PAD Day 29: Music of a Legend

 Today's prompts from Wroite Better Poetry and NaPoWriMo: (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. "

I wrote a persona poem today, in the voice of Woody Guthrie, near the end of his life and his battle with the debilitating hereditary disease Huntington's Chorea. The title is actually that of an unpublished song he wrote that was finally put to music and recorded by Billy Bragg and Wilco (along with a number of his other unrecorded songs) on their 1998 album Mermaid Avenue. It's well worth a listen, along with the sequel, Mermaid Avenue 2. The epigraph is a line from that song, and the last line is, of course, the title of one of Woody's most famous songs.

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.

PAD Day 28: Soundtrack for a Friend

 Today's prompts from Writer's Digest and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "color" poem, and (2) "write a poem that involves music at a ceremony or event of some kind."

I mention red and black in this poem, which satisfies the color prompt. This is actually a reworking of a poem I wrote several years ago about the death of a friend. I revised it quite a bit, enough to call it "new."

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.
One of the elbows is beginning to unravel.

PAD Day 27 Bonus: Happy Birthday to Me

 So here is my other poem today, responding to the Write Better Poetry prompt to write a poem with the title "New ______." I usually write a poem about my birthday, and this year, crummy as it's been so far, should be no exception.

New Year
 
“May you live in interesting times.” – Old Chinese curse
 
Another year older today. I’ll let you guess:
Half of my current age is a prime number.
Okay, the year was 1988. I was 37.
Half a life ago, not much was happening.
I was married with three kids, and my wife
and I were well into our careers, settled
in a four-bedroom colonial.
My midlife crisis hadn’t kicked in.
I hadn’t started writing poetry again yet.
The big films were Die Hard
(not a Christmas movie!)
and Who Framed Roger Rabbit?
The Cosby Show was still big on TV.
Nothing much was going on musically—
disco and punk had peaked, and grunge
was still a few years away.
Just a bunch of generic pop,

with rap creeping into the mainstream.
We had a cellular phone, but it was
for the car only, and powered by a bag
the size of a briefcase. No, it couldn’t
take photos or play Candy Crush.
I was elated to get a new home computer
with 64K of memory, replacing my old TI-99.
We weren’t at war anywhere,
but there was still some strife in the world,
and the Iran-Contra affair.
The Iron Curtain and Berlin Wall
were beginning to crumble.
George H.W. Bush was elected,
and said something about
“a thousand points of light.”
My Phillies, between championships,
stunk. It was a pretty dull year.
 
If only this year could be more like that one.
 

PAD Day 27: How the Mighty

 Today's prompts from Write Better Poetry and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a poem titled "New ______," and (2) "W.H. Auden’s 'Musée des Beaux Arts' takes its inspiration from a very particular painting: Breughel’s 'Landscape with the Fall of Icarus.' Today we’d like to challenge you to write your own poem that describes a detail in a  painting, and that begins, like Auden’s poem, with a grand, declarative statement."

I was reviewing the webpage of the Harvard Art Museums (on the invitation of Maureen from NaPoWriMo) and one early 19th century cartoon etching caught my eye. It resonated because of the glee the main subject showed in bringing an end to the rule of a once-great despot. I thought, "If only..." and wrote this poem. (I wasn't able to come up with a satisfactory title beginning with "new", so I'll write another poem, probably on the subject of my birthday -today! - as I do most years.)

The Fire This Time
(after “Snuffing Out Boney!” by George Cruikshank, 1814)
 
They burn bright for a while,
those who want to rule the world,
but sooner or later they begin to flicker.
 
The Cossack in Cruikshank’s etching,
just off his horse and still in his spurs,
takes a candle-snuffer, a pincer-like tool
 
To a terrified, candle-sized Bonaparte,
whose dying flame is about to be pinched out
at the wick. The Russian soldier,
 
fresh from the front, is mad with glee
to have cornered the great Napoleon,
as another drawing hangs on the wall,
 
another rendition with the Cossack
lowering a large snuffing cone.
His flame guttered in the Russian campaign,
 
and the emperor was forced into shame and exile
before his final goals could be won.
If only we were really ready to do that now,
 
to extinguish the blaze that is burning
everything from under us, to snuff it out
before it becomes the wildfire it aspires to be.

PAD Day 26: A Sonnet To-Do List

 Today's prompts from Write Better Poetry and NaPoWriMo: (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.

Maureen also suggested thinking of the sonnet in the format of a song, but my sonnet today isn't particularly musical. It actually reads more like a numbered set of instructions or "to-do" list for how to cope in these turbulent times. It's fourteen lines of ten syllables, with a Shakespearean rhyme scheme, but the meter is rather loose. 

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.

 

PAD Day 25: Hallelujah for "Hallelujah"!

 Today's prompts from Write Better Poetry and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "memory" poem, and (2) "Write a poem that recounts an experience of your own in hearing live music, and tells how it moves you."

I've always loved Handel's Messiah, and I try to catch live performances of it at Christmastime, when it's most frequently performed. There's nothing like a full-throated choir and full orchestra to inspire you with that most glorious work. However, one of my favorite musical moments was when just four female voices - Maggie, Suzzy and Terre Roche, along with Shawn Colvin - sang the Hallelujah Chorus from Messiah a cappella as an encore at the now-defunct Apple Farm Folk Festival in southern New Jersey some 25 or 30 years ago. It was perfect. I thought it might be fun to describe that memory in the style of Leonard Cohen's classic song "Hallelujah."

Pocket Hallelujah

(after Leonard Cohen)
 
The Roches and Shawn Colvin hit
The stage to do their encore bit,
It was their perfect harmony that drew ya,
The fairgrounds rang with voices four,
There was no need for any more,
An a cappella Handel’s “Hallelujah.”
Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah.
 
Of all the things you heard that day,
That memory won’t go away,
Like blood the music circulates right through ya,
It’s carried everywhere you go,
A secret note you like to show
Your closest friends, your pocket Hallelujah.
Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
Hallelujah, Hallelujah.

PAD Day 24 Bonus: Temporal Confusion

 And here's my response to today's Write Better Poetry prompt. It was inspired by an announcement that an event I was interested in would occur live on the internet at "12:00 p.m. PT" on Friday. I had to think about whether they meant the beginning of the afternoon or late evening. (Some language/grammar experts suggest not using "a.m." or "p.m." after a 12:00 time, to avoid confusion, instead saying "12:00 Midnight" or "12:00 Noon", or simply Midnight or Noon. That still begs the question: When does today end and tomorrow begin? At 12:00, or exactly one minute, or even one second, after?)

Twelve o’What?
 
Is 12 a.m. midnight or noon?
Will I get there too late or too soon?
If 12 p.m.’s Sunday,
Is 12:01 Monday?
It all makes me mad as a loon!

PAD Day 24: Isolation and Connection

 Today's prompts from Writers Digest and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "time of day" poem, and (2) "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."

I wasn't sure exactly how to combine these prompts today, so  for now I'm just going with the NaPoWriMo prompt. One of the things that most impressed me during the COVID lockdowns in 2020-2021 is how resourceful musicians and performers were to try to get together virtually and perform as a group, particuarly the "Zoom choirs," if you will, that were all over YouTube and other platforms during that time. The rock band Elbow did a series of live performances of their most requested songs that they collectively called "Elbowrooms," and one of those performances that involved a choir particularly moved me. It's also arguably my favorite song of theirs, called "Lippy Kids." Here's my account of seeing it for the first time. And here's the link to the video if you would like to watch it: https://youtu.be/JTKmImtSSKY?si=0f2Vr3StaDe_I7N9

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
that lays a foundation for the song.

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!
 
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.

 

PAD Day 23: A Bird Poem

 Today's prompts from Write Better Poetry and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "book" poem, and (2) "write your own poem that focuses on birdsong."

This is a short one today, after what seemed a series of longer narrative poems. I may come back with more later, but for now, here's my birdsong poem. (The opening lines are a homage to one of my favorite books, and it satisifies the "book" prompt.)

 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.

[I know - that's a pine, not a sycamore. But it's a beautiful photo.]

PAD Day 22: A Certain Skill

 Today's prompts from Writers Digest and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "tell me" and/or "don't tell me" poem, and (2) "write a poem about something you’ve done – whether it’s music lessons, or playing soccer, crocheting, or fishing, or learning how to change a tire – that gave you a similar kind of satisfaction, and perhaps still does."

I interpreted the first prompt as an invitation, in a way, to write a narrative poem (or a non-narrative or cryptic one). I've been doing that a lot this month anyway, it seems - some of of the ones I've called "prose poems" are really much closer to prose. But here's another, about a skill I picked up in high school which came in handy through the rest of my life. ("Qwerty" of course, is the beginning of the first row of letters on a standard keyboard. There is a passing reference to "tell me/don't tell me" in the poem, too.)

Qwerty
 
“Take a touch-typing course in the business track,”
said my high school counselor. “It will help you
when you have to type all those college papers.”
 
My buddies scoffed at the idea. “Don’t tell me
I can’t do it,” I replied. “Besides, it’s a good way
to meet girls.” That shut them up.
 
I was kind of right. I was the only boy in class,
but my shyness prevented any real connections,
except for Lynn, the pretty girl at the next desk,
who slipped me a piece of gum one day,
against the teacher’s rules. Five minutes later,
I was in trouble and spitting it out.
She snickered and whispered, “You have to
chew it like you’re not really chewin’ it.”
We went out a couple of times, but everyone
said she was out of my league.
 
That’s not the important part.
The important part is that I actually learned
to touch-type, and I got pretty fast, though
I never won a speed drill in class.
My fingers developed the same kind of memory
that pianists get, an instinctive sense of place.
I went to college with a sea-foam green manual
Smith-Corona, and pounded my way into late nights
to get that those term papers done on time.
 
But I also started typing poetry,
which helped me meet the love of my life.
She liked my “moody poet” vibe,
and that some of my poems were about her.
We married a few years later, and we sold
that Smith-Corona at one of our yard sales,
but I still compose verbal sonatas
with fast fingers, on my desktop computer,
sometimes long into the night.
 

PAD Day 21: More Political Satire

 Today's prompts from Writer's Digest and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a poem with the title "_______ Day," and (2) "try your hand at writing your own poem in which something that normally unfolds in a set and well understood way  — like a baseball game or dance recital – goes haywire, but is described as if it is all very normal."

Well, I already did a poem this month that would perfectly fit today's second prompt - that was back on Day 5 when I wrote a mock classical concert review about the Trump Admnistration attempting to conduct a symphony. But what the heck - this administration practically writes its own satires, so I'm back to that subject with a sports report in a very similar vein. Besides, I found that political satire is a great way to "laugh to keep from crying," and I think we need an awful lot of it these days. I know it's  longish prose poem, but I hope you enjoy it. (Apologies in advance to anyone who thinks the title implies that it's an earnest or reverent ode to the great Jackie Robinson. Also note: The Yiddish word for "bedbug" is spelled "vance" in English, though in Yiddish it's pronounced more like "vontz.")

Jackie Robinson Day
 
Today the Washington Magpies lost yet another game, 11-0,
despite the high expectations of their manager, Darnold Grump.
The game began auspiciously enough,
when the team trotted onto the field in their new uniforms—
red hats with the logo “MBGA,” and brown uniform shirts.
Today was Jackie Robinson Day, but despite the tradition,
the Magpie players did not wear Robinson’s uniform number 42.
(General manager Elong Tusk explained this was because of DEI.)
The players do not wear batting helmets either—
batting coach R.F. Wormwood Jr. claims they cause autism.
There is also a noticeable absence of Latin players on the team,
as they have all been deported to El Salvador for wearing tattoos.
 
California Liberals manager Gavin Handsom started their ace pitcher,
Adam Swift, who was brilliant, striking out one Magpie after another,
as Grump complained that the strike zone was rigged.
Cleanup hitter Pete Hogshead was then ejected from the game
for sharing the coaches’ signals with the other team.
Hogshead was so angry he smashed his beer bottle against the dugout wall.
The game just got worse from there, with the Magpies
committing twelve errors over the first three innings,
and assistant manager J.D. Bedbug was ejected for asking the umpires
why they never thanked the Magpies for giving them a job.
 
The game was called in the seventh inning due to rain,
making California the official winner.
Grump objected loudly by denying the weather was even happening.
“It’s not raining—YOU’RE raining!” he screamed at the umpires.
Moments later, thousands of angry, red-hatted Magpie fans
tore seats from the bleachers and stormed the field,
yelling that the game was stolen, and pelting the umps
with little plastic helmets full of Dippin’ Dots.
Grump blamed “crooked, radical leftist umpires," the “woke sports media,”
and former manager “Sleepy Joe Biding” for the loss.
 
(Note: All next week’s game schedule is cancelled, 

because after today’s game, GM Tusk fired most of the roster.)
 
 
 
 
 
 

PAD Day 20 Bonus: Two Short Ones

 Here's a couple of "bonus" poems I wrote today, not connected to either of the daily prompts. The first is what I call a "420 poem"; that is, a poem about or inspired by the world of cannabis, celebrated on this date every year. I don't actually partake or "celebrate" (those days are long gone) but know a few who do. The poem is four lines with a total of 20 syllables, with no set syllable count per line. So here's mine, and Happy 420 Day!

The Penguins of Heard and McDonald Islands Respond
 
What baked stoner
Thought people were here?
Tariffs? Wait till you see
The price of OUR eggs!

And here's my other bonus, just a short quatrain inspired by recent events. Oh yes, and Happy Easter!

Reckoning
 
He is risen,
And when he sees who you’ve sent to prison,
He’ll leave the mass
And flip the tables on your hypocrite ass.

PAD Day 20: Getting a Bit Weird and Riddly

 Today's prompts from Write Better Poetry and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "rest" poem, and (2) "write a poem informed by musical phrasing or melody, that employs some form of soundplay (rhyme, meter, assonance, alliteration). One way to approach this is to think of a song you know and then basically write new lyrics that fit the original song’s rhythm/phrasing."

My working of the first prompt is a bit tenuous but is part of the first of these three short poems.  I tried to replicate the formal structure of the Theodore Roethke poem, "In Evening Air," that Maureen of NaPoWriMo used as an example. It's in four sections, each woth six lines, at least partly iambic, with a rhyme scheme of ABCCAB. The second and last lines (the B-rhymes) are longer, about ten syllables, while the other lines are shorter - from four to six.

The poem is written in a sort of surreal or dreamlike language, or as Maureen describes it, "prophetic" and "hypnotic." I tried to echo some of that feeling here. I didn't take her suggestion to try writing alternate lyrics to a song, but the ending of my third section was inspired by the song in my epigraph. The result is a bit weird, but intriguing, I think.

Three Riddles with No Answer
 
I was carried to Ohio in a swarm of bees….
                                The National, “Bloodbuzz, Ohio”
1.
I sing the birds to rest
and measure them perched on a strung wire,
as morning releases
foreboding increases
that put me to the test.
I sleep, my head full of pink morning fire.
 
2.
My mother is the night.
She suckled me on comets, moon and stars.
In eclipse she dances,
No more second chances—
I am her acolyte.
I slice the dark with ancient scimitars.
 
3.
Oh woe, my lover dies,
Swept away by this flood, this maelstrom,
her flowers washed ashore.
I was her troubadour
until the dragonflies
sewed her eyes, and bees carried her home.

PAD Day 19: An Infamous Fire

 Today's prompts from Write Better Poetry and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "persona" poem, and (2)  "Write your own poem that tells a story in the style of a blues song or ballad [with an emphasis on tragedy]. One way into this prompt may be to use it to retell a family tragedy or story, or to retell a crime or tragic event that occurred in your hometown."

It took me a while, but I eventually settled on a big (and rather tragic) event I remember from almost 50 years ago: The huge fire at Garden State Racetrack, in what is now my hometown of Cherry Hill, in April of 1977. I remember leaving work from 40 miles south that afternoon and being able to see the huge billows of smoke from that far away. There were about 11,000 racing fans in the stands that day, and considering how big and fast-moving the blaze was, it was amazing that no more than three people died. (One victim was a fire chief who suffered a heart attack.) One of the most memorable photos of that blaze is a statue of a horse and jockey immersed in flames, so that is the ekphrastic element of my poem. I decided to write a ballad in traditional rhyming couplets, from the "persona" of the horse in the statue.

Ballad of the Racehorse Statue
 
We followed the wind, my good jockey and I,
Perched on the grandstand and touching the sky.
Caught in mid-gallop, we raced at full tilt,
The proudest top part of the racetrack they built.
Greeting the bettors who looked for a thrill,
Our home was the pride of all Cherry Hill.
 
Then one April day an electrical spark
Ignited wood grandstands in Garden State Park.
The flames quickly spread and burned every seat,
And thousands of fans made a panicked retreat.
Miraculously, only three of them died,
They watched the spectacular flames and some cried.
Smoke billowed for hundreds of feet in the air,
And could be seen from just about everywhere.
 
But my rider and I were trapped in the blaze,
You could see us still run through the smoke and haze.
Immersed in the flames that we couldn’t outrun,
In a race for our lives that couldn’t be won.
We both set the pace, in a five-furlong dash,
But in the end we were just part of the ash.
For the racetrack I grieve, for the victims I pray,
But I was the only horse who died that day.
 

[Photo by Bill Roswell, Suburban Newspaper Group.]

PAD Day 18: Driving to a One-Hit Wonder

 Today's prompts from Writer's Digest and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "response" poem, and (2) "...craft your own poem that recounts an experience of driving/riding and singing, incorporating a song lyric."

I've written a few poems before on this theme, and probably my favorite poem ever about music in the car is "Roy Orbison's Last Three Notes," a Pushcart Prize-winning poem by my New Jersey poet friend B.J. Ward. You can read it here. My poem is about singing to an old R&B tune from 1974 that somehow escaped my ears when it first came out, but since I discovered it a few years ago, it's become a favorite. It's less than three minutes long, but it only needs that long to establish a memorable groove.  (The title of the poem is also the title of the song.)

Be Thankful for What You Got
 
I’m a sucker for conga drums,
and when they open this old one-hit wonder,
I’m hooked every time. The name 

of the artist and writer, William DeVaughn,
has been lost in the shuffle of music history,
partly because he left that world
and returned to his job as a draftsman.
But his groove became timeless.
 
Diamond in the back, sunroof top,
Diggin’ the scene with a gangsta lean,
Woo-ooh-ooh…
 
It’s a song about having and having-not,
and I’m somewhere in-between.
You may not drive a great big Cadillac,
it says, but you can still stand tall.
It doesn’t mean stand pat, though.
You can try to better yourself,
have a dream and find a way to get there,
without stepping on others along the way,
but don’t forget to count your blessings.
 
I’m not part of the lifestyle depicted
in the song. I don’t do the “gangsta lean”
When I drive. The driving instructor’s
“10 o’clock and 2 o’clock”
is still too ingrained in me.
But when I creep through these city streets
in my beat-up old Honda Civic
with the stereo blasting that slow-jam chorus,
 
Diamond in the back, sunroof top,
Diggin’ the scene with a gangsta lean,
Woo-ooh-ooh…
 
if someone says,
“Who’s that O.G. brotha playing that song?”
I’d like to lean out the window
with a smile, and say, “That’s me, y’all.”

PAD Day 17: Two Artists, Two Friends

 Today's prompts from Write Better Poetry and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "City" poem, and "The surrealist painters Remedios Varo and Leonora Carrington moved to Mexico during the height of World War II, where they began a life-long friendship. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem themed around friendship, with imagery or other ideas taken from a painting by Carrington, and a painting by Varo."

Leonora Carrington (1917-2011) and Remedios Varo (1908-1963) were two female surrealist artists who fled Paris together at the outbreak of World War II and emigrated to Mexico City, where they formed a close friendship. They shared a lot of their everyday lives together, yet they worked independently on their art, which reflected different styles and emphases. I was unfamiliar with either of them but intrigued by their works. I took Maureen's prompt quite literally today, so my poem is a fantasia about their friendship. Much as I liked some of Carrington's work, though, I didn't use it as a direct influence on this poem, instead focusing on Varo's striking surrealist portrait La Llamada (The Call).  As far as the Writer's Digest prompt, I refer to both Paris and Mexico City in the poem.

Miss Carrington Remembers Miss Varo
 
We escaped the crucible of the war,
and fled Paris to paint in the city
whose pre-Columbian ancestors
worshipped their gods and their gold.
 
We bonded, despite different styles,
though we shared a love for dreams
and the magical. We talked of astrology
and alchemy, of lead and gold.
 
We concocted delicious recipes,
we two weird sisters, no strangers
to toil and trouble. The real alchemy
was our friendship, transformed into gold.
 
I thought we’d grow old together,
But you left too soon. I still see you
in your painting La Llamada, the lady
with an elixir in hand, passing through
a dark ancestral hall of sculptures,
her flowing hair, her presence bathed in gold.

PAD Day 16: House Cleaner's Soundtrack

 Today's prompts from Writer's Digest and NaPoWriMo: (Write a "something fantastic" poem, and 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."

I used Vivaldi's "Spring" Concerto from The Four Seasons as inspiration today, and imagined myself cleaning to that sprightly piece of music. The poem is one of those "wannabe sonnets" that I almost unconsciously tend to write. There's no end rhyme to this one, but I found that with a few changes in line breaks I could get it down to fourteen lines, and it's not far from iambic pentameter, with an extra syllable or two here and there. But I'd rather leave it as is, at least for now, rather than over-tweak it. (Side note: I just learned that there was a set of sonnets written to accompany the four concerti. Their author is unknown but it could have been Vivaldi himself.)  As far as the "fantastic" theme - well, you could say imagining a vacuum cleaner as a cello and shepherds inviting me to clean the kitchen lend a sort of fantasy element to the poem.

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!

PAD Day 15: Dark Times

 Today's prompts from Write Better Poetry and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "form" and/or "anti-form" poem, and (2) [after citing an introduction to the rock band The MC5 and a short poem by Jane Kenyon as examples] "While Brother J.C.’s warm-up and Kenyon’s poem might seem very different at first, they’re both informed by repetition, simple language, and they express enthusiasm. They have a sermon/prayer-like quality, and then end with a bang. Your challenge is to write a six-line poem that has these same qualities."

I hope you'll pardon me for being a bit more political than usual this month, but the turn our country has taken in the last few months has me truly more worried than I ever have been for the future of our country, and I have lived through the terms of fourteen presidents. For my "form," I used the one allegedly invented by Donald Justice from Day 13 (six lines of twelve syllables preferably in iambic, with repreated words at the end of lines 2 and 4, and lines 5 and 6.)

Manifesto

 

It’s past the time for lying down, for sitting still,

For standing frozen, disbelieving. Time to march,

Time to fill the streets and write your favorite sign

of protest. Don’t allow this vile regime to march

with heavy boots over laws and decent people.

It starts the contract they’ve torn up: WE THE PEOPLE.

PAD Day 14: Attending the Symphony

 Today's prompts from Wrtie Better Poetry and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "losing" poem, and (2) write " a poem that describes a place, particularly in terms of the animals, plants or other natural phenomena there. Sink into the sound of your location, and use a conversational tone. Incorporate slant rhymes (near or off-rhymes, like “angle” and “flamenco”) into your poem. And for an extra challenge – don’t reference birds or birdsong!" (Maureen uses a Kay Ryan poem as an example.)

This poem is a sort of take-off or elaboration of a verse from one of my older poems called "Start the Music," which was featured in Tiferet Maagazine several years ago.

Lost in the Chorus
 
A wild wisteria in the woods
droops with grape-like clusters
of flowers. I can sit here for hours
far from the bluster of people
with a book or notepad and pen.
 
I go there again and again
despite my fear of bees,
which hover by the dozens
above me
in the flower-fruit of this tree.
 
They are more concerned
with the blooms, so there is room
for both of us, me and the swarm,
on this warm day in May.
 
I could lose myself in the aroma,
drift into a spring coma,
lulled by the buzz above my head
that says, “You have nothing to dread—
let us serenade you—listen to us
and our monotone chorus,
our winged symphony.”

PAD Day 13: Another "Presidential" Portrait

 Today's prompts from Write Better Poetry and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a poem with the title, "Full ________," and (2) Write a poem in a form invented by Donald Justice: "His six-line stanzas use lines of twelve syllables, and while they don’t use rhyme, they repeat end words. Specifically, the second and fourth line of each stanza repeat an end-word or syllable; he fifth and sixth lines also repeat their end-word or syllable. Today, we challenge you to write a poem that uses Justice’s invented form." This poem is based on something that just happened at the White House the other day.

Full of Yourself 

You moved Obama’s portrait to make way for yours,

a painting from that photo of you, grazed, bleeding

from a bullet, yet you raised a defiant fist.

You like to act immortal, but you were bleeding.

Everything to you is a chance for the spotlight.

On your last day you will move toward… what kind of light?

 

PAD Day 12: An Old Tale of Kindness and Mercy

 Today's prompts from Write Better Poetry and NaPoWriMo: (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."

That sounds like a lot to pack into one poem, and I did what I could with it today. I didn't really work with wordplay or mix formal and informal language, but I at least used the myth or legend reference, a rhyming poetry form (curtal sonnet. once again a nod to my friend Vince Gotera), broke my poem into two sections (with two different POVs), and incorporated the abstract concept of "kindness" and "mercy." That seems to be something that is in short supply in our country these days, which is one reason the subject of my poem, Androcles and the Lion, struck a chord with me. It's a familiar folk tale (rather than a myth) that dates back to Roman or maybe even Greek times. It has been erroneously attributed to Aesop, but in truth no one knows the original author. I read a little on the history of the tale - there are different versions - and also browsed some art on the subject, which tangentially gives it an "ekphrastic" slant. (I'm sharing an image below that appears to have been a print or postcard attributed to "19th Century French School." It depicts one version of the story I liked, where the lion licks Androcles' feet when they are reunited.)  As far as the Write Better Poetry prompt is concerned, walking into a dark cave with bones on the floor, and pulling a thorn from a lion's paw, sounds "risky" enough, doesn't it?

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.