mynewplace | Entries tagged with writing

Brahms

I am a longtime student of piano

Enthralled by those who can play.

Thus I willingly wade through Schubert

Until my ears are stopped with notes.

( In which I hear what I came for )

A symphony of Schubert

Eventually disintegrates

To background music

For great ponderances

Such as

“How did that woman get here?

( In which my mind wanders around the stage )

My daughter was given an assignment in school, to write her own "Where I'm From" poem in the style of George Ella Lyons. Sound familiar? Here's my concoction.

And here is hers. I'm terribly proud of her.

Where I’m From

By, Scarlett Chapman

I am from ballet slippers and black berries,

Trees and video games,

My grandmother’s garden,

I am from board games and gifted classes

I am from the rhododendrons outside my grandmother’s house

The Sugar Maple

Whom I loved

That was cut down

I’m from candy bars and spaghetti

(not together of course)

From Anita and Jeffery

I’m from the Pops

And the gossipers

From Stop reading! And Read your book!

I’m from Charleston and my hiding place behind the rhododendrons

And commercials I can recite from memory

I’m from pizza and the sound of my mother’s voice

From Kassie (sister), Taylor (cousin), and Zoe (Long)

From the great grandfather

I lost to a stroke

And the father of my father that my father found dead under an overturned tractor

I am from Little Bear and Peter Rabbit

From kittens I’ve had and cats that play fetch

From Spongebob and Oddparents

From scrapbooking and reading

I am from all these things here

And many, many other things that take up too much room

That’s where I am from

Another in the style of The Spoon River Anthology. Brent suggested this one, and it's taken me quite a while to write it. Once I started googling, the words became clear.

In Memory of Elizabeth Reed

1845-1935

My name is Elizabeth Reed

Has been and always will be

In some form or another

I have been Esther

And Sarah and Carrie

I am a doctor

An author – a storyteller

A Teacher of teachers

A reverend deaconess

But merely a vessel.

I have gained such knowledge in my lives

Of blood, of brain,

Of Hindu and Persian tale

Of Chinese lore.

In 1845 they called me Betsey

When I was married to an evil man in Crawford County.

I sang on the way to my hanging

The first and only woman to swing

In Illinois, because I served my evil man

Sassafras tea, with a little arsenic.

Last time Dickey Betts merely called me Elizabeth Reed.

A fine Georgia woman, beloved and remembered,

Honored in soaring music, which I hear from time to time

AsRose Hill is blanketed with the beautiful strains

Of the tune that bears my name.

You see they laid Duane here in seventy-one

And Berry in seventy-two.

Now a tall, hard man wanders the rows

And as he nears them

A glorious golden thread fills the ether-world

Spidering toward every source of music within range

Spirits rise, join in

And the web vibrates

With the music of their souls.

Sometimes I wonder if the tall man can hear it

But mostly I just lie here

And bask in the glow of recognition.

Waiting for the next

Elizabeth Reed.

My books came today!!!! AND OMG THEY"RE AUTOGRAPHED!!!

bluesgirly has assembled a couple of awesome books
because she's funny as hell and deserves to be published.
I can't wait to hunker down into them.

Of course Scarlett immediately asked if she could read one, and
I'm so glad to tell her yes, she can INDEED read it, no matter
what she learns, it will be valuable.

GO VALERIE!

My yahoo poetry group provided this prompt last Friday and I have very much enjoyed filling in the blanks and learning about myself.

Thus I am posting it here, and inviting each of you to give it a shot. You certainly don't have to be a writer or poet to complete this meme! It's a lot of fun, so give it a shot and maybe even post the results on your own journal. Or just share them here in comments.

"If you don't know where you're from, you'll have a hard time saying where you're going." Wendell Berry

There are many quotes in the literary world implying we need to understand our roots in order to recognize our place in the world. George Ella Lyons wrote a poem entitled, Where I’m From (you can read the poem here: http://www.carts. org/staff_ poem2.html). A template to prod your own poetic license follows.

“Where I'm From”

I am from _______ (specific ordinary item), from _______ (product name) and _______.

I am from the _______ (home description. .. adjective, adjective, sensory detail).

I am from the _______ (plant, flower, natural item), the _______ (plant, flower, natural detail)

I am from _______ (family tradition) and _______ (family trait), from _______ (name of family member) and _______ (another family name) and _______ (family name).

I am from the _______ (description of family tendency) and _______ (another one).

From _______ (something you were told as a child) and _______ (another).

I am from (representation of religion, or lack of it). Further description.

I'm from _______ (place of birth and family ancestry), _______ (two food items representing your family).

From the _______ (specific family story about a specific person and detail), the _______ (another detail, and the _______ (another detail about another family member).

I am from _______ (location of family pictures, mementos, archives and several more lines indicating their worth).

( My personal concoction.... )

Two lines from a song made me pick up my pen:

Boyfriend

Lipstick on your collar
Told a tale on you.
No one wears lipstick any more
Except your mother
And the old woman
At the front desk.
But you stayed
At home all day.
You've been trying on
My makeup again
Haven't you?

skyearthandseahas started a new community for poets and poetry lovers in West Virginia. It's sponsored by the West Virginia Poetry Society, of which she has become president. (I'm going to be secretary.) The WV Poetry Society was failing, members were growing older and were considering disbanding until Holly got involved. If you don't know her yet,

skyearthandseais a wonderful poet and former professor at a local University. The following is the user info for the community, please take a look and offer support if you like.

wvpoetry is a community for people who love poetry to discuss their own poetry and the poetry of others; to discuss poetry related events; get feedback on their work, connect with west virginia publishers and celebrate the art of the craft.

This community is sponsored, supported and organized by the West Virginia Poetry Society. The WVPS can be found at http://www.wvpoetrysociety.org

The West Virginia Poetry Society is a 53 year-old organization and is a member of the National Federation of State Poetry Societies. We are dedicated to promoting the writing and sharing of poetry in the mountain state. We have over 200 members, hold yearly contests with hundreds of dollars in prizes, and produce a journal of WV poetry entitled Laurels.

WVPS has a Myspace page at http://www.myspace.com/wvpoetrysociety . If you have a Myspace profile, please add us!

We also have a private Yahoo! Group that is open to members only. Membership in WVPS is just $20 annually and it makes a great gift to any of your loved ones who write poetry, read poetry or just like to support the arts in West Virginia.

Membership benefits include:
*A membership card
*A subscription to the quarterly newsletter Poet's Crossroads
*Access to the members-only list serv at Yahoo! dedicated to the discussion of poets and poetry in West Virginia and advanced notice of poetry-related events and the plans of WVPS
*Strophes, the newsletter of the NFSPS
*free entry into the WVPS annual contests
*a subscription to Laurels and eligibility for submission consideration

Membership can be obtained by using this printable membership form: http://www.wvpoetrysociety.org/form1.html

This constructed itself in my head while I drove this morning.
For some reason I felt compelled to include
a few images.

( Mountain Lion )

Current Mood: wild

padiwack quoted me on her journal last night. If you've never friended her, you should. She's so interesting, sparkling and delightful. And that has been my established opinion before she ever quoted me.

It made me cry. Tears of joy, I think, or satisfaction. Being validated in such a manner is a moving experience.

( Spoilers from The Deathly Hallows - guess I better put it behind a cut... )

I read in the snopes LJ feed that a man is warning America about impending attacks, sometimes with some accuracy. I found it intriguing, then disheartening when I learned that our government may be planning an attack on Iran and Syria. I know there are likely terrorist cells in these countries, but I have many Syrian friends. Yes, I care more when I know someone from the country in question. I can't help that. It disturbs me to think that our country might attack YET another country. I'm so sick of this. Mr Aviv says we approached the situation in the wrong manner, and I tend to agree with his thinking.

To continue with my liberal train of thought, here's a poem from the most recently named United States Poet Laureate, Charles Simic:

Eyes Fastened With Pins
by Charles Simic

How much death works,
No one knows what a long
Day he puts in. The little
Wife always alone
Ironing death's laundry.
The beautiful daughters
Setting death's supper table.
The neighbors playing
Pinochle in the backyard
Or just sitting on the steps
Drinking beer. Death,
Meanwhile, in a strange
Part of town looking for
Someone with a bad cough,
But the address somehow wrong,
Even death can't figure it out
Among all the locked doors...
And the rain beginning to fall.
Long windy night ahead.
Death with not even a newspaper
To cover his head, not even
A dime to call the one pining away,
Undressing slowly, sleepily,
And stretching naked
On death's side of the bed.

I like his imagery. How is this liberal? Well my dad says the Pulitzer Prize is a piece of crap awarded to liberal media like the New York Times for stories slamming our government. Mr. Simic is a Pulitzer Prize winner for his poetry. Since I find myself envying Jhumpa Lahiri her Prize for her short stories, it stands to reason I'd aspire to such. Thus, liberal, no?

I was a tiny girl, a week shy of seven, small for my age with dark hair, big green eyes and horn-rimmed glasses when I stepped into Mrs. Hunt’s classroom for the first day of school. I was scared. My mommy had just remarried and we had just moved to a new house a month before I started second grade. I had two new friends who were older than me, who lived on my street. They each had little brothers who were in my class, and for some strange reason, these two boys didn’t like me. Not like the boys I’d known at my old house.
( To avoid messing up your friends page )

Current Music: the thunderstorm outside

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