So, April is National Poetry month, and I am determined to write 30 poems in 30 days. Have I lost my mind? Probably, but nothing beats a try but a fail. It is Tuesday, April 11th, and I have only 8 poems I believe, so I’m already behind. Any advice, cheerleading, and/or favorite prompts in the comments below would be helpful. I am also going to include a list of my favorite prompts below, some of which I have used this year, some in previous years.
I will start to share a couple if I like them, but more often if I don’t like them.
Prompts I like/have done/plan to do:
- Start each statement with “I will” or “I want”
- Blackout poetry from old textbooks or papers
- Re-write a poem written when you first started writing.
- List poems. (I LOVE list poems even though I’m not necessarily successful at them)
- Portrait poems
- Let your pain write back to you
- Write about waiting
- Begin with “This is not the last poem I will write…”
- Write a love poem to someone without using any of these words: love, like, heart, passion, fire, desire, forever, roses, kiss, dream, moment, together, soul or baby.
- Write a poem that admits a dark secret of yours.
- Find one of your favorite recipes. Write a poem that utilizes some of the steps of that recipe.
- What did you say?
- Go to a place that means a lot to you & write about it
- If It Were To Be The Last Time or The Last Time
- The places you have left yourself
- Noisy beds
- Stories about scars or bruises
- “I have done this before and more.”
If I can think of more, I’ll add them, but if you think of any you’d like to see, leave a comment below!
So I’m working on For You, My Best Friend, and I am realizing that half of it, I have written in the first and second person and half of it I have written in first and third person. The struggle. Both sound authentic to the work, but the second person definitely sounds more accusatory even though the person I am writing this for/about will probably never read it. I basically admit he ruined my life (oops?) and I don’t want readers to think I’m talking to them, even thought that might be an interesting trip for them to go on. I think they give off two completely different vibes, and I am not sure which one I am going for.
I am questioning so much, and I am finally writing more. I might wait until I am “finished” to make it third person or second person. I am not sure.We’ll see. If you have any thoughts, please feel free to leave them below. Much appreciated.
Like I said in my previous post, the first draft of my nonfiction project (there’s a poetry one coming too!) was written entirely in rants, letters, and poems. Here is a combination of all three from the first draft, something like a prose poem. Feel free to comment and/or make suggestions. I originally wrote this a few years ago and have not come back to it until now.
My best friend wanted a picture of me. I sent him one after a long spiel of why I did not want to send him one. There should not have been a negotiation, but he knows his power and he owns it and he uses it accordingly.
I wonder why me saying “no” does not stick. I wonder if he really loves me or just likes what I give, which confuses me because it isn’t much.
But he tells me I am beautiful, so I forgive him and forget about the weight he adds to my shoulders. Then he sends me a picture of his dick. I laugh. Not because it is funny, but because I am uncomfortable, and I do not know how to tell him “no” without 1. Feeling bad about it and 2. Him not taking me seriously.
He knows I do not want him like that. He knows I am mostly a lesbian. He confuses me. I confuse me. When I talk to him, my voice should not waver like an old record. It is clear I have let him rot in my ribs for way too long. This needs to stop. He is hurting me. I am letting him. I do not want to anymore.
So, like I said in my previous post, I am working on a longer nonfiction work about a previously platonic turned intimate relationship I’ve had over the years, and I am going to admit something to you that I haven’t admitted to anyone:
This project scares me.
Words normally don’t scare me. But I am doing it because it scares me, because I want to feel, and I know this will get me riled up. Though I’m not sure how long I want it to be or if I want it to exist in the world or just on my computer, this is getting me to a pen, to a page. And yes it’s slow going, but once I’m writing, I can’t stop until that thought is gone.
I am currently on my second draft; the first was all poetry and curse words and rating and second person nonsense, but now I am flipping those poems into memories, into revelations, into substance. I am pouring my heart or my brain into the page. The working title is For You, My Best Friend.
Comment below if you want to see a snippet of what I’ve been up to or a poem from whence it came.
I am easy to slide down eardrums
relatively pleasant to look at
because no one is quite
sure what to do with me
I pronounce every syllable
and I am still working
on acceptable hairstyles
I do not speak unless spoken
to but my mind is always working
before I can be anyone else’s
idea of a black girl
my ex boyfriend liked black girls
different black girls
he made the distinction
of calling me better than
whiter than other black girls he knew
because I didn’t wear weaves
if only he knew that wasn’t a compliment
had the nerve to say I dumped
him because he was white
and I pro-actively black
raising right fists
while educating myself
about our atrocities
what happened in the south
leopold in the congo
down in the cargo holds
being three fifths of a person
couple hundred dollar price tags on our heads
denied civil rights, marriage, families
while women carry products of rape
serving trays of food to the father
and men mate horses
their hands turning rougher than steel
picking cotton in the fields
it was never about color
but it was always about history.
black history and what he failed to realize
I am unapologetic with my blackness
because I spent too long
hating myself because of it
so I am easy to slide down eardrums
I present what people white
people want to hear
and they pretend to listen
but in the end
I am just another black girl
nothing special to you
but to me, we are everything
If I was born around 150 years ago
I may not have made it to age 2
I would have dunked in the water
Unable to swim
Alligators nipping at my toes
And then devising I was good enough to consume
Babies have pain receptors
But they do not have words
black babies had nothing.
at least a white baby automatically had standing.
but if you were black you were one of three things:
1. brought up to be a field nigger
2. brought up to be a house nigger
or 3. dropped to be food for the hungry alligators
so they could get used to the taste of darker meat
and knew what to look for when hungry.
We dont talk about that in this country.
We dont talk about a lot of things in this country.
We need to talk about it
instead of brushing it under the rug
giving it a time stamp
that 150 years is a long time.