November Poem a Day Week 1? 1.5?
I think I've written enough poems to commit to the bit this year.
Hello hello. I had every intention of starting a poetry mini-series this month, but I live in America so…
The truth is I’m tired. It’s been a sad, disappointing, discouraging week. The U.S. election results were not what I hoped for, and I’m worried for folks who will be hurt along the way, who feel betrayed and unsafe and abandoned.
And another moment of honesty: I’m sure some folks reading this did not vote the same way and don’t share my feelings. You’re still welcome here, of course. I can’t promise it will always be comfortable, but I can promise to not dehumanize or shame anyone.
In the best moments, I feel grief giving way to a quiet resolve to tend the world in the ways given to me — listening and loving and writing. Right now my echoing question is “What is mine to do?” No matter if you voted or not, if you’re American or not, or who you voted for last week, you’re invited to ponder this question with me.
One thing is for sure: All the emotions have been fueling quite a bit of writing. So hey, let’s get on with some poems, shall we?
Once a year, I join with my friends at The Poetry Pub to write a poem a day in November. I’ve been doing this in some form for about 10+ years, starting out alone with the Writer’s Digest prompts. In 2018, Chris and I started writing along with a few poet friends. For the past 4 years, our little community has been curating our own prompts. This year’s theme is Poems of Place, and I’ve had a wonderful time writing with friends and waking up the sleeping poet. (Some of you may recall that I… didn’t get very far last year.)
Every week, I hope to share a favorite draft or two here. If you want more, I haphazardly post on Instagram! (The rules of NovPAD: anything I write counts, I reserve the right to not share exceptionally bad drafts, and I won’t beat myself up for missing a few days.)
I Voted Today
To love a city means to leave your street and go downtown. To feed the meter with every coin in your wallet and walk to the Brutalist concrete cube they call City Hall (fun fact: first in the nation to be built over a Federal highway.) To vote early is a sort of love too, to let your life mingle with your unknown neighbors’ for a moment. And who is your neighbor? The poll worker in a t-shirt that says “Drag Out the Vote,” and the Black man in a wheelchair that he gently guides to the voting booth. The woman in glasses who hands you ballot before returning to the soft scarf she’s crocheting. The little brown-skinned boy, grinning as he stands on tiptoes to press his mother’s ballot into the box. They are the pulse of this place, and to love a city is to love them and the stoplights and the bus yards and the vacant lots growing wild on this warm autumn day.
Let this city take root
and expand my soul, for in
its life I find my own.Day 1, a favorite from Week 1 of NovPAD (and the first form Friday). I wrote a haibun about early voting. No matter the feelings about the outcome, I am so grateful for the opportunity to participate in free and fair elections. It helps me love my city a little more.
I Promise, Nothing is Wasted
even the crumbling leftovers
of the summer tree’s crowning glory
that flame out so bright they draw
crowds for miles, only to dissolve
into dust, be eaten by worms,
shelter the wintering creatures
and feed tomorrow’s seeds.Week 2’s prompts explore nature that’s close to us — soil, plants, animals, trees. This poem is for the Day 9 prompt, soil. PSA: if you can, leave the leaves. 🍂
