Day 9

For today’s prompt, write a shady poem. I’ll leave the interpretation of this prompt up to you. It could be a poem that includes shadows and/or shading. It could be about a shady part of town or a shady person. Or well, something else.

Rue Aylmer

There was no shade in my dream, 
nor shadows, nor too much sun.

I lived again in Montreal.
I was in someone else's home by the St. Lawrence.
It was bright and lovely,
with high white walls,
and I redecorated it in my mind
and turned about, pleased, 
in a giant room for painting

I imagined filling it with life
as there was still time

and that is a great city 
why not live there?
and I walked out in it 
with a friend
and out of a street
behind me
a wave rose up made of street and shops for awhile
before liquifying and gaining height

and I saw my friend
her head poked out of the high curve of water
trying to breathe, okay, some forty feet above me
and I knew I'd have to dive into the wall of water
pushing towards me.

(they don't usually come from behind,
diagonally)

First I checked the low water near me for sharks.
It was perfectly clear. Just waterplants and a watersnake.
Indifferent to me.

There were no sharks in this dream.
There was no shade in this dream, nor too much sun.
And I was carried along
and the sidewalk leveled under my feet and dried
and I stood,
closer to some destination.

There is never shade in a dream, I think.
Nor sun.

But there are these cities.  Illuminated somehow and porous,
in time.
And someone living, for now, in the house I will return to
When I resume my younger life and choose for it
another direction.

I will stay in Montreal. 
And on Sundays go to the market.
I won't swim home.
I will just be home.
Painting in a light that casts no shadow.
And choosing yellow,
a lot of it.
And choosing tints.
Not shades.

Day 8

For today’s prompt, write a rejected poem. Despite some acceptances, many of my poems have been rejected for submission over the years–but that’s not quite what I mean by rejected poem. I’m more interested in poems that work the idea of rejection into the poem somehow. This could take the form of a poet lamenting rejection, though also a rejected friend or student or whatever.


This one
I could have gotten on my knees

did I?

I could have held onto his long calves,
- my face, a prayer between his knees,
and looked up to where he towered above and begged

I stood on a chair
did I ?  Still not as tall

I did.

I didn't climb down
and get down on my knees.
I stood on a chair.
A fool entirely.

And he, flushed with love
for another
And this, the only possible moment,
the only one, ever in the history of the world.
And I touching the wall between us
all night

Nothing under my sheets
not even me

Just want
That had swallowed the winter moon whole
with goodnight which meant no
which meant never which put love
out on a frozen field without shoes
without food or hope
the moon, gone swallowed
no hope
but to freeze
it would take hours
the need burning
and blazing 
in the blue cold
snowscape on this planet
turning
and the wall, beyond which he slept peacefully, in love,
seemed to be almost breathing
almost
touching me back.

Day 6 -= did this, non?

For today’s prompt, write a hiding poem. You could be hiding. Someone else could be hiding. Something could be hidden. Or maybe there could even be a hidden meaning. I’m flexible with any interpretations poets want to put on the prompt. Have at it.

did this.  i think.
.. next. 

l

Day 5

For today’s prompt, write a poem about something before your time. Maybe it’s a certain time in history. Or a type of music. Or a story that was shared by friends or

Mustard Sandwiches - a wobbly pantoum (gotta start somewhere... rebooting WriterSelf, these things: stretches).  and so...



Mustard Sandwiches 

If she never told me
Would it never have happened?
My father, so many belted bones,
walking, alone, from Germany to Paris.

Would it never have happened?
The light on his fine hair as he stepped onward
Walking, alone, from Germany to Paris
bending for water in an open creek with tiny white flowers bordering

The light fine on his hair as he stepped onward
and weary, slumped against a storeshop window,
blading mustard onto stale bread, later
bending for water in an open creek with tiny white flowers bordering

And weary, slumped against a storeshop window,
Inside the fat frau was buying cake, taking change.
Blading mustard onto stale bread,
he walked, so many belted bones, to Paris.

In the sunlight, direction.  To be there.  To see.
If she had never told me, would he have been
My father, so many belted bones.