It's national poetry month!

There is a kind of universal ritual that takes place this month among a lot of poets, which is the 30 poems in 30 days challenge. Oftentimes, we share many, if not all, of the poems we write during this oh-so-holy time for poetry.

Last year, I was unemployed during national poetry month, and partially because of this, and partially because I was feeling particularly inspired, I decided to write 2 poems every day. 60 poems in 30 days. It was one of my more ridiculous (and yet still, to me, good) ideas.

But I continued writing a poem a day from that point until today, and so I can't really participate in the 30 poems in 30 days challenge, and 2 poems a day seems almost pointless when I've written over 365 in the last year. So I decided to up the ante in a different manner this year.

That's right, I'm writing 30 form poems in 30 days. I'm thinking sonnets.

Additionally, a lot of the other Affrilachian Poets are participating in a juice fast for 21 days of the month. So I went out, bought a juicer and a bunch of fruit and veggies, and am participating in that as well. As a form of meditation. I have never meditated before. It's kind of distracting and painful, in an empty-stomach kind of way. Plus I have a headache that is un-fast related.

But my first fruit drink was delicious. 1 inch if ginger, 6 apples, and half a lemon. Had a kick to it, because I think I might be unable to tell the difference between 1 and 2 inches of ginger. And let me tell you, after a long day of work, knowing you have to write a sonnet afterwards, and being hungrier than hell, it is NOT fun having to go to Walmart, buy all the stuff you need to get nutrients, and then figure out how to use the damn thing.

But without further ado, my very first sonnet:

Sonnet 1

How I detested her food. My mother's

soft broccoli, lima beans. Liver and greens.

Encaged by hated vegetables. Others

ate quickly, were off, unshackled and free.

Hunger was master. I'd beg and then swill

tears from the yard concerning my next meal.

Metal cup banging badly for its fill,

I clasped her hands to drag her by her heals

Because unthankful as I was before,

I've dragged around that tinny busted cup.

With work, had little time or soup to pour.

Appeared, before, and expected her love.

Arrested—brimming now at kitchen floor,

I spill words, to her hands, when they serve more.