Poetry challenge: write a poem a day for the month.
Work before pleasure. Then stow away the left brain.
The washout period: staring out of my window,
contemplating all that goes on without me.
Right brain, left in silence too long,
is crammed with thoughts,
the opposite of writer’s block
but just as frozen. And so it’s time
to pull it out. It is the obligatory
“Damn, this is hard” poem
“to write a poem a day.”
Right brain says, “Do the workshop thing
and don’t put down the pen for 20 minutes, and don’t censor.”
And I’m like, “Yeah, this could be a rant, my ‘Howl,'”
except even if I could write something so fabulous
it would take months, not minutes, if not years, to write
and it would still sound more like sucking my teeth than howling.
More like uttering a weak interjection. Really?
And once I get over my doubts about
whether this is even a poem or not,
or what, if anything, this implies abut me,
I’ll remember this:
I’ve survived enough madness in my generation,
enough intimate inhumanities in my life,
and by sheer chance, enough bombings and shootings in the world,
to know these thoughts are the least of anything.
So with a nod to the self referential,
I edit out some lines I wish I had the nerve to keep in,
add a few others, and wrap it up for Day 17.
© Sweepy Jean and Sweepy Jean Explores the (Webby) World, 2013