As promised and without further ado, here is a list of my favorites of the poems I wrote this April. I don't know if they are all objectively my "best," but in general I'm happy with how they came out. I also list them for the benefit of readers who don't care to browse 30 days of blog entries for "highlights." I will list them by day, along with the prompts that inspired them. (Note that four of my best/favorite poems for the month were part of my "Elbow Project.")
[Day 3: Write a "glosa;" write a "smell" poem.]
Return Visit
leaving perfume in the air
And that's what triggered this
I come back here from time to time....
―Elbow, "Scattered Black and Whites"
some say that deep recall remains
the longest in the sense of smell.
These days I rarely sense tobacco
from a pipe, but when I do
it wakes me up, it cuts the gloom
and ricochets me back six decades
to my grandfolks' bungalow―
my grandmom sweeping with her broom,
and my sister buzzes through the room,
on his meerschaum as he toils
at his desk with paperwork
for clients, their insurance policies,
and he'd go door-to-door collecting
premiums, but always fair.
(Some were just a nickel.) Everyone
in town would know this little man
who puffed along without a care,
leaving perfume in the air.
my sis and I, and we would help
Grandmom tend her roses, feed the squirrels,
Grandpop growing rhubarb, feeding birds.
Friday night was TV on the davenport
and one more smell we couldn't miss,
Jiffy Pop, its silver dome expanding,
the steam escaping from ripped foil,
the popcorn smell a buttery kiss―
and that's what triggered this,
popcorn, roses, pipe tobacco.
Not all the memories are sweet―
the bathtime scrubs behind the ears,
the time they force-fed lima beans.
But back when candy cost a dime,
and TV shows were black and white,
there still was innocence around.
The everyday is such a climb―
I come back here from time to time.
Looking in the Rearview
You are angels and drunks
You are Magi
Old friends
You stuck a pin in the map I was in
And you are the stars I navigate home by
―Elbow, "Dear Friends"
friends who have been part of the journey,
you all got me here today.
Are you sleeping, are you awake?
Angels and demons
and graybeards and ghosts,
drunks and teetotalers, scoundrels and saints,
you all are indispensible, you
are worth more than any gift of the
Magi, more than any billionaire's cache.
friends, you are the afterimage in my eyes,
you are the memories that make me smile,
stuck in the brain like
a favorite record, a butterfly on a
pin. I am still driving
in from the wilderness, dust on
the windshield, creases on the road
map, and I don't know exactly where
I will rest, but I do know I
was in the greatest company
in all the towns you found me in,
you clouds in the sunset, you who
are a two-lane highway through the plains,
the rest stop, the last gas, the
stars that knock me back at night when
I gaze overhead, the same ones I use to
navigate toward the last leg of this trip,
home by breakfast, home
by morning.
things left behind at the bombed-out station―
backpacks, water bottles, food,
a blood-soaked teddy bear
―Elbow, "Fly Boy Blue/Lunette"
and the layover boredom, I wait with a drink
and a smoke and whatever they have on the idiot box
(in the old days they would let you smoke in the bar)
the one is bile-green and the other soot-black
and I know if I shake them I'll save my own life
but the pangs are too much like a dull rusty knife
when I wake in the morning with a pain in the chest
my sweet trampoline, let me sleep on your breast,
let your mystery kill me, your scar and tattoo
I stumble over meter, sound and verse.
I've written sonnets many dozen times;
this evening, though, I fumble over choice
of words, my inspiration gone, and worse,
I feel bone-dry, there's not one thing that primes
my pump, no beauty in this darkened space.
But you, with the compassion of a nurse,
come in to hug me, and my heartbeat climbs.
Then all the syllables fall into place;
chewed right
through the lock.
rolled away
from human hands.
wears rust
like a medal.
its tires
need air, reassurance.
its chain
droops with sorrow.
Look, we know, we understand, we're not your favorite veg;
tomatoes, corn and broccoli all seem to have the edge.
It's hard to pump excitement up for silly little cabbage,
but give us half a chance, don't just throw us in the gabbage!
All you need's a recipe to be your kitchen guide,
then meet us in the middle, we may get you on our side!
Saute us in some olive oil or butter―now you're shakin'―
and just for extra measure, you can add some chopped-up bacon!
(All right, then, you can double up the bacon if you wish.)
Toss in some fresh minced garlic for an aromatic dish!
Or stick us in the oven for that extra crispy finish―
perhaps then we'll move up your list, you'll like us more than spinish!
May we suggest a favorite wine―a Chardonnay will suit,
and we know you'll be content, 'cos grape's your favorite fruit!
So raise a toast to us wee sprouts, enjoying a revival,
and cook a bunch of us (with bacon) for your friends' arrival!
The Gravity Plot
The Earth conspires
to make things weigh
a little more each year.
This spring I hefted
a 40-pound bag
of Weed and Feed
and it was heavier
than ever before.
My mower, too,
pushes slower
these days,
uphill both ways.
Someone turned up
the gravity dial, I'm sure.
Soon I won't be able
to lift out of my couch,
but only slouch and sag
like a 200-pound bag.
no touch, no kiss, a masked smile,
but you can see my eyes
The moon is out looking for trouble
and everyone's here....
―Elbow, "Open Arms"
You woke this morning―you were not on fire.
You need no ladder to climb out the window.
You leave a window open, bring a backpack.
The conductor asks to see your ticket home.
Back home they've unfurled the colored banners,
They've strung and tested all the colored lights.
When you arrive a little late, the lights are on,
The moon is rising in three-quarter time,
They sing a song the moon would know by heart,
And hoist a brew to you―they spill some foam.
The night careens along on foam and moonshine,
You sing through open windows till they close.
You need no ladder to climb in the window―
You wake this morning and you're not on fire.
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