For Writers Only

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#bringingbacktheglosa, Alain C. Dexter, authenticity, chasing markets, discipline, Elaine Stirling, Emily Dickinson, glosa, medieval Spanish form poetry, writer's craft

Superiority to fate
Is difficult to learn.
‘T is not conferred by any,
But possible to earn

A pittance at a time,
Until, to her surprise,
The soul with strict economy
Subsists till Paradise.

—Emily Dickinson (#1081)

~~~

“The art is not the person,”
says a writer I adore
as much for his career
as what he pens in crevices
between celebrity. It’s hard to take
oneself un-serious at every turn
and still enchant, and not keep
fan-slaves penned out back, whipped
to not admit your writing’s fit to burn.
Superiority to fate is difficult to learn.

Today is garbage day, so I’ve thrown
out a metaphor gone saggy at the knees:
the one about reflections—I’m a mirror,
you’re a mirror, everywhere a mirror,
mirror—fairest, squarest, cock-a-doodle—
worst excuse there is for taciturn
refusal to let go of people,
places, memories that grind you down.
The healthy, gorgeous self discerns;
‘tis not conferred by any, but possible to earn.

I knew this guy shortlisted
for a Pulitzer who spent his days,
not writing but elbowing those, like me,
who didn’t care much for his work.
He didn’t win; contracts dried up
and so did he—before my eyes,
from plum to prune he shriveled. Chasing
markets, dangling your pretty bits are yard sales
of the pseudo-soul that, masquerading, dies
a pittance at a time, until to her surprise

she learns she never had to try
so hard, except—oh, damn!—the writer’s dead.
Your option, if you’re serious and not
just putzing for applause is to die alive
to expectation of the muddled kind. Pay full
attention to determination to feel better. Size
up that in words—begin, if need be, with,
Once upon a time… “True enough” will
fast become your truth. From shining eyes
the soul with strict economy subsists till Paradise.

~~~

I’ve borrowed a two stanza verse from Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) to write a glosa, a poetry form that first appeared in the courts of medieval Spain. Strictly speaking, glosas originate from quatrains, but Emily’s work is far too electric to fall nicely into brick-shaped lines. So, I rearranged her eight to four, allowing that she often wrote on envelopes and curved around into margins, and probably wouldn’t mind.

If the glosa form intrigues you, you can find a whole book of them written by my heteronym Alain C. Dexter, here.

© Elaine Stirling, 2013

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Kit, my Kaboodle

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authenticity, brave new leadership, duality, enjoyment, free verse, honouring feelings, humour, individuality, intention, light and dark, lightness of being, my voice is my voice, nagual, parody, poetry, satire, self-importance, self-pity, The Corporate Storyteller, uniqueness, vibrational reality

I have a caboose
at the end of my train
with an imp that enjoys
thumbing noses and moons
at the sun when a new dawn
arises my eyes need to blink
and the imp sees his chance
and he hangs from the tail
where he shouts at the passing
terrain, whatcha you gonna do
now, pretty boy?

My imp’s name is Kit, and I do
try to shush him, though not very
much ‘cause he’s got the touch of
a jester at heart, and my brain with
its lore is a bit of a bore, and my
soul isn’t whole unless I can
laugh at the bridges we burn
and the tracks we lay down
and pretend when we crash
that they weren’t our
own handiwork.

The thing is, we all
have to run on the steam
that we bring, and if mine
blows too hot or too cold in
your face, and yours makes
me yawn, we could still show
some grace—not go stupid nutty
all over the place, when our tracks
must diverge. I have no intention
of leaving sweet Kit at the station
or anywhere else for I love how
how he thinks and he sees and
he laughs—he’s divine. Yes,
Kit, my kaboodle, is mine!

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image of caboose from http://www.bbcrc.org

How to Write a Novel

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#HowtoWriteaNovel, authenticity, characterization, dialogue, Elaine Stirling, exposition, fact vs. fiction, free verse, novel, plot, poetic narrative, structure, The Corporate Storyteller, writer's craft

Coil of a rope in a series
of events, you gotta build it
strand by strand, by hair
and reed and garter
snake, the strongest
threads you lay out
first, align them, see
what holds and don’t
be fooled by glam
or what’s been done
before—molecular in
breadth will change
the world no less
than Hannibal who
crossed the Alps,
the lector had his day
and it was fine
but this one’s yours
and no one else
despite their crawling
through your dreams
and peering through
the windows you’ve left
open for the ventilation
can do anything but add
by their attention to your
task, so now you have
the anchor threads, the
four or less or more
who have the most to
gain or lose by what
unfolds, you hold them
loose and weave them
into one another’s
oscillating forms, you
must be deft of hand
and bold enough
to laugh when herrings
red you’ve planted
let them talk and cuss
they’re smarter than
you anyway, they’re
fictional, not bound and
nothing kills a novel
like the blunt of exposition
blah, blah, blah, take out
your knife and slice—the
moral and political they
have their place inside
the heads of every character
not yours, who gives a crap
what you think of recycling
and loyalty? The novel is
the property of those who
populate its pages, and if
you would invigorate you’ll
give them a strong footing
in a setting that expands
or squeezes like a noose
along with purpose that
commands and maybe
drives them off a cliff but
not because your Uncle
Billy drove his tractor off
a cliff and he’ll be looking
for the facts—you get them
right? Buzz off dear family
and friends, be firm. I’ve
chapters here amassing
when it’s finished you
can prove how much you
care by setting down your
nickel, not before the rope
is fully coiled and strong
enough to hold the weight
it was designed to swing
around adventuresome
and merrily what’s spinning
has no need to seek approval
and a million pretty pebbles
who appear to sing your
praises are the burble
of a brook that’s nice to hear
but doesn’t matter, it’s
your characters that
in the end will prove
your mettle for the better
or the worse and when
you’ve typed the final
words the world you set
aside will still be here
slow turning and you’ll
see with different eyes
the you’s and we’s that
used to be they’ll shine
with greater clarity, it’s
why we do this thing
called noveling, we
bookwrights, and the
first chance that we
get we’ll do it all
again most willingly.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013

Rendezvous

Tags

acceptance, alienation, alignment, authenticity, Elaine Stirling, letting go of negative, nonconformity, poetry, self-expression, self-worth, source energy

How alien I am to me
when choosing from my wounds
to speak, from gaping hollows
left by loves perceived inadequate
they served their time, they’re
gone and yet on guard I stand
divisible, emotions made a
soldiery, my only uniformity
I snap into salute, attention
piqued when those of petty or
attractive rank show stripes
of pain that match my own, or
better, not as great! For then
I can magnanimous appear
in empathy, subordinates will
surely note my stature and remark
among themselves upon my
generosity, no scent of tyranny
emits from these well-practiced
tears spilled out in clever
and effective rhyme.

How strange I make myself
to me, how dubious a friend
when tolerant I am of less
than intimate; most talk is small
enough without my help; our time
deep-squandered bits of nothing
much—agree or not, approve
I don’t or do, so what?

Everyone deserves better!
Of them all, no one will miss
me slipping out, I’m sure, the
door was never locked from
either side, the weak applause
already out of earshot, moonlit
sky, Orion near to standing
whispers in collusion with the
evening star, no metaphors
denied. Across the sky, they’re
welcoming; this rendezvous
of me with Me is love, reunified
and infinitely true.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Photograph of Orion constellation
from tomsastroblog.com

Lament of “La Pantera Negra”

Tags

authenticity, Elaine Stirling, feminine servitude, machismo, Meso-American myth, nagual, poetry

image of black panther from fanpop.com

In the state of Michoacán, Mexico, stories abound of a cantina in the foothills called La Pantera Negra, in honour of the cats that used to travel freely between the Sierra Madres Occidentales and the Andes mountains to the south. The owner of the cantina was a woman; some say she herself was panther, capable of shifting from human to feline and back again in the time it would take you to reach for your centavos—or, foolishly, your pistol.

La Pantera was known also for her laments: poems set to music in the traditions of the great Tarascan Empire whose heights eclipsed the Aztecs, long before the arrival of the Europeans. What follows is an excerpt of a lament said to be composed by La Pantera in her feline state and brought back for guitar and vocals. My Spanish isn’t fluent enough to provide the entire song in its original rhythms, so I’ll give you the first stanza in its optimal language; the same again and carried on in English.

Lugar es el espacio, congelado;
ocasión, el tiempo. ¿Que temes,
cobarde, de hacernos un evento?

Place is space, congealed;
occasion, time. What fear have you,
coward, of making an event of us?

Or is it that your greater skill
these days is one of making memories,
nothing permanent—for certain,
nothing good, and you’re less
adept than you were in those
days impulsive of forgetting?

I watch your lapping tongue,
I know how you reserve your
sweetest language for the ones
you most despise, have seen you
swipe with lazy paw and crunch
between your teeth the hearts
who beat for you in hopes,
I watch them follow you,
slow dying of a thirst
you lead them to believe
you’ll quench.

But now, black panther,
language, it is turning;
no longer will the tongue
of our great nation serve
you as a concubine.

Your silence makes
the mountains weep
the wombs of brides
they dry like cuttlefish
we salt and hang
from poles

O, space and time, erase
this coward from our midst,
and bring to me the one who
can forget and has no fear
of making an event of us!

© Elaine Stirling, 2013