But we'll shout from the bow - "Your days are numbered!"
So around 12:30 I headed to Traveller's Diner for some coffee, noise, and a change of scenery. After I'd been writing for a while, the only person there besides the one waitress and a couple of chefs, three men walk in, and one of them sees me scribbling blue on a page, by myself, with books strewn about me, and he hastily walks up and sits down at my table, opposite me. And I've been mistaken for a girl for years. It happens. But I'm always caught off guard when guys try to talk me up while under the impression that I'm a woman. Especially the audacity of some, to walk right up, sit down, invade my personal space and solitude, after I'd shown no interest in them whatsoever, without even some interested glance from me to work with, thinking that I might then, were I the opposite gender, become interested in them at all? I told him to politely fuck off, after he asked if I was annoyed he just sat down and greeted me, because I had a lot of shit to write and the diner was going to be closed at 2. The conversation didn't last too much longer after that. I suppose I can be thankful I don't sound like a girl. I'll take what I can get. I later thought about really weirding him out and asking "Hey, does that actually work for picking up chicks?"
It's just bizarre, though. Not only having someone think you're the opposite gender, but having someone think you're the opposite gender, and attractive enough to go out of their way to talk to and try to hit on. I dunno. Maybe some guys just talk to me 'coz they think I've got a vagina and I'm not fat.
Whatever. It's all I can do to laugh when things like that happen. Other'n that -
After having a cigarette in the parking lot, leaning against my car and watching the night sky, I sit down, reading these Rumi poems over and taking notes for the poem I'm writing, in their respective movement, as well as allowing my own thoughts and responses to spill over, which of course will make up the meat of the piece. And believe you me, there's a lot of meat. After I'd exhausted referencing every Rumi poem presented in the book with notes gestating to become lines in my own poem, I continued working, copying the notes and free-verse lines I'd scribbled obsessively for an hour on the train to my psychiatrist's office earlier today, and expanding and ordering those upon the fresh page.
I still don't like Rumi, honestly. His poetry I now appreciate, and there are some lines in a few of the poems that are undeniably good that I don't think that I saw or truly recognized the first time I read them. He wrote many truths, and was all for the Socratic method, and he just believed in a whole lot of things that're awesome and generally good to believe in, and was apparently mad and ecstatic and euphoric about life, just like everyone else who rocks. He wrote poems that are easy to understand and believe in, because they're very profound and agreeable, and they're things that, y'know, ideally, will lead to divinity after meditation. I just don't want to subscribe to them. My original gripe with all of it remains.
His writing is too profound to be any good. It's profound, mystical without mystery, emotionally detached, too healthy, and for all of his "madness", it is laden and smothered with perfection and safety. It's easy to be the guru on the mountaintop preaching how it is that everyone in the world should live. It's like turning a television on to some random channel in a world of other channels, and getting some self-actualized, self-assured preacher without flaws. And it doesn't offend you, because the preacher is talking about things that, if you were to listen, you'd probably agree with, but you merely think "Huh, I guess he's into what he's talking about." and change the channel looking for videos of car crashes, or something.
But poetry is nothing but dead words on dead pages without emotion.
I composed a poem in strict hymn meter about a month ago. It was only a six stanza ode to some girl, that I wrote because Leckie told me some other guy wrote a song for her and that it sucked, so I figured I had to show up that guy 'coz I'm a competitive bastard when it comes to verse, and it took me three hours. Suits and dress clothes with shiny shoes, tie and all, can look astounding when done properly, but never let anyone convince you that it won't be constricting, or that you must dress like that all the time or you can't come to the party.
So -
I know all about different kinds of rhyming, and alliteration, and different sorts of repetition, and rhythm patterns, and meter, and how to identify them, and iambic and trochaic and dactylic and spondaic accented syllable patterns. I know the official, technical, and proper end of poetry, I've got all of that down completely. But I also knew how to use them before I knew the names of them, or what I was doing. Most of the pages of notes I've taken on poetic technique and literary devices have the disclaimer "NOT IMPORTANT" first and foremost in my notebook.
They come unconsciously, unintentionally, a lot of the time when I'm writing. I won't think to use them, they'll just appear, and be perfect, so there's no use in getting rid of them or even batting an eyelid. I might start out with three lines of unformed, oddly punctuated free verse, after which the rhythm is suddenly lead and changed drastically by hyphens, or by line breaks, or by the natural cadence in the words themselves, and rhyme schemes begin to emerge, utilizing true rhymes or slant rhymes indiscriminately and in abundance, and then suddenly it all stops and breaks free again, with no excuses or apologies. And my mind might not halt for a single second, it just happens effortlessly at times. As torturous a procedure writing poetry can be, it's been a part of the way that I think for so long that it's practically become intrinsic. All this is not to say that I won't spend time wrestling with a particular line, it's pretty common for me to've been staring off into space for five minutes without moving, making sure I feel the line is perfect before committing it to paper.
I've taught myself everything I believe to be important about poetry, while ignoring but also unconsciously learning about things like flawless iambic pentameter without realizing it. What I most had to work to learn was my use of punctuation, I think. Which I'm still coming to understand. Most of the "improper" and unorthodox ways that I use punctuation can be attributed to Emily Dickinson, I have no shame in saying. Even the occasional/momentary hymn meter I may lapse into is a result of her being one of my biggest influences.
Another "technique" or "device", it might be called, came from me noticing the poetry in everything, and this one took me a long time to figure out, and it's still difficult to do correctly. It's kind of like coupling the phrasing of a line with its meaning so precisely that the line has this different quality to it, that it can stand alone, breaking form, and follow whatever I need it to, while being so completely out of whack with the flow of what preceded it. And I mean, of course without it reading awkwardly or seeming like the contrived result of not being able to continue with the form. It's that there are words, phrases, sentences, ideas, and so on and so forth, that, when shaped a certain way, I feel can stop time for the shortest moment. Long enough to completely eradicate the previous form from just crashing against a brick wall, it abandons all of that while calling absolutely all attention to itself, and not only does it do that, but it resonates in your mind for a brief second. And they can be things like revelations, secrets, stories, beginnings, endings, things of the utmost importance, things of almost no importance, and so much more. A lot of times I'll use them exclusively as turning points, where the poem may drastically change gears and the change is signified by the pause and reflection that those moments allow for.
And it took me the longest time to even identify, I'm sure you'd be hard pressed to find in a textbook something exactly like what I've described. I even avoided trying to pinpoint exactly what I mean with examples to clarify it for you guys. I don't know if I could. Maybe I wanna see if you can figure it out. Because I've never read about it, but I've experienced those moments while reading, and writing, and living. And I know at least other poets understand well. It became clearer when I began to really take notice of when words, spoken or written, would hold extreme power, weight, and urgency of expression. Arrangements of sound that could stop time to echo and stay in your mind. Those spectacular statements that can only command attention to themselves because of their importance.
I dunno. In fact, nevermind, I'm lying. That doesn't exist. I made it up. Don't look for those in anything I might show you. Speaking highly of my craft'll be the Death of me, when I am left with but plain mediocrity after I've exalted what I cannot achieve. I hate it when I spend too much god-damned time writing in this stupid thing, and end up writing these fucked up improvised essays as though anyone's interested, that no one'll read, or care about, or respond to, or understand because it's not worth the effort, and there's never anything there to begin with.
And there'll never be anything there, not after you've tried and struggled all that you can, and you're left defeated without even having had a fledgling, pathetic chance. Not with all of your might, nor with endless drive, will there ever be any Hope for you.
I'm all sighs. I should just stick to stories where guys talk to me like I'm someone they'd fuck.
It's just bizarre, though. Not only having someone think you're the opposite gender, but having someone think you're the opposite gender, and attractive enough to go out of their way to talk to and try to hit on. I dunno. Maybe some guys just talk to me 'coz they think I've got a vagina and I'm not fat.
Whatever. It's all I can do to laugh when things like that happen. Other'n that -
After having a cigarette in the parking lot, leaning against my car and watching the night sky, I sit down, reading these Rumi poems over and taking notes for the poem I'm writing, in their respective movement, as well as allowing my own thoughts and responses to spill over, which of course will make up the meat of the piece. And believe you me, there's a lot of meat. After I'd exhausted referencing every Rumi poem presented in the book with notes gestating to become lines in my own poem, I continued working, copying the notes and free-verse lines I'd scribbled obsessively for an hour on the train to my psychiatrist's office earlier today, and expanding and ordering those upon the fresh page.
I still don't like Rumi, honestly. His poetry I now appreciate, and there are some lines in a few of the poems that are undeniably good that I don't think that I saw or truly recognized the first time I read them. He wrote many truths, and was all for the Socratic method, and he just believed in a whole lot of things that're awesome and generally good to believe in, and was apparently mad and ecstatic and euphoric about life, just like everyone else who rocks. He wrote poems that are easy to understand and believe in, because they're very profound and agreeable, and they're things that, y'know, ideally, will lead to divinity after meditation. I just don't want to subscribe to them. My original gripe with all of it remains.
His writing is too profound to be any good. It's profound, mystical without mystery, emotionally detached, too healthy, and for all of his "madness", it is laden and smothered with perfection and safety. It's easy to be the guru on the mountaintop preaching how it is that everyone in the world should live. It's like turning a television on to some random channel in a world of other channels, and getting some self-actualized, self-assured preacher without flaws. And it doesn't offend you, because the preacher is talking about things that, if you were to listen, you'd probably agree with, but you merely think "Huh, I guess he's into what he's talking about." and change the channel looking for videos of car crashes, or something.
But poetry is nothing but dead words on dead pages without emotion.
I composed a poem in strict hymn meter about a month ago. It was only a six stanza ode to some girl, that I wrote because Leckie told me some other guy wrote a song for her and that it sucked, so I figured I had to show up that guy 'coz I'm a competitive bastard when it comes to verse, and it took me three hours. Suits and dress clothes with shiny shoes, tie and all, can look astounding when done properly, but never let anyone convince you that it won't be constricting, or that you must dress like that all the time or you can't come to the party.
So -
I know all about different kinds of rhyming, and alliteration, and different sorts of repetition, and rhythm patterns, and meter, and how to identify them, and iambic and trochaic and dactylic and spondaic accented syllable patterns. I know the official, technical, and proper end of poetry, I've got all of that down completely. But I also knew how to use them before I knew the names of them, or what I was doing. Most of the pages of notes I've taken on poetic technique and literary devices have the disclaimer "NOT IMPORTANT" first and foremost in my notebook.
They come unconsciously, unintentionally, a lot of the time when I'm writing. I won't think to use them, they'll just appear, and be perfect, so there's no use in getting rid of them or even batting an eyelid. I might start out with three lines of unformed, oddly punctuated free verse, after which the rhythm is suddenly lead and changed drastically by hyphens, or by line breaks, or by the natural cadence in the words themselves, and rhyme schemes begin to emerge, utilizing true rhymes or slant rhymes indiscriminately and in abundance, and then suddenly it all stops and breaks free again, with no excuses or apologies. And my mind might not halt for a single second, it just happens effortlessly at times. As torturous a procedure writing poetry can be, it's been a part of the way that I think for so long that it's practically become intrinsic. All this is not to say that I won't spend time wrestling with a particular line, it's pretty common for me to've been staring off into space for five minutes without moving, making sure I feel the line is perfect before committing it to paper.
I've taught myself everything I believe to be important about poetry, while ignoring but also unconsciously learning about things like flawless iambic pentameter without realizing it. What I most had to work to learn was my use of punctuation, I think. Which I'm still coming to understand. Most of the "improper" and unorthodox ways that I use punctuation can be attributed to Emily Dickinson, I have no shame in saying. Even the occasional/momentary hymn meter I may lapse into is a result of her being one of my biggest influences.
Another "technique" or "device", it might be called, came from me noticing the poetry in everything, and this one took me a long time to figure out, and it's still difficult to do correctly. It's kind of like coupling the phrasing of a line with its meaning so precisely that the line has this different quality to it, that it can stand alone, breaking form, and follow whatever I need it to, while being so completely out of whack with the flow of what preceded it. And I mean, of course without it reading awkwardly or seeming like the contrived result of not being able to continue with the form. It's that there are words, phrases, sentences, ideas, and so on and so forth, that, when shaped a certain way, I feel can stop time for the shortest moment. Long enough to completely eradicate the previous form from just crashing against a brick wall, it abandons all of that while calling absolutely all attention to itself, and not only does it do that, but it resonates in your mind for a brief second. And they can be things like revelations, secrets, stories, beginnings, endings, things of the utmost importance, things of almost no importance, and so much more. A lot of times I'll use them exclusively as turning points, where the poem may drastically change gears and the change is signified by the pause and reflection that those moments allow for.
And it took me the longest time to even identify, I'm sure you'd be hard pressed to find in a textbook something exactly like what I've described. I even avoided trying to pinpoint exactly what I mean with examples to clarify it for you guys. I don't know if I could. Maybe I wanna see if you can figure it out. Because I've never read about it, but I've experienced those moments while reading, and writing, and living. And I know at least other poets understand well. It became clearer when I began to really take notice of when words, spoken or written, would hold extreme power, weight, and urgency of expression. Arrangements of sound that could stop time to echo and stay in your mind. Those spectacular statements that can only command attention to themselves because of their importance.
I dunno. In fact, nevermind, I'm lying. That doesn't exist. I made it up. Don't look for those in anything I might show you. Speaking highly of my craft'll be the Death of me, when I am left with but plain mediocrity after I've exalted what I cannot achieve. I hate it when I spend too much god-damned time writing in this stupid thing, and end up writing these fucked up improvised essays as though anyone's interested, that no one'll read, or care about, or respond to, or understand because it's not worth the effort, and there's never anything there to begin with.
And there'll never be anything there, not after you've tried and struggled all that you can, and you're left defeated without even having had a fledgling, pathetic chance. Not with all of your might, nor with endless drive, will there ever be any Hope for you.
I'm all sighs. I should just stick to stories where guys talk to me like I'm someone they'd fuck.