d'ArcI could almost hear the flamesd'Arc by ClioStorm
in the sunrise that morning,
when we led her out to die.
Her hair was shorn and her body
starved of life. I saw in her
my daughter. But this woman
was a traitor, and on the
other side, a saint. She
did not weep. I am an
honest man. My father
was a butcher, meat-stained
and hurried. A little man,
but his skill with a knife -
oh! you have not seen such cuts!
They brought in a lamb,
bleating and blind, slit its throat
in one straight line and
left me to mop the blood.
I could not look.
The crowd howled and bayed
and tossed like the ocean,
a press of filthy bodes.
I shut my ears. I did my job.
When the fire sprang up,
my eyes were on the sky.
The steeple. She saw only
the cross. Oh, if I had been
so kind. I sought forgiveness
in the flowers of the square.
My wife cooked lamb that night.
I could not eat.
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