Feb. 27th, 2004 @ 12:01 am
This is a sonnet that I wrote a few months ago. It's simple, but I like it.
I suppose she needs you in her own little way
But when she doesn’t love you anymore
You can come knocking on my kitchen door
I’ll let you in; knowing that you won’t stay
And when the sun sinks down, you’ll slip away
Nothing worth having ever lasts, and you should know this too
I only learned this because of you
The roses you bring, will whither by the end of the day
I don’t know why you always wander back to her
Night after night, when you know you need something more
Than the empty vows you heard her say
You’ve given her more than you care to remember
And the roses you left her are sitting outside her kitchen door
To be picked up with the trash the next day
This isn't a very structured poem, but I think it has a nice play on words, and I really enjoyed playing around with the different sounds.
Frankie needs a fix
And Freddie needs a fuck
Frannie wants a fix
But for now she’s outta luck
Frankie, who’s fucking Frannie,
Is feeling desperate for a fix
And offers Freddie a chance
To fuck Frannie in exchange for a fix
Freddie, who’s fascinated with fucking,
Agrees to fuck Frannie
In exchange for a fix
Frankie takes his fix
And gets fucked up
But forgets to tell Frannie
That she has to fuck Freddie
In exchange for his fix
When Freddie finds Frannie
He informs her
That he wants his fuck
In exchange for Freddie’s fix
Frannie becomes furious but
Not because of the fuck or the fix
Frannie loves to fuck
And she sure could use a fix
But she’ll be fucked if she’s
Going to fuck Freddie for Frankie’s fix
Frannie feels that if she
Furnishes a fuck for a fix
Then the fix
Should belong to her
Frannie refuses to fuck Freddie
In exchange for Frankie’s fix
And now Freddie’s in a fix
Because he sold the fix
Before he got his fuck
So the next time Freddie finds Frankie
Freddie pulls out a gun
Fires a shot
And fixes Frankie for good
Now Frankie’s fixed
And Freddie still wants a fuck
Frannie’s still without a fix
And everything’s just fucked.
This is a poem from my "strange and apocalyptic" file.
Bad Habits in the Ancient Lands
We take in smoke,
Sit back and gaze away;
Playing out the day,
Draped in acquiescence.
We eat the flesh
Of beasts and relish it
As cannibals smack lips
Over the meat of men.
This land of killers and their prey
Still stinks of bitter death;
We inherit unmarked graves,
Elegies of wasted breath.
Our limbs have atrophied
An age. A useless stage
Of brutal evolution is upon
The world, the flag unfurled—
On the sable banners of
Savage tribes, our loyalties,
Writ bold, we do inscribe
In blood. We leave alive.
Now desolate within,
We quit this place—Be damned!
the desecration of our hapless,
Helpless, hopeless race of men.
I picked up a book from the Barnes & Noble sale table for about $5 called Anybody Can Write: A Playful Approach, by Roberta Jean Bryant (hereafter known as RJB). I like craft books, and as they go this is kind of a lighter one; its focus is beginning or blocked writers who are looking for ideas or ways to get into the habit of letting loose on the page. There are, however, a number of "laws" that RJB posits in the book that I thought the group might find interesting and / or useful, so here we go:
The First Law of Writing: "To write" is an active verb. Thinking is not writing. Writing is putting words on paper.
The Second Law of Writing: Write passionately. Everybody has loves and hates; even quiet people lead passionate lives. Creativity follows passion.
The Third Law of Writing: Write honestly. Risk nakedness. Originality equals vulnerability.
The Fourth Law of Writing: Write for fun, for personal value. If you don't enjoy the process, why should anyone enjoy the product? Pleasure precedes profit.
The Fifth Law of Writing: Write anyway. Ignore discouraging words, internal and external. Persistence always pays off.
The Sixth Law of Writing: Write a lot. Use everything. Learning comes from your own struggles with words on paper.
The Seventh Law of Writing: Write out of commitment to your ideas, commitment to yourself as a writer. Trust yourself.
Although they're not a panacea, I'm almost certain that every one of us has an area of weakness that one of those laws addresses; my concern about my own writing is that I simply don't write as much as I would like to, so the sixth and seventh laws address my problems (I'm getting better about that, though).
Anyway, just some good, positive things to keep in mind.
Okay, so I got so excited about your small-story exercise that I had to take a crack at it myself. I did find it to be challenging and fun, and you know what? It's a great editing exercise, too, because you can start with more words and whittle down from there. Say your story checks in at 500 words, and you're happy with it, but then you say, "Can I get it down to 450 words, or 400 words, or ... ?" The great thing is, if you're writing on your word processor, you can save the multiple versions by numbering them as you see fit (I use Roman numerals, and yes, I'm aware that Arabic numbers would work just fine, too). Anyway, here's mine; it's 292 words.
Today's the Day
Billy thrust his hands into the pockets of his battered fatigue jacket and bent forward into the wind. His chinos did nothing to blunt the assault; like icy needles, the air pierced the pores of the fabric and pricked his legs. He hadn't been able to find his winter hat in time, so he'd left without it.
No matter; he'd be there in a few minutes, anyway. He shivered, but it wasn't from the cold—it was pure excitement, the anticipation, the nerves, the adrenaline. Today's the day. He picked up his pace.
Would Sloan be there, that smug bastard, still wearing the same shit-eating grin as last year, when he threw down "quarantine" at the last moment and took it all away, just yanked the rug right out from under Billy's feet? He hoped so. He had something for Sloan; it was cold, and it was hard, and it was called vengeance.
He crossed Stanton Avenue, stepping over a wide puddle of gray-white slush fanning out from the gutter, and flipped up the collar of his jacket as a gust carried windblown trash past him. He'd spent all night pouring over the unabridged dictionary, the deluxe thesaurus. He was ready.
He turned the corner onto Boutwell Boulevard, and there it was, his Mecca: The Hobby Horse ("Toys, Games, and Pastimes for All Ages"). Hanging in the window, taking up three-fourths of the pane, was a sign that read: Today Only! Don't Miss the SCRABBLE Northwest Regional Open Tournament!
Billy steeled himself, then flung open the glass door—the little bell tinkled—and stepped into the warmth of the shop. Several faces looked up at his entrance.
"Sloan," he said, "What's up? Good to see you, buddy . . . "
Current Music: MC Hawking--"E=mc Hawking"
|» The Coat|
Wow! So many posts in one night. Impressive. I guess I should post something now, too.
One of my favorite writing exercises is writing an entire story in a limited amount of words. Depending on your mood and the amount of time you have, you can choose 100, 200, 250, 500, etc. It's a great exercise if you're trying to make your work more focused. If you think it's easy, it's not. Fun, yes. Easy, no. This story comes in at 95 words, not including the title.
“Darling, why don’t you pour our guest a drink?” he asked her. It was more command than question.
“No, no, Charles. I’m more than capable of fixing my own drink.” Her husband’s brother replied. As he walked towards the bar, though, he handed her his coat.
“Don’t be silly,” Charles replied clumsily, “you’re our guest.”
He sent Charles a smug look.
“I think we’re all a little closer than that.” His eyes turned deliberately towards hers.
She stood without saying a word, the light material of the coat suddenly feeling too heavy in her hands.
|» "A Monument"|
This poem was a draw-off; I wrote it on the first day of my British Lit class when my professor asked for a writing sample from the class (I'd had her before and she knows my writing, so I figured I'd do something creative with the time rather than do the standard blah blah blah). It's loosely based on a recurring dream I've been having ... actually, it's sort of halfway between a dream and an apocalyptic night terror. There's nothing overtly frightening in the dream, other than the bones strewn about and the Golgoth-like quality of the setting, but something about the obelisk stretching up and away into an infinity of sky scares the hell out of me. I wake up from this dream, when I have it, in a cold sweat.|
The obelisk is facing to the west;
For three nights it has called to me
In dreams. Smooth obsidian,
Black and cold, beckons—
And promises a test.
The earth that sheltered it
Now tossed aside, the broken loam
A testimony. The rich soil sifts
Through these searching fingers.
Look to the sky;
For there is no summit, only a
Sable beam, bridging the gap
Between the surface of this world
And the cerulean. All the rest
To come this far lay scattered.
The carvings on the windward face
Are humming incantations—I do not
Comprehend their arcane song.
So, for me, there is only refuge
In the shadows of the leeward side.
|» First post|
Hello, seminal members of the LiveJournal for PBCC writers,|
I'm going to poke around a bit and read some of the pieces posted by you scholarly folk before I get all excited and start slapping my stuff up there; but let me say in advance, thanks for the invite to check out what you have going on here and I look forward to being a part of it.
|» In the Beginning....|
We must start somewhere. Here is where I will pitch our flag and shout out to the winds:|
All hail the pen! The quill! The parchment! The pencil! All hail the almighty keyboard, where we shall yet make our stand in this swamp of words. PBCC will reign!
Let it begin.