August 2nd Reading

Report on the joint poetry reading with the Harford Poetry and Literary Society.

I will never again say Joe-on-the-Street can't appreciate poetry. We had a packed house! Somehow the event trickled into the local newspaper's calendar. Folks started calling The Vineyard Wine Bar for reservations two weeks ago. I had to turn away three parties. Granted, it was a small room but it was over-flowing with 12 poets, their guests, and strangers who managed to squeeze in.

The poets were from the Harford Poetry and Literary Society, Lunchlines (we're in Maryland). The lounge in the wine bar is a gorgeous space with two fireplaces, three couches with coffee tables and ottomans, and three walls of bottles.

We had a Zen poem, poems about wine, waking with 180 pounds of pooch and an additional dozen of cat, apologies to parents, losing one's virginity, a persona poem, how to get a poem published in the New Yorker, poems about princesses and queens, even one in Hawaiian Creole (aka pidgin english).

Dan Cuddy of Loch Raven Review and his wife, Kathy, were celebrating their 41st wedding anniversary. Had to include that tidbit in the concluding toast. Colleen Webster, who won the O'Henry Prize for Literary Excellence in 2004, read a beautiful poem about a typical day in her life.

The next day we began planning another joint reading, during National Poetry Month. It will be in a library meeting room with lots of seating so we can welcome the general public.

Hurray for poetry!


-May Kuroiwa

Choosing Heaven Or Earth

It was college
and there was
no money
so I lived
on sweet potatoes
and one simple rule: If
I could survive without it,
I did

and shopped at Butler's Pantry,
an untidy place
of dusty light-bulbs
and grey cracked linoleum.
I'd pick up items from shelves
and ask myself

If I don't purchase this today
will I die?

If yes, it went into
the crook of my arm
against my chest
bagged and carried
up stairs to my apartment.
If no, it went back
to its place on the shelf.

That day at Butler's
something smelled
of summer's light
and of summer's air.

A pyramid
tall as my eye
yellow, and red-blushed,
an occasional stem
with a leaf
curling
over firm flesh.
Eyes on
the cleft between
mounded breast of peach,

I picked one up --
not the largest
or the brightest
but the closest --
and inhaled
the wonder at its skin.

Would I die without this?

After I replaced
heaven, and purchased
my pound
of potatoes
I took them home
and washed
peeled
cut
and boiled them.

As I ate
over a physics textbook --
which cost a hundred times
my breakfast, lunch, and dinner --
immersed in the Second
Law of Thermodynamics,
there came
the scent
of peach.



May Kuroiwa

Someone Forgot to Put the Moon Away

A Jarhead, they called my son,
and remade him in their own image.
He was perfect when he left
but returned home with his jar, broken.

I leave my unconscious husband
and check my boy, his breathing
coming in broken whimpers.
Where does he run to at night,
legs thrashing the sheets
to cloth butter?

I call to him from the hallway
until he flings a fist at the air
(once he left a bruise on my chin
and once, kicked a hole in the wall),
rolls over, and is silent.

I sit in the kitchen
where we nicked birthday heights
into the door frame,
at the table
where we colored eggs,
unable to plan tomorrow’s dinner,
or decide if I want coffee, or tea,
or should go back to bed.

Who left the moon out?
Was it him?
His father?
Was it me?

I see the moon.
The moon sees me.
God bless the moon,
though He’s forgotten me.




May Kuroiwa 7/9/10

Isn’t This Also Art

The artist tied her thick, black, luxurious, tangled, majestic hair to the luxurious, black, thick hair of her lover her collaborator and they sat back to back, butt to butt, shoulder blade to shoulder blade, tightly tied together by their tangled hair and called it art and sat there and sat there and sat there and sat there this is art, they announced and we came and we watched and we watched, and we asked is this art? and by our presence as we watched and as we watched, we answered, yes this is art for they were naked, for they were exposed I do not remember whether they were clothed but they were naked they were exposed and we watched them in their nakedness exposing themselves to our eyes our eyes boring into their still, stoic, tense, passive, vibrant bodies their nakedness becoming a part of our unwanted nakedness our bodies now becoming a part of their performance their nakedness, their art changing our bodies their nakedness becoming our nakedness as we watched as they sat sitting for hours without movement like two Hindu gurus who had not eaten for two centuries we could see them breathe we could feel ourselves breathe sometimes an eyelid blinked while we shifted our weight and shuffled our feet their two bodies were as one two Siamese twins reconnected joined at their hair their bodies, their beings flowing into each other two bodies becoming as one— we saw this together you and I, together even though you were dead your ashes scattered we experienced this together we—the living and the dead— we are still joined— Isn’t this also art? Peter Goodwin

Memorial Day

Today we remember and honor those who died

in war, a day to celebrate heroism, sometimes

there is heroism on the battlefield, if only there

was a little heroism in the grand halls, conference

rooms, the calculations that send the young into battle

in order to cover the miscalculations, hubris, stupidity,

indifference, pettiness of those who thought a little war

a solution, or an expression of national will, or those

who lacked the courage to tackle tough issues, who hid

from reality, from danger until they lost all capacity

to choose, as waves of war suddenly appears

on the horizon, who knew? who could know

that the postures that politicians love, the games

that diplomats play have consequences and when

the dust has settled, acres of dedicated fields grow

gravestones which we can decorate

with flowers and water with tears.

Peter Goodwin

Passover

Though she was not religious, we ate matzo

for the whole week of Passover, often searching

for hours in our rural neighborhood

for a store that sold matzo, and the store

that sold matzo one year did not always sell it

the next so she always bought more

than we needed, and for the Passover after

her death I had no need buy any more matzo,

but none of her family celebrated Passover,

she was the one who insisted on Passover,

but the family expressed an impatience,

as she prompted the men on procedure

and pronunciation, to get on with it and eat,

and when her niece gave birth to twins and

one twin was stillborn, her niece and

husband crying and confused, she insisted

that they deal with the dead one

he should have a proper burial

with proper Jewish prayers,

so many ancestors had been killed

with no ceremony and no memory

and this one child will be buried

with honor and memory

and the Family did gather to bury the child

and we said prayers for him, and

Kaddish, the Jewish Prayer for the Dead,

which we said for him

and for them

and for us,

and that was the last act

she did for her family

and at the Thanksgiving

following her death

the non Jewish husband of her niece

opined

she will be missed,

but she was cantankerous.

Peter Goodwin

Hard a Lee!

They were uniformly chubby
Never slim, and often tubby
Were those sailors docking at that little port

Serendipitously cheerful
They could fill up quite an earful
As they told their tales (with chuckles and a snort)

Of the meals that they had eaten
Chickens fried and biscuits beaten
Masticated by the bushel and the quart

Of the drinks that they had swallowed
Smorgasbords where they had wallowed
Pausing only to inhale a cherry torte

And digestion reigned quiescent
Never need for effervescent.
Eating was, in fact, the shared collective sport

Dyspepsia so unknown that
the slim and not so slim: the fat
flocked there as if it were a Turkish porte

But though this town was famous
it was also, oddly, nameless
Til a busybody went down to the court

Where the lawyers yakked and clamored
And by their threats they seemed enamored
With the notion of a motion for a tort

Laid against this nameless village
(thus its coffers, surely pillage)
So the citizens, they gathered to abort

This legal bit of doo doo
Thus to wish god speed and adieu
To this problem; when a well fed man named Mort

(Quite the largest of those yeomen.
Also something of a something showman:
Adiposity itself, with visage swart)

Placed his surname in the running
For the naming, thereby stunning
Those embroiled,and future problems neatly thwart

Mort's handle was a kicker
as a name it's been a sticker
for his cogomen was apt and it was short

The Port is Lee, unless objecting
Voices say it’s disrespecting
to the citizens with weight of any sort!

Maggie Creshkoff
5/4 and 5/11/2010 and 5/14/10

Philip

The professor wonders

did she sign his death warrant

when she hired him,

to do the programming

for her research project

the luckiest day of his life, he believed.

seven, oh seven, seventy seven.

He was gorgeous, he was blond

with long fine hair always in his eyes,

with a beautiful slow smile, and

so tall he had to do splits

so they could look eye to eye,

a student from Australia, who could now stay

in America, a brilliant mathematician

and a creative musician who turned

his computer into an orchestra.

With the job he got a green card,

and at night enjoyed the excitement

of New York’s musical scene, hanging

out with the famous and the dangerous.

The programming he did for her

he did with such sophistication

she could not always follow his approach

but admired its elegance

and had but one complaint

he was always late,

yet they continued working together

for years, she fussing and fussing

to get it done, he smiling and promising

but she could never stay angry with him

for he did his work with brilliance

and he was gorgeous, his mind as rigorous

as his face was sweet, and she loved him

but was hard on him, and at one dueling meeting

she noticed he looked paler than usual

and his finger nails looked blue,

deathly blue, and that was the last time

they spoke for he died very quickly,

from a fever they said

but she knew its cause

and his lover the famous composer

whose music she never liked

she now disliked with a passion.

Peter Goodwin

Father Farewell

Fathers aren’t like anybody else,
aren’t like mothers, with their
tender smiles, who are
happy just to hear you breathe
eager to see you take your first step,
right or wrong.

Fathers aren’t like anybody else, they’re
anxious, impatient, always
ready to correct. They
expect to see you do
whatever you’ve done, done better.

Excellence is what they leave you, an almost unattainable excellence in
language, logic,
love.


Maggie Creshkoff

Spring Walk

The house on the corner
is missing a window.
Grey shingles slide and dangle
half off the eves.
A neighbor cuts the grass.

The mailbox tilts,
jammed with yellowing pages.
A cracked sidewalk leads to fallen-in
stairs and the rotting porch.

No car sits in the driveway
hot engine ticking into rest.
No lights shine through
the shredded curtains.

But every April
purple irises surround
the foundation,
blazing new life
down the block.



May Kuroiwa

Some days

Some days nearly everything goes right

Socks match, shoes stay tied,
The new shirt has no tag at the neck to itch you into fits.

You find the dog crap
before stepping into it

Not a single cat has bitten another
into puss-y pussy putrefaction.

Nothing breaks while packing.

All the stores stay open so you can buy what you need:
Printing, wrapping materials, receipt books.

Everything's going along really, really smoothly.

It’s enough to make you really, really nervous.

Maggie Creshkoff

Homesick

Whenever I have a choice of color
my husband has noticed
I pick green.

Green paint, shirts,
my wedding dress,
and asparagus off menus.
Yes, I say. It's my favorite color.

I don't tell him why.
My mountain is green.
Everyone in our family had one.
My mother sat in our garden
and watched hers
change colors throughout the day.
She was born under its shadow.

Mine was the tallest,
the center of the island.
On clear winter mornings
walking to the school bus
its ridgeline looked cut out of green
and blue and purple paper.

Most days the top is cloud-covered.
There's a swamp up there.
Constant rain,
the wettest place on earth.
Waterfalls drain down its face
some falling a thousand feet
and never reaching the valley below,
just blowing off the rock face
in the rounding winds.

Its plants grow no
where else on the planet.
White fairy terns
soar and call
a hundred feet below
the ancient hiking trails.

Yes, I like green
I tell my husband.
It's my favorite color.
He shakes his head,
and tells me I'm too cute.
He's from Philadelphia.


May Kuroiwa

It Was the Snodgers

After the lights go out
and I've to bed, snoring away,
the Snodgers, says my husband,
it's the Snodgers come out to play.

They forget to turn off the TV
and leave milk cartons open on the shelf.
I ask, how do they handle the 'frig door?
That he's never seen, himself.

But magic clings to their elbows
and to their knobbly-kneed toes.
Perhaps the appliance winks its light on
before obligingly opening its door.

They sample all leftover puddings
and nibble the crust off the pie,
then finish the entire thing off
rather than leave the filling to dry.

They rinse any dirty dishes
and wipe the counter twice, aye
for ours are neat and tidy Snodgers.
They have class, Dan says, unlike I.


May Kuroiwa

Rain Pours Down

Daddy couldn't pay the mortgage.
Mommy serves us dinner porridge.
It's the rain, come pouring down.

Now look -- our TV stopped working,
Daddy's remote, fingers jerking.
Watch, the rain is coming down.

We left the car, it's out of gas.
Mommy yells, keep walking, fast.
We are wet, it's raining down.

We live in a crummy motel.
Our classmates promise not to tell.
Look, teacher, it's raining down.

Water roars inside the gutters
Thunder jumps our hearts to flutters
and the rain keeps pouring down.


May Kuroiwa

Ward World Championship Wildfowl Carving Competition

He wanders
among the rows of wood blocks.
Many are turned aside,
the curves of the grain imperfect
or the heft just not feeling right.

Then he sits and takes up his tools.
The handles disappear inside his palm.
All that shows, first gouging
then nibbling,
are the fine metal spars
and their hungry edges.

Chips stop flying, a duck appears.

Sanding gives it character --
its curving sides
hint at wooden movement.

The brush tickles the duck's nose
yellow-green surrounds nostril spots.
It moves over the duck's wing
and feathers appear behind.

He releases his duck
to a fine cherry stand.

Glass eyes sparkle within brown down.
The female mallard hunkers
glowering, fluffed.
The day is cold.


May Kuroiwa

Spring Lullaby

Soft, Nightfall's gentle hand,
Her caress across the land
lifts sparkling stars up to the sky
dove's fading coos bid us good-bye.

So lay him down to bed
good night, my little sleepy head.


May Kuroiwa
Opps -- posted this on yesterday's thread as well.

What About Our Neighbor?

So she sings a bit off-tune.
So she smells like
Johnson Baby Powder
and wet socks.
And she does require a bit of talk
whenever you or I
are captive in the backyard.

She hangs into our property
over the broken gap
and talks, oh talks
about how we should
get a new awning,
take the dog for more walks,
get the kids off to school
sooner in the mornings.

That old woman
makes sure both our teenagers
don't stay out too late
and tells our dog
fables in which he stars
to keep him quiet.

And when those hooligans
were breaking into
cars on the block
it was she who called
the cops.

So let her croak
vague insults over our fence
and send our dog
in ecstasies.
She's our neighbor
our good neighbor
one we'd be sorry to lose.


May Kuroiwa

Echo Chamber

What do I remember
of that time
with you?

Some questions
shouldn't be asked.
Not unless you are prepared
for all possible answers.

Was I happy?
Would I have done things differently?
And, most important, you say
Did I know that you loved me?

We were both young, foolish
wandering
into exciting territory
doing what we thought we
ought to
should do
wanted to.

Didn't you?
Sorry, I did
and thought you did too.

I learned to make you miserable.
You learned to run and hide
which made me push
dig
pull
harder
until whatever love
we had broke apart.

But I'll tell you this:
I wouldn't have chosen to grow up
with anyone other than you.

And you should leave it at that.



May Kuroiwa

The Queen Takes Up Her Pen

I sit at my desk
under arrest in my home
the palace built
by my brother, King Kalaukaua
in the bedroom where
Princess Kaiulani died
in my arms.

She was to be queen after me.

While my people gather
they call for me
and are shot by American Marines
sent by their Congress
and President Cleveland
who once held Kaiulani's hand
and gave his word
to honor her claim.

But she is gone now and so are his promises.

The new governor
Sanford Dole --
Hawaii never saw a snake
before he was born
son of missionaries
sugar plantation mogul
trusted advisor to kings --
Dole tells me I must abdicate
abdicate and bring peace
to the Islands
by vacating
a non-existent throne.

I point to the throne room and raise my brow.

Why should I speak to him?
That merchant
that sweet-tongued reptile
out of the fallen Eden
his parents taught my parents of
that coward
that Judas
who rises up against his queen.

Tonight I decide.

The papers lie before me.
All they require is my signature
Liliokalani, Regina
no more.
One sweep of this pen
and I betray my ancestors
my dead brother
lay my sweet niece
and all those brave people,
their blood soaking the earth
to rest.

I turn to another
page and write Aloha Oe,
Farewell to Thee.

And then I sign.



May Kuroiwa
Poetry class assignment: write a persona poem.

April 19th

A stab at a clerihew.

Albert Arnold "Al" Gore
According to Web legend and lore
On AlGore.com, your stupid blog
You're still lost in inconvenient smog.



May Kuroiwa

Unfinished Poem

(you may not want to post this one)

She had been drinking, somewhat

I was about to say, seriously

She said she was no good at sex

I told her I was not so hot either

so we would make a perfect pair.


I was wearing loose jeans and work boots

She was wearing tight jeans

and shoes that wobbled her nicely

her loose hair casual like

and a joyful face

as we discussed her sex problems.


(Who would like to finish!)

Peter Goodwin

Two Eggs

The morning are quiet
I listen to the birds—she
who had a musical ear
would recognize their songs.
I can’t, I just hear
their cheerful cacophony,
earlier I heard muted songs
of insects, the rumble of frogs,
sometimes the yapping of dog—
she hated that—no human voices,
sometimes not even a radio
no arguments with politicians,
so-called experts, charlatans
pontificating over the air, no
discussion of the day past
or the day that is starting,
no push back, just the silence
of an unnaturally quiet house
and the comforting background
calls of nature’s exuberance,
preparing breakfast, two soft
boiled eggs, she worried about
cholesterol and insisted on only
one each, an ideal breakfast
when cooked correctly,
I continue to cook two
eggs , aiming for that
elusive perfection
and eat them both.

Peter Goodwin

Keeping an Eye Out

He warned about the crocodiles.

I said I would keep an eye

we were visiting Disney World

where danger is an illusion

and scheduled six times an hour.

I preferred cooling off in the lake

splashing, exuberant in the cool wet waters.

He warned about the crocodiles

he did not approve

of the splash, the joy in the waters.


Later with a grim satisfied smile on his face

look out there, he said, where you just swam

what do you see out there?

I see a crocodile out there, swimming

swimming very stately

swimming as if he owned the lake

but he is swimming away, I said,

and I will keep an eye…

Peter Goodwin

Spring Mowing

Twice already

the neighbors have mowed their lawn

each time edging into my uncut yard

as if to say, it's time, past time.


Amid the dead daffodils,

scraggly grasses, dandelions, buttercups

and weeds there are lots and lots

of tiny delicate violets.


She cried when I decapitated

the violets; and today,

on a beautiful spring afternoon

I too am crying.


Peter Goodwin

Spring Battle

That god-damned butt bird is back
after a winter sunning
somewhere in southern climes
building his nest in the gutter
outside my office window
cheep, cheep, cheepering
all the live-long day.

Screaming his fitness
to passing lady birds
like that drunken fraternity clod
who shouted Hey
Mei-Ling, the Chinese slut!
As I hurried by
to a 10 a.m. physics exam.

His nest will again
stop the gutter's flow
and icicles – no, eve-hanging glaciers --
will block my writer's view
a farewell gift
after he's flown
his feathered ass south.

I fantasize
his black-topped head
bloodied and crushed
dirty-yellow beak
gaping and silenced.
Would I feel guilty
not a bit
not when all I can write about today
is his cheep, cheep, cheepering.



May Kuroiwa

On MOMA's Wall

Sorry Mr. Pop
but Marilyn's still dead
Despite blue eyeliner
and lips of pouty red.

Bright yellow splotches
and brighter black instead
of her breathing presence
don't keep the public fed.

Though she is famous,
what was it that you said?
Your own fifteen minutes
are long past, gone and fled.



May Kuroiwa

Phillip

She wonders

did she sign his death warrant

when she hired him, the luckiest day

of his life, he believed.

Seven, oh seven, seventy seven.

He was blond, with long fine hair

always in his eyes, he was gorgeous

with a beautiful slow smile, and

so tall he had to do the splits

so they could look eye to eye,

a student from Australia, who could now stay

in America, a brilliant mathematician

and a creative musician who turned

his computer into an orchestra.

With the job he got a green card,

and at night enjoyed the excitement

of New York’s musical scene, hanging

out with the famous and the dangerous.

The work he did for her he did with

such sophistication she could not

always follow his approach

but admired its elegance

and had but one complaint

he was always late, and she fussed

and fussed to get it done, but she could

never stay angry with him

for he did his work with brilliance

and he was gorgeous, his mind as rigorous

as his face was sweet, and she loved him

but was hard on him, once he invited her

to dinner at his apartment, and she told him

get the work done first

she noticed he looked paler than usual

and his finger nails looked blue,

deathly blue, and that was the last time

they spoke for he died very quickly,

from a fever they said

but she knew its cause

and his friend the famous composer

whose music she never liked

she now disliked with a passion.

She did not know it then

but the most creative period

of her career was nearing its end—

she never did learn how women

were supposed to play the game—

but his creativity was beginning to blossom.

If only he returned to Australia!


Peter Goodwin

I hate to see dead animals on the road,
I hate to see their bodies sullied, splattered,
fur and flesh battered into leather
like the mother raccoon and her four kits
separated into sudden pieces
for a full quarter mile along the highway

I stop and move them to the side

Yesterday I saw a large bird on the road, a vulture
tip of its wing moving in the wind
I stopped and lifted it
(noting the entrails drying on the road,
noting the dead squirrel it must have been eating when it was hit)
and started to drag it off the asphalt
claws scraping the road
feathers stiff
body surprisingly light for something that large

and then the bird's head swung up,
its round yellow eye looked at me, surprised,
as if it had not expected to move again
as if it had been somewhere else
as if it had not expected to see me at all

I'm sorry, I said, I'm sorry

I held its body close
took it out of the sun
laid it out on the grass under a tree

I'm so sorry

Maggie Creshkoff

Revision

She sat for over an hour in her car

with a pencil

scribbling and re-scribbling

until she found a way out of her confusion


while I walked the beach

angry, disgusted at the density of others

chilled by the sea breeze

my mind in turmoil

yet—unbidden—it rewrites the poem.

Peter Goodwin

Yesterday

was stifling hot

I’m closing blinds, opening windows

closing windows, opening blinds

trying to create some breeze

the daffodils have died

the hyacinths have dried

no longer sweet

my house feel like a prison

and I am caged, contained

only blackbirds for company

the clasp in the gold chain

that threaded my wife’s

gold wedding ring broke

scattering chain and ring on the floor

why create a beautiful substantial

gold chain and attach a cheap clasp

and what is the symbolism

of a cheap clasp that fails?

A casual acquaintance

writes me a beautiful poem

the winds come

the rains come

blowing away humid stale air

rinsing and replenishing the earth

and today

ugly unkept bushes

bloom with sweet smelling flowers

which I clip, bring inside

my home now smelling sweet.

Is there a message here?

Probably not,

except that today

is a beautiful day

and I am feeling…

content.

Peter Goodwin

We WASPS

Where I grew up, on the Virginia Piedmont

we were all WASPS or we were nothing, well

there were the Negroes not that we called

them that, we were not that tolerant

and we had names that were easy

to pronounce, without an excessive clutter

of vowels or consonants, not that we were

prejudiced against those not privileged

to be us, in fact we were rather proud

of our tolerance towards those lesser breeds

we welcomed to our shores, sharing some

of our bounty, and now we have discovered

that we are just another minority, one of many,

and our names, once so distinguished, now sound flat.

Peter Goodwin

Those Damn Bikers

When I had a motor bike
I didn’t wear a helmet
I had no special clothes
I ignored the speed limit
weaving in and out of traffic—
I had fun.

Now I am stuck behind bikers
with helmet, goggles
cocooned in heavy protective wear
doodling along at under the speed limit—
they don’t look like they are having fun—

and neither am I!

Peter Goodwin

Touch

They say that pain is what we feel the best,

receptors in our fingertips are most

attuned to hurt, but I know that one dose

your hand dispenses on my naked breast

can cause an ache of sorts, for in the quest

of searching for our love, we’ve come so close

our shells are shed, like low tide at the coast.

Thus stripped, we face each other. All the rest

is lost beneath your touch, for now I know

that knowing you, in all ways of the word,

has been my saving grace. And now, no foe

no friend or family, none whose voice I’ve heard

could make me break my vows to you. And so

I welcome all the pain that's been incurred.

Maggie Creshkoff

Birthday Reflections

A young man, ready

to embrace the future

heard the call of duty

went to war

and was killed.


His sister named her first born

after her dead brother, who

a generation later

heard the call of duty

went to war and was killed.


His sister named her first born

after her dead brother, who

a generation later

heard the call of duty

but did not go to war

and so lives to write this poem.

Peter Goodwin

Every Spring—the same conversation:

cut the flowers or leave them in the ground.

She wants them inside, he wants them

where they grew, where they belong.

She cuts them, brings them inside,

bringing the smell of Spring into her home

bright color in every corner.


She is gone, now he cuts the flowers

turning every surface into an altar—

the dead win all the arguments.

Peter Goodwin

Driving through a wilderness

An otter hops across the road

Slinks into the swamp, disappears…

Nearby a discarded can of Heineken.

--Peter Goodwin

A Couple of Couplets

Spring's colors burst
and satisfy winter's thirst.

Yesterday's rain cleared the way
for this sunshined April day.


May Kuroiwa
Working through some poetry forms. Tomorrow: Tercet

April 1st

April 1st (April fool’s) Census Day


Today, they want to count me.

In fifteen days they want my money

(whatever's left)

Meanwhile I have forms to fill

incoherent instruction to decipher

obscure calculations to follow

blindly offering my soul to them

who, following their instructions, squeeze.


Perhaps the hippies were right.

Peter Goodwin

National Poetry Month Challenge

Are you up to Lunchlines' National Poetry Month Challenge?

All you have to do is write a poem a day in April.

No one's going to check on you, grade your work, or force you to write every day.

The point is not to craft beautiful poems daily, it's to discover what it takes for you to sits and writes. Every. Day. The drafts might be mush, empty twaddle, or just plain awful. And that's fine.

The main thing is to make yourself sit and write.

It could be the same time every day. It might have to wait until 11:53 pm. The poems could all be about what you see outside the same window or about the paperclip on your desk. Although writing 30 poems about a paperclip would be tough, even for a Rumi or Basho.

At the end of the month you get bragging rights and 30 -- yes, 30 -- brandy-new poems. Or however many you end up writing during April. When was the last time you produced, say, 15 new poems in a month?

Ready? Let's begin!




The Academy of American Poets' National Poetry Month page: http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41

March 16th assignment -- Curling

Curling, over-simplified

When curlers sweep or slide or burn
I wonder what they feel?
Despite their visage oh-so-stern
Perhaps it’s boules for which they yearn
Those plucky lads and lassies learn
That stones are hard to peel!

Maggie Creshkoff 3/16/2010

March 2nd assignment

What’s in the bag?

What’s in the bag?

What’s hidden deep

below most thoughts

before we sleep?

What’s in the bag?

What do we hide

from others and

ourselves? Inside

most hearts are wishes

better kept

away from others.

Those adept

at seeing only

sunny things

and hearing just

the bird that sings

are welcome to

their paper bags.

3-2-2010

Maggie Creshkoff

Lunchlines!