55º ~ bright sun for basking in, a cold front on the way to knock us down to size
Today's draft came about as usual, from reading, word gathering, and then several words sparking on the page. In this case, it was the idea of "women," "seed," and "city." Of course, the women instantly became the angry sisters and then I had the sound of them "seeding the city," but with what? Well, the husks of cicadas, of course.
Confession: I find cicada husks to be horrible and slightly terrifying and wouldn't touch one unless given piles and piles of money. C., on the other hand, loves them and likes to collect them for the man cave.
At first, the angry sisters were going to seed the city with the bodies of the dead women/girls that are their obsession (those women/girls killed by men either in domestic violence or in those more infrequent stranger killings). However, that seemed a bit too unfeasible, as they are often searching for the remains. Perhaps it was the sound of "seed" and "city" that led me to "cicada" as it does not appear in my word bank.
However it happened, the poem begins like this.
All summer we thread
the shed husks of cicadas ...
The seeding of the city doesn't happen until the third stanza, when the sisters hang their "garlands" at the homes of "straying men."
The poem is in tercets with short, clipped lines that I'm made uncomfortable by.
I don't know if the angry sisters are going to work any more. They are so, so angry and accusatory. I found myself staring at my journal wondering what else I might have to write about, what other obsessions I might have. Nothing is calling to me now, and I'm not even sure the angry sisters were calling today or if I forced the poem out, knowing their obsessions.
In other words, where do poems come from?