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NaPoWriMo Blogroll

Just a reminder of the folks who attempted this grueling feat, a poem a day, thirty days. All of us are bloomin' flowers, or else bulbs. Or something. Praise us.

Ivy Alvarez
Sam Amadon
Karla Andrich
S.B.
Emma Barnes
Simeon Berry
Judith Black
Kristy Bowen
Anne Boyer
Andrew Burke
Julie Carter
Shanna Compton
Kerry Da Silva
Lingamp
Melanie Faith
Faux Maux
Michelle Fierro
Suzanne Frischkorn
Elisa Gabbert
Ryk Groetchen
Vicky H.
Anne Haines
Shafer Hall
Christine Hamm
David Harris-Gershon
Thom Ingram
Erica Kaufman
David Kirschenbaum
Jennifer L. Knox
Mark Lamoureux
Amanda Laughtland
Ada Limon
Erin M.
Brian McGuigan
M. Monster
Erin Noteboom
Shann Palmer
Chad Parenteau
Carol Peters
Kathryn Petro-Harper
Rhiannon
Steve Roberts
Harry Rutherford
Michael Schiavo
Jessica Smith
Mike Snider
Susie
Mathias Svalina
Jen Tynes
Phil West
VersAtile

NaPoWriMo ~ #29

Messages From the Deep Past

Follow the trees, the green. Carry
a lantern through the wide fields.

Sing against the wind. Follow the blue
line. Why would I lie, when the sun

is so bright? Isn't this what you wanted?
Nothing left to lose? I am encased

in a woody, thorny vine. I am lost, though
everything seems familiar. There are twin

daughters; one is evil, the other weak. I've
crossed from the bright to the dark side

of the road. One must ingest the venom
of many snakes to reach enlightenment.

How did a whole race of people lose its sense
of rhythm? She lays herself across the lake,

on thick grey ice. There is much poverty
and sickness. Flooding, swamps, war, disease.

It takes three people to reproduce here: a man,
a woman, and another kind of woman, who

lives in the sea. There is little I can do, these
late, swift years, but watch fate unfold.

NaPoWriMo ~ #28

   Down to the wire, I'm cheating, with an old poem -- one of my favorites:

April, Almost May

After you left, days of summer came
too early, forcing blooms that will shrivel
in the next, inevitable, frost. I sleep and sleep
through the long heat. Afternoon shadows
slant across the grass. Women pass by in pale
dresses, bare skin. I close the shutters

against the sun. Later, rain. Snow
high and spare in the mountains. Aspens
greening by the river. Wild geese fly low,
dark wings skimming the water. I always
know what time it is where you are. Flowerbeds
fill with tulips, red and yellow, and blue,

blue iris. The river rises, dark and loud.
My flannel sheets are damp in the morning;
I fold them away, bring out the cotton.
A pair of mallards sit together on a floating
log on the muddy water. I watch patterns
of light on the ceiling, white plum blossoms.

Yesterday, I went to the nursery, brought home
pansies, petunias, sweet william. The river
runs faster, birch trees stand in the water
at its edge. Under the dark surface, something
rises, sinks, tumbles in the current. This is how
it feels to love someone else's darling.

Light moves through the rooms, darkening
with clouds. I sit alone in my beautiful
house. I do not dream. I remember
your hands in my hair. I think about
the translucent sky; the fast river; the rocks
along the bank, wet and mossy; how old

women have carried firestones for years,
from camp to camp, nestled against their
bellies. My bones are dry kindling, my flesh
sweet oil. Blue flames flicker along my arms,
across my flowered sheets. Shadows move
on the bedroom walls.

NaPoWriMo ~ #27

I have been dreaming the other
dimensions. The ones the strings
vibrate through. I see them quite
clearly, around that not-visible
corner. These other dimensions

are populated by creatures like
caterpillars, but with eyes instead
of legs. They are us, on the other
side. Do you see them? All those
eyes, but no time. No time.

My CYBORG Name

This particular silliness courtesy of Self-Winding.

NaPoWriMo ~ #26

In its origin, a poem is something completely unequivocal. It is a discharge, a call, a cry, a sigh, a gesture, a reaction by which the living soul seeks to defend itself from or to become aware of an emotion, an experience. In this first spontaneous most important function no poem can be judged.  -- Hermann Hesse

By making us stop for a moment, poetry gives us an opportunity to think about ourselves as human beings on this planet and what we mean to each other.  -- Rita Dove

Poetic language honors polarities. We use the language of poetry to provide the many levels of feeling, facets of knowing, simultaneously, so we can examine them and move forward.  -- Peggy Osna Heller

As a tool of cognition, poetry beats any existing form of analysis (a) because it pares down our reality to its linguistic essentials, whose interplay, be it clash or fusion, yields epiphany or revelation, and (b) because it exploits the rhythmic and euphonic properties of the language that in themselves are revelatory.  -- Joseph Brodsky

Appreciating poetry is probably like appreciating anything else. It means having the generosity to let a thing be what it is, the patience to know it, a sense of the mystery in all living things, and a joy in new experience.  -- M.C. Richards

All quotes from Poetic Medicine, by John Fox

NaPoWriMo ~ #25

I have added audio to the following posts:

NaPoWriMo # 21
NaPoWriMo # 22
NaPoWriMo # 24

I did set up an accout at Odeo, as suggested by Didi at Cafe Cafe, but the player is so big and ugly, and there seems to be no Mp3 option, for readers who don't have flash -- so I went back to AudioBlog, which now, apparently, calls itself hipcast. Odeo, however, is free; and, um, hipcast is not.

Friday Cat Blogging -- Bonus Edition

EDITED TO ADD:  This was posted before I realized that today is National Hairball Awareness Day. (Warning: a disgusting popup, on a hairball article, yet.):

An occasion for cat owners to get all choked up about

By Jeff Gammage

There's nothing quite like the sound of a hacking cat.

Nothing so distinctive, so dissonant, so, well, disgusting. Because if you're a cat owner, you know what comes next. . .

"Usually you find them in the morning, with your bare feet" . . .

Thanks, Laurence.

Friday Cat Blogging

Spike being nice to Boo:

This is not an everyday occurrence. In fact, I have this notice taped to the back door:

That's a Spike warning. He's sweet, but he's a bully. An affectionate bully. Right this minute there are howls and screeches coming from upstairs; that's Spike chasing Boo, demanding to be loved. We've all encountered creatures like this, of one sort or another, haven't we?

For more creatures, bullies and otherwise, try:

Friday Ark
I and the Bird
Carnival of the Cats
Carnival of the Dogs
Circus of the Spineless
Weekend Cat Blogging

May you have a lovely spring (or autumn) weekend.

NaPoWriMo ~ #24

MP3 File

When they brought my father out
of Germany, he weighed ninety-two
pounds. He had no tolerance
for picky eaters.
                         Was he still
a boy then? Was he kind?
    They could leave the camp
but had nowhere to go.
    A brass key to a church, where
sometimes there was food. Then
    back through the foreign woods.
                         Who might he have been?
If not for this? Did he dream, ever,
of people burning beneath his plane?
                         Does it matter?
    What counts against him?
    What weighs in his favor?
                         Who has the right
to measure?