I’ve given up trying to catch up with poems for April. I’ll just write as many as I can during the month and leave it at that.
This “assignment” came from Read Write Poem and I’m not sure what I think of the end result. The idea iss to take a poem that wasn’t working and pick a few lines that you like. Then, sing the lines into a song. Taking the melody, write more lines to go with the poem/song.
I actually think I like my original poem better (the one the first 3 lines came from), but the assignment was fun. I’ve worked my poems into songs before, but never in this manner. The end result isn’t my normal writing style . . . it’s too “sweet” for my tastes – haha.
was her skin soft and welcoming
did you crawl into her
curves of an angel, a friend
did your heart go far away
did your heart come back
with more than you left behind
did your breath turn into one
whole to gaze through
counting the time left to love
did you die a little death
promise the earth
and dreams and the fingers of seeds
did she tie up your wandering
anchor your flight and
ground you impossibly sung?
Haha, well, I was trying to catch up with the rest of the 30 poems in 30 days folks, but it looks like I’m still lagging behind.
This poem was inspired by the Read Write Poem prompt today which said to “write about the thing you didn’t choose” and, well, orange has never been my favourite colour.
I’ve never picked you orange
as a favour as a phase my youth
spent through pinks and purples
stringing the edges of my bedroom
with the white curliness
orange was never curly it was
twang an offense
a softball team jersey hoisted upon
the losingest team on the playground
where only once for a moment
I thought I might find comfort in you
orange, the poppies, sprung about the hill
and me picking a bouquet only to be told
those are California poppies,
you can’t pick them it’s illegal
orange, you betrayer, you opium den
you prison sentence
you were never the greens of my wardrobe
of my fern forest nor were you
my brief affair with red
when it offered a chance
a sports car
a swiss army knife
orange, I’ve never loved you
never let you under my skin
even in your soft sunrise I’ve taken you
for granted even in your flames
It’s been so windy in Vancouver lately that the birds have been having trouble flying.
the crow birds are walking today
on nubbly feet knowing nothing of
the intelligence of water only how
it splashes on their weathered feathers
interrupting their commute
the crows wander the graveyard
this is not a metaphor
I live by a graveyard
and birds often stop to consider the stones
under the wolf-shaped tree
they walk and click thoughts letting
the less solemn swallows audition the air
tossed and dizzy in the april wind
what to do when you’re a grounded bird
and the sky is slouching its good-night
can crows sigh at the moon-rise
constellate against the odds
do they know the meaning
of tempting fate?
April 8, 2010
~ ~ ~
And for the second poem today . . . since Bryan Borland wrote in yesterday, I’m going to send you over to his site because his work is lovely bite-sized morsels.
here is PILLOW BITER – which has much bang for the buck and made me laugh.
Okay – so I’m a LITTLE late for Poetry month’s 30 poems in 30 days celebration. I’m going to make up for it by posting TWO poems for the next 4 days. 🙂
Today I pay homage to my mentor and friend Anne Waldman. I was a student of hers at Naropa University in the MFA program, but that was over 15 years ago (egad!). If you know Anne, this poem will mean more to you.
If you don’t know Anne – I have posted a link below to a recording of a well-known Anne poem, Peon, May I Speak Thus. I used to perform this poem during readings because I was fond of it (and because it’s so Anne).
I took Anne Waldman to the Movies
years ago she was visiting in Seattle and asked me
if I wanted to go to the movies and I was
aghast intrigued to think Anne Waldman could go
to the movies and not be propped up in a display case
a dream a metaphor after poet duties were done
not dragging her scarves through the buttered
popcorn stepping over jujube boxes on sticky floors
it was Italian the movie she had wanted to see I
don’t recall the name only that it was not as good
as we’d wanted as it had sounded as it had
promised and so we went for a drink and discussed
the men in our lives the ones we had left or had left
us in poems in ports-of-call in dim kitchens
what did it matter the facts of it the truth
was ours the wine was red
I don’t recall the label but I remember it was
good the night slurred back to us a toast to
our bad men our bad movies our cracked opened lives
April 7, 2010
~ ~ ~
Anne Waldman’s Peon, May I Speak Thus (a litany against AIDS)