November 2017 PAD
If you haven’t yet, try this challenge–write one poem/day for the entire month of November. Then create a chapbook of your poems.
It’s adventurous. It’s irresistible. It’s fun!
Every October 31, I become feverish/frantic/deathly pale and deliriously pumped for this challenge. Each day, if you join, you’ll log into Writer’s Digest and check for the prompt.
Then, if you’re like me, you’ll obsess about it for a while knowing that the poetic geniuses already will have written ten breathtaking poems to my one simple teacup scribbling.
I’ve never won. Not even close. (Unless finishing is winning) But it zips me back into my cozy Autumn poeming sweater where I belong while summer settles into another faded calendar page.
Save some of that Halloween candy for the days when it seems like every word is the wrong word and you’re tempted to shrivel from the embarrassment that anything so trivial and full of blight could cross your imagination. The sugar (or chocolate) just might appease your unruly muse.
The rules/not rules are here:
2017 November PAD Chapbook Challenge: Guidelines
A few weeks ago Robert Lee Brewer, Writer’s Digest Poetry guru, put out a call for essays from poets to explain why they write poetry.
The why isn’t easy putting into words. And I’m not sure I even touched on the real reason. Like onions, there are layers of poetic insight and reflection. The simple answer is more like–I write poetry because . . . just because.
Frankly, I don’t understand why everyone doesn’t.
If you write poetry, why? If you don’t, why not?
Here’s my essay which was published on the WD site:
The Other Side of Love
What she told me then—
It’s all ending—
Beyond time Behind locks
fear is something else
and she wore it like a queen.
High on Perfection
The prosodist dwells in the literary fountain,
with deep-throated roars of rising anger
splashing through waves of free writing,
fighting against streams of consciousness
reading aloud for foreign stones that trip
his tingling tongue, prying corroded spondees
off the pages, his mouth twisting as he spits
them out with rhythmic pounding, juggling
them with trochees and pure pearly iambs,
soft as lambs.
when we returned
rising toward heaven
and the children have gone home
rain is falling somewhere
across this sleeping world
the old man writes quietly
in front of the open fireplace
his sweet dreams becoming
clear as he fills the page
when he thinks nobody is listening,
he sings softly about faith and battles
now that we’ve grown weary of
imaginary joy, (we are fools)
we hear things unspoken
it’s only natural that the scent
of his wisdom
We awake secretly hoping
that one of us has an answer
to a question we never asked.
I wait for you to crack a smile
or wince but you just ramble on
about bulls and bears and cutting
I swat your hand like you’re the
devil but really I’m the pest—
beggars never win.
I don’t hold the sun in my palm.
Neither do you.
But we wallow in the glaring rays.
It just might be enough.