Archive for 2011

Veteran’s Day – Flash 55 (“Enlisted”)

November 11, 2011

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Thinking of Veteran’s Day today.  This is also a post for Friday Flash 55.  (Tell it to the G-Man.)

Enlisted

What they carry–
the risk of not coming back,
or coming back different;

of being killed,
maimed;
killing, maiming;
coming back
different;

love/hate.
not-necessarily-hate/gun/mission,
training/sweetness/
us.

Somebody’s got to do it.

The risk of coming back
some body.

Know somebody now
joined up.
May he stay
joined,
up,
himself.

PS – I’ve slightly edited the poem since first posting this morning.  (Almost all the poems I post are drafts, so changes are needed.)  Kept to the 55 words though!

 

PPS – I wanted to fit a little more love into the poem, but have been a bit constrained by the 55 word limit.  I do want to take this opportunity to send love, thanks and blessings to all veterans on this day and every day.

 

Prose to Poem (Plagiarism too?) (“Time Times Time”)

November 10, 2011

Solar Powered Timekeeper?

The wonderful dVerse Poets Pub, hosted today by Zsa of the zumpoets site, presents a very interesting challenge for participating poets–the conversion of prose to poetry.  The idea is to make the prose, someone else’s (and hopefully not under copyright) into, more or less, your own poem (or an amalgam of youand the prose writer.)

I copped mine from good old Charles Dickens.

 

Time Times Time

It was the best and worst–it
was time.  It was
time times time–it
was age.   Of
wisdom/foolishness
epic; belief (aching incredulity);
Light seasoned by
Darkness; where hope
winters, despair
springs, and everything before us
feels
like nothing; a time 

we go direct
to Heaven
only

if there’s no
other way.

Here’s the true text, from the opening of A Tale of Two Cities:

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – “

Why Revising A Manuscript During Nanowrimo Month Is Just Not The Same–Where are the Pheromones?

November 9, 2011

You Have To Be Really Dogged About Revising

We’re almost all familiar with the pleasures of “new car smell” (even if just in a rental.)

Even more attractive is the zing of a new relationship.

For some of nerdy types, even more compelling is the engagement of new creation.  I don’t mean procreation here (although that might fit in too.)  I’m talking about a new idea, a new piece of writing or work of art.

How uncritical we are in the face of freshness!   Sure, we can see kinks, but they feel trivial in the flow of inspiration–detritus in the stream, texture!

Now that I think about it, working on a new piece is remarkably like a new relationship.  In the charge of fresh pheromones, we feel somehow certain that we’ll fix any problems, the person too.  Later.  (Note to self–fat chance.)

Rewriting, in contrast, tends to bog down.  The flaws are about all we are conscious of; the flow feels like a house on stilts rather than any kind of river.

Sometimes we want to change the whole thing, start almost from scratch.  This may be the best approach, but it’s also important to stop and take a breath.  Are we really just trying to do something new, different?  Something whose flaws we don’t have to deal with just yet?

Ugh.

(P.S. – for those who don’t follow this blog, I promised myself to take this Nanowrimo–National Novel Writing Month–to work on revising old manuscripts rather than writing something new.  Ahem.)

The Kind of Epiphany I’m Looking For – Chocolate Happens and More.

November 8, 2011

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Here’s a poem I’ve been playing with for the last few days. (Anything but work on old Nanowrimo manuscripts!)

Though it’s still rough, I’m posting it today for the wonderful dVerse Poets Pub Open Link night.

Epiphany

I would really like to have an epiphany
that doesn’t involve the realization
that death happens.
Why can’t my great enlightenment
alert me to the fact that
chocolate happens?
That peppermint explodes in the mouth?
That eggs are unblinking
(until the yolks crack)?
And that the love that always forgives, that is,
the love you give to me,
is not like the sun at noon–everywhere–
but rather a pale pre-rosy dawn that
barely nudges the landscape, lifts but an
edge of shadow, illuminating
the flickering eyelids of
only one–a poor light sleeper, who,
at the waning
of stark night, feels the glow of your hearth
at her side, and inside,
the sudden certainty that even
that star whose contours
cannot be traced
in the quotidian sky
pulses on.

Occupy Wall Street-Changing Demographic? Hard Hat, Knitter, Baby–

November 7, 2011

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FYI Occupy Wall Street- Zuccotti Park- Pix of November 7, 2011

November 7, 2011

Here are some pix taken this A.M. at Zuccotti Park. It’s become a bit of a tent city, NYPD overlooking, bemused? Resigned? Also kind of cold and tired?

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Blog Apology – Prompts/Circumstances/November

November 7, 2011

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Magpie Tale (Pantoum)

November 6, 2011

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The drawing above is based on the prompt of Tess Kincaid at Magpie Tales, which was a photograph from a cemetery.  The photograph offered a lot of possibilities; my poem is a pantoum about a funeral, the differing feelings (from numbness to grief) that go through one’s brain at such an event.

What Funerals Are For

I worried that I might not be able to stop
the posturing that shaped my busy mind—
all I’d see, all whom I might know,
imagined encounters over funeral supper wine.

The posturing, the shape of busy mind,
dwarfed the Jesus-coated windows, babes in stone,
(imagined encounters over Last Supper wine)
when fingers touching lid, they led it down.

Dwarfing the Jesus-coated windows, babes in stone,
a block of wood, of over-polished grain,
as fingers touching lid, they led it down,
pulling with it, a winding sheet of weighty pain.

A block of wood, of over-polished grain—
I knew she couldn’t breathe there, that she’d no more breath
pulling within a winding sheet of weighty pain,
weeping without will, without relief.

I knew she couldn’t breathe there, that she’d no more breath,
and all I saw, all whom I might know,
weeping without will, without relief.
I worried that I might not be able to stop.

Poetics – Color Poem (Or Monochromatic One) Maybe

November 5, 2011

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I am still supposedly working on Nanowrimo, but I wrote a poem in my head yesterday, and it happens to fit in (sort of) with dVerse Poets Pub Poetics prompt of the day (hosted by Victoria of liv2write2day.blogspot), which is to write a poem using color.

Date

“It’s hurting me”, she whispered,
“I want it to hurt,” he said.
Later, she lay on a bathroom floor,
its hard checkered tiles,
the only black and white
In the whole situation.

 

After posting the above poem, I thought of a different variation that I like better I think as it has more of a moral compass.  Here it is.

 

Date

“It’s hurting me”, she whispered,
“I want it to hurt,” he said.
Later, she lay on a bathroom floor,
its hard checkered tiles,
the only black and white
in the entire world.

 

 

Any suggestions welcomed!

Friday Flash 55 – 99 Percent at Downtown NYC Subway Station

November 4, 2011

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Varying Percentages At Fulton Street Station

Yesterday, cop at the subway by Occupy Wall Street dressed as a hippie.  Today, the guy wears plain clothes; i.e. his uniform.

He got two occupiers though, fare-skippers, thoughtful faces hangdog now, betrayed; victory in his stance, scribbling–as he mumbles ‘sorry’–tickets.

Just behind, tourist wedges around the turnstile, card outspent, confused, unseen.

I am telling this 55 word story (minus) title to the G-Man, also to Occupy Wall Streeters who get on the train at the Fulton Street Station, usually with metro cards, but sometimes perhaps without.  The station looks abandoned at the bottom entrance;  it isn’t.