April isn’t really the cruelest month, it’s actually National Poetry Month. We should celebrate. Between the tornado sirens and the Arkansas River floodwaters, there needs to be some moment of peaceful, poetic delight. Otherwise, we would all sound just like ‘ol T. S. – and have you ever really heard him? Well, I don’t know many voices that can conjure up such large-scale depression. On with the delight, then.
The first exciting bit of news is that we have a winner in last week’s Scribble Challenge. Aedh’s poem “Tulips” wins hands down by following Cruelanimal’s lead a few weeks ago and scaring off the competition. Congratulations, Aedh! Be sure to copy/paste the coveted No Tellin’ Winner’s Blog Badge to your own blog. You’ve earned it.
This week’s Scribble Challenge needs to be something celebratory and April-y. And I’m convinced it should be poetry in some form or other, in Honor of National Poetry Month. Write about dancing. It can be anything from your first junior high dance to Britany Spears doing The Stumble. You can write about your high school prom or your first trip to a strip club. Hopefully they didn’t occur on the same night, but if they did, write about that too. Write about the ballet or the mosh pit, I don’t care. Surprise all of us. To get you rolling, I’ve included a couple of inspiring dance videos. Now, go make poems.
No Telling 
I may have posted this one over at EasyStreet. It’s the first part of a three poem sequence called “Poems About God” (for no particular reason), set up it the form of tragic structure: Pity, Fear, and Catharsis (again, for no particular reason). Here is the first movement, which works nicely with your prompt. I waive my right to win the contest since I have already won recently, but if you’ve got no other takers this week (i.e., I scare off the competition), I’d like to donate my badge to Abigail, She Wrote since she’s chomping at the bit for one.I. PityYou want to tell them as you chaperone the seventh-grade danceYou want them to know, the wallflowersPudgy girls in puffed sleeves, queer boys with acne scars to be That this too will pass thatThey too will love and be loved.And not just the awkward ones but All of them, the cologne musked of them,The heavy eye-shadowed,That they will blaze in high school glory orBe doused with lonely desire andThey will frighten and fail, And they will fly away and upFrom adolescence,Then know their beauty in this single momentLater. Much too late.
Uhhhh, it turned a little darker than intended, but there is still dancing. I consider that a victory.SlàinteHand in hand andHearts in beatThey pound the musicWith their feet.The people crowd aroundAnd cheerTo mark the passingOf the YearBut Dancers knowWhat crowds know not,They dance their danceTo bring the rot.The tempo wrinklesClapping HandsAnd turns lush grassInto sands.Smiling faces,Now skeletal grin,And organs startTo pool within.Still they dance,Out in the street,Hand in hand,Hearts in beat,They do not dareTo stop their feet.
Okay, so there an interesting edge to the dancing entries. I like it.Tim’s poem makes me do the “mom face” (awwwwwblesstheirhearts) and Aedh’s is victoriously dark indeed. You need to read the fairy tale “The Red Shoes.” Immediately.
Ha, I just read it and it is fantastic. The don’t make children’s tales quite as demented as they used to.