Day 11 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit

I wrote a poem today but you’re not going to see it. I feel like hell and today’s poem shows it. But I wanted to be accountable, so here’s me being accountable and running a haggard eleventh lap with one seriously shitty poem tucked under my shirt. Nothing to see here. Nothing at all to see.

-M.

(Day 11 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)

Exclusionary Gratitude re: Gum

I am grateful for gum
But only for myself and
The highbrow few who
Know how to chew
Silently

Everyone else? A crack
Or a smack should get you ten
In the pen where open-
Hearted and closed-
Mouthed missionaries
Teach by parable how to
WWJD it
In regards to absent-
Minded yet tasty and
Socially acceptable cud.

-M.
(Day 10 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)

Little Trees Do

Dragging the little tree’s
Corpse behind me a
Diatribe to the heatwaves
Rising from the cement

It’s not you, little tree
Doing what little trees do
Maybe even trying to
Shade the porch in
Your little tree ugly
Intrusive volunteer way.

It’s not you little tree
It’s the gardener
Who let you grow
Lets the rose bushes
Grow too
Evil arms that reach and
Grab in the walk

Blind to anything
Apparently
But mow and go—
Especially go.

-M.
(Day 9 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)

Context! Context! I Hear It in My Sleep

My poetry often tends toward context-less sketches.

Today’s, for example, is just about wings—red, crepe paper wings. There is no big meaning. There is no money line. It’s just…. here’s this picture. Is there beauty there?

Does poetry need a money line, or is the image enough? Is it enough to sketch and offer the sketch without offering an interpretation of the sketch?

I feel like it is but just about everyone I’ve ever encountered either teaching a workshop or participating in a workshop with me thinks differently.

I painted red, crepe-paper wings today standing up to a hurricane. That’s it. No context. No background to give you an idea of where the “wearer of the wings” is, where she came from, or who she is. I think the picture is pretty enough on its own. If a visual artist had to go into a long expository about what the pearl meant and why it was significant and what that girl was doing there and why her head was turned that way and the deeper meaning you should get out of it, it would be an unsuccessful painting. I feel the same can be true of some poems.

Here. Here’s the picture. Sometimes that’s enough.

Sometimes money lines get tiresome.

This could be me simply justifying bad poetic behavior—a naughty habit like the creative equivalent of hanging up the phone without saying “good-bye” or “I love you.” I’m not above rationalization. I may be above context, but not rationalization. Never rationalization.

How important is context really? How much can I get away with, or, more to the point, how little?

Am I a minimalist, or am I lazy?

Anthony Hopkins looks into the camera and asks, “Am I a good man, or a bad man?”

-M.

While procrastinating folding the laundry, I found a book about how to overcome procrastination. I was looking for a writing course to have something to do instead of folding the laundry. I found the book on procrastination. Now I’m posting about the book on procrastination instead of folding the laundry.

-M.

I’m going to Disneyland today. We are leaving at six. I got up at two to make sure I had time to journal, write a poem to keep up my poem-a-day streak, post my poem in two different places, work on my major craft project, and write for my book before I had to start getting ready. This is me… crowing. Somebody get me some Gatorade and a sling. My throat is dry and my back-patting arm is broken.

-M.

I’m Really a Nice Lady

I respect you less because
You love me unconditionally

I don’t respect you at all

You went in for a kiss and
I gave you my neck

Enough perfume to keep
You panting for another year

As if you needed a reason, dog-
-ed devotion is an un-sexy face

You let me shatter you
And I shatter you

A matter of course like college boys becoming
Sadistic prison guards when

Given the go-on by closet sadistic
Psychiatrists in the name of a science

Doomed to perpetual infancy, grow
A pair

And some hair and tell me to
My face I’m a bitch

Be a goddamned man
Stop dotting your hearts with

I… I… I… am not worth it
Have made myself not worth it

On purpose you shake
My linear foundations

One pulsing emotion that you are
I look down on you

for that too.

-M.
(Day 6 of my 66 Day Poetry Habit)

Sometimes I lay into it and declare stridently that my prose is so much better than poetry. It occurred to me this morning that that’s probably just a way of giving myself an excuse to punk out on writing poetry to the best of my ability. This composition stuff can be hard and scary as hell sometimes.

-M.