Tag Archives: National Poetry Month

National Poetry Month

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It’s National Poetry Month again, so time for me to do my part, and subject the public to my middling poesy.

I chose to write an Anaphora, which uses repetition of words or phrases, often in the style of a chorus or an anthem.

(Actually, I got the idea from this cool site called The Journal, which has tons of prompts for writers).

This is a refrain that goes through my head some mornings. Though—when I fleshed it out on paper—it took a turn for the absurd and the dramatic.  It is in no way a reflection of how I feel about my job.  It’s more about the loss of leisure time and pleasurable things, like sleep.

Here We Go to Work Again

Here we go to work again,

Dethroned from slumber’s diadem,

Throw on some clothes I chose last night,

A hurried meal, a staggered flight.

 

Here we go to work again,

But first the local coffee den,

To get a dose of rocket fuel,

And slake the day’s commuting gruel.

 

Here we go to work again,

As routine as it’s always been,

A quick smoke before the train pulls up,

Then all aboard with coffee cups.

 

Here we go to work again,

We lonely soldiers, countrymen,

A train car filled with silent screams,

Of life’s injustice, stolen dreams.

 

National Poetry Month

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In 1996, the Academy of American Poets designated April as National Poetry Month so while I’m most definitely not a poet, I thought I’d challenge myself to contribute something here.  This free-form verse was inspired by a memory from Amherst Junior High School, an ugly period of my adolescence.  Hope I did it justice.

Garbled Messages

We called her Garbled Messages,

Because, she spoke in fetal words,

Quivering, breathe-y, spitty words,

If you stood too close, you got sprayed in the face,

 

We never got that close or paid her much attention,

But the classroom silenced,

Shook up like a soda bottle ready to foam and cackle,

Whenever it was her turn to speak.

While we became sly masters of witticism,

The put-down:  Pass the ball, ass-face,

Quit being such a Gaylord,

Don’t stick out your tongue unless you’re gonna use it,

And the turns of phrase:  Twat did you say?

I cunt hear you.  I have an ear infuck-tion.  I need some penis-cillin.

We illuminated subtexts everywhere,

Since the subtext of everything was always sex.

I never looked at Garbled Messages,

Too much, though I wondered,

Was she retarded?  The greatest shame of Junior High,

She seemed the same as other girls,

Pretty even, though she wore a lot of make-up,

And dressed in ironed blouses and wool skirts,

Like her mom wanted her to bypass junior, senior high completely,

And go out into the world as a Secretary.

Still, we called her Tard and Dufus and Bocey,

At least behind her back,

Bocey, I later learned, derived from,

Board Of Cooperative Educational Services,

The place where all the Special Ed. kids went after lunch,

In the bus known popularly as the Retard Wagon,

I wish I could say that I never used those words,

But I did, so this is my confession.