I have a post of not too long ago, where I spoke of knowing nothing and yet putting something on paper:
- To crap out whatever comes out, even if I have to strain. That’s quite fitting for a general description of constipation I suppose. We are not speaking of it, but it may have some relation to what I next, may speak.
- To push whatever comes out, even if I have to strain. That’s quite fitting for a general description of childbirth I suppose. We are not speaking of it, but it may have some relation to what I next, may speak.
Neither of these phrases was implied in that post. I simply spoke of typing and hoping that something makes sense. I began to rant about murder, trying to find what the similarity to it and writing was. But then proceeded to make fun of the entire situation. It was much ado about nothing and a joy to write so, I left it there.
The above phrases, will be mentioned here which brings me to my second post. My admittance of a lack of discipline. Some truths about myself in the second post. I can write here that it makes me a tad bit uncomfortable, but I don’t think it should be deleted. What was said, has been said for effect. It doesn’t matter what I write, just write to improve I was told. I still have difficulty with this advice since there are days when there are no words whatsoever, so there are no avenues of writing. That all adds up and culminates to a ” many tabs open and I want to stop and come off this one and go to that one, but something is telling me that if I don’t stay and write right now, I’ll regret it” situation. That leads to many papers of words, with no means to an end. That doesn’t mean that there is no use in trying if there is no motivation, it means that you shouldn’t push yourself too hard, or beat yourself up when you can’t write. When you can’t write, read, and maybe correct. Now we go to the discussion of these two phrases that are highlighted in the beginning of this post.
The first one- as it relates to crap and constipation. You try your hardest to get rid of it, but in the end, it amounts to something that goes down the drain. I have a friend that is extremely proud of crapping, and on command, but I’ve never heard them speak proudly of the crap itself. Looking at their experience, and them being so proud of their body, relating it to writing, corresponds to when you finish something that you feel is going nowhere. You breathe a sigh of relief because it’s gone. You have completed the task and what troubled you previously, troubles you no longer. It’s not stuck inside anymore, tormenting you to get it out. It hurts, as trying to crap sometimes does with constipation, but you want it gone because it’s better not there. There was a poem I had written about a suffering woman. I don’t like this poem, but I remember spending time on it:
Bearing a Burden
She walks
and walks.
She has a burden
but still walks.
She walks through snow and wind and hail.
May the sun be hot as ever,
or the rain wet her until her insides
are soaked.
She keeps on walking.
May her tiredness get the best of her
or her suffering become her downfall.
She walks with that burden.
She is walking to a destination.
And when she reaches that destination
death falls upon her.
Her whole journey was a struggle
her walk to reach her destination.
She walked to death.
With her burden.
She was on a journey.
Death was her burden.
Death was her destination.
Her whole journey was
Death.
If we look past the redundancy, there is the mentioning of snow, wind and hail but they are not even described, while the sun and rain are. Death, to me at least, is not suffering, death is an ending. It cannot be a burden, a journey and a destination for the sake of this poem. Death was a struggle to reach to death with her burden of death. I spoke of a burden, but ended up speaking about a journey and the aim was not misdirection. It. Tries. Too. Hard. To be edgy.
We also have a tribute to an almost hurricane, that people feared would cause great destruction but did not.
A Tribute to Dean
You’re destroying the place.
While everyone is just there ignoring you.
Not even knowing how serious you are.
But not everyone, some people actually
took you seriously.
But that doesn’t mean that people like you.
After all, you are an abusive thing.
People say Ivan was nicer than you.
But you know don’t you?
I can tell.
Because you know.
I know.
You’re a notorious thing.
You’re not nice Dean.
But to me you did more cleaning.
Than destroying.
People from different sides coming
together, no war, just peace.
Ha!
You know, I know, we both know. I can tell that you know. The sarcasm is very obvious and discomforting. The line “no war, just peace.” seems off and very childlike(in retrospect I was a child). It ends with a “Ha!”. It ends…with a ha.
“The Room” by Tommy Wiseau and Itzy’s meh comeback “Dalla”. Just thought I’d give more examples. Both were hard work and effort was made for both. I say “A” for it.
The second one- as it relates to childbirth and wanting to start a family. It is painful. It hurts you so immensely and depending on what you may choose, it can either hurt a lot, or hurt a little less. I hope I’ve emphasized how painful it is. At the end though, when you see that young child. Your child, in your hand. You can’t help but feel amazed. You have brought life into the world. Yes, the cravings, the stomach aches, the nausea, the doubt are all there, but it’s all worth it, to see that amazing being in your hand. I’ve been told, it’s wonderful. It hurts as hell, but it’s wonderful. Children are little balls of chaos but the rewards are wonderful. “It has its joys” say the smiling mothers I speak to. They really do have a genuine smile when I look at them, they also speak with joy about the cuteness, kindness, or intelligence that is their child. As compared to writing, there is uncertainty and fear. There is pain and there are times you have to be patient. You have to push through so that you can make your work something you are proud of. I had fear when I wrote this poem of a woman in my neighbourhood. She always had a limp when she walked and she inspired me for some reason, even though time and again, I asked her if she would just sit down. She always gave this pained and yet gentle smile. I wondered if I was using her for my own benefit, if it was ethical especially since she’d never know. I wondered how to write so that I don’t under or over sell her:
Hobble
Singing praises
as she hobbles.
To the Lord
and she hobbles.
The words go past me
as I find myself not listening to them.
I just look at her
while she hobbles
and my glance turns to stares,
watching her hobble,
but always questioning
“Old lady, why walk when you’re in pain?”
I’ve asked her countless times
when she stops hobbling
and stops when she’s tired,
from all her hobbling.
She says with pain
“I’m walking out the pain dear.”
“Arthritis in my foot,”
But why hobble?”
“But I need to stretch out my muscles”
And that’s why you hobble?
Her words make me see
she’s not some old thing thrown aside
The more I see
as she hobbles,
the more I hear
about why she hobbles,
the more respect I have
as I realize that I can always see her smile
She hobbles past
I say hi and wave.
She responds in kind.
There goes a strong woman.
I like it because I was able to repeat for effect. I was inspired by someone. At that time, I was determined not to let anyone inspire me. People were not my muses, but she was. Imagine my fear when I realized that she was.
The next poem is just about a topic of smaller significance, not a hurricane, but rain. It’s better, a lot better.
Rain Circus
The rain will fall,
the rain will tear,
in diagonal streaks.
And at that time,
in my perception,
everlastingly.
The lightning strikes,
the thunder rolls,
the green and brown will fade..
Ever so slightly underneath
a heavy layer of grey.
A memory from childhood as
the thunder roars and shouts
To remind the little me
“The circus is in town.”
The thunder, was the footsteps
as the elephants came.
And vivid imaginations
created by rain.
The lightning that is always bright,
it always seemed to find
the other circus animals,
that hid, as they were shy.
The tall giraffes, monkeys there too,
the lions in their cage,
I never heard the lions roar-
I thought it lack of rage.
Or maybe they had learned to synchronize with elephants.
A roar for each big footstep made
every elephant prance.
Was for the most a quiet circus,
with animals quite tall.
With monkeys as the most minute,
about three stories small.
And children’s minds
you’ll realize will change with every weather.
The sun their friend,
the hail a drum,
and snow a falling feathers.
The autumn leaves would paint the ground
with orange, green and yellow.
But every night, at every season,
the moon-a lovey fellow,
would tell the earth’s children “goodnight”
while he releases silver.
The man who lives inside the moon,
is joining us in slumber.
He may be him, or may be not,
the sandman with his sand,
assuring that all of us drop off
to sleepy land.
Give special mention to the man that runs beside our car.
He runs on wires, just to catch up
so we will not be far.
For we will always have the bet
to see which one of us will win,
but in the end, never find out
if were me or him.
I think on the past as I write in the night
and I luxuriate:
the sandman bringing sleep,
the moon bringing silver
and the circus made of rain.
It starts off speaking about rain, it ends with speaking about rain, it compares rain to the thoughts of childhood. It’s kind of easy to see where I am at the end of the poem. If you can’t, then, it’s raining, and it’s not daytime.
While I’m not saying I have created works of art, I like these, much better than my previous work.
Things I think must have taken a lot of work that are beautiful; there are many, but, Titanic by James Cameron was production hell, and it made me cry because of its beauty. There is a brooch belonging to my mother and it is absolutely beautiful. It’s an array of stones of a rainbow of colours. Even the design of of the brooch, looking like a basket of flowers; the gems being said flowers, looks like it took a while to perfect.
Now about words; I like them. I need to improve in how I use them. I will. I like using them to create a thought so….I will continue. I have to continue. I feel as if I’m some weaver of words…a blacksmith if you will, and each word given is the hottest iron, ready to be hit with extreme force. I do not have a heavy swing. With swinging practice and toning however, I may be able to strengthen it. To be honest, I like the swing I have right now as well, light as it. After all, I think I’ve improved my swing from the past. And words are still going to be used. I just need not to shirk, and keep swinging. May I be a better blacksmith. I’ll break the alliteration, by pointing out, alliteration. There are no fitting words tthat I know of, starting with b, to replace alliteration.
Veronique Lane 