PAD Day 13: A Family Ghazal

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a "family" poem, and (2) write a ghazal.

If you are not familiar with the form, the ghazal is composed of a minimum of five couplets—and typically no more than fifteen—that are structurally, thematically, and emotionally autonomous. Each line of the poem must be of the same length, though meter is not imposed in English. The first couplet introduces a scheme, made up of a rhyme followed by a refrain. Subsequent couplets pick up the same scheme in the second line only, repeating the refrain and rhyming the second line with both lines of the first stanza. The final couplet usually includes the poet’s signature, referring to the author in the first or third person, and frequently including the poet’s own name or a derivation of its meaning. The ghazal is of Middle Eastern origin and was popularized in English by 20th Century poet Agha Shahid Ali. Most ghazals I've read use a repeated word or phrase in the second line of each stanza, and rhyming is optional, though I used slant rhyme in this one. I also can't claim that the couplets are "thematically and emotionally autonomous", so whether this is a ghazal in the truly traditional sense may be debatable. Regardless, I hope you like it.

Grandfather’s Ghazal

For years I wondered if I my children would have children,

then two little girls greeted the  world, my beautiful grandchildren.

Some days they swoop in like a little fighter squadron,

attacking the house with activity, these busy grandchildren.

The older one is smart, knows words like dodecahedron,

the younger one just learning words - these chatty grandchildren.

It’s a struggle to corral these foals, to get them to listen –

I’m chasing them through my day, having time only for grandchildren.

We careen from bedroom to bathroom, living room to kitchen,

hide-and-seeking, speedster-racing, me and my grandchildren.

Needless to say, there’s little time to write – typed or handwritten,

when dealing with the shenanigans of two active grandchildren.

I’m spent, but when they call me “Pop-pop”, once again I'm smitten

with inexhaustible love for these two girls, my grandchildren.

PAD Day 12: Felony Alliteration

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) Write a "guilty" poem, and (2) write a poem with alliteration and/or assonance.

I'm no stranger to alliteration, and as Maureen at NaPoWriMo says, it's a great device to tighten and liven your poetry, as long as it isn't overdone. But just for fun, I'm about to overdo it.

Guilty as All Get-out

If there is a poetry prison,

then send me to the slammer,

haul me to the hoosegow,

run me up the river,

clamp me in the clink.

I can't help this utter urge

to collate consonants constantly.

I alliterate literally till late at night,

nattering about nothing other

than sibilant serendipitous sounds,

precise poetic pronunciation.

Even the vowels get involved -

I assent to assonance as well.

I shall not shop without some choices -

better to get Dunkin Donuts

or Krispy Kreme?

Best Buy or Bed, Bath and Beyond?

I will only watch what's worthwhile -

like Batman Begins and Beauty and the Beast,

Duck Dynasty and Charles in Charge.

Anyway, say I'm cray-cray,

strap me in a strait jacket

and lock me in the loony bin,

or rough me up, stuff me in handcuffs,

and stick me in stir.

But as long as you lend me a laptop

or provide me with a proper pen or pencil,

I can continue to collect consonants

with a clear conscience. Capiche?

PAD Day 11 Bonus: A Bop on "Stuff"

So here is my poem for the NaPoWriMo prompt. It's a "bop", and here's the definition, courtesy of Maureen Thorson:
"The invention of poet Afaa Michael Weaver, the Bop is a kind of combination sonnet + song. Like a Shakespearan sonnet, it introduces, discusses, and then solves (or fails to solve) a problem. Like a song, it relies on refrains and repetition. In the basic Bop poem, a six-line stanza introduces the problem, and is followed by a one-line refrain. The next, eight-line stanza discusses and develops the problem, and is again followed by the one-line refrain. Then, another six-line stanza resolves or concludes the problem, and is again followed by the refrain."

Got that? It appears that it doesn't necessarily have to be iambic pentameter or rhyming like a traditional sonnet. Most of the examples I have read so far appear to be free verse, but I decided to do a more-or-less blank verse (unrhymed iambic pentameter, more or less). Hope you like it.

Suburban Clutter

A house is just a place to keep your stuff while you go out and get more stuff. – George Carlin

We’ve been here eighteen years. You’d think we’d know

that it’s okay to throw stuff out, but we

have boxed it, stowed it everywhere – garage

and attic, basement too. I wouldn’t say

we’re hoarders – maybe one degree from that,

but now we’re moving – now the work begins.

We try to fill the spaces in our lives.

When we came here, there was some room to grow.

You wouldn’t know it now. We built a mountain –

boxes, bins and crates, some old appliances,

clothes too small or out of style, rows of books

on shelves. This pack-rat life has got to give.

We’re moving to a small Cape Cod, downsizing,

so it’s “everything must go” – not everything,

perhaps – a yard sale, trash bins, Goodwill trips.

We try to fill the spaces in our lives.

No wait! That was my grandma’s, and this stuff

the kids made in first grade. And we can paint

those chairs to look like new. And that could fetch

a lot on eBay. What’s the use? Whatever

doesn’t fit the new home goes in storage,

we’ll rent a unit, check it once a year.

We try to fill the spaces in our lives.

PAD Day 11: Sonnet and Anti-sonnet

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a sonnet or an "anti-form" poem, and (2) write a "bop".  Even though the bop is derived from the sonnet, I thought it best not to combine these two form-related prompts. I will try to write a bop later, but for now, here is my sonnet. I actually wrote it as a free-verse poem last night but re-wrote it in form for today's prompt.

[poem deleted]

And here is an "anti-sonnet", so to speak, just for fun:

Sonnet for the Taciturn

I don't

do form.

I won't

get warm

to rhyme

or beat,

my crime,

defeat.

But hey,

I'll try

today,

not cry -

enjamb,

iamb.

PAD Day 10: The Traveler

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a "travel" poem, and (2) write a "portrait" poem about someone important to you. I seem to be in a light verse mood lately, so I don't know how deep or insightful this is (plus it's been a busy day, and I really didn't have time for something profound), but here goes:

Wanderluster

My traveling companion

reads all the brochures.

seeking out vacations

on exotic shores.

My traveling companion

likes to go on the road.

Pack the car to the roof,

phone in GPS mode.

My traveling companion

wants to see the world,

so we head to the airport,

into sky we are hurled.

My traveling companion

loves to take in each sight -

we've seen the Grand Canyon

and strolled Paris at night.

My traveling companion

just can't stay in one place,

loves the whirlwind tour -

me? a leisurely pace.

My traveling companion

always knows where we're bound.

Forty-plus years married -

we've sure got around.

My traveling companion -

wanderlust's in her blood.

If it wasn't for her,

I'd be stick-in-the-mud.

PAD Day 9: Obsession with the Muse

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a poem with the title "So ______", and (2) write a poem in a nine-line form. There are a number of nine-line forms to chose from - the most famous being the Spenserian stanza (ala "The Fairie Queene"). Donald Hall also sometimes writes in nine-line stanzas, more or less free verse, but with nine syllables per line. I wrote a long poem in that form called "Nine Innings" that was published in Spitball Magazine and appeared in my last chapbook, Hits and Sacrifices. Today though, I tried a new form created by poet Jan Turner called the "Trijan Refrain". It's three stanzas with a rhyme scheme is ABAB(D/C)CDDC, where D is a repeated four-syllable refrain, and the syllable count (preferably in iambic) is 8,6,8,6,8,8,4,4,8. The refrains are supposed to change from verse to verse, but I thought keeping the same refrain intensfied the message and perhaps the humor of the piece.

So Committed

My basement's flooded - I don't care,

I hope it drains away.

I haven't got a thing to wear -

today's not laundry day.

I need to write - those things can wait,

I've shut the phone and locked the gate,

I need to write,

I need to write,

It's not a matter for debate.

My basement's flooded - I don't care,

Perhaps I'll sail away.

I'm down to wearing underwear -

don't visit me today.

I need to write - it's everything,

my mission is to make words sing,

I need to write,

I need to write,

I must tap my creative spring.

The basement's flooded to the stair,

my stuff is floating out.

And now I'm naked in my chair,

with water all about.

I need to write, I need to give,

my roof is leaking like a sieve,

I need to write,

I need to write,

What kind of way is this to live?

PAD Day 8: Some Light Verse for the Directionally Challenged, and a "Bonus" Poem

Today's dual prompts from Poetic Asides and NaPoWriMo: (1) write a "panic" poem,and (2) write a poem with a repeated word or phrase (this device is often called "anaphora").

I ended up writing some light verse, making fun of my pre-GPS self. I still get a little upset when I get lost sometimes, but the GPS app on my phone usually saves my butt.

Pre-GPS Panic

Omigod-omigod-omigod,

I think I missed the turn.

Omigod-omigod-omigod,

I've got no time to burn.

Omigod-omigod-omigod,

I'm off the interstate,

Omigod-omigod-omigod,

I'm gonna be SO late.

Omigod-omigod-omigod,

Should I take this right?

Omigod-omigod-omigod,

This might take me all night.

Omigod-omigod-omigod,

I don't know where I am!

Omigod-omigod-omigod,

I can't drive worth a damn.

Omigod-omigod-omigod,

I don't even have a map!

Omigod-omigod-omigod,

I'm such a clueless sap.

Omigod-omigod-omigod,

I don't like this neighborhood,

Omigod-omigod-omigod,

This just can't come out good.

Omigod-omigod-omigod,

Pull over, ask this man.

He says, "Relax and take a breath.

"Can I help you? Yes I can.

The highway's just a few blocks north,

and past the second light."

I thank him and I'm on my way,

the interstate's in sight.

I pull onto the entrance ramp

and let the fast cars pass -

Omigod-omigod-omigod,

I'm running out of gas!

In her examples of the repeated phrase poem, Maureen at NaPoWriMo cited Joy Harjo's "She Had Some Horses", which I'd never read but it's a really fine poem. It reminded me of this one, which I wrote in 2012 at Marge Piercy's workshop. I'm posting it here because I think it's better than the one I wrote today.

When the Ghosts Came

When the ghosts came, we left them oatmeal on the kitchen table.
When the ghosts came, we left them three pairs of galoshes on the stairs.
When the ghosts came, we hung empty picture frames over the mantle,
cleaned our golf clubs,
and left out baseball cards for them to trade.

When the ghosts came, we made tents out of our bed sheets.
When the ghosts came, we left mousetraps in the cupboard.
When the ghosts came, we left the front porch light on,
painted our windows blue,
and covered the mirrors with old horror movie posters.

When the ghosts came, we turned up the radio all the way.
When the ghosts came, we let the cat out and the dog in.
When the ghosts came, we read tarot cards,
got out the Ouija board,
and threw salt over our shoulders.

When the ghosts came, we banged on copper pots.
When the ghosts came, we hung papier maché owls from the chandelier.
When the ghosts came, we spread jam on the floor,
locked up the birdcages,
and put another log on the fire.

When the ghosts came, we painted our faces like tigers.
When the ghosts came, we sent red balloons out the nursery window.
When the ghosts came, we rolled up all the rugs,
waxed all our glass doorknobs,
and lit every candle in the house.

When the ghosts came, we were ready.
When the ghosts came, we were not ready.

(Previously published in Chantarelle's Notebook.)