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. :)

Rhyme+North & South

"...I believe I have seen Hell. It is white. Snow white." --Margaret Hale, North & South

   Recently, I discovered BBC's 2004 mini-series North & South, based on the novel by Elizabeth Gaskell. Mr. Thornton is played by Richard Armitage (The Hobbit, Thorin, the dwarf king). It's my new fave!! although there are some things I wish were different about the story. I haven't finished the book yet, though, so I'll save my criticisms for a review.

  Here's just a quick summary: it's a love story about two middle-class people--ex-clergyman's daughter, Margaret Hale, and cotton mill owner and town magistrate, John Thornton. It's set mostly in the made-up town of Milton, in 1850, so it's quite a bit more modern than Pride & Prejudice (which I also like!) and has technology like trains and machines in factories.  The two main conflicts are between 1) Margaret and Mr. Thornton, obviously, and 2) the mill workers and the owners, the "masters."
   Like all the shows I suddenly become crazy about, North & South influenced my writing. It started me on a story set in 17th century England and inspired this week's poem. My assignment was to work with rhyme. I had a long list of different types of rhyme to choose from: masculine (which I tend to use the most), feminine, perfect, slant, implied (I'll have to try to use this one sometime...), assonant, consonant, internal, and alliteration.

   I know I usually skip past the long poems in anthologies, but I hope you don't skip this! I think (I hope) it will be worth your read.

Free photo courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net

"By Definition, Gentleman"

There was a man who fell asleep with head upon his desk

Linen collar, dinner parties—victories slowly won

A past of shoeless cold, and hunger, finally undone

The candle stubs left little room for empty flask or keg

He counted out no more or less than what his workers earned

A servant made the fire in his mother's sitting room

His sister wore new gowns and had a dowry for her groom

He lost no bets by making none, his businesses were firm

His strident shout was warning, and if scoundrels didn't know to run

They'd know his bloody knuckles, and boots would speed their flight,

Yet “Sym-pa-thy” he dictated and urchins learned to write—

Philosopher's and poet's works were ever on his tongue

But silence more than recitations bended ears his way

When most would boast or spit upon another fellow's pride

Or look the other way and twist the truth, he didn't lie

Curses, bribes, and flattery alike he brushed away

And though he rarely complimented ladies evening gowns

He rose when they approached and kept all crude remarks aside

And speaking of the ladies in their eyes were sparks alight

Some with scoffing, some with sighs—there was but one he called his own

Even in the streets his calloused hand kept hers enclosed

No one, no word, no weapon, and no will would come between

the guardian angel and the queen,

And though she stumble, turn away, his arms were never closed.

He may no longer tip his hat but he is still among the few

He who I see from time to time, changing flats in mid-July

Who puts his arm round baby sister still and lets her cry,

Passed down from eras past who if I find I'll hold onto, and who I shall never lose.

What...

         ...was your favorite type of rhyme?

         ...didn't make sense?

         ...did I leave out of the portrait?

Critique away.

Iambic Pentameter

   I planned to take my time writing a really deep poem on my day off (Martin Luther King, Jr.  Day, Monday). On Sunday, as I sat leisurely on the sofa, I glanced up at the clock. It was almost 2:00.
I thought, "Huh, I need to check Blackboard at 3:00 so I can read and critique people's poems..." And then it dawned on me. "I have to write, edit, and post this poem in one hour!!" Since I'm not Jack, I flew into a panic, furiously hammering it out and then hacking away the extra lines. Needless to say it was late, and I've been torturing myself all week with visions of terrible critiques.

 But it turned out to be ok, and I survived. Most of the comments were positive, even from my teacher. Whew! I guess poems are so subjective that even a bad poem with good meter will get good comments.

   The workshop gave me enough confidence to post it here. Critique away! Tell me what it made you think, what didn't work, what you wanted more or less of.

The Centaur

I saw a creature near an apple tree.

Above a man below a beast, he drew

His bowstring back, his contoured shoulders taut.

The sunlight set his burnished coat aflame.

A buck and doe crept into view and grazed.

I’ve wondered, does the centaur ever wish

That he could trade his iron hooves for flesh,

Or change his arms for forefeet, beard for mane?

Whistle, thump, a flash of scarlet fruit.

The tree boughs burst with squawks—the deer took flight.

He galloped past the tree to take his prize.

His merry laugh rang out, and then a crunch.

He wiped the arrowhead across the grass

A creature not horse and not a man.

He trotted off, I think, toward his hearth.

Creative Writing Class

   I'm finally taking fun classes this semester! One of this is creative writing. This poem really is my first assignment from that class, and it is mostly true.

 Assignment One

It can't be hard to write a poem

Concrete with abstract undertones

Memories rise up scene by scene

Of Baba shelling long, flat beans

Of tents I made with chair and sheets,

Of Mama saying, “No more sweets!”

Of laughing till I nearly cried

On days with lumpy pillow skies

I type a line and pause to think

Until I'm dying for a drink

I stare at my computer screen

The plain white space looks back at me

I stab the backspace key again

I clear my throat and tap my chin

Erase, erase, a blank white screen

Too loud, the sound of this machine

My eyes are heavy, red and dry

The light is fading from the sky

I pull my hair, I whack the air

I jump up on a kitchen chair

I take a breath and try to smile

I sit and ponder for a while

My eyes have crossed—they might be stuck

I look like a strabismic duck

Why waste five hours of Saturday?

I'll try it the old-fashioned way.

I'm armed with paper and a pen

I write about my three best friends

I sigh and think my homework's done

I write, all caps, ASSIGNMENT ONE

I smile and read it one last time

To check my spelling and my rhymes

My jaw detaches from my face

I thought I'd covered every base

But abstracts litter every line

I'm just about to lose my mind

I snatch a pen I haven't chewed

I take a breath and open to

A page that's crisp, unmarked and white

A page that's crisp, unmarked and white

An Ailing Imagination & Ghost Writing

   Goal: write 100 pages of the same story by May 2013
  I'm so happy to be writing instead of just talking about writing! I'm going to post my progress for two different works in progress (which I guess basically all my writing is a WIP): my Wynnna story and my Thibault story.

 24 pages     5 pages

    Even though I'm finally out of my writer's desert, there's one thing that makes me worried. I don't know if there's something wrong with my imagination (is it sick? is it lazy? is it dead?), but I can't invent characters straight out of my head anymore. I base them all off of someone, mostly an actor/actress or some other celebrity, and sometimes an acquaintance. What do prescribe for an ailing imagination (assuming it's ailing and not expired)? Right now I'm giving it a regular dose of The Fellowship of the Ring.

 ***

   I learned about ghost-writing just recently. Basically, it's like this.
1) Someone has a brilliant idea for a book but doesn't have the time, patience, or skills to write it.
2) That person, the client, hires a ghost-writer to write it for him. (The client may be an expert on something, or he may want the world to know about his extraordinary life, or possibly he is dying to see a riveting plot that is stuck in his head to be made into a novel.)
3) The ghost-writer then interviews the client and writes the desired book from scratch or from a rough draft.  Ghost-writers are like actors, because since they are writing for the client, it has to be in the client's voice and communicate the client's message.
4) The client look at what the ghost-writer has written and edit and revises until he approves.
5) When it's finished, the client is pronounced an "author" and the ghost-writer can be pronounced anybody from co-author to officially non-existant as far as the writing is concerned.

   In the interviews I read, ghost-writers say they love their jobs and are dedicated to their clients and don't mind getting partial or no credit. All of their answers to questions seem to say one thing: "If you think about it, everyone should have their own book ghost-written!" But no matter which way you slice  it, I would have a problem with the process.

If I was the ghost-writer, I would feel so unappreciated to not get credit for all my hard work. I would feel cheated.
  And if I were the "author," oh, I would feel royally important having someone interview me and ask for my preference on everything, and it would be so easy! But I would feel like such a cheater to not do the hard work on "my" book.
   I guess it all depends on what type of book you are writing and how much credit you give the ghost-writer, but as of now, I'm not quite convinced.

What do you think about ghost-writing?

Have you kept your New Year's resolutions the first 8 days of 2013?