Day 12: A celebrated country

• Manja Maksimovič

Today the task was to write a poem with a help of two dictionaries. So I helped a time hopper meet an unhuman. And since today’s poem is short, have two from my NaPoWriMo history, both first attempts of two poetic forms.

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Prompt 12: “This prompt challenges you to write a poem using at least one word/concept/idea from each of two specialty dictionaries: Lempriere’s Classical Dictionary and the Historical Dictionary of Science Fiction.” 

I was quickly satisfied, with four words from the latter, and one entry and the start of its definition from the former. I attempted a triolet, since I saw that last year on this day I wrote my first (and I repeat it at the end of this post), but it wouldn’t stay still so I branched out. The found words are set in italics. 

A celebrated country

A time hopper in a tin can
spots an unhuman on a worldlet. 

They found a country.

A time hopper in a tin can
thinks back through her life span
and names it Italia, 
a celebrated country.

In their country for old men,
a time hopper in a tin can
celebrates daily that she met
an unhuman on his worldlet.

And this was my Italia last April as taken on my dog walks. Currently it’s raining up poppies.

  • My daily view. Welcome to Maremma!
  • This is where Costa Concordia used to pass. Now a boat like this is rare.
  • This is Manciano 40 km away. It is only visible on a really clear day.
  • Happy fresh green.
  • The end of April.
  • Green turns to yellow.
  • So yellow.

For:

NaPoWriMo 2021 Button with black background

This day in my NaPoWriMo history (2020), my first triolet:

Violent act

What poets do is far from freedom fight
and poetry is such a violent act.
They plot, kill, murder using all their might,
what poets do is far from freedom fight.
We’d think that they do nothing else but write.
But you see wounds and wound yourself, in fact
what poets do is far from freedom fight
and poetry is such a violent act.

This day in my NaPoWriMo history (2018), my first haibun: 

Haibun, then

On one side, five horses. One is cream-coloured, like a dirty ghost. Among them rabbits hop. Birds land on them sometimes, or merely follow them pecking at what they leave behind.

On the other side, a kennel with a dog and a pig. The pig grunts. It could be called a satisfied grunt. Bestia is alarmed, he has not heard it yet. A new pig, then. They are always new.

Another kennel, more dogs. Hunters leave them like this, in their cages in the fields. Surrounded by nature, yet not quite its part.

Cars are whizzing by, the more the closer the summer gets. The drivers here show no mercy. If you are on their road, it’s your fault. They drive past with not even a little arch to allow for an unexpected move on your part.

They bring to mind cashiers in supermarkets who throw items along as if they were angry which they probably aren’t. Neither are they hungry or poor, resenting you for buying so much. They simply throw stuff around, eggs and all.

And drivers simply pass an inch away from your body with speed intact.

And after the Easter, furnace wood pellets get replaced overnight with barbecue coal no matter what. As if to say:

We’re Italians.
We will have our barbecue.
We want our spring. NOW.

23 thoughts on “Day 12: A celebrated country”

  2. Love that fresh green that turns so quickly to yellow. Your poems are so feisty, Miss Time Hopper. Enjoy the spring in your wordlet named Italia.💚🌼

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    Reply
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