Many of the poems I've written this month lacked the typical cohesive nature of the tradition that I grew under. They are like open-ended questions, like one-half of a parenthesis. Or more like random notations on a sheet of music, which, when played, produces mostly noise rather than song. The reasons behind this--aside from that they were easier to write--is that I wrote them in the spirit of alea or chance. I needed to be shaken loose from the narrow circle of my own thoughts. I consider those poems collaged because they grew from other people's work, from random words and phrases culled from current readings. They are collaborations, in a way. Not all of them are successful, however. And I find myself still circling the same old images and themes sometimes. (So the work is never done.)
I've also liked playing with form in general, from truncated haikus to that weird Filipino poem. I've done some long ones this month, and I've written short lines, and longer ones. When I read them over, I am happy to be so inconsistent. I always feel like I'm repeating myself, so the unexpected, the novel, and the random are all welcome here. But there are still patterns. I find myself writing a lot of internal or slant rhymes, more out of instinct that strict deliberation. There are a lot of maps, a lot of songs, and poems about stories. I've also been drawn to anaphora.
As always, doing this everyday means my life seeps into the poetry. My dark days, my daily worries, the questions and topics that are my current obsessions or preoccupations--they are all present in my poems. Will I do this again? Maybe next year. I am wrung out now, and also, craving prose.