A few days (weeks?) ago, the wonderful and ever-generous Glamourpuss nominated me for the "Roar for Powerful Words" award. The people who get this award are required to list three things that they consider vital for good writing. They then must pass the award on to five others.
So, here we go. First off, here are three things that I consider vital for good writing:
1. Thought: Not to get too florid about this, but every art begins with raw materials, to which it applies tools. In the case of writing, particularly blogging, I think the raw materials are day-to-day life events, and the key tool is thought. Everyone has things happen to them, but good writers apply thought to those events. They look for connections, seek significance, and draw conclusions. In short, they turn the quotidian happenings of life into something transcendent and meaningful.*
Or, at least, they try to do so.
2. Humor: Another thing to consider is the fact that most of the events of daily life are not all that happy. Most of life is a struggle, and we often have to look hard to find moments of beauty, happiness, or humor. Good writers, though, are willing to go through that struggle. They work hard to find ways to laugh at themselves and the world around them. Sometimes the humor is light, and sometimes it is black as a cat's ass in an unlighted mine, but it's always there if we've got the energy to look for it.
3. Editing: Okay, as somone who tends to ramble, I should probably just keep my mouth shut, but I really appreciate writers who carefully edit their work. By doing so, they tend to add structure and energy to their writing and, generally, keep me from getting bored.
I clearly need to work on this.
And here are five writers who really impress the hell out of me:
1. Hearts in San Francisco is not only an outstanding writer, but she also demonstrates the three things I mentioned above. Her energetic, thoughtful writing often finds humor in the most unlikely places. Sometimes it's heart-wrenching, but it's always amazing.
2. In his blog, Mystic Wing records his daily struggles with finding balance in his life, coming to terms with his own weaknesses, and generally striving to uncover meaning. He seems inclined to view himself as an oldster, but I think that his struggle to learn keeps his mind pretty young.
3. I've only recently started regularly reading Echomouse, but I've already found her to be a thoughtful and energetic read. Her ability to honestly and bravely examine her emotions really blows me away.
4. Lex at On Second Thought has also been exploring a lot of things that most people take for granted. Sometimes painful, sometimes funny, always honest, her blog shows me how the online space can really become a little extra area for us to deal with our internal realities.
5. CEO of The Morning Meeting has had a pretty tough year, what with the deaths of friends and pets, not to mention health problems and construction issues. Through it all, he's taken the time to throw out a lot of support for his fellow bloggers. He's also tried to use his words to work through his pain, which, I think is the whole point.
*I really, really wanted to use the word "quotidian." My day feels complete now.
One side effect of taking a couple of months off blogging is that you miss an awful lot of things. One thing that I missed was the massive proliferation of awards. This isn't to say that I didn't get any awards; rather, I didn't get the time to give them the attention that they deserved, nor did I get the time to pass them on to the bloggers who move, inspire, and stimulate me.
So, anyway, one of my favorite bloggers, Glamourpuss, was kind enought to give me the "Thinking Blogger Award." I was particularly appreciative of this because I think that this is exactly what my favorite bloggers do: they enable me to see the world through another set of eyes and reconsider a few of my basic assumptions. I hope that that is part of what I do for you, because it certainly is what you do for me.
With that in mind, I nominate the following (alphabetically organized) five bloggers for the "Thinking Blogger Award," and thank them deeply for giving me another viewpoint:
1. Claudia of La Vida Claudia. Claudia is in the process of developing her artistic ability, even as she deals with all sorts of messy life events. She documents all of this with a smart, funny, and slightly cynical viewpoint. It's fair to say that she's a total delight.
2. Franki, of Frankily Yours is someone who I have had the joy of meeting, so this is a little bit of a cheat. Her posts are generally short, funny, and tend to grind up sacred cows.
3. Jamiesmitten, of Tell All Your Single Friends, tends toward the sort of random, playful thoughtfulness that so often leads to great ideas and sparks of genius.
4. Judith, of Aucturian Nighmare is one of those people who makes you realize that diversity is just so much more diverse than anyone gives it credit for. I mean, I though that I'd lived an eventful life, but Judith makes me look like a shut-in. Although she is currently out of circulation, I wait with bated breath for her return.
5. I've followed Pool across two blogs, and I will gladly follow her across many, many more. To put it bluntly, she demonstrates a keen, sharp intelligence and eloquence that puts me to shame. On top of all that, she also doesn't suffer fools, and has some beautiful stories about her refusal to do so.
So, there you go. Five bloggers who regularly show me new ways of seeing the world. I cannot overemphasize their talent or thoughtfulness.
Well, we seem to be winding down on the beautiful pickup poems, so I think this will be the last list, at least for a while. Many thanks to everyone who sent me their preferences!
In a wonderful shift from the sleazy to the sublime, Spellbound offered this poem by Kenneth Patchen:
As we are so wonderfully done with each other We can walk into our separate sleep on floors of music where the milkwhite cloak of childhood lies
oh my love, my golden lark, my soft long doll Your lips have splashed my dull house with print of flowers My hands are crooked where they spilled over your dear curving
It is good to be weary from that brilliant work It is being God to feel your breathing under me
A waterglass on the bureau fills with morning..... Don't let anyone in to wake us
Pickled Olives offered two pieces, both of which were wonderful. The first one hearkens back to "Goblin Market":
Stole:
eating a plum I tongue the tight skin drawn seam that halves this globed whole is two it's midnight but when I bite in bursting with wet red flesh the juice dripping down my fingers sweet sticky sticky sweet pulp engorged I fill my mouth eat it down eat it down all the way to the plumbstone
It also reminded me of this one by William Carlos Williams. By the way, I think this is probably the only poem by Williams that I really, truly love:
This Is Just To Say
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox
and which you were probably saving for breakfast.
Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold.
Of course, Williams lacks the sexuality of Olives' poem, but the imagery gives me chills. No pun intended.
Olives also offered these lyrics:
Ooh, now let's get down tonight Baby I'm hot just like an oven I need some lovin' And baby, I can't hold it much longer It's getting stronger and stronger And when I get that feeling I want Sexual Healing Sexual Healing, oh baby Makes me feel so fine Helps to relieve my mind Sexual Healing baby, is good for me Sexual Healing is something that's good for me Whenever blue tear drops are falling And my emotional stability is leaving me There is something I can do I can get on the telephone and call you up baby, and Honey I know you'll be there to relieve me The love you give to me will free me If you don't know the things you're dealing I can tell you, darling, that it's Sexual Healing Get up, Get up, Get up, Get up, let's make love tonight Wake up, Wake up, Wake up, Wake up, 'cos you do it right Baby I got sick this morning A sea was storming inside of me Baby I think I'm capsizing The waves are rising and rising And when I get that feeling I want Sexual Healing Sexual Healing is good for me Makes me feel so fine, it's such a rush Helps to relieve the mind, and it's good for us Sexual Healing, baby, is good for me Sexual Healing is something that's good for me And it's good for me and it's good to me My baby ohhh Come take control, just grab a hold Of my body and mind soon we'll be making it Honey, oh we're feeling fine You're my medicine open up and let me in Darling, you're so great I can't wait for you to operate I can't wait for you to operate When I get this feeling, I need Sexual Healing
I'm not totally sure that she was serious, but God bless Olives! Here's the video:
I thought about putting up a video of George Michael singing the song, but there's a limit to my sense of irony. Besides, GM grosses me out.
Rhapsody offered this wonderful poem. It's not romantic, per se, but definitely puts Marvell in his place:
His Coy Mistress to Mr. Marvell by A.D. Hope
Since you have world enough and time Sir, to admonish me in rhyme, Pray Mr Marvell, can it be You think to have persuaded me? Then let me say: you want the art To woo, much less to win my heart. The verse was splendid, all admit, And, sir, you have a pretty wit. All that indeed your poem lacked Was logic, modesty, and tact, Slight faults and ones to which I own, Your sex is generally prone; But though you lose your labour, I Shall not refuse you a reply:
First, for the language you employ: A term I deprecate is "coy"; The ill-bred miss, the bird-brained Jill, May simper and be coy at will; A lady, sir, as you will find, Keeps counsel, or she speaks her mind, Means what she says and scorns to fence And palter with feigned innocence.
The ambiguous "mistress" next you set Beside this graceless epithet. "Coy mistress", sir? Who gave you leave To wear my heart upon your sleeve? Or to imply, as sure you do, I had no other choice than you And must remain upon the shelf Unless I should bestir myself? Shall I be moved to love you, pray, By hints that I must soon decay? No woman's won by being told How quickly she is growing old; Nor will such ploys, when all is said, Serve to stampede us into bed.
When from pure blackmail, next you move To bribe or lure me into love, No less inept, my rhyming friend, Snared by the means, you miss your end. "Times winged chariot", and the rest As poetry may pass the test; Readers will quote those lines, I trust, Till you and I and they are dust; But I, your destined prey, must look Less at the bait than at the hook, Nor, when I do, can fail to see Just what it is you offer me: Love on the run, a rough embrace Snatched in the fury of the chase, The grave before us and the wheels Of Time's grim chariot at our heels, While we, like "am'rous birds of prey", Tear at each other by the way.
To say the least, the scene you paint Is, what you call my honour, quaint! And on this point what prompted you So crudely, and in public too, To canvass and , indeed, make free With my entire anatomy? Poets have licence, I confess, To speak of ladies in undress; Thighs, hearts, brows, breasts are well enough, In verses this is common stuff; But -- well I ask: to draw attention To worms in -- what I blush to mention, And prate of dust upon it too! Sir, was this any way to woo?
Now therefore, while male self-regard Sits on your cheek, my hopeful bard, May I suggest, before we part, The best way to a woman's heart Is to be modest, candid, true; Tell her you love and show you do; Neither cajole nor condescend And base the lover on the friend; Don't bustle her or fuss or snatch: A suitor looking at his watch Is not a posture that persuades Willing, much less reluctant maids.
Remember that she will be stirred More by the spirit than the word; For truth and tenderness do more Than coruscating metaphor. Had you addressed me in such terms And prattled less of graves and worms, I might, who knows, have warmed to you; But, as things stand, must bid adieu (Though I am grateful for the rhyme) And wish you better luck next time.
Yeats was a particular favorite. Judith offered "Ominous and Rejoiceful yeats to melt and harden the heart." A perfect description:
Never give all the Heart
Never give all the heart, for love Will hardly seem worth thinking of To passionate women if it seem Certain, and they never dream That it fades out from kiss to kiss; For everything that's lovely is But a brief, dreamy, kind delight. O never give the heart outright, For they, for all smooth lips can say, Have given their hearts up to the play. And who could play it well enough If deaf and dumb and blind with love? He that made this knows all the cost, For he gave all his heart and lost
Judith also offered this one:
Brown Penny
I whispered, 'I am too young,' And then, 'I am old enough'; Wherefore I threw a penny To find out if I might love. 'Go and love, go and love, young man, If the lady be young and fair.' Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, I am looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is the crooked thing, There is nobody wise enough To find out all that is in it, For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon. Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, One cannot begin it too soon.
Glamourpuss put forth "When You Are Old" by Yeats. As she said, "I would melt if someone wrote that to me. Sigh."
WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true; But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead, And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
I don't know if Yeats is romantic, but he's amazingly beautiful. Once again, thank you all for playing, and I'll leave you with one last poem by Cummings:
somewhere i have never travelled...
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully, misteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
Once again, here's a mess of sexy poems. As before, most of these were suggested by you. If I haven't included your poem, I certainly will do so in the future.
Glamourpuss suggested that we take a peek at "Don Juan," "I Watched Thee," and "She Walks In Beauty Like the Night" by Lord Byron; "Upon the Nipples of Julia's Breast," by Robert Herrick; "Her Voice" by Oscar Wilde; and "She Lay All Naked on Her Bed," an anonymous poem.
In the interests of brevity, I included one Byron, the Herrick, and "She Lay All Naked on Her Bed." I got rid of the rest because, frankly, they didn't turn me on. The Byron poem is, I think, terrifically atmospheric, and could be used to great effect in the right circumstances:
She Walks in Beauty George Gordon, Lord Byron
SHE walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!
Of course, you'd have to leave out the whole "innocent" part, lest you end up with a kiss on the forehead or a sturdy handshake. Still, imagine someone writing that for you!
Herrick, as always, can be counted on for some seriously fun sexiness:
Upon the Nipples of Julia's Breast Robert Herrick
HAVE ye beheld (with much delight) A red rose peeping through a white? Or else a cherry, double grac'd, Within a lily centre plac'd? Or ever mark'd the pretty beam A strawberry shows half-drown'd in cream? Or seen rich rubies blushing through A pure smooth pearl and orient too? So like to this, nay all the rest, Is each neat niplet of her breast.
God, I wish I'd known this one a long time ago. It's the perfect playful, post-prandial poem, almost guaranteed to make someone relax and giggle. I love Herrick!
"She Lay All Naked on Her Bed" is fantastic! It's another poem that I wish I knew years ago, as it perfectly describes my sex life from about 15 to 23 or so. For that matter, it should give Odat a serious laugh.
She lay all naked on her bed and I myself lay by; No veil but curtains about her spread, no covering but I. Her head upon her shoulder seeks to hang in careless wise, And full of blushes were her cheeks, and of wishes were her eyes.
Her blood still fresh into her face, as on a message came, To say that in another place it meant another game. Her cherry lip moist, plump and fair, millions of kisses crown, Which ripe and uncropt dangled there and weighed the branches down.
Her breasts, that well'd so plump and high, bred pleasant pain in me. For all the world I do defy the like felicity; Her thighs and belly, soft and fair, to me were only shown: To see such meat, and not to eat, would anger any stone.
Her knees lay upward gently bent, and all lay hollow under, As if on easy terms, they meant to fall unforc'd asunder; Just so the Cyprian Queen did lie, expecting in her bower, When too long stay had kept the boy beyond his promis'd hour.
"Dull clown" quoth she, "Why dost delay such proffer'd bliss to take? Canst thou find out no other way similitudes to make?" Mad with delight I, thundering, threw my arms about her, But pox upon't 'twas but a dream, and so I lay without her.
Judith offered a couple of classics. First off, she suggested Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti. Unfortunately, the poem is really long. The gist of the story is that two sisters, Laura and Lizzie, are wandering home one day when they see the goblins selling fruit at the Goblin Market. They try to avoid looking at the goblins, as they don't want to be tempted. However, Laura can't resist the goblin call, so she looks. She's snared, and agrees to trade a lock of her hair for some goblin fruit, which she lustily consumes:
She clipped a precious golden lock, She dropped a tear more rare than pearl, Then sucked their fruit globes fair or red: Sweeter than honey from the rock, Stronger than man-rejoicing wine, Clearer than water flowed that juice; She never tasted such before, How should it cloy with length of use? She sucked and sucked and sucked the more Fruits which that unknown orchard bore, She sucked until her lips were sore; Then flung the emptied rinds away, But gathered up one kernel stone, And knew not was it night or day As she turned home alone.
Having tasted the forbidden fruit, Laura is filled with unquenched desire and, over the next few weeks, she starts to waste away. Lizzie, realizing that her sister is going to die, goes to the Goblin Market to get fruit to save her. The Goblins welcome her with hugs and kisses, but they become abusive when she refuses their hospitality:
Their looks were evil. Lashing their tails They trod and hustled her, Elbowed and jostled her, Clawed with their nails, Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking, Tore her gown and soiled her stocking, Twitched her hair out by the roots, Stamped upon her tender feet, Held her hands and squeezed their fruits Against her mouth to make her eat.
One may lead a horse to water, Twenty cannot make him drink. Though the goblins cuffed and caught her, Coaxed and fought her, Bullied and besought her, Scratched her, pinched her black as ink, Kicked and knocked her, Mauled and mocked her, Lizzie uttered not a word; Would not open lip from lip Lest they should cram a mouthful in; But laughed in heart to feel the drip Of juice that syruped all her face, And lodged in dimples of her chin, And streaked her neck which quaked like curd. At last the evil people, Worn out by her resistance, Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit Along whichever road they took, Not leaving root or stone or shoot. Some writhed into the ground, Some dived into the brook With ring and ripple. Some scudded on the gale without a sound, Some vanished in the distance.
I love the imagery here, and Rosetti's rhythm, which flies all over the place, is a real joy. Judith also offered a poem by Emily Dickenson:
Wild Nights--Wild Nights! by Emily Dickenson
Wild nights--wild nights! Were I with thee Wild nights should be our luxury!
Futile the winds To heart in port-- Done with the compass, Done with the chart!
Rowing in Eden-- As the sea! Might I moor, tonight, In thee!
Personally, I'm not a huge fan of Emily Dickenson. It's hard for me to get excited about her poems when I imagine her knocking around her house, all alone. Plus, she uses WAY too many dashes. On the bright side, though, most of her poems can be sung aloud to the tune of Gilligan's Island. If you don't believe me, check this one out:
There is no Frigate like a Book To take us Lands away Nor any Coursers like a Page Of prancing Poetry - This Traverse may the poorest take Without oppress of Toll - How frugal is the Chariot That bears the Human soul.
Ramo offered this original piece. In return, I am including another picture of Joseph Fiennes.
Poems and Poems All sparkling gems But there is a stud among them Joseph Fiennes is his name May he tear apart his shirt And show us all that covers his heart. Then we can go further down And discover the hidden crown!
Anyway, Cranky here had good intention The evil Me is doing contravention.
Misanthropster offered a poem by "John Lillison, England's Greatest One-Armed Poet," which Steve Martin used to such effect in his movies:
O pointy birds, o pointy pointy, Anoint my head, anointy-nointy.
Somebody has gotten so excited about this little poem that he created this.
"Lillison" also wrote this one: In Dillman's Grove, our love did die, And now in ground shall ever lie. None could e'er replace her visage, Until your face brought thoughts of kissage.
Once again, this post is running a little long, so I'll leave you with a creepy one. When I was a kid, my parents bought me a book of poems for children. This one was my favorite. I didn't realize that it was about necrophilia until much later.
Annabel Lee by Edgar Allen Poe
It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know By the name of ANNABEL LEE;-- And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me. She was a child and I was a child, In this kingdom by the sea, But we loved with a love that was more than love-- I and my Annabel Lee-- With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud by night Chilling my Annabel Lee; So that her high-born kinsman came And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Went envying her and me:-- Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That the wind came out of a cloud, chilling And killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we-- Of many far wiser than we- And neither the angels in Heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:--
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride, In her sepulchre there by the sea-- In her tomb by the side of the sea.
The ongoing adventures of a southern academic transplanted to New York. A search for meaning, culture, humanity, and a great meal for under ten dollars.
