4.12 I cannot find the rhythm in the day (A sonnet)
I cannot find a rhythm in the day
As gentle fingers probe along my skin
To coax the rotting problem on its way
I cannot stand outside and reach within.
A tiny discontented grain of thought
As light as finches dancing on a bough
Is traipsing through where it should not
And leaving little cracks along the brow.
Now blood does not move merry in the vein
Pulsing angrily beneath the eyes
My fingertips work circles, but in vain
Then defeated reach out for supplies.
When headaches think they’ve just secured the win
That the is the time to take the aspirin.
I can hear the busker approach across the sand
I’ve heard his tinkering from up the hill
And prayed he was luncheon entertainment only.
Sadly, he parks next to our umbrella
And starts to sing Bienvenue, bienvenue
Bienvenue a Guinee
I want to be lulled to rest by the crashing incoming tide
Not by an improvisational musician Bienvenue a Guinee
Bienvenue a la plage
It’s not an unpleasant sound, the guitar
Metal picks suspended over a gourd-like belly Bienvenue a la plage
La plage est jolie-eh-eh
But it’s tin whistle plinking
Plink, plunk, plink, plunk Bienvenue Monsier
I sit up abruptly and shove money at him
It disappears instantly and slyly into that big-bellied instrument Merci, merci Madame
It’s that time of the year again – it’s National Poetry Writing Month! And luckily, this year I’ve remembered that I do NaPoWriMo every year.
For the next 30 days, I will endeavor to put up a new poem every day. On days when this gets away from me – either because I’m reclining in the heat of a luxurious bed, or because I’ve been called to the mountaintops – I will post the necessary make-up poems as soon as possible.
So without further fanfare…Shall we write?
<strong>Day 1: A Poor Beginning (A Sonnet)</strong>
I’ll christen paper with this pen of mine
Or click the proper electronic links
I’ll edit out the words which do not rhyme
And iron out mistakes and awkward kinks
For what do I endeavor to unfold?
What hopes of mine do I intend to find?
A writer seeks to leave no truth untold
Even those that lurk within their mind
I pray the words from this my feeble brain
The crude and crumbly edges of this noise
That from my witless rambling you will gain
A speck of strength to speak with your own voice.
I’ll write a month of poems grand and dire
In hopes a better poet gets inspired!
Dappled sunlight white and yellow fell
Upon my couch with pillows orange and blue,
And I resplendent in this cozy spell
Thought lightly about life and what I do.
I am one who crossed the great wide sea,
Who lives a life away from what is known.
I shrugged off comfort and complacency
And left for foreign shores and foreign towns.
In truth I did not give these musings strength
(A Sunday morning is best spent in rest)
I sent them off with tea until at length
One tiny thought sat heavy in my chest:
How have I crossed the world and lived by chance
Yet never once have I been asked to dance?
No joke! I was just sitting there, on my couch, thinking about nothing in particular, when it occurred to me that I have never been asked to dance.
I think I was asked to dance when I was in seventh grade? SEVENTH. GRADE. Oh my God, what happened? I make light of it in this sonnet, but that is ridiculous!
(This sonnet is going to be written without allowing myself pause to edit or think of better words. While I am going to let myself fix things that affect meter, I will use the first rhyme that comes into my head.) Time limit: 5 minutes (roughly – don’t have a clock nearby)
I’m playing fast and loose with word and rhyme. There’s much too much to say when all is said. As long as I am mindful of the time, I think I’ll keep the beat and stay ahead. The tricky thing when trying to be coy, Or thinking from the backside of your pants, Like ancient warriors equine hid in Troy, Is how to keep the lead while in the dance. It’s trusting gut and intuition true, A swordsman never doubts his blade will hit. Likewise when writing you must trust in you, And certainly you’ll come up with some wit. And if you fail your end is not complete. Your savior is the blessed key “delete.”
Hmm… Ok, “backside of the pants” was “seat of your pants.” I’m not so keen on “you must trust in you,” nor the whole “say when all is said.”
But I think there’s some truth in trusting your gut and just letting your brain go with it – I allowed myself to be a little ridiculous and grammatically strained, and came up with something that at least has an optimistic message.