My weekend is about to begin, and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make any more posts until Monday. My oldest son will be singing with his kindergarten class tomorrow, and I’ll be helping my little brother move into his brand new house on Sunday. Good times for the Brewer clan!
Anyway, the purpose of this post is to prepare you for a wild and crazy April poetry challenge. As you probably know, April is National Poetry Month and to celebrate I decided to challenge myself to writing a poem each day–not worrying about quality as much (that’s why revision was invented) as getting some first draft material to work with. And I want to encourage you to join me.
To help you out, I’ve been preparing a series of poetry prompts for each day of the month of April. In fact, I’m even thinking I’ll do a “Two for Tuesday” poetry prompt each week as well.
Anyone who writes a poem a day and posts that poem in the comments of each prompt will get something of value from yours truly over the summer. In fact, I’m sure anyone who writes a poem on most of the days will get something from me.
If you’re worried about rights, you’ll retain your rights, though many publishers will probably consider those poems, at least those drafts of your poems, published–even with them being in the comments. But I plan on participating, and if you’re foolhardy like me, you will, too.
Also, just to let you know, I’ll probably remove any poems that are over-the-top offensive. That’s not to try and censor anyone, but if a piece is excessively graphic just for the sake of being excessively graphic–then I’ll probably have to pull the plug. (After all, there are some young ones who read this blog.) I’m hopeful none of my readers will go to that extreme.
If you have any questions, just send me an email with “Poetry Challenge” in the subject line at robert.brewer@fwpubs.com.
*****
Even if you don’t participate by writing poems in the comments, though, I would love it if you participate at home. And if any of those poems eventually end up published, I’d love to hear about it.
*****
So the challenge is now out there and official. If you’re interested, start looking for the first prompt on April 1 (and again, this is not some April Fool’s Day prank, for real).
Have a great weekend!
One Incarnation of Love
cleans the litter-box,
cackles, wakes me up with
political commentaries,
of a world pregnant
with entropy, a blue rose with warts.
Good love is a mentholated powder
on the prickly heat of this world.
Thank you for the jolt and inspiration. I have done this kind of thing before with poet friends. I have read that Robert Bly writes a poem a day and strongly urges serious poets to write a poem a day. And two decades ago, when Galway Kinnell was my professor at New York University, he also told me to do this as a poetic duty each day. Interestingly, I have probably failed at their advice, although my poetry notebooks are fairly thick. Nevertheless, I think it is priceless advice; it is a shame that the challenges of every day life get in the way.
Perhaps the most stunning example of a poem a day poet was Pablo Neruda, whom I have translated at length. It was his job, and he wrote at least a poem a day. The end result was that his canon was thicker than the Bible, as we know it. Poets need a work ethic, too. I am certainly endeavoring to get through the month.
Day 9
Paint
Today I got ambitious
I got out a bucket of green paint–
Actually Sage or Forest Meadow
Garden Moss – some natural sounding color.
There is nothing natural about painting;
Down on my hands and knees edging,
Up on the ladder rolling
Once with my stockinged foot in the paint pan.
But now I admire my paint job,
while rubbing my aching neck;
I wonder how many calories were burned
in my 5 hours of body contortions?
My friend calls and wants to know
if I want to go out, have a few drinks;
I tell her sorry, but I am too damn tired to
paint the town red,
or garden moss green for that matter.
Paint
Today I got ambitious
I got out a bucket of green paint–
Actually Sage or Forest Meadow
Garden Moss – some natural sounding color.
There is nothing natural about painting;
Down on my hands and knees edging,
Up on the ladder rolling
Once with my stockinged foot in the paint pan.
But now I admire my paint job,
while rubbing my aching neck;
I wonder how many calories were burned
in my 5 hours of body contortions?
My friend calls and wants to know
if I want to go out, have a few drinks;
I tell her sorry, but I am too damn tired to
paint the town red,
or garden moss green for that matter.
This sounds great. Thanks for the op. I eeded something like this to get me going.
4/4/08
Before, my words were mine alone
Now I share them with eyes unknown
It makes me feel a little shy
But I’ll recover by and by
And pen the substance of my dreams
For Life’s not always what it seems
Or send forth a bit of story
Because writing’s mandatory!
Wondering also.
Robert, it’s 11:00 A.M., do you know where your
Prompt #4 is??
Just came across this. Does the poem need to be in the form of the prompt for the day? I’ve been writing 8 lines every morning (for 2008)to get myself thinking for the day. Here’s what I wrote on 4/1/08:
Today He whispered in my ear
A word that I am loathe to hear
It makes me tremble, makes me quake
To think of steps I didn’t take.
After He’s been prompting me so
I can’t pretend I didn’t know
I simply wouldn’t take a chance
And He said "Disobedience."
4/2/08:
I think best as day covers night
But I’m not sure I see the light
My energy splits and scatters
I wonder what really matters
And faced with choices great and small
I deign to try to do them all
Then flounder ineffectively
Doomed again to searching be.
4/3/08:
A special kind of intercourse
Care for the rider, not the horse
Stroking where unseen cords abide
Upon the pulsing crimson tide.
Fill up the bucket of your life
With pain, abandonment and strife
Then splash it out upon the sky
Step out, look in, don’t wonder why.
Roger Banister
By Bill Kirk
May 26, 1954. Three runners stood on the line.
It was a day like no other had been
Or would be again.
In the minds of men,
Long anticipated expectations were held in check
By the history of a feat often tried
But never accomplished.
With tension in the air
And muscles on the brink of exploding,
The gun went off.
Then heartbreak as we were called back to the line.
“How to put the lions back in the cage,” they wondered?
Would our legs recover sufficiently for another go?
They would and they did.
Then the world turned on four words,
“Runners take your mark!”
Another shot and a seeming instant flashed by.
Hearts pounding—lungs near bursting—
The eternity of that first quarter mile just 57.5 seconds.
Still, I yelled, “Faster” as I ran impatiently from behind.
An arms length ahead of me,
Brasher’s cooler head prevailed, controlling the race.
Had it not, the price I would pay in three scant minutes would be dear.
The next two quarter miles each exceeded a minute—
“Not by much,” some would say.
But would "not much" be "too much" at the end of the day?
Then Chataway took the lead in the third,
Stride for stride three champions drove on—
Into the last revolution.
Now was when “faster” was needed.
At last it was my turn—my time.
I surged ahead down the back stretch.
“59, 59, 59 seconds,” was my singular thought.
Could it be done? Was this the day?
Rounding the last turn, with 50 yards left,
I raced toward my date with destiny.
Nothing left now but raw will,
I stared at the tape stretched across my path,
Yet beckoning, from a mere 15 feet before me.
Less than three more foot strikes to leave on the track,
A duel with the clock: What razor-thin portion
Of a single second would I gain or lose?
Tick-tick-tick.
The snap of the tape; time frozen with the click, click, click of stop-watches.
Flashing bulbs.
Total collapse into waiting arms.
Unbearable pain.
Gasping for breath.
Then a smile—I had done it.
The elusive 4-minute mile had been conquered.
The paw print
02, Apr, 2008 in Uncategorized | No comments
The envelope
came in the mail,
few days after
I’d vacuumed up the last of him.
Contained a three-inch
clay disk impression
of a paw print
the toes splayed wide,
and four
little claw holes,
and a letter:
“He was lucky
to have you.”
Perfume
Poised I am, ever so invitingly, I hope strategically
on mirrored tray
what is my lure—is it shape, or height, or texture, or color,
certainly not my scent; not yet —
that draws her to me
her eyes taking me in
First tentative sniff of me cast into the air,
An approving nod and, more adventurous now, on her wrist, waved about,
She inhales me, pupils dilated as she delights in the
irrestible siren envisioned in her mind’s eye,
seductress vamp trailing scent of delectable promise.
My first time
trying to get serious while still silly
(I can’t get serious today)
im writing a poem that is black and white
cuz my colors are gone,
and money is tight
the creeks flow not, the trees are bare
and flowers have yet to sprout
the sun, no shine, the woods are bleak
and no creatures up and about
except for a skunk.. that wanders in,
now I began to shout
get out of here you smelly skunk
and take your black and white hair
if i’m to be in the woods like this,
at least allow me fresh air!
Note: Ha! I think I will toss this poem.. I am not ashamed of it, only the brain which developed it and I don’t need the remimder!
Thanks for all the great stuff in here!
However, moving forward, please post your poems in the comments of the actual prompt. I’ll definitely do my best to sort everything out at the end of the month, but that’ll make it a lot easier.
Happy Wednesday!
It’s a new day
and everyone is waiting
for me to come around to feed
the horses neigh and move forward
toward the gate
fulfilling their need.
Our collie dog barks
and whines and quivers
until he is unclipped, free…
and off he runs yipping
and running in circles
and so happy to see me.
The old yellow cat
stretches and yawns
and moves to his place
as I approach the door.
He anticipates his bowl full
to the top..you can see it
in his eyes.
I say, "That’s all, no more."
The fat, fuzzy thing.
The breakfast smells
are best in the kitchen
where our teens gather
glassy-eyed
It’s a new day
and everyone is waiting
for their toast and egg, fried.
To serve each day
to meet the need,
I like this life-long plan
Of sustaining, caring,
enjoying, sharing
with God’s animals
and fellow man.
I may have posted the last two in the wrong place,so I am reposting them. Here is todays. I will repost yesterdays next.
A day of pranks
I don’t know how it got started
perhaps, a joke for the light hearted
a desire to be cool
or just a need to make someone the fool
it could have been a one time prank
so, there is no one to thank
for this funny tool’s way
it makes people smile
I’ve just been thankful for April fool’s day
since I was a child.
©Rodney C. Walmer Inspired by the poem a day contest.
The Murder
I really wanted something to say
To do my first Poem-of-the-day.
I thought and thought,
I read and sought
But each thought, like a wisp went away.
I became more and more distraught
On how the muse could be bought.
In despair I sighed,
And then I cried,
I forgot all the rhymes I’d been taught!
All the tricks that I knew, I tried,
The muse laughed, refused to be my new bride,
Enraged? I should say!
And while the madness held sway,
I strangled the muse. And she died.
And now? What can I say?
Her spirit has gone all away.
I am left all alone
With the heart of a stone
And emptiness the price I shall pay.
Opening Day
I do not write these kinds of poems…no, really.
I am enamored of the tortured, turgid verse born of intellectual
and emotional self-consciouness, nurtured on obscurity
and suckled on vanity.
So this is a radical departure for me…no, really.
The season opens today and the team begins it’s 47th year
with hope and determination
The batters adjust their helmets
The pitchers look in for their signs
I am glued to the TV.
I watch a double play ballet and I pick up the phone…
surely my mother saw the play, as she has seen
a hundred thousand or more.
Agian, I must say, I do not write poems like this.
But I cannot call because this is the first Opeing Day my mother will have missed in 47 years
and the first time I will not be able to call and complain,
commiserate over the bad call, the unwise double switch,
the blown save.
I promise I will not write like this again.
Tomorrow I will return to my emotionally distanced verse,
my John Ashberry imitations, my dear Eliot.
But today, I must make an exception.
What opens today is sure to close again.
APRIL 1 (haiku sequence)
i.
many will write
of fools today–before
looking in the mirror
ii
no one plays
jokes on me–I am
too serious
iii.
I live in
one of the chakras
–can you guess?
iv.
I sleep in
my father’s chair,
waiting for the cat
v.
one star
through the window–clouds
are swirling skirts
vi.
in the morning
a white limousine
is parked in the driveway
–Joseph McLaughlin (c) 2008
The Trip
The Trip
It wasn’t far.
Not even down the road.
But I was driving
The car in circles,
Figure eights,
Around the trees that dotted our front yard
Where we played softball in the spring,
Football in the fall
And built snowmen in the winter.
Fifteen and behind the wheel.
"First Kitty"
She came to me
pure white ball of fur
pink ears still flattened down,
just six weeks old -
My first kitty.
I loved her at once;
her speed and her spunk
made her the pick of the bunch.
The only girl, born in a closet;
first jumper out of her boxed nest.
I called her Jenny
after Forrest Gump’s one love
And she could run
and jump
and climb
to get stuck way up in a tree
Find her beaming like the moon
from a branch out into the night.
My Jenny, my first kitty
just turned 12;
not as spunky
not as speedy
sleepy’s the key word
But I love her even more -
My first kitty.
For five years we were friends,
Till one day out of the blue.
He approaches me to no end,
A change something happens so true.
He pulls me close our first kiss,
Though nervous flames ignite.
And yet my feelings are bliss,
Leads to ecstasy in the night.
No more looking around,
After I’ve searched for years.
Now that I’ve finally found,
My true love appears.
I’m happier than ever,
Can’t wait to be with you.
Another in my life never,
To you I will be true.
first job
it was summer of seventy-three
we were awakened by daddy
make sure you wear long sleeves
cause it is gonna be hot today
get in the truck so we can be on our way
when we got to the fields
he cut a hoe handle with a saw
I just stood there in awe
although i was only nine
having a job suited me fine
weird, my link above didn’t work.
Song of a porcelain nesting doll cookie jar, who is filled with self-loathing
I am a porcelain
Porcelain nesting doll.
Doll-shaped cookie jar,
Jar void of inner doll.
Doll void of cookies, void.
Void there, and there, and there.
There’s a hammer –
Hammer next
Next to me, a hammer; me.
Me hammer,
Hammer. Smash.
Smash smash
Smash.
Days and days go by
Yet still I wonder where
Time
and you
Have gone and left me
Still wondering
Why
In dreams I see you,
handsome as Paris, dark-haired, tall,
outshining Helios with your beauty,
as you stroll Elysian Fields.
Remember me, My Love,
and I will come to you on strong, swift legs,
Then, will we teach love to Radiant Beings
And with passion, set Heaven aflame.
First Crash
There is a boy on the basketball yard
Busy looking into the balloncest
All he cares is next hit.
Oh lord, he is a beautiful boy.
Look upstairs, Adonis,
I am at the upstairs window,
Third row from the left,
A breeze caress the pink curtain.
And I am hiding behind..
I am leaving behind my dolls,
Ropes, and stuffed bears,
I feel an impatience to look at you
An absorbent magnet, that’s what you are. .
Tomorrow I will be fifteen.
the Goat
My first goat
what a cute little thing
wagging it tail
and blaating so loud.
my first goat
ate like a little pig
and sometimes
smelled like one too.
my first goat
was too little
to go outside
and play
my first goat
found a new home
with a cousin
who loves him so much
Is this where the poems are posted?
It’s Spring Again
by: Chloe
The cannon-like explosion,
a muted thud,
the ball lays on the carpet
amid ice-like shards.
Another hit for Maddie
right on target,
Is there a bulls eye
on that window?
She stands in the grass stunned.
She’s done it again,
she must face her mother; eyes
flashing furiously, roars of rage
battering her ears.
She opens the door slowly,
and saunters in
head down, cap askew,
bat over her shoulder,
teeth clenched against
the fire she must endure.
"Don’t say nothin’, Mama,
I’ll go to my room.
I‘ll stay there a whole week, I promise?"
I try to stifle a smile.
"At least," I say
PEOPLE U DON’T FORGIVE CAN CONTROL U
A while ago I learned
People u don’t forgive can control u
I’ve conditioned my strong mind over a period
Of time not to let people phase me
During my worst trials and tribulations in
My life I was forced to stand firm on faith
To let wrongful relatives and strangers know
People u don’t forgive can control u
Giving them power to ruin your day
People u don’t forgive can control u
Giving them power to take your thoughts away
People u don’t forgive can control u
Giving them power to make u stray
People u don’t forgive can control u
Giving them power to make u disobey
People u don’t forgive can control u
Giving them power to make u forget to pray
PEOPLE U DON’T FORGIVE WILL CONTROL U
H.Michelle Cooper
I CAN TAKE A PRANK
Eavesdropping, I hear Pancho the dog
at the feline ear of Kit Ten our siamese cat,
saying what? Pancho and the cat, usually
at odds, one chasing the other’s tail,
but this April’s first day the two sit
muzzle to perked-up ear while I listen
from the crack in the kitchen door ajar
for eavesdroppers like me, wondering
what gives here! Pancho growls, Kit Ten
nods her chocolate-brown head, and then–
I swear it!–they give each other a high five,
little cat paw to giant dog paw, and they
go their separate ways. When I enter the kitchen,
my dinner plate filled with Cheerios
is on the floor, beside a spilled cup of Joe.
I look around for the sign that says
"April Fool!" but not finding it, I kneel
at my breakfast, somewhere four pet eyes on me,
and pretend I’m licking up my meal because
Hey, I can take a prank with the rest of them
and Pancho’s no Villa and Kit Ten sleeps in bed
with me when I catch a springtime flu.
#
(C) 2008 Salvatore Buttaci
http://mycatsbreathsmellslikecatfood.wordpress.com/
I am up for this challenge!
Simply love writing poetry! Any excuse will do!
It is April 1 today, so my first poem is already up!
Gemma
I was pointed in this direction by my poetry workshop Professor, and just wanted to say that I’m jumping on board. Thanks for this opportunity!
This project sounds fantastic, I’m looking forward to it.
Hi, sounds great, i will tune in and see what’s going on. I did a similar writing thing in Nov last year with prompts eveyr day in Nov. I only managed 7…!
A poem a day you will read…
Sounds like a worthwhile project.
Hello. I am James.