Creative Writing: Sailing and Love

I'm posting this a few days early because I'm heading out on vacation.... Here's a sailing poem I wrote last year, to celebrate the wedding we got to witness on board the Victory Chimes.

Joining

by Nancy Rae Kienzler

I watched two boats
sail their separate courses,
and thought how sad
that these two beautiful things --
so similar
and following parallel paths --
should nonetheless be disjoined
by all that sea between them.

Like clouds overhead,
blown across the same space by the same wind,
but separated by a slice of sky.

But then sometimes the wind
will catch one cloud a little more than the other,
and blow the two together,
and sometimes,
when you watch the sailboats in the distance,
you'll see their paths cross,
their bows kiss,
their sails intermingle.

And you realize that
neither sea,
nor sky,
nor any space between,
can keep two --
who are meant to be one --
from joining.

(This poem is protected by copyright. Please do not use without permission.)

Have a great week everyone!

Creative Writing: Parchment

Hello!

It's been over 3 months since I've written anything of my own, but tonight it just felt possible. I went over to one of my favorite Magnetic Poetry sites for inspiration, and these words got me started -- cloud, strike, crash, tingling, waiting, happen -- even though I only used a few of them.

Here is the result, not quite perfected, fresh off the press as it were:

Parchment

by Nancy Rae Kienzler

It was our longest, our greatest, our finest drought,
The time we dried like raisins, like sawdust, like parchment.
Experienced as we were, knowing it would end,
As droughts always do, we waited patient and still.

And yet, nerves tingled. Senses heightened.
Do you smell electricity? Are those cirrus or cumulous?
Are the leaves up? Are the cows lying down?
Even the animals were restless then, pacing and sighing.

One night we heard the crackle across the bone-dry hills.
We sat on the porch and looked Southward,
Then wrapped around the side to look Westward.
It was beautiful, and so brilliant, but no more. Not a drop.

I don’t remember the fall or feel of that first raindrop,
Nor the first storm, momentous as it must have been.
But the weeks, and the weeks, of watching and wanting,
Waiting and withering – I hold on to those.

Creative Writing: April Verse #2

Well, I'm honoring National Poetry Month quietly after all. A mere two weeks after I wrote my first April poem, I've written my second. Thank goodness I had a little E.M. Forster to inspire me today.

Late to the Party

“Only connect!” he said, and in one inspired moment
she inventories her life, her melancholy connections,
her splintered fragmented rent-asunder day-to-day.

She lives her prose. She eats and drinks her prose.
Her prose keeps the heat on, the lights on, gas in the car,
roof over head, you know. You know.

Her passion? Her passion’s been hiding out a long time --
biding its time, as the minutes days years drop away
almost without notice, like water shaken from an umbrella
by a woman arriving late to a party.

“Only connect!” he said, and now she’s late to the party,
a little soggy and disheveled, and wondering how long she’ll have to stay.

Creative Writing: April Verse #1

April is National Poetry Month.

In honor of that, you can find poetry in all sorts of places. For instance, Knopf will email you a poem every day if you go here and sign up. Greg over at GottaBook has promised he will write a poem-a-day and share them on his blog.

Me? I make no promises. But I figure I was going to do some creative writing today anyhow, so I can at least say I've marked the day and given the (National Poetry) month a nod. We'll see how the next 29 days look when we get there.

What Kind of Fool

What kind of fool
hears birdsong in the moon,
sees tulips in the tidepools,
tastes berries in the breezes,
and feels unloved?
No spring fool.
No April Fool.

Creative Writing: Coffee I Never Tasted but Loved

I went to a coffee shop today, to try again to become a coffee drinker. I am giving myself up as a lost cause on this -- no matter what I try, I can't seem to enjoy the taste. I love coffee ice-cream, and mocha flavored food and drink. I absolutely love the scent of coffee, and would spend all day in a coffee shop if I could. But I have never taken to the flavor and the sharpness of coffee itself.

Anyhow, here is something about my love for coffee.

Coffee I Never Tasted but Loved

My memories are flavored with the pungent smells of coffee: percolated, brewed, fresh ground, Maxwell House (sometimes better); the morning necessities, the afternoon refreshments, the nighttime rituals; the common liquid which gathered family and friends together.

In Grandma’s kitchen the coffee and the memories percolated as one and produced a blend so strong it brought out tears and laughter. In restaurants, cafeterias and diners the family meals were never complete – were never left – without the coffee after.

In our home the coffee was brewed and served till well into the night, and attracted many guests like moths to aromatic flames: the teenage boys who gathered at the table Friday evenings; the neighbor playing rummy always staying for one more game.

There were years and years of coffee en-scenting the walls, the skin, the brain; creating sense memories so deeply steeped and infused and scorched on the mind like the scorching on a pot left hot too long, so strongly pressed from the best grounds ground from the best beans, the best moments, moments of the coffee kind.

Creative Writing: Labyrinth of Mind

Here is a first-draft poem I wrote this weekend. Note the phrase "first draft."

Labyrinth of Mind

Within the labyrinth of mind
There are dead ends
Places where your
thoughts refuse to take you
Or where you refuse to take your thoughts.
And then there are familiar paths
The easy
The well trodden.
But those don’t take you anywhere either
Just over and over through the same circles
Or circuits
Or circus.
The trick is breaking through
Before you break down.
These borders must not contain you.
They’re after all just the lines you drew
To map the world in earlier days.
And they were drawn in pencil after all.
And maps can be recharted after all
Must be recharted.
Do stop telling yourself the same stories.
You are boring and well trodden.

Creative Writing: From the Orchard

I decided to play with Magnetic Poetry again today. I couldn't stick to the 20-word limit, but was able to keep it pretty brief anyhow.

Arm-in-arm we walked --
orange burlap bags on our backs.
Our shadows sought the wall, and silhouetted
bodies bent like oxen with our burdens.
You leaned against the emptied crates --
your laugh saturated with orchard juice.

Creative Writing: Grandpa's Stanzas

Here's a bit of a poem I've been working on for a few months. It may turn into prose, or it may turn into nothing. For now these are just the middle stanzas of a poem in progress.

I remember how you stayed in the front room
While Grandma held court in her kitchen.
Queen Jeanne – your queen, regal in her bearing –
And you a loyal subject in the way you bore her.

I remember percolated coffee, and bourbon,
And those times you’d come to drink one or the other
And sit at the table, and listen to Grandma’s stories.
She was full of talk. You were full of listen.

I can picture you sitting to my left, in a smoke-filled kitchen.
I am tucked in between adults and like you, I am full of listen,
Willing myself to grow into the conversation.
You are gray and red and grave. We are silent.

Creative Writing: Stumble

I spent the day in New York today -- brrrrr! A friend was in from California, and we went to see Spamalot together. Much fun and a little frostbite.

Anyhow, I've been away all day and haven't thought about posting till just now. Not much to offer I'm afraid, but I'll post it anyways. This is a bit of poetry I wrote that I can't read without adding music -- I think it's meant to be a refrain to a feel-good top-40 hit. You saw it here first.

We are not gods.
We are not perfect – not at all.
We stumble through this world.
Sometimes we fall.

Creative Writing: No Words

Just something small today that has been stuck in my head this week.

No words. No words.

Farewell the magic.

I am undone at last.

This grieving, long anticipated,
Has come on fast.
And I am weighted
Down with things tragic
And absurd.

Creative Writing: A Poetry Snippet

In my notebook of random writing, I find several scenic descriptions, a few completed poems, and then a big collection of sentences, half-poems and various scribblings. For this Sunday's installment of creative writing, I offer one piece of a poem. I don't know where the rest of the poem is, because I haven't found the words to write it yet. But this little piece has been sitting around for a few years, just waiting for a home.

They grew too fast
And flashed
In fiery hue,
Then fell too soon
To see
Their season through.

Creative Writing: Fog and Stillness

The nice thing about forcing myself to put some of my own writing here each week is that it gives me a chance to edit things I'd written before. The paragraph below, for instance, said virtually the same thing yesterday, but was made up of almost entirely different words. Now I wish I had kept the "before" version to show the difference.

The fog is a familiar visitor on the Maine coast. It can move like a quick intruder, venturing in at the front window, drifting across the house and out the back, leaving the air and surfaces cool and clammy from its damp fingerprints. Other times, the fog sits, heavy and still, infusing the entire landscape with moisture and a weighty silence. In a heavy fog the world grows so quiet around you, so motionless and almost breathless, you might come to believe you're the only living creature left on Earth.

Creative Writing: Your Angel

This one is tough to write any commentary for, because of the topic. I'll say this. I was told a story about someone I knew only distantly. The story stunned me so much that I wrote the poem as a way of processing my response.

Your Angel

Was he laughing yet?
Did he have your eyes?
Did you never feel the sweet surprise
of soft skin, fine hair,
and faintly whispered lullabies?

Close the lid and close the door.
We can look on him no more.

Could we have stopped it
if we’d known what was in store?

How could you?
Why would you?
Have we so misunderstood you?
Missed the signs.
Read just the lines and not between.
And let your menace march unseen
toward innocence and frailty,
allowing for this tragedy.

You broke. He paid.
A magic number now unmade.
You broke. He bought.
Nothing is as it ought to be.

Maybe a good lobotomy
or lethal injection
would send this scourge
in the right direction.

But it’s too late to give us
the kind of protection we lack.

Your angel has left the building.
And he won’t be back.

Creative Writing: Snow at the Gazebo

I missed posting any of my own writing last week because I was away from my computer and wasn't up to the challenge of drafting something new in all the hectic pre-Christmas preparation. But this week I'll post something a little longer than usual. This is a piece of snow-bound prose I wrote a few years ago, that I spent this afternoon editing. I don't know who "she" is or what the rest of her story will be, but this scene is meant to show you a few things about her.

She walked across the park, her footsteps muffled by the thin layer of new snow. She felt almost stealthy in her silent tread. She had seen the gazebo in the distance, looking like an old postcard in its winter perfection. She wanted to watch the world from that gazebo, watch the snow and listen to the near-perfect stillness that surrounded the spot.

When she reached the gazebo, she took the first two steps with excitement. Too late, she realized the steps were metal, covered with ice and snow, and as slippery as any surface she’d encountered. She clutched at the railing as her feet slid out from under her. Barely staying upright, she half-walked, half-crawled up the last two steps to the safety of the covered gazebo. She yelled at herself for being careless as she looked around to be sure no one was watching. For a moment, her Jerry Lewis antics and resulting embarrassment broke the enchantment of the winter park, just as her curses and mutterings broke the silence. She resolved to go home to defeat. Defeat and hot chocolate.

But the next moment, she began to notice her surroundings again. And the view held her in that spot as well as any cage. Nearby, three lampposts with amber lights created a circle of light around the gazebo. In that yellowed light the falling snowflakes looked like gold dust sifting down from a treasure-filled sky. Gold falling in silence. In private. As each flake of gold settled to the ground, it turned white again, hiding its true nature and value, disguising itself as mere snow. But she knew. She had seen.

“This is mine,” she thought, at once greedy and reverent. “Mine alone.”

Creative Writing: Plunder

I wrote this poem 2 years ago. It started out being about an idea, but the first version, while sticking pretty faithfully to that idea, was terrible in its construction. (This happens to me a lot.) So then I played around with the form, and made it more about the words and sounds. The core idea is still there, but it's at least one layer down now; and while I wouldn't enter this poem in any contests, I'm satisfied with it.

Plunder

The last pirate pressed
close upon these shores,
drawing all that lived within
to a universal thrill.

Anticipating plunder,
they waited soft within,
willing to be drawn
to his overwhelming will.

The last pirate passed
these shores with sword un-drawn.
They waited trembling soft.
And wait there still.

In their world without wonder,
they never will sleep soft,
with dreams of hoards and whores
and a pirate’s last kill.

Creative Writing: Blossoms from a Long-lost Past

This poem is a few years old, but I've never quite gotten it right. It's better now than when I started, but I'm not satisfied with it yet. I was still tweaking it 5 minutes before I posted this.

Blossoms from a Long-lost Past

Last night I dreamt
of dreamers dancing in the dark,
of lovers true,
who sighed in some secluded park.

I dreamt the smell
of blossoms from a long-lost past.
I dreamt it well
to make those moments true and fast.

And then, when day
was just about to make its start,
I woke. And cried
a sacred poem from my heart.

A fluid drop
of meter, accent, words and rhyme,
that trickled to
this page, this day, and to these times.

Creative Writing: Where are We?

Here's another bit of prose without a home.

They sailed past dozens of islands, harbors and peninsulas, all looking remarkably similar to the untrained eye. Occasionally one of the more restless passengers would ask the captain or a crew member to name a place as they passed.

“What’s this we’re coming up on now, Captain?” they’d ask, pointing at another stand of trees off the port side.

“That’s 700 Acre Island.” Or, “That’s Pulpit Harbor.” And so on.

And then the passenger would carry this very small bit of information back to their friends, and settle again into a feeling of comfort and safety. It was reassuring, after all, to know that places had names.

Asked more broadly, questions about their location would get more philosophical responses. This was intentional, as both captain and crew wanted the passengers to revel in the journey without worrying about destination. “You’re on the coast of Maine. You’re on a boat. You have arrived,” the captain would explain at the start of each trip.

She had learned this on her first sail with them. “Where are we?” she asked the mate on the second day of the voyage.

“We’re here,” was all the mate answered.

“Yes, but where is here?” she persisted.

“Cap’n!” the mate shouted to the helm. “This nice young lady wants to know where HERE is.”

“Here?” the captain shrugged, and pointed his hand behind his head. “It’s about halfway between back there and up there, over there and over there.” As he spoke, he traced a cross over his head as if drawing the compass points on the sky.

Creative Writing: Journeywomen

This is the poem that my blog is named for. I wrote it in 2003 during my first sailing trip.

The poem itself doesn't paint a very romantic picture of journeywomen, so it may seem curious that I chose to name the blog as I did. All I can say is, I like the way it conjures up images of being on a journey, of having some sort of permanence, and of being part of a continuing history.

Journeywomen

Soft slumber to a silent sunrise.

The mists lift
and leave a sleeve of dew
on masts and decks
afloat above the wrecks
of ancient journeywomen.

The sun is with her.
It dances and romances
’cross decks and masts
afloat above the pasts
of jilted journeywomen.

Windless, motor down,
she drifts uneasy
by the shores,
anticipating
quicker currents
and a breeze to blow her home.

Creative Writing: Shower at Night

Here's a bit of description I created that hasn't found a home yet.

She stepped out onto the deck for one last look at the cove before bed. The clouds had gathered and now obscured the moon. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness before her, and during that moment she heard a sound like steady rain all around. She felt no drops, but held out her palm for several seconds just to be sure. Then as the water and the trees and the rocky shore took shape in front of her, she saw thousands of dry autumn leaves dancing through the dark night, landing on the rocks and flying against the house like so many raindrops.

Poetry, Fibs, and Me

It's a good week for me to be a lover of poetry. First the Poetry Friday round-up, with a great list of contributors and some conversation about my "song-lyrics-as-poetry" post. And now, my poetry life gets even better.

The Fib Review, issue 1, has been published.

And I'm in it.

Along with 5 other poets, including Douglas Twitchell, the genius behind the Quote Puzzler site.

The Fib Review is an online literary journal created by R.G. Rader. The Fib itself is the brainchild of our own GottaBook Greg.

And I have to say, the Fib Review design (how the site looks) is beautiful.

Yay.