Today is the last Wordless Wednesday with a poem. Two more days left in April and some things remain to be answered. Plus one mildly amused and one endearing poem in the memories at the end.
Prompt 28: “Write a poem that poses a series of questions.“
Real questions How can you tell for sure whether something is a poem and not merely a regular sentence set out in a column? How does one tell apart meditation and a power nap? How cold will it be tomorrow if they say it will be twice as cold and today it’s the freezing point, 0 degrees Celsius? More importantly, when I sense a loss is coming in my card game, does this mean that I will lose no matter what I do, or is it to spur me on to do something extravagant and still win? And why does this remind me so of the future of humanity? And finally, why is it that today, on a rare walk without my camera, I find a door at our trash heap, clearly left there for a door lover but only good enough to take home in a photo?
This day in my NaPoWriMo history (2018): Click on the photo to read 12 April postcard prose poems, written to this photo and 11 others, because “as its creators intended, the prose poem is the ultimate act of rebellion.”
This day in my NaPoWriMo history (2019):
Dis connect I was supposed to watch 18 minutes of four poets talking Emily and then write my own meta poem. A poem on a poem. Meta is my mother's name. I learned Meta at the source. For me reading poetry is intimate. A recognition of another's truth that binds. I am on my laptop as it is, and he is on his. His father is watching TV and cooking. My earplugs are killing the last thread of connection that remains. It is like at home now that he bought the headset for his game. To connect with poems and poets is to disconnect with everything and everybody else. I lasted till minute 9. Was this a test?
This day in my NaPoWriMo history (2020):
Green room Green tapison that her grandmother cleans with suds on her knees; a big green picture of a locomotive; green furniture, and white, oh how it suffers – when the closet door unhinges, it becomes the perfect slide from the bed until that breaks too; “Green Door” on a cassette that father didn't bring from abroad, he brings Cat instead of Shaky, only getting the “Stevens” part right, something she will cheer for later in life; the books arranged by always something new; the broken pieces of a glass serving platter hidden behind a cabinet in the hopes they will just forget about it; and in the middle of it little Manja growing up into a secret, cleaning her room the only way she can, by making it interesting, turning it into a game: first all the mess is gathered in the middle of the room, then it is divided into little heaps according to drawers and shelves where it is due to end up, and finally it is put there. In alphabetical order.