poem-a-day III

Week One & Week Two, respectively.

Windchill last week was -7 °F. I’ve hit a slough. Which I suppose is inevitable while simultaneously

• buried in housework
• recovering from a cold
• keeping up poem-a-day
• launching an advent project
• trying to write a halfway decent introductory piece by, uh, today
• mulling over my year-end letter /Christmas Anchorage Almanac
• not at all upholding traditions for a national holiday or anything

So I fell off the bandwagon last week, flailing and failing to regain momentum until Form Friday brought relief: others would supply the words. Poets.org says, “From the Latin word for “patchwork,” the cento (or collage poem) is a poetic form composed entirely of lines from poems by other poets.” I selected my favorite lines from my last batch of letters. The result was eight poems, five of which are below. The wondrously funny thing is, I don’t feel like I wrote a single cento: every word was given me by a dear friend. Maybe it was cheating, but it felt like grace. Here’s Week Three:

15. Twin

The VHS replays the scene
at grandma’s house, the breezeway screen,
a furry ball of black and white
inside a cardboard box. Delight
in puppy form to celebrate
a birthday girl who’s newly eight
and old enough to train one up
to listen to commands. The pup,
called Twinkle (like the little star),
must learn to never stray afar
for highway dangers threatened near
where cars can’t stop for dog or deer
and so each day the girl would say
“Now, sit, Twinkle,” and “Twinkle, stay.”
While she went to bring in the mail
The pup obeyed and slapped her tail.
At summer’s end cousins would keep
the border collie with their sheep. 
Her name was changed to Kip. She kept
away from roads and always slept
inside the barn with lamb and ewe
for sixteen winters, loyal, true.

16. Cento (i)

gorgeous leaves, listen
smile reaches her eyes, glance
and ten pages
sound delicious

a letter from Sarah

17. Cento (ii)

we’ve been nibbling
chopping vegetables
gaining a grandma
humming along
going off memory
wondering which camp
calling into a void
losing patience
sneaking away
to string words together
from the recesses
to the cities
during our years
to tear down the garage instead of waiting
for obv. reasons
into not one but two
on a gravel road
on a Sunday afternoon
on a separate (and final) note
in ten or twenty years
even in the times they are sad
until we see you

18. Cento (iii)

I am still carrying
still carrying
carry the piece’s legacy
but it can still carry my words to you
through wooded trails and along miles of coastline and never run out of things to say and never grow tired of silence

neither of our goodbyes could be described as quick.

19. Cento (iv)

we were all laughing and she stopped and said “this is supposed to be scary”
we hadn’t any rain for so long
we have to come to accept what we’ve been given
We are in lambing & farrowing season.

20. Cento (v)

an audible gasp and clap
a mountain to climb in the snow barefoot
a reunion of the oldest of friends
a community of like-minded weirdos
a shoebox of treasures you stashed
a post rock band from El Paso
a grand introduction
the perfect ending-for-now
a bubbling over joy at being
the guest of honor
hand-ground coffee worthy
new glue, hinges, & restored
safe and known and vulnerable and celebrated and welcomed and loved.

letters from Allison, Dana, Jaclyn, Janell, Kara, Kathleen, Kristen, MRM, Sarah

21. Heart-to-Heart

Love can be a smile that’s ear-to-ear
Or swaying side-to-side singing a lullaby
Over the years our honesty might put us toe-to-toe
Occasions will come we don’t see eye-to-eye
But we’ll stand shoulder-to-shoulder against the dark
In back-to-back storms we’re not far apart
You remind me every time we meet face-to-face
A mother-daughter love is always heart-to-heart.

Poetry is designed to slow us right down.

-Andrew Roycroft