#NaPoWriMo #UndiscoveredPoetry

One year ago, I challenged myself to write and post 31 poems: one for every day in March.  My goal was to self-publish these poems into a book of poetry by April 2017.  I posted one poem each day to this blog in hopes of getting my work out of my head and my journal and into the hands of anonymous readers.  I didn't receive a lot of comments, feedback, or criticism, but I did write and post every single day.  I did not publish a book of poetry, but I did accomplish an unwritten goal.  I kickstarted my writing practice, forcing myself to write every day.  One year later, my writing practice is stronger.  Yes, I have dry periods where I don't write, but for the most part, I journal every day and try to write as many poems as I possibly can.

So, one year later, where does that leave me for NaPoWriMo?  I think in a pretty good spot!  If you are a regular reader of Undiscovered Poetry then you have noticed that since then, I have continued to post periodically throughout the year.  Most of my poems are rough and I periodically take them down to either edit, revise, start completely over, or recently to submit a few to some literary journals.  For the month of April, I plan to write one poem each day, however, I don't plan to post them each day.  Instead, I will keep them in my journal so that I can rework them and revise them and get them ready for public consumption.  Don't distress!  I will continue to post; it just won't be every day. 

For a daily dose of what I am reading, writing, or working on, check out my Twitter profile: https://twitter.com/UndiscoverPoem  I may even turn some of those random tweets into a larger poem! 

Happy writing!

When no one is looking

Pigeons descend on me and take
minutes away, seed by seed, before I reach
for more to share and give away.

I may be an amateur poet and not
the real thing -- Time is my excuse:
Everyone takes minutes and I gladly share.

A mess of minutes disappear in seconds
until I'm left with zero.  No time for myself.
So I steal away; steal them back:

Forty-five minutes before the sun and kiddos wake up;
20 minutes before I'm called into the kitchen;
Ten minutes in between loads of laundry.

It's not the best system, but it's what I have:
a condensed time frame to get my art out.
No time to listen to my soul;

No time to still myself and watch
for the words, not wait, but sit and watch
when no one is looking.

Answering Emerson's Questions

poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history.

--Plato

What is day?

twenty-four hours that pass by
in minutes if not present,
with no sense of purpose nor direction

What is a year?

reckoning time in the ordinary;
wake-up call for missed resolutions;
revolving around your centre

What is summer?

aestas -- long and lazy
marked by intermittent naps,
family field trips and rosé in sweating glasses (in aqua sanitas)

What is woman?

fierce, soft, warm, and not to be trifled with;
daughter smelling sweet and sweat and dirt and sun;
wife companion never underestimated
family stabilizer.

What is child?

innocent          can be taught to hate;
innumerable questions; interruptions and
perfect timing to scream while I'm on the phone.

What is sleep?

much needed          never enough;
the cure-all for any tantrum;
difficult to come by when angry, anxious, or drunk. 

What is truth?

In vino veritas
painful and biting          it comes from my children
witty and wise          it comes from my children
repeatedly found and continually searching for
virtue of wisdom

The Tempest

slow motion

heart pounding
sweaty, shaky fingers dialing my father

A mistake realized is a heavy rock
that hurts when it hits the bottom.
(Fight of flight is not a decision)
Wanting to run, but "Wait! He's my brother!"
casts concentric circles
in the pond of my mind,
as the mistake sinks
deeper...
deeper.
Stopping,
I face Tyson.
I want to laugh because he looks so funny
when he's angry.
(Tyson disappears)
His shell punches me in the head.
(The shell of a man is no less strong than anger)
My throbbing head feels no pain.
I dive into Tyson's waist
for protection.
I'm angry. I'm scared.

A storm is invented,
producing bowling-ball sized hail
crashing down on my back.
"If I play dead, the storm will stop."
"Where's Tyson? Why won't he shelter me from this storm?"
(Wrath)
Instead,
the storm rises from the ground
kicking me in the stomach.
(Shoes hurt)
I want to throw-up blood,
so it will stop. "Will I die?"

Silence

(The storm has stopped)

I want Tyson to pick me up.

I don't think he's coming back.

(It's dark)

I can't tell if my eyes are open or not.

I want to drive home

to Ellen.

I can't see.

I can't remember the drive.

(Ellen is crying)

I can't hear myself.

Ellen doctors my wounds,

while I wonder

what happened to my brother.

no words coming out

a month since a post
no words coming out

quiet room
hum of heater

quiet mind
hum of distractions

hot tea
no words

frosted concrete
no words

no leaves on the trees
no words on the branches

awkward typing
forcing words to come out

forcing thoughts to come down
out of the clouds

a month since a post
a few words coming out

This: In Tune

West Indian Sandalwood
on the back of my neck.
Roman Chamomile
on the soft underside of my wrists.
Be still.

In harmony: an agreement
of pitch and intonation.
My soul-engine
humming in step, in sympathy
with the poetry of this quiet house.

Unknown names breach
this frailest silence:
our ruptured trust lasts 32 seconds,
but there is always another pen
available in this suburban Walden.

The moon is but an evening light.
I embrace this monotony, pulling myself
into this rich sameness: this
soft silence, such long stretches
of Frankincense.

Letter to my brother in prison

Dear Eddie,

You were twelve-years-old 

when I left you to grieve alone.

You were in the seventh grade

when I left you to raise yourself.

You were just a kid when I left.

Mom was 45 when she died.

I left to start my life at 19.

What the hell did I know?

I knew our family was broken,

bongs and Bob Marley silkscreens adorning 

the kitchen table.

I knew our house was unsafe for any child.

I knew you would be just fine.

I knew that I had to get the hell out of there,

and believe that you would be just fine.

I was wrong.

You were just a kid when I left

stuck between a state of pathos 

and a synthetic happiness.

Are we reduced to just one line at the time of our death?

TJN of Denver, a daycare provider, died Monday.

What is your line?

ENJ of Denver, a drug addict and frequent inmate, died.

What will be my line?

AEN of Aurora, apotheosized sibling and lionized long-distant relative, died on Friday.

We are all trying to gain some insight or perspective

that will serve us when we put our pens down for the last time.

The presumption of opening my journal

The presumption of opening my journal
to write a poem:

I notice the rock,
an autumn character
who hurries between difficult languages.

Imagine the pattern
connecting two clouds
centimeters apart.
This season speaks with worry
knowing that Winter water is heavy and near.

I found this silent rock
and opened my journal to write
in the moonlight: my process protects me.
This presumption and experience say

little about my practice, but
much to my passion.

Scratching...

I don't have much to say,
but I'm saying it anyway;

And so I continue to fill the space
between my thoughts and the end of the page.

Scratching...

Scratching, scratching, thinking and
scratching until something comes out.

Either I'm profound and clever
or just sad and desperate.

And so I close my journal for the evening.

Ornithology, or how to identify your feelings

I am but an amateur:
my Pathos sits in the shade of a pool umbrella
as a yellow-breasted swallow performs
schizophrenic swirls upon
aquamarine translucence.

These are the dimension of love that are difficult:
full commitment to the dive,
then changing your mind abruptly;
Kamikaze Logos - my inward thoughts
performing as a handsome aerialist.

We use science to understand the world,
but I am still an amateur
misidentifying my regrets as I sit
by the pool watching this bird
eat his breakfast.

Song of Myself

Ah, Whitman!

The leaves of grass may be dead, yellow and brown,
covered with a littering of sharp pine needles,
but the ground is warm
and smells fresh and new.

I chose to sit in the shade, on this side of the tree
that slopes upward toward the concrete school.
I want to face downward, downhill, but I want to feel the strong,
rough bark of this tree hold me in the breeze.  I feel safer here,
so I try to avoid glancing at the school.

In order for you to understand,
I must look, but understand
I am doing this for you.

It's depressing, really, to see
the sun warm its cold, white walls.
The sun does not differentiate
between concrete and grass
(although it should).
It shines, warms every body,
tree, building, and child's head.

The juxtaposition of grass to concrete,
city to nature, warmth to cold,
is understood by us all.
Thoreau is not the only one
to notice the banks of Walden Pond.
Nor Whitman,
as he sat and cradled the leaves of grass
capturing their in nity
for us to understand.

The difference:
Thoreau, Whitman (and now myself, I suppose),
continue to notice and
continue to write.
But they are dead, you say,
They cannot write!
Ah! But they do, for
they write through me and in me,
and by me.

Thoreau: in every drop of water;
Whitman: in every leaf of grass.

They are still here, and so am I; glad I chose this side of the hill;
Glad I chose this pen,
and this day and this sun.

Matera

Take me out of this moment,
this place in time, and
invite me to your home,
smooth and quiet.
We can take my boat and

float down this milky-white river
and pass the rows of yellow tulips.
I will speak to the raven
overhead and ask him to fi nd me.

Take me to your cobbled streets,
and show me wide buildings
crowding the shops. Let me

sit in the cool corner
under forgiving basil plants.
I want to smell of mint and basil,
so let me bathe in Romanesque sun.

I can feel us nearing
the bright, green clearing, malve growing in Santa Lucia;
smelling the stones
of the short, wide homes.
I can see the raven calling
and the rain falling.

I am here;
we are near;
I do not fear
anything.

No more drafts

After receiving my latest rejection email, I have decided to put the rest of my poetry online.  I have been holding onto a few poems, some old; some new, that I have been afraid to publish on my blog because I am holding out hope that they will be published in various journals.  Yes, that would be amazing, but I am tired of holding onto these poems.  I want to release them out into the world for all to read and comment on.  I am not coming from a place of high-and-mighty: I do not feel that I have been depriving you all of my amazing poetry!  Instead, this is about release.  I need to let them go so that I can stop letting these poems hold be back.  I am only as good as my last poem and I have not written anything for a few weeks because I have been holding onto these poems.  No more!

Stay tuned for a slew of regular poem posting.  Thank you again for everyone who reads.  As always, I appreciate any comments you are willing to make for my poetry.  

Where is love stored in the heart?

I can feel it, starting in my groin, my inner thighs,
rumbling.  It isn't desire, love, nor sex.
It's dull scratch elicits nausea
as it rises to my abdomen.  I ignore
it's pull, tugging a my intestines, focusing
instead at the children around me, waiting for their
swim lessons, crying as rubber swim caps
get yanked over tangled hair.
Children waiting for their turn to splash:

chicken -- bird -- soldier

Different lives surround me and I can
still feel it growing, a direct B-Line
to my chest.  I stare
at the other mothers trying to distract
my brain, for once my head and heart are
connected, the rumble has won.
It is difficult to go back once it
has grown: full-blown longing, insecurity:
sadness takes over.

As a last resort, I dip into my reserve
supply of gratefulness, stored in the left
atrium, pumping oxygenated blood throughout
my body: a temporary shelter, a lean-to.

It's time to pick up my own children from the pool.

I may be untitled

I really would love to tell you that I can never

find the words to say:

I'm a poet/writer/coach/father/husband

I don't know why I drink whiskey
at night except to understand
and seek for understanding.
I love this album!
Sipping whiskey, I feel connected to
Yeats
Whitman
Heaney
and others....

All the other writers.

I'm drunk; or may be, but my pen is still moving.
This is the space I need and want
to transport me to a deeper, higher
level of everything.

I may be untitled, but I'm still writing.
I will see you on the other side.

Decision

The boiling water,
fresh from the whistle,
splashes onto
the black, glass
stove-top,
and I wonder
if I need to slow down,
possibly read a book,
or just stare
into the cool evening
waiting for dusk
to whisper into my ear.

Waiting for Inspiration

I find myself waiting for inspiration.  I journal each day, sometimes at the end of the day, recounting the details from the time I awoke, to when my pen hit the paper.  I am detailing these banalities hoping something poetic will arise from the ink.  If I go back through my journals, I can find an archaeological phrase or poem that I can post to my blog.  I flip through pages and am reminded that many of my days sound the same.  Perhaps this is why the days seem to blend together.  

Still I write.

I believe that it is important to write through writer’s block.  I think that with any work, there will be plateaus and times when you don’t want to continue.  If I repeat the motions, go through the movements, I may not have a book of collected poems or pearls of wisdom, but I will have written every day.  I will have written my life; documented it for my children’s children and all of the nameless, faceless Internet readers.

Still I write.

I received a few more rejection letters last week.  I should clarify that they were emails, not letters.  People don’t write letters anymore.  One of the emails was an obvious form rejection letter; the other one was more personal.  I appreciate the personal letdown, but sometimes the form rejection is easier to accept: like when you carefully insert a wrinkled and torn dollar bill into the vending machine and it is immediately spat out again.  There is no tiptoeing around the issue.  The bill was rejected.  So I try again and again and again and again until I get my damn candy bar.

Still I write.

The personal email feels more like a breakup than and rejection.  It is like they really wanted to accept my poems, but they just couldn’t: don’t worry, you will find someone out there who is perfect for you; not me, but someone out there is perfect for you.  So, I feel wounded, but not angry because they wanted me, but the universe said no.  I think prefer the quick dollar-bill rejection instead.

Well, here I am write a short blog post that is part journal confessional, part insightful essay.  I think I need a few hundred more words before I am allowed to classify this as an essay.  In the meantime, I will read my daily emailed poem, try and get through Alexander Hamilton’s biography and Beowulf’s saga, and go to work each day to change the world.  

I make dents in the universe.I thrive on inspiring others to greatness.I love questioning the status quo.I am a shaper.I create cultures that release the creativity and originality in others.I am an independent thinker; nonconforming and rebellious.I ask lots of questions.I push the boundaries of what's possible.

Still I write.

Still I Write

I will continue writing
until the lines run out;
then I will grab another journal:
more lines
more words

This is not a goodbye;
(so cliche, I know)
just a see you soon

Still I write
And still I write
Bowed head and lowered eyes
weakened by my soulful cries

But still, I write.

At the Grave of my Family: Father and 2 Brothers

This is the longest that I've spent with them,

lined up beneath the earth, side by side:

a united family.

This is the closest I've been to them,

all three so near, but 10 feet beneath my feet.

They all felt, at one time or another, that I was

better than them; put me on an invisible

pedestal high above them.

Now I'm above them.  I'm left alone

even though we've been estranged for decades.

I am alone.   It is quite here;

we haven't spoken in years.

I am the last on, penned with a name

that I had to grow in to;

A name that I pass along to my own children,

without strings attached to each letter,

each false memory, family lore that dictated

my behavior.  I.  am.  here.

staring at my name chiseled three times

into granite stones:

Here lies               Here lies               Here lies

I give my sons this name, Germanic and complete:

a name without lies;

The lies they told me, themselves,

the police.

Here lies the end of an era,

a fictional family made up of non-existent birthdays

Christmas cheer, Easter egg hunts, Holy Communion.

I have laid these lies to rest.

I turn around, take my sons' hands and

go home.

I'm emotional.  I drank too much wine and ate too much lamb curry.  Cat Stevens brings a single tear to my eye -- for the dad I never had, but always wanted.  Cher closes my throat, chokes me up -- for a mother, whom I miss so much it hurts.  I often wonder if I'd feel so depressed as often as I do if she were here.  She would annoy me for sure, but she might keep me in check.  I'm tired and sad and have a stomach ache, probably diarrhea tomorrow.  Tonight, I'll just puke out my feelings onto this page, scratching at the paper and the floor.