NaPoWriMo #3

After Hearing Karen Russell Talk About Swamplandia!

The dredge men came and we were bungalowed
In our silly pajamas. I wanted to wear scales and wings.

We heard the sucking sound, then the shoveling.
Gravel in the satchels. Sounded like birds at the peck.

Grown men out there, scraping and yelling.
I said to my sisters, “Will our house slip into that muck,

that hole they’re making? Will the trailer blow over?”
All the pickets were plastic and we didn’t really live

in a bungalow or any other life that could be shucked
and groomed for bungalows or ranches or colonials.

Some nights, after the men left and the canals darkened—
We took the flatboats out. Our nightgowns floated

Over the planks and the oarlocks shook while the water
Sank bit by bit. One morning, that was the end of it.

NaPoWriMo #2

200809_OAH_william_faulkner
Photo by John Lawrence

William Faulkner and the Red Crayon

Faulkner had this red crayon
And a novel he couldn’t handle.
Bloody thing took over his sense
Of sense, back and forth it went
Until the man was bent of mind
And spirit. He swayed onto a chair,
Swearing away, and gripped
The crayon, plunging the wax
To the wall: MONDAY< TUESDAY
WEDNESDAY< THURSDAY<FRIDAY
and the weekend too. Bill Faulkner
Wrote the outline and looked again—
If he could order time, surely then
He could arrange imagination;
Wrangle the soldiers and symbols
And happenings into sentences,
Dense though they were, and fence
The things that needed it behind
The bars of the syntax. Enough!
He shouted, and the wall emerged
As paper, smitten with intention.