Here is how it was explained to me … if you accept your nomination, then you are challenged to write and post a new poem each day, over the course of five days. Your piece should appear on Facebook, and your blog, if you have one. You also must nominate at least one other person.
I have been challenged by the indomitable Eric Nolan, college buddy and all around great guy.
First of all, I would like to explain why I don’t wanna:
- I have broken every chain letter I’ve ever received; I am not superstitious about that sort of thing. Remember chain letters? (“Every person who has resent this to ten people they knew, got loads of money and free sex. Every person who threw this in the trash had their genitals mysteriously shrivel up until they dug it out of the trash and resent it.”) Remember letters? I used to love writing letters.
- TIME: I have two children. Time is a precious commodity.
- EVERY DAY: I suck at starting new habits, doing something every day. Except breathing, sleeping, eating. I like to eat.
- Poetry. I have this strange love-hate-disdain-goopey sentimental fondness for poetry. I think, when I thought I was writing great poetry, I was using it to express my feelings, and to live larger than life. But what I really wanted was to love the life I had, and be seen and known and loved in the life I had.
- I used to think poetry was about a mood. Now I think it’s about editing. 🙂
- Oh God. Poetry TAKES TIME, Eric. Like editing time and writing time and it’s got to stew for years like some sort of cosmic poetry crock pot. Crock-pot-cooked poetry, that’s lean and juicy and covered with barbecue sauce. All good poetry is old.
- I’M NOT YOUR MONKEY, DAMMIT.
Here’s a try.
SpokeAnne SpokeAnna Danna.
Where do I live?
The other Washington. (Although I did live in Northern Virginia, the other other Washington for some time.)
The one that legalized marijuana and gay marriage in the same election.
I couldn’t let the cognitive dissonance of those twin ballot initiatives sink in until much later. In 2013, the Seattle Seahawks played (and trounced, mind) the Denver Broncos in the Super Bowl. They called it “The Pot Bowl,” for the lols.
Spokane is a town with a self-esteem problem. And lots of potholes. And great coffee. I got sober here. I met my husband here. I delivered my two children in the same hospital room, here.
I found myself, here, in Spokane, which I never thought I could do. Who knew?