Four hours late and a dollar short (National Poetry Writing Month)
Crap crap crap crap crap!
After all that big talk, I stumbled this close to the finish line. Wednesday just ran away from me, sorry, here's a haiku to hold you over while I get it together for Friday, which will likely be two poems to finish strong and stick the landing.
Mischief is reward
Never mind why I do it
Know I am the fire that burns
"Loki"
By Hannibal Tabu Yes, he's the Michael Rosenbaum of Siege, so what? Bye!
Playing (Music): "Feelin' Good" by Nina Simone
NOTE: Since this blog is automatically imported into my Facebook page, I apologize if you comment on it and I don't respond, as I am taking a sabbatical from social networking for 2010. So me not responding is not personal, I just won't see the comments ... until 2011. Maybe. Also including this disclaimer on blogs, but you're welcome to go to the blog itself and speak your mind, as I may look there ...Labels: comics, god, haiku, loki, marvel, napowrimo, norse, poetry, writing
Mail On Sundays (National Poetry Writing Month)
Had a great convo with my dawg Craig on Saturday, which led us to think about the people who live between the panels of Marvel Comics. He tried to push a Foggy Nelson poem idea on me, but this one stuck more in my consciousness.
Monday, bug-eyed men from under the earth
made me six minutes late
delivering Mrs. O'Leary's social security check.
Tuesday, that rascal Johnny swooped down and saved me
from a steely gray column of Doombots
blasting the Baxter Building's foundations.
Today might be quiet,
even though I can see weird vibrations
around the Gotham skyline from home.
Growing up in Glenville, Nebraska,
a flat spot off the 92
so tiny Google Maps can barely find it,
every day was like every other day.
Friday night you might catch a movie
if you could drive to Prairie Theatre in Ogallala
Maybe five hundred people lived in McPherson County
I was just another one
but I always wanted to do something special.
My dad got me a job at the post office
over in Arthur
which saw me putting down same seventeen flags
from graduation into my thirties.
Met Imogene when she ran out to the road
with some contest entry.
She won me, but always wanted that ceramic duck cookie jar.
That ol' sun crossed flat Nebraska plain time and again
Imogene and I just watched it,
holding hands on same porch I played on as a kid
My dad passed away and left me the place
while my kid brother Ted went to school at Columbia.
We were happy there,
holding hands and watching sunsets
until the cancer found her as wonderful as I did.
Not many world-class oncologists in McPherson County
so when Ted said we could stay with him
see some fancy New York doctor
I put in for a transfer that day,
surpising Imogene with that ceramic duck
in our new, cramped room.
My brother was probably too proud
to admit he needed help with his daughter Billie
but three months later we were both widowers,
little Billie was the lady of the house
and I started prowling the mail slots of Brooklyn.
Well, Ted died a few years later
and I needed some extra money to support a New York mortgage
so I took the Baxter Building route
and the rest is ... well, legend, if not history.
I've met despots
shaken hands with gods
seen worlds ending and heroes reborn.
I still eat cookies out of that duck, though.
It's a long way from Glenville, and yeah,
I don't know what to make of a lot of it
but I wouldn't have it any ... other ...
... hm. People flying around the penthouse.
Maybe I'll bring by the mail later on.
"My Name is Willie Lumpkin"
By Hannibal Tabu It needs a lot more sensory data, I'd like to brush against the family themselves more, but I was pleasantly surprised that I guessed a town to put him in -- Flats, Nebraska -- was surprisingly close to what Stan Lee originally intended. I can't tell if that's a testament to Stan's ability to convey what a person's about or my own intuitiveness. Fun to note, though. Maybe more on the present day and less background ... worth working on.
No progress on the Wham!-inspired long form idea. It may be a short story after all. Have to think about that in May, if so.
Playing (Music): "Typical" by Mute Math
NOTE: Since this blog is automatically imported into my Facebook page, I apologize if you comment on it and I don't respond, as I am taking a sabbatical from social networking for 2010. So me not responding is not personal, I just won't see the comments ... until 2011. Maybe. Also including this disclaimer on blogs, but you're welcome to go to the blog itself and speak your mind, as I may look there ...Labels: comics, lumpkin, marvel, poetry, writing
Father Figure (National Poetry Writing Month)
I feel good about this early draft.
Last year, Ratpack Slim's Facebook-exclusive poem in the voice of Ben Grimm got me going. I have since written poems as Black Adam and Lex Luthor, and I have started one on Bizarro. I never did one in the voice of what most people consider a "hero" ... I'm not sure that's changed.
I you don't know about any of what's being discussed here, Wikipedia is here to help. Let's see how this goes ...
My son will bury me.
I've known since he was a baby.
Communion with the Panther God reveals much
if one is open to listen.
I knew the garishly-clad American was coming
before his orders were handed down.
Winds of war blew past my verdant native land
but never crossed inviolate borders.
Haile Selassie took notes,
but always chased our secretive glories.
Knowing the weight of my reputation
more than he'll remember my voice,
This one, this T'challa,
will know such solitude and frustration
unprotected by his prismatic mind.
He will be known for his imaginings.
Quinjets and construction technologies,
His thoughts the fuel of an economy.
Like me, he will marry an outlander,
Bringing home power and grace
not found in our lands.
Earth's mightiest heroes
shall call him friend and brother,
But none will know him.
As I kept the realm isolated physically,
His wall of wonder will keep Wakanda a mystery.
He won't have my voice to guide him.
When the smiling white trader appears,
I know he brings tears and funerals at his footsteps.
They all seek it,
Precious find under Black soil
birthright and protectorate.
My son will keep it safe
at whatever cost
no matter the love he loses along the way.
I can't tell him any of these things.
I won't live to host
his globally-observed wedding.
Struggles with identity and purpose
he must shoulder alone.
He will be a conundrum to history,
Brilliant but conflicted
adventurous but secretive
an African king in a Brooklyn classroom.
T'challa will have to learn the hard way
sometimes the old ways are best
technology doesn't have to abandon spirit.
The Panther God is always waiting for our return.
T'challa could never leave pawprints of his own
if he kept chasing my shadow, my path ...
It's better this way.
Please show Mister Klaw in, Zuri.
"T'Chaka"
By Hannibal Tabu
Bizarro will either be Wednesday or Thursday. No idea about tomorrow.
Playing (Music): "Window Seat" by Erykah BaduLabels: comics, marvel, napowrimo, poetry, wakanda, writing
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