naporhymo

In the spirit of Nanowrimo, aka National Novel Writing Month, I hereby initiate naporhymo, national poetry rhyming-and-diming month.

Starting today, I'm going to write at least one imitation of one poem a day. I welcome fellow naporhymo players.

1. after "Nantucket," a poem by William Carlos Williams:

Hakalau

Fruit trees shade the meadow
avocado and banana

edged by green coffee—
Branches of wet beans—

Dawn dew in silver spots—
On the dark earth

worms and beetles, the skinks
zigging by, above

the sky is blueing— And the
omnivorous white ducks

2. after "Manna," a poem by James Tate:

Penance

I did regret my marriage
weeks after I agreed and months
before I wed, ignoring
unwelcome intimations
of the surely owed penance
and then a child, it was one
o’clock in the afternoon in
Somerville, Mass., I newly
waking from the punishing
damage of birth, my babe nursed,
Jesus, suckled upon my
cracked and leaking nipple and
a hole in myself dear-
ly filled, achingly, and said,
and said this one you can love.

Tomorrow, Anna Akhmatova . . .