Tag Archives: NaPoWriMo

#459: However, there are things I truly miss . . .

Here’s the second poem in today’s sonnet trilogy. (II) However, there are things I truly miss.Not the rat race of it, the perpetualFrantic pace, the bureaucratic bullshit,Pendulum swing of best schoolhouse practice;         Not the bells of it, slaving to schedules, clocks,And calendars, the battle between plansAnd grades, always decisions about whatTo neglect out of pure necessity; NotContinue reading “#459: However, there are things I truly miss . . .”

#458: It’s been ten months since I stood in front . . .

I found, every April, as a NaPoWriMo participant, that it was impossible in those 30 days not to write about teaching. In any kind of forced creativity experience, by necessity one writes about whatever presents itself in experience and thought. When I was working, teaching occupied a huge portion of my brain–something on the orderContinue reading “#458: It’s been ten months since I stood in front . . .”

#457: Let’s have more buildings about songs and food . . .

The first line of today’s sonnet is an allusion to the title of the second album by Talking Heads, 1978’s More Songs About Buildings and Food. I think it’s one of the finest album titles in rock history, but you’ll notice that I’ve spun the thing a little bit. I was thinking about how architectureContinue reading “#457: Let’s have more buildings about songs and food . . .”

#456: I camped in the rain, no, don’t you worry . . .

Eighteen I camped in the rain, no, don’t you worry,I was dry, comfortable, sometimes tipsyWith drink, but mostly with some poemsAnd an atmospheric river rising.It hadn’t let up for two straight days,So I stayed inside to read and writeAnd for meals I visited the camp siteNext door, where my sister with bad kneesAnd a brother-in-lawContinue reading “#456: I camped in the rain, no, don’t you worry . . .”

#455: Burt Bacharach and Elvis Costello . . .

Day Seventeen of Sonnetpalooza finds me writing a poem about music, a thing I do from time to time, as music, it turns out, is one of the central concerns of my life–listening, making, recording, performing. Hardly a day goes by when I am not doing one of those four things at some point orContinue reading “#455: Burt Bacharach and Elvis Costello . . .”

#454: Let’s hear your argument that a civilian . . .

Okay, today all the rules for the sonnet, except for one, have been thrown completely under the bus. Desperate times require desperate measures. I don’t have a lot to say about this one, as I hope it speaks for itself, but I will give you a bit of a heads up about the subject matterContinue reading “#454: Let’s hear your argument that a civilian . . .”

#453: If I can go one-hundred days without . . .

Fifteen If I can go one-hundred days withoutAlcohol, do you think I might be ableTo go a week without social media,Or the internet for that same matter?All that digital stuff has becomeLike the cordyceps in The Last Of Us,So inextricably intertwined in our livesSo as to make extrication seem nighImpossible. Maybe not even nigh. Again, likeContinue reading “#453: If I can go one-hundred days without . . .”

#452: The headline of a HuffPost article . . .

Another cockamamie idea I had once, perhaps before this nutty 30 sonnets in 30 days idea, was to write a series of poems based on idiotic news stories, or the kind of article you see nearly everyday on outlets like Huffington Post and their ilk, those pieces that either report the ridiculous, or those thinkContinue reading “#452: The headline of a HuffPost article . . .”

#451: If Walt Whitman tried to write a sonnet . . .

On day 13 of the sonnetsplosion, I find myself thinking, this is only day thirteen. We’ve got seventeen more days of this to go. And then: why did I choose to write 30 sonnets again? It’s proving more difficult than I thought it would be. Sonnet’s are a bitch, remember. Larry Levis was right onContinue reading “#451: If Walt Whitman tried to write a sonnet . . .”

#450: When my son was young he hated April . . .

Here’s another little sonnet experiment. Let’s try to be super dumb about the rhyme at the end of the line by using the same words over and over—but enjambing some of the lines so that the repetition is less audible and dorky! It strikes me that this has been a poetic goal since the EnglishContinue reading “#450: When my son was young he hated April . . .”