Shutting Down

Since I haven’t attracted any readers I’m shutting down. So, if you are reading this you’re one of a very small select group.

This isn’t the end of the rhyme

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Early on I dabbled in free verse. I didn’t write it down and I can’t remember it all, but I’ll try to write down what I can remember from time to time.

Tropical Storm

She spoke words
that hung in the air between us
falling softly on my face like a gentle mist

She grabbed my eyes with hers
Pressed her lips to mine
and blew those words through my heart like a hurricane

The Process: Re-writing

I’ve pushed words around and tweaked and poked what I have so far, but to no avail.  Two things seem to be at play here.  The first is the time constraint.  I usually don’t put a deadline on what I write.  It either flows or I leave it fester for an unspecified period.  The second is that I seem to have lost track of the poem.  What I mean is that I went off on a mission to make a point.  I should have focused more on the feeling, the sound, the meter.

So, although I like the few lines I wrote, I’ve decided to change horses in the middle of the stream.  My topic is still the same, just a different approach.

I”ve decided to parody Robert Frost .  His “Stopping by  Woods on a Snowy Evening” is my inspiration here.  It isn’t my best work, but hey, I met the deadline.

Stopping by Lake on a Snowy Evening

Where they towed my car I do not know
It’s somewhere in the city though
I cannot see its top from here
as the lots fill up with snow

I’ve been to every lot and fear
my car is probably not near
where I left it by the lake
on the worst night of the year

The attendant gives his head a shake
He says there must be some mistake
and so I hang my head and weep
the guy in charge must be a flake

The snow is ugly dark and deep
like a promise someone did not keep
I may as well go home and sleep
I may as well go home and sleep

The Process

I’ve commited to posting each week for 2011, but will try to write something each day and then either post it that day or group them into one post at the end of the week.  Since my goal in doing this is to acquire the discipline to write more often and to improve my writing by practice, I have decided to document the process of writing my poetry.  Some of what I post, I’ve already written, but most of what I will post will be new.

The first step in the process is the gathering. An idea pops into my head and I write it down.  As ideas accumulate I may group them together or oganize them into a rough draft, but usually I just let them fester.  Some ideas jump out begging to be worked on.  The little beggars turn into poems in a matter of days or weeks.  The ones that fester take longer.  I might try to emmulate the style of a favorite poet or a type of poem that I like or I might just write as it comes out.  I also search for rhymes in a rhyming dictionary and for alternative wording in a thesaurus.  Usually, I’ll re-write several times changing a word here and there or a line or two.  I’m pushing things around trying to find the holes that the words fall into.  Sometimes this is fruitful. Sometimes it leads to a dead end and I turn around and go off in a different direction.

Since a monster storm was headed my way, I jotted down these lines to start:

THE IMPENDING STORM

The forecast is an ominous one of snow and bitter cold
The weather service is predicting a massive storm
Those who know predict howling winds and bitter cold

Then I pushed a few words around, added a bit more and it turned into this:

howling winds and bitter cold are predicted by those who know
based upon measureable factors we can expect a foot of snow
shopkeepers have salted their sidewalks and locked their doors

More word rearranging and a couple of re-writes yielded this

We have evolved into reliance upon Technology and so
pursuant to predictions made by those who know
plows are poised and waiting; shoppers depart stores
shuffling over salted sidewalks as shopkeepers lock their doors.
With howling winds and bitter cold the storm turns us in
sloshing down two feet of snow; a punch thrown to the chin.

I’m not all that happy with the red line above, but the others are ok for now.   I’m going for sound and for rhyme as well as developing a story.  I might shift the lines around and change the rhyme scheme or keep it like it is.  

The story hasn’t emerged yet.  I do have some idea of where I want to go with it, namely that we press our attention to a television window and stare out at the stories in the storm with captivated scrutiny. We have developed a distance between us and the reality of the world. We learn all the statistics but know nothing of the reality or experience. So people plod out into the world armed with data, but no actual experience of how to deal with what they encounter. They are so engrossed with experiencing life through technology that they insulate themselves from the actual experience of life.  Now, I just need to turn it into poetry.

I hope to post again tomorrow and post the finished poem on Sunday.

I’m Posting every week in 2011!

I’ve decided to blog at least once a week and I’m starting right now.  I will be posting on this blog once a week for all of 2011.

I know it won’t be easy, but I need the discipline. Therefore I’m promising to make use of The DailyPost, and the community of other bloggers with similiar goals, to help me along the way, including asking for help when I need it and encouraging others when I can.

I also hope that this will bring people to my blog, since reading poetry doesn’t seem to be on everybody’s “bucket list”.  Anyway, I plan to enjoy myself and I actually hope to post more than once a week.

This week’s post:

During this postathon I plan to minimize the amount of time re-writing my poems.  I usually write out half a dozen drafts or so, then let it sit for awhile before a few more re-writes.  The process reminds me of the tale of an apprentice woodcarver who watched an old master working on an ornate door carving.  For hours, the old master carver would walk around the door looking at it from different angles and every so often he would take a small cut here or there.  Finally, after watching the old master for most of the day, the apprentice walked over and asked him how he knew when the carving was done.  The old master simply replied, “When they come and take it away”.

I write in a variety of styles.  This particular poem was inspired by Robert Frost. 

You might want to read some of my other poems first.  Had I enrolled in the post a week challenge earlier, I would have started out with a “lighter” poem than this, such as my poem “Ode to Volatility” or “One Christmas Under The Sea”. 

I just wasn’t in a humorous mood today.

As A Winter Day Gives Way to Night

Looking out upon the brown and white
as winter’s day gives way to night,
from inside the window glass
I watch the gradually failing light.

Knowing soon that night shall pass
into the sun like gleaming brass;
a courier upon the swiftest feet
that no one ever can surpass.

Each day the earth grows lush and sweet
more enriched from each defeat.
Declared at dawn as obsolete
I end my days beyond complete.

 

 

Keep On Keepin’ On

In the spirit of posting on a semi-regular basis, here is another poem.

Until Tomorrow, Then

Tomorrow holds the hope
that did not endure today.
Reach but do not grope
and you will find your way.

Hold fast not to your failures
for failures are behind you.
All Hope lies in the wind. To hail yours
spread your wings and it will find you.

More of the same, only different

 A messy desk is the sign of a creative person, although it is not a requirement.  A messy mind also seems to be a symptom. Thoughts in my head are loosely bonded to many other thoughts.  Sort of a free association relation.   Please don’t infer that I think I’m unique in this respect.  I wrote a poem explaining how I write poems.

My Poems Start Out Wrong Then I Right Them

I try to organize the words inside my head.
I try, but I falter and stumble.
Then I think perhaps if I put them on paper instead…
but as they come out they tumble

across the page in a random mess.
With a sketchy idea of where they are going
I move them around and as I progress
a story emerges without really knowing

where it will end or how it will turn out.
I mold it, I shape it, and carefully bend it.
Then always it seems just as I start to burnout
it turns out all right.  All that’s left is to end it.

Ode to Volatility

 

This is  based on a true story.  My uncle decided to burn a large pile of green branches.  Since he felt the green brush would not burn on its own, he saturated the pile with several gallons of gasoline, then poured a trail  about thirty feet long to what he obviously thought was a safe distance to act as a “fuse”.  Being a hot, still day the pile of brush trapped the vapors.  He bent to light the ”fuse” and before he could stand up the trapped vapors exploded and knocked him over backwards.   

 I suppose this could be classified as similar to Rudyard Kipling’s style.

The fresh-cut pile of brush
crouched upon the vacant lot.
The mid-day wind was hush.
The August sun was hot.

A grey squirrel waited,
poised motionless, until
a flock of wary birds vacated
to somewhere beyond the hill.

When he arrived upon the scene
he reproached the leafy mass
and from a can marked gasoline
dispensed five gallons of the gas.

Backing off he left behind
a trail just shy of thirty feet
that bending down he was inclined
to light with match and then retreat.

As vapors flashed with rapid whoosh
I still can see the frantic look
when borne aloft he cleared the bush
but soon thereafter not the brook.

More

This piece is similar in style to Robert Frost.

The Smell of Winter

Spring with brief and gentle breeze
crawls in upon its hands and knees.
All cheer the long-awaited newcomer,
full of promise but not guarantees.

Marching in behind comes summer
in lock step with the upbeat drummer,
bearing flowers , making pleas
to call the carpenter, awaken the plumber.

Soon collars are turned to a Northern breeze
to ward off the cough, to stifle the sneeze.
With the lawn given way to summer’s brown scorches,
all look to the sky and pray for reprise.

Branches and boughs are pruned back from porches.
Soon Maples and Oaks are ablaze like tall torches.
Though glorious fall has just barely perched in the trees, 
the smell on the wind betrays winter’s imminent freeze.

A Tree Establishes Roots Then Leaves

The chiseled lines of youth are softer now.
Each day another tree within the forest.
As tools and hands tend to the bough,
the work desires not pause nor rest.
One of few who understands
enough to look beyond what others see
perseveres with practiced hands
to find the peace within the tree.