Dear Hubski,
Begin a poem with "This is what it's like" and see where it takes you. _refugee_, Cumol, humanodon, thenewgreen, mk, rezzeJ, mivasairski, TheGreatAbider16, OftenBen, coffeesp00ns, ButterflyEffect, flagamuffin, tacocat, steve, weewooweewoo, nowaypablo Complexity lil -- and everyone else who has a heart of poetry... all of us.
Here's mine:
This Is What It's Like
This is what it's like to be older and back in the town where I grew up
The teller compliments the woman ahead of me for the colour of her top
The woman, in her 70s or 80s,
much older than me,
recites lines of
"When I Get Older I Shall Wear Purple"
And adds, "The poem's about never being allowed to be yourself.
Now that I'm old
I do what I damn well please."
And I linger in the supermarket over the fresh squeezable oranges,
but instead buy a carton of juice for the boyfriend
not wanting to be doctrinaire
about anything, even orange juice.
And being back in the town where I spent
some of my 30s, I see a woman I used to know
an artist, also much older now.
She was part of some of the drama of those days --
drama we get into when adventure is
more interesting than security
and intensity looks a lot like
intimacy.
and then I remember her mural "April Dawn" commissioned for the new cancer ward.
Before the opening party, I told her,
if I go into labour and miss
seeing the mural
I'll name the baby, April Dawn.
But I went into labour a few hours later at the afterparty,
and the baby stayed nameless for days.
This is what it's like to be back
in a town where I went to high school
and left, and returned, and left again. Nick
Cave's "Rings of Saturn"
is the sound track now: this is the moment, this is
exactly where she is born to be
and now I'm older and people are going back
to the places they left.
And this is what it's like: I sit outside. It's warm, like summer,
but it's October in Canada.
The unusual will become usual as
tiny birds with blue-striped wings
fill the large pine tree beside me.
I've never seen these birds before.
This is what it's like."This is what it's like," said the recruiter, showing me the screenshot of a first-person shooter. "This is what it's like," said the CO, as we stood drenched in sweat from head to toe. "This is what it's like," said the EOD, defusing a mine that would have taken his knee. "This is what it's like," said the veteran, as our unit rotated out for some rest again. "This is what it's like," says the evening news, reminding me of things that I made myself do. "This is what it's like," says my former spouse, with one last spiteful glance towards my house. "This is what it's like," says the therapist, and puts me in pain that I didn't know could exist. "This is what it's like," say people like myself, who can't know their pain and don't think to help.
Thanks so much! I appreciate your prompt for inspiring the poem. I've updated the original comment and moved the disclaimer down to a subcomment. It's been a long time since I wrote something I felt was good enough to share with others, so this was a treat.
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As per lil's suggestion, I removed the insecure disclaimer from the beginning of the poem, but I didn't want to let go of it entirely. So here it is: Big downer alert, and also shoddy penmanship/cheesy writing here. Heavy-handed to the point of being Anvilicious as well so I apologize for that, since I hate when other people do that with their stuff. I'll also spoil the twist ending by saying that I really don't know what it's like to be a soldier, since I'm not in the military and only have the personal anecdotes I've been told by others. So here goes nothing.
Phew, I'm crawling back out of the woodwork for this killer prompt. Maybe it's because I've felt disconnected from my local writing community recently and have been doing a lot of rock climbing, but I couldn't help myself. shod in rubber. Ignore the thunder— uncertainty is why you came. Open your mouth when you breathe. gone tomorrow; taste them on the rain today. At the top, hook the metal back Leave your hands raw. Leave your feet bare when they return to Earth. The sand is soft in Muir Valley, and the snakes This is what it's like to toss fear, wet, across the ground where it will run in rivulets with mud and melting Trade it for laughter. Grin with bright teeth that know what it's like to fight gravity. This is what it's like to climb into the storm: Tilt against the rock, a crucifix The rhododendron and pine will be to your waist. Leave the wall clean. don’t bother with cloudy weather. clay. Spill it from chest and gut.
Oh gosh, thanks so much! That is very kind of you to say. I grinned at a few of your lines as well, especially this one, which resonated with me: not wanting to be doctrinaire about anything, even orange juice. I have indeed published poems in Maudlin House, Rat's Ass Review, Poetry Pacific, and The Scarlet Leaf Review. I haven't been submitting much lately and have hit a bit of a dry spell in my writing, but I plan to get back into the swing of things soon! I'd love to appear in lit.cat -- it's such a fun publication with mixed media, which I appreciate.but instead buy a carton of juice for the boyfriend
I was just looking through previous #todayswritingprompt and found another lovely thing you wrote.
Wow! Thanks for calling it a killer prompt and for writing this killer poem. Try this prompt on your high school class and read them BurnTheBarricade's poem and yours and all of them.
Oh thank you, I will! Your suggestion is welcome; I am teaching a big poetry/writing workshop unit in a couple of months and am just beginning to compile and organize texts!
The responsibility you feel, the weight is quite wild Until, Bam! She does , and with such a surprise Your heart will swell and the world melts away And all of the words that you wanted to say turn into gobbledy, sugary, childish goos You make wild cooing sounds and act like a fool This is what it's like to hold a four day old child This is what it's like to hold a four day old child She will look all around and never locks eyes Your loved ones and friends look at you beguiled
A part of something larger than me. Growing awareness of the gears and timing belts and switches and levers and bolts and gadgets myriad. Maybe I can find some small peace as a gear or sprocket or flange. And in that peace find space and time To feel the something larger within.So this is what it's like to be
Wow, Ben! That's the answer! Be part of something larger -- disappear in it, seem completely insignificant, but the reader realizes that each of the gears and sprockets and flanges keep the large thing going. And then the poet finds some quiet inside the machine -- and the larger thing: thoughts, poetry, identity, purpose -- starts to grow inside the speaker and the reader!!
That's what it's like to be X, Said the letter Y.  But why, Y naught? I thought but to whine ought.  Because there's a lot to allot, great scot- An X that ain't ought is one big shot Wouldn't it not?  But that thought, I, who did thought Wouldn't it not be ought If we didn't think if that was ought  Y fought and vied hot, But fought for I to buy ought: Ain't there not A spec of truth in every wide thought?  Between all that was sought, That I did got. Aye, I finally thought.  Man, fuck the two of you, Said the letter X.
“This is what it’s like” says your instructor, watching you carefully for mistakes Teaching you what kills right away, and what takes a while longer. Telling you that sometimes all you can do is hold a hand and say something kind. “This is what it’s like” says your crew chief, pulling you up into the ambulance. Reminding you to check pockets for knives and arms for track marks. Relaying experience’s thousand little lessons, unteachable in the classroom. “This is what it’s like” say your patients, pointing to where it hurts. Groaning and sweating, grabbing at their chest saying it’s just like the last one. Lying still and silent, unknowingly trusting a stranger with everything. “This is what it’s like” says your gear, speaking in clicks, beeps and error messages. The ambulance growls, bouncing and rattling over potholes as you try to start an IV The BVM whooshes, fighting to push breath into a ruined airway. “This is what it’s like” says the nick in your shears, bearing witness. Pulling you back into the dirt and blood of the scene, unbidden. Making you feel old, far older than you should be by now. “This is what it’s like” says the calendar, slowly passing time Quietly telling you it’s almost time to renew your license again. Studded with anniversaries you’d prefer not to remember, but can’t quite forget. “This is what it’s like” you say to the newbies, watching them carefully for mistakes Teaching them what kills right away, and what takes a while longer. Telling them that sometimes all you can do is hold a hand and say something kind.
And you listen, wide-eyed. Training you on bandages, splints, and the cruel rhythm of chest compressions
And you listen, working hard to show your worth. Showing you streets, the bad stretches of interstates, the homes of frequent fliers.
And you listen, replying with soothing words. Screaming with pain, clutching an extremity turned the wrong way.
And you listen, hoping that together it’ll make a difference. The defibrillator whines its way up to 300 joules, saying it’ll try but no promises.
And you listen, wishing you didn’t have to. Reminding you of that one, the one no one could have saved.
And you listen, stunned that it’s been this long. Marking out your shifts, 12-hour gambles on what’ll come your way.
And they listen, wide-eyed. Training them on bandages, splints, and the cruel rhythm of chest compressions
You take the first step out of your room And the next leads you into the street Where the people you see and the people you meet Are the people you leave and you leave and you leave You've tried to get by and fade into the night The smiles you see are trying to say We've been watching you and we don't like what we see But you're too far into this now and you wanted to know Is this what it's like to be and to be You hold that glazed look in your eye Well you're trying to lie "Yes I'm doing alright it's just a bit of a phase" When you wake up you'll feel like you're making a hit This is what it's like When everyone else is just trying to speak
This is what it’s like: The music never stops, Louder, Faster, Quieter, Slower, Constant. You can pull the plug, But you risk breaking the machine, Which is already Broken It skips The volume The speed The needle jumps Off track Broken.. The only control Is to risk damaging A broken device. But it's yours The only music The only source The only sound It's yours and you make it work Because you want to Because you have to Because You have no choice. And you get tired Tired of the chore Of working with Of dealing with Putting up with Such a flawed mechanism. Then Someone Hears it too And wants to learn To live with it Together And the music never stops And the needle skips And the loud And the quiet And loud Become background noise As you sit together And listen And love The reliable unpredictability Of the machine And of life.
downstream of catastrophe Away from flame and wind Yet carried as far Napa's call. shouted through the haze in the sky. How pale, sickly, the orange sun; stifled yellow coats, hatchet men. of a scattered puzzle, the grapes of wrath grow heavy with the vintage. This is what it's like to be An acrid, melancholic cry As we pick up the pieces
Thank you for this contribution. While you say "not to have words" -- your words conveyed the feeling of being lost and losing the bright colours of the world quite well. Being lost and having the distinct colours and shapes of the world be washed out create a stark, forlorn feeling in the reader as distinct as clouds floating past the full moon.
To be a wife to you To trust you'll treat me right And trust I'll do that too Beside the gabled lawn With your footsteps and mine Echoing the dawn To softened playful sounds Of children, such delight We want them all around To be a mother to two To trust you'll treat them right And trust I'll do that too This is what it's like We walk from day to day And then return at night I wonder what it's like
This is what it's like to burn down the house around you, To be struck by falling beams and blame your own antsy impatient hands. To hear other people burn alive with you, Beg them to leave but watch them try to save you, feet planted and committed. But you have dedicated yourself to limp dead weight, No longer a partner in the discourse. You're giving them the out, they need to save themselves more than you need to be saved. And let go of my hand. I wished that, as her fingerprints zippered against mine, I was a better man. I was promised to be a victim, And she had to go.
Their hands wring and sweat as they pull you along,
She looked at me one last time,
But by then,
This is what it's like to fail. To fall and scream, To break and decay. To float aimlessly until you're anchored at the bottom by the weight in your chest. This is what it's like to lose. To grasp nothingness. To envy and hate. To try again and again because you've been told you could but you can't and now you're-- This is what it's like to fall. This is what it's like to crash. This is what it's like to be collected in a heap of broken bones by the depths of despair and you're trapped, alone. This is what it's like heal. Slow and painful. Cautiously, but able. This is what it's like to stand. To wobble and trip. To stumble and shake. To grasp blindly for the walls as support and they cut your palms, but you're on your feet. This is what it's like to climb. To burn and tremble. To bleed and sweat. To ignore the protests of your mind and heed the leaps of your heart until finally, finally! You're free. And the light burns your eyes and skin and you're tired but you've started again and now, now you're-- This is what it's like to succeed.
juggling too much at the moment to do something I would rather do. feeling gratitude and uneasy at the thought of being included in this party. worrying a little too much about the why's, where's, how's, and with whom's. this is what it's like to feel unequal to this particular task on this particular day.