Well there is a National Ice Cream Month (July, thanks to Ronny Reagan), National Blood Donor Month (though that seems like it would be draining), National Soup Month, and a National Hemorrhoid Prevention Month (OK, OK, so I made that one up), so why not National Poetry Month? Great idea, right? Well, too late, the Academy of American Poets already decided in 1996 that April would be the month for the celebration of all things poetic. And I see no reason why we should limit the celebration to America. Why not take this thing national. Hell, at the very least we should take this thing to YouTube.
Some daring souls decided to make the celebration less nebulous by attempting to compose one poem per day throughout the whole month. Check out the details at Napowrimo.net, admittedly a oddly named web page. Hopefully my link will be there shortly. Care to join the fray? Well, I’m starting up at the last minute, but you can read more ideas about how to participate on the websites I mentioned as well as at Metrophobic, the blog of my favorite poetry girl Rachel Bunting. I’ll attempt to bring a poem a day, but I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to pull it off. Still it’ll be fun trying.
If you don’t write, find some other way to enjoy the month. Maybe by reading and spreading the word, or maybe by escaping to a secluded beach with a book of Sonnets. Or maybe with some Jack Daniels and Charles Bukowski, whatever does it for you. Here is my first attempt for April 1, 2010. Try to not to judge too harshly. It’s all in fun, after all. We’ll save the editing and critique for more serious, less celebratory times. 🙂
More than a Sidekick
What shall I call you,
Sugar Plum; Musician,
Minstrel, My Muse?
If I were Batman
you’d be Boy Wonder,
but taller, both boyish
and dashing in a cape,
fashionably blending colors
in a way that makes my own
dark eyes more green.
If I were Sherlock
you’d be Watson,
smarter than Holmes
though you don’t know
it, mistaking my passion
for detail as genius,
for what should have been elementary,
succeeding in synthesizing my scattered
thoughts into structured theory.
The mystery is always more fun
with a side-kick, but
you are more than that,
a cohort, a partner in crime,
a Bonnie to Clyde,
Frank, the brother of Jesse James.
I tend to leap before looking
like the worst cliche
of Captain Kirk, while you
speak logic with more heart
than Mr. Spock. You reset bones
with a better bedside manner than McCoy.
My Utility belt does not have the Bat-Gadget
to save me this time. I cannot fly;
MY cape is just for show. The murderer
eludes me still. There is a bomb, and the clock is ticking.
The warp core has been breached,
and half the crew is dead.
Bob Ford has betrayed us,
and I cannot remember the way
back to the bat cave.
This is my last breath;
I am sure of it. The world
grows black. I have cracked
the code too late, and cannot rise.
A green glove reaches through the flames,
a voice cries, “Two to beam up!”
But Detective Pinkerton will have to wait another day
to catch this duo.
Before our molecules disperse you place
my hounds-tooth cap upon my head,
slip my fallen pipe into your pocket.
“My poet,” you say, “this was all…