Cue the song birds, children's laughter, the electronic
lament of the weed whacker.
Here goes.
Cutting Corners
Trees don't grow upside down
The dried brown leavings covering the new greens
don't spring from the ground and bag themselves
Our hidden garden is a forest floor
I reveal to the sun by gestures of removal,
walking old man winter to the garden door.
Rake in hand, bending, pile-gathering, bagging,
grappling the last dead-end, vine-entangled refuseniks with
gloved hands.
Birds don't fall from the sky,
but the songs of their vernal longings do
I fly on wings of song, pigging out on spring's arpeggios.
Arcing past rooftops, the golden hour rises in the west,
lighting the thirteenth candle of daylight in April's
baker's dozen
After the storms of March and the lingering tease of the
longed-for season,
I turn a corner in the tensioned spring
And square the circle of the yearly swing.
4.21 The Prompt:
"After reading the myth of Narcissus, try writing a poem that plays with the myth in some way. For
example, you could imagine that imagine the water is speaking to you, the
narcissus flower. Or you could write a poem in which the narcissus berates the
Kardashians for stealing their neurosis. Or a poem that comments on the
narcissism of our time, i.e. beauty and body obsession, etc."
Noli Me Tangere
I think that I shall never see
A symbol of perfection that touches me
Or even comes close, within a mile or two:
stop right
there, that's close enough
Noli me tangere,
by the way,
I have an appointment with my personal enshriner,
so mustn't muss the hair
Or lessen any part of me
It really takes the heart of me
when scribblers scribe my every word
It makes me wish that I could lay
the equal of a verbal turd
And then the photogs always snap
when, waking from a beauty nap,
I step outside to catch a ray
I like to give the sun some time with me
Sun so deserves something good to see
But videographers by the score
Cannot help but wish to validate
the look of one they so adore
Every gesture, every move
every word and every wave
Is the epitome of what I gave
when first I rode in on a wave
Some other, I know, gave this stamp a lick
But my perfect imitation turns the trick
Don't flatter me with media imitation
I've given birth to that whole nation
And if you wish to register
your admiration faithfully
My images can now be found
at Narcissus-dot-intheround
And there give me your many 'loves'
by touching gently, wearing gloves.
4.20 the Prompt:
"...Write a poem that involves rebellion in some way. The speaker or
subject of the poem could defy a rule or stricture that’s been placed on them,
or the poem could begin by obeying a rule and then proceed to break it (for
example, a poem that starts out in iambic pentameter, and then breaks into
sprawling, unmetered lines). Or if you tend to write funny poems, you could
rebel against yourself, and write something serious (or vice versa)."
My response:
A sonnet that breaks some rules. Hardly much of a rebellion.
Hair: The Rebellion
In Salon Neo on Hancock Street
The ladies there cannot be beat
They till the soil of human hair
on flesh reclining in a chair
They chatter in a foreign tongue
You cannot tell the old from young
They know my name and trim my hair
And cover up what's not much there
Then to my garden I repair
With rakes and bags and clippers style
the shapes of vine and leafy branch,
such grassy fronds, such earthy hair:
I do at home what they do there
And whisper words that plants can't hear.
To get the full story from National Poetry Writing Month, here's the link to their site.
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