Posted tagged ‘14th day of National Poetry Month’

Early April – Mountain Spring

April 14, 2015


Early April – Mountain Spring

We’re in that slip
of the year in which spring
looks briefly like fall
in the same way that a baby
looks like a little old man,
wizened and reddish at the tips (no matter
the ultimate leaf or skin)
as if illuminated by a light
that just catches edged reach.

The grass lies flat
in long stretches,
and it is hard to imagine,
walking its wilted sprawl,
all the growth going on;
harder to imagine how
if a season can seem like a baby
that is also an old man, we must seem
to that white light high in the sky just now–
the one that each of us is supposed
to see so close some day, come
what may.

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Here we go–number 14!  For April, this 2015 National Poetry Month, posted for With Real Toads Tuesday Open Platform.   (Sadly, I am in the City right now, so this pic is from last April!)  k.

 

The 14th Day of National Poetry Month – Writer’s Block Sonnet (and White Sock)

April 14, 2010

Blank Page and Sock

The 14th day of National Poetry Month, sigh.  The draft sonnet I wrote today is intended to illustrate the principle that a poem can be written with no inspiration whatsoever!  In other words,  don’t wait for the muse.

The draft below follows the rhyme scheme of a Shakespearean sonnet; although I do keep to certain syllabic limits (approximately 10 or 11 syllables per line), I’m not sure that these exactly correspond to iambic pentameter.   For more on sonnet structures, check here, (or check out the poetry category form the home page of this blog).  For more on writer’s block, check out the writer’s block category.

Writer’s Block Sonnet

A blank page is not like a plain white sock.
It will do nothing for a cold foot at night,
and fits poorly into a shoe; you can’t tuck
your pants into it as part of a fight
against Lyme’s Disease; it won’t put you at ease
in any way; won’t cushion the impact
of concrete; won’t even give you release
from the itch of sand or pine needle, the tact
of the blank page so much less than the sock,
though also white and cheap and omnipresent.
The page won’t be worn quietly, it will talk
to you, it will talk at you; it will resent
any effort to shush its voice, cap its sound.
You won’t listen?  Then, it will stare you down.