Morning, readers. A quick response to Inspiration Monday, today. It is an etheree (a poem of increasing syllables) in response to the prompt, ounce of courage. Feedback always welcome.
Not
an ounce
of courage
could be found in the faces of their
warriors. They would fight.
They would defend. They would die,
like good little puppets dancing
on their strings. But no, they would not wear
bravery. Courage was for fools on thrones.
- Love The Bad Guy
Howdy, readers! Here’s another response to this week’s Inspiration Monday prompts — this time, just a quick bunch of haikus.
I hope you enjoy them.
His eyes linger, for
a moment, then are gone. She
stares at her dad’s back.
His love is a rip
tide: unexpectedly there,
and fatally swift.
His final words were
louder than the gun-shot’s blast:
You have got the wrong—!
- Love The Bad Guy
The end of the BlogFlash2012 Challenge is looming closer and closer. For today, I’ve written a haiku. I hope you enjoy it.
Check out other contributions for Day 28 here.
Check out my contribution for Day 1 here.
- Love The Bad Guy
Day Ten of the BlogFlash2012 Challenge… And I am up to the Day Five prompt. I’m getting there, though! Still chugging away.
I’ll hopefully have a few more posts today, but for now, here’s Day 5 — a haiku, because I wanted a change of scenery. Enjoy!
(And once again, click here to go back to the start of the challenge.)
- Love The Bad Guy
Hi all. A few weeks back, I read a truly beautiful piece over at My Other Book is a Tolstoy by Louise, which then inspired another wonderful post by Stef at Dodging Commas. Both of these talented ladies wrote a poem using the “I am from” format they found on Susie J’s Blog, who provided the basic “procedure”.
Now, I’m not going to lie — compared to the masterpieces these bloggers presented, mine is mediocre. I am not a Poet. I fail at writing poetry. These are facts. Nevertheless, I absolutely adored the “I am from” poems that I read, and the way that they provided insight to their writers in the most mysterious way, so… I’m havin’ a crack. Be kind!
I am from lazy Sunday drives that rarely happen on a Sunday. I am from the small town. I am from fear of the unknown, of becoming distracted and losing myself. I am from 180 degrees of wrong direction.
I am from lilies on Valentine’s Day, when the world screams for roses. I am from the old-fashioned, hoping for opened doors and “you are beautiful”, but needing freedom, space, understanding. Let me be flighty; I will come back.
I am from eating ducks under tables and finishing crusts so my hair grows curly. I am from Nanna’s roasts and Pop’s straw hat. I am from flour-dusted cheeks and mixing bowls, from pumpkin scones, cuddles and midnight taste-testing. I am from spilt salt and black cats, from putting new shoes on the table and walking under ladders thirteen times, just to see what will happen.
I am from a cousin’s Funny Things, from schedules never kept and never needed. From day-apart birthdays and monthly sleepovers and I miss you.
I am from inquisitive meows and warm bundles that always appear just when needed. I am from heartache and loss when your best friend stops purring.
I am from women, from a family of one-man-only per generation. I am from divorce and from moving house once a year. I am from Broken that never seemed Broken until people started to say it was.
I am from Velveteen Rabbits, from dog-eared pages and “you should be a writer”. I am from bad guys; why do I love you so? I am from diaries never maintained and stories never obtained. From pencils sharpened to the nub and never thrown away, but always eventually lost. From right angles and alphabetizing and needing order, lest Life fall apart.
I am from optimism, wrapped around realism. I am from hoping for better, but loving the now, even when I don’t love myself. I am from expectations.
I am from…
- Love The Bad Guy
Recently, in my Fiction Writing class, we experimented with the techniques of phrase manipulation. This is a valuable tool for any writer, and one that many people will do without thinking.
Basically, it is the technique of altering a base phrase into other sentences, sometimes forming a more unusual wording, sometimes changing the meaning altogether. Then you can do any number of things: add words; change them; take them away; substitute them for something else — the possibilities are endless!
Here’s an example of what we were doing.
I started with the phrase trying to escape reality, which became:
to escape the reality of trying
escaping to try reality
trying to find reality
dying to find reality
trying to escape the unknown
trying to imagine reality
planning to escape the world
trying to hold on to reality
failing to escape fact
trying to escape a false reality
trying to escape reality’s wrath
And on and on and on until the end of time… Or until you find that perfect, evasive phrase. Whichever comes first.
Phrase manipulation is a highly entertaining and challenging thing; I encourage all you writers to have a crack, because sometimes those tweaks can result in a masterpiece. A fine example of this is a poem by Australian poet Myron Lysenko. I’ll leave you to bask in the awe of his creative phrase manipulations and brilliant twist of poety. Enjoy!
They stood
under the big tree
and talked slowly
Under the tree
they stood
and slowly talked big
The big tree
stood slowly
and under they talked
They stood big
and slowly talked
the tree under
The big tree talked
and they slowly
understood
Lysenko, 1998
- Love The Bad Guy
Here is a … thing … for BeKindReWrite’s Inspiration Monday. I don’t know what it is. A short story? A poem, perhaps? It has ten lines, increasing by one word each time. If anyone knows if this is a particular type of poem, please educate me!
Prompt: “How did you get in here?” Hope you enjoy.
Alone
in darkness.
Except for the
woman on the bed,
of course. An odd thing.
“How did you get in here?”
She smiled, slow and pretty, but silent.
Intrigued, and more than a little bit lustful,
he approached, circling like a lion to a lamb.
Cloaked by shadow, the lamb was the one to pounce.
- Love The Bad Guy
A few weeks ago I mentioned that my favourite poem was a John Forbes piece called “Speed, a Pastoral”. For those who have not read it, I wish to share it with you. Hope you enjoy!
it’s fun to take speed
& stay up all night
not writing those reams of poetry
just thinking about is bad for you
— instead your feelings
follow your career down the drain
& find they like it there
among an anthology of fine ideas, bound together
by a chemical in your blood
that lets you stare the TV in its vacant face
& cheer, consuming yourself like a mortgage
& when Keats comes to dine, or Flaubert,
you can answer their purities
with your own less negative ones — for example
you know Dransfield’s line, that once you become a junkie
you’ll never want to be anything else?
well, I think he died too soon,
as if he thought drugs were an old-fashioned teacher
& he was the teacher’s pet, who just put up his hand
& said quietly, ‘Sir, sir’
& heroin let him leave the room.
– John Forbes
- Love The Bad Guy
Hello again, dear readers. Here’s another entry for Be Kind ReWrite’s Inspiration Monday, with the prompt candy from strangers.
I do hope you’ll all excuse me, but I did a little bit of experimenting with this entry. It is an Etheree of sorts (or at least some kind of imperfect imitation of it) — a poem of ten lines, which begins with one syllable and increases by one syllable each line. I then finished the work with a haiku. Please enjoy, and as usual, thoughts and comments are muchly appreciated.
I
enjoy
talking to
people on the
street—the ones I don’t
know; those who don’t know me.
These people are ignorant.
They offer kindness, even to
those who don’t deserve it. I take that
kindness and steal it away, mine to keep.
pieces of candy
sweetly, innocently dropped
from a stranger’s lips
- Love The Bad Guy
Hello, dear readers. As you know, every now and again I like to draw your attention to a piece of writing, not my own, which I feel is a must-read. One of these is The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. This is surely a poem that you’ve all at least heard of, but I know some would admit to never having read it. However, it is truly an excellent example of writing – the rhyming scheme, the picture he forms, it is all just brilliant. Poe really is a mastermind and an inspiration.
How is a raven like a writing desk…?
Enjoy.
by Edgar Allan Poe (1845)
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“‘Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
“‘Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’”- here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!”
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as ‘Nevermore.’
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never-nevermore.’”
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking ‘Nevermore.’
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee
Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore -
Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked upstarting -
“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!
- Love The Bad Guy
Picture taken from here
