GloPoWriMo Day One

Hello, everyone! This year, I've decided to take part in Glo/NaPoWriMo, so here are my notes and my poem for Day One. 

Today's prompt is based on Robert Hass’s prose poem, “A Story About the Body.” You can read more on it on Rhea Ramakrishnan’s blogpost linked in the NaPoWriMo site. I transcribe two extracts which I found really interesting:

But “A Story About the Body” is not simply a story—it's also a poem. Because poetry, like all mediums, has historically been through many changes, I want to go back to its origin to try to understand what a poem is at its core. The word "poem" comes from the Greek poiein, "to make." So a poem is a crafted thing, as opposed to prose, which comes from the Latin prosa, proversus, "turned to face forward"—literally "straightforward." Thus, I think that while it's legitimate to read A Story About the Body literally, we need to reassess our understanding of it to give it a careful, thorough reading. When we do so, we see that the poem itself is subtly interested in how things are crafted and maintained—paintings, music, a clean studio, the body. In this way, the poem becomes a statement about art making itself, an ars poetica. 

[...] But I don't think anyone would challenge the proposition that a "made thing" says more about the craftsman than it does about thing itself. 

This is my poem:

Back then, we didn't know where it would end. I still don't know when it ended. We were a garden of forking paths, and you are to me the novel no one ever understood. I got everything when I was between your arms, whenever I wanted; I had your warmth at my fingertips, but who knew we headed to different directions.

I was feeling confident when we had our casual walk-by one morning. "I like your hair," you said. I also liked yours and when you let me touch it. That had previously been my opening move on the chess board. I tried it again, but this time you didn't care I touched your hair. 

I was walking back home when I realized I liked you. I sat on the sidewalk and looked at my fingertips turning red and the dry leaves the breeze stuck to my hair. 

 It's not the best, I know, but I am glad I can go back to writing poetry -- I haven't been doing so for a few months now. Anyway, write you tomorrow!

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