Isn't It Lovely?

Well, yesterday I promised to post a picture of The Blotter, and here it is.

Lovely, isn't it? Lindsey, a talented artist and one of my very good friends, painted the picture that was used for the cover.

So what is The Blotter? It's a journal of collected stories and poems that were all written by the members of the writing group that I'm a part of.

Why is it called The Blotter? Because our group is called The Inkblot Society (not to be confused with these Inkblots.)

We have three featured works this edition; Bethany contributed a short story, Doug Hayes contributed a poem, and I contributed a poem which I've previously posted on this blog (Death of a Maple Leaf.)

I don't know if I can exactly say that I'm a "published author" now, since strictly speaking the journal is not "for sale" - I think it's more of a "suggested donation." (my, what a lot of quotation marks)

But it's still exciting to see my name in print. I believe the journal will only be for sale locally, although personally I'd like to see it online someday. Maybe an e-zine type thing, you know.

Also, it's kind of a coincidence that when I opened my dashboard today I saw this post by Leslie Rose. She has contributed a story to a short story anthology that is now for sale. It's currently $0.99 on Amazon. Go check it out!

Remember what it's like the first time you saw your name in print? Still looking forward to that day? Ever been part of a writing group or contributed to an anthology? 

A-to-Z Looking Back Through the Mirror (A Poem)

Listen, my followers, and you shall hear
'bout the A-to-Z challenge looking back through the mirror
(I admit, 'twould be easier if I had named it
"the reflections post" but the rhyme did demand it.)

They said share pleasures,
And please share your pains
Share with us any setbacks
Reveal any gains

So in order I think
I'll recount what I thought
Of the challenge this year
And from it what I got.

Y is for Yes, More T.S. Eliot

Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I know I've mentioned this already, but I do love T.S. Eliot. His poetry isn't the kind that you understand right away. It's not light reading, but it's beautiful.

Four Quartets is, without a doubt, my favorite of his collected poetry that I've read so far. Wasteland was beautiful, wild, crazy, and deep, but Four Quartets is much more soulful. It was also written after his conversion to the Anglican church, so it has a lot of religious and spiritual themes, a lot more than Wasteland did.

The book is arranged into four separate poems: Burnt Norton, East Coker, The Dry Salvages, and Little Gidding.

When reading T.S. Eliot, my routine is usually this:

•  Read once, just listening to and enjoying rhythm and sounds of words
•  Read again, this time looking for the meaning
•  Read the third time, trying to make sure I understood the right meaning
• Read again, understand enough to move on

That's actually a lot like how you're supposed to read the Bible. Read, digest, read, digest.

I'll leave you with some bits of poetry from the book:

The wounded surgeon plies the steel

That questions the distempered part;

Beneath the bleeding hands we feel

The sharp compassion of the healer’s art

Resolving the enigma of the fever chart.

Our only health is the disease

If we obey the dying nurse

Whose constant care is not to please

But to remind us of our, and Adam’s curse,

And that, to be restored, our sickness must grow worse.

- From East Coker

I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope,

For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,

For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith,

But the faith and the love are all in the waiting.

Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:

So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.

- From Burnt Norton

For most of us, there is only the unattended

Moment, the moment in and out of time,

The distraction fit, lost in a shaft of sunlight,

The wild thyme unseen, or the winter lightning

Or the waterfall, or music heard so deeply

That it is not heard at all, but you are the music

While the music lasts. 

- From The Dry Salvages

We shall not cease from exploration, 

And the end of all our exploring 

Will be to arrive where we started 

And know the place for the first time.

- From Little Gidding

Have you read any T.S. Eliot? Have a favorite book of poetry? Have a fixed way of reading poetry? Hate poetry? Love poetry?

Let me know by commenting!

H is for Haiku

I'm keeping today's post short, since it's Monday, and Easter Monday at that. 

So. Haiku. In case you've never heard of haiku/vaguely heard of haiku, here's a crash course:

A haiku is a Japanese poem that has a total of seventeen syllables.

The poem is arranged so that the first five syllables make up the first line, the next seven make up the second line, and the last five make up the last line.

count five syllables

then seven more, pausing to

tap out the last five.

Haiku is usually about nature:

the fresh mown grass shines

with the dew of the morning

as I leave for work.

But that's not to say you can't write haiku in any subject. Here is my "Haiku for Monday":

Monday I'm glad you're
here because that means no more
Monday for a week.

And there you go. Pretty easy, right?

For another haiku, go check out Jack Edwards' blog, which I recently started following. He's got a lot of good poetry (which is also his theme for the A-to-Z challenge).

Having a good Monday? Have you ever written haiku? Got a haiku you'd like to share? 

Let me know by commenting!

F is for Friday

Before the darkness, cold and dead
Was banished by the burning red
And yellow light
God knew
And called it good

Before the waters, deep and dark
Were shaped into that mighty arch,
The firmament
He saw
And called it good

Before He set the stars in place
The galaxies of swirling space
And frozen time
He chose
And called it good

Before He, with His awesome hand
From dust created the first man
And gave him life
He planned
And called it good

He knew the day that He would die
Would suffer and be raised on high
Outstretched against the burning red
And yellow sky
That He had made

He knew for He had planned the day
This Friday
That we call good.

What does Good Friday mean to you? Is there anything special you're planning?

A is for April

It seems appropriate to start this challenge with April, since this is the month.

Also, why not start off with a little bit of T.S. Eliot's Waste Land?

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.

I love Waste Land. It has such a beautiful rhythm, even if it's not always a beautiful message.

April is the cruelest month. In a way, I agree. April is always so cold and soggy in Oregon. And it seems to last so long. I used to think it was the longest month.

However, there are two good things about April.

One, Easter is this month. Resurrection Sunday is one of my favorite days of the year.

Two, I have spring break this week. No online classes - which means I get to spend more time studying for my Humanities CLEP. Yay.

April's one of those months that's not all that exciting, which means its a good month to just buckle down and get things done. So that's what I'm planning on doing.

What's your favorite thing about April? Any big plans?

The Kind of Poem

This is the kind of poem I wish I'd written.  We read it today in my English class.  It's hilarious but still insightful. I love the ending a lot.

Litany

By Billy Collins

You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.

You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.

You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and - somehow - the wine.

I love the way this poem makes fun of romantic poems. It doesn't do it by going overboard, but by understatement. "There is just no way you are the pine-scented air."

My teacher, Mr. Jones, has us read a lot of Billy Collins because he likes his poetry. I've found I've enjoyed a lot of it too. But my current favorite poet is T.S. Eliot. I recently discovered his "Four Quartets" and have been reading them slowly. They take more than one reading to even begin to understand.

These are the kind of poets I want to be like. I want to be humorous and understated and ironic like Billy Collins, but I also want to be rhythmic and deep and beautiful like T.S. Eliot.

I want to paint with words.

Do you have a favorite poet? I'd love to hear who it is!

Trinity Arts Festival

This year I entered a couple of poems in my church's annual arts festival. One of them is kind of gloomy. The other is a rewrite of the song Mad World.

One of the requirements was that each piece had to have a short description by the author. This is what I wrote for the first poem, Adeste.

I started this poem with the idea of a paradox: what if a person felt extremely cold in the middle of one of the hottest places on earth? Why would this be? Then I had the idea that maybe it was a spiritual feeling, rather than a physical one. As I wrote the poem, I began to realize that the struggle between the speaker and the elements represented the inner turmoil of a sinner who has just begun to realize that salvation comes from God alone. The last two lines tie in the theme of helplessness without God.

Since Adeste is rather long, I'll save the other poem, Green World, for another post.

Adeste

Shivering

Silently

In the wide, barren wasteland 

So yellow and orange

The cruel sun - unmerciful sun!

Which struggles to warm me;

I cannot be touched

My heart is like ice

The wind whips by around me

Brushing my face

Touching my hand 

Striving to warm me

It is all hot air

I cannot be touched

Shuddering

Quietly

They call this a desert

I cannot get warm

They call a city crowded

I have stood in one

So lonely, so lonely

I cannot be touched

The fine grains of sand

Sinking beneath my feet

Carry me gently downwards

Hardening beneath my weight

So have I been

Sinking, drifting downwards

Hardening my heart

My heart that is ice

Save me

O sun

If you can

Warm me

O wind

If you will

Carry me away

Soft sand

Even though

I will never get warm

I will sink into oblivion

Unless Thou comest quickly

Unless Thou comes to free me

Red

I just read T. S. Eliot's The Waste Land and thought I'd try my hand at some more abstract poetry.

Red, the richest color
The deepest, the truest
The color of blood, of love
Of sacrifice
Of all the deep emotions known to man
Of pain
And fire
Of hearts ripped in two
And two hearts bound together

Lord, let me be deep like that
Let me be crimson deep
Inspire in me
The fiery red of passion
To be
A grateful slave to
The deep and wild
Fierce bittersweet rushing
Wondrous love
The endless reservoir
Of Your grace

Death of a Maple Leaf

Here lies a leaf, dead of natural causes
and through no fault of its own.

It is survived
by its brothers and sisters, the maple leaves
and the old maple tree
from whence it fell.

The funeral service
is to be held tomorrow
wherein the deceased
shall be trod underfoot by a passing stranger
into the mud
beneath its brothers and its sisters
who will soon be joining it.