PAD April 2020: A Recap

So, to sum up, I wrote 38 poems in 30 days, including:
22 free verse
5 haiku
3 triolets
2 tanka sequences
2 "hay(na)ku sonnets"
2 light verse
1 curtal sonnet
1 concrete poem
Of those, twenty have at least a passing mention of the current pandemic and its effects, and two more could be construed to refer to it. Maybe theirs a chapbook in there somewhere - my friend Anna Evans wrote pandemic-themed tritinas all month and is planning to assemble a chapbook of them.

I always like to pick my favorite poems that I wrote during the month and showcase them at the end, so here are my "top 5", at least in my opinion. (Feel free to browse my daily posts if you prefer to form your own opinion of which are my "best".)

Day 2: 

Civic

A round rubber foundation that moves

with a simple key turn, a shift of a lever

and a pump on a pedal.

My new safe space. Not living in it,

but in a sense, living through it.

No crowds in here, few germs (I pray)

and a decent sound system.

The dark gray dashboard is fuzzy

with a film of dust, and random papers

litter the floor, but it's my mess.

I'm not too far from anything here -

my favorite takeout is 1.6 miles

down the road. They open their window,

and I open mine, the bagged transfer

of victuals - minimum contact.

A turbaned guy pumps my gas

(Jersey is still full-service),

and we pass my card back and forth.

If I have to exit this steel-glass bubble,

I don my gloves and mask,

stay a person-length away from anyone

avoid chit-chat, get my necessities,

and walk out into an invisible haze

of particles that look like tiny golf balls

studded with tees.

Many, but fewer, of us are moving like this,

self-isolation on the highway, keeping

a safe distance, just as they always told us

in Driver's Ed, so we don't crash

into one another and die.



Day 8:

The Future of the Hug

I was not ready for anything to happen.
- Sylvia Plath

The first thing they said was Don't shake hands.

Soon after that, they banned intimacy.

Stay apart, the length of a person's body.

Wash your hands. Don't leave home.

If you do, wear a mask. Wash your hands.

Don't let anyone in your house. Wash your hands.

Wash your hands.

I watch my first-grader talk to her teacher

from a laptop screen.  At the end, she leans in

and wraps her arms around herself, a virtual hug.

The teacher should be inside those arms.

I can see her tears welling.

None of us were ready for this.

A kiss, a handshake, a hug -

these days any could be deadly.

Those closest to us at home still get them -

the reward outweighs the risk.

But when we come out the other side of this,

how much warmth will we resurrect

in those social gatherings that right now

are called death traps?

Some of us have already adopted "Namaste" -

the pressing of our own palms together.

It feels wonderfully sincere, but

it is not the same as pressing  another's flesh -

hand to hand, lip to cheek, arms

around another whose arms enwrap you.

The hug will not become extinct.

When we come out again, blinking in the light,

we will see those whose absence was an ache,

and we will seek their comfort.

We will dissolve our personal space,

become blankets in each other's arms

and squeeze.

Day 10:

The Man Who Went to the Supermarket During a Slow Apocalypse

donning

battle gear -

wipes, gloves, mask -

clusters

of humanity -

cart snaking past

standing

six feet

apart in queue -

victuals

on conveyor,

card swiped through -

the only issue:

no toilet tissue

Day 22:

Go Bite the Bed Bugs

Our grandmother used to tuck us in and say,

Good night, sleep tight,

don't let the bed begs bite.

It was a quirky little rhyme, one that didn't

make a lot of sense to us - What's a bed bug?

Then they made a comeback, popping up

in unexpected places like luxury hotels,

so we had to address them again,

just like we're addressing an invisible bug

today, a hundred years after the last

such bug killed so many in the world.

I can thank my Jewish college friend

for the gift of another quirky idiom,

one that turns my grandmother's around:

In Yiddish, it's Gai strasheh di vantzen -

literally, "Go threaten the bed bugs,"

meaning, "I'm not afraid of you!"

Her bubbe actually translated it,

"Go bite the bed bugs,"

such a colorful reversal.

It comes in handy today, as I

strap on a mask to enter this world that has

so radically changed in these few months.

I must take precautions, but I can't let

the times dictate my fears.

I want to use it like a mantra,

shout it through the cloth on my face

over and over till I actually believe it,

Gai strasheh di vantzen,

Gai strasheh di vantzen.

Day 26:

Aprilcalypse

A light spring rain falls on Sunday morning

and the dandelions on my lawn.

I am here, not far from Independence Hall,

while democracy shakes like a leaf,

just as shaking hands is going out of style.

Squirrels dart across deserted streets

and tornados, my childhood nightmare,

rip through the South. This world can turn

on a dime, a dirty dime like the one I found

by the curb yesterday. From cornfields

to tenements, change is rattling the husks

and window panes. Some have spray painted

anarchy symbols and swastikas anonymously

in the alley by the trash cans; others boldly

brandish them on protest signs.  My wife and I

watch the news looking for facts, while others

eat up Pizzagate and the Deep State,

jumping into a chasm of disinformation.  

They fear Spanish and Chinese like I fear heights.

I grew up in a pink split-level, wear jeans

like Springsteen, build a playhouse for my grandkids

and read them Goodnight Moon.  Now I have

a President who asks if we can inject disinfectant

to kill the virus in us, and I think of the film

Idiocracy. (Dear Mr. President, please sit down -

you're not helping. Very truly yours, a citizen.)

I wish I could just fly away from here, mount

a poetic Pegasus and lift us both into the clouds.

But solace will have to come from the real world,

like the empty boulevard lined with cherry trees
that bloom in the rain in my home town.

Honorable Mentions:
Zombie Moment (Day 5)
Spirit (Day 12)
PM (Day 18)
Give and Take (Day 19)
Parenting in the Plague (Day 21)
Somewhat Cynically after Listening to James Schuyler's "Hymn to Life" (Day 25)
Total Blank (Day 29)

PAD Day 30: Tribute to a Health Care Worker

Today's prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a poem of praise, and (2) write a poem about something or someone returning. This is not about a person that I know, although I did have my niece in mind, who is a nurse, and whom I learned recently is working the COVID-19 units. So as a tribute to her and all the health care workers literally putting their lives on the line every day, I offer this tribute:

Warrior

All praise to you, nurse,

medic on the battle lines.

Every day you suit up in PPE,

shuttle from ER to ICU,

and tend to the suffering.

You save many, but watch some die.

For those whose families

are not allowed to come,

you hold their phone for face time

so they can say goodbye.

It's all you can do

to keep from crying yourself.

It's all you can do

to strap on the mask again

and push yourself forward.

You are exhausted.

you say hello to your kids

through the storm door glass

on your back patio.

Then you go out again.

You finish another long shift,

strip your mask and face shield,

gloves and gown,

take a long shower

and try to sleep a little.

Day after day,

you pass gurneys in the hall,

beeping monitors,

ventilators pumping,

and you soldier on.

You've been doing it for a month

or longer, then one morning

you're not feeling well

and take your temperature -

one hundred and one.

Luckily, it's a mild case -

a few days in bed, then

two weeks in quarantine,

and you're ready to return.

Once again, you dress for work.

A row of colleagues claps you in.

Back on the floor,

in PPE battle gear,

you shuttle from ER to ICU,

and tend to the suffering.

PAD Day 29: Writer's Block and an Old Dog

Today's prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a poem with the title "Total ______", and (2) write a "paean toyour pet". I didn't combine the prompts today, so I have two poems to offer. As for the first, I thought "Total Blank" was already a great title, so I wrote a triolet with that title:

Total Blank

I want to write but draw a total blank.

My mind's on hold; my inspiration's shot.

My muse plays hide-and-seek - a cruel prank!

I want to write but draw a total blank.

I rummage my vocabulary bank -

A doodle in the margin's all I've got.

I want to write but draw - a total blank.

My mind's on hold; my inspiration's shot.

Regarding the second, I've always been a dog lover, and had family dogs off and on from the time I was very little until I went off to college, but never since, until about a year ago when we adopted a dog from a friend who was no longer able to care for her. We had known the dog for years, and she is one of the gentlest, sweetest dogs we've ever met, but she is now quite old. Still, she has some spunk left in her, as this poem, written in tanka form, relates. (It's not quite a "paean", but it will do.)

World's Oldest Puppy

all of sixteen years

she's a centenarian

by human measure

totally deaf and half-blind

sleeping through most of the day

yet her head perks up

anytime the door opens

and she stands up straight

or straight as old hips allow -

watches me through clouded eyes

I put on my coat

and she scampers for the door

with metronome tail

then bounds down the two front steps

seeking some new adventure

PAD Day 28: Storm Clouds

Today's prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "looking back" and/or "looking forward" poem, and (2) inspired by a brief reminiscence by Emily Dickinson's niece of visiting her aunt's bedroom: describe a bedroom from your past. These two prompts mesh almost perfectly, and though I've written about my favorite childhood bedroom in the past, I thought I'd visit it again with a new poem:

Weatherman

I'm sitting in my bedroom at twelve.

My parents have just redecorated the room

for my birthday, a more mature look.

White painted furniture includes a new desk;

nautical flags and sailing ships grace the wallpaper.

But my pride and joy is the other birthday present -

a junior weather station just outside my window.

I've always loved science, and think of myself

as a budding meteorologist. The anemometer spins,

catching the wind in its pinwheel  cups.

The hygrometer tells me the humidity in the air

with a simple calculation. The max-min thermometer 

registers highs and lows, and the barometer

is the oracle, predicting incoming weather

with the augury of air pressure - a downward tick

in the needle today means rain is on the way.

I document everything in a red notebook

on my bright white desk, but soon something else

will take over these pages - random musings

and thoughts set to poetry, as I begin

to chart the storms of adolescence.

PAD Day 27: Happy Birthday to Me

Yeah, it's my birthday, and this year it's hard to get excited about it, but I did have a nice brunch at home with my wife, son and daughter-in-law and two grandkids, and my other three sons and my sister-in-law attended via Zoom. Today was a more normal day (by current standards, anyway), and I got a lot of nice birthday wishes via Facebook (the first coming from India and Australia, where the day of course starts much earlier). I also got a nice personal greeting from my poet friend Marge Piercy. I usually write a poem about my birthday each year, but this year one just wasn't forthcoming. Maybe later.

Today's prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "massive" poem, and (2) write a poem in the form of a review, specifically, something that would not normally be reviewed. Well, I wrote a pretty "massive" (as in long) poem two days ago (massive for me, anyway), so I wasn't going to let the first prompt dictate the length of the poem itself, but I did work in the word "massive". One of the suggestions for the second prompt was a review of this year, 2020, so I ran with that, trying to mimic one of those scathing, vindicative but sometimes clueless reviews that you find on Yelp, TripAdvisor, Amazon, and the like. Kind of satirical but tongue-in-cheek too, I guess.

Yelp Review of Year 2020

This is the worst year I've ever been in!

You can't find a restaurant that will seat you!

There are no movies playing,

no concerts, no sporting events -

you can't even visit a park

or get a tattoo or a haircut!

This place is dead, and the people

walk around wearing masks

and act like they're trying to avoid you!

Even going to a grocery store is a chore -

I had to wait outside in line for an hour!

And then they were out of everything -

I mean, who doesn't stock toilet paper?

The only good thing I can say is

the traffic isn't bad, and the air

is pretty clean, and gas is cheap.

But zero nightlife! I might as well stay home!

This year has been a massive disappointment!

I'm never coming back to it again!!!

(One star)

PAD Day 26: More Musing on Our Times

Today's prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "change" poem, and (2) write a poem based on an "almanac" prompt. Using the following list, fill in your answers in 5 minutes or less - in other words, don't over-think them, just answer with the first thing that pops into your head. Then use your answers as the basis for the poem.

The first prompt is a no-brainer: What hasn't changed in our world in the past few months? The second one is more challenging, but not as much so as yesterday's NaPoWriMo prompt. And, as with yesterday's, it resulted in a kind of freewheeling, stream-of-consciouslnes poem from me. So here's the list, with my answers, followed by my poem. I tried to use my answers to the list in the same order in the poem, but gave that up about midway through, although they still generally move from the beginning to the end. I used them all, though a few are kind of indirect references.

Almanac Questionnaire

Weather: Light rain
Flora: dandelion
Architecture: Independence Hall
Customs: handshake
Mammals/reptiles/fish: squirrel
Childhood dream: tornados
Found on the Street: dime
Export: corn
Graffiti: anarchy symbol
Lover: my wife

Conspiracy:  Pizzagate

Dress: jeans
Hometown memory: pink split level house
Notable person: Bruce Springsteen
Outside your window, you find: playhouse
Today’s news headline: Trump suggests disinfectant injection
Scrap from a letter: Very truly yours
Animal from a myth: Pegasus
Story read to children at night: Goodnight Moon
You walk three minutes down an alley and you find: trash
You walk to the border and hear: Spanish
What you fear:  heights
Picture on your city’s postcard: cherry trees           

Aprilcalypse

A light spring rain falls on Sunday morning

and the dandelions on my lawn.

I am here, not far from Independence Hall,

while democracy shakes like a leaf,

just as shaking hands is going out of style.

Squirrels dart across deserted streets

and tornados, my childhood nightmare,

rip through the South. This world can turn

on a dime, a dirty dime like the one I found

by the curb yesterday. From cornfields

to tenements, change is rattling the husks

and window panes. Some have spray painted

anarchy symbols and swastikas anonymously

in the alley by the trash cans; others boldly

brandish them on protest signs.  My wife and I

watch the news looking for facts, while others

eat up Pizzagate and the Deep State,

jumping into a chasm of disinformation.  

They fear Spanish and Chinese like I fear heights.

I grew up in a pink split-level, wear jeans

like Springsteen, build a playhouse for my grandkids

and read them Goodnight Moon.  Now I have

a President who asks if we can inject disinfectant

to kill the virus in us, and I think of the film

Idiocracy. (Dear Mr. President, please sit down -

you're not helping. Very truly yours, a citizen.)

I wish I could just fly away from here, mount

a poetic Pegasus and lift us both into the clouds.

But solace will have to come from the real world,

like the empty boulevard lined with cherry trees
that bloom in the rain in my home town.

PAD Day 25: Another "Two-fer"

Today's prompt from Poetic Asides is to write a "remix" poem - i.e., take a poem or poems you have written this month and "remix" it/them to create something new - write it in a different form, or change the lines around, or mix lines from different poems, or write a response to a previous poem, etc. It's one Robert Lee Brewer's used several times before, and I usually have some fun with it.

The second prompt from NaPoWriMo is much more daunting, I think: Listen to and/or read the long poem by James Schuyler called "Hymn to Life" and then respond with at least 20 minutes of free writing, using a number of prompts from poet Hoa Nguyen. The audio of the poem is 34 minutes long, and at first I thought, "How will I have time to listen to that, and how boring will it be?" Well, I actually had about an hour drive ahead of me today, so I patched the audio file from Poets.org through my car stereo, and I must say, I really got drawn into it. I was most impressed with how the poet jumps almost seamlessly back and forth from objects in his room, to the new spring growth outside, to childhood memories, the sites of Washington, D.C., various shades of purple, and many other subjects. I was unexpectedly hooked.

I wasn't able to reconcile the prompts today, so here is the first poem, the "remix". I used the last lines (with a few minor changes) from my poems for Days 1, 4, 6-7, 9-10, 12-17, and 19-21. (The title is a line from Day 17.)

Lockdown Rush Hour

"My jigsaw puzzle -

it's perfect."

It's early Sunday -

We have all the time in the world,

and no toilet tissue.

In times like these, we need it most.

It means so much more these days.

Minutes become years in a dream,

just as we are trapped here forever,

and so many are being taken from us

by stopping clocks,

by jets overhead.

For a short while through this cosmic race,

we hope we'll be even more full of life

with poetry,

and repeat as necessary.

And here is the second one - not sure how successful it is, and it didn't incorporate a lot of Nguyen's prompts, but it was rather liberating to write:

Somewhat Cynically after Listening to James Schuyler's "Hymn to Life"

I am putting everything aside for you today, James,

and I hope you appreciate it. The laundry room hums

with the circular motion of washer and dryer drums,

thumping unbalanced from time to time. I am in the basement,

drumming my fingers on black plastic letter-labeled keys,

and looking for my metaphorical Madeleine. I did have some

mocha flavored cake a little while ago, and the coffee aftertaste

is not unpleasant, despite my dislike of coffee. I listened to you

on a one-hour journey up a highway, starting near the Jersey shore,

in a little town on a tidal river where the houses are crumbling,

where roofs are starting to cave in, where a bathroom disaster

has left one porcelain facility nearly in ruins and we are now

gutting it for renovation. I'm leaving that behind for now,

zipping up Route 55 past long stark forests mixed with maple,

birch, and oak, not quite ready to leaf, and I wonder how many

will come back this year, and how many will echo this plague in the air

and remain dead brown wood. Silhouette signs warn of crossing deer.

I have never hit one before, but I am waiting for it to happen.

This is all too bleak for a sunny day sandwiched between two soaking rains,

and the clouds are just starting to insinuate the next ingredient

of that sandwich.  Trees whiz by, and a few cars do as well,

though fewer than in a normal world. Digital sign boards flash

the strong yellow suggestion to stay at home, avoid the spread,

but I defy that, at least for today, yet I am not a complete rebel.

There's a mask at my side. I will stop at the pharmacy

and hand my over-the-counter pills to a young man masked like me -

he doesn't suspect a holdup, and I don't suspect a face deformity.

He is behind Plexiglas. We gingerly pass merchandise, credit card

and receipt back and forth. My perfunctory "thank you" should have

been more sincere. The washer has stopped. It's a newer model

with one of those annoying electronic melodies to indicate

it's done. I haven't been listening to a lot of music these days -

maybe it's depression, maybe distraction. My wife calls, "Honey,

what do you want for dinner? " The dog is pacing again -

she sounds like my mind, tick-tacking her nails on the wood floor

over my head. I am not humming anymore either, running out

of steam, my head drawn to the sun outside, the kids next door

playing street hockey, the guy in the back with a leaf blower,

my fingers running full tilt while my brain watches them and says,

"Are you pounding out more of that nonsense?"

It's not Shakespeare, James - it's not even Bukowski. But

it loosens the senses just a little, relaxes the tension a little more,

and maybe with the most extraordinary stroke of luck,

someone will read it. Does anyone have a little time on their hands?

PAD Day 24: Impostor Fruit

Today's prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "nature" poem, and (2) write a poem about a particular fruit, decribing it as closely as possible. Well, one of my most "popular" poems (if I can say that), is "How to Peel an Orange", the first important publication of this phase of my poetic life, back in 2000, and the basis for the name of this blog. So I decided to take a slightly different tack here, focusing on a plant that has a fruit which is not normally eaten. Its wildness provides the response to the "nature" prompt. For a really great poem about fruit and nature, though, may I refer you to Seamus Heaney's poem "Blackberry-picking". Anyway, here is mine, in the form of a tanka series:

Mock Strawberry

trefoil toothy leaves

on vines invading my lawn,

tiny buds of red -

you look like miniatures

of my most favorite fruit

your berries don't hang

but poke up, giving away

your identity

and you, creeping impostor,

have yellow, not white, flowers

I just Googled you -

your fruit isn't poisonous

but it has no taste

thus rendering you useless -

demoted to common weed

still there is something

cheerful about you this spring

the pops of color

I hesitate to pull you

and in the end, leave you be.

PAD Day 23: Ode to the Letter E

Today's prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a poem with the title "Social______", and (2) "write a poem about a particular letter of the alphabet, or perhaps, the letters that form a short word.... Think about the shape of the letter(s), and use that as the take-off point for your poem. " So today's light verse was an ode to a particular letter (the "shape" part of the prompt comes in at verse 3). It's a little silly, but maybe it could be used for a grade-school reading or spelling lesson. 

Social E

"Extroverted", "ebullient",

describes our good friend E.

"Effervescent", "omnipresent",

all fit him to a tee.

He shows up in most every word,

as common as cream cheese.

He's everywhere in "everywhere",

"beekeeper", "beveled", "breeze".

And you can tell E's friendly -

that honest, open face.

His little brother's charming, too,

in smiling lower case.

And even when they're silent,

they liven other vowels -

 they crash the party at the end,

jazz up their letter pals:

from "mat" to "mate" and "fat" to "fate",

they've got the magic touch.

From "hop" to "hope" and "cop" to "cope",

they brighten words so much.

In summary, let's all shout "Whee!

Three cheers for letter E!"

The big and little brothers who've

succeeded social-E!

(If I counted correctly, there are 98 E's in that poem.)


P.S.: Here is a related poem I wrote that was published in the Community Room blog of the Newark (NY) Public Library. (They also published a poem of mine last fall in their literary journal, Mason Street, and will publish three more in a special summer issue this year.) It's an abecaderian called "How a Toddler Learns the Alphabet."

PAD Day 22: Happy Earth Day?

It's hard to feel celebratory these days, and some holidays are rolling by with nary a ripple, it seems, like today, Earth Day - the 50th anniversary! I participated in the very first one way back in 1970, planting trees in my dorm court area with a young woman who would that day become my first college girlfriend. I've written about my first Earth Day in poetry a few times already, so I didn't revisit it today.

One has to wonder if this virus isn't Earth's revenge on us for being such jerks to it for so long. One fascinating side effect of this virus: pollution worldwide is way down. In Philadelphia, the nearest large city to me, three major air pollutants are down by as much as 25%. So in a way, maybe it is a "Happy Earth Day" after all.

Today's prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "quirk" poem, and (2) write a poem that uses an idiomatic phrase or expression from another language (the more unusual the better). I just incorporated the word "quirky" into the poem, but I had fun with the foreign saying, which really is still one of my favorites. (It also helped me years later with a crossword clue, which was "Yiddish for bed bug".)

Go Bite the Bed Bugs

Our grandmother used to tuck us in and say,

Good night, sleep tight,

don't let the bed begs bite.

It was a quirky little rhyme, one that didn't

make a lot of sense to us - What's a bed bug?

Then they made a comeback, popping up

in unexpected places like luxury hotels,

so we had to address them again,

just like we're addressing an invisible bug

today, a hundred years after the last

such bug killed so many in the world.

I can thank my Jewish college friend

for the gift of another quirky idiom,

one that turns my grandmother's around:

In Yiddish, it's Gai strasheh di vantzen -

literally, "Go threaten the bed bugs,"

meaning, "I'm not afraid of you!"

Her bubbe actually translated it,

"Go bite the bed bugs,"

such a colorful reversal.

It comes in handy today, as I

strap on a mask to enter this world that has

so radically changed in these few months.

I must take precautions, but I can't let

the times dictate my fears.

I want to use it like a mantra,

shout it through the cloth on my face

over and over till I actually believe it,

Gai strasheh di vantzen,

Gai strasheh di vantzen.

PAD Day 21: Some Weird Haiku and a Sonnet

Today's prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "love" and/or "anti-love" poem, and (2) write a "homophonic translation" - that is, take a poem in a foreign language you don't know, then try to write it in English using the sounds and/or appearance of the words in the foreign language. I must admit I had a hard time getting started on this today, partly because the second prompt is one of my least favorite, and I never seem to get a decent poem out of it. Also, I wasn't able to combine the two prompts today, so I had to come up with two poems, but I decided to come up with and "curtal sonnet" (invented by Gerard Manley Hopkins), so I'll present that first. Oh yeah, and I also incorporated this week's word bank from the Sunday Whirl blog, using all of the following words from the bank in my sonnet: fire, tiny, dream, mourn, torn, lift, shy, shock, lock, stories, truth, light. The fact that two pairs of those words rhyme was partly responsible for my choosing a rhyming form.

Parenting in the Plague

I try to keep an optimistic fire

with little ones around, and save the light

from burning out, but yet I keep the locks

turned tight, and try hard not to sound too dire -

with bedtime stories, "sweet dreams" wished each night,

then steel myself from all the news that shocks.

Truth is, I need a tiny lift - I mourn

those taken much too soon by this damned blight.

I keep my shy young charges in this box

I call a home, and make sure it's not torn

                                                  by stopping clocks.

And here's the "translation" poem. I deliberately chose a short poem (actually three haiku) to lessen my suffering (LOL). It's by a contemporary Basque poet named Kirmen Uribe. I didn't read the English translation till I did my "homophonic" poems, but I was impressed by his short pieces and the backstory (He was imprisoned for refusing mandatory service in the Spanish Army.)

[original]

ESPETXEKO HAIKUAK

1.

Kartzelan nago.
Lehenengo zirrara:
izerdi-sunda.

Sarraila hotsa,
orbanak paretetan.
Bakartasuna.

Leihotik beha,
jantzi marraduna du
iretargiak.

[my "translation"]

carts go along:

let them go, sorrow -

it's early Sunday.

surreally hot,

urban partitions,

baking art of sun.

Exotic, behave -

jaunty, merry, do not do -

you're a target.

[English translation by Elizabeth Macklin]

JAILHOUSE HAIKU

I’m here in the jail.
The very first of the shocks:
the stink of the sweat.

The sound of the lock,
the blotchy stains on the walls.
And then solitude.

Out of this window,
the moon itself is wearing
a stripy costume.

PAD Day 20: A Handmades Tale

Today's poems from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1)Write an "isolation" poem, and (2) write a poem about a handmade gift you received. I actually wrote a poem yesterday titled "Isolation", but I'll give it another go today.

When it comes to poems about handmade gifts, I don't think anyone can top "The Lanyard" by Billy Collins. Here's a video of him reading it. (I was at this reading, by the way, at the Dodge Poetry Festival - I think this was in 2008. Billy has always been one of my favorites, and I got to work with him in  Key West in 2015.)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=khQ9e0QpEM8

Here's my attempt at a "handmade" poem, with an element of "isolation". (I have a birthday coming up soon, so this is just an imagining of what it could be like.)

Drive-by Birthday

This year there is no party

in the traditional sense,

but friends and relatives send him

best wishes via internet,

and a few drive by his house,

honking with balloons and signs,

singing "Happy Birthday",

and some even drop off gifts.

He and his wife are "high-risk",

so they almost never venture out,

but she manages to cook him a special dinner.

They watch a movie they've wanted

to see for months, and she gives him

a handmade card on construction paper

with a rough sketch of flowers on the front

and a sweet sentiment inside.

I couldn't get to the card shop, she says,

teary-eyed. I'm sorry it's not something better.

No, he says, taking her hand.

It's perfect.

PAD Day 19: A "Two-fer"!

today's prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a poem using the following six words: bump, embrace, lonely, fixture, howl, and resolve; and (2) write a poem based on a "walking archive" - i.e., take a walk around your neighborhood, or even your house, and collect a few objects that interest you, then write about them in a poem. I actually wrote two today - the first one uses just the Poetic Asides prompt, and the second uses both of them. Robert Lee Brewer of Poetic Asides suggested that the six words could be inspiration for a sestina, and I tried to start one, but just didn't have the mojo for it today. Anyway, here's what I came up with:

Isolation

I miss bumping up against people

on the street, in the subway,

the grocery store.

I miss saying, "Excuse me".

I miss embracing an old friend.

I'm so lonely I want to swing

from a light fixture and howl,

"I miss you all!"

But my resolve kicks in,

and I go back to finishing

my jigsaw puzzle.

Give and Take

Let spring flourish.

Cherish the bloom.

                - messages inside two chocolate Easter candy wrappers

It's hard not to let spring seduce you

on an almost perfect April day.

I decide to clean up the back yard

to make way for the mower.

My first find is a tennis ball -

fuzzy fluorescent green,

a stray from the neighbor kids,

fixtures of spring who whoop and holler

and howl all day playing games in the street.

A few yards further back, a blue jay feather -

white and blue with black stripes,

a lonely quill from one of its wings.

As I pick it up, my head bumps a branch

hanging over my fence - my neighbor's

drooping lilac, purple clusters of flowers

already bowing down.  With his permission,

I cut a few, and resolve to return the favor sometime.

I toss the ball over my other

neighbor's fence, keep the feather

which I can't return, and put the flowers

in a glass of water.  It's been a day

of give and take, and I embrace it

as another gift, to help me forget for a moment

this stay-at-home spring, where outside

so many are giving of themselves,

and so many are being taken from us.

PAD Day 18: Another Hay(na)ku

Today's prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "message" poem, and (2) write an "ode to life’s small pleasures". I think that getting a kind or loving text or Facebook message from someone you're fond of can make your day, so that is my "small pleasure". I enjoyed writing a hay(na)ku sonnet the other day (see Day 10), the form created by my friend Vince Gotera, and I went an extra step by giving it a rhyme scheme (xxA xxA xxB xxB CC, but the first four stanzas could work just as easily as ABAB or ABBA). Today I tried another one:

PM

my

day unravels

like a sweater

until

your message

makes it better

you

send me

a virtual hug

it

sweeps despair

beneath my rug

while we're apart,

emoji red heart

PAD Day 17 Part 2: Happy Haiku Day!

I was just made aware that today is National Haiku Day - April 17, in honor of the traditional seventeen syllables of the haiku.  So to celebrate, here are two "pandemic haiku" (or myabe more like senryu, the humanity-based variation):

me, walking my dog

down the center of the street -

lockdown rush hour

a quieter spring -

birdsong no longer drowned out

by jets overhead

PAD Day 17: Exotic Telephones

Today's prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write an "exotic" poem, and (2) write a poem the features "forgotten technology". My poem just makes passing reference to the idea of "exotic", but it works in a few bits of "forgotten technology":

Boomer's Lament

You creatures from another dimension

or generation, how can you not know

how to dial a phone? It's something exotic

to you, and when confronted with such

a contraption, your fingers don't know

what to do. And what about cassette tapes?

Do you know how much careful editing

it took to make the perfect mix tape?

Have you any idea how to play one,

or why a pencil is so important

to its maintenance? And what about

typewriters, cursive writing, analog clocks?

TVs the size of small fridges, with rabbit ears?

They might as well be from another planet,

or some mythical, foreign land. They are relics

from another century, I'll grant you that,

and you may never completely fathom

what they meant to me growing up.

Meanwhile, I'm having trouble

with my computer - can you fix it?