What a Difference 20 Years Makes

I got several encouraging comments about my poetry yesterday. It was eye-opening because I seemed to get more reaction to the older poem. That made me think about the differences between me as a 20-year-old writer and me as a 40-year-old writer.

Like many young adults, my emotions were very close to the surface when I was in my teens and early 20s. I poured every emotion out onto the page--and everywhere else! With age came wisdom and I have learned how to filter my thoughts more before I speak. The downside of this is that I second-guess myself a lot in my creative pursuits. If you could see how long it takes me to write a simple blog post, you would be amazed. I am constantly recrafting every sentence as I go. The rough draft is a foreign concept to me. I don't know what it is like to complete a work, such as a poem or a short story, and then go back and edit it. By the time I get to the end of a work, I have done so much editing already that I am almost sick of it. As a consequence, I may be editing the most powerful emotions right out of the work.

Another difference is that I view problems differently now. Back then, I thought I would die if I had to live through one more moment of whatever the difficult situation was (dramatic much?). That this-may-be-my-last-day-on-Earth mentality prompted me to write. Maybe I thought I had to leave a body of work behind so I could see myself lauded as a great writer posthumously :-). These days, I still have challenges that make me feel like I can't even get out of bed. However, I don't have the luxury of wallowing with a pen and pad. Children need to be fed and bills need to be paid. Also, I have many more years of experience with this. As soon I start to feel the sturm und drang coming on, the inner dialogue starts--

Emotional: I am so miserable! Look at what a mess I've made of my life!
Rational: Well, there's no use crying about it now. You made your bed, yada yada.
Emotional: My husband doesn't find me attractive any more!
Rational: He's still grabbing your a**, so I seriously doubt that.
Emotional: I just feel so hopeless!
Rational: Here we go again. You felt this way two months' ago, remember? You got over it.

So I ride it out and get over it without any literary therapy. I know that real writers can write any time, but my words flow more easily when I am upset.

What does any of this mean for my writing? I'm not sure. The only thing I know is that I want to tap into the creative side of that 20-year-old again.

Poetry Thursday: Are You Using a Line on Me?

The prompt for this week involved a bit of communal writing. Each person left a line on the Poetry Thursday site from a poem that s/he has previously written. Then, the person would take a line that someone else left and turn it into a new poem. Fun, huh?

First up is the poem that provided the line I offered (I've highlighted the line in red). This is another piece from my 20-year-old stash. I don't like the last four lines, but I don't know how to fix them. Perhaps it will take me another 20 years to figure that out.

CASSANDRA'S NERVOUS BREAKDOWN
When the mean reds get meaner,
They get darker,
Kinda like the blues
(Only bluer)
But never as down-in-your-soul bittersweet
(There ain't no singing 'bout the reds).
Yeah, when the reds decide to get MEAN,
They turn Black.
I'm not talking 'bout a
Smart-and-Sassy Black
Or a
Black-is-Beautiful Black
Or even a
Scared-Nigger-in-Klantown Black.
No, I'm talking 'bout an
End-of-the-Universe Black.
And an
Eternity-of-Insanity-in-Hell Black
Where your eyes won't start crying
And every breath feels like it's the last
And you feel like running forever
But your body won't move an inch.
And just when you've gotten
Your system calmed down,
Someone up and says
"Hello, Cass"
Or
"How's things going, Cass?"
And the tears start to flow
And you start to bawl
Which is foolishness because . . .
"After all, Cass, you ain't got
Nothing to sniffle over.
Why, you're the luckiest person
I know!"

Next up is my new poem. The line I used is highlighted in blue, and it was contributed by Regina. It came from the magnetic poetry set on her refrigerator; I'm not sure if there is a whole poem to go with it.

"One size is sad", she said.
The lies the labels bred
Were more than she could bear.
There was no way that she could wear
The same skirt that clothed a tiny derriere
Even if the label told her so.
The "one size" label was her foe.
It gave her a glimmer of hope
And for a moment helped her cope
With being past the size and age
To wear clothes that are all the rage.
But time spent in the dressing room
Sent her back into a state of gloom.

In other writing news, I've been listening to a lot of hip-hop this week and it has been inspiring me. Most of the stuff on mainstream radio isn't that creative lyrically, but the deep album cuts are a different story. I listened to Lupe Fiasco's Food and Liquor and Gym Class Heroes' As Cruel as School Children. There is a little bit of bad language, especially on the second one, but they both show a command of the language that isn't evident in a lot of pop music.

All done but the scratching

The meds have kicked in, and I've been able to get some sleep. However, my skin is still crawling with invisible bugs. Itching is an improvement over the burning I had on Tuesday, but I'm almost done with the muscle relaxant. I was hoping that I would be back to normal by the time I got to the bottom of that bottle. The traction device will be coming out of the closet, I guess :-(.

Poetry Thursday: Untitled, 11 Jan 2007

I didn't follow the optional prompt this week.  Instead, I am sharing a poem that came to me while I was trying to sleep. Inspiration often comes knocking at midnight (my muse is apparently a night owl), but I usually ignore her because I have a 5:45a wake-up call.  This time I grabbed my Treo and typed out a poem with one thumb so that Inspiration would go away and let me sleep.  Here it is:

sister time stole my wardrobe yesterday
to save me from being ticketed by the age police.
the wristwarmers and hoodies,
the boho chic and the camo
all sit in my daughter's closet now
while i'm left with nothing but
a red hat, a purple blouse,
and the supposed confidence
that comes with being 40.

--Dani M. Sanders, 11 Jan 2007

On the mend

I was starting to doubt whether the meds for my pinched nerve were going to work, but I am feeling a bit better. My chest and scalp still hurt, but it isn't the unbearable burning that made me want to scratch my skin off yesterday. If I can make myself stay awake on this stuff, I should be able to go back to work tomorrow.

I've still got calls to make for the twins' birthday party. Even though I am a grown woman, I still get nervous when I have to talk to strangers on the phone. In this case, I am worried about the parents asking me for directions. I've never been able to give directions to my own home or anywhere else. I would have sent paper invitations, but we didn't plan the party in time to mail them and I don't think I can send invitations to school unless I am inviting the whole class. This is one of those Mommy tasks that I can't get out of, unless I want to send my kids to therapy. I can hear them now: "My mother hated me. She never gave us birthday parties!"

Gave in

The burning skin on my chest and scalp became too much to bear. I gave in and went to have it checked. I couldn't get in to see my doctor so I went to the emergency room in a small town on the other side of the county. They have much less traffic so I was able to see a doctor right away.

The verdict? I have a pinched nerve in my neck. Since I went to the ER, I was able to spend my little bit of cash on meds and pay for the visit later. Now, I wish the drugs would kick in! I was hoping to go back to work tomorrow, but I still haven't been able to sleep. My chest is still hurting SO much.

Am I crazy or what?

Here's the deal. Last Tuesday, my left shoulder started aching. That was not unusual to me since I do data entry. I figured I could do a couple stretches and it would go back to normal on its own. Well, it didn't. The soreness turned into skin so tender to the touch that I couldn't stand to wear a shirt. Still, I thought it would go away. By Sunday night, the tenderness had spread into the left side of my chest and up my neck. At the point where it crossed my hairline at the nape of neck, it started burning/itching. It is just a two-inch long section but it is driving me nuts. I got no sleep last night AT ALL.

Why haven't I gone to a doctor, you ask? Well, we are in a financial bind right now and there is no money available until we get paid on Friday. ABM scraped up enough money for the office co-pay, but if the doctor prescribed something we wouldn't be able to get it until Friday. I decided not to go to the doctor. Am I crazy? I figured it didn't make sense to spend the money if I would still have to suffer until Friday. I took the day off work today, but if this isn't better tomorrow I will have a tough time doing my job.

Sunday Scribblings: Kissing

I don't normally compose rhyming verse because it comes out sounding like a nursery rhyme. However, I thought I would give it another shot.

A kiss you will not share with me,
Yet it's the very touch I want.
You withhold your lips from me
And scar me with the taunt.
Why must I beg for kisses
After all this time?
Although you wear my wedding ring
A kiss would truly prove you're mine.
Willingly I took your name
And stayed for all these years,
Yet there is no tender kiss
When my eyes well up with tears.
I do believe you love me
And to our vows are true,
But . . .

Yeah, I couldn't finish it. Maybe something will come to me later. I just wanted to post something today.

You've got to watch this

For those of you who don't get Current TV in your area, I'm posting this pod. It is very moving, and reminded me of the importance that a loving father plays in a girl's life.

Another Poetry Meme

This meme came from Poefrika, a group blog written by African poets. I don't answer memes very often because my answers are dull, but I had good luck with the last poetry meme so I thought I'd give it a go.


Question one: Why do you write poetry (or literature) at all?

I can't sing, I can't dance, and I'm not exceptionally pretty. However, there are days when well-turned phrases pop into my head and beg to be committed to paper. I live for the joy that those days bring me.

Question two: What is your favourite poem? You know, the one you'd have loved to have written, the one by whose standard you base all other works of art. If your life depended on answering this question, what poem would you suggest to the person holding the knife to your throat?

When I think "favorite poem", the first thing that springs to mind is To My Dear and Loving Husband by Anne Bradstreet. However, if you ask me which poem is the standard-bearer for my work, I would have to say it is When You Have Forgotten Sunday by Gwendolyn Brooks.

Question three: According to you, what is the state of poetry today? Is poetry flourishing or dying?

I'm not sure. There are pockets of society where it seems to be thriving (poetry slams come to mind). However, I think the general population views poetry-writing as a pastime for angsty teenagers.

Question four: What kind of poetry (or literature) do you dislike, and would not consider buying?

I don't like poems about nature. Verses about trees and flowers and stars do nothing for me.

Question five: Between the styles of Come (by Makhosana Xaba) and word speaks (by Kojo Baffoe) which do you prefer? Care to tell us why? Obviously, Makhosana and Kojo aren't required to answer this question.

I like both poems, but I prefer Come just a little more because it is written in an earthy style that I can relate to. With the other poem I have to struggle a little more to understand it.

Question six: What was the last poetry book you bought?

It was a boxed set of Nikki Giovanni's books. I was a 17-year-old dating a college student. He took me to a bookstore near his school. This was not a Borders store; it was an independent bookstore that carried all sorts of artsy books. I wanted to impress him with my sophistication but the only author I recognized was Giovanni, so I bought the set.

Question seven: Where do you go for poetry on the web?

Right now, I'm only reading contributions from Poetry Thursday participants on the web. I use Wikipedia when I am trying to find a specific poem, but for general reading pleasure I still use regular books.

Question eight: Do you talk poetry (or literature) with friends and family? "Hi honey -- Hey, I read this incredible poem today..."

No, I don't. For most of the people I know, their idea of poetry is more like greeting-card verse. That has its place but it's not my cup of tea. I do plan to share more poetry with my children, though.

Question nine: What one piece of advice would you give to a beginning poet (or writer in general)? One. What would you tell them to do or not to do?

Don't be afraid to edit. I used to believe that poetry was divinely inspired and once you wrote the words on the page you were NEVER to change them. What garbage!

Question ten: What line comes to you after the following two verses (in other words, please write the third verse -- these are spontaneous lines from me and are no part of any poem I'm writing or will be writing).

When the light from the lantern
beamed and fell upon the child,
Her sorrow became visible to all.

OK, brother and sister poets, share your answers!

Poetry Thursday: Randomness

I had the best of intentions this week. I've been thinking about what I was going to post today since last Poetry Thursday. Alas, I let life take over once again and I didn't get much writing done. At least, I didn't create the type of verse suitable for the discerning PT readers. I did write a senryu to explain my state of mind this week:

Nervous twitch caused by
kids' long division homework,
lack of Kahlua.

I also helped my daughter C1 compose some tongue-twisters for her vocabulary homework:

Processing produce prevents pesky parasites.

and

Whiny wimpy woman wiggles for warmth.

Also, M got a passing grade today for the poem she wrote about the Revolutionary War. Here is an excerpt (I resisted the urge to edit):

I was just about to make a run for my house,
When I saw it,
A man with a loaded rifle came up and said,
"You filthy, ludicrous, insolent, heathens!"
And he shot.
The body of a woman holding a child fell to the ground.
The child cried,
And no one comforted him.
I stayed awestruck at what I had just witnessed,
No one even went to help the baby,
Or find out if the woman was truly dead.

As you can see, I haven't figured out how to balance being a mommy and a poet like January. Wish me better luck next week!