Writing; an interesting form...
Last night, serendipitously, I stumbled over a writing-form that I thought you might find interesting, and decided to borrow it. It was in the 2001 Annual Music Issue of the Oxford American, on pp. 50-51, written by Ron Carlson, and titled "The Twenty-Seventh Rain." The form is a set of 27 different rains that are meaningful to Ron Carlson; here
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THE WILD RAIN, lashing sideways and sometimes causing groundwater to ripple uphill, clensing as a good cry you've been holding back too long. I loved these when I was a teenager, they were times that I could feel as if my skin fit.
THE INSULT-TO-INJURY RAIN, that fell on us as we were being flooded out. It's too long a story to tell here, but that's the rain that fell on us as we perched atop our housetrailer while the water around us was fifteen feet deep.
THE WAKENING RAIN that washes away the snow and is the snooze alarm of the bulb flowers.
THE SCHOOL RAIN, making the first month of school seem so much brighter and warmer and more welcoming than beautiful summer days would allow for.
THE HIBERNATING RAIN, days for soup and a good book and beloved companions.
THE DROUGHT RAIN, of many types. The ground seems to suck it up as fast and as greedily as baby birds wanting fed, and there is never enough. It is always too little or too much.
THE DUCKLING RAIN, or gosling rain, or cygnet rain, or whichever type of hatchings are paddling around in it.
THE BORDERS RAIN. I was at boarding school, sixteen and gangly and unsure of myself. One night it rained, then eased into a mist, then a fog. Several of us went out to play in the puddles, and I happened to look up. The fog ended about ten feet off the ground, and above that was a beautiful field of stars, and the sky was not velvet black but onxy black, shining of its own glassy radiance.
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