#Writerslife #Haiku Inspiration #amwriting

I took this picture and wrote the following haiku, a few minutes ago, this evening, when I looked up from my desk, as I was enthusiastically writing the last chapters of the first draft of my fourth novel.

Inspiration

Subtle and intense.

My heart quivers, my head whirls.  

That fleeting moment…

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There are times, special moments, when words flow more easily.

It’s hard to know why, I wish I did, so that I could clear my schedule and prepare for the onslaught of overwhelming inspiration.

Sometimes I blame the full moon, the waning moon, the new moon, the blue moon or the harvest moon!

Other times I blame clear blue heavens, breathtaking sunsets, amazing dawns, stormy grey skies, or pearly white clouds.

Who knows?

What I do know is that when I feel the ideas rushing to my mind and the words flowing from my pen or fingers, it’s such a unique feeling that I wish I were there all the time.

Such is the delirious moment of creation, of course it must end, or else I’d never edit, rewrite or improve, or publish my work!

Happy weekend! I’ll be writing away…

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(Almost) #WordlessWednesday ‘Autumn Sky’ #Tanka

Autumn Sky 

Hear the sun-tinged shapes.

See the youthful spirits sigh,

Feel the colours shine,

Breathe in the cool autumn air.

Our task is to greet the dusk.

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This was tanka poem written in response to the five word prompts for The Secret Keepers Weekly Writing Challenge #108.

This week’s five words are roleshapequietspirit and youth. Join in and/or read the other entries. Synonym substitution is allowed, so I substituted ‘role’ for ‘task’.

#Writephoto ‘Feast on the Sunset’ Thursday Photo Prompt #amwriting #Poem

This poem was written in response to Sue Vincent’s weekly Thursday Photo Prompt. Check out Sue’s wonderful blog for more information. 

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Feast on the Sunset

Sip the joy,

Swallow the pain,

Savour the love,

Slowly drink the sun,

Smell the bliss,

Feast on your life.

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Sink into the beauty,

Sail through the sorrow,

Search in the sky,

Spray with the sea,

Stay still in your soul,

Feast on yourself.

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Sprint through the struggle,

Soar through the storm,

Slide like a swan,

Swing to the stars,

Sing your survival,

Feast on your story.

*

Stroke the sky,

Sprinkled with sunrise,

Sway with the scars,

Search for silence,

Start your script and

Feast on the sunset.

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#AtoZChallenge ‘Y’ #NationalPoetryMonth ‘Burning Oak’ by Joyce Carol Oates #amwriting #poem #NaPoWriMo

This year to celebrate National Poetry Month and to take part in the April A-Z Blogging Challenge, I’ll be posting two poems a day, one written by me and another poem written by one of my favourite poets. The title or first word of the  poem, or the author’s name will begin with the corresponding letter in the Blogging Challenge.

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Today I offer you Burning Oak by Joyce Carol Oates, which starts and finishes with the word ‘Yesterday‘ and Unhappy Trees by Luccia Gray.

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Burning Oak by Joyce Carol Oates

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Yesterday, the sky in mute

horizontal swaths, air

almost too thick to breathe.

we found the stump of an old oak, man-

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sized, burning without flame

at the edge of a clearning __ splintered wood

raw, bulldozed roots exposed__

even the black ants fled

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in the stink of old grief

made pubic and final, old hopes exposed __

past tense! __ now headless leafless a stump

knocked half out of the earth

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and the soul just blue smoke vague

and slow-spreading rising without grace

into an indifferent sky no one will paint,

or photograph, or see__

except us: yesterday.

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This poem is about disintegration and regret. The narrator describes the death of a tree, which has become a stump. The oak tree is splintered, bulldozed, roots exposed, leafless, and nobody cares, because no one will paint it, photograph it, or even see it, except the narrator and another person, ‘us’, which leads the reader to believe the real subject of the poem is the end of a relationship, viewed some time after the event. More about Joyce Carol Oates here. 

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Oates’ poem reminded me of a photograph I took a few days ago of a tree, which had been run over, so I decided to write a poem about this fallen tree, or perhaps it’s about something completely different…

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Unhappy Trees

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A drunk driver

On his way home

One dark night, hit  

The gloomy tree.

It had wished for

A better place

To grow its roots.

It had longed to

Be surrounded

By earth and grass.

It’s too late now.

They’ll use what’s left

to light camp fires

And tell chilling

Stories about

why drunk drivers

Should beware of

unhappy trees,

Made to grow by

ugly roadsides,

Surrounded by

cement, on their

way home at night.

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#AtoZChallenge ‘W’ #NationalPoetryMonth ‘Wild Nights’ by Emily Dickinson #amwriting #poem #NaPoWriMo

This year to celebrate National Poetry Month and to take part in the April A-Z Blogging Challenge, I’ll be posting two poems a day, one written by me and another poem written by one of my favourite poets. The title or first word of the  poem, or the author’s name will begin with the corresponding letter in the Blogging Challenge.

Today I offer you Wild Nights by Emily Dickinson and Wild Nights by Luccia Gray.

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Wild Nights by Emily Dickinson

 

Wild nights! Wild nights! 
Were I with thee, 
Wild nights should be 
Our luxury!

Futile the winds 
To a heart in port, 
Done with the compass, 
Done with the chart.

Rowing in Eden! 
Ah! the sea! 
Might I but moor 
To-night in thee!

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This short and intense, love poem by Emily Dickinson never ceases to astound me. The fact that a solitary and introvert recluse, who may have suffered agoraphobia, wrote such a passionate poem is amazing. Although the poem is allegorical, it is clearly about the poet’s yearning to meet, ‘were I with thee’, and make love ‘wild nights’ with ‘thee’, the person she has given her heart to. She compares meeting this person to ‘rowing in Eden’, and longs to ‘moor tonight in thee’. The experience is never accomplished and remains in the realm of her dreams, which is why she describes ‘wild nights’. Presumably, her desires were never fulfilled, so the contained and repressed sexuality is even more powerful in its tragedy.

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Emily Dickinson is a fascinating and enigmatic poet, read more about her here. From the age of thirty, Emily always wore white, and she was buried in a white casket, wearing a white dress. I was fortunate enough to visit Emily Dickinson’s Homestead some years ago. Her white house dress, exhibited on the top floor landing, just outside her bedroom, is one of the highlights of the museum. The dress impressed me at the time and inspired me to write this poem, which is a reflection on her unfulfilled desires, making use of the imagery in her poem, Wild Nights.

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Wild Nights! By Luccia Gray (After Emily Dickinson)

Wild nights! she cried, 

A tiny, frail figure,

Yearning for love.

Futile winds,

Rocked her boat,

Rowing to Eden,

Dressed in white.

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Wild nights, she cried

As she swayed in the sea,

Neither compass nor chart

Led the way.

Still she craved

Her Nirvana,

Dressed in white.

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Wild nights, she cried,

Her heart reaching its port,

Where she moored at last.

Finally resting,

In her casket,

Far from the sea,

Dressed in white.

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#AtoZChallenge ‘V’ #NationalPoetryMonth ‘Edward Hopper Study: Hotel Room’ by Victoria Chang #amwriting #poem

This year to celebrate National Poetry Month and to take part in the April A-Z Blogging Challenge, I’ll be posting two poems a day, one written by me and another poem written by one of my favourite poets. The title or first word of the  poem, or the author’s name will begin with the corresponding letter in the Blogging Challenge.

Edward Hopper Study: Hotel Room by Victoria Chang

While the man is away

telling his wife

about the red-corseted woman,

the woman waits

on the queen-sized bed.

You’d expect her quiet

in the fist of a copper

statue. Half her face,

a shade of golden meringue,

the other half, the dark

of cattails. Her mouth even—

too straight, as if she doubted

her made decision, the way

women do. In her hands,

a yellow letter creased,

like her hunched back.

Her dress limp on a green chair.

In front, a man’s satchel

and briefcase. On a dresser,

a hat with a ceylon

feather. That is all

the artist left us with,

knowing we would turn

the woman’s stone into ours,

a thirst for the self

in everything—even

in the sweet chinks

of mandarin.

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Most poets are influenced by what they see, and especially by other art forms. I think this poem by Victoria Chang captures the moment Hopper froze in his painting and reminds us that the artist wanted the viewer to ‘turn the woman’s stone into ours.’ The poet interprets the picture is about a search for the self.  More about VICTORIA CHANG.

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My interpretation of the picture is more of a sense of a loss of self, of being trapped in nothingness. The girl has no way out. She can’t make sense of the world around her. She’s depressed, desperate, alone and trapped…

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Trapped by Luccia Gray (after Edward Hopper’s Hotel Room)

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Bags dropped,

Hat off,

Dress neatly folded.

Shoulders hunched,

Naked,

Faceless,

Reading

Your wordless letter.

‘To whom it may concern,’

She replied,

‘No way out.’

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