Tag Archives: poetry

alexithymia

This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a terzanelle. Alexithymia is an inability to identify and describe emotions or to distinguish them from other sensations; alexithymic people tend to be very literal and concrete – and, of course, to be unable to talk about their emotions. This word was suggested by @nabetafish.

I felt some tightness earlier. It’s OK.
Let’s skip the coffee. I don’t need caffeine.
We’re talking, but I don’t know what to say.

Alexithymia, he said. What does that mean?
Won’t matter. Now I’m here. What can I do?
Let’s skip the coffee. I don’t need caffeine.

I wrote a list of things to fix for you.
Just say what you want first, though. What I think
Won’t matter. Now I’m here. What can I do

To help you? Change the lights? Unclog the sink?
I brought supplies and things. Is this enough?
Just say what you want. First, though, what I think

Is you can just relax. I’ll go get stuff
together. We can make it work, I guess.
I brought supplies and things. Is this enough?

Come closer. Try this. Put your hand there. Yes.
I felt some tightness earlier. It’s OK.
Together we can make it work. I guess
We’re talking, but I don’t know what to say.

metempsychotic

This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, rhyming triplets as in the Dies Irae, using words suggested by friends from Twitter: @sarathegood, @theoriginaledi, @Editor_Clark, @grammartable, @amateurdancer, @CurmudgeonChief, @jennie1ofmany, and @CollinsMandy.

day of danger, day of moggy
better kitty than a doggie
when the light of life grows foggy

when the texture turns quixotic
when the twitching tail’s hypnotic
nine times ply metempsychotic

come for cat and come for kitten
scratch the post where it is written
never shy though eight times bitten

when the volume’s at eleven
as you play stairway to heaven
reaper whispers “number seven”

lacking motive, leaping, flying
airtime, hangtime, lifetime buying
six more tickets for the dying

be you saint or be you sinner
seek you sex or seek you dinner
five times still your chance gets thinner

lost in moor or forest frolic,
cursed with polyp, cramped with colic
four shots left, you deathaholic

when you’re stuck and stuff turns sucky
wickets sticky, succor mucky
thrice it rests you to get lucky

when the trumpet plays crescendo
on the death tune from Nintendo
two turns yet you’ll meet your endo

now you’re basking in the sunlight
sorry, kitty, here’s your done light
vacuum sucked you to the one light

henceforth

This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a cinquain.

these hands
sow these letters
on your humus tongue so
opulently words will burgeon
henceforth

slush, slosh

This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a sonnet – in the Italian (Petrarchan) style.

This snow is pretty… pretty gross. It’s slush.
The soaking city quickly learns to slosh,
And splash, and curse, and chuck stuff in the wash
As soon as they’ve survived the evening rush.
It seems like yesterday that life was lush!
Oh, wait, it was. Now winter’s here. Well… gosh.
So long, stiletto, sneaker. Hi, galosh.
And if you like this mess, why don’t you hush.

The upside is, there’s so much stuff to see,
Like art, and plays, and dining out as well…
Slosh through some slush and choose from anything!
But most of us stay in and watch TV—
And in this town, that means the NHL,
Which keeps on playing halfway into spring.

bologna

This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a rondel. Listen to the audio for an important clue on how this is intended to be read. Continue reading

contextual

This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a glosa, which is a form that bases itself on a quote from an existing poem. I’m basing this one on a snippet from “Language Is a Virus,” by Laurie Anderson.

Paradise
is exactly like
where you are right now
only much, much better.
—“Language Is a Virus,” Laurie Anderson

Continue reading

thigmotropism

This year, I’m writing poetry for every word tasting in November. I’m calling it Povember. Today, a ghazal of sorts.

Thigmotropism, which has the stress on the second syllable, names the property of moving in response to touch: turning towards or away from a thing upon coming into contact with it. It’s often described in plants, but of course happens in more mobile entities as well. Continue reading