Day 30 NaPoWriMo - How to find my heart after I’ve disappointed myself

How to find my heart after I’ve disappointed myself

Dig under any oak tree, between its two largest roots.
Dig with just your hands, let the twigs and pebbles harm you,
Dig deeper past large stones, earth worms, cut worms,
potato bugs, ear wigs, the white eggs of fire ants.
Dig past the smaller roots, cut them if they get in the way.
Go further under this heathen loam until you can’t find your breath.
Take a left into your body, download the data for breathing.
Let your sweat drip numbers down into the widening hole.
Take a right into lost, narrow your hands into claws.
Dig further until you become an animal that you don’t find in the wild.
Become an animal grown from a lab of test tubes, beakers, and regret.
Grow scales on your back and broken beer bottles for toenails,
long lost candy wrappers for skin, rusted car parts for hips and femurs.
Dig further and you’ll find me under a membrane of resin and plastic.
Open the skin of my rib cage, root between my computer wire veins
and the audio files of my diaphragm and speech. Under motor oil,
slit open my cardiac sack and you’ll find my heart,
cowering like a mole that’s just surfaced into broad daylight.

Day 29 NaPoWriMo - Paper and Honey

Paper and Honey

Some poets write with ink
others with their blood.
I write with honey
to invite ants to march
through my sentences,
twitch and leave
their footprints
along the page.
I write with honey
to attract
the unnoticed things,
the small ones
no one looks for.
I write with honey
as if it were my finger
guiding your eye to see,
look at the world,
its sweet details.

Day 28 NaPoWriMo - Disturbia

Disturbia

Can I have another life?
Can I have another wife?
Can I wish for a knife?
Can I wait to make it right?
Can I pause and roll the dice?
Can I count to one, two, thrice?
Should I give her more time?
Or should I sing her to sleep with a nursery rhyme?
Can it be ashes to ashes, dust to dust?
Can I sign her grave in iron and rust?

Day 27 NaPoWriMo - Occhiolism

Occhiolism

I am a worm, a flea
a fly on the wall
a mote of dust
floating in a sun beam.
I am a singleton
one brain one body.
I have two eyes,
but I only see
through me.

I can’t walk
in someone
else’s shoes
and I can’t borrow
someone’s body
for a day.

I am me and me, alone.
and that is a sorrow
to only exist as one,
never able to dip
a toe into someone
else’s world,
never to pull back
their curtain, look in,
see.

Day 26 NaPoWriMo - A day in April

A day in April

The whirligigs of wind’s delight twirl,
their fans, jingle, chime and chung night and day.
Flowers push themselves through soil’s tight fist,
sun willows the clouds away blue, blue, blue,
sky like an ocean to set sail on
and the lilacs reveal their purples.
They smell sweeter than lavender, grow tall,
clusters of button sized flowers open
their breath tastes like violets candied in honey.

I will take everything from this spring day,
create a girl with a name made of spring.
She will smell of lilacs when they first open,
her hands will dig into the earth and loam
and find the treasures of bug, root, and stone.
She will make whirligigs to catch the wind
and weave it into her own blue blue sky.
She’ll wear her name like tulips wear petals
with rain and sunlight, she will bloom, bloom.

Day 25 NaPoWriMo - NaPoWriMo

Today's prompt was to write an "occasional" poem. I chose to write a poem about National Poetry Writing Month!

NaPoWriMo

Crocuses are out, cherry blossoms, tulips,
daffodils, dandelions, and rhododendrons.
April opens its curtain of rain to let the sun
and poetry shine through. Sidewalk chalk
hasn’t washed away and there are words
everywhere in the air, verse and stanzas
clouds and stars. This is the month of poetry
the time of propagation, creation. A time
to gather your words into spring, write them,
read them aloud to invoke the weather to change
and bring on the heat and berries of summer.

Day 24 NaPoWriMo - Curtain Fox

Curtain Fox

The curtains dig burrows in the sand
And adjoin to other curtains in tunnels.
The curtain’s fabric is prized in the world
with 32 chromosome pairs of exotic.
Curtains live in packs among the window rods.
They are straw-colored with a black hem,
tapered tassels like a dog’s wagging tail.
Curtains explore sand dunes and vast treeless areas
and prey on lizards, skinks, birds, eggs, and tubers.
They have the spine of a vertebrae.
Captive curtains drape themselves over one another
in a mating ritual when windows are open.
Their young are made from the weaving of sand
and air and the beige fur of foxes. Turning fabric
wild and exotic, trapped in the spinning wheel
of breeders, capture and disappearance.

Day 23 NaPoWriMo - Cut in the butter

I followed the Prompt and chose to respond to Ellen Bass's poem "Marriage". This prompt took me on a journey through my immediate morning and the feelings that I was having. I've chosen not to share this poem as it is one that I plan to submit.

Day 22 NaPoWriMo - Himalayan Blackberry

I wrote this poem in my notebook on day 22, but just got around to typing it up.

Himalayan Blackberry

It was the blackberry that Eve ate,
not the tame apple. She wove her hand,
cut it on the thorns to reach the sun
warmed morsel. She didn’t bite it,
no. With tongue and roof of mouth,
she pressed it, gushing out into a nectar,
filling her mouth with wild revolution.
Purple dribbled out her mouth,
and like an animal, she licked it up
quickly, not to waste a single drop.
She plucked more, each one like
a string on an instrument, music
of her hunger, collecting them
in the palm of her hand. She wanted
to give them to Adam, have him try
their violent flavor, but she ate
every one of them herself.
When all the berries picked,
she found him sleeping under
the shade of a willow tree;
she kissed him. He licked his lips
tasted sweetness and it was enough.

Day 21 NaPoWriMo - Filling

Filling

Blood can fill a vial.
Vials can fill a hospital.
Hospitals fill up with sick people.
Sick people fill up the beds.
Full beds and not enough workers to fill their needs.
Workers can fill an emergency room.
An emergency room can fill anyone with dread.
Dread can fill the halls of hospitals with our dead.

Day 20 NaPoWriMo - Sijo to Spring

Sijo to Spring

I slipped on my sandals to take the garbage out to the curb.
There, on the stoop, sat a fat bumblebee, powdered in pollen.
It groomed itself with spring, I too wanted a taste of yellow.

Day 19 NaPoWriMo - How can I help you today?

How can I help you today?

I dread calling customer service,
dialing through the menu options
taking time out of my day to listen
to a robot tell me all of the selections
that do not fit what I need help with.
A robot that thinks it knows what I need,
a know-it-all robot that is too happy
and tells me that it can’t take me
to an agent until it has more info,
and when I yell at it, it doesn’t react.
Instead, it tells me it didn’t understand,
can you please repeat your service request?
After the third attempt, the phone disconnects
and I never actually talk to a human.

Day 6 NaPoWriMo - Risks in their Form

I grabbed a few words from the book A God in the House Edited by Ilya Kaminsky and Katherine Towler. The words are “Risks in their form.” I started my poem assuming that would be the title, and I still feel like that title fits the poem, even though I wasn’t trying to keep it.

 

Risks in their Form

I see these crocuses, their petals
like the streaks of light that make
a star a star, tendrils of yellow
stretched by distance, space, time.
Crocuses are stars at their turning.

The flowers will wilt, petals curling
like the fingers of a paralyzed hand.
Just as every star is in a new phase of dying.
Even when root and bulb are buried white
in the earth, death is there. Stars are not immune.

They find darkness, the black holes they form
a tearing apart, an upending of their form,
similar to the dilated pupils of the dead
widening up like a toothless maw
to swallow all the light in the universe.

Poetry is a collaborative effort!

 Hello all!

It's day two of NaPoWriMo and I've already written two poems. It's always so great to write with a community of writers. It's inspiring and helps all of us to stay on task and show up for our writing and ourselves. 

Writing with others in workshops, virtual or in person, can push us beyond our own boundaries and make us better writers. My own writing has benefited from a friendship with my fellow poet Kathy Szpekman. We have written and critiqued our writing since 2015. My writing never would have made it this far without her. And she is writing this NaPoWriMo on her blog hot coffee and warm laundry. 

You can follow her poems and mine this month of April as we both respond and write to the inspiring prompts on the NaPoWriMo website. Join us in our community of writing as we discover more of ourselves and our world.

With love and poetry,

Britt

Day 24 #napowrimo - day 18 #the100dayproject - Pineapple

Pineapple

I pick it up with its spiky crown,

grip its rough, scaled body;

a blush of yellow at the bottom

and gradient of green to its top.

Some people recommend pulling

a segment of its crown to determine

if it’s ripe or not, but I sniff its bottom.

If it’s ripe, it smells like morning and

sunshine, it smells like a yawn and

a full body stretch, the budding

of jasmine and a sliver of ginger.

If it’s unripe, it smells like nothing.

When I find the right one, I carry it

under the crook of my arm, precious

cargo. At home, I sharpen my big knife

and separate crown and bottom

with a fibrous thump. And there,

the sunburst of yellow flesh, core

tough and thick like a piece of wood.

I sit it up on my cutting board

and shear off its spiny flesh,

scale by scale, side by side,

my hands burning with its juice and pulp.

Seeds and specs of skin exposed,

and it is naked, yellow, a gorgeous

shape, like the glass top of a lantern

illuminating every corner of the kitchen.

I cut and slice, divide its brightness into

cubes, each one a geometry of starlight

or the physical capture of a sunbeam.

I can bite into that flesh and take that light,

digest it into myself, illuminate like a star

in the night, explode into a solar system.

I’ve tasted the stars and the milky way;

I’ve tasted the planets and sunshine

and they tasted sweet.

Day 23 #napowrimo - day 17 #the100dayproject - B

Today’s prompt asks us to write a poem about a particular letter of the alphabet, or the letters that form a short word. I chose to write a poem with a letter…

B

Write a 3 first and then write I and 3,

it makes B. There is a thirteen, I 3, in B.

A number in a letter, or a one and a three.

Three combinations of numbers in a B,

1, 3, I3. Doesn’t the 3 look like BooBs? Or

a rounded Butt? And isn’t it fitting

that both words start with B?

And Brittany starts with B for BooBs,

Butt, Butter, Buns and Butterfly.

B is such a yellow letter, full of sunshine

And naked Body parts, the sand on a Beach;

the Beige walls of a Building; all of them Beautiful

B’s.

Day 22 #napowrimo - day 16 #the100dayproject - Ghazal

I'm on prompt today by borrowing a Hindi phrase and crafting a ghazal around it.

जंगल मेँ मोर नाचा किसने देखा? (jangal mein mor naca kisne dekha)

Direct translation: Peacock danced in the forest, who saw?

Ghazal

I combed my fingers through your hair as you slept

and a peacock danced in the forest, who saw?

I washed the floors and cleaned the dishes

and a bear danced in the forest, who saw?

I fluffed your pillows and hung up your suits

and a tiger danced in the forest, who saw?

I scrubbed the toilet bowl and the stained sink

and a monkey danced in the forest, who saw?

I whispered I love you and it was lost in our bed sheets

and a cobra danced in the forest, who saw?

I made you coffee with sugar and a dollop of cream

and an elephant danced in the forest, who saw?

I walked down the forest trail and never came back,

who saw?

I took my clothes off and danced naked in the forest,

who saw?

Day 21 #napowrimo - day 15 #the100dayproject - The Golden Finch

Today's prompt I found Inchjostru by Patrizia Gattaceca and then crafted my own poem based off of the homophonic translation of her poem. My poem ended up being a bit nonsensical, but it was fun and challenging to try this out.

INCHJOSTRU

Inchjostru sangue nostru

Sognu viaghju o segnu

Goccia à goccia piuvana

Acqua per la mio terra

Moru frombu di mare

Sale u vechju rimbeccu

Mughja l’anticu mostru

Cù la primiera notte

In chjostru

Avvene ch’ùn vi pare

Più vi risona l’eccu

Di u silenziu à la sarra

A sperenza ci và è

L’inchjostru ci si sparghje

In chjostru...

The Golden Finch

Flinch through song, these instruments

can segregate the violin in secrets.

Go see and go see, peer into the vain

water of existence. The musical terror

morns the front of a marquee,

sailing over the velvet red walk.

Magic antiques the most

celebrated, the prime note

in staccato, in avenues

churning, we part. Pews,

lined with reason and accents,

divide the silence of the savior

and the sacrament of our bodies.

A finch flies just through and chimes of strings

and changes the beak, the mouth, the only instrument.

Day 20 #napowrimo - day 14 #the100dayproject - Homemade from Reno, NV

Homemade from Reno, NV

You found those bits of oak leaf

on a hike near Lake Tahoe and

collaged them on top of a photo

of pool water cut from a magazine.

You signed your name with a heart

and two years since you sent it

to say Merry Christmas and we

still have it. The edges of glue

yellowing from sunlight, the leaves

deteriorating.

Broke, fresh out of

college, living in a town far from home.

young and naive with your ambitions;

you want to save the world.

And I wanted to shelter you from

The truth. That none of it is as easy

                                           as it seems.

But you made this in the small space

of your shared apartment, bought

a stick of glue with your last dollar

and a postage stamp with your credit card.

I have not words except you’ve already

saved us, you’ve saved the world.

Day 19 #napowrimo - day 13 #the100dayproject - E Pluribus Unum - Out of Many, One

I had a lot of fun writing this one...

E Pluribus Unum - Out of Many, One

They only show themselves

when I’m least expecting it;

I can’t search for them,

they’ll know and hide themselves

between the cracks of the sidewalk

or under the shade of dandelion leaves.

But when I come upon them,

I know something good

will happen, and that good

always arrives in threes.

They are the forgotten ones

their rough edges ground into

concrete or asphalt, grit and dirt,

obscuring our dear Lincoln.

A great president run over

by car tires, stepped on,

spit on, left behind,

dropped, and tossed.

Not worth the effort

of bending over and wedging

a fingernail underneath

to lift one cent up.

What is a penny worth

except the confirmation

of my superstition.

Picture me slathering

my collection with hand

sanitizer when I get home

from my walk, all of the

green blooming on his face;

more corrosion than

he ever had to handle

of corruption in his lifespan.

How hard he worked

to gather our broken

pieces into his hands.

And now look, all of his labor

disregarded, undone,

with the sweep

of a fake coppertoned hand.