If this is April, it must be time to start poetry!

I want too much. I've been bottling it all up. I haven't been writing. For National Poetry Month (aka April) I wanted to write a poem a day, and I couldn't decide:

- thirty poems naming my thirty daughters?
- thirty Nyquil dreams?
- thirty poems coming at my mother from thirty different directions?
- thirty sonnets?
- thirty ghazals?
- thirty poems about me and God? or thirty poems 'bout me and my bod?

------------

Then there are my writing buddies and I'm excited about the prompts and ideas and poems that are going to be coming from them, and then there's the National Poetry Writing Month with a prompt a day at napowrimo.net.

So I just threw it all into the shaker and jumped in this morning. A little of everything (with a sonnet at the end if there's too much free-form in the middle):

Daughter #1, Sheherezade

Today this morning I am naming my first-born daughter Shahrzad, City-Born

My dark exotic young baby-nothing I am calling you Sheherezade, Teller of Countless Stories,

I am leaping from this corner through the whole house to the other corners

Gleeful with motherhood of you

Shouting and projecting all my lives, all my mother's lives, all lived and unlived days onto you while you,

With your tiny elbows, your nonexistent selfhood, are blocking and fending me off and saying

Here, mother, ignore those other corners and stop that foolish leaping and come be quiet with me

Here, mother, forget those other lives because no one knows if the oceans will rise and the coal will run out and all I will have is my own body with

Elbows. Cradle my dimpledness.

But I am not done projecting, hoping, thrilling that now I can finally lay down some of my own womanness because I will not be the last.

I can be anything because you can be anyone and I am not done shouting and leaping.

I can be anything because I don't have to be everything

Anymore.

-------

Nyquil #3

I called my sixteen-year-old son on the phone and got You on the line confusingly

speaking of curfews and places to be, how would he get home, You mentioned two buses

and I said yes, both thinking it made all the sense in the world and also knowing it didn't. I wanted to go into the city with my older son and my husband and make a big dinner and make a night of it so was glad if my younger son was staying the night with You and Your son, but who were You and why were You answering his phone, and how could I be so selfish.

I don't eat dinner, I don't like to stay up late, we don't live anywhere near a city and my younger son drives. And answers his own phone. I knew these things and wanted to say Wait, Wait,You!

I couldn't understand didn't listen couldn't hear what You were saying and I was embarrassed not to know who you were. By the time we hung up, which we never did, You were me on the other end of the phone.

------

And two poems for napowrimo, who sent me to The Bibliomancy Oracle:

-----

The Bibliomancy Oracle gave me:

If you want to be touched, say, Touch me.


If you want to be held, say, Hold me.

* 

from “The Antelope As Document” by Yona Harvey

My Mother Used to Be Alive

I didn't have to ask, I just climbed into her lap, cuddled next to her shoulders, leaned against her leg.

I didn't have to ask, I just flew across the country and found her.

I didn't have to ask but I could have.

I didn't have to ask.

I didn't have to touch, we were always touching.

I didn't have to scream, she was always listening.

I didn't have to hold her, she was holding me already.

I didn't have to ask.

I didn't have to turn her into a goddess, she was always imperfect.

I didn't have to cut her down to size, she was uncatchable and uncuttable and always cutting herself down so many sizes anyway.

I didn't have to miss her, she was already missing. Or never.

I didn't have to.

I wanted to.

---------

The Bibliomancy Oracle gave me:

We all need jokers in the deck with us.

*

from “Mantras” by Charles Jensen

Mother Sonnet #1

You were my fifties Jersey housewife mom

Except it was the sixties, Congo—plus

You were demure and yet you were the bomb

We all need jokers on the bus with us.

You chased me till I screamed and then you laughed

You nursed me, taught me, tricked me, kissed my neck.

We danced till Daddy thought we'd all gone daft.

We all need jokers with us in the deck.

You taught us both, your daughters, how to deal

And how to shuffle, fluff the deck, and cut.

A missionary shouldn't cuss or steal

Or dance, play cards, or be a weirdo nut—

Except you were. You did. And so must I.

Let's all be jokers till we lose—or die.