Fun & Games

Another tip of the pen to Trillwing, who is responsible for most of the fun posts on this blog. She dug up an exercise for 5-minute poetry, and now you can try it too. It's been far too long since I did any creative writing--even a little poetry exercise. I had a good time cooking up a few tries. I hope some of you will post your efforts in the comments.

The following quick-write poem is brought to you by the latest prompt posted on (In)Decisive Moments.

The instructions:
1. Write a question.
2. Write down the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the following:
Day of the week
Time of day
Painter
Color
Fruit
Body part
Room
Means of transportation
Shape
Article of clothing
Plant
Country
Song lyrics
Street name
Emotion
Animal
Children’s toy
Historical event
Rock group
City
Saying
Landmark
Element
Metal
Smell
Thing you find in a hardware store
Musical instrument

3. Another question.

In five minutes, write a poem opening with the first question, closing with the second question and including as many of the responses to the words as possible. Think about how to get from the first question to the second. Remember: no more than five minutes!

Waiting
Where the hell is Waheed?
She's been asking since Tuesday. Sunrise turns the edges
of the kulfi trees to copper. The Minar-e Pakistan glows
orange and rose at this hour. Midnight's anxiety
is a long way behind her, or so she hopes.

Traffic on Jail Road is a nightmare, as usual.
She wishes for a helium balloon, to rise above the everyday
details: the bowls of amroud and tangerines,
the sheep waiting for slaughter.
Don't sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me.
She heard it once in a bar in Miami. A bar?

His hand covering hers.
Khush.*

She adjusts her dupatta, looks down
at her white knuckles on the steering wheel. What time is it there?


*Happy


It’s Been That Kind of Week

Did you get it?
There’s a pink grapefruit in the hallway and
who knows how it got there.

Public bus, you say?
A happy coincidence. Like pigs flying through
Karachi, free and easy, unexpected
as a steel balloon.

The Seneca Falls convention was here, you know.
In Newport?
No, in Seneca Falls, you dope.

Well hell, what do you expect for Wednesday? A day that reeks
of ginger and wood putty.

I expected a bit more of a puzzle than that.
Are you out of your mind?


Kitney Jare?*
He turns around, surprised. Already I am full of sorrow.
Thursday questions coming fast as Urdu class, and as often.
He wants to know, what world is this,
where will it take him. My mind is here
and there, present and future both already past.
I’m seeing him at 12, at 20, stretching his legs in broad strides
through this city or another. I want to ask him things he couldn’t
possibly know: how long will you remember? Instead
I’ll take roses home with me, litter the street
with roses: it’s where I come from, Rose Avenue. He grins.
My week of questions nearly over, he asks only one:
Miss, today Mr. Nadeem is coming?

*Panjabi for "Where are you going?"