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Writing in a bubble ... of sorts.

11/28/2013

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Ah, the Lake District poets: a popular and communal group who wrote and shared during a time of literary appreciation ... or so I have read. 

It often occurs to me that my work would have evolved quite differently had I commingled with my contemporaries, who were writing free verse.

I have, in fact, been afforded a truly wonderful opportunity: I got to developing a poetic style that was honed by a focus on early, formal poetry.

Though I had yearned for community, those years of creative isolation served as preparation for my current and future state: that of bohemian poet.

By bohemian, I mean: "a person, as an artist or writer, who lives and acts free of regard for conventional rules and practices."  Dictionary.com.

But, aren't poets generally regarded as bohemians by nature and purpose?  In my case, within my circle of influence, I seemed to be a lone bohemian.

Like some hermit in a cave, I'd occasionally stick my head out to check on the weather by attending poetry readings or briefly joining poetry groups. 

Eventually, I would pull my head back into my cave, and withdraw to the comfort of classical verse, in the company of those who did it well.

Such works were certainly not the preferred convention during my youth, in my arena, but I have lately come to realize that I was "not" alone.

Echoes has opened a door for me, through which I am now finding other clandestine, cave dwelling hermits who, like me, prefer to write in rhyme. 

My message here, to the other rhymers, and to would-be writers of rhyme, is this: "It is very, much permissible to write rhyming verse."

I, for one, can't hide in my cave any longer; Echoes has made sure of that, as has my recent awareness of other apprehensive "older schooled" bards.

No, we are not the Lake District poets, nor were we born into their era.  We are a verdant amalgam of "them and us," metamorphosing and renewing.

And, the cool part is: we rhyme because we can!



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Writing in a vacuum ... of sorts.

11/28/2013

0 Comments

 
Ah, the Lake District poets: a popular and communal group who wrote and shared during a time of literary appreciation ... or so I have read. 

It often occurs to me that my work would have evolved quite differently had I commingled with my contemporaries, who were writing free verse.

I have, in fact, been afforded a truly wonderful opportunity: I got to developing a poetic style that was honed by a focus on early, formal poetry.

Though I had yearned for community, those years of creative isolation served as preparation for my current and future state: that of bohemian poet.

By bohemian, I mean: "a person, as an artist or writer, who lives and acts free of regard for conventional rules and practices."  Dictionary.com.

But, aren't poets generally regarded as bohemians by nature and purpose?  In my case, within my circle of influence, I seemed to be a lone bohemian.

Like some hermit in a cave, I'd occasionally stick my head out to check on the weather by attending poetry readings or briefly joining poetry groups. 


Eventually, I would pull my head back into my cave, and withdraw to the comfort of classical verse, in the company of those who did it well.

Such works were certainly not the preferred convention during my youth, in my arena, but I have lately come to realize that I was "not" alone.

Echoes has opened a door for me, through which I am now finding other clandestine, cave dwelling hermits who, like me, prefer to write in rhyme. 

My message here, to the other rhymers, and to would-be writers of rhyme, is this: "It is very, much permissible to write rhyming verse."

I, for one, can't hide in my cave any longer; Echoes has made sure of that, as has my recent awareness of other apprehensive "older schooled" bards.

No, we are not the Lake District poets, nor were we born into their era.  We are a verdant amalgam of "them and us," metamorphosing and renewing.

And, the cool part is: we rhyme because we can!



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Writing = escapism?  Not necessarily.

11/24/2013

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I've occasionally been asked whether the act of writing is a form of escapism.  Escapism covers a rather large arena that involves questions such as, "Is one escaping to, from, or with?"

For this writer, it's more of a case of being abducted by an idea, a mental image, or even just a single word.  For me, there is a click, "You will now write ... " and I obey.  

This works well, as I have sited before, when I can stop what I'm doing and write, at least, a memo for later reference, but when I have to put it off, it relentlessly teases.


My muse tends towards impatience, however, and when I have held off from complying for a tad too long, that which I was to write evaporates.

I cannot assume that this is so for other writers, but once I focus on "it," all else bleeds away to the very edges of my mind, and I become a willing captive.

So, I would have to say that my writing is not a vehicle of escapism.  Instead, I would call it a portal to an alternative, autonomous reality.

And it is a very communal one.  Despite how I may appear to outsiders while thus engaged, I am most positively not alone in this writer's realm.

My muse is ever present here, occupying me with all manner of oblique intangibles, which I become obsessively driven to collate into proper form.

There is nothing else quite like having access to such an expansive, creative, and fulfilling cosmos as this.  I do not escape to writing; I am seduced by it. 

 
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Poetry ... a hard sell ... 

11/21/2013

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In times now long past, poetry found favor with the literate public. As I have noted in my previous posts, there is such a glut of books on the shelves today that it is very easy to get lost among them.

Writing in a style that predates the current era often elicits brief stares and a bit of head scratching.  Even when I thrust an open copy of Echoes into someone's hands, they don't always "get it."

I have to remind myself that this isn't an indictment on the merits of Echoes alone, but a sad reminder that reading rhyming verse, such as mine, is neither currently, nor widely, encouraged these days.

Though I am totally in love with any news from my author friends that they are doing wonderfully well, this can easily become a bit poignant for me.  Still, I do so enjoy celebrating them.  

For instance, Kelly Cozy, the independently published author of Ashes, Reckoning, and The Day After Yesterday, has now sold a combined total of 3000 books!  Well and brilliantly done, Kelly!   

The contrast between another's success and my lack of voluminous sales gives me pause, for sure, but it doesn't stop me from writing.  It is, however, a reminder to me that my work, in this era, is rather odd.

I do find solace in Echoes, as I hold it in my hands.  It exists now! Future volumes of my work are in process, and that was not the case a year ago.  Many thanks, again, to Emily Thompson for her able and ample help in making this happen, at long last.

So, when I offer a copy of Echoes to someone, and their shrugged reply is, "I'm sorry, but I just don't like it," I am initially stunned, and humbled ... and ever so grateful to those who do "get it."




    
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Echoes, coming to a library near ... me!

11/19/2013

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I am delighted to announce that Echoes, Neo-Victorian Poetry will soon be available throughout the San Jose Public Library system! ... and here's why:  

The Author Fair, held at the Martin Luther King Jr. Library last month, was a great opportunity for Echoes, Neo-Victorian Poetry. The fair ran very smoothly, especially so for an inaugural event. True, this library has hosted events before, but not quite like this.

The ground floor entrance area was ringed with author tables, each one displaying stacks of books and related materials.  Emily Thompson and I decorated our table in Steampunk fashion.   

At one point, we each took a turn at the podium to introduce ourselves and our books to a very receptive audience.  With the camera rolling, I eventually made my way to the microphone as well.

Following my brief introduction, I opened up Echoes
and read two poems: Emery and Shanty Town.  I am currently relying on these two pieces as I endeavor to find my onstage voice.

At the end of the day, the director of the Author Fair approached us and asked if we would like to donate a book or two to the library catalog, to which Emily and I both replied with a resounding "Yes!"

I donated ten copies of Echoes to the library system, right then and there.  Emily Thompson donated copies of Clockwork Twist, as well. So now, within this system, you can go and check our books out ... literally!  And that is the "news" that I had promised a few weeks ago.

...

A quick query at said library confirmed that these books are in the San Jose Library system, indeed the titles are searchable in the library catalog, but it will take a few weeks for them to actually appear on library shelves.  So, no need to alter the title of this post.  LOL!




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Give me a shed, some tea, and a bed ...

11/13/2013

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Now that I am embroiled in writing a work of literature, I begin see why my author friends often despair of some semblance of solitude within which to cogitate and to write. 

As an "author," I am finding that the whole notion of autonomous time is pretty much a misnomer.  Now, each new idea and paragraph becomes a cantilever, threatening to undermine the delicate balance of my layered, parallel and interwoven thoughts.

With poetry, interruptions are fairly manageable, as my poetic stints are generally short, sweet and intermittent.   I can jot down quick little notes for later inclusion in a poem while I tend to other things.

And, I find that composing poems is more like playing with wisps of thought.  I still need to weigh each word, sentence, and idea against the health of the whole, but it's tug on me is much less demanding. 

Rather, I should say "tenacious," for when I'm in author mode, interruptions are instantly catastrophic, and promise to utterly destroy that next brilliant section that I was just about to pen!

Such, for me, is the difference between the poet brain and the author brain.  So far, I've been able to continue in either mode, with a brief "Where was I," recap, provided that one has released me to the other. 

Meanwhile, I have now taken my place in that great, wending queue, awaiting my turn to say, "I'll take that quaint, quiet cottage on the edge of the glad, if you please."




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Writing my novel makes me cry ...

11/6/2013

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My initial foray into fleshing out a non-poetry-laden story proved to be rather telling.  An unanticipated gush of tears brought me to an abrupt halt. "Where in the world did THAT come from?" was my rapt response.  I stepped back and slowly turned away.

Just how involved in an idea does a writer usually get?  In my case, deep enough to shelve it for a while.  I excused this, in part, by virtue of the fact that I am also developing a sequel to Echoes.  

Besides, it's far more pleasurable to sail aboard an airship, no matter what misadventures it may lead to, than to revisit even the most passive scenes in what is my own personal, embellished story.

For one thing, my poems don't make me cry.  At least, they haven't yet.  And whenever I feel drawn to work on that other "story," every time I approach it, a new idea for a poem arises and steals me away.

This leads me to think that either my mind is in self-defense mode and deliberately intervening, or that I've just discovered a whole new method of stimulating inspiration.

I think I'll let this play out for a bit, and allow the tug of war within do it's work.  Eventually, I will get back to those less than pleasant memories, and when I do, I'll have a box of ready tissues on hand.  


   


 


 





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A poet walks into a bar ...

11/3/2013

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It is my habit to spend a bit of time, over a beverage and a bite, with my daughter on Tuesday evenings after work.  Each week, we pick a different venue that is within walking distance of home.

Last week, going by the recommendation of a friend, we ventured into a local ultra-lounge to try their signature hamburger, a beverage, and a little quiet time together to bond and chat uninterrupted.

We were escorted to a table not far from the stage.  "Uh oh," I said.  "I wonder if there's going to be a live concert here tonight."  About ten minutes later, small groups of people began to take seats at tables all around us, and we considered gulping down our drinks and leaving.

Little did I know that it was open mike that night!  The emcee introduced himself to the two of us before the event started, and invited us to sing, read poetry, or whatever we fancied.  Hmm...

Most of the poets I have heard write in prose, so I thought it best that I show him a copy of Echoes, which I carry with me.  I figured that he should know the sort of poet he was dealing with ... one who rhymes.

He read through a few pages of Echoes, in between greeting his guests as they arrived, and then he gregariously invited me read at the mike.  If so, I was to follow his own reading.


He opened the event, read a work in prose, and then it was my turn. Unprepared, but unabashed, I approached the stage when he announced me, and read Shanty Town into the troublesome mike.

They all sweetly applauded what I thought was a rather poor reading as I made to leave.  To my surprise, they asked for another poem.  So I opened Echoes again, turned to Emery, and read aloud.

My daughter, seated at our table, watched me through the lens of my Smartphone camera while she recorded that second reading.  Again they applauded, as I left the stage.  What's more, I was invited to return the following Tuesday for the next open mike night.  

I am both grateful and very surprised by the reception I received from that room full of amiable prose poets.  Who knows, I might just press my luck and try it again.  In any event, that's what happened when this poet walked into a bar.

If you wish to, you can view my first-ever, filmed public reading by clicking here.

P.S. I'll be writing a followup post on the recent Author Fair and, perhaps, have a little announcement to make.


  
  

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    About the author:

    I've written many poems over the years.  This blog is a preview of my books: Echoes, Neo-Victorian Poetry (April 2013), Echoes ll, More Neo-Victorian Poetry (May 2014), Echoes lll, Even More Neo-Victorian Poetry, (August 2016), A Compilation of Echoes. (September 2016), and When None Command (April 13, 2019)

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