Wednesday, March 8, 2023

My Poetry Challenge, Week One


 At the last minute this month, I decided to finally commence with an idea I've been wanting to carry out for several months now: a poetry challenge, based on the format of Kaitlin Curtice's poetry challenge from last May. (She has a new book that just came out! Everyone go check it out!) I made up the prompts, painted them onto slips of paper, and have been drawing them at random and writing a poem every morning. Some of my friends are participating too, which has been lovely, and perhaps in the future I'd like to open the challenge to more people. 

In the meantime, here are the first week's poems! Unedited and off-the-cuff.

Day 1: "Argument"


I'm so glad

we had this discussion!

I'm so glad that after

twenty minutes of my 

completely brilliant

totally amazing

groundbreaking compelling

arguing

that you have come to see

that I am

right.

Climate change is real, you see,

and my feelings matter

and that one thing you said

hurt my feelings and now

you are sorry,

and our politics align 

like stars in a constellation

and also you agree that

Wall•E really is a brilliant movie

(even the end)

and also why yes, this is my favorite

dress and yes, I patched it myself

and yes,

it is the most beautiful dress you've ever seen.

I'm so glad we had this discussion,

and that in the end you agreed with

absolutely everything I said!

(Now it's time for me to get out of the shower

and stop arguing with the faucet.)




Day 2: "Beauty"


Sunrise

a broken rib of light

on the river—

a breath of something

altered,

a sign that gray

gives way

to dawn

each day

again 

and

again

and 

again

and 

again.



Day 3: "Repetition"


I just did laundry yesterday, I swear

I thought the dishwasher was emptied but here I am,

loading it again

and it was just Christmas yesterday

so how is it almost spring?

I am growing increasingly suspicious

that time is not a line but a circle

turning round and round

each day a new chance to glimpse the beauty

and do the laundry once again.



Day 4: "Poor"


You catch me at the oddest times.

I'll be mending a shoe

or altering a shirt

or scraping the last bits of bleu cheese dressing out of the jar

and you jump on my back,

claws in my shoulders, and whisper,

"You will not have enough."

                You knock my breath out, sometimes.

                You transform my vision

                so all I see are cracks and stains and things about to break

                and I wonder, "Will I have enough?

                Will I be enough?

                If disaster strikes will I be okay?"

I have to reach behind my neck and untangle your grip,

claw by bloody claw,

let myself breathe in the air,

let myself be held by the world,

chant the word like a prayer, like a mantra:

Enough, enough, enough.



Day 5: "Birthright"


to love and dance and sing

to play and make and think

to comfort and rant and laugh

to sigh and rage and weep

to swim and eat and marvel

to cook and transform and smile

to plant and harvest and enjoy

to draw and paint and weave

to embrace all the rhythms and habits of being human:

this is what I was made for,

this is my birthright.



Day 6: "Perceive"


~"How's it goin'?"

"It's goin'."

"Livin' the dream."

"I'm awake."

~"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"I'm fine."

"It's okay."

~"How's your week?"

"Busy."

"Busy."

"Busy."

.

~"How's it goin'?"

"I have twenty emails to answer and I feel so overwhelmed."

"My heart hurts so much I'm afraid it'll crack in two."

"The weight of existence is so heavy that I wonder why I try."

~"What's wrong?"

"I don't have words to tell you what's wrong."

"I've been told it's wrong to be anything but fine."

"If I have one more person ask what's wrong without wanting to know I am going to scream."

~"How's your week?"

"Busy with existential dread."

"Busy because that's what you're supposed to say."

"Busy, and I'm so, so tired."



Day 7: "Altitude"


Here my lungs can't get enough breath,

here among snow-streaked granite

and Clark's nutcrackers screeching at me—

here my lungs can't get enough breath

because the air is thin

and so am I

(all I've eaten today is one Snickers bar)

and the sequoia trees aren't real somehow,

and neither are the tarns, mirror-like against the cliffs.

I am up too high,

I have flown too close to the sun,

and I am weeping, wishing

for the cornfields and the rivers

and the oxygen below.


~~~

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