Yes, I am attempting NaPoWriMo. I have, in previous years, been an abysmal failure in my NaPoWriMo efforts. However, I am being gentle with myself, and giving myself permission to fail. And if I do fail again, I will simply get my Benedictine on and begin again.
My first three days’ attempts follow.
NaPoWriMo Day #3 I’m not sure I’m up to a sea shanty today. This is actually a response to the first NaPoWriMo prompt, inviting us to write a poem that begins with a well-known first line from an established poem. This extends from one of those suggested, a poem by British poet Walter de la Mare. Since he messed around with varying meters and line lengths, I took the liberty of playing fast and loose with them, as well. Abbey Slowly, silently, now the moon peers through drapes of bright gauzy gloom, crests the yucca ridge and coats these black trees as we Compline singers rise from our knees. Just now this cold, rounded rock wears a veil, but later tonight her light will assail, through high window frame, this desk and my book, wash words, make shadows, distract, make me look at her vivid, alluring white light; she wields bright power, lays bare the night. Neither moth nor the mouse nor owl can hide from her sight, as by her white pupil they’re spied. Even my own soul’s dark folds cannot flee her holy-ghost gleam, her Great Silent plea. NaPoWriMo Day #2 The prompt was to write a poem that lies. My process was just to think of as many institutional lies and tossed-off untruths as I could in a matter of a few seconds. They came surprisingly easily. …Like a Rug Green is just green, and pretty fruit tastes good. This will go down on your permanent record, because, you know, they have weapons of mass destruction. We’re all the news that’s fit to print, and fair and balanced, too. But fear not—this job will get easier the more years you put in. No, I haven’t a bitter bone or cynical cell in my body; why do you ask? NaPoWriMo Day #1 I noted that many folks posted found poems on the first day, and that it what presented itself to me, as well. poem found on a pub mat a pub is not a place but a state of mind, set apart (sacred?) for relaxation stimulation conversation your “local” should make you feel at home, your publican ensures that atmosphere of company and rampant informality —“snugness not smugness”— and a stout for every stout Brit that falls to the lure, rewarded for his pain by draughts and spirits of human nearness. Some urges are best not fought.