

when it hit two thousand he realized, there are not many people
who could hold something like this together
and if a skill like that is rare, it must be valuable
if he was a rare and valuable person
didn't he owe the world all that he could do?

that earnest young kid who just loved jesus
is still inside there somewhere
seeing the world with a clear eyed optimism
but now sees the image in the mirror
as a neccessary evil

 

napowrimo -- coder's notebook

The programmer, like the poet, works only slightly removed from pure thought-stuff. He builds castles in the air, from air, creating by exertion of the imagination.-Frederick P. Brooks, "The Mythical Man-Month: Essays on Software Engineering"

coder's notebook

/*
 * monday was a good day, i wrote some nice lines
 * read and re-read, refined until they were spare,
 * so spare that every word meant exactly one thing
 * and the thing they meant, was the thing i meant.
 * when the day was over, i could look over the text
 * and even see beauty in the way the words wove
 * a sinous path through the white space
 */

 
/*
 * yesterday i had writer's block and at the end of the day
 * i had written no lines, though at various times
 * through the day, if you had glanced at my screen
 * you might have thought things were going well.
 * i wrote lines that i did not believe in,
 * hoping that at least my anger at the bad lines
 * would help me find the good lines.
 */

/*
 * i have in my notebook, all the pieces i need to finish this
 * i just have not found a believable, or beautiful way
 * to connect them, to flow from the beginning to the ending.
 * if i just sit down again today and try to bang out something
 * it will be just another copy of yesterday
 * which i may need to do, before i finally see the light
 * i am hoping, however, that something better happens
 */

/*
 * what is most likely, is that my work from day before yesterday
 * is not as beautiful or perfect as i thought it was
 * i have written myself into a corner.
 * somewhere in those lines is a left turn
 * that should have been a leap upwards. a phrase so ugly,
 * i won't be able to believe i didn't catch it before,
 * once repaired, the rest will almost write itself.
 */

 

napowrimo -- shut up and consider the rose

 

shut up and consider the rose

since i came to this place,
i have enjoyed the privilege
of being able to write poetry
i remember the tour when i first arrived

"welcome to the castle
here is the dining room where you will be taking your meals
this way to the lbrary
down that hall is the consevatory
the sitting room is just there to the right
now lets go upstairs, here is your room
i hope everything is satisfactory"

"what's that?  oh sir, that leads to the east wing
we are not allowed to go there
the master expressly forbids it"

all of my poetry is written from the rooms
where the servants take good care of you
i have even written a daring poem or two
while seated just outside the heavy doors
which guard the east wing, and one from the garden
peering in through dust obscured windows

i cannot even begin to form a sentence
when i think of throwing those doors open
and taking a real risk.

it is quite poignant, however,
the way a rose, just before it drops its petals,
seems to thrust them out in all directions.
no longer proper, a sort of last wanton
grasping for love.

 

napowrimo -- the perfect morning

the perfect morning

sunlight creeps over the top of the fence
slanting shadows through glowing roses
waterfall of birdcall

within my hearing the only other sounds
are my breathing
and now the refrigerator

feels like the world is whispering to me
whispering a peaceful good morning
in stillness i answer by listening

i have this urge to make a cup of coffee
hold it near my face, see steam rise over the rim
take a leisurly sip

i'll have that satisfied face from the coffee commercials
smiling in harmony with morning as i lower my cup
because that is what you are supposed to do at times like this