[Moon-dæg] A West Coast Yawp

Context
West Coast Yawp
Closing

{Some beeswax, taper candles. Image found on Waxing Lyrical.}

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Context

Today's poem is one of several "yawps" I wrote while living over in Victoria, BC. Like this majority of these pieces, this one combines two of the larger hurdles of that experience: the weather and the burden of grad school.

In true yawp-like fashion, it might not make perfect logical sense, but logic isn't so much the point as is putting out words that stir emotions and produce strong images.

As always, you can leave your own thoughts of the poem below in the comments.

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West Coast Yawp

My eyes hoard the written word
And pass out its meaning like a
Miserly king
On the verge of becoming a dragon -

Ready to flaunt his draconitas
In the trick of his new found tail.

All the bone-houses and heart-thought
Of dead poets and buried heroes:
Now no help to me.

Scholar voices bound the crenellations
Of my cranium
And pipe up treble loud
when I place my nose into a book;

Something has gone out
Some spark or other has snuffed it.

More light,
More light,
Lest the West Coast wind
Topple my last lit tapers.

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Closing

Check back here Friday for a search through the sins of The Convent for part Four of Shocktober.

In the meantime, check out tomorrow's Latin ("Dum Diane vitrea") entry and Thursday's Old English (Beowulf) entry over at Tongues in Jars!

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[Moon-dæg] A Convention, A Challenge, and A Poem

Context
A Ballad of Polaris
Closing

{Polaris 26's logo. Image found on the Polaris 26 website.}

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Context

Tonight's piece is an early draft of a poem written specially for the 26th Polaris convention. It was held this past weekend (July 6-8), and I wanted to challenge myself to write something narrative about it before it faded into memory.

So I wrote a ballad about Polaris 26 tonight (taking about an hour to get it from brain, to page, to post-able form).

The ballad chronicles the trip to Polaris on Thursday and part of Friday; the convention itself on the rest of Friday, Saturday, and Sunday; and the departure on Sunday. It begins with a refrain, and then a verse about Thursday and repeats that pattern for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.

Some poetic license is taken with form (there are some long lines, irregular rhyme) and content (for the sake of brevity and of rhyme). However, where necessary, I've added hyperlinks to clarify references.

Enjoy, and feel free to let me know how I can improve this one.

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A Ballad of Polaris

A special thing, held but once a year,
Hosted where a cultural heart is,
Full of friends and bright of cheer,
A convention called Polaris.

One leg's journey done and gone
And then a brief respite
First con fellow was well-met
While anticipation reached new heights.

A special thing, held but once a year,
Hosted where the cultural heart is,
A place where fandom runs ever clear,
A convention called Polaris.

The city heart was sought and found,
The lady love to the party was added,
With an old friend we dined, and had
Were funds that would that very night
In the Sheraton's halls resound.

A special thing, held but once a year,
Hosted where the cultural heart is,
To which many a spec fic fan does steer,
A convention called Polaris.

The con was off to a rumbling start,
Friday's karaoke gave voice to our hearts,
But Saturday was solitary,
Though distant victory did carry

Through Ms. Munteanu's editing 'shop great,
Where was found help enough to save
An old story from its sorry state.

A special thing, held but once a year,
Hosted where the cultural heart is,
Place of artists, editors, writers dear,
A convention called Polaris.

All was quiet in the final day's late morning,
The dance and six six three were sweated
Through and past. Bamb'ry on social media
Was clear, and shared how to make people online see ya;

While learning of when best
to leave readers to a guess
Was a fine thing over which to mull
As con and city both from view did fall.

A special thing, held for the year,
Now done and gone; farewell Ms. Lin,
All other guests and staff without peer,
Until, when in a year, comes Polaris 27.

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Check back here on Wednesday for an editorial on the newest news, and on Friday for part two of Nicolas Cage Month: a search for the good in Season of the Witch. And be sure to come back to the blog on Tuesday and Thursday for more annotated links.

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[Moon-dæg] A Poetic Turn for Mondays

The Change Up
Still the Same old Moon-dæg
The Poem's Intro
The General Lee Stanza Suite
Closing

{This General Lee can definitely make any and all jumps, with a little "digital" help. Image from Toy Wonders, Inc.}

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The Change Up

Because A Glass Darkly is my general blog, I’ve decided to make it a little more general.

Up until now, Monday’s and Wednesday’s entries have been more or less the same - just editorials or opinions about current news of one sort or another. Though the suite of recipes back in February was a bit different from all that (interestingly Bibimbap proved the most popular dish).

So, in an effort to make this blog a broader spectrum of writing styles and to work some non-editorial/review stuff into it, Monday’s entries will now feature what’s included under the umbrella term “Creative Writing.” Sometimes poetry will be posted here, sometimes fiction. Eventually, it may include novel excerpts, eventually.

The content of Monday's entries is also changing in the hopes that it will free up more time so that I can put that extra time towards other projects.

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Still the Same old Moon-dæg

As per how this fits in with the blog's original conceit: The moon is very closely related to many magical practices and occurrences.

Creative writing, in the way it weaves devices and plots and characters together into something that causes some sort of response, is similar to some of the moon's magical aspects (think of the full moon's effect on lycanthropes). And that's the connection.

However, there may still be series or sequences of work spread out over weeks, not just standalone pieces.

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The Poem's Intro

Now then, for the inaugural “creative writing” entry, I present a poem written at a local writing group.

This piece was written based on an exercise involving a handful of random figures that one member of a group or meeting brings in. At this particular meeting these figures included a tiny plastic Millenium Falcon, a Superman figurine, a Strawberry Shortcake figurine, a generic wooden man on a peg, a board for the peg man, a green figurine of some sort, and a tiny, metal General Lee. The idea behind the exercise is to write based on whatever comes to mind when looking at the brought items - in any configuration.

This poem involves the figurines and models, but not entirely directly. This indirect inspiration is reflected in the poem's title.

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The General Lee Stanza Suite

Part 1: Prophecies of Playtime

Too much too much
Crowded like a stable when all the inns are full
This train of random figures is simply too much
What will the man in the red cape save?
Through what will the mercernary and new hope fly?
Where will the woman in the fragrant hat plant
her virtues and straws?

A green man will the red cape save
Through gravel and brush will the two fly
And on a block of solid flat wood -
made fertile by a plethora of mite corpses will
the lady plant.

The green man - lowing like cattle
at the prospect of lowering over his arm
something sharper than a knife - will be saved
Those two will leave the gravel and brush behind
And that woman will make all square with
the round man’s help.

The cape will flash and sharpness will shatter on the ground
Those two will land with a leap and a pulse higher than a
snacking pastry chef’s - back out more gravel and brush
And that woman, the round man, will stand as if the ground had
grooves and
smile, their bright red reward to see.

Part 2: Further Impressions

A lot will be written about figures -
images cast in plastic -
laying on a flat brown table
While from some other space

Music of the island plays and
a voice both bright and bawled
will make an announcement to fill
auditoriums.
Such words as that on which
books are made.

Any connection -
only as needed -
the Doctor and the Farmer
born and raised in
the pretty how town.

If you only knew of all
the plundering done
to swim upstream and
to reach that distant shore with more

Or with enough
So that in your
Wake diamonds and gems would shudder
and shake causing the river to

Undulate in
A bed muddi-
er than your hands at such an end.
No matter it all comes off a

'gainst a leaf still
caught in its tree
Plucked down and scraped across each palm:
You’ll need clean hands for the promised feasts.

(Composed on 20 December 2011)

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Closing

Check back here Wednesday for an article on the newest news, and on Friday for the hunt for the good in The Last Airbender.

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