This speaks for itself.
Commit Random Acts
This speaks for itself.
writing
Calling on the Muse: A Meditation for Creative Spirits by Mary Sharratt
For my writer friends out there. I have blogged about her books before.
The world at large might view artists and writers as free spirits rocking la vie bohème, but creative people know that it’s much more complicated than that, especially if we’re striving to earn even a modest living from our work. As a writer, I often fall into the trap of measuring my success or failure on factors completely beyond my control, such as the ups and downs of a fickle book buying market.
I know that I’ve often wrestled with the feeling that I’ll never be enough. Never be big enough, never be a bestseller. Sometimes it’s hard not to succumb to a flailing sense of helplessness—why are any of us doing all this? Worst of all is my fear of creative dryness—that my inspiration will turn to dust and I’ll never write—let alone publish—another book.
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Poem for Today
Women Writers and the Story Circle Network
More than twenty years ago, I coauthored a book with an attorney. Not only did it get published, it was also translated into Spanish. The topic, the momentum for its topic, seems basically gone now. Some technical and business magazines published a few articles I wrote. I wrote some safety manuals, other technical stuff, rather boring, uninspiring. Then I discovered the Story Circle Network.
The Story Circle Network inspired me to write creatively again–once upon a time in high school my poetry was published. Then I quit writing for years. When I started again, it was technical or business writing. If you want to write your stories, read other women’s stories, just explore fiction, poetry, travel writing, you name it, join this organization. It changed not only my writing life, but my life in a broader sense. Through it I met not only other writers, I also became a board member, made new friends who write and share. This inspiring organization not only provides classes, publishes, but also hosts various writing contests and a biannual conference. In the middle of April, I will head to Austin for the conference. The keynote speaker is no other than Brooke Warner, the woman who founded She Writes Press. Go to http://www.storycircle.org to learn more about the conference and the just announced winners of the Sarton Women’s Literary Awards, become inspired, create, publish, grow. Without this organization, I seriously doubt I would have written my book of poetry, published by Uno Mundo Press in April 2014.
Because of comments from readers of this book, inspiration from friends, and personal interests, I am now working on another book.
I offer thanks to the Story Circle Network for renewing my writing life.
Blank, white paper
Blank, white paper
stares at me,
sitting here eating a
left over Subway sandwich,
reading Sky Bridge by
Laura Pritchett,
avoiding my writing commitment.
This book surprises me,
makes me think of my students,
some poor, trailer housed,
gun toting, hard scrabble,
simultaneously smart and ignorant.
Their idea of rich includes
any house over 2000 square feet,
stylish, elegant clothes, land.
My brain swirls thoughts, images:
What can it all mean, this life?
Joy, a hurting beauty?
Looking out the windows,
listening to the West Texas wind,
I ask myself again:
What can it all mean?
Haiku Adventure–Part Two
After receiving positive feedback on the following three poems, I learned that two of them cannot be haiku. Why? They instruct, give directions. Such teaching is forbidden in haiku. Regardless, I decided to post them anyway. At least the Meditations will illustrate what not to do if you want to write real haiku.
Meditations
shut your eyes, be still
listen to the wind, rain, thunder
shut your eyes, be still
open your eyes, be still
watch coyote and bobcat climb
open yours eyes, be still
There are several other reasons why these two poems cannot be haiku–more than one image and a contrasting image in a single poem–forbidden. I knew there must be some reason I had never previously seriously attempted haiku. Too many rules.
This one, however, meets modern haiku standards or so I have been told. I will eventually get this. Learning, challenging oneself, remains a positive experience.
Night
big dipper illuminates
clouds race
darkness suddenly descends
The Sound of Silence
For years I puzzled over what this phrase means. This evening I discovered the answer. Unlike the first part of the week, today was sunny, little wind, high 70s, what most consider a perfect day weather wise. I ran home from work, gave Rosie, my horse, some food, let Isabella, my dog out for a bit, and then ran back to town to see my grandson perform. He attends Wolflin Elementary School. The physical education teacher selected a group of students called the SWAT Team who perform at different functions. The last time I saw them, they performed at a local high school’s basketball tournament. Today they executed four routines at their school’s annual gala, a fund raiser with games, food, a silent auction, dunking in the water, that sort of thing. It really astonished me. I have no idea how much they practiced, but these routines were not short and everything was perfectly choreographed. First, the boys performed using basketballs to do various tricks and movements in unison to music. Then the girls did this complicated sort of dance over these long bamboo poles that other students clicked together. The only other place where I have seen anything like this is in Thailand at the Rose Garden near Bangkok. The third routine included both boys and girls and they used this giant circle of multicolored cloth to dance around, in and out, make the cloth into a sort of yurt like shape. I have no idea how they kept it up like a giant circular tent one minute and flat the next. Finally, they competed with hoola hoops to see who could keep going the longest.
After I returned home, I hosed off the front entryway, planted some flowers in pots, and watered other flowers, all in preparation for a fund raiser tomorrow night at my house–to raise money for a local senior citizens center. Rosie is shedding her winter coat and seemed miserable itching so I brushed her. Now tufts of pale rose colored hair lay everywhere in her corral. Finally, a bit after eight I came inside for a late dinner. Then I noticed. No sounds, no wind, no appliances humming, no coyotes howling, no birds singing, no dogs barking, no sounds at all. Nothing. The patio doors are open; I walked outside a few minutes ago. Nothing. I sit here before the computer and hear the sounds the keys make when I hit them. When I stop, nothing.
Rosie
Isabella on the patio in winter.
They started blooming today.
Destino
Week two of the prose poetry class:
“It is a blessing to live out your destino.” Julia Alvarez
Long ago, in the hot summer, I could hear the corn grow at night with the windows open in northwest Missouri. Rolling hills of corn and soybeans still clad the dark brown earth left by glaciers thousands of years ago. So much time has gone without my returning to this land: colleges in different states, marriages, jobs in cities.
My father lived ninety years on this farm his Swiss grandfather homesteaded. He yearned for distant lands, to explore, to learn. He loved the West, endless space, rugged mountains, canyonlands, wildness. When it snowed too much for school, he loaded us in the car, turned wheelies, and headed for Kansas City. His yearning to be a doctor died when very young–the only child left at home, caring for a diabetic mother, recovering from a failed youthful marriage before he met Mom.
He gave me his love of questioning, traveling, reading, trying the untried, a pride in the land and work, and a sense of wonder. This night, after shoveling out from a dangerous blizzard, I sit in front of a fire, write on a Western canyon rim, look at his parade saddle and the photo of the farm for which he felt so much pride, and cry: my destino.
The Blizzard
Looking through the window.
The steps climbing up the hill to the barn.
Outside the office window.
My patio which I will have to eventually shovel–afraid to do so today because the wind is so strong.
The barn door before I shoveled my way in.
The view out the double barn door. All this is actually under a roof. The wind is blowing the snow everywhere.
The view from the front door after digging it out twice from reoccurring drifts.
The new assignment arrived for my prose poetry class. In the last couple of hours I have read poems by Baudelaire and Rimbaud as examples of some of the first prose poems. While I read them, I listened to “The Unicorn, the Gorgan, and the Manticore” by Menotti, a piece I am supposed to be singing in 1 1/2 months. Work shut down today because of a massive blizzard. The wind literally shrieks down the canyon where I live–gusts they say to 70 mph. It piles up drifts four to six feet high. Twice today I have donned my boots, gloves, heavy coat, and gone shoveling and to feed the horses. For the first time since the barn has been there, snow is actually inside, driven by the wind, and the horses are standing in snow drifts that blew under the overhanging roof of the outside runs. Even getting to the barn door necessitated shoveling through drifts taller than I. The snow continues, predicted for another twelve hours or so, maybe as much as twenty inches. Living alone fails to daunt me, but I cannot concentrate well today. My drive is long and climbs up a steep hill. Even my four wheel drive truck may not make it. I keep thinking it may take days for me to shovel out even if, when the snow and wind cease, my neighbor brings over his tractor to help. A friend, several miles away, remains without electricity. I filled my wood burning stove with wood and started a fire just in case. It seems a perfect day to write and cook and practice music. And here I sit unable to concentrate long enough. The wind keeps rushing through my brain.
Why I Write
This post continues the saga of my writing for the SCN poetry class. One of our first assignments included reading Mary Oliver’s poem about why she writes and then write one of our own about why we write. Unlike many writers, discipline frequently escapes me. I write when I feel like it or get inspired or have something special I want to say. What do I care about? Why do I write and about what?
I want to write about
beauty and life,
wind and flowers,
riding and writing on the rim,
sleeping in the moonlight.
I want to write to
make a difference,
challenge the status quo,
instill a love of wonder,
change the world
even if only for one minuscule moment
in one tiny corner.
I want to write so that when I die, they will say,
“She mattered!”
writingontherim 