Wednesday, April 30, 2008

NaPoWriMo 30

Things Your Poems Do After You Die


Not all poems sink into the ground after your death. Some go on as ghosts, moving from place to place to find lost music. Some get married. Some donate themselves to science, ground themselves down into multivitamins that taste like eggs. Those poems not anatomically correct go as unclaimed as luggage, or worse—taken on tour for the entire world to see. Some turn themselves into the renewable energy of prose, warming homes, becoming sources of heat so intense they ignite a city. I have seen a few taken as political prisoners, swearing not to leave until every poem of conscious is returned to this world safely. Sadly, some get sold, chop-shop style, with poets like grave robbers scouring dead lines for words and rhymes. There are never enough poems to meet demand, so they are put on a donor waiting list, the recipients ever so grateful, fearing death, fearing a life beyond what we risk dreaming.


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This poem is a found poem that I completely absconded from CNN.com's article, "Things Your Body Can Do After You Die." I saw the title and said to myself, "Now this is a gift!" Notice the first line is the last line from NaPo 29.

5 comments:

...deb said...

I made a button especially for you!


But you have to go to RWP to get it, Blogger won't let me leave it here.


It's for anyone who wants it. But you are the inspiration.

January said...

Cool. I'll have to get the button tonight! Thanks, my dear.

And happy end of NaPoWriMo!

m0nkeyboy said...

I don't usually go for found poems, but this one works very well.

January said...

J, I would have written just about anything to finish the month! But the story was too good to pass up.

Ananda said...

okay this one made me smile, pause, giggle, and uhum....i like this passage:

I have seen a few taken as political prisoners, swearing not to leave until every poem of conscious is returned to this world safely. Sadly, some get sold, chop-shop style, with poets like grave robbers scouring dead lines for words and rhymes. There are never enough poems to meet demand, so they are put on a donor waiting list, the recipients ever so grateful, fearing death, fearing a life beyond what we risk dreaming.

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