T. S. Eliot famously wrote, “April is the cruelest month,” and people have been debating ever since. They debate which month is cruelest, what Eliot meant by cruel, and even whether he was the first who coined it. Having been raised in Minnesota, I can truthfully say that Eliot didn’t know jack about April’s cruelty at all. April in the northern plains is a horrible tease that suffers from a raging hormone imbalance. But I digress.
This year I’ve decided … after much soul-searching, wavering of thought, and quavering of heartbeat … to take on the marathon madness called GloPoWriMo. This hardly can be considered a momentous announcement worthy of great notice, as literally (and, in some cases, illiterarlly) thousands of others are throwing care aside to join, Lemming-like, into the fun.
My concern in attempting this feat is that my creation of poetry – which I (in the throes of delusion, perhaps) equate with the workings of Michelangelo’s studio – will eventually more closely resemble that of Henry Ford’s assembly plant (you can have a poem in any color you like as long as it’s black). Perhaps what will emerge will be a more disciplined artist – one who doesn’t lean on excuse, who doesn’t “wait for the muse to show herself.”
Whatever awaits in May, April, do your damnedest!
in steel-toed Redwings.
A bouquet of drill,
the stage, dismantling
We watch in awe, feel
winter’s reluctance to exit,
take cover when seasons upstage
At the end of the dance, we applaud.
Mostly, we’re just glad it’s over.