I'm a poet and member of the League of Canadian Poets published in Ottawa journals and online. My poems have received Honourable Mentions in Arborealis 2008, Ontario Poetry Society, and the Canadian Authors Association National Capital Writing Contest in 2008 and 2011. I began writing on a manual green Olivetti typewriter, but I don’t miss having poems flavoured with correction fluid and cross-outs.
I’m scheduled for surgery Thursday morning, (that’s tomorrow!) and that has required a few unexpected appointments to make sure everything is a go. As far as I know, I will have local anaesthetic, and a sedative to keep me calm, but not asleep. Anyway, that is what I am hoping for!
They will take a vein in my arm and join it to the artery to make what I guess you might call a “supervein.” My term, not theirs! They call it an A-V fistula. I’m a bit nervous, to say the least, but it’s something I need to do.
But if you’ve followed me in previous NaPoWriMo’s (is that a word?) you know that sometimes I can write three poems in a day. I think one year, quite awhile ago, I was so far behind I wrote 15. Were they good poems? Ha. Maybe. Maybe not so much.
All this to say, the rest of the poems are coming, as long as my typing muscles co-operate. It may take a bit to convince them to do that.
…”And now for our (optional) prompt. This one is a bit complex, so I saved it for a Sunday. It’s a Spanish form called a “glosa” – literally a poem that glosses, or explains, or in some way responds to another poem. The idea is to take a quatrain from a poem that you like, and then write a four-stanza poem that explains or responds to each line of the quatrain, with each of the quatrain’s four lines in turn forming the last line of each stanza. Traditionally, each stanza has ten lines, but don’t feel obligated to hold yourself to that! Here’s a nice summary of the glosa form to help you get started.”
Vita Sackville-West That was a spring of storms. They prowled the night; Low level lightning flickered in the east Continuous. The white pear-blossom gleamed Motionless in the flashes; birds were still;
April. A bitter night we drove along the coast,
Lake Huron, a white-capped dark sea,
as a distant beacon flashed its dire message, solitary eye
keeping the watch. You turned to the window,
mile upon mile, a prisoner in your own silence,
a lonely world bereft of light.
There’s a sadness when shared space yields no warmth,
where two people sit, together but alone, where
there’s nothing to say, try as you might.
That was a spring of storms. They prowled the night.
The road shone wet, swept by a blur of wind, rain,
and branches torn from newly-budding trees.
Soggy foxes trotted across our path, in search
of shelter from the wet. I kept an eye out
for sudden deer looking to cross to the other side.
You took no notice, not in the least.
Was this a punishment for things not said, or
words not held back? Too difficult to tell.
Outside the pounding rain had ceased,
though low-level lightning flickered in the east.
I wondered if that night would ever end:
your accusing silence over there, the storm still hovering
to the left, and animals that roam at night just off stage.
I felt a quiet sense of rage at helplessness
to bring this drama to its final scene. Or was it me
that was the drama queen, swimming in some extreme
pantomime? Just in time, the rain began again.
Time to concentrate on getting home,
leave behind this thunder dome to play its ominous theme,
continuous. The white pear-blossom gleamed
just beside the door as we arrived at home. White petals
scattered across the grass, and up the front steps, formed
a welcome mat put out for us by the storm.
I might have smiled. Would have if the drive had been
less fraught, even so it dissipated the chill
I’d felt from the other side of the car, the storm outside
fighting with the inner storm you carried with you,
like that cartoon character under a cloud.
In the last of the lightning, no cry of whip-poor-will
…”And now for our daily prompt (optional, as always). Today, I’d like to challenge you to write a poem based on a word featured in a tweet from Haggard Hawks, an account devoted to obscure and interesting English words. Will you choose a word like “aprosexia,” which means “an inability to concentrate”? Or maybe something like “greenout,” which is “the relief a person who has worked or lived in a snowy area for a long time feels on seeing something fresh and green for the first time”? https:www.napowrimo.net
Here’s my effort for Day 2
Glacitate, Crocitate, Cucubate, Never Pupillate
This vernality, I wish to be multiscious on the ways animals voice their concerns and welcomes.
As the goose glacitates, and the ravens crocitate, I listen for the owls, hope to hear them evenings as they cucubate in the tall trees along the way.
Early mornings, in years past, my open window welcomed in the sound of a nearby rooster, as he cucuriated to welcome the rising sun. These days, by the feeder,
there are sparrows, juncos, grackles and mourning doves none of them chelidonizing nor glocidating like swallows or hens.
Hereabouts peacocks only pupillate in scary movies.
This spring, I wish to understand the ways animals voice their concerns and welcomes.
As the goose honks, and the ravens caw, I listen for the owls, hear them hoot in the tall trees by the river. Early mornings,
before the new houses were built, I’d hear a rooster call his greeting to the rising sun. These days, our feeder welcomes sparrows, dark-eyed juncos, grackles
and mourning doves, none of them chirping like swallows nor cackling like hens. In the distance, at evening, from river’s edge, the simple serenade of Canada Geese, as they settle for the night.
They tell me all is right in their corner of the world.
“…our optional prompt! I got this one from a workshop I did last year with Beatrix Gates, and I’ve found it really helpful. The prompt is based on Robert Hass’s remarkable prose poem, “A Story About the Body.” The idea is to write your own prose poem that, whatever title you choose to give it, is a story about the body. The poem should contain an encounter between two people, some spoken language, and at least one crisp visual image.” https://www.napowrimo.net/
What Friendship Doesn’t Say
“I’d kill myself,” she says, when I tell her about the procedure they did that saved my life. A colectomy, an ileostomy, a re-routing of the intestine. I wear a pouch on my right flank, tucked beneath my clothes. But there’s a taboo against some body parts, as if they were evil, as if modifying them somehow bestowed a curse. She would choose one death over another, but still she would choose death over life.
Time passes; I become accustomed to this new plumbing. Perhaps a fancy pink brocade cover, with gold thread stitching for fancy would make acceptable what isn’t in a plain cloth pouch. But all that does is add weight and bulk; makes a bulge where I don’t want one.
But I don’t kill myself. There are much worse things than this to make one wish for suicide, I suppose. The body can be a landmine of hurts and pains and things that go wrong, parts that wear out or just don’t work. Is there a rating scale, so you know when you’ve reached the “kill myself” threshold? If so, I am not there yet.
Quillfyre 