My Poetry Year: Entry #4

In which, having realized that she wasn't anywhere near being capable of writing a darn sonnet, Your Humble Blogger tries to go for something short and sweet instead:

"God as an Old Woman Watching at the Window"

I see them playing, sipping lemonade.
And me? I drink the sun, and I can taste it,
But it's too sweet. With all my efforts made,
It's best to watch. On me, young pleasure's wasted.

***

I remember two things about writing this: 1) It came about on a day when I walked past a series of condos in which a lot of elderly people live, and 2) at the time, I was reading a lot of Edna St. Vincent Millay, who seems to get a bad rap for being a formalist and using language that gets described as "quaint." I like Edna St. Vincent Millay; I think she was a witty writer, and anyone who can do what she can with so many poetic forms obviously pays attention to her craft.

Okay, so this poem's a little old fashioned, too. Not the best, but I think I felt a little more comfortable with fitting words into lines when I wrote it. And sometimes, short and sweet really is what best expresses the thought. As with this post. Zooooooom!

My Poetry Year: Entry #3

In which Your Humble Blogger makes a post that has links and a picture instead of a poem, thinking that it might be good to break up of the monotony of an all-text page by sharing pictures from the writing process (and also thinking that she's going to try to make this pledge to post regularly last as long as possible):

Not long ago, I saw this article posted on Facebook, all about the physical spaces in which many famous writers do (or have done) their thing. Seems that small cottages and writing huts are popular among writers, which makes sense; a lot of them, from what I hear and read, like to work in quiet spaces so that they can hear the words as they occur to them. Looking at the pictures in this article -- damn, Michael Pollan has a nice set-up!

I wonder if my small obsession with small houses has anything to with this. One of the sites I've enjoyed visiting recently just for daydreaming purposes is the site for the Tumbleweed Tiny House Company, which, like thousands of other people, I saw on Yahoo!. I'm a sucker; the houses are adorable. They can be built on two-wheeled travel trailers, for crying out loud!

In case you were curious, this is where I write the poetry that I've been working on:

Why, yes, the couch is constantly bathed in holy light, thank you for asking!

This couch is parked next to the window (duh) in the room I've claimed as my office. My faithful guard dog, Mercury, is a constant fixture on the couch, as is the portable version of the American Heritage Dictionary there (must find new words and find good ways to use them!). When I'm sitting here, wrapped up in my blankie, it's a happy place.

Even when I'm visited by the frustration that makes me want to chuck my notebook across the room.

My Poetry Year: Entry #2

In which, emboldened by her success in completing a poem the day before, Your Humble Blogger throws reason to the wind, eschewing any notion of easing herself back into poetry, and tries to write a Shakespearean sonnet:

"Around the Block"

A marriage, travel, jobs, divorce for each,
Yet, years later, they stroll around the block
They ruled as kids, till across memory's reach
He says, "I would've kissed you on that walk."

"It wasn't the right time ten years ago,"
She says. He protests that, even through scores
Of years, the chance for love is rare. "I know,"
She tells him on a breath. "Tonight is yours."

Above, the sun falls backward through the sky.
Below, bikes shift where tires and pavement meet;
They travel in reverse, and time will try
To follow them and return to the street

Where, seasons past, a girl leaned close to say,
"I wonder if I'll ever feel that way."

* * *

Not one of my favorites. Looking back, I think I can accurately say that I was trying too hard to shoehorn an idea for a story into a poetic form. And really, who tries to write a sonnet on her second try at poetry and expects it to come out perfect?! Oh, right. (I also tried a sonnet for my third and fourth attempts, with no more success, and posted about it last year.)

In case you're wondering what makes this a Shakespearean sonnet: It's all about form, baby, as this page will explain.

My Poetry Year: Entry #1

In which Your Humble Blogger has a thought that only seems to make sense as a poem, and then tries to express it as such:

"Fireflies"

Up there! Beyond the pine tops. Did you see?
A hand of storm -- an angry god's, likely --
Swept up the lighthouse -- swept it out to sea.

I almost missed it. These days, I'm that way.
The summer people leave their homes to play,
Yet I, distracted, claim the porch. I stay

And watch the fireflies let their pure light slow,
And watch a lighthouse meet the undertow,
And wait for old, dark winter's wind to blow.

* * *

Oh, I know it's not good. The image of a lighthouse collapsing into the sea is a strange one to try to work with and could have been built into something more, and the language seems a little stilted to me, especially in the first stanza. But I was so proud of myself -- my first time trying to write a poem in so many years, and I was able to adhere to a rhyme scheme and a (nearly) consistent meter! I even bounced into my partner's office and made him sit still while I read it aloud for him. Poor Wes.

Written on March 23, 2010; first performed (for a very captive audience of one) the same day.

My Poetry Year: Prologue

Early in 2010, I was writing short stories. I had just put together The People He Thought He Knew, my beloved little collection of horror stories, the year before, and I was working on another collection, hoping to continue the momentum.

And then, one night in March 2010, I totally blew it.

I started writing poetry.

I looked over my stories, decided that they weren't good enough and that I was just hacking them out, and for the first time in about five years, I started writing poetry instead.

It's hard to say what made me decide to try that art form again, other than that I had a thought that only seemed right to express as a poem. Then I had more thoughts, similar in nature. By the time 2010 ended, I had filled half of an inch-thick notebook with poems, and I didn't know what to do with them.

But then, I recalled that I have a blog that I rarely feel I have enough material to update!

So I'm going to put this blog to use. And the poems that I plan to put on here aren't quite masterpieces. The early ones can be pretty rough to read, and even among the later pieces, there are some real stinkers; I'm not even sure yet if I'll share the absolute worst of them. Hey, my delicate ego needs some cushioning sometimes! ;) But some of these poems have some charm or contain turns of phrase that surprised even me while I worked on them. I hope that you'll join me here and see what I've spent these months doing, and that by posting the work, I'll continue to grow, too.

Google's Very Nifty Logo

Did ya see Google's logo today? A nicely done tribute to comics great Will Eisner, who would have turned 94 today.

Please?

Dear Fortune Cookies,

I'm sorry that I often make fun of what you tell me. Because sometimes you do a good job. So if ever there was a fortune that I'd like to come true at some point in the future....

Hugs and flowers,
Sheila

P.S. You are delicious.