this is my 2025 napo week thread. it's posted a bit late, so apologies on that. the theme i'm going to try to stick with this time is little women (the book, the movie, the stage play, the story). enjoy!
table of contents in the week: i. four sisters ii. the pansies in the garden iii. after you die: jo to beth iv. temper v. i know i'm there: beth to those who lost her vi. dear beth: rain vii. castles in the air ix. what shadows life but death
the pre-poems: x. beth march xi. pip xii. crows caw on the beach xiii. the good die young and simple
the post poems: xiv. xv. xvi. xvii.
Last edited by avimoon on Sat Nov 29, 2025 1:23 am, edited 13 times in total.
the actor. the eldest. the brain. the one who directs. breathe, little one. you will be grown soon.
the writer. the second. the muscles. the one who rejects. write, little one. you will do so all your life.
the musician. the third. the heart. the one who listens. your body will fail you, but your spirit will not.
the artist. the youngest. the bones. the one who learns. popular things will not always be the things you covet most.
four sisters. four minds. four hearts. four sets of muscles. four sets of bones. four sets of spirits in the same home. four, four, four... no matter what happens, there will always be the four of you.
the pansies in the garden purple petals, sweet perfume. frigid air, frozen dew droops the petals, frost ensues killing every plant that grew. winter came, as marked in lead. frost followed and dulled the reds, blanketing the flower beds. all but these pressed few are dead.
Spoiler
context: in little women, beth march presses pansies from the garden in a letter for her mother and father. in her own words, "they are the last of the summer, for the frost came again last night and the flowerbeds look so mournful."
after you die: jo to beth after you die, i spend hours crying until there are no tears left in me anymore and it feels like i'm drawing up from a well a bucket empty of water. after you die, i spend days writing like the act will help bring you back, even if only for a few meager seconds. after you die, i spend weeks trying to rationalize with my emotions and the god you so adored, the god i tried so hard to reach in hopes of reaching you. after you die, i spend months finding you in every flower, falling leaf, and finite song. after you die, i spend decades trying to comprehend why it is that good and dear people die young. when i near death, i finally find an answer in the words whispered to me in your sweet, dear voice as i transcend from this plane of life to the next.
meg: my temper was always a building thing-- something that dealt with a multitude of offences stacked sky high atop each other. it was only released when there was too much to let stay stacked. it was only released when it all fell down.
jo: my temper was a bubbling thing-- like leaving a pot of water on the stovetop and forgetting about it. sometimes, it steadily rose, put on a nice, slow simmer. other times, it climbed higher quicker, the dial for fire turned up until it could turn no longer.
amy: my temper was a sudden thing-- something that burst quickly in instinctual actions and stabbing words. my temper was forgetting that i could do wrong and doing the wrong like it was right. my temper is the most poisonous. it festered and rotted and pushed away people i cared about.
beth: some would say my temper was non-existent. that my temper was a gentle thing, a mild suggestion not to do something. people said i was a mousy thing. but what happens when a mouse turns rabid?
i know i'm there: beth to those who lost her i know i'm there, meg. i know i'm there in every little giggle your children make, every little cry they let leave their lips. i know the giggles remind you of when i said such silly things so we'd all stop quarrelling and start laughing again. i know the little cries remind you of the nights my spirit was so distant from my body that i lost control of my voice and the sickness stroked my spine in ways that made that voice you call sweet scream instead of laugh.
i know i'm there, jo. i know i'm there in every word you write, every press of ink on paper, every single dedication in every single story. i know i'm there in every brush of lace against your skin, every glance towards the rubbish bin, every piece of polished wood and grain of sand. i know the words remind you of the time i told you to write for me even when i'm gone. i know the ink reminds you of our hands intertwining, your ink transferring to my skin and bleeding into my veins, making your words just as much apart of me as my hands. i know the dedications remind you of when you promised-- because however silently, you did, jo-- that you would keep writing for me. and so you did. and so you do.
i know i'm there, amy. in every stroke of paint against the canvas, every flower tucked into your hair, every hair ribbon tucked carefully away in a drawer. i know the paint reminds you of the times i would just exist and be your muse, the one you claimed to be your favorite artistic subject. i know that every flower reminds you of when i would be the one gently tucking them behind your ears and weaving them into your hair. i know that the ribbons remind you of the time i almost gave you my Christmas dollar so you could buy both new hair ribbons and pencils for yourself. i know that statues and gardens have replaced me as your muse, now. i know that my calloused hands have been replaced by laurie's, meg's, jo's, and sometimes even your own.
i know i'm there, marmee. in every soft, smiling agreement, in every sick child, in every quiet, pained thing. i won't tell you how i know they remind you of me. your pain is mine, marmee. i know how you feel. stay with my sisters just a little while longer.
i know i'm there, sisters. in every fragment of song, every piano, every memory. i know i'm there in everything. i am not there to pain you. i am not there to remind you. i am there to show you that even from heaven, my heart is yours and my hands reach to do the things i am unable to do from here.
dear beth: rain dear beth, "into each life, some rain must fall. some days must be dark and sad and dreary." there is so much rain squeezing our world right now that it feels as if the polar caps are melting. the rain wished to take you. our fire wasn't enough to warm your frozen bones and bring you back from the precipice of death. while i wish it could've been, i know that in heaven, you will not shiver or cough or bleed. i love you. i miss you. yours always, jo
Last edited by avimoon on Thu Nov 06, 2025 1:12 pm, edited 1 time in total.
castles in the air when we are children, we are torn from our dreams. told not to smile, for things aren't what they seem. people will change and people will die. these heavy things make children cry. we learn this is life and not to despair. still i wish to return to our castles in the air. Spoiler
this was my october 31st poem. i didn't post it last night because i was quite busy
what shadows life but death spring blooms, summer grows, autumn rots, winter froze. blackbirds cluster, ravens crow-- soot-black wings flit to and fro, the feathers fall to break the snow.
this is the reason why the leaves change color and fall shortly after, why milk kept past due will curdle and we leave expired food to the rodents and bugs that slink through and die in the caverns of our walls and floors that once held and sustained their lives.
this is a thought that may make people cry, but all that lives must eventually die. this is something we've learned with plants, loved ones, and pets. what shadows life but death?
Spoiler
my november 1st poem that was cut short just from being published when my dad locked my phone :')
beth march there was once a little girl who loved the little things. she stitched up poor and worn out dolls and healed birds' broken wings. when her sisters argued, she tried to keep the peace. yet more and more they argued and her cries just fed the beasts. silence became her safety at least that without words for with her heartfelt music, she healed all who heard.
there was once a little girl loved by the grim reaper. death shadowed her sweet, dear heart and decided to keep her. she did not dare to linger or haunt the world at rest so she lifted a finger and did her very best.
there was once a little girl who died days into spring. she left this mossy world as life was entering. to honor her and show our love, we keep her in our hearts. for even death and lack of breath can't keep our love apart.
alone. the call and response of my call receives no response. a call and response must have a call and a response. why isn't she responding?
hungry. i shuffle on my perch, praying my friend will feed me. she is in the same room, yet we are worlds apart. her eyes are open but unseeing, rather like the eyes of those crickets she used to feed me. the thought is fleeting but hunger consumes my senses once more. why won't she feed me?
quiet. i do what she does around her family, hoping to be noticed without crying out when noise won't catch their attention. i chirp only once, and it is when the air takes me and my wings don't save me and the ground approaches me like the weathered hands of my friend used to. it cradles me. it is cold. it is hard to feel now.
crows caw on the beach crows caw on the beach. the wet sand soaks the white cotton of our dresses. we think it once, then we think it twice. what would this be without her? under any other circumstances, this would be lovely. ~ crows caw on the beach. the wet sand soaks the white cotton of our dresses. something stirs in the back of our minds, sharp and sudden and then fleeting.
the good die young and simple the good die young and simple, broken like pearl-holding clams. the good die young and simple, clutching remnants of life in their hands. the good die young and simple with so much left to do. the good die young and simple accompanied by little rue. the good die young and simple, not yet knowing how to haunt. the good die young and simple, plush apples of cheeks turned gaunt. the good die young and simple, only sipping a drop of life. the good die young and simple and plagued by shadows of strife.
