Today is New Year's Eve. We're leaving 2013 behind and moving forward into 2014. I went to the movies to see The Secret Life of Walter Mitty
and was thrilled by it. The film is a perfect end-of-the-year feature
to enjoy and propel oneself into the resolution-making joys of the new
year. The story is uplifting, thoughtful without being
overly-philosophical, and possesses a soundtrack selection that makes
one smile while watching. Just listen to Arcade Fire's "Wake Up."
I'm
not here to review the film. I am thinking about resolutions and how
we come to create that list each year and at some point discover we've
lapsed in obtaining each goal, or at least I do. So this year I am
writing a Walter Mitty inspired list:
"Resolutions for Stop Dreaming, Start Living"
1. Pursue artistic outlets.
Try out some acrylic painting and see how I like it. Make some MS
designed journals and tapestries to sell in MS. Learn more embroidery
stitches.
2. Pursue publication of Rise When the Rooster Crows
Do not self-publish this book. Send individual poems to lit journals. Send entire manuscript to potential presses. Hope.
3. Stop saying "my writing is stagnant" and start writing.
I've hardly written anything new the whole 5 years I lived in Oklahoma
and I blamed it on claiming I was uninspired, unmotivated, and out of
place. Whether any of that is true or not, it is not an excuse for not
attempting to write regularly, nor trying to self-motivate through
meeting often with writer friends and going to readings. I have ideas
of new projects; I think I've just not started them for fear of not
making something I deem good. It won't become good if I don't start
somewhere. And like a fellow friend's dad told him: "You can't call
yourself something you're not actively doing." I call myself a poet and
I'm not actively writing poetry? That's not right.
4. Don't be afraid to try.
I'm
looking at job opportunities which describe duties and tasks for which I
have some experience -- and feel I am capable of managing, learning,
succeeding if given a chance -- although I do not have as much
experience in that area as others. It cannot hurt to apply; An
interview might still happen. An offer might happen. There might be a
co-worker I can learn from, a plan or routine already in place, and room
to grow. Or I might not get the interview, but nonetheless, I won't
know if I don't try.
5. Pursue the big dream, the big project, the big idea.
Get started on writing up the overall project plan for the big idea.
Once I have envisioned and mapped out the whole thing, other proponents
will come into place. I'll be able to use all or chunks of it for grant
proposals, synopsis, reports, and it will guide the overall action of
the project. It might change, but it will motivate and keep the project
from seeming overwhelmingly large and impossible for one person to
bring it to fruition. And all these "oh, and this can be done in the
project too!" ideas have got to get down on paper! It can and will be
done.
6. Stop drinking soda/coke/pop/soft drinks
It is bad for you.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Write a Letter
A little back-story: Once I lived in a small town and fell in love
with a young man who didn't have the same feelings for me, however we
were close friends. Once he confided in me that he was seeing this one
young woman but had heard some rumors about her previous relationships.
He came to ask my opinion, what he thought he should do. He was angry,
hurt, and had been seeking out, finally, someone whom he could
sincerely feel love for. I told him to ask her about it. Maybe she had
changed. This would be an opportunity for her to make new. I put aside
my own feelings for him (not yet confessed) because I wanted him to be
happy. So, the couple dated seriously for a few more months and
eventually it ended that summer. A few years later I confessed my
feelings for him, and he said that he was flattered but that he could
not love me like that (in so many words, he was really just saying he
wasn't physically attracted to me). Nevertheless, that small town young
woman he fell for became some sort of jealous ideal for me. Not her
personality, because I saw through her manipulative nature and what she
did to other people I knew after my friend loved her. No, her style and
beauty, somewhat earthy classic. Petite, curvy. Racy red lipstick,
red dress, dark hair pinned up kind of classic, but also she could pull
off country girl in gingham shirt and overalls just as well, a little
ivy in her hair. She is the kind of beauty an average girl envies.
So, I suggest discovering the person you once/or still do envy in some way. And do yourself a favor. Write a letter. You don't ever have to send it. Actually, it is best that you don't because the envy won't end if you start a little feud with this person. But write an honest letter explaining what it is about them that you envy, and what holds you back from attaining that same trait. Recall honestly how others may have been hurt by this person, and how you'd never have done those things. This can be a really long letter, but the key here is honesty, mainly with yourself.
Maybe you'll burn the letter, and feel some relief of finally having said all that you said. Maybe you can let it go and focus on what you are attaining in your life for yourself and loved ones.
Maybe you will find some statements that will lend itself to a short story, novel, group of poems.
No matter, once you've had your say, let it go. Envy can do nothing but hurt you.
So, I suggest discovering the person you once/or still do envy in some way. And do yourself a favor. Write a letter. You don't ever have to send it. Actually, it is best that you don't because the envy won't end if you start a little feud with this person. But write an honest letter explaining what it is about them that you envy, and what holds you back from attaining that same trait. Recall honestly how others may have been hurt by this person, and how you'd never have done those things. This can be a really long letter, but the key here is honesty, mainly with yourself.
Maybe you'll burn the letter, and feel some relief of finally having said all that you said. Maybe you can let it go and focus on what you are attaining in your life for yourself and loved ones.
Maybe you will find some statements that will lend itself to a short story, novel, group of poems.
No matter, once you've had your say, let it go. Envy can do nothing but hurt you.
The Photograph, The Photographer, The Persona, The Poem
I’ve learned the camera well—the danger
of it, the half-truths it can tell, but also
the way it fastens us to our pasts, makes grand
the unadorned moment.
—Letters from Storyville, December 1911
This quote is from the voice of a character created in Natasha Trethewey's book of poems Bellocq’s Ophelia. Read it a few times, then free-write your impressions of the speaker, or continue her thoughts further. What experiences does she have with the camera? How does she interpret the stories it captures? Is she the model or the photographer?
of it, the half-truths it can tell, but also
the way it fastens us to our pasts, makes grand
the unadorned moment.
—Letters from Storyville, December 1911
This quote is from the voice of a character created in Natasha Trethewey's book of poems Bellocq’s Ophelia. Read it a few times, then free-write your impressions of the speaker, or continue her thoughts further. What experiences does she have with the camera? How does she interpret the stories it captures? Is she the model or the photographer?
Learning to Draw a New Map
My writing has been stagnant for the last 2 years. When I first moved here I was still trudging down the country road of Rise When the Rooster Crows,
a collection of poems about love, hard work, disappointment, hope,
resentment, and making new memories out of the tattered remains of the
old ones. There were gaps in the story to imagine and fill, so I had a
map by which to continue walking as I write. That lasted for a year
until I felt the collection was complete, edited several times (read:
many times). I packed up my belongings and moved into the place I was
currently living.Now I look around and I see a big city pulsating with buildings, roads that need repair, music in living rooms, craft fairs in the streets, farmers' markets on nearly every day of the week, restaurants that beg for a lunch date, museum exhibitions whispering to visit before they travel onward, art receptions and wine tastings to meander, and coffee houses to hide in for a few moments to think, write, listen to music, and maybe chat with a new friend. Oklahoma City is a good place no matter how much I miss what I remember about Berea, Kentucky, a place that is quickly changing and erasing any resemblance of concrete memories I revisit emotionally from time to time.
So for two years I have not felt drawn to a particular writing project or theme. My hand is lonesome for writing words. When I first moved to Kentucky I didn't write much either, until I read an obituary which struck me. It was about the cholera epidemic of the early 1830s in the Eastern State Hospital, also referred to as an insane asylum to some. I researched other deaths in the area, and began writing poems in the voice of similar people experiencing similar fates, though some poems were historic persons such a Laura Clay. Thirty poems later -- Lexington Lives -- and I was done; The collection was largely based on research but it provided a foundation which enabled me to explore a new map for the next collection, resulting in Rise When the Rooster Crows. I had made some friends in the English department at the local college and had a niche for feeling as though I was a writer, a poet, a person of words. Since moving to Oklahoma I have very slowly found individuals who correspond to these seats in my circle, though I have yet to make it feel as though they are family. That may take more time.
Over
the course of the last six months I have begun paving a new map, also
based on researched information for the basis of poetic imagery, themes,
voices, and memories, but nonetheless, I may have finally opened the
door to Oklahoma. The new idea, which involves oral histories about
centennial farms, may provide an aerial view of the place I am beginning
to know and accept. Through their stories, and through the people I am
beginning to know and love, I may begin a new map to draw out by hand
in poetic verse, lines that will weave across the printed page to tell
stories I hope Oklahomans will recognize, verify, and accept. I think I
have a few friends here who will honestly tell me when I have strayed
and when I have revealed a true-to-the-region voice sharing his or her
story.
Lyric Mimic
[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wqlxJ48wzOc?rel=0&w=480&h=390]
I love this song by Iron & Wine, "Walking Far From Home", which is on the new album Kiss Each Other Clean. Inspired by it, for a couple of weeks now I have been thinking about list poems, which is a tool I think Sam Beam used in writing these song lyrics.
So I decided to use the song as a writing prompt. I started with the first line of the song and a few of its style traits, but the imagery all come from personal experiences, stories, and sights I or my friends have seen. I haven't worked it into the same syllabic rhythm Sam Beam has for the song, which is mostly 8, 10, 8, 6&4 (10). The last line repeats the last 4 words/syllables of the 6, making the entire line 10. And it's okay if from time to time the line is 7 instead of 8, or 11 instead of 10, if it still flows right.
For example, a verse from "Walking Far From Home":
I saw sunlight on the water (8)
Saw a bird fall like a hammer from the sky (11)
An old woman on the speed train (8)
She was closing her eyes, closing her eyes (6, 4 =10)
So here's my own little writing exercise, rough draft.
I was walking far from home
where streetlights were dim
and evenings breathed wind on my back,
and I saw the moon whisper in Orion's ear.
I saw on a woman's face a tear
and a dream written in a book,
pages creased to hide anger and regret.
I saw seagulls shield against lake wind in January
and I saw a sunset fold like red quilts across the sky.
I saw a flame flicker in a coffee house,
two people, four hands, and the wick dies.
I saw a man strum a guitar,
an ache like a thorn in his side,
song of his bottle dreams.
I saw a man drink whiskey,
his father's voice, his mother's touch,
and sleepless nights wandering.
I saw a girl hold a man's hand,
a mother whispered broken promises,
and a forgotten guitar in the back room.
I saw boats sailing west by the lighthouse,
and couples huddled on hillsides fading into dusk.
I saw a painter and easel at sunrise,
a weeping willow leaning lakeside,
a canvas and brush in a box.
Saw a flock flying south for the winter,
Saw a child help a fallen bird,
a broken wing and pillow box.
Saw day lilies bloom in the shade,
and then they were gone.
Saw a hiker climb a rocky hill
to watch the last sunset of summer.
I saw a woman's hair turn white,
her stories the same every day.
Letters and photos carried in a box.
I saw myself in his glasses,
a father's smile hidden in his beard,
and people were walking to the market.
I saw a man kick a dog at the door,
beaten and huddled in a corner,
whimper and piss at tenderness.
I saw a girl pluck an old banjo song,
daffodils by the road were swaying
and the crickets hummed the chorus.
Saw a man unhook an ax from a tree,
back bent down to carry it over
to the winter's woodpile.
I saw a musician on a big stage
and the audience clapped so loud.
She said the devil was in her fiddle.
I saw dresses hanging on a wall,
saw scarves draped on lampshades,
saw a girl asleep on the roof,
her dreams written by the moon.
I saw a black dog walk dizzy circles,
saw a cat chase a German Shepherd.
I saw raccoons feast on a porch,
old woman watching at the window.
I saw a curly-headed man paint a woman,
she was holding flowers like chili peppers,
and he loved her in his dreams.
I love this song by Iron & Wine, "Walking Far From Home", which is on the new album Kiss Each Other Clean. Inspired by it, for a couple of weeks now I have been thinking about list poems, which is a tool I think Sam Beam used in writing these song lyrics.
So I decided to use the song as a writing prompt. I started with the first line of the song and a few of its style traits, but the imagery all come from personal experiences, stories, and sights I or my friends have seen. I haven't worked it into the same syllabic rhythm Sam Beam has for the song, which is mostly 8, 10, 8, 6&4 (10). The last line repeats the last 4 words/syllables of the 6, making the entire line 10. And it's okay if from time to time the line is 7 instead of 8, or 11 instead of 10, if it still flows right.
For example, a verse from "Walking Far From Home":
I saw sunlight on the water (8)
Saw a bird fall like a hammer from the sky (11)
An old woman on the speed train (8)
She was closing her eyes, closing her eyes (6, 4 =10)
So here's my own little writing exercise, rough draft.
I was walking far from home
where streetlights were dim
and evenings breathed wind on my back,
and I saw the moon whisper in Orion's ear.
I saw on a woman's face a tear
and a dream written in a book,
pages creased to hide anger and regret.
I saw seagulls shield against lake wind in January
and I saw a sunset fold like red quilts across the sky.
I saw a flame flicker in a coffee house,
two people, four hands, and the wick dies.
I saw a man strum a guitar,
an ache like a thorn in his side,
song of his bottle dreams.
I saw a man drink whiskey,
his father's voice, his mother's touch,
and sleepless nights wandering.
I saw a girl hold a man's hand,
a mother whispered broken promises,
and a forgotten guitar in the back room.
I saw boats sailing west by the lighthouse,
and couples huddled on hillsides fading into dusk.
I saw a painter and easel at sunrise,
a weeping willow leaning lakeside,
a canvas and brush in a box.
Saw a flock flying south for the winter,
Saw a child help a fallen bird,
a broken wing and pillow box.
Saw day lilies bloom in the shade,
and then they were gone.
Saw a hiker climb a rocky hill
to watch the last sunset of summer.
I saw a woman's hair turn white,
her stories the same every day.
Letters and photos carried in a box.
I saw myself in his glasses,
a father's smile hidden in his beard,
and people were walking to the market.
I saw a man kick a dog at the door,
beaten and huddled in a corner,
whimper and piss at tenderness.
I saw a girl pluck an old banjo song,
daffodils by the road were swaying
and the crickets hummed the chorus.
Saw a man unhook an ax from a tree,
back bent down to carry it over
to the winter's woodpile.
I saw a musician on a big stage
and the audience clapped so loud.
She said the devil was in her fiddle.
I saw dresses hanging on a wall,
saw scarves draped on lampshades,
saw a girl asleep on the roof,
her dreams written by the moon.
I saw a black dog walk dizzy circles,
saw a cat chase a German Shepherd.
I saw raccoons feast on a porch,
old woman watching at the window.
I saw a curly-headed man paint a woman,
she was holding flowers like chili peppers,
and he loved her in his dreams.
Dream Eudora
In this dream I was driving along a country road, maybe somewhere in the Mississippi Delta or maybe in an undetermined locale that had southern landscape elements. I saw a car by the road, steam and smoke rising from under the hood, a woman somewhere in her 50s standing by it. She was wearing beige and her hair was styled like it is in this photo. She had a large purse. I pulled over, asked her if she needed a ride, and she thanked me. I helped her get a couple boxes of books from her trunk into my trunk. She'd just published another book. A novel. I don't recall which one, if ever I knew in the first place. In the dream, I knew who she was but I didn't let on that I knew. I had several of her books. We talked a little bit but we were mostly quiet, enjoying the countryside. I don't know what we talked about; I never remember exact phrases and conversations from my dreams, just the idea of it. I woke before we reached our destination, wherever that was according to Ms. Welty.
I've never had a dream before about authors, real authors, or authors that I admire. I have not been reading anything by Welty and no one has mentioned her name to me recently. This cameo appearance in my dream is completely unrelated to anything going on in my life right now. That's interesting to me because it seems that would validate it more as a message from within my psyche or desire or dreams or the collective consciousness. A message I should take seriously. What is the message? From one successful Mississippi author to one unpublished aspiring Mississippi-roots poet:
Get back to your writing, dear. Get back on your path.
Dear Me...
You need to change things up now. How long are you going to sit
around wishing your poems would get published in a journal or as a
book? It's not going to happen if you're not sending it off someplace,
be it by snail mail or electronic. So start getting some manuscripts
ready and send them off. Pronto. I give you a week to prepare and a
week to mail. Most of the deadlines you saw last night are end of this
month and end of February. So get to it, girl.
Also, you've been thinking about downsizing all the crap you own. Stop thinking about it and do it. Go through each room once a week and toss out that junk. Goodwill will appreciate. Besides, if you're still thinking at the end of February that you'll be moving into a smaller home, you will have less to move. Less is good.
You need to schedule your hobbies. Prioritize. Writing is number 1. Photography is number 2. Video is number 3. Crafting is number 4. This is how these things are tiered in importance to you. You're giving more time to some projects than what you'd like because you're distracting yourself away from what really gives you pleasure. Writing is priority number one. Do you need to wake up in the morning earlier to get some of this writing bug done? Do it.
Get your accounts in order.
Calendar. It is a good thing. Use it.
Get yourself into a gallery this year for your crafty art-stuff. Make some videos to accompany, maybe. Storyboard your video and fabric art projects and do them. Won't know what they might be like until you do them.
Get energy. Somehow. Gym? Lake walking? Be healthy about it.
Get a check-up. Find out about thyroid tests, etc, and see if that's a concern. Lose weight eventually.
Like your shape as it is for now. Accept. Maintain. Smile.
Sincerely,
You
Also, you've been thinking about downsizing all the crap you own. Stop thinking about it and do it. Go through each room once a week and toss out that junk. Goodwill will appreciate. Besides, if you're still thinking at the end of February that you'll be moving into a smaller home, you will have less to move. Less is good.
You need to schedule your hobbies. Prioritize. Writing is number 1. Photography is number 2. Video is number 3. Crafting is number 4. This is how these things are tiered in importance to you. You're giving more time to some projects than what you'd like because you're distracting yourself away from what really gives you pleasure. Writing is priority number one. Do you need to wake up in the morning earlier to get some of this writing bug done? Do it.
Get your accounts in order.
Calendar. It is a good thing. Use it.
Get yourself into a gallery this year for your crafty art-stuff. Make some videos to accompany, maybe. Storyboard your video and fabric art projects and do them. Won't know what they might be like until you do them.
Get energy. Somehow. Gym? Lake walking? Be healthy about it.
Get a check-up. Find out about thyroid tests, etc, and see if that's a concern. Lose weight eventually.
Like your shape as it is for now. Accept. Maintain. Smile.
Sincerely,
You
submissions
Listening to Ben Sollee's Daytrotter Session recording for the first
time and it is slightly distracting as I came to blog about submissions
but my mind keeps wandering into inquisitive mode about his music and
lyrics. I'll try to stay on track.
I bought the Jan/Feb issue of Poets & Writers with intent to mark and scratch off contest submissions for whole poetry book competitions. I have two unpublished cohesive collections that stand well as a group but probably not so well as single pieces as people might be curious as to why I'd write what I wrote without knowing the rest of the collection's intent. I've considered publishing Lexington Lives myself through a print-on-demand site, but I think I could see it drown in a puddle because no one would actually purchase it, and no bookstores would know about it, and it wouldn't get any publicity whatsoever. I'd rather like to see a publisher in Kentucky pick it up.
My wish is the same for Rise When the Rooster Crows but by a Mississippi press since I set the story in the Delta primarily. Wouldn't it be great if UM Press, my Alma mater's university press, picked it up? Daydreaming.
I do have a small selection of poems that stand alone and that I could use to send off for one-poem-at-a-time poetry contests. Besides, I probably should revise Lexington Lives again before I try submitting it for a competition. I have sent Rise When the Rooster Crows to Yale Younger Poets, so I will have to wait to hear about that.
I bought the Jan/Feb issue of Poets & Writers with intent to mark and scratch off contest submissions for whole poetry book competitions. I have two unpublished cohesive collections that stand well as a group but probably not so well as single pieces as people might be curious as to why I'd write what I wrote without knowing the rest of the collection's intent. I've considered publishing Lexington Lives myself through a print-on-demand site, but I think I could see it drown in a puddle because no one would actually purchase it, and no bookstores would know about it, and it wouldn't get any publicity whatsoever. I'd rather like to see a publisher in Kentucky pick it up.
My wish is the same for Rise When the Rooster Crows but by a Mississippi press since I set the story in the Delta primarily. Wouldn't it be great if UM Press, my Alma mater's university press, picked it up? Daydreaming.
I do have a small selection of poems that stand alone and that I could use to send off for one-poem-at-a-time poetry contests. Besides, I probably should revise Lexington Lives again before I try submitting it for a competition. I have sent Rise When the Rooster Crows to Yale Younger Poets, so I will have to wait to hear about that.
Warmth
I want to write about warmth, heart, poetry, love, but there's no limbs and branches to gather to build the fire.
I need a woodpile waiting to burn...
When I sleep I feel the fire flicker brightly in my dreams, and when I wake the day brings with it a smoldering and smokey haze.
I need a woodpile waiting to burn...
When I sleep I feel the fire flicker brightly in my dreams, and when I wake the day brings with it a smoldering and smokey haze.
waiting on weight
I don't like what has happened. I looked at pictures from 6 years
ago, ones I shot of myself in my little apartment in graduate school one
autumn. Thin arms, narrow shoulders, slimmer face, a sparkle in the
eyes. The last 3 months in that apartment with only a minimal part-time
job, post-graduate, waiting to hear about job applications I had sent,
and then finally resolving to move back to Jackson until I found work. A
month and a half later I was in Kentucky. I didn't know anyone and at
first I was a homebody, cooking a lot, and thus eating more. And I
wasn't running around town, up and down stairs, etc. And I was hitting
my late twenties.
Now I am in my mid-thirties looking back on photos of myself in my mid-twenties thinking, where did it come from? But I know where it came from. Evenings spent watching episodic television and rented movies, hours on the computer chatting with friends, writing whining journal entries, and sitting, sitting, sitting. For a short while I tried running. I tried to go to the gym. I just didn't stick with either. I tried intense yoga. Gave it up and opted for the two-hour absorbing movie instead.
2011. I'm going to try a little harder to change a little more of what I have tried before.
Now I am in my mid-thirties looking back on photos of myself in my mid-twenties thinking, where did it come from? But I know where it came from. Evenings spent watching episodic television and rented movies, hours on the computer chatting with friends, writing whining journal entries, and sitting, sitting, sitting. For a short while I tried running. I tried to go to the gym. I just didn't stick with either. I tried intense yoga. Gave it up and opted for the two-hour absorbing movie instead.
2011. I'm going to try a little harder to change a little more of what I have tried before.
writing groups
Recently a friend posted about some "promises to the muse" and some
items on the list made me yearn for the little pool of creativity and
friendship we had for a year or two or three. I thought I would write
about how I feel looking back on those experiences.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Wednesdays and Saturdays... Towards the end of my time in small town Kentucky I would look forward to those two days with such anticipation that I wished there were no days in between. Wednesdays were never as productive for me as Saturdays, though. One of us would bring a prompt, oftentimes me. I'd try to create a structure out of it on paper, a little brick and mortar wall or pedestal. But whatever blueprints I drew out on those evenings never built anything that withstood stormy weather; The first wind gust knocked it down. I suppose evenings were not my best time to be a wordsmith. Those evenings were more about seeing the faces I loved, hearing the voices -- in writing and from persons. Afterward some of us would visit a while longer, talk about what we'd been reading, classwork, music, daily lives. Going out into the night under a canopy of southern oaks and distant stars, I'd feel giddy with a sense of place that fluttered in my hands and heart. We'd say our goodbyes and I would wait for Saturday.
Wednesdays were a teaser that satisfied me like a warm cup of coffee on a cool morning until Saturday arrived. Those mornings we usually met at a coffee shop. The last year I would wake, dress, and eagerly step out bundled up in warm coats into the cold to walk a mile to the coffee shop on one of the main thoroughfares through town. I'd ponder the neighborhoods and front porches I'd pass, the railroad tracks and iron nails, great oak trees and stone walls, until I stepped on the pea gravel in the back lot and pulled on that door that always required an extra bit of strength to yank it open. I'd walk around the corner and see the table set, 5 or 6 chairs already pulled into place, and a couple of our group sitting with warm coffee cups in their hands, faces warm with its glow. There was always a friendly hello, one so warm and welcoming as if they hadn't seen me in months. What a way to feel at home! I'd order my cafe mocha, another his espresso, another her coffee with creamer, another her hot tea with honey, and so on. Some of us would get a pastry or flapjack. Sometimes the breakfast lasted into the writing time; It didn't matter. Sometimes I brought a prompt I found as quote in a book or as a found object along the path. Others brought prompts, starters, jumper cables, anything that would break creative monotony. We'd introduce the prompt and a quiet hush would fall upon us as we rested our minds and let the ideas begin to open doors and point out pathways. Then pens and pencils would begin scratching on worn journal pages, some of us sitting square at the table with cup and plate crowding our space but we wouldn't notice because the scene was opening and we were writing it down to remember. Others angled away from the group a little, journal resting on knee and backs arched to over absorb the shock of places and people jotting across the pages. I'd look up from time to time to see a quiet face staring off into a history that was both real and created with eyes warm and concentrated on thought. I kept the timer, though I never set it to have a noisy alarm to signal the end of 20 minutes. I didn't want to jolt anyone out of a word landscape that was comfortable and welcoming like an alarm clock shakes you out of a dream that you wanted to live in. The twenty minutes quietly came upon each of us and when we were ready we each began to look to each other, smile, whisper, nod, eat our pastries, and drink coffee, until everyone had resurfaced. Someone would volunteer to go first. She'd read aloud an excerpt or all of what she wrote during those twenty minutes. We'd listen with captivated ears, both listening to her voice, the persona in the story, the rush of air through the door when someone entered the coffee shop, and to our own thoughts continuing about what we'd written. We'd blink when she read aloud a sentence or phrase that sounded musical and vibrated like a plucked stringed instrument. We'd remember those moments and recall them back to her when she finished reading, watching her face flicker warmly with the appreciation. Then another person would read, and another. Sometimes the moment brought something too personal and private, so a writer would pass on reading; That was okay because the next Saturday they'd find something they could share. And other times the writer would preface with their own criticism of what they wrote only to find the listeners found pieces in it that glowed like the rising sun. After everyone had had his or her turn to read their writing, we'd chatter for a few more minutes, then some of us would leave to meet friends for lunch, run errands, continue on with our day. Others might carry-over the warmth over another cup of coffee, talking about poetry book projects and current reading and philosophies. And then we'd break away to turn to our own daily tasks and wait for the next Saturday to arrive.
These were the free-writing group days I miss.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Wednesdays and Saturdays... Towards the end of my time in small town Kentucky I would look forward to those two days with such anticipation that I wished there were no days in between. Wednesdays were never as productive for me as Saturdays, though. One of us would bring a prompt, oftentimes me. I'd try to create a structure out of it on paper, a little brick and mortar wall or pedestal. But whatever blueprints I drew out on those evenings never built anything that withstood stormy weather; The first wind gust knocked it down. I suppose evenings were not my best time to be a wordsmith. Those evenings were more about seeing the faces I loved, hearing the voices -- in writing and from persons. Afterward some of us would visit a while longer, talk about what we'd been reading, classwork, music, daily lives. Going out into the night under a canopy of southern oaks and distant stars, I'd feel giddy with a sense of place that fluttered in my hands and heart. We'd say our goodbyes and I would wait for Saturday.
Wednesdays were a teaser that satisfied me like a warm cup of coffee on a cool morning until Saturday arrived. Those mornings we usually met at a coffee shop. The last year I would wake, dress, and eagerly step out bundled up in warm coats into the cold to walk a mile to the coffee shop on one of the main thoroughfares through town. I'd ponder the neighborhoods and front porches I'd pass, the railroad tracks and iron nails, great oak trees and stone walls, until I stepped on the pea gravel in the back lot and pulled on that door that always required an extra bit of strength to yank it open. I'd walk around the corner and see the table set, 5 or 6 chairs already pulled into place, and a couple of our group sitting with warm coffee cups in their hands, faces warm with its glow. There was always a friendly hello, one so warm and welcoming as if they hadn't seen me in months. What a way to feel at home! I'd order my cafe mocha, another his espresso, another her coffee with creamer, another her hot tea with honey, and so on. Some of us would get a pastry or flapjack. Sometimes the breakfast lasted into the writing time; It didn't matter. Sometimes I brought a prompt I found as quote in a book or as a found object along the path. Others brought prompts, starters, jumper cables, anything that would break creative monotony. We'd introduce the prompt and a quiet hush would fall upon us as we rested our minds and let the ideas begin to open doors and point out pathways. Then pens and pencils would begin scratching on worn journal pages, some of us sitting square at the table with cup and plate crowding our space but we wouldn't notice because the scene was opening and we were writing it down to remember. Others angled away from the group a little, journal resting on knee and backs arched to over absorb the shock of places and people jotting across the pages. I'd look up from time to time to see a quiet face staring off into a history that was both real and created with eyes warm and concentrated on thought. I kept the timer, though I never set it to have a noisy alarm to signal the end of 20 minutes. I didn't want to jolt anyone out of a word landscape that was comfortable and welcoming like an alarm clock shakes you out of a dream that you wanted to live in. The twenty minutes quietly came upon each of us and when we were ready we each began to look to each other, smile, whisper, nod, eat our pastries, and drink coffee, until everyone had resurfaced. Someone would volunteer to go first. She'd read aloud an excerpt or all of what she wrote during those twenty minutes. We'd listen with captivated ears, both listening to her voice, the persona in the story, the rush of air through the door when someone entered the coffee shop, and to our own thoughts continuing about what we'd written. We'd blink when she read aloud a sentence or phrase that sounded musical and vibrated like a plucked stringed instrument. We'd remember those moments and recall them back to her when she finished reading, watching her face flicker warmly with the appreciation. Then another person would read, and another. Sometimes the moment brought something too personal and private, so a writer would pass on reading; That was okay because the next Saturday they'd find something they could share. And other times the writer would preface with their own criticism of what they wrote only to find the listeners found pieces in it that glowed like the rising sun. After everyone had had his or her turn to read their writing, we'd chatter for a few more minutes, then some of us would leave to meet friends for lunch, run errands, continue on with our day. Others might carry-over the warmth over another cup of coffee, talking about poetry book projects and current reading and philosophies. And then we'd break away to turn to our own daily tasks and wait for the next Saturday to arrive.
These were the free-writing group days I miss.
Driving thoughts
There were times I could have stolen a kiss and waited to see what
that meant to you. It crossed my mind so often I was paralyzed by what I
feared. And now I am still pondering my "what if...?" and "why didn't
I?" as I drive to my empty house under the layers of night stretched
across a western sky. Sometimes my mental conversations with you feel
vivid in emotion as if you, too, converse with me from your solitary
place far from here. I imagine... If I had stolen a kiss would this
moment be different?
cycles
I do have cycles. They're seasonal and I am only just beginning to
recognize when they happen. Two years ago I commented to a friend that I
noticed I get more reflective, more moody and introspective in June and
July. During the day I will work and talk when needed to get a point
across, and may occasionally get excited about something and be chatty
about it. Usually, though, I am more quiet than usual and evenings tend
to lapse into solitary time of reading, writing, creating things,
listening intently to music to saturate myself in memories and thought.
Last year I considered that I might have another lapse sometime in Autumn, probably mid-October through late November or even mid-December. Holidays place in me an emotional conflict: I love seeing my family and visiting them, but there also is a disruption in my usual routine of thought and action that I feel a little in limbo and want to be alone even though I ought to spend all that holiday time with family since I see them only once or twice a year. I even felt that way when I last visited Berea. I wanted to visit with a few particular people but when I spent some time in the coffeeshop or with groups I knew it was no longer a place I inhabited.
I've been walking at night now. I've picked up a thought-provoking book (yes, it was recommended by a friend, one who gives suggestions I tend to follow up quite eagerly). I've been immersed in the lyricism of Alexa Woodward and Ray LaMontagne. I'm thinking and feeling and repositioning myself emotionally. It takes time.
And so, if I have this phase in June-July, and then again October-November, it's possible it happens again sometime in February-March. Is this usual for others? Do anyone else pause and reflect on the subtle shifts of self?
Last year I considered that I might have another lapse sometime in Autumn, probably mid-October through late November or even mid-December. Holidays place in me an emotional conflict: I love seeing my family and visiting them, but there also is a disruption in my usual routine of thought and action that I feel a little in limbo and want to be alone even though I ought to spend all that holiday time with family since I see them only once or twice a year. I even felt that way when I last visited Berea. I wanted to visit with a few particular people but when I spent some time in the coffeeshop or with groups I knew it was no longer a place I inhabited.
I've been walking at night now. I've picked up a thought-provoking book (yes, it was recommended by a friend, one who gives suggestions I tend to follow up quite eagerly). I've been immersed in the lyricism of Alexa Woodward and Ray LaMontagne. I'm thinking and feeling and repositioning myself emotionally. It takes time.
And so, if I have this phase in June-July, and then again October-November, it's possible it happens again sometime in February-March. Is this usual for others? Do anyone else pause and reflect on the subtle shifts of self?
forest from the fires
"You could leave: Save the forest from the fires, go to sleep beneath
the trees and swallow your desires, your desires...." - Alexa Woodward,
"Swallow" from album "An Early Dream"
She walked out into the piney woods, the same trails winding into the shadows and scattered light that she knew when she was seven years old. That Thanksgiving she and her cousin hiked into the woods, alongside the creek, getting their shoes soaked. They climbed over fallen tree trunks that made natural bridges. She found a big oak tree with root growth like tiny hills under her feet. Her cousin kept hiking and sloshing through the creek, but she wanted to stop here. Let's stay here. But I want to know what's ahead... Come on, let's go see. So they kept going, watching out for snakes. She never thought about ticks and spiders or even leeches. Sometimes the creek water would be up to their knees, and other times they tramped alongside the crooked edge staying clear of poison ivy. But since that Thanksgiving day she had not been allowed into the woods. She and her cousin had hiked 2 miles away from home and onto someone's property, possibly even hunting land. She hasn't been home in a long time and she wonders if the tree with root hills still stands. The limbs were grand and wide, probably a southern red oak, and she had felt awe there, a fire of warmth and desire that she swallowed when her cousin wanted to continue hiking for more adventurous places. Ever since then she has been swallowing desire, suffocating forest fires that smolder in her breast when she feels awe.
She walked out into the piney woods, the same trails winding into the shadows and scattered light that she knew when she was seven years old. That Thanksgiving she and her cousin hiked into the woods, alongside the creek, getting their shoes soaked. They climbed over fallen tree trunks that made natural bridges. She found a big oak tree with root growth like tiny hills under her feet. Her cousin kept hiking and sloshing through the creek, but she wanted to stop here. Let's stay here. But I want to know what's ahead... Come on, let's go see. So they kept going, watching out for snakes. She never thought about ticks and spiders or even leeches. Sometimes the creek water would be up to their knees, and other times they tramped alongside the crooked edge staying clear of poison ivy. But since that Thanksgiving day she had not been allowed into the woods. She and her cousin had hiked 2 miles away from home and onto someone's property, possibly even hunting land. She hasn't been home in a long time and she wonders if the tree with root hills still stands. The limbs were grand and wide, probably a southern red oak, and she had felt awe there, a fire of warmth and desire that she swallowed when her cousin wanted to continue hiking for more adventurous places. Ever since then she has been swallowing desire, suffocating forest fires that smolder in her breast when she feels awe.
the bride's alley evening
On the road in-between mountains and valleys where the sun appears
only once a week when the wind blows just as the right angle, the moment
is like a bride walking down an alley to the backdoor of her wedding
day. She pulls on the handle, breathes in a long drink of damp air,
swallows the urge to gag on the prickling nerves, the stench of sour
beer spilled across cobblestones, and laundry drying in stagnant air.
She strides into the warm glow of candlelight and altar-glow, and the
calla lilies are tinted in her evening vows.
what makes a heart ache
There is a crack in the apple's flesh, a glimpse at the sweetness
that my childhood memories ache for as the moon wanders across an
evening sky when spring breaks into summer. I may be 33 but I will not
ever think of myself as an adult, but instead a child forever learning
what makes a heart ache, what sweetens the song, what stirs a whisper,
what pulls the blanket 'round.
There's electricity in the clouds that filters down until it is in my blood. The Oklahoma wind that restrains itself before the storm arrives is like a child running between his dream and his parents: Is it time? Is it now? And though I dream of some wind-blown connection that knotted us together, a country road girl with a forest creek boy, there isn't one to speak of that doesn't untie in the twist of a tornado. There is no folk song, no fiddle whine, no banjo twang, no omen that foretells this will come to pass. It may not, and it is best to not recognize that it may. May is a month of hope that falters in its step the more it walks toward doubt. The love may only be that of two stars who are always in the sky, always the same distance, always shining, but never any closer to each other than when they first shone.
written 5-12-2010
There's electricity in the clouds that filters down until it is in my blood. The Oklahoma wind that restrains itself before the storm arrives is like a child running between his dream and his parents: Is it time? Is it now? And though I dream of some wind-blown connection that knotted us together, a country road girl with a forest creek boy, there isn't one to speak of that doesn't untie in the twist of a tornado. There is no folk song, no fiddle whine, no banjo twang, no omen that foretells this will come to pass. It may not, and it is best to not recognize that it may. May is a month of hope that falters in its step the more it walks toward doubt. The love may only be that of two stars who are always in the sky, always the same distance, always shining, but never any closer to each other than when they first shone.
written 5-12-2010
Altruism
I've been thinking about the word "altruism" lately. Earlier this week someone's use of the word reminded me of something another person once said to me.
In both cases the friend speaking to me used the word to describe me. The first friend is someone I admire and treasure our friendship during all its distance and long silences that are interrupted with conversations as if we just spoke the day before. I don't remember what activity or project I was working on for him to comment on my altruistic actions. But I was flattered that he thought so kindly of me. The second friend is a musician and an acquaintance than a close friend as we've never confided in each other about anything sentimental or emotional. I think that he is a talented musician and a friendly guy around town who knows a good many people. Upon discussion of my video-recording of house concerts and a little freebie of music videos I created for him from recordings of a recent concert, he described my actions as altruistic. I had forgotten what the word meant and I finally looked it up in the dictionary:
Altruism (pronounced: pronounced /ˈæltruːɪzəm/) is selfless concern for the welfare of others. Altruism is the opposite of selfishness. The term "altruism" may also refer to an ethical doctrine that claims that individuals are morally obliged to benefit others. (link Wikipedia)
I've always wondered if that could be entirely true, because no matter what we do for others there is still the smallest part within us that is begging to at least recognition, and if we happen to receive recognition I think the next impression is how do we receive it. Do we bask? Do we humble? I think that it makes a difference and most people will be annoyed by those who bask in recognition for their altruistic actions, which then becomes not so altruistic. Because no matter what I do, I want whatever it is to be a gift, and for myself all that I ask is the simplest of gratitude, a spoken "thank you." And if I do not gain a verbal thank you of recognition but I am able to witness the receipt of whatever my altruistic actions made, a fluttering smile across a face suffices more than any satisfying sweet desert. Is knowing that you've helped someone else anonymously and seeing them joyful and grateful still altruistic? I hope so.
In both cases the friend speaking to me used the word to describe me. The first friend is someone I admire and treasure our friendship during all its distance and long silences that are interrupted with conversations as if we just spoke the day before. I don't remember what activity or project I was working on for him to comment on my altruistic actions. But I was flattered that he thought so kindly of me. The second friend is a musician and an acquaintance than a close friend as we've never confided in each other about anything sentimental or emotional. I think that he is a talented musician and a friendly guy around town who knows a good many people. Upon discussion of my video-recording of house concerts and a little freebie of music videos I created for him from recordings of a recent concert, he described my actions as altruistic. I had forgotten what the word meant and I finally looked it up in the dictionary:
Altruism (pronounced: pronounced /ˈæltruːɪzəm/) is selfless concern for the welfare of others. Altruism is the opposite of selfishness. The term "altruism" may also refer to an ethical doctrine that claims that individuals are morally obliged to benefit others. (link Wikipedia)
I've always wondered if that could be entirely true, because no matter what we do for others there is still the smallest part within us that is begging to at least recognition, and if we happen to receive recognition I think the next impression is how do we receive it. Do we bask? Do we humble? I think that it makes a difference and most people will be annoyed by those who bask in recognition for their altruistic actions, which then becomes not so altruistic. Because no matter what I do, I want whatever it is to be a gift, and for myself all that I ask is the simplest of gratitude, a spoken "thank you." And if I do not gain a verbal thank you of recognition but I am able to witness the receipt of whatever my altruistic actions made, a fluttering smile across a face suffices more than any satisfying sweet desert. Is knowing that you've helped someone else anonymously and seeing them joyful and grateful still altruistic? I hope so.
'til the wheels come off
"I want to love you 'til the wheels come off." - Tom Waits
When the highway doesn't speed under my tires,
When the interstate doesn't connect the dots,
When all the signs don't point in one direction,
When the tires of my old car start falling off,
I will stop loving you.
9-19-2010
When the highway doesn't speed under my tires,
When the interstate doesn't connect the dots,
When all the signs don't point in one direction,
When the tires of my old car start falling off,
I will stop loving you.
9-19-2010
Searching for inspiration
I've been wondering how long it is going to take this state to
inspire me. That's kinda selfish, though, to think that it's an
obligation for a new place to inspire creativity. Laughable. But I fear
that some of my latest concerns will cause me to forget creativity and
settle for humdrum monotony. Walking for an hour listening to music on
my iPhone... That draws imagery of suburbanite for me. That's not me.
I am words. Music. Sunsets and moonrises. Yellow flowers by the road. Scratched out lines of prose working into poetry. I am organizer and idea lightbulb. But I am not motivation and I am slow action. Sometimes I perform the time-consuming mindless mundane before I attempt the challenging creative fun of physically making art out of language or crafts. And I need the inspiration to move out of stagnation into motivation.
I am words. Music. Sunsets and moonrises. Yellow flowers by the road. Scratched out lines of prose working into poetry. I am organizer and idea lightbulb. But I am not motivation and I am slow action. Sometimes I perform the time-consuming mindless mundane before I attempt the challenging creative fun of physically making art out of language or crafts. And I need the inspiration to move out of stagnation into motivation.
fragments: life and love
"fragmentation of human experience"
Heiner Bielefeldt. "Epilogue: Modern Liberalism and Kant." Symbolic Representation in Kant's Practical Philosophy. Cambridge University Press, 2003. p.187. (link)
"Socrates: Heracleitus says, you know, that all things move and nothing remains still, and he likens the universe to the current of a river, saying that you cannot step twice into the same stream." Cratylus (402a). (link)
"Some people feel like they don't deserve love. They walk away quietly into empty spaces, trying to close the gaps of the past."
Jon Krakauer. Into the Wild. Doubleday, 1995.
"Poets, like the blind, can see in the dark".
- from song "Choro Bandido" ("Crying Bandit", literally) by Chico Buarque and Edu Lobo.
"When I think of what I've lost, I ask, 'Who knows themselves better than the blind?' - for every thought becomes a tool."
Jorge Luis Borges. Siete Noches. Obras Completas, vol. III. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1994.
Heiner Bielefeldt. "Epilogue: Modern Liberalism and Kant." Symbolic Representation in Kant's Practical Philosophy. Cambridge University Press, 2003. p.187. (link)
"Socrates: Heracleitus says, you know, that all things move and nothing remains still, and he likens the universe to the current of a river, saying that you cannot step twice into the same stream." Cratylus (402a). (link)
"Some people feel like they don't deserve love. They walk away quietly into empty spaces, trying to close the gaps of the past."
Jon Krakauer. Into the Wild. Doubleday, 1995.
"Poets, like the blind, can see in the dark".
- from song "Choro Bandido" ("Crying Bandit", literally) by Chico Buarque and Edu Lobo.
"When I think of what I've lost, I ask, 'Who knows themselves better than the blind?' - for every thought becomes a tool."
Jorge Luis Borges. Siete Noches. Obras Completas, vol. III. Buenos Aires: Emecé, 1994.
no writing
I haven't been writing lately. Actually, I haven't written anything
that felt significant since I moved to Oklahoma. I did come up with an
idea centered around the lake, a thread, a bond between father and
daughter. But that concept continues to flail in the middle of the lake,
arms flapping, mouth gasping, drowning because everyone on the shore
thinks the poem is waving hello, not goodbye. I've been trying to figure
out how to throw a life jacket out to the poem; It's just too far out
there. I feel unmotivated.
I wonder if it will all change if I manage to create those song lyric collages and videos, will the concepts come back. And was my last collection of poems really about something I was working through? I know it is about resentment, love, overcoming obstacles, feeling ashamed, and breaking cycles. It is also about making a better future out of a painful past. That isn't really about me. Sometimes I had people in mind when I wrote certain scenes, but most of the time it was a purely fictional world composited of women, families, and histories I've read or imagined.
I'm just spitting out thoughts here, that's all.
I wonder if it will all change if I manage to create those song lyric collages and videos, will the concepts come back. And was my last collection of poems really about something I was working through? I know it is about resentment, love, overcoming obstacles, feeling ashamed, and breaking cycles. It is also about making a better future out of a painful past. That isn't really about me. Sometimes I had people in mind when I wrote certain scenes, but most of the time it was a purely fictional world composited of women, families, and histories I've read or imagined.
I'm just spitting out thoughts here, that's all.
Lexington Lives
I am thinking about submitting this collection to a poetry book
contest, my collection of 30 poems centered around lives and deaths of
people who lived around Lexington, Kentucky. I need to go through and
edit them, read through and edit again. Originally the poems were meant
to be accompanied by photographs of cemetery scenes and statues, but I
doubt I will ever have the book published with that initial vision. It
would have to be a reprint, OR a self-published version of it. I've
seen websites where one can submit their manuscript and it is printed on
demand when people order the book. That is an option, I just doubt
anyone would purchase it. That's like a blind dream.
On another note, I am sitting at my home office desk, looking out the window, and watching little red finches and house sparrows in the front yard peck at the ground. The smell of charcoal burning drifts down the street. The day's festivities have begun. Happy Fourth of July.
On another note, I am sitting at my home office desk, looking out the window, and watching little red finches and house sparrows in the front yard peck at the ground. The smell of charcoal burning drifts down the street. The day's festivities have begun. Happy Fourth of July.
beyond measure
Beyond measure she adores his shadows,
the sharp curves unlit as the sun leans back
on his heels watching the wild horses run
over the hillside down to the river.
Beyond comparison she loves his stare,
the wild golden flicker in his eyes like
a late campfire's warmth one autumn midnight
after the day was full with mountain wind.
---
Working... Second stanza feels choppy. Not quite right. I keep thinking the phrases, "beyond measure", "beyond comparison", "beyond comprehension" and I don't know if I will continue with that repetition or not. Possibly not.
the sharp curves unlit as the sun leans back
on his heels watching the wild horses run
over the hillside down to the river.
Beyond comparison she loves his stare,
the wild golden flicker in his eyes like
a late campfire's warmth one autumn midnight
after the day was full with mountain wind.
---
Working... Second stanza feels choppy. Not quite right. I keep thinking the phrases, "beyond measure", "beyond comparison", "beyond comprehension" and I don't know if I will continue with that repetition or not. Possibly not.
More April Quotes
April 8, 2010
"If I had a single flower for every time I think about you, I could walk forever in my garden."
- Claudia Ghandi
April 7, 2010
"This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up, and the flickering, watery rushes."
- D.H. Lawrence, "The Enkindled Spring"
April 5, 2010
"It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on."
- W. H. Auden, "As I Walked Out One Evening"
April 4, 2010
"I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold."
- by Rainer Maria Rilke (Translated by Annemarie S. Kidder), "I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone"
"If I had a single flower for every time I think about you, I could walk forever in my garden."
- Claudia Ghandi
April 7, 2010
"This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up, and the flickering, watery rushes."
- D.H. Lawrence, "The Enkindled Spring"
April 5, 2010
"It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on."
- W. H. Auden, "As I Walked Out One Evening"
April 4, 2010
"I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold."
- by Rainer Maria Rilke (Translated by Annemarie S. Kidder), "I Am Much Too Alone in This World, Yet Not Alone"
National Poetry Month
Last April, for National Poetry Month, I excerpted a line or two from
a poem I like and linked to it in my facebook profile. Last year it was
a hit, and so I will do it again this year, including my posts here as
well. Click the link to read the entire poem. Enjoy!
April 1, 2010
"I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after."
- Wallace Stevens, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird"
April 2, 2010
"Do not move
Let the wind speak
that is paradise."
- Ezra Pound, "Notes for Canto CXX"
April 3, 2010
"I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body."
- Pablo Neruda, "Sonnet XVII"
April 1, 2010
"I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after."
- Wallace Stevens, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird"
April 2, 2010
"Do not move
Let the wind speak
that is paradise."
- Ezra Pound, "Notes for Canto CXX"
April 3, 2010
"I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body."
- Pablo Neruda, "Sonnet XVII"
House Concert
I went to my first house concert of the year down at a friend's in
Oklahoma City. A lovely house with open doors, beautiful art, an
inviting backyard, and an intimate setting to sit and listen to some
good music sung right there to you and fellow music lovers. Last
night's concert was Brine Webb and Samantha Crain.
I'd heard Samantha play at the Conservatory just a week ago for Ali Harter's CD Release Party. I hadn't heard Brine Webb before, and I sure was glad to get a peek at some of his songs last night! His style has a little melancholy lilt that meanders through a meadow, a forest path, a city street at dusk. I managed to get there in time to hear about 5 or 6 of his songs, including a lullaby. I became entranced at his finger-picking style for "The Ghost Family" song, one had said he's written a long time ago. Check out an interview with him by Sophie Zine and don't miss this video and this video, both from his song "Cigarette Tree."
Samantha Crain played some of her well-known tunes and also some new songs, opening up her last set with "Lions" and closing with "Scissor Tales."
She has an openness to the audience, joking about brown and pink-red
koozies and how they were ordered with a real customer service rep named
Gregg. Her song lyrics are full of emotion and no matter how many
times she has sung the song, it still sounds poignant with fresh
feelings and stories. I think of sunny days with big fluffy clouds
drifting along and midnight walks under constellations and meteor
showers when I hear Sam's songs. Check out some videos on youtube.
Having
seen Samantha with a backing band and now flying solo for a small
audience, I'm appreciative of the house concert venue. I missed the
first hour because I got lost (as usual) in downtown Oklahoma City
looking for the main mail sorting post office to drop off some bills; By
the way, that post office doesn't have a mail drop after hours. So I
was finally relieved to get to the Feuerborn house for the concert of
the night. Such a warm setting, potluck, a little wine and beer, and of
course, plenty of other people who appreciate good music. What a
wonderful way to spend a Friday evening.
I'd heard Samantha play at the Conservatory just a week ago for Ali Harter's CD Release Party. I hadn't heard Brine Webb before, and I sure was glad to get a peek at some of his songs last night! His style has a little melancholy lilt that meanders through a meadow, a forest path, a city street at dusk. I managed to get there in time to hear about 5 or 6 of his songs, including a lullaby. I became entranced at his finger-picking style for "The Ghost Family" song, one had said he's written a long time ago. Check out an interview with him by Sophie Zine and don't miss this video and this video, both from his song "Cigarette Tree."
- Brine Webb, House Concert, OKC, OK, March 26, 2010
- Samantha Crain, House Concert, OKC, OK, March 26, 2010
winter or spring
Today is the first day of spring, or so we thought. During the night
a winter storm came through with a few inches of snow, some slushy
rain, and a lot of gusty wind. I'm tired of winter and ready to plant
some seeds in the four huge planters in my front yard and probably some
spinach in my backyard. But it was a beautiful sight to see the white
reflection of snow through the windows behind my daisies in wine bottle
vases.
I
realized I was out of coffee, so I had to walk to the nearest store and
purchase some so I wouldn't have one of those painful headaches I tend
to get when lacking caffeine. On the way there and back the
big-breasted robins were hopping quickly from snow-covered parking spot
to sidewalk and back again. I managed to get a picture of one.
Here's
to hoping that this is winter's last hurrah this season. May spring
arrive in its full glory and thrust of seedlings, birdsong, and bloom.
And spring breaking ground makes me think of a quote I cannot find, one
that says something about the violence of spring, but this one by
Whitman will do:
"The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks." - Tennessee Williams
Write about the transition from one season to another. Many poets have written about spring emerging from winter, the seedlings breaking the ground, the green leaf buds unfurling from limbs, and how the roots dig deeper into the ground. All words full of action. Spring is action, impatient and moving forward. Write for a few minutes about seasonal transitions, emphasize through your use of verbs to show the transition.
"The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks." - Tennessee Williams
Write about the transition from one season to another. Many poets have written about spring emerging from winter, the seedlings breaking the ground, the green leaf buds unfurling from limbs, and how the roots dig deeper into the ground. All words full of action. Spring is action, impatient and moving forward. Write for a few minutes about seasonal transitions, emphasize through your use of verbs to show the transition.
ee cummings
Two poems by ee cummings included below. I come and go with his work.
Sometimes it is just right, other times it makes my head hurt. But
right now it suits me well. See if some of the ideas, images,
expressions, emotions makes you want to jot a little something down for
15-20 minutes or more if it keeps flowing. Enjoy.
being to timelessness as it's to time,
ee cummings
being to timelessness as it's to time,
love did no more begin than love will end:
where nothing is to breathe to stroll to swim
love is the air the ocean and the land
(do lovers suffer? all divinities
proudly descending put on deathful flesh:
are lovers glad? only their smallest joy's
a universe emerging from a wish)
love is the voice under all silences,
the hope which has no opposite in fear:
the strength so strong mere force is feebleness:
the truth more first than sun more last than star
—do lovers love? Why then to heaven with hell.
whatever sages say and fools, all's well
-------
silently if,out of not knowable
ee cummings
silently if,out of not knowable
night’s utmost nothing,wanders a little guess
(only which is this world)more of my life does
not leap than with the mystery your smile
sings or if(spiraling as luminous
they climb oblivion)voices who are dreams,
less into heaven certainly earth swims
than each my deeper death becomes your kiss
losing through you what seemed myself;i find
selves unimaginably mine;beyond
sorrow’s own joys and hoping’s very fears
yours is the light by which my spirit’s born:
yours is the darkness of my soul’s return
–you are my sun,my moon,and all my stars
being to timelessness as it's to time,
ee cummings
being to timelessness as it's to time,
love did no more begin than love will end:
where nothing is to breathe to stroll to swim
love is the air the ocean and the land
(do lovers suffer? all divinities
proudly descending put on deathful flesh:
are lovers glad? only their smallest joy's
a universe emerging from a wish)
love is the voice under all silences,
the hope which has no opposite in fear:
the strength so strong mere force is feebleness:
the truth more first than sun more last than star
—do lovers love? Why then to heaven with hell.
whatever sages say and fools, all's well
-------
silently if,out of not knowable
ee cummings
silently if,out of not knowable
night’s utmost nothing,wanders a little guess
(only which is this world)more of my life does
not leap than with the mystery your smile
sings or if(spiraling as luminous
they climb oblivion)voices who are dreams,
less into heaven certainly earth swims
than each my deeper death becomes your kiss
losing through you what seemed myself;i find
selves unimaginably mine;beyond
sorrow’s own joys and hoping’s very fears
yours is the light by which my spirit’s born:
yours is the darkness of my soul’s return
–you are my sun,my moon,and all my stars
the arrow and the song
- Photo of Southern Red Oak was taken in August 2008, Berea, Kentucky.
I came across this poem tonight, too. It is appropriate for other reasons and memories. Thank you, Longfellow.
Laugh & Love
I saw these quotes on some blogs and liked them enough to share again:
"Laugh as much as you breathe, Love as long as you live."
- Elizabeth “Liz” Tran (February 26, 1990 – January 19, 2007)
"Love often goes by the wayside as rules and certainty move in."
- James C. Alexander, "The Shape of Absolutism" (link)
In your writing, how is love expressed? In what ways do your characters share and show love to each other? Is love a character in your poems, a motivation for interactions or lack of interactions between people or landscape? Are your characters misguided by their perceptions of what love is or is not? Do they love?
I am looking out my bedroom window as I type this, it is spring, and of course the squirrels are chasing each other around the backyard full of last autumn's fallen leaves and spring's first green grass. They're not mad, or in love, but following instinct.
"Laugh as much as you breathe, Love as long as you live."
- Elizabeth “Liz” Tran (February 26, 1990 – January 19, 2007)
"Love often goes by the wayside as rules and certainty move in."
- James C. Alexander, "The Shape of Absolutism" (link)
In your writing, how is love expressed? In what ways do your characters share and show love to each other? Is love a character in your poems, a motivation for interactions or lack of interactions between people or landscape? Are your characters misguided by their perceptions of what love is or is not? Do they love?
I am looking out my bedroom window as I type this, it is spring, and of course the squirrels are chasing each other around the backyard full of last autumn's fallen leaves and spring's first green grass. They're not mad, or in love, but following instinct.
Doubt
I left
work at 5 today and just drove. I didn't go home and for a while I was
just letting a habit follow through; I drive up and down Western all the
time. If I don't go home I'm very likely turning onto Western on my way
to somewhere else. So by the time I passed Sushi Neko, I knew I was heading to the Red Cup,
and oh yes, they are open on Thursday evenings. Sweet! I need
caffeine to cure this headache, I think. I chat with a few people I
know for a few moments, and then settle down with my cafe mocha and my
notebook. I didn't plan to work on my writing, but I might as well.
I am trying to figure out what is happening in these latest poems. On February 20th I wrote about the quilt unraveling due to use, and how the girl takes the loosened button and makes a bracelet out of it and the red thread. But tonight I continued with the girl purposefully unraveling the quilt her grandmother made out of love from the clothes, sheets, and curtains that she had once buried in the cornfield.
For
some reason I have her father silent. He is distant with her, not
telling her the stories of her grandmother's and great-grandmother's
struggles. So she tries to interpret them from the quilt, unraveling
the threads and lace and ribbons, buttons and jagged pieces of fabric.
He wonders why he should tell her about the violence, murder and
rape... "What would she learn of love from this history?" he asks
himself.I am trying to figure out what is happening in these latest poems. On February 20th I wrote about the quilt unraveling due to use, and how the girl takes the loosened button and makes a bracelet out of it and the red thread. But tonight I continued with the girl purposefully unraveling the quilt her grandmother made out of love from the clothes, sheets, and curtains that she had once buried in the cornfield.
So because he does not tell her the family history, she harbors doubt that her father truly loves her. This is why she wore the red thread around her wrist, and why she stitched a bracelet with that same thread and buttoned around her wrist with one from the quilt. "The girl can button doubt to her wrist, but she cannot unravel the love that is stitched with threads that were covered with the soil of family."
Memory
I haven't been posting quotes and prompts every day like I promised.
I also remembered that I really ought to have a mini-cassette recorder
in my car, especially for my morning drive. Why? Because while driving
to work I thought of around 5 or 6 beginning lines of a poem, or least
some kind of concept. Once I got to work, settled in, answered some
email inquiries, I had completely forgotten the morning words. I
remembered that I had thought of something during my drive home and
began trying to rack my brain to recall a word or two that might trigger
the rest of it, but no. I have never been good with memorization of
whole exact sentences. I am better at remembering the overall context,
and then side-line info like what I was feeling when I heard it, where I
was, maybe the other people involved, and probably what else I was
thinking about at the same time. My memory is like a snapshot photo.
It cannot capture audio very well at all, only snatches of it caught in
the jumbled signal. But the scene will be in sharp focus.
The other night I thought of this phrase while I was in a coffee shop looking out the window and down the street: "I saw an echo of you walking." There's not a whole lot to that sentence, and there's plenty that can be inferred. I know who I was thinking of, where it was, why I thought of this person, and how I felt when I thought of that phrase, and every time I see it I will always recall all those details.
So yes, I need to dig out that mini-cassette recorder. It is the camera for my poetry.
The other night I thought of this phrase while I was in a coffee shop looking out the window and down the street: "I saw an echo of you walking." There's not a whole lot to that sentence, and there's plenty that can be inferred. I know who I was thinking of, where it was, why I thought of this person, and how I felt when I thought of that phrase, and every time I see it I will always recall all those details.
So yes, I need to dig out that mini-cassette recorder. It is the camera for my poetry.
Two Birds in the Rain
Song lyrics to spark an idea or image to get you writing for 20 or so minutes....
February 26, 2010
"The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs..."
- The Be Good Tanyas, "Littlest Birds"
February 24, 2010
"Cause everyone's singing,
we just wanna be heard,
Disappearing every day without so much as a word
somehow, I wanna grab a hold of that little songbird,
Take her for a ride to the top of the world right now,
To the top of the world"
- Patty Griffin, "Top of the World"
February 23, 2010
"Got a head full of lightning, A hat full of rain,
And I know that I said I'd never do it again,
And I love you pretty baby but I always take
the long way home"
- Tom Waits, "Long Way Home"
February 26, 2010
"The littlest birds sing the prettiest songs..."
- The Be Good Tanyas, "Littlest Birds"
February 24, 2010
"Cause everyone's singing,
we just wanna be heard,
Disappearing every day without so much as a word
somehow, I wanna grab a hold of that little songbird,
Take her for a ride to the top of the world right now,
To the top of the world"
- Patty Griffin, "Top of the World"
February 23, 2010
"Got a head full of lightning, A hat full of rain,
And I know that I said I'd never do it again,
And I love you pretty baby but I always take
the long way home"
- Tom Waits, "Long Way Home"
heart of crow, thread of love
February 21, 2010
"Pete, it's a fool that looks for logic in the chambers of the human heart."
- quoted from O Brother, Where Art Thou? written by Ethan Coen and Joel Coen with references to Homer's epic poem The Odyssey.
February 20, 2010
She was twenty-three when the thread around her wrist broke. With needle in hand she stitched tiny red x's on a white ribbon, fastened the ends with a bone button, and bound her wrist again.
- Laura Anne Heller, rough draft poetry ideas
February 19, 2010
"Instead, weary farmers sigh, curse; get out their guns to clean,
spit on the ground and make ready to kill the damned crow,
to string us up, leave our rotting bodies as hints."
- Samantha Cole, "...And Twelve is Joy on the Morrow". Read the whole poem at Still: The Journal.
Take a few moments to imagine these scenes or circumstances. What are you thinking of? What do they remind you of? What scenes, memories, stories are recalled? Share in a free-write for 15 or 20 minutes.
"Pete, it's a fool that looks for logic in the chambers of the human heart."
- quoted from O Brother, Where Art Thou? written by Ethan Coen and Joel Coen with references to Homer's epic poem The Odyssey.
February 20, 2010
She was twenty-three when the thread around her wrist broke. With needle in hand she stitched tiny red x's on a white ribbon, fastened the ends with a bone button, and bound her wrist again.
- Laura Anne Heller, rough draft poetry ideas
February 19, 2010
"Instead, weary farmers sigh, curse; get out their guns to clean,
spit on the ground and make ready to kill the damned crow,
to string us up, leave our rotting bodies as hints."
- Samantha Cole, "...And Twelve is Joy on the Morrow". Read the whole poem at Still: The Journal.
Take a few moments to imagine these scenes or circumstances. What are you thinking of? What do they remind you of? What scenes, memories, stories are recalled? Share in a free-write for 15 or 20 minutes.
Beauty, Truth, and Love in Storms
A few quotes to wrap up the week. It has been storming and raining
here in Oklahoma, and today we have sunshine. A friend posted today's
quote as his status message last night, from memory, and asked if I
could find out who said it. I really like the encouraging feeling it
gives. It implies, to me, that everything and everyone is beautiful
and there is someone who will appreciate each one. That all truths, no
matter your perception, will have an ear who agrees to it. And that for
every heart that loves, there is someone who will receive that love,
and maybe return it.
February 5, 2010
"For every beauty there is an eye somewhere to see it. For every truth there is an ear somewhere to hear it. For every love there is a heart somewhere to receive it." - Ivan Panin (Russian mathematician, 1855-1942)
February 4, 2010
"All was silent as before, All silent save the dripping rain." - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
February 3, 2010
"If you spend your whole life waiting for the storm, you'll never enjoy the sunshine." - Morris West
February 5, 2010
"For every beauty there is an eye somewhere to see it. For every truth there is an ear somewhere to hear it. For every love there is a heart somewhere to receive it." - Ivan Panin (Russian mathematician, 1855-1942)
February 4, 2010
"All was silent as before, All silent save the dripping rain." - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
February 3, 2010
"If you spend your whole life waiting for the storm, you'll never enjoy the sunshine." - Morris West
Love Threads
A friend commented recently that all she wanted was to feel needed,
that her significant other every so often let her know that she was
needed, wanted, appreciated. That they were thankful she was sharing
her life with them. And to give her wants a voice, to show that
through time she is not alone in having those feelings, I found the
quote for February 1st.
I have also been thinking about an idea for a new series of poems, working with a metaphorical concept with thread. So I found a quote for February 2nd that sounds suitable. I think my poems will have a more familial bond than a lovers' bond, but maybe I might work with both. I'll see.
Is there a thread of emotion that binds you with another, or that loosely strings you along through your day, your life? Is there a thread of thought that lingers? Write for 15 or 20 minutes about it, continuously, without self-editing. Let your thoughts wander as you write and see where the "thread" might lead you.
February 2, 2010
"No cord or cable can draw so forcibly, or bind so fast, as love can do with a single thread." - Robert Burton (English Writer and Clergyman, 1577-1640)
February 1, 2010
"To be kind to all, to like many and love a few, to be needed and wanted by those we love, is certainly the nearest we can come to happiness." - Mary Stuart (Scottish Queen, 1542-1587)
February 1, 2010
"In all our contacts it is probably the sense of being really needed and wanted which gives us the greatest satisfaction and creates the most lasting bond." - Eleanor Roosevelt
February 1, 2010
"Jogging is very beneficial. It's good for your legs and your feet. It's also very good for the ground. It makes it feel needed." - Charles M. Schulz
I have also been thinking about an idea for a new series of poems, working with a metaphorical concept with thread. So I found a quote for February 2nd that sounds suitable. I think my poems will have a more familial bond than a lovers' bond, but maybe I might work with both. I'll see.
Is there a thread of emotion that binds you with another, or that loosely strings you along through your day, your life? Is there a thread of thought that lingers? Write for 15 or 20 minutes about it, continuously, without self-editing. Let your thoughts wander as you write and see where the "thread" might lead you.
February 2, 2010
"No cord or cable can draw so forcibly, or bind so fast, as love can do with a single thread." - Robert Burton (English Writer and Clergyman, 1577-1640)
February 1, 2010
"To be kind to all, to like many and love a few, to be needed and wanted by those we love, is certainly the nearest we can come to happiness." - Mary Stuart (Scottish Queen, 1542-1587)
February 1, 2010
"In all our contacts it is probably the sense of being really needed and wanted which gives us the greatest satisfaction and creates the most lasting bond." - Eleanor Roosevelt
February 1, 2010
"Jogging is very beneficial. It's good for your legs and your feet. It's also very good for the ground. It makes it feel needed." - Charles M. Schulz
Goodbye January, Hello February
I did get out once, on foot, to the nearest grocery store. I would love to live closer to some locally owned places but unfortunately I am closest to one of the biggest conglomerates and have to make do with it for now, especially when the weather has been this slushy! On the way back I took a few pictures of my house as the snow became more blustery. The camera was starting to get damp, so I didn't take as many pictures as I would have liked. I did get a few pictures of a fire hydrant and a stop sign that someone hit. Played around with them in Picnik, a free photo-editing website. I ended up making some fun pictures.
 |  |
Winter words
Tomorrow I return to work! Thursday my department took off work due
to the weather we knew was arriving, and Friday the Museum was closed.
So I have been home since Wednesday evening. Only Friday did I walk over
to the store to get some groceries and that's been the only time I left
the house! I almost like it, but I think one more day of it I would
have to go somewhere... Might as well be work!
So here's a couple quotes to close the winter days and start February on the "right" foot.
January 30, 2010
"I should say winter had given the bone and sinew to literature, summer the tissues and the blood." - John Burroughs, The Snow-Walkers (US essayist & naturalist, b.1837 - d.1921)
January 31, 2010
"February is merely as long as is needed to pass the time until March." - Dr. J. R. Stockton
So here's a couple quotes to close the winter days and start February on the "right" foot.
January 30, 2010
"I should say winter had given the bone and sinew to literature, summer the tissues and the blood." - John Burroughs, The Snow-Walkers (US essayist & naturalist, b.1837 - d.1921)
January 31, 2010
"February is merely as long as is needed to pass the time until March." - Dr. J. R. Stockton
Overdue Writing Prompts
Here's a few quotes for writing prompts. I missed a few days due to
work and now weather, ultimately just being lazy about not posting them.
I still had these as my status each day on facebook. I hope you find
something inspiring from them.
January 26, 2010
"And now the sun might sink. The light of the whole world by no means died with it." - Emerson Hough, from his novel, The Covered Wagon
January 27, 2010
"Ideas can come from anywhere and at any time. The problem with making mental notes is that the ink fades very rapidly." - Rolf Smith
January 28, 2010
"The love that lasts the longest is the love that is never returned." - William Somerset Maugham
January 28, 2010
"In skating over thin ice our safety is our speed" - Ralph Waldo Emerson
January 29, 2010
"Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow." - Robert Frost
January 26, 2010
"And now the sun might sink. The light of the whole world by no means died with it." - Emerson Hough, from his novel, The Covered Wagon
January 27, 2010
"Ideas can come from anywhere and at any time. The problem with making mental notes is that the ink fades very rapidly." - Rolf Smith
January 28, 2010
"The love that lasts the longest is the love that is never returned." - William Somerset Maugham
January 28, 2010
"In skating over thin ice our safety is our speed" - Ralph Waldo Emerson
January 29, 2010
"Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow." - Robert Frost
A Ribbon at a time
"I'll tell you how the sun rose a ribbon at a time." - Emily Dickinson
Whenever I see the sunrise, or even a sunset, I think of this line from one of Emily Dickinson's poems. I love that detail, imagining each little bit of light as a ribbon. And what do we do with that ribbon as the day moves forward or closes? If you could take a ribbon of sunrise with you throughout your day, how would you feel? And what difference would it make?
Use this line alone as a free-writing prompt for 15 minutes or so, and just go with it. I've also included the entire poem below.
I'll tell you how the Sun rose
by Emily Dickinson
I'll tell you how the Sun rose --
A Ribbon at a time --
The Steeples swam in Amethyst --
The news, like Squirrels, ran --
The Hills untied their Bonnets --
The Bobolinks -- begun --
Then I said softly to myself --
"That must have been the Sun"!
But how he set -- I know not --
There seemed a purple stile
That little Yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while --
Till when they reached the other side,
A Dominie in Gray --
Put gently up the evening Bars --
And led the flock away --
Whenever I see the sunrise, or even a sunset, I think of this line from one of Emily Dickinson's poems. I love that detail, imagining each little bit of light as a ribbon. And what do we do with that ribbon as the day moves forward or closes? If you could take a ribbon of sunrise with you throughout your day, how would you feel? And what difference would it make?
Use this line alone as a free-writing prompt for 15 minutes or so, and just go with it. I've also included the entire poem below.
I'll tell you how the Sun rose
by Emily Dickinson
I'll tell you how the Sun rose --
A Ribbon at a time --
The Steeples swam in Amethyst --
The news, like Squirrels, ran --
The Hills untied their Bonnets --
The Bobolinks -- begun --
Then I said softly to myself --
"That must have been the Sun"!
But how he set -- I know not --
There seemed a purple stile
That little Yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while --
Till when they reached the other side,
A Dominie in Gray --
Put gently up the evening Bars --
And led the flock away --
Pursue your path
"Pursue some path, however narrow and crooked, in which you can walk with love and reverence." - Henry David Thoreau
And write about this path. Where will it take you? Why are you on it? What brought you to this path? What do you think you will learn about yourself on this path? Do you feel good about it? Or focus on the physical landscape around the path that you envision you're on. Trees, creeks, desert, mountains, birds, pavement or gravel or dirt road? Go for it.
And write about this path. Where will it take you? Why are you on it? What brought you to this path? What do you think you will learn about yourself on this path? Do you feel good about it? Or focus on the physical landscape around the path that you envision you're on. Trees, creeks, desert, mountains, birds, pavement or gravel or dirt road? Go for it.
Sunday Sunset, 1-24-2010
- Sunset at Lake Hefner, January 24, 2010
So I finally get all the way back to my car, realize I have a couple of batteries that work, but I don't know for how long. I just want to capture the sunset again. So I sit by this solitary tree for another 30-40 minutes, thinking, exploring ideas for the next poetry book, thinking about people, and listening to the songs on my music player. I realize my left ankle feels stiff, so I check it out. Apparently it did blister and bleed. The little elastic pull loop at the upper heel of the shoes had worn through and had rubbed at my ankle until it bled. Oh great. Ouch.
But at least I got some pretty sunset pictures (look at the Lake Hefner set on flickr) and I did manage to walk around an hour total. :)
Abe's Foresight
"America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we
falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed
ourselves." - Abraham Lincoln
This may not be a prompt for free-writing as it may be a commentary on the politics of this country. But one could also think about how as individuals we may never seem harmed by the hurt inflicted upon us by those around us, but then there are things we do emotionally or spiritually that creates harm. This is more of a reflective or psychological concept you can consider for yourself or for someone you know, or maybe it could be applied symbolically in a story or poem. Let it carry itself through your writing for a few minutes.
This may not be a prompt for free-writing as it may be a commentary on the politics of this country. But one could also think about how as individuals we may never seem harmed by the hurt inflicted upon us by those around us, but then there are things we do emotionally or spiritually that creates harm. This is more of a reflective or psychological concept you can consider for yourself or for someone you know, or maybe it could be applied symbolically in a story or poem. Let it carry itself through your writing for a few minutes.
Southern Red Oak
- One of my favorite trees is in Berea, Kentucky. This is a terrible photo of it, but it is what I have for right now.
- Here it is again, in high contrast black-n-white.
Are there any trees that have captured your feelings? Did one symbolize a relationship, or became the foundation of a friendship?
Morning Sleeplessness
I didn't sleep well at all last night and I feel as if I could just
go home and crawl right back into bed. Maybe the coffee will help me
fake it. Maybe by the time it is 5 I will be wired. Right now I feel
foggy. I re-arranged my living room, kitchen, and bedroom, so I think I
am still getting used to it. This is not the morning I would like to
have perpetually. And maybe reading fine quotes will make me sleepy,
but more often than not they make me think more.
I hope yesterday's and today's daily quotes give you some writing ideas!
January 22, 2010
"How do people go to sleep? I'm afraid I've lost the knack. I might try busting myself smartly over the temple with the night-light. I might repeat to myself, slowly and soothingly, a list of quotations beautiful from minds profound; if I can remember any of the damn things." - Dorothy Parker
January 21, 2010
"To him whose elastic and vigorous thought keeps pace with the sun, the day is a perpetual morning." - Henry David Thoreau
I hope yesterday's and today's daily quotes give you some writing ideas!
January 22, 2010
"How do people go to sleep? I'm afraid I've lost the knack. I might try busting myself smartly over the temple with the night-light. I might repeat to myself, slowly and soothingly, a list of quotations beautiful from minds profound; if I can remember any of the damn things." - Dorothy Parker
January 21, 2010
"To him whose elastic and vigorous thought keeps pace with the sun, the day is a perpetual morning." - Henry David Thoreau
Strength for Haiti
I saw today that there has been another earthquake in Haiti, only 8
days after the first one shattered Port-au-Prince to the ground. This
second one is about 30-40 miles outside of the capitol city and struck
at a 6.1. Here's an article about the latest Haiti news.
I have selected the quote below because it is positive, and it continues to shed light on how those who survive these earthquakes in Haiti will hopefully be made stronger for it. Those who go to help and heal the persons injured and ill will be made stronger for it. I hope in some small way this quote will bring about some free-writing, and all those prayers and good thoughts for the health and strength of Haitians will be sent.
"You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, 'I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.'" - Eleanor Roosevelt
I have selected the quote below because it is positive, and it continues to shed light on how those who survive these earthquakes in Haiti will hopefully be made stronger for it. Those who go to help and heal the persons injured and ill will be made stronger for it. I hope in some small way this quote will bring about some free-writing, and all those prayers and good thoughts for the health and strength of Haitians will be sent.
"You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, 'I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.'" - Eleanor Roosevelt
Foggy Day Jan. 19, 2010
Here are two quotes for today, Tuesday, January 19, 2010. It is a
foggy morning here in Oklahoma City. It was so thick that I couldn't see
down the road further than a hundred yards, maybe less. So, inspired by
the rolling cloud, here's a couple of thoughts about fog. Use them to
spark your free-writing exercise as you please.
"The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the windowpanes." - T.S. Eliot
"The fog is like a cage without a key." - Elizabeth Wurtzel
"The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the windowpanes." - T.S. Eliot
"The fog is like a cage without a key." - Elizabeth Wurtzel
MLK, Jr. Quotes
Here are three quotes in honor of Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. Let them in some way guide your writing for a few minutes.
"We must develop and maintain the capacity to forgive. He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love. There is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us. When we discover this, we are less prone to hate our enemies."
"Every man must decide whether he will walk in the light of creative altruism or in the darkness of destructive selfishness."
"Everything that we see is a shadow cast by that which we do not see."
"We must develop and maintain the capacity to forgive. He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love. There is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us. When we discover this, we are less prone to hate our enemies."
"Every man must decide whether he will walk in the light of creative altruism or in the darkness of destructive selfishness."
"Everything that we see is a shadow cast by that which we do not see."
Oh Canada!
February 15, 2010
A lot of people have been posting one particular line from poet Shane Koyczan's spoken word poem performed at the winter Olympics opening ceremonies this year in Vancouver. I decided to post both that one, and one that interested me. Missed it? Read the poem or watch it.
"We can stand here today
Filled with all the hope people have
When they say things like 'someday'
Because we are more
Than a laundry list of things to do and places to see."
- Shane Koyczan, "We Are More"
"Don't let your luggage define your travels."
- Shane Koyczan, "We Are More"
Did you watch the opening ceremonies? Have any impressions on the events, the slam poetry, the themes? Or do these two quoted excerpts from Shane's performance call up any ideas or images to get you writing something? Jot down whatever comes to mind and don't self-edit, pause, or hold yourself back. Fifteen or twenty minutes or so of free-writing will only get you started...
A lot of people have been posting one particular line from poet Shane Koyczan's spoken word poem performed at the winter Olympics opening ceremonies this year in Vancouver. I decided to post both that one, and one that interested me. Missed it? Read the poem or watch it.
"We can stand here today
Filled with all the hope people have
When they say things like 'someday'
Because we are more
Than a laundry list of things to do and places to see."
- Shane Koyczan, "We Are More"
"Don't let your luggage define your travels."
- Shane Koyczan, "We Are More"
Did you watch the opening ceremonies? Have any impressions on the events, the slam poetry, the themes? Or do these two quoted excerpts from Shane's performance call up any ideas or images to get you writing something? Jot down whatever comes to mind and don't self-edit, pause, or hold yourself back. Fifteen or twenty minutes or so of free-writing will only get you started...
Be Kind
February 14, 2010
"If there's one thing you can say, About Mankind, There's nothing kind about man. You can drive out nature with a pitch fork, But it always comes roaring back again. Misery's the River of the World"
- Tom Waits, "Misery's the River of the World"
I just forgot to post quotes for February 12-13, absorbed by some other matters. As for the February 14th quote being dark rather than hopeful for St. Valentine's Day... I'd just heard some news of violence, and I simply wasn't feeling inclined to post something lovey-dovey.
February 11, 2010
"And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart.
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?"
- W.H. Auden
"If there's one thing you can say, About Mankind, There's nothing kind about man. You can drive out nature with a pitch fork, But it always comes roaring back again. Misery's the River of the World"
- Tom Waits, "Misery's the River of the World"
I just forgot to post quotes for February 12-13, absorbed by some other matters. As for the February 14th quote being dark rather than hopeful for St. Valentine's Day... I'd just heard some news of violence, and I simply wasn't feeling inclined to post something lovey-dovey.
February 11, 2010
"And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart.
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?"
- W.H. Auden
Patience, Trouble, and Distance
I have had a lot of car and computer trouble early this week. Laptop
crashed and required a new hard drive. The car's O2 sensor and Coolant
sensor both were broken and/or missing and the alternator belt was
missing. Got all of that replaced and then the alternator belt tore off
Tuesday morning while driving into work, so I had the car towed to the
auto shop and they replaced it and tried to figure out what caused the
problem. If it happens again, they'll have a better idea of whether or
not it was a bad belt or that maybe the alternator is going bad... Or
maybe something with the water pump. But this morning, Wednesday, it
drove fine to work without even a squeal, which is unusual but that
makes me happy!
I talked with a friend last night that I kept meaning to call and chat with, but something always holds me back, some small fear that inhibits me. But I am glad he called because I love hearing his voice, hearing about what's going on with him, and sharing a little of what's up with me. Every time we talk I know we are indeed good friends, and I miss that in-person friendship, but I would never sacrifice what we share by phone over whatever distance. I hope that he feels a little lighter in spirit after we talk like I do.
So here are a few prompts inspired by my latest events. I searched for them using one word themes: Patience, Trouble, Distance.
February 10, 2010
"Somewhere we know that without silence words lose their meaning, that without listening speaking no longer heals, that without distance closeness cannot cure."
- Henri Nouwen (Dutch author, 1932 - 1996)
February 9, 2010
"If there must be trouble, let it be in my day, that my child may have peace."
- Thomas Paine (American author and political pamphleteer, whose "Common Sense" and "Crisis" papers were important influences on the American Revolution; 1737-1809)
February 8, 2010
"The two most powerful warriors are patience and time."
- Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoy (Russian novelist and philosopher, 1828-1910)
I talked with a friend last night that I kept meaning to call and chat with, but something always holds me back, some small fear that inhibits me. But I am glad he called because I love hearing his voice, hearing about what's going on with him, and sharing a little of what's up with me. Every time we talk I know we are indeed good friends, and I miss that in-person friendship, but I would never sacrifice what we share by phone over whatever distance. I hope that he feels a little lighter in spirit after we talk like I do.
So here are a few prompts inspired by my latest events. I searched for them using one word themes: Patience, Trouble, Distance.
February 10, 2010
"Somewhere we know that without silence words lose their meaning, that without listening speaking no longer heals, that without distance closeness cannot cure."
- Henri Nouwen (Dutch author, 1932 - 1996)
February 9, 2010
"If there must be trouble, let it be in my day, that my child may have peace."
- Thomas Paine (American author and political pamphleteer, whose "Common Sense" and "Crisis" papers were important influences on the American Revolution; 1737-1809)
February 8, 2010
"The two most powerful warriors are patience and time."
- Leo Nikolaevich Tolstoy (Russian novelist and philosopher, 1828-1910)
Tom and Ralph
February 7, 2010
"Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson, from essay "Self-Reliance."
February 7, 2010
"Don't plant your bad days; They turn into weeks."
- Tom Waits
This one constantly gets mistaken as "Don't plant your days, they turn into weeds" but after looking at the Tom Waits Library and the explanation of the intro to "More Than Rain" during a concert/movie Big Time, this quote makes more sense.
February 6, 2010
"Few people know how to take a walk. The qualifications are endurance, plain clothes, old shoes, an eye for nature, good humor, vast curiosity, good speech, good silence and nothing too much."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson (I can't find the published source, but the quote is attributed to Emerson.)
"Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson, from essay "Self-Reliance."
February 7, 2010
"Don't plant your bad days; They turn into weeks."
- Tom Waits
This one constantly gets mistaken as "Don't plant your days, they turn into weeds" but after looking at the Tom Waits Library and the explanation of the intro to "More Than Rain" during a concert/movie Big Time, this quote makes more sense.
February 6, 2010
"Few people know how to take a walk. The qualifications are endurance, plain clothes, old shoes, an eye for nature, good humor, vast curiosity, good speech, good silence and nothing too much."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson (I can't find the published source, but the quote is attributed to Emerson.)
The Fences and Threads of Home
February 18, 2010
"Don't wait for me;
I'm mending fences of my past.
'Cause I'm wild running through the hills,
And my eyes are wondering how you feel,
And the miles upon miles keep falling from the sky.
Don't wait for me,
When the flowers die."
- Ryan Bingham, "Don't Wait for Me"
February 17, 2010
"Too much crowds in to break the thread of discourse and make me forget that irony is always, and only, a trick of light on the late landscape."
- Robert Penn Warren, "Brother to Dragons: A Tale in Verse and Voices"
February 16, 2010
"I'll be true to you,
oh yeah, you know I will.
I'll be true to you forever or until
I go home..."
- M. Ward, "To Go Home"
I've been exploring some ideas with my writing lately, letting some images stir around until I am ready to make something with them. The first was red thread. The second was a lake, a fishing boat, a father and daughter, their familial bond strained over time. I don't know the cause yet. And then fences bending under strong wind, buttons, and herons are trying to find their way into the scene, not just in the background of description but somewhere important in the mix of interactions, emotions, and memory.
What do some of these symbols mean to you? Give yourself 15 or 20 minutes to write without self-edit and let the ideas flow into something.
"Don't wait for me;
I'm mending fences of my past.
'Cause I'm wild running through the hills,
And my eyes are wondering how you feel,
And the miles upon miles keep falling from the sky.
Don't wait for me,
When the flowers die."
- Ryan Bingham, "Don't Wait for Me"
February 17, 2010
"Too much crowds in to break the thread of discourse and make me forget that irony is always, and only, a trick of light on the late landscape."
- Robert Penn Warren, "Brother to Dragons: A Tale in Verse and Voices"
February 16, 2010
"I'll be true to you,
oh yeah, you know I will.
I'll be true to you forever or until
I go home..."
- M. Ward, "To Go Home"
I've been exploring some ideas with my writing lately, letting some images stir around until I am ready to make something with them. The first was red thread. The second was a lake, a fishing boat, a father and daughter, their familial bond strained over time. I don't know the cause yet. And then fences bending under strong wind, buttons, and herons are trying to find their way into the scene, not just in the background of description but somewhere important in the mix of interactions, emotions, and memory.
What do some of these symbols mean to you? Give yourself 15 or 20 minutes to write without self-edit and let the ideas flow into something.
January 1-15, 2010 Quotes
Everyday this year I will post as my status message on Facebook, and here in Ramblin' Anne,
a quote which I find inspiring either to my current situation, mood, or
world events. These can be used for free-writing prompts, or a way to
look upon your day. Many times I use the thoughtful words of past
writers and inspired persons as reminders of how I should perceive and
approach my world today. Often these quotes come with imaginative
metaphors which can spark an idea in any creative person's think-box.
:) So here's my catch up, quotes I selected for the first fifteen days
of 2010.
January 15, 2010
"There is a muscular energy in sunlight corresponding to the spiritual energy of wind." - Annie Dillard
January 14, 2010
"Compassion can be put into practice if one recognizes the fact that every human being is a member of humanity and the human family regardless of differences in religion, culture, color and creed. Deep down there is no difference." - Dalai Lama
January 14, 2010
"The essence of love and compassion is understanding, the ability to recognize the physical, material, and psychological suffering of others, to put ourselves 'inside the skin' of the other. We 'go inside' their body, feelings, and mental formations, and witness for ourselves their suffering. Shallow observation as an outsider is not enough to ... See Moresee their suffering. We must become one with the subject of our observation. When we are in contact with another's suffering, a feeling of compassion is born in us. Compassion means, literally, 'to suffer with.'" - Thich Nhat Hanh
January 13, 2010
“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.” "How glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains!" - John Muir
January 13, 2010
"The actions of men are the best interpreters of their thoughts." - John Locke
January 12, 2010
"As a single footstep will not make a path on the earth, so a single thought will not make a pathway in the mind. To make a deep physical path, we walk again and again. To make a deep mental path, we must think over and over the kind of thoughts we wish to dominate our lives." - Henry David Thoreau
January 11, 2010
"Inside my empty bottle I was constructing a lighthouse while all the others were making ships." - Charles Simic
January 10, 2010
"Tennessee's a brother to my sister Carolina where they're gonna bury me." - Ryan Adams & the Cardinals, "Let It Ride"
January 9, 2010
"Down by the Riverside motel, it’s 10 below and falling. By a 99 cent store she closed her eyes and started swaying. But it's so hard to dance that way when it’s cold and there's no music. Well, your old hometown is so far away, but inside your head there's a record that's playing, a song called ‘Hold on, hold on.’" - Tom Waits, "Hold On"
January 8, 2010
"The grand show is eternal. It’s always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never dried all at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor is ever rising. Eternal sunrise, eternal dawn & gloaming, on sea & continents & islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls." - John Muir
January 7, 2010
"I lived in solitude in the country and noticed how the monotony of a quiet life stimulates the creative mind." - Albert Einstein
January 6, 2010
"Your physical body, which you have always assumed to be real, is actually a fiction." - Deepak Chopra
January 5, 2010
"A single conversation across the table with a wise man is better than ten years mere study of books." - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
January 4, 2010
"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in, forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day, you shall begin it well and serenely..." - Ralph Waldo Emerson
January 3, 2010
"In the depths of winter I finally learned there was in me an invincible summer." - Albert Camus
January 2, 2010
"Few are altogether deaf to the preaching of pine trees. Their sermons on the mountains go to our hearts; and if people in general could be got into the woods, even for once, to hear the trees speak for themselves, all difficulties in the way of forest preservation would vanish." - John Muir
January 1, 2010
"For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning."
- T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"
January 15, 2010
"There is a muscular energy in sunlight corresponding to the spiritual energy of wind." - Annie Dillard
January 14, 2010
"Compassion can be put into practice if one recognizes the fact that every human being is a member of humanity and the human family regardless of differences in religion, culture, color and creed. Deep down there is no difference." - Dalai Lama
January 14, 2010
"The essence of love and compassion is understanding, the ability to recognize the physical, material, and psychological suffering of others, to put ourselves 'inside the skin' of the other. We 'go inside' their body, feelings, and mental formations, and witness for ourselves their suffering. Shallow observation as an outsider is not enough to ... See Moresee their suffering. We must become one with the subject of our observation. When we are in contact with another's suffering, a feeling of compassion is born in us. Compassion means, literally, 'to suffer with.'" - Thich Nhat Hanh
January 13, 2010
“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.” "How glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains!" - John Muir
January 13, 2010
"The actions of men are the best interpreters of their thoughts." - John Locke
January 12, 2010
"As a single footstep will not make a path on the earth, so a single thought will not make a pathway in the mind. To make a deep physical path, we walk again and again. To make a deep mental path, we must think over and over the kind of thoughts we wish to dominate our lives." - Henry David Thoreau
January 11, 2010
"Inside my empty bottle I was constructing a lighthouse while all the others were making ships." - Charles Simic
January 10, 2010
"Tennessee's a brother to my sister Carolina where they're gonna bury me." - Ryan Adams & the Cardinals, "Let It Ride"
January 9, 2010
"Down by the Riverside motel, it’s 10 below and falling. By a 99 cent store she closed her eyes and started swaying. But it's so hard to dance that way when it’s cold and there's no music. Well, your old hometown is so far away, but inside your head there's a record that's playing, a song called ‘Hold on, hold on.’" - Tom Waits, "Hold On"
January 8, 2010
"The grand show is eternal. It’s always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never dried all at once; a shower is forever falling; vapor is ever rising. Eternal sunrise, eternal dawn & gloaming, on sea & continents & islands, each in its turn, as the round earth rolls." - John Muir
January 7, 2010
"I lived in solitude in the country and noticed how the monotony of a quiet life stimulates the creative mind." - Albert Einstein
January 6, 2010
"Your physical body, which you have always assumed to be real, is actually a fiction." - Deepak Chopra
January 5, 2010
"A single conversation across the table with a wise man is better than ten years mere study of books." - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
January 4, 2010
"Finish each day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in, forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day, you shall begin it well and serenely..." - Ralph Waldo Emerson
January 3, 2010
"In the depths of winter I finally learned there was in me an invincible summer." - Albert Camus
January 2, 2010
"Few are altogether deaf to the preaching of pine trees. Their sermons on the mountains go to our hearts; and if people in general could be got into the woods, even for once, to hear the trees speak for themselves, all difficulties in the way of forest preservation would vanish." - John Muir
January 1, 2010
"For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning."
- T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"
Quotes January16
Two song lyrics today...
"Well, you build it up, you wreck it down. Then you burn your mansion to the ground, Oh there's nothing left to keep you here, but when You're falling behind in this Big blue world. Oh you got to Hold on, hold on, You got to hold on, Take my hand, I'm standing right here. You got to hold on." - Tom Waits, "Hold On"
"The rain falls down on last year's man, an hour has gone by and he has not moved his hand. But everything will happen if he only gives the word; the lovers will rise up and the mountains touch the ground. But the skylight is like skin for a drum I'll never mend and all the rain falls down, amen, on the works of last year's man." - Leonard Cohen, "Last Year's Man"
"Well, you build it up, you wreck it down. Then you burn your mansion to the ground, Oh there's nothing left to keep you here, but when You're falling behind in this Big blue world. Oh you got to Hold on, hold on, You got to hold on, Take my hand, I'm standing right here. You got to hold on." - Tom Waits, "Hold On"
"The rain falls down on last year's man, an hour has gone by and he has not moved his hand. But everything will happen if he only gives the word; the lovers will rise up and the mountains touch the ground. But the skylight is like skin for a drum I'll never mend and all the rain falls down, amen, on the works of last year's man." - Leonard Cohen, "Last Year's Man"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)