NaPoWriMo [Cont.]

My mother would be a falconress
and I her breaking wing
bloodied at her soul
the doubling of us becomes.

She cannot blame me.
For it is her that taught me
to claw and claw
and request at the world.

Mother, bend at my will.
I, who, so decidedly do
and do not love you.
I do cripple your wing.

Prepare for flight [singing]
the torn open
cling to the hem.
You will crack at the middle
the scratches still upon you
in between the living and dying
a grasp at the blurring earth.

Stillness not escaping
my hand reaches into
only my reflection is mirrord
upon the mirror of her
I glow in her space
little etching that I am
little burning

The damage at the wrist is mine
want and want.

* I hope I don't embarrass myself. This is a nutty attempt at a Duncan/Antony combo. Note: because Mom reads the blog; the mother & child here are me & jeffrey.

Missing Paragraph of 1st Letter on Georges

We saw many kinds of animals. Some appeared to be dead, others living, It was as though they followed the pattern of the storm and were trying to warn us. Many of the men were having a hard time imagining the prospect of being saved. The night was so black. The water blocked out any possibility of stars.

in the tradition of Charles Olson

NaPoWriMo

In addition to 'regular' so-called blogging, I'll be doing a poem a day for National Poetry Month. The way I've decide to do this is to write a poem based off, in the styles of others. I will include the name of the poet who I am imitating.

A Mother’s Work

The mother rushes off to work clutching her coffee.
It spills into her suit sleeve.

At home, the second daughter curls in bed with a fever.
She has nearly a stranger to take care of her.

The mother travels toward the pulsating city,
In her business clothes, she looks so pretty.

As the bus flies through the tunnel
she leaves behind her most domestic funnel

Into the island of six figure salaries and
Women who count their calories.

Perhaps she is lonely for the life she misses well.
She might one day tell the boss to go to hell.

For now, she is satisfied to live her complicated life
Despite the daily grind of strife.


in the tradition of Deborah Garrison