So I obviously failed Napowrimo after only a week. Mostly because the pressure and time constraints of working out a poem everyday became too much. I wasn’t enjoying it after the first weekend so I bowed out.
(Not to mention the anxiety that comes with sharing things that raw. )
I did learn several things from the short project though. Firstly, I don’t like to rush my poetry. I deeply enjoy crafting a poem over weeks not hours. While I write everyday, very few of the ideas turn into something genuine, powerful, and complete. The ones that do usually have several different lives. I will dismember and decapitate them over and over until I find the perfect parts.
Is it possible to write a poem everyday? Certainly. Is it possible to craft a piece of art worthy of its subject everyday? Not from this side of the monitor.
So I will go about playing a poetic evil-genius. Stealing the jewels in everyday and constructing my art from the misfit stones. I set them, methodically, in the sway of prophet breath to frost your mind—your thoughts glimmering in the aftermath of a chiseled poem.
That was fun.
Here is the most recent poem I have spent weeks reworking. It is a spoken word piece that holds up pretty well on page.
The permission to mourn.
The urge is to wipe these tears from my cheeks
I will not.
Not today as these ascending souls
pierce my heart with their discarded bones
laid to rest in school children clothes
I carry no illusion
that these tears or theirs
will somehow engage the collective
and birth a revolution
I will not push aside this pain.
I will remember this day, the next
and cherish these moments through
six year old eyes
breathe this world through
each step fresh as bare feet embrace raw earth with
lifting cold chills from within muscle and bone
electric pin needles dancing along peach fuzz disciples
a simple soul saturated by light
a ball of fire merely
illuminated for life
and having pried these gifts from lifeless mother fingers
this hollow boy has left our lives wavering
walls still upright but based on Bayou soil
and decaying joints between heart and stone
our studded stilts tilting, wondering,
how long we can stand
how long this can all
There is tragedy as well
on the back side of that gun
pain pinging neuron nightmares through
flexed forearm sinews and the stutter of a
and the click of a
and the quiet of a
and at first, I denied that tragedy
denied the agony in his empty eyes
instead immersed by those forever empty arms
but through time, and tears, and childhood dreams,
I have overcome this stingy heart
the permission to mourn.