World Poetry Day

 
Each year on March 21st is World Poetry Day. Today I offer a Baker's Dozen of Poetry Wisdom to celebrate this Day. I hope you enjoy them. I pray you make note of each word by each  author.



1. Poetry is music written for the human voice.  Maya Angelou
2. I have nothing to say / and I am saying it and that is / poetry.  John Cage
3. Poets paint with words, painters speak with works.  Annibale Carracci
4. Good poems are the best teachers.  Mary Oliver
5. Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down. Robert Frost
6. We all write poems; it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words.  John Fowles
7. Poetry is the language in which man explores his own amazement.  Christopher Fry
8. A poem should be wordless / As the flight of birds.  Archibald MacLeish
9. Poetry is an expression, through human language restored to its essential rhythm, of the mysteriousness of existence.  Stéphane Mallarmé
10. Poetry is to prose as dancing is to walking.  John Wain
11. Poetry is idealized grammar.  Oscar Wilde
12. Stanzas are rooms, and a poem of them, a house.  Robert Wallace
13. Poems are not language but the content of the language.  Mary Oliver

How about that! Thank you for reading. Thank you for taking some of these wise words under your belt.

Gibberish

     From time to time, the writing group I belong to will select a topic intended for the "humor bones." Its purpose is to edge out taking ourselves tooo seriously by a topic designed for wit, which can be done in any genre. Recently, such a straw was drawn. Here's to shaking up my stream of consciousness on Gibberish.

Dr. Seuss wrote some books and created a golden goose on an equally golden nest with straw gathered by sympathetic fish from a canal made by troubled souls––and then some––behind Elk Lodge #219. But I digress.

This goose, in a land of moose near the waters of Who Knows Where, took flight one bright autumn morn to seek her next of kin only to discover she was a figment of Seuss's imagination and his bank account. She returned to the golden nest in a land of moose knowing there were no next of kin or bank account to be found. Ever.

Seuss and goose watched from the house around the bend of jagged rocks near the waters of Who Knows Where, which goose wanted mightily to know so as to set its coordinates on her pitifully small brain, but Seuss would not comply. Why? Because goose and the sympathetic fish who built her nest did not comprehend Lithuanian––simple as that.

This gibberish was written (with a donated plume from goose) for you, dear enlightened reader, and you need to understand there might not be a logical ending to this balderdash––hereinafter referred to as epistle––quilled under circumstances beyond my or your control. Another mumbo-jumbo tale will unfold (goose prefers "hatch"), of that you can be sure, but thankfully not today.

     What fun I had with this. It was meant to be fun, and it was. It reminded me of college art classes when the professor would assign a series of timed thumb-nail sketches. My right brain and I, like the little engine(s) that could, churned out sketch after sketch. Good, bad, or mediocre––it didn't matter. What mattered was the ability to take in something, and to render it for later reworking into a more substantive form or style.
     The same thing happened with this exercise. It took a few minutes to pen this. It felt good. I laughed aloud as I wrote it, and my engines were turned on for hours after. The spontaneity and stream of consciousness worked for longer and better other outcomes by day's end. Thank you, writing group. I'm going to do this more often.
     I'll toss into the ring a few one-word topics: ROWDY, FRINGES, FESTER, or you could try your hand at GIBBERISH. Remember, you can do them in any genre. 
     I invite you to take one or all and run with it/them as an exercise. Send one or all to me. I'd love to read what you did, and––who knows––one might merit a prize!!!!!

Writing Alongside Music

     Do you write alongside music? Do you write with music streaming from another room? How does it work for you––or doesn't it?
     Music carries me through the day––from early morning coffee (New Age) to winding down for sleep with violin and piano melodies. Dione, John, Lang, jazz, and a mix of classic '60's and '70's  help while I prepare dinner. When I need an energy boost, there's something contemporary to be found on Sirius Radio.
     I take my iPhone out to the Cathedral of my garden where it serves up background music for the myriad birds, rustling leaves, and buzzing bees (two hives). Nothing gyrating or pulsing, just favorites off my Playlist to encourage enjoyment of and reverence for the natural world.
     This year marks my fifth year of piano instruction. I've come to the ivory and ebony late in life. The learning, the listening, the act of two hands training to act in disciplined independence is immensely rewarding. I listen to Mozart, Beethoven, and contemporary pianists with a new ear. Music, especially piano music, uplifts me, and I wonder why the nuances, the subtleties of music listening had escaped me for so long.

Illustration by Izar Cohen

     Sitting at my computer a few weeks back, in what felt like the zillionth draft of a story, I became aware of gliding as a feather through the tedium of it. Gliding! Feather! Inconceivable!
     There was a difference from previous rewrite times, and the difference was I was proofing/editing with background music. Nothing emotional, loud, or grating. No. The music was soft and harmonious. An invitation to my creative muse.
     I leaned back in my chair. I was not performing a mindless task. Yet, I was productive in the task at hand. The music didn't distract me. Rather, it inspired my focus. Revelation, chance, or fact?
     I bring to your attention an article published in The Wall Street Journal (2/18/2013) titled "Music Ability Helps Reading." Check it out. I've also found other studies in the same vein prove the same outcome.
     Since the opportune discovery of writing alongside music, I've begun to do more of the same. I've decided discordant notes do NOT work, nor do arias or high-pitched lyrics––too heart pounding, too distracting. But when I chose to have backdrop music in my fiction and poetry writing, and reading––and by that I mean harmonious music, music in the tempo of my story and/or characters––it reveals itself to be a part-to-part relationship. And what I think is a good partnership.
     I'll end as I began: Do you write or read alongside music? Do you write or read with music streaming from another room? How does it work for you––or doesn't it? Do let me know, please.

Pinterest

     Last night I launched my older sister by thirteen years into the Pinterest world via long-distance telephone.  "Baby steps," I repeated like a mantra every time she tripped and felt frustrated.
     "Right," she said, "baby steps. I'm baffled, but okay. I can do this."
     Patience persevered on both ends of instruction. She is launched and excited, while knowing she's only begun her learning curve. She'll get there in small steps for two reasons: 1) she feels left out of this dynamic social media site all her friends preen about, and 2) because she's fascinated with the possibility that hand-selected, colorful images will tell the world what she is about.

     I declare unabashedly––I love Pinterest!
     My venture into this wonderland of pictures was prompted by spilling-over files of pictorial ideas for home-improvement projects. It took techie skills that left me dry-eyed *..* mostly because I don't own them, but I got the venture up and running. Magazine and newspaper clips, how-to's, notes, cut pictures were trashed, manila folders recycled, and file cabinet space freed up. Jubilation! Pinterest founders should be given one royal pat on the back.
     In the beginning, my philosophy was "100 of 100"--100 boards of no more than 100 pins.  That lasted until I reached 100 boards, and then I looked at what I had wrought. The number of Boards had swelled along with their content. They were all good, mind you, but it hadn't occurred to me that they had become as self-revealing as they did. The growth spurt resulted from a personal mix of serious pursuits, wit, and insight. They represented deep abiding interests. I began to tweak them, and continue to do so.
     But Pinterest is more than an online scrapbook of pictures, or more than a mirror of its creator. Pinterest offers broad learning opportunities about topics, ideas, and interests. All that is required of the Pinner is to open an image to find reams of information. Much like peeling an onion, the Pinner keeps penetrating down to a source, and often that source will offer much more than the zillion pixels found in the online photo.
     If you browse my Pinterest Boards, you'll find headings related to beekeeping (we've two double-stacked hives), piano (proving it's never too late), and pools, porches, and water features––all for the garden.
    For writing purposes, I created insightful boards on how to write something right, where to find a reference, tools to write with, or what my dream library would look like, and even a chuckle or two. A recent post, Hotels for Bibliophiles, sprung from the Board "Booking"a Stay. For more Boards related to literary matters, please feel free to visit book fairs,  home library, quotes about writing,  typewriters, grammar and punctuation, indie book shops, and more. An introduction to my blog, Flying Pages, can also be found, because blogging along with Pinterest and Facebook are my social media/writing platforms.

Do you use Pinterest? Is it fun for you? If you can, tell me what you like about it? Do you use it to serve your personal interests only, or do you have a professional part of your life involved with it?

Ponderings in mid-February

     The Olympic Games of 2014 will finish Sunday. I hum an Alleluia. Every now and then it's good to take a break, and the last two weeks were that. My family awaits the Olympics with great anticipation knowing dust bunnies will collect, sleep-deprived puffy eyes will arrive, and many pizzas will substitute for family dinners.
     But it's time to stop rationalizing why writing goals slipped this month. It's time to re-enter reality, and repower the creative engine. But, oh my, over these last two weeks there was so much to admire, so much talent, and wonderfully-crafted commercials. There were many athletes to root for, plenty to be grateful for, twinges of compassion for Bob Costas, and opportunities for reflection.
     Monday I will pick up fountain pen and notebook to re-ignite the engines. Most likely, I'll begin by jotting down tidbits of this and that––observations, snippets of news pieces, or a new-found word. It's inevitable I'll stall, go to check on the honeybees (now there's a model work ethic!), and Monday is laundry day. Indeed, I predict I will suspend my creative re-entry until an inner voice bellows NOW!
     I write. I am easily distracted. I putter. I lollygag. It all goes together like close siblings––this desire to write, the ability to procrastinate. In a compare/contrast, I wonder if it could it be any different for the Olympic athletes? I don't think so. Pushing through each day of creative writing or athletic practice is a major accomplishment. It takes perseverance, and perseverance incites awe because we all understand what it takes. Discipline, time, sacrifice, self-doubt, loneliness, worry, fear, grinding work, and grueling disappointments. Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and chant over and over "I mustn't stop trying." It's a learned process.
     Tomorrow, Sunday, is the day I will suck up as through an intravenous tube what it takes to be a winner, and to push through the days and weeks in front of me with athletic perseverance. I will borrow a page from the Olympic athletes––those who won medals, those who didn't––and hope I can match them. And I will tell you what I have long-ago learned: No one can do it for me.

I leave you with this: We're all in this together––by ourselves.  Lily Tomlin

What's In a Name

     Recently, I sat in my dentist's waiting room biding time until summoned for my checkup. Side tables were topped by magazines and newspapers for complimentary reading. One table had the White Pages telephone book. I picked it up and let it fall open. Then I read the roll of names.
     I read telephone books for fun, but it's also an occupational hazard. I read these books when I dry up on names to christen new characters, or to re-christen others. I log them into my iPad for future reference. The possibilities and combinations are endless; their histories more so if I do some digging.
     Some surnames are just that––the last name of a family carried for generations differentiating one family or neighbor from another. Time, distance, and generations of marriages have lost the attachment of meaning or symbolism to names. Time changes much, and that reflects the bulk of family names. The richness of generation after generation carrying a family name has been diluted.
     Many surnames convey a legacy of trades or crafts, and many of those names stuck like logs. Historical or genealogical records are sometimes needed to deduce those occupations, but not always. I once knew a family in Georgia whose neighbor came from a long line of crop farmers. The elder's name was Sam Cabbagehead. In the online version of History Today, I found an interesting article by C. M. Matthews titled Surnames of Occupation. Check it out.
     Then there are family names that hint of a future, but time and hindsight are needed here. To wit, I personally know a librarian named Connie Brain and an arborist named Ken Roundtree. A recent newspaper article discussed breakthroughs in fusion power involving high-speed physics. The name of the lead author in the study is Omar Hurricane. Today's issue of The Wall Street Journal, featured a piece about a Miami landscape architect who "dreams up dense, thickly forested canopies ... for high rises and million-dollar residences." His name––Raymond Jungles.
     Combining first and last names for the sake of a laugh, however, smacks of what-were-they-thinking––fodder for the comics or humor writers. Legalized name changes would be in order for some of them. Names like Vinny Smooz, Bea Bee, or Chan See. I'm not sure how real these people are, and many names defy reality, but you can judge for yourself by looking into The Anomalous List of Unusual Names. You will chuckle for sure.
     However, if you want to give meat and bones to newly-found characters' surnames, to the stuff of your daydreams, seek out reference dictionaries of surnames. All cover origins and meanings with several giving detailed information on name-forms and how they have changed over time. I list a few for starters: A Dictionary of Surnames, Penguin Dictionary of Surnames, and American Family Names.

So what's in a name? As you can see, a lot. 
If you haven't done so, pick up the White Pages and skim the names, even addresses. You might find inspiration at best. At the least, you'll be fascinated by the variety of names or their derivatives. You might also want to know more of their histories for the building of your own characters.

Daydreaming

     My astigmatism hasn't improved, and I wonder if I might be listing toward being cross-eyed. My husband doesn't think my eyes are crossed, but then I reminded him of the actress, Anne Bancroft, who dazzled Mel Brooks with her circus-performing eyes.
     "She didn't look like she was x-eyed," I said.
     "No. But she was trained by the method acting school," he retorted.
     "What?!" I sputtered.

     I possess more than one creative streak. Therefore I daydream. Tossed into the mix is that I am a writer.  Here too, I daydream a lot––a heck of a lot. When I was found daydreaming as a youngster, I would be snapped out of it by one of two admonitions: 1) you're going to grow up to be lazy; or, 2) you're going to ruin your eyes and become cross-eyed. What's a  young, creative, believe-in-everything-adults-say-daydreamer to do?
     Here's what I did: I set out to test the boundaries of those threats for the rest of my life. I was not going to let saber-rattling trap or restrict my creative pulses. I daydreamed with wide-open, unblinking, dry eyes. I explored associations in my mind. I invented possibilities on the fly. I witnessed fictitious scenes, characters, and dialogue––and all while daydreaming with wide-open eyes. Gore Vidal said, "Each writer is born with a repertory company in his head." I'm sure Steve Jobs, Albert Einstein, Henry Ford could add their own take on the matter. Humans are a daydreaming species. Humans should not waste their daydreaming time.
     Eventually, I take my daydreams to paper giving them guidance and hoping to stitch the varied "takes" together into a whole as they ought to be.

Today, my glasses are thick, the astigmatism isn't good, but I trust my husband when he tells me I'm not (yet) cross-eyed. It can't get any better than that.