wrote a thing
i should have written days/weekes ago
as a procrastination
to what i should be writing
now
how
and why
do i do this to myself?
writing about writing
March 28, 2022
i really don’t know what i’m doing.
my only post-secondary education
in poetry
was over a decade ago
and i can’t really remember
anything i learned
(granted, that’s probably from
all the trauma/trauma responses
i was experiencing
at the time),
but i digress…
i feel like my skills
with words
would improve
if i could just
Remember
those words.
i often know exactly what i want to say,
and that there is a word
that’s perfect,
but i can’t for the life of me
remember it.
or i know what to say
and i also suspect
there’s an even better word
that would fit the scheme/
rhyme/alliteration/pattern
better than what i have down already
and the harder i try to think
the better i understand
all those analogies
of holding sand
in tightly grasped hands
the desperation
erases
all sense of
every word
i’ve ever known.
so that’s why my poetry
is a little
imperfectionistic,
a little
‘flying by the seat of my pants’,
a little
self-aware/meta/laughing at my own poems,
because otherwise
the grasp would be even tighter
and the only remaining
grain
of sand
would be that of my name
(and even that
i don’t always remember
right away)
March 26, 2022
interestingly,
i think a lot of poetry
that takes itself seriously
is the poetry
that
takes days
maybe even weeks
(months? years?)
to write;;
and i enjoy my
fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants/
reference-my-own-writing/and/
my-strengths-and-weaknesses/
make-jokes-at-my-own-expense/
a-little-bit-meta/
poetry-writing.
and i think part of the reason it works
is because i’m churning out
poem
after poem
day
after day
and if i were to
ponder every syllable
and say something
as if i weren’t just a human
typing some words on a computer,
there wouldn’t be that kind of levity
[or brevity]
//long ago
poetry was an art
with all kinds of rules and regulations,
but i get bored and frustrated
playing inside of boxes,
so this time-period
when all rules of poetry
are being re-hashed
and it’s far more about
how a poem makes you feel
than anything else,
this is my time to shine
[and my time is mine]
//
March 23, 2022
working from what is best
best for me
best for my brain…
there are dozens (hundreds?) of poems
that never got to see the page of day
the poetry blog where all these have run off to
and some of them, yes, they are simply me
trying to wake myself up
vibe myself into the rest of the day
figure out what in the heck
my brain
is even doing
at any given moment
but some are
objectively
*good*
they just didn’t fit with the other poems for that day
or they’re too personal
and i just
cannot
i can’t have that out in the world
at least not on the inter-webs.
it’s like
i’m still that open book
with pages ripped out
and stuffed in my back pockets
or otherwise eaten
digested
you’ll never see them
(and it still surprises
even me
what things i’m willing to be so open about
and what i’m not,
and i think it has a little bit to do with what’s still affecting me
hardcore
and what makes sense to affect me
this hard
this long;
and
yeah
that’s all
[i was going to give examples
but like i said
already digested])
~~~
the blank toe tag
waves in the
non-existent breeze
hanging off of our
plastic skeleton
(named Barnaby)
and i know that there probably is a breeze
it’s probably the hot air from the radiator
just beneath
but still
i like to imagine
ghosts
messing with our deathly decoration aesthetics
as if to say
‘it’s/we’re
closer than you think!’
~~~
i feel like i could turn that first poem
into something more,
something bigger,
literally
solely
from that last stanza
there is a pace and flow and rhyme and feel
that gives slam poetry
that gives life to the creative in me
that gives me reason to keep going
to keep flowing
to maybe not post that today
but to perfect it
and bring it back
(or
who says i need to refrain from posting
in order to play?)
(fuck it, let’s post all three)
March 22, 2022
capture
the way
poetry
made you feel;
say
the phrases
only you
could come up with
within your big [fat] brain
(we all thought that was hilarious
way back in grade three:
‘you have lots of fat in your head,
if someone calls you a fat-head
say “thanks, it’s true!”’
so thanks, Bill Nye,
for giving us both an insult
and rebuttal
in one educational episode)
but the words
and flows
don’t flow
the way they ought
they used
to
they should
too
be calling from my mind
climbing
clambering
to come out
like i once came out
no, wait,
twice
came out
first from the closet
then from the binary
and finally,
maybe someday,
i’ll just come out from expectations set upon me
through old traditions
and new
and if i only knew
how to come out from under my own
oppressive
thumb
how free could i be?
but
the feral cat is still meowling
somewhere
outside
and the music is making
both myself
and my spouse
subtlety sway side to side
and the coffee hasn’t entered my system
fully
quite yet
and i wish there was a way
to have a style
without
reusing the same tired
words
phrases
that i use
every day
in every poem
in every way they come to me
(but i suppose that might be
because
humans
and humanity
and only having a certain capacity
and phases actually being a thing
that happens
it’s just, sexuality/gender is not usually one of them
(but sometimes they are, that doesn’t make them
less legitimate
and real)
(and, as a cis human, isn’t your gender ever-phasing
ever-changing
too?
is what you thought as the most important part
of being a boy/man
the same as it was when you were 7?
15?
20?
40?
70?)
all of life is moments
phases
fading in and out
let’s just acknowledge
pay attention
and enjoy the ride.)
March 21, 2022
i still don’t know
if i’ve learned anything
from this
poem-a-day
experiment
i have no idea if i’m a better writer
a better poet
(if there is such a thing
if one is predominantly participating
in free-verse
and experimental expression)
i feel like i’ve
experimented
with schemes and patterns
i might not have even tried
before this every-day
poem-writing
made me contemplate
what made my poetry
mine
and what made my poetry
interesting
and what made me
excited
to write
and what made me
excited
to read
even still
i have no concept
of what good vs. bad poetry
is
especially in relation to my own
and therefore
i have no idea
if i’ve gotten even a little bit better
(or worse)
but i haven’t run out of things to say
so there’s that.
March 19, 2022
writing about bagels
and reading about bagels,
reading about reviewing bagels
and writing about bagels once more
all thew while making/eating/pondering
bagels
it’s been a very bagel-y couple of days
[but when is it not
in New York City?]
March 16, 2022
quiet the mind,
shush the brain,
but don’t force the silence
because then that’s all that remains.
i wonder if that’s why others’ poetry
takes longer to write;
because rhythm/rhyme/meter
don’t all happen in one night,
or just one setting,
like sitting in this morning page sun
listening to Japanese hip-hop lofi
and just kinda ~wish~ my scheme into one
sentence
then another
and another
and losing track
and losing steam
and losing the scheme
i [vaguely] thoughtfully put in here
and hearing the rhymes in my head
but only scattered/stilted/disjointed/
disappointed
i continue on
disrupting any complex pattern that might have arisen
so i can continue on this mess of a poem
and pretend that’s just
How I Write
(instead of
how
i think)
March 15, 2022
writing
a thing
but not the way i want to be
writing it
not in the way i’ve imagined
saying it
not in the context and meter and rhythm i’ve
dreamt it
and i’m hesitating words in a way i
never do
is this all some sort of quandary
of feeling ‘off’
simply because my coffee is hot
[[not
iced]]?
March 13, 2022
internally
raw
worn
torn
injured
maybe bleeding
(maybe healing?)
~~~
i look at the the date
“happy manniversary!” i tell my kip
“i didn’t do anything…” they say, as their face falls
from their initial surprise-joy
“it’s ok” i say, hoping to turn the mood
from sadness
to a dark humor
that will also then
bring us down
again
to all that’s been:
“two years ago today
we were
~supposed~ to be seeing
Hadestown.”
we laugh
and sigh
and continue on inside
as the pandemic still goes on
(as much as folks pretend it isn’t
with lax guidelines
and ignoring science
and pleas from healthcare workers
falling
not on deaf ears
but on those that simply
wish not to hear)
outside.
~~~
my poetry this morning
seems to be coming from a different place
a place of allowing
the cacophony
and angst
to broil itself down
to the basics
of words
and feelings
and leaving
them all
on the page[screen]
[[[for once]]]
kipventures 