Hass' collection Time and Materials earned him the 2007 National Book Award and now he's the recipient of the 2008 Pulitzer in Poetry. I remember reading this collection around 10 months ago--because it was the only collection of poems "buzzed" at the BookExpo America's book buzz session along with some very strong fiction and nonfiction titles--and thinking this is really a great collection. Apparently, everyone else has been thinking the same thing.

I haven't read Schultz's Failure (boy, that sounds kind of like the wrong title for a Pulitzer-winning collection, huh?), but I'm now very interested in finding a copy.

Also, Ellen Bryant Voigt's Messenger: New and Selected Poems, 1976-2006 received a Finalist nod. Btw, that collection has spent a lot of time on shortlists all year as well.

To find the full Pulitzer List, check out this link.

 

Eight rhymes with great, which is what you are if you've been keeping up with the PAD challenge so far. Today is a Tuesday--sooooooo, that means you will get to choose from two prompts this morning. Actually, you'll get to choose from two paintings, because today's prompt asks you to write a poem that is inspired by one of the two paintings linked below. Please indicate the title of the painting or the artist's name somewhere in your comment as well. Of course, there is also the possibility that you could blend the two together. Hmmm...

Anyway, here are the paintings:

Painting #1: Piazza d'Italia, by Giorgio de Chirico

Painting #2: The Little Deer, by Frida Kahlo

And here is my little poem (size doesn't matter, does it?), which is inspired by Painting #1.

"Piazza d'Italia"

Everything felt off that day. Maybe in the distance
the perspective bent the two men into a handshake
beside the lazy statue. Maybe the green sky told
the train to arrive beside the columns, beneath
yellow flags. Maybe we hid ourselves from the sun.

 

As promised, here are some highlighted poems from the Day 1 prompt, which was a "2 for Tuesday" treat where poets could either write about a first or beginning OR they could write an April Fool's poem. The poems I've highlighted aren't necessarily better than poems I didn't highlight; they're just some (of many) that spoke to me. Hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

(Also, these highlighted poems aren't listed in any kind of ranking system. They're in the same order as they appear in the Comments for the first day's prompt.)

(Double also, if you especially enjoy any of these poems, why not do your good deed for the day and send an email or make a comment below to let them know? I'm sure you could totally make someone's week by doing so.)

*****

MY FIRST BICYCLE

 

Had a removable boy’s bar,

Doubling as a girl’s bike.

Last night, at a Valentine’s

Party, I sat in a kissing

Booth kissing boys the way

I kiss girls when I know

Them well . . . when I was

Little I never considered

Removing the bar so I could

Jump higher, but every so

Often I wonder why I never did.

 

 

AARON FAGAN

Aaron Fagan |faganismAT NOSPAMgmail dot com

 

*****

 

my first marriage

 

 

was on a steep

hill in the third

grade: we were adjacent

to recess, asphalt

hopscotch and four-

square

 

i wore a crown

of weeds tethered

together with an 8-year

old’s precision

and striped culottes

that would be ridiculed

the following year

 

a small crowd surrounded

me and my sunny-shirted

groom in giggles; all

of us the kids and the colors

of a Peanuts comic strip

 

our makeshift minister

was a boy who once threw

up what looked like half

of a peach floating

in syrup which sat

under the morning

bell in sawdust

until a reluctant custodian

removed it from sight

a day later

 

down the aisle

i was a nervous

child bride; stepping

cautiously remembering

that once a girl with blonde

pigtails and a perfect Charlie

Brown-round head

did a somersault there

and landed in dog shit

 

after our dramatization

of what we thought

was committment, the kiss

landed on my lips

then we held hands

for a few minutes

 

we were divorced

by the time the bus

took us home; no honey-

moon on the jungle gym

or imaginary cruise--

just a tearful me

when i saw him

with a girl taller

than me the next day

 

 

k weber |ilovehateyouAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

Firsts

 

Furtively, I took my father's double-edged

blade and crept to the bathtub,

sure, for some reason, I'd be told

I was still too young

to look like the other girls,

so sleek, so acceptable.

 

I touched it to my ankle

and immediately, blood

spurt out on white porcelain,

a chunk of skin and some flesh

detached and lying on the drain.

 

Now I'd have to get help and confess:

I tried to shave my legs.

 

 

Robin Morris

Robin Morris |momewraths2002AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

First Rites

 

At seventeen, we were far enough

from home to keep secrets.

We fumbled the poles into their snaps and loops,

arcing, stretching the tent like a drum

between. I wanted to be a man

so I gathered sticks and fallen

branches, cussed and cussed and cussed till the matches

took.

 

With the cottonwoods and the light

failing fast it became difficult

to talk. I laughed too loud. Fussed

too much with the little flame. We both

pretended to love the taste

of Winstons. I waited for you

to say you were cold. You waited for me

to ask.

 

We might have looked

more narrowly into the fire,

seven wood spokes

gone coal, nightbirds

somewhere softly arguing

I will I will I will

swear to God

I will.

 

 

Scott Coykendall |scoykenAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

First Day of Summer

 

We throw the bag

into the back of the van

and head out, laughing.

The radio shares

our excitement

as we sing along,

off key and very loud.

Greeted by

shimmering water,

shovels, pails,

and laughing children.

Sand between our toes,

warm and scratchy.

Sun on our necks,

hot and dry.

We drop everything

and jump into the water.

Refreshed.

 

 

Lori |brightiiizAT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

First rodeo

 

Head full of tequila

New cowboy boots full of sore feet,

I stumbled and fell

on the railroad tracks

before I even had the chance

to get thrown from a horse.

 

Somewhere John Wayne

shakes his head and walks away

into the sunset

 

 

Mike Barzacchini |mjbarzAT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

Thaw

 

How excited everything is to live

after so many long, cold months.

 

Even the crocuses begin the surface ascent,

the stems finding their pitch against a stiff April wind

 

while the birds sing their deliberate song for no one,

not even the world with all of its exaggerated beauty.

 

They are as much the notes not sung

as the ones that are. Let them praise only themselves,

 

and if the crocuses take credit, so be it.

Let them grip the wet dirt in their silent blooming.

 

 

January |jgill27494AT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

First Catch

 

I watched him as he paused,

hoped as he considered,

waited until he decided.

He picked up the ball

and ran back to me.

 

He dropped it at my feet,

slightly soggy.

I felt wonderfully complete!

Then...

he snatched it back.

As he ran away with it,

I swear I could hear him laugh.

 

 

Tonica |tonihall2003AT NOSPAMyahoo dot com

 

*****

 

First Love

 

Not the buxom blond

from high school or

the yellow convertible with

red leather upholstery and

not the teacher who paid

attention to me after my

years of being ignored but

that love that never ends,

that gives without expecting

anything in return,

that wonder of

all passions,

CHOCOLATE.

 

 

Alfred J Bruey |ajbrueyAT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

*****

 

First Kiss

 

Your name was Roger

Tall boy, quiet boy

Third grade girl & boy--

Why you? We planned it

like a surgical procedure.

We hid in the ravine

so no one would see.

No one could see

nose bumping on nose

glasses clinking glasses

the first time.

So we had to try again.

 

This time you tilted

your head and the kiss

planted just right.

The Arctic breeze

couldn't reach down

there, deep by the

frozen creek.

 

We walked back up

the hill to report

our findings.

 

 

Elizabeth |lilyclarissaAT NOSPAMhotmail dot com

 

*****

 

First Day of College

 

Dad and Mom are in the front seat

I am wedged in the back between

boxes and bags filled with towels

comforters, pillows, a hot pot,

a study lamp, and clothes that

I don't want to wear anymore

 

Pittsburgh is a thousand miles away

as we cross the Verrazano in our borrowed car

on our way to Greenwhich Village and my dorm

 

The sky is as bright as the idea I had

to have a different kind of life

"what was I thinking?" harmonizes with

"if I can make it here I'll make it anywhere"

in my brain as I feel the air thicken

and the pace quicken

 

Dad catches my eye in the rearview mirror

as the New York skyline dares me to enter

will I be swallowed whole or embraced

there is no way to know

 

"is this a big enough campus for you?"

he asks

 

I smile weakly

wanting despeartely to be the girl

who I was when this was just a dream

and not the one who is carsick and scared

 

"Just remember," Dad says, "always act like you know

where you are going and no one will stop you."

 

No one ever did.

 

 

Teri Coyne |tmc329AT NOSPAMaol dot com

 

 

As mentioned in the previous post, today's prompt involves recording all the details of your day and generating a poem from that material. To make the poem interesting, you probably do NOT want to just list out everything from the beginning of the day to the end. But then again, you could prove me wrong on that--list poems can be very effective and engaging when done right.

As far as myself, here's what I came up with today on my way up from Tennessee to Ohio:

"We woke up and fell asleep"

"Sleep pretty darling--do not cry--and I will sing a lullaby."
                                    -the Beatles "Golden Slumbers"

We are born every morning
with or without the ones we love.
She smiles and tells me the world
can wait before we walk the dog.
Then, we dress and go to church.
Faith is surrender, says the pastor.
We are all raised from the dead.
She hands me her pen when I can't
find mine. We sing a few hymns.
Then, we eat lunch. Surrender is
lying on my back and listening
to her write; surrender is driving
north as she heads south mouthing
I love you.

*****

I hope everyone had a great weekend. And I'm proud of everyone who's made it this far in the challenge. We're now 20% of the way there!

 

Okay, apparently libraries are not open in Eastern Tennessee on Saturdays. I'm currently coming to you live from an arcade in a tiny mall on the main strip of Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Woo-hoo!

The Day 5 prompt is to write a poem of worry. Also known as a worry poem. Anything that causes you worry can be used to help you write this poem. For instance, are you worried about clowns? Because I know I am. Write a poem about your worry of clowns.

Here's what I've got for today--written across the street at the Gatlinburg Pizza Hut. :)

"Gone Fishing"

And when we got back,
there was a message waiting for me,
but I was told to sit down first,
it was something bad,
and so I knew it had to be something to do with my wife,
or with our son she'd been carrying for six months;
I knew it had something to do with one of them,
or both of them;
that's the only reason someone would call
up to these fishing cabins in Canada--
because no one had ever called in more than 20 years
of fishing trips.
So I knew it was something bad--
they were both dead--
killed,
perhaps,
in a traffic accident--
or she lost Ben in some complication--
or Ben was born but she was dead.
I knew;
I knew;
it was something bad,
but I breathed a sigh of relief
when I realized
it was just my grandfather who'd died.

Now this story above is true. The poem is bad. But I should mention that I immediately felt guilty and cried myself to death while taking a shower before driving from Northern Canada to where I am today--Eastern Tennessee. But for a brief moment I was so concerned with my family unit that I did have a moment of relief that it wasn't one of them. Okay--enough of that. Heavy stuff.

*****

Day 6's prompt needs a little warning, because it is a prompt where you record events that happen to you during the day and then create a poem from them. I'm going to post my poem sometime tomorrow, though I don't know if it will be in the morning, day time or evening. I will be back in Ohio tomorrow night--so if I can't find a connection before then, well, you know. Keep an eye out for me. :)

Hope everyone is having a great weekend. I know I am. Now, time to head up into the mountains and hike around.

 

Stumbled upon "Japanese Poetry Persists in Korea, Despite Disapproval," by Choe Sang-Hun from The New York Times, and found myself going back over that dangerous territory of what the purpose of poetry might be, could be and should be.

In this case, the poetic forms used by Korean poets can actually cause public shame and disapproval. Imagine getting dissed at a writers conference because you write triolets or kyrielles--not because they're bad poems, but because they're poetic forms with French origins. Such actions take poetry out of the realm of "just words" and makes it a very human activity.

Poetry is always important, but it reaches a new level when poets feel they have to hide their tanka and haiku out of fear and/or shame.

So read the article and think about it; talk about it with your friends; and keep it in mind throughout National Poetry Month (April here in the States).