Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Napowrimo #23

Today's task was a homophonic translation. This is just ridiculous. I "translated" Rilke.



Die Mandelbäume in Blüte: alles, was wir leisten können, ist, sich
ohne Rest zu erkennen in der irdischen Erscheinung.

Unendlich staun ich euch an, ihr Seligen, euer Benehmen,
wie ihr die schwindliche Zier traget in ewigem Sinn.
Ach wers verstünde zu blühn: dem wär das Herz über alle
schwachen Gefahren hinaus und in der großen getrost.


The man delved in me, in blood, alas, was weird, kitten is six
On the rest of the zoo, the archaic men in the kitchen piercing them

Underneath the stone itch you’re on, it’s singing, ever been a man
The early swindler fears chugging in a vegan sin.
Awkward verses on Tuesday, you blew him: Denver was hers, all around
She watched him get far and he listened in their grossness and got lost.



Then, I fixed it up a bit, but it's still no less ridiculous:



The man delved into me, into the blood, into the weirdness of my being.
There were six kittens and the house felt like a zoo. An archaic man sat in the kitchen,

piercing them underneath the stone of his heart, satisfied his itch. I was singing, Ever Been a Man
to myself, wondering if I was that early-morning swindler, chugging my vegan sin,
wiping the white mustache from my lips. It was an awkward verse because there was a grain of truth
in the breadbox. It was Tuesday. You blew him. Denver was hers, and all around
she watched him grow more and more distance. He listened to their grossness, got lost in it.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Napowrimo #22

Something super short and simple for this busy day.


I love it when air
smells like rain
and the earth moans
with thunder. Dust
kicks up with the wind
and the first drops fall
so hard they imprint
the thirsty earth
like the pocks of my skin
beneath the impassioned
tips of your fingers.

Monday, April 21, 2014

Napowrimo #21



Today's prompt was to write something ala the New York School. I've never been to NYC, and to be honest, I'm not certain I'd like to go. So here's something completely different, inspired by a moment's glance at a fleabane blossom yesterday.

There are times when I’m lulled
Into believing that I’ve forgotten
About you, but there you are,
Appearing in the sweetest of spaces,
The moments when my mind wanders.
We were stopped at a red light
On Pecan and 23rd, across
From the crumbling police station,
When I looked out the passenger window
And saw you on the side of the road
And something took my breath away.
You weren’t the wrinkled woman
Inching towards the crosswalk,
Nor the raspa stand, the chamoy-stained
Lips of a child. You weren’t the tall weeds,
The wild guinea grass, the drifting blossoms
Of wild olives, so white and numerous
You’d almost think they’re springtime snow.
You were there, nestled in the dust,
in the unexpected smiles of fleabane buds,
Their alabaster petals arching like the back
Of a lover, you were the eye, a surprise  of gold,
erect and waiting for the brush of a honeybee’s toe
against its pollen-heavy disk.

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Napowrimo 20

This is really rough because I've been insanely busy today, but I think this is an interesting idea. Write in the voice of a family member. I chose my deceased grandma. The story goes that when she found out she was pregnant with my dad, she went to the bar and wept with her girlfriends. I didn't know my grandma very well, which makes this interesting to think about:


Napowrimo 20



This is what the body’s made for –
Love. For love and ripening,
For cycles of life that take us
In unexpected directions.

I never would have guessed
that I’d be here, with my elbows
on the bar, weeping because my heart
is broken and almost out of love. 


I want to come back to this idea and explore a little further, but on a day when I don't have so many looming deadlines. 

I had another idea for a poem, that maybe I'll explore tomorrow -- those tiny white flowers on the side of the road with their yellow centers, erect for the sun.

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Napowrimo #19

Today, I didn't follow instructions again, but I certainly think I COULD incorporate some shell names into this poem, maybe particularly when describing what goddess-skin looks like. Anyway, I really like the opening of this poem, but I need to work on the transitions and, most especially, the second half. What I'm TRYING to do here is show the paradox of power/beauty/femininity through a contemporary retelling of the Diane/Actaeon myth. Hmm... I'm also thinking about those ridiculous Venus razor commercials.

The Myth of the Goddess, When She Wakes

Above all myths you must uphold this one:
the beauty of a goddess comes with ease,
that you're reborn each morning from the ocean
of your sheets in all your goddess splendor,
full-formed, complete with slightly wind-blown locks,
with skin that smells perpetually of lilac,
legs without a trace of hair that beg
to be caressed with just a hint of shine.
Make your expression always painted smug,
a smile that shows you're better than the rest
because your beauty is a sacred gift.
Maintain this image. No one has to know
what happens in the bathroom, all you do
to serve your body on the scallop shell,
make it presentable to mortal men,
to give you power. If, by some mistake,
he catches just a glimpse of you, peers through
the shower curtain of your self and sees
the mess you really are, your power's gone.
You'll have to silence him like Diane did
to Actaeon, with just your eyes, make him
a deer caught in the headlights of your rage. 

Friday, April 18, 2014

Napowrimo 18

I didn't listen to the napo prompt today and kind of went off on my own. This "poem" or err.. shitty draft of a poem, was inspired by this poem by Karr and walking in the garden with Brubru.


The Grapevine

In spring, it's green, life-giving green and wide
with leaves the size of outstretched hands that give.
Its limbs are shelter for the ladybugs
that come like weary hobos, always hungry
and the vines are refuge for the persecuted
fireflies that need a little respite
for the day until the Texas sun
goes down and night will cover up their faces,
set them free. But somehow, you know that autumn
will come and as the cold front blows in,
life will river from leaves like blood
from the dying as the ground grows cold.

Instead of mourning at the loss of fruit,
of sweetness on the tongue, you'll nod your head
and patiently explain to me that's how
the story has to go -- that every season's
hard-earned growth will need your hands
to sheer it all away. You'll snap the limbs,
dismember, leave a lifeless shell of trunk.

It's what you have to do, you'll say, and turn
the hose on, if you want to have this water
turned to wine.

Thursday, April 17, 2014

Napowrimo 17

Today's instructions were to describe something using multiple senses. What an easy prompt. At first I wasn't sure what I should write, but with a little thought, this came:

Morning Commute

I taste the bitter coffee on my tongue.
It fills my throat with lukewarm hope of waking,
that somehow this will bring me back
to life. Each morning smells like gasoline,
like fumes. The sea's of pavement, reaching past
the point of vanishing. Horns cry. Engines
hum. They drown the cooing of a mourning
dove that perches on a power line,
her song foretells the sun, its resurrection
over the horizon, its warmth against
my face like breath, its rays that flood my eyes.
I pull the shade down, slip sunglasses on.