Tag Archives: art

Wonderful Neil Gaiman bit..

Nicholas Was. . . (A short ‘story’ of sorts from Neil Gaiman, from his collection Smoke and Mirrors)

older than sin, and his beard could grow no whiter. He wanted to die.

The dwarfish natives of the Arctic caverns did not speak his language, but conversed in their own, twittering tongue, conducted incomprehensibile rituals, when they were not actually working in the factories.

Once every year they forced him, sobbing and protesting, into Endless Night. During the journey he would stand near every child of the world, leave one of the dwarves’ invisible gifts by its bedside. The children slept, frozen in time.

He envied Prometheus and Loki, Sisyphus and Judas. His punishment was harsher.


* * *

What’s truly funny about this, is the year he wrote it Gaiman sent it out as his Christmas card. Ha!

It Lugs That Piano. . .

Pophap of the New Song (an excerpt from the poem by Norman Dubie)

It is of bread and water that people die.
The will-to-change
Lugs a piano on its back.
And retires, humid
At midnight with a glass of milk. It hits the sack.
This mover of objects down the stairs says there is
Only one piano in its life and it is black.

Writing Prompt: Word Grid Results

It’s a love-hate thing, some people find the use of ‘word grids’ and other cut-up methods to inspire writing very effective; others don’t. This is a result of my first stab at producing some kind of ‘prompt’ using a random home-brew method I briefly mentioned at the Writer’s Meeting this afternoon. I haven’t employed it yet, but rest assured once I do I’ll toss the results up.

I don’t know if anyone will find this useful, but just in case anyone is interested, here is what I ended-up with:

‘Sixty Minutes of Writing’ mini-project…

Give yourself 10 minutes for each poem. Afterward, spend only 2 minutes ‘revising’ each poem; this obviously isn’t intended as a ‘real’ revision, but a soon-after revisiting, of sorts, whatever.


(Narrative, 1st person)


(3rd person)







* * *

I know people hate the time restrictions, they’re the loosest of all, I just loved the idea of breaking it all down into an encapsulated hour of work, pound it all out, see what can be made of the results…chop all of it together to make one poem, 20 poems, one amazing stanza in some future poem..you know how it goes.

Greatly enjoyed the meeting today. Very nice to see Talia again, it’s been ages! Tom as well has been a stranger.

Have a great weekend, everyone.


To A Young Poet

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For the first twenty years you are still growing
Bodily that is: as a poet, of course,
You are not born yet. It's the next ten
You cut your teeth on to emerge smirking
For your brash courtship of the muse.
You will take seriously those first affairs
With young poems, but no attachments
Formed then but come to shame you,
When love has changed to a grave service
Of a cold queen.

From forty on
You learn from the sharp cuts and jags
Of poems that have come to pieces
In your crude hands how to assemble
With more skill the arbitrary parts
Of ode or sonnet, while time fosters
A new impulse to conceal your wounds
From her and from a bold public,
Given to pry.

You are old nowAs years reckon, but in that slowerWorld of the poet you are just comingTo sad manhood, knowing the smileOn her proud face is not for you.

R. S. Thomas

Corona, Killians, Sapporo, Oh My!

In my rambling fatigue, I completely forgot in my post last night I had fully intended to ramble on about the Notre Dame game last Saturday. I’m feeling too lazy to do so now, but to sum up…by far the most disappointing and least-entertaining game I’ve ever watched since beginning worship at the shrine of Touchdown Jesus. I’m excited about it as a new fan, and really really don’t want to suffer through anything resembling a ‘rebuilding year’.

I think Clausen is incredibly talented, and will indeed live up to the hype once he gets a couple college games under his belt, if even that long, as the few minutes he played at the end of the Georgia Tech game showed (to me at least) that he can handle the stress of a weak offensive line letting him get sacked. He didn’t seem rattled, and his passes were strong and accurate. Charlie Weis announced today he would indeed be starting for their game this Saturday at Penn State. I’m looking forward to the game, to see just how much Weis can tweak the offensive line into something resembling college-caliber, and give Clausen enough breathing room to show us he’s the QB everyone expects him to be.

Football ramble off.

Found out early this evening that the gaming studio I’m going to be blogging for had some investment money fall through and want me to work, at least for a while, for free. This is disappointing, not because I’m going to abandon the project, but because I’m ridiculously broke and the extra money would have proven extremely helpful. That and it would be nice to say I’m actually making money as a writer, even if only an extra $100/month. Oh well. The project is still fascinating to me and I’m excited to work on it.

I’m also looking forward to the Writer’s Meeting tomorrow night at the Oaken Bucket. I’ve yet to make one of the meetings there, and according to Charmi it sounds like there will be a solid turn out. Maybe I will finally meet the elusive Rachel, and once again enjoy some quality time with the group. Inspiration has been lacking lately, and these meetings always do a good job of jumps starting things a bit for me. I’m sure I’ll have fun while sucking down imported beer that I can’t really afford ;O)

And yes, I know I promised pictures of Hoosier. They are taken but not yet pulled from the camera. Soon, soon.

Oh Muse….

Return from your damnable vacation and give me some focus.

I truly feel for Rachel (who I have yet to met, but whose work I enjoy immensely, and would inform her of such if I could leave comments on her blog or knew her e-mail address. Hmrph.) in that she seems to be hitting the same type of “poet’s block” that I almost always suffer from — I can get in a couple of lines, sometimes even a stanza, before simply stopping. I have these ideas for little series, even, little clever ideas I want to form out but they just disappear. It feels, to me, exactly like trying to hold onto the remnants of a dream upon waking…and it the same fashion, the more I try to write, the harder I try to let myself mentally travel down roads of ideas, the more vain the attempt feels.

I can’t force it out, yet it doesn’t seem to want to ‘come’ to me either.

I’m laying out an open invitation to anyone who cares to respond: What do you do? How do you write? Some people need quiet reflective time, others want to be in the noisy thick of life, scrawling poems out on bar napkins. I’ve never discovered what I need to ‘do’. I have found, in classic form, and don’t laugh, that a bit of alcohol seems to help. Was this not the trick for so many? How many ‘old school’ poets drank themselves to death? Absinthe? Poe? Bueller? Bueller? But yes, a little fuzziness helps, it feels like it drops the gates a little…but I really despise the idea of becoming a writer who has to (insert here) in order to write. ‘Invoking the muse’ has always seemed like such a silly notion to me for some reason.

Sometimes I get obsessive over form, because it gives me focus…a way to funnel thought down, to get them going. I feel like I’ve only written anything ‘good’ when in one of my classes with David, where he was always throwing prompts at us by way of word banks, opening lines, etc…maybe I need to do more of that. Maybe not. I’m truly at a loss. So many writers speak of not being able to stop writing…I physically write very seldom but I think I do accomplish this same action mentally a great deal. Many of this little blips of poems appear to me constantly, but so often end up as nothing..whether because they go unwritten and then forgotten later, or they’re dropped because they’re garbage.

I’ve also wanted to do some prose poetry work….but it’s a hard concept for me. Every time I try, it ends up either becoming full prose or I break it apart until it’s a poem. I think my inability to really grasp it as a form is what makes it fascinating to me.

Alright, enough of that. See? When I can’t write a poem, I ramble about not being able to write a poem. Sorry you had to suffer that.