All Categories - Neo-Victorian Poetry

Ringing in a new leap year ... !

1/1/2020

"Hope smiles from the threshold of the year to come, whispering, 'It will be happier.'" So said Alfred Lord Tennyson.

The year 2020 is a leap year. The term leap year came into being in the late 14th century, and may be so called because its causes fixed festival days to "leap" ahead one day in its respective week.

Every four years an added day is inserted into the calendar because seasons and events do not perfectly align with 365 days and such events tend to cause them to drift out of sequence over time.

However, there are exceptions to this. Specifically, a year that can be evenly divided by 100, but not evenly divided by 400, is not a leap year. For instance, 1900 is not a leap year.

In essence, we have an extra day this year in which to hope that it will be a happier one. A New Year’s resolution is potentially a device one can use to insure it will be so, like a personal promise cast forward.

It is said that New Year’s resolutions were first made by the ancient Babylonians about 4000 years ago. They also were the first to hold new year’s celebrations, according to historical records.

I rather agree with the artist Henry Moore’s way of thinking “in terms of the day's resolutions, not the year's.” However you celebrate, or whether you celebrate such things, I wish you all a very ... Happy New Year!!!

Image: Charleston Style & Design Magazine

Armchair, and other, Travelers ...

12/22/2019

Patrick Jake O'Rourke, (P. J. O’Rourke), an American political satirist, journalist, and correspondent famously said, “The one thing that's terrible about traveling for fun is writing about it.”

There was a time when the only affordable way to travel was through the writings of those who actually traveled, including Jules Verne, who spent endless hours at the local library researching the globe.

Eventually, Mr. Verne was able to actually travel, but as recently as a few hundred years ago, the average person rarely ventured far from their homes. Travel was often dangerous, very expensive, and limited by transport availability.

Though this can still be true, for some, today it is less likely to be an issue. This is just a little post so that I can wish all who will be traveling this holiday season ...

Safe Travels and a very Merry Christmas!!!

Image: ilikepaints.blogspot.com

Striving for endurance ... or not ...

12/13/2019

“At Christmas play and make good cheer, for Christmas comes but once a year.” Thomas Tusser

Born c.1524, Thomas Tusser was an English poet who wrote during the reign of Queen Elizabeth 1. Educated at Eton and King’s College and Trinity Hall, Cambridge he served at the British court until he left to become a farmer.

Tusser wrote a long, continuous poem titled, Five Hundreth Pointes of Good Husbandrie to as many of Good Huswifery (1573), which served as an informational poem, a calendar, and a how-to book, written in rhyming couplets.

He penned many verses which have become common idioms, such as “A fool and his money are soon parted” and “Sweet April showers do spring May flowers” from which we get April showers bring may flowers.

Oh that my poems might leave such a mark and endure as long as his. It helps to have published my work, so that’s out in the world, but I’m writing during an era in which poetry is not valued as it once was.

Even so, I can’t help but hope, while I write my verses, that they will live on in some meaningful way; that they might touch, console, and delight others as they have done for me. Well, as some say, “Fingers crossed.”

Image: outlandishobservations.blogspot.com

Oh, for a fluffy white Christmas ...

12/5/2019

Matthew Gray Gubler, an American actor, filmmaker, fashion model, painter, and author, said, “I love the holidays - any holiday - but Christmas has always been sort of special because I grew up reading Charles Dickens.”

Indeed, Charles Dickens is ideally cited as the inspiration for our propensity toward snowy Christmases. Born in Portsmouth England in 1812, Charles Dickens lived during the latter portion of what François E. Matthes called The Little Ice Age.

This was a time of prolonged cold, dry seasons, so cold that the Thames River in London froze solid, and is said to have lasted from about 1300 to about 1850. There are myriad theories about what caused it.

Dickens was born into an unusually cold world. Then, when he was four years old, Mount Tambora, on Sumbawa island in Indonesia, erupted. It is the most powerful volcanic eruption in recorded history.

Soon, the Northern Hemisphere was plunged into The Year Without a Summer. Average global temperatures dropped, it snowed during the wrong seasons, and particles ejected from Mount Tambora reflected sunlight away from the Earth.

Charles Dickens experienced several white Christmases during one of the coldest decades in England (1810-1819). From my readings I’ve come to realize that many of the hardships depicted in his novels are rather autobiographical, and especially those snowy Winters.

As Christmas Day quickly approaches, I wish you a very Happy Holiday Season, and some snow on Christmas day.

Image: cartoonpicks.blogspot.com

... and all the fixin's ...

11/27/2019

Sarah Joseph Hale, (1788 - 1879), author of Mary Had A Little Lamb, is the acclaimed Godmother of Thanksgiving. She worked tirelessly to make sure that Thanksgiving was recognized as a national holiday.

In fact, the entire layout of our annual feast is modeled on her accounts of early New England celebrations, which emphasized a roast turkey. In 1863, Abraham Lincoln declared it a national holiday.

                         Thank you, Sarah Joseph Hale!

                                             \(^0^)/

                          That said, I wish you all a very

                               Happy Thanksgiving!!!

Image: https://www.thefreshmarket.com/

Caged Heart: the flavor of my poetry ...

11/23/2019

Some time ago, I wrote a post about my friend, Friday Elliott, who is gifted with Synesthesia, which is a perceptual phenomenon in which the stimulation of one sense causes the automatic experience of another sense.

In Friday’s case, she is blessed with “Lexical-gustatory synesthesia , a rare form of synesthesia in which spoken and written language causes individuals to experience an automatic and highly consistent taste/smell response.” Wikipedia

So, I sent Friday a copy of my book, A Compilation Of Echoes, and asked if she would create a tea blend based on her experience of reading it. What she created is a delightful blend which she titled, Caged Heart.

The taste of this tea blend is bright yet subtly complex with an underlying cozy depth, with hints of honey and butter. It also has an amber hue reminiscent of the low-lit windows in my poem, Johnny's Tavern.

Previous to this, Friday had read the first novel in Emily Thompson’s adventure series, titled Clockwork Twist, and subsequently created the Clockmaker Tea blend. This blend tasted exactly like the tea that Emily’s protagonist, Twist, would drink.

I am ever so happy to announce the Caged Heart tea blend as a companion beverage to my poetry. To purchase this tea blend, click here, or request it by name on her website: Friday Afternoon Tea.

Enjoy!

Image: Janice T

Poetry ... and a well-aged cheese ...

10/31/2019

According to Helen Hayes MacArthur, the American actress whose career spanned eighty years, “Age is not important unless you're a cheese.” She was an exceptional lady who aged very well.

This brings to mind the French term, à point, which refers to that precious moment when a cheese is sitting at the perfect point between fully ripening and spoiling. So too, with composing poetry.

It is not always easy for me to determine whether a poem I’m writing is underdone, done, or overdone. It might need time to breath: to mellow a bit with age, or to needle me about its incompleteness.

Sometimes I become impatient with a poem and just want to be finished with it. I’ll wonder why the flow was uneven, and the last few lines awkward, as if my muse, like gears, isn’t totally engaged.

But I’ll declare it done and prepare to move on ... until I share it. My family is very well versed (pun intended) in my work, and they can recognize when I’ve become carelessly lazy with a poem.

They’ll say “You’re not done with this one,” and I’ll skulk back to my writing desk in a peevish mood, grumbling to myself, “Yeah, I knew that.” The difficulty then lies in refraining from forcing it to work.

And then there are those poems which effortlessly roll out of my pen and onto the page like a satisfied sigh, requiring only modest tweaks here and there. That’s when I suspect that I’m taking dictation from my muse.

To be fair, my capacity to write what I write has been a decades long process of learning, of refining, and of maturing in my craft, yet even now I am still learning to assess whether a poem is à point.

Image: discoverfrance.com

Up and running now ...

10/2/2019

Some phrases appear to be lost somewhere in the bleak back alleys of etymology. The phrase, “up and running,” seems to be utterly untraceable, aside from an association with machinery that is running optimally.

At the moment, following decades of moderate isolation, my poetry sphere seems to be running at a nice click. I am now getting tangible feedback on my work, and I’ve become more involved in poetry circles.

Residing, as I am, in a relatively small community is a huge help in this, and there are myriad poets here who share my passion. Moderating a small monthly poetry circle in a cozy cafe isn’t hurting, either.

The huge lucrative conventions, of which I have attended many at my author table, are either no longer available to me or are too far away. Instead, I am signing and selling my poetry books locally.

A few bookshops, libraries, and cafes now carry my work, minus the table fees, hotel costs, and other traveling expenses of those bygone conventions, and the heady frenetic pace of selling has calmed down.

Here, poets are invited to post their work in poetry boxes: window boxes that have been mounted on the exterior walls of local merchant shops so that someone walking by can chance to read a poem.

A local newspaper has asked for Autumn poems for their upcoming edition. An annual author fair welcomes writers of all ilks to sign and sell their books in a nearby hotel. These days, I am pleasantly busy.

Reading my poetry, along with other poets, from a podium in a comfy library setting was a gentle affair, as I imagine will be the case at the Fiber Festival next month. So many invitations in such a short time.

It’s been easier here to find a community of readers and writers who appreciate the written word. After more than 50 years my poetry sphere is finally up and running, and I am loving this small town feel.

Image: worldarchitecture.org

The inspiration of tethers ...

9/5/2019

Occasional dry spells befall me, but I think I’m learning to take them in stride. The term “take in stride” is an idiom which alluded to a horse clearing an obstacle without checking its stride. (1900).

A few weeks ago, our local skies were adorned with colors and motion when the local kite festival drew hundreds of kite fliers from a wide area. This proved to be just the motivation I needed to write.

My muse woke from its slumber and I began to compose a poem. It was exhilarating to finally be writing again! Words began to tumble onto the page: an edit here and there as I went and it was done.

Initially, I had no idea where the piece was going, which is very often the case. I find the greatest joy in these journeys with my muse, and I, too, get to discover things unanticipated along the way.

With that in mind, I give you Tethers:

Tethers
I stole upon a lusty wind
To gain the Summer sky.
A slender tail
Sustained me well
As I began to climb.

Uplifted to fantastic heights
Yet higher still I sought
But, lo, my frame
Could nothing gain
No matter how I fought.

For from below the tether bold,
A simple length of string,
Restrains my urge
And every surge
Else I would wander free.

A snap and I am reeling hard,
Convulsively I spin.
Untethered I
Am wielded by
A juggernaut of wind.

Oh would that I were tethered now,
Complicit with the breeze.
It's where I ought
To be and not
Entangled in these trees.

Image: baileygillespie.com

Knitting and poetry: kindred arts ...

7/27/2019

Occasionally, a friend, an acquaintance, or even a passerby inspires me to compose a new poem. One such friend, named Sandi, is a brilliant fiber artist who designs the yarn that she knits.

She carefully selects the wool she will use, decides which color it should be, patiently dyes the fiber, spins it into yarn, knits it according to whichever pattern she has chosen, and blocks it into shape.

It occurred to me one day, while marveling at her work, that Sandi and I share rather analogous skills. The poetry that I write involves more than merely knitting words together into usable sentences.

Poems require that I select the sound, the texture, and the hue of each individual word, subtly nuancing and otherwise abridging them as needed, and ultimately weaving them all into a specific shape.

Both Sandi and I have developed our skills over several decades. Yet, for all of our diligence to design she and I are often surprised by the finished products of our work. Formula is merely a frame.

Within that rigid frame unanticipated tinges can appear within the form, which usually help to enhance what was intended. Which begs a question: “Is the art itself more competent than the artist?”

In truth, both Sandi and I have found that there is a fluid dialogue between the tools we each apply and the work at hand. We have learned to appreciate this and to allow the art to take part as well.

Image: sheknitsandpurls.wordpress.com

Connective tissues notwithstanding ...

7/13/2019

Since my last blog post, I’ve tried to spare my thumb the irritation that excessive typing brings on, and my ears the noise of this thin, small, plastic thumb brace tap, tap, tapping on the spacebar. Still …

Time to give it another go. This brings to mind the many connective tissues involved in writing verse: meter, rhyme, alliteration, and the many tiny balancing points that must be accounted for in poetry.

If any one of these points is out of round, the entire poem suffers an acute pain which nags until it gets sorted out. Resting the poem awhile, untouched, can sometimes refresh it and help it to mend.

Otherwise, one tends to overwork it, which can break the natural flow of the poem and render it a stiff, obviously forced piece. It has to relax, to breath, and to become pliable enough to work with.

It requires intuitive skill to properly perform surgery on a badly mangled poem. Occasionally I’ve been unable to resuscitate a piece and have had to let if go. Nothing I did could bring it back to life.

Often, certain lines and the intended meaning of such a poem will re-emerge as a totally different piece than was intended, or even regenerate years later into the very form it was meant to be.

Sometimes, merely allowing an adequate and thorough resting period is the best medicine one can apply to a broken poem. So, too, with my healing hand, which is just beginning to ache now.

Until next time ...

Image: ohmyarthritis.com

I am pleased to announce my latest book of poetry: When None Command

4/13/2019

Apologies that it's been so long since my last blog post. The healing process, since my recent Carpal Tunnel and Trigger Thumb surgery, is progressing well. However, I’m still wary of typing for too long at a time.

In the meantime, I’ve composed several new poems and have managed, with the assistance of Emily Thompson, author of the Clockwork Twist adventure series, to produce a new volume of my work, titled When None Command.

It is now available in paperback on amazon.com, which you can quickly go to by clicking here. The Kindle version will soon be available as well. I invite you to take a glimpse of this book via the “Look inside” section of that Amazon page.

I sincerely hope you enjoy When none Command.

Image by Stanley Thompson

Round 3 ... a brief surgical procedure ...

2/21/2019

The entire month of February has been pretty rough in this household. We have been dealing with three unique viruses, one after another. Needless to say, I have not feeling up to writing.

Early tomorrow morning I will be reporting to my surgeon for a much needed Carpal Tunnel and Trigger Finger procedure, which will put my dominant right hand out of action for the next ten days.

I find it curious that all of this is occurring just as I was about to publish a new book of my poetry. In the meantime, I thought I’d leave you with a poem that I recently wrote for my new book. Enjoy!

One Sunny Day

One sunny day we drew our names upon the virgin sand
And wondered when the groping waves might steal them out to sea.
Perhaps a breeze would scatter these soft letters over land
Or rain dilute their form to shallow shapes but barely seen.

We lingered as the sky grew dim and stars began to show
And still our names intact remained as we at last took leave.
That night a fearsome tempest fell and dealt a dire blow
Thus in the early rays of dawn we felt a subtle grief.

So back we sauntered to the beach expecting not to find
That all those elemental forces lashed and beat in vain
For on the sand a glistening band of kelp, a ring most kind,
Had washed ashore in such rapport so that our names remained.

Image: wisegeek.org

The making of an author ...

1/31/2019

Willa Sibert Cather, a Pulitzer Prize winning American author, wrote about frontier life on the Great Plains said, “Most of the basic material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen.”

As I’ve mentioned in at least one previous post, my husband and I homeschooled our only daughter. She was an obvious natural self-starter and by age three her verbal skills were advanced.

We began teaching her through play. We played one sock two sock while I was sorting the laundry, we played pretend from time to time, and we stopped lessons every twenty minutes to play toss.

I read to her every night from our growing library of fairy tales, enacting each character as I read. We took her to the circus and the zoo, and we took her to astronomy events called star parties.

But one of the most important things we did was to teach her critical thinking: helping her to reason out answers to questions that she posed through dialogue. We also gave her some alone time.

We didn’t hover over her, occupying here every waking hour. I believe that it is vital to stir the imagination through stories and play, and then to allow a child's mind to percolate on its own a bit.

She began to make up her own stories very early on, as children tend to do. At one point, I gave her daily writing assignments, which were to be one paragraph in length, on any subject she chose.

At first she balked at this, but then she came up with an imaginary town called Twee, a British term she found for ”overly sweet.” Out of rebellion, she decided to torture the citizens of Twee every day.

She flooded the town of Twee, burned their village to the ground, and so on. No actual Twee were harmed in her writings; they were simply sent running and screaming out of their fanciful town.

These little vignettes of writing allowed her the freedom to express herself. They were to be composed as tiny stories so that I could avoid a page full of red pencil marks; “No, you did that wrong.”

Eventually, she either grew tired of this scheme or she ran out of ideas for menacing the Twee, and we moved on to larger essay assignments. To date, our daughter is writing her seventeen novel.

Her Clockwork Twist adventure series is available on amazon and at http://clockworktwist.com

Image: Emily Thompson

Feed a cold, starve a fever. Really ... ?

1/24/2019

The old wives tale, “feed a cold, starve a fever,” has been traced back to John Withals, lexicographer, and author of A Short Dictionary for Young Beginners, (1574). Modern medical science now says to feed both.

“An old wives' tale is a supposed truth which is actually spurious or a superstition.” Wikipedia. Interestingly, in the 1611 edition of the King James Bible, Paul cautions Timothy to “have nothing to do with wives tales.” 1 Timothy 4:7

According to a January 3, 2014 article in Scientific American, the correct answer is,“feed a cold, feed a fever.” Apparently it has something to do with a rise in body temperature when one ingests food.

As we digest food, our bodies generate heat which, apparently, is helpful in beating the cold and fever inducing bugs. Chicken soup has always been the odds on favorite aid in hydration and sustenance.

I also find that my grandmother’s remedy of adding a teaspoon of honey and a squeeze of lemon to a cup of warm water and sipping it slowly is very beneficial and soothing. Thanks grandma!

I cite this information here because I recently recovered from a cold, which did not facilitate my writing blog posts, and I was curious about this maxim. In essence, that is the reason why I’ve been “away.”

Just sayin’ ...

Image: edibleharmony.com

The peaks and valleys of the heart ...

12/29/2018

As Helen Keller, author, lecturer, and crusader for the handicapped once said, “The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched - they must be felt with the heart.”

In this vein, much of what I do when writing poetry is intangible. This was especially true when I wrote my Airship poem, and I got to spend several wonderful days sailing aboard an ethereal vessel.

Fortunately, I have access to online Role Playing Games, such as Guns of Icarus, and have read all twelve novels of Emily Thompson’s descriptive Steampunk adventure series, titled Clockwork Twist.

However, immersive novels and RPG’s merely hint at the look, feel, aroma, temperature, and the overall ambiance of sailing aboard an airship. Something else is needed to fill in these essential details.

Once my heart and my mind were fully absorbed in this project the airship itself took over. It taught me what I needed to know and how to express those sensations. It evolved into a poetic experience.

While Helen Keller learned to explore, interpret, and make use of the physical world around her, the poet must learn the inverse; how to tap into the world within as if it were, in every sense, tangible.

Now, as my airship glides soundlessly off into an exquisite sunset, I would like to wish you all a very Happy New Year!!! See you next time ...

Image: https://www.healthiply.in

Such is life, sometimes ...

12/21/2018

“Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.” John Lennon. Such was the case recently when a favorite Steampunk convention ended up being cancelled for financial reasons.

In lieu of our usual convention table for the October event, my daughter and I were recently invited to set up an author table during the Alterna Steam Crawl at Outsider Comics in Seattle, Washington.

My talented daughter, Emily Thompson, author of the Clockwork Twist adventure series, sets an impressive Steampunk setting for our books at these book signing events. And we’ve been busy.

Recently, we were invited to set up our table inside a cozy window space in the Abbracci Coffee Bar in Long Beach, Washington. The gracious owner, Ricky Holmes, is an avid supporter of artists and authors.

In the near future, Ricky will be displaying and selling our books in his cafe. If you happen to venture to Long Beach Washington, stopping in at this wonderful establishment would not be amiss.

Needless to say, we’ve had a lovely but busy time of traveling and book signings lately, and I’ve decided to keep this post on the short side so as to attend to other needs, and to enjoy the holidays.

I wish you a very Happy Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!!!

Until next time ...

Of dreams, goals, and deadlines ...

12/7/2018

Napoleon Hill, motivational author of Think And Grow Rich, has said that, "A dream is a goal with a deadline." I ruminated on this for quite a while, but it felt somewhat inverted, and I happily let it go.

Then I came upon, Harvey MacKay, a businessman who gives career and inspirational advice in his syndicated column said, “A dream is just a dream. A goal is a dream with a plan and a deadline.”

Thank you, Mr MacKay. I can wrap my head around that. There is a sense of the poetic in this latter phrase, which more easily lends itself to meandering round and round among my other thoughts.

That one of my own lines might do as much in the reader’s mind is more of a wish than a goal for me. As many a song writer can attest, one never knows which lyrics will resonate best to a listener.

As a poet, I don’t have set goals in mind. Sure, sometimes I begin a piece with an idea and strong inclinations of how it will progress, until I find it going off on a much better trajectory, and I follow it.

I know of writers who plan out their plots to the nth degree, diagramming and controlling their work all the way to the end of the story, but poetry, my poetry, has to breathe more freely than that.

I rather enjoy fluid dialogues with my muse, and the surprising journeys that we take together; surprising to me, at any rate. The murmurings of my poet mind will simply not abide the leash of a deadline.

Image: careerminer.infomine.com

The three voices of me ...

11/29/2018

A poem has a voice all its own. The very act of writing makes it so. Poems speak from an ethereal realm of muse, words, and ideas, and they resonate on a different frequency than a speaking voice.

Or, so it is for me.

Stephen Edward Ambrose, noted historian and author of more than thirty books, said, “Reading your own poetry forces you to listen.” Alas, reading my poems aloud forces me to listen to my listeners.

I am fortunate to have observers in my sphere who offer their perspectives on my poetry readings and who universally point out that I to speak the words too hurriedly to be properly discerned.

They mention, also, that I need to not only enunciate more clearly but to raise the volume of my voice to be better heard. And so it is that I prefer that they, and others read my poems for themselves.

But then the feedback I receive is rather strange. Many a reader has pointed out specific concepts in my work that I did not compose. Yes, I clearly see their point, and no, I didn't write that.

So, on the one hand, how does the poet perfectly orate the poem faithfully without becoming theatrical about it? And on the other, what am I to make of such varied interpretations of my work?

Firstly, since the voice I hear while writing a poem differs vastly from my normal speaking voice, and drastically so from my recital voice, I should probably consider enrolling in a local speech class.

But, as to the second issue of the reader’s interpretation diverging from my muse’s intentions in a poem, I often find their take on my work amusing, enlightening, and entertaining, and that’s okay.

This issue of reading my work before a live audience has lead me to much head scratching, and to wondering whether these phenomenon are common to poets at large or reserved solely for me.

To misquote Dr. McCoy: “I’m a poet, Jim, not a performer!”

Image: theguardian.com

One man who changed my world ...

11/1/2018

Eugene Wesley Roddenberry, television screenwriter, and producer of the TV series Star Trek, gave us an imaginary blueprint for much of the technology that my generation later brought into being.

Doors that open automatically upon approach, cell phones, food replicators, (3D food printers), the use of voice commands with a computer, (Siri, Google Now), jet- injection hyposprays and more.

Along with all these neat new gizmos, Gene Roddenberry gave 60’s science geeks, like myself, a vision of the future that was innovative, exciting, and set in outer space, and he encouraged us to dream.

I turned my bedroom into a lab; I hung star charts all over my walls, experimented with a Gilbert chemistry set, studied samples with my Lionel microscope, and gazed at the sky through my telescope.

My poetry included an ode about piercing the virgin sky with rockets, and another poem proposing that humans residing on Earth were once escapees from a planet inhabited by deranged humanoids.

The scope of my world, and of my writing, was forever enhanced by Gene Roddenberry, who said, “I hope that I helped to build a fierce pride in what we are and what we can do if we set our minds to it.”

And, this is where I say, “Well done, sir.”

Image: delamagente.wordpress.com