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.

Innuendo is a legitimate facet of the creative process.

I'm sure that, at some point, I intended to make this blog a space for discussing literature and the fine and delicate act of writing. Then again, I'm also sure that I intended to update it more frequently. Besides, some things are just too important to ignore. Like Target's health clinic ad, seen above. Does anyone else read that and want to ask, "Exactly how far are you asking me to go for that $10 gift card, Target?"

What the hell did I do?

So. Hiya.

I've got a little voice in the back of my head saying, "Wow, that's a surefire way to promote yourself and your writing: Stop updating your blog for two months (and your Facebook account for one of those two, for all that you used it anyway). And then -- then! Spend some money on a digital piano."

Oh, little voice. Go read some Sylvia Plath and at least sabotage yourself creatively.

This blog only has one follower, who knows what I've been up to (hi, Foose!), but it would probably inspire some responsibility and a sense of accountability in me if I wrote as there were more than one. So here we go:

Since the last post I made, I attended San Diego Comic Con. After that, I spent a month in a warehouse with a few other people, doing an inventory of the ol' archives -- not of original comic book art, but of the reproductions kept on hand (film scans, photostats, etc.) that are most often used when old material gets reprinted.

Both of these were incredible experiences. Even in San Diego, despite the massive crowds at the convention, I got to see what modern creators, at big companies and small, are doing. In the warehouse, I got to see the foundations laid in the comic industry decades ago. I was surround by bad art and good art, stories of every caliber. The past month and a half presented me with a realm of ideas amazing and humbling in its size.

And in that time, I didn't write anything worth a damn.

How easy it is to get tired and overwhelmed when immense events are going on! And yet, though the con and the warehouse were draining, what got me in the end was not the fatigue, but that same, annoying little voice saying, "You know, you should rest instead of writing. You're so tired, what you write will suck anyway. You should save my energy. You can always write tomorrow."

Ladies and gentlemen, that last thought -- I can always [do whatever I love] tomorrow -- will kill you. Once you give up what you love, you will struggle to get it back. If something's important, make time for it, and it will grow with you.

So my goal is to get my writing back after not doing it for a while. Very good. But what, you may be wondering, does a piano have to do with any of this?

The piano was a promise I made to myself: When I had enough money, I would buy a piano and return to practicing another art I used to love. Well, the warehouse job gave me the money. Playing the piano reduces stress, and it helps the brain I've long worried about getting lazy stay active. Most importantly, though, it's a big, tangible reminder that art, whether writing or music or whatever you like, can be reclaimed if time is made for it regularly.

First up: Chopin's Prelude in A Major, Op. 28 No. 7, and Ted Kooser's 'The Poetry Home Repair Manual.' Gods help the world: I'm about to attempt art.