we are hidden inside while it thunders when you call for me, in the three o'clock dark of my room, I roll off and curl fetal on the far side of the bed to test your temper. You come in, the dog's eyes are sharper but the sound of your voice fills the room. You run along my aggravate silence, horse feet searching the house, the creak of the family room floorboard, the bare slap on kitchen tile, the rattled shower curtain, a burst into the closet - your timbre gains an edge of question. The screen door crash as you check the porch, that last spot, just sheltered, where after dark, we sometimes dull the day. Now, I am a cruel hone even to your silence. From the rack you gather your jacket, sheathing thin bones, turn back outside. I count your steps watch your back rise and reclaim you. Where were you going? To look for you. Were you worried? YES! I tell him I will never leave him a large lie to tell a small boy, who stood looking for me, foot-soaked in the downpour, his hand upon the gate.
Haven’t done any creative writing in a long while. Years, in fact. First, I ran out of gas and inspiration from being too immersed in the poetry scene, and then, life intervened. I stopped writing poetry regularly in June of 2007 (By Brakhage), only two poems since then (Tide Line, This Dominion), both over two years ago. They’re okay, I guess; abrupt but unpolished. I was intent on other things.
Lately, in the rare moment of approximate peace, I’ve been hearing a certain bluebird singing in the distance of my heart.
It might be time to start writing again.
I’ve not written any poetry in quite some time. I did manage to get an A in my Advanced Poetry Writing class, but I’m not quite sure how I feel about that. Over the semester I felt myself becoming less and less fresh and creative, instead the poems became steadily more like mass-produced objects with assignment completion as the goal rather than quality.
All my poems took on a sort of archaic, uncontemporary feel to them, sometimes because of my word choice, sometimes because of my sentence construction, sometimes because of my subject matter. Perhaps my most creative poem that semester, Fiat Tabula Rasa, was also the deepest embedded into meditations of archaism and modernity.
The point is, I need a fresh new direction, some Muse to submit to, a bit of spice in my life.
Much of my poetry of late has dealt with endings, must I now write about creative stagnation? I’d most certainly rather write about peppier things.
with four relatively decent sized papers looming over me this easter weekend i am staying on campus for the duration. the papers are due as follows
- April 24th — Film Theory — 8–10 pages. I’m writing on how class structures are assumed into racial identities and how that plays into film spectatorship in Spike Lee’s Bamboozled.
- May 2nd — Irish Cinema Culture — 10 pages. I’m writing on the differing portrayals of Irish immigrant community life in Far and Away and Gangs of New York.
- May 4th — Otherworldly Literature — 10–12 pages. I’m writing on how J.R.R. Tolkien’s various works are filled with an almost atavistic sense of history through a frame of English literature in a worldwide form.
- ?????? — International Migration — 6–10 pages. I’m not really sure what I’m going to write about this. I’ve only been to two classes.
my regular season is over. i was 4–1 on the weekend, and finally got my act together. the men’s squad is now 82–0 over three years of fencing. and my time fencing as a part of the team is almost up. the drive back from East Lansing was quite an experience. the weather was awful. snow snow snow. a bunch of the team went out drinking. i would have liked to join them but as always, i’m flatass broke. today i will look for a job and try to write a poem in iambic pentameter. writing with accent and meter is much harder than writing normally.
well i drove 4 hours home today. i’ll officially be here for three weeks although i am going to spend some time in Chicago. as soon as i got home i began ‘nesting’ as my mother calls it, going through all of my stuff and running around in circles like a dog does to assert and make itself familiar with its territory. anyway, i was going through my file cabinet doing my yearly packrat purge and i came across this one page story i wrote in 7th grade english class. i reproduce it here in all it original horribleness.
“Hey Skatch! Over here! The annual Ditterbloknic came upon me unexpectedly.” The Pysk rode her ferret toward the sound of the voice. “Heran must of gotten drunk again,” she thought. “Heran, you imbecile, if you didn’t have a hangover you would know that the Ditterbloknic was last dektide.” (month) “Just free me,” Heran muttered. The Pysk sighed. “Heran you are the strangest Halfling I have ever known.” “Will you please free me?” the Halfling begged. The ferret chittered, and sidestepped nervously. There were snuffling and grunting sounds amidst the heather. The sky became streaked with purple and green. Everything on the horizon became grotesquely twisted out of shape. The ferret begins to chase his tail. “Easy Zine, calm down, help Heran!” Skatch shrieked. “I will if you ever free me!” Heran roared. Suddenly, all was calm. The ferret rolled on its side panting. “Gee Skatch, the way you leapt off that ferret and ran to me almost makes me think you were worried about me.” “I should probably have left you to Shenar and the Juggers.” “Not them, they take pride in torture, they think its funny.” “Why once I heard that they stake you out on an anthill and pour honey on your.” The Pysk shuddered. “You last two or three days, but you go insane long before you die.” “Well I should probably free you,” Skatch sighed. “I was beginning to think you never would.” Skatch began to sing. Her song was low, light, and lilting, but the song that the ground echoed back was a deep rumble. Heran sprang free from his trap. “Yaha! Finally I am free!” Skatch and the ferret watched complacently whlie Heran danced around the dingle. When he finally settled down Skatch had a conference. “Now,” she said, “we must discuss what has just happened. These recurring time swirels are very strange, we must go to Shamino.” “Not that wizard who thinks he’s a Mage,” the Halfling groaned. “Yes, him,” the Pysk said indignantly. “Now get off the ground and follow me.” The Pysk and Halfling stroll out of the dingle and west to the wizard’s villa. The ferret, still panting, trots behind.
The End (or is it)
Rewriting that made me realize just how much i bastardized from other stories. jeebus. its funny to see my attempts at alliteration and the big words i use gratuitously. i got a 30/20 on it. yeah extra credit points for plagiarizing.
creative writing is synthesis, not analysis. when i write things i tend to deconstruct as i have been taught. i must learn to combine in order to give things meaning apart from what they already have. i hope that my experiences here have not permanently made me into the bitter man i am becoming. life after college must be an improvement. works never ends. people are capable of unspeakable acts of beauty and horror. all generalizations are bad, including this one. check it. peace.