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.

April 20: Poem 20

Awake at four ten
Dress rehearsal in my head
I still love to teach.

Bonus

On that humid night
the Eagles up by seven
my hand first found yours.

Notes

The first poem is a true story. I was up at four in the morning thinking about today's lesson and writing poems in my head to use as models in class. Then I thought I must still love teaching if I'm awake thinking about it. The bonus poem is the one I wrote to use as a model for students today. Two haikus for the price of one! Although, technically, all my poems are for the price of one, since the price is zero.

April 19: Poem 19

Like boys from the sea

to the beach of Normandy
I am back to school.

Notes

For a haiku, this went through a number of mental edits. I was going to put the boys on something (a barge?), was going to be 'towards' the beaches or 'upon' the beaches, and the last line might have started 'I go back'. However, I wanted a sense of inevitability to the whole thing. Fate is somehow driving the bus here. Wish I could have fit 'unto' into line 2 but couldn't get it down to 7 syllables.

I realized that 'haiku comics' would be a fun project. I Googled it - someone already did that :(. However, mine would be a lot different. Haikomix? Haikumic? Something like that. Hmmm.
Anyway, as the poem tells you, I'm off to school.   

Aprl 18: Poem 18

In my classroom
teaching again
but it's loud outside
because men with jackhammers
need to get the work done

and there's a charcoal kitten
scratching at the classroom door
trying to get out
so I let it

because it's time to teach

but the principal
runs up
to put the cat back in
because they are
gathering lost cats
and using my room
to hold them

so 

I go back to teach
but there is a girl
in the back
sitting on her boyfriend's lap
and he's sixteen
and she's in middle school
and I'm about to say something
but I look down

and realize

I've been in my underwear
the whole time

and think

well

I have to teach.

Waking

my dog next to me

gently kicking my side
with his hind legs
running to something
or away from it

or maybe
just on an errand

to find my pants.

Notes

I had to write this at 3:30 in the morning because it just happened. This is the first draft and I"m not changing a thing. I don't have anxiety about going back to school tomorrow, YOU have anxiety about going back to school tomorrow.

April 17: Poem 17

I woke to snow on Easter Day
    And that somehow seemed wrong.
This day was deigned for daffodils
    And silver sun and song.

And I remembered of the time
    Now twenty years long gone
When I once trod as Jesus trod
    I hope you’ll tread along.

‘Twas under glare of ERS
    With pancake makeup on
That I donned Nikes and tie dye
    To perform for the throng.

Much Matthew I did memorize
    To give my Lord His tongue.
Beatitudes I struggled with
    And often got them wrong.

I asked for Grace and for Mercy,
    For Him to keep me strong,
For His voice was to be my voice
    His song to be my song.

I felt the fear of failing Him
    Sharing His story wrong
So I asked God to let me bear
    Some suffering along.

Thus when amid the passion play
    I felt moments prolong
And prayed in my Gethsemene
    Felt angels ring the gong

The judgement that I knew was mine
    How right was made from wrong
The burden that my Savior took
    I took some sliver on

The tears I shed were not some art
    A mask that I put on
‘Twas fragments of what Jesus felt
    A gift that’s made me strong.

I bear it still inside my soul
    A place with walls quite strong
And there I sit in reverence
    And know that I’m God’s son.

Notes

This was both the most difficult and easiest poem to write of the series so far. A production of Godspell 20 years ago is my own genuine 'come to Jesus' moment. I have had pieces of this in my head for days, but woke up with it almost finished in my subconscious - and about 75% of it was in the first draft that I pounded out in fifteen minutes this morning. I asked God to help me write this in the same way I asked Him for help two decades ago, and He answered both times. 

I hope you have (or have had) a blessed Easter.

April 16: Poem 16

I do not do not
    want to write
a poem today
    or tonight
if you make me
    I just might
just to hurt you
    out of spite
pretend to think
    pretend to write
in my journal
    clean and white
but all the while
    in plain sight
I will scribble
    left and right
up and down
    in dark and light
and you will think
    you won the fight
you made me made me
    made me write
inside my journal
    clean and white
but it is nothing
    no poem in sight.
and that will fill
    you up with fright
how bright I am
    like anthracite
that I fooled you
    I won this fight
creativity 
    you did ignite
but not for poems
    you luddite
instead for wasting
    of graphite
but now I see
    there's no respite
ack! my poem
    I must recite.

Notes

I am thinking about all the ways my students are going to avoid writing poetry next week, and I suppose channeling some Shel Silverstein in the process. The funny think is that I'm avoiding, and have been avoiding, writing the poem I need to write this week. I also know that, since tomorrow is Easter Sunday, I have to write it. So, procrastination has bought me another day, but that's all I'm going to get. 

I almost want to do a Shel Silverstein-inspired doodle with this one.

April 15: Poem 15

That look

when I misspell
or read it wrong

I cannot Waffle
Wordle's not strong

it says

oh
and you're 
an English Teacher
and a Doctor

And I. 

Beat. 

You.

And I

want to punch something.

Notes

No interpretation needed.

April 14: Poem 14

Sometimes
it's hard

to bear the crowbar

and pry open 
the foot locker

of secret thoughts

to puke them on a page.

On those days

I'd rather
go back to bed

and dream
of nothing.

Notes

I didn't feel like writing a poem today. I didn't want to write a poem today. I don't feel like dealing with feelings today. So, here's today's poem. 

April 13: Poem 13

When I was four

My friend Timmy and I

would play Batman and Robin

with my action figures

because he didn't have any

but he had a big wheel.

So I got to ride his big wheel

sometimes

and he got to be Batman

alltimes.

And I always said

I liked being Robin

better anyway.

But maybe

I just accepted

I would never 

be Batman.

Notes

No idea where this one came from. I assume it's my subconscious starting to dig into all of these little nooks and crannies to see what it can find. Again, I've got almost a year left of these to do, so I'm training my brain to keep the radar up. I presume at the end of this year I'm going to think a little differently - the discipline of forcing myself to ponder a moment or an image in this way every day is going to have some kind of long-term benefit, right?

Or not. I suppose we'll see. 

April 12: Poem 12

If what you are writing

does not discomfit you

casting a dull ache into your gut

and impart trepidation 

that your mom will bring it up

during Sunday dinner

then write something else.

Notes

This is the only poem I completely scrapped. I wrote and published a poem a few hours ago, went back to it, and actually hated it. I hate this one less.

One good thing about writing a poem every day: I don't feel any pressure for them all to be great. I already think I have written 1 or 2 really good poems this month, so now it's all gravy; if I come out of the year with ten really, really good poems, that is a productive year of poetry writing. How many truly great poems has your favorite poet really produced? 

I expected that pushing myself to write every day would create pressure, but it actually releases it; I know that I get another chance tomorrow to redeem myself if today is terrible. I don't think today is terrible, by the way, but it's also not going to be in my final top ten. It's better than what I had before, though :)  

April 11: Poem 11

I write 
to an audience of me

because I know

you 

might never read this

and I try 

not to be sad about it.

Notes

I learned a while ago to only write what I'd want to read. I am not guaranteed any audience at all, and sometimes the people who I really hope will read my work never do. So, I accept that and write to myself. Often, I am writing to myself at different ages; I wish I could say this to 20-year-old me. It would have made many things much easier.

April 10: Poem 10

I used to wonder

how Jesus was adored 
as He wend His way

into Jerusalem
astride a donkey
impelled across a road
of palms

and only days later

was turned upon

and murdered,

but now

I understand

and kind of wish
I didn't.

Notes

It's Palm Sunday. This week always makes me think, as it does for many Christians, about what this all means and why it had to happen. I have a LOT more to say about this in the days ahead. 

April 9: Poem 9

I used to think

Poetry

was a maiden in milky dress
amid fields of poppies
nigh crystal streams

But now I know

Poetry

is more often

a dead squirrel 
sprawled on hot blacktop
with its guts exposed
looking like
cranberries

or 

a festering sore
that won't stop oozing
because you just can't
stop picking at it

So now

I like 

Poetry 

better.

Notes

I am going to be teaching a poetry unit when I return to school after spring break, and I'm thinking about what I might want to say to my students as we dive in. I don't know if I'll share this poem (they're in eighth grade - so maybe)... that squirrel image is in my brain since I saw it when I was about ten and riding my bike. I didn't want to look, but I couldn't stop looking.

I struggled with the word 'nigh' in the third stanza. The word is typically used for time, whereas I use it here for location. I was going to change it, but then I thought about Ophelia, and how she dies in water even though she is largely the character in this image; I suddenly liked how this foreshadows the rest of the poem; it is a hint that she's 'near' the stream, but also 'near' the stream, because danger is right there and she's about to do something perilous. I also went back and forth between 'fields of flowers' and 'fields of poppies', because flowers has better alliteration, but poppies is more specific; I erred on the side of specificity. I think it is usually better to err on the side of specificity, when given the choice. 

I also like the juxtaposition of the two darker images... the dead squirrel is something you cannot control, and you are trying to make sense of; it's already dead. The sore is something you are doing to yourself, and you are trying to figure out why. These seem to be two of the bigger 'trends' in the poetry I am attracted to: why did this happen, or why do I keep doing this? 

Finally, I am pleased that I'm doing these 'notes' sections. I argue all the time to my students that writers are very intentional about their choices for things in what they write. By showing my thought process 'in real time', I'm making the case that this is true.

April 8: Poem 8

My dog with legs splayed

Wet sock dangling from his maw

Taunting me to play.

Notes

Today started with a heavy draft of something, but I wasn't feeling it. Then my dog ran into the living room and challenged me to play. Okay, then. There it is. It's a haiku! (to paraphrase Kung Fu Panda - I love haikuuuuu!!!!!). I have now decided that haiku has to be one of the tags, since it's only eight days and about half of my poems are haiku.

.

April 7: Poem 7

When Davey Boy Smith

Threw the Hammer into the corner

And the Dynamite Kid 

Delivered a headbutt

Michael T. Desing Day 

was born.

It is here, yes today,

Michael T. Desing Day.
Huzzah and Hurray.

All the kids say, 

- I say that they say -

Today is the day.

Michael T. Desing Day.

***

But thirty-six years later

I see the drug abuse;

The way Dynamite 

broke his back

in an unplanned fall.

We didn't know if yet,

But his career was over.

And I know now

The Dynamite Kid

would kill a cigarette 

in a single drag 

before matches

And Davey Boy

once got milk 

injected in his ass

because he thought 

it was steroids.

And I

Doctor Michael T. Desing

am a collection of

scars and bruises

of losses and disappointments

of folly and fear.

As are we all.

As are we all.

We are not superheores.

None of us.

Our superheroes

are not superheroes either.

And today is the day.

Michael T. Desing Day.

Notes

Well, then. This is all a true story, by the way.

I remember so many images around Wrestlemania 2: April 7, 1986. I was fourteen, and pro wrestling was my world as much as comic books, GI Joe, and Star Wars were. They all eventually merged into Army Ants, which had a 12-issue storyline centered around my love of pro wrestling, becoming the first graphic novel - the first long work of any kind - I would finish. As I watch the match again this morning, as I do on every April 7, I feel both sad and nostalgic. Hence, the poem. I decided after that match that, since my birthday was the day after Christmas and I always felt like I missed out on something, that it was appropriate to have a random day in the calendar to celebrate 'me' - that was not so random after all. Here it is, April 7. 

It's Michael T. Desing day. 

April 6: Poem 6

Legolas, sweet Legolas
O cat of midnight hue,
Legolas, my Legolas
'Twas Mary did name you.

Legolas, bold Legolas
Does my mom guide your paws?
Legolas, wise Legolas
She reiki master was.

Legolas, dear Legolas

In elbow fossa hide.
Legolas, sleep Legolas
This moment may abide.

Notes

I woke up with this one banging around in my head at 3:30. It's got a whole Doctor Suess thing to it that I don't mind. Our cat Legolas (named for the Tolkien elf), who never cared much for me to be honest, suddenly has been my best friend since I have been sick. He keeps trying to curl up near my neck and 'make buscuits' there (kneading with his paws - which Mary refers to as 'making biscuits'), which is both sweet and can be painful if I don't stop him fast enough. I wake up to find him sleeping on my belly more often than not of late.

And yes, I looked up 'what the inside of your elbow is called', and 'fossa' is such a great word, I had to put it in. He pushes his face into the crook of my elbow ('crook' is so much less poetic than 'fossa'... I mean, say the words out loud). It is the first time I've ever used the word fossa in anything, but I will keep an eye out for another opportunity.

April 5: Poem 5

The skin of my neck
peeling like a serpent might
lost layers of me.

Notes

Another haiku! My radiation burns are pretty painful, and I'm peeling like no tomorrow... so, this is what's on my mind today. There you go.

April 4: Poem 4

A coating of rime

glistening in the new sun

ephemeral still.

Notes:

My first haiku of the series. The last few days have been some emotional heavy lifting for me, so I decided to go a little simpler today. Drinking coffee and looking out my back window, this is what I saw, so thought I'd record it for posterity. Or something. I like the word choices in the final line - ephemeral is such a great word, and still is so indirect here. Stillness or a continuation? Yes to both.

April 3: Poem 3

It was during surgery
to scoop a tumor from my brain
that the archangel in robes of white
with bare arms and luminous head
carved into my cranium
with a mystic blade.

I saw him.

Revelation explains
servants of God 

have foreheads sealed.

So when the doctors tell me 
they can fill in that hole,
I politely decline.

Because I'd rather live in metaphors.

Notes:

I like free verse poetry, but I really wanted this one to have a more specific meter. I struggled with it for a while today, and this was the best I could get to. After yesterday's poem, I knew this moment had to be next. I would love a few more days with this, but the classic 'it is what it is' kicks in here.   

April 2: Poem 2

Sometimes

I look at the moon
and think
my grandfather looked at the same moon
and he 

broke dirt with a shovel
for a church that is still standing

(he came to me in a dream once

but it was not a dream)

and once walked through the plazas of Munich
sending my mom a postcard

written in a formal script

saying love, dad
like he wasn't sure how to say that

and I feel
a little better.

Notes

Not sure where this one came from. I sat down and started writing. Okay then. That got personal quick. 

April 1: Poem 1

In thinking of Ulysses
of some work of noble note yet to be done

I ponder over coffee 

and ready for final radiation.

Later this morning

I will ring a bell 

with an arm I couldn't lift 

forty days ago.

While something new awaits

my first steps forward.

I must go to it.

It will not come for me.

Pathways beckon.

To steward the school.

To craft the comic.

To tell the tale.

Some paths will be followed.

Others, as Frost forebodes, 

will be left behind.

So I sit at a crossroads.

And I listen.

Knowing.

The answer is not in the bell,

but in the echoes that will follow.

Notes:

The process of writing poetry in this way is pretty meditative. It's a 'next-level' form of journaling, I suppose. It forces me to take an honest status check of what I'm thinking and feeling right now, and put it on (digital) paper... and then release it to the wild, which is actually going to be the hardest part of this process, and which has already surprised me. I didn't know what I'd be writing about this morning, but it wasn't this. It also doesn't allow a lot of time for the revision process I usually use; I like to let things percolate for a day or two and then go back to them for a revision. I expect that some of these will beg for revision a few days later, and I don't know how to cross that bridge yet, or if it needs crossing. 

Time, as it does, will tell.

A Foolish Consistency

According to Emerson,

A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesmen and philosophers and divines. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. He may as well concern himself with his shadow on the wall.

Heck him.

Because I like consistency and having plans, I have decided to post an original poem every day for a year. It's got it all: consistency (it's every day), foolishness (like, why would anyone do this?), and little (it's only a poem). And, I use my mind, so Emerson would be proud. Or not proud. I have no idea anymore.

I've set two ground rules for this endeavor:

1. No re-using old poems. I have lots of poems or pieces of poems in my various notes and Google Docs. It is all off limits. I start with a blank page (or, blank 'new post') and go from there.

2. The poem sas to be done on that day. I cannot have a great Saturday where I knock out ten poems and then take a week off. Nope. It's a poem a day. 

Basically, the plan is to do Wordle and then knock out a poem. That is, until the New York Times decides to put Wordle behind a paywall and I say heck that like I say heck Emerson.

Either Emerson or the New York Times would probably be in good company then.

Also, I decided on April 1st to start because, A) April Fool's Day would be the day Emerson would find thematically appropriate for foolishness; B) April 1st is the final day of radiation treatments from cancer (my second round), so I want to celebrate the next phase of my life by giving myself more work to do. Wait, what?

See you on April 1st. And then every day thereafter. For. A. Year.

I'd say I'm going to 'try' to do this, but Yoda gave me some advice, too:

Do or do not, there is no try. 

I like Yoda more than Emerson.