two herons

two herons.

we watched the feathered pair go winging by,
their long-necked forms stretched forth with home in view.
we turned our heads and eyes up toward the sky
and watched the progress of those travelers two.

you said that herons live as lifetime mates,
like geese or swans or cranes or other birds
(I knew it was not true but hate debates,
and so, I stood and watched and held my words).

the pair flew off and past the grove of trees,
and we walked on and did not talk --
the only sounds: leaves crackling in the breeze,
the stilted silence of our lonely walk.

I envied them their flight and blessed wings
as they flew past and onto other things.

why poetry? (end of 2017 edition)

• Feelings still matter.
• Memories like to be taken out & dusted off.
• Our thoughts are still our own.
• That time we laughed with a friend about nothing in particular.
• The little mew of the neighbor cat means I'm not alone.
• When we read a poem, we watch acrobats tumble & fly.
• Bigger is not always better.
• Words can be a heartbeat, and a heartbeat is what keeps you alive.
• There's linear, but then there's the rest of us ...
• There is nothing so political as seeing beauty in the everyday.

in spite of/because

you are loved 

in spite of

your bad attitude --

I suppose I

could put up

with it, since

I love you.

you are loved

in spite of

your likes and

dislikes (they don't

match with mine,

and so you are

not very interesting).

you are loved

in spite of

the way you

won't hold still

and take the 

medicine --it's

meant to help.

you are loved

because of

your bad attitude --

it is part of
who you are,
the questioning, and
I love you.
you are loved
because of
your likes and
dislikes (they don't
match with mine,
and so you are
so very interesting).
you are loved
because of
the way you
won't hold still
and take the 
medicine --that
fierceness, and you
will decide for
yourself in your
own sweet time.

shaking it

Experimenting tonight since today was a heavy day. I'm going to write a poem using random words and phrases from music I'm listening to tonight. This technique is apparently called found poetry. Just call me Lady Dada. 

Nothing heavy allowed, of course, because I don't feel like it. Only  songs that encourage movement and pleasant feelings. I'll try not to violate anyone's copyright --in fact, I'll list the songs and encourage you to seek out the originals from the artists! Here we go ...

I gotta live it down.
It bears repeating --
Lots of work to be done.
I get my kicks 
(Shake it shake it)
Standing up against the wall.
Quelle vibration!
All I know, 
I was hit by something last night --
So indelicate.
(Poor little greenie,
Take me by the hand.)
Out of control!
I don't mind 'cause I'm that kind of
Leute.


Lonely Boy -Black Keys
Fell In Love With A Girl -The White Stripes
Whip It -Devo
Electric Avenue -Eddy Grant
One Night In Bangkok -Murray Head
Ça Plane Pour Moi -Plastic Bertrand
You Spin Me Round (Like A Record) -Dead Or Alive
Hey Ya! -OutKast
That's Not My Name -The Ting Tings
Dead Man's Party -Oingo Boingo
Why Can't I be You? -The Cure
The Jean Genie -David Bowie
Mickey -Toni Basil
Private Idaho -The B-52s
Sweatshop -DeStaat
99 Luftballons -Nena

i understand the luddites

Preparing to do my daily writing on a computer that took a while to update ... *insert writerly grumbling*

Deep breaths. Patience is a virtue. And now, for a little writing warmup --a villanelle.

i understand the luddites: a villanelle

we throw our phones against the wall --

efficiency's a poor excuse.

technology must surely fall!

you make us feel weak & small,

& we recoil from the abuse --

we throw our phones against the wall.

so we begin our vicious brawl.

it tried but failed to seduce --

technology will surely fall!

...

we lack sufficient wherewithal --

destruction now seems half-obtuse.

we threw the phone against the wall.

we can't return the agent's call,

& violence constitutes misuse --

our anger came before the fall.

we'll bathe our wounds in alcohol.

we're slow but eager to produce?

we threw our phones against the wall,

& so, we brought about our fall.

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.

early morning poem

the cold outside the window

& sounds from cars

on their way in the dark

inside (here in the chair)

thoughts like soft-boiled eggs

tender in their cups

on the inside we are molten gold

on the outside

we are cold & dark & on our way

a silly little rhyme

here's a silly little rhyme,
for I haven't got the time
to write a rhyme sublime,
and I think I've found that I'm 
not at all inclined to mime
or commit a petty crime
or go bathe myself in slime
or wait for silent bells to chime
or go digging in the grime
or spend another stinking dime --
no, the moment now is prime
for a silly little rhyme,
so ...

[repeat ad infinitum and have a good day!]

villanelle for the exhausted

there's nothing special on my mind,
but still, it's filled with life's travails,
and I'm in need of something kind.

the wind will blow, and I'll unwind --
I'll lose my thoughts in gusts and gales
'til nothing special's on my mind.

those that will seek will also find
(or so it's said in fairy tales),
and I'm in need of something kind

move forward, back, ahead, behind;
that which succeeds --it also fails.
there's nothing special on my mind.

the trees for which my soul has pined,
the rolling hills and gentle dales --
I dream of them and something kind.

but here I sit, again resigned --
I have no treasures, quests or grails,
and nothing special on my mind.
I wait in hope for something kind.

nanowrimo update: day 7

If
only
we
could
count
lines
instead
of
words,
I
would
write
my
novel
like
this
and
be
done
more
quickly.

Except
that's
not
the
point.

The
point
is
not
the
speed --
or
it
shouldn't
be.
It's
the
story.

And
that's
all
that
matters.

sonnet for nanowrimo eve (aka halloween)

today's the scariest of days --
tonight, the scariest of nights.
our fears? crap words, a lack of praise,
unfinished work, and other frights.

the jack-o-lantern's leery grin
reflects his doubt the story's good
("the plot is pitifully thin --
the characters are stiff as wood.").

we wish the witch would brew a spell
to guarantee a decent book
without an editor (what hell!) --
too bad she's not that great a cook.

don't fear the pricking of the thumbs.
just start --that way a novel comes. 

i love words

How do I love words? Let me count the ways ...

I love the sounds in words (alternately, I love that I don't love the sounds in words and that makes me wrinkle my nose up at them).

I love the meanings of words, especially the slippery ones that change depending on who says them and where and in what tone of voice.

I love the intent of words --particularly the words that let us know we are not alone in the world and someone else may share an understanding.

I love that there is a word (silence) that signifies the absence of words. How clever is that?

I love the ingenuity of words, and someday, I will take Noam Chomsky up on his 'Colorless green ideas sleep furiously' challenge.

I love the history of words. Words evolve along with people. Words appear and disappear and change.

I love the variety of words. Some days, I may feel like I drag; other days, I may walk; and still others, I may prance. What a gift we have in choices!

I love the comedy and drama of words --put words together, and they tell a story. 

I love that I can use words to express my love of words, and I love that words --sometimes, when they are feeling awfully kind --love me back.

self-help book

purchase 
a moment
of peace
or the 
feeling
that peace
is possible
would be
possible
if you
would buy
this book
& sequel
& retreat
from reality
& leave
everything
behind

or

understand
a moment
of peace
is rare
that life
is hard
will be
hard
but you
can stop
& watch
the sun
painting
mountains purple
& take
it all
with you

the death & rebirth of empathy

if you've fallen sick, you've earned it;
if you're broke, you've earned that, too.
there's a lesson. have you learned it?
no? oh well. i pity you.

so why don't you really try?
now, why don't you try again?
you're pathetic when you cry --
why don't you breathe & count to ten?

too bad that you're not smarter.
it's too bad that you complain.
i'm sure if you worked harder
you wouldn't feel so much pain.

[insert death, a bankruptcy,
disaster of some sort,
a loss, a painful injury ...
because life is tough & short]

i'm trying hard to remain strong.
i don't know what i'm doing wrong ...


-extemporanea written 3 October 2017

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.

the lesson in grasses

the lesson in grasses.


grasses twist
not like twigs
that snap
in a stiff gust
they dance
they spin
this way 
and that
based on
the whims 
of the wind
the infinite 
dictator
they are
inconstant
untrue
the grasses
except

grasses
do not
blow away
in a stiff gust

they remain
with the resolve
in their roots

now

Yesterday was hard.

Now is easier.

Why? 

I can't explain in detail. I can tell you yesterday felt like being cut with glass in the same place more than once --the pain of more and more pain, & the anguish of thinking it won't stop. The knowledge that I broke the glass made it worse. 

Now feels clear. It feels tender, but clear.

I spoke with a friend, who offered comfort. I won't go into details about that, but thank you, Melissa, for that hour and a half of your life. You know what it meant.

And last night, beginning at 12:01 AM PST, I began reading a book my friend Melina sent me as a surprise some months ago called The Poetry of Impermanence, Mindfulness, and Joy (edited by John Brehm). I finished around 1:40 AM. Maybe it was the sleepless fugue, but it helped. 

It is a collection of poems that deal with those themes (impermanence, mindfulness and joy), with works by poets heavily influenced by Buddhist thought and beliefs. It was a relief to end with joy, and the joy poems were small and manageable. Reading the biographies of the poets also helped. These were people of varying personalities --outgoing, quiet --bound together by this search for meaning and the use of images and words to try and gather the meaning where they found it. All had difficult lives (including Robert Frost --who knew?). If their lives were hard, and they could find beauty in the midst of all of that, maybe it would all be okay? Maybe I had to let go to feel what they felt in those moments when they composed their poems?

Favorites included "Miracle Fair" by Wisława Szymborska, "Aimless Love" by Billy Collins, and "The Joy of Fishes" by Chuang-Tzu.

And now, an attempt at my own poem. It is for my friend. I would apologize for attempting poetry, but it helped me.

through tears

I watch the ash tree

outside the window

and I see

the leaves feel nothing

but the wind

Impostor Syndrome ...

Or is that Imposter Syndrome? I'm not sure about the spelling ...

Wait.

How can you not know how to spell that? You're a writer? Really? Really? Are you sure about that?

The honest truth (redundant) is I'm not sure, and from what I've seen, there are a lot of people who feel the same way about themselves. This happens in all artistic pursuits. Am I musician if I don't get paid for making music? Am I an artist if I've never learned about all of the technical aspects of the visual arts? Am I a poet if no one reads my poems?

There are ways of handling this, though --at least, I hope there are. I am going to walk you through what I did this morning in the hopes that at least one other person can use it. It's working for me, and I hate the thought that someone would go through the feeling alone. Incidentally, this syndrome is a chronic condition, and there is no cure --only medicine to help deal with the symptoms.

______________________

To set the scene: I finished writing the first draft of a play last night. I read some plays by Tom Stoppard this morning. 

I've never written a play before. I read Tom Stoppard.

Flash forward to now: I am not curled up in the fetal position. I have, however, recently experienced an unhealthy dose of, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I am not Tom Stoppard.

I am also not Tony Kushner, Caryl Churchill, Joe Orton, Noel Coward, Eve Ensler, Tennessee Williams, Oscar Wilde, Samuel Beckett, Lillian Hellman, Lorraine Hansberry, or William Shakespeare (although people aren't sure about who Shakespeare really was, so maybe I am).

I am me. 

And I wanted to write a play. Why? Because I saw a notice asking for 1-2 person plays and because the structure fit better for a story I had in my head than prose or poetry. I enjoy writing. Does it matter why? Am I hurting anyone by trying?

If I measure myself against the list of playwrights above, I'm going to suck at playwriting. I am not being mean to myself by saying this --it is fact. The reason: I am comparing myself --little ol' me --to the collected wisdom and talents of those people, all of whom did it for a long time and are widely recognized as experts. Not only that, but I'm also likely comparing what I've written to their best works. Seems unfair.

And rather than feel threatened by the fact that there are other people out there who may do the same thing better than I do, wouldn't it make more sense to look at what they did? It is time tested. What worked? While trying to avoid becoming Tom Stoppard Lite™, I can still take a close look at what worked.




Okay, that's comparing myself taken care of --I'm not Tom Stoppard, but I'm sure as heck going to try and figure out how he does what he does. Now to the big existential question ...





So what happens if I put all of this work into this play and learning how to write plays, and it goes nowhere.

No one reads it. No one sees it.

What if it is the literary equivalent of one hand clapping or the tree falling in the woods?

Was it a waste of my time? Am I pretending to be something I'm not? Under it all, and especially if a person is trying to make a living off of her art, these are biggies. 

Do you know what happens if nothing happens? 

Nothing. 

I don't disappear. I am still here. 

I still feel the same creative impulses. I always learn a lot in the process. I plan on learning more and trying more because I am not dead yet, and have I got anything better to do than try and make sense of the world and maybe communicate to some people in the process? I have a day job, because survival is important in the meantime, but I am not an impostor --or imposter, or however you spell it. 



I am a writer because I write, and I plan to continue doing so for as long as I can. Maybe, at some point along the way, I'll learn to use a dictionary to look up spelling. It's a process ...