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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