Second Beginnings

A 50-word piece that might make it into The Novel, if I ever get that far.

Her face looked bleached, but in a delicate, doll-like way. Like she would fall over if you didn’t hold her up, because her porcelain body was unable to shift and find balance. It was unnatural, and he didn’t know whether to fall over in worship or to run in fear.

I heard a Fly buzz -

by Emily Dickinson

I heard a Fly buzz – when I died -

The Stillness in the Room

Was like the Stillness in the Air -

Between the Heaves of Storm -

The Eyes around – had wrung them dry -

And Breaths were gathering firm

For that last Onset – when the King

Be witnessed – in the Room -

I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away

What portion of me be

Assignable – and then it was

There interposed a Fly -

With Blue – uncertain stumbling Buzz -

Between the light – and me -

And then the Windows failed – and then

I could not see to see -

I've always found this poem inspired. Not necessarily inspiring; it's pretty depressing when you think about it. Even if you don't think about it. But it's very cleverly written; there's real feeling in it. And there is a certain beauty in finality, so that it's not entirely depressing. You just have to look for the bright spots, but this is between the heaves of storm. It's not stormy right now. There's still a portion of the person that's not assignable; there's still a presence of the King; there's still the arguably insignificant life in death - there's a fly present. The fly's existence is shorter in duration than a human's, but it's still existant, and its buzzing has charcter and purpose - for if it had no purpose, it could not be uncertain. And there's light at the end of the tunnel, and stillness and peace.
There are so many cliches in this poem, but they're so skillfully referred to that you don't notice them. The fly on the wall, the light in the tunnel. And while I hate atttributing emotions to poets, since half the time the interpretations are things that aren't even possible for the poet to have thought or felt, Emily Dickinson probably did feel all of it - the depression, the tension, the silence, the peace, the seriousness, the death, the hope for the future. The greedy heirs, still trying to maintain the solemnity of a deathbed. I think she did feel it. And she certainly made me feel it.

Don't Let It Go

Maintaining even one's a challenge

Let alone maintaining two

But the outlet shouldn't die

Just because ideas are few

 

This poem's written a second time

Although not once in Blogger - true

Even Gmail fails, it seems -

They're both maintained by the Google crew

 

I thought it was so clever -

I'd never a post lose

But nothing's foolproof, don't you know

As Murphy loves to prove.

 

So here's to posting the second time

On blogs of every stripe

And here's to the second(ary) blog

Which hasn't totally died

 

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

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.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

This is one of my favorite Frost poems. It's kind of ironic - snowy evening, Frost. Corny, I know. Still one of my favorites.
It snowed today, and as I was walking home tonight, in the dark woods of Manhattan, this poem kept running through my mind. Except that there were a couple of lines I couldn't remember. So I had to come home and look them up. And share the sentiment with the world.
I especially like the last stanza; it so ably summarizes how I feel a large majority of the time. But I did some homework tonight (never enough, but some. The pile never goes away.), so maybe I'm closer to sleep than Frost says.

Procrastination

A field planted every season
Soon wears out its soil
It can't support the constant growth
Despite the farmer's toil

It must lay fallow once a cycle
However long the cycle be
If it cannot, it will rebel
Proven fact in history

The field of the mind should not
Follow this example through
It should delight in bearing fruit
Be they many or just a few

It seems, however, that the spur
Necessary to sprout words
Is impending work; it begs
Imagination to be heard

No is not sufficient stop
For the active mind at play
The only way to buckle down
Is to reprove all delay

It's been a while; no excuse
It never was before
It's only now it takes import,
In the face of a daunting chore

So Stop I say, and no more lies
There's naught you can protest
It's waiting for attention now
Get to it - now - lest . . .

Pane

Sorry. I know, it's been a month. I haven't been feeling very poetic recently. No creativity whatsoever. Bear with me; it may come back eventually. I did OneWord today, in guilt. I guess I'm thinking in homonyms right now.

A pane of glass is only a small piece of a window. So much pain can be caused by one pane of glass. Even more can be caused by a sliver. Interesting, how pain increases as the size of the cause decreases. Strange.

CROSS (from One Word)

Today's One Word exercise:

sometimes i get angry. but then i go backward, over myself. then, you see i look up into the heavens. don't doublecross me with crossed-out meanings! Too much is also not enough. Crossing guards should be paid more. They're so important.

Writing Exercises, Not Written

I've been meaning to write one of the inverted pyramid fairy tale news stories that the Phantom Prof assigned for a while, but I can't pick a fairy tale. Also, I've been very busy and keeping up with one blog has been enough.

I remember in high school, we were once assigned to write any fairy tale as Shakespeare would have. The idea was to get us used to the King's (or Queen's, rather) English of the period - intro to Shakespeare, or some such - so most of the class just wrote out a story changing all the "you"s to "thou"s and "s"s to "eth"s, but I actually had fun writing out a play, with stage directions and all. It would be fun to do that again, too, but it takes too long.

Straight writing is easy, but all this imagination and creativity has me tired out. I'll try to get back into it soon.

Not Technically Poetry

I couldn't resist. This probably belongs on the main blog, but I have a serious post up today, and I don't want to overshadow it with humor.

Here are a select few of the Washington Post's Style Invitational winners. The point is to alter any word by one letter and write a new definition. These are typed exactly as they appear, so I take no credit for punctuation or anything else.

Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.

Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.

Karmageddon (n): It's like, when everybody is send off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.

Glibido (n): All talk and no action.

Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.

Caterpallor (n): The color you turn after finding half a grub in the fruit you're eating.

Ignoranus (n): A person who's both stupid and an *******.

Anaphora

I never knew what an anaphora was until today, but I've written them before. I've decided to do this week's assignment from the Phantom Professor because it's a poem and I like the idea and, well, I want to.

Something I love or hate . . . Love is so hackneyed, and I've been feeling so negative this week, so it will have to be hate, won't it. What do I hate? I try so hard not to hate.

Why is it always about me?
Why can't it be about something else?
Why can't I just write and fly?
Why isn't life just free and clear?

Why isn't a fair question.
Why is just an excuse.
Why can't you take responsibility?
Why doesn't it work?

Why can't I make up my mind?
Why can't I just write?
Why do the questions have to be so hard?
Why can't they read what's inside me?

Why am I feeling so confused?
Why do I come back to me?
Why is a two-year-old blamed
For constantly asking why?

But that wasn't the assignment, so I'll have to do another one. I'm not even sure what I was writing, but it's way too personal to post in comments on someone else's blog. That one will stay here, and I'll write a nice, predictable, happy anaphora.

When I look at you, you're there for me.
When I cry, you hold me tight.
When I think about being alone, I'm not.
When you're there, everything will be fine.

When you hold my hand, I look into your eyes.
When you look into mine, I am safe.
When I feel that nobody cares, there is you.
When you go, I am lonely, but never alone.

When you need me, I hope that I'll always be there.
When you cry, I will hear - that I know.
When you're there for me, I will be there for you.
When we're together, we're one.

When I grow, you will take on different names.
When I was young, you were mom.
When I grow older, though, you'll be him -
And you'll stay him for the rest of my life.

A Thought on Fifty Words

Is it unfair, I wonder, to
Promise fifty words
And preface them - those promised few -
With countless extra terms?

Does anyone think deep inside
"Oh, great - a quick, short post!"
And then get mad at seeing the
Introductory remarks?

Italics should, please, serve to warn
Of words not in the count
But all in all, I'm careful to
Not exceed the set amount.

Italics, though, (from Emily)
It's proper not to use too much.
I use them not for emphasis,
Not to give a special touch -

But just to warn my readers fair
That something extra resides here
Heroic couplets not to fear
This last line will not rhyme.

New Fifty Word Fiction

It's been too long since I did any writing exercises, and I noticed as I was writing a school project last night that I am slipping in my writing style. I used to be able to crank out a textbook-perfect essay on anything - with grammar, style, content - on my first try. I'm having more trouble with that, and I've started settling for content-only, rationalizing that my English is better than the professor's and everyone else will be handing in something else. But that's rationalization, and I don't write for my professors; I write for me. So I must get back in the habit of proper writing.

She sat alone on her bed, thinking of the friend she hadn't seen in months. Would he come to visit? Should she let him in? Would he try to explain?

He stood outside her door, hestitating to knock. He thought, She doesn't remember. She blocked it out. He knocked once.

One Word

A word is a thing
That is nothing at all
But sometimes it can be
Everything.

Anyone can say a word
Anyone can smile
Anyone can do or be
Everything.

So much need, tragic loss
Here and far away
And others sit because they have
Everything.

It's just a word
A single thought,
But sometimes it means
Everything.

If You Cared to Know

I am the sonnet, never quickly thrilled; Not prone to overstated gushing praise Nor yet to seething rants and anger, filled With overstretched opinions to rephrase; But on the other hand, not fond of fools, And thus, not fond of people, on the whole; And holding to the sound and useful rules, Not those that seek unjustified control. I'm balanced, measured, sensible (at least, I think I am, and usually I'm right); And when more ostentatious types have ceased, I'm still around, and doing, still, alright. In short, I'm calm and rational and stable - Or, well, I am, as much as I am able. What Poetry Form Are You?

But I do like people! I do! I do!
So not everything they say is true.

I am also Heroic Couplets, apparently.

Welcome, Welcome

Oh, my! I've had visitors
To this neglected site
I haven't been courteous,
Try as I might.

How can a girl keep up with two blogs
Especially when one requires all rhymes?
Yes I know it's self imposed,
But what of that? What rhymes with "rhymes"?

And what of meter?
This poem is pathetic.
I'm ashamed - yes, I am.
I'll try to do better.

Oh, I know! I know!
"Times" rhymes with "rhymes"
What else do I have to post here
At this times?

Some pictures, you say -
Since I know how to post them
And I have these gorgeous shots
Already uploaded.

This is getting worse and worse -
I'm shocked you still come
But I thank you and promise
To try to have something better for next time.

I heard a Fly buzz

by Emily Dickinson

I heard a Fly buzz -- when I died --
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air --
Between the Heaves of Storm --

The Eyes around -- had wrung them dry --
And Breaths were gathering firm
For that last Onset -- when the King
Be witnessed -- in the Room --

I willed my Keepsakes -- Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable -- and then it was
There interposed a Fly --

With Blue -- uncertain stumbling Buzz --
Between the light -- and me --
And then the Windows failed -- and then
I could not see to see --

This is the poem that inspired one of my Grand Canyon haiku. My favorite lines of this poem are "The Stillness in the Room / Was like the Stillness in the Air/ Between the Heaves of Storm". Very evocative phrase - brings these wonderful images to mind. I realize this is a depressing poem at first glance; much of Dickinson's work is depressing. But it's also veyr beautiful, and, whether she intended it that way or not, there is an insightful message beneath it - the important things in a person, in life, and how trivialities can get in the way and blingd us - or, in their own way, become important in their own right.

I just really like this one.

Hunger Pangs

Today is dragging slowly by.
The whole week's dragged its feet.
And I sit staring, naught to do,
Sitting, waiting just to eat.

The kitchen table's full, and I -
I like to eat alone.
Don't stare at me; don't watch me eat.
And please, don't take that tone.

I'm not so hungry, come to think.
I'm willing just to wait.
But everyone says, "Come and eat."
And I say, "Keep your eyes on your own plate!"

It's been a while since I've thought
Of things mundane and not.
I think I'll sit and contemplate,
All alone, in just this spot.

I think you're supposed to focus more on meaning than rhyme. My concern is always rythm over most other components of a poem. And I've been feeling Seussian/Wordsworthian recently - for like the last month or so - so rhyme is important.

Oh, and I should probably go eat lunch. You think that contributes to the subject matter?

Fifty Words on a Noble Hero

Soft ruffles of soft cotton on soft polyester fiberfill. Or goosedown. Covered by silk or satin. So inviting. Waiting for a slight weight to sink in, to gently indent the smooth surface. No matter that it becomes misshapen. It fluffs back up.
Last night I dreamt I ate a marshmallow.

Impending Senility

What was that? I didn’t hear.
Could you say that again?
I wish I may, I wish I might
What comes after ten?

You told me that, you say? You did?
It happened just last week?
Sorry, but I don’t recall.
I must have been asleep.

Sometimes I remember, true.
Some things stick in my mind.
Often, though, you find it’s gone.
Bear with me; please be kind.

You mutter, underneath your breath
“Some cards are missing from her deck”
I’m trying, though, so give me time.
I’ll remember in a sec.

Important notes, appointments, plans
Come and go and wander past.
It’s coming back, I’m trying hard
What was it that you asked?

A Poem I Really Like

by Someone

"I got two A's," the small boy cried.
His voice was filled with glee.
His father very bluntly asked,
"Why didn't you get three?"

"Mom, I've got the dishes done,"
The girl called from the door.
Her mother very calmly said,
"And did you sweep the floor?"

"I've mowed the grass," the tall boy said,
"And put the mower away."
His father asked him with a shrug,
"And that took you all day?"

The children in the house next door
Seem happy and content.
The same things happen over there,
But this is how they went:

"I got two A's," the small boy cried.
His face was filled with glee.
His father very proudly said, "That's great;
I'm proud you live with me."

"Mom, I've got the dishes done,"
The girl called from the door.
Her mother smiled and softly said,
"Each day I love you more."

"I've mowed the grass," the tall boy said,
"And put the mower away."
His father answered with much joy,
"Well done; you've made my day."

Children need encouragement
For tasks they're asked to do.
If they're to lead a happy life,
So much depends on you.

I always thought that this was written by Shel Silverstein; it has his style. But I don't think I've ever seen any author's name for this poem, and if it was Shel Silverstein, it would probably be attributed to him.
I've seen this poem on other sites with slightly different words, but this is how I first heard it, in approximately fourth grade, when we were introduced to poetry. Either version has the same message, and since no one knows who wrote it, I suppose no one can complain about misquoting.
Anyhow, I got two A's. Maybe I can make it three. Keep hoping.