National Poetry Month: another PAD completed

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PAD, poetry

2021 is my 10th completion of Robert Lee Brewer’s Poem A Day (PAD) challenge. That’s 300 poems written. I also do most of Robert’s weekly prompts, most of his November PADs, and I write poems on my own, occasionally. A conservative estimate is maybe 80 poems a year (30+30+20) over ten years or 800 poems.

800 poems in a life is a lot of poems. 800 in a decade may seem excessive. Really though, it’s hardly enough. I do not call myself a poet. I write poetry to learn about writing, about poetry but also prose. To me, poetry is focused wording, focused imagery, condensed lyricism. I consider myself a prose writer, and I want to have lyrical elements in my stories, I want strong imagery, I want to tell stories without telling them, all things poetry does.

Usually I am happy with something like a dozen of my 30 poems during these events. This month I was happy with two. Here is one of them.

All Our Futures

It’s not so much he only cared for himself
          some of the greatest leaders, inventors, and innovators were narcissists
it’s not so much his morality was lacking
          even the holiest can have their bad days
it’s not so much he stole all their money
          they would have just wasted it anyway
it’s not so much he lied through his teeth
          who hasn’t told a fib now and then?
it’s not so bad he cheats at golf
          really, who hasn’t kicked his own ball back in the fairway?
what’s so bad is he stole so many minds
          when truth is denied, the future is lost

The prompt for the day was Villain. It employs the rhetorical device called Anaphora which is the repetition of words at the begging of each phrase or sentence. Anaphora emphasizes each phrase and adds effective rhythm. The poem is a commentary on the present day political divide. Of course it’s aimed at #45, but he is such an easy target. Most of the literary world is against him, most who read widely are against him, so of course people liked this poem. I am not happy with the last line as it’s a retelling of the 4th line. But even if I change it, this is still a rather trite poem. I feel no inclination to expand or polish it. It was fun to write, but it will likely die in my cloud.

Most of my poems this month were rather prosaic. I’ve been reading Billy Collins’ poetry and he has a rather conversational narrative style. If you’ve never read him, please do so. He’s inspired my month of bad poems. I am afraid I fail at emulating his style.

I don’t yet know if I am happy with the following poem, but I had fun writing it. I won’t know if I’m happy with most of my poems until I put them to bed and wake them up some months later. Maybe in late summer I’ll discover a line or phrase, maybe a whole stanza, maybe a whole poem or even a series of poems that demand further work. But that time is not yet here. So just read it and feel my brain churn as I wrote this mess. It is an untitled Ekphrastic poem

There is a woman in it
that much I am sure of
the rest of it is, well
a mess is the easy euphemism.

She might be holding a vase
A rat gaping at cherries — or is that a fish?
Or an English hedgehog —  
and leaping from the white glass.

Only the woman and the vase,
the hedgehog, a rose, something
that looks like an otter’s head
and cherries are white, all else is blue

With bits of green, yellow,
and blobs of red. The tall stalagmite —
or maybe it’s a cactus or a stalk —
has two giant strawberries

Not dangling like normal strawberries
but embedded like stained glass
you can’t even see through, any of it
all of it, abstract and senseless.

That otter sniffing the rose
which is held by the red stumpy
watermelon man with no rind
and drips down on two men

Yellow, watching a backwards elephant
sneeze laundry and kites, and a green
elephant at the bottom sniffing Australia
which is also green so you know it has to be not real, But it’s the giant cargo ship
thrusting out of a map Puget Sound
like an alien from a belly that the girls attention.
You know it has to mean something.

The painting I wrote to is by Chelle Stein and can be found at her blog,

There is one poem I am quite pleased with. I am so happy with it, I already submitted it to the 2021 Canada Writes Poetry Contest. When I don’t win that, I will submit it somewhere for publication. Rattle Maybe. I did not post any of it at the PAD site, and I am not posting any of it here. It needs to remain unpublished. It is my practice to not publish my good poems online. It’s immediate disqualification for most literary considerations. Sorry.

I wrote this fantabulous poem to the prompt Waiting. It was April 17th so about ten days after the completion of The Masters golf tournament. I immediately pictured the pro golfers standing on Augusta’s 12th tee looking up at the tree tops and waiting for the wind to let up long enough to put their ball on the green instead of into Ray’s Creek. Oh the drama! The night before I had watched PBS’s Poetry In America episode on Elizabeth Bishop’s poem One Art. I fell in love with this poem, and I had the Villanelle form firmly implanted in my head. I wrote a first stanza, said “Dang, this is strong,” and I quickly opened Rhyme Zone. It then sucked five days out of my life, I quickly sought and found some feedback from the Seaside Scribes writing group I belong to, and I zipped it up tight and sent it off. I think it is a solid poem, a real solid poem, but it’s about golf and it’s about the esoteric struggles a golfer faces on the course with his friends in the wind. A golfer will love it. A poetry judge may just say, “Huh?”

I did not so much have fun this month as push through with my head down. I wrote a poem or two every day, I posted most, and I filled 37 pages of my current poetry journal. As I work away at my novel, I feel myself trying to write richer prose, so in that regard it’s a success.

2017 Poem A Day (PAD)

Tags

Alden Nowlan, Alliteration, Down River, Haiku, Hamza al-Khateeb, metaphor, PAD, rhyming, Sonnet, Voice

This post is about my experiences at the Writer’s Digest blog Poetic Asides; where each April Robert Lee Brewer runs a poem a day (PAD) event. In 2016 I posted every day with my poem and thoughts. It was too much, and I didn’t want to invest that effort this time. It becomes pretty dull after only a few days of mediocre poetry. Sorry bloggers, but reading our unedited, off-the-cuff poetry is too often a painful exercise.

This season I want to write about what I have learned, with examples. I don’t know how many of the 54 poems I wrote this month I will post, but it will not be double digits.

April is National Poetry Month, and for me, it has become a month to focus on poetry. Not entirely. I met with an editor this month about my novel. In my mind it is finished and ready to go, but what does ready to go mean? I am not sending it off in queries, yet, as the forces are telling me to self-publish, and do it NOW! Including my wife who has finally read my work. More on that later.

I read one complete book of poetry this month and about 30 pages of another. I picked up a copy of Alden Nowlan’s Early Poems for $8. A steal as other shops are charging $30-$40 for this 1983, posthumous publication by UNB’s Fiddlehead Press.

Nowlan writes earthy poems of simple life-events and often adds a dramatic twist. His rhyming can be forced, and he willingly strays into the dirty areas of life. You will not find a light, airy, emotional Alden Nowlan poem. I sympathize with the style and it has influenced my poetry this month. Here is one example of his work.

Down River by Alden Nowlan

In cities the embittered ones are cunning;
anguish sharpens their wits, I’ve seen the eye
glint in whoresons and beggars, its approach
quick and malicious as a common fly.

But here persistent misery endures;
growing thick-headed like a cow, it chews
thistles in mute protest against the rain
of innocence it cannot lose or use.

This poem I wrote is about a man in a funeral procession carrying a casket, upset at others, his tailor who screwed up his pants is sitting in the back of the church and the guy in front of him wearing jeans, yet he cannot see the irony of himself wearing boots. Most definitely Nowlan-influenced.

Untitled

It is so disappointing when people don’t show respect,
forty dollar dress pants too long, and the haberdasher knew Tom;
he sits at the back of the church, head bowed, embarrassed
as I step on the cuffs with the heels of my boots
afraid I’ll fall while hauling this casket
the weight of Tom’s miserable life on my shoulder,
and the guy in front of me who pretended to cry
while buddy spoke of friendship and sadness and told lies
is only wearing jeans.

Nowlan uses simple rhyming but more complex and subtle alliteration: In, cities, embittered, wits, glint in, its, quick, malicious, persistent, misery, thick, it, thistles in mute, innocence, it, cannot. Fantastic when you look for it and read it a few times. And as I sit in this down-river city with the painting of Nowlan on a brick wall along Canterbury St., look at the persistent fog and drizzle outside my office window, and walk among the thick-headed denizens, oh, do I feel this Nowlan poem beating!

I attribute the following to Nowlan Influence, especially the simple rhyming scheme.

Platinum 3776 Century SF

The sound of this fine gold nib
an this smooth, heavy paper
is the sound of a clean sheet of ice
being etched by a smooth figure skater

It traces ornate twirls as it glides
through the jungle of imagined words
jumps and spins as it writes attacking
the loudest clashing of swords

The following is in many ways concrete and earthy but the conceit is abstract: sitting in a coffee shop wondering if you fit in.

The Sound of Youth

I try to sit in silence
sip my coffee
read my book
the pages won’t lay flat
but keep closing
my eyes wander the rows
tables full of chatter
incessant social banter
not looking at faces
straining to decipher
the deafening sound of youth

I also worked through In The Palm of your Hand by the late Steve Kowit out of San Diego. I read this with some trepidation as Steve called a friend of mine illiterate after she submitted poetry using Canadian spelling. American exceptionalism? Myopia? I can’t comment, but she was not pleased. Anyway, while this book has issues with generalization, examples you have to track down in back pages, and editing snafus, this is actually a stunning read. I highly recommend it.

I am also working through the book Studying Poetry by Matterson and Jones. This is another stunning book. It is advanced and assumes you understand the basics of poetry. These authors dig deeper and discuss how poetry actually works. This month, some of this text has led me into exploring alliteration and forms of metaphor deeper, such as in the following poems.

Haiku 17417

Clothes hang from the line
strung-out lives, histories dancing
in the cold, spring wind

And this poem combines Nowlan subject matter and twist with alliteration.

Untitled

Their 54 Plymouth, festooned
with Green Giant corn cans
and full Cracker Jack boxes
rambled down county road one
scaring the deer and raccoons.

I tried not to, but I also strayed into politics again. I have often made statements such as, “America will never be able to change its ways; it can’t even adopt the metric system.” And when Robert gave a prompt of ‘metric’, I knew what I had to write.

Untitled

When hicks talk in klicks
you can bet they’ll accuse
the country of Bolshevik
influence and interference
calling the president a lunatic
and march on Capital Hill
with night sticks and booze.

The following poem hurt to write. When you write a poem, the emotional impact is many times that when you read it. I spent half a day reading about Syria; because I didn’t understand it. I stumble across this article in Al Jazeera and decide I needed to write a poem about it. It put me in the darkest mood I have ever been in. Ever! After dinner my wife and son went out and I was home alone. I couldn’t take it, so I went to my favorite pub and played trivia a night early with friends. Oh the beer went down fast!

Hamza al-Khateeb

You loved it when the rains came
filled a simple irrigation ditch
a makeshift swimming hole; you weren’t to blame
for giving your family’s money to a boy without a stitch

The Arab spring promised freedom
a loner, you joined the protest
an easy target, young and without wisdom
al’aman, security; we all assume it protects

They whipped you with steel cable
shocked your knees, elbows, hands, and face
left your tortured body on a table
a bullet in your belly, they cut off your penis

Hamza al-Khateeb, what have you seen?
you were an innocent boy; you were only thirteen

Yeah, a tough one.

Of course I also had some fun this month. Some of my poetry was light and airy and even made me smile 😉

This aphoristic poem in response to ‘in <blank> of love’

Laws of Love

There are no laws of love
no rules or conditions.
There is no bad love
to avoid
and there is no good love
to prefer,
no rolling of the dice
no depending on tossed rice.
The only love that matters
is the love you live to make.

And another metric poem.

Untitled

I waited for you
until the parking meter
ate all of my coins

It was a very good month for me. I wrote 54 poems in 30 days, learned a lot, and I explored much. I took another baby step towards learning my poetic voice and becoming a confident poet, if there even is such an animal.

NaPoWriMo (PAD) 2016, Day 2

Tags

PAD, poetry, Writing

For today’s prompt, write a what he said and/or what she said poem. Maybe he or she said a rumor; maybe he or she gave directions; or maybe he or she said something that made absolutely no sense at all. I don’t know what they said; rather, each poet is tasked with revealing that knowledge.

I jotted some phrases and they pointed the idea nobody records words anymore, unless it’s in social media. Nobody journals or keeps diaries. The modern world almost seems driven by hearsay. I began with a derivation of the old “She sells se shells by the se shore,” phrase and ran from there. The title comes from a phrase a baseball umpire from my teens used to reply to our disputes over balls and strikes. Words are meaningless. “Put it down on paper!” ended the argument. If you continued, you were gone from the game.

Put it down on paper

They said she said she sells hair gels by the sea shore
They said she said her prices are too high
If she really does sell well, if her proposition is legitimate and above board
Why rely on rumor?
Why not tell the world herself?

Why can’t she say what she is really up to these days?
Hearsay and supposition, gossip and innuendo
Why do we have to query people we don’t really know, to peek into
The life of some woman we thought we once loved
But we’re not sure we could pick out of a lineup anymore?
Behind the backtalk, faceless confrontation

You can’t trust what anyone says about someone else’s words, anyway
If she really wants to advertise to old friends, to old lovers
Put it in writing, put it down on paper
Or at least post it to Facebook

Poem number two

Scarred

I penned this at Starbucks this morning while waiting for a writers group to start.

Her words are a wall, empty and stacked
Her vocal chords oppressive twangs of plucked, out of tune guitar strings
Her teeth clack and crunch the Graham Cracker air
A Play-Dough factory of futility

I can’t reach out and I can’t run
Her lipstick full of luscious filth
She accuses and blames, me
A vice principal of commitment

Her ears are so dainty, and her breast
So scarred, battles of her own regard
She flails and parries, but never listens, never loves
What I say

NaPoWriMo 2016 Day 1 – Poem A Day (PAD) #1 – National Poetry Month (April)

Tags

PAD

April is National Poetry Month and many writers around the world are attempting to write a poem a day, 30 poems in a month. As with NaNoWriMo, this month is more about quantity than quality, a shotgun approach to writing. April is a learning month for me. I am feeling more and more comfortable with my prose voice, but my poetry voice is still mostly a mystery to me. I plan to write at least 30 poems, and I also plan on reading at least one poetry craft book, “The Poet’s Companion” by Addonizio and Laux. I will likely open other craft books too. I also plan on reading quite  a bit of poetry, but I have no specific plan.

I follow prompts provided by Robert Brewer at Poetic Asides.

For today’s prompt, write a foolish poem. It’s April Fool’s Day, after all. Let’s loosen up today with a poem in which we’re fools, others are fools, or there’s some kind of prank or tomfoolery happening. Fool around with it a while.

I told myself I didn’t really want to write about American politics this month, but I guess that was a lie. Is there anything more foolish in the world right now than the American election cycle? Two years and billions of dollars of discussion, debate, and analysis and all they can come up with is nonsense? While my poem is clearly aimed at the GOP, I am not by any means a fan of the other camp. It’s just the easier target. And while the dominant fool might be Trump, I also refer to initiatives proposed by Cruz and Huckabee. I will look for other Tom-foolery topics later today, but for now, here’s my attempt:

And The World Will Be A Better Place

We’re going to build a nation, once again
A bigger, better, braver nation
Even the greatest nation needs to clean house
Now and then

We’re going to build a wall, to keep them out
We’re going to boost our economy, encourage trade, and promote peace
By restricting integration, multiculturalism, and globalization
Oh they’ll pay for it

We’re going to build a church, a National Church
A church protected, a seat for everyone, with the cheapest donations
Praise the President for he will wear the robes
The directive to believe entrenched

We’re going to build an army, to force world peace
Tanks against sickles, nuclear weapons for all, vaginas guarded by guns
No fool will shoot up the world when all nations are ready to respond
And the world will be a better place

Day 1, poem number 2

Hotrod Lincoln

They were run over by a Lincoln, from behind, diagonally
Four straight thinkers, four pretentious immortals
Green flashing lights and solid red hands ignored
Too externally confident, internally insecure
Forever unresolved

High school teaches numbers and words
Students learn old-world lessons, not modern practicalities
The science of motion isn’t for two more years, they’ll never see
Their retinal biology not fully realized, by the hoary and old
Not all muscles and minds are testosterone-driven
A sixteen-year old’s life is too intense, but not rich enough to satisfy

The old man was sorry, for the boys
Would never learn street smarts

PAD 2014 Begins

Tags

PAD

I joined Robert Lee Brewer’s Poetic Asides Poem A Day challenge in April 2012. I am not a poet by any stretch of the imagination, but I enjoy trying to write it. I enjoy writing prose much more, much much more. 2013’s challenge was a bit of a letdown, a sophomore jinx for me. I wrote nearly very day, but I wrote because I had to, not because I wanted to. This year I feel different. I am in a great writing frame of mind at the moment. (Maybe I will blog about that soon.) I don’t feel pumped so much about poetry as I do about simply expressing myself through words. I think there might be a difference. I am trusting mages will flow. That’s what successful writers do, so I am told.

I ordered some help from eBay. I have purchased copies of “The Art And Craft Of Poetry” by Michael Bugeja and “Writing Poetry From The Inside Out: Finding Your Voice Through the Craft Of Poetry” by Sandford Lyne. Both of these books are highly recommended by forgotten sources in my past. I paid $20 for the two of them delivered.

But books do not make a writer good. Good writing makes a writer good. Good writing is a lot of hard work in both learning and crafting. I am uber-busy this month, but I am still planning on using it to improve my craft. Improve my prose. Yes, I need to think about this prose entry, the changes I have experienced, the belief that writing “interesting” prose is vital and poetry cannot be ignored if you wish to write interesting prose – rhyme, imagery, lyricism, etc.
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Let’s cut to the chase. April 1’s prompt is a Two-For-Tuesday prompt: beginning and ending. I wrote two but am posting only one. I am ending this post with my beginning PAD ending poem 😉

DEAD AUTHORS
I shove a book I really don’t want but can’t throw away into a liquor box
It disappears under the locking cardboard flaps
A taped up collections of old words I have barely read
A collected wisdom of dead authors few remember
I cannot throw them out
I cannot bring myself to set them on a curb as food for the giant brown truck of progress
Maybe I can find room for them in the corner, under my table
Among the dust bunnies and lost computer screws
Beside the other boxes