file under 'will never be published' (no. 13)

File under 'Will never be published' (no. 13): Dolores Ipsum

Background: Lorem Ipsum is well-known text used by people who do print and web layout. I came across it over a decade ago when I took a computer course, filed it away in the back of my mind, and moved on with my life without doing any print or web layout. 

The thinking behind using the text is that words are needed to know what print will look like, but it needs to be print that doesn't necessarily mean anything. 

This is what is used. It's based on Cicero:

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat. Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum.

The actual Cicero text means something along the lines of, "No one desires to obtain pain for its own sake, because it is pain, but occasionally circumstances occur in which pain can bring great pleasure."

A couple of years ago, I wrote a series of poems about women based on historical writings. I thought about the Cicero and thought it was a very feminine thing, changing shape to be whatever a man needed. I changed 'dolorem ipsum' to Dolores Ipsum and off I went, with the result below.

Why it will never be published: Do you really need to ask? It's a bit obscure and requires a lot of explanation. Poetry shouldn't need this much explanation. 

Why I wrote this blog post today: Open Culture tweeted about it and I had a flashback. What are the odds that someone else would be interested in the origins of nonsense text?

Dolores Ipsum.

   I’m waiting patiently.

   Cicero wants me to wait,

   So here I sit, holding my shape,

   Just as he told me.

   He said, “Lean your head a bit to the left”:

Like so.

   He said, “No, perhaps to the right”:

                                                            Yes, sir.

   My aim is to please with my pain

   Because it is my duty and because I am good.

   I know I am silly with my nonsensical Latin

   That does nothing but take up space 
   Until he can fill it with his words
   Full of meaning and wisdom.

   I take pleasure in the words of Cicero.

   I reject my own meaning for his

   Because his words are better,

Whether right

Or left.

   It’s just as Cicero explained:

   “Dolores, no one likes pain.”

   He needs me to wait here,

   And so, I wait with my ache.

under the apple tree

I started a story. I could go on and on with it, but I'll stop and leave it unfinished, as it is, and call it a blog post.


Once upon a time, there was a great big apple tree --a fruitful thing that had enough apples for everyone. 

The people lived beneath the apple tree, as that was their source of nourishment. They lived in two groups: the group that lived in the grass directly under the apple tree; and the group that lived in pits that had been dug out of the way of the roots.

Some of the group who lived in the grass above set about climbing the tree to collect the apples. They were industrious. They grew thick calluses on their hands and feet from scaling the trunk, and when they shook the branches, apples rained down from above. Some of the apples rolled into the pits, but most of the apples landed in the grass and stayed there until a grass-dweller happened to feel peckish and leaned down to pick it up.

One day, a pit-dweller named Sam, who had gone hungry for quite enough time, called up. "Can someone please throw down an apple? I'm starving down here!"

What was this noise from below? wondered the grass-dwellers. And why was it demanding apples?

"If you would like an apple, why don't you climb the tree like everyone else?" snapped a grass-dweller named George (who hadn't, in fact, climbed the tree himself but had certainly broken a sweat watching those who had).

"We've been down here trying to climb out of the pits!" called up another pit-dweller named Lucy. "We'd gladly climb the tree --our hands are strong now, from trying to grapple with the dirt, but whenever we dig in, the dirt gives way, and we tumble back down again."

"Fine. Here. Have an apple." George tossed down the core of the apple he had been happily gnawing away at before the complaining began. It's not like he could enjoy it anymore with all of that racket going on below. They didn't have enough energy to climb the apple tree --where did they get all of this energy to complain so loudly?

"That was generous of you," a grass-dweller named Maude complimented George. "Too generous. You don't want to encourage their sloth! And they're devious, too. Do you know, just the other day, I was reaching down to pick up an apple, and one of those pit-dwellers grabbed my ankle and pulled me over and stole my apple! You're much more generous that I would be. They don't deserve it."

"Oh, I know. It was just to get some peace and quiet. I was done with it, anyway."

"Still, it'll only encourage them to be loud again."

"We can hear you, you know," Lucy called up.

"See what I mean?"



It was just an idea that came to mind when I woke up one day this week. I stopped where humanity looks pretty bleak, but it doesn't have to end that way. Any ideas for how the two groups can come together?

And some questions about what's already there:

• What do you think of the pit-dweller who stole the apple?
• Do you think it makes sense for only some of the grass-dwellers to climb the apple tree? Why or why not?
• How did the grass-dwellers and the pit-dwellers end up in such different circumstances in the first place (with the pit-dwellers obviously placed at a disadvantage)?

file under 'will never be published' (no. 12)

File under 'Will Never Be Published' (no. 12): To Noam Chomsky, With The Clever Eyes

Background: Yet another contest entry that went nowhere. That appears to be a theme in my writing.

Ideas are hard. I use contests as inspiration for both form (no longer than 500 words, a sonnet, a 1-2 character full-length play, etc.) and content (write about this painting, write something beginning with this sentence, etc.). In this way, even if I have no ideas, someone else has provided one to me. Then, I write.

In this instance, the result cracked me up --in a good way. The idea of writing a love poem to Noam Chomsky (I know him more from his linguistics than his politics, to be honest), who is old enough to be my grandfather, makes me chuckle. I submitted it for a contest that asked for poems written to revolutionaries. I never heard back. This does not surprise me. There's something to be said for writing for one's own enjoyment, but I wouldn't have responded to me, either.

It is written as a sonnet, and it involved some research (since, as I mentioned, I don't know much about Mr. Chomsky's politics). Is it great? Nope. Is it fun? I'll let you judge. I chuckled rereading it.

There's no "wrong" place to find your inspiration, and you are not required to be creative in a vacuum. Enjoy the process, and don't be afraid to be silly!

Why it will never be published: 1) it is a love sonnet to Noam Chomsky; 2) it is a sonnet; and 3) I'm never submitting it again!

To Noam Chomsky, With The Clever Eyes

To Noam, with the clever eyes:

You’re my anarcho-love ideal.

I really must apologize

For telling you the way I feel

(Although I’m practicing free speech,

A cause I know that you support.

I just don’t want to overreach --

It’s not like I’m the Supreme Court).

My feelings are not only lust --

You’ll have to take me at my word

And grant me some degree of trust,

Despite the fact I sound absurd.

I reject most authority,

But my heart says that you’re for me.

file under 'will never be published' (no. 11)

It's been a while.

I'm very rusty at writing at the moment, which leaves me feeling particularly rickety. Feeling rickety is fine if you're a swing or a gate, I suspect, but as a human being (at least, I think I still qualify as one of those), it's not the most pleasant feeling. One feels one could fall down at any moment, and falling down is not an option, so ...

File Under 'Will Never Be Published' (no. 11): The First Cold Read

Background: There is a fun short story competition I used to enter from time to time. I won it once --this was another entry for the same competition. The contest no longer exists, which is a shame. It was good fun.

For this particular month, the entrants were provided the opening phrase, “I looked into her eyes and I could see the anger that she was fighting to contain, but then …”. I don't know why, but the phrasing bothered me. The entire short story came from improvising after that initial annoyance. Writers get their inspiration from odd places sometimes. I get my inspiration from odd places sometimes. There's nothing wrong with odd, but there may be something wrong with run-on sentences.



The First Cold Read

“I looked into her eyes and I could see the anger that she was fighting to contain, but then …”

“Run-on.”

“What?”

“You’ve got, like, three sentences going there. It’s a run-on.”

“Fine. I looked into her eyes. Stop. I could see the anger that she was fighting to contain. Stop. But then …”

“That should be a comma. It was only two sentences.”

“What should be a comma?”

“I could see the anger that she was fighting to contain, comma, but then.”

She stared at him.

“Fine. I looked into her eyes. Stop. I could see the anger that she was fighting to contain, comma, but then …”

“Don’t you feel like this has been done before. I mean, it’s a cliché, isn’t it? The guy does the wrong thing, the woman gets angry at him but keeps it all in, the guy realizes it too late ...”

“It’s not a cliché. It’s a common conflict, and stories need conflict.”

“Yeah, but it’s the easy way, isn’t it?”

“You know what? Never mind. I’m going to work on the story. I needed to edit it before I read it to you, anyway.”

She began to turn in the chair.

“No, it’s good. Keep going. I want to be supportive. Go on.”

She stopped.

“Okay. I looked into her eyes. I could see the anger that she was fighting to contain, but then …”

“Do you need to use the word ‘that’?”

“What?”

“I could see the anger that she was fighting to contain. Does ‘that’ need to be there? I could see the anger she was fighting to contain makes sense, even without ‘that’. Saves you a word.”

“Okay …”

She hit the delete key with excessive force four times.

“Is everything okay, honey?”

“Mmhm. Why do you ask?”

“You seem upset.”

“Upset? No. Why would I be upset?”

“I don’t know. You wanted to read me what you wrote, and I’m listening, but you seem upset.”

“No, I’m fine. I think I’m going to do some editing.”

“But you wanted to read me what you wrote. Are you sure?”

“We can do it later.”

“Okay. You’re going to edit, right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You said you were going to edit.”

“Yeah, so then why did you ask if I was going to edit? Are you saying it’s bad?”

“No! I was just asking! Wow. You know what? I’m going to go watch some TV.”

She watched as he walked through the doorway.

Once she heard the TV turn on in the other room, she turned to face the computer again and began to type:

I looked into her eyes. I could see the anger she was fighting to contain, but then, suddenly, I met with a fortunate accident; it was fortunate I had the accident, or else, she would have killed me.

The Smart Family (& Bob!)

In a village called Clever, in a land called Intellect, there lived a family called Smart.

The Smart Family was smart, smarter than all of the other families in the village. The Smart Family was the smartest family in the land. It's how they got their name, oddly enough.  

There were ...

Papa Smart (Celebrated Mathematician), 

Mama Smart (Accomplished Philosopher), 

Sister Smart (Well-Respected Artist), ...

And there was Bob.

Bob Smart was not like the other Smarts. Bob loved laughing at funny noises. Bob loved watching clouds. Bob loved shiny rocks.

“Oh, Bob,” the other Smarts smiled and sighed. 

The people of Clever acknowledged the Smart Family were the smartest family in the land, even as they watched Bob chasing yet another butterfly. 

“Oh, Bob,” the people of Clever smiled and shook their heads.

Bob, of course, always smiled back at his family. He always smiled back at the people of Clever. That's just the way Bob was.

.   .   .

The time came when the people of Clever needed to retrieve more resources from the other side of Mt. Wisdom, since these kinds of stories usually involve this kind of quest. This was a problem. 

The problem was not crossing the mountain. All that required was putting one foot in front of the other. The problem was the troublesome Wisenheimer, who protected Mt. Wisdom.

The people of Clever had not needed to cross Mt. Wisdom for generations, and the only information they had about the troublesome Wisenheimer was based on legends and folk tales. For people accustomed to the rational, legends and folk tales were vague and frightening things.

The old tales described a creature that blocked the villagers' travels across the pass. The monster was said to create lightning that chased the villagers back down the mountain.  In short, oral tradition made it known: the troublesome Wisenheimer was not very welcoming.    

.   .   .

The people of Clever agreed the Smart Family should try to cross the pass since they were the most likely to find a way past the Wisenheimer. The people of Clever also agreed Bob had to go with them.

The Smart Family began climbing Mt. Wisdom.  

Up they marched.  

Up they trudged.  

Up they dragged themselves.  

Up, up, up they went. 

Finally, they reached the top. There, they found the legendary Wisenheimer, a swarthy, hairy fellow with a most fearsome smirk.

Papa Smart asked the Wisenheimer to pass. He felt a direct approach would be strategically appropriate.

“I’ll let you pass if you can answer one question,” snickered the Wisenheimer.  “What is life all about?”

Papa Smart stroked his chin knowingly.  “Well, life is a mysterious X.  If X equals …”

ZAP!  Papa Smart went rolling back down the mountain toward Clever.

“Sorry, wrong number!"

The remaining Smarts who were paying attention --Mama and Sister --understood getting past the Wisenheimer would be trickier than they had hoped.

"Want to try, Mom?”  giggled the Wisenheimer.  “What is life all about?”

Mama Smart began cautiously, “Well, Plato would say, …”         

ZAP!  And Mama Smart flew head over heels, back down the mountain toward Clever.

“Plato would say nope!” cackled the Wisenheimer.  “How about you, girl?  What is life all about?”   

Sister Smart did not have her supplies for painting.  In a panic, she tried to act out the meaning of life through interpretive dance.

This amused the Wisenheimer for a little while.  

ZAP!  Away Sister Smart tumbled.

“And you, boy?”  the Wisenheimer asked Bob, who was examining a particularly nice stone on the ground.  “Would you like to try? What is life all about?”             

Bob smiled up at the Wisenheimer.  “I don’t know. What is life all about?”  

And he went back to looking at his stone.

.   .   .

The Wisenheimer did not know the answer, either. That's why he was asking these people who kept bothering him! It was obvious they didn't know, either, but they pretended like they did and that left him feeling unfulfilled and irate. 

The Wisenheimer tried to think of an answer, but none came. Maybe the boy was right --maybe there was no answer. Maybe it was okay not to know.

The Wisenheimer found this to be a most impressive solution. 

He had to work at it, but the Wisenheimer finally got the left corner of his mouth to perk up, and his smirk grew into an awkward grin. He smiled back at the boy. 

“Me neither.  Do you want to see my rock collection?”

.   .   .

From that day on, the Wisenheimer happily allowed the people of Clever to travel across Mt. Wisdom to get whatever they needed from the other side.

It was the least he could do.  

After all, his friend Bob Smart –the smartest person he knew –was one of them.

THE  END

file under 'will never be published' (no. 10)

File under 'will never be published': 
Upside Down Ghazal

Background: I don't like to follow rules. That's not true. I don't like to follow arbitrary rules. I do, however, like to understand rules. How can you figure out if a rule is arbitrary if you don't understand it? How can you bend a rule that is arbitrary or push its limits if you don't fully understand it?

I'm an autodidact where it comes to poetry --that's just a fancy way of saying I'm self-taught. I don't remember ever really studying poetry in school. I stumbled upon poetry fairly recently (in 2014, to be exact). Poetry became something I didn't understand, but I knew I liked the sound of it and I liked the imagery in it. I needed something to do with my brain that would take it away from worrying and obsessive thinking, and poetry worked for me. 

I found a contest early on, when I decided I wanted to Write (capital letter, because I was serious), that gave a theme and asked for a villanelle. I had no idea what a villanelle was. I searched the Internet, found an example and definition, and managed to write one using the example (Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night") as a template. I've done the same with other poetic forms since --sonnets, odes, etc., etc.

Here's where we get into the rule-bending thing. After a while, one does like to mix it up a bit. I've written incomplete sonnets. I've written villanelles using curse words. And I've written an upside down ghazal.

A ghazal has its origins in South Asia and Persia (apparently, or so the Interweb told me). I'll let the Poets.org website explain the rest, since that's where I learned about it: 

"The ghazal is composed of a minimum of five couplets—and typically no more than fifteen—that are structurally, thematically, and emotionally autonomous. Each line of the poem must be of the same length, though meter is not imposed in English. The first couplet introduces a scheme, made up of a rhyme followed by a refrain. Subsequent couplets pick up the same scheme in the second line only, repeating the refrain and rhyming the second line with both lines of the first stanza. The final couplet usually includes the poet’s signature, referring to the author in the first or third person, and frequently including the poet’s own name or a derivation of its meaning." 

Naturally, reading this, my first question is, why does it have to be like that? I wanted to flip it upside down. They're traditionally love poems? Great. I'll make it the opposite of a love poem. Why not? Plenty of people have written ghazals, probably better than I ever could, but bet no one's tried this (maybe for good reason).

Don't be afraid to try things in writing. It does not hurt anything to bend rules in an art form. It hurts no one. No one will think badly of you for wondering out loud, what if I try this? Why not try? Have some fun. Experiment. Push limits. Otherwise, what's the point, especially if you're writing fiction or poetry?

It'll never be published because it's a little strange. I'm okay with that. At least I tried.

Upside Down Ghazal

Love ended.  My head’s been turned upside down,

And I, stupid poetess, forgot the rules.

An unlucky widow was burned upside down

Because her husband unfortunately died.

“A dollar spent’s a penny earned” –upside-down

Logic that leads to nothing but bankruptcy.

The judgment of a court adjourned upside down

Was a sentence without any meaning.

The wet misery that I’ve learned upside down,

Inside out, and sideways moistens my forehead.

When a batch of butter gets churned upside down,

The cream will always sink down to the bottom.

One frigid spring, you left me spurned –upside down.

Now backwards is what’s left, yearned upside down.