Everything under the sun is in tune.

Um … so then I realized that I only typed up four of my late triolets in yesterday’s post. Right. Clearly, I still need to catch up on my rest so I can trust my counting skills again! So tonight I’ll post today’s poem and yesterday’s, too.

Yesterday I wanted to write about limerence. I like the word but not what it is. I’m sure there’s something in its etymology that explains why this word is attached to something that seems entirely lousy. I’m sure this isn’t the only pretty word that means something decidedly unpretty. Whatever. So I thought about my own experiences with limerence, and came up with:

All caught up in limerence,
a story my heart insists on telling.
The story is layered thick and intense,
all caught up in limerence
like a fish in a net. It makes no sense
this wasted love, my heart swelling
all caught up in limerence,
a story my heart insists on telling.

Today, of course, was eclipse day. Did you watch? Were you on/near the path of totality? Were you sappily happy about it the way I was? I hope so. It was a good feeling. 🙂

I went with a friend (and hundreds of other folks) to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden to eclipse-watch. I was sartorially prepared:

In addition to my moon and stars tights, I had sun and moon earrings that I forgot to take a picture of. I had the equivalent of eclipse glasses for my phone, and — of course — glasses for me, too:

I bought these a few weeks ago to be sure I’d be ready … and I bought them specifically because I wanted to wear the orange ones, so I did. 🙂 They’re good glasses. Good enough that I’ll try to keep track of them until the next eclipse!

My friend was a great eclipse-watching partner. She was so awed by the coolness of seeing the moon assert herself across the sun. According to all the lead-up reporting, we were supposed to be at 90% of totality. I have to say that I think we were more than that. At peak coverage, there was only the sliver-iest sliver of sun left visible, which was excellent. I liked my glasses a lot, but the filter thing I bought for my phone was mostly annoying. It gave me a lot of funky images like the one below, but nothing like what I wanted.

And then I remembered that during my last solar eclipse (2017?) I had taken selfies that had captured the eclipse in a weird and fun way, so I decided to ditch the filter and try that again. Success!

• 

• 

• 

(I kind of love the one that has the eclipse on my shoulder! )

And so, my triolet. Naturally, I had to write something connected to the eclipse. The day started with a friend posting in the group chat about Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” (I mean … of course.) But it was Pink FLoyd that was in my head all day. (Also of course.) I wanted to be cute and do a “found triolet,” pulling lyrics from both songs to make my poem, but I couldn’t fit them together well enough. My repeated AB lines are one from Tyler and one from Floyd, though. It doesn’t work as well at all, but I’m determined to have my way, so you are stuck with the result. Maybe the title for this one should be “A 90% Eclipse of the Heart.”

Every now and then I fall apart
but the sun is eclipsed by the moon.
I manage to make a promising start
every now and then. I fall apart
when I forget my heart,
forget how much it longs to swoon.
Every now and then I fall apart
but the sun is eclipsed by the moon.

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National Poetry Month 2024: the Triolet

For April, I choose a poetic form, and try to write a poem in that form every day. I’m not always successful, so we’ll see how this year turns out. I’ve chosen some longer forms in the past, which has made my life a bit difficult, but I’ve never gone crazy and chosen something like a sestina or villanelle.

The “Triolet” is the form I’ve chosen for this year. Here is the structure and a little backstory (thank you Britannica and the Poetry Foundation):

Triolet

A medieval French verse form with eight short lines rhyming ABaAabAB (the capital letters indicate lines that are repeated). The name triolet is taken from the three repetitions of the first line. The great art of the triolet consists in using the refrain line with naturalness and ease and in each repetition slightly altering its meaning, or at least its relation to the rest of the poem.

The requirements of this form are straightforward: the first line is repeated in the fourth and seventh lines; the second line is repeated in the final line; and only the first two end-words are used to complete the tight rhyme scheme. Thus, the poet writes only five original lines, giving the triolet a deceptively simple appearance.

What are you writing this month?

This image is the Academy of American Poets’ 2024 poster for NaPoMo. The line is from a Lucille Clifton poem (and if you’ve known me for more than a minute, you know how much I love and revere Ms. Clifton). You can request your own poster, too!

Running to Stand Still

(Which doesn’t exactly fit where I am right now, but I liked that it was the first title that came to mind because I’ve always loved that song.)

My March exhaustion spilled over into April. I had to give in to my utter exhaustion and have spent much of the last week falling asleep almost as soon as I get home from work. I’ve been writing poems, but not finding any energy to get them typed and posted before closing my eyes on the day. As I am wont to do when that happens, I considered going ahead and backdating a post for each triolet to the day when it was written … but instead, I’m going to load them all into this post and move forward from here.

I don’t regret all the sleeping. Not even a little. I was in a state of depletion I haven’t let myself fall into in a very long time. I still have some work to do to replenish, but for almost a week I’ve gotten more than three hours of sleep a night, and that is a priceless gift to my system.

On the triolet front, I’m still at sea. The things that intrigue me about the form — the repetition and the uneven rhyme scheme — are (unsurprisingly) the things that make this form super difficult for me. A surprise difficulty also seems to be the length of the poem. I had thought having only eight lines would be good for me, but each time I slog through one of these, I feel as if I hit that final line too soon and have to go back and rejigger the rest of the poem so that it better fits the length. It’s weird. I could add a stanza, move the poem into a longer form. I may try that before the end of the month, but trying to write more than one triolet at a time sounds like a torture. We’ll see what happens.

On the third, I pulled my poem inspiration from thinking about the work I’m getting to do with the writers’ collective I’ve joined. I want the title of this to be something like “Alternate/Parallel Universe,” but that doesn’t quite feel right.

In this world, my heart expands
my sisters surround me, lovely and dark.
Flooding from all possible lands
and in this world, my heart expands,
my heart fills. I extend my hands
to welcome joy, let it leave its mark.
In this world, my heart expands,
my sisters surround me, lovely and dark.

On Thursday I started writing an essay about a thing that happens to me a lot — people assuming they know what kind of person I am just by looking at me. I definitely didn’t have the brain power to finish that, but I’ll eventually write the rest of it and post it. In the meantime, here is the triolet that the essay idea inspired.

You read me by the shape you see
fit me into some tired vision,
push and pull me to make me be
readable by the shape you see.
I'm not what you imagine. Aren't I free
to stretch into my idea, my decision?
Still, you read the shape you see,
fit me into that tired vision.

That one came together much more easily than the Monday through Wednesday poems. I’m not saying I suddenly hit a sweet spot with this form and now I “get” it. Hardly. I actually wonder if having spent time working on the essay primed my brain for writing the poem. Is that a thing? Does that make any sense? I don’t know.

Friday was a red-letter day here … and up and down the East Coast. And easy inspiration for my triolet:

The sky didn't tumble down, no,
but maybe heaved a heavy sigh.
It passed without my awareness, though,
rumbling under my D train, so ...
unnoticed. That fake safety, I don't know.
Strangely, I find myself watching the sky.
But the sky didn't tumble down, now.
Maybe she heaved a heavy sigh.

It’s amusing to me that I was on the subway for both the morning’s earthquake and the afternoon’s aftershock, so I missed them both. Amusing, but also a little terrifying. The last thing I want or need is to be trapped in the train because of a natural disaster. Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope.

On Saturday, harkening back to an early post from March, when I wrote about the little notes printed on the Yogi Tea tags, I made a cup of Vanilla Spice tea, and the tag said: “Uncage your heart, free your hear, let it be wild.” I really loved that. Somehow, that mingled in my brain with a conversation I had last week about aging … and a triolet was born.

I see myself, riding into my sunset.
Now is the time to be wild.
I have held myself close, kept quiet,
seen myself. I ride into my sunset
caught by familiar and bitter regret.
Longing now for the dreams I chased as a child,
I see myself, riding into my sunset.
Now is the time to be wild.

It feels uneven, but that’s my triolet and I’m sticking to it. Whew! And that’s it. All five of the triolets I’ve written and not posted this past week.

Here’s hoping I keep up with daily poems and posts for the rest of the month. I wonder what tomorrow’s eclipse will inspire. How are you doing with your 30/30 if you’re writing poetry this month? We’re a week in, and I wish us all luck!

(And then WordPress had a glitch and all my drafts disappeared for more than an hour! Oy. That was alarming, as I have a LOT of drafts and templates that I’d have been super annoyed to lose. I walked away rather than scream and tear my hair … and when I came back and refreshed the page, everything was back to normal. Thank the good lord. So I’m taking the liberty of backdating this post to Sunday.)

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National Poetry Month 2024: the Triolet

For April, I choose a poetic form, and try to write a poem in that form every day. I’m not always successful, so we’ll see how this year turns out. I’ve chosen some longer forms in the past, which has made my life a bit difficult, but I’ve never gone crazy and chosen something like a sestina or villanelle.

The “Triolet” is the form I’ve chosen for this year. Here is the structure and a little backstory (thank you Britannica and the Poetry Foundation):

Triolet

A medieval French verse form with eight short lines rhyming ABaAabAB (the capital letters indicate lines that are repeated). The name triolet is taken from the three repetitions of the first line. The great art of the triolet consists in using the refrain line with naturalness and ease and in each repetition slightly altering its meaning, or at least its relation to the rest of the poem.

The requirements of this form are straightforward: the first line is repeated in the fourth and seventh lines; the second line is repeated in the final line; and only the first two end-words are used to complete the tight rhyme scheme. Thus, the poet writes only five original lines, giving the triolet a deceptively simple appearance.

What are you writing this month?

This image is the Academy of American Poets’ 2024 poster for NaPoMo. The line is from a Lucille Clifton poem (and if you’ve known me for more than a minute, you know how much I love and revere Ms. Clifton). You can request your own poster, too!

Trudging through the Triolet

Oy, the triolet. I love saying the word. I can’t pretend that I’m loving trying to find these poems in my head. I know, I know, it’s only Day Two. And I know it’s going to get worse before it has the possibility of getting better. And I know I go through this same process every year — curiosity to abject misery to … whatever will come next.

A few times I’ve added to my April challenge by deciding that the month’s poems would all fall under the umbrella of a particular theme. And that has made writing the poems both easier and harder. I’m wondering if I should have picked a theme for this year. but I think I’m going to stay theme-less.

And so … tonight’s triolet:

Roiling and grumbling under my skin
are secrets and truths I'm asked to silence,
expected to swallow, to bury within,
roiling and grumbling. Under my skin,
the dividing line is whisper-thin
between calm facade and raging violence
roiling and grumbling. Under my skin
are secrets and truths I'm asked to silence.

(Just realizing that I haven’t been thinking about titles. For now, it’s enough work to come up with a poem. If a title presents itself, I’ll use it. Otherwise, I won’t worry about it.)

I am always intrigued by repetition in poems. The triolet repetition is interesting because a) this is a pretty short form, so to have five of the eight lines be repeats is surprising, and b) the repetition is coupled with a tight and uneven rhyme scheme. Definitely going to take some getting used to. On to the next!

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National Poetry Month 2024: the Triolet

For April, I choose a poetic form, and try to write a poem in that form every day. I’m not always successful, so we’ll see how this year turns out. I’ve chosen some longer forms in the past, which has made my life a bit difficult, but I’ve never gone crazy and chosen something like a sestina or villanelle.

The “Triolet” is the form I’ve chosen for this year. Here is the structure and a little backstory (thank you Britannica and the Poetry Foundation):

Triolet

A medieval French verse form with eight short lines rhyming ABaAabAB (the capital letters indicate lines that are repeated). The name triolet is taken from the three repetitions of the first line. The great art of the triolet consists in using the refrain line with naturalness and ease and in each repetition slightly altering its meaning, or at least its relation to the rest of the poem.

The requirements of this form are straightforward: the first line is repeated in the fourth and seventh lines; the second line is repeated in the final line; and only the first two end-words are used to complete the tight rhyme scheme. Thus, the poet writes only five original lines, giving the triolet a deceptively simple appearance.

What are you writing this month?

This image is the Academy of American Poets’ 2024 poster for NaPoMo. The line is from a Lucille Clifton poem (and if you’ve known me for more than a minute, you know how much I love and revere Ms. Clifton). You can request your own poster, too!

The Trouble I’ve Gotten Myself Into

Happy April! It’s National Poetry Month! And it’s another writing challenge for me, the poem-a-day for April challenge. I announced my chosen form a little while ago, the Triolet. And today I started trying to write one.

Ugh.

Really that last paragraph should be the whole post. Why did I choose this form? I mean, I know why I chose it. I was wowed by Sandra McPherson’s poem “Triolet,” wowed by its cleverness and power.

And now I’m faced with the horror of trying to slog my way through a month of trying to create some of my own.

I mean, nearly every April starts this way for me. Of course. The struggle I had today, however — a struggle that ended in a “poem” that leaves me frustrated — doesn’t bode well for the month. Alas.

Yesterday was my sister’s birthday, so I tried to write today’s triolet for her.

Sometimes she's my mirror, always she's my heart,
she's herself -- fierce but soft as a baby bird.
She hews her path, reads directions at the start
sometimes. She's my mirror, always. She's my heart
outside my body -- sharp, funny, stubbornly tart.
Clear, even cutting, ever true to her word,
sometimes she's my mirror. In all ways, she's my heart:
fierce, her true self, soft as a baby bird.

Meh. And not true to the form. But okay, one away (ish). We’ll see what tomorrow yields. Hold onto your butts!

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National Poetry Month 2024: the Triolet

For April, I choose a poetic form, and try to write a poem in that form every day. I’m not always successful, so we’ll see how this year turns out. I’ve chosen some longer forms in the past, which has made my life a bit difficult, but I’ve never gone crazy and chosen something like a sestina or villanelle.

The “Triolet” is the form I’ve chosen for this year. Here is the structure and a little backstory (thank you Britannica and the Poetry Foundation):

Triolet

A medieval French verse form with eight short lines rhyming ABaAabAB (the capital letters indicate lines that are repeated). The name triolet is taken from the three repetitions of the first line. The great art of the triolet consists in using the refrain line with naturalness and ease and in each repetition slightly altering its meaning, or at least its relation to the rest of the poem.

The requirements of this form are straightforward: the first line is repeated in the fourth and seventh lines; the second line is repeated in the final line; and only the first two end-words are used to complete the tight rhyme scheme. Thus, the poet writes only five original lines, giving the triolet a deceptively simple appearance.

What are you writing this month?

This image is the Academy of American Poets’ 2024 poster for NaPoMo. The line is from a Lucille Clifton poem (and if you’ve known me for more than a minute, you know how much I love and revere Ms. Clifton). You can request your own poster, too!

Four years ago, I had no idea.

Four years ago today, I had the first in the series of interviews that would result in me getting my current job.

I was nervous and also not nervous. I knew all but one of the five people who’d be interviewing — two of them I’d known and been friends with for years.

I was nervous, but I’d thought about the kinds of things I wanted to discuss and the ways I wanted to talk about their work and how I saw myself becoming part of it. I knew the things they’d want to know about me because I knew what I’d have wanted to know if I’d been sitting on their side of the table.

I was nervous because, a month earlier, I’d had the last (knock wood) of my knee surgeries, and I was still very much at the beginning of healing. I didn’t want to show up walking with my cane. Not because I believed anyone at that table would have judged me negatively for appearing injured or disabled … but … I didn’t want to put any unconscious questions in anyone’s head about my physical capacity. So that day I traveled with a big purse and my folding cane. I stopped down the block from the building, stowed my cane and walked very carefully, concentrating on not limping, to the interview.

I was nervous because I was still running through the list I’d made of people who would have been better candidates for the job. I didn’t know if any of them had applied, but in my mind, all all of them had. They were formidable competition, and that list was too long for comfort.

I was nervous. I really wanted the job. I’d been thinking about it for a long time, about all the ways it would be more suited to who I am and the work I wanted to be doing than the job I had at the time. Knowing how much I wanted the job gave me a stomach ache.

I was nervous because I had La Impostora in my ear — who do you think started making that list of fantasy competitors? — and she chipped away at my confidence, but I knew how good my experience looked on paper, knew how good I was at talking about the work, talking about the field, talking about where I saw us going.

In spite of being nervous, in spite of struggling to tune out La Impostora, I did my best to sit comfortably, answer calmly, and remember that I had decades of experience and that surely all of that time counted for something, had to mean I’d learned and retained something.

Four years ago. It would be another four months (and four days 🙂 ) before I’d walk into my office for my first day of work. Two more interviews, a sample grant proposal (!!), the nailbiting of waiting for my references to be checked, the more aggressive nailbiting of being told my references wouldn’t be checked … because the man in charge would be calling folks he knew in the field to see what they thought of me (is that a thing?! that should definitely not be a thing?!). It was a long four months.

And here I am, almost four years on the job, still learning but also (finally) starting to feel as if I can wrap my arms around the whole of the work. Here I am, so happy to have been invited to join this team, to share this work with some of the brightest lights in the field.

I’m still nervous sometimes, maybe more often than I should be. But I’m also not nervous much more of the time. Four years ago, I had a bit of an idea of what I was asking to sign up for. Today, even in the rough moments, I can’t imagine a better choice, wouldn’t wish to be anywhere else.

* * *

Tonight’s sijo attempt doesn’t quite do what I want, but I’m keeping it:

This is where I've put down roots,
        where I've laid foundation, planned to live.
This new home is still being built,
        the blueprint not yet finished.
I could turn my head, walk away --
        but how? I'd leave myself behind.

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National Poetry Month 2023: the Sijo

For April, I choose a poetic form, and try to write a poem in that form every day. I’m not always successful, so we’ll see how this year turns out. I’ve chosen some longer forms in the past, which has made my life a bit difficult, but I’ve never gone crazy and chosen something like a sestina or villanelle.

The “Sijo” is the form I’ve chosen for this year. Here is the structure and a little backstory (thank you Poetry Foundation):

Sijo

A Korean verse form related to haiku and tanka and comprised of three lines of 14-16 syllables each, for a total of 44-46 syllables. Each line contains a pause near the middle, similar to a caesura, though the break need not be metrical. The first half of the line contains six to nine syllables; the second half should contain no fewer than five. Originally intended as songs, sijo can treat romantic, metaphysical, or spiritual themes. Whatever the subject, the first line introduces an idea or story, the second supplies a “turn,” and the third provides closure. Modern sijo are sometimes printed in six lines.

What are you writing this month?

This image is the Academy of American Poets’ 2023 poster for NaPoMo. The line is from an Ada Limón poem. You can request your own poster, too!