NaPoWriMo 2017 Day 13

I’m sorry that I missed a few days of NaPoWriMo; life got in the way and I haven’t been able to make writing a priority yet. Anyway, today’s prompt from NaPoWriMo.net is to write a ghazal. I’ve never even heard of that form before, but I think I can use it to write about what is on my mind today.

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So many things to do, but her hand is numb.

She wants to do them all, but her hand is numb.

Motivation has to claw and fight its way out

And make a stand against the numb.

Will he show his anger towards her

Or present a passive face that is numb?

She tries to explain but it is never enough

To make him believe she is numb.

Dani beats her hand against her thigh

But she can’t hasten the retreat; her hand is numb.

--Dani M. Sanders, 13 Apr 2017

Poetry Thursday: Failed Career

This poem was tossed off in between household chores, so I know that it needs work. Right now I'm trying to keep to my routine of writing regularly; I promise I will start focusing on quality soon.


FAILED CAREER

I couldn't be a dancer
But I made my words
Hop and skip and jump
With tap shoes laced.

I couldn't be a singer
But I made my words
Rise and swoop and soar
With vocal grace.

I couldn't be an actor
But I made my words
Laugh and flirt and preach
With dramatic pace.

I never thought to be a writer
And now all I can do is
Sigh and cry and wonder why
I lost my place.

--Dani M. Sanders, 30 Mar 2017

Poetry Thursday: Rituals

This week, on World Poetry Day (21 Mar), I spent a good bit of time sifting through old poetry posts on this blog. It was a reminder that (a) one of my goals for 2017 was to write more, and (b) it has been about 10 years since I've written any poetry. Even though the original Poetry Thursday project stopped updating in 2007, the blog is still active and I thought I would start mining their archives for prompts to get myself writing poetry again.

Since this was a last-minute decision, I won't be posting anything new today. Instead, I'm posting a 29-year-old poem that I am guessing is closest to the type of poetry I would write today. I couldn't resist the urge to do some light editing. When I was 18 I thought it was more impactful to put only two or three words on each line, but now that style looks stilted to me. I left the actual wording alone, though. Feel free to post any constructive criticism in the comments.

RITUALS

Every morning,
Without fail,
She stands at the bus stop
Waiting for the 7:20.
And every morning,
Without fail,
He passes by her on his 10-speed bicycle,
Heading for the cafe on the corner
Where he works.
She inhales deeply his cologne
Which lingers in the air
And raises her hand in greeting
While a hesitant smile plays across her lips.
He returns her wave nonchalantly
And turns his head towards the traffic.
She turns away also,
Hoping that he can't see
The air of longing hovering over her
Like a summer storm cloud
About to burst.

--Dani M. Sanders, 14 Apr 1988

Poetry Thursday: Wife Woman Friend, Pt 2

I spent most of yesterday evening listening to spoken word poetry. Sometimes I forget how much I enjoy poetry and how much it moves me. In my fantasy world, spoken word artists are as exalted and high-paid as rappers and singers. Putting words together in twisty yet profound strands is the ultimate skill, in my mind. Why couldn't I grow up to be one of those sassy girls with rhythm and flow? Since I'm not one of those girls, I am going to share a video of one of them that I found on YouTube.

Poetry Thursday: Remembering Greensboro

Even though the Poetry Thursday blog is now defunct, I felt an urge to start talking about poetry again on Thursdays and possibly even write a bit. Who knows how long this urge will last -- I'm going with it for as long as I am inspired.

Anyway, a tweet from one of my followers on Twitter (shout-out to @guitarmantoo) made me think of the only trip I've ever taken to Greensboro. So I dashed off a quick poem about it. If you've read my other poetry, you know that I've done better than this. However, my current goal is to loosen up and post something every day without second-guessing myself so much.

REMEMBERING GREENSBORO

Caught a ride with a stranger
To meet a boy at A & T.
A boy who was a man to me
'Cause I was 15 when he was 20.

Waited three whole years, he did
To invite me up to A & T.
To protect my virtue, said he
Although there was little virtue left in me.

Stayed in a tiny room
On the campus of A & T,
Where we made love frequently
And spoke of poetry.

Images of him and me
And that room at A & T
Are all that I see
When I try to remember Greensboro.

Once

Once I was someone's daughter
With stars in my eyes and a dream in my heart.
I was full of promise then.

Once I was someone's lover
With a sexy laugh and a knowing glance.
I was full of seductiveness then.

Once I was someone's mother
With a child suckling at my breast
I was full of purpose then.

Now I am none of these things.
Promise squandered,
Seductiveness smothered,
Purpose stolen.
What am I full of, then?

Dani M. Sanders, 2008

Poetry Thursday: Cinquain

I've written free-form poetry all my life. In my youth, I was very attracted to the 1960s and so I tried to emulate poetry written in that era. Now that I am writing poetry again, I want to explore some of the closed forms. Today I offer you a cinquain inspired by this sight on my front porch:




Shoes

Scarlet, sassy
Strutting, prancing, posing
Much nicer than mine
Jealousy.

Poetry Thursday: Where I'm From

I mentioned a few weeks' ago that one of the books I was reading was "Immersed in Verse: An Informative, Slightly Irreverent & Totally Tremendous Guide to Living the Poet's Life" by Allan Wolf. Nonfiction books aimed at preteens are among my favorites. As I get older, I don't want to work quite as hard to learn things. This book is helping me learn all the stuff about poetry that I imagine the rest of you learned in college.

Anyway, I am halfway through the book right now and the first exercise is to write my own "Where I'm From" poem, using George Ella Lyon's poem as inspiration. This was more difficult I thought it would be. I was a rather morose child and young adult, so every poem I started went in a dark direction. In keeping with my new vow to "just write something", I am sharing the least depressing verse I could come up with.

I'm from tiny dark spaces
That are far from the light.
I'm from energy that spikes
In the middle of the night.
I'm from glorious coffee
In all the ways that it's made.
I'm from all shades of green,
Especially emerald and jade.
This is my essence
So brilliant and bright,
Protected by thorns
And hidden from sight.

Poetry Thursday: Finding My Niche

FINDING MY NICHE

What should I write?
Who wants to read it?
Where should I post it?
Will my words excite?
Art for art's sake
Won't feed my family
Won't pay my mortgage
Won't make things right.
Still my heart soars
When pen scratches paper
And words come together
Like lovers at night.
I'll keep on searching
For ways to combine them
Finding a livelihood
And living to write.

--Dani M. Sanders, 12 Jul 2017

Poetry Thursday: Are You Using a Line on Me?

The prompt for this week involved a bit of communal writing. Each person left a line on the Poetry Thursday site from a poem that s/he has previously written. Then, the person would take a line that someone else left and turn it into a new poem. Fun, huh?

First up is the poem that provided the line I offered (I've highlighted the line in red). This is another piece from my 20-year-old stash. I don't like the last four lines, but I don't know how to fix them. Perhaps it will take me another 20 years to figure that out.

CASSANDRA'S NERVOUS BREAKDOWN
When the mean reds get meaner,
They get darker,
Kinda like the blues
(Only bluer)
But never as down-in-your-soul bittersweet
(There ain't no singing 'bout the reds).
Yeah, when the reds decide to get MEAN,
They turn Black.
I'm not talking 'bout a
Smart-and-Sassy Black
Or a
Black-is-Beautiful Black
Or even a
Scared-Nigger-in-Klantown Black.
No, I'm talking 'bout an
End-of-the-Universe Black.
And an
Eternity-of-Insanity-in-Hell Black
Where your eyes won't start crying
And every breath feels like it's the last
And you feel like running forever
But your body won't move an inch.
And just when you've gotten
Your system calmed down,
Someone up and says
"Hello, Cass"
Or
"How's things going, Cass?"
And the tears start to flow
And you start to bawl
Which is foolishness because . . .
"After all, Cass, you ain't got
Nothing to sniffle over.
Why, you're the luckiest person
I know!"

Next up is my new poem. The line I used is highlighted in blue, and it was contributed by Regina. It came from the magnetic poetry set on her refrigerator; I'm not sure if there is a whole poem to go with it.

"One size is sad", she said.
The lies the labels bred
Were more than she could bear.
There was no way that she could wear
The same skirt that clothed a tiny derriere
Even if the label told her so.
The "one size" label was her foe.
It gave her a glimmer of hope
And for a moment helped her cope
With being past the size and age
To wear clothes that are all the rage.
But time spent in the dressing room
Sent her back into a state of gloom.

In other writing news, I've been listening to a lot of hip-hop this week and it has been inspiring me. Most of the stuff on mainstream radio isn't that creative lyrically, but the deep album cuts are a different story. I listened to Lupe Fiasco's Food and Liquor and Gym Class Heroes' As Cruel as School Children. There is a little bit of bad language, especially on the second one, but they both show a command of the language that isn't evident in a lot of pop music.

Poetry Thursday: Untitled, 11 Jan 2007

I didn't follow the optional prompt this week.  Instead, I am sharing a poem that came to me while I was trying to sleep. Inspiration often comes knocking at midnight (my muse is apparently a night owl), but I usually ignore her because I have a 5:45a wake-up call.  This time I grabbed my Treo and typed out a poem with one thumb so that Inspiration would go away and let me sleep.  Here it is:

sister time stole my wardrobe yesterday
to save me from being ticketed by the age police.
the wristwarmers and hoodies,
the boho chic and the camo
all sit in my daughter's closet now
while i'm left with nothing but
a red hat, a purple blouse,
and the supposed confidence
that comes with being 40.

--Dani M. Sanders, 11 Jan 2007

Poetry Thursday: Randomness

I had the best of intentions this week. I've been thinking about what I was going to post today since last Poetry Thursday. Alas, I let life take over once again and I didn't get much writing done. At least, I didn't create the type of verse suitable for the discerning PT readers. I did write a senryu to explain my state of mind this week:

Nervous twitch caused by
kids' long division homework,
lack of Kahlua.

I also helped my daughter C1 compose some tongue-twisters for her vocabulary homework:

Processing produce prevents pesky parasites.

and

Whiny wimpy woman wiggles for warmth.

Also, M got a passing grade today for the poem she wrote about the Revolutionary War. Here is an excerpt (I resisted the urge to edit):

I was just about to make a run for my house,
When I saw it,
A man with a loaded rifle came up and said,
"You filthy, ludicrous, insolent, heathens!"
And he shot.
The body of a woman holding a child fell to the ground.
The child cried,
And no one comforted him.
I stayed awestruck at what I had just witnessed,
No one even went to help the baby,
Or find out if the woman was truly dead.

As you can see, I haven't figured out how to balance being a mommy and a poet like January. Wish me better luck next week!

Poetry Thursday: Untitled, 24 Oct 1989

I've had words and ideas in my head all week, but I couldn't work them into a cohesive poem. So I am pulling out another old poem. Honestly, I fell victim to all the last-minute craziness of the holidays and didn't take time to put pen to paper. I do want to move writing to a higher spot on my priority list, so I need to figure out how to fit it in.

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Sitting in a lobby
The size of a Ritz cracker
Waiting for a faceless someone
To mispronounce my name
So that I may follow the garbled sound
Down the antiseptic hall
To a nondescript office,
Sit in a vegetable-colored chair,
And answer soul-stealing questions
(Knowing that they have been asked
Five times already
That very day.)
All this I must endure
To recover my peace of mind.

--Dani M. Sanders, 24 Oct 89

Poetry Thursday: PMS

P.
M.
S.
I don't even want to type the words on the same line.
My sadness is genuine and my tears are true
But I stifle them for fear that you will throw
Those dreaded three letters in my face.
I am NOT every woman.
I refuse to be lumped in and dismissed
With every other woman who made a mad dash
Down the feminine-products aisle of the market this week.
There are many days when my sobs
Are not accompanied by a similar flow
In my nether regions.
Ask me why I'm crying; don't assume you know.

--Dani M. Sanders, 21 Dec 06

Poetry Thursday: Driving My Kids Down Abbey Road

This week's prompt was to be inspired by a street.  My poem is connected to the prompt by the tiniest of unpaved side roads, but I'm sharing it, anyway.  This is my attempt to put this week's prevailing thought into words--and no, the poem is NOT about Christmas.  Feel free to give me some constructive criticism; this was written on my lunch break so I know it probably needs some work!


Driving My Kids Down Abbey Road

It's a road so well-traveled,
Many assume that
Everyone is familiar
With its landmarks.
It is the place where
My wedding song was born.
Will my little ones appreciate
The talent that once
Resided there?
Perhaps not,
But I would be remiss
If I left them with
A copy
Of a copy
Of a copy
Ringing in their ears.

--Dani M. Sanders, 14 Dec 2006

Poetry Thursday: House Hunting

Remember two weeks' ago when I said that I would write a new poem for my next Poetry Thursday contribution? Yeah. Sorry about that. School started for my kids this week, so I have been trying to spend less time on the computer and more time attending to their needs. I still haven't figured out how to fit writing into the schedule. So today's poem is another retread.

Before you read today's poem, keep this in mind. Most of my poetry is autobiographical because I don't know how to write anything else. However, I was a very different person when I wrote this poem. I am not this depressed anymore, so you don't have to send me any concerned emails offering the crisis hotline number :-). Until I write something new, all I have left in my notebook is poetry that is either morose or poorly written. I'd rather share sad poetry than bad poetry.

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HOUSE HUNTING

Last night
Insanity bent close to my ear
And whispered,
"In my house
You will be safe."
And indeed
The offer was tempting to me,
A soul in search of respite;
But then I noticed
The liquid grief
That rolled down your cheeks
As you witnessed the life
Vacating my eyes,
And I decided
To extend the lease
On my current abode.

--Dani M. Sanders, 12 September 1989

Poetry Thursday: Writer's Block

This week, our leaders over at Poetry Thursday have decided to give us a free day. You would think that this would be the perfect opportunity for me to post a new poem. Ha! The silence required to write is too uncomfortable for me right now. So I'm posting another old poem. If you are tired of leftovers, try me next week; perhaps I will have cooked up something new by then.

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Writer's Block

I can't put the words together anymore.
I've run out of life
To write about
Since you've been gone.
My life is a volume
That was loved too much
And then discarded.
It is falling apart
Leaf by leaf.
I can't mend the binding
Because the wind is blowing
The pages away
And the cover is gone.
Can you come back
Just long enough
To help me catch the pages
Before they drift too far
And I forget who I am
Or that I ever loved
And was loved?

--Dani Sanders, 19 April 1984

Poetry Thursday: Marriage

I was unable to complete the poem I was preparing for this week's prompt, so I am going to pull something out of the archives. I know that it isn't very good, but I am working on keeping some sort of routine in my life no matter what.

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Marriage

Looking up at him from her makeshift sickbed
On their faded living-room couch
As he strode through the front door,
His arms filled with her favorite comfort foods
From the Asian market
(Egg rolls, shrimp fried rice, and Darjeeling tea),
She almost forgot that she hadn't loved him
On the day she agreed to marry him
Two years ago.
She wasn't sure even now
After all these months of fixing his meals
starching his uniforms
cleaning his house
And letting him brush her long midnight black hair
(Which soothed him late at night
When he was worried about bills),
What love really was
And whether she felt it for him;
But as she watched him
Standing in their tidy blue-and-white kitchen
The brow of his somewhat ordinary face
Furrowed intently
As he tried to remember how to brew the tea,
A warmth spread through her body
That no passion could induce
And she instinctively knew
That she was safe.
Certainly that was just as good as love,
Wasn't it?

--Dani Sanders, 01 October 1990

Poetry Thursday: Singing Along

I would have thought that this week's topic would be easy. Music has pulled me through the roughest periods of my life. There are many lyrics that sound like poetry to me. Surely, I could pick something to create a poem around, couldn't I? Unfortunately, I got stumped. All those lyrics that I know by heart just flew out of my head.

Since my mind has been consumed with my eldest daughter's first formal, I offer this fragment of a poem about the experience.
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Amazingly,
The fellowship hall
Was a sea of ebony,
Beaded
And sequined
And feathered.
Even eighth-grade girls
Understand the elegance
Of a little black dress.

Sadly,
All of this elegance
Was lost
On eighth-grade boys.
What would propel them
From the far side
Of the room
To meet the ladies-in-training
On the dance floor?

Thankfully,
The DJ was experienced
In these matters.
He had the magic formula
To make them move --
"You can't see it
It's electric!
You gotta feel it
It's electric!
Ooh, it's shakin'
It's electric!"
Coattails flapping,
Sequins shimmering,
The party
Has finally begun.

Poetry Thursday: Food

Baked chicken breast
No skin, no bone, no sauce
Surrounded by steamed
Carrots and squash.
The meat is moist
Yet bland.
With every bite I take
It whispers,
"You're on a diet,
You can't deny it,
And the lust in his eyes
Has vanished."
Why do I put up with this?
I should have gotten the bratwurst--
It never talks back.

--Dani Sanders 25 Jul 2006