Mechanical

We’re almost to the end of this poeming month. I am a bit weary, as I generally feel by this point, but know I will miss the daily struggle for words once the prompting is over, save for the weekly stretch.

The prompt today is to write a “mechanical” poem.

Surreal

Isn’t it strange,
the way ones body
can simply go on
even in the face of the most
horrendous stress.

How strange,
uncanny,
surreal, even,
to be standing at the sink
calmly washing dishes
when my whole
world
has turned
completely upside down.

I feel almost as if
I am watching myself
from above
or behind,
slightly off center.

I feel numb,
but somewhere,
deep inside,
there is a howl
trying to escape.

And so I continue
the mechanical
movements.
Swirling the warm soapy water.
Sudsing the plate/cup/spoon,
and rinsing in water so hot
it leaves my hands scalded,
yet untouched,
because the real pain
isn’t on the outside.

Love/Anti-Love

The two-for-Tuesday dual prompt today (for our 23rd day of the challenge) was to write a love/anti-love poem. I think I’ve covered that here. We’ll see what you think.

Cyrano

Ever the poet,
ever the gentleman warrior,
he suffered no fool gladly
and bested all
with his sword play
and rapier wit.

Yet his one weakness,
his one soft spot,
was for the lovely
Roxane.

Pining ever, loving truly,
Cyrano tried to impress
his lovely cousin,
yet the bounds of family
kept her from seeing
his passion true.

And when she confessed her love
for another
he did not kill the oaf,
though he surely could have done,
no, he helped the man win
Cyrano’s only love;
Roxane’s happiness weighed more
to him than his.

***

Roxane

Beautiful, and quite an
intellectual,
yet, she was prey
to the remarkable good looks
of Christian de Neuvillette.

If only he was as smart,
as dashing,
as brave,
as witty,
as her beloved cousin.

And when he seemed to be
what she had always wanted
in a man,
she did not question
her good fortune,
she only embraced
what was offered,
and was glad.

Yet long years later,
still grieving his loss, loving
a dead man,
comforted by her
Cyrano,
she discovers, too late,
that the man she truly loved
was before her
all along.

Cyrano dies,
believing himself truly alone,
yet rejecting anything
that would compromise his
principles,
he dies, his honor
intact.

Flashy Fiction

I did a little flashy fiction on Sunday. I’ve included the prompt so you can keep up with the idea.

***

You’re browsing through the shelves of the poetry section at the library. As you select an ancient book of love poems, a note falls to the floor.  It is folded into fourths, and yellowed with age. You uncrease it carefully, and settle in to read, discovering it’s an old love letter. 

What does it say? Was it ever sent? Tell the story behind the letter. 

***

You find a letter in a book of poetry by William Blake. It is next to the poem,

“Love’s Secret.”

Never seek to tell thy love,

Love that never told can be;

For the gentle wind doth move

Silently, invisibly.

I told my love, I told my love,

I told her all my heart,

Trembling, cold, in ghastly fears.

Ah! she did depart!

Soon after she was gone from me,

A traveller came by,

Silently, invisibly:

He took her with a sigh. –

 

The letter reads:

My darling,

I know you love Blake, and my hope is that you will eventually get to this volume. His words are sweet, but not as sweet as the love I feel for you. I placed it in this volume beside “Love’s Secret.” You understand.

You may never get this, but I can hope, because this is the only explanation I have been able to improvise. I know you must wonder why I disappeared the way I did. Family pressures have become unendurable. I was made to live with my grandparents for some months. I went half mad with worry for you, but I was kept from the telephone and am watched continually. I was only able to contrive this letter because they allow me books from the library, though I am never allowed to go choose them myself. I have been asking for William Blake, though, and this was the best I could do to try and explain.

I am a virtual prisoner. But my heart still aches for you. I fear a marriage is being arranged, and soon I will be sent across the country to live with my new husband, probably in some town on the frontier, rife with danger and far, too far, from you. I am desolate. If only I could see you just one more time, and kiss you goodbye at the very least. But my parents will never understand our love.

Just remember I love you, and always have.

Yours forever,

Anne

[In a different hand, this addition follows the original letter.]

Dearest Anne,

I have been in an unendurable state since your disappearance. I have shunned all my usual habits; even my reading has fallen away. It has been some years since last we met. I only lately discovered this letter, and my heart again is broken.  I have read and reread your words, so fondly I remember you that I can hear your very voice.

Your family has refused to even speak to me, let alone tell me where you have gone or what your name is now.

Perhaps, one day, my dear, you will see this addendum. I live in hope that the fates will once more bring us two together; but if not this life, perhaps the next.

Always your loving

Elizabeth

 

(For more about William Blake, see http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19961#sthash.czEbQSbE.dpuf )

 

 

Baby

Today’s prompt was to write a “baby” poem. I found this little Triolet wafting around my brain.

***

Baby

Back in the days when I thought I’d
always be your baby. “Don’t leave
so soon,” I so naively cried.
I never thought you’d make me grieve
back in the days when I thought I’d
always be your charming child bride.
How did you learn not to believe?
Back in the days when I thought I’d
always be yours. Baby, don’t leave.

Don’t Forget

Today’s prompt was to begin with the phrase “Don’t Forget…” and go from there. I remember so many who’ve gone on, this seemed a good way to memorialize them.

Betty and Patricia

***

Don’t Forget

Those ones you treasured
while they were here,
the ones that passed before;
their memories hold
and keep them near,
for they won’t pass here more.

The things they taught you,
both good and ill,
can guide you in your life.
Remember well
each pain, each thrill,
their lifelong joys and strife.

If you keep them close
and in your heart,
they’re never far away.
Their lessons shared,
their life, their art,
will bless you every day.

***

***

***The picture is of my great-grandmother and her daughter, my grandmother. They have both passed on and both have taught me so many lessons I’ll never forget, both for good and ill. Part of knowing what to do is knowing what not to do, and much as I love them, there is always that. As much as I can, I carry them with me every day.

Animal

Today’s prompt, Animal, wanted me to go only one direction, and so, reluctantly, I went there. This is not my life, but let us say I have brushed shoulders with this life…

Fist Mark by zaldy icaonapo

Animal

He is out of control.
He screams,
berates,
never hesitates,
even when he’s wrong,
it doesn’t matter
(Get me my belt.)
what they’ve done
(There are spots on these dishes!!)
or what he thinks
(Who didn’t flush the toilet?!?!)
they’ve done.
(Why can’t I have any peace?!?!)

He acts like he has
power
over them,
mental, physical,
emotional.

He is strong and threatening
and his power seems real;
their bruises prove his strength.

They believe it, they are weak,
but sometimes there is a breaking point
even for the meek.

Finally one day,
when he returns home
it is to an empty house:
no wife
no kids
no dog, even.

They are gone
and he rages.

Interstate flight
to far-flung-family
he does not know them
(never cared to know)
distant cousins of hers.
They are welcome
and they begin again.

It’s not too late to heal from
the damage the animal has done.

How To ________, November PaD, day 17

The prompt today was to write a how-to poem, that the title should start “How to:” and to carry on from there. My offering is below.

How to Survive a Broken Heart

At first you are sure that no one, no one
could possibly understand the depth of
your pain. And they really can’t, because they
are not you. Part of your mind says “This is
not happening,” but it is, and real
-ity feels intrusive and alien.

“Who are these people, and why do they keep
calling me mommy?” Even the kids seem
strange, like they should be changed too, somehow, or
they should stop needing everything they need.

Part of you decides the best thing to do
is to pretend everything is fine just
fine and carry on as if it is still
all fine just fine and meanwhile, inter
-minably, your heart is screaming so hard.

And there is a mental shift, and you start
to become furious, livid, that he/she
did this to you, made you become this in
(-sane)
–dividual whose life seems to be
falling apart, whose reality has crashed.

And in the process of gathering your
-self together there is an internal
monologue that is saying crazy stuff
like, “If I was better, if I was good,
if I were only who I should have been, then…”
and you know this is crazy, but at the
same time it seems to make a kind of sense
somehow, that this is your fault and if on
-ly you had changed, it would all be okay.

But it’s not. And as the reality of
your new life begins to set in, without
the person who left (you all alone, a
-lone) it is difficult to eat, sleep, breathe
even, or simply carry on. “Why try?”
Your heart tries its best to just give up, to
tell itself to stop beating, to let the
grief win. And you wonder how to survive
this broken heart. How? You simply must. And
so you do.

Veterans – PaD day 10

Today’s prompt was to write about veterans from the veteran’s perspective. For inspiration, I watched “Inside the Iraq War” from the Nat Geo channel. So yeah, this is a real story about the human face of war.

***

Insurgents

They destroy their own buildings
you know.

They blow off the roof and
then destroy the staircases
in the houses
so we have to go
where they want us to go.

So there we are, like
rats in a maze
and they built the maze.
and we have to search
inside for survivors,
waiting for the trap that will
blow someone’s legs off
or find the kid who
turns out to have a rifle.

One of ‘em, he was just a kid,
he wounded one of my guys,
and we shot at him, of course.

But when he went down,
I went to help him.
I couldn’t leave him there.
And his hand came up,
and he brushed my hair,
and he touched my cheek
and looked at me.

This was one of the worst moments of my life
because he was a person,
fighting for his life.
And I took it.

Talk Back – PaD day 8

I loved today’s prompt, probably because I have plenty of sass and like to talk back as it is. Today’s prompt was to talk back to a dead poet, to write a response to one of his/her poems. The poem I chose was Robert Frost’s “Love and a Question.” My poem follows after. I hope you enjoy my reply.

Love and a Question by Robert Frost

A stranger came to the door at eve,
And he spoke the bridegroom fair.
He bore a green-white stick in his hand,
And, for all burden, care.
He asked with the eyes more than the lips
For a shelter for the night,
And he turned and looked at the road afar
Without a window light.

The bridegroom came forth into the porch
With, ‘Let us look at the sky,
And question what of the night to be,
Stranger, you and I.’
The woodbine leaves littered the yard,
The woodbine berries were blue,
Autumn, yes, winter was in the wind;
‘Stranger, I wish I knew.’

Within, the bride in the dusk alone
Bent over the open fire,
Her face rose-red with the glowing coal
And the thought of the heart’s desire.
The bridegroom looked at the weary road,
Yet saw but her within,
And wished her heart in a case of gold
And pinned with a silver pin.

The bridegroom thought it little to give
A dole of bread, a purse,
A heartfelt prayer for the poor of God,
Or for the rich a curse;
But whether or not a man was asked
To mar the love of two
By harboring woe in the bridal house,
The bridegroom wished he knew.

***

Love and an Answer, by Diana Terrill Clark
in answer to Robert Frost’s “Love and a Question”

A stranger came to our door last night
He bespoke my husband true
His stick in hand, he was a fright
What he wanted, well, I had a clue
He looked weary and so footsore,
needing shelter from the storm
That’s why he came then to our door
where we were safe and warm.

My husband went outside to speak
to the stranger by and by
I saw the weather, dark and bleak
I saw the darkened sky.
I saw the yard with branches strewn
and leaves and litter cluttered
on this the night of our honeymoon,
our windows fast and shuttered.

I went to tend the fire then
and bent to add some tinder.
The fire warmed my face again
and the fresh wood caught a cinder.
Outside my husband looked about
considering the heather
And I could see his lingering doubt
about the stormy weather.

I knew he might consider it right
to send the stranger onward
with food and coin to ease his plight
and then feel sorry afterward.
I called them both to sit by the fire
and take a warming meal
Compassion can true love inspire
and all misgivings heal.

Matches

The first prompt of the November poem-a-day challenge is “Matches.”

Here is my offering:

Hearts

Playing with Matches

Age: 7
Playing cards,
The game is Old Maid.
Finding matches with the boy
who lives next door.
Sure, he’s kind of stinky,
but fun to play with.

Age: 18
Playing with fire
The game is Hearts.
Finding matches in the local
high school.
Sure they’re all kind of dumb,
but they’re fun to play with.

Age: 21
Playing hide and seek
The game is Gin.
Finding matches in the
corner bar.
Shopping the meat market for
the exact right one.

Age: 25
Playing for keeps
The game is Texas Hold ‘em.
Found your perfect match
and staying at home
is more fun than you’d
ever imagined.

Age: 35
Playing with the big kids
The game is Craps.
Finding him matched with another
is the worst feeling
in the world

Age: 40
Playing the field
The game is Roulette
Finding the matching scene
is worse than the
divorce.

Age: 45
Playing for change.
The game is Uno.
Finding a match is impossible,
better to just be comfortable
in ones own skin.

Age: 50
Playing by heart.
The game is Stud Poker.
Finding a match at this age
is a miracle that you’re
happy to accept.

Age: 75
Playing alone.
The game is solitaire.
Finding a match is not necessary,
you’ve already had it all.
You’ll join him when you’re done.

Age: 87
Game over.