Edmund Spenser, I owe you an apology. I might not dig Calidore, but after giving you a few more chances, you're alright. In fact, your sonnet form is really pretty awesome. In lieu of all my protests and badmouthing, I wrote you a sonnet. Yes, it's stolen from one of yours. And yes, it mocks you by using archaic spelling. I said you're alright, OK? You're still not my favorite person. I'm working on the whole friends with dead poets thing. We might get there one day. I'm sure you'll wait.
No Hard Feelings, Eddie
See! how the steadfast bard doth depraue
my modest verse with derisive scorne:
and by the poem which I vnto him gaue,
accoumpts my selfe his convict all forlorne.
The poem (quoth he) is of the conquerors borne,
resigned them by the trampled as theyr meeds,
and they therewith doe poetes brows adorne,
to chant the grandeur of their exalted deedes.
But sith he will the triumph provocation needs
let he accept me as his steadfaste thrall,
that his famed score which my skill exceeds,
I may in finesse of honor blaze ouer all.
Then would I decke his head with brilliant bayes,
and heap the earth with his auspicious prayse.
24 March 2011
24 February 2011
Poetry Fail
Today, we were supposed to workshop the first poem I submitted in my Poetry Writing class. This was supposed to happen a couple weeks ago, but eh, extenuating circumstances. Anyway, today got very messed up very quickly. Once the chaos subsided, it was learned everyone had their critiques for me, so I accepted them and resolved to read through them later. We went through class, work shopped my second poem (I got a lot of great suggestions), and that was that.
I got home a while ago and started browsing through the first set of critiques. One stopped me in my tracks.
I haven't been posting my poems for work shopping on here because I haven't wanted anyone in my class to see them early. I'll eventually put them up, but this one definitely calls for some editing first.
But back to that critique. The poem I wrote is an emulation of the sonnet Elizabeth Bishop wrote in 1979, just before she died. In it, I philosophize about a man gazing into a mirror, then setting himself free from the temptation of vanity by breaking it. Anyway, I use several "big words" in it. One of these is the cause for concern, and yes, embarrassment. In my mind, the Latin word for mirror is speculum. And speculum therefore = mirror. I needed another word for mirror, so that is the one I chose. What I neglected to remember is that a speculum is also a gynecological instrument. You know, that scary ratchety clampy you know?
Anyway, I was breezing through this critique. The first half was full of compliments and yadda yadda. Then I got to paragraph two. Let me quote from it for you. I won't mention the name of the person who wrote the critique to spare them any shame I might accidentally bestow regarding this matter.
"Also, on my first read, I did not know what a speculum was. I Googled it and the first image that popped up was an anatomy diagram of a woman during a gynecological exam. After seeing that, I can only think of gynecologists every time I read through your poem. I'm not sure what message you were trying to get across with the use of the speculum, or if maybe it was the first piece of medical equipment that came to mind, but if that choice was unintentional, you may want to pick a different instrument, since I'm probably not the only person who didn't know what a speculum was. Other than that, I thought your poem was great."
When I read it, I burst out laughing. And then I cringed as my cheeks flushed. And then I felt like crying. I was a failure at poetry. In an attempt to write a beautiful, artistic look at the anguish people feel by being trapped by self-image, I brain farted away any chance I had at that, leaving my poem as an awkward look at women's yearly exams.
To you, wise critic of my poem, I apologize. I was most certainly not trying to think of a medical instrument, and even if I was, I wouldn't want to choose that one. I think most women who go in for yearly exams know exactly what it is, and I have no idea why my mind forgot the second meaning.
At least it's only a draft. Right?
I got home a while ago and started browsing through the first set of critiques. One stopped me in my tracks.
I haven't been posting my poems for work shopping on here because I haven't wanted anyone in my class to see them early. I'll eventually put them up, but this one definitely calls for some editing first.
But back to that critique. The poem I wrote is an emulation of the sonnet Elizabeth Bishop wrote in 1979, just before she died. In it, I philosophize about a man gazing into a mirror, then setting himself free from the temptation of vanity by breaking it. Anyway, I use several "big words" in it. One of these is the cause for concern, and yes, embarrassment. In my mind, the Latin word for mirror is speculum. And speculum therefore = mirror. I needed another word for mirror, so that is the one I chose. What I neglected to remember is that a speculum is also a gynecological instrument. You know, that scary ratchety clampy you know?
Anyway, I was breezing through this critique. The first half was full of compliments and yadda yadda. Then I got to paragraph two. Let me quote from it for you. I won't mention the name of the person who wrote the critique to spare them any shame I might accidentally bestow regarding this matter.
"Also, on my first read, I did not know what a speculum was. I Googled it and the first image that popped up was an anatomy diagram of a woman during a gynecological exam. After seeing that, I can only think of gynecologists every time I read through your poem. I'm not sure what message you were trying to get across with the use of the speculum, or if maybe it was the first piece of medical equipment that came to mind, but if that choice was unintentional, you may want to pick a different instrument, since I'm probably not the only person who didn't know what a speculum was. Other than that, I thought your poem was great."
When I read it, I burst out laughing. And then I cringed as my cheeks flushed. And then I felt like crying. I was a failure at poetry. In an attempt to write a beautiful, artistic look at the anguish people feel by being trapped by self-image, I brain farted away any chance I had at that, leaving my poem as an awkward look at women's yearly exams.
To you, wise critic of my poem, I apologize. I was most certainly not trying to think of a medical instrument, and even if I was, I wouldn't want to choose that one. I think most women who go in for yearly exams know exactly what it is, and I have no idea why my mind forgot the second meaning.
At least it's only a draft. Right?
09 January 2011
The Flow
"Poetry is the language in which man explores his own amazement." ~ Christopher Fry
I haven't let my poetry flow in a while. Sure, I've let it pour out of me, but then I jumble it around and prod it with a meter stick. I've been reading cummings the past couple days, and I never ceased to be amazed by that kind of writing. I decided the easiest way to capture the ease of sound and feeling he creates was to outright copy him. So I picked one of his to use as a starting form, and I let my feelings fill in the blanks. Then I got angry with myself for using a form at all in this instance of flow, so I moved the blanks, deleted them, added more, then put in some punctuation. cummings's symbolism through punctuation is grand, but that's definitely not what I'm trying to embody.
There's something really magical about the world after the first snow. I took a grand afternoon nap today, and when it started to snow outside, I heard my mother say as much. With a smile on my face, I drifted to sleep. When I awoke, there wasn't a thick quilt of snow. It's more of a loosely-crocheted thing. But it still quiets everything. I felt like if I stood at the kitchen window long enough with my ear close to the glass I would hear the heartbeat of the bird in our neighbor's tree.
After the First Snow
I thank you Father for this most marvelous
day: for the soaring spirits of falcons
and a gray ballet of sky; and for everything
which is lovely which is finite which is true.
The world, which had died, is alive today,
this the moon’s birthday; this is the budding
of life and mist and love and stars, and of the
phenomenon boundless earth.
How should any breathing gasping snoring
sighing being be lifted above the nothingness
of all human-stardust merely seeing doubt?
Now the eyes of my fingers are opened and
the ears of my hands are awake.
I haven't let my poetry flow in a while. Sure, I've let it pour out of me, but then I jumble it around and prod it with a meter stick. I've been reading cummings the past couple days, and I never ceased to be amazed by that kind of writing. I decided the easiest way to capture the ease of sound and feeling he creates was to outright copy him. So I picked one of his to use as a starting form, and I let my feelings fill in the blanks. Then I got angry with myself for using a form at all in this instance of flow, so I moved the blanks, deleted them, added more, then put in some punctuation. cummings's symbolism through punctuation is grand, but that's definitely not what I'm trying to embody.
There's something really magical about the world after the first snow. I took a grand afternoon nap today, and when it started to snow outside, I heard my mother say as much. With a smile on my face, I drifted to sleep. When I awoke, there wasn't a thick quilt of snow. It's more of a loosely-crocheted thing. But it still quiets everything. I felt like if I stood at the kitchen window long enough with my ear close to the glass I would hear the heartbeat of the bird in our neighbor's tree.
After the First Snow
I thank you Father for this most marvelous
day: for the soaring spirits of falcons
and a gray ballet of sky; and for everything
which is lovely which is finite which is true.
The world, which had died, is alive today,
this the moon’s birthday; this is the budding
of life and mist and love and stars, and of the
phenomenon boundless earth.
How should any breathing gasping snoring
sighing being be lifted above the nothingness
of all human-stardust merely seeing doubt?
Now the eyes of my fingers are opened and
the ears of my hands are awake.
07 January 2011
Seeker of Truth
I just finished up reading Wizard's First Rule, which is part of the Sword of Truth series. This poem came out of that along with some thoughts on poetry I've had lately. What does it really mean to be a poet? etc.
Seeker of Truth
Two sides to the same magic,
loneliness and positivity,
pressed against each other
with the mint of Time.
The visionary must cast
his spells in silence,
even if completely surrounded
or utterly alone.
The endless circling path
of poetry magic winds
tightly, squeezing out space
for anything else, including Therefore.
Seekers of Truth in distorted
realities must check their
revelations against the
mirror of the coin at hand.
The course may take them
far from the start, toward
edges of reason, but they need
only look down at their feet.
Truth is scrawled in the shadows.
On top of this poem, I have a couple quotes for you from poets far wiser than I.
"Poetry should... should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance." ~ John Keats
"The poem is the point at which our strength gave out." ~ Richard Rosen
Seeker of Truth
Two sides to the same magic,
loneliness and positivity,
pressed against each other
with the mint of Time.
The visionary must cast
his spells in silence,
even if completely surrounded
or utterly alone.
The endless circling path
of poetry magic winds
tightly, squeezing out space
for anything else, including Therefore.
Seekers of Truth in distorted
realities must check their
revelations against the
mirror of the coin at hand.
The course may take them
far from the start, toward
edges of reason, but they need
only look down at their feet.
Truth is scrawled in the shadows.
On top of this poem, I have a couple quotes for you from poets far wiser than I.
"Poetry should... should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance." ~ John Keats
"The poem is the point at which our strength gave out." ~ Richard Rosen
02 January 2011
Explosions Off In the Distance
I didn't expect 2011 to feel any different, but when I woke up this morning (once I got past severe grogginess) I felt really optimistic. This year will definitely be better than 2010 for me in general, and I hope it will be better for my writing as well. I've been writing poetry off and on throughout break, so I've made writing into a new habit. That's one goal from last year I can check off my list. One other goal from last year was to read 50 books by the end of the year. I didn't quite get there, but 47 is still fairly respectable, I think. So, that goal is carried over to my list for this year. 50 books by the end of 2011. I'd love to make the goal of having the first draft of my novel complete and cohesive, but I won't set that one just yet. I don't know what God wants me to work on this year, and I need to take things as they come while trusting Him. I found a poem I wrote two years ago just after New Year's, so I'll post it here.
Folding the Map
Withering, fading wandering wrecked
grays of speckled haze of a winter day
know not more than they know for their own
appointed moment.
Mist vanishes versus vernal dreams
clearing a course for the rest of time,
which they contain no vision of.
For the suspicion of eternity is
only a suspicion, but for One
Who subsumes every solution and never
a single speculation.
Every speck of pollen holds
a glimpse of time but will never know
the ages of the oceans.
Folding the Map
Withering, fading wandering wrecked
grays of speckled haze of a winter day
know not more than they know for their own
appointed moment.
Mist vanishes versus vernal dreams
clearing a course for the rest of time,
which they contain no vision of.
For the suspicion of eternity is
only a suspicion, but for One
Who subsumes every solution and never
a single speculation.
Every speck of pollen holds
a glimpse of time but will never know
the ages of the oceans.
25 December 2010
Celebrate Me Home
I was intending this post to be on New Year's Eve, but I can't wait. I may have to update it before then with revisions, but it's 7:00 am on Christmas morning, and I'm antsy.
Every year I compile a list of books I've read and denote recommendations. As you should know by now, I'm quite fond of lists. So, this is mine for 2010. I encourage you to make a book list as well. I'd love to know what other people are reading. Many of these were chosen by myself, others were required reading, and still others were recommendations. I love getting book recommendations. They make me feel warm and fuzzy, like when I eat gingerbread Pop Tarts while cuddled up in a blanket. (Yes, that's what I'm doing right now.)
So, happy reading, and Merry Christmas!!!
Dracula - Bram Stoker*
The Children of Hurin - J.R.R. Tolkien
Bird by Bird - Anne Lamott *(If you're a writer)
A Prayer for Owen Meany - John Irving*
Lawrence of Arabia - Anthony Nutting
The Death of Ivan Ilych - Tolstoy
The Awakening - Kate Chopin*
Confessions of a Non-Barbie - Kinda Wilson*
We Have Always Lived in the Castle - Shirley Jackson*
The Screwtape Letters - C.S. Lewis
The Catcher in the Rye - J.D. Salinger*
The Shining - Stephen King*
Lady Chatterly's Lover - D.H. Lawrence
Different Seasons - Stephen King*
The Lathe of Heaven - Ursula Le Guin*
All's Well That Ends Well - Shakespeare
A Novel Idea - various authors including Angela Hunt and Terri Blackstock*(If you're a writer)
Their Eyes Were Watching God - Zora Neale Hurston*
The Mysteries of Udolpho - Ann Radclffe*(If you're okay with an exhaustingly long read/if you're a die hard Austen fan)
The Stranger - Albert Camus*(If you like weird French writers)
The Complete Greek Tragedies including Hecuba, The Trojan Women, Andromache, andIon - Euripides III
The Return of the King - J.R.R. Tolkien*
Mere Christianity - C.S. Lewis*
The Sound and the Fury - William Faulkner
The House of the Seven Gables - Nathaniel Hawthorne
The Complete Sherlock Holmes Volume 1 - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle*
Moo - Jane Smiley
Death in the Garden - Elizabeth Ironside*
The Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas*
Sushi for One - Camy Tang*
Antigone - Sophocles
Hamlet - Shakespeare*
American Gods - Neil Gaiman*
Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand*
The Hunger Games - Suzanne Collins*
Catching Fire - Suzanne Collins*
Mockingjay - Suzanne Collins*
Smoke and Mirrors - Neil Gaiman*
The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo - Stieg Larsson* (DISCLAIMER) Very explicit violence and sex. But, worth the read. It's fantastic.
The Girl Who Played With Fire - Stieg Larsson*
The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest - Stieg Larsson*
Jane Slayre - Charlotte Bronte & Sherri Browning Erwin* (If I had never read Jane Eyre, I'd still love this. It's wonderful.)
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? - Edward Albee*
Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury**
Something Wicked This Way Comes - Ray Bradbury**
A Streetcar Named Desire - Tennessee Williams*
Only Uni - Camy Tang*
Every year I compile a list of books I've read and denote recommendations. As you should know by now, I'm quite fond of lists. So, this is mine for 2010. I encourage you to make a book list as well. I'd love to know what other people are reading. Many of these were chosen by myself, others were required reading, and still others were recommendations. I love getting book recommendations. They make me feel warm and fuzzy, like when I eat gingerbread Pop Tarts while cuddled up in a blanket. (Yes, that's what I'm doing right now.)
So, happy reading, and Merry Christmas!!!
Dracula - Bram Stoker*
The Children of Hurin - J.R.R. Tolkien
Bird by Bird - Anne Lamott *(If you're a writer)
A Prayer for Owen Meany - John Irving*
Lawrence of Arabia - Anthony Nutting
The Death of Ivan Ilych - Tolstoy
The Awakening - Kate Chopin*
Confessions of a Non-Barbie - Kinda Wilson*
We Have Always Lived in the Castle - Shirley Jackson*
The Screwtape Letters - C.S. Lewis
The Catcher in the Rye - J.D. Salinger*
The Shining - Stephen King*
Lady Chatterly's Lover - D.H. Lawrence
Different Seasons - Stephen King*
The Lathe of Heaven - Ursula Le Guin*
All's Well That Ends Well - Shakespeare
A Novel Idea - various authors including Angela Hunt and Terri Blackstock*(If you're a writer)
Their Eyes Were Watching God - Zora Neale Hurston*
The Mysteries of Udolpho - Ann Radclffe*(If you're okay with an exhaustingly long read/if you're a die hard Austen fan)
The Stranger - Albert Camus*(If you like weird French writers)
The Complete Greek Tragedies including Hecuba, The Trojan Women, Andromache, andIon - Euripides III
The Return of the King - J.R.R. Tolkien*
Mere Christianity - C.S. Lewis*
The Sound and the Fury - William Faulkner
The House of the Seven Gables - Nathaniel Hawthorne
The Complete Sherlock Holmes Volume 1 - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle*
Moo - Jane Smiley
Death in the Garden - Elizabeth Ironside*
The Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas*
Sushi for One - Camy Tang*
Antigone - Sophocles
Hamlet - Shakespeare*
American Gods - Neil Gaiman*
Atlas Shrugged - Ayn Rand*
The Hunger Games - Suzanne Collins*
Catching Fire - Suzanne Collins*
Mockingjay - Suzanne Collins*
Smoke and Mirrors - Neil Gaiman*
The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo - Stieg Larsson* (DISCLAIMER) Very explicit violence and sex. But, worth the read. It's fantastic.
The Girl Who Played With Fire - Stieg Larsson*
The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest - Stieg Larsson*
Jane Slayre - Charlotte Bronte & Sherri Browning Erwin* (If I had never read Jane Eyre, I'd still love this. It's wonderful.)
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? - Edward Albee*
Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury**
Something Wicked This Way Comes - Ray Bradbury**
A Streetcar Named Desire - Tennessee Williams*
Only Uni - Camy Tang*
22 December 2010
Favorite Words
Last semester, I was instructed to compose a poem using some of my favorite words. It turned out to be very nautical, which surprised me. Although I think it's because I tried to use the words I love and not very many extras. I like fathom as a verb rather than a noun, but eh. It fit. It was a very fun exercise to do, so I think you should try it. I'd certainly like to know other people's favorite words.
Ode to an Oarsman
A beetling minion
Gilds the depths
With round alchemy.
His sleight-of-hand rudders
Against thumpable fathoms.
The arrowy surface smoothes,
Placates itself and basks.
Ode to an Oarsman
A beetling minion
Gilds the depths
With round alchemy.
His sleight-of-hand rudders
Against thumpable fathoms.
The arrowy surface smoothes,
Placates itself and basks.
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