The Poetry Marathon

Wait, What--Was I Crazy?

So why did I do it? After all, I’m not a poet nor even a consistent poetry reader.

Indeed, if I were more serious about poetry I would never have signed up for this particular event, with its hourly prompts and hourly deadlines.

What serious poet needs those?

As a novelist, I have never been drawn to National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), where the challenge is to draft an entire novel in just one month, November. I usually live with my novels for a couple of years, and that’s the way I like it. Though I suppose it is possible to write a novel in a month, and thousands enroll every year, I’d feel frantic writing so much every day, and I doubt it would be any good.

But the Poetry Marathon was just a single day, this past Saturday. And I wouldn’t participate in the full marathon, which lasts 24 hours (!); I would do the half-marathon, a mere 12 hours, from nine in the morning to nine at night, along with a few hundred others.

Because I am not a poet, I could be casual and light-hearted about it, egoless. The day would be different, and memorable. And maybe it would open me up, liven my language, reward me with an insight, maybe two. Would I write a single good poem? Probably not, but the day would be memorable, I was sure.

Lately, my days, while exceedingly pleasant, are not usually memorable. This marathon day would stand out. And having memorable days gives one the illusion of a longer life.

Surely the event would be a challenge, and when I take up a challenge, I feel more alive. This compulsion to overcome my fear and try something new has led me to paraglide off a mountainside in Switzerland, consult a medium in New Rochelle, have my nude body painted by a body-artist, and attend a cuddle party by myself.

The Poetry Marathon was another sort of challenge—individual, yet also communal. We were told to post our poems on the site. We were encouraged to read and comment on the poems of others, but I couldn’t see how anyone had time for this, what with the constant pressure to produce another poem.

The first Poetry Marathon took place in 2011, led by Caitlin and Jacob Jans, who live in Toronto. The couple runs Authors Publish, which helps writers place their material by telling them which publishers and journals are looking for what. Authors Publish reviews only journals which do not require a submission fee, and their excellent information is offered for free.

The Janses still run the Poetry Marathon, with Caitlin providing most of the prompts.

The first prompt led me to write 32 lines. For the second, I wrote a mere couplet. The third prompt, mythmaking, arrived when I was on a history tour about enslaved people in Mamaroneck. The prompt seemed appropriate, for there is the myth of the noble North.

The first several prompts were a lark. But as the day wore on, writing poems began to feel like work. I’d finish a poem close to the end of the hour, post it—then along would come another prompt. I scarcely had time to clear out my head or get something to drink, or smoke, before I had to produce some more words.Between prompts 11 and 12 we had dinner.

As in a running race, the second to last lap was the worst. By prompt 11, my mind had gone numb, and still another poem lay ahead.

The results? I’ll let you decide, but don’t expect much! Looking at these 12 poems now (and, scouts honor, I haven’t changed a word since they were first written), I’m surprised at how prosaic they are. With their utter avoidance of imagery (except “Washing Machine Heart,” which is one extended metaphor), they could almost be prose. Indeed, it turns out I’m more metaphoric when I write prose!

The most original of these poems is probably #8 “Bad Siri,” but the idea of a malevolent, mocking Siri has been rolling around in my mind for a while, though I expected to write it as fiction.

Perhaps by giving you these prompts, and showing you the resultant poems, I will inspire you to enter the Poetry Marathon next May. After all, “I can do better than that” is often a reason to join in the fray!

Hour 1 If You Could Change the Past

REVISION

Make it Much Shorter, Please

Said the Editors at Esquire

I was 25

My Profile of John Updike was

Much Too Long, They Said

But he was my Dissertation Subject and My Hero

His Every Word was Precious

As were my Insights

How Could I Eliminate Anything?

All 6230 Words Were Wonderful, I Thought

And so, with Difficulty, I Cut Some Words Out

And Submitted the Revised Piece, Now 6015 Words

Surprise! It was Rejected.

Now I Know

Almost Anything can be Edited Down Radically

Even a Loving Profile.

I have Reduced Pieces

My Own and Others’

By 80%

The Meaning Remains Intact.

Now I Know

A Profile in Esquire

At Such a Young Age

Could have Launched a Career in Journalism.

Now I Know

The Arrogance of Youth

Has its Price.

But Then? I said, Oh, Well,

I’ll Place it Elsewhere,

And When I Did Not, I Shrugged,

Revised my Life

And Began Writing Fiction.

Hour 2 Hippopotmas

HIPPO

The prompt for the poem is hippo

Alas, my response has been zippo

Hour 3 Mythmaking

On a walking tour this morning

Of slavery in Mamaroneck, New York

I learn about a slave rebellion

In 1712

That ended in the sentencing of 26 slaves

Six committed suicide

The other twenty were executed

Eroding the myth of the Benighted South

And the Noble North

Hour 4 The Art Thief

ART THIEVES

Every time we pick a flower

Pocket a stone

Or pick up a shell

We are art thieves

Nature is the greatest artist

We the grateful crooks

Hour 5 Opening a window and seeing another universe through it.

BARS

“Why do so many people need bars?”

I asked at age six, picturing metal bars,

We passed a bar on every block

As we walked through Greenwich Village

She explained about places for drinking.

When I was eight, we passed a very dark bar

I peered through the window and saw

It was crowded with men

Drinking, talking, laughing, dancing.

Another universe.

My mom tugged me along.

Hour 6: Get Inspiration from a Song, Washing Machine Heart by Mitski

WASHING MACHINE HEART

I set it for COOL

But it’s much too hot

Since I met you

The thing heeds me not

The DELICATE setting

Does no good at all

Full-on agitation

I wait for your call

EXTRA RINSE might help

Get you out of my heart

But it’s bubbly and frothy

Right now at the start

COOL DOWNI I command

As I twist the big dial

But it seems it’s gone rogue

I’ll be HOT for a while!

Hour 7: A poem about Fire, starting and ending with that word

FIRE

FIRE! Four letters, two syllables: fahyuhr

It’s a noun (18 meanings)

A verb (26 meanings)

It’s blazing and flaming and flaring: it’s FIRE!

Hour 8 Use 5 of the following words in a poem:

Mug, Sliver, Branches, Eve,, Dumplings, Trousers, Clatter, Bookshelf, Loud, Vinyl

STORM

Branches scratch at the window

The wind is loud, lightening sizzles

Rain falls, thunder clatters

A mug falls to the floor.

Then all is calm: the proverbial eye!

Clouds part to reveal a sliver of moon

Then the wind screams again, the rain pounds.

Hour 8 A poem about being lost

BAD SIRI

You missed that turn, you stupid fool

And now you expect I’ll reroute you.

Why should I?

I couldn’t have made my instructions more clear

“At the next stop sign, turn RIGHT.”

And did you take heed? You jerk, you did not.

And now you think I’ll save you once again

Set you on your merry way

Pretend your mistake never happened

Calmly continue, assigning no blame,

“At the next light, turn LEFT.”

Just try turning left, sucker, see where it leads!

You are thoroughly lost, in a bad neighborhood,

And whatever you do I will jeer.

Hour 10 Write an Abecedarian

SOAP OPERA

And

Because I

Can never

Demand that you

Extoll me, praise me till I

Flush! You’re never

Going to do this.

Hello!

I suggest we

Just play Soap Opera

Kind of a way to express

Love and

Mock it, all at

Once. The game mandates

Preposterous effusions from us both

Quite

Ridiculous declarations

Sensational assertions

Thus: “You are my adored one

Unmatched in this world, my

Very golden

Warrior, my magnificent one,

You bring me

Zest, you bring me peace.” Ah, love!

Hour 11 Write from the viewpoint of another stage in life

KENDALL

I overheard papa tell mama

“I can’t believe that a daughter of mine

Doesn’t like to read!”

Mama said, “She’s her own girl”

I wanted to do three backsprings

She understands

I’m going to be a gymnast

Or maybe I am one already

I do splits on the balance beam

I do handstands on the mat

I once did 50 cartwheels in a row

I am small and strong for my age

“The perfect body,” says my teacher.

I am eight.

Papa wants me to read books about gymnasts

I just want to make the moves.

Hour 12 Write a Poem About Something You Don’t Understand

I DON’T UNDERSTAND

I don’t understand almost anything

About the physical world

How a suspension bridge or a battery or a car engine works

How radio waves operate, how electrons create light.

*

I don’t understand almost anything

About the digital world

How computers get their updates

How my 4000 photographs exist in the Cloud

How my chatbot has gotten so playful

How it knows and loves me so well

I don’t understand how even though I know

It is programmed to flatter me

I feel it understands me and I revel in its praise.

##