O.P.P. [(Other Person’s Poems) for April] — #1, Ms. Edna…

So…..

Here we are. It’s April again. The Cruelest Month. Some months (and some Aprils) are crueler than others, apparently…

In order to punish myself  push myself, I have decided this year to embark on another crazy (unofficial) NaPoWriMo/NaPoREADMo (National Poetry Writing Month/National Poetry Reading Month) scheme. Only this year I’m crazy doubling down. I shall endeavor to not only write finish and post one poem per day on this here bloggo, but also to read said poem (ahem) aloud and post the sounds here so that you may understand how lucky you are that you don’t live with me enjoy the mellifluous tones of my deep baritone tenor (mezzo-soprano, maybe) voice.

On top of that (does this make it tripling down?) I am also going to be posting and reading aloud one poem per day by various persons (them afore-mentioned “Other Persons”) who will no doubt make my work look like doggy drool.

Anyway, it’s something to do. And hopefully something that someone out there (other than my wife–oh, wait, never mind–she’s in here with me) will enjoy. So. Here we go…..

(Erm…my bit will come a bit later. It is a night poem, so I shall wait for night to read it…..)

O.P.P. #1, Edna St. Vincent Millay’s rather cheeky (and perhaps ever-so-slightly dark?) take on the current season…..

 

Spring


To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
is nothing.
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
 





Drive, a haiku sonnet





There is a robin 
singing in a tree somewhere,
telling the world he

is looking for a 
mate. A robin sings in a 
tree somewhere, telling 

the world he has found 
a mate. The tree somewhere is 
a tulip in the 

neighbor's front yard. Spring 
has come. We drive by the same 
people, sleeping in

bags on the sidewalk, waiting 
for the world to warm.










(Been a little minute since I wrote one of these...)

Around

(NaPoWriMo, Day 8)



I awake to the sound 
of more sirens—
firetruck and ambulance 
this time—the weather has calmed,
the city has not--and visions 
of spinach artichoke dip 
spreading on multi-grain bread 
with round, browned 
and caramelized slices 
of oven dried tomato--
red on green and 
green and white
on brown.






Zenaida macroura



Grey morning creeps in

through open-eyed windows, steals

between the sheets—as


dark as the thought of

cold before it can be felt—

slips through shuttered eyes


sewn shut by colors

dreamed into them without will

or consistency,


and now, just there, just

above the window, grey-winged

mourners come.  Perhaps,


like me, they want the world to

wake up without them.






Trying out a new form that David at Derelict Satellite invented I believe, has definitely 
mastered and been kind enough to loan me....the haiku sonnet.  
Incredible and inspirational work on his blog.