April Fifth: NaPoWriMo: The Lament of the Spatula, the Notebook, the Ice Pick

Now, let’s get to our optional prompt! Today we’d like you to start by taking a look at Alicia Ostriker’s poem, “The Blessing of the Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog.” Now try your hand at writing your own poem about how a pair or trio very different things would perceive of a blessing or, alternatively, how these very different things would think of something else (luck, grief, happiness, etc).

Today's prompt's inspiration was taken from my kitchen. Three objects I saw. Stirring tale of kitchen mementos.

In the dimly lit kitchen,
Where shadows scratch walls
Like memories seeking solace of past,
A lone figure stands amidst the remnants of fading will.

The spatula rests awkwardly against the worn countertop,
Its once gleaming surface,
Now dulled by the weight of countless meals prepared with obligation and desperation.
Its edges, once sharp and precise,
Now bear the scars of battles fought
And lost in the relentless war against time and helplessness.

Beside it lies the notebook,
Its pages yellowed with age and turmeric,
And fragile with the weight of recurrent stories and forgotten dreams.
Each scribble upon its surface whispers of hopes dashed and aspirations undone,
A silent evidence to the cruelty of time and the frailty of human existence.
Within its weathered confines lie the echoes of a soul laid bare,
Seeking solace amidst the chaos of life's relentless march.

And then there is the ice pick,
A cruel reminder of the chill that grips the heart in moments of despair.
Its jagged edges glint in the faint light,
A stark contrast to the warmth that once filled this sacred space.
In its cold embrace lies the promise of oblivion, 
A fleeting respite from the pain that threatens to consume all that remains.

As she stands amidst these relics of a kichten left behind, 
A sense of longing washes over her like a wave crashing upon the shore.
Memories swirl around her like ghosts in the night,
Whispering secrets long forgotten and truths carved open.
In this quiet moment of reflection,
She finds herself lost amidst the fragments of a past she can never transpose,
Yearning for a sense that now eludes her grasp.

And so she sits down,
Trapped between the echoes of what once was
And the harsh reality of what is to come,
her heart heavy with the weight of a hundred sorrows.
In this fleeting moment of rotting sadness and choking nostalgia,
She finds herself longing for the warmth of the sun upon her skin,
And the promise of a different dawn on the horizon.

But for now,
She remains rooted in the darkness,
Haunted by the ghosts of past inactions and piercing regret,
The vivid banality and throttling certainty of what lies ahead.

- Oizys.

April Fourth: NaPoWriMo: The Whisper of the Dancing Forest

Our (optional) prompt for the day challenges you to write a poem in which you take your title or some language/ideas from The Strangest Things in the World. First published in 1958, the book gives shortish descriptions of odd natural phenomena, and is notable for both its author’s turn of phrase and intermittently dubious facts. Perhaps you will be inspired by the “The Self-Perpetuating Sponge” or “The World’s Biggest Sneeze.” Or maybe the quirky descriptions of luminous plants, monstrous bears, or the language of ravens will give you inspiration.

In the depths of Russia, where whispers roam,
Where trees sway and spirits find their home,
There lies a place of mystic lore,
Where the dance of the forest does adore.

A phenomenon, strange and true,
Where trees waltz in a mystical brew,
Their roots intertwined in a rhythmic trance,
In a dance that defies all earthly stance.

The Dancing Forest, they call it so,
Where the ground beneath seems to glow,
As if the earth itself joins the fray,
In this waltz that lasts night and day.

No one knows why they dance so grand,
In a land where nature's hand
Paints wonders beyond human ken,
In the secret glades of this hidden den.

Some say it's the spirits of old,
Tales from folklore, mysteries untold,
Guiding the trees in their graceful glide,
As they dance with the wind, side by side.

Others claim it's the earth's own song,
A melody ancient, profound, and long,
Echoing through the roots and leaves,
As the forest whirls and weaves.

But whatever the reason, it remains unknown,
In the heart of the forest, where secrets are sown,
Where the dance of the Dancing Forest unfurls,
In a symphony of nature, for the world to behold.

The idea I took from "The Strangest Things in the World" is the phenomenon known as the Dancing Forest, which is said to exist in Kaliningrad Oblast, Russia. This strange natural occurrence involves a forest where the trees appear to be dancing due to their uniquely twisted and contorted shapes. While the exact cause of this phenomenon remains unknown, it is believed to be a combination of environmental factors such as wind patterns, soil composition, and possibly even the presence of underlying permafrost.

I chose this idea because it intrigued me about the mysterious and enchanting qualities often found in nature's oddities. The notion of a forest where trees seem to come alive and dance captured my imagination and created a huge scope of speculation about the hidden forces at play in the natural world. A great playground to fool around with imagery, metaphor and symbolism that lends itself well to my poetic exploration.

- Oizys.

April Third: NaPoWriMo: Liminal Labyrinth

Last but not least, here’s our prompt for the day – optional, as always. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a surreal prose poem. For inspiration, check out Franz Kafka’s collection of short parables (my favorite is “The Green Dragon”).

In the murky depths of twilight, where shadows dance with whispers, there exists a place unseen by mortal eyes. Here, in the realm of surreal whimsy, reality takes a curious turn, twisting and contorting like vines in a forgotten garden.

In this ethereal landscape, the moon hangs low, casting a pale glow upon the shifting sands of time. Creatures of myth and madness frolic in the moonlight, their forms ever-shifting and elusive to the grasp of understanding.

Behold, the sky is a canvas painted with dreams, where stars streak and swirl in intricate patterns known only to the cosmic weavers. Constellations morph and merge, telling tales of ancient gods and long-forgotten destinies.

Amidst the chaos, a lone figure wanders, a pilgrim in this land of phantoms. Their footsteps echo softly against the fabric of reality, leaving behind a trail of echoes that fade into the ether.

They traverse through forests of whispers, where trees murmur secrets in a language long forgotten by mortal tongues. Each leaf rustles with the breath of forgotten memories, a symphony of echoes from distant realms.

As the journey unfolds, the boundaries of time and space blur, merging into a singular, kaleidoscopic tapestry of existence. Past, present, and future converge in a cosmic dance, swirling together in an infinite loop of creation and destruction.

And so, in this surreal symphony of chaos and wonder, the pilgrim wanders on, ever-seeking, ever-searching for meaning amidst the madness. For in this realm of dreams and shadows, truth lies not in the answers, but in the questions that linger, unanswered, in the depths of the soul.

- Oizys.

April Second: NaPoWriMo: Echoes of Shared Laughter Across Life's Distance

Finally, here’s today’s optional prompt. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write a platonic love poem. In other words, a poem not about a romantic partner, but some other kind of love – your love for your sister, or a friend, or even your love for a really good Chicago deep dish pizza. The poem should be written directly to the object of your affections (like a letter is written to “you”), and should describe at least three memories of you engaging with that person/thing.

Remember how we'd laugh until tears streamed down our faces?
In the library, stifling giggles as we tried to study.
Late-night messages turned into uncontrollable fits of laughter.

You were my rock during those before-exam study-session jitters.
Your encouraging words pulling me through some of my toughest days.
That time you stayed up with me, helping me mend my will to continue.

Exploring the city streets, getting lost but finding our way back together.
All those music, all the talks about life under the glow of streetlights.
Walking that long path, pushing each other to keep going, reaching the summit together.

But life split us into different paths,
And now the echoes of our laughter seem distant,
Yet, your friendship remains etched in my heart,
Lingering nostalgia of our inseparable times has grown into a new organ in me.

- Oizys.
 

April First: NaPoWriMo: Lost in Vine's Lament

And now for our daily (and totally optional) prompt. Today, we’d like to challenge you to write – without consulting the book – a poem that recounts the plot, or some portion of the plot, of a novel that you remember having liked but that you haven’t read in a long time.

In the shadow of the withering leaves of castor,
He sat with the grief of his father,
But for the city of God, he had a pit in his heart,
Indifferent to its fate, he chose to depart.

A worm creeps in slowly,
Attracted to the rot inside his heart,
Feasting on his bitterness and disdain,
As his indifference splits apart.

The loss of the sheltering vine,
And the anger of his father for his loss,
Yet, there was no sting of remorse,
But, only a distant look for the withering plant.

For in the crumbling of his indifference,
As the worm gnaws at his calloused soul,
Scavenging the possibility of making whole.
But all that seeped out was the wish to flee.

I read this book long time ago and it stayed with me. Recently, while reading a poem, it ignited the memories of the former book and that made me pen this poem to honor it. Can you guess which beloved book inspired this poetic retelling? Let your imagination wander through the verses and see if you can uncover the title hidden within the lines.

- Oizys.

March Thirty-First: NaPoWriMo: Cage — Behind the Bars of Time

We’ll be back tomorrow with our first daily featured participant and resource, along with a prompt. But for now, and to help out all of you for whom April 1 comes a bit earlier than it does to Na/GloPoWriMo’s secret headquarters (yes, our lair is built into a volcano), here’s an early-bird prompt: Pick a word from the list below. Then write a poem titled either “A [your word]” or “The [your word]” in which you explore the meaning of the word, or some memory you have of it, as if you were writing an illustrative/alternative definition.

Cage, Ocean, Time, Cedar, Window, Sword, Flute.

I cannot believe I am doing this again this year. After last year's miserable attempt and getting my site removed from the Participants’ Sites due to sheer embarrassment, and then getting it added again this year moments before starting the response for this early-bird prompt for reasons I cannot psychologically concoct right now:

I will probably not post this link in the comments. So, I am choosing the word "Cage." Could it be any more obvious? (I mean, I highlighted it above; that's why...)

In a world where time dances with shadows.
There dwells a bird in a cage of illusion.
Trapped in a cycle of self-doubt's spell within the bars of fate.
Marinated in procrastination's fear,
Its wings, once vibrant with the colors of dawn,
Now wilted, tangled by the ego's sneer.

Each day, the sun rises in a golden blaze.
But for this bird, the dawn is but a distant memory.
It believes it has all the time to spare,
Confident it can step out whenever it dare.
Its cage a prison of perpetual lateness,
A cruel symphony of missed opportunities and regret.

Crispy wind blurries the day into evenings.
Oh, how the bird longs to soar through the skies.
To feel the wind beneath its weary wings,
To embrace the freedom that beckons from beyond.
As it finally moves to take flight,
Reality's wind slaps with all its might.

The world outside moves with purpose and grace.
For time waits for no feathered friend,
While the bird languishes in the sauce of its own making.
Its cage, a silent witness to the passage of time,
a reminder of all that could have been, but never was.
And the moment of freedom finds its end.

The world spins on without it.
Late to emerge from its self-made prison,
The bird learns the hard lesson of time's precision.
As it mourns what could have been fair,
A symphony of regret fills the air.
Soaring dreams now shattered on the ground.

Forever late to the dance of life,
In the cage of hindsight, the bird is bound.

- Oizys.

April 8th, UPDATE: After marinating this piece with self-doubt, procrastination and ego of having all the time in the world, I am posting the link to my response to this early (but, actually, super late..) prompt hoping no one will discover this humiliating chronicle of tardiness.