Three days in and the poem-no-longer-in-progress-but-now-declared-finished count is two. That’s not bad, given that I’ve also managed a daily minimum of 1000 words on my novel-in-progress as well as various other bits and pieces that have been clamouring for my attention. And also given that my house currently looks like this:

So there is a lot going on here, about which more later.

Meanwhile, there are three hours remaining until midnight, and therefore still the chance I might increase my PIP count to three for three.

For now, I’ll leave you with the opening lines of the two I’ve completed.

From “Welcome Stranger”:

It’s how we were raised, on the logic
of gold: all those men just a pickaxe away
from the earth’s rich blaze.

(or – now that I read that again – should I break after ‘pickaxe’? Do I really need ‘away’? Decisions, decisions! So maybe it isn’t finished after all. Damn poems, damn them all!)

From “Naming the Beasts”

Tonight, the room is thick
with the smell of boy. He is blueness and
newness; she is caution
and calm.

Tonight’s poem is as yet untitled and currently begins with the lines:

There is something sure about a horse
until you’re on it.

Though any and all of that could change and it may yet end up being a poem about vowels and misconceptions, drive-ins and/or steamships – that sort of thing.

As you can see, I’m all over this poetry malarkey.