P is for Putti and . . . Raphael

Raphael: Putti , detail in Sistine Madonna (Wikipedia)

. . . And the angels watched
as you came into being, sweet maker
of words and art and all things good,
you died at 37, some say
of excessive sex, far from angels and popes
and salons, and the jealousies of 
Michelangelo who painted the Sistine Chapel
while you worked nearby and
sneaked in at night to see his work;
forever transformed, you borrowed,
smoothed out the rough edges,
painted with classic clarity,
and just as briefly, 
enjoyed all the pomp and circumstance
Renaissance Italy offered;
you never married,
no children, perhaps only putti remember
your short life, fragments remain
of what we know;
all else is forgotten truly
as we stand today before your masterpiece
and see it yet again,
fresh and whole, a homage
fixed in time, discovered anew
each generation and . . .

Raphael: School of Athens (Wikipedia)

I woke up dreaming of angels and thinking of my friend, Linda, who also writes a poem a day for April. I wanted to begin with one of her favorite pictures, a popular painting of putti by Raphael, and, being a new grandmother, found the picture had new depths, for babies are so innocent of what is to come. When I found the image that Linda loved online, I rediscovered Raphael.

The NaPoWriMo prompt comes from Cathy Evans who prompted us to write a poem that begins and ends with the same word. I chose "and" but I'm not sure it quite works, though that sense of something being interrupted could work as a metaphor for Raphael's life.

Now it's time to see what poems others have written for the A to Z Challenge.

'O' is for Oblivion . . .

The poetry prompt from NaPoWriMo for Day 16 (“O”) asks us to look up a poem written by a poet in another language. The first poet I think of is Pablo Neruda and I found his poem, “No Hay Olvido” (There is no forgetting . . . ), a perfect “O” as olvido can also mean oblivion.

Our task: to look only at the poem in its original language and to attempt to translate it. And so I began, Spanish phrases turning to English. When I compared my translation to the translation offered online, I learned again that each language has its own patterns of expression, how difficult it is to translate poetry, that very private language; and that perhaps those who translate take license with the original that a casual reader cannot see. 

Here is my poem, for once I visited Santiago, Chile, where we spent an afternoon at Neruda's house, La Chascona, so named for his red-haired wife. 

For Pablo Neruda

You have written "No Hay Olvido," 

there is no forgetting,

but that I cannot do, for I remember well

your house in Santiago, overlooking Bellevista.

For one brief afternoon, we imagined

your respite here, in this multi-level

house built around a garden.

We strolled through nearly empty rooms

filled with colorful glass, Chinese

and Indian art, Bauhaus furniture,

a breathtaking wooden sculpture of two mermaids.

We read your penciled-marked poems

preserved under glass,

those passionate, surreal poems,

fragments of a life between countries,

perpetually in exile;

your great sad eyes saw

political commitments tested,

too much revolution and death.

Yet your poems speak for you,

even in green ink, they speak

of love and hope.

A stanza from Neruda's poem, "No Hay Olvido":

Si me preguntáis en dónde he estado
debo decir “Sucede”.
Debo de hablar del suelo que oscurecen las piedras,
del río que durando se destruye:
no sé sino las cosas que los pájaros pierden,
el mar dejado atrás, o mi hermana llorando.
Por qué tantas regiones, por qué un día
se junta con un día? Por qué una negra noche
se acumula en la boca? Por qué muertos?

My translation:

If you ask me where I have gone,

I must say we have come to the place 

where things die.

I would speak of the ground that obscures stone,

Of the river destroying itself:

I only know those things the birds have lost,

the sea leaves behind,

or my sister crying.

Why all these places?

Why does one day join itself with the next?

Why does a black night pile up

in the mouth?

Why is there death? 

Mural of Pablo Neruda near La Chascona

Read what others have written to celebrate April, National Poetry Month:

NaPoWriMo at http://www.napowrimo.net/participants-sites/ 

A to Z Challenge at http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com

Poetry prompt from NaPoWriMo at http://www.napowrimo.net

N is for nought . . .

There is nought

to inspire me,

no sense of connectedness,

instead I face a blank nothing,

not even a nudge

can push me past the great null void.

Today’s news takes me to non-words,

Nihilism, from the Latin to mean

no-thing, as in nothing at all,

no moral code, no faith, no reality, no knowledge.

This is really the bottom.

The empty cup.

I have lost my way

for I know nothing.

Nothing is far worse 

than anonymous.

The combination of the Marathon bomb and a bad cold led me to this poem. I watch technical experts pick through the rubble. On one level, I wail and wish no one knew how to make a bomb, that no one’s limbs were ripped apart by shrapnel. But I do not believe in nothing. Morning begins each day with opportunity. Those people on the task force are using all their skills to find that bomb-maker; they are doing something.

Because I still have that dreaded cold, I watched a lot of TV yesterday. On Fringe, Peter is consumed with anger when his daughter is killed. Someone warns him, using a proverb attributed to Confucius, “Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.” 

Is that our path? We cannot afford to be weak before terrorists, so we promise revenge. Does that comfort those who lost their child, their loved one? We need to make time for grief and a time for healing. 

I would rather be inspired by former President Clinton’s Global Initiative.  Last night on Steven Colbert, Clinton said if we work hard to improve conditions in the whole world, we are working to improve America, for we are all connected. He called on each of us to make a commitment, to do one thing this year that will make the world a better place. 

These are not empty platitudes. He’s talking about clean water, adequate schools, a safe place for women and children who have been abused, sufficient medical supplies at hospitals. And we can do these things at home as well. What community does not have its homeless, its hungry, those who are alone and fearful, those who suffer loss? We live in a very fragile bubble if we separate ourselves from those in need.

African Violets by my computer  (Camp, 2013)

M is for Marathon . . .

I'm waiting for news:
Will another plane fall from the sky?
Here and not over there
in some sunburned, far-off land
where people speak an
entirely different language
of violence.

We endure this new commonplace.
What began with innocence,
an annual challenge,
now neighbors watch neighbor;
we notice with a sharp sense of readiness
when a package is left, abandoned,
and our police and firemen walk
once again into the smoke left by bombs.
We have entered the 
age of the marathon,
no longer does the race twist 
on subterfuge,
a dropped golden apple. 
Instead we light candles to remember the dead
and tell each other: Never again.

When we traveled in Italy recently, we were told not to eat at MacDonald's -- not for the food; the restaurant was a target for terrorists. So, of course, we ate there when we would rather be eating pasta, but we ate there to make a point. That terrorists or the threat of terrorism would not change what we could do.Throughout that short meal, I kept wondering what our families would think if that day had been chosen for an attack. In London, so many bomb threats have been made at Harrods, the famous department store, that people routinely file out at the sound of sirens. Now we have Boston to remember, and I wonder again what changes are ahead.

Read what others have written to celebrate April, National Poetry Month:
NaPoWriMo at http://www.napowrimo.net/participants-sites/
A-Z Challenge at http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com

L is for Lollygagging . . .

If ever warmer days 
finally replaced the cold 
that sinks in my bones, 
I would leap out of my mummy-bag, 
celebrate with a plethora 
of dandy-lions, 
their manes tossing
like tissues as I sneeze 
again and again. 
I would embrace the now! 
Stop lollygagging with the last gasp, 
the last hangover of winter, 
this dratted cold.

Today's poem comes from seeing dandelions yesterday in a very short walk and then 28 degrees last night and waking with a cold this morning. A spring cold. 

I learned that the word dandelion comes from Old French, dent-de-lion (lion's tooth), that dandelions actually are considered a healing herb (especially to soothe the stomach), so perhaps dandelion tea is called for, or a beer at The Dandelion Pub in Philadelphia. 

And, of course, that "L" word, lollygagging, meaning to waste time aimlessly, a goal I have not achieved.


Read what others have written to celebrate April, National Poetry Month:  
NaPoWriMo at http://www.napowrimo.net/participants-sites/  
A-Z Challenge at http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/p/2013-to-z-challenge-sign-up-list.html

K is for Kafka . . .

I met him when I was twenty,
drawn to photos of his hypnotic eyes, 
his German dark stares,
his incomprehensible twisted tales,
a kaleidoscope of failed endings,
none romantic.
Then I found his letter,
and this has stayed with me, 
that abortive forty-five page typed 
letter to his father, never delivered,
which begins in fear,
later published, for there was 
only one Kafka.
Others now read
what was essentially private,
a moan from the soul
only psychiatrists can decipher,
and English majors.
I met my father when I was near thirty 
and tried to call him "Daddy".
He thought someone on the television
was calling her father,
a voice overlay that made no sense
and then it finally stopped.

Charlton Bruce Camp

The problem with writing poetry is that sometimes the poem explores places the writer does not want to go. But this week's thread, memoir poetry, took me to Kakfa, discovered in college, and my father, a short-lived Hollywood stuntman, bartender, lover of motorcycles, and for a brief time in my thirties, my father.

Read what others have written:
NaPoWriMo at http://www.napowrimo.net/participants-sites/
A-Z Challenge at http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/p/2012-to-z-challenge-sign-up-list.html

J is for Jackeroo . . .

A cowboy wanna-be 
slouched into work that first morning 
wearing chaps the storekeeper said 
all the cowboys wore.
The hands called him a jackeroo, 
inexperienced, but he won them over 
working early-to-late, just one of the boys, 
teller of tales with a guitar, until
he married the prettiest Swedish girl.

They came from miles for Chivaree. 
Nothing to do but smile and nod 
and pass the home-made brew,
Swedish girl shivering by his side,
staring at those cowboys
on horseback, whooping it up,
prancing 'round and 'round
their little wood house, little more 
than a shack. Somehow those hands
wired cowbells to the bed.
In the morning, that new Model-T
was discovered on the roof.
My grandfather never found out how,
but I grew up hearing tales
of cowboys and jackeroos.

Frank and Sigrid Henry
Elk Mountain, Montana, 1915

Note: I borrowed the word "jackeroo" from Australian history, slang used to describe an inexperienced station hand. A "chivaree" is a noisy, impromptu serenade to honor a newly wed couple; cowboys are notorious for their pranks. These stories came from my grandfather.

Trophy Bear, Elk Mountain, c. 1922

My grandfather taught my grandmother, raised in Stockholm and Chicago, how to shoot snakes with that pistol hanging from her waist. Later, when he was out riding the range, a bear tried to come in their house. By that time, my grandmother had two little girls to defend. When he returned home, he found his little girls playing with the big "doggy."

Any doggy stories to share?

Read what others have written for April, National Poetry Month:

NaPoWriMo at http://www.napowrimo.net/participants-sites/

A-Z Challenge at http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/p/2012-to-z-challenge-sign-up-list.html

I is for Indecently Blonde . . .

Blame the Romans. Cowed 
by Celtic women's indecent strength, 
their innards curled to ice; they required
prostitutes to wear blonde wigs 
near two millenia ago. 
Roman women rejoiced
when the Celts were ousted;
insults ended imitation.

Yet we women still color our hair.
In my twenties, I favored Hollywood blonde,
like my Swedish mother,  
and applied for work at a bank. 
The men swarmed out of their offices
on invented errands; I was hired
and then ignored as ash blonde
tangled with illicit brown roots.
Now I would not change a single
gray hair; I've earned them all.

Marion Henry (1941)
My mother, a Hollywood starlet

Today's poetry prompt (Day 10 and the letter "I") came from a visit to 2nd Look Books here in Spokane. Michael showed me a page from Terry Jones' Barbarians which retold how the Romans admired and feared Celtic, Germanic and Viking women for their strength, their fearsome pale beauty, and their furious tempers. Luckily I inherited none of these traits, but I was intrigued by what causes women particularly to assume a mask of protective coloring, something I once did. 

To celebrate National Poetry Month, read what others have written:
NaPoWriMo at http://www.napowrimo.net/participants-sites/
A-Z Challenge at http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/p/2012-to-z-challenge-sign-up-list.html
A Round of Words in 80 Days at http://aroundofwordsin80days.wordpress.com/

H is for hiatus . . .

Hiatus -- that moment between
endings and beginnings,
winter to spring.

Last night the weatherman,
his eyebrows wiggling,
predicted a 'late snow'.
This morning, I see clear sky,
and spring green grass.
White cherry blossoms line up
like popcorn strung
along bare branches.
I pause,
yet between words,
a natural fissure in this day,
content to balance what was
with what will be.

To read what others have written:
NaPoWriMo at http://www.napowrimo.net/participants-sites/
A-Z Challenge at http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/p/2012-to-z-challenge-sign-up-list.html

How would you define 'hiatus'? What happens 'between' that is important to you?

On the way to Mount Lemon, Tucson (Camp 2013)

"G is for Gentle . . . "

The first words that come to me for today's poetry prompt is "gentle" as in 'do not go gentle into that good night . . . '

Who could write anything after Dylan Thomas' 
famous, moving poem:
'rage, rage against the dying light,'
written after his father's death

and yet we turn to poetry
when words fail us

remembered words

to ease our understanding
of grief,
or anger,
of loss
and sometimes joy.

Read Dylan's poem at http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15377
Aloud if you can. Think about every line of this lovely villanelle.
A good thing to do for National Poetry Month.

I write this very late,
feeling somewhat gentle as the day ends,
these words here a tribute and a challenge,
inspired by Morgan Dragonwillow's poetry prompt
for the A to Z Poetry Challenge.
Go here to read what others have written,
far more poetic than my effort here,
but I am remembering all those days
when the writing of poetry
led to insight
and a sense of harmony.

Spring in Spokane (Camp 2012)

G is for 'Good golly, Miss Molly . . .'

Seattle. 1958. Once we were inside, 
past the young men smoking 
and standing by the door in clumps, 
past the lines at the bathrooms,
the cloakroom, down the long hallway 
and into the darkened ballroom, 
strobe lights flashed through the crowd. 
It was never about the words: 
we couldn't start dancing fast enough:
the wailing saxophone, that stride piano,
the drums, everyone pressed close, 
feeling the music, just letting go.

Those were the days of innocence, 
well before marijuana, cocaine or meth. 
Our parents feared rock and roll; 
but we were the baby boom generation 
with pocket money. We bought those vinyl 45's,  
treasured them, traded them, danced after school. 
The music moved us through those teen-aged years 
when hand-held transistor radios were new 
and the sound tinny, but, my God, 
don't move that dial. Listen! 
That's Little Richard right there,
back in the day when we monopolized dial-phones
for hour-long conversations, 
and Viet Nam was a tiny country 
no one had heard of.

Little Richard in concert, 1956 (Youtube)

I'm wondering when did your parents' music stop being your music? What are your earliest memories? Who were your favorites?

ROW80 UPDATE: From being on the road all last month, I'm somewhat disconnected from my regular routine of writing. This A to Z Challenge (along with a poem a day for National Poetry Month) is taking me right back to the early days of rock and roll. But my office (somewhat messy) presents a fine workspace, and April promises to be productive. Not quite back to routine yet, but today I rolled out of bed at 6 am, ready to work. 

So for this fine ROW80 Sunday check-in, I have little to report but plans, plans, plans. Biggest achievement these last few days -- recovering from that 400 plus mile drive, finishing an 'inspirational' article for ROW80, and finding several resources to build a list of indie publishers. Sometime today (between finishing laundry and replenishing groceries in the empty fridge), I get to read the 7's for ROW80. 

May your writing week go well.

To read what others have written:
NaPoWriMo at http://www.napowrimo.net/participants-sites/
A-Z Challenge at http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/p/2012-to-z-challenge-sign-up-list.html
A Round of Words in 80 Days at http://aroundofwordsin80days.wordpress.com/

F is for Fats . . .

They rolled a beat-up piano
right in the middle of the basketball court
in our tiny high-school gym.
You, Fats, banged out stride while the sweat
rolled down your face. 
We danced white-kids' bop not five feet away
and fell in love with your gravel-voice
and your music -- "Blueberry Hill," 
"I'm Walkin' to New Orleans," 
and "Ain't That a Shame."  
I never knew a piano could sing like that.
I didn't really know you were already famous.
Your hands just cajoled that piano,
making music, crossing over, and 
from that moment, I was a fan.

When Katrina came to New Orleans, 
Rumors swirled that awful night and 
the next long, long morning 
that you were gone. I still remember
the photos of your rescue in that dread time.
We went on down to New Orleans,
cleaned books in a musty basement for a month,
and walked through the city,
sweet dixie and blues spilling into the night,
your city, Fats.
I'm only one of many who remember you
and hold you dear.

Today, Fats Domino remains a permanent resident of New Orleans, where his Tipitina's Foundation raises funds for musicians in Louisiana. Read more about Fats on Wikipedia and about Tipitina's Foundation here.

To read what others have written:
NaPoWriMo at http://www.napowrimo.net/participants-sites/
A-Z Challenge at http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/p/2012-to-z-challenge-sign-up-list.html
A Round of Words in 80 Days at http://aroundofwordsin80days.wordpress.com/

E is for Elvis . . .

Elvis 1968 (Wikipedia)

Screaming teen-aged girls 
mobbed him;
Blues-loving fans adored him;
Guys hated him.
Adults were outraged, but 
Elvis was a soft-spoken 
young man from the south,
a bad boy wearing leathers,
a parent's nightmare
with heavy-lidded eyes,
so nervous when he sang, 
he jiggled his legs;
his cross-over music 
a tribute to the blues, he topped
the charts over and over again. 
I only know when his songs came on the radio in Seattle in the late 1950s, 
everything seemed possible, even love,
and we danced holes in the rug.

We're home, exhausted after driving 430 miles, and I'm late with "E" for the A-Z Challenge, but who could forget Elvis, his raucous break-all-the-rules"Blue Suede Shoes," and his contribution to rock and roll?



To read what others have written:

NaPoWriMo at http://www.napowrimo.net/participants-sites/
A-Z Challenge at http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/p/2012-to-z-challenge-sign-up-list.html
A Round of Words in 80 Days at http://aroundofwordsin80days.wordpress.com/

D is for Delight . . .

When I write, I relax into almost meditation, a focus on other than myself, the routine of early morning driving the day's writing goals into something that wasn't there before. And so, 

I write in delight,
always somewhat surprised
to see words
arrange themselves
on the page.
Writing drives me to detail
that single, lost Canada goose 
heading south last night in the dusk,
alone, honking, 
as if the sound alone
would bring him back to the flock
somewhere ahead of him,
a plaintive call and yet
spring awaits.
I can see him landing
on a wide, cool pond,
far from human eye,
where there, among the reeds,
he finds his own delight.

Canada geese along the Spokane River (Wikipedia)

Most days I work on editing (and writing) my historical fiction. Only in April do I challenge myself with a poem a day. And now to work! May your week go well.

To read what others have written:
NaPoWriMo at http://www.napowrimo.net/participants-sites/
A-Z Challenge at http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/p/2012-to-z-challenge-sign-up-list.html
A Round of Words in 80 Days at http://aroundofwordsin80days.wordpress.com/

C is for Cow-licious . . .

A Swiss Braunvieh cow contemplates nature (Wikipedia)

Let us go to the far hill,
my well-flanked one. 
We'll stand there in quiet.
I'll ruminate.
You'll munch on the grass.
Together we'll watch
the young ones butt heads
and run in circles.
And we'll remember
those long ago days of spring.

Today's poem was inspired by a story we overheard at the T-J Diner just north of Medford, Oregon, as we slowly drive home. A rancher said, "I finally got that motorcycle I wanted. I put four booties on one of my cows and called her a cow-a-socki." 

Maybe some days, it's just OK to have fun with this poem-a-day challenge.

To read what others have written:
NaPoWriMo at http://www.napowrimo.net/participants-sites/
A-Z Challenge at http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/p/2012-to-z-challenge-sign-up-list.html
A Round of Words in 80 Days at http://aroundofwordsin80days.wordpress.com/


ROW80 WEDS UPDATE: Just a quick update. We're still on the road until Friday night. I'm settling in to reading ROW80 as a first-time sponsor and wishing everyone a great Round 2!

B is for Blur . . .

"Blur"

You could not see his face
for you met on the internet.
His words drew you in,
until you were nearly lost in love,
words tumbling between you.
He lived somewhere
between London and Norway;
He searched for someone exactly like you,
offering love, marriage, a new life together.
I broke the bond.
An internet search brought
multiple photos, different names, and
the same fractured syntax, with stories
of other women like you:
One waited at the airport with her three children
for a lover who never arrived; another mortgaged her home.
You are safe for the moment.
Even face-to-face, we do not know each other.
We are but a blur in the cosmos,
vulnerable to our half-articulated hopes and dreams.
We say there are no easy answers, no easy
connections, but one day, you may yet find
that companion of your heart.

Older, newly widowed women who use the internet are particularly vulnerable to such scams. This happened to someone dear to me. If you have any doubts about someone you meet on line, do a key word search on Google, phrases, names, even photos. Check out this background article on Wikipedia which suggests a predictable pattern of establishing trust, 'grooming' the mark, and asking for money. If you are drawn into an online friendship and are asked for money, follow that old truism, "Trust but verify."  Consider checking names, photos, or text on romancescam.com

Today's poem falls under the umbrella of the 'A-Z Challenge' and NaPoWriMo -- to write a poem a day in April, National Poetry Month.

European Bee-eaters (Wikipedia)
Note the female in the front who waits for the male's offering.

To read what others have written:
NaPoWriMo at http://www.napowrimo.net/participants-sites/
A-Z Challenge at http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/p/2012-to-z-challenge-sign-up-list.html
A Round of Words in 80 Days at http://aroundofwordsin80days.wordpress.com/

A is for April

A is for April, another round of ROW80 begins today, as does the A-Z Challenge and a-poem-a-day to celebrate National Poetry Month.  So, first the poem:

"Anniversary"

Two camellia trees lean together,

like old friends, like lovers

who put roots down

when the house was new and filled with children.

Blossoms red and white litter the garden

an invitation to stroll here

as spring rounds another year, and

old friends tell stories of long ago.

Even an early morning rain

cannot take away these moments,

now memories, cherished, of a couple

who made a home 

filled with beauty and love.

Two Camilla Trees, Berkeley (Camp 2013)

We visited friends who live next to Berkeley, California, and who introduced us so long ago. We celebrated our reunion with dinner at Zaki's, Mediterranean food and music, haunting eastern style, and the most fabulous chicken/rice dish I have ever eaten -- Malouba (and I now have the recipe) with fresh mint lemonade (still searching for that recipe). The poem is for them.

Now for ROW80 which begins with ROW80 GOALS (April 1 - June 20).

WRITING:

--Write 100 words a day.

--Write a BLOG column once a week.

--Write a POEM a day for National Poetry Month (April).

--Complete A-Z CHALLENGE w/daily post (also April).Theme: Research for Rivers of Stone.

--Write AFTERWORD for Years of Stone and Standing Stones. Work by section to identify historical persons. Maybe use List of characters? How do other writers of historical fiction handle this issue?

--BEGIN research on Rivers of Stone. Read preliminary notes. OUTLINE. Write character sketches of major/minor characters. BUILD a timeline. PULL SCENES together. Make scene cards. Plot character arcs. Create SCHEDULE w/deadlines.

OTHER GOALS are more difficult for me to nail down.

·       

READING/CRAFT: Read at least one book and 2 magazines a month on writing craft. Reread PDF/Research files for Years of Stone and Rivers of Stone. Continue critting other writers at Internet Writers Workshop (NOVELS-L), at least 2 critiques each month and one subbed chapter each month.. Need to read Bound for Australia http://boundforsouthaustralia.net.au/

MARKETING/OUTREACH: 

·        WEEKLY: Use DuoLit daily to get marketing plan organized and to identify ACTION STEPS. Research marketing strategies and update Marketing Plan. Send out press release for Mermaids. Update author bio. Set up author website (Word Press). Pursue readings at Hastings, Book End, Barnes & Noble. Post book club invite/questions to website. Offer Mermaid Quilt freebie on GoodReads. 

PUBLISHING/SALES:  

·         Take Mermaid Quilt to WSQ Yard Sale (April 6). Publish Mermaid Quilt on Smashwords.   Track sales monthly for Mermaid Quilt on Amazon, CreateSpace.   Submit story and poems x 2 each month with new bio that includes The Mermaid Quilt.  Make a final round of indie presses for Standing Stones and Years of Stone (see list of 40 potential indie publishers). Set self-pub plan if no results by June 20. 

I think these goals are more specific, perhaps more measurable than in the past. We're still on the road until April 5, but then I will have an office again, my research materials, and a big screen for my little netbook. Whoopie. May ROW80 go well for you. Be tenacious! Make commitments! Write on!

I

April and poetry, etc, etc.

I write and no matter where I am,
or in which century,
each word builds story
as the doves chitter and sit on the garden wall
in this Tucson morning sun.
Already the mountain laurel and the marguerites bloom,
the wind chime tinkles softly,
and the palo verde glows green with spring.

April promises to be intense. I'm getting ready for the next round of ROW80 (A Round of Words in 80 Days), which runs from April 1 to June 21 by refining and setting my writing, research and publishing goals.

The A-Z Challenge also runs in April. This year my theme will be writing about research for Rivers of Stone. My characters will cross 19th Century Canada and the United States to reach Fort Vancouver on the Columbia River. Some people write their entries ahead of time, but I like the spontaneity of connecting my writing and reading to the letter-of-the-day. 

April is also National Poetry Month, and it's kind of fun to try to write a poem a day just for April. For me, writing fiction is a way of exploring story, history, characters, ideas, and working out conflicts, but poetry is a way of centering into the present.

Are you in?

Check these websites for more information:

A Round of Words in 80 Days at http://aroundofwordsin80days.wordpress.com/

A to Z Challenge at http://www.a-to-zchallenge.com/

Ways to celebrate National Poetry Writing Month, started by the Academy of American Poets. See http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/41

Scintilla Day 9: Lost

When I was in my early twenties, dreaming of going back to school, my hippie sister came up out of the wilds of Mendocino County, dragging her adorable kids, Chrissy 5 and Dale 6.

"You take them," she said. "You've got a job, you've got a life." And so I became a mom, arranged a babysitter, bought clothes, cooked proper meals, read good night stories, and fell in love all over again. My sister hit the road, alone.

One Saturday, I thought we should have an adventure. I'd been invited to the coast, roughly an hour's drive from Ukiah to near Fort Bragg. I loaded the kids in my car and checked the map. I could have chosen 101, the North Redwoods Highway, the road most traveled, but a thin line traced on the map led over the coastal mountains. "Let's take this back road, kids," and off we went.

Our road that at first wound through foothills and lovely, quiet woods quickly became a one-way dirt road. This old logging road, rarely used, twisted and turned back on itself as it cut through rugged hills. We sang and told stories as I maneuvered my old car past potholes at maybe 15 mph. I was lost. We had no food, no water. Feeling more scared and stupid by the minute, I gained no clues from the road or the map. I drove on. Five hours later, we arrived at the coast. We took Highway 101 home. I hoped the kids never knew how frightened I'd been.

For three months I was a mom, but then my sister swung back through town. "They're my kids," she said. "You can't have them." And then they were all gone. I moved to San Francisco, worked my way through school, and became a teacher. I heard from her occasionally, sometimes by letter, sometimes by rumor.

I never saw the kids again. My sister dropped in, sometimes asking for money, sometimes telling me of her latest boyfriend. Chrissy married at 19, and had two kids of her own. I think she's somewhere in Montana. Dale wound up in jail. Several decades later, my sister died in a crack house in Dallas, lost to us all. But I still cherish those three months of innocence and remember the day we got lost in the woods.

NOTE: I'm joining the Scintilla Project (daily writing prompts for two weeks) while on the road. Read what others have written at www.scintillaproject.com or jump on Twitter at #scintilla13 and read and write on!

Day 9 prompt:  Talk about where you were going the day you got lost. Were you alone? Did you ever get to where you meant to go?

March 20: Scintilla Day 8: It was the best of feasts . . .

Thanksgiving. My sister and I invited eighteen people to gather for an unforgettable meal. We spent hours shopping, cutting, preparing, stewing, boiling, baking. Every special food had been prepared for this four-course Swedish Thanksgiving feast. We took more time in the kitchen than planned. People wandered in and out, encouraging us, for we had prepared no appetizers. By the time we sat down to table, our guests had that lean and hungry look, almost dangerous.

Cartoon from Uffdashop

My sister and I sat at the head of the table, together on this special day. She brought in the first round of salads, all well received, even Sill Salad, a beet concoction my grandmother used to make. I brought in the first platter of lutefisk and politely passed it around. I watched as the platter made its way around the table. No takers. Mutters arose as that platter returned to us untouched. "No turkey?" someone queried. My sister and I dug in; this was a feast: Light, succulent lutefisk made with traditional white gravy. Our guests ate broccoli and corn. They were grateful for pie.

NOTE: I'm joining the Scintilla Project (daily writing prompts for two weeks) while on the road. Read what others have written at www.scintillaproject.com or jump on Twitter at #scintilla13 and write on!

March 19 Scintilla: No Turning Back . . .

Everything changed when I met my husband. He was traveling to Mexico to go to graduate school. I was working at an international bank. He said, "I'm leaving in September, and I most likely won't be back." I said, "I've always wanted to go to Mexico." He was too kind-hearted and too enamoured to refuse me.

Within the month, I quit my job and sold my possessions, except for my sewing machine, a heavily loaded back-pack, and my mother's portable typewriter -- all of which I carried over the border. I didn't speak a word of Spanish, yet somehow, a mere 45 hours on the bus brought me to San Miguel de Allende, a small colonial town just north of Mexico City, a town of artists and writers, and Allen.

He did tell me he wasn't the marrying kind, but I took that as a personal challenge.

Isaiah Zagar's mosaics, Magic Garden,
Philadelphia (Camp 2000)

I never wanted to turn back, for Allen was (and still is) a wonderful teller of tales. Normally one person in a couple has the voice of reason. If Allen or I suggested we should travel some new place, we simply went. We have had outrageous adventures. Once we had our daughter, we learned not to rattle suitcases and settled down, somewhat. In 2004, we spent seven months traveling, a month in each country, beginning in Egypt, then Israel, Turkey, Greece, Italy, France, and England, an unforgettable trip.

I remember buying a pair of scissors in a Turkish open air market and immediately cutting Allen's hair. A crowd quickly gathered, offering helpful comments, laughing and teasing to see my handiwork.

I still cut his hair. I would not change one moment of our marriage.

NOTE: I'm joining the Scintilla Project (daily prompts for two weeks) while on the road. Read what others have written at www.scintillaproject.com or jump on Twitter at #scintilla13 and write on! To read more about Isaiah Zagar, go here

Scintilla 6: Testing character . . .

Scintilla 6: Describe a time when your character was tested.

Tsunematsu-san was always composed. He was very short, even for a Japanese, yet his air of confident calm meant regardless of the crises that surrounded us, his few words put us at ease. Did I say we were international bankers in a west coast start up? Assigned to our office from Japan, he moved through the day as if he were at home. Occasionally he would talk to me about Hiroshima, where his family lived for generations. I didn't have the courage to ask him why he came to the states or how he felt about America.

Everyone liked Tsunematsu-san. For his 60th birthday, we planned a surprise birthday. Because I worked most closely with him, I was delegated to bring him to the break room. The hour came. I picked up my phone, dialed his number, and said with some urgency, "Tsunematsu-san, please come to the back office. I need you."

He was dutifully surprised by cake and the gathering of office workers and expressed pleasure. "We do not celebrate birthdays in this way in Japan," he said. But after the party was over, he took me aside. "Beth," he said, "you did not tell me the truth when you called me. The words cannot be taken back, even if for this good cause. Now I know I cannot trust you."

I was shocked. I was hurt. But his words forever changed me.

NOTE: I'm joining Scintilla Project (daily prompts for two weeks) while on the road. Read what others have written here or jump on Twitter at #scintilla13 and write on!

Scintilla #1: Morning Commute

We're in Arizona now, 93 degrees today, the land flat desert, rolling hills to mountains as we pass Blythe and stop just over the border, and I drove about 290 miles at breakneck speed. Very few cars followed the 70 mph limit.   So I was a little tired, just checking in on bloggers I like to read.

I found a neat, knuckle-biter of an airplane story from S. C. Morgan and a link to participate in The Scintilla Project. Click here to find out more or click on the icon in the right hand menu. Scintilla provides daily writing prompts for just two weeks. I was tired enough not to reisist, so jump in!  

Today’s prompt: Being trapped in a confined environment can turn an ordinary experience into a powder keg. Write about a thing that happened to you while you were using transportation; anything from your first school bus ride, to a train or plane, to being in the backseat of the car on a family road trip.

I was late. Why was it that when I was on my way out the door, my boyfriend would ask me a question that no one could answer with yes or no? I gunned the jeep just a little. Cold morning, cold car, cold fingers on the wheel. 

The jeep slid over the yellow line. Black ice. My heart jumped. No oncoming traffic. I twisted the wheel one direction. Steer into the skid! That didn't work.

I flipped the wheel to the other side, and the jeep whirled around in a circle. I watched the hills covered with snow float past the window. The jeep continued to rotate in circles, off the road, tilting, sliding. I was weightless. I remember thinking that I had no regrets. 

The jeep slammed to a stop on a dirt embankment. My back crashed out the side window. The jeep tilted on top of me, heavier and heavier. I could take this, and no more. I could barely breathe. I pounded on top of the jeep's green roof and screamed as loudly as I could.

A man ran around the back of the jeep.

"Hello there," I said, breaking off from my screams.

"Don't worry, lady. I'll get this off you!" He strained to push the jeep up and away. But the jeep didn't move. His face crumpled. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'll be back. Just stay still."

Was I going anywhere? My head felt heavy. I wanted to sleep; the jeep was a blanket. I couldn't feel my legs.

Two men shoved and pushed the jeep upright. I slithered out the window onto the ground. They covered me with a blanket and waited until the ambulance came. Outside of a dislocated hip, a four-inch gash on my forehead, and a chip out of my spine, I was alive.

Today I am still very grateful for the years since, my only marker, a tiny scar on my forehead.

Of the sea and a ROW80 update . . .

Sea Pen (Camp 2013)

Today, we visited the Monterey Bay Aquarium  to find the most fantastic creatures, from water dragons to jellyfish to this curious sea pen, called in Spanish, pluma del mar.  I can imagine writing with such a pen.

Were any mermaids there? Yes, indirectly. I spotted a tiny, tough little egg case, also called a mermaid's purse, which a skate will attach to seaweed or sand. Sometimes we writers protect ourselves with such a tough skin.

I was fascinated by the jelly fish for they are so very different, each one independent, yet they float and bump along in a colony of like creatures, their pale, sometimes transparent colors ephemeral. We don't know if or how they communicate (they have no brains), yet they swarm together and have a kind of nerve net in their 'skin'. They were simply beautiful, yet I know their sting can be dangerous.

ROW80 UPDATE/WRITING: Access to internet has been at random at best, but I am writing every day. I'm less confident I'll meet the goals I set at the beginning of this round, chastened by the reality of close revision but making progress. I'm nearly finished with Section 2 of Years of Stone. Ten weeks have passed (the editorial review window) without the indie press saying yes, so I shall go ahead with self-pubbing by the end of the year for Standing Stones and Years of Stone, not a bad goal.

Of found mermaids and ROW80

We're on the road, but I still see mermaids everywhere.

This mermaid perches above two draft beer kegs at the Chart House in Crescent City, right by the sea. Her face is hidden, her delicate hair and fins fashioned of driftwood, a creature reclaimed from the sea, anonymous, maybe even the bones of the sea, here in this town so vulnerable to tsunamis.

Later today I'll go walking by the ocean, feeling again the pull of the waves and the sea, that tension between becoming and being. Perhaps writers are always caught in imagining something else, never quite 'here and now' but always drawn to the possible, the 'what if?' The tide turns and returns, the waves a constant sound of something just beyond my ken.

ROW80 UPDATE: Not much to report this week. I'm reading someone else's novel for quick comments. In the morning, I'm optimistic and writing, but I've set aside other ROW80 goals for now. We are on the road and I'm the primary driver. Is that an excuse? I only know that after driving 200 miles, I feel too tired to do much more than flop. We'll head down the California coast tomorrow and have a rest day today -- so later a walk along the beach but now it's time for writing. May your week go well.

A little about Sister Rosetta Tharpe

From the very first moment that Sister Rosetta Tharpe picks up her guitar and begins to sing, you know a master of timing and passion is at work. Here she is in 1964, singing in the rain to a packed audience. "Didn't It Rain."

PSB American Masters presented highlights from her career and life. We took a break from packing (tomorrow we leave on a 1,400 mile drive to Tucson at the crack of dawn), and we were simply enthralled at this wonderful celebration of her beautiful bluesy voice. Her guitar slides from gospel to early acid rock.

ROW80 Update: In spite of all the efforts we may make, at moments, we lose confidence in ourselves. Listening to someone like Sister Rosetta sing reminds me that we begin with faith and continue with hope. Even the earliest tapes of Sister Rosetta show her singing with power, an inspiration to any creative person. So my ROW80 update is simply that I'm making progress and will persevere.

Writing debate/tip/question: I'm reading two writers now who almost completely dispense with "he said" or "she said," using dialogue tags (also called 'action tags') instead. The resulting pace of the story picks up remarkably. Since a recent critter suggested I use "Deidre said" instead of "said Deidre," I'm rethinking entirely how I use those tags. Anyone have advice?

For more about Sister Rosetta, Wikipedia has a nice overview.