Your Only Shiny Thing

Fumbling In The Dark

2011-02-03T21:31:00.000-08:00

Could there be a better title for writing poetry? I'd extend the metaphor, but then the poem would get written in its explanation. I just want to play with the device of a flip-flopping perspective between light and dark. My strategy for the ending is to center on a cute or heartwarming image at the very end -- success will be defined on the uniqueness of the parting image and how unlikely it would be to appear in a Hallmark card.

Midnight Home Maintenance

Click. The light fuses are alright.

Their timer is not. Go downstairs,

not three at a time, stumble anyway,

stomp extra hard at the ground floor

because your eyes say there is no bottom.

Click. There are the stairs.

How did your body forget them all?

And the many legs that stand before you,

predictable as a picture,

just overdeveloped. Now to end this charade--

Click. The stubbing begins.

Your furniture become gangsters,

thumbtacks roll out to catch you

and the slippers have betrayed their king

in a dusty exile. Thrust a hand out,

use your boundaries for balance--

Click. Punch a lamp over.

Accident, but should scare the others

from any more pranks. Pause

between rooms; where's the timer?

It's a panel behind the kitchen...

Click. You are not being watched.

The circle of glasses on the dining table

reflect moonlight as a lens

and focus on you, but not because you are there.

And who knows how many discarded forks.

The switch is definitely in the hall closet.

Click. Open the panel. Click.

Click, click, click. Is this thing on?

Pick up the lamp, dust it off.

Toes reunite with lost guardians.

Listen closely and you could almost hear...

Pat the houseguests on their clearly visible shoulders

as you size up the stairs. There they are,

all fourteen, appreciating the attention,

creaking with delight. Go to bed,

should be as easy as flipping a switch.

-----------

As you can see, I did not tug a single heartstring at the end, but I like the suggestion of a house that subtly haunts its owner each time the lights go out. There's potential there. I thought about making the ending about the 2nd-person narrator joining a family that wasn't woken by the lights at all, or went to bed as soon as the light timer was reset, but that would be Lame. There should be a series of entries about certain words and concepts that can be retired from 21st-century poetry (or at least anything that I read because clearly I am always right).

The title comes last in this case, and I want something that is at best whimsical and suggests something weird/mysterious happening at bedtime, and at worst something vague and mysterious. Nothing threatening or menacing for this title. Did I hit the mark? It's kind of plain, but fits the bill for now.

Terrible Two

2011-01-07T21:15:00.001-08:00

It is in the nature of poetry (and often, poets) to expound on the feeling of the wheels of life just spinning without impact. A poet can go through enough images of the world trying to find the right one that the thought occurs, where is this all going? What have I really done? And it is the mark of a productive poet to not succumb to such emotions and to instead mine those thoughts to fulfill personal writing quotas.

Natasha Bedingfield got away with such a writing exercise with her first major single, "Unwritten," which features such elementary-level lyrics I will not bother dissecting them here. I'm not knocking the song for creating a cheerful mood (one that I enjoy, as a matter of fact), but the words are self-help noise. Now, if I may help myself, here are a couple of my poems in need of a good polishing that both stem from a love of seeming clever in titles. I am too close to these poems at the moment to give them the thrashing and corrections they deserve, but there are enough almost-there sections to give you an idea of what I expect from my rough drafts.

My Exponential Ex Potential

What started in bad habits

used to end in awkward silence,

elbows in hands,

not knowing what was wrong

or why.

But one goodbye after another

has turned the long farewell

into the short see you later,

the earnest breakup

into I told you so.

The million mutinies grow bolder:

this time, I didn't even want to leave,

but was talked into going solo.

Would you like a receipt?

Shall I request a gift registry

at the next opened door?

None of this is cheating,

simply gaining more interest in loss

than any chase. Someday the great gaffes

will make a reel, across it played

such hilarity and growing pain

that bridges burnt will build again,

everyone grateful for their part.

New chapter. Triple threat from brains

to heart to toes. Binding love, humble me.

There are potentials so transparent

that ambition cracks the glass,

and I see no way through but up

as another phoned-in dear John.

****************

My Exponential Ex-Potential

The brain surgeon's weakness:

dropped on my head at age two.

I was in line to become CEO

until grade schoolers cut in line

and kindness held me back.

Running oriented my compass

toward medals, sponsors,

mustached coaches crying

over my last-minute sprains.

Star Wars hit before the sprint.

Legendary lovers laid in a path,

once, now plucked away

as my checklist closes their ranks:

caring too much, not enough,

or just wishing for solitude

and getting it.

With years, culture shapes the pages

of my potential on the shelf.

Self-awareness does not combust;

age turns accidents into design,

the ship sailing bottled seas

as instructions intend.

Snow is perfect for being white,

but I have no chrysalis to make me feel deep.

If another man crumples from sleepless nights,

am I fulfilled in sleep?

Putting Out The Fire With Gasoline

2010-11-27T22:21:00.000-08:00

This latest poem was granted permission by a friend and coworker, given to me in run-on form. Here's the raw version:

FIRE
I let the fire burn like a candle glowing brightly on a dark night, the fire burns with intensity that sets the stars aglow, the fire burns into my soul knowing that the light will never die. I go on feeling the fire as if it's apart of me burning every part of my body until I die, I won't die as long as the fire like a candle keeps on burning setting my soul alive."

There will be a time and a place for prose poems, but this is not that time. Let's give this giant Kit-Kat a break, shall we?

Fire

I let the fire burn like a candle,
glowing brightly on a dark night,
the fire burns with intensity
that sets the stars aglow,
the fire burns into my soul
knowing that the light will never die.

I go on feeling the fire
as if it's a part of me
burning every part of my body until I die,
I won't die as long as the fire,
like a candle,
keeps on burning setting my soul alive.

The poem centers on a singular image --the narrator burning up in the night-- with the sentiment of an immortal spirit. And that can be stirring if you've ever stood out at midnight and gawked at far-away suns. Is the poem about the fire of the will to live? The fire of feeling satisfied with one's place in the universe? A passion of purpose, perhaps? That's the trick with poems like these, especially when editing: the standard rules say I should tag some solid imagery and sensations to this mysterious fire and give it context, but that clearly is not what the original poet intended and I would rather keep the wide-eyed perspective intact than pose some rhymes about campfires and fireflies.

"Like a candle," though. The original poet uses this simile twice and doesn't extend the comparison much. Why, yes, candles do contain fire. Care to elaborate? Rub your hands together, it's about to get toasty!

Fire

I stand alone beneath dim stars,
my fire a consuming flicker.
Though I glow bright on this cold night,
my hands struggle to handle the wicker.

The heat descends into my soul,
a light about to fade out.
But it is only after shadow descends
that paths are found by the devout.

Within, the fire spends and renews,
a quiet death lit out of sight.
My soul reborn, I am a star,
candle to those huddled at night.

What could that all mean?! I gave the poem rhyme and a fairly regular meter, which almost demands that it tell a story instead of convey a mood (see, change the methods and you change the story). The actions of the poem are no less abstract than the original, except these three stanzas develop the fire rather than describe it. In the original, the fire burnt up the narrator and kept her soul alive. In my edit, the fire is weak at first, then enters the narrator, then transforms the narrator into becoming like the stars --other bodies of flame-- along with some pseudo-spiritual metamorphosis into a protective entity.

What I wanted to capture was the feeling in the original that the fire, or clinging to the fire, would risk the narrator's life. In my case, faith in the fire leads to freezing in the cold, except this is one of those magical fires that rewards the soul and looks after its keeper. The body dies but the soul thrives, heating/lighting up the night to help people in winter.

Now to write a companion piece about an ice cube that saves lives after its owner has a heat-induced stroke...

Doggy Doodle

2010-10-22T18:29:00.001-07:00

A new challenger approaches!

Original:

Here I sit,
Eatin' a strudel.
Tom plays with Barbies,
...And Mike eats doggy doodle.

While limericks are to be honored and memorized, this one is cruelly short and doesn't bring out the full strength of its teases. Which way to go on the reformat, then? Is there greater justice in a series of poetic flourishes, or would a mean streak of "eat dog doodle and play with dolls" feel as satisfying? There is always, of course, the combined (not middle) road of "be incredibly poetic about eating dog doodle and playing with dolls," except for one problem: these Tom and Mike fellows require invention. Maybe you know a Tom and Mike, but this blog does not. I'm a Joe.

What follows, then, is free reign over the madlib of "sitting, strudel, playing with dolls, eating doggy doodle." A yacht journeying across the Atlantic, farmer ashamed of his lazy sons, and what the moon dreams during our daytime are all topics that could cover these ideas. Again, there is a way to combine all of these ideas, but there is also a way to knock over a house of cards. Let's see how long it takes before I reach 52 Pick Up...

Edited:

Here I sit,
between storefront and beach side,
before morning tide but next to ring side,
as two pigeons fight over my strudel.

Between the peck and flap, I see my brother Tom,
he of fairer feathers. His dolls modeled,
mine were models of destruction,
rocket launchers mismatched against pumps.

The table jolts,
and a splotch of white on my jacket
diverts me to the angel Michaelangelo,
Tom's regal rendition chiseled in stone.

The statue's frozen song
draped me in silver at school,
so while Tom basked in gold
I put words in Mike's mouth
as scraped from the dog house.

The pigeons depart, tails in synch
in glide and stripes. Brothers,
learning over disputed spoils
how rivalry keeps them fresh.

---

Okay, so that's not off to a bad start. The imagery is a little random, but has the vibe of "ooh the sensitive poet saw some birds and decided to make himself the center of attention on the page." There is a lot of implied action, especially in the fourth stanza where I had no choice but to use an extra line! The rank amateurness of it all!

Maybe it would work better as a limerick?

Editing Mandy

2010-10-09T23:43:00.000-07:00

For tonight's post, I shall try to redeem a poem by a friend, Mandy, who sent the poem with a message: I'm placing my fresh steaming pile of manure into your hands for the cultivating. I trust your skill and discretion as a writer and artist. Also, I should note that this is the first in a series of crap I will be shoveling in your direction. Thanks in advance.

I am perfectly willing to edit the work of others in lieu of my own, so without further ado...!

Original
"One Flesh"

Run your fingers through my hair
Slide your hands from here to there
Taste my pleasure, sinful lust
Inhibitions turn to dust

The hours slip by stealthily
Passion ensues healthily
Fuel the fire, feed my flesh
Two are one taut entwined mesh

Tease me, taunt me, make me moan
Sensation surging to the bone
Cloud the windows with our love
Soft breaths ascend to the skies above

One flesh; discover what love is
He is mine, and I am his.

---

The first thing I notice about this poem is the forced rhyme. The term "forced rhyme" deserves explaining, since rhymes are not "forced" only when they spend a mouthful of words trying to put two sounds together. Rhymes are also forced when they exist for their own sake. This will make more sense in the edited version, but consider this: does this poem have a definite narrator, audience, actions, images, and inducible message? I'd say so, and that the rhyming is getting in the way of all those things. All of the ingredients for a better poem are already here, the recipe just needs changing.

Bonus points to Mandy for not attempting some cute phrase for boners or penetration. Such images are always awkward and are best alluded to, if addressed at all. I don't mean that as some prude who's against dicks in poetry, I just think describing literal intercourse draws attention to itself in a bad way, unless the theme is "rising passions, warm afterglow," in which case I'll just nibble some cake until your poem's over, thanks. Running is about feet hitting the ground, but I wouldn't advise being that literal, either.
The A-A-B-B C-C-D-D rhyme scheme is too basic to serve the passions being written about here. If there are to be any rhymes at all (beyond the always-fun internals), they should show finesse. Placement. Lines should happen to rhyme, not exist to rhyme. Example: the first stanza's lines are interchangeable. They rhyme without connecting.
The poem ends with reciprocal partnership, yet the male has done everything to the female. Unless the one-sided actions are on purpose, this romance needs more give and take. Whether that means a change in perspective is up to Mandy, but I'll keep her senses on for this process.
"Stealthily" and "healthily?" New words, please, or at least form change.
"Ascend to the skies above" -- If the breaths are ascending, then they're going above. This is a redundancy, like sunrises in the morning. Sunrises are always in the morning!

Edited

Slide your hands from here to there,
Hold my pleasure, sinful lust
With your hands running through my hair
Inhibitions turn to dust.

The hours burn with great stealth,
Fuel for our passion's fire,
Flesh combined to share a health
When they would, apart, expire.

The windows cloud with our love
Muffling teased and taunted moans,
Soft breaths hover just above
Sensations surging through our bones.

One flesh knows what love is;
He is mine, and I am his.

---

It's still a very physical, sensual poem, but I think the checkerboard rhyme scheme, greater use of "our," linked phrases, and a finishing couplet that doesn't announce the title all make the images more cooperative with one another. Poetry should be an orgy of kindnesses toward the reader, you see. Without cooperation and team effort between the elements of style, a poem's just wanking itself.

"Pedestrian," or, Internal Rhymes Are Fun

2010-09-28T00:34:00.001-07:00

Original:

We were raised to look both ways
because witnesses are too curious
about the applied physics of cars.

We once dodged together, you and I,
our toes poised between traffic cones,
dashing between gaps in the flow of the world.

A signal changed, and the HOV lane
adopted you. Will I appear as a shadow
in your headlights, or a speed bump?

All in all, a somber little poem about separation. Sometimes a short but sweet poem can feel like a major victory after several larger poems crumble under their own weight. You mean a story came across in just three stanzas? Whew! You're darn right that will take up a whole page in publication!

But like any poem, it can be refined, so let's go top-down.

The second and third lines are too dry and miss an opportunity for description. Are curious witnesses so bad?
Any line that starts with "We once" and ends with "you and I" is within hazardous range of high school flair and should be changed. I'm sure my fictional girlfriend is just the most precious firefly in the jar, but please. Less fawning and more originality?
Any edits made to this should push for adding internal rhyme. I love poems of all styles and sizes, including free verse and complex rhyme structures, but personally, free verse with specks of internal rhyme also feel great to read. It's the equivalent of watching the characters in the background of a movie scene. (note: all of the tricks of poetry are "like watching the background") This isn't a 100% dominant rule, but it's almost never a bad idea unless it's used to cute excess (and even then...).
Does the poem communicate its intended message? Well, it's a tidy little love-lost fable that uses traffic imagery and metaphors. It's debatable what being adopted by an HOV lane means -- is that an orgy? an apartment of roommates? a family moving away? -- but the point is, the girl's gone and the narrator doesn't know if she will look back on her past relationship with consideration or malevolence.

Edited:

We were raised to look both ways

because witnesses are willing to pay

to watch the applied physics of cars.

We joined atop a smog-darkened median,

our toes poised between traffic cones,

dashing between gaps in the flow of the world.

A signal changed, and the HOV lane

adopted you. Will I appear as a shadow

in your headlights, or a speed bump?

Jumping Tracks

2009-11-08T23:47:00.000-08:00

Word count: 5,278

Donald ate some food that was prepared using Louise's wine that absorbed her bitterness, so he's in a coma inside her subconscious. Much of that journey is already chronicled in 10,000 words of rough draft, and it's been my goal since the start of Nanowrimo to retell that portion of the story with new purple prose and tons of padding (and, in SOME cases, copying text where I wouldn't change a word of what's already there, don't worry I'm not cheating my way to the finish line).

However, retreading old ground is boring. I could change up the events for Don (and will), but for really early in the plot, his plight is STILL boring to me. I don't want to think of getting him and Rory from the valley to the Infatuation Field. I want to bust out some new funk.

SO, since Louise blacks out after accidentally taking one of Don's "blue pills" and enters his subconscious, and for the past couple of months I've had nothing but fun and colorful ideas surrounding what sorts of things and characters would fill a male mind, my writing process has skipped ahead in the story to Louise's journey. Perhaps the added prespective will help me write each's story so that they link in a few ways. Or at least, I can write in one story until I hit a wall then switch to the other. The words I generate for Nanowrimo do not have to be linear!

Also, minor note of annoyance at discovering tonight just before 9pm that I had a big assignment due by midnight. Several hours of would-be nano sacrificed to a 10-page assignment. Why is it that I can scratch up 2,200 words in three hours for a school assignment but it's still molasses-torture just to generate 800 words in a single day? :(

It Begins!

2009-11-01T13:12:00.000-08:00

Word Count: 2,111

NaNoWriMo began earlier at midnight, and I arrived at my regional NanoWeen write-in with some seven minutes to spare (thanks to Alex for providing terrible directions but at least we got there).

That night I rounded up some 1100 words in the company of a ring of writers who've done this sort of thing for a few years already, and everyone was comfortable tapping/scratching away at their word counts. I've found "Word Wars," aka spontaneous starting pistols of "everyone write as much as you can in 10 minutes" to be really productive. It's strange: I shouldn't have anything invested in a quick turn of competition, nor did I actually want to beat anyone there, but when someone says "quickallthewordsyoucanfitnowgogogo" my mind quits dinkin' around and types.

I am SO grateful to myself for writing 20 Nights In Paris, the rough attempt at Chewing On Eden, in 500-word bursts earlier this year. Using that draft as a stepping stone is preventing me from stalling too hard in the early stage of NaNoWriMo, a sort of on-rails portion before I continue to expand on every little detail. Yeah, dinner in fiction lasts forever when you're choking down a word count. Haha, the best part is that Don only just arrived in Paris in that rough draft before I stopped. The title location wasn't even fleshed out!

That'll do for now. Libraries are awesome for isolated writing. Next Sunday I'll see how well group writing goes.

Just The Facts: Donald Mecklenberg

2009-10-27T21:26:00.000-07:00

Donald Mecklenberg is the intersection of reason and faith: he's a devout Christian inasmuch as he was raised to believe, but his dayjob, which is still a mystery to me, is logical and doesn't have much in the way of scenery. He has a love of water and boating that he has tragically little time to express. He loves Louise (and she him of course), and is willing to discuss and compromise when she's in a fit. This doesn't mean he doesn't feel frustrated at her sometimes or like he should escape in a number of ways. Louise's parents like Don mainly for being such an unthreatening, stable presence in Louise's life. I don't know enough about Don's family to describe them in any detail.

Louise enters Don's subconscious either the night after his 'coma' or two days later, when she accidentally takes his "little blue pill" and enters Don's mind. I've got his mind pretty well mapped by now, and what she finds there will turn her from indifference into a warrior who sees a man worth fighting to fight for.

Donald is an Average White Male (5'10" and European ancestry), but where his logic ends his ability to read people begins -- this is a near-worthless skill in Louise's mind, however, where nobody plays by the rules of manners he's learned in life. The angel statues in his back yard are regular friends to Don, offering silent companionship and each bearing a unique name.

Just The Facts: Louise

2009-10-27T00:58:00.000-07:00

What do we know about Louise, one of the two main lovebirds-gone-awry in Chewing On Eden?

We know she's about 5'6" with long, dark, curly hair, and appears to be 1/2 Hispanic (dark eyes, tan skin). She loves red wine but hates when it's sweet, and is unaware that she has epilepsy. I am interviewing a friend with epilepsy to see what lifestyle details can be slipped in for precise readers. The metaphor of severing the corpus callosum applies well to the Don/Louise relationship throughout the story. Also, I'm pretty sure she and Don won't experience their "trips" at the same time; she'll simply have a seizure while Don's conked out. She is the catalyst for the first coma trip when she cooks dinner while angry at Donald and her emotions are absorbed by the lettuce, turning it purple and poisoning Don in the process so that he winds up in her subconscious (and half the nanowrimo novel :D).

Louise has gone by several names in her life - Louie, Lulu, Louisa, Lois - and each represents a different relationship in her life. She's had ex-boyfriends before, but one of the earliest and most threatening presences around Don is a boy she only saw for several minutes on a bus but imagined to be a southern charmer. She loves her father in a spoiled sort of way, but isn't pervy about it. She has a detached relationship with her mother UH OH I WONDER WHY HMMMM. I haven't decided on her family beyond that, though she probably has an older brother and discouraging grandfather.

Donald and Louise have a fight over vacation spots. He wants to travel by boat, she wants to see national parks. These vacation desires will be reflected in their dream-states, along with other personal desires, regrets, and cherished memories. It's extremely important to me that Louise not seem to actually hate Don, but just be in a period of doubting her feelings. A phase, if you will.

Louise is a creative type, and marked by faithlessness. She's not necessarily despondent or despairing, but she's definitely an atheist at heart and sees things for their ends/endings. This does not impede her love of nature and the search for beauty, of course. But she hates beaches and will not budge on that point.

Nanowrimo Writing Exercises

2009-10-27T00:44:00.001-07:00

This blog is now about poetry AND prose. And will cover NaNoWriMo progress for a good while.

THe "creativity kicker" was really fun, and brought out my improvisation side in a right-brain-charging way. Here are some of the exercises I did, based on the sample words/phrases I was given as starting points:

"She opened the trunk"

After opening her umbrella to shield herself from the dark mists descending from the crags of Mount Persephone and its sirens' spells, she opened the trunk to find a curling, squealing mass of entrails and thick, warm splotches bursting from the spare tire that was no longer in its place with the Goodyear wrench, jack, and bolts.

"The dog crossed the street"

Away went the meatball, over the edge of the lemonade stand, past Bobby and Ricotta's horseshoe sand pit of worms and plastic army soldiers dusted with mace and firecracker ash, and into the sidewalk where, in full view of the rooster, box of kittens, and three buzzing hummingbirds, the dog, with its tongue dragging along the pavement, crossed the street.

"She raised the knife"

Lightning flashed and the lights went out just in time for the man to raise his knife, but he still had a split second to consider what he was doing: here, beneath the 10-foot portrait of his wife and children sailing a boat into a kraken, he was about to end of the life of the one woman, his stepmother, who had ultimately summoned the great beast to wipe out their adventurous lifestyle and to this moment remained completely unaware that her plot had been found, goose had been cooked, and knife, with great precision and care, sharpened to a vengeful point.

"The child ate his dinner"

The child ate his dinner in the main stereo-gyro-scoping hall of the Eatinarium Laboratory, as scientists in dazzling purple robes studied him on hundreds of monitors, measuring how close the fork came to his enamel with each bite, with what frequency his knees bobbed and shook, how much sauce he would allow to accumulate around his lips before licking them, and when, as the morsels disappeared from his plate, he would raise the dish and ask for dessert.

"pirate, Greek god, quill pen, tiger wants to eat character, street corner, character drinks water"

Another old man passed by the street corner, laughing his wrinkled chin off at the young man seated beneath the cold gaze of Poseidon. In front of them, a Burmese man-eating tiger licked its jaws, salivating at the opportunity to eat another sea-salted pirate. The pirate shook in his boots, scratching his parchment with a quill pen as he brainstormed the Greek god's riddle. A small confederation of child-scouts assembled before the pirate, and Poseidon nodded with approval.

“We came back as soon as we could,” their leader gasped.

“And, and?” the pirate asked, nodding hysterically.

“We asked the oracle at Delphi if she knew your fate and how to free you of your curse.”

“That's great! Does she know the answer to the riddle of Poseidon?”

“She said you're a dumbass,” and the lieutenant child scout tossed a clump of dirt at the pirate's head, nailing him between the eyes. Poseidon chuckled and ruffled their hair beneath his massive blue palm.

“That was your last lifeline, pirate. There are only moments left before you are swallowed up by the sea you so love.”

“But my first lifeline didn't count. My cousin in Troy--”

“There is no more Troy!” Poseidon roared. Already, storm clouds gathered in the distance. From the moment that the pirate pissed in a clamshell that happened to be the great-great-great-granddaughter of a fairy who had a one-night stand with a stalactite nymph, Poseidon had stalked him across the Mediterranean coast, waiting for the proper moment to capture him and make him pay for his rather quasi-offensive gesture against the regal citizens of Olympus.

He had captured the pirate in a bar at his greatest moment of his weakness: namely, when the pirate had heard that a 150-foot tall godhead was hovering beneath the surface of the sea moaning the words “MY VENGEANCE IS MANIFEST” and headbutting various ships in the harbor. Before word of the angry god reached the pirate, he had drunk two liters of brandy and gin. Once he was informed that, more specifically, he was the sole target of divine retribution, the two liters left him and his sober fear was paralyzing.

The pirate looked up from his parchment. A list of drinks, both grand and cheap, natural and refined, was spelled out from his memory. The riddle had only one minute left to be answered. What did the god of the sea drink after a long night's sailing? Was it ambrosia? That's the only thing gods drank, right? Or did Mars drink the blood of his enemies? The gods turned into animals from time to time – perhaps they had a favorite watering hole they liked to visit, or a berry tree that they pulped every year to make sweet wine.

“Your time is up, vulgar mortal,” Poseidon said, crossing his bulky arms.

“Is it ambrosia?” the pirate asked in front of a morbidly curious crowd, all of them hanging on the final answer.

“Nope! The king of the sea drinks only water!” Poseidon laughed, flicked the pirate's head off his shoulders, and rode away on a rainbow. The tiger ate the remains.

Content With Silver -- For Now

2008-10-16T08:01:00.000-07:00

Five chapbooks were chosen this year for paper publication and promotion. Mine was not one of them.

Ten other chapbooks were chosen for online "publication" and possible inclusion in an anthology. Your Only Shiny Thing is one of those chapbooks!! Mission accomplished, by my standards! My teammate Zach is also one of the ten "runners up," congratulations to him as well.

However, there is a book contest taking entries in January. If I fatten up Your Only Shiny Thing, I have a fair chance at winning that sucker.

ROCK N ROLL!!

Envelope Addressed To Myself

2008-10-08T09:32:00.000-07:00

So my SASE arrived in the mail yesterday, and just seeing the USC insignia on the stationery got me excited. Inside were two pieces of paper thanking me for entering the chapbook contest and reminding me that the winners will be announced at the state museum this Saturday.

On facebook, the poetry initiative invited all us poetry-types to the museum this Saturday as well. When I saw a list of names for "contest winners" and only 8 of them, I nearly snapped. "None of the three of us won? And there are only EIGHT instead of fifteen?! This is the DUMBEST con-- oh, from 2007. Hee he." Among them is Ray McManus, who will give another great reading. The man has yet to disappoint ever since the first time Severin and I saw him at the SC Book Fair open mic. He also did a great job teaching my creative writing class for a day and was the most interesting part of the Ed Madden celebration.

This Saturday, then! As long as there are only 14 contestants better than me, it should be a proud day!

Ingredients For Chapbook Contest

2008-09-29T19:29:00.000-07:00

Manuscript, reprinted in 1.5 space after the double-spaced copy turned out to break the page limit
Check for $15
Cover letter, short, sweet and signed
Two title pages, one with contact info and one without
Self-Addressed Stamped Envelope (SASE)
Double servings of my made-from-scratch optimism and self-esteem
Postmarked by Sept. 30

Now to wait a week! (mailed 9/26)

Sliiiiiide! Safe!

2008-09-23T18:11:00.000-07:00

There are still minor edits to be made, and the exact order is by no means final, but here is the tentative final "tracklist" for this project:

Under Pressure

Life Lessons

Ripe

Weeding Is A Savage Affair

Daddy Cut Diamonds

Living Medicine

From Athens To Greece In Zero Seconds Flat

How Many Birminghams

Unearthing The Blue Bomber

Lights Out

Hold Your Applause

October

Ours Was An Easy Dish

Lullaby in Crisis

Idea of Happiness

Bus Ride Nostalgia

Rousing A Glow

Just To Hear The Tone

Your Only Shiny Thing

Home Stretch

2008-09-20T18:24:00.000-07:00

Right now I have about 14 out of 20 poems prepared for completion -- 10 finished poems and 4 good ideas that need fleshing out. Fleshing out is often the fun part of forming a rough draft; getting the seed idea is what causes any irritation.

And 14/20 isn't a home stretch, that's a work in progress! But today I attended a poetry workshop and reading by Naomi Nye, and wow, now I have some five more solid ideas to round out the chapbook. She's a very kind, bright, and aware person, and deserves whatever positive reputation spread in her name. Her voice is as fitting for poetry as it is for song, and I'm jealous of her students.

Aracelis Girmay, a young, accomplished poem in her own right, performed as well. She's talented, but I'm less receptive to "social injustice and war crimes" poetry. However, she saved her stunner for last, a poem named "Loesfoeribari." It was the equivalent of being shown a plain white toaster and having its unremarkable features described, then ending with dropping a butter knife into the red-hot burners and watching the whole thing flash and explode. It was the stealthiest burst of joy I've ever heard in a poem, and added "Loesfoeribari" to my vocabulary.

My online order of Nye's book didn't arrive in time for her to sign it; I was forced to buy one of her books that's partially included in the ordered "Collected Poems." I didn't mind one bit.

Optional Robot Design

2008-09-13T12:00:00.001-07:00

While I eagerly await whatever mechanical masterpiece my cousin sends here to use as a chapbook cover, I've found another robot candidate who looks lonely and like he is nobody's shiny thing:

This Is What A Rough Draft Looks Like

2008-09-12T21:56:00.000-07:00

Below are the scraps of a poem yet to see even a rough completion. It's a cell rapidly dividing in the DNA of my imagination, but hasn't filled its petry dish. The concept and premise are clear: Lady and Robot go running, Robot has heart attack, Lady brings him home where he recovers, Lady hasn't learned a drop extra about compassion. The idea's in place for her to show the tiniest sign of coldness by leaving his shoes by the door instead of bringing them to him; this comes back as the nastiness it really is when he's still wheezing in bed and she leaves his medicine out of reach.

In terms of poetic concept, I am dead-set on having the poem use iambic pentameter or tetrameter before and after the heart attack, and free verse during.

"
I left your shoes at the side of the door for you

to find. Tie them, and together we'll run

between patches of shade and ignore this heat,

ignore the steps softly falling behind,

your figure curling into the pebbled road.

My pace before your cry for help was swift,

but I lost [speed]

Your voice whistling

to be heard,

hands weakly reaching

to be felt,

my foot on the gas

to put you to bed.

Two aspirin wait on the side of the nightstand for you

to find.
"

Now I just have to fill out the details of this miniature soap opera, which is always the trickiest part. Every element has to say something beyond the obvious, yet tell the basic story as well: where are they working out? How do they get home? What are his symptoms, what do they say to each other? The answers to all of these questions will tell the reader who these people are and their place in the world and each other's.

One of my loftiest goals for this chapbook is to depict two people (one is possibly a robot; this is beside the point). There are other poems dedicated to their moments of happiness and calm, but this is one of the peak points of their incompatibility threatening the relationship's very existence. He must play the victim, but seem to be arrogant beforehand. She must seem heartless, yet sympathetic, even as she blithely tends to her sick partner.

She sure as hell isn't going to cry or contemplate her mortality.

We'll see how recognizeable (and better? maybe?) this poem is in in its final stages.

The Object of My Poetic Desire: "That?"

2008-09-12T15:38:00.000-07:00

A chapbook generally has two methods of assembly:

1) Go through your many poems written over the course of years and stick all the best ones together that have anything in common or relate to each other, either in similarities or opposites. All of the hardest work is already done by virtue of being a poet, with only edits and re-arranging to toil over.

2) Pick a major theme or story and write one from the ground up. Torture yourself over every poem in the sequence, whether you try to envision it from beginning to end, in random order, or even "signature pieces" with in-between space to be determined.

I chose the second one, and it is as rewarding as it is seemingly futile. Poetry is often about the unexpected and spontaneous, and crafting something with a deliberate story in mind can be treacherous. It's the difference between being nominated to an already-existing political party and starting your own: you'd better have goals you believe in and energy to chase down every last possible voter!

A little over a week ago, I had to choose between two paths for the chapbook to take: devote all of it to one perspective, or use two perspectives and let each have a half? Each comes with its own advantages and disadvantages, but I chose the mono-view and hope it doesn't get old with readers or myself.

There is a poet whose stage name is Black Madonna, and she has the motto, "Don't write poetry because you can, write it because you can't not!" I whole-heartedly agree. I write poetry because I can't not, but I write these poems because they were assigned their places. It's like always having a passion for painting, then being commissioned to render the horizon over Chicago: "...that?"

**EDIT** The part about building from the ground up may turn out to be a bold-faced lie. I've just purged my old poetry folders for material that looks like it would fit in with the other poems already slotted for the chapbook, and there are 3-5 good picks. Of course, everything is up for aggressive editing and expansion as my two collaborators and I pick at their content, but regardless, there is some imported content involved. Now you know!

Influence On Purpose

2008-08-27T09:33:00.000-07:00

A couple years ago in a poetry class, I was asked to name a poet who could be considered an influence on my writing. The response was "a mix of Charles Bukowski and Louise Gluck," mainly because they love free verse and personal issues and still mainly because they're easy to imitate.

Every creative profession is prone to being full of the cleverest thieves who retro-fit other people's work into something just different enough that the plagiarism isn't noticed. The worst writers are thus the most entertaining ones who must hide their shameful secret. The best writers are the slow-cookers who read as much as they can in the field but then go the extra mile to consider, "What does this teach me about my own writing? What awareness does this poet share that I can apply in my own way?"

This has less to do with tools as it does with style. Every poet should have metaphors, similes, meter, and rhyme in their toolboxes. But how they choose to tell a story or relate an idea, that can be as suffocating in its freedom as in its writer's block. So it helps to look at how other writers did it, if only to get an idea of what works and what the budding writer likes on the page.

For example, the past few poets I've been reading have all colored my ideas for "Your Only Shiny Thing." In the past, I stood by my answer of Bukowski/Gluck, but now that I don't have to read poetry for assignments anymore, I can read for personal growth and not an exam-approved interpretation.

The results put me to sleep sometimes, and spark my mind with lightning other times. A few examples:

Sylvia Plath finally entered my oeuvre in recent weeks, despite her reputation as the Institution For Insecure Girls and Somehow-Inferior Confessional Poetry. Haha, no, ivory towers, Plath does in prose and poetry what people love about good writing: it's engaging and emotionally invested and uses tons of writing tricks without existing SOLELY to show off her ability with a sestina. "The Bell Jar" was spellbinding, even when it became a progression of more and more self-hating schemes to lose the protagonist's virginity and self-esteem. "Ariel" reconfirmed all the talent a second time, and now I'll happily align myself among her followers.

That's just one example. This blog is going to be almost nothing but examples, so stay tuned! There'll be copyright-infringing excerpts and everything!

Synopsis, Origins

2008-08-25T20:18:00.000-07:00

Before I knew this would be a chapbook, my writing journal was slowly filling with experimental stanzas and titles without content. Then word reached me about a chapbook contest and I figured that a title would give me a theme by which to tie 20 or so poems together, as beneath a standard.

I went through some songs on my computer's playlist and noticed one of my favorite Tom Waits songs, "Shiny Things." That made a great title, as well as used the word "Your" to pull in passers-by, but a split second after choosing the title, the cover image came to mind. My cousin, Elle Liamson, has a hobby of painting robots on canvas, and what better "shiny thing" to display than a robot walking along?

This led to an attempt to fulfill inspiration, and I wrote a rough poem called "Your Only Shiny Thing," except it ended up being about an old woman unwilling to help herself or acknowledge the warmth in her life. I wanted it to be about a robot who secretly loves his owner! But the theme meshed easily and convinced me: the chapbook would be about one-sided relationships. But there's more to the equation -- there has to be, or else I would just be writing angsty "me me me" poems and realize it before the journal was even shut.

No, other poets have been teaching me. Figures that the most vital poetry lessons would arrive after graduation!

Your Only Shiny Thing

Fumbling In The Dark

Terrible Two

Putting Out The Fire With Gasoline

Doggy Doodle

Here I sit,Eatin' a strudel.Tom plays with Barbies,...And Mike eats doggy doodle.

Editing Mandy

"Pedestrian," or, Internal Rhymes Are Fun

Jumping Tracks

It Begins!

Just The Facts: Donald Mecklenberg

Just The Facts: Louise

Nanowrimo Writing Exercises

Content With Silver -- For Now

Envelope Addressed To Myself

Ingredients For Chapbook Contest

Sliiiiiide! Safe!

Home Stretch

Optional Robot Design

This Is What A Rough Draft Looks Like

The Object of My Poetic Desire: "That?"

Influence On Purpose

Synopsis, Origins

Here I sit,
Eatin' a strudel.
Tom plays with Barbies,
...And Mike eats doggy doodle.