a new deadline

i am going to arbitrarily name June 10 as the day that we will post our favourite 3-5 poems from each poet, as written during this project. that's gives us time to relax and think.

also, let me know if you are still interested in putting together a chapbook from the site/project. i'm game.

The first day of June

Around 11 pm tonight, my brain started churning. The usual oh-shit-I've-got-to- post- before-midnight anxiety...but also the usual oh-shit-I've-got-to-post-before-midnight pleasure.

Apparently, after thirty-one days of this chemical slurry, this lazy adrenalin rush, my brain had geared up for another grasping-at-straws outing.

Though, sadly, I refrained from writing the poem, on this First Day of June I wanted to note that I am already missing (and mourning the end of) May Day.

I'm missing having somewhere to post my terrible first drafts, my tits and goddamns and frogsong.

I'm missing the after-midnight browse (coming down coming down) of your poems.

Anyways, thanks.

The thirtieth poem

And always that one tree
at the end of the paved path
through the forest
glows
tungsten bright
shallow-rooted dry on the median
the thin divide
between tarred roads and ditches full
drowning the thicker belts
and bottoms of boreal

And always that one deer
at the edge of the paved path
through the forest
glows
tapetum bright
thin-lipped shy at the treeline
the long stride
between dried grasses and gardens full
crowning the thicker stems
and sepals of suburbia

* * *

That's it. It's eleven-fifty-something pm and I'm still short a poem.

Can I possibly be content with only thirty poems when there are thirty one days in May?

Only time will tell.

A.

The Poem to End all Poems

Winter Cinquain

cold feet
sockless pathos
reaching sneaking seeking
yearn for a warm place of comfort
your legs

The thirty-first day of May

First signs of spring: a West Nile screed

Bare-legged women clean the muck
of still-sodden parkland
off their first-hot-day sandals
in the puddle that mirrors the tree-line
the mowed lines of the canopy
the first base line beyond
muddling the reflection
the soft light
of evening
the water sloshes
is still
by the time the women slide
into their cars
scratching at the backs of winter-white knees
the water is still
except for the twilight stipple
of mosquitoes laying
the plumb line
the vertical between the sky
and the soil
as the soft blue carcasses
of crows blue jays
magpies
ravens
fall
from the trees
right smack
into the morning paper

Standing by

Waiting waiting
waiting
put on hold
can't get what I want
when I want it
don't know what I need
until I need it

Through the empty room
a few words whistle by
the Universe is standing by -
call now!

Love Poem - to be Continued...

I woke this morning
to a curious sound
at first I could not place
then realized
he laughs in his sleep

Yet another trait
to add to the list
of what makes him
different from anyone
I've ever known

He keeps me warm
in winter
drives anger
to laughter
makes up words
to songs

He lets me be weak
so I can be strong
the rest of the time
Out There

Half a Hundred

So easily we imagined
ourselves decrepit at this age
so nearly bent
in two
with aches and lack of hope—
no drives
to push us out of bed
or into the arms of lovers
or faraway cities

No lust for the sight of another
shore or taste of a grape brought
in a bottle from a year and region
we missed
in our aging. But
we were wrong and see
the dawn as another
opening of
a day
with more light than we

Imagined with more sun
than was predicted,
full of people who know
our names and love
the sound of them being
called. It strikes us with
no surprise but sheer

Anticipation that reservations
have been made for celebrations—
innumerable days and dinners,
cake all round for everyone
and more sweet ice cream than
we thought capable of
ever making. Candy and
gifts fall
from the sky in shapes
we never imagined would

Hold value or even exist
when we were a fraction
of these present years

Thinking we were as
wise as one ever gets. And
now we know ourselves to be

The sloppy puppies
and kittens
still chasing our tails
in search of whatever is there
when we catch up with

Ourselves. The glee in the
eyes of our elders hints at
birthdays still capable of
blowing out
all the candles
we could ever think of

Lighting. The party
seems to have lasted
so much longer
for us all
than the invitation
indicated.

5-31-05

Simple Play

Two girls attempt to draw
in chalks the boxes
holding numbers
they will use to jump and
hop a game.
Their play

Is at least half
in the chalking
as much as the hopping
but some grown person
knowing better
in their set cement mind

Must take the chalk—
make the numbers darker
the lines straighter—

So the game is turned
to work and insistent perfection.
The small gleaming children

Watch in baffled amusement
as the adult tries
to wash the play
out of the game
as rain may wash
the chalk away

But wait until
the one obsessed
finally walks away
so they can resume
their simple sport—
small feet hopping

On the imperfect numbers
hidden underneath
the rigid corrections.

5-30-05

Honey Flight

It seems the bees flee
their comb-filled hive
in route to a place
known only to them
in their flurry

humming all the way
to a dark hollow tree
or gray timbered
shaky leaning
abandoned place

where there is
room to build
a sweet life again
no more aware of the drive
that lifts

the honey center of their lives

that relocates the chambers
they will as one mind build
in symmetrical designs
all linked by wax walls
unable to withstand

the unsheltered
heat of a bright day,
how do they settle
in to calm at the noise
of their own homecoming

that sound the black and gold
swarm makes striping
the morning air
when greeting itself
after the panic of leaving.

5-29-05

Th-th-th-that's all folks!

Well, I just put up my last poem. I've enjoyed this a lot. It is interesting to see what you come up with when you are forced to create a new work every day. I will have to take a few days off before I can come back and pick out poems by other people that I liked best but rest assured I will do so once things settle down a little, maybe early next week or this weekend.

A Poem for Mandy

the light
in the morning

from the window

from you

Final Day!

It's been awesome!

A few thoughts:
For today's poem(s), we can go back and find our favorite theme and re-use it!

As previously posted, once we've all posted our final contributions, it would be terrific if we could each go through and select 3-5 poems from each poet and let them know these are our favorites, and maybe add why or other comments if you have time. I find it tough to go back and find comments on older posts, so I suggest we post those comments here in the present.

I've got a few more poems to post today.

Congratulations all on taking on this challenge! I'll be interested to hear people's thoughts on the process.

Half - Ballade

Wrote May 21 for a friend's wedding - complete ballade still under construction:

---
On your wedding day
Our aim is to please
with words we say
some praise, some tease
some bring you to your knees
But one truth I bring in song
on this special day in May
to fill your married life with ease

D & B on this sacred day
In sum I offer these
6 words to keep a marriage strong:
"You were right and I was wrong"

May Day: the forest for the trees

Hey all, this is a visual representation of May Day, courtesy of texone.org.



According to the website: texone.org is "a fun Processing applet that takes a URL and converts the site, including links and content, into a tree, with external links creating other trees."

I just wanted to say, a day early and three poems owing, how much I've enjoyed working in this particular thicket.

And, lest I be accused of not seeing the forest for the trees, I'd like to thank Polly, Jonathan, Paul and Myra for everygoddamn thing.

Thanks too to everyone that commented, lurked, or backchanneled.

(...do I really have to post three more poems by end of day tomorrow? crap...)

A.

The thirtieth day of May

Bugs beat against the tall pillars
of puffed out dandelions
clock the yellow sawteeth
as they go to seed
then follow
suspicious
to the soft pointillism
the breezy fluorescence
of summer screens
of open air
evenings

And the lightbulb inside the bulge
of light is the most swollen
moon they’ve ever seen
the hazy head of the dandelion
its delicate
globe
is nothing to this hot
hot heat
and once in
bugs buzz bright spirals figure
eights ovals
crawl the walls
swarm
and
burn

In the morning
bugs will drown in bedside glasses of water
down the sides of cooling cups of tea
wings flattened floating
others will beat at the screen
wanting out
while the dandelion
with its deep
tap root
its thousand thousand fruit
is content to flower and float
and flower

* * *

This is, I guess, a response to Polly's dandelion poem of a few days ago (though I only just realized it to be so as I wrote the last stanza).

It also harkens back to the Writers Retreat in Arnes last summer, when the (screened) windows let in so many swarms I had to block the space under my bedroom door with a towel - as though there was a fire in the next room, as though the bugs were a kind of smoke, could choke me.

Political Poem - As If

As if
it matters
anymore
what gets done
what doesn't

peak oil
is coming
or it isn't

the sky is falling
or just falling apart
the hole is getting wider
the whole is shrinking

I don't care
not one whit
do I?

the animals are disappearing
or maybe just hiding
i don't blame them one bit
do you?

war is over
if you want it
Lennon had it right
but we don't want it
do we?

Ode to Z

You're writing me a note
sitting in the train station
in my new city

You're inviting me to come visit
your new school
on spring break
We're going for blizzards at Dairy Queen
turning them upside down

You're driving with me
in my yet-to-be country
we're reading aloud
from C.S. Lewis
with my supposedly
a-literate boyfriend

You're competing
in my temporary city
We're playing boggle
to calm you down
It's not working but
you're winning anyway
thanks to your amazingness
and the extra-special
good luck monster woman
I loaned you just for the occasion

You're assuring me
that you will remind me
not to get married

You're showing up
at my wedding
to play anyway

You're practising
the same three bars
over and over
while I drift to sleep
in the city I'm arriving in
and you're departing from

You're playing beautiful notes
in a long flowing dress
that shows off your arm muscles
and your passion for musical flow

You're showing me your city
across the ocean
your girlfriend with a motorbike

You're feeding me waffles
showing me how to eat M&Ms
with chopsticks

You're taking me on a bus trip
while I've got the worst case
of jetlag ever

You're walking me to the shore
giving me a little push
out toward the waves
recording the moment
for posterity

Returned

I am back with my poems for today and during filming. I decided I would actually DO the exercises this time. One poem/day left!! This has been a great experience.

Tired (May 30)

The days are long.
They make me.
Tired.

The sun is.
Too bright.
Welcome me.

Into your bed.
Take the penny.
From my mouth.

Hold me.
Close.
My eyes.

Ode to Film (May 29 – Ode)

Jacob wrestles with the Angel.
We film it at 6 frames per second.

Black & white. The light
screams. It moves with intention.

With fury.

Into Fire (May 28 – Political Poem)

Give me your tired,

your poor,
your huddled masses

yearning

to breathe free,
the wretched

refuse
of your teeming

shore. Send these,
the homeless,
tempest-tossed

to me.

I like the way they taste.

Apples (May 27 – Food Poem)

There are apples
on the floor.

They are bruised. There is
a woman lying near them.

The table is broken.

The light comes
through the shades.

Everything
is red.

Rain (May 26 – City Poem)

The rain comes

when it wants, not
when you want it to.

The sky does not care.

Neither does this city. You should
pull up your hood. It is coming

down upon you.

The twenty-ninth day of May

The snail's slide stride
makes the sidewalk mica strike
moonlight makes each shell
a stone a bead
a breast with its turned nipple
each snail a tongue curled
around it
feelers out feelers out
while worms rubber band rappel
from one edge to another
glisten
as they thin out thicken
listen: a passing car toots
its horn but doesn't slow
down
heads turned to see
if we startled waved our tails
and rocking horsed
into the woods

The Gift

She opens the box
lifts up the tissue
she thought he'd forgotten
until now it had been
just an ordinary day
and though she's enjoyed it
she's been growing a tiny
cloud of disappointment

Until now
white box red bow
saving grace

She holds up the dress
one thing remembered
another forgotten
he's bought her
the wrong size
again

she chooses to laugh
lets the small storm
blow over

she knows too well
how easy it is
to walk away
from contentment

as if something better
existed a short ways
down the road


---
From today's Utne contest. The words were:
bought size laugh ordinary walk contentment easy
enjoyed over exist

I've got to write a few more poems today and tomorrow to make the 31 mark!