Berates me this morning,
Where’ve you been? What took you so
Long? I’ve been waiting for
Look how tall I’ve grown in your absence
Blue-ombre tunic twirls
– The master is proved right,
Whirls like a Golden Compass
Beyond all that is Rational –
I cleared the room
So it would just be
When we met
(See the faces peering out from behind
Bannister-mountains, whispering, Is that her?)
– Everything in Existence
to God –
got into the special paints this morning.
(The ones kept on top of the fridge, behind the cereal and last week’s mail)
Stood on tippy-toes and
stretched her hand
up up up
she was impossibly tall.
As guilty fingers touched eternity – teetered, overbalanced –
across the kitchen floor.
Everyone knows who did it;
The Creator’s fingertips are still stained
It seems while I was away
God took up a new hobby
leaving love letters I read while driving to work.
(Perhaps if I look under the bed, I’ll find a shoebox filled with them
and be shocked that He’s been doing it for years.
What a conversation that would be!)
I guess He was secretly spying on me
that time I sat on a bench in MOMA
captivated by iridescence.
So the Creator asked Monet to teach Him how to paint a sunrise.
I think He’s feeling quite pleased with His technique.
God skips across the morning sky
in front of my windscreen
trailing streamers and blowing a party horn
(you know, the kind that unfurls from pursed lips?)
Makes me think of husband-man
pulling faces and speaking in foreign accents
looking to crack a smile as I pull on my boots and check my mail.
Reminds me that this too is the Creator,
playing silly buggers,
trying to be the center of my attention.
And now for something completely different…
Our prompt for the day (optional, as always) plays of our resources. Today, I challenge you to write a visual poem. If that’s not specific enough, perhaps you can try your hand at a calligram? That’s a poem or other text in which the words are arranged into a specific shape or image. You might find inspiration in the famous calligrams written by Guillaume Apollinaire. And a word to the wise — the best way to cope with today’s exercise may well be to abandon your keyboard, and sit down with paper and pen (and maybe crayons or colored pencils or markers!)
Today I challenge you to write a palinode. And what’s that? It’s a poem in which the poet retracts a statement made in an earlier poem. You could take that route or, if you don’t have an actual poetically-expressed statement you want to retract, maybe you could write a poem in which you explain your reasons for changing your mind about something. It could be anything from how you decided that you like anchovies after all to how you decided that annoying girl was actually cool enough that you married her.
said I couldn’t run
The last time I tried
I was 9
and by the time I crossed the finish
adults were packing up the hotdogs.
Today I ran 5 kilometers.
said I couldn’t grow things
The last time I tried
I killed 2
cactus’s. You know the kind they say
I drowned them.
Today I ate kale from my garden.
said I couldn’t write regularly
As if words could flow on demand.
As if I were 3.
All it takes is a little
Today I celebrate a week of poems.
Today’s (optional) prompt springs from the form known as the aubade. These are morning poems, about dawn and daybreak. Many aubades take the form of lovers’ morning farewells.
If I would lift my heavy head
drag it from my soft-warm bed
perhaps I’d catch the morning light
driving back the sacred night
I guess I’d see the dawn arise
reflect her curves in faithless eyes
I might marvel at the way
darkness morphs and turns to day
I’d be in awe, I don’t doubt,
of sunshine’s candor, early scout
But all this wonder soon would fade
as I with longing turn my gaze
to where my body ere laid.
Find an Emily Dickinson poem – preferably one you’ve never previously read – and take out all the dashes and line breaks. Make it just one big block of prose. Now, rebreak the lines. Add words where you want. Take out some words. Make your own poem out of it!
Heaven” has different signs to me
Sometimes, I think that earth
Is but a sidebar to the Place
But when again, in Sorrow,
A mighty sigh runs round the World
And settles in my stomach
A Resentment, As if creation groaning
should be a stagewhisper like that
Upon the Ignomy steals a Thought
That when the promise of the hereafter is a Triumph
When death together becomes cause for Victory
And makes Some rejoice for the promise of Eternity
When the Rapture of an (un)finished Day
And Turning away from this now-unrest
All for the promise of the place
That Men call “paradise”
When “Heaven” Itself is fairer, preferable, to this present darkness
I prefer that Kingdom-come should not be Adored,
And held for a Superior Grace
Than Thy Kingdom come on earth
As it is In heaven.
Even the Not yet, Our eyes can see