NaPoWriMo 2023 Day 24

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Photo Credit: Zoltan Tasi
https://unsplash.com/@zoltantasi

I’ve missed a couple of days this month, but life has a way of sneaking up on me. The marking period ended and grades had to be entered and finalized. I’m preparing for all the year end activities—concerts and shows and oh yeah, my baby graduating is graduating eighth grade.

Wait.

My baby is graduating eight grade.

Sigh.

He’s off to high school next year and new big adventures. Leaving mama in his dust and growing to be such an amazing human.

Now I’ve probably got you thinking I wrote a poem about the Little Wonder. Not yet, but I can promise you one is brewing. That kid is one of a kind. A child I begged God for—one that nearly cost me my life but worth every bit of everything.

Any way I digress…

The prompt for today had us start off by reading Arvind Krishna Mehrotra’s “Lockdown Garden.” Then we had to try to write a poem of our own that has multiple numbered sections. The goal was to attempt to have each section be in dialogue with the others, like a song where a different person sings each verse, giving a different point of view. Finally I was to set the poem in a specific place that I used to spend a lot of time in but don’t spend time in anymore.

As always, the poem started with me having an intention of direction, and the poem (wild and untamed beast that it is) went its own way. I’m not sure it met the prompt, but as always, it met me where I needed to be. Enjoy!

Blood Moon 

1.
The water understands;
sound stirring
the light loosens
unraveling fingers
into the dark night.

2.
There is loneliness
in my glass bowl—
hands folded behind,
waiting and wondering
when blue and green
will bring on the birds.

3.
Circles slacken
fan and wrinkle;
four corners unite
under the roll
of lapping waves.

The sky looms
a vessel become void.
How does water
siphoned, fill the fissures
below the surface?

4.
I turn around,
turn toward the ripe
red berry rising;
night has darkened—
only lingering light
haunts me.

—Carla Jeanne

NaPoWriMo 2023 Day 13

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Photo Credit: Tony Stoddard

Today’s prompt didn’t spark joy, so I simply wrote. All day long the phrase “I sat for years like an elephant in the garden…” stayed with me as I pondered where the words might take a poem.

Well, read on, my friend, and you will see… the journey is always worth it, even when it is hard and long.

Garden View

I sat for years
like an elephant in the garden waiting to become a feather.

White quilts warmed
on winter afternoons;
windows opened in the spring—

the subtle scent of daisies
wafting on the breeze.
I grew slowly into my skin—

five decades of painstaking
transformation; my narrative
unfurling slowly

as a fern frond
in the first light of dawn—
a singular dance of joy.

—Carla Jeanne

NaPoWriMo 2023 Day 9

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Photo Credit: Chris Fuller
https://unsplash.com/@chrisfullr

The prompt for the day is a favorite of my writing twin, but for me it’s always a challenge. Today was called Sonnet Sunday, and the challenge was to write …. Wait for it… a sonnet!

A traditional sonnet is 14 lines long, with each line having ten syllables that are in iambic pentameter (where an unstressed syllable is followed by a stressed syllable). Blah blah blah… read between the lines that I’m not feeling in the Shakespeare way today. Still the theme was love and I tried my best, but what you see is what I got.

I chose a more modern version of the sonnet. I chose a curtal sonnet. The curtal sonnet is a form invented by Gerard Manley Hopkins, and used in three of his poems. It is an eleven-line (or, more accurately, ten-and-a-half-line) sonnet, this the name “curtal”—a curtailed or contracted sonnet.

This type of sonnet refers to a sonnet of 11 lines rhyming abcabc dcbdc or abcabc dbcdc with the last line a tail, or half a line. I’m not sure at all that I did it “right”, but the practice was engaging and valuable as always.

Yes I know…

Some of you are thinking “whatever, Carla”…trust me I feel the same but I press on with the practice because it brings me joy. So… here is my rather interesting take on a love sonnet to a thief. Enjoy!

Love

Perchance one day she’ll catch the old thief
who slipped and stole—tip toe hush hush—the wind that rose
beneath her sails. She’ll jaunt away with jubilee
on a junket of her own motif.
She found not a soul had noticed her wilted woes—
instead the slippery folk strained their necks to see.
Ranting relief brought rancor and rage;
after carefully crafted and curated glee,
she discovered the power of poems and prose.
Freedom fell and she escaped that golden-gilded cage—
she found her sanity.

—Carla Jeanne

NaPoWriMo 2023 Day 8

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Photo Credit: Mana Nabavian
https://unsplash.com/@mana_nabavian

Well then.

Today’s prompt was a doozy and a good one for Saturday. After running around all day, I wrote in snippets here and there, so if things seem disjointed, you’ll at least understand the reason why.

The prompt was another oldie-but-goodie. It really pushes you to use specific details, and to work on “conducting” the poem as it grows, instead of trying to force the poem to be one thing or another in particular. The prompt is called the “Twenty Little Poetry Projects,” and was originally developed by Jim Simmerman. Here is the list of the twenty little projects themselves — the challenge is to use them all in one poem. Whew! And I’m here to tell you it’s not nothing to attempt this particular prompt.

Here are the instructions:

1. Begin the poem with a metaphor.
2. Say something specific but utterly preposterous.
3. Use at least one image for each of the five senses, either in succession or scattered randomly throughout the poem.
4. Use one example of synesthesia (mixing the senses).
5. Use the proper name of a person and the proper name of a place.
6. Contradict something you said earlier in the poem.
7. Change direction or digress from the last thing you said.
8. Use a word (slang?) you’ve never seen in a poem.
9. Use an example of false cause-effect logic.
10. Use a piece of talk you’ve actually heard (preferably in dialect and/or which you don’t understand).
11. Create a metaphor using the following construction: “The (adjective) (concrete noun) of (abstract noun) . . .”
12. Use an image in such a way as to reverse its usual associative qualities.
13. Make the persona or character in the poem do something he or she could not do in “real life.”
14. Refer to yourself by nickname and in the third person.
15. Write in the future tense, such that part of the poem seems to be a prediction.
16. Modify a noun with an unlikely adjective.
17. Make a declarative assertion that sounds convincing but that finally makes no sense.
18. Use a phrase from a language other than English.
19. Make a non-human object say or do something human (personification).
20. Close the poem with a vivid image that makes no statement, but that “echoes” an image from earlier in the poem.

Below is my attempt at following this prompt. Enjoy!

Windows

Wisdom is a window
that opens a crack
only to shatters into shards—
the sound like bells
calling me to rise.

My hand reaches
to brush away the mess
only to feel the sharp bits pierce my skin. Thinking back,
I realize the beauty of wonder

lived in her smile,
and Virginia was her name
but her singing, oh yes,
her singing! Her singing
was the color of sunshine.

I remember how she looked
like the moon and drank water
from her hands. Every morning she woke with a headache
caused by her flat feet and smize

But her speech,(yes,her speech!)
tasted like spicy honey,
especially when she leaned
out the window and hollered,
“Flaming emmets!”

The sudden shifting of love
caused her to hate them on sight,
but it was her lips that bellowed
bright with the dull ache
felt deep in her gut.

The bird escaped mere moments
before the clouds collapsed
and Miss J made her escape.
Some day, yes some day,
some day she will be free

to follow the fertile flight
of her futile fancy. Until then.
“Sånt är livet när kjolen
är randig”—that’s life
when the skirt is striped.

The window of wisdom
opens with ignorance
while the monkey whispers lies
about how freedom and fear
walk arm in arm.

—Carla Jeanne

NaPoWriMo 2023 Day 5

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Photo Credit
https://unsplash.com/@cadop

The prompt for Day 5 was to begin by reading Charles Simic’s poem “The Melon.” It would be easy to call the poem dark, but as they say, if you didn’t have darkness, you wouldn’t know what light is. Or vice versa. The poem illuminates the juxtaposition between grief and joy, sorrow and reprieve.

For today’s challenge, I was to write a poem in which laughter comes at what might otherwise seem an inappropriate moment – or one that the poem invites the reader to think of as inappropriate.

So here you go….

Starlings 

In the garden sits
my favorite blue chair—
where I bask
in the sun
bathing
my bones

cradling
cold
grief.

The silence startled
with a sudden cacophony—
of starlings
laughing
from the leaves.

Clarity came on
hard and fast
as I turned
toward the sun,
closed my eyes
and smiled.

—Carla Jeanne

NaPoWriMo 2022 Our Lady of the Garden

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Hummingbird right: Photo by Kelly Colgan Azar/flickr/CC.

Today’s prompt was based on the aisling, a poetic form that developed in Ireland. An aisling recounts a dream or vision featuring a woman who represents the land or country on/in which the poet lives, and who speaks to the poet about it.

Today’s challenge was to write a poem that recounts a dream or vision, and in which a woman appears who represents or reflects the area in which I live.

We shall see how this goes today. We shall see what form my dream-visitor takes.

Happy reading!

Our Lady of the Garden

In the garden
a tiny, perfect
bird landed
on my shoulder.

Jewel-toned
and stunning,
the bird
morphed into a
beautiful woman
right before
my eyes.

The trumpet vines
flashing brilliant
orange flowers
shone in the sun
like a halo
around her head.

My angel with
her flaming crown,
and delicate hands,
she felt
born of spirit,
born of dream.

Sing, she told me
Sing of the Universe.
Sing of the beauty
of the earth.


In my dream-state
I sing her song.

I see in her
the land and sky;
she connects me
to water and earth.
The waves roll
in her laughter;
the plants flourish
under her hands.

From my heart
I sing of us.

We become
a tapestry,
woven together—
garden and bird,
woman and earth.

When I wake,
it is daylight.
I look out
my window
and see
a hummingbird—
wings whirling
without resting—
sipping nectar
from flaming goblets
shaped like
trumpet flowers.

—cjpjordan




NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 12

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Photo Credit: https://abcbirds.org/blog21/amazing-facts-hummingbird-chicks/

Today’s prompt came as no surprise. Yesterday, the challenge was to write a poem about a very large thing. Today, I had to invert my inspiration and write a poem about a very small thing. 

Maybe you’d like to try your hand at poetry. I would love to hear what tiny thing you’d like to write about in your poem. I landed on hummingbird eggs and rather enjoyed the adventure.

 Faerie Eggs

How small they were—teeny tiny—
Like faerie eggs enclosed in spiny
forest foliage—safe and sound.

Mysterious and magical
Protected by the physical
Perhaps I was on Faerie Ground.

And then I saw them fluttering
up and down the trees scuttering
while I stood statue-like, spellbound.

Hummingbirds dipped and dashed; they flew
around my head with quite a crew
of wee guardians duty bound

to protect from the likes of me.
I stepped away so quietly—
slipped like a ghost to the background.

Tiny wings moved faster than light
soon disappearing from my sight;
gathering my wits I glanced around,

And I knew I was all alone
for the forest looked overgrown—
save the twinkling Dust on the ground.

—cjpjordan

NaPoWriMo 2022 Day 9

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Thanks and shoutout to Dahiana Waszaj who made this image available for free on Unsplash.

Todays prompt asked us to write in a specific form—the nonet.

A nonet has nine lines. The first line has nine syllables, the second has eight, and so on until you get to the last line, which has just one syllable.

Maybe this is the time you want to try your hand at poetry writing. The nonnet is a form that doesn’t have to rhyme, so for all of you not-into-rhyming friends, this is a great form.

I hope you choose to have some fun with writing today.

First

The birds warmed their feet on the long wire—
some thought about hot summer days,
others gossiped about how
Gini’s Gang was taking
over Town. I mean,
the absolute
nerve! Go! We
were here
first.

—cjpjordan

Heatwave

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Photo Credit: Thanks and shoutout to Bryan Hanson 

I’ve been taking some time to regroup after a grueling year and a half-is of teaching. I didn’t think relaxing would be as hard as it has been. I don’t think I realized just how taxing a year of virtual work and life was until I started to slow down.

Given that Trace needed her spinal fusion immediately, her recovery has been our primary concern this summer. We had already booked plans to head down south and camp in Laurel, Mississippi, navigating our way down to Folly Beach and maybe even New Orleans, but we had to cancel all those plans to concentrate on things closer to home.

We found out in the early spring that our beautiful big red maple was causing foundation damage to our home, so out it had to come. This meant tearing up our beautiful wood deck out back. But we had to do what we had to do, so I decided if the deck was getting ripped out anyway that we would replace it with concrete. We would enjoy our summer vacation from the luxury of our own new patio. Win-win!

With the hope that all construction work would be done by the beginning of June, we ripped out the deck and threw tarps down so the dogs could still use the backyard. Well, those of you near us know the massive amounts of torrential rain coupled with brutal heat we have had this summer. Now the back yard is one muddy lake and the dogs have to be walked on leash out in the front in order for them to take care of their business.

And the construction work has yet to begin.

Except now we have an excavator taller than our house in the backyard and the contractor is heading off to vacation next week.

Sigh.

My poem today is in honor of the tiny gold finch bathing in the mud lake that is now our backyard, the late great Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., and staycations.

Heatwave

Summer came on steamy winds of spring
the torrid heat belied the month of June;

summer storms raged like May shower
bombs of heat detonating in waves.

All that remained come muggy morning
was the mucky mess of mud called garden

and one tiny goldfinch preening in a puddle
making me wish I had been born a bird instead.

--Carla Jeanne Picklo Jordan

A Septet of Lines

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Photo Credit: Shoutout to Annie Spratt on social.

The poetry challenge I place before you today this: I’d love for you to try writing a lune.

A lune is a sort of English-language haiku. While the haiku is a three-line poem with a 5-7-5 syllable count, the lune has two different options.

The first option for a lune is a three-line poem with a 5-3-5 syllable count. The second variant is based on word-count instead of syllable count. This means the poem still has three lines, but the first line has five words, the second line has three words, and the third line has five words again.

I chose this latter form to write my poem. Today I give you a Septet of Lunes. Try your hand at it and share it in the comments. I look forward to reading your take on the lune.

dinner on the deck

the cardinals always come--
strutting red coats,
snapping seeds in a single crunch.

the dark eyed junco hops
tentatively to feed,
nervously glancing side to side

the chickadees flit over lightly
with great decorum
landing lightly on the feeder.

sparrows hide in the bushes
waiting their turn,
hanging out in patient packs.

the house finch dines together
with the others--
sparrows, chickadee, cardinal and junco.

when the blue jay plows
in to feed,
the sea of birds part;

but the noisy starlings arrival
clears everyone out--
iridescent bullies chasing away friends.

—Carla Jeanne Picklo Jordan