The Best Laid Plans

I had every intention of writing a poem a day for the year. I have already missed a few days in the first month, and had to go back on one of my basic rules for this about a week ago, so... a poem a day for a year it will not be.

Though I said I would

write poetry every day

I found it difficult

My mind therein to stay.

I have learned a few things about my creativity in the process, so it's been very helpful.

1. I have always admired the people who can consistently produce a small work over time. My favorite cartoonists are people who produce a daily comic strip or a monthly comic book for decades. That slow drip of creative production is incredibly impressive to me. I aspire to it.

2. My brain is not wired that way. Even a little. I work in huge bursts of creative output, punctuated by periods of relative malaise. I can write an entire game in 60 days, and then will spend 3 months struggling to get a 4-page supplement done. I am learning to accept that rather than resisting it.

3. Teaching is a fundamentally creative activity for me. The same muscles that I use for poetry here are the exact ones I use for teaching. Therefore, I'm drawing fuel from the same sources on both, and the teaching has been using it up - by the end of the day I'm mentally tired and creatively spent for that day. I could write a poem at that point, but I'd be mailing it in. The goal is to actually write poetry I invest in. I just don't have the energy for it right now. 

None of this is bad. It is what it is. I will keep this blog here, and I'll keep posting poetry as the mood strikes, maybe a dozen poems at a time, but a poem a day is not realistic for me.

Thanks for reading :)

April 27: Poem 26

2:28 (a.m.)

by M. Desing

 

At 2:28 (a.m.)

I lie awake in bed

hearing the gentle thunder

of a cargo train,

rolling over rime-covered fields

and ice-glazed paths

 

Thinking how lucky the engineer is

to be alone with his thoughts

at 2:28 (a.m.)

with miles of track before him,

 

His future lay out

in neat rows of wooden struts

at right angles to steel track

drawing him on

 

To infinity.

Notes

Another cheat day. I didn't think ahead to how creatively draining it would be to talk about poetry with students all day and then try to get fired up to write a poem... so here is one that I wrote before, but will be using with students this week. I am completely and totally breaking the rules I established for this project - but it's still a poem I wrote, so at its heart it is in line. Furthermore, I only have about six more decent poems in my notes anywhere, so at worst ten of the poems for a year of poetry would come from my archives, which means (even if I miss a day here and there) I would produce 300 or so original poems... which is a lot.

April 26: Poem 25

My Head is the Moon

By M. Desing

My head is the moon,

A round orb

Where the meteor of cancer

Has left a deep crater.

My head is the moon,

A senseless rock

Circling in a cosmic dance

That has no discernible end.

My head is the moon,

A thing of mythic significance

Where ancient rituals

Call forth its power.

My head is the moon,

But it’s no moon.

It’s a space station.

And somewhere,

Roger Waters flow into 

a sea of tranquility 

on the dark side 

of the moon.

Notes

Wow but I am cheating a lot. I missed yesterday, even though I wrote a poem for my class and spent all day talking about poetry... but never posted one. Furthermore, I'm breaking one of my rules - this is a poem I wrote maybe two years ago, but realized how much I love it (especially the last stanza) and decided to post it despite my pledge not to do that. Meh. It's my blog. Whatever :)

April 24: Poem 24

Baby Bunny Butternut
    wore black and spikes, oh gosh.
One time she fell into a pit
    and therein she did mosh.

She spraypainted the milkweed
    Some say she tried it, too.
But when you are a bad bunny
    That's sometimes what you do.

Folks gave a lot of reasons why
    she really didn't care:
Her mom, she was a wild rabbit
    her dad, he wasn't there.

They all thought she'd never
    grow up to do some good
she would always be the one
    from the bad side of the wood.

So all were quite surprised indeed
    at this recent event -
Instead of causing anarchy
    she's now our president!

I guess when youth get wild like that
    you have a choice to make
you can choose to freak and rage
    Or just give them time to take.

Notes

Strange things happen in my head when I am mowing the lawn. STRANGE THINGS. By the way, the milkweed is an intentional allusion to Dylan Thomas, a poet who was also the mosh pit kind. He never became president of anything. 

April 23: Poem 23

You cannot tread

the road you should

without leaving

the one you're on.

Notes

Changes are coming. I don't know where they lead. I just know that the current path is failing.

April 22: Poem 22

Oreo the kitty cat
    was very bad you see
That Oreo the kitty cat
    oh she was quite naughty

she clawed upon the carpeting
    to wake me up at three
and as she just kept ripping it
    I sprayed water with glee.

The water did not dampen her
    more than a little mist
and she soon returned again
    I started getting pissed.

This time I threw a pillow
    to shoo her fast away
But soon she did come back again
    determined she would stay.

Again the sound awakened me
    from my slumber there 
and this time I got throwing stars
    She didn't even care.

Next I tried a flamethrower
    to force her soon to leave
but she just jumped around the flame.
    It was hard to believe.

I called up for a missile strike
    to try to restore peace
but she evaded everything
    that fuzzy little beast.

Twas about to summon nukes 
    to blow it all to bits
But my alarm went off at last
    and I fell into fits.

So now I must be off to work;
    my eyes can take no more.
But Oreo is on my bed.
    She has begun to snore.

Notes

Kind of a true story.

April 21: Poem 21

With apologies to Emily...

Hope is the thing with talons
    that perches near my heart
waiting for me to have a chance
    for something good to start.

And frequently I try to shed
    that monster from my side
but ever has it come again
    my peace of mind to hide

Often have I asked for it to go
    to leave me safe at last
But for the pain it brings again
    There seems no true repast.

Notes

I am so sorry, Emily. I truly am.