Reading/Writing Journal (Day 28)

Finished "Draglines" tonight. Whoo-hoo!

I just about laughed when I saw the title of the final poem in the book: "Peonies." Considering that's what the poem I wrote for Day 27 started off with. The content of the poem would be nice: I'd love for the parent with the peonies would only talk about what's growing. I love the look of peonies--my mom's get huge--but I couldn't stand all those black ants! The way they defile the blooms disgusts me.

"Winter Counts" had a really interesting theme at the end of it: history in reverse. The narrator is looking at a a buffalo hide in which Native Americans mark the years and depict stories of their people. I think my favorite lines from this poem are the first three in the final stanza: "But when these winter counts are read backwards,/the buffalo multiply, prairie schooners are driven away,/and the land-stakes are replanted with bur oaks."

It reminded me of a scene in my favorite childhood book: Bridge to Terabithia (hm...if I have twin girls, I might name them Tera and Tabitha). Jess and Miss Burke go to a museum in D.C. and Jess is both frightened and fascinated by a three-dimensional scene of Native American life. So I opened the book to page 100, and discovered the scene is only two paragraphs. Considering I haven't read that book in a long time, it's amazing to think I remembered that much about it. Although, I have read it dozens of times. I love it. Actually, I think I read it in late 2007. And I cried, like I always do. At least one tear.


But now I can begin "Ender's Game" by Orson Scott Card. I read the acknowledgements (since I'd rather be acknowledged for helping an author than actually be one) and the first paragraph of the introduction. Why only the first paragraph? Because that one ends as follows: "the novel stands on its own, and if you skip this intro and go straight to the story, I not only won't stand in your way, I'll even agree with you!"

Sorry Card, I couldn't help but also read the final paragraph. Which is poetry in the form of prose.

The story of Ender's Game is not this book, though it has that title emblazoned on it. The story is one that you and I will construct together in our memory. If the story means anything to you at all, then when you remember it afterward, think of it, not as something I created, but rather something that we made together.

I hope my copy of it fits well enough in my purse to take to work. Otherwise I might not finish it before Good Friday, when I want to start whatever is next on my list. (I can't remember right now, but I know it's documented and owned by me.)

Oh, and I feel inclined to point out that the back jacket said the name of one of Ender's siblings (I think it's a sister) is Valentine. Which is likely to be a tribute to the last sci-fi/fantasy book I read: Stranger in a Strange Land. Valentine Michael Smith is the name of the man from Mars.

_________________________________________

Driving home from Institute, I looked over into the lane next to me and noticed the hubcaps on the car passing me as I slowed to get on the on-ramp looked like they were moving backwards, when they were clearly moving forward. Within a mile, I had decided to change the radio station and ended up on one of the public radio stations. I have no idea which one or what show was currently on, much less what artist was being featured. And, part of me wishes I cared because I'd like to listen to the song whose ending helped inspire part of today's poem.

Here are the lines I scribbled while driving. (Yes, I know it's dangerous, but if you saw the poor manner in which they're written, you would conclude that I was concentrating on driving. And I always keep a pen within arm's reach while I'm in the car.)

"Wheels moving forward/Looking like backward/Sounding despairing/yet full of hope & joy"

Dichotomy
Forward, moving motions
Make the wheels appear in reverse.
Those atop the spinning circles
Know which way they're headed.

A song comes on, and the
Volume goes up.
The listener can hear
A high run and a low line,
With a gentle, hurried rhythm.
It sounds like something old
But is new in every moment.
The song is sounding despairing
With undertones of hope and joy.

Writing Journal (Day 27)

I was listening to Pink Floyd, and the song "High Hopes" came on. Which I describe as a song about the reminiscenes of childhood. Got me to thinking about the 7 kids I grew up with. Man, we had some good times! I could write an entire book of poems about it...hmm...add that to my list of books to write! Here's the start of it: (although, if I do compile a chapbook, I'll probably want this title for the book and not any individual poem.)

Averbeck Alley
The black ants crawl
In large quantities
Over the peonies in the
Tractor tire that tried to be a sandbox.
It managed to succeed
In giving us a place to play chicken
And stir up Stink Soup.
Popcorn kernels, old rain water,
Random berries, greens, tree bark, and
Dirt in a pickle bucket.

I wonder if words
Under rotting stairs get faded.
Sitting on cemented gravel,
We wrote things unmentionable.
In black, permanant marker.

The mulberry tree that was
So easy to climb
Still bears the summer-long jump rope scar.
The snow bush, love pines, and yellow worm tree
Have all been ripped out by the roots.
As has the black walnut tree.
We used to climb high
Up that one on Friday the 13th,
Jumping down, tempting fate.

Thought most of the five wire lines are gone,
The crossbars to the clothesline pole remain.
Are there any footprints
One the side of the garage
From any recent flippers?

It's still a clear shot between those garages
To the hill of horse bones.
Strange that we never found any while
Digging to China.
That homemade ditch-hole made a sweet jump.
The grass grows greener over The Pit.
______________________________
This is pretty closed to being finished! Go me! I still want to work on that last stazna, though. I am absolutely in love with that last line, not only because it's true but because it pays homage to the inspiration. And symbolizes how the evidence of 8 childhoods is still slightly visibile to those who know it was once there.

Writing Journal (Day 26)

This weekend, I had some pretty dang good ideas for some pretty dang good poems. And I didn't even write the ideas down, much less turn the ideas into poems. Now, they're gone. This is a stream-of-consciousness that developed from that.

Lost
I had all this inspiration the other day,
And laid it all aside.
As punishment, I guess,
Nothing came today.
I'd like this to be longer,
But there's nothing more to write.
I've failed to use
The triggers pulled for me.

Now the gun is pointed elsewhere.
(What's with all
This violent imagery, anyway?
Am I trying to tell myself something?)
Maybe I do need a good grounding.
One with an Enforcer!
So ground me, pound me,
Beat the sense into my skull.
No-not the skull!
Elsewhere,
Somewhere secret,
Where the words need to be
Drawn and quartered-
Pulled apart and cheered at.

Writing Journal (Day 25)

Once I was challenged by a Creative Writing teacher to try and write something bad. Back then, it was harder than I thought. I tried it again on Day 25, so this is supposed to be chock-full of cliche's and obvious attempts at rhymes. It was surprisingly easy. Maybe that's not a good sign...

My Son
I raised you up,
They shot you down.
I saw you from my body,
Now I'll see you in the ground.

Your friends,
They could not save you.
But they have done enough-
What more is there to do?

They got you into guns,
They got you into gangs,
They got you into drugs,
They all but said the "bang!"

__________________________
I've got to be honest; I've been failing miserably at this challenge. Hardly any of these poems are finished. So I'm really only starting a poem every day, which is not the same as writing a poem every day.

Writing Journal (Day 24)

I went somewhere on Saturday...where was it? I was driving home while it was dark and rainy. Seriously...where was I coming back from? Or maybe I skipped a day and wrote two on Day 25 instead. I think that's what happened. Either way, it's not one of my best...

Stormy Ride
Dirty rain
Streaks the glass.
I crack the window
To take in the scent
Of the pavement as I pass.

The beautiful reflection
Of a double green
Captures my gaze, and
I almost miss my turn.
Lightning is beautiful,
Surrounded by dark, wet silence.