Haiku

For Christmas, I got a set of Haikubes, which are word blocks you roll and create a haiku out of. You also roll for the theme of your poem. The haiku structure is 3 lines of 5 syllables/7 syllables/5 syllables.

Refrigerator poetry is much easier! I don't do so well being directed, but it is interesting. Here's my fabulous creation:

Want to play? Same theme: "a vision for my future." Here are the blocks; I hope you can read them!

Have fun!

silver lining

(The Amazing D thought the title should be "fool falls, I get a wad," also using the magnets, but I declined.)

company

After the wonderful poem that is Cynthia Zarin's, we're back to the refrigerator magnet ones. Good thing some beings are nonjudgmental.

Late Poem

Haven't done my poem yet today, so while you wait, here's a lovely one by Cynthia Zarin, courtesy of Knopf Poetry, which sends out a poem a day in April. Epigraph by Vladimir Nabokov's Ada, or Ardor.

Late Poem

" . . . a matter of changing a slide in a magic lantern."


I wish we were Indians and ate foie gras
and drove a gas-guzzler
and never wore seat belts

I'd have a baby, yours, cette fois,
and I'd smoke Parliaments
and we'd drink our way through the winter

in spring the baby would laugh at the moon
who is her father and her mother who is his pool
and we'd walk backwards and forwards

in lizard-skin cowboy boots
and read Gilgamesh and Tintin aloud
I'd wear only leather or feathers

plucked from endangered birds and silk
from exploited silkworms
we'd read The Economist

it would be before and after the internet
I'd send you letters by carrier pigeons
who would only fly from one window

to another in our drafty, gigantic house
with twenty-three uninsulated windows
and the dog would be always be

off his leash and always
find his way home as we will one day
and we'd feed small children

peanut butter and coffee in their milk
and I'd keep my hand glued under your belt
even while driving and cooking

and no one would have our number
except I would have yours where I've kept it
carved on the sole of my stiletto

which I would always wear when we walked
in the frozen and dusty wood
and we would keep warm by bickering

and falling into bed perpetually and
entirely unsafely as all the best things are
—your skin and my breath on it.

the thing with feathers

Computer issues, grr, hence the late post today. I swear, the poem was done hours ago!

for the northerners among us

say it ain't so, Joe

appetites

The Amazing D is on a roll, so here's another double post. Can you tell whose poem is whose?