I love words, and love finding out how wrong I've been about them (sometimes). For example, I always thought it was "bell weather," and tonight wondered what kind of weather was good for bells.
Alas, it's bellwether, but which is equally interesting. According to Wikipedia, and confirmed in the dictionary,
I suppose it could also have been "belle weather," when the lovely ladies lead their men to desired ends.
Alas, it's bellwether, but which is equally interesting. According to Wikipedia, and confirmed in the dictionary,
The term is derived from the Middle English bellewether and refers to the practice of placing a bell around the neck of a castrated ram (a wether) leading its flock of sheep. The movements of the flock could be perceived by hearing the bell before the flock was in sight.
I suppose it could also have been "belle weather," when the lovely ladies lead their men to desired ends.
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I haven't posted in far too long. I hope this will be the first in many nights of writing, because, while saying a little a lot doesn't always mean much, it's all I have.
Each year on Halloween I try to consider the dead. The dead who have influenced my life, or who've influenced the world and, by extension, me.
What's it like, I wonder, to be great and facing death? Is it easier, staring down the shadowy path, knowing you've accomplished wonders, that history has already remembered you? Or do you resist, wish for more time to do even more of what you dearly love? Does a genius die wishing for two more lifetimes to empty his potential?
There's a story that, when Beethoven was on his deathbed, lighting struck during the storm outside. When the thunder came, he raised up, shook his fist at the heavens, then fell back and died.
I don't want to die. I don't want anyone I know to die, especially those I care about. For those who have, I try to carry them with me. I try to let them fill me with their lives, as if I was an unfinished painting and they're brushing varicolored pigments into my empty spaces, swirling textures into my maturing life.
That's what I do for them. In my future, I am a compendium of spectres.
Each year on Halloween I try to consider the dead. The dead who have influenced my life, or who've influenced the world and, by extension, me.
What's it like, I wonder, to be great and facing death? Is it easier, staring down the shadowy path, knowing you've accomplished wonders, that history has already remembered you? Or do you resist, wish for more time to do even more of what you dearly love? Does a genius die wishing for two more lifetimes to empty his potential?
There's a story that, when Beethoven was on his deathbed, lighting struck during the storm outside. When the thunder came, he raised up, shook his fist at the heavens, then fell back and died.
I don't want to die. I don't want anyone I know to die, especially those I care about. For those who have, I try to carry them with me. I try to let them fill me with their lives, as if I was an unfinished painting and they're brushing varicolored pigments into my empty spaces, swirling textures into my maturing life.
That's what I do for them. In my future, I am a compendium of spectres.
Well, even if it's poor I have to write a draft that I can take to the meeting tonight. This revision process has been different from the norm, in that I've been struggling to even write something close to the finished product. I've mostly been writing the ideas, the themes, and that's not what makes powerful poetry. A pretty good maxim is "show, don't tell." So, I'll start from what I wrote yesterday and get involved in the scene, show the details, be precise and honest. Being honest in poetry means describing things exactly. Not "black as tar" but "black as burnt corn," or "black as my grandfather's favorite soup spoon."
She Tells Me At Lunch
It's the little lies, she says, the daily paltering
like when said he spent my last paycheck on brakes
but instead got his bowling ball re-drilled. He claims
I'm still sexy in my old dresses. He insists my steak
is as good as any fancy restaurant's.
Last Sunday his eyes were somber as a bear's when he
asserted to the pastor that infidelity was a rotten sin.
He reminds me of a bear more and more, lumbering around in my
life, getting fat on my trust, hibernating in the cave
where I keep my dreams. He seems harmless until I
feel the weight of him, the fur and meat breath, each
day suffocating me a little more.
These days, I watch TV with headphones on when he's home, the
portable set in the bedroom. I pray to my drink that he'll
sleep on the couch. I slip off my wedding ring that he said
was an heirloom, but that he bought from a buddy. That he resized with pliers. I turn it around and around, and finally drop it
in my glass where it seems so much bigger. Magnified, almost
magnificent.
There's his shout: a touchdown. His team, the one with the the G,
is winning. He'll claim to win the work betting pool, and buy me
new gloves as proof. But I know they come from Goodwill. Mrs.
Stanton tells me, when we meet at the grocery store. She tells me while picking through beef cuts. She likes to remind me that she
buried her own husband two years ago, and how peaceful he looked
in the casket.
OK, so it's finally taking off a little. Now I can work with what I've written, remove stuff, move sentences around, get rid of lines that are awful and write more where it's needed. The first stanza may go away. I don't know if I need to even keep "palter". The title's a problem, because the last stanza doesn't fit the scene of lunch. Keep telling the truth, that's what I say.
She Tells Me
Last Sunday his eyes were somber as a bear's when he asserted
to the pastor that infidelity is a rotten sin. The women around
nodded, and his buddies fiddled with their programs.
He reminds me of a bear more and more, getting fat on my trust,
hibernating through my middle-aged winter. I hate the weight of him, the fur and meat breath, each day another suffocation.
He said he spent my last paycheck on brakes, but instead got his bowling ball re-drilled.
He insists his mother would rather eat my steak than a restaurant's.
He claims I'm still sexy in my old dresses.
Sunday I watched TV with headphones on the portable set
in the bedroom, I prayed to my drink that he'd sleep on the couch.
I slipped off my wedding ring that he said was an heirloom, that
he resized with pliers. I dropped it in into my glass, and it seemed
so much bigger. Magnified, almost magnificent.
Mrs. Stanton told me it came from Goodwill. She told me at the
grocery store while picking through beef cuts.
She likes to remind me that she buried her own husband two years ago,
and how peaceful he looked in the casket.
Almost ready. I have about ten minutes to polish it as well as I can. Try some different line breaks. Read it aloud, checking for musical problems.
She Tells Me
Last Sunday his eyes were somber as a bear's
when he asserted to the pastor that infidelity
is a rotten sin.
The women around nodded, and his buddies
fiddled with their programs.
He reminds me of a bear more and more, getting fat on my trust,
hibernating through my middle-aged winter.
I hate the weight of him,
the fur and meat breath, each day another suffocation.
He said he spent my last paycheck on brakes, but instead
got his bowling ball re-drilled.
He insists his mother would rather eat my steak
than a restaurant's.
He claims I'm still sexy in my old dresses.
That Sunday I watched TV with headphones
on the portable set in the bedroom. I prayed to my drink
that he'd sleep on the couch.
I slipped off my wedding ring that he pretended was an heirloom,
that he resized with pliers.
I dropped it in into my glass, and it seemed so much
bigger. Magnified, almost magnificent.
Mrs. Stanton told me it came from Goodwill. She told me
at the grocery store while picking through beef cuts.
She likes to remind me how she buried her own husband two years ago,
how peaceful he looked in the casket.
She Tells Me At Lunch
It's the little lies, she says, the daily paltering
like when said he spent my last paycheck on brakes
but instead got his bowling ball re-drilled. He claims
I'm still sexy in my old dresses. He insists my steak
is as good as any fancy restaurant's.
Last Sunday his eyes were somber as a bear's when he
asserted to the pastor that infidelity was a rotten sin.
He reminds me of a bear more and more, lumbering around in my
life, getting fat on my trust, hibernating in the cave
where I keep my dreams. He seems harmless until I
feel the weight of him, the fur and meat breath, each
day suffocating me a little more.
These days, I watch TV with headphones on when he's home, the
portable set in the bedroom. I pray to my drink that he'll
sleep on the couch. I slip off my wedding ring that he said
was an heirloom, but that he bought from a buddy. That he resized with pliers. I turn it around and around, and finally drop it
in my glass where it seems so much bigger. Magnified, almost
magnificent.
There's his shout: a touchdown. His team, the one with the the G,
is winning. He'll claim to win the work betting pool, and buy me
new gloves as proof. But I know they come from Goodwill. Mrs.
Stanton tells me, when we meet at the grocery store. She tells me while picking through beef cuts. She likes to remind me that she
buried her own husband two years ago, and how peaceful he looked
in the casket.
OK, so it's finally taking off a little. Now I can work with what I've written, remove stuff, move sentences around, get rid of lines that are awful and write more where it's needed. The first stanza may go away. I don't know if I need to even keep "palter". The title's a problem, because the last stanza doesn't fit the scene of lunch. Keep telling the truth, that's what I say.
She Tells Me
Last Sunday his eyes were somber as a bear's when he asserted
to the pastor that infidelity is a rotten sin. The women around
nodded, and his buddies fiddled with their programs.
He reminds me of a bear more and more, getting fat on my trust,
hibernating through my middle-aged winter. I hate the weight of him, the fur and meat breath, each day another suffocation.
He said he spent my last paycheck on brakes, but instead got his bowling ball re-drilled.
He insists his mother would rather eat my steak than a restaurant's.
He claims I'm still sexy in my old dresses.
Sunday I watched TV with headphones on the portable set
in the bedroom, I prayed to my drink that he'd sleep on the couch.
I slipped off my wedding ring that he said was an heirloom, that
he resized with pliers. I dropped it in into my glass, and it seemed
so much bigger. Magnified, almost magnificent.
Mrs. Stanton told me it came from Goodwill. She told me at the
grocery store while picking through beef cuts.
She likes to remind me that she buried her own husband two years ago,
and how peaceful he looked in the casket.
Almost ready. I have about ten minutes to polish it as well as I can. Try some different line breaks. Read it aloud, checking for musical problems.
She Tells Me
Last Sunday his eyes were somber as a bear's
when he asserted to the pastor that infidelity
is a rotten sin.
The women around nodded, and his buddies
fiddled with their programs.
He reminds me of a bear more and more, getting fat on my trust,
hibernating through my middle-aged winter.
I hate the weight of him,
the fur and meat breath, each day another suffocation.
He said he spent my last paycheck on brakes, but instead
got his bowling ball re-drilled.
He insists his mother would rather eat my steak
than a restaurant's.
He claims I'm still sexy in my old dresses.
That Sunday I watched TV with headphones
on the portable set in the bedroom. I prayed to my drink
that he'd sleep on the couch.
I slipped off my wedding ring that he pretended was an heirloom,
that he resized with pliers.
I dropped it in into my glass, and it seemed so much
bigger. Magnified, almost magnificent.
Mrs. Stanton told me it came from Goodwill. She told me
at the grocery store while picking through beef cuts.
She likes to remind me how she buried her own husband two years ago,
how peaceful he looked in the casket.
From yesterday, there isn't much I like, so this may be another round of writing and thinking. But it's late, so I'll have to write quickly. Sometimes that's a good idea.
I like:
My bait hangs like ... calling the bass and catfish
...as if it...guarded the perimeter of some undersea nation.
Hmm. That's it. OK, let's just write some stuff. And I have to remember, the word is palter. To talk/act insincerely. To trifle with.
I knew a woman who said, "I wouldn't divorce
unless there was physical abuse." And I almost said,
"But what if he said, every day, 'I sure wish
you were a little prettier.'?"
Three hundred sixty-five utterances a year. Paltering
to his wife, wearing her down like throwing pebbles
against a tree trunk. Smirking at his friends afterward,
drinking his beer that she just brought.
There's no harm, she thinks, he's just teasing. But
each day she becomes an old newspaper. She dresses
in pale blue. When she talks to you, she reminds you
of a lab hamster always expecting the needle.
Well, there're a couple of good things there. A theme's emerging. I really like "she becomes an old newspaper." I hope I can keep that.
I like:
My bait hangs like ... calling the bass and catfish
...as if it...guarded the perimeter of some undersea nation.
Hmm. That's it. OK, let's just write some stuff. And I have to remember, the word is palter. To talk/act insincerely. To trifle with.
I knew a woman who said, "I wouldn't divorce
unless there was physical abuse." And I almost said,
"But what if he said, every day, 'I sure wish
you were a little prettier.'?"
Three hundred sixty-five utterances a year. Paltering
to his wife, wearing her down like throwing pebbles
against a tree trunk. Smirking at his friends afterward,
drinking his beer that she just brought.
There's no harm, she thinks, he's just teasing. But
each day she becomes an old newspaper. She dresses
in pale blue. When she talks to you, she reminds you
of a lab hamster always expecting the needle.
Well, there're a couple of good things there. A theme's emerging. I really like "she becomes an old newspaper." I hope I can keep that.
As threatened, here's a poem from start to finish. The only thing I was given was a prompt, the following word:
palter
You can follow the link for the definition yourself. Whatever I write next is the result of thinking--just thinking--about the word and its definitions. I may think for ten seconds, or ten minutes (actual thinking time varies. see your poetry owner's manual for more details.)
We're a buildup, a seven-year wax coating. Seventy-seven years of dust turned to mud. Seven thousand years of targeted history. Seven million years of evolution, mere survival.
I'm fishing with old bait. It's Tuesday, and I'm taking a morning off, at Winton Lake, casting but not catching. For an hour, the cork has orbited a one foot square area, as if it skirted a black hole, or guarded the perimeter of some undersea nation. My interruptions are birds, cars, mothers and runners. The reel is left-handed...a habit from my dad who saw no point is switching hands from cast to crank.
Sometimes I hear mothers or fathers. They tell their kids to behave. They threaten them with starvation, with bruises. And they tell them how things are, but their facts are all wrong, aren't facts at all. Parents can't be wrong--that's what parents think--so they lie hundreds of times a year. They lie by omission. Carelessness.
I'm lying now. My bait hangs like an siren calling the bass and catfish.
Whew. That really sucks. This is one of those poems that doesn't come out easily. Nothing might be salvaged from the above. We'll see tomorrow. I have to finish this by Tuesday night.
palter
You can follow the link for the definition yourself. Whatever I write next is the result of thinking--just thinking--about the word and its definitions. I may think for ten seconds, or ten minutes (actual thinking time varies. see your poetry owner's manual for more details.)
We're a buildup, a seven-year wax coating. Seventy-seven years of dust turned to mud. Seven thousand years of targeted history. Seven million years of evolution, mere survival.
I'm fishing with old bait. It's Tuesday, and I'm taking a morning off, at Winton Lake, casting but not catching. For an hour, the cork has orbited a one foot square area, as if it skirted a black hole, or guarded the perimeter of some undersea nation. My interruptions are birds, cars, mothers and runners. The reel is left-handed...a habit from my dad who saw no point is switching hands from cast to crank.
Sometimes I hear mothers or fathers. They tell their kids to behave. They threaten them with starvation, with bruises. And they tell them how things are, but their facts are all wrong, aren't facts at all. Parents can't be wrong--that's what parents think--so they lie hundreds of times a year. They lie by omission. Carelessness.
I'm lying now. My bait hangs like an siren calling the bass and catfish.
Whew. That really sucks. This is one of those poems that doesn't come out easily. Nothing might be salvaged from the above. We'll see tomorrow. I have to finish this by Tuesday night.
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