Posts Tagged ‘writer’

This is some advice I’ve received about writing poetry. I’m just relaying it:

  1. Concrete images trump metaphorical or abstract concepts. “Red grit bricks” trump “the voice of God,” “calloused knuckles” is better than “soul.” No one knows what a soul looks like. Concrete images are usually examined under the lens of metaphor anyway.
  2. It takes years to cultivate your voice. Try new and different things. Try traditional forms. Experiment with perspective and tone. Stay on things for a while. Try writing lists for a month, then try sonnets, and then try love poems.
  3. Write early in the day, or late at night. What you think is great in a moment may turn out to be crap later. Come back hours later and look at what you’ve written. Keep what you like. Cut what you don’t like. Don’t just try to change it. Get rid of it.
  4. Your heart is the center of your poetry. Get in touch with that, and let it pour out. You have time to rein it in later.

Happy writing. 🙂

So I survived my first year away at college. *deep sigh of relief*

I know its kind of a lame excuse, but I was busy a lot of the times, or just focused on other things, that’s why I haven’t posted on this blog in about six months.

Now that it’s summer I plan to fix that.

You’ll be seeing some new poetry soon, although I can’t promise I’ll be able to churn it out daily. But stayed tuned anyway!

“The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”- Sylvia Plath

from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

It’s funny how childlike and innocent my perception of the world, or at least the Natural world, becomes at the beginning of each season.

At the start of winter this year the snow was falling so lightly I thought it was almost dreamlike. Then winter got old. People began to grow tired of the now, especially as the weather turned foul. I tried to maintain a positive outlook, trying to see the beauty in storms and the whiteness of everything. But the sad thing about winter, when you get older, is that the season kind of loses it’s magic. You find you’d rather stay inside. I tried going out into the snow once. I only ended up being outside for fifteen minutes. Maybe the magic is also gone because fifteen minutes can feel like forever when you’re a kid.

Now winter grows into spring, and I find myself smiling as I step into a puddle by accident. I feel happy being able to see green plants now- tree branches no longer covered by snow. But I’m wondering how long this fascination will last. As a writer, observation of the surrounding world is important, but there’s this nagging sense that what I observe will get tiresome eventually.

I guess that the best option is to try and keep an open mind. To observe the changes that happen, and try to find the beauty in the heat waves and thunderstorms to come.

Wish me luck, and stay tuned!

One-dozen to twenty Volumes

I could Assign to your Name,

but I Dare not publish Them,

or put Both you and I to shame.

“Words and eggs must be handled with care./Once broken they are impossible/things to repair.” ~Anne Sexton, from her poem “Words” in “The Awful Rowing Toward God”

“If pain demands to be felt, I say: welcome it, but don’t let it overstay its welcome.”- Original

“That’s the thing about pain…it demands to be felt.”- Augustus Waters, The Fault in Our Stars by John Green

A Song Inspired by the works of Stephen Sondheim,

specifically “No One Is Alone” from “Into the Woods”

I’m all alone now

Nothing to speak to, but the air

Just ‘cause no one’s here now

doesn’t mean they don’t care

So why do I feel so lonely?

So empty and despaired?

Will things be okay?

Please, no one tell me that I’m wrong

Throughout all of next day

I have to appear strong

Is it wrong to feel this empty?

Is it wrong to be scared?

Where did I go wrong?

Pushing too hard, falling too fast

Was it doomed all along?

Why does the pain last?

It’s said that you’re never alone

Someone will take your side

My someones’ left me all alone

Don’t even have my pride

Will things be okay?

Please, someone, help me to be strong

Say “let the feelings stay”

Tell me I’m not wrong

“You’re a writer? Why go to college? Why don’t you just get a job and save enough money to travel the country or go live in a place like New York?”
“I have plenty of time to go nowhere, and I’d rather go there with an education and some sense of entitlement.”

This didn’t actually happen. Most of the witty things I could say I rarely have the opportunity to actually say.

In this great land I buzz like a fly,

barely audible, barely intriguing.

My home rests under a sky

which most human eyes do not notice.

It is quite a shame how many hours pass by

when I am typing or thinking, when I could be heard.

I see a golden light, and I fly

toward it. It is almost indiscernible at the end of my road,

radiating, a saint’s fallen halo, on the crest of a hill. I may not reach it before I die.

But I am trying, flapping my tiny coppery wings,

my stomach swells with determination. It has taken hold of both my eyes.

I see it now, and move toward that warm, bright, beckoning light.

Somehow I know what it is. I don’t ask why,

I simply know it is one of my goals and fly onward

because I can feel my body beginning to dry,

death sets upon me- a slow and arid disease.

I must reach the light before I die.

That is the only thought on my mind.

To some I may be an insignificant fly,

my presence irksome and my noises unintelligible.

But I know there are others like me who buzz below the sky.

Some may be comfortable where they are,

but not I.

I am flying toward a light that grows larger because I am getting nearer.

Ceaselessly moving toward my glowing ally,

I may be growing weary but I will not stop

’til what I my dreams are recognized, and I find home within the light. Then, and only then, will I say goodbye.