An Ode to Twitter
It was a losing proposition,
a fruitless quest,
the idea of avoiding
this Twitter Fest.
All along she took pride
in the written word,
but now she scuttles
and coughs out curds.
When it's all said and done,
and done some more,
it really doesn't matter
what it's all for.
Whether the prose is lilting
or full of wind,
the words go forth
and she has sinned.
She does know better
than to never, say never
So, Aye to Twitter
and best not be bitter.
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Tonight I dream the dream
of innocence, of life
once lived without blogging.
The evenings in which
I spent, stretched out
with a book on my belly.
And now I sit in a chair
upright yet, somewhat slouched
immersed in words of my own making.
It is a new chapter
at best, challenging me
at worst, an addiction.
Sometimes the growth burns
an intensity, that glows
deep in my primal lava.
This writing life so
all consuming, myriad moments
fueling a rapturous thirst I cannot quench...
********************
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The skin is different now
softer, lacking youthful carelessness
more hillocks, less firm flesh
yet it is hers, she owns it.
There are the dark days,
when she feels betrayed
her stomach, lying there
as if a flaccid wound.
But then, it shifts
and the soft skin
feels comforting and full,
a pillow for a lover's head.
Metallic pants that thrust
her lushness upward
like a muffin top
do not tempt her.
She is not young
or old, quite yet
hers, not a life bound
nor wasted on midriff malaise.
Poem by JCK
**************
Photo Credit: Woman in waves painting courtesy of Google Images
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Looking out at the winter landscape
greys and deep greens
poetry lives here, in this place
whispered through the trees.
A vision of lush, yellow lemons
cool raindrops...dangling,
a bluebird's screech and
an explosion of crisp, white flowers.
Our hot foreheads have been kissed
by the rain....
Tomorrow a vision of blue sky,
the birth of verdant hills,
mountains dusted by snow
and air clean enough to devour...
*************************
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I got some frustrating news today. I've gotten conflicting answers from other bloggers on whether putting a poem or a book chapter on one's blog is considered "publishing." I decided to take it to one of the experts on the Writer's Digest site.
JCK : Is a poem considered published if it appears on a personal blog? Hi. I have heard various answers on this question, and thought it would be good to come directly to the source - editors of WD. I have recently begun submitting my poetry to magazines. I notice that some of them say that they cannot accept anything that has been published online in any form. Does this mean that if it appeared on a personal blog (small readership, but no password to enter), that it is considered published? Or are they referring to it appearing in an online form within another literary journal/magazine?
I also have several friends who are writing novels and posting sections/chapters of them on their blogs for reader feedback.
If the answer is YES, that poetry/prose appearing on a personal blog is considered published, I guess this means that I would have to consider self-publishing the work that I've already posted?
Answer:
By and large, the answer is "Yes." Published means only that a given piece of work has, in any form, been made available to the general public. But it isn't about legal definitions. Editors of magazines do not usually want work that the readers of the magazine may already have read somewhere else. Why would they?
Posting a chapter or two of a novel is not the same thing as posting a complete novel, a complete poem, or a complete short story.
At the same time, be smart. Post things that have already been sold and published, not things you want to have published in the future.
********************
I guess I'm not completely surprised by this answer, as I knew it was a possibility, but I am incredibly disappointed. I've worked very hard on my poems here, and it saddens me no end to think that they will die on my blog. Unless I create chap books or self-publish...
At this point, I will not be sharing the poems on my blog any longer that I want to submit for publishing consideration. Thanks SO MUCH to all of you for your support of my poetry and writing.
Published is Published!
If anyone can share any stories of publications that do accept work that has appeared online on a blog, previously, please leave a note in the comments.
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The Boy with Two Dolls
He was a round cheeked child
soft of face and form
a mass of brown waves
covering the top of his head.
He carried two dolls
a boy and a girl,
clutched tightly in
his small hands.
It was show-and-tell
and what he wanted
was to share the two dolls
that he loved most.
His mother standing near
a hand resting gently
on his shoulder,
saying, this is my son.
She, honoring him
who he is
his very essence
so safe in her love.
***Note: The inspiration for this poem came from seeing a little boy and his mom this week at BOY & GIRL's school.
****"Iron Essence 2" Painting by Chuck Gumpert.
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When I first envisioned my blog, I thought it would be a wonderful place to document the lively antics of my children, and where I could describe the parenting challenges that are around every bend in the road. For a while, that worked. And it still works, but it also morphed into something else. Sometimes I write poetry. I am known to curse and to occasionally express thoughts that are sexually provocative. I am passionate about many things. All of which I love to write about, including politics. There have been moments in time, where I questioned the fulfillment of being a stay-at-home mom, and wondered where my "self" had gone. Mothering is bloody hard work, and there are extreme highs and lows, as well as lots of days in-between in which you can feel as if you are flat lining. Much of the time I am blessed with positive feelings about my life. Yet, how boring and unnatural would our lives be if we only expressed ourselves in tidy, neat splashes of yellow and pink. I like to color outside the lines of propriety.
All of this is me, and I don't know how to be any different. Nor, do I want to. One of the lovely things about getting older is that you feel a certain freedom to be yourself. Even if people don't like you or what you write. Perhaps your audience thinks they know you, and you write something that appals them. It was not your intent. But, should you then change your writing to suit your audience? To avoid making people uncomfortable? I don't think so. Everyone has their own unique voice and that is what draws us in, isn't it?
If I spend too much time worrying about whether people will like what I write, or whether I will offend someone with a particular subject, I would never be able to write here at all. The page would remain blank, and I would be living in fear.
I made a deal with myself when I created this space. The deal is this... I don't want to self-censor. I have to be authentic. I cannot write to please other people. That is not why I am here. Nor do I take pleasure in disgusting anyone. What I do love is the sight of the naked page, the feel of the keyboard under my fingertips, and catching the words as they free fall into sentences.
Erica Jong says it best:
As a writer, we need permission to avoid being the good girl, to go against societal brainwashing and the inner censorship we impose on ourselves.
The inner self of a writer, the self destined to live beyond the flesh, is not always visible in the writer's daily life. But the writer's true voice, once discovered, is congruent with the writer's soul. This voice is what all writers seek, and a very few find - to raise a cry that is integral with one's soul.
Here is the paradox of writing. You can't hide behind words. What and who you are shines forth on every page - whether you pretend objectivity or not. You strip down to the essential self.
***Painting courtesy of Google images
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We pray for the children who put chocolate fingers on everything, who love to be tickled, who stomp in puddles and ruin new pants, who eat candy before supper and who can never find their shoes in the morning.
And we also pray for those who stare at photographers from behind barbed wire, who have never bound down the street in a new pair of shoes, who never played "one potato, two potato," and who are born in places that we would not be caught dead in and they will be.
We pray for the children who give us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions, who sleep with their dog and who bury their goldfish, who hug us so tightly and who forget their lunch money, who squeeze toothpaste all over the sink, who watch their fathers shave, and who slurp their soup.
And we pray for those who will never get dessert, who have no favorite blanket to drag around behind them, who watch their fathers suffer, who cannot find any bread to steal, who do not have any rooms to clean up, whose pictures are on milk cartons instead of on dressers, and whose monsters are real.
We pray for the children who spend all their allowance by Tuesday, who pick at their food, who love ghost stories, who shove their dirty clothes under the bed and never rinse the bathtub, who love visits from the Tooth Fairy, even after they find out who it really is, who do not like to be kissed in front of the school bus, and who squirm during services.
And we also pray for those children whose nightmares occur in the daytime, who will eat anything, who have never seen a dentist, who are not spoiled by anyone, who go to bed hungry and wake up hungry, who live and move and have no address.
We pray for those children who like to be carried and for those children who have to be carried, for those who give up and for those who never give up, for those who will grab the hand of anyone kind enough to offer it and for those who find no hand to grab.
For all these children, we pray today, for they are all so precious.
Children's Prayers by Ina J. Hughs
*******************
Note: This poem was in our liturgy at church today. I just loved it. There are, apparently, several versions. The only information I can find on Ina J. Hughs is that she was/is an American Schoolteacher.
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I sit perched on a school bench,
the tinkling sound of water
dripping on a tilled garden,
planted with small hands.
We have seen much here...
days frolicking in mud
well loved songs and room jobs
art work with glue, pom poms, and glitter.
Change is upon us,
the blessing of anger,
creating opportunity for
a new kaleidescope of color.
My stomach clenches
with old fears unspoken
cloaked in the self-deception of
them not knowing anything else.
But there will be...
other easels to paint on,
different structures to climb,
and the planting of new roots.
An opportunity ahead
for each of my children
to be flying solo
in their own classroom.
We will soon be gone
from this place
the destinations & pick-ups
no longer mapped here.
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