I have plans for at least one more book of verse, as well as a memoir (of sorts), possibly a book on homeschooling ... and then there are my (true) ghost stories. For the present, it is verse that drives me.
Vaguesay rags of poetry fill my mind and my files. Phrases such as, "Doubtless there is more to say of love than Shakespeare knew..." abruptly come to mind, and then hang there, mute, ambiguous.
What is one to do when there is no hint of how to proceed with an idea that presents itself, out of the blue, with intriguing potential ... and then goes silent? I jot it down, then walk away, but not entirely.
Ever since I first published Echoes, such phrases have taunted me, teasing at the horizon of my thoughts, whispering obliquely. I listen, and wait, and nudge at them from time to time, but mostly I wait.
A month or so ago, the image of a young piratess came to mind, along with a few good lines. She had one hand on the rigging, the other on her hip, she stood on the open deck of her father's frigate, poised to ...
It's like that brilliant "something" that you were about to say which suddenly flew only just out of reach of your tongue, but hunt as you might to retrieve it, it dissolves all the more, and is unutterably gone.
I have now amassed dozens of these fragments of image and thought, and if they weren't so disparate I might be able to mesh them all together into one really weird poem. Nope. Not gonna happen.
Meanwhile, I do manage to complete a poem or two here and there: fodder for Echoes lll. Beyond that, I'm not entirely clear on what the future holds for my poetry. I'm just holding on to the shelf space.
Vaguesay rags of poetry fill my mind and my files. Phrases such as, "Doubtless there is more to say of love than Shakespeare knew..." abruptly come to mind, and then hang there, mute, ambiguous.
What is one to do when there is no hint of how to proceed with an idea that presents itself, out of the blue, with intriguing potential ... and then goes silent? I jot it down, then walk away, but not entirely.
Ever since I first published Echoes, such phrases have taunted me, teasing at the horizon of my thoughts, whispering obliquely. I listen, and wait, and nudge at them from time to time, but mostly I wait.
A month or so ago, the image of a young piratess came to mind, along with a few good lines. She had one hand on the rigging, the other on her hip, she stood on the open deck of her father's frigate, poised to ...
It's like that brilliant "something" that you were about to say which suddenly flew only just out of reach of your tongue, but hunt as you might to retrieve it, it dissolves all the more, and is unutterably gone.
I have now amassed dozens of these fragments of image and thought, and if they weren't so disparate I might be able to mesh them all together into one really weird poem. Nope. Not gonna happen.
Meanwhile, I do manage to complete a poem or two here and there: fodder for Echoes lll. Beyond that, I'm not entirely clear on what the future holds for my poetry. I'm just holding on to the shelf space.
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