National Novel Writing Month (sort of)

Friendly readers (who exist mainly in my imagination);

I fully intend to participate in National Novel Writing Month tomorrow-Nov 30th. I will be writing poetry instead of prose, with no intentions of meeting the word requirement.

Now, I know you're about to tell me about National Poetry Writing Month, and rightly so.  You might suggest that NaPoWriMo fits my needs better- but I cut my teeth on NaNoWriMo many years ago, and I enjoy participating with my writerly friends who (for the most part) are prose writers (or mostly prose writers, or graphic novel writers turned prose writers for the duration of November, or kindly fauns with a penchant for words).  Or maybe I didn't realize there was a NaPoWriMo until today... You know, whatever.

Either way, I'm excited!  Ready to be back on the wagon!

So here's the game plan: I have planned themes for each day of the week.  I'm going for 2 poems a day, for 30 days.  Obviously, I'll update here.

• Sunday Historical People Prompt
• Monday Picture Prompt
• Tuesday New/Old Writer Response Prompt
• Wednesday Art Prompt
• Thursday Form Prompt
• Saturday Geographic Prompt

Turned to Stone

I have always loved your bird's nest,
snap curling twigs, your egg bald spot,
even when it was a nest of snakes.

A disservice of fairy tales

the wild geraniums grew up the
fence, the vines choked out the
sunlight and wrapped their arms
around our bungalow, confused our
siding with earth until I slept

the charmed sleep while the
crickets made homes in the walls
the cicadas burrowed under the sink
These clouds laden with water
billowed over, feeding the new,

green walls, letting only a haze
of light filter through the ivy
Our house turned 100, and you
counted the spiral of glass above
the mantel, faceted ghost of now

A record of night

Sometimes a star is just plasma
clasped together in gravity
wavering, but fixed in our sky

And sometimes stars are just
dust burning away in place
waiting for a peaceful passing

And sometimes stars are luminous
folded in the dark of your eyes
quiet and soft against midnight

Howl and Other Poems

I just finished watching Howl.  Dear invisible readers, it made me cry.  I picked up Howl and Other Poems when I was 15, if not younger.  My exposure to reading had, up until this book of poetry, consisted of used fantasy/sci-fi from Nancy's Trade-a-Book and $1 Dover Thrift books.  I was already in love with Byron and Matsuo Basho, but I hadn't read anything like anything like anything like it.  I read it over and over.  I didn't understand it, but it struck me numb.  It changed the way I viewed words.  It pushed me down and made me look again.  I think I saw the name and thought of the kindly old man in a movie that made me cry, so I just got it on impulse.

Later, I picked up On The Road and realized that I could love an entire book based on a simple sentence.  Even if the rest of it was drug-induced, self-indulgent masturbation.  I began looking for new poetry and I found Ogden Nash and weird zines filled with strange things and new words and new images.  I decided that my pipe-dream was to go to the University that Allen Ginsberg taught at- and cried all night when he died.

I think this movie did an incredible job of relaying the irreverent humor and innate humanity that really pulled me into his work.  In retrospect, I think his naked queerness gave me a voice for accepting myself, too.

I mean, I can't really express how much he and his work meant to me.  I love him, dearly.