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30 Poems in 30 Days 2009: Day Seven

September 7, 2009 by John Hewitt 

30 Poems in 30 DaysWriting poetry can be a challenge, and writing 30 poems in 30 days is quite a task. There will always be days in which you just don’t feel very creative or inspired. Words that seemed to flow on one day are tangled and frozen on another day. This happens to everyone. Here are a few things I do to get unstuck.

Meditate. I have several guided meditations on my iPod. I download them for free from http://www.zenworlds.com/. I also have my own simple meditations. I usually focus on a single word such as clarity or inspiration while I slowly breathe in and out. Sometimes you simply need to calm your mind in order to get back on track.

Walk. Walking is its own form of meditation and can often provide inspiration.  The advantage of walking is that you engage your body and help relieve physical tension while you observe the world. This can often lead to new insights or new ideas.

Use the Random Article link on Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random. The beauty of the random link is that it can pull up just about anything. I have often discovered things to write about while exploring this never-ending encyclopedia. Sometimes it just takes a single word or phrase to inspire a poem.

Create your own prompt. For each day of this project, I post a poetry prompt. Prompts are actually just constraints. You pick a word or phrase, a line length, a topic, and you try to write a poem using it. A constraint helps you focus. It is like having a menu to order from.

Today’s Poetry Prompt

Write a poem that involves an animal.

Curse of the Black Cat

Cat yack
The dreaded hairball
It can happen anywhere
The office rug
The bed
The couch
Anywhere but on the tile
That would be too easy
No pill
No food
Slows down the constant march
Of hair through his body
And onto fabric
I want to vacuum him
Shave him
Mousse him
Anything to keep the fur
Out of his mouth
And my life

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Email: hewitt@poewar.com
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Comments

8 Responses to “30 Poems in 30 Days 2009: Day Seven”

  1. Leah on September 7th, 2009 7:48 pm

    I took the animal bit loosely, I admit.

    The kayak slips past the yawning sea which is
    Sleepy under white clouds and forgives the transgression
    Of the paddle stealing power and the illusion of mastery
    Which is often with us, though we are prettified parasites
    Underneath our unknowing sky.

    We skim like water-spiders, we feel we are
    Made for this place, at one with ourselves,
    And maybe we are, and maybe we aren’t.
    We believe we are molded for these moments
    Where we hold the world between two hands and
    Breathe in victory and sweat and wonder-
    That we belong where we are best, but
    We forget we weren’t born with paddles in hand,
    Who’s to say our best act isn’t mediocre to minds,
    Dragged from the depths of our selves, but lasting,
    But a girdle ‘round misfortune and important as
    The beams of light that cities stand on tiptoe for.

    The sea is vast, and right now it is a resting crocodile
    With the spines of its back just barely tipping above
    Into waves that we crest.
    Later, the sea will rise and snap at the shore
    And roll and tumble through the water with
    All the certainty of death until the stone, the brick,
    The book it took is changed, and we remember
    That nature effaces what doesn’t belong.

  2. Joy on September 8th, 2009 5:14 am

    Tortoises Walk Slowly (Not!)

    What is it they say?
    Don’t walk so slowly
    like a tortoise
    But my tortoises
    Walk real fast
    like an F1 driver
    Once, they walked so fast
    They almost disappeared
    like a puff of smoke
    So, whoever said that must have
    Had a really weird tortoise
    like an old man.

  3. sheer on September 8th, 2009 6:38 am

    Scratches on the door
    Fur on the chair
    Loud screeching
    In the middle of the night
    As they battle it out
    Staking their territories
    Against the strays

    Ready to snatch
    By stealth or speed
    They loiter around
    Looking innocent
    All the while ready
    To act

    The cats in my house
    Are chasing me out.

  4. Rosemary Nissen-Wade on September 8th, 2009 9:31 am

    Mourning the Goat

    There is no goat.
    I can hardly believe it.
    But it has been declared
    On national TV
    By the head man.
    I must accept it.

    I remember my Dad
    Personally ironing
    His white apron
    With the blue and gold,
    Its tiny suitcase,
    And my Mum poking fun.

    Hearing the banter,
    I loved to imagine
    Jolly half-naked fathers
    Riding that billy-goat
    In their nice clean aprons.
    As it pranced, tossing its horns.

    That must be when I first
    Heard the word “regalia”.
    Much older, I liked to think
    Of an inner circle of Magic,
    And the goat perhaps
    A metaphor for Pan.

    But to learn that there is no
    Goat, no ride, no dancing,
    No half-nude cavorting
    Of any kind – that’s cruel.
    No secrets, no mystery …
    No more magic.

    Note: Dan Browns’ next book will be about Freemasonry.
    The Masons have pre-emptively revealed that they have no secret rituals.

  5. Rosemary Nissen-Wade on September 8th, 2009 8:09 pm

    Ha ha, I’m very well acquainted with all the cats here! Or with some just like them. :)

    Leah, I very much like your water piece, particularly the spider simile and crocodile metaphor!

  6. James Garner on September 11th, 2009 9:15 am

    OK,

    The poem involves an animal, albeit a small animal at the very end.
    had troubles contemplating a poem “about” and animal, and came up with this.
    Enjoy.. yeah, Iknow it’s late.

    Siesta Kitchen

    A smallish sultry room is cooled
    by the shade of a rusted tin roof
    Sunlight spills through an open window,
    No breeze billows the old sheer curtains.

    The previous color of the walls
    begin to tint the white washed walls,
    their dusty chalk rubbed off by wear
    long past and swept away with care.

    The well-worm broom leans on the wall,
    and keeps a lonlely vigil over
    a wooden table, knicked and scrtched,
    which covers three straight back chairs.

    A couple of pots and handful of dishes,
    clenaed and stacked, dry by the sink.
    An old dishrag draped over the faucet,
    has a drop forming on its lowest point.

    A still life except for a single fly
    that buzzes in a lazy arc and lands
    on the dishrag and crawls around.
    It then resumes its lazy flight.

  7. TopBanana on September 24th, 2009 3:22 am

    spot runs round and round
    chasing his tail; he stops and
    pants; plops to the ground.
    .-= TopBanana´s last blog ..Where are you going? =-.

  8. J.C. Hewitt on September 24th, 2009 10:54 am

    Thanks for stopping by TopBanana. The pictures on your blog are very nice.

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