Wednesday, April 30, 2014

National Poetry Month, Day 30: Adieu, April! Adieu, poems!

April ends; goodbye, National Poetry Month! We played poet all month thanks to daily prompts over at the Writer's Digest Poem a Day challenge, and most of the time it was really, really fun. On the other days we played suffering writer and that was kind of fun too. And if the quality of the poems here at CathyBlogs was pale as usual, we did write one we really, really like. Considering that we wrote or reworked a poem a day, that's a lot of first drafts. We're thinking about taking some time to turn some of those first drafts into last gasps drafts.

We promised Ray on this last day. So here's two. First, one I just love and I fully confess to my reliance on, Thesaurus,com and my favorite,


He knew he was
in trouble when,
in the middle
of the poem,
he found himself
for his thesaurus
and then
in that order.
(from All of Us)

I might not have much in common with Ray Carver but that little bit warms my heart.

Okay. This one.

Late Fragment

And did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth.
(from All of Us)

Thank you Writer's Digest for the opportunity, Robert Lee Brewer for the inspiration and enthusiasm, the poet/judges whose work is just beginning, and the thousands of poets who wrote so honestly and beautifully and bravely all month. Somehow most of my poems went into moderation; I seem to be on some kind of comment bad list. But maybe that's where a poet should be.

The last prompt:
... write a “calling it a day” poem. Some people might call this “Miller time,” others may refer to it as “closing time.” Just remember: Don’t call it a day until you put it in a poem.
Being classically trained (aka English major),we thought of Robert Browning and 'My Last Duchess' and went for that elusive poetry fun factor. (Perhaps the only blog in the world that includes that phrase today. You're welcome.) We offer this with apologies to Mr Browning.

My Last Poem
Apologies to Robert Browning

That's my last poem lying on the desk,
looking as fresh as when first printed. I call
That piece a wonder, now:  I worked on it
for days, and now there it lies.
Won't you please sit and read it? I said
'my poem' on purpose; unread
strangers like you who hear free verse,
the depth and passion of its unmetered lines,
then to myself they turn (since none quick get
the stanzas I have written for you, but I)
and it seems you would ask me -- and you can --
how come a word here, or there; you're not the first
to ask about it. Well, it wasn't some
unknown muse alone that made me write
of my 'dark desire': perhaps
like Shakespeare, I might have said, 'In colour black
why wrapt she beams so bright?' or 'She,
even in black, doth make all beauties flow!' such
stuff now seems formal, even florid, but then,
some are not easily impressed.
                            Though the paper lies so still,
the poem lives upon it. Won't you please
pick it up, and give it speech? My muse has known
munificence, although this poem has no pretence
to greatness. Let's read it together, and see
if, for once, this one exceeds the mark,
or if it is -- how shall I say? --
a verse too soon made glad.

Eight seconds left in overtime. Suddenly I become part of your past.

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