The Poetry Marathon

Inside my Heaven

You can’t unspin
What’s already woven
But I zee you choke
On word left unspoken

You’ve left me nothing
And I’ve had my fill
Nothing’s still nothing
Despite what you thrill

Come inside my Heaven
See what it’s about
Come inside my wonder
Let there be no doubt

No trap is needed
Clouds comfort bare
No sense of illusion,
When willingly taken there

Capture my light
Keep in your jar
Illuminate the night
That silence has marred

Good morning!

So it seems I forgot again.

I forgot to introduce myself.

My name is Molly

I’ll be doing the full marathon

I’m 20 years old

“Over the top. Just Before the Off.”

6:00 A.M., Mountain Standard Time, West Salton Street, Larimer County, Colorado

The crows aren’t even up yet. But I am. With flits and drips and drops of poetry chasing each other around me brain pan, I’m up. The kettle is on, there’s Bvumbwe treasure tea in the brown betty, the eggy-wegs are boiling, lomticks of toast and old butter are on the counter, my pens are filled and primed. I’m up and ready to write for twelve hours, straight.

I was going to say twelve straight hours but this being the 21st century, I was pretty sure someone would assume I was gloating about being straight. Since, besides being well over ninety percent hetero, I’m also caucasian, middle-aged, male, happily Catholic, and I still use the classic pronouns, I already have enough to point fingers at. So hours, straight, it is. I don’t like to be tooooo divisive. (I’m poking fun and cracking wise. You got that, right?)

I haven’t set any trails for my poems to follow. I haven’t stocked up on first lines or prompts. I haven’t cheated and memorized poems not yet written down. In fact, I haven’t written a single verse since the acceptance e-mail arrived for this endeavor. There’s naught waiting, fresh, clean, and safe, just around my mental corner. The vista is empty. But the light is on the horizon and the sounds are rising. Can’t wait to see and hear what they’ll be like today. I always seem to write best if I let the poems surprise me, ie:

“Peekaboo, peekaboo, rhymes for you,” squeaked the poem.
“GASP!” shouted the poet.

Since I’m not required to post a perfectly edited, easily understood, full-length ode for each hour, and since a limerick or an haiku is acceptable, and forms I’m proficient in, I’m certain I’ll finish. But I want to write the best verses I can and if I start off by encapsulating expectations in little baubles of verbal concrete, that won’t happen. Will I compose a sonnet the equal of Barrett Browning’s or Donne’s? Not likely. But there should be at least a sonnet or two. I can’t imagine that I’ll have time for a sestina or a villanelle, but sonnets should be doable. There should be a little modern verse and maybe some staccato rhyme. I do enjoy staccato rhyme.

This is the first time I will have put my poetry up where other poets, people who aren’t my friends and have no reason to kiss my ass, can see it. I’ve entered contests locally but I’ve never put my words where actual poetic peers can see them. This is a huge step for me. It’s only recently that I’ve begun to accept that I really am a poet. For years I’ve referred to other writers as ‘real’ poets and myself as a scribbler and a hack. Until a ‘real’ poet read my words and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I needed to knock it off and admit that I’ve joined the club, I’ve considered myself a joke as a writer. That’s no longer the case. I’ve finally started to take myself seriously. This is the first outdoor step on that path.

This year I’ve entered only the half-marathon. I have to work the Sunday morning following and a whole marathon would have meant only an hour’s sleep before heading in to the hooch parlor to sling marys and mimosas for the hangover crowd. If it goes well this year, and if I enjoy it as much as I hope I do, I’ll take that day off next year and write straight through. All twenty-four. That’s a challenge I’d like to face. For now though, for someone as hyper self-critical as myself, twelve hours will be rewarding/painful enough. It’ll reveal enough.

Speaking of revealing, this being the 21st century, and my friends who have access to this page this morning thanks to social media and the old ‘copy/paste’ being the assumptive/snoopy types that they are, I’ll bet some of you’re still trying to figure out what I meant by “well over ninety percent hetero” aren’t you?

You naughty beasts you. Remember me? The celibate introvert who has absolutely no social life and who can keep any personal secret he wants by telling you everything else until you think you know everything about him? I guarantee you that it will take fighting your way through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered to the castle beyond the goblin city for you to ever find out the true meaning of that statement.

A poet has secrets, especially a romantic poet. I keep mine in that castle. So either gird up and step into the labyrinth OR, just sit back and forget that I said what I did because it’s obviously a red herring designed to make you come back to see if I reveal anything in these twelve poems.

Or is it?

To paraphrase Hoggle, “You know your problem? You take too many things for granted. Take this Labyrinth: even if you get to the centre, you’ll never get out again.”

My labyrinth is dangerous. Trust me. There are things about me you can take for granted. I’m just not going to tell you what they are until you reach the gate. If you reach the gate. My poems are as close as most of you will ever get.

Ahhhhhh, 7 o’clock draws on apace. Time to stop rambling and babbling and, dare I say it, titillating, although I do enjoy them so.  There are paper chargers to mount, pen-lances to couch, and verses to best in the lists. The hunt is afoot and I am away! Let the writing commence! Tally-ho~!

Anticipation

minutes tick by

seems like hours

I can see the starting line

but I cannot reach it

feel the energy

from everyone

around the world

so powerful.

11. Your Beauty

11. Your beauty

Neither Shakespeare, MIlton or Rumi

could ever describe your beauty.

No poet has ever penned such poetry

that would describe you,fully.

 

Your hair, as soft wisps of cloud.

Your demeanour, apart from the usual crowd.

Your brown complexion,

a sight beyond comparison.

 

Your soft lips, so full,

at my heartstrings do pull.

Your breath, honey sweet

that makes erratic, my heart beat.

 

Cheeks rooched with natural colour and passion

Eyes bright and full of expression.

Smile as radiant as the sun.

For me, you are the only one.

 

These words are just words and in front of you they are bland

As compared to your beauty, so grand

 

Anwar Suleman

Casket

I need someone to

Hold the world at bay

Someone to drink

My tired skin

Silience what I cannot say

I need the day to disappear

Away from tired hands

Too many vampires

Suck my soul

And drain me where I stand

Let me lie in starlit eyes

Cover earth

In shallow blood

Hallowed tears

Water still my ground

Caress it unbeloved

Flowers scream

In night tune

Clouds harbor weeping stains

Dreams lie in their casket

Without a carried name

Wilt me into limp

Until I kiss the dead

Cut my tongue with rosebush

Let loose within my head

 

Simple Wish

Every wish before came true
The good the bad
The awful too
And when she wished
For what to wish
What was the Universe to do

Write, write and write

I’m doing a quick dry run for tomorrow’s marathon

how many words to write in 30 minutes to an hour

how long will I make an excuse to take a break and go to the bathroom

how long will my tummy starve for food and drink

how long will my eyelids hold the 24 hours poetry marathon

will it last 12 hours or finish the 24 hours race.

let’s find out tomorrow

Good luck and good night!

 

 

a good Vermont morning to all

Practicing my posting and wishing all Marathoners loads of creativity and stamina.  I invite you all to go that extra mile as the reward is great once you recover from the constant experience of words.

peace

tobett

The Poetry Marathon

I shared this poem yesterday afternoon in preparation for this global event on poetry marathon.

 

 

The Poetry Marathon

Login to the virtual realm in enclosed time in a given space
Addressing prompts in poetical expression at an hour
across the global landscape clearly not a dreamscape
lodging in whatever the muse calling its eerie hour