1B — A poem collection, from the first 20 days of 2019.

This post is pinned because poetry.

I had four poems I thought were at least pretty good from the first twenty. They all have wildly different styles, which I think is quite funny, but I've decided to include them all because I absolutely despise decision-making, and this is a venue which I control. Here goes.

The first poem was written on the second day in response to the prompt "The Unrequited Love Poem." (All of these prompts include more details, but this one is relatively straight-forwards.) It is titled: "There is a song".

There is a song I've sung, so many times before.
A song to the void. A call without response.
A nothingness, into which the flickering candle of hope plunges.

But the candle does not go out.
The candle does not go out, because that would be too easy.
The candle does not go out, because the world is rarely so simple.

The candle burns.
The candle burns you until are reduced to sentimental ash.
The candle burns your heart until it is scarred beyond recognition, and you collapse in on yourself, left alone yet again.

but with fire, the forest regrows.
a sapling bursts from the ground, free to the light, regenerating what was lost
the healing takes time, but with it

a counter-melody emerges
the song is forgotten
the love is lost.

There is a song I've sung, so many times before
one of pain, despair
of growth and learning

and with its end, the forest of my soul goes on
leaving it behind, far far away
but never forgets and sometimes wonders
when it shall sing again.

For me this poem was surprisingly optimistic, given my past brushes with unrequited love and my previous work in this area, but I thought it was good. It exhibits some naivete in both content and writing style, but I thought it was a pretty good poem pretty early on, and the extended metaphor(s) carry through the narrative at least reasonably well.

The second poem was written on the sixth day in response the prompt "Eye Contact." It was titled: "A Letter."

To my love:

I don't remember the first time we met—too many days and memories of meetings past have blended into each other: a glorious painting, but one without edges, distinctions, facets. My first distinct memory of you is sitting next to you with my books in hand, and our eyes must have met, but there was no bolt from the blue, no sudden spark to remember.

But something must have been different about you. I've never been comfortable with eye contact, but there was something settling about being next to you, and I didn't look away. I don't think I knew I loved you then—or for months afterwards—but maybe I did.

I was taking notes and you smile—taking in the environment around you and memorizing it without aids or distractions. "Cute," you said in a way that would have been patronizing from any other person, glancing over my notes. I smiled and kept writing. And just like that, it began. We met all over campus—beyond when we would see each other normally before—and although at least I didn't realize what it meant at first, it was textbook; a paragon of young romance.

Now—at home—I yearn to be with you again—talking, eating, laughing, hugging. To show you that I love you too. What wouldn't I give for that eye contact.

This one was narratively more interesting, since it is a lot more prose poetry than the first one, but retains a certain amount of structure. It was also interesting to write, because it carries a lot of the optimism from the previous poem and brings it out to an extreme. Whether or not this poem is autobiographical in any sense of the word is up to the reader's imagination. As a response to the prompt, this poem is slightly lacking—more randomly dropping tangents than purposefully being structured around it.

The third poem was written on the sixteenth day in response to the prompt "Addict." It is titled: "8AM".

I languish in the soft comfort of my bed, sinking myself into its solely constant embrace—my skin in its warmth (which it has stored for me) as I curl up to try and maintain the last vestiges of sleep. The world above my blanket is angry, harsh, loud, and it threatens my shoulders and my head as my feet scream their eternal suffering of "cold!" I reach out to my nightstand, pulling my phone from it, stalling for time, unwilling to relinquish my firm (but rare) grasp on comfort and happiness. The world of obligation begs—no, orders—me to rise to its occasion, its endless abuse, but the relatively meaningless content on my screen enraptures me, tantalizing close to actually being useful but instead providing me a simple window away from—instead of into—my reality. I scroll and I swipe, and I slowly grow tired again. It's only 8AM, right? I place my phone back on my nightsand and retreat further into my singular haven away from the stress and the freezing, and return to my slumber. Cycles upon cycles of eternal comfort—why should I ever leave?

This one is purely prose poetry (okay, mostly prose to be honest), but I liked its description, and although being addicted to your phone and your bed are pretty much 21st-century teenager cliches, the level of detail and the emotion attached to the actual experience I thought were pretty good. Obviously, the actual prompt is not directly reflected in this poem, but it is implied, and that was good enough for me.

The fourth and final poem was written yesterday (day 19) in response to the prompt "Great Minds." It is titled: "Company".

The saying goes that great minds think alike.

if that is true, then I will never claim to have thought
the same as so many of my friends—and if I have it
is only because

even a broken clock is right twice a day.

I have seen it on walks—

or sitting in a lounge or a classroom as vocabulary
words and diagrams and equations fly over my head,
glimmers of lights beyond which shine the true world
in which they reside

so far beyond my wildest dreams.

Our lives have all insofar been shaped by adults

in the minutia over which our parents obsess on a
day-to-day basis to the catastrophic trends which threaten
to bring our world to a screeching halt

but they promise to change this with their ability and I have no doubt that they will.

I have never claimed to be a great mind—

and if I have it is solely out of ignorance for others—
but I have been in the company of great minds

and they've changed me nonetheless.

This poem is by far probably the most "poetic" in its application of indentation for form (which was difficult to typeset properly on this blog) and was definitely one of the most direct sentiments I've felt in relation to a prompt. (Even the unrequited love poem felt slightly distant because of passing time, although I'm not sure how long my luck will necessarily last in that department given, well, my writing in "A Letter".) It is sort of an expression of impostor's syndrome, but I'll stand by the sentiment and a large percentage of the claims made here. This speaker in this poem is, in fact, supposed to be me.

All-in-all, these four poems, although varied, all have their own strengths and weaknesses but definitely share some commonalities. I'm interested to see where these prompts go next, but in the meantime I'll just be glad I have them. A poem a day for a year is a lot of writing. Maybe I'll get to train a neural network on it. Maybe I'll just get to look back on it one day, and hopefully not cringe too hard.