The wonderful people at Read Write Poem have declared NaPoWriMo Wednesdays to be List Poem days, so I get a (comparative) let-off. And today’s prompt was especially appropriate:
Today’s list is about what you do instead of doing something else. … Maybe this list poem will be about the ways you procrastinate. Or maybe you avoid a doing a lot of different things. Write a list poem about what you avoid. Most people avoid doing what they most need. Go figure! Maybe your list poem will be about all the things you do instead of writing a poem, but in the end, this time at least, you’ll really have one.
I am the Procrastination Queen. And toyed with the idea of procrastinating instead of writing the poem, but thought that would be just too post-modern for my own good. So, here’s my utterly-disposable-pretty-rubbish-but-at-least-I-did-write-it-and-had-a-bit-of-fun Procrastination List Poem!
They wanted me to train for eighteen weeks.
I started Tuesday.
They wanted me to practice every morning.
I’ll go lunchtimes.
They wanted me to run for seven miles.
I ran a block.
They wanted me to lift weights at the gym.
I’ll start next weekend.
They told me I should research my opponent.
I think his name is “Meat”.
They told me I should focus, think of winning.
Well, I’ve seen the trophy.
And I’ve spent the last eight weekends
watching all the Rocky movies,
analysing everything Balboa says and does and
now I think I’ve got the accent pretty good.
Ok, that’s not really the poem. But it was a nice bit of loose writing to unblock the passages, so to speak. This one I will definitely come back to.
Begin again with light
The way it trickles down the glass
when rain is just beginning to set in.
The curve of a stream of water,
how it bends and flows as though
the glass had hidden rocks,
hidden currents lying just beneath the sheen.
How it gilds the curve of every drop of rain.
How it softens edges, cupped and pooled
where the putty loosens in the window frame.
And now, how it pours down from the broken cloud
like water from a woman’s outstretched hands,
Sigyn‘s basin overflowing, her grief
the only brightness in a world where light
may disappear and never come again.