Although it is hard for me to believe it, today is the last day of April.
By the end of today, I will have written 30 poems this month. I did manage to skip one day accidentally, but made up for it the next day. 30 poems I wouldn't have written otherwise.
Some of them are quite little. Snippets, even. (What I like to call mood ring poems.) And the fact that they're small doesn't change the fact that I made them. Nor does it change how I feel about having made them. Nor does it change what they are, in and of themselves. Poems.
I am not a novelist by nature. I'm a poet. My poetry is intimate and here, rooted in this moment.
I still have an intense sense memory of climbing a tree with a packet of stapled paper in my hand, to write a bunch of poems as a project for my 11th grade Creative Writing class. That's the moment I recognized that I could be a poet. Before that, I had been writing fanciful stories and prayers for as long as I could remember. Not knowing my prayers were really poems. Not knowing where to go with my fanciful stories.
I suspect that if I ever figure out a way to root a novel into the Now of my writing life that I will be able to write a novel I enjoy. Alas, my Now changes too often to keep track of plotlines.
It's why I prefer to read a novel in one sitting, too. Or as close to it as possible. I have trouble keeping plotlines straight, especially if they get too complicated. This is also why when I was so sleep deprived in the early years of Remy's life, I basically only reread novels I had read before.
And that's why poeming works for me. And why poeming every day is something I keep doing (with time off in between months, because it does get a little intense).
My friend G has just declared that she's going to do a blackout poem a day for May, which sounds fun!
I'm going to join her. You can join in if you want, too!