If ivory shores are closer than ever before,
then home is coming.
If by the tides some old rocks new wash up,
then home has returned.
If by the sun I see fields and sand and manna-dew,
then home is sunning.
If by the grave of the mind dormant memories rise,
then home is alive.
If by the heart of eons we awake quite undimmed
of shores uncollared, unsettled, unsinned—
then home is near.
If by a stone of old rocks new I can skip
back to ivory shores of dark winds,
oldest waters, and long-lost kin
then home is here… I do, I do.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Truly a 21st Century
And I awoke to a Black President. He, too, sings America.
Such jubilation. To be alive when hundreds of years of strife and struggle and humiliation have come to a head, a striking point of triumph and vindication for African Americans, is tearful, joyful... wonderful.
I was just about to purchase a book of poems by Langston Hughes, one of the pivotal voices of Black America during the Harlem Renaissance in the 1920's (not to mention one of literature's luminaries in the 20th Century, black or white). I don't care how much money I don't have, I'm buying it; and Obama's book Audacity of Hope (not just because he's the new President Elect.) It was his audacity, his voice, his intelligence, his charisma, his clear message of change and unity that offered something fresh and vibrant in a nation that has been, and it is the truth, running on the fumes of old white men. Not since the days of Kennedy (the 33rd President, no less) has the nation been so alive with the promise of youth and integrity and promise. But unlike Kennedy, who was born and bred in the Kingdom of Camelot, Obama comes from another stock, a perspective that straddles the racial and the social barriers.
Now, I'm not one for blind optimism, so I will have to concede a level of skepticism (I'm skeptical of any politician, black or white). He has much to do, and much to prove. He is inexperienced, but so was Bush. He was an oil magnate with an experienced Daddy, and the luck of having a tragic event push him to the level of "savior". (Yikes! People really did think that.) Lincoln was inexperienced. A lawyer who took the trials and tribulations of a troubled nation and transformed himself so that he could transform a nation at its own throat. The Union is, at the moment, less internally unstable, yet no less challenging in its maintenance. Is Obama ready to keep the glue that has held this nation, at times tenuosly, frightfully, together? History will tell.
Such jubilation. To be alive when hundreds of years of strife and struggle and humiliation have come to a head, a striking point of triumph and vindication for African Americans, is tearful, joyful... wonderful.
I was just about to purchase a book of poems by Langston Hughes, one of the pivotal voices of Black America during the Harlem Renaissance in the 1920's (not to mention one of literature's luminaries in the 20th Century, black or white). I don't care how much money I don't have, I'm buying it; and Obama's book Audacity of Hope (not just because he's the new President Elect.) It was his audacity, his voice, his intelligence, his charisma, his clear message of change and unity that offered something fresh and vibrant in a nation that has been, and it is the truth, running on the fumes of old white men. Not since the days of Kennedy (the 33rd President, no less) has the nation been so alive with the promise of youth and integrity and promise. But unlike Kennedy, who was born and bred in the Kingdom of Camelot, Obama comes from another stock, a perspective that straddles the racial and the social barriers.
Now, I'm not one for blind optimism, so I will have to concede a level of skepticism (I'm skeptical of any politician, black or white). He has much to do, and much to prove. He is inexperienced, but so was Bush. He was an oil magnate with an experienced Daddy, and the luck of having a tragic event push him to the level of "savior". (Yikes! People really did think that.) Lincoln was inexperienced. A lawyer who took the trials and tribulations of a troubled nation and transformed himself so that he could transform a nation at its own throat. The Union is, at the moment, less internally unstable, yet no less challenging in its maintenance. Is Obama ready to keep the glue that has held this nation, at times tenuosly, frightfully, together? History will tell.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Blog?
Blog? Blog? ... I'm sure I know what that is. Oh, right. This thing that I'm writing in. Dagnabbit, I am so lax when it comes to these things. Well, whatever.
I've been busy with poetry and screenplays. Fort Stone revisions are slow going, but that was to be expected. I'm in no rush for novels. Here are few other book covers I've made over the past few weeks. I'll never have anyone else's cover for my book. I've decided that. Call me stingy.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Book Covers
These are the tentative covers for Fort Stone, a novel, and It is of endings..., a book of verse. Just going for visual impact right now. Would like to know reactions.
The Fort Stone is this big door because a big door figures into the story, and it comments on the real nature of this Fort Stone, which is in fact made of wood.
Streetcar
He watches close that streetcar named Desire
and all those therein.
He watches it conjure up damp black streets,
then vanish into the stale hissing steam,
hover above the clamor and squawk,
in between the rubber and oil,
and land, unnoticed, amongst a thousand hands
pressing and plucking and prying.
He listens to that streetcar sound against the soft
erratic whispers of night-bar sooths.
He listens to it land like a thousand birds
descending the shore, that super-metallic screech—
so familiar—of wheels on long parallel lines
going straight into the
heart of everything dark and hot.
He sees what that streetcar has brought back
in refrain:
a man playing cards,
all cheaped-up on cigars,
and smells of thick tars—
a liquor so black
that night envies back.
He keeps a close eye on that streetcar,
because no one else will.
He keeps quite close so that one day he
might help the man off,
or join him.
and all those therein.
He watches it conjure up damp black streets,
then vanish into the stale hissing steam,
hover above the clamor and squawk,
in between the rubber and oil,
and land, unnoticed, amongst a thousand hands
pressing and plucking and prying.
He listens to that streetcar sound against the soft
erratic whispers of night-bar sooths.
He listens to it land like a thousand birds
descending the shore, that super-metallic screech—
so familiar—of wheels on long parallel lines
going straight into the
heart of everything dark and hot.
He sees what that streetcar has brought back
in refrain:
a man playing cards,
all cheaped-up on cigars,
and smells of thick tars—
a liquor so black
that night envies back.
He keeps a close eye on that streetcar,
because no one else will.
He keeps quite close so that one day he
might help the man off,
or join him.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Return from Noveland
There and Back Again, a tale by Andrew Riley.
No! shit! Already been done.
I try to stray from what others have done, although plot lines, themes, and archetypes are quite difficult to stray from. As Keats might have said, There are no new themes, just thinking of new ways to work them.
From Sept. 29th to Oct 3rd I wrote. Well, not all the time. It started off well enough. 16 pages the first day. Then 4 the next. And it wasn't from a lack of enthusiasm, either. It was... Sickness! A damn cold. Thank you very much, Couldn't have happened at a better time, Why don't you leave me alone, Don't you know the stock exchange is falling from the sky! In all I wrote 40 pages (70 book pages), and I managed to flesh out the major themes, establish a hefty, (almost) plausible plot line, and develop many of my characters to the point where I'm beginning to care what happens to them. God, I hate that. So when one dies, I tear up. I'm very cinematic in my visualizing of scenes, so I got music going in my head, accompanying all this. Lets just say, when you're writing the raw bones of your work, it gets a little weird. I can't wait to shape all this into something believable, poignant, adventurous, and, possibly, lasting.
I lost some sleep, coughed, my head ached, my chest throbbed, I barely wrote anything on Friday (just summaries for the chapters of the fourth and final part). Whatever. It was exactly what I needed to get something down on the page, practically from beginning to end so that I understand the arc, the flow--to an extent. You'll all get a taste of it after I revise the first chapter for a writing contest (Narrative magazine: http://narrativemagazine.com/30-below-story-contest).
I'd give a synopsis, but I don't feel like it. I'd rather you wait till I've further developed the story, and posted excerpts from the first chapter. The deadline for the contest is Nov. 30th, so expect an excerpt just prior.
To anyone else who wishes to take on a blitz-write (as I am going to call it from now on), make sure you have nothing else to do. That doesn't mean you can't do anything else, but no work, no engagements, no appointments, nothing external is going to pull you from the keyboard, the pad of paper. I watched a few movies, even went to my girlfriend's house one night. Yes, that's external but it was Wednesday, I was feeling slightly better, and I had written that entire day anyways (12 pages). I needed a break, and her house was as good a place as any. Take breaks. Don't write from dawn till dusk, or Midnight to midnight, unless you're an insomniac. Some days are better than others. Even if you go in with guns blazing, following days you may find yourself out of ammo. Recharge, charge back in, and let it flow. Don't revise. That comes later. It's all about getting the beautiful, fragmented, floating idea onto the paper... it will read like shit. Cheers.
No! shit! Already been done.
I try to stray from what others have done, although plot lines, themes, and archetypes are quite difficult to stray from. As Keats might have said, There are no new themes, just thinking of new ways to work them.
From Sept. 29th to Oct 3rd I wrote. Well, not all the time. It started off well enough. 16 pages the first day. Then 4 the next. And it wasn't from a lack of enthusiasm, either. It was... Sickness! A damn cold. Thank you very much, Couldn't have happened at a better time, Why don't you leave me alone, Don't you know the stock exchange is falling from the sky! In all I wrote 40 pages (70 book pages), and I managed to flesh out the major themes, establish a hefty, (almost) plausible plot line, and develop many of my characters to the point where I'm beginning to care what happens to them. God, I hate that. So when one dies, I tear up. I'm very cinematic in my visualizing of scenes, so I got music going in my head, accompanying all this. Lets just say, when you're writing the raw bones of your work, it gets a little weird. I can't wait to shape all this into something believable, poignant, adventurous, and, possibly, lasting.
I lost some sleep, coughed, my head ached, my chest throbbed, I barely wrote anything on Friday (just summaries for the chapters of the fourth and final part). Whatever. It was exactly what I needed to get something down on the page, practically from beginning to end so that I understand the arc, the flow--to an extent. You'll all get a taste of it after I revise the first chapter for a writing contest (Narrative magazine: http://narrativemagazine.com/30-below-story-contest).
I'd give a synopsis, but I don't feel like it. I'd rather you wait till I've further developed the story, and posted excerpts from the first chapter. The deadline for the contest is Nov. 30th, so expect an excerpt just prior.
To anyone else who wishes to take on a blitz-write (as I am going to call it from now on), make sure you have nothing else to do. That doesn't mean you can't do anything else, but no work, no engagements, no appointments, nothing external is going to pull you from the keyboard, the pad of paper. I watched a few movies, even went to my girlfriend's house one night. Yes, that's external but it was Wednesday, I was feeling slightly better, and I had written that entire day anyways (12 pages). I needed a break, and her house was as good a place as any. Take breaks. Don't write from dawn till dusk, or Midnight to midnight, unless you're an insomniac. Some days are better than others. Even if you go in with guns blazing, following days you may find yourself out of ammo. Recharge, charge back in, and let it flow. Don't revise. That comes later. It's all about getting the beautiful, fragmented, floating idea onto the paper... it will read like shit. Cheers.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Another Blog
I must have gotten bit by the blog bug because whereas before I'd not touch the likes of it now I have two in stock and therefore am doubly entrenched in the spontaneous world of bloggature (Yes, I just made that a word).
Check out my other blog here: http://eulalyceum.blogspot.com/
Just started so give it time to blossom.
Check out my other blog here: http://eulalyceum.blogspot.com/
Just started so give it time to blossom.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)