Dolores, wake up and see the sunshine pouring
from the window into your room. Listen to the birds
singing against the old creaks of the house, to the calls
of automobiles outside. Come now, there is a warm breakfast
waiting for you downstairs, champorado doused in milk with
fish flakes. Your children wait for you, their bowls will get cold.
Dolores, they ask, when is Mama coming? They ask this just as often
as they ask where their father is, who their father is. They ask just as often
as there are rainstorms in Manila. Even the house, the birds, the automobiles
are asking, when is Mama coming? The world is waiting, waiting, and where are you now?
Dolores, please don’t die.
Day 26: Write a curtal sonnet.
i wouldn’t know what summer feels like beyond thermal heat from the sun, and the humidity of the atmosphere. i wouldn’t know why you humans go out and celebrate thermal heat as if it were the greatest gift this planet could give you. i wouldn’t know what is in the oceans and skies that makes humans want to preserve them in oils and tints and films. i wouldn’t know why you dance to a mishmash of sounds and frequencies and why you would waste such time doing so. i wouldn’t know why summer makes you humans happy. i wouldn’t know why the promise of entropy, the promise of the salvation of our universe, would make you any less happy than the blueness of water of the cool sweetness of watermelon and ice cream. i wouldn’t know why you humans feel happiness – i wouldn’t know why you humans feel anything at all. i wouldn’t know why, when you are close to fulfilling your fate as a magical being and as a provider for the universe, you cry tears as salty as the ocean you love, as if losing the thermal heat of summer for all eternity is a bad thing.
Day 25: Write a poem that uses anaphora.
／人◕ ‿‿ ◕人＼
Manila’s skies are a downcast yellowish-greyish mishmash
with heavy showers pouring from the dark clouds
dotting it, down onto the old walled city below. Watch as
water overruns the old cobbled steps, look at the old stones
underneath and wonder how many rainstorms they’ve
endured. The walls are veteran sentinels in the rain,
the Spanish buildings old mares and pares chatting as water
pours down their faces. Even the ruins and the prisons
recognize the rain. And all too well. They have known more storms
than I ever will, and looking at the dark Manila skies, I
wonder – is it for the best?
Day 24: Write a poem about masonry.
Too high, creaking restaurant. Lava had mud, an
imminent seed, sax slashed, swan bid, yeah? Kess
veiled, musical seen in mangy.
Restore anonymity on MYTHOS.
Creek lane tubs, sure? Ah! O, hockey sticks, villa decks,
longitude latitude. Crows be Sealandic,
sale at Japan, annex Rhys. Vatican, ack, not Valjean!
Soon, high dawn, pill, go talk and ridicule, yeah?
Ah, key nine: creaking tail-head.
Gym roast? Polite teas? Messy guys? Oh, hellos.
I gave Lyra turkey, peels, and near meat.
My dog, he needs orange juice. Odysseus, see me ahead,
kill the circus sicko and Dexter’s mutts. Nude
on nude, I who veal, marks minute guy jump nude.
Creek lane tulls, ebbs, narratives can stab,
castes cannot. Oh, indeed, FAILED HYPNOSIS. MYTHOS.
Day 23: Take a poem in a foreign language and “translate” it.
Poem used is An Empty Greek Restaurant by Hasso Krull.
With great apology to Estonian speakers.
Little Rabbit, go inside
Little Rabbit, stay in the hole
There are foxes out tonight
who love to eat little rabbit meat
Little Rabbit, eat your dinner
Little Rabbit, eat your carrots and peas
Foxes don’t like eating rabbits
that taste like leafy greens
Little Rabbit, come take a bath
Little Rabbit, the water’s nice and warm
Foxes don’t like eating rabbits
that smell squeaky clean
Little Rabbit, time for bed
Little Rabbit, close your eyes
Foxes don’t eat rabbits that are asleep –
even they’re too polite for that!
Day 22: Write a children’s poem.
Unrepentant Geraldines will come out this May
and you know me how excited I am for that
you know when I first found out it was raining
but I love the rain and I love Tori so I figured it was a sign
I go on forums and everyone else is excited too
though there are a couple of pessimistic assholes
‘snori lamos hasn’t made a good album in years lol’ excuse me?
on the plus side that annoying Kate Bush fanatic wasn’t in sight
screaming about how Tori ‘TOTALLY COPIED GODDESS KATE GRR’
so yeah I’m so excited oh and I heard she’ll be in New York for her tour
at the Beacon Theatre but goddamnit all the tickets are sold out
maybe what I’ll do is stand outside there and listen through the walls
it sounds crazy I know but hey if I can do it I’ll do it I’ve been dying
to see her in person I’ve been waiting in the rain for years and years
but I love the rain and I love Tori so hopefully things will go well
but that’s enough about me – you moved out of your ex’s yet?
Day 21: Write a New York School-style poem.
for my sister
the stories say
on the night of the incised moon
the fallen star-knight
goes to the highest mountain
with his pockets full
of triangular nutmegs
and pulled-apart orange peels
he will wait on the highest peak
until his fellow stars come out
dancing around the incised moon
and he will throw his trinkets
their favourite foods
at the sky one-by-one
he will do this every year
until the night comes
that they take him home
Day 19: Write a poem using one or more of the seashell names in the list.
From the highest mountain peak,
Its magic my ancestors did seek.
Their quest the mountain lights did bless,
The power of cold, to freeze river and creek!
Ice and snow is mine to command,
Frost and sleet my blood and my band.
My enemies fear me, the maelstrom to come –
The furious blizzard coming from my own hand!
Come white fox, come reindeer,
Come wolf, bear and robin dear,
Let us dance to the cold wind’s song,
To welcome the winter coming near!
I raise my voice to the mountain lights,
To strengthen my magic for frolic and fights,
To continue blessing the snow mage through time,
From snow-coated mornings to cold frosted nights!
Day 18: Write a ruba’i/rubaiyat.
clarity out of the grain;
crystalline, ice floating at sea
against a teal-colored sky,
waves gently lapping against
the smoothness. water and ice
on my tongue, cool and crisp,
purity down my throat and through
my ears. a tinkling, a pealing, a ringing out
of a voice like crystals, piano keys
like the flow of the ocean. imagine
walking on sand, wading through
saltwater, the sharp roughness of rocks
and oyster shells before finally,
against your palms, the gentle sheen
Day 17: Write a poem that uses at least three of the five senses to describe something.