Perpetuity

I must now make it a point to read more poetry.

It's not everyday, or even every year for that matter, that I get to read poetry that is written so differently from all those I have read before that I just want to gobble up an entire anthology in one sitting. And then come back and read it again.

This was the case with Lemn Sissay's work.
A former boss of mine, whom I consider to be both mentor and friend, gave me two anthologies from this writer, who is known, I should think, more greatly in the United Kingdom than his homeland.

I neither hope nor strive to emulate or mimic his writing style. Instead I hope to discover, hone, polish and have my own. Should it change every few years (not months) I won't rock the cot, I will accept that as the way things are.

The nature of all beasts is change, whether real or imagined.

Perpetuity

He says
his love will protect.
Says the warmth of his touch
will be the canvas for her dreams
and the passion of his words
will afford them the life of kings.


But will it last?


She asks
if his love can nurture.
If the fire in his palms
won't turn her dreams into nightmares
and whether the raging from his mouth
won't kill the music in hers.


And if it lasts,
will it be forever?

(c) Perpetuity

Namaste

The Short Story that couldn't

For every completed short story, poem, opinion piece, article or novel there are a handful more that remain incomplete, and a dozen or so that will never make it to the hallowed page, digital or otherwise.

Maybe if I wrote around the plot that took a smoke break I could start writing again, and hopefully finish writing as well. Sometimes, one should admit, you can’t get your way. Other times, I figure it’s best if I just don’t bother.

In most, if not all, of the short stories that I think up someone dies or must deal with certain death of sorts. The reason is because… Rha! Sies! So much redundancy irks me.

I prefer writing in this manner as it gives me an opportunity to imagine what I consider to be an extreme situation for any person to contend with. Not that one can win when facing certain death.

The issue, for me, in doing this is the resulting outlook I have in the end.

My stories aren’t happy ones. I don’t see why they should be. There are more than enough happy pictures and fairytale endings being spun by writers in this day and age. Why then, should another writer choose to leave candy floss next to a carcass, when a blunt object will work just fine?

Death by candy floss, when I think about it, does not sound as dramatic as death by chicken bone. And the challenge to create a reasonable plot that leads to chicken bone induced homicide is far more interesting than that found in the glitter of candy floss.

Writers everywhere must strive to draw more and write less.

Words, by themselves, are merely empty vessels but, stuffed with vivid imagery that begs to be touched, words can be pictures.

So, grab your writing tools and start drawing.

Namaste

The Hunted

Brilliant movie with Benicio Del Toro and Tommy Lee Jones.

God said to Abraham:

            Kill me a son.
Abe says:
            Man, you must be putting me on.
God say:

            No.
Abe say:

            What?!
God say:
            You can do what you want Abe but, the next time you see me coming,

            You better run.
Abe says:

            Where do you want this killing done?
And God says:

            Out on Highway 61.

Namaste.

Short Stories are just Novels that never grew up

Recently I took part in the nanowrimo drive. That's the NAtional NOvel WRIting MOnth (NANOWRIMO).
The idea is to write a 50 000 word novel in 30 days. Well, the 30 days have passed and all I have to show for it is a hankering (read: addiction) for coffee and an allergy to the people who pulled it off.

In truth, many people went out of their way to tell me that this was crazy, and that I shouldn't do it.
In spite of them being partially right; nanowrimo is indeed crazy, I have the following to say to them: I'm doing it all over again next year, and the year after that, and the one after that as well.
It's not because I want to prove a point (even though I do), nano is a tonne of fun. Even though I went through 3 tins of strong roast coffee and managed to go insane (temporarily), I still want to do this and next time I'll have this experience to learn from so I can be one of the people that pull it off.

Nevertheless, since this post has little to do with poetry I wanted to share my other writing interest, as someone reminded me that it's actually something I like doing (along with imagining all the fun and dramatic ways to kill people).

The seventy eight year old woman just lay there, next to her husband, with one hand on his lifeless chest, weeping in silence.

The flames, at the lick of human flesh, quickly descended on the two bodies. The thin layer of human oils that had been fearfully and feverishly expelled - along with sweat - from the old woman welcomed the fire that ravaged her. She could feel her skin peeling off under the intense heat. She shivered with a fervent fear as the fire cheated her out of the peace-of-mind of one final breath.

Francis Marlene van Dyke died at the age of seventy-eight. Burned, boiled, choked and coughed to death.

(c) extract from House On Fire (2010)

This short story is incomplete. After killing these two people I wasn't comfortable with writing about death. I guess if I could write without imagining and seeing my words come to life in vivid detail, maybe then I could finish the story.

We'll see.

Namaste