Prompt #1: Write a positive poem. Like how great writing a poem a day through November is.
or
Prompt #2: Write a negative poem. Like how un-great technological hiccups in November are.
Appriate for my day. just can't decide how i feel.
um. okay. be positive. oh boy. easy enough in life.
harder with the pen.
The Writer
Was it Virginia Woolf? Yes, I think.
Or one of the Bronté girls, at the beginning of a movie
about one of the Bronté girls. Or "Mrs. Dalloway."
I have forgotten. The whole thing.
But the first shot stays. It was my gratitude, my privilege, my memory and luck:
the hem of a velvet dress
dragging on the ground, revealed purple by the moonlight.
The singing of crickets.
A long shot of the writer from behind staring
from the cover of night into the house, thinking .. what?,
where guests held their glasses up
illuminated from the centerpiece
from the warmed house, from the blessing
of being together.
Laughter escapes through the side door.
Perfection.
The company of air, the vision of company,
the presence of looking,
the water in the inner ear
trembled to the cricket song
- come to me -
and words in the mind forming, aiming at the hardest task:
what do you see?
what blessings are you over
and over again
given?
Don't take your eyes off your fortune.
Don't stir in the wet grass.
Rub the edge of your words together
until they sing out
and fall in time with all the rest.
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