Looking Kind Of Small
Is that mean enough?
Don’t know; are they clapping yet?
Ethics…. grrr… tax rate…. grrr….. food stamps… grrr… outrage… grrr…despicable…. grrr…how
dare you grrr?…Iran…grrr…Latinos…grrr…marriage…grrr…leadership…grrr…
bad…grrr…bad…um…(grrrr) bad, bad, bad.
And what I really hate is all my opponent’s negative campaigning…
Grrrrr….
(Here’s my flash friday 55. Tell it to the grrr G-Man!)
(P.S. apologies to subscribers for earlier post now deleted–sent out pre-content!)
The wonderful dVerse Poets Pub has a “form for all” challenge today to write a French Ballade . The pompt, hosted by Gay Reiser Cannon, gives clear instructions but, frankly, I found it a pretty difficult form. For me, the hardest part was the syllabic line (8 syllables), since I tend to write in a modified pentameter (which allows for a bit of play in the number of syllables.)
At any rate, here’s mine. (It’s still kind of a draft–suggestions welcome!)
Going Home (Last Hospital Stay)
Though angled with no special care,
the tape stains spoke of intention,
as if, by cantilever, there
had been some trick of physics done,
some framework lifted, battle won,
a scaffolding’s dismounted trace–
of orange (glue)–and, too, a notion
of failing beams across a face.
But skin was sore now it was bare
of bands of tube that had just run
from nostril curve to curl of ear
to squeeze and ease the oxygen,
to silently let go let come
what let the lungs slow down their race,
and countenance reflect a sun
of failing beams across a face.
They rushed us home through open air–
each stretcher bearer was a son–
and cold it was, so cold out there–
and you, my dad, my only one–
I put my coat, my hat, upon
you too, though they looked out of place,
their blues too sprightly, too much fun,
with failing beams across your face.
You worried whether I was warm
and offered back, with age-old grace,
all to be had that day near done,
its failing beams across your face.
(P.S. – have edited since I first posted. A process this!)
apace.
I am diabolically busy this week, so am combining my response to two wonderful online prompts: Magpie Tales, hosted by Tess Kincaid, and dVerse Poets Pub open link night. (The above is my rendering of Tess’s photographic prompt, its mood slightly offered and the “rice” more or less gone) I urge you to check out both sites.
And here’s the poem, with a cautionary note that the language is more “adult” than typically posted here, i.e. stop right now if you don’t like that sort of thing.
Ophelia, Ophelia Syndrome
Girl’s beast heart, age ten, swims sky,
arms swinging wings, she springs
till body turns spy—
Where does complete go?
Drips from woman’s breast, ass, thigh.
She loves pining, the yearn,
craves the kiss, lick, fuck,
finds contempt, klutz lust, mucks
about in briny shyness.
Making boy-man God-king
slits wings. Rubs a zipper
into her skin to mend it,
hoards opalescence.
Further notes–the poem was inspired from a discussion, popular a few years back, about many girls’ loss of confidence at a certain age. It was actually written as part of a “magnetic poetry” exercise (for a party), in which only words on a specific list could be used. For those interested in the mechanics of prompts and the wayward mind, the other poem I wrote from that same list deals with peeing in the ocean. (Both poems are in Going on Somewhere, available on Amazon.)
Yesterday was a day of working extremely hard to meet a noveling deadline. (A contest.)
It is very difficult to meet a noveling deadline in a single day.
In my case, the attempt was made because I happen to have a few old manuscripts squirreled away. They include very rough drafts as well fairly polished drafts–a couple are of novels that I once took very seriously, but for some reason or another–i.e. rejection letters–set aside.
Unfortunately, even the once-polished novels have gotten fairly rough over time, as after enough rejections, I would inevitably begin re-writing them and would not always get to a new re-polishing.
I’ve known about the deadline for a while, but could not decide which manuscript I could bear to focus on until 6 a.m. yesterday. (Revisiting an old manuscript can be a bit like meeting up with an X–quite painful until you settle down and just have sex.) (Note to husband–this is a joke.)
One of the wonders of a computer is that you can save a zillion drafts, some of which improve your work, some of which may just be little experiments, fits of pique.
Oops! Did I call this a wonder of the computer?
How about I wonder how this draft is different from that one? I wonder what happened to that draft in which I did such and such. Most of all, I wonder why I never stuck to a system for all this stuff.
Still, I finally got down to brass tacks, and managed, through the course of many hours, to totally fry my eyes. And, yet, not finish the revisions. (I’m less than half way through.)
I console myself with the fact that I would not likely win the contest anyway. And then I think, maybe the last half is, you know, fine as is. (Ha!)
(P.S. – in the meantime, please please please check out my last book, fully polished: NOSE DIVE, a very silly escapist novel available on Kindle for just 99 cents, and in paperback for only ten times more. It really is quite fun, and now has a very kind review from Victoria C. Slotto.)
There is a tendency in this country to exalt the bravery of those who happened, very unfortunately, to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. For example, while there were in fact many heroes who died on 9/11, it always seems to me a bit strange to label anyone who happened to be in the towers that day a hero. I say that not meaning to diminish the suffering of people who died then, or in other tragic circumstances, or to diminish the loss of their families, or even to comment on their personal bravery. It’s just that the term has gotten to be used rather automatically in tragic circumstances, perhaps because tragedy–great losses–tend to bring out a hyperbolic lexicon; we want always to enoble a terrible loss.
Giffords, however, seems deserving of this label–because she was so trusting, because she was (and seemingly is) so service oriented, because she lost so much and has worked so hard in her recovery, regaining so much, because of an ongoing attitude of faith and appreciation and because of incredibly inspiring things like this video. It’s pretty amazing. I wish her well in her continuing recovery. May there be no more such terrible incidents in this country’s future.
I am posting the poem below (a sonnet) for a dVerse Poets Pub poetics prompt to write about borders. I thought of posting a more more risque, i.e. erotic poem, as this would somehow represent crossing a sort of personal online- publishing border, But the fact is I kind of like the poem below, though it is not rique or erotic. The drawing above, by Diana Barco, is from Going on Somewhere.
East Indian Trains in the Catskills
(For Jeannie Hutchins)
As lilacs cast their fragrance on wet grass,
she thinks of trains and dust, the smell of hot spiced chai,
maroon banquettes, babbled cries en masse—
muffled by shutters echoed Hindi words for buy,
the soles of porters’ shoes so flat and white and pointed,
her own were thick, protection sewn by Clarks,
the baseline of what made her feel anointed—
when her hand waved at the window, it left sparks.
She sparkled just for coming from the West
(with cash, pale eyes, and shockingly blonde hair).
But now she feels a different specialness:
no matter where she is, she once was there,
so that even on this Catskill-scented lawn,
mind resonates with Indian trains at dawn.
Note To be Stored on Mental Loudspeaker
If you–repeat–
are on a ship whose lists are not
just of passengers, but onto its side–
(Or in a building
whose neighbor’s aflame–)
do NOT–repeat–remain
at your table
(or desk), even
if so instructed, BUT,
without shoving or pushing,
pass Go–
repeat–
Pass Go.
(This will not–
repeat–
be a game.)
This is for the G-Man’s Mr. Know-it-All’s Flash 55, and I don’t mean it to sound glib (recent events are horrific) but as an exhortation!
Have a safe and happy weekend and thanks so much for reading, commenting, just being here.
Victoria C. Slotto, hosting dVerse Poets Pub’s “Meet the Bar” today urges participants to try to write poems in the style of “imagism,” that is, in the spare concrete and imagistic mode of William Carlos Williams, H.D., or Pound. (Victoria has a wonderful article much more fully describing the movement.)
This is a difficult challenge for very wordy me.
Here’s my attempt:
Tube Socks
How, in near night
grass, do
white cotton
socks
pulse light?
Right
(left right)
at our feet.
P.S. I have not been much involved in the bookselling busiess lately due to all the turmoil in my life, but please please please check out NOSE DIVE, a very silly comic novel written by me and illustrated by Jonathan Segal. At 99 cents (on Kindle) it’s an incredible bargain. Also available on paperback for a bit more. Thanks much!
I have mixed feelings about SOPA, the “Stop Online Piracy Act.”
On the one hand, the level of internet piracy is mammoth; many companies make big advertising bucks out of stolen content. This lawlessness degrades consumers’ views of intellectual property rights, and, I believe, makes it increasingly difficult for artists to make a living off their work.
On the other hand, the internet is about the only thing in our culture that is free. And this freedom is not just in terms of cost. There’s a great freedom for people to make and post art–some of which is undeniably derivative. I, for example, make a lot of little paintings, some of which sponge images from other people.
I sincerely believe that the types of things I do are either (i) “original” or (ii) “fair use,” and that they do not infringe copyright. (Note that I feel a particular absence of guilt over Andy Warhol, one of the biggest appropriators of all time.)
However, interpretations of laws are always multiple, and it is awful to think that SOPA, if drafted as broadly as everyone says, could be used not to just curtail my little elephants, but WordPress itself for letting me post them.
And here’s one of the rubs–even if government is not interested in shutting down my little elephants (or donkeys, for that matter), and I, perhaps naively, do not believe that it is–I can easily imagine a situation where access-providers could over-zealously apply the law to protect themselves.
And, of course, government could also get into the act.
So, while I am not particularly interested in protecting the pirates–and I do think some thought needs to be given to protecting property rights– I’m very concerned about maintaining freedom for my little elephants and big elephants, and other people’s too. SOPA seems to pose real risks.
P.S. my elephants have no relationship to any political party or even to Babar. (I just like elephants.)
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