Oy. I have a tendency to procrastinate when things get easy. One poem per day should be no problem at all. So I get cocky and begin to think 'Oh I can do eight tomorrow, no problem.' But it is a problem. Oh, yes. a huge problem.
So today, I'm going to write the poem that I don't really want to write. I only ask that Napowrimo get newer and shinier in a hurry because novelty is what sustains me in these sorts of crises.
On April 5, 2011
Well, we’re a sixth of the way there, folks! Keep up the good work!
And now for our daily prompt. First, I’ll just clarify that the prompts are entirely optional – they’re there to help you out in case you are feeling uninspired, but you can ignore them at will. Anyway, today’s prompt plays on the fact that poetry itself is a type of play, and that great lines often arise out of paradoxes and oxymorons. With that, I give you the Serendipitous Oxymoron Maker, which will randomly pair up words into oxymorons for you, like “blissful zombie” or “sour beauty.” Try a few, and see if you can’t incorporate at least one into your poem for today.
Our featured site for today is A Page of Woe Absolved, the blog of the by-initials-only VMH. VMH has participated in NaPoWriMo every year since 2005!
And finally, another National Poetry Month site for you to peruse: literary site The Rumpus is featuring a poem by a different poet every day for the month of April. Check them out here.
Crucial Poetry After the Cut
Again, I did not follow directions.
This happened a long time ago, when I didn't really know what to make
of my own hands.
The fortune teller came into my office on her own
as if she had sought me out. When she did, I
had to remind myself to be good.
The 'peaceful' witch across the way already hated me.
She as much as told me that I didn't belong there
that I was not the kind of person who should be happy
that I was not the kind of person who should find love.
I look back now and I am glad that everything witches say comes back in threes.
The fortune teller and I talked about life--
school and sickness and fate
The fortune teller and I talked about magic--
the ebb and flow of energy
the way the books you need find you
the monsters that go bump in the night
The fortune teller and I talked about the mutated lines drawn upon my hands--
how the lines were drawn too deep to change
how they stood alone stark against the white of my palms
how the lines of my heart and mind were forever severed
And I dreamed they were a treasure map.