The Raving King

NaPoWriMo, Day 30, Last Day

The Raving King

Once  upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over words I was sentenced to pen away in my wordy store,

When a-nodding off and nearly napping, suddenly there came a-blasting,

A semi-auto gun, a-banging, blowing away my chamber door.

"'Tis that bastard!," I exclaimed, "Blowing away my door again

 It’s Stephen King – he’s coming back for more!"

Ah, distinctly I remember -- it was in the froze’d December,

In kindling, glowing dying embers, my door lay splintered on my chamber’s floor.

Eagerly I wished for 'morrow; the man's bat-shit crazy, a la Jack Bauer,

‘Twas time for me to ghostwrite for him once more. Yes, here's the secret I had foresworn:

‘Tis from my word King’s horror empire's  truly born,

King left me nameless, penniless for evermore.

To be certain, I was King’s ghost, covered in a purple curtain

No thrill. Once, it paid my bills, but my fantastic terrors had been long ignored

‘Cause again, at my beating heart, King was aiming

His Smith and Wesson; my head was screaming – this scare routine had made me his writing whore.

Stephen King again breaking down my chamber door

Demanding gunpoint bestsellers, and giving nothing more.

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

 "Sir, I’m mad. Nay – pissed. I do implore;

 The fact remains that I was napping, and you keep coming here and blasting

For decades I have been tapping out your lore.

But that’s scarcely been enough for you – always you want more!

You’re a true King of Darkness, I say! And nothing more!”

Deep into King’s darkness, I’ve long been peering; I stood there wondering and fearing,

A ghostwriter doubting dreams no mortal dared dream before;

But King’s silence was unbroken, and in the darkness –typical! -- he gave no token,

Until finally, two words King whispered I’d heard before: “Write more.”

And angered, this I whispered back my words, "No more!"

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

I spoke again my passion somewhat louder than before.

"Surely," said I, "Here it is -- there is something in my contract;

Let me see, then, where’sit-at – let us this mystery legal language go explore--

Sit, be still a moment and this mystery explore;--

And put the gun down – please, no need for any war!"

Here he slung his gun and with grumbling mutter

In stepped Stephen King, the stately King of gore.

 Not the least deference I gave, though an instant stopped and stayed:

With the mien of a feudal lord, King walked across the remains of my door--

Swept upon the dust of the remains of my chamber door--

Upon my favorite velvet chair King sat, and nothing more.

Then this Dirty Bird beguiled my sad Misery into near-giggling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the face he wore,

"My 'Tom Gordon' earnings were a-shaven" I said, "Surely you are not so craven,

 Ghastly grim and ancient, raving and blasting down my door.

Tell me! Why has my name been cut down by your lawnmower?"

Quoth the Raving King, "Write more."

Much I marvelled his ungainly foulness. Of course, plainly,

His answer – like his word -- had little meaning--little relevancy bore;

For (between you and me) we cannot help but to agree, that no other human be

Ever yet as blessed as me, to be the true wordsmith behind my master’s horror.

This beast cujoled upon my due credit and my payment due once more

Quoth the Raving King, "Write more."

But the Raving King, sitting like Almighty Unholy, Stephen King, he spoke only 

Those two words, as if his soul in those words he did outpour.

Nothing farther did he utter. Then like Randall Flagg, he fluttered--

Till I scarcely more than muttered "Like shining ghosts who came to write before--

In a moment you will leave me, and with you, Carry my hopes, as they have flown before."

Then the King said "Write more."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

"Doubtless," said I, "what you utter is only stock and store

I’m caught unhappy. With you as my master, you've left me an unmerciful disaster

Writing fast and following after under the doom your contract bore--

 The dirges of my Hope is my melancholy burden worn

Never paid – never credited.  Nevermore!'"

But the Raving King was still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of King Bird, and busted door;

Then, pouring over contract wording, I betook to a recurring --

Mr. Ominous Fancy Pants has put me through this before

I knew what this grim, ungainly, ghastly, green and ominous mile of yore

Was meant in his croaking "Write more."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To King’s foul and fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;

This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

 On my cushion's velvet lining that the Langolier gloated o'er,

On my velvet violet lining that the Langolier gloated o'er,

He pressed again, ah, write more!

Then, I thought, the air grew denser, his cheap cologne could have used a censor.

He worked his angle with the feint of fallen angels whose feet had fouled my once-good floor!

"Wretch," I cried, "Why won’t you lend me – by all the angels up above me—

 Respite--respite! Sign my check! Just give me one bank deposits. Man, I’m poor!

I drink! I drink! To forget that you forget all the work that I have poured! To forget I could have been so much more.

Quoth the Raving King, "Write more."

"Dammit!" said I, "thing of evil!—Dammit still, if dirty bird or devil!--

Tempter, when I tossed my lot onto your shores,

I was desolate, yet undaunted, of the crap contract I was handed --

But in my home, for years haunted --tell me truly, I implore--

Is there—my name in ANY acknowledgements?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raving King, "Write more."

"Stephen King!" said I, "thing of evil—King , if dirty bird or devil!

By the Heaven that bends above us--by the God we both adore--

Tell this soul with shallow pockets and anonymous book jackets

If I will e’er grasp a bound hardback whom the angels named me for --

Clasp a rare and radiant hardback whom the angels have royalties for."

 Quoth the Raving King, "Write more."

"Be that word our sign of parting, fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--

"Get back into your Plymouth Fury and bother me no more!

Belch black plume exhaust a token of the lies your soul has spoken!

Leave my obscurity unbroken!—And also Quit Busting Down My Goddamned Door!

Take my words from out of my heart -- then haul thy sorry ass and GET OUT MY DOOR!"

Quoth the Raving King, "Write more."

And Stephen King -- never splitting -- still is sitting, still is sitting

Amidst the dust on my velvet lounger, after gunning down my chamber's door;

His eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light over him is streaming his Randall shadows on my floor;

And my soul, ne’er out of King’s shadow as I lay typing on my cold floor

I am for King still heavy lifting – forever more!

Forever more!

© Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

(But we all know most of the credit – and lots of apologies -- goes to Edgar Allan Poe and Stephen King.)

If you've never read King's memoir
"On Writing," go read it.

Notes on the Poem:

It is 2:10 a.m. on May 1^st, which means NaPoWriMo is officially over. I banged this whole thing out just today. The idea didn’t come together until very late today. The lines are off. There are probably typos, even though I did proof it. It still needs work. I’m just too damn exhausted to explain all the hows and whys I did what I did. Here are just the most important things to know:

I took Edgar Allan Poe’s "The Raven" and retold the story. In my story, "The Raving King" is Stephen King. He is holding the narrator as a contractual hostage as his ghostwriter. The narrator is supposed to be the real genius behind the success of Stephen King. It's meant to be silly and absurd.

No, the narrator is not "me." I think I was about 3-years-old when King published his first breakout hit, "Carrie." (See above, silly & absurd.) But being a working writer, it's very easy to get stuck in an "abusive relationship" situation. We've all been there at one time or another. So in that sense -- can I get a little credit? Can you at least get the check out to me? Please? -- that might be a little bit of me... and many, many writer friends of mine.

Yes, I am a fan of Stephen King. A big one, actually, both of his stories and as a writer. And his wife Tabitha King wrote one of my  favorite novels "One on One." I didn’t realize she was Stephen King’s wife when I started reading  it. But that doesn’t matter. It’s a great book. And I'm bummed no one seems to be selling it. The characters were quite vivid and stuck with me years later. I don't even like basketball. (It's about two high school basketball players who fall in love, but it's so much more than that.) I'm getting way off track. If  you can find a copy, go read it. Seriously.

Yes, I know it's a crow
and not a raven. 

Anyway, back to my absurd poem. “Stephen King” in this poem is a character – kind of like "Wil Wheaton" on "The Big Bang Theory." You know that the real-life Wil Wheaton is not a huge dick in real life. Based on his Twitter feed and other things I've read, real-world Wil Wheaton is probably an okay guy. But that's my basic premise. Real-world Stephen King -- from what I do know, having never met the man -- is a good, decent guy. But my character, "Stephen King" is an asshole who holds struggling writers hostage in a chamber with a crappy ghostwriting contract and a gun. He never  acknowledges the writer's work. And he doesn't even pay enough to make it worth while. But he has some evil power over them that makes them "Write More."
.

Actually, Stephen King was on my short list of Famous People I Still Think Would Be Worth Meeting Some Day, but after writing this, I doubt that’s ever going to happen.

The premise of Stephen King holding a gun to a writer’s head came from my friend Noreen – check out her blog at Roderama. She’s also the one who got me doing this crazy poetry stuff in the first place.

As for everything else – another time. I am sad NaPoWriMo is over, but I hope this was actually the start of more writing, not the end of it. Must sleep now. More tomorrow. I mean... later today. -- WNG

And now that I've had 2-1/2 hours of sleep and three gallons of coffee...

First, FYI: I just did one more pass-through of the poem since I first published it last night to fix up some major things and take advantage of opportunities I missed. Probably should have waited until morning to post. After this, I will leave it alone for a while.

To write it, once I settled on "The Raven," (Poe + Stephen King was as perfect as a peanut butter and jelly sandwich... and made my job easier!) I kept a list of "-ore" rhymes handy. I also tried to drop in some references to Stephen King's more famous stories -- some are obvious... some might not be. I didn't want to force it. But I wanted to pay tribute somehow, since, you know, I was making Stephen King out to be a giant asshole. Which I know he isn't. (I'm envisioning legions of "Children of the Corn"-style King-worshippers amassing outside my door to sacrifice me for my blasphemy.)

My overall goal was to tell the absurd, silly story I wanted to tell, while retaining as much of  Poe's original poem -- his language, structure, rhyme scheme and spirit -- as possible. It was tricky, and for only having a few hours to do it, probably not 100% successful as a poem. But man, it was fun. And that, of course, was the whole point of this whole month. -- WNG

Petabyte Latin

NaPoWriMo, Day 29

Petabyte Latin

I never learned

the Latin-speak

All of it seems, well

-- hopelessly Greek

So risking red face

and bad grammatical decorum

I bold-declare at the world:

“Amo verborum”

                      

© Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

All the Latin I've learned in life
I learned from Google Translate
Photo: Julie Bartha-Vasquez

Notes on the Poem:

The writing prompt today was to use foreign language phrases in your poem. To be honest, the prompt

itself didn't really light a spark under me today. I had other ideas I was chewing. But the day got away from me with work and kids and purple glitter on the carpet. But then a  friend's blog post about the awesomeness of knowing Latin got me thinking about how I wished I'd had the chance to take a basic Latin class at some point in life. So now, late at night, I'm falling back on my old standbys -- Google, Wikipedia and a basic rhyme scheme -- to throw together something fun and silly.

Tomorrow is the last NaPoWriMo Day. But I am also thinking about ways of keeping the creative mojo  going. I honestly didn't expect that 1)- I'd be able to keep up with this for the whole month, 2)- that I would want to do this every day for a month and that 3)- other people would be wanting to do it with me. Awesome experience all around. It's been fun... hoping we can keep it going. -- WNG

Color Theory

NaPoWriMo, Day 28

Color Theory

Blacker days see scales of gray,

Save words on a page not much has changed.

Lilac tips brush skies this day.

Blacker days, see scales of gray.

Purple-prosed petals blow this way.

Wheels splash pigment seas; a vibrant range.

Blacker days – see scales of gray.

Save words on a page, not much has changed.

© Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

Notes on the Poem:

This is today's poem, which means I'm all caught up. Yay me. My choice of imagery is a complete coincidence with the NaPoWriMo writing prompt to write a color -- I actually wrote the a first draft of this yesterday. Serendipity strikes the poet. Woo-hoo! -- got to write a poet-y sounding sentence in an everyday context that make sense. Yay me again! 

I was originally pondering -- now that the month is coming to an end -- how much I was going to miss having Poetry Month as an excuse to inflict my writing on the interwebs every day. But the prompt this morning did help me focus the poem imagery. And I wrote it in the form of a triolet, my newest new favorite form. It was a prompt from earlier this month I had wanted to try, but got sidetracked from actually doing.--WNG

Open House

NaPoWriMo, Day 27

Open House

What are all these things we keep?

Hoarded bags in corners creeped.

Spilling wants of greed we heaped.

And memories better buried deep.

Why is it that we can’t let go

Of this crippling overflow?

An accumulated mountain grown,

We must shed tears on what we’ve sown.

Proceed: Find floors and go with faith.

Accept the pain of unembrace.

That when once open rooms you face

You will know a home of grace.

© Julie Bartha-Vasquez 2013

Notes on the Poem: 

"Hoarders" or my house? I'll never tell!

This is my entry for yesterday. My inspiration: my garage, which we  barely made a dent in cleaning. It's been rendered useless by over 14 years of stuff, 90% no longer needed or wanted... but oh! remember this! Oh, we so wanted to do that!. And... Oh! We might still be able to use this! No, we won't. We are one camera crew and a feral cat colony away from being pitied on a cable reality series. But still, it is so hard to let go of so many things... -- WNG

abandoned

Catch-up NaPoWriMo

abandoned

in space

gravity gone

apathetic starlight

oxygen dwindling, drown breathing

the dark

© Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

Notes on the Poem:

Astronaut Bruce McCandless
untethered above the Earth
on February 12, 1984

I missed some writing this week. Many major distractions, including a massive three-day migraine. But I did a lot of scribbling in my notebook when I could. This image is a very vivid dream I had a few months ago, written in a tanka form, which I may have mention, is my new favorite form. Not much more to it than that. -- WNG

Limericks with Friends

Playing Catch-up NaPoWriMo

Limericks with Friends

Normally, I put my "Notes on the Poems" at the end, but this requires a little explaining. I had the wacky idea of asking my Facebook friends throw me the first lines of limericks. "There once was a ______ from _____." I had to take whatever they gave me and write from there.

I was a little nervous about this. But my rules for writing the limericks were sort of like the rules I learned when I took my improv classes a couple years ago: Always go into it accepting what's given as "Yes, and..." Then early on, when I was getting very stuck and wondering what I got myself into, I suddenly remembered what the great Kelly Jennings said in one of those improv classes -- to really listen to what was being offered in those first two lines, because that's giving you everything you need to write the whole poem. After that, it was just a matter of taking it and plowing through to the end. My other rule was to go with the first limerick that worked, and then move on. So quality varies wildly -- but there are some doozies here.

The most important thing is that it was a lot of fun including my friends -- many of them very poetry-averse. It was a chance to be silly together. So here's all the work we did. Let us know what you think:

In no particular order, a big THANK YOU to my fellow poets...

Group Participation Rhymes

Sometimes, a steak isn't just a steak...

--With Jennifer M
There once was a monkey from Saturn
Disguised as a cross-dressing slattern.
If you lifted her dress,
As I’m sure you can guess,
You’d find a banana – and know you’d been burned.
+++

--With Cheryl Z

Hello Gorgeous!

There once was a girl from Philly

Her man’s cheesesteak was quite limp and chilly

He said he could make it bigger

With some long rolls and hot ‘Whizzer

But she said “Forget it man. That thing’s just plain silly.”

+++

                   --With Christine B

                   There once was a woman from Oz

                   With green skin and a gigantic schnozz.

                   They called her a witch,

                     But I’m down with that bitch.

                                                         The best beauties are always outlaws!

Grant this ass the serenity ...

                                                                        

--With Sherry D
There once was a pig from Pigtown
The one whose brick house didn’t blow down.
He’s now quite a ham.
Cashing in – ‘cause he can,
With a reality show called “The Wolf Hound.”
+++

                                         --With Carol B (Mom)

There once was a donkey from Brazil,

A heavy drinker from Rio to the hills.

The view was bucolic,

But this poor ass-a-holic

Need the 12 Steps to strengthen his will.

+++

--With Michael C. B (Dad)

There once was a man from Peru

His best friend was an odd kangaroo.

It knew how to make tacos,

And some mean home-made nachos,

But oddest of all – it said Moo!

+++

With Noreen B
There once was a Laugh Club from Jamesburg.
What’s that? Perhaps you have not heard.
                                             It passes for yoga
                                             But there’s no dog poses for ya
                                             Just good times – now go spread the word.

                                             +++

--With Mary C

There once was a swimmer from Reno

He grew gills and his name was Geno.

He stayed in the lake.

Why? For goodness’ sake!

He lost his swim trunks while playing Keno.

+++

--With Linda G

An exhausted mom from housework hell

Was fed up, so she put her house up to sell.

Now she’s resting on beaches

Far from kids’ lazy reaches.

So listen up children – clean your toys up real well!

+++

--with Catherine M
There was a pole dancer from Antarctica

Do not try this move while pole dancing

Her dance routine had become – well, sort of blah!
After watching “A Christmas Story”
(I warn you – this end’s kind of gory)
She wound up in surgery for her uvula.
+++

--with Jenn M

There once was an elephant from the circus

Who slipped on butter that was left there on purpose.

It was quite a mess.

Quite the worst, I confess,

When the poor thing made soup of the tortoise.

+++

--with Linda B

There once was a girl from South Jersey

Whose big hair had gone limp and quite dirty

She did what true Jersey girls do

Hit the Boardwalk – Wouldn’t you?

Windy hair at the Shore’s always purty.

+++

--Cyndi T.
There once was a guy from South Dakota
Who hit the road in a beat up Toyota
He didn’t get very far,

Mardi Gras

Forgot to gas up his car,
Now he’s hitch-hiking south on to Iowa.
                          +++

--with Dewie S, for Ken S.

There once was a guy from NOLA

And he loved “laissez les bon temps rouler.”

I know he’s a good guy.

My friends all say so, that’s why.

Hope we meet someday so I can buy him a cola.
(with rum in it!)

+++

--With Emily V

There once was a Directioner from Narnia

Whose obsession gave her mom quite the hernia

So mom got her revenge

When in front of her friends, 

She screamed “I’M AN OLD WOMAN HERE’S MY PANTIES ‘CAUSE I’M A DIRECTIONA’”

+++

--With Samm S
There once was a chick from Berlin
Who drank a stein full of rum mixed with gin

With some dude in a dirndl
Who was wearing a girdle
It was a wicked wild night full of sin.

(c) Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

# # #

Googling Through Life

NaPoWriMo, Day 23

Googling Through Life

when you fail            a test

                                to plan
                                god
                                as a parent
                                at work
                                an exam
                                as a mother
                                at life
                                at cosplay
                                at failing

and falling
                           in love
                                      with your kidnapper
             
 and out of love
                                with your husband
                                off a horse
                                in a marriage
                                with someone

when you feel
                         alone
                                    a baby move
                          lonely
                                    no hope at all

when you see it

                                  say nothing

                                           at all

                                          wish you were young

                                          upon the stars.

© Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

When you... Search Google, you
might find poetry.
Photo by Julie Bartha-Vasqiez

Notes on the Poem:

I had really wanted to try the triolets today. But I'm feeling dispiritied and my brain has turned to mush. I was Googling a around playing with the idea of writing an adbsurdist poem when I stumbled on Google Poems. This is apparently a thing. If you type the right kind of search term into Google search, you'll get little gems of found poetry, My picture here gives you a sense of what it does. So after playing around with some of the different search terms, I cobbled together a poem based on a variety of the terms I found,.In and of themselves, I think the search terms work as found poetry, but I worked to take several of them to create some kind of journey for the reader so that it was just more than just interesting search term combinations I hope it worked. -- WNG

Cookie Crumbles

NaPoWriMo, Day 21


Cookie Crumbles

If you cannot taste the sweet, first lick the salt.

You will find deep religious zealotry amongst proselytizing atheists.

Wet pants will dry faster when warmed by the legs of another.

Look to the stars to connect the dots in the empty spaces between your life.

If your mind is in a fog, headlights will make your vision worse.

You will meet someone wonderful today – and immediately forget him forever.

Look under your napkin for a surprise... now.

You are a woman with very masculine hands or a man with very delicate fingers.

Stop doing that.

Pick up a grape. Roll your tongue over all the smooth sides. Then bite.

Ask yourself why you are.

You will watch television all day and waste your chance for a perfect moment.

You will close your door to a heartache, and open a wound to a possibility.

You will believe you are a sensual creature of God.

Be wary of trustworthy liars.

An unexpected stranger will make you weep with her wisdom.

You will be uncertain of stone tablets.

A cat will cross your path. Follow it to a great work of art.

You will find the missing sock. It will not match.

Can you make a career of someone else’s life?

Your lucky numbers will be on the money you give to--

© Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

Image from Wikimedia Commons

Notes on the Poem:
The writing prompt today was to write lines for fortune cookies. I think we can all agree I would be terrible at that job. -- WNG

The Dandelion Rule

NaPoWriMo, Day 20


The Dandelion Rule

Never pick the dandelion
as you blow wishes to the air.
It won't grow back.
For, to come true,
They need roots,
And others to share.

(c) Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

Notes on the Poem:

Me, about 30 minutes ago: "Why are you sitting in the middle of the muddy grass blowing on the dandelion? Just pick it. Now I have to do more laundry..." [grumble grumble... muttering more annoyed Mom things]

My 7-year-old son: Because my wish won't come true if I pick it.

'Nuff said. -- WNG

Update: One word in last line changed from original posting

Ourealism

NaPoWriMo, Day 19


Ourealism

In the past few days we have seen
sunny days, sweeping the

best and worst in human behavior

clouds away, I’m on my way.

Officer ambushed, shot in the head.

See dolls with and without makeup.

Please remain indoors and safe.

They threw pressure cooker bombs.

Max and Ruby, Ruby and Max.

One brother ran over the other to escape.

Ruby and her little brother Max.

Make-up face off.

This family does not know how to share

love to jump up and down

grief with these victims

in muddy puddles.

Turn yourself in.

There will be Daisy Buchanan clones this year.

Ask for forgiveness.

An entire American city is on lockdown.

Wow Wow Wubbzy!

Families hiding under tables with children.

Wubbzy Wubbzy Wow Wow!

He may be wearing a suicide vest.

Raincoats, belly rings and Guantanamo chic.

He is an angel; such an intelligent boy.

Lockdown lifted. Firefight. SWAT teams.

Who are the people in your neighborhood?

Bloody body in a boat.

They’re the people that you meet each day.

He sat up when the flash grenades went off.

That’s real Vogue material.

The hunt is over. The search is done.

Tough week.

© Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

"The Persistence of Memory" by Salvador Dali

Notes on the Poem:

In the onslaught of news, non-news, bad news and -- with the 2nd Boston bomber finally captured -- good news today, I saw a Tweet from Merriam-Webster.com. They said that when the chase after the suspects started last night, there was a spike in searches for the word "surreal." So I decided to take a crack at writing a surrealistic-ish (if it wasn't a word before, I've decided it's a word now) poem. It wasn't too hard, given the material I had.

My normal days are usually spent surfing news sites for my work, including a lot of fashion and beauty news websites.  My normal days are also usually spent keeping young children entertained so I can get my work done. 

So I structured the poem to tell the story of today's very weird news day (to quote a former colleague from way too long ago: "Breaking is Broken.") interspersed with children's songs from TV shows my kids watch and fashion/beauty advice or blurbs that came across my Twitter feed during the day today. I used both headlines/news Tweets and quotes from the news coverage.

I don't know how it will come across to the reader, but this is a pretty accurate reflection of the background noise in my life every single day... just with different news stories, instead of one big, weird, tragic story dominating it. I am looking forward to not writing any poems inspired by horrible news events next week. Three in one week is quite enough, thank you. -- WNG

a-men

(NaPoWriMo, Day 18)

a-men 

a-men

for we who have not the grace

to bear witness to the rending

of flesh and jagged tearing

of blood and bone

without defacing

the purity

of others’

hurt

with devices

of redemption

or revenge

a tragedy

a-men

(c) Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

Notes on the Poem:

The writing prompt was to use the same word at the beginning and end of the poem. I --being me-- had to go with a little word play, but this time it wasn't to be whimsical or silly. I was trying to make a point. I was going to blah blah blah about what I wrote and how and why. Instead, I'll just suggest that you read this piece in the New Republic: "The Case for Looking: What We Can Learn from Extremely Violent Photography." I will also ask that you take the time to read Esquire's The Falling Man, originally published in 2009, about one of the people who was photographed falling from the Twin Towers on 9-11. (Out of kindness to my blog readers, I will warn you that the Esquire link does have the picture if you click it.)

Updated from first publishing late last night: I was also thinking about the media coverage of the Boston bombing this week, summed up by Buzzfeed's takedown of CNN and Gawker's takedown of the NY Post's breathtakingly irresponsible coverage of the hunt for the suspects. The Daily Show with Jon Stewart also managed to sum it up perfectly: ("CNN's exclusive report on an arrest in the Boston Marathon bombing was exclusive because it was completely f**king wrong.")

But this should be enough to give you an idea of where I was coming from when I wrote this last night. --WNG

Trust Rituals

Trust Rituals
(NaPoWriMo, Day 17)

I begin:
"How do you suppose
Of all the girls in all the world
Our luck was so great to get the best?
To get you?"

But she curls her slim fist
squeeze tight around my fat finger,
Then slack.
Both of us under queen-sized
Blankets, her eyes glazed open
then drow low before I can finish.

I stop. She stirs, snores.
And I know for this moment that all was done right for today.

(c) Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

Notes on the Poem:

This is a rough draft. It's definitely heartfelt. I'm heading in a direction. But from a writing POV, my initial feeling is that the overall tone is too Hallmark. This is one of those times when I wish I could be in a writing workshop. I know its not working, but can't put my finger on where to start fixing it. I had originally written it in a Tanka format, but it wasn't working as a Tanka. So it needs another kind of form, But on a personal note, it was just a nice small moment I was trying to capture in simple words, without getting treacly. I don't think I succeeded, but it's a start.

And now I'm all caught up. Rough week. Better Days ahead. Don't believe me, ask Dar Williams. Or the Kinks if you're a hardcore originalist. --WNG

A Place I'll Never Be

Let's just go! Let's go!
Get the hell out of here!
Let's go to a place where there's none of this.
Let's go to a place where a creek runs through the town
   it ends at a waterwheel that turns round at the old mill house.
C'mon, let's go! Go with me.
It's up there, I think. In the mountains, We can drive there. And hike.
We can camp by a cold lake and warm by the fire
   and you can hold me by my shoulders, kiss my neck,  and tell me you love me.
I need to go. Now.
I need to go walk the galleries coffeehouses '
   and talk to locals about brush strokes and brew strengths
      I need to get a job at a second-hand book shop
      where I can live in an apartment up the stairs
      and grow free range chicken and mushrooms out the back stockroom door.
     You can run the business stuff. And I can make artisinal breads to sell the tourists.
      And I'll practice Reiki,
C'mon, let's go. I need to go. I'm going.
 I was going to go. I was going to go with you.
I'm waiting to go there with you
Still waiting.
Still needing.
To go.

(c) Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

The Millstream at the Woodstock Inn
in Woodstock, NY

Notes on the Poem:
This is another make-up poem. The prompt today was to write a poem of "hello." I didn't quite do that here... This describes a place I've always wanted to visit, from the point of view of 20-year-old me. 41-year-old me still wants to visit there someday, but I will never see it as I dreamed of it as a 20 year old.

Form-wise, I didn't follow a specific traditional format. I could not find one I thought would work, but when I go back to rewrite -- and I will -- I hope by then to have found a formal format, or to have come up with a scheme of some sort. The more I do this, the more convinced I am that poems have more of an impact when they follow a pre-determined format. That, and I know enough to know that I don't know enough to know when to break the rules yet. Hey - that might be a poem:

I know enough
to know that
I don't know
enough to know
when to break
the rules

And BOOM goes the dynamite! Suck it Donald Rumsfeld. I just talked circled around your poetic circle talk. --WNG

Bad Call

Bad Call
(NaPoWriMo, Make-up for Day 14? I think)


She has
The worst hang-ups.
They're rung up the loudest
When he throws the phone, smashed down to
the floor.


(c) Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

Retro Wall Phones

Notes on the poem:
Playing catch-up...This image has been kicking around in my head all week. I wrote it as a cinquain, my new favorite form. Not much more to it than that. A bit moody, but for the kind of week this has been, can you blame me? - WNG

Endless Cycle

Endless Cycle

(NaPoWriMo, Day 15)

Blood soaks stone

Seeps down ground

Deep earth seeks

Water table found

Albumin joins soil

Fertile clotted masses

Fluid finds river

Drops ocean passes

Sun steams seas

Mists drift skies

White clouds waft

Peregrine Falcons fly

Haze tightens gray

Drops spill rain

Heavens to ground

Water washes stain.

© Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

According to the Massachusett Audubon Society,
the Peregrine Falcon is a common sight above the
city of Boston.
Image from AllAboutBirds.org 

No notes today. Just hoping for a better tomorrow for everyone. - WNG


Revision to second line of second stanza; third line of 1st stanza made on 4/16, after original posting. - WNG

A Taxing Countdown

A Taxing Countdown

(NaPoWriMo, Day 14)

Bottom line, a temporary fat ten

This yearly ritual, as-in nine

My return a windfall they eight

So very odd, it ’seven

Entitled for the Six

But not so ifI’ve...

My wallet’s four

Rich th'ree-

Gents too.

Who...

Won.

© Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

It's Here Again!

Notes on the Poem:

More word play. But sorry, no sex today, unless tax returns and number puns turn you on. 

The NaPoWriMo prompt wanted us to write in the voice of a superhero, but since I already kicked things off with The Ballad of Lois Lane, I went in a different direction. I was inspired by... the dreaded  IRS deadline. (Because I'm weird, that's why.)

I realized that most of the numbers between one and ten have homophones (again, because I am weird). Homophones are words that are spelled differently, with different meanings but sound alike.  BTW, they're different from homonyms, which are spelled exactly the same, usually spoken exactly the same way, but have a completely different meaning. And here endeth the grammar lesson.

 So I started with that. For the other numbers, I had to come up with words or word combinations that created the other numbers. "Six" and "Three" were the hardest to pull off. I don't think I was completely successful, but read it aloud a few times and see if you can figure out what alternate word (or words) I was going for there.

Here's a hint: (It might help, but probably won't.) Just to make things more complicated, I decided each line had to be the same number of syllables as the number I was writing for... so Ten was 10 syllables long, Nine was 9 syllables, and so forth.

From there, I tried to write a poem that was semi-coherent in meaning. Again, I don't know how successful it is, but it was an interesting exercise to try to pull off. And only slightly less complicated than doing taxes. - WNG

PS: I skipped a day. I'll make it up later this week. You have to live life in order to write about it, sometimes.

Lie-ten Up!

Lie-ten Up!

(NaPoWriMo, Day 12)

She lie upon his naked chest

Laced her nape did lay a lei

They’d met last night out on the beach

Past noon abed they stay.

Upon his leg, fingers enlaced

strokes lingered where they had lain,

Lips upon his longing lobe

Re-alit his flame.

Allied as one into sun’s set,

Once more to morning's ligh’,

Like lone lovers ‘midst the lilac lea

They shouted passions high.

At rest, at last, he turned to her,

And said, “Of all my life,

I’ve never known a love like yours,

Oh please love, be my wife.”

She smiled – so sweet!-- Gazed to his eyes,

Her reply a million times replayed:

“I appreciate the offer dude,

But I just wanted to get laid.”

© Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

Notes on the Poem:

I just wanted to have some fun. It's been a gloomy day. I've been writing gloomy poetry this week. 

The inspiration... Jonathan Winters -- a master of making up silly stuff (RIP). And... Grammar! As in, "When should I use the word Lie? Lay? Lain? And -- ahem -- Laid?  Because I'm THAT much of a nerd! (No, I'm not. Please, do not romance me by whispering conjugations into my ear.)

Actually, Grammar Girl has a very handy chart that explains it all. I have to look it up on a regular basis because it is very confusing. 

When I decided to go heavy on the "L" words, the poem started sounding a whole lot dirtier than I intended it too -- that's an earlobe I was referring to. Really. An earlobe.  But also a good writing tip... if you want something to sound leering and lascivious, load up on the "L" words.

"Sex on the Beach"
Digital Photo of a Poloroid
DeviantArt.com

My only goal was silliness. Set up. Punchline. Out. Hope you enjoyed. What's the point if it's not fun? Back to more serious study tomorrow. -- WNG

On the Dam at Sylvan Lake

On the Dam at Sylvan Lake
(NaPowriMo, Day 11)


She does not come here,
where once upon gravel-filled
cinderblocks, her soles
stepped, crunching ideas as
teeth into browned morning toast.


(c) Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

A mist-filled morning view from the Sylvan Lake dam
(c) Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2012

Notes on the Poem:
And here is my Day 11 poem. Again, I went with the optional writing prompt offered by NaPoWriMo, which was to write a Tanka. You can read about the form and how to write it here. I live near this lake. I realized I have not done much by way of -- for lack of better phrasing -- traditional poet-type stuff... Using nature for imagery, inspiration, etc. I've had this idea rattling around my brain the last few days, and the tanka prompt kind of shook it loose. I may expand on it. I may not.

I am learning through this daily exercise that when you can match your ideas with the right form, that's when the "magic" happens. --WNG

How Do I Leave You? (Barrett Browning "Un-Loved")

How Do I Leave You? ( Barrett Browning "Un-Loved")

(NaPoWrMo, Day 10's Poem)

How do I leave you? Let me count the ways.

I leave you to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach – forever out of sight

For this be The End of Our Being; my ideal grace.

I leave you to the level of everyday’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I leave you freely, as I strive for Right

I leave you purely, as I turn from Praise.

I leave you with a passion put to use

from our old griefs and childishness; I now forsake.

I leave you with a love I seem to lose

With my lost saints – I loved you with the breath

Smiles, tears, of all my life! – and, if God choose,

I will but love you better after death.

© Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

(But still giving all the credit to Elizabeth Barrett Browning)

Notes on the Poem:

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I completely crashed last night. So this is yesterday's poem, today. But I was thinking about it all day yesterday. Believe it or not, I went into this planning to write a parody of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's famous "Sonnet 43," better known to most people as the "How Do I Love Thee?" poem. The NaPoWriMo writing prompt yesterday was to write an "un-love" poem. And while writing it in my head, I was thinking it might be funny to write the poem as if it were a lost lyric from side one of Hole's "Live Through This" album. If mid-90s Courtney Love, "You Oughtta Know" Alanis Morrisette and "Before He Cheats" Carrie Underwood all got together to write a break-up poem, this would be it. At least, that was the plan.

But then I sat down this morning to actually write it. The parody could have been funny. I might still write it. But in the process of writing , I found that by just altering some of the words -- very few, if you go back and compare what I did to the original -- that altered Barrett Browning's ultimate love poem into a break-up poem full of heartache. 

So I decided to post this instead. It's not entirely (let's face it... it's barely) original. More like Altered Poetry, if that's even a legitimate form. (And if it's not, I just invented it.) It just felt right. --WNG

Five Short Poems About Time

Five Short Poems About Time
(NaPoWriMo, Day 9)


I

My clock's
hands have fallen.
Now they creep 'round corners --
to spinal clench -- my burdened neck --
Now squeeze!

II
A chime!
The clock strikes none
amidst the maelstrom,
I am overwhelmed, defeated.
This time.

III
To slay
immortal beasts
like deadlines, you'd think we'd
have learned by now we need more than
harsh words.

IV
No time.
There is no time.
Yet the pendulum swings.
Is it moving time forward? Back?
At all?

V
I need
to be in time
for some thing, but that's lost.
My girl's brown eyes pleading for mine
are now.

(c) Julie Bartha-Vasquez, 2013

Here's a Zen Koan for You:
What time is kept by a clock
with no hands?

Notes on the Poem(s)
It's poem-palooza today! Here's what happened. The hands on my livingroom wall clock fell off earlier this week. Just dropped off the face of the clock. The pendulum is still swinging. It still chimes -- I assume on the hour. But both of the hands on the clock are inside the case, and it's not in a spot that's easy to reach. So we haven't gotten up there to fix it yet. But in the meantime, it obviously inspired quite a bit of poetry!

One of the NaPoWriMo writing prompts last week was to write a cinquain. I'm very new to learning all the different forms of poetry out there and the cinquain seemed very simple and elegant and I wanted to give it a whirl, so I just went to town, using this damned clock as my inspiration. There's something very anxiety-provoking, ennui-inducing and zen-like about having a wall clock that both keeps time, but doesn't keep time. --WNG