Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month.


This year, there are no form requirements, only "tiers" or "rankings" given informally to all participants:

Bronze Tier: Participate at least once.

Silver Tier: Participate all days.

Gold Tier: Participate all days, and have all entries be the same form or have all entries be different forms.


Today's prompt again involves a song.
[Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HEXWRTEbj1I]
Answer Haddaway's question....perhaps by writing some kind of love song?

Thread reopened! A little early, as I'm not sure if I'll be available to post at the usual time tonight.

In Geordie dialect 
'haddaway' is a term of disbelief.
As used in various sayings such as,

"Haddaway with yersel"
"Haddaway and shite"
and "Haddaway man yer radgie".

All of which could have been appropriately used
when I misguidedly assumed that 'Haddaway' 
was a phucking philosopher and asked Google
for enlightenment pertaining to his 'question'.

It could of been worse,
I could of clicked the link and been polluted.
Even so I can still feel that worm trying to get into my ear,
I'll blow it up with dynamite.

As for Haddaway's ever so pertinent question,

-- "Haddaway with yersel"
"Haddaway and shite man"
 "Haddaway man yer radgie".

La Lumière de mon Coeur

tu es si joli ce soir
tu es la lumière de mon coeur

la nuit est magique
dans la lueur de la lune

et je suis le si fou pour vous

chantez pour la vie
chantez pour l'amour
chantez pour un autre jour

chantez pour l'amour
chantez pour la vie
chantez pour une autre nuit

April

Pink and blue is tried and true
with hyacinths for eyes.
Orange and red, the flower bed
beneath her supple thighs.

Black and white in morning light
that wills the petals rise,
gold and grey another day
the starling mother cries.

This was an extra personal prompt for me considering I have dealt with OCD my entire life, and had this specific theme in my early 20's.... "What is love, and how do I know that I am feeling it?" Boy oh boy was it a doozy... so I wrote a little poem about my experience. Maybe some of you can relate, even if not for the theme, but the rumination OCD can bring.  Me and the person I wrote this poem about is now my husband, we have 2 kids together and have been together for 20 years. 

What is Love

As someone who suffers from OCD,
questions like "What is love?"
torture me.
At 20, I fell hard,
but he fell harder.
Then a thought came to me,
a rumination starter.

Do I love him?
Am I sure?
Are these feelings secure?
How do I know that it's love?
It seems so grey,
so obscure. 

Every minute, 
every day, even 
in dreams.
I analyzed my love;
pulled at its seams.
I was in hell,
empty,
a depersonalized shell.
When I was with him,
I’d obsess,
and continue to dwell.

Because love is a concept,
a feeling—intangible,
elusive and silent,
mysterious, untestable.

So I changed directions,
focused on facts,
loyalty, stability,
ignoring abstracts.
For love is not clear,
it doesn't hold much weight.
It's not that important
when picking your mate.

It should live in the back,
floating quietly with ease—
Just a silly little concept
that drifts by in life's breeze.

a little tangential again....or maybe it's an apophatic definition.


For Anselm, Love is not a thing.
God feels what we here likewise feel
when wronged, His wrath's no metaphor
for something indescribable,
He wants---He needs---propitiation,
some arbitrary satisfaction
for both antique and present wrongs,
whose use---just as capricious---hinges
on how one feels, how one is weighed
with guilt, or else how scintillates
one's never-constant sense of faith.
For Calvin, Love does not exist:
there's Hunger, Honor, Sacrifice,
but never Love---Love's not enough.

(04-10-2025, 04:02 AM)RiverNotch Wrote:  a little tangential again....or maybe it's an apophatic definition.


For Anselm, Love is not a thing.
God feels what we here likewise feel
when wronged, His wrath's no metaphor
for something indescribable,
He wants---He needs---propitiation,
some arbitrary satisfaction
for both antique and present wrongs,
whose use---just as capricious---hinges
on how one feels, how one is weighed
with guilt, or else how scintillates
one's never-constant sense of faith.
For Calvin, Love does not exist:
there's Hunger, Honor, Sacrifice,
but never Love---Love's not enough.

love this!

Love Fish-netted


You hurt me, Vampirella, in my core–
how can this building dread my body swells
at your gyrating nearness be such Hell’s
awakening, your body Satan’s door?

Your fishnet-stretching limbs ensnare me more
than my proud twisting domination tells:
what is this wrenching madness, blood and spells
or yearning for completion, peace or war?

Don’t hurt me, please, your weakness is a lie
but also your lithe muscularity,
you dancing demon, blood-inflaming sight!
This love, your passion shared, is reason why
I burst through safety, singularity,
to consummation-terror, rage, or flight.

[Form:  Petrarchan sonnet]

mèdeis ageômetrètos eisitô mou tèn stegèn  

Love your enemy, said the man
who got nailed to a tree by them.

For all Jewry they hatched a plan -

those tan-summer-suited men
over coffees in Berchtesgaden 
humming Schwarzbraunes Mädel
on the summer breeze,
like birds in the trees -

with the patriotic love of soldier,
artist, architect, cadet, farmer,
textual critic. Not a single impolitic
mathematician, proving Plato right.
A man who doesn’t know geometry
can’t tell wrong from right.

Pain flooded through me
because of love
and the deep losses it bears.

But when I met you,
joy rushed through me
because of love
and the powerful healing it possesses.