Blog Posts - Neo-Victorian Poetry

No so long ago ...

6/22/2018

Jules Henri Poincare, a French mathematician, theoretical physicist, engineer, and philosopher of science, is noted to have said, "Ideas rose in the clouds; I felt them collide until pairs interlocked, so to speak, making a stable combination." I hear you, sir, as it is to with me.

I used to live in a semi-arid region where it rarely rained between May and November. It was a vapid and dusty existence for this poet who literally feeds on inclement weather. So much so that I was compelled to write my poem, Pluviophile, to express my earnest yearning for the rain.

At long last, unforeseen circumstances conspired together which compelled my family and I to move. In answer to my unspoken prayers we now reside where clouds loom large, overcast skies abound, and where it rains more often than not … and I find myself in a poet’s paradise.

I say “unspoken” because I didn’t realize that I needed this, exactly this, until we got here. We also didn’t know that we would require an all terrain vehicle when we purchased it before leaving those evenly paved city streets behind. But here we are, blessed beyond blessed.

When my husband and I retired we immediately knew that we could no longer afford our beautiful, upscale apartment, or being surrounded by every possible convenience. What could have been a tragic experience became an adventure as we felt ourselves being nudged along.

There is much to be said with going with the flow, which is also what I do when I’m writing. As with Henri Poincare, I have the luxury of allowing thoughts, images, and ideas to flit and swoop loosely under my control as they aviate in the direction of the stormy sky beyond my windows.

And so I present to you my rather desperate longings of not so long ago:

Pluviophile

I pull the curtains back
From windows clear and wide
In earnest, hopeful stance
To search the open sky
For merest wisp of cloud
In arcing ever blue
Until I burst aloud,
”The rain is long past due!”

Where is that swollen scent
When seabirds fill the air
And moisture not yet spent
Is lurking everywhere.
Why do they stay away,
This season’s will defy?
Oh how I miss those days
When all the sky would cry.

Image: Janice T

Could it be ... genetic memory...?

6/15/2018

American poet and writer Margaret Walker, once said, “The poetry of a people comes from the deep recess of the unconscious, the irrational and the collective body of our ancestral memories.

When I was in my teens my mother opened up our old family Bible to a small piece of paper and a poem. It had been written by one of our ancestors while crossing the plains in a covered wagon.

As I read it she remarked, “This looks a lot like what you’re writing.” Indeed, its style and voice were very similar to my work at that time. I was rather stunned, but I also felt a deep kinship with that poet.

Back then, my mother wrote a weekly column for a local newspaper, as well as various news articles. My own daughter, Emily Thompson, is the author of the Clockwork Twist adventure series.

Emily has also inherited the artistic talents of her father, and of his father, and of his father’s mother. Not only has she written fifteen novels, to date, but she designs the covers for her books and of mine.

"In psychology, genetic memory is a memory present at birth that exists in the absence of sensory experience, and is incorporated into the genome over long spans of time." Wikipedia

Who know what else was written into our DNA, but these observable effects are quite striking. It tends to temper the ego knowing that one is, apparently, predestined to certain traits, and very humbling.

Marcus Tullius Cicero, Roman politician, lawyer, and poet, born in 106 BC, is quoted to have said, “The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.” Fairly morose, Cicero, but point taken.

Image: adriboschmagazine.wordpress.com

Sometimes, just a little nudge will do ...

6/7/2018

Being involved in poetry events is a great motivator for me, it turns out. I sort of knew this, and when I recently stepped in as temporary moderator of a local poetry group I felt motivated once again.

I had been invited to emcee this group at its inauguration, but soon afterwards I had to lay low because of my hip surgery. And so, this creative group of poets continued on while I recuperated.

Somehow, I became aware that the moderators of this group would be elsewhere for the next several months leaving no one to moderate it. Now, well on the mend, I volunteered to stand in for them.

Now, seemingly out of nowhere, I’m reviving old poems, composing new ones, and even working on my blog. Huzzah! That wee bit of a nudge was all it took to launch me off and running.

About a week later I was invited to return to my author table during the upcoming local Art Walk, which would mark my third appearance at this a yearly event. Fortunately, my books and I were available.

Emily Thompson, author of the Clockwork Twist adventure series, and I share that table from which we introduce ourselves, catch up with the locals who know us now, and sign and sell our books.

One such local had previously acquired our books and placed them in the high school library. As we chatted before our table, he asked me if I would like to do a poetry presentation at the school.

My heart was screaming, “Yes, please!” though my reply to him was a tad less dramatic. And so it seems to go in a cyclic fashion season by season, from languid idleness to creative involvement.

H. Jackson Brown Jr, author of Life’s Little Instruction Book, is noted to have said, "Opportunity dances with those already on the dance floor." Indeed so, Mr Brown! This poet is glad for the dance.

Image: dailymail.co.uk

Tending to my Poe garden ... or not ...

2/23/2018

I used to advise people against giving me houseplants and, as evidence, would show them my Poe garden of dead little things with bare, shriveled claws for branches and overly withered roots.

Mitch Hedberg, one of my very favorite comedians, had a bit in his standup routine that went like this: "My fake plants died because I did not pretend to water them.”

I do love plants. I love their their beauty, their fragrance and the healthy ambiance they exude, but plants in my home have to be extra, extra hardy, or come with a full-time long-term gardener in tow.

And so it is with my approach to writing poetry. If an idea is steadfast and substantial enough, I will eventually work it into a piece. If not, if it is but a wisp of a thought I will, regrettably, forget about it.

The care and feeding of my poetry requires that I read poetry, and only the very best poems available to me. Shakespeare, Blake, Coleridge, Millay, Wordsworth, Browning, and Riley are but a few.

Admittedly, absorbing and feeding on the works of these, my mentors, is a luxury that I don’t afford myself often enough, but when I do indulge in truly great poetry my muse responds ravenously.

Now, well past in their initial tutoring, I am able to compose without merely mimicking them, yet, their mark is indelibly upon me. This was true of Rembrandt, Raphael, or any schooled apprentice.

My work lies in a lesser strata than that of my mentors, and it is unlikely that I will ever achieve to their level, but their poems continue to encourage me to to attain to the very best that I am capable of.

As to our houseplants, my husband is very good with living things. His tender care of them yields beautiful, bounteous results. So, I leave them to him, for the most part, and simply enjoy them.

Image: commons.wikimedia.org

While I was away ...

1/28/2018

It's been a while since my last post here. Now, a few months post-surgery, the brain fog has long since evaporated, the pain of recovery greatly lessened, and still I’ve waited to type here anew.

To be honest, there is something of a mindset involved in blog writing which involves the words, the will, and the intent to compose a post, and mine has been set elsewhere. Apologies for my absence.

There is yet, however, a fog that lingers, hovering over my will to write even one poem. I have had gentle nudges and hints of prospective verse, but none have given me urge enough to follow.

So, I am where I have been many, many times before; floundering with my boat and oars on the arid dunes of disuse. But, hang on! Here I am writing again with this simple act of laying down words.

Finally come the riverlets of inspiration groping through the sand. Slowly my dingy begins to float. Soon my paddles have something tangible to work with, and I begin to propel myself into deeper water.

Free for the time being of those wasteful dunes, I can venture to say that I am back! Lesson learned, again: get these oars moving and continue to row anticipating that more fresh water is on its way.

That is, until the next dry spell. Such has been the recurring lament of this poet. At this point, some 55 years into writing, I should be able to recognize such wastelands for what they are: the restlands.

I’ve been wondering whether that exhilarating fever of being enthralled with my muse and producing substantial work as a constant wouldn’t actually harm me, permanently burn me out.

One shouldn’t suffer countless bouts amid the sorrow of the doldrums and glee atop the crests of creativity with a victim mentality. Better to make peace with the tides and accept them.

It’s all out of my hands, anyway. Why not make peace, practice patience and respect that the boat will rise again. In the meanwhile, I choose to hang out with the greats in my field wherever they are.

So apologies again for the dry spells: they’re just part of the paradigm.

Image: craveonline.ca

I had intended to say ...

11/26/2017

Denial is a fickle beast ...

A week or so before going in for surgery I weighed out my post-operation options. I realized that I wouldn't be 100%, but surely I should be able to sit at my PC, and type, and ruminate on my blog.

I honestly thought I’d be back at my desk a lot sooner that this. It didn’t register in my brain that I might be in the hospital a full five days, for one thing, and otherwise “absent” for yet another five days.

Now at two weeks post-op, (and two posts late), I realize that my personal road map to recovery had failed to include other obstacles, such as the wonkiness that comes with being on pain medications.

Apologies for not saying so much earlier, but I guess I’m gonna be out of commission for a while. I’ll type ya later ...

Image: thindifference.com

Another critic in the crowd ...

11/1/2017

During the recent Steamposium convention, I was confronted by someone who marched boldly up to my table and demanded to know why in the world I would deign to write rhyming, metered verse.

I answered, "Because I can."

I went on to mention that I have spent decades honing my craft. However, no matter what I said, her disdain for my work in verse continued unabated; work which she has never even read.

Although I am rather hypersensitive, meaning that I painfully care far too much and far too deeply about what other people think of me, I’ve managed to handle such harsh criticism, for the most part.

Fortunately, I have developed a sort of shield against these verbal assaults. I understand my craft, and I believe in what I’m doing. Whatever anyone says, I know that I stand on firm ground.

Poetry began to turn a corner in the 1880’s, and by the end of World War One, Avant Garde writers were finally accepted in the art the world, a world that became utterly, globally depressed.

That is when rhyming metered verse was pushed aside in favor of prose and free verse, as was fine art in favor of Impressionism, as was Romantic orchestral music in favor of ragtime and jazz.

I find it acutely ironic that prose and free verse are now well over one hundred year old, and yet rhyming poetry alone suffers from the perception that it is antiquated. Even this truth would not sway my critic.

Elbert Green Hubbard, a turn of the century American writer, publisher, artist, and philosopher ... and coiner of many remarkable sayings, said "To avoid criticism, do nothing, say nothing, and be nothing."

But I dare to study the masters, to work my craft, to strive within this most unforgiving rhyming metered form, to grope for depth, while striving to making it all appear effortless. So, there will be criticism.

Image: http://charlesstone.com

Introducing The Clockmaker tea blend!

10/23/2017

Sometime ago I wrote about my friend, Friday Elliott, citing that she has a condition called Synesthesia. Again, Synesthesia is a condition in which one sense, say sight, is simultaneously perceived by another sense, such as taste.

In Friday's case, she has been able to create the most delicious tea blends based solely on her synesthetic experiences, such as reading Harry Potter, and developing a tea blend which has the aroma and the taste of Hufflepuff.

I recently asked Friday whether she would mind creating a tea based on Twist, the main character in Emily Thompson's adventure novel series, Clockwork Twist. Emily excitedly sent her a copy of Book One, Waking.

Friday soon produced a green and black tea blend with orange peel and rose; toasty and medium-bodied with light floral overtones and hints of dark, smoky undertones. She named this delicious blend The Clockmaker.

Imagine relaxing in your cozy easy chair, absorbed in an imaginative and exciting steampunk adventure novel while sipping the very tea which exemplifies that story. Well, now you can, thanks to Emily and Friday.

If you'd like to purchase a copy of Clockwork Twist, Waking, or any of the novels in Emily's series, along with a tin of The Clockmaker, I invite you to attend Steamposium 2017, where you can also sample this lovely new blend.

These will all be available in the Merchant Hall during Steamposium 2017.

To purchase the Clockwork Twist novels, please click here.
To purchase Clockmaker Tea, please click here.

Image: http://seattle-steamposium.com/

Data? What data ... ?

10/5/2017

I lost an entire book today. Well, sort of. When I tried to load a saved file of A Compilation of Echoes, I discovered that the folder it was in didn't exist anymore. Fortunately, I'd already published it!

I can reconstruct the entire book file by copying and pasting all of the poems in my series of smaller Echoes files, but I'm a tad frustrated that I would even have to. Such is the fate of this Cyberphobe.

According to William Arthur Ward, poet and author of often quoted inspirational maxims: "The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails."

Perhaps backing up my files with multiple devices might help. Ah, but I did that once. The data on my computer disappeared, and my backup device turned out to be corrupted. So, here I am again.

It’s almost enough to make me revert to keeping everything in my old Poetry box rather than trusting in digital media. Almost. As with this, my Weebly blog site, I’ve had to adjust my sails, so to speak.

I often feel an impulse to blurt out, “I’m a poet, not a techno nerd!” ala Bones in Star Trek I just want to get my thoughts out in front of me in some tangible form, so either I become a leadite, and revert to pencil and paper.

Or, I can go through the tedium of focusing on my backed-up files, making sure that everything is as it should be. For me, dealing with computers is like some reckless game of chance. Oh, what to do?

Well, tedium it is, I suppose. Better that than stop my writing, or opt for a lesser alternative. Were this a boat I would be doing all three: complain, expect it to change, and adjust my sails as need be.

Image: itp.net

Writing from my own experience ...

9/27/2017

Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde, popularly known as Oscar Wilde, who wrote plays, fiction, essays, and beautifully rich poetry, reportedly said, "Experience is one thing you cannot get for nothing.

Decades and decades ago, I purchased a full-dress drum set from an neighbor ... once he'd finally lowered the price substantially. I immediately set myself to learn all I could about playing drums.

I took an ever so brief introductory lesson from someone in a local shop that sold drums, and set about applying what he had shown me when I got home. Eventually, I was able to actually play them.

At some point, my technique became more or less automatic and I was able to let my hands and feet do the drumming more or less on their own while I sat there immersed within the syncopated rhythm.

That's when I got up and walked. My entire purpose in buying and learning to play my drum set was to experience that immersion so that I could write a poem about sitting there within the beats.

I applied this approach to learning to simultaneously play the piano and sing along with a tune, as well. Then I turned my attention to my guitar and did likewise. I did this mainly for those experiences.

Along the way, I developed a much deeper appreciation for music, and especially so for classical Music after I learned to play some short, simplified pieces. I was even able to compose a bit of music.

I had never actually intended to master any of these instruments, (this poet is more explorer than perfectionist), but I paid for these experiences with patience, time and a bit of ready cash, for poetry.

Image: vincentmars.com

A new opportunity for reading poetry ...

9/22/2017

I am pleased to announce that I have been invited as the Featured Author to help kick off the very first Poetry, Wine and Cheese event in Klipsan Beach on the Long Beach Peninsula in Washington.

Following a brief introduction, I will be reading some of my poetry, sharing a deeper understanding of my work, as well as relating the background of my involvement in rhyming metered verse.

Everyone in attendance is also invited to share and discuss their own work, or the work of their favorite writer. This open forum is intended as an ongoing arena for sharing and discussing poetry.

So, if you happen to be on the Long Beach Peninsula on September 27th, you are cordially welcome to join us for a glass of wine and a bit of cheese while we peruse some poetic works together.

Image: David Rigs

Running on empty here ...

9/16/2017

I started working on this post several days ago with a promising first line, followed by a fairly able second line, soon followed by my entire wave of thought dissolving into foam on the beach of my intent.

No matter what I did to regroup and begin again my words just kept falling like tatters of exhausted cloth into a bottomless shadow on the floor. Apparently, my muse decided, apologetically, not to play.

So, here I am with nothing to post. So be it. No big. I merely thought I'd mention it, save the page, post it and move on. Perhaps my muse will be more willing to work with me next week.

Although I keep a list of blog ideas on hand, many worked out to some degree and others merely noted, none of then were enough to entice even the whisper of interest to that which I call "my muse."

So, tata for now, See you next time.

The work must be lean ...

9/7/2017

Elmore Leonard, American novelist, screenwriter, and author of Get Shorty, said "I try to leave out the parts that people skip." Oh, for a device, or a sixth sense, that could predict those particular parts!

Every now and then, I take a fresh look at my work. What I'm looking for are things like, "Does my poem still measure up to my ideal?" or, "Could I have used a more perfect word or phrase there?"

I am doggedly deliberate about the words I choose, in concert with my muse. But, when I'm about to review a poem, especially an older piece that I haven't read in a while, I begin to feel apprehensive.

As with Mr. Leonard, I work hard to leave no extraneous bits in my work. Every part must be accounted for. The work must be lean, though fluid, and rigidly constructed, yet appear effortless.

Even so, I'll often second guess my ability to engage the reader, to hold their interest captive throughout, and to make as certain as I am able that the reader will find no reason to "skip" anything therein.

And, I have discovered that developing this habit of occasionally reappraising my work, regardless of how daunting it may feel, has rewarded me with insights which I might have easily missed.

I get to see from a distance how the intended mechanism of my work is functioning. The farther removed I am in time from its initial composition, the more clearly I can see what is or is not there.

I may elect to tweak the machinery a bit if needs be, or fine tune a cog here or there, but I am ever so elated if I find that my original intent has stood time well enough to pass the tests I apply to it.

I have been writing poetry for so long now, and I have gleaned much from my many mistakes. I may not be able to predict skippable parts, but perhaps due diligence can guard against them.

Image: http://nikichanel.com

Tried and failed ... and trying again ...

8/31/2017

Resilience is a natural outcome of sequential failures while striving towards an ultimate goal. Or, as Nikola Tesla famously said it, "I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work."

And, so have I, upon occasion. Fortunately, using digital media to type out my poems and blog posts saves me from having to frequently empty a garbage pail overflowing with waded up paper.

I’ve sometimes wondered just how high the heap would be in I had only availed myself of composing on disposable material instead, or how many bottles of correction fluid I might have emptied.

Recognizing failures and analyzing why they fail is key to growth. Losses can lead to success, eventually, providing one continues unabated at some point. Ah, but therein lies the precious key.

Growth requires patience and not a heavy, diligent hand. Whenever I encounter an impasse in my writing, especially one that really wracks my brain, I save it, close the program and walk away.

I have sometimes spent years on a poem, approaching it from a different angle, failing to resolve it, filing it away, and even rewriting it all over again. It feels like failure each time, but I keep at it.

Perhaps a piece requires room to germinate. Or could it be that I need to wait while my skills mature a bit more. Occasionally, I’ll read some excellent poetry to stimulate a broader scope of things.

Over these many years of writing rhyming, metered verse, I’ve learned to recognize when it’s simply time to stop. I do this out of respect for the piece rather than rushing it into a finished form.

Failing is generally part and parcel of achieving just about anything we hope to accomplish well. So excuse me while I pick myself up, dust myself off, and have another go at another poem.

Image: huffingtonpost.co.uk

Time to look myself in the I ... again.

8/24/2017

Decades ago, I had a brief brush with esotericisism. One proponent of that philosophical doctrine was P.D. Ouspensky, who postulated that we are each a collection of situationally dependent "I's."

For instance if you ask me today to help you move on Saturday, I would probably, and magnanimously, say, "Sure. I'll help you." But on Saturday, I might chide myself with, "What was I thinking?"

An interesting premise.

So, what would happen, I wonder, it I arrived at my friends location on the appointed day and declared that the wrong Janice had agreed to help out ... not the Janice who showed up, and wants to leave?

This doesn't quite work in real-world situations. Instead, if we find ourselves disinclined to help after all, we might offer tedious excuses, or simply not show up at all. Each of these options is disingenuous.

The same can be said of maintaining of blog, i.e., when the "I" which loves writing these posts is not in sync with the "I" which must be goaded up to the keyboard because my ideas are lurking elsewhere.

So, having boxed myself into a weekly blog schedule, the words, "What was I thinking?" frequently come to mind. However, knowing that my muse will eventually show up, this "I" will bide awhile.

And sure enough, voila! Another blog post emerges. For me, my multiple "I's" (if you accept this concept) tend to cycle around a bit, and I need only wait for the correct "I" to take its turn. No problem.

Image: momtastic.com

Free!!! My Echoes eBook is FREE!!!

8/16/2017

As I mentioned in my most recent blog post, the eBook of my first book of poetry, Echoes, Neo-Victorian Poetry, is FREE for download today and tomorrow ....... August 18th and 19th! .......

This book was 50 years in the making, so to speak, and it is my honor to offer you this free two-day giveaway. Simply click here for your FREE copy.

In this collection of my rhyming, metered verse you may decide to linger a while in Johnny's tavern, or experience a terrible shipwreck in 1739.

Replete with imagery, romance, and adventure, these poems are stories, intended to be experienced in your own time, in your own way.

Why not head on over to Amazon.com today or tomorrow and download your FREE e-Book of Echoes, Neo-Victorian Poetry by clicking here. Enjoy!

Image: Janice T

A short dissertation on "Show don't tell."

8/10/2017

Show, don't tell, is a technique of writing which lets the reader experience a story through action, thoughts, senses, and feelings rather than through exposition, summarization, and description.

During my adolescent years, one of my favorite authors was William Sydney Porter, who went by the pen name O'Henry. I loved his almost rather expert show, don't tell style of writing.

For example, my all-time favorite O'Henry sentence occurs when his main protagonist, Jeff Peters, introduces his friend, Andy Tucker, by way of the man's singular character trait:

"Whenever he saw a dollar in another man's hand he took it as a personal grudge, if he couldn't get it any other way." The Octopus Marooned.

In another example of Show, don't tell, Anton Chekhov writes, "Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass."

And, in The Long Goodbye, Raymond Chandler illustrates the utter boredom of Philip Marlowe thusly: "Mostly I was killing time," he said, "and it died hard."

This technique is elemental to much of my poetry, especially when my aim is to envelop the reader in the ambiance of a piece, and serves as a handy short cut approach to the reader's imagination.

There it is: show, don't tell.

On a side note ... FREE DAY ... FREE DAY ... on August 18th and 19th my eBook, Echoes, Neo-Victorian Poetry, will be free for download on Amazon.com. Enjoy!!!

Image: http://www.chartvalley.com

Inadvertent success with ... love !!!

7/26/2017

A few years ago, while attending a writer’s conference, I decided to participate in a poetry workshop. I had apprehensions that I might be the only rhymer in the room, and ... actually, I was correct.

I soon realized that those who were leading these sessions were primarily advocating writing in prose form. Even so, I decided to stay with it … it was, after all, advertised as a “poetry” workshop.

During the course of that workshop, each of us was invited to read our poems at the podium. After we’d read our works, these professionals would then discuss and appraise our poems.

So, I selected a few of my favorite pieces to read aloud. Each day we listened, each day we read, and each day the teachers did their best to evaluate what we had presented right then and there.

As the days went on the instructors became perplexed by my style, noting that my poems began at one point, ascended in an arc, and ended perfectly. “That’s really hard to do,” they responded.

The final poem that I read to the room was “My Heart Upon A Loom.” At the far end of that room sat my family. I approached the dais, read the poem, and then quietly retook my seat

Then, they began their assessment of my poem by asserting and repeatedly insisting that one simply cannot use the word love over and over in a single poem. Meanwhile, my family sat there, aghast.

Because, nowhere, in that love poem, had I once used the word love! It simply wasn't there! I suddenly realized that I had managed to convey the essence, the ambiance of “love” clandestinely.

I listened to the teachers and nodded politely while my family snickered as quietly as they could manage. I was ecstatic with their inadvertent validation, but I said nothing in response to them.

To quote Napoleon Bonaparte, "Never interrupt your enemy when he's making a mistake."

No, they were not my enemy, per se, but they were so locked into prose that they couldn’t really evaluate what I had done, poetically. I thanked them and excited that room a very, very happy poet.

Here is that final poem which I read aloud:

My Heart Upon A Loom
My heart upon a loom,
Each woven cord revealing
An incidence of you;
It's you who do the weaving.
Though guarded I this heart
'Neath coolest countenance
You took a gentler part
Than I could guard against.
My heart upon a loom
Which many years lay barren
And I seemed long unmoved;
Thus, uncompleted therein.
You took a crimson strand
Against my warning eye.
With patient, agile hand
You wove away the lie.
My heart upon a loom.
Now row by row a passion
By which I am consumed
Within this frame is fashioned.
A woolen cloak we weave
To keep us from such cold
As loneliness can breed
When maids and men grow old.

Image: http://pureheartllc.com

Now ... where is my Onomasticon?

7/11/2017

During one of his standup routines, Steven Wright - comedian, actor, writer, and Oscar-winning film producer - asked rhetorically, “What’s another word for Thesaurus?” I love his keen sense of irony.

Thesaurus: the book one turns to when one needs to know, “What’s another word for …”

When I finally stopped laughing I looked up thesaurus in my Thesaurus. What I found was: onomasticon! If I had heard this word out of context I probably would have envisioned dinosaur.

One of the things I love about the English language is how wieldable and pliable it is, especially so regarding irony. Some of my darkest works have benefited from the inclusion of an ironic ending.

So, what exactly is irony? According to dictionary.com it is "an outcome of events contrary to what was, or might have, happened." It’s that humorous ending of a joke known as the punchline.

As to the Thesaurus, I relied heavily on mine when I began to write poetry at age eleven in order to boost my eloquence, but as my vocabulary grew I found myself referring to it less and less often.

Now, if I sit with an idea long enough, specific words rise up to meet it, to commune with my thoughts, working together, ferreting out exactly what I want to say, as my eyes begin to glaze, entranced.

I keep my Onomasticon handy for those events when I want to be sure that the word I’ve chosen is what I think it is in its broadest sense. It is still easier than I’d like to admit to be mistaken.

Oh, but I do so love words! They are my favorite toys.

Image: http://exilebibliophile.blogspot.com ... 'Bookworm' painting by Carl Spitzweg

Solarpunk Gauguin, and so much more.

7/6/2017

A few years ago, I shared a table with the author of the Clockwork Twist adventure series, Emily Thompson, where we signed and sold our books side by side. It was then that I became acquainted with the other writers in what was to become known as Author’s Row.

Later that year I was invited by the Clockwork Alchemy authors to participate in a new Steampunk anthology, to be titled 12 Hours Later: Twenty Four Tales of Myth and Mystery, containing stories, (or poems), each cleaved in two and finishing 12 hours later.

The following year, I participated in their second Steampunk anthology, titled 30 Days Later: Steaming Forward: 30 Adventures in Time, which followed the same design of bisected stories, (or poems), and included many of the authors of 12 Hours Later.

Most recently, they have produced a third Steampunk anthology, titled Some Time Later: Fantastic Voyages Through Alternate Worlds. I’d never written an alternate history poem before, nor read such works, so it took me a while to wrap my head around it.

Via email and whatnot, I and the other writers were able to gather the gist of each volume as they were being proposed and designed, which helped us to focus on the collectively agreed upon theme. In this latest book, the theme involved composing an alternate history.

I might have been feeling rather snarky the day I threw my idea their way, typing something about an alternate history involving Gauguin in Tahiti. As I happen to be a fan of Solarpunk, I began by trying to imagine a Solarpunk Tahiti. What is Solarpunk you ask?

“Solarpunk is a genre of Speculative Fiction that focuses on craftsmanship, community, and technology powered by renewable energy, wrapped up in a coating of Art Nouveau drawings. http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/SolarPunk

It’s the visual aspects of Solarpunk which attract me to this genre, and for some reason the notion of Gauguin, Tahiti, and rewriting his history sprang to fruition. Mind you, I’ve never much admired Gauguin’s Tahitian works, nor Gauguin himself, but I went for it.

I knew his story, or so I thought, until I embarked on a deeper investigation into his life and times. Through this research I began to see a different man that the one I had envisioned, and I eventually came to think much more kindly of him, (not so much for his art).

And so was born my contribution to Some Time Later. If you’re already a fan of alternate history, (or if I’ve perhaps peaked your interest in it), I invite you to grab a copy of Some Time Later: Fantastic Voyages Through Alternate Worlds. It’s a really fun read.

This latest volume includes my poem: Solarpunk Gauguin. Enjoy!

Image: Steve Collis