This is my official Calendar 2020 post with twenty photos that I took in my human reserve this month last year, and a poem that starts off badly but has a foxy ending.
Prompt 5: “This prompt challenges you to find a poem, and then write a new poem that has the shape of the original, and in which every line starts with the first letter of the corresponding line in the original poem. … And I would try to make all my lines neither super-short nor overlong, but have about ten syllables. I would also have my poem take the form of four, seven-line stanzas.“
I found this tender love poem on my first blog after working hard to get one with exactly 28 lines. It is called “On Pinkish Paper”, in original Na ružičastom papiru, and is performed (and probably written but I’m not fully sure) by Rade Šerbedžija, Croatian poet and actor. I translated it into English myself, as I sometimes do. From that poem only the first letters remain here, though, as instructed.
One human reserve I’m learning how it feels. They fence you in. You live, run, breed, sleep and survive, while elsewhere your species slows to less and less. They know and tell you nothing. You feed. They want you fat. Winds promise hunger. You study rabbits; so naive. You bark hello to dog friend and he barks back. You haven’t met today. An evening walk like any other but as you approach a clearing round the bend, a heavy shadow darts and hooves resound along the path before you in a frenzy and you don’t know which species this could be, not even as you catch up with it and it flees again and almost crashes. Afternoon on the edge of your reserve where the canal runs deep. A movement: for a blink a grand set of horns appears, with golden light reflected off the hide. You know without knowing: this was the beast. “All well to you, now run,” your awe lets out, “until the hunt is back in season.” Queen fox appears right there another time to cross the road before you even blink, to tell you wilderness is still in charge and is about to prove it, just in time, as needed. It seems to say: “Oi, human, you go your way in your human reserve, we have it covered. And don’t want your help.”
Today I’m late because I needed two dog walks to get a sense of what to do about my poem. Then it came together nicely when I realised that I will incorporate today’s post into my regular Calendar series with the selection of my favourite twenty photos from the same month last year. All these were taken last April during writing poems for last year’s poetry month.
At the end of this post there is a novelty which I might repeat every day. Seeing that this is my fourth NaPoWriMo in a row, I’ve decided to link to a favourite poem written on this day on one of three previous occasions (that is, if I like any of them enough). Today’s is a fun misheard villanelle from two years ago.
None of the encounters from today’s poem were captured by my camera, only rabbits stand still long enough for me to catch them.
I try not to dwell on the fact that everything looks like last year and I could be taking the exact same photos. Hard to live in the paradise reserve when one cannot leave. Well, not really that hard. We’ve got foxes.
Previous months of 2020:
April in previous years:
Misheard Women know and men wonder. What is it that the men don’t know but the little girls understand? Better be gone than be right. Is this what women know and men wonder? Listen to the sound of the howling wind. You might guess what the men don’t know but the little girls understand. Can you imagine how angry it makes them? A simple fact that women know and men wonder. The truth of the night. We claim it. It's ours. This is what the men don’t know but the little girls understand: “I’m a back door man living in a land down under where women glow and men plunder. The men know but the little girls don’t understand.”