Today’s poetry prompt from Robert Lee Brewer at Writer’s Digest is a Two-for-Tuesday prompt. “In fact,” he writes, “this is one I include with every challenge.” Here are the options he offers:
- Write a love poem.
- Write an anti-love poem.
And mine is a single poem that does both.
’Twas The Beast Killed Beauty
Last night she dreamed she was in love with King Kong.
A big hulking brute of a beast he was,
Who petted and scorned her by turns.
He built her a shelter of sorts in the air,
Perched high on his haunches where no one could reach her.
He made it of sticks and mud and promises,
The ephemeral flora of the forest.
And from the outside
And from the ground
And from a distance
It looked solid enough.
Inside was all she needed:
A bed, a mop, a stove,
And one tiny window to let some outside light filter in,
But none of hers out.
And although he often squeezed her too tight,
And, truth be told, it did scare her some
When he pounded his chest or threw things,
‘Till one day he lowered his great hairy hindquarters
To reach for some low-lying fruit,
Where, finding her feet on solid earth,
She tremblingly crept toward the palm-shaded window
And leaning her elbows upon the sill,
Stood looking and looking out.
For today’s prompt, Robert Lee Brewer suggests writing a complex poem. “Complex is a complex word,” he explains, “that can refer to mental state, apartments, difficulty of a situation, and so many other complex situations.”
She thinks she is manic-depressive, she says, using
The language of a generation ago to describe
What I saw every day:
The bursts of creativity, the beautiful melodies,
Whole programs taking shape in a single flash of insight.
These she juxtaposed among the late nights she dragged me out of bed
She said to shore her up
But really just to pull me down and down into her nightmare realm.
Did she have a choice?
I say she did.
There were those lucid moments when she knew,
When she could see the wreckage in her wake,
But it was too easy to make it someone else’s choice:
Her husband, her friends, her family all gave her the easy out
(And themselves, too, no doubt),
All said she could not help herself,
And therefore I must.
Which left me with a choice:
To follow suit, or to chart a different course.
I preferred Plan B,
Which despite its many pitfalls and uncertainties,
Has mostly worked out rather well.
Especially for her granddaughters.
She pauses, fork poised with the next bite,
Waiting for … what? I’m not sure. Disbelief? Evidence to the contrary?
Reassurance that she is fine
And everyone else is nuts? Yes. Probably that one. That was always my job.
But instead I laugh, my years of anger and misery long since passed.
“No,” I say, meaning yes.