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There are many different places to find new poems. I am grateful that this month my local library has a 'poem in a pocket' basket of poems printed and rolled into tiny scrolls. The first poem for today is the one I got. My next Rebus has come in, so I am going back today (and will get another! it's like a poet's lottery or fortune cookie).
Also UK writer Jo Bell did a month long series of posts in 2017 [https://belljarblog.wordpress.com/2017/04/01/a-little-support-for-napowrimo/]. A poem a day as well as 30 prompts. I haven't done any of these prompts (yet) but thought the day 2 poem was a good example of what Bell calls 'reading what isn't there' and I have lived in Patagonia for a summer so it was a nice memory.
In the High Country by David St. John
Some days I am happy to be no one
The shifting grasses
In the May winds are miraculous enough
As they ripple through the meadow of lupine
The field as iridescent as a Renaissance heaven
& do you see that boy with his arms raised
Like one of Raphael’s angels held within
This hush & this pause & the sky’s lapis expanse?
That boy is my son & I am his only father
Even when I am no one
Perhaps Patagonia by Kate Clanchy
I said perhaps Patagonia, and pictured
a peninsula, wide enough
for a couple of ladderback chairs
to wobble on at high tide. I thought
of us in breathless cold, facing
a horizon round as a coin, looped
in a cat’s cradle strung by gulls
from sea to sun. I planned to wait
till the waves had bored themselves
to sleep, till the last clinging barnacles,
growing worried in the hush, had
paddled off in tiny coracles, till
those restless birds, your actor’s hands,
had dropped slack into your lap,
until you’d turned, at last, to me.
When I spoke of Patagonia, I meant
skies all empty aching blue. I meant
years. I meant all of them with you.
Also UK writer Jo Bell did a month long series of posts in 2017 [https://belljarblog.wordpress.com/2017/04/01/a-little-support-for-napowrimo/]. A poem a day as well as 30 prompts. I haven't done any of these prompts (yet) but thought the day 2 poem was a good example of what Bell calls 'reading what isn't there' and I have lived in Patagonia for a summer so it was a nice memory.
In the High Country by David St. John
Some days I am happy to be no one
The shifting grasses
In the May winds are miraculous enough
As they ripple through the meadow of lupine
The field as iridescent as a Renaissance heaven
& do you see that boy with his arms raised
Like one of Raphael’s angels held within
This hush & this pause & the sky’s lapis expanse?
That boy is my son & I am his only father
Even when I am no one
Perhaps Patagonia by Kate Clanchy
I said perhaps Patagonia, and pictured
a peninsula, wide enough
for a couple of ladderback chairs
to wobble on at high tide. I thought
of us in breathless cold, facing
a horizon round as a coin, looped
in a cat’s cradle strung by gulls
from sea to sun. I planned to wait
till the waves had bored themselves
to sleep, till the last clinging barnacles,
growing worried in the hush, had
paddled off in tiny coracles, till
those restless birds, your actor’s hands,
had dropped slack into your lap,
until you’d turned, at last, to me.
When I spoke of Patagonia, I meant
skies all empty aching blue. I meant
years. I meant all of them with you.
