The first time I encountered NaPoWriMo was during Mr. Miller’s poetry class in junior year of high school, 2016. I had rarely written much poetry before then. Having only moved to Ohio a few years prior, I was a shy kid struggling to fully express myself in English. A part of ourselves becomes buried and renewed in different languages. Sometimes, the language barrier made me doubt that I could be creative at all.
Poetry became my escape from the rigidity of English grammar. Through it, I discovered a playground of sound, rhythm, letters, and blank space on paper. Free verse, villanelle, sonnets… beauty in all forms. (Thank you, Mr. Miller, if you ever read this: you curated the best reading lists, so my writer’s voice could be nourished by the most brilliant poets. ❤️)
I fell head over heels in love with poetry when I discovered that not only could I read and grasp something deeper, messages hidden in plain words, but I had it in me to write some too. Writing immortalizes meaningful words: something moving and soul-touching, like building a bridge for the unlikely meeting of hearts. Poetry has since flowered into more than just a language art — it’s my way of living and my way of seeing the world. So many precious friendships have graced my life because of poetry.
So, nine years later, re-encountering the NaPoWriMo in 2025 feels especially meaningful. I’m grateful that my friend
shek has joined this creative practice with me. He said it’s important to put our craft out there — to allow space for creativity to take shape, and let whatever form it assumes print onto the paper. It’s a lot like film photography: framing the vision of a scene through the viewfinder and pressing the shutter isn’t enough; if you don’t take the time to carefully develop the film, you’ll never see the photos.Even though I skipped several days of writing, throughout this month, poetry has risen to the top of my mind, and with it, my priority for creativity.
x,
Erica
12 Little Spells
After esperanza spalding’s 12 Little Spells
Belly
I hope you feel like
a belly: round, soft, centered,
and happy when full.
*
Eyes
Windows of crystal.
My inner world leans over,
yearning to be touched.
*
Hippocampus
Tiny fingers let
go. She slipped down a red slide
into waiting arms.
*
Hair
The way of life: leaves
fall, seasons change. What’s alive
makes space for more life.
*
Fingers
Little antennas
study daffodils, feeling
sunny and yellow.
*
Feet
crunch sandy dirt. All
I think about is further,
a little further.
*
Arms
Inexplicably,
an embrace metamorphoses
into warm belief.
*
Broca’s Area
How can I love you
if I can't know you? If you
don't say who you are?
*
Lips
Two kissers, the wet
entering of feelings. Cross
heart. Never apart.
*
Cheeks
Balloons the size of
your palms. Rise and fall as you
chew. Big bites. So plump.
*
Heart
So long as my heart
pumps blood and oxygen, it’s
an engine of love.
*
Waist
For I can bend down,
stand straight, turn around, and see
from all the angles.
