Who Reads Poetry?
Castles and Thrones
How do dreams bare
When night devours day?
We’re made of pure souls,
Wrapped in flesh and bones;
If glory is all that we aim,
Do we wait ‘til light ascends?
When dewdrops fall like tears
And earth is quenched again.
Our ends we plot on thin leaves,
When torn we replace once more;
But what is well than native fervor:
Like vines that crawl up on walls,
Like tinted lights past stained glass.
Deprived egos are nurtured fine
When devised maps are left behind;
We soar in winds beyond the skyline
Where dark never begets repose
And rest doesn’t prompt a life lost;
We carve our names on wood and steel,
But time decays even the resilient seal.
We hold not the hands of the clock,
In winning we endure, in lack never stop;
If all we’ve learned has been used
And futile residue is all that’s left,
Do we crash and burn for our loss?
But we take refuge in waking sleep—
There we build unconquerable castles,
On thrones we dwell and dream free.
Anatomy Of A Writer: In The Beginning
What makes a writer? Is there such phenomenon as "born with the talent". I guess Ernest Hemingway will say, "NO, there is no such kind". There are just willingness and guts. In birth and death everyone is equal, no one is born with a fountain pen in his tiny hands; in life we all learn to learn to how. It doesn't matter what you learn, but how you make use of your learning. And I'm telling you, you don't learn how to be epic in school, you learn that after school (I don't mean the time after the school bell rings). I can't tell you how to be epic because I'm still trying to figure that one out. If I could dissect a great writer into pieces, it's going to be Stephen King, Hemingway, Coelho, or C. Joybell C. I would like to know what a writer's heart looks like, how are his kidneys different from normal people, or if his brains are edible, stuff like that. You know I'm just kidding here and I don't have any intention of slaying anyone, I like the word "slaying" there; much classic than "killing". Now, going back: Anatomy. In health that's the study of the body parts. In writing, that's defining what a writer is. Who am I to make such definition? I'm a writer (boy, have I told you I'm a nurse?). And you can make your own anatomy too.
"Write one true sentence", the legendary Hemingway said. I was stunned when I first learned those lines, like "Are you personally talking to me, Ernest?" And so I never stopped reading the tips for writers I got somewhere in the web. I felt like one, and I baptized myself as one when I stumbled upon Stephen King's "On Writing" (damn! I should have read this ten years ago!). What did he exactly mean with one true sentence? I guess it depends with the way you take it. I take it as a reminder that a writer doesn't need to start with an atomic line filled with adjectives and adverbs (Stephen King hate these two). You can begin with, "I killed my neighbor's cat last night". Now, that's truer compared to: "She was the queen of the prom night, slowly walking towards me". And so? Who cares about the prom night queen? I will probably read more why the cat was killed. How good are you? It doesn't matter how you appear to the third guy in line in Dunkin Donuts. It doesn't matter how your boss looks at you when you topped the monthly grammar test. What matters is how you look at yourself? I'm good. I'm not good. I think I'm in between. You should tell it to yourself everyday and it will make a lot of difference. I totally like "I'm good". There's no law I know that prevents self-proclamation of your goodness, so go ahead and claim the throne you made for yourself: you are a writer and you are good. Now, all you have to do is prove it.
"Explore and expose yourself". That's a whole lot opposite to what you're thinking like touching yourself in the subway. When you know what you want, it's not hard for you to decide which way you should go. I learned about my poetic side when I was twelve. I didn't know it was special until I read the poems of Shakespeare and Kipling. Those men were dead, but they were great, people read them and try to be like them. I, too, tried to write like them. Shakespeare was deep. He was like a glittering pool that looked fine and once you dived in, you learned how deep it was, so deep you can't touch the bottom. I was like that in Merchant of Venice, Act IV, Scene I when I first read it. I was twelve and quality of mercy was like Math to me. I settled to Joyce Kilmer's Trees. Years later, when my poetic self came back to it's senses (that was in 2013) I read that part of Merchant again and it was a clear, blue pool. Shakespeare was still deep, but I learned how to float. I'd like to convince you I know how to comprehend Shakespeare with my favorite line: It blesseth him, he that gives and he that takes. Exploration could also mean becoming better. Better than what? Better than the previous you, forget about 'better than your neighbor or Neruda'. Just be better. I used to think my poems and essays are superb they'll qualify for Nobel Prize. I read our 2002 World Almanac stuck in the cabinet and flipped the pages to find the list of Nobel Prize winners for literature. I wondered how will I ever end up in the list, even just as nominee. I guess it's too grand for me. (Well, I just learned in order to be eligible for the Prize you must be nominated by qualified persons). I won't dwell on this topic. So, going back to becoming better, please and always never compare your good self to others. I know what it feels, I think you know too. It's sickening to know that your brainless cheerleader back in high school is now a big time entrepreneur. Let them win. Give them the glory. Yours and mine is way different. I'd like to think my winning moment will stain history, the finest stain ever. And then the ironic things: My neighbors will recall how I looked like when I was eating spaghetti at their child's birthday party. My batch mates will take out their year books and find my name. The people who didn't believe...no...I don't hold grudges, so that's not continued.
Don't explore alone. Sometimes you may need a company. Someone who knows what you do and someone who gets plums deify. Someone who dances to Vivaldi and raps like Wiz Khalifa at some random moments. You may take Dora as an example (I'm not a fan). You never see her explore all alone. She's either with her monkey or Diego or some kids. Discovering your writing potential should not always be kept in the four corners of your room. You may send copies of your draft novel to your best friend. And tell her not to be friendly with feedback. My best friend always believed in me. I once told her I'm gonna give her a copy of my this-is-my-life-story thing that I typed for days. I was too confident it will become bestseller someday. The file ended up in the recycle bin after I read it. It was too dramatic. I even cried while tapping the keyboard in one chapter where I narrated how my cat died. That wasn't me. That was me who wanted to impress others. A writer writes because it satiates him. When I was writing my this-is-my-life-story crap I was thinking of the bigger picture, that it should generate me success, then I was just as worse as the last file I deleted. I realized that time I was reading Eat.Pray.Love, was I trying to be Elizabeth Gilbert? I guess I was. We are copycats. All of us. We try to mirror others hoping we can be like them, so people will like us. I am learning to get out of that phase or whatever that is. Would it be great if you're known for being real? Yeah, duplicate keys fit, but that's still duplicate.
I have a few words on how a writer exposes himself. He reads a lot. He writes a lot. You don't learn grammar just by reading books, you practice it through writing your own sentences. And you don't tell me how beautiful Santorini is just by looking at a post card, you have to be there and experience what's beautiful.
anatomy of a writer
,
Hemingway
,
poem
,
poetry
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Shakespeare
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writer
,
writing
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I Tiptoed To Your Heart
I tiptoed to your
heart
and tweaked the
part
that held the main
pipe
where your Love
flowed
like a mad spout.
I took a cup and
filled
it to awesome
spills—
your Love dripped
from my hands
down to my feet.
Dear, you noticed
just now,
you asked why and
how
you had liters less
in amount.
Unaware you were
on your bed sleeping
sound—
I tiptoed to your
heart
and tweaked the
part
that held the main
pipe
where your Love
flowed
like a mad spout.
Written on December 23rd, 2013
Song to Apollo
I put my feet into fire red shoes,
four-inch high I stood with giggling toes.
In curve-hugging black lace I suited fine,
too good a dress it was—gold on my neck entwined;
‘twas a steel reptile that fed on my beating pulse.
The blood hue on my lips, a rival to plastic dolls;
the roses I offended, my scent stunned the night
and all its raptures, I walked fair and blithe.
To your castle I was bound, your keys I found;
knock was not a need—heels on stairs, that sound,
my arrival it meant—an invited thief on your midnight
blue, musk-bathed, you-scented sheets—we did fair fight,
and gladly we shared the spaces, we fell and rose.
No rules in love we had, but secrets told and proposed
between us, within me, beside you, we were the same
and different, at every end we met and we came;
we’re kids on hills searching for the highest top.
I found your eyes, your lips I trailed, spirits on rocks
we consumed, and stunned we were, unmoved by time.
We painted the night, our colors gushed—we sealed it tight
in locked hands, on paper scripted my name new.
Too many hours ahead us, stepping fast, left a few;
all few we wasted and deified—on our wrists confined
time that’s wealth, we spent well ‘til clocks whined,
and gods complained on our feat, demigods prayed defeat
for us, but they found no heaven to look up to, no street
for their sculpture parade, their scented ropes broke.
We are but safe in day or sleep, no words made us choke;
when words were from their mouths and their mock truth.
They didn’t stain our love, only we grew full and proof.
Written on January 4th, 2014
In Greece
Under the Greek sun
we melted like the fire died
in the tangerine horizon.
We are the waves and skies,
we complied and wedded,
and tied the hearts we fated
for us two—ending never
as the castles bathed in white
stood in hundred summers.
There was no finer blue,
but the sea in your eyes.
There was no rival I knew
to the warm sand drenched
on your bronze skin—you divined
never what the wind sang to me,
and I wrote the song on the sheets.
You are mine and love we redefined,
we rained on the sleeping sea.
Our waves haunted the cliffs high.
Ebbed and flowed forever the
tides
when the ocean tried to kiss the sky.
Written on December 27th, 2013
Edited on January 6th 2014
A Year With Miss Zee
Fourth grade was for me a year
Of skinny boys and we, just girls;
And the boys they took their shirts
Off their bony chest, glad and flirt—
They turned Miss Zee’s table
To a stage, oh! they were able
To fit on top; nobody dropped
A step or a foot and they danced
To the songs of late three o’clock.
When Zee was gone for a coffee
Or some chat with the other Misses,
Lem would lead his gang of three
Or four to the table top, or beneath
The sink where it was night dark;
And out came of Red’s pocket
His magic stones he bragged
Could light up like a rocket.
One, two and three, he struck,
He rubbed them and out
Came a spark and shouts
And hoorays— now let me
Tell you some old history,
The toilet room has a story;
How we, just girls, screamed
At Lem and his gang’s scheme.
Yes, they had a chance at girls
In the topless room, May sat
On the bowl like a princess,
She let out her excess and
Out came a shriek of a cat—
Oh, May was that girl cat;
And we watched them,
On the wall climbed Lem,
In the tiny hole was Red,
Mond with his dirty head
Laughed and proud, he said
“This time she had pink!”
Then out of the cubicle
May frowned and giggled,
Out of the room she stomped,
Her pigtails happily jumped;
Oh, I bet they were happy
Lem liked her when she’s lippy,
And he called her honey;
Sure the toilet has a story.
We, just girls, we had our worries:
This crook boy named Stavi,
I branded myself unlucky,
Stavi boy sat just behind me.
Well, next to me I had Daphne,
She too hated the daily gusts
Of the taxing wont Stavi did to us.
A coin a day to him, pressed, we gave
A jerk he was, a true-blue knave,
He suited his look, he fit his name
Well, and his scrawl on the paper
He stole from Daphne’s plenty pads
That she hid so well in her trolley bag.
To his sneer, we, just girls, were hosts,
His fist he’d show us and he cursed.
I bet his father did too and so he aped
Like a fool, he thought he was a chief thug;
In the movies he saw their vaunts and mugs.
A third class in a liner, in Miss Zee’s class
Third-rate, the speech figures he couldn’t pass.
“Any simile, Stavi?”, Miss asked, dazed he was;
“Stav was as foul as a rat”, said my head.
Simile for a boy, metaphor for a rat, I read
The speech in my head he didn’t find—
Oh, I could’ve clapped and Daphne laughed;
One day he just stopped, he never came back.
Sure, we, just girls, we had our worries.
Miss Zee loved it when we just write
And she’d sit in front and ‘twas quiet.
On the board she taped the manilas
Of endless verbs, present, future, past.
The tenses if they could’ve fussed,
Why put was still put and sit was sat;
Nobody did knew, nobody asked,
So Miss left, for a coffee I bet, or a chat.
Then out of quietude someone spoke,
That was Gary and loudly he proposed,
“A writing race for everyone with a pen!”
And the race started not in a count of ten,
But ready, set and go, dashed to and fro
Our busy hands, jotted words hopped,
The letters ran and the commas jumped.
The point to my i’s they flew so high
And sometimes they were left behind,
So they got stuck inside big O or little p
And I didn’t help, poor dot was never free
From the letter cage; for the race was on.
It went on and Gary neared the end line;
Ruthie, she was fast too like her strides,
Her bottoms they pouted as red lips did,
She duck-walked only that she had speed.
I rushed, my words illegible, I was fallible,
I erred with some words too, I spelled wrong;
And no rubber strawberry could improve.
Still leads had rubber heads so you’d remove
The ugly marks of a stick figure on the bond.
“Finished!”, said a voice, Gary this time he won,
Just in time I dotted my last line and just second;
Then a choir of champ word crammed the room.
Some boy rang the bell, how we raced that noon
Was a story, we did a history Miss Zee didn’t see.
Well, we had days with her when we jellied
Some juicy yellow fruit, a pineapple indeed!
And I brought home my part, a jarful of it,
I bragged I did a lot to it so it was real sweet.
The jelly was my recipe I shared to Miss Zee,
Well, she grouped us actually and we cooked
Like in the book, but some we did off the hook.
Fresh it required, in the market we couldn’t find
A just-picked fruit, so we dealt with the other kind;
Pineapples in cans we acquired, sugared it on fire,
‘Til next year it wouldn’t expire so we were fine;
The tin can said the pineapples sure will survive.
Miss didn’t care if we had canned and she smiled
When she had a taste of it, our jelly fruit paradise.
Oh, the boys too had days, their raw noodle plays;
They made Miss try and she liked it too, the noodle
Should be cooked, it seemed Mond knew a little,
Oh, I bet he knew a lot that he learned to try new—
A pack they opened and cracked went the noodles
In their hungry mouths, the seasoning they passed
Like test papers to the side, to the front and back,
And Miss wondered what the taste was like:
Some strips she took from Lem and surprise!
“Just like chips”, she said, Miss Zee was right—
It need not cooked so the worth you’ll prove.
14th
of Feb we made cards as she told us to do,
“Your most loved, that card’s for”, said she;
And I thought who do I love, who did we?
Were they here or there, they were where?
On the card I wrote the name that it seemed
A name I knew so well, and sometimes I didn’t
Quite know how best she was and will still be;
Even so never once I said I was always grateful
Of the truths she taught me I didn’t find in school.
Yes, I didn’t find the softest pillows and blankets,
The crispiest fried chickens, the rainbow color bread.
All I didn’t find in school, but in our home she kept.
Always the safest place it was, though the door old
The walls grey, the rain dripped when it stormed,
From the aged roof waters leaked, but it was home.
So in the card I wrote, to Mama I spoke my heart,
I’d thank her everyday if I should again start.
You see, Miss Zee always loved to watch us write,
And the room was empty, and the noise expired;
Like Lem and his gang were never there, or Stavi
Didn’t kick our chairs, so we, girls, had no worries.
Sure, fourth grade was a story, we made history
We had a year with Miss Zee.
Written on January 7th, 2014
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