Caution, the label says,
Symptoms are as follows:
Tightening of the throat,
loss of sense and sanespace.
Also included, the
indelible words that
in heart chamberspace,
along pink highways,
in dark nights of restless dreaming.
I’m not one to attempt free verse poetry often, mostly due to its lack-of structure. To twist my message into a certain form must be akin to the joy a topiary artist must feel, or someone who assembles ships in glass bottles. The skeleton comforts but does not inhibit, sprawled out and waiting for an individual, full of idealizations of being a poetic sort, to cast muscle and sinew upon the limbs, fit organs under the curve of bone daggers, breathe life into empty lungs.
To use free verse is to assemble the skeleton of a creature of your own design. Some may find that liberating, but I find it an intense burden.
So I suppose I should say that I envy those who can weave elephants from dust and make them magnificent, tusks that gleam under the sunlight, size that makes one painfully aware of their own insignificance. Those that I create end up with crooked joints, extra spikes, twisted throats that lead only to guttural shrieks, misbegotten creatures that are hidden away, if not destroyed outright.
Any advice from the poets out there concerning free verse? What are your favorite free verse poems and why have they stuck with you?
she, in small, soundless spaces,
strings the story in slumber’s
softly sewing the synapse
Today’s entry is clearly one where I am phoning it in due to a bunch of stressful things happening at once that resulted in an afternoon on the back deck, drinking and playing with giant furbeasts in an effort to stop myself from incoherent rage-screaming.
Tomorrow, I will get the new video card for my little beast computer. Tomorrow, I will write my opinions on ArcheAge’s beta and the controversy surrounding its cash shop. Tomorrow I will wear the face of someone who isn’t perpetually losing her shit on the inside.
Tomorrow is not today, and thank goodness for that.
Formal definition of haiku is here, but I’m one of those lazy louts who culturally appropriates the form just to try and spit a feeling into seventeen syllables. On a better day, I might blather on about it.
But that day is not today.
Mild Summer Intoxication
A swig of amber
and a dash of lunacy
to make a day dim
I am neck-deep in too many thoughts and turbulent nonsense to spare much words to coherency, which is something I deeply regret, but hope I can be forgiven for, especially since my typical entries are much akin to watching a dog freak out about its own flatulence and start biting at its own bum.
So instead I offer up a cinquain written for this week’s poetry prompt on Writer’s Digest, topic being news. Didn’t pick the cinquain for its ease of use or for the usual exercise in “accomplishing as much as possible in narrow spaces,” but for the fact that most of the news stemming from the situation comes from a social media source requiring such shortness. Hopefully I did it well.
There is a distinct lack-of coherency to the brain space where I once had something to blather on about, yet now I have only swirling thoughts, pounding headache, and dread. So, to spare all the indignity of further whining, especially myself, I’d much rather share something written when in the innocence of high-school years, if only to be spared the burden of sensibility this day.
Simply put, I am far too tired and too old for this shit.
I adore the cinquain for its deceptive simplicity. The form is simple to remember, without emphasis placed upon rhyme or mechanics. There are twenty-two syllables allotted to accomplish mood, or atmosphere, or to communicate significance in such narrow spaces.
Just to emphasize, there are more syllables in that previous sentence than there are in a cinquain.
So it’s a fun challenge to see what you can accomplish with that.
Have one of my own below. If anyone has cinquains they’d like to share, or other amazing contortions made in tiny spaces, I’d adore seeing them.