Napo 6

 I fell behind :( I had a migraine yesterday, but it didn't come on until the evening, so that's not a great excuse. I could have written during the day, but I thought I'd have the night, and then my migraine took that away.

So I thought today I'll get writing a little sooner in the day so it doesn't slip away!

Here are my thoughts for today:

Admiring Tennessee Hill’s “WE BUY BROKEN GOLD”

 

This is such a rich poem. I particularly love the ending. When an ending makes me go mmmm, then I know it’s good.

 

So this poem is about brokenness, I think, about accepting, maybe even relishing, those broken parts of ourselves instead of throwing them away. At least facing them, I guess.

 

The poem begins with the image of a Pawn Shop, one the speaker never goes into that she passes everyday on her commute. She doesn’t go inside because she associates it with the place where bad things happen. The darkness of life, of her family. She’s the kind of woman who looks away from darkness.

 

The end of the poem complicates this, though. We’re brought back to the physical space of the commute:

 

I’m the kind of woman that when sunspots shine  // against my thigh as I drive in the mooncast to work, I almost / always think it’s dirt and try to wipe the light away.

 

For me, this closing image shows that these bits of “darkness” can also be sources of light, of joy, and by brushing them away, instead of facing them, we’re missing out.

 

So the title, We Buy Broken Gold? The speaker is broken gold. We’re all broken gold. The poem then seems to be praising perhaps those who sift through life’s dark moments and find those little sparkling moments. And she’s ashamed she’s not one of them. That’s what I’m taking away from the poem anyway.

 

My prompt:

 

Write a poem about a pawn shop

Write about a dark moment that turned out to be something bright

Write about a bright moment in life that turned out to be something dark :-O

Take a proverb and disagree with it (this is the one I ended up choosing, from the NAPO website)

 

Great Oaks from Little Acorns Grow

 

But not all acorns become great oaks—

The oak outside my window, older

 

Than my own house once could fit

In the palm of a hand, my ancestors’

 

Rough hands, now returned to the earth

Beneath roots like these. Now

 

The tree shakes acorns from its branches

Every summer, lets them tumble

 

To the concrete below. Not every

Acorn is destined to meet the soil—

 

For the squirrels need to eat to survive,

for the boot needs something to crunch.

 

And I’m here to tell you that it’s ok.

If every acorn bloomed into an oak

 

As tall and as mighty as this tree,

The kind of tree I can’t wrap my arms around,

 

This world would be nothing but forest,

so thick there’s no room for anyone

 

or anything else but leaves and bark

and roots entangled in one another’s splendor.

 

We would be all shade, no sun.

The oak sheds seeds like dandruff

 

From its crown. Optimistically. Recklessly.

Bless the acorn nestled in the cheek

 

Of the squirrel. Bless the sapling crushed

Between the teeth of a doe. Bless the stump

 

Of yesterday, the tree that fell in last night’s storm,

Making way for the next generation of majesty.