Day Ten
Hello, everyone. Today we are one-third of the way through Na/GloPoWriMo!
Our featured participant for the day is method two madness, where the small-and-large poem for Day 9 plays with repetition . . . and birds!
Today’s craft resource is this fascinating article that details the writing and revision process for a poem by former U.S. poet laureate Natasha Trethewey. It provides a really unique glimpse into a writer’s process, and the steps by which a poem takes its final shape.
Finally, here is our (optional) daily prompt. Usually, we take inspiration from our craft resource, but since our resource is about revision, we’ll go a bit further afield for this one! Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem of simultaneity – in which multiple things are happing at once. A nice example might be Emily Dickinson’s “I heard a Fly buzz – when I died”, or this powerful poem by Sarah Green.
Happy writing!
Sounds Far,
Rain falls to the concrete from the night's sky like music notes
ding ding ding
The trolly passes me, I wonder how the wet tracks continue to conduct the electricity, is it safe?
Bombs landing so far away from farms and farming families look so close from the crops,
war, famine, poverty, lives, and limbs lost are not a part of the farming family's daily routine,
The sun directs the thoughts of the day,
war is not much different than when a baseball team wins a game,
if the harvest yield's we live to eat another day,
the seasons change
change is inevitable,
that is what the family prays for before meals while bombs detonate looking close while far away.
When the rumble in my stomach, like the bass drums played while I asked for another round to be delivered as quickly as possible to me and my friends' table, I shuttered to think that the vomit that insisted, would meet the same hard concrete and ruin the symphony that each raindrop had fallen, struck, and spread to create.
Amen. Everyone ate quietly, then prayed on bended knee before their beds.
Sleep came for the farmer's family once again.
The rooster will crow early morning, the sun will rise, bombs so far will not be heard until twilight until the war ends.
Who knew how beautiful it could be to mix the outcome of a stomach's drum beat with piano keys of a major music piece.
I was relieved to throw up the whiskey I should have never mixed with vodka and gin.
The rain stopped when I had safely arrived home to my 1 bedroom flat.
I could still hear the band play as I fell asleep with my dress and shoes still fastened to me.
The music, now sounding far away, started to fade.
Hello, everyone. Today we are one-third of the way through Na/GloPoWriMo!
Our featured participant for the day is method two madness, where the small-and-large poem for Day 9 plays with repetition . . . and birds!
Today’s craft resource is this fascinating article that details the writing and revision process for a poem by former U.S. poet laureate Natasha Trethewey. It provides a really unique glimpse into a writer’s process, and the steps by which a poem takes its final shape.
Finally, here is our (optional) daily prompt. Usually, we take inspiration from our craft resource, but since our resource is about revision, we’ll go a bit further afield for this one! Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a poem of simultaneity – in which multiple things are happing at once. A nice example might be Emily Dickinson’s “I heard a Fly buzz – when I died”, or this powerful poem by Sarah Green.
Happy writing!
Sounds Far,
Rain falls to the concrete from the night's sky like music notes
ding ding ding
The trolly passes me, I wonder how the wet tracks continue to conduct the electricity, is it safe?
Bombs landing so far away from farms and farming families look so close from the crops,
war, famine, poverty, lives, and limbs lost are not a part of the farming family's daily routine,
The sun directs the thoughts of the day,
war is not much different than when a baseball team wins a game,
if the harvest yield's we live to eat another day,
the seasons change
change is inevitable,
that is what the family prays for before meals while bombs detonate looking close while far away.
When the rumble in my stomach, like the bass drums played while I asked for another round to be delivered as quickly as possible to me and my friends' table, I shuttered to think that the vomit that insisted, would meet the same hard concrete and ruin the symphony that each raindrop had fallen, struck, and spread to create.
Amen. Everyone ate quietly, then prayed on bended knee before their beds.
Sleep came for the farmer's family once again.
The rooster will crow early morning, the sun will rise, bombs so far will not be heard until twilight until the war ends.
Who knew how beautiful it could be to mix the outcome of a stomach's drum beat with piano keys of a major music piece.
I was relieved to throw up the whiskey I should have never mixed with vodka and gin.
The rain stopped when I had safely arrived home to my 1 bedroom flat.
I could still hear the band play as I fell asleep with my dress and shoes still fastened to me.
The music, now sounding far away, started to fade.
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