I haven’t been feeling 100% the past few days so I’ve been slacking with writing but I didn’t want to fall behind with NaPoWriMo bc it’s truly the greatest joy in my life so here’s 2 for today!
Dear algorithm,
remember when
sharks in cute trees
used to @ you and
ask for stuff, like they
did with red suit guy
and wizard in the sky?
Idle idols in the tree.
Fun times.
Next we’ll be renaming
taxis and cheese
trays. If it’s gold it’s
blue. Card punched.
EOL (sort of)
I really enjoyed the style I tried yesterday (with spacial elements, to be read in multiple directions), so I did that again today and paired it with yesterday's NaPo prompt of naming the poem after a song.
Does anyone happen to know if there's a name for this style of poetry, with lots of spacial elements? Would appreciate it if you could let me know, I'd love to do more research on it.
Self on a shelf. No one
ever dusts. Lots of
building materials.
I could shovel walkways
and build dust igloos.
Fashion a dust golem.
Have dust children.
Pave a road. And
at the end of that
road, put up signs:
“If you were living here
you’d have already returned.”
Do you think if I
don’t move at all,
it will appear that
I am intensely
focusing? Or will
it appear I’m
running fast, only
at an ironically
slow pace? Or
perhaps someone
that has broken
the ‘slowest’
barrier might
chide me for
rushing about,
irritated?
Today’s prompt was to write a poem that starts with lots of concrete sensory details and then ends with something abstract, after “Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota” by James Wright — it ended up being a super fun exercise in noticing!
A poem never been
done before, what
an invention! Inside
of that, more this,
and even in the
oscillating un-verse
back alleys
where all things
poetical observe
troughs and peaks
of sinusoidal
uniqueness
with suspicion,
there is a need
for knew it
never,
always.
Today I stumbled upon the phrase "Eppur si muove" ("and yet it moves"), tenuously attributed to Galileo after being forced to recant his claims that the Earth moves around the Sun to avoid being punished by the church.
The impact and rhythm of the phrase really inspired me, so I wrote a poem about it.
Flesh regenerates,
leaves reminders.
Leaves refresh, but
where’s the scar?
Sensational theory,
that makes me teary,
while trunk and
branch ungnarl
by proxy, heroes
unsung, reversed
note by note
until remains
a seed.
Trees, untrue.
Trees never sway.
Trees rigid. The world
distorts about them.
Tree arrogance!
Trees will never tell.
Their fame is
misplaced
perspective,
slight of branch,
and I fear when
<that which is
not tree> stops
swaying, out of
spite.
Most writers relate
with RE. I wither.
Stadium tedium
of re. Plethora of re.
Offers of re.
Read per diem
then retire
knowing you
tried, retried.
Replete with
annotations
connoting rewording
or reworking or
A rest arrested.
At least with re
there’s reason
tested.
Potting sky plants.
Everyone knows that’s
where they grow best.
Mismatched teaspoon
scrape-scooping out
air, piling it aside and
carefully lifting tender
roots into place.
The everyones wonder
at my eyes squeezed
shut, me backfilling
a symphony with
silverware.
To me, or not to me?
Is ‘to me’ even important
in the scheme of things?
Am I part of other to me’s
without even realizing, a
bit player stumbling
upon it. Like a dog
suddenly realizing
he’s not a cat, and
all the meowing
was bad casting.
My pinkies fall
asleep frequently.
I fear I may
need new ones.
But what have I
given, to those
with similar
pinkclivities?
Did I care a draught?
Did I give charitably?
No, I bid alms farewell
(they waved)
So, ring finger is next,
an index is
feeling mighty
itchy.
Skyte myself.
Am I the clay or
am I the lever,
pulled. Am I the
Remington, or ears
ringing? Or do I shyte
myself? Practice every
day, sometimes
three before thrice.
Pull! Ain’t it funny
with all them words,
you aim the same
as me? Deuces wild
me droogs,
dropped.
Misalignment due.
How’s your oil?
Your own foil,
fouled when
you follow
what was lead.
Restore, patch
the work, hole
the fill. You’ll
wonder if
the process
sees fidelity, or
if trees seem
of empty form.
Often, they do.
But they know.
And they’re
always
revising.
As we freeze time,
anything solidifies.
We can carve boards
into logs, sans cogs.
Wood, oui?
Would, we.
And if we speed up
time, it reinvents
our well met selves
stacking them
as Tetris elves
or grates them
off the rind and
sprinkles them on
everything.
Say when!