NaPoWriMo Day 5 (Brianna)

(What I’m up to.)

Thanks, everyone, for the encouraging comments! They’re very motivating.

Mary, I put Kamloops and Osoyoos in there specifically for you!

Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump, II

Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump, II

Walking the lip of the jump, I notice a tree
a ways off the path, a scraggly, wind-wracked,
haphazard excuse for a tree, still leafless
for the most part, and cold-looking.
Bits of bundled fabric—frayed, sun-faded, more like rags
than ribbons—hang in its branches. They seem somehow eerie,
like abandoned toys, or Christmas lights no one bothered
to take down. It sticks in the back of my mind.
As I leave I mention it to the Blackfoot girl at the desk.
The asking makes me shy, like an intruder. She glances away
and says the tree is sacred. It holds offerings and prayers
to the ancestors, so that they can use this place. Does that tree
cover for me? Or could I, in all fairness, trip and fall
over the jump, that wind that frays the fabric
fanning out my hair, before my skull splits
on the kill ground, brains white as cloud, falcon food.

Holy Day 5, Bat-poet!

I think my response to today’s Poetic Asides post ended up as #479. The prompt was “landmark”; I snuck a peek at it before church, and even jotted down some ideas while in my pew…

From Poem A Day Drafts

…and, two Word documents and eight attempts at a title later, this is what it’s gonna be for the night:

Here We Go ‘Round the 440 Loop

The spires of the Batman Building to my left
tell me that I’ve once again gone astray,
auto-piloting my car to Green Hills
instead of the museum at which I was supposed
to meet you ten minutes from now. It’s hard
not to feel like a joke when this happens: if I
were a cartoon, I’d be Charlie Brown’s foot
connecting yet again with nothing but air
and mockery. And yet I don’t mind
making my girlfriend laugh when I explain
the photos she wants to see of the plum tree
three blocks north will be stuck on my phone
until I reload the BlueTooth software
that’s on the CD I happened to file
somewhere other than where I looked last night.
There’s no diploma from Superheroine U.
shining from my walls, and yet I can’t help
feeling I should be able to help myself
from and over this kind of stupid —
to hurdle the rote and routine in a single bound
and hurl myself headlong into any darkness,
trusting my heightened senses to haul me through
and restore what I can to a story we can bear.

– pld

Take Two (NaPoWriMary 5)

I was challenged to re-write yesterday‘s poem idea without a rapist, as they are, possibly, “easy antagonists”. (See “Mr Hyde’s Daughter”.)

So, I got about twenty lines in, building story, but don’t think I have the stamina tonight to finish. Violence is short-hand for many things but sister-speaking is a longer thing. More on this later.

Opening lines:

You went when the banners came.
Your war found me mid-field,
misbehaving, tongue-slip of your name
stilling the overseer’s slap. Magic

NaPoWriMo, Day 4 (Brianna)

(What I’m up to.)

Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump, I

A peregrine and his mate nest in the face of the jump,
now, in the quiet season, before tourists herd themselves up
and down its slope, craning their necks, snapping
photographs.  Now it’s just us and the biting wind
he glides on, and his shriek.  He lands on a signpost
he doesn’t know is a signpost, flares his feathers, eyes us
with ancient ferocity.  Guarding his nest
from our invasion of two, our binoculars
and peanut butter crumbs.   Poor guy,
I tell my husband. He has no idea
what’s gonna come.

PAD Day 4: Downward Dog

I mis-clicked on something when I checked Poetic Asides this morning, so I spent most of the day thinking the prompt was “thankfulness” (which was the prompt for April 4 last year). Fortunately, I think there’s somewhere else I want to send that poem once I’m done writing it.

In the meantime, the actual prompt for today was “animal.” So:

Downward Dog

At yoga class, the woman to my left
radiates anxious importance
and under-applauded expertise,
proclaiming how many hours
she’s already worked that morning
and how little sleep she’s running on
and how much she’s sweated
through her other sessions at the studio.

It feels like contagion, like water
from a river soaked with pollutants.
I try to increase the distance between
her body and mine without being rude

and then I want to sink through the floor
because it’s dawned on me, This is how
I come across! Not as a glowing
whirlwind, not as a bringer of fire,
of fuel, but as someone tarred
by her own mis-juggled torches…

My face burns as I stretch. I slouch
back home to my couch, the better
to lick my self-inflicted nonsense, but my girl
shoves her snout into my lap, full
of warm, insistent pet me NOW.
I tell her she’s a menace. She slurps
at my toes and wags her tail harder.
As my fingers obediently scritch through honey fur,
I silently stammer, Lord, teach me
to turn my own insatiable clamoring
into something I myself could welcome.


The N+7 exercise Joanne mentioned in her most recent post looks like fun, so I may indulge in that once I’m done reminding myself how to sing fourths. (They’re not usually quite this troublesome, but my ending E-natural happens to be against the first sopranos’ F-sharp, and during rehearsal I was hitting everything around the damn note, but not the E itself.) And in publication news, Spider Vein Impasto is now available from Blood Pudding Press, and it includes my poems “Camouflage” and “At Persephone’s Cafe.”

My skin grows sticky as a web.

Progress: Yesterday I wrote an incomplete first draft of a poem about a nightmare I’d had the night before, which involved this gigantic hairy spider leaping onto my head and laying her egg sacs in my hair. What I have of the poem is pretty good, I think, for a first draft, but there’s four or five little blank where I need a better image than what I have. I’ll come back to it in May and make it (I hope) brilliant. Today I’m planning to try my version of N+7, in which I replace nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs and only keep the sentence structure, and then use the resulting hot mess with its occasional serendipitous accidents as a springboard to write something that makes sense, on “Elegy for Sol LeWitt” by Ann Lauterbach, which is the Academy of American Poets’ Poem-A-Day poem for today.

Prompt for today: Join me. Pick a poem you like and do an N+7 and then craft something sensible out of it.

Mirrored at joannemerriam.com.