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April is National Poetry Month.  For fun, and in honor of great poetry the world over, I’ll provide a writing prompt each day.  Feel free to respond to the prompt, or ignore it if it doesn’t suit you.  The goal here is to write a little every day, if for no other reason than to experience the joy of writing.  I imagine that not every prompt will inspire a full poem, but like Natalie Goldberg espouses, we’re going to write for the practice of writing.
 
If you would like, you may email your responses directly to me at aprilpameticky@hotmail.com, or leave your efforts in the comment section below each day’s prompt.  I would be happy to share work and links back to bloggers and poets that have decided to participate.
 
Many of you may already have a poem or piece that fits the prompt, but try to write and share something new.  Flex muscles.  Write.  You can always revise later. 

Prompt #2: Names

512lBOt35jLNorma E. Contu writes that “Names are power … the more we know about our names, the more we know about ourselves.  Just as we assume various roles during our lives (daughter, sister, aunt, mother, teacher, friend, etc.), each one of us bears various names throughout our lifetime” (42).  [Naming the World edited by Bret Anthony Johnston].

What roles have fascinated you? Are there roles which conflict?  Write a poem, perhaps in two voices, addressing Names and/or roles.

 

Collector

I collect ideas and intentions,
as my ambition far outstrips my stamina,
in between moments when I argue
with my husband over whether
soy is better than dairy.
My life is an unfinished sewing project,
all the threads waving madly,
their cheerful colors a bright reminder
of all that’s left undone,
while I steer Leia’s hand to use
glitter glue on just the paper,
gently moving her away from the table cloth
already stained with yesterday’s markers.
Each little sliver of a plan tucked away
in a bell jar to be pulled out later
when I’ve long forgotten
where that button came from,
holding Mara’s soft form
tightly against my chest,
her drool staining the fabric.
I watch time slide by when I even
remember to look,
grasping frantically at streaming ribbons
blown about by the breeze.
I wish time were a paper fan
I could unfold at my leisure,
wave it languorously to gain moments
to do more than just collect.

 

 

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