nymph

leaden words on your lips, white etching on the wood —
revile the wicked, beware your toes, they snap in the shadows —
nonsense, your voice drips. dips. regard the good.
don’t you see the cream spotting the path? the moss
is dappled in sun, veiled in virtue.
my feet sink into the dirt. but the etching on the wood —
revile the wicked, beware your toes, they snap in the shadows —
I curl my fingers against the bark. a nymph.
I find myself catching a glimpse
of green eyes in green leaves. let her be, your voice lifts.
she will not hurt you. here, a kiss will set your ease.
what is wicked is not to be believed.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

I’m Not Related

I’m not related to that dinosaur,
though I saw him sitting on my porch,
like he was my blood-born uncle.
That leather-skinned bigot
stole my place settings.
See, I was going to make a nice table,
and I had a roast in the oven.
I would have invited him too —
out of courtesy, of course —
but he left scratch marks in the wood
and now there aren’t any plates left.
No respect, nowadays, he grunts,
like he’s been around the globe.
Around the globe? Around the years, maybe,
I think, but he hasn’t got a wit to show for it.
Now I’ll tell you again, I don’t know
what he did with my place settings,
and he isn’t allowed on my property anymore —
For God’s sake, I’m not related to that dinosaur.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

desironious

an un-word, reaped
before the oasis, sees
that palm tree shimmering
at your fingertips, you
want, but it’s not want —
you desire, but it’s too dire
for pleasantries, this is lust
but without the lovelies
it is desironious,
an un-word, reaped
at your bedside, some
nonsense that makes your
stomach cry, you hunger
but it is not to please —
you long so long that you
might cave in on your own
presumptions, because
you are desironious,
simply unceremonious,
not in the bit erroneous.

harmonious?
desironious.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

Nebulous

In being consumed by eternity I feel
light —
ah, but the dark matter grows so heavy,
you say,
the cosmos inconvenient, you complain
as if one cause can be
charted.
In the stars? In my heart
there is only this eternity; infinity
marks my inner being, but
that is insipid to claim,
you say.
I ask you — what is insipidity? When
I am filled with eternity?
How nebulous.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

look at me.

look at me.
oh god, why won’t you look at me?
i dreamt last night
that my words had wings that
carried you
was it to me?
it must have been further away.
still, i stay
and pray that you will
look at me.
oh god, why won’t you look at me?
if words have wings then
mine are three pigeons
flying in a a grey flock of
three thousand.
you can’t hear them squawk —
i lost them and now you won’t
look at me.
how can you hear something
that you can’t see?
oh god.
why
won’t
you
look
at
me?

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

The night mocks me.

The night mocks me. Do you
see it turning? Stars moving
across the sky, the moon at
the lead, all racing to hide
behind the horizon. They can
escape this when it’s done,
and then start anew.

A puff of air escapes my teeth.

They seem like a cowardly lot.
Always chasing the end
of the day or night, never
facing each other. I can’t
imagine why anyone
would pray to them.
They’re so inconstant.

A squinting voice. But they always
come back. Some people
might find comfort in that.

A palm cups my mouth. I
speak through fingers.

Stupid sky, stupid stars.
They watch us shrivel
into dust, thinking they’re
eternal. But I’ve seen stars
fall from the night, breaking
apart before they can ever
touch us. They’re not eternal.
And they die for nothing,
just like us.

A shadow closes my eyes.

I am not some people. See how
the night mocks me.

A squinting voice. Yes.

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

You can take back your cloak.

You can take back your cloak. It
is too big for me, and I don’t
like the way it smells.

No, it’s not you. Not your
smell. You smell like ash and
returning and sweat that beads
in the heat of a nightmare.
Your cloak smells like
the bottom of a pond, where
the fish sleep among dead,
curled fingers.

It was kind of you to lend
it to me. Your cloak.
It was warm but not too warm;
it felt like you. But it is
too loose around my shoulders, and
in that way it reminds me.
Of you, that is. And thinking back is cold,
far too cold.

You can take back your cloak. It
was never mine, but I suppose I
was never yours, was I?

© 2016 Stellular Scribe

 

 

How Writing Poetry Has Helped My Fiction

If you pop by my blog often, you might notice that I write a lot of poetry in my spare time. Like, a lot. I think the current count is at well over one hundred poems in just this past year. Lord, whatever you do, do not go back and look at the early stuff. I was fifteen and angsty and I don’t want to talk about it.

With this is mind, it might also surprise you to know that poetry really isn’t my forte. I spend many more hours of the night writing novels, elaborate stories, and all sorts of whimsical fictions.

I picked up poetry by accident.

I’ve been working on my current novel for about a year and a half now (slow and steady wins the race — right?), and about mid-way through it I got to a scene where my main character was supposed to overhear a stranger sing a song that he recognized.

I did the only thing I could do, and whipped out the ol’ rhyming dictionary.

Oh, it was garbage (I can say that now), but something about that shambled-together, trite, melodramatic song opened my eyes to the potential of poetry. That song added an entirely new, visceral dimension to my story: atmosphere, fluidity, voice, movement.

My writing as a whole felt strengthened, so I made it a habit of jotting down poems everyday. As I became more comfortable, I experimented with more forms, styles, and meters. I abandoned a rhyme scheme; I rhymed religiously. I did away with punctuation and capitalization; I carefully molded each section of each sentence.

I know that to some people, poetry can seem scary. It feels like an entirely foreign, much more formidable beast than pure prose.

But I’m here to tell you that poetry really isn’t that different, and writing a little on the side might even help your fiction.


1. Capturing distinct sensations and imagery.

Poetry can be written for many different reasons — but it almost always seeks to convey some sort of image, be it concrete or abstract. Fiction in and of itself is the consolidation of diverse images to create a storyline.

The more poetry I write, the easier I find it to procure similes and metaphors to illustrate objects, meanings, and sensations. The more poetry I write, the more readily I reach into synecdoche, metonymy, and onomatopoeia to personify and paint scenes.

Poetry forces you to discover sharper, more powerful images. In fact, there was an entire movement in the early 2oth century where “imagists” considered the image to be the most important aspect of the written language. William Carlos Williams was well know for his simplistic yet highly evocative poetry. For example, here’s his 1923 poem, “The Red Wheelbarrow.”

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

Now, take away the stanza structure and add some punctuation, and you’ve got a beautiful sentence that could strike color into any prose: “So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow, glazed with rainwater beside the white chickens.”

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2. Perfecting pacing. 

Whether you’re writing free verse or a meticulously metered sonnet, poetry is all about pacing. Every choice must be deliberate yet effortless — not too short, not too long, avoid superfluous words, and use just the right amount of description to get your image across.

When I write stories, I often have difficulty managing the pacing. Sometimes I’ll get so wrapped up in a plotline or a particular paragraph of characterization that the end result will be either too long, too dull, or too disjointed.

Poetry has taught me to let my writing breathe. Every word must have a purpose and serve to move the story forward.

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3. Balancing different emotions. 

I surprised myself with this one — I thought that I had my characters all figured out. I thought that they were well represented as emotionally complex individuals. I thought I was something special for creating such substantial individuals.

Yeah…then I started writing more poetry, and realized just how flat they actually fell.

I wrote poems — lots of small, un-extraordinary poems — that forced me to tap into emotions that I had never considered before. I truly experienced my characters through their eyes, and I delved into dark, unfathomable parts of their hearts and bright, mysterious places alike.

To give an example, here is a poem called “Wrecked” that I wrote over a year and a half ago:

They left me folded in sheets
of sand — wrapped in molding bandages
on the bed of the shore, with the surf
licking my frozen toes.
The gull who weeps for his friends
long dead is much like me — a nomad
with no name and no clan;
a roamer rejected by rose-ravished
words. Here I waste away,
repeatedly bitten by the wind’s sharpened
teeth — left to rot.

I discovered something intensely hopeless about the character this poem was written about. Something savage and vain, yet somehow wistful.

After this poem, I wrote that character anew — and for the better.

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4. Writing with the natural rhythm of speech. 

Rhythm is separate from pacing in that it deals with the fluidity, eloquence, and overall cadence of a piece of writing. In poetry, some semblance of rhythm is almost unavoidable. The same should be said for fiction and other forms of prose.

While you shouldn’t always write “how you talk”, you should always write with the rhythm of speech in mind. What I love about poetry is that it is intended to be read aloud, and therefore must have a certain “flow” about it that cooperates with the voice.

Simply put, the more poetry you write, the more fluently you will consider the world around you and your subject matter at hand. You’ll find your own unique rhythm!

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5. Committing. 

Maybe this is just me, but poetry actually inspired me to write more prose.

I got on a schedule of writing poetry, becoming overcome by a deep impulse to translate my newly realized emotions, sensations, and images into fiction, and buckling down to work on a story.

I’m by no means a poetry connoisseur. I’m also nowhere near being a fully functioning, organized member of society.

But somehow, poetry made me commit. And I will forever be grateful because of it.

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So, what are your thoughts? Do you write poetry? Fiction? Do you find any meaningful connection between the two forms?

Thanks, and happy writing! 🙂

© 2016 Stellular Scribe