Again, I had to wait for Write Better Poetry's prompt to come up due to their issues with switching to a new platform, so I just went with NaPoWriMo's prompt: Write a "self-portrait poem, in which you explain why you are not a particular piece of art (a symphony, a figurine, a ballet, a sonnet), use at least one outlandish comparison, and a strange (and maybe not actually real) fact." I'm not sure that my comparisons or facts ae particularly outlandish or strange, but I did enjoy working off the title I selected - it led me to some mostly fond memories. (Write Better Poetry's prompt just came up so I will try to address that later.)
Why I Am Not a Sousa March
That’s me in the third row, marching down Main Street,
all starchy in maroon and gold uniform,
carrying a baritone horn, a.k.a. euphonium,
a school-rented mini-tuba with a trombone’s range,
only mellower. I didn’t take great care of it. I let it tarnish,
and once I dropped it, denting the bell.
I enjoyed being in the band,
but it was more social than professional.
(I went out with a girl from the drill team.)
I was never all that good, faking my way around the high Cs,
the triplet runs, the roller coasters of sixteenth notes.
My music career ended with high school,
and the only marching I did after that was in
a different uniform—long hair, floppy hat, tie-dye shirt,
down a different Main Street, protesting the war.
I still love music, even the occasional march,
but now whenever I hear Sousa’s Liberty Bell,
I think of Monty Python.
My life can’t be measured in 2/4 time.
I’m not spit and polish and brass,
right-face, left-face, double-time, halt,
just an old, dented baritone horn,
but my marching days may not be quite over.
That’s me in the third row, marching down Main Street,
all starchy in maroon and gold uniform,
carrying a baritone horn, a.k.a. euphonium,
a school-rented mini-tuba with a trombone’s range,
only mellower. I didn’t take great care of it. I let it tarnish,
and once I dropped it, denting the bell.
but it was more social than professional.
(I went out with a girl from the drill team.)
I was never all that good, faking my way around the high Cs,
the triplet runs, the roller coasters of sixteenth notes.
and the only marching I did after that was in
a different uniform—long hair, floppy hat, tie-dye shirt,
down a different Main Street, protesting the war.
but now whenever I hear Sousa’s Liberty Bell,
I think of Monty Python.
My life can’t be measured in 2/4 time.
I’m not spit and polish and brass,
right-face, left-face, double-time, halt,
just an old, dented baritone horn,
but my marching days may not be quite over.
...and here is my response to the Write Better Poetry prompt
(Write a "tense" poem):
Tense
The past is being repeated,
the present is making no sense.
Let’s not let ourselves feel defeated—
this fight for our future’s intense.
the present is making no sense.
Let’s not let ourselves feel defeated—
this fight for our future’s intense.
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