(a casual facebook post this morning turned into a bonus poem for day 21 of Napowrimo)
There’s a lawn to mow,
some errands to run,
and it’s record store day.
I must write a poem.
I wrote the poem.
With a rebel yell,
I cried mow, mow, mowed,
ran those errands, and
shopped the record store day.
Now I’m home
lighting the BBQ.
It’s getting dark with
The Queen is Dead.
Either he’s a Stat Blip Junky or he just can’t give up the poetry, one or the other. In the following blog entry, the American English Teacher decides to keep writing poetry even though National Poetry Writing Month is over.
The American English Teacher Critiques His Own Poetry
I’m no T.S. Eliot, he says,
pouring over 30 little things
he’d like to call poems,
but doubts somehow that
they’ve earned that distinction.
His sentences sit there on the page
just moving right along being sentences,
rarely do they leap or do fancy spins.
And while he prides himself
on being relatively free of
the constraints of rhyme,
he suspects that music might be altogether
odd, he thinks, for a musician.
I lack authority, he says, for poetry,
remembering a critic who once said
there were no figures in his poems.
What’s a figure, he wonders,
and concludes that his ignorance
of the figure must be the key ingredient
wanting in his work, preventing
his lines from forming stanzas,
and forcing them into odd
and apparently arbitrary breaks.
He continues to write poems
despite the end of April,
despite the obvious dangers
of saying the right thing
in the wrong way
replete with arbitrary line breaks and