(no subject)
My steampunk novel simmers, sticky there
and ready, launching evolutions strange
And brass lamps, mist and bursts of flame now haunt
The crannies of my mind to birth, devour.
This is actually an exercise in iambic pentameter from The Ode Less Travelled. I've been inching my way into it, in my endeavor to take myself more seriously as a poet. More seriously, as opposed to very seriously. Because I hate it when I take myself too seriously.
{Most poets on the forums seem to be so sensitive and so rude. Sound like an explosive combination? It is...and sometimes I'm the only one who knows how critique. Which means yes, I am the spark in the powder keg. You wouldn't know it to look at me.}
I got ahead of the game and used both enjambment AND caesura (which the British author says is spelled cesura in America, which I think a crying shame) but that's just because it all comes so naturally. Also, I was getting bored
I do not pick up the poetry-writing book if I have a great poem of my own to write instead.
If the "sticky" seems a little obscure, this is my favorite phrase for the time of novel development when whatever you come across gets sucked into the cohesion of the budding story. I got it from Jennifer Crusie.
And I don't have a steampunk novel. Yet. I'm finding influences for it everywhere these days, though.
Speaking of Steampunk:
Dickens on the Boulevard
Claremore Mainstreet Association does an event every year with a small artisan's village, Victorian period dress contests, and dancing. (Virginia Reel, waltzes...)
And my family, because we are sick and almost always sacrifice ourselves for dubious causes, have decided what our event contribution is this year. (Year before last it was a pro-Abolitionist play. A period schoolroom last year. Or maybe that all needs to shift back, not sure.) We are creating:
A Steampunk Smoking Room
Where there will be no smoking, because of various laws and expectations of society. (At least...not much.)
But it will be Steampunk!
We will be providing a rest area and mission center for the street-urchins who play carols on the sidewalks, an alternative aesthetic (read: a change for the Powells) and an environment for conversation which the rest of the event distinctly lacks.
I was going to pretty this up with pictures, before I found that I had none. Even the Internet failed me. Whatever that means...
So I am reduced to what every self-respecting but thwarted Aesthete must do: CHEAT.
I would say it looks rather like this, only darker and more indistinct.
Speaking of which, can you believe Daylight Savings time doesn't end until November? Gah. The sun doesn't rise until 7:45 these days, and that is just wrong so early in the year.
If you're local, let me know if you're interested in being at Dickens!
and ready, launching evolutions strange
And brass lamps, mist and bursts of flame now haunt
The crannies of my mind to birth, devour.
This is actually an exercise in iambic pentameter from The Ode Less Travelled. I've been inching my way into it, in my endeavor to take myself more seriously as a poet. More seriously, as opposed to very seriously. Because I hate it when I take myself too seriously.
{Most poets on the forums seem to be so sensitive and so rude. Sound like an explosive combination? It is...and sometimes I'm the only one who knows how critique. Which means yes, I am the spark in the powder keg. You wouldn't know it to look at me.}
I got ahead of the game and used both enjambment AND caesura (which the British author says is spelled cesura in America, which I think a crying shame) but that's just because it all comes so naturally. Also, I was getting bored
I do not pick up the poetry-writing book if I have a great poem of my own to write instead.
If the "sticky" seems a little obscure, this is my favorite phrase for the time of novel development when whatever you come across gets sucked into the cohesion of the budding story. I got it from Jennifer Crusie.
And I don't have a steampunk novel. Yet. I'm finding influences for it everywhere these days, though.
Speaking of Steampunk:
Dickens on the Boulevard
Claremore Mainstreet Association does an event every year with a small artisan's village, Victorian period dress contests, and dancing. (Virginia Reel, waltzes...)
And my family, because we are sick and almost always sacrifice ourselves for dubious causes, have decided what our event contribution is this year. (Year before last it was a pro-Abolitionist play. A period schoolroom last year. Or maybe that all needs to shift back, not sure.) We are creating:
A Steampunk Smoking Room
Where there will be no smoking, because of various laws and expectations of society. (At least...not much.)
But it will be Steampunk!
We will be providing a rest area and mission center for the street-urchins who play carols on the sidewalks, an alternative aesthetic (read: a change for the Powells) and an environment for conversation which the rest of the event distinctly lacks.
I was going to pretty this up with pictures, before I found that I had none. Even the Internet failed me. Whatever that means...
So I am reduced to what every self-respecting but thwarted Aesthete must do: CHEAT.
I would say it looks rather like this, only darker and more indistinct.
Speaking of which, can you believe Daylight Savings time doesn't end until November? Gah. The sun doesn't rise until 7:45 these days, and that is just wrong so early in the year.
If you're local, let me know if you're interested in being at Dickens!