I feel your words
as though meant (souly) for me
strike the core of me
creating a fulcrum
pros & cons
teetter – totter
back -n- forth
weighing my worth
unveiling a center
where thoughts spin uncontrollably
clockwise
arguing "against"
then stop suddenly as I cling to the rail
before thoughts run rampant gaining speed
counterclockwise
rationalizing "for"
I find myself searching for the center
where this perpetual spinning
feels more like being off balanced
than clinging on for dear life
and there – again – are your words
reminding me I'm not alone
I may be the only one who finds
the seesaw so daunting
or
the merry-go-round so dizzying
but
I'm not the only one
daring
to brave the playground
Inspiration for this piece (or as much of it as I'm willing to expose): I've been having an argument with myself for the past several days. It is amazing how creatively one can talk themselves out of something they want to do. While the debate has been going on for over a month, I was able to push it off to the side. Now as I approach the looming "zero hour," I can no longer hold things at bay. It's decision time. Still the argument, centered around the definition of "actively," rolls round in my head. I'm leaning toward pro...fighting my fears...which don't really center around my fear of not being worthy in my own eyes (which is often the case), but being not worthy in the eyes of others.
Sunday, August 31, 2014
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Meaning (un)Folded
 |
| "Air Mail" by Joel Robinson |
each poem set free
takes flight
stark white butterflies
perch precariously
on nose tips
waiting on eyes to unfold
the mysteries lying within
each reader dusting truth
with their own color palette
before setting it on its way
sometimes they return adorned
in a single hue
other times they return splashed
in an array of colors
but always they return
each poem set
on setting me free
Inspiration for this piece: Over at dVerse Poets Pub for Poetics, they introduced the photography of Joel Robinson; the idea being to use his whimsical creations as inspirations. With so many to choose from, it was not easy. But in my last post, I explored the idea of interpretation...and somehow, the little white butterflies being set free from the typewriter nagged at this recent pondering. So, I went with it.
Sunday, August 17, 2014
on interpretation
I know I usually save these for the end, but I'm starting with a ramblings...
A side note: When I was in high school (and grade school, too, I suppose), I was quiet...shy...preferred sitting toward the back of the class where I might go unnoticed...hoped for others to ask my question and if they didn't...well, lucky for me the usually did. Anyway, I was not really one for raising my hand. However, there are two incidents in which I can remember quite clearly doing just that. The first time was as a freshman in Algebra 1. The teacher put a problem on the board involving binomial multiplication and asked the class to try to figure out the answer. After about a half dozen incorrect responses (exactly what the teacher was hoping for), I raised my hand and appropriately multiplied the two binomials. I recall him not quite expecting this (and why would he from a former basic skills student), but lucky for me I shared study hall with a friend who was in a different class with a different teacher whom she insisted did not teach. So in order to help her, I looked at the examples and taught her things I had yet to learn. I suppose, in hindsight, that was the beginning of my future career.
The second time I raised my hand was junior year English class. I am not sure what on earth possessed me to do such a thing (and in English to boot). We were in a short story unit and were discussing a recent story when the teacher inquired about why the class seemed to have different meanings for the story. After a few moments of no answers, I unwittingly became the victim of another teacher expecting the wrong answer. "Interpretation." I've blocked out most of the memory after that; I'm sure I elaborated on my answer either of my own accord or because I was asked to. Either way, I was quickly informed that I was wrong...basically there was no such thing as different meanings, but only the meaning the author intended on. For someone who never raised a hand, who feared being noticed, this was crushing. Not only that, but I felt (and still do to the core of me) that he was wrong. I get that there is an intended meaning to every story, but I also believe (especially as a writer) that you have to be open to the fact that everyone brings with them their own experiences and those experiences can make them see things from an unexpected angle.
So why do I bring all this up?
Inspiration for this piece: Well, there were several things at play this past week that had me revisiting this idea of interpretation....
One, my last post did not at all come across the way it was intended. And while this is not the first time a piece was altered through another's eyes, it was far from the truth I was caught off guard. Most of the time, I can easily see the way something might sound different, but in this particular piece (while rationally I can understand the different insight) I have a hard time hearing it any other way but how I intended. Part of me wishes I could hear someone else read it aloud so I might better grasp what they see and maybe even so that I might adjust with spacing, breaks and other word/line adjustments to better relay its true meaning.
The second thing that occurred with a day or so of my last post involved a poem written by another poet. While reading the comments, I felt a disconnect among the comments which was driven home by the last one I read; it turned the piece completely upside down and upon rereading, I could hear the other (true) meaning of the poem.
The last thing to fall in place was a post at dVerse Poets Pub which had the community exploring the hidden beat in their poetry...the rhythm to which they wrote...how their words sounded in their own head. It didn't technically speak to the idea of interpretation, but still for me, I felt the connection in this idea.... It was all of these things which lead to the piece below.
Tenor (of Interpretation)
Meaning beats in my words,
a rhythm only I can truly understand
when paper & pencil is my voice;
still I allow them to rage forth,
where eyes instead of ears
awaken fresh & new tempos;
and I'm torn
between wishing my words to beat true
and
dispelling the notion
the only story
is the one written
not the one read.
A side note: When I was in high school (and grade school, too, I suppose), I was quiet...shy...preferred sitting toward the back of the class where I might go unnoticed...hoped for others to ask my question and if they didn't...well, lucky for me the usually did. Anyway, I was not really one for raising my hand. However, there are two incidents in which I can remember quite clearly doing just that. The first time was as a freshman in Algebra 1. The teacher put a problem on the board involving binomial multiplication and asked the class to try to figure out the answer. After about a half dozen incorrect responses (exactly what the teacher was hoping for), I raised my hand and appropriately multiplied the two binomials. I recall him not quite expecting this (and why would he from a former basic skills student), but lucky for me I shared study hall with a friend who was in a different class with a different teacher whom she insisted did not teach. So in order to help her, I looked at the examples and taught her things I had yet to learn. I suppose, in hindsight, that was the beginning of my future career.
The second time I raised my hand was junior year English class. I am not sure what on earth possessed me to do such a thing (and in English to boot). We were in a short story unit and were discussing a recent story when the teacher inquired about why the class seemed to have different meanings for the story. After a few moments of no answers, I unwittingly became the victim of another teacher expecting the wrong answer. "Interpretation." I've blocked out most of the memory after that; I'm sure I elaborated on my answer either of my own accord or because I was asked to. Either way, I was quickly informed that I was wrong...basically there was no such thing as different meanings, but only the meaning the author intended on. For someone who never raised a hand, who feared being noticed, this was crushing. Not only that, but I felt (and still do to the core of me) that he was wrong. I get that there is an intended meaning to every story, but I also believe (especially as a writer) that you have to be open to the fact that everyone brings with them their own experiences and those experiences can make them see things from an unexpected angle.
So why do I bring all this up?
Inspiration for this piece: Well, there were several things at play this past week that had me revisiting this idea of interpretation....
One, my last post did not at all come across the way it was intended. And while this is not the first time a piece was altered through another's eyes, it was far from the truth I was caught off guard. Most of the time, I can easily see the way something might sound different, but in this particular piece (while rationally I can understand the different insight) I have a hard time hearing it any other way but how I intended. Part of me wishes I could hear someone else read it aloud so I might better grasp what they see and maybe even so that I might adjust with spacing, breaks and other word/line adjustments to better relay its true meaning.
The second thing that occurred with a day or so of my last post involved a poem written by another poet. While reading the comments, I felt a disconnect among the comments which was driven home by the last one I read; it turned the piece completely upside down and upon rereading, I could hear the other (true) meaning of the poem.
The last thing to fall in place was a post at dVerse Poets Pub which had the community exploring the hidden beat in their poetry...the rhythm to which they wrote...how their words sounded in their own head. It didn't technically speak to the idea of interpretation, but still for me, I felt the connection in this idea.... It was all of these things which lead to the piece below.
Tenor (of Interpretation)
Meaning beats in my words,
a rhythm only I can truly understand
when paper & pencil is my voice;
still I allow them to rage forth,
where eyes instead of ears
awaken fresh & new tempos;
and I'm torn
between wishing my words to beat true
and
dispelling the notion
the only story
is the one written
not the one read.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
If you insist
if not for me,
the world would still be round
and you would not need worry
'bout falling off the face of it.
it may not seem like it,
but
if not for me,
eggshells would be intact
instead of crunching beneath.
it may have been the same regardless,
but
if not for me,
the sun would rise & fall,
the clouds would rumble & pass,
& I would be none the wiser.
if not for me.
the world would still be round
and you would not need worry
'bout falling off the face of it.
it may not seem like it,
but
if not for me,
eggshells would be intact
instead of crunching beneath.
it may have been the same regardless,
but
if not for me,
the sun would rise & fall,
the clouds would rumble & pass,
& I would be none the wiser.
if not for me.
Friday, August 8, 2014
It all adds up to 40
Inspiration for these pieces: Over at dVerse Poets Pub, entry into this weeks MeetTheBar is a piece less than or equal to 40 words. Today I'm surging up three pieces that flow quite well together. Each is under 40...including their titles and the sum total of words (including titles) is 40. The first is 16+4=20; the second is 7+3=10; the third is 8+2=10.
Straight to the Heart
thunder rumbles as
darkness thickens the room
lightning clashes in
sharp tongues intent
on striking true.
Bitter (no) Sweet
harsh tones
thicken the air
suffocating love
Edgy Art
patience wanes
brushing hearts
black
with snide
retorts
An aside: On vacation...wifi is spotty...plus we're keeping ourselves quite busy. Making the rounds will be tricky, but where there's a will there's a way...it just might take a little longer an normal.
Straight to the Heart
thunder rumbles as
darkness thickens the room
lightning clashes in
sharp tongues intent
on striking true.
Bitter (no) Sweet
harsh tones
thicken the air
suffocating love
Edgy Art
patience wanes
brushing hearts
black
with snide
retorts
An aside: On vacation...wifi is spotty...plus we're keeping ourselves quite busy. Making the rounds will be tricky, but where there's a will there's a way...it just might take a little longer an normal.
Monday, August 4, 2014
There's no navigating Anxiety's surge
I've stonewalled the tears for as long as I can remember
with no other recourse, they forged another path
tunneling caverns within where they could run rampant
Class VI rapids tearing through me until I vibrate
My insides feel as though they're taking part
in electroshock therapy and someone
has forgotten to turn off the current
Did you know salt water is a perfect
conductor of electricity?
An aside: I had the second stanza in my head before the first. Not really sure what possessed me to write the first part and then tack on the second. As for the question at the end...honestly I was not at all sure where to go after the second stanza. Kind of got lost...the question popped in my head and well...I went with it and apparently have decided to end with it. So in the end, I'm not really sure about this piece...it feels like the questions should be the title and the poem should continue in some way shape or form....maybe I'll revisit this...though if I know anything about myself, that is extremely unlikely.
with no other recourse, they forged another path
tunneling caverns within where they could run rampant
Class VI rapids tearing through me until I vibrate
My insides feel as though they're taking part
in electroshock therapy and someone
has forgotten to turn off the current
Did you know salt water is a perfect
conductor of electricity?
An aside: I had the second stanza in my head before the first. Not really sure what possessed me to write the first part and then tack on the second. As for the question at the end...honestly I was not at all sure where to go after the second stanza. Kind of got lost...the question popped in my head and well...I went with it and apparently have decided to end with it. So in the end, I'm not really sure about this piece...it feels like the questions should be the title and the poem should continue in some way shape or form....maybe I'll revisit this...though if I know anything about myself, that is extremely unlikely.
Sunday, August 3, 2014
Memories Fall, Scatter to the Wind
she sleeps peacefully, yet not at all
the world seems to stop, slip away, and fall
had I known
my last goodbye would be greeted by cold hard stone...
beneath lovely boughs
magnolia's first bloom
brings sweet memories of you
pink hues
i watch rain
that last breathing memory
etched on my heart
I knead dough
roll / pull / twist / punch
wishing these hands were yours
How long can I tread tears before
I drown in them?
memories of you seep through my veins
I'm
lost
and asking for directions
not an option
lost: unarmed. I stare towards the fray
Is it wrong
for me to hope
your light still shines?
How many times can I wish for the arms
that will never raise again before
I crumble within?
How do I
continue to gaze into the flames
that sing now
for just me?
This is a compilation; the majority of lines are taken directly from another poem. Each poem focused on the same overarching topic. I felt I could not allow this day to pass without a piece, but I find myself lacking. So, to celebrate I have created this piece by pulling from others in the order they were written. (Since the last thing I wrote was the title it seemed fitting it would come from the most recent piece.) I think for the most part they flowed well from one to the next, though the "i knead dough" is a little out of place.
Friday, August 1, 2014
Echoes Flicker in Mocking Silence
my shadow flickers in the candle light
my shadow flickers in the candle light
mocking me with every breath it steals
mocking me with every breath it steals
the candle flickers with mocking breath;
in every shadow, it steals me my light.
laughter echoes within my mind
laughter echoes within my mind
while pain hides in the silence
while pain hides in the silence
my laughter hides pain within, while
silence echoes in the mind.
for my silent heart fears each breath it takes
for my silent heart fears each breath it takes
while hope tears straight through my head as a scream
while hope tears straight through my head as a scream
as hope takes a breath each silent scream tears
through my heart while my fears head straight for it.
within the mind mocking laughter hides
for it echoes in every breath while fear screams
pain flickers straight through me
as it steals my breath with silent tears
my shadow takes in the silence while
my head - my heart - my hope - each light a candle
Inspiration for this piece and a note on form: It started with a prompt from an unexpected individual over at dVerse Poets Pub. As part of FormForAll, the paradelle was presented...a faux form that became an actual form. It is a very interesting and if you ask me crazy form. I'm not really sure what on earth I was thinking in trying it, but I have a tendency to try any form at least once (three times before I really settle on whether I like it or not; I think I'll remain undecided on this form). While trying to come up with an idea...after scribbling my first thought out...an old piece popped into my head. It was used as the inspiration for the content of this piece. Hopefully in the end the poem makes sense. Not an easy task given the structure of the form.
An aside: There is a part of me that would love to provide you with the internal rhetoric that occurred while composing the final stanza of this piece–I feel it would be quite entertaining–but I thought I'd save you from my inane ramblings for this post.
my shadow flickers in the candle light
mocking me with every breath it steals
mocking me with every breath it steals
the candle flickers with mocking breath;
in every shadow, it steals me my light.
laughter echoes within my mind
laughter echoes within my mind
while pain hides in the silence
while pain hides in the silence
my laughter hides pain within, while
silence echoes in the mind.
for my silent heart fears each breath it takes
for my silent heart fears each breath it takes
while hope tears straight through my head as a scream
while hope tears straight through my head as a scream
as hope takes a breath each silent scream tears
through my heart while my fears head straight for it.
within the mind mocking laughter hides
for it echoes in every breath while fear screams
pain flickers straight through me
as it steals my breath with silent tears
my shadow takes in the silence while
my head - my heart - my hope - each light a candle
Inspiration for this piece and a note on form: It started with a prompt from an unexpected individual over at dVerse Poets Pub. As part of FormForAll, the paradelle was presented...a faux form that became an actual form. It is a very interesting and if you ask me crazy form. I'm not really sure what on earth I was thinking in trying it, but I have a tendency to try any form at least once (three times before I really settle on whether I like it or not; I think I'll remain undecided on this form). While trying to come up with an idea...after scribbling my first thought out...an old piece popped into my head. It was used as the inspiration for the content of this piece. Hopefully in the end the poem makes sense. Not an easy task given the structure of the form.
An aside: There is a part of me that would love to provide you with the internal rhetoric that occurred while composing the final stanza of this piece–I feel it would be quite entertaining–but I thought I'd save you from my inane ramblings for this post.
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