NaPoWriMo

*Gasp*

With all the excitement, stressful or otherwise, in my life lately, I almost forgot - April is National Poetry Month and National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo)!

Now...for my regular readers out there...you might recall my struggle to participate in last November's NaNoWriMo - where participants were to write an entire novel within 30 days. In my mind, that was just over the top. As Mike Snider said on his blog, NaPoWriMo is not quite as crazy as NaNoWriMo. I have yet to officially participate in National Poetry Writing Month, so I couldn't say...but I would imagine, based on my own writing style, that he's right. I find much more pleasure in writing poetry than novels (not to say that I will never again try the novel-writing thing!) So, 30 poems in 30 days is a much more managable task.

So...I'm totally psyched that poetry has its own month, and, although I will not make any promises on how much poetry I'll get to write between now and the end of the month, it gives me a good goal - especially since my poetry writing has taken a back burner to a little thing called Life. Stay tuned, since I'll probably be posting some of it here just for you :)

Winter of '91

Today is the 18th anniversary of my mother's death. It was a day that changed my world in almost every way imaginable. I apologize for the somber tone of today's post, but wanted to pay tribute with this poem I wrote a few years ago.
---
The Winter of '91


The chill of the winter blast cut deep
with its icy razor, through the skin into the bone,
cut deep but blood froze on its way from the throat,
and the fingers of the brilliant sun
tossed salt onto the icy patch, salt upon the back
cut deep by the thrash of the cane whip.

In my 7th grade English class, I sat
still as the frozen day outside, limited speech,
eyes fixed on the sky, blue terrain over white,
I sat while the kids rehearsed diagrams and lines;
and they came. Called my name for the somber ride,
came up three floors to the unit hall, came
through the doors to the bed where she slept –
slept, but beginning the trip – packed and ready,
while we stood in the room unable to move –
in that room like all the rooms we’d known before.
Monitors kept time, breathing life, dripping slow,
keeping minutes like days. Could she stay
just a little longer?
No, no, she’s ready now.

I had walked away for a momentary break
but the clock stopped short before my return.
The words dropped from their lips, I paused
my reaction in disbelief. It cannot be.
She was the fortress of the lion, a Capricorn star.
The brightest constellation clipped its string from the sky.
Her brilliance was stolen by that demon sun,
The way it reared its head higher over white terrain.
A brilliance my eyes shunned, and that silenced the tongue.
Caught within the tunnel that allowed only half the light,
Like months of Arctic night, turning days to years.

I remember the funeral, and then pouring tea
for the comfort of friends, comforting them! Stood straight
in the room where she was, not a week ago –
her essence pervading the walls, her touch on the cups.
And all that I’d known, all who showed pity shifted
in tag-team parallels with those who stayed back from hell.

Then words stopped completely.

Years have passed now – how I’ve grown!
My sister and I became women too quickly, we were
women of 12 and 17, yet I still dreamed
of that winter white brilliance, transcending
the bitter incision and salt-sting on my back.
How the skin pulled tightly over the sores and blood,
frozen from its way up to the tongue.
Now my blood flows swiftly and warmed by the sun,
I take in the light, swallow its rays – swallow
and keep it to counter other sharp winter days.

Presidential Poetry

Tomorrow is going to be a huge day. HUGE. Not just here in the U.S., but no doubt, around the world. It's Inauguration Day for our new President.

From my previous posts, one might infer that I do not support our soon-to-be President. That would be incorrect. He is clearly an intelligent man with a new approach to things and has given our nation hope in one of its darkest hours. I may not have shared the fervor that so many have expressed, as I am a skeptic all around and prefer results rather than speculation; I may not agree with all of his proposed plans, and am not easily persuaded by his iconic stature, but I do look forward to better times ahead and, like many, am filled with hope that it all begins tomorrow.

But first, the celebrations. The swearing-in ceremony, the crowds, the music, the speeches, the poetry. Yes, the poetry - a small, but significant part of the day. The first inaugural poem in recent memory (not mine, mind you!) was read by Robert Frost at Kennedy's inauguration. Only Bill Clinton followed suit, having an inaugural poem at both inaugurations. Now, it's up to Yale Professor Elizabeth Alexander to capture the momentous occasion of having the first African American become President. The pressure is on to select just the right words, both solemn and celebratory, because, for certain, will the poem be immortalized. There was an interview yesterday with the poet; the interviewer asked if it was difficult to create a poem "on demand." She agreed it was, but said she was not scared by the challenge.

I am so glad to have the inaugural poem receive so much awareness and anticipation. Readers of THP version 1.0 might recall my attempt to encourage awareness about poetry in our times. It's not "fluff." It deserves attention, and tomorrow will put it front and center, if only for a minute in history. As one who dabbles in poetry myself, I admire Elizabeth greatly but do not envy her in her task to encapsulate the day. It is a tremendous challenge, indeed. But, I look forward to hearing her words tomorrow.

So, kudos to Elizabeth, and kudos to President Obama. Tomorrow will be their moments to shine, and we will feel the warmth of the glow.