Black History month was fun. A challenge nearing the end of the month because I was running low on juicy ideas. There’s many folks to write about I hadn’t… but producing this daily plus having to work in a distracting office can be hard. Not to mention meditating on whom I wanted to write about.

Choosing a person or topic was totally up to what my brain found appealing. Respect: But I’m personally bored by Madame CJ Walker and Elijah McCoy. They get so much attention as to be black history cliches. I want to know about the history behind dissing fools in rap music or compel somebody to properly release To Sleep With Anger on DVD.

But the month was great exercise and a nice way to get my brain ready for writing poetry this April.

I hope I don’t get in trouble. I feel like a stalker– especially yesterday on the train. I keep imagining that if I have to write a poem, what would it be about? Last night I stood on a crowded train. I studied hands clasping the railing above. How hair rose off the back of this one dudes arm in tiny flames. The Indian dudes who all huddle together so tightly and talk like boys kicking soccer balls. The oceanic waves of brown hair on the woman next to me, the sweet and stale scent of her coat drying from an earlier rain. All nice– but nothing immediately striking me enough to want to write.

Until the train emerged from the tunnel. I turned to look back at the city and saw the city in a gray silhouette through the fog. Above the bowl of downtown, planetary clouds and the sun’s columns of gold light neatly slicing buildings at odd intervals and spotlighting random parts of the bay water. The clouds looked ragged as if something recently exploded.

This I could write about. And was compelled to make some notes. The poem, raw and as of yet loose & unthreaded, has promise.

This is just to say, I’m setting my intention to pay attention. To remain vigilant and search for good poems. My lesson from last year was that its possible to write and find a poem every day. Its hide and go seek in plain sight. Perhaps I missed the poem in the choreography of hair on the back of an arm, the stasis in a face that waits, the scent rising from another person. But that’s my loss. I just have to attend to a deeper attention, search for god & beauty in everything. And write without ceasing. Game on