The sincerest form of flattery, and other instigations
Imitating a poem won't steal away its original magic, that's for sure. Nor do promising prompts always pan out. But that's why we keep on, in the spirit of play!
Herein lies four days of NaPoWriMo!
April 5 prompt: a “grammatical imitation” of the poem “Question” by May Swenson (click through for the original poem)
The imitation:
Hand her garnish her hardware her badge how should she tally while you are jailed When should she harrow What should she murder Where should she steal When must she cry above her quarry fully monstrous but brave What could she hope for instincts obsessive is purpose or blindness if Hand her broad strong paddle is lost Where should she go to steep in the potholes up cliffs and causeways and bayous with tides After days without heartache when shall she live?
April 6 prompt: observe a public event
At the Poetry Reading for National Poetry Month
The bookstore floor groans if anyone shifts or stands
to snag a snack from under the readers’ noses.
The poet wears a Basquiat jacket from TJMaxx
and speaks of freedom and water. His hands shake.
The next poet quotes John Clare, sad mad John Clare,
“O words are poor receipts for what time hath
stole away.” The poet listening looks intense and frowny.
It’s her turn. She quotes Edward Hirsch: “poetry is the social
act of a solitary maker.” The children in the room have had
enough of poems. One drops a lapful of papers. One skitters
to the front for a cup of water. She gulps like someone
waking on the beach after hours of sun. I hear her throat
working, imagine the muscles flexing. It’s not what
I came to hear. The poet growls her words sidelong
for a laugh, then collective “ohs”. Someone cuts across
the space while the poet reads, one end of the room
to the other. Children move around, tug their parents’
clothes, stage-whisper. The toilet flushes. A pug at someone’s
feet gets up and shakes. Someone sings a poem. Unrelated
music plays from someone’s phone. The phrase, “sky
furniture.” The phrase, “since when?” No one is wearing
lipstick. An exodus of children. Someone quotes Rumi:
“Being human is a guest-house.” It’s over. No one moves
for a still moment. I slip out the back door alone.
April 7 prompt: (describe the taste of ) watermelon (use as title only); use words in poem: splash, mocking
Watermelon
First of all I have to know whether we’re
talking about the artificial flavoring
in bubblegum, the searing sweet first contact
between extruded cube of gum and wet tongue,
twelveyearold girl tongue occupied mostly with mocking
and squishing the gob of gum flat on her palate
then against the backs of the teeth blowing—
I preferred to keep the bubbles smallish,
the membrane of worked gum thickish, then crush them
to the roof of my mouth with my tongue, shocking
my own nerves not to mention my mother’s,
who hated hated hated when I chewed
gum (like a cow, she said), hated when I’d
make and pop bubble after violent
bubble. But it felt good. I didn’t want
to tick her off, much as it might seem that’s
a teen girl’s profession and occupation
all at once, the disturbance of her mother’s peace.
If we’re talking about the fruit, rind and seed
and the pink-red flesh, it’s nothing like
the gum-flavoring, nothing at all—the one
concentrated and like no other taste
and no actual thing except itself,
mouth-puckering. The other, the so-called real thing,
more water than flavor, sweet the way a splash
of water is sweet on hot skin, a kind of sweetness
I could swallow and never get sick of and never
get enough of. How can that be? It might be what
perfection tastes like, which is not to say I’d never
want to taste anything else. Even perfection
isn’t all I want, when there are so many imperfect
delights, the fading savor of pink gum
losing its sugar between Terminator teeth.
April 8 prompt (from here): Write “why I am not a [particular piece of art/type of art]”
Why I Am Not an Alexander Calder Mobile
Hanging from the ceiling is a dealbreaker. My joints are not loose enough to turn metal petals with the whim of the breeze. Balance is not that great, although it may be that, if suspended from the correct point on my frame, I would find equilibrium. Is that what I want? Too soft, I am also too concrete. No flat planes. I like geometry, but am not, myself, geometric. I have a nervous system. I do not like to be looked at. I also dislike breezes, most of the time. I need hands to pet the dog and hold a pen, at least. Where would my eyes go? Would they be painted on, and how would the room, slowly turning, blur and sharpen in their fixed gaze? To be a naked frame, a stripped limb, a lacework suspended above a traffic of animals, model of the fine-tuned world in its essence, pure story . . . No. Let me trudge along here below, in equal parts resisting Earth’s constant pull, and welcoming.