The effort to keep up with the daily NaPoWriMo prompt has me a bit surly and questioning my chops as a poet. I have been known, in the past, to say with no small amount of drama that “I must write daily.” And I suppose that is still true, as I am here now. But the idea of writing another poem – on top of other more pressing demands of “real life” – makes me want to vomit. Sorry, no other way to say it.
Maybe that’s how I know that I am a writer and, by some small measure, a poet. Because even when the mere suggestion of poetic expression makes me literally want to spew, I somehow find it in me to spew out a few more lines. Granted, they may not be my best lines. But the contest is with my poet-self, and I’ve challenged her to finish, not to be great.
Greatness can come later, if ever.
Day 18: Mourning
Mourning dove
Over and over,
same five cries,
emphasizing
second mourning
Day 19: In my closet (a personal ad)
I have no skeletons,
only live bodies
bound
gagged
and kicking
Day 20: Random
Elusive the clove,
mercurial as ego
twice played
Day 21: Fortune cookie
If you would only
wear black like the French…
some day
Day 22: Earth Day
red rhubarb unfurls
a slow motion victory:
so unfolds the spring
Day 23: One day (off prompt)
One day I would go
back to that park swing
(the one you walked away from)
and tell my child self
she will be better off
Each of these poems has its own charm or truth to tell. The bit in this post that particularly resonated with me was the, “One day (off prompt)” poem.
And I quite appreciate your line above: “I’ve challenged her to finish, not to be great. Greatness can come later, if ever” (although I thought you did both).
Thanks, Bethany!