So you wrote a lot of poems…

Maybe it was crazy to attempt 100 daily poems.

I had thought to wait another day or two for the Poem Post-Mortem (which sounds pretty cool if you say it aloud). I had a lot of reactions in the final ten days or so, and I see no reason to wait. In no particular sequence, here are some reactions of this author…

  • It actually got easier in a way when I got into it. In reviewing at random over the course of the writing (July 7 to October 8), I noticed that somewhere around one-third of the way in, between poem 31 and 35, the subjects seemed to suggest themselves more easily. They acted like shy faerie folk who don’t know what to make of the giant human at first. Were there any ‘good’ poems in the first 33? I guess. I’m much more pleased with the ones over the final third.
  • I became more surprised at what words showed up. In particular, Daymare (Oct 1) popped in from who-knows-where. All I did was think, “I’d like to write something more ‘image-ry’ like the ones Bridgette does.” Fine, mission accomplished, but from where did the image come?
  • I surprised myself also by sticking with it. My general attitude toward life has been, “when the going gets tough, get going,” in the sense of go work somewhere else, go do something else. “Life’s too short to keep [insert what I don’t want to do].” Yet I cracked the ends of both radii in my arms only two weeks in and kept right on writing. I traveled for two weeks yet wrote poems #35 through #49. I contracted the flu Type A on September 24 and kept right on writing. I must credit Bridgette with that, mostly, because she kept writing through her time sucks and bodily aches.
  • More people are interested in reading my poems than my prose. My blog readership increased about 100%, and my followers rose about 10%-20%.
  • In the beginning I mined poems written long ago when I railed inside at the perceived shortcomings of the people running my places of employment. (I still think I was partially right, but over the two to three decades I accumulated those poems, I learned two things: there are more paths to the goal than you think; and oftentimes the goal you think you’re working toward is not the goal your management is working toward.) Those poems in my opinion remained stilted, as if I tried to breathe life into a corpse but only succeeded in creating a zombie.
  • I have a peculiar knack to take a popular tune from my younger days and spontaneously craft new words for it on the fly. I sing these to my wife who rarely is amused by it. I’m rather proud of the fact I can create rhymes and mimic the meter of the original tune, but then I’m a borderline narcissist. This talent(?) helped in writing poems, particularly when I decided to rhyme them.
  • When I lowered my expectations my poems rose in quality.
  • I have a strong urge to publish a poem today! Resisting.

I thought as I got into this a little bit that it might be fun to rework the better poems and churn out a chapbook. I still might, but I’m thinking more that I will be working some poems on the side for submission to poetry websites. There are plenty. A new blog I follow, zumpoems, has this list of more than 4000 places which will accept submissions.


About the photo: I’ve carried that book around for about 30 years (published 1996), even though by then I had given up on my dream of actually earning a living from my creative writing. I never liked it that much. Pulling it from the to-be-donated pile, I thumbed through it today and I’m much more inspired by its suggestions and insights. Like so many things in my life, poetry came to me when I quit trying to be a poet.

And the poets down here don’t write nothing at all,
they just stand back and let it all be…

—from “Jungleland” by Bruce Springsteen

a mid-day walk

Every major city seems to have a botanical greenhouse where tropical conditions have been created to foster the growth of orchids, bromeliads, and such—or “July” as a resident of the American South might call it. I left just past noon today for a 25-minute sojourn around the neighborhood. When I returned, our weather gauge reported a temperature of 81.1°F and a relative humidity of 88.8% (now registering an even 89.0% 30 minutes later). Lighting was poor: completely overcast, the sun approaching its zenith. That’s okay. My poetry attempts have been poor today, also. This is my second try, the first being filed in the “maybe-it-can-be-saved” bin. This really isn’t poetry, more poetic prose, artfully arranged—unless it’s true what a friend said, that poetry is what I say it is!


Every Southerner learns gradual 
acceptance of sweat, wears loose
garments, overlooks each other's
spreading stains. "Only mad dogs"
indeed. Why walk now? Surely
my Fitbit will multiply steps
taken in such weather?

Escaping my climate-
controlled cocoon,
black-eyed susans cry
welcome. They're sprinkled
beside rattlesnake master,
goldenrod, butterfly
weed. Abiding our warmth,
humidity humbly, they
suggest I follow their lead.
Minutes later brings one
patriotically-colored
whirligig, neglected,
spinning madly with each
new breath of hot air,
much like my country
does these days. Inured
to these new great divides,
I just see [whirligig;
patriotic
] as I pass.
One neighbor's mailbox
decoration swings madly
with each puff of air. Its
caretaker keeps it small:
Chinese fringe flower
usually towers twenty feet.
Where once I wandered scrub
woods (leftover nature long
subdued), newer years brought
townhouses, all units clad
in ubiquitous white,
(accented with charcoal trim!)
Townhouses get
young magnolias,
crafted ever-so-
perfectly by your
local nursery, while
everyone else
nurtures what
such abnormal
specimens become.
Headed homeward I give
friend Crow midday greetings,
reflect upon our tree-bound need
for vegetables in front
(sunlight dictates placement),
admire still-red maple leaves,
register my soaked T-shirt:
its limit of three-quarters mile,
exceeded by my four.

18/100