So April is done, and I have 42 new poems to show for it. Not bad at all. Not surprisingly, 19 of them had at least some political content - it's hard not to right about all the madness going on right now. As usual, most of my poems were free verse, and probably more of them could be described as narrative than lyrical. I did write some in form, however, including three curtal sonnets (two in a two-part poem), one Shakespearean sonnet (with some tweaking of the "rules") amd an unrhymed "American" sonnet. In addition, I turned out three quartrains, two limericks, two prose poems, two "nonce" form poems in the style of Donald Justice, a ghazal, a shadorma, a hay(na)ku chain, a "pi" poem, a "420" poem, and a song lyric (alternative verses to Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah.")
Thanks again to Robert Lee Brewer of Write Better Poetry (Writer's Digest website) and Maureen Thorson of NaPoWriMo for providing my daily inspiration. Also thanks for all of you who took the time to leave your positive and supportive comments - I appreciate every one of you.
Here is my "top ten" of my favorite poems I wrote in April, a kind of short cut if you don't feel like scanning through my thirty-plus entries from April:
Thanks again to Robert Lee Brewer of Write Better Poetry (Writer's Digest website) and Maureen Thorson of NaPoWriMo for providing my daily inspiration. Also thanks for all of you who took the time to leave your positive and supportive comments - I appreciate every one of you.
Here is my "top ten" of my favorite poems I wrote in April, a kind of short cut if you don't feel like scanning through my thirty-plus entries from April:
[Day 3: (1) Write a "short" poem (a short-form powm and/or a poem about something short), and (2) " write a poem that obliquely explains why you are a poet and not some other kind of artist – or, if you think of yourself as more of a musician or painter (or school bus driver or scuba diver or expert on medieval Maltese banking) – explain why you are that and not something else!"]
Why I Am Not a Sculptor
But then again, no… Elton John
and chisel down words,
grind, polish,
sand and buff,
there’s a luster to the form,
the shape of language.
tried all this with rock,
it would crack
and splinter,
my chisel just a weapon,
rubble on the floor.
[Day 5: NaPoWriMo's prompt invites us to choose from a menu of words and phrases: one item from the first column, which is a list of amusing directions inspired by the Italian musical directions on sheet music (e.g. allegro non troppo), for example, "literally go nuts" and "improvisatory screaming." (I actually incorporated both those phrases into my piece.) The second column contains styles and types of music, from which we should also choose one. (I chose "symphony.") And the last column is a word bank of twenty-one words from which we could select one or more to use in the poem. (I picked nine: sharks, nonsense, bones, concrete, pool, chain, vampire, butterflies, moonlight.) ]
Orchestrated Chaos
Last night. As a celebration of “Liberation Day” at the Kennedy Center, the National Dementia Orchestra conducted by Benito Furioso premiered a new work by Russian composer Serge Putinski: Symphony #13 in A minor, “Non Compos Mentis.” The first movement opened with a clarinet solo which sounded akin to a mouse in a blender. This was followed by the strings introducing the main theme—or as well as they could, as they were using chicken bones instead of bows. The brass then took up the theme, though it was hard to hear them with their bells full of Jell-O. The rest of the movement could only be described as incoherent noise. The second movement opened with a lovely scene—the release of several boxes of butterflies from the stage, but they were quickly sprayed with insecticide by the first flute. The pianist unexpectedly began the opening strains of the Moonlight Sonata before being escorted off the stage by concertmaster and first violin Josef Gumballs. Maestro Furioso then bought the entire ensemble to a deafening crescendo, and the entire orchestra literally went nuts. Gumballs, dressed inexplicably in a vampire costume, wielded a chain saw and cut his instrument in half. The percussion section attacked each other with mallets, the tympanist flipped over his kettles, a cymbal flew across the stage like a Frisbee, nearly decapitating the harpist, and the oboist jumped into a pool of sharks. The cellists smashed their instruments on the concrete floor, thus ending the movement. By this time almost half the audience had left, not due to the nonsense on stage, but because they were led out in handcuffs by security guards for having the wrong tickets. The third movement was played by a reduced ensemble, after Gumballs laid off the entire viola section, the trombones, half the violins, and all the percussion. It reached a quick crescendo, however, when a chorus brought on stage for this movement began some improvisatory screaming, mainly because the disgruntled percussionists had brought in an electric vehicle and set it on fire. Mercifully, the concert ended before the final movement could be performed, not only because the concert hall burned to the ground, but also because the orchestra had suddenly cut off their own Federal funding.
[Note: This will be my last column for this publication, as I have been detained for writing negative reviews.]
[Day 10: Write a "number" poem.]
Two Pi Are
You
have got my number.
I
go off on a tangent
when you’re around. I
get irrational, spin in circles,
but you
are my center, my transcendent one.
You call me Sir Cumference,
and I call
you Lady Radians. Our geometry
is congruent. You strike a chord with me.
Our love is constant, yet it grows by degrees
as we follow this arc of life,
rotating on this great sphere, singing a number that
goes on forever.
{Day 12: (1) Write a "risky' poem, and (2) "Try writing a poem that makes reference to one or more myths, legends, or other well-known stories, that features wordplay (including rhyme), mixes formal and informal language, and contains multiple sections that play with a theme. Try also to incorporate at least one abstract concept – for example, desire or sorrow or pride or whimsy."]
Androcles and the Lion
I.
I fled my master’s home and found a cave
for shelter, dark and strewn with bones. I crept
with caution, knew the risk was high, and heard
a roar so deafening, I feared the grave.
A lion limped into the light, but wept
in pain, a huge thorn in his paw. He purred
after I pulled it out. Then we were friends.
He shared the cave with me. At night I slept
against his fur. He shared his kill—a bird,
a deer. I cook in fire, which he tends
to think absurd.
II.
I heard they caught my friend, the slave who ran,
And soon thereafter, me as well. A cage
Was my new home. They took me out and beat
me, led me to a field of blood and sand
where I’d attack men on a deadly stage.
But one man stood out in the sun and heat,
the man I knew. He looked at me and cried.
He dropped his sword. No battle would we wage.
He said, “Hello, old friend.” I licked his feet.
They pardoned him. He walked out by my side,
too kind to eat.
[Day 16: (1) Write a "something fantastic" poem, and (2) write a poem that "invites us to imagine music in the context of a place, but more along the lines of a soundtrack laid on top of the location, rather than just natural sounds. Today, try writing a poem that similarly imposes a particular song on a place. Describe the interaction between the place and the music using references to a plant and, if possible, incorporate a quotation – bonus points for using a piece of everyday, overheard language."]
Spring Cleaning to Vivaldi
“Alexa, play me some spring!” The morning
starts Allegro—I celebrate the birds
with a feather duster, dancing over shelves.
I flick arpeggios, gloss the tabletops
with a misty spray. Violins spur me
into a gentle whirlwind; the vacuum cleaner,
my mobile cello. I take a breath at
the Largo. The cherry tree outside my window
is bursting. Back to Allegro—shepherds’ pipes
invite me to cavort in the kitchen,
wiping counters with a cloth soft as wool.
Everything wants to come into my house
this morning—sun, breeze, honeysuckle scent—
Throw open the windows! Open them all!
[Day 23: (1) Write a "book" poem, and (2) "write your own poem that focuses on birdsong."]
Mockingbird
It’s a sin to kill a mockingbird,
said Atticus, and it’s true.
Gray and unassuming,
it still brings color
and brightness to my world
as it settles in my sycamore,
sharing all it has learned
in a set list of cover songs
presented as one long medley.
[Day 24: "write a poem that involves people making music together, and that references – with a lyric or line – a song or poem that is important to you."]
COVID Choir, May 2020
The computer screen is split into quarters—
Elbow’s front man Garvey on the upper left,
his guitar, bass and keyboard guys,
each in a separate studio,
filling out the other segments.
The keyboardist starts a single note ostinato
The guitarists join in, and Garvey
whistles an intro, then sings,
Lippy kids on the corner again,
Settling like crows….
Gradually the quartet pulls back,
shrinks into the middle,
and reveals a frame around them,
twenty-two young adult faces,
alumni of the Hallé Youth Choir,
each in their own square of the world,
who, through some synchronous magic,
hum the wordless chorus in unison:
Mmm, mmm, mmm
Mmm, mmm, mmm, mmm….
And Guy Garvey sings over them,
You were a freshly painted angel,
Walking on walls….
Build a rocket, boys,
Build a rocket, boys!
And these human islands connect
like a vocal archipelago,
and their voices hum like a colony of bees,
and I’m right here humming along with them
from my own little square of the world,
and the blonde girl in the upper left
of the screen seems to be crying,
and I’m not sure if it’s loneliness
or just the beauty of the song,
but I’m crying right along with her.
[Day 26: (1) Write a "hermit crab" poem, and (2) Write a sonnet, or a poem that's "sonnet-shaped." A "hermit crab" poem, as Robert Lee Brewer describes it, is a poem that takes the form of another kind of writing, like a postcard, a recipe, a to-do list, an obituary, etc.]
A List for Surviving These Times
One: Stop harping that this world’s gone to hell.
Two: Find a good cause. Join it. Send money.
Three: Mail a card to Congress. Say, “Get well!”
Four: Be nice. You catch more flies with honey…
Five: Try to get others to see your side.
Six: Paint a sign with a pithy slogan.
Seven: Join a march and protest with pride.
Eight: Start a podcast. (Not like Joe Rogan!)
Nine: Play some music that inspires you.
Ten: Take a break from social media.
Eleven: Lose the funk that mires you.
Twelve: Get facts. (Not just Wikipedia.)
Thirteen: Seek shelter. There might be a storm.
Fourteen: Build a fire. Keep yourself warm.
[Day 28: (1) Write a "color" poem, and (2) "write a poem that involves music at a ceremony or event of some kind."]
I Wish the Music Could Have Reached Her
I tried to pick the songs we’d listen to
on summer evenings on your deck,
as the reds began to fade into the horizon,
soft rock mostly—Crosby, Stills and Nash,
James Taylor, Simon and Garfunkel, Carole King,
some Beatles of course.
We’d sip our beers, wave away mosquitoes,
complain about the Phillies, talk about our kids,
as the soundtrack seeped from your stereo.
Today for the viewing I brought a “mixtape”—
a CD I burned, actually—
a tasteful selection of quiet, uplifting tunes,
“Bridge Over Troubled Water,” “Here Comes the Sun,”
that kind of thing. I play it through the PA system
because I think you would approve.
Downstairs at the funeral parlor, your grandson
plays with blocks. Upstairs the grownups console
each other, and seem to like the music.
And your widow, whose eyes are haunted and vacant,
wears a red sweater and wanders through the black.
[Day 29: (1) Write a "near the beginning' and/or "near the end" poem, and (2) " write a poem that takes its inspiration from the life of a musician, poet, or other artist. "]
Way Over Yonder in the Minor Key
Ain’t nobody that can sing like me…
—Woody Guthrie
The songs still swirl in my head
as I lie in my hospital bed,
hardly able to move, frozen by
the sickness that took my mama.
My six-string machine
ain’t killed a fascist in years,
but people still sing my songs,
songs with grit and dust on ‘em
and the clackin’ sound of railroad tracks.
Songs for the threadbare and downtrodden,
for the workers, and the Okies fleein’
the dust storms of their farms.
Songs about the beauty of this land,
and how a sign that says
“No Trespassing”
says nothin’ on the other side.
Songs with a singe of sadness—
all the fires that cursed my family—
but also silly songs for the kiddies.
One day not long ago, a gawky young fella
with kinky hair brought his guitar
and serenaded me with my own songs.
Said his name was Bobby, and he wanted
to keep my legacy alive. Well, folks,
he’s done a pretty good job of that.
and it’s brought me some peace.
So all I got left to say is
so long, it’s been good to know yuh.
[Thanks again for reading, and apologies for the format and font changes in this post. I sometimes have trouble controlling the editing functions here.]
