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Indigo Vales

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Indigo Vales

Tag Archives: poetry

Process

23 Monday Nov 2020

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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amwriting, complaining, Dante, editing, Milton, noncomformist, poetry, process, verse

Well who’s going to write a story about that, he wondered. I knew what he was thinking and I was thinking not me, man, I got better things to do like re-arrange my sock basket. And then he pushed me and said write the thing and I spent many hours thinking about the thing. I wrote it in my head for days, preparing to put it formally on a document.

I sat down to write and found videos for a 100-hour-recipe for brownies and rescuing opossums and racist gift baskets and all kinds of good shit and then I went to sleep and woke up with no ink on my hands. I mean, who really wants to read a story about an owl, anyway? Actually I do because there’s something there and he’s telling me his story and I can’t get it out of my head. I’ve been writing the same story over and over and over, editing the same sentence because it’s my thing. It’s what I do. It’s gotta be perfect out of the box or just forget it all.

Then I think about Milton who wrote the epic “Paradise Lost” in free verse which is 10,000 lines; Dante who wrote “Inferno” in triple rhyme in 14,233 lines; Shakespeare who wrote 154 heart-tearing sonnets of 14 lines each… and I’m erasing the first sentence again and again and again. Modus Operandi.

The owl will pop out soon enough. I just needed a space to complain. Thank you and good night.

I Sing The Body Electric — Walt Whitman

31 Friday May 2019

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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poetry, Walt Whitman

Today is his birthday.

He is an important writer for me.

I hope everyone will find that poem and read it and find something for themselves because you are all there, waiting, and you didn’t even know it.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45472/i-sing-the-body-electric

(in Just-) e e cummings

21 Thursday Mar 2019

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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amwriting, begin, childhood, e e cummings, inspiration, Pan, poetry, Solstice, spring

in Just- 
spring          when the world is mud- 
luscious the little 
lame balloonman 

whistles          far          and wee 

and eddieandbill come 
running from marbles and 
piracies and it’s 
spring 

when the world is puddle-wonderful 

the queer 
old balloonman whistles 
far          and             wee 
and bettyandisbel come dancing 

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and 

it’s 
spring 
and 

         the 

                  goat-footed 

balloonMan          whistles 
far 
and 
wee

Upon Finding The Dragon’s Egg

24 Thursday May 2018

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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amwriting, beach, dragon, egg, fear, Jim Morrison, ocean, pain, poetry, prompt, the Doors, weather

I awoke abruptly, squintingly, because the sun peered in my bedroom window, an alarm my body cannot refuse. Strange sun, Jim Morrison said in his notebook poem, and I opened my door after I put clothes on (but not shoes because no one needs shoes to walk from the balcony to the cool beach sand that was not far away.)  Strange sun well-riz on my right also known as East, the train of cool blue dawn retreated into the distance, laughing gulls squeaked overhead and moved on instead of making their usual mocking laughter from the breakwater that sounds like children a mile away calling out for help because they are drowning.

I walk barefoot on a beach where I found seashells in all stages of their lives tossed on the shingle by an uncaring sea, but all those shells and emerald mermaid’s hair wafting in the tidal pools are gone.  The Army Corps of Engineers came and did one heck of a job building up this little spit of land that had been slowly reclaimed by the ocean one winter storm, one summer hurricane at a time and now my feet trod sand the size of peppercorns instead of soft, creamy quartsy silt I fell in love with, all those tidal pools gone.  I am grateful yet disoriented. Strange.

So this morning I woke and walked and found the dragon’s egg. Should come as no surprise to anyone because the system that came from the west moved in and brought us a week of rain and a night of high wind, fearsome wind too early for hurricane but made us reach for our batteries and bottled water anyway.  I plucked the egg from the sand poor thing blown from her nest, abandoned, knowing that’s the worst thing I could possibly do but when did I ever abide by the rules, and I held it in my hand wondering what could I possibly do?  And then the shell broke, the creamy satin shell broke open and spilled out venom all over my hand and it hurt like the sting of a bee that begins slowly and takes over your interstitial fluids and spreads out and swells because it really, really, does not want you to be offending it yet you have by simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time and you are paying for your transgression. I held the dragon’s egg, seeping fluids hurting so much, but my pride kept me from screaming so I ran down and into the cold, cold water and submerged me and the egg hoping the pain would ebb.  The silken shell stuck to my hand. The venom came forth like a ginger lady’s tresses, Rapunzel-like, then dissipated in the brine. The shell dissolved and my pain dissolved too as I panted hopping foot to foot hoping not to step on a skate just going about his business.

Crack In The Stone

23 Monday Apr 2018

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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death, friends, life, Mary Oliver, poetry, real, Saffron Queen, stone

For me, the very best poems are the simple ones. I enjoy a simple table in a sunlit room with friends I love and foods that satisfy all my emotions. I am relaxed, at ease, a bit of sauce on my sleeve, a light touch on my thigh, a certain sadness upon parting: I will miss you all but take comfort in knowing I will see you again.  The very best poems are the simple ones.

I sat on the bed of the Saffron Queen and we exchanged many things until her daughter came in. It was awkward because I know both of them, so I went downstairs to fill my fancy water glass to give them time to talk. Suddenly there were three dogs in her room and it was more than she could manage, and suddenly it was just the two of us again. The queen spoke and I laughed and she said I was beautiful just then, my smile, something she’d never seen before.  I became self-aware, knowing why I rarely smile in her presence, guilty for that, suddenly looking for ways to be more relaxed and real on her bed where she lives now.

The very best poems are the simple ones. Life is real and death is real and friends are real and poems are real and sometimes I just can’t handle it all.

Starling Made Me Write It

29 Wednesday Mar 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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bird, crime, mine, poetry, say no, silence, writing

It is the time of saying “no.”  You may not visit my home.  I will not smile because you don’t know what else to say.  I will not give you $40 bucks because they took your house away.

(did you hear any apologies here?)

I will say that I am tired and need to go when I am ready. I will give you compassion, but I’m not feeling sorry for you. I will open my home, my ears, my heart, and purse strings when I want to.

I am not your mark anymore.

I’m chasing poems around with ink, talking to myself and writing secrets in the sand.  I write what I need, when I need, and I reserve the right to hoard my treasures.  This bud’s lips will part and speak when it’s damned good and ready, be it gardenia or stinking corpse lily.  Or maybe the roots will rot, the flower will drop and die like some thief on a rope before anyone hears the word.

Either way, I’m cleaning up the crime scene before you can figure out what hit you.

Imagine How Her Poems Taste

30 Wednesday Dec 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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poetry

She won’t cook with onions, no

Cuz she don’t like to cry

She won’t cook with spices, no

Why in the world would she want to try

some kind of magic powder

harvested beneath a humid moon with fingertips and moist lips

singing saffron songs

or put some kind of thing in her pot that burns a tender tongue? Who wants to eat something that makes you sweat, uncomftable?

Oh no. Hell no.

Don’t make a mess in her kitchen with your spicy sticks and sprigs and powders, make you sneeze, stuff you can’t pronounce, stuff that grows in pots on your porch, what are you some kind of witch?

She don’t need your fancy ideas and implements or your comments, so come back in five when dinner’s served.

(I doubt you’ll be wanting to lick the plate and ask for thirds)

Blessed Art

21 Saturday Nov 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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amwriting, evolving, poetry

Blessed art my fictions, those lying little stories that know from whence they came and where they shall end. They know the score. Sometimes they take a while to coax out, those little devils, but bless their pointy heads anyway.

Blessed art my fictions that tell you like it is and leave you wanting more.

Blessed art my readers who just want a good story and don’t go on too much about the art of my asterisk and the insomnia (or the hangover) that produced it.

Poetry, blessed, misunderstood thing you, once shackled in meter and rhyme now clothed in Slam, exposing sexism, racism, refugee, homeless, the naked, damned people who burn alone. Give me sight to see you and make this a right world for you.

Blessed is truth, though we sometimes call you fiction. Ah, but blessed is the reader who knows the score. (They’re smarter than you think, they recognize your geography and they don’t fall for that same old landmine.)

Blessed is time, and my bed, and this pen, beer, and breathing, that allowed me the space to know what I need to bless…and leave behind.

Chapbook Manuscript Blues

07 Monday Sep 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

chapbook, Chuck Wendig, goals, poetry

This morning, it’s the kind of feeling you get when you look at the garden you tried to grow and see that it’s quite a mess. I mean, it was half-hearted, really. You meant well, but you didn’t give it everything a garden needs to really look like something that was destined for the cover of Lawn & Garden. But is that what you really wanted? To be on the cover? Or did you just want to spend some time outdoors, away from a computer screen or beneath fluorescent lights, hands covered in earth instead of axle grease? What was the thinking behind tearing open a spot of land on the side of the house that sees a lot of sunlight, making rows and dropping in seeds? What were you thinking when you watched for shoots to rise from the earth, hoping to see tender green, when all that arrived was breathless, pale strangers?  You brought water and weeded intermittently, as you were rather preoccupied. (At least, not as preoccupied as last year, but that’s a tale meant for some other garden.)  So here you are with an ugly tomato and a green pepper that would certainly be finalists for Ugliest Vegetables of the Year.   You wash the dirt off the tomato, sprinkle on a little salt, and take a bite of pulpy seeds and firm skin. The land yielded a veggie good enough for you, but not enough to share with anyone else. Was it worth the effort? Does the land speak to you loudly enough to encourage you to try again?  Will garden and gardener establish a bond and create (a poem) good enough to share?

This morning, it’s how I feel about what my writing life looks like thus far. I look at the pretty box labeled “Poetry” and know deep down I’ve got no business compiling it and sending it off for review.  I feel like a woman at the starting line, waiting for the submission deadline gun to go off knowing I am surrounded by real runners whose heels I am going to study all the way to the finish line, and once I get there I’m going to be drop dead on the line, calling out for my inhaler and a beer, saying “Tell me again why I got into this thing?”

I ask myself, can I create, magically spin a pile of poems that resemble art in time for the deadline? Can a writer “art harder” and win?  How dare I even think about opening that earth and dropping in a seed, or stand on the starting line? I’m going to dare because nothing will grow otherwise.  Wish me luck.  Wish me Truth. Wish me Authenticity. Wish me Art, muthas!  

Notes on the Writing Day (so far)

19 Wednesday Aug 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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amwriting, inspiration, poetry, progress

I think I slept for three hours. Got up, did some “stuff” and then got down to some writing.  There are 150 other things I could and should be doing around this house, but I opted to plant my ass and type. Something. Anything! I did not write in my personal journal this morning, that came later, actually.

What I discovered today is this:  I don’t have to write it all at once. The story (or poem) doesn’t have to make sense on the first take. I can write small words and replace them with a better, more descriptive noun or adjective LATER. I wrote three pages (stopped in the middle to get some thoughts out of the way) and then returned to the blinking cursor.  This is what writing should feel like, and it feels better knowing it will be there when I get back.   I can’t write a good, interesting, read-worthy piece in one sitting.  I can’t stay up all night and pretend the midnight oil (and beer) will somehow light the way. It surely doesn’t. A happy, rested body and mind finds the right words to read for inspiration and then compose. I am learning to trust that I will come back and not leave ragged bits to flag in the wind.

Another thing I discovered is that there are very few poems coming to my Inbox by way of Poetry.org  that resemble romantic love poetry.  You can’t write “good” until you’ve seen “good.”  I compare them to some of the stuff I’ve written these last few years I think “Oh god, really? Where have I been?”  I’m seeing it every day, plastering pieces of it upon myself to carry around with me through the work day, and it’s sticking.

But the time marches by.  The kitchen is trashed but at least the laundry is washed (but not folded yet.)  Time to put away the words for now.  I won’t feel so distracted by them while running around slinging auto parts because I know they will be there when I get back. It seems I’ve learned how to keep covenant with the promise of words.

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