Poetry Thursday.
(Thursday, September 28, 2006)
I seem to be slowing down during these first days of autumn, taking the time to let my eyes follow the upward sprouting of the trees, and delight my senses in lingering upon the changing hues and the crisp scents.
I wrote this poem last fall, when autumn was bringing to mind the days I spent in the apple tree behind my grandmother's house--an old house I had spent so many days within, imagining, growing. When the house was auctioned off last fall, I was sad, and inspired...
On the Occasion of the Auction
Behind the hosue sits perched an apple tree
whose branches cradled me in summer limbo.
I'd read and nap before the sun sank low
enough to summon me inside, wordlessly.
Within, the walls, which hung with fragrant comforts--
of must and yeast and fleshy pipe tobacco--
hushed the locusts' hums, drowsy and slow.
At dark, in bed, I heard the clock's retorts
below me, replying chiming melodies
to answer crickets' songs: The hours, the hours.
The floorboards sighed and settled, lulled into
their wooden skeleton, in quietude
throughout the night. Outside, the fruit tree towers,
stoic, languid, helpless to our pleas.
Wishing the Days Away.
(Monday, September 25, 2006)
So much has been happening inside my mind, that I have been afraid to bring myself out of the solitude within my head and face life. Discontent rages within me, as it has done for so long. The days I find simplicity delight me... I wish I could escape such material vices and live simply, basically, essentially.
It seems that I live in a state of discontent, and now and then a day or a few come along where everything seems so exquisite, rather than the other way around. Is this my own curse, or are there others who do not live in a state of general happiness, with a few days of discontent dappled in between?
Why do I wish for everything else? My mind is filled with fantastical images of where I want to be besides here... what I wish I were doing besides this... yet I need to learn to find the fulfillment that is ready to envelop me, within my very own every day love and life. Sometimes it is with me, and I grasp it for a moment; sometimes it stays along for weeks or months before letting me slip and fall down the cliff face-first once again.
The images that fill my head.... my hopes and dreams.
And still I want most to live in the moments; to not wish them away.
1 . 2 . 3 . 4 . 5
Tidbits.
(Monday, September 18, 2006)
I have been reading Katherine Anne Porter's short novel "Old Mortality." The short novel is something I hadn't entertained up until this point--at least, not knowingly. I've read Ethan Frome without even considering the genre.
A little blurb before the story began enlightened me to some of Porter's life and career, and I found her inspirational for many reasons. It took her twenty-five years to write her only novel, and she was not published until she was in her thirties. She had many different occupations here and there to "keep her afloat," as the volume says, amidst her writing and travels. Her life made me think:
There is time. Slow down, don't push too hard.
Strive for quality. Put yourself fully into the one thing you wish to accomplish.
Don't spread yourself too thin--or you will be everywhere, but barely. Be one place, fully.
Embrace your imperfections.
Her words are simple and lovely. I found myself underlining many phrases and dogearing several pages, just because some of the words she wrote were so beautiful--and yet they weren't flowery.
A little tidbit that I read over and over: "Young namesake Amy, on her way to a dance, would swish through the hall in ruffled white taffeta, glimmering like a moth in the lamplight, carrying her elbows pointed back stiffly as wings, sliding along as if she were on rollers, in the fashionable walk of her day."
And that inspired me to begin a little something called "Tidbits." I often find myself folding corners and marking little pieces from the books I'm reading, pieces I'd love to share. I thought I would do just that--make it a point to share some little tidbits anytime I come across them... and feel free to share some of yours, if you find any, too. It might inspire someone else to pick up something they otherwise might not have, and read something new.
Poetry Thursday.
(Thursday, September 14, 2006)
It's been an incredibly busy week, and within the pressures of having so much to do, I have found myself becoming more and more tempted to keep bustling around even when I should, or can, be resting.
I'm the sort of person who firmly believes in well-earned rest, even if you don't feel like you've earned it! Your mind needs it; your body needs it. I've had to stop myself so many times this week when I knew it was time for rest, but I tried to get something done during my rest anyway. Reading for classes whilst laying on the couch, when real rest means just that--even if reading doesn't feel like it takes away from rest, even if you enjoy the material, it's still taxing on your mind. So, this week I have been quiet.
On the same note, it's been dreary and rainy all week, and I've had to really try to find those simple pleasures... they weren't so obvious in the grey clouds that loomed all week, and are still looming. I was reminded of one of my favorite poems, and, although it doesn't seem to, this actually does tie into this week's prompt for Poetry Thursday. We were given a similar assignment once in a poetry class I took, and I decided to write my own poem inspired by Gerard Manley Hopkins' "Pied Beauty." Because I am not at home now, and so I don't have my copy of my own poem here, I will give you Hopkins' piece for now... let you appreciate it... and share mine later.
-Gerard Manley Hopkins
Sunday Scribblings.
(Sunday, September 10, 2006)
The prompt up today at Sunday Scribblings is to write about what you never thought you would write about. As I barely had any time to sit or breathe this weekend, I certainly couldn't find any time to actually write what I never thought I would; but I do have a few thoughts.
I never thought I would write a romance novel.
And, in fact, I thought I never had written one, until I began reminiscing about my childhood and realized--that's not true, I have!
First, let me say a few words of clarification and such. I am such a romantic, and so hungry for words that at times I will read anything. I rely on books for everything: to enlighten me, to teach me, to help me, and, at times, to send me off into an escape away from everything in my mind and my world. As of late, my craving has been for historical novels, and I've been loving drifting off into another era whilst I turn the pages, imagining what it would be like to live in 14th century Wales as a travelling healer. And let me admit--part of what pulled me into my current read was the little line that hinted toward a love affair. But there have been times when all I wanted was a scandalous, immoral romance novel, the kind they sell as "$1.00 per lid" at the used bookstore around the corner. I've had my days of sneaking over to the massive, overwhelming wall of cheap, thick romance covers in our library, plucking one or two discreetly off the shelf, and walking out contentedly in anticipation of reading all about the flushed, heaving-chested woman and the shirtless knight I spied on the front cover. I have no shame! It was terribly satisfying!
Nonetheless, I never thought I would write one of these, despite my need for a brainless romance now and then; and, truthfully, I never have written one quite like that. But I do recall when I was still in elementary school, and every day I rushed home and into my bedroom, grabbed my blue binder, and flopped belly-down on my bed to write a few chapters of my secret novel. At the time, I was a hopeless fan of Nancy Drew, and so my novel was a neverending, seventy-five (so far) chapter ordeal about three female journalist best friends who landed internships at the city newspaper and just happened to meet three best friend guys who worked there, too, and all their mysteries, fallings-in-love, first kisses, and near-killings as they investigated crimes. Because I was only nine or ten years old, this romance was not the sexy, lustful, trashy sort--but still, it was just as satisfying for a young girl of my age to write about all the things that made her innocent heart flutter.
I never did finish the novel. I believe it ran up to around eighty chapters before I stopped writing, and I'm not sure if I even have it anymore. Several years ago, I may have tossed it away, embarrassed, but I still remember how it felt to write shamelessly and without any cares of whether it was a work of true talent.
I would love to share a few excerpts of it here... thus, I will begin searching through all my old desk drawers, boxes, shuffling through floppy disks, to see if I can find even pieces of it--if I could find it, I have a feeling it would make me smile.
Poetry Thursday
(Thursday, September 07, 2006)
There is a man who rides around our little town on a bicycle. He dresses all in blue: plain navy blue t-shirt, blue shorts or pants, and even a blue hat. His all-blue attire and his cap remind me of a mailman: in fact, I used to think he was one. I would see him every day when I worked at the market in town. He would come in whether it was sunny, raining, or snowing, and only buy a pack of Big Red gum or cigarettes. Ever since I haven't worked at the market, I've still seen him--all around town, and even outside of town, up to ten miles away riding wherever he needed to go.
I saw him on Tuesday night when I walked down to the library during the evening. He was sitting inside, at a big table in the back, quietly pondering over all sorts of books. He commented quietly on how I was going to catch a cold since I was wearing flip-flops in the rain, and we laughed. As I walked back home, he passed me on his bike, steering with one hand, umbrella in the other, for there was a fine, misty rain. He waved, and I waved. We have a funny sort of relationship, the bicycle mailman and I. I don't know his name, and he doesn't know mine, but we still know each other. In tribute to Poetry Thursday and the bicycle mailman in blue, here is a little poem that makes me think of him:
The Mailman
Sometimes I trade him a sestina for a sewer-and-water bill.
He's official, blue. Perhaps not
an even trade, a poem for a utility bill, but still
he's my man, my winged messenger, all I've got
in the way of neighborhood mythology. Moonlighting, he
conducts the souls of the dead to the underworld
and always respectfully, handing them their news almost apologetically.
Your letter read Perhaps you think this is Wonderland
and you are Alice? making me fall, spinning, down
and down the dark hole of the new world, the one
without you. My hero delivers the particular verbs and nouns
that once committed cannot be undone
and he waits faithfully, patiently, at the gate, his hand extended
to catch the catch in my voice, my reply to the world ended.
poem by Deborah Tobola
Finding everything in nothing.
(Tuesday, September 05, 2006)
In art class, we have been working on an exercise that consists of studying a plant and drawing its negative. It seems simple enough at first, but the challenge is not to draw the plant, but to draw the places you see in between. Keeping focus on the unconventional is tough!
I began as discouraged or somewhat skeptical, seeing nothing but a smattering of black shapes about the paper, but soon, an image developed around those black nothings, and it looked exquisitely and perfectly like the plant before me.
There was wisdom to be found in this tedious exercise. How often in my life do I get caught up thinking, or worrying, about the "big picture," all the while ignoring the charming little corners, spaces, niches in between? And this art therapy could not have come at a better moment--I've been struggling with the "big picture" for a few days, now, trying to push my perspective back into day-at-a-time mode.
It's so important to draw in the little tidbits of life, for this is the stuff of life. I remind myself to take time to enjoy the commonalities of every day:
Over the weekend, rainy and chilly, I roasted a small chicken. After we'd eaten and the pickings were still good, I thought it a perfect day for chicken soup, and tossed the bird in a pot with some veggies and the drippings, then picked the bones clean and threw the meat in the soup. But I didn't hurry. There was nowhere else to go; nothing else to do... my love was taking an afternoon nap, and I enjoyed chopping, dicing, picking, and simmering.
I saw a ladybug flitting along the sidewalk, and stopped to look and pick her up, admire her. I found joy in something little, and slowed down, as a child would.
I came across the perfect quote to sum up my thoughts....
"Children find everything in nothing; men find nothing in everything."
Giacomo Leopardi, Zibaldone Scelto
Let us try to find everything in nothing, just as children would.
First Thoughts.
(Monday, September 04, 2006)
Today, I found myself completely inspired. More inspired than I have felt in quite a long time. Today, I thought to myself... "Yes." I felt a weight lifted from my entire being: I felt free. I truly felt free enough to make subtle choices, which have the possibility of altering my life. I've been making changes, some big, some little. And today, I decided to do what I dream of doing; I clearly saw today as a gift not to be wasted by pushing off all the little dreams and inspirations I have in favor of reality. Why not change my reality? This, then, will be my reality...
Today, I found myself completely inspired by a little tidbit of advice passed on from Penelope:
"If you have a crazy idea, share it. Sometimes that crazy idea turns into a beautiful reality with help from a few supportive friends."
My mind is full of crazy little ideas. I crave my own little space in which I can share. And I hope that in pondering my own inspirations, I become inspired even more... and if I am lucky enough, perhaps I might inspire a few other kindred spirits, as well.
Thus, here I begin anew.
© Megan K. 2006-2007
