Meter Revisited

I Know Why the Groundhog Hides

The ladies jog in matching yellow headbands through the park

The squirrels dance to harmonizing honking in the streets

A growing humming says the bees have found their winter-buried gold

The buds begin to yawn and nod to blooms on every side

Never did a cloud release a solitary drop

Or juicy ruby berries summon just a single fly

When Earth is wreathed in scent and every breath of air is light

I know why the groundhog hides

I know why the groundhog hides,

I know what sends him to his hole

Not that his shadow falls too stark against the wind-blown grass

Or that his sleep was short and musty hollows call him back

But that his is the only groundhog shadow there at all

Free photo compliments of freedigitalphotos.net

Ode

  We had a choice this time of writing an elegy, a ballad, a pastoral, or what I picked, an ode.

Umeboshi

Just thinking of them

Hurts my cheeks—

Break the stems

At ripeness' peak

Add shiso leaves, salt and sun

Dry them, flip them one by one

Umeboshi, pickled plum

Purply-red with

white rice, yum!

Eat it whole, spit out the pit

Baba's umeboshi wins,

the sour puckers up the chin

Ninety years is time

enough, and salt enough—

to modify the taste, refine

what's now perfection's stuff

This year's is the final batch

The tenth in total called “the last”

      "Umeboshi" is actually the second ode I wrote and polished. The first one was a sad ode called "The Plait," and it was about a braid of hair and two best friends. I thought it was good. But I just wrote it to see if I could and then realized it wasn't me. It was like me acting like someone else and writing what they would write. So I put it away. Has that ever happened to you?

Persona

         I looked back to see how many poems I've written for class, and it's only four! It felt like so many more, probably because it takes three or four false starts to get going.

         This week especially I wanted to write something that resounded in the soul, or at least that made you stop and think, and think. But I thought I had run out of power--nothing I wrote was working, and I didn't have a lot of time. Stress+not much time+headache+fireworks in my vision≠a good poem.

        I've  played in a lot of piano auditions and recitals for the past eight years. Whenever I was worried about a big octave jump my piano teacher always says, "It never hurts to pray." And for poetry, too, it doesn't doesn't hurt. Actually, it helps.

Notes: This poem is related to my Wynna story.

Free photo courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net.

"Prisoner's Lament"

You, there. Guard.

See? I've eaten all the hard

bread. I've made my bed,

or at least, folded the gray cotton you said

is my royal coverlet.

What is your name? We haven't actually met.

King Durim, is my father,

and I am Princess Lili. You can tell by my silver collar,

which your fellow soldiers snatched from me

before they slung me on the back of a coal lizard and stole me across the sea

to your land. There. I've

introduced myself. And I will call you Blithe,

because of all the guards I’ve met

You talk and smile the most. Which is to say, not at all. Yet

I try to use my imagination.

Botheration—

I'm trying to keep things light here but

my creativity is hard put when your mouth is shut

tighter than a dragon's and I have to keep

up all the talk!

Beg’ pardon, Blithe. I shouldn't speak in mock-

optimism and cheeriness.

I'll stop and fold this pretty gray nightdress.

Blithe, do you know what my people say about me?

They say I’m a foreigner and shouldn't be

heiress to the throne.

But it was my father who found me, brought me home--

I said I was sorry before,

and I still am, Blithe, for being sore

at you. But I'm not sorry for being

hopeful. I keep seeing

my father when I close my eyes.

No other duke or prince, no,

not even your highness Gera looked so

grand at the ball. I see my father in my mind's eye

standing tall and solid, with the starry sky

of Dorinth emblazoned on his chest.

He wore his silver collar and his best

sword at his side.

I will not cry. I will not cry.

I am not crying. It's dusty, and...

All right, I am. But it's only because of my hand.

You know, the coal lizard burnt it, and my

wrists have welts from the ropes tied too tight.

Do you know, the day before the New Year's Eve Ball

He said I wasn’t to dance?

I'd be behind a row of guards—my usual fence—

but I should've been thankful he let me go at all.

It's just, I felt like a dragon with its wings bound.

I've never run free, servants and guards always all around.

I told him he should had left me in Solong

I triumphed at his crinkled brow. But that was wrong.

I have fought him before, fought His Majesty the King,

and now it makes me want to wring

my own neck. The man who people call in songs

Your Majesty, Wise Counselor, Iron Soldier

I have called tyrant and unfair,

and I was wrong.

I was wrong.

Have you heard my father went to fight the old Pine's Wars?

On foreign soil, amidst the rubble of the final battle

Dorinthians, Solongians, the enemy strewn everywhere like cattle

in the streets, he crawled among the bodies on all fours.

He found me by my cries.

I shut my eyes

now, picture him

Pinpointing my small voice in the din.

Death before, behind, beside, I wonder why

he didn’t leave me there to die.

I wish I had been there.

Then maybe I could have seen just what he saw in me

Before I could prove what kind of daughter I would be

And yet...I was there.

And, Blithe, I hope you're ready

The Iron Soldier will arrive

If he isn't here already.

King Gera may be sorry he took Durim's daughter hostage.

When Father comes I will admit my stupid folly

I'll tell him I was wrong and that I'm sorry. I am sorry.

Symbol

   Things never end up turning out the way I plan them. I was shooting for a deep poem again, and I ended up with another light, funny, Seuss-y poem. I took a risk this week (writing a poem each week and workshopping really feels like X-Factor live shows) and experimented with the form--big and small font size, broken lines. I was nervous, but my teacher and classmates were all very receptive to the style!

For Goodness' Sake

“Mix all dry ingredients into a bowl

And separately whisk a large hen's egg with oil

Then blend both together, pour in a dish,

And pop in the oven for thirty-five-ish”

I thought “what's the point of a cake that's so easy?”

I whipped up a filling to make it more creamy,

Quadrupled the recipe. Bigger is better!

I poured it in twelve 9-inch pans                  

                                          to

                                                  make

                                                                   layers.

It turned out my oven could hold only half

and that filling brought sweet-kamikaze-toothed gnats,

And while I saran-wrapped the six other pans

And picked out the sugar-crazed-desperate clan

The cakes in the oven got blacker than brown,

The smoke alarm’s ringing still makes my head pound!

The next batch was better except it was flat

Thanks to me closing the doorwaytoofast.

A three-layered cake may sound glorious to you

(I dropped                                                              

            three and six I scraped out with a spoon)

Yes, it was chocolate and six inches deep

But when it had cooled and was ready to eat

I sliced with a knife but a saw would have helped,

it was stale and tasted like sugary felt

I thought “what's the point of a three-layered cake

if it doesn't taste good? For goodness' sake!”

The Sky is Not the Limit...Or Is It?

   Going to class, doing homework (especially writing poetry!!), reading (I finished The Fellowship of the Ring today, for the second time), working out, eye appointments, etc. don't leave large blocks of time to write my stories. Maybe I need to snatch the precious minutes like now to do it. Anyway, for now Wynna and Thibault are on hold in their worlds. In the meantime, let me ask you for advice on character.

   Here is my query: How do you write beyond your ken?

   I want my characters to be wise, hilarious, noble, bold, and varied, but...I'm finding them rather dull, timid, too similar to each other, and too much like me.  I know you can write about situations and things you haven't experienced yourself by drawing on other people's experiences or just having a good imagination (was it Emily Dickinson who never married but wrote great love poems?). But how about the things you can't fake--funniness, wisdom?


Random Fact of the Day: my two favorite quotes from North and South are these...
"I believe I have seen Hell. It is white. Snow white." That line gives me chills!! Especially with the glorious soundtrack in the background.
"Look back at me." That one makes me die. And you will understand why if you watch it. :)