To Do
Today:
An Experiment;
let’s warm up a little
with this Morning Poetry
but
let the majority of the writing happen
later
after breakfast
after naps
when the day is fully itself
and i feel myself too.
maybe then inspiration can be
things happening
my feelings
my emotions
my thoughts
not just
‘i’m so tired’
or
‘i want to be able to write’
maybe
possibly
this could be
my way in.
i [might] have
hit the point
where my body of work is
Prolific
[but quantity doesn’t indicate quality]
[though practice makes perfect—
or
at the very least permanent—]
and is it actually
Prolific
if i am the only one
aware
of it all?
~~~
400+ days of writing
poetry
every morning
a solid amount of those mornings
(like this very one)
Three-Poem-Days
and even more housing
multiple drafts of multiple poems
not yet seen by
The Internet
but if i’m simply writing free-form/
stream of consciousness/
‘do it but don’t worry about it’
kinds of things,
churning
but not editing/
or revising/
or analyzing/
or anything of the sort
does that not become
at some point
Junk?
~~~
my greatest poem
within this experiment
was seen by more people
but has not been posted here.
a slam poem written
from a prompt
intended for a monologue
(originally from a spell)
i learned (from that poem) that prompts are friends
and a one-week due-date
with daily revisions
and one solid subject matter
are useful in my creative process
i am actively proud of that poem
and i want to write more like it
(with the passion/
and verse/
and poetical devices/
and wholeness)
so why do i not
actively
seek out
prompts,
nor let myself
take time
to edit
any of these
anymore?
trying not to write poetry
for the blog
and only for me
makes my writing
come to life
in a way
i want to
immediately
show off
(perhaps
that’s the key
to every success)
i wonder if poets of yore
ever practiced writing
with mundane daily tasks.
i know they wrote of the very human
feeling of falling in love,
but were there ever any poems of
getting a bit of poppyseed stuck in their teeth,
or that feeling of falling right when you’re about to
lose consciousness to go to asleep?
there were poems with storms as metaphors,
analogies,
but were there ever poems where storms were simply storms
and they enjoyed in the moment,
and wrote in the after
of feeling the thunder
shake
and quake
the whole house?
i feel as though my poetry hits a spot
that hasn’t necessarily been hit
that hard
yet;
the mundanity of human existence.
and i can’t be the first person
to put prose emotions into poetry,
but i do wonder if the greats
of late
or long
ago
ever did what i’m doing
it just wasn’t as accepted
or expected
then.
and some days
it’s the procrastination
that turns to housework
that’s all that’s needed
and the sadness
that turns to book-reading
that really mattered
and the morning poetry
awkwardly completed at night
that was what had to be done.
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]]]
three hundred days
not quite one year
three hundred days
far more than three hundred poems
three hundred days
a promise to myself and none other
three hundred days
a streak honestly acquired
(though sometimes through catching up)
three hundred days
i won’t get the alert until after i post this exact poem
but today
i know
i know
because yesterday was 299
i’ve been doing this whole
poem-a-day thing
for three hundred days
and i guess i can be proud of myself for that.
~~~
green around the house
green on the roof
rainbows shifting dancing swirling cranking
throughout the room
echos of classical
(some call ‘evil’)
and the cat scratching
and the fake fireplace flickering
and the humidifier humidifying
and my spouse done cleaning
so our giant table is a table once again
(and no longer just a clutter-catcher)
and though there’s still some more cleaning to do
this house really is starting to feel more like
our
home
~~~
i need a third
here
(what would a three-hundredth day be
without turning into a three-poem-day?)
but my brain isn’t in a hugely poem-izing mood
anymore
and any old poems i might insert
were either re-written there
or up here
so what else to do but
write a poem
about
writing a poem
like all my little meta-hipster-cells
want me to do
[how long is too long
to stare into space
and come back with
nothing]
open the eyes
crawl out of the bed
put on the clothes
brush the teeth
grab the laptop
shuffle down the stairs
write the poetry
be dissatisfied in the poetry
listen to the ‘evil classical’ playlist
zone out for a bit
write more of the poetry
be dissatisfied in the poetry
meow back at the cat
drink the coffee
read the script for the new podcast
gaze at the dog
write even more of the poetry
feel generally ok about the poetry
change the capitalization
copy and paste into the website
publish the poem
get on with the day
what would make this morning
a real one
one where i achieve a
peaceful/excitable
writing
poetry
flow?
out of order,
and with a bagel in one hand,
but i’m doing it,
following my dreams and desires
(at least as far as the
morning poetry is concerned)
and the lofi is bumping
(and i can’t stop thinking
of it being labeled
‘millennial smooth jazz’)
and even though i’ve written
at least one poem
over the last three days,
the fact that the posted poems
are older than 72 hours
makes this feel…stale
(and all i really want
is for my plants to be healthy,
so i suppose
i’ll cut this short
in order to care for the greenery,
and just write/just finish/just post this singular/rambly/imperfect
poem
and hope it’s close enough
for jazz
(or for lofi, as the case may be)
kipventures 