I love it twice, it must be a lyric

"i love it i love it every time every time"

Never had a google search find my journal, first hit, with something like this! Even above Wikis and Youtubevision. I am so amused.

Usually it is Smarties boxes, and little girl's dressers. And by typing this I have doomed myself. And poets of course. It makes me think I should just write the name of every poet EVAR and get my google rating up over a 3. Not that I would of course, but still.

This amuses me greatly. Enough even to use the zombie tag, something I save for special occasions.

Have a great evening!

Distant tarnished mirrors

Last night a question prompted me to go searching through my box of stuff from college, and eventually towards the bottom of the box, I found all my old poems. Oh my. Thank god I never had a place to post them anywhere back then. I would have I betcha. I was young. That will the excuse I use, because, I was young. I also found my old diary, and for that too, I will only say, I was young. ::pats head of younger self::

Interestingly, despite the fact I did not write for years, this diary did chronicle how much I loved to write (which I had forgotten), and how I felt about several of the poems written. What was amusing, was that there were poems sprinkled throughout the diary, seemingly whenever they would pop into my mind. There was little editing from thought to finger to pen to paper. I laughed several times. Some are still true. I can look at them critically now, and much of their content: angst and angst. There were a few good lines I think, and I might steal a few of them for the present day. We shall see. One was published in the university newspaper poetry section, and another was published in the yearly poetry journal they put out. Oh my.

Also, interestingly, at least to me, is I know exactly the reason I stopped writing, nothing traumatic but definitely a reason. Now that I am writing again, I wonder what that does to the meaning of that reason. I don't care really, but I am looking at it Cheshire Cat like. Appearing and disappearing at will.

Have a great day!

How it is to write a poem.

Prompted by this and Rob’s suggestion at PFFA and here, I promptly (heh) began thinking about this. How does it feel?

Well it starts with a prompt. Not unlike this post. The prompt can be absolutely any thing: learning that Fibonacci numbers can be used syllabically (just last night in fact), a juxtaposition of a natural or unnatural object, a smile, disaster. I really like the juxtapositioning because they allow so much. Metaphor sneaks in through this door. Metaphor is the sneaky one who tags along if you are lucky. Absolutely anything can prompt. But this is not the poem. It might want to be a poem, but it is not. This is confident, and rising, and sure that it should be. That confidence isn’t a poem either. But the prompt is the fire behind the poem. It is what you hope your poem will be, or at least strive toward at some point in its future. This is an important step, because otherwise you get pedantic wishywashiness. You get the crumpled pages or the overuse (or proper use) of the delete button.

After this plop of whatever the fire/flow/dare I say inspiration is, the feelings range from a sickly like vomiting, to a path as smooth as silk. Mostly this feeling is the feeling of the prompt. Good prompts that are happy joyful, feel that. Others, that hurt, but still demand to be, well they are harder.

The showcase of words is the layer through which this prompt speaks. The bigger your personal internal dictionary, the better the choices. This begins the terror though. At this point it is picking the flowers, or stitching the quilt is the hard part, or dumping handfuls of sand. The design of the thing. The prompt sometimes offers suggestions about this bit, but not always. As the galley master, you get to order them around. But sometimes they don’t listen. So in that the work is hard. I find listening to the words works well. That and rhymezone.com because my memory is not what it used to be.

At some point, there may be more sparks from the prompt that help me. The “Yes!!” moments that really make me feel it is working. Or there may be silence. It is an extremely interactive process between the prompt, and me and the words and the ideas. I do feel like it is sharing. This is when it works well, feeding off of the prompt.

Or it can hurt. It can be frustrating, like a two year old that shouts no for no discernible reason. This frustration often leads to the tossing aside of the poem. A timeout if you will, to continue the toddler metaphor.

The time away from the poem allows us both to breathe.

When I come back to the poem, I am gathered, so I can see where the fire may not have been more than wishful thinking. Or it can show me that the fire really was burning strong for a good reason. At some point here, it might be a poem. This is where it decides to be. And then, when I have the energy, and the wherewithal, I can work some more and it becomes a poem. The latter parts are work. Nothing short of that. It is the hard part, but ultimately the most fulfilling part. The energy of the prompt still needs to be there, it has to still be contained in the poem. I think if the energy is gone, the poem should be scrapped. The poem has to speak the energy or else it isn’t. When it can do this, the poem makes me feel somewhat successful. If the energy is gone, then I think of it as a learning opportunity that I was offered, and took.

There is no losing in this usually. That is the lucky part. I am lucky to feel this, and occasionally be able to do this. In the end is gratitude for having had the experience. Or annoyance that I could not have done better.

Now letting the toddler out of the house is a whole other sensation. I am still learning about that one.

First thoughts post Napo.

I ran out of gas just before our houseguests arrived, and I only got it back, in a very sort of kind of tertiary way two days ago. That was because I gave up any hope of accomplishing anything. Like Buffy learns in Becoming, when you have nothing left, all you have is yourself. In that I am proud of the last two poems. There was family news, which was difficult to process also.

I think I did a better overall job of writing last year. I think I had learned much more between Napo 1 and Napo 2 last year. This year I haven’t had the chance to read as much poetry as I ought to, therefore fewer gains. Between work changes and stress and other stuff, it takes a toll. It is reflected in the poetry.

I doubt I will annotate the poems like I started to last year. I got a few done, and then I never got back to it. I can’t even remember all of the poems I wrote. As with the last two Napo’s, possibly when I go back and read a few, I might like them. I think others will probably just scare me. We shall see.

I know that I have to work with revisions, obviously, but I do know immediately when a poem will work. I feel it. If I don’t have that feeling, the poem might be all right, but it doesn’t zing or hit me where I demand poetry hit me. On Loan, which was on loan from a blip I wrote in about 4 minutes sometime in the last few months, had that feeling the first time, as well as the day I wrote it. A few from the beginning had that feeling, because I was so inspired by the beginning of Napo.

Reading others poetry really shows me how much I have to learn. I knew that of course, but to see the production of others, really very good stuff, every day for a month, is humbling. Amazing stuff. I know I am nowhere near that.

I don’t mind that this exercise lets me find my place. It allows me to see weaknesses in what I write. That is humbling too, and very frightening. But when I feel humiliated or depressed about what I am writing, I look back to what I have written before, and see that I actually have achieved something over the years. As long as my trajectory is forward, and better, even if by plodding steps, I can deal.

I love the brains of some of the writers of the Napo poems at PFFA. I wish I could write like some of them when I grow up. Sigh. If I am motivated at some point, I will link to my fav’s.

Thanks to everyone who commented, made suggestions and generally kept me going. I appreciate that.

Vicky, who is going to rest now.

Not a chore despite the title of tomorrow's peom

Trust the poem. It will appear. ::dances::

Bicentennial anniversary of sorts

200 posts here now.

When I started this, ::waxes philosophical:: I thought I would detail writing. I have, when I have been writing. This story I started is continuing in my mind, and I actually came to a realization about one scene just the other day! I was very pleased the two parts of the story converged the way they did. Now I just need to you know, actually write it.

All this writing I have done in several places now, often times for month long efforts, has taught me a couple of things. Yes, I do like to talk about myself. And I like to talk about my life going on around me. I am comfortable doing that it seems. It is a way for me to set stuff straight, finalize it, and make it sound.

I think the story has to proceed the same way. It will work itself out. The two parts working their way to each other is proof of that. Some say the story will tell itself, and I don’t know, but sometimes that does seem true. The imagining is the easy part. But the writing, the work of the story, I am more lazy about. I know that too. But it seems that things do take their own time, so I will let them. I mostly have taken that attitude about my writing, and life does intrude on it, and that is a fact I wouldn’t change. I do understand why writers have writer’s weekends though. Opportune time for me to write, when I actually can, is generally when I am not awake yet, or too tired late in the day to think about it. Not a room, as I have said before.

This place has turned toward poetry sometimes too. April, particularly with NaPoWriMo. Twice now, and probably a third go round in a few months. I have workshopped one of the poems, from last April, and will continue to as time allows. I also have a sonnet hanging unmetered over my head (I am picturing a diving board), that I really do want to fix. Plus others I haven’t looked at in months. They are waiting, like the apple in the tree next door. Still hanging you know, two winters now. If that apple can hang on, so can I. Wizened and gnarled. Hopefully the poetry doesn’t come out that way.

I think I am a better writer now too. Learned how much I need to learn, and that is the hallmark of learning. Once you think you know it all, you lose. I think whatever voice this is people hear when they read what I write, is clearer too. I have said elsewhere that the voice on the page, bright screen, does sound like the one I hear in my head. Most of the time. What that says about me to you, what you hear, is none of my business. Nothing I can do about that anyway so I don’t worry about it. I try, especially in the poetry I write, to get a little of my world, how I see it, in the poem. People have commented they like the “voice” in my poetry. That made me very happy. Connection!

There was more I meant to write, about this 200, but now I don’t remember. See, I didn’t write it down…

On to the next 200. Thank you for reading! Have a lovely evening.