The nineties were fun, I'm sure, the grunge was a nice touch. I grew up in the nineties after all... However when I decided to read up on some of the poetry from that decade, I came up short. Not as in there was none to be found, (there was an abundance clamouring for my attention) literally as in one-word stanzas and a complete disregard for rhyme and meter.
Yes, I get it.. you are all free spirits, non-conformists without answer to anyone... but then why the heck do you all write in the same, dry, unimaginative monotone, I ask?
Now, admittedly I'm a free-verse poet myself, but I've just one point to make here, poets of the nineties..
Writing it
in
short
lines won't
make
it
poetry, darnit.
To critique the poetry of my childhood decade... what IS this shit?
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Monday, January 18, 2010
Trains.
Just a short story I wrote on holiday... enjoy!
-
Trains.
I have to change trains here, at this station, one country train to another. I wrap my palms around the cardboard cup and sip my coffee; it is warm and familiar and settles easily into my stomach. I quietly ask myself again why I am going back there, to all the things I wish I could forget.
The people jostled, the pressing bodies struggling against each other for seats. I am calmly pushed toward a window seat on the last carriage. I do not mind. Within seconds the train has clackered and shifted forward, shrugging its way to my destination, and further again.
I pick at the acidic-smelling fabric of my seat and stare at my shoes. The floor is dusty. It smells dusty.
The rain pattered on the window in a hollow sort of way, as if trying to tell me that we were in this together, it and I, that somehow, the rain was lost too. I found myself inclined to believe it; in the same way a person can hear without listening, look without seeing.
For the thousandth time I wondered where you are now, my little Jericho… Do you remember when you were little? I would take you on the trains all the time
Are we going to the place with the yellow windows?
You’d ask me, smiling. You smiled so much back then, your lips stretching like great pink gashes of mirth from one proud cheekbone to the other. Your face was made to smile…
I must have blinked, to find the country sifting past my window had transitioned into dense city-central without my notice. I glance at my watch, half an hour is missing: of course I had fallen asleep; there was nothing else to do.
I focus my attention an the window again, my eyes pour into the cityscape, beneath it’s glassy façade, thinking about construction and composition, of great iron girders and the smooth, drum-tight skin around your eyes when you were angry. Jericho, Jericho, Jericho, Jericho… your name was so bitter in my mouth… though it only made your eyes so shockingly sweeter.
Before long I am so absorbed in this daydream that I do not notice the train stop at some quickly forgotten station.
I am not looking as the doors hiss-clatter-hiss open, giving a tiny window to a cluttered, sunlit little platform, quaint and endearing in its namelessness.
People file on, and people file off the train, though more the latter; I hear her shuffle her feet as she takes her seat, two down, across, and facing me.
I have not looked at her yet, but she is rustling around in her satchel, I can hear the mild protests of leather and canvas and ragged fingernails clicking against each other. The doors shut with another hiss-clatter-hiss and a suction of air puckers through our cabin, it is neither warm nor cold. People shift, and the brushes of air bring their vague, muddled scents to me, leaning against my window.
She smells of flowers and piss.
Just like you.
It startles me, so I finally look at her. She is sitting with her tongue between her teeth, her thumb tracing circles on her iPod as she chooses a song; though her earphones are not in, hanging superfluously from the zipper of her pale blue hoody. A half-eaten lollipop nestles awkwardly between her fingers, and I wonder why I hadn’t smelled it, but really could not care less.
I want to tell her about you, my little Jericho, I ache to tell her how we found that dead fox in the blackberry patch that summer; how we carried it all the way home to show Grandpa there was another fox den nearby; even though the stiff, weeping corpse reeked like nothing else on earth.
In my mind, I imagine a whole conversation with her; she reminds me so much of you, Jericho, and that’s what we talk about, mostly; she says things like how she would’ve liked to meet you, ect.
And the conversation would go on, back and forth, until she asks me where I am going today; and it will stick in my throat like a mouthful of lead and mercury, until I can finally whisper,
I am going to the place with the yellow windows.
-
(for a sketch of Jericho, click Here)
-
Trains.
I have to change trains here, at this station, one country train to another. I wrap my palms around the cardboard cup and sip my coffee; it is warm and familiar and settles easily into my stomach. I quietly ask myself again why I am going back there, to all the things I wish I could forget.
The people jostled, the pressing bodies struggling against each other for seats. I am calmly pushed toward a window seat on the last carriage. I do not mind. Within seconds the train has clackered and shifted forward, shrugging its way to my destination, and further again.
I pick at the acidic-smelling fabric of my seat and stare at my shoes. The floor is dusty. It smells dusty.
The rain pattered on the window in a hollow sort of way, as if trying to tell me that we were in this together, it and I, that somehow, the rain was lost too. I found myself inclined to believe it; in the same way a person can hear without listening, look without seeing.
For the thousandth time I wondered where you are now, my little Jericho… Do you remember when you were little? I would take you on the trains all the time
Are we going to the place with the yellow windows?
You’d ask me, smiling. You smiled so much back then, your lips stretching like great pink gashes of mirth from one proud cheekbone to the other. Your face was made to smile…
I must have blinked, to find the country sifting past my window had transitioned into dense city-central without my notice. I glance at my watch, half an hour is missing: of course I had fallen asleep; there was nothing else to do.
I focus my attention an the window again, my eyes pour into the cityscape, beneath it’s glassy façade, thinking about construction and composition, of great iron girders and the smooth, drum-tight skin around your eyes when you were angry. Jericho, Jericho, Jericho, Jericho… your name was so bitter in my mouth… though it only made your eyes so shockingly sweeter.
Before long I am so absorbed in this daydream that I do not notice the train stop at some quickly forgotten station.
I am not looking as the doors hiss-clatter-hiss open, giving a tiny window to a cluttered, sunlit little platform, quaint and endearing in its namelessness.
People file on, and people file off the train, though more the latter; I hear her shuffle her feet as she takes her seat, two down, across, and facing me.
I have not looked at her yet, but she is rustling around in her satchel, I can hear the mild protests of leather and canvas and ragged fingernails clicking against each other. The doors shut with another hiss-clatter-hiss and a suction of air puckers through our cabin, it is neither warm nor cold. People shift, and the brushes of air bring their vague, muddled scents to me, leaning against my window.
She smells of flowers and piss.
Just like you.
It startles me, so I finally look at her. She is sitting with her tongue between her teeth, her thumb tracing circles on her iPod as she chooses a song; though her earphones are not in, hanging superfluously from the zipper of her pale blue hoody. A half-eaten lollipop nestles awkwardly between her fingers, and I wonder why I hadn’t smelled it, but really could not care less.
I want to tell her about you, my little Jericho, I ache to tell her how we found that dead fox in the blackberry patch that summer; how we carried it all the way home to show Grandpa there was another fox den nearby; even though the stiff, weeping corpse reeked like nothing else on earth.
In my mind, I imagine a whole conversation with her; she reminds me so much of you, Jericho, and that’s what we talk about, mostly; she says things like how she would’ve liked to meet you, ect.
And the conversation would go on, back and forth, until she asks me where I am going today; and it will stick in my throat like a mouthful of lead and mercury, until I can finally whisper,
I am going to the place with the yellow windows.
-
(for a sketch of Jericho, click Here)
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Character Development...
The Diera (Dee-air-rah) Files..
I've been working on a fantasy character, Diera, for over four years now... she's been a hard nut to crack, but like with most complicated characters, I've often found sketching her works.
When you have a drawing of a character, you can imagine better how their face would change with emotion: does thier face contort or squinch-up when they're angry? would they narrow their eyes or raise an eyebrow to convey suspicion? Are they an honest person, or do they wear a mask??!
I know they say "don't judge a book by it's cover" but it's scary just how much more of your character's personality you can flesh out by simply considering their profile....
Unfortunately, I have long lost my origional (first EVER) sketch of Diera from 3 years ago, in which she is 14 years old... In this origional drawing, Diera had brown-tinted skin, green eyes, and long hair.
Compare this discription to a drawing of her from the start of this year when, in a flash of inspiration, I saw her picking apples with her childhood friend Ayomi. I took this profile of Diera as a child, and composed this sketch, in which she is 9:
(sometimes I like to imagine Ayomi sitting under the tree quietly sketching this, while Diera darted around after the fruit-birds)
Her eyes are still green, at this point in the development of her character, but it was from this image I moved away from the solemn, serious Diera with the darker skin, pointed chin and a narrow face to a more wild, adventure-seeking character; in this version, she has a much wider face and higher forehead, which was a gigantic step on the way to the Diera I work with today.
Below is my most recent Diera sketch, which unlike the previous ones is set DURING the major events of the story (at 17 years of age), rather than before:
I drew alot of this from the previous chlid-drawing, trying to find what definition her face would gain over 7-and-a-half years, and came up with a stronger jaw and brow-ridge, for the determination she has gained over those years..
In homage to her mother (whose identity i will keep as my big secret!) she now has fiery golden eyes:
>>
At first I thought her eyes might change with the onset of puberty, but then decided that was a silly notion, and that for her to be born with the golden eyes of an eagle would mark her as the wild, spirited creature she would always be... and what better basis for a prophecy (or doom!) than a child with eyes like that?!
.
This is the Diera I currently work with. A full, true character... nowadays I greet her like an old friend- though the miles she has to run, I'm afraid, are only beggining!
.
.
All for now then,
This is little miss scribble, signing off!
-
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Satirical, Lyrical, Dilemma Debateable...
...I wish you'd share with me the rhythm,
that shocking prose held so tightly in your fist...
This post will be the normal ramblings, occasionally interrupted by bits of lyric from a song I'm not sure I'm writing. it's easier to write them down, this way I get feedback (occasionally), and because then I can analyse all the
...cadences of speech,
I liked you, you didn't chatter like the rest...
I tend to get too caught up in the melody, or finding chords or baselines and such, when I'm writing a song, I love words, second nature as they are, and it really bugs me when I end up sacrificing the poetry for the rhythm because I wasn't paying enough
...attention to detail,
you held me back, made me watch,
and I saw that to all the rest the bigger picture was lost...
So I get to the point where I just lay aside the trusty guitar to do some serious poetry, a dilemma in itself because eventually, (you guessed 'er chester!) you have to go running back to the guitar to check the syllables in this line or that line, it can be really
...frustration,
a truth you never spared;
a lie breaks something, a truth makes something,
that's what made you more beautiful than all the rest....
...but I liked you,
even though you told them all where they could stick it,
you taught me how to think
for myself,
and nobody else but you could've tripped all the tricks and...
Yes, it's confusing and a little weird, but hey, whatever works I suppose.. each to their own and all that jazz.
May you all find your literary niche in whatever peculiar, kooky way works for you.
(Oh, and Madeline and the Giant Ferret of Love was an epic fail, by the way... fun though, and that's what counts!)
If you all promise to be good, if these lyrics go anywhere I'll post the proper song at a later date, (perhaps even a recording, depending on what we're doing in VET Music this term and whether I'll have access to the equiptment or not)
Free Hugs For Every-One!
smiles, Leah Mae :)
that shocking prose held so tightly in your fist...
This post will be the normal ramblings, occasionally interrupted by bits of lyric from a song I'm not sure I'm writing. it's easier to write them down, this way I get feedback (occasionally), and because then I can analyse all the
...cadences of speech,
I liked you, you didn't chatter like the rest...
I tend to get too caught up in the melody, or finding chords or baselines and such, when I'm writing a song, I love words, second nature as they are, and it really bugs me when I end up sacrificing the poetry for the rhythm because I wasn't paying enough
...attention to detail,
you held me back, made me watch,
and I saw that to all the rest the bigger picture was lost...
So I get to the point where I just lay aside the trusty guitar to do some serious poetry, a dilemma in itself because eventually, (you guessed 'er chester!) you have to go running back to the guitar to check the syllables in this line or that line, it can be really
...frustration,
a truth you never spared;
a lie breaks something, a truth makes something,
that's what made you more beautiful than all the rest....
...but I liked you,
even though you told them all where they could stick it,
you taught me how to think
for myself,
and nobody else but you could've tripped all the tricks and...
Yes, it's confusing and a little weird, but hey, whatever works I suppose.. each to their own and all that jazz.
May you all find your literary niche in whatever peculiar, kooky way works for you.
(Oh, and Madeline and the Giant Ferret of Love was an epic fail, by the way... fun though, and that's what counts!)
If you all promise to be good, if these lyrics go anywhere I'll post the proper song at a later date, (perhaps even a recording, depending on what we're doing in VET Music this term and whether I'll have access to the equiptment or not)
Free Hugs For Every-One!
smiles, Leah Mae :)
Monday, October 5, 2009
Eating Nouns, Shitting Adjectives.
In keeping with it's peculiar trend of messing with my sleeping patterns, Inspiration struck at goddess-knows-what AM, and as a result I'm currently in the middle of a short story entitled "Madeline & the Giant Ferret of Love", it will most likely be too long to post, as it's a good page-and-a-half already, and while has all the earmarks of a short story, I can't for the life of me think of an ending.
Picture this:
You fall asleep under your desk and awake to find your apartment has morphed into a cave of sorts, after you've suitably calmed down from the resulting freak-out, you are greeted by a giant ferret with messy fur the colour of "a newborn dipped in onion-soup".
It introduces itself as "the Giant Ferret of Love" and proceeds to mistake your name for "Mad-Ellen"
.....So what now? I was coasting on inspiration and hit a brick wall... WHAMM!
I have my setting, characters (will probably end up with more later), setting... But I don't have an event... though a visit from a giant ferret could arguably be an event in itself, I can't have my characters sit around twiddling their thumbs and playing monopoly for another two pages.
Drat it, they'll have to get up off their behinds and DO something, we make our characters earn their existance, no doubt about that, but thinking up their list of chores is quite nearly as taxing as doing the chores themselves...
Gah, inspiration is so volatile!
It gobbles down your nouns and verbs, and tommorow you dissapointedly flush the adjectives down with a yellow wash of oxymorons, if you're not careful. too much of good inspiration is turned into tripe by lazy people who can't be bothered putting in the hard yards to make it something.
Thats the answer, in the end. hard work.
Put work into your words, even if they don't flow easily, and the story you get is the story you earned.
It'll be tea with Madeline for me in any case,
Let you know how it turns out, if its an epic fail... well, you'll probably find out anyway,
a-rollin' up the sleeves,
Leah Mae. :)
Picture this:
You fall asleep under your desk and awake to find your apartment has morphed into a cave of sorts, after you've suitably calmed down from the resulting freak-out, you are greeted by a giant ferret with messy fur the colour of "a newborn dipped in onion-soup".
It introduces itself as "the Giant Ferret of Love" and proceeds to mistake your name for "Mad-Ellen"
.....So what now? I was coasting on inspiration and hit a brick wall... WHAMM!
I have my setting, characters (will probably end up with more later), setting... But I don't have an event... though a visit from a giant ferret could arguably be an event in itself, I can't have my characters sit around twiddling their thumbs and playing monopoly for another two pages.
Drat it, they'll have to get up off their behinds and DO something, we make our characters earn their existance, no doubt about that, but thinking up their list of chores is quite nearly as taxing as doing the chores themselves...
Gah, inspiration is so volatile!
It gobbles down your nouns and verbs, and tommorow you dissapointedly flush the adjectives down with a yellow wash of oxymorons, if you're not careful. too much of good inspiration is turned into tripe by lazy people who can't be bothered putting in the hard yards to make it something.
Thats the answer, in the end. hard work.
Put work into your words, even if they don't flow easily, and the story you get is the story you earned.
It'll be tea with Madeline for me in any case,
Let you know how it turns out, if its an epic fail... well, you'll probably find out anyway,
a-rollin' up the sleeves,
Leah Mae. :)
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