A Poem for Last Year
Inspired by Tiago Forte's Annual Review Workshop
To hear the related 5-minute audio file that I uploaded today as my Morning Journal flash briefing for Alexa devices, please click on the play button:
An AI Bot and a Poet Walk Into a Workshop…
[After loading my handwritten 2024 journal into Google’s NotebookLM, I wrote this prompt: Give me 10 resonant words from each month of my journal, so I can create a poem with them. In writing the poem, I made sure to use the 10 words chosen by NotebookLM for each month’s stanza.]
ANNUAL REVIEW 2024
January
Calm except for tangle of media
interruptions—confused, vulnerable.
I might say I created silence
in order to breathe
new technology into the soles
of my feet—brush strokes
of a new year.
February
Gaps filled patiently
with transcendent shadows
of worthiness—a cult,
a grounding in the truth
of what I do not know.
March
The through line is
childish curiosity (or
puerile wisdom) fulfilling
my experiences. How do
I know when to evangelize
and when to run like hell
from certainty?
April
A mad mountain of gratitude
folded over insane valleys.
I heard choirs of profound
passion moving my legacy
forward.
May
A fleeting recollection—
imagined losses that left
openings—precious, virtuous.
I was dreaming of the divine.
I heard it ticking.
June
Shell Camp in the Florida Keys:
funky snorkeling,
an intellectual obsessed
with the chatter of mosquitos.
If I let go the reins,
will you show me
how to deepen,
how to simplify?
July
At midnight I felt too sexy
to be alluring.
I wandered off in crumpled PJ's,
tossed my patterns of thought
onto the beach in Maine.
A thread emerged—
green meme of redemption.
August
In France Alain Delon died.
Beloved actor,
laconic legend of
concise expectations.
I traveled in silence—
erect, endless, serene
until slumped into lust
for gravy, for my next
medallion of sobriety.
September
Still orbiting laconisme,
snacking on manic intentions.
I became a legendary surfer
who settled at a quiet creek,
generational wealth pooling
at my feet.
October
A slippery marigold:
colorful, snooty, a broken
preppie dazzled by jazz.
The spiritual superlative
still broken, beckoning.
November
Gobble-gobble and still
the smooth love of jazz.
Such a tender wave
connected me to year's end.
Beyond pomp and posturing.
Stunning emotion: hope.
December
A wreath of shells on our door,
acapella carols by the Pentatonics,
W. S. Merwin stopped by to say
Merry Christmas without punctuation—
his style, as always,
lusty and efficient.
My flabby fingers dreamed
of calluses—unheard chords
for the new year.
Very deep reflection and fascinating the way you constructed it.
Wow. Nice. I enjoyed hearing you recite the poem in my Flash Briefing this morning.