Whiskey.I don't know how to feel.Whiskey. by Meggie272
I tried whiskey but
and I don't want to burn.
I've had enough of that for now.
RejectionI am going to tackle a difficult and sensitive topic this month - rejection. None of us like to be rejected in any situation, under any circumstances. We associate rejection with failure, loss, inadequacy, and a host of other negative feelings. We can be rejected by lovers, friends, family, spouses, parents, employers, co-workers...and each one feels like a betrayal.Rejection by Word-Smiths
As writers we also face the possible rejection of our work; and that rejection is often the most devastating. Our poems and stories are deeply personal. The spring from experiences, feelings, dreams, demons, hopes and wishes...all glossed by the fertile brush of our imagination.They are our children. So it is little wonder that when they are declined, or returned with a polite (but terse) "Thanks, but no thanks", we feel like we have been insulted. A small chunk of us - a small chunk that contains a piece of heart and soul - has just been rejected. Naturally that means our work is not good enough...we are without talent an
An Introduction to Meter"Trochee trips from long to short;An Introduction to Meter by anapests-and-ink
From long to long in solemn sort
Slow Spondee stalks, strong foot!, yet ill able
Ever to come up with Dactyl's trisyllable.
Iambics march from short to long.
With a leap and a bound the swift Anapests throng."
from "Metrical FeetA Lesson for a Boy," by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
That's right, we're talking about meterall those scary words and old-fashioned concepts of what makes a poem. Trochee, Iamb, Dactyl, Anapest: the whole lot. And by the time we're done, you can go around spouting phrases that make you look fantastically smart. (For example, a recent conversation with my coworker: "Thank you for the poem; it wasn't actually dactylic, but it did have some great anapestic lines." "....Was that even English?")
In essence, meter is all about syllables and stress. We know how to count syllables for haiku and other eastern fixed forms; meter is just an extension of that
rulesit ought not to have been done.rules by ClioStorm
they dug up fossils
by the side of the road,
ancient tree-trunk things,
a gaping skull, wide with
laughter. we drove past
quickly, blew up the dust.
in the rear-view mirror
the sands ran away
and hit a stop sign.
it was all
about the neverminds,
hardpacked earth and
sparseness. the wheels moved.
there was a tree
sideways in the next town
we passed, trailing
lightning wires and tele-tendrils.
the groaning roots
were instruments, red-stained
with sap and dust. a silo
was shaped like an onion but
it did not make me cry.
these are my vital organs:
a lamp, a
i break things away,
disperse them to white-bright.
the fossils were crushed
when the first bomb fell
but the rules were broken
Years later I’m standing before a roomful of young writers in a high school in Texas. I’ve asked them to locate an image in a poem we’d just read—their heads at this moment are bowed to the page. After some back & forth about the grass & a styrofoam cup, a girl raises her hand & asks, Does it matter? I smile—it is as if the universe balanced on those three words & we’ve landed in the unanswerable. I have to admit that no, it doesn’t, not really, matter, if rain is an image or rain is an idea or rain is a sound in our heads. But, I whisper, leaning in close, to get through the next forty-seven minutes we might have to pretend it does.
—Nick Flynn, courtesy of poets.org