Today I welcome back a returning poetic “hero”. He came forward and stood tall when I had run up hard against life last year. And he had served admirably. Aside from that he is an accomplished poet in his own right, a fellow Poet Laureate at Poetic Asides with Robert Lee Brewer. Welcome “home” William Preston.
***
WILLIAM PRESTON
William Preston has been writing poems for nearly thirty years. His main inspiration was song lyrics; owing to a severe hearing loss, which prevented him from understanding songs as sung, he would look up the words. He thus grew to know lyricists such as Irving Berlin, Oscar Hammerstein II, Lorenz Hart, Johnny Mercer, Gus Kahn, and others of the golden era of Tin Pan Alley. He wanted to write like they did, and also like poets such as Robert Frost, Adelaide Crapsey, and Ogden Nash. (He likes to be eclectic and prefers to write in forms.) He has published little, however, and views blogs such as Robert Brewer’s Poetic Asides and this one as his primary means of sharing the joy of writing verses.
PROMPT #159 – “AUTO-BIOGRAPHY” – There are times we would like people to know us in a little better way. Sometimes we offer up TMI. Today we tell a little about ourselves by our reasoning NOT to do exactly that! Think of some reasons why your WOULDN’T write your auto-biography. Use one reason as your title and write that poem.
WALT’S STORY:
UNINTERESTING
An ordinary guy in ordinary times,
living an ordinary life
in a very ordinary way. A simple man,
in a simple place among remarkable people.
My family would read me or they won’t.
My friends could read me, but they don’t see
any different me than they already know.
I have known my arrogance to get the best of me,
the rest of me hides in the shadows revisited
by the trepidation in which I grew. I knew
I should “release the beast within”. And in that,
I grin. Much to say, yet no way to know it.
So, I just became a poet.
(C) Copyright Walter J Wojtanik – 2014
WILLIAM’S “SELFIE”:
AN UNFINISHED DREAM
The trees are swimming upwind, and the sky
glows green in silent harmony with blue;
a vireo is calling out a new
sweet dirge as sunlight whispers. By and by,
the colors merge to grey, a subtle lie
that mocks the moonlight as it shimmers through
a cataract that stands where flowers grew,
and all of this enthralls my mind and eye.
I think I am awake. The paneled room
appears the same as when I went to sleep,
but even so, I cannot rise from bed.
This strange kaleidoscope, so bright with gloom,
has come once more, as though from some great deep,
and now, again, I taste the hue of dread.
(C) Copyright – William Preston, 2014
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
Responses
Each poem so different and each so inspiring. Thank you Walt and William.
Timed Out
It would be too long.
Besides, I’ve done the best bits
Not much more to say.
Not enough time left
for all the nitty gritty.
It would be a bore.
I will leave behind
many quilts and poems.
Isn’t that enough?
You can find my wartime childhood memoir here: http://vivinfrance.wordpress.com/war-memoir/
I love that…quilts and poems and my mind took this a step further…quilts OF poems…wouldn’t that be neat!!! Love this, Viv!
That’s really a lovely idea!
Hmmmmm, yes; stitches in time together in time.
I’d like a Drunkard’s Path, please
No problem. What do you want to make out of it?
Words.
I’d like to see a Drunkard’s Path poem
It will take a while, and I’ll need to be a bit more competent with this computer – can you wait till I get home to UK?
quilts and poems are more than enough. . .and cherished by all who “read” them
Well done, Viv, and a great question at the end. Love it, though I would be interested in knowing a few of those untold stories.
Viv, the ‘best bits’ are more than enough….this was lovely.
this is lovely, Vivienne.
Both are pieces of you that will be cherished by friends and family.
I really like this! Those quilts and poems are more than enough, I’m sure. 🙂
Lovely Viv!
This piece is poignant for me, partly for itself and partly because I read your memoir. As to the latter, it’s a vivid one, Viv (a terrible pun, I know).
[…] PROMPT #159 – “AUTO-BIOGRAPHY” – […]
I couldn’t resist.
Why I Would Not Write My Auto’s Biography
My car is ordinary as a toaster or a stack of books
(both, it does somewhat resemble), with four
ordinary cylinders, not six, not eight. It drinks
the ordinary grade of gasoline, and not too much.
There isn’t much to say. My car has never once
pulled Timmy from the chimney, pit, or well.
It doesn’t come when whistled for, or scramble
up a cliff face, ball clutched in its porcelain grill.
Has not granted my wish for a fortune or two.
And although I have been drilled from infancy
and know one’s auto is extraordinary–is, in fact
extension of the self–mine, except for being larger
on the inside than the out and now and then
negotiating rips in time’s continuum, is not
worth a split second of your time.
A fun response to William’s prompt hiding a skilful wordle poem. Two birds …
I LOVE your way of thinking, B!! Thank you for the broad smile!
I suspect we have the same car. This is a through-and-through delight. Many thanks.
It’s an older Scion XB (the breadbox) The ride is a little stiff, and it doesn’t merge off the ramps with great agility, but it’s easy in and out, for which my knees and hip are grateful.
Just as I thought. Mine is bright yellow; I call it the “Bumblebuggy.”
I have often wondered at Americans’ (and I’m American) identification with their cars. . . and decided I was in the minority. I love reading this poem and the whimsy of your car as a vehicle for a Time Lord
Too fun, Barbara. This was worth the effort for the fun factor alone. I’ll bet we could all write something from our “auto” biography, for each is unique in how it performs and where/how it takes us. Though mine are all so far in my own past it would take a time machine to resurrect one for comparison. 🙂
B, this was fun indeed! Esp since I am with my daughter this weekend in St. Louis, and she drives a Scion also.
Auto’s biography – hahahaha… that cracks me up.
This is such a fun poem. Well done!
Ha ha ha! Love this Barbara!
Ha ha ha! Love this Barbara! 🙂
BILL!!! 🙂 !
Hi, Marie. Good to be back for a spell; Walt’s prompt, and the fascinating form he has in mind for Wednesday, make this week a challenge, to say nothing of the usual dread of selecting only one bloom at week’s end. This has been a favorite site of mine ever since you invited me to check it out, so I’m honored to participate again. I hope all is well.
Douceur de Vivre
I’m working on my autobiography
it’s going to be a treat to read.
Capone’s vault – I’ll reveal what was gone
(you remember Geraldo’s big yawn?)
Most of it is safely stashed away
in a Swiss bank account for someday
I’ll be living in tall wheat
it’ll truly be sweet-someday.
Then there’s the matter
of my real father’s name
a dashing actor he was famous
for his wild escapades
with the (shall we say) Pleiades.
I ultimately tell where the bodies are hid (never fret)
but the statutes of limitations have not expired yet.
chuckles
What? No chortle?
Chuckling too, brilliant and humorous!
Me too! I love this! 😀
I just love this. The tongue may be in the cheek but the rapier is unsheathed too. I especially love “famous / for his wild escapades / with the (shall we say) Pleiades.”
Oh, so fun. I also loved the line about the Pleiades
Love this, Debi. What a wonderful chuckle for the day. And how long do we have to wait for those statutes to expire? 🙂
Debi, this was mind-watering! You built the suspense-of-disbelief with each tease then knocked down the blocks with your last line. Go ahead! Tell it, write it all under a pseudonym!
Thanks you all. This one was fun to do
Love it! 😀
Fun to read! Thank you!
I love this, top to bottom. So much fun!
Another chuckler – you guys are on a funny roll.
[…] Bloomings- with William Preston J as the co-guest-host- PROMPT #159 – “AUTO-BIOGRAPHY” – There are times we would like people to know us in a little better way. Sometimes we offer up […]
Spilled
The very last thing
or worst thing,
the one thing
that I’d try to hide
would surely rise,
against every ounce of strength
and in contrast to what I’d wish or will.
It would certainly sting –
lingering at the surface,
it would, contradict
abandon common sense
and spill to the page,
there it’d lay
splayed open;
deep artery of secret
there it’d lie
bled,
emptied
of its burden.
Red and revealed,
no little silences held within
no tiny irksome lurksome stories held in.
Things that don’t serve me would lure me,
ancient history better left to mystery would plague me
until all the bitter quitter attitudes were out in the open
and every niggling negative attribute was slipped to the sun
but final relief at release then turns to sudden grief;
free and in an instant chained.
Strangers will know now,
perspectives changed
people will really see me
for all that I am
all that I am not –
the real human in me
will be spilled.
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2014
This poem is gripping and so skillful, in my view, in the way it almost literally opens up and closes down again, accentuated by the use of line lengths, akin to breaths that change with tension. Marvellous..
I thought about writing a poem about being an anti-hero or a bad example. . .decided I don’t want to write that way . . . but anyhow, this captures that fear, that if someone knows the real me, they will draw back. Well done
Oh, excellent, Hannah. Is this not the question we’d all ask ourselves in seriousness–that we’d reveal too much of ourselves and be seen for either fraud, charlatan, or imposter; our credibility would be in doubt and those we love would distance themselves from us over things that have no purpose to today’s life?
Hannah, as Williams says above, like breathing. The inhale of a lingering dare and the exhale of dread discovery results in exasperating respiration, so perfectly demonstrated by the short-to-long lines. This was master poetry, to me.
for all that I am
all that I am not –
the real human in me
will be spilled.
… and you would still be the same lovely, talented, Hannah
I didn’t see your poem before I posted, but ours are a lot alike. Although you express it so much better than I ever could…
This is so skillfully and beautifully written, Hannah! xx
Just beautiful! Looking forward to more spilling…
Beautiful and moving Hannah.
This one looks nicer centered…that’s okay…I’m chuckling because in writing this poem about spilling too much…I’ve really spilled nothing at all. Well any way, it IS the reason why I wouldn’t write an autobiography and in an instant the very same reason why I would. Funny how that works.
Thank you for the inventive challenge and for hosting and guest hosting you two!!
Walt, your poem states so well what I believe are the feelings of many a writer…excellent poem and poet behind it!
William, your piece is so very dreamlike and you offer both the bright and dull contrasts with such skill…the dread hanging in the end holds the heavy pull that dread evokes…very well written.
Happy Father’s day to all the pa pa poets out here!!
Warm smiles and happy writing to all!
NOT ENOUGH PATIENCE
It’ll be my downfall one day.
Success out there beyond my reach
(Smilingly bright and cuddly-soft)
Lost forever because I could not wait.
On my deathbed I’ll strain to kick
my bedridden behind because
I never learned to cool my heels,
To heed Milton’s reassurance
That “all things come to him who waits.”
I was always in a hurry
To get somewhere, finish something,
Be done with this and start on that,
As though a premonition of early death
Drove me relentlessly in high gear.
Who knew I’d live to be an old man!
And worse, an old still impatient man
Who even now turns two deaf ears
To that other Miltonian:
“They also serve who only stand and wait”?
The old wagon I threw a blanket on
And rode before the paint was dry;
The gifts under the Christmas tree
I opened days before Santa came;
Those first-draft poems I deemed final.
All right, I’ll confess it once again:
I have absolutely no patience.
I want peace in the world right now.
I question, Where is the cure for cancer?
I’ll admit it, Lack of patience is a vice.
#
This poem feels impatient; the short lines lend that aura, for me anyway. I;m not so sure your final line is the last word; this (presumably) first-draft poem is so good. I also got a huge chuckle from “On my deathbed I’ll strain to kick / my bedridden behind”.
Yes, it is a just-written first draft, but I did confess, didn’t I, that I am too often an impatient man? I should add, however, as a rule I do edit my writing; in fact, sometimes so many drafts I hate myself for losing sight of my own impatient nature!
That’s a good point. Editing sometimes gets in the way of writing; the “impatient” first draft often is the authentic voice..
I just thought you were a juggler – you seem so adept at keeping everything going at once.
Wonderful, non-autobiography, Sal. You speak for many of us, I’d guess. I know I fall into that category in so many ways. It reads with dramatic flair, as well.
Sal, a reckless grasp for perfection seems confessed here…but despite your ‘old still impatient’ self-assessment, so much of your work seems to have arrived, in my honest opinion. But I agree. Many of us write and write and write to get it and set it right. Loved this one.
And I am already glad William has to do the picking this week.
This is great! A very impatient person myself, I can totally understand how you feel. 🙂
So glad to see William here. He is an awesome poet.
I’m thinking on this prompt and will be back (hopefully) later in the week.
I’m thinking, am I impatient or a procrastinator? A little bit of both. Love the poem.
Walt, love your poem, how our lives can feel so unimportant (and so we write, even better). William, the fear of your real life finishing the nightmare. . .scary
This prompt reminds me of one of my favorite quotes (from Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield): “Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.”
And here is my poem:
UNNECESSARY
Heroes vanquishing dragons
Damsels defending castles
Happily-ever-after endings
Each book holds a piece of me
Rearranged for success
Search them and you will know
The me I want to be
Darlene Franklin ©2014
I think this is an effective, poignant, and spot-on poem, a glimpse into the power of stories and your ability to share that power in your own writing.
Thank you, William.
This is so very me, Darlene–the me I’ve always been. 🙂 How did you fall into my life like that? 🙂
Seriously, that’s how I feel much of the time and always have. It’s that “the grass is always greener” syndrome of an avid reader–one whose life will never be as exciting or seemingly purposeful as the ones in our favorite books.
Love this.
Claudsy, we are twins, you make me feel.
I’m actually talking about the books I’ve written, that there’s always a bit of me in them. 🙂 But that would also be true of the books I read
Both are applicable, Darlene. Indeed, they must be, for we cannot identify with those things totally foreign nor sympathize with any we cannot love.
We could be spiritual twins at that, my friend. What a nice thought.
Darlene, this is a delightful whispered revelation. Especially that these ‘pieces’ are ‘rearranged for success.’ Lovely way to put our dreams on display.
I’ve come to realize that more and more. Thanks
That is the reason I love to read – cause I’m to unadventurous to go out and do. : )
The first rule for fiction writers: write what you know. The second rule for fiction writers, IMO, is: write what you want to know more about. So research can be fun.
I think this is all the more powerful because of how concise it is. It is delightful!
And I love that book! I think it is my favorite of Dickens’ works. 🙂
Hi Erin! Thanks for your comments. I look forward to getting to know you better.
I like it, Darlene.
Walt, the opening lines of your poem recalled for me one of the song’s in Lerner and Loewe’s My Fair Lady, but the rest of it confirmed, again, that you are an extraordinary poet. Thanks for the opportunity to share this venue again.
ugh! songs, not song’s
Thanks Bill! I used to get carried away with my own words! But now I see them as ordinary. I leave it to my cohorts to place value on them,
[…] for Creative Bloomings Prompt #159: Auto Biography (with a twist). Posted also for 100 Days of Summer 2014 (Facebook Group): […]
FROZEN SMILES
(a shadorma)
Just selfies
for me, no auto
biograph –
fees are too
great: everyone would see the
broken-poet-me.
2014-06-15
P. Wanken
Your skill in using this form is on full display here. Broken-poet, my foot! I am always amazed at how you fit so much wit, wealth, and wisdom into this wisp if a form.
(sigh) OF a form…
Thank you, William. I’m a poet of few words. 😉 As for broken…Viv commented on my blog that might sum it best: not broken, but perhaps a little bruised.
Ditto… Your shadormas are always amazing.
Thank you, Debi. When I try to write something other than a shadorma I seem to end up thinking in six lines anyway. :-\
I echo William’s comment…this is sheer genius!
Thank you, Erin.
Ah, Paula. This shadorma speaks volumes in its short form. Powerful and meaningful for many of us on a deeper level.
That’s what we all want, isn’t it? To have our words connect in a meaningful way with others? Thank you.
You’re welcome, my little Southern friend. 🙂
I just live in a southern state…most here would same I’m still 100% northern girl.
I know the feeling, Paula. Dad–pure south, Mom–north. I was always one foot in and one foot out. But I can drop into a Southern accent between blinks and never notice. 🙂
Oklahoma is considered south, just like Texas, except by those from the DEEP SOUTH.
Broken poet interviewed At Poets United recently. Oh yeah, unknown poet is who you are! 😉 take your credit when it’s due, you!
Even broken (or bruised) poets can still be interviewed and known…the bruised parts can just be left out, right?
Paula…kinda like Walt’s statement about his words, above: “let my cohorts place value on them.” What they don’t see won’t hurt them.
Indeed, Damon. Thus – my full autobiography is best left unwritten. At least for now. I’ll stick to what I wrote recently in the interview Walt referenced (in his comment to me above), that I love the poetic license of writing poetry. I can be found in 100% of my poems…but not many of my poems are 100% me.
I love this comment Paula…especially the last sentence…may I borrow it for my own sometimes? I think it might be true of a few of us. “I can be found in 100% of my poems…but not many of my poems are 100% me.” The poetic license of writing poetry (or fiction, for that matter) is so liberating, I couldn’t live without it, I don’t think; it’s almost addictive.
Yes, indeed, Sharon – feel free. I think it probably fits a lot of us. I think I reference it in my “about” section on my blog and included it in my most recent interview at Poets United. I love that about writing poetry. I can pour so much of myself into my writing…but they don’t have to be 100% me. LOVE that. And yes…it is a bit addictive. Which is probably why I have posted to all the Sunday prompts here at Bloomings…I think I need a break, but it calls back to me. ❤
clever line-
breaks
Paula
🙂
Thank you, Linda!! ❤
After the Rain
The dustiness of yesterday
turned muddy
this morning
with even the grass
giving up a different
smell,
but it can’t hide
from even my toes
knowing the slipperiness
of your deceptive lies
that grew
from nothingness,
until even the birds
fly away from
the stench of us
knowing we won’t be
the same
after shedding
all these tears.
Ouch! This piece makes me shudder a bit; the power in the lines, especially (for me) “even the birds / fly away from / the stench”, is impressive. That line has all the more meaning, in my view, because I don’t think birds have much of a sense of smell.
Patricia, I have to agree with William on this one. Dark, evocative, and powerful. But all the more unforgettable for that. Nice work!
Oh, and I got hit with those same lines William did. Not for the same reason, perhaps, but hit hard anyway.
Patricia, this was a powerful moment you’ve captured, in this freeze-frame realization. There is a ‘stench’ to knowing things won’t ever be like they were again. Tears shed are like leaves on the water under the bridge…they’re there, they’re gone, and their time gone away with them.
nice work, Patricia
You paint a sad, deep hurt here – good job
Thank you all for your thoughtful commentary. It’s interesting how thoughts that ‘just come’ in a quick birth can be more powerful that the ones that we spend hours laboring over. 🙂
Wow….this moment is captured so expressively. Nice work!
I enjoyed reading this: I see the rain (and the tears) and wish you rainbows…
I’m Not Done Yet
The mold may have been cast
but there is still some fine etching
and smoothing to be done…
and while I’ve done some interesting things
which I HAVE written home about,
would anyone but those related by blood,
who feel obligated to read what I find interesting,
really care?
With every brush stroke and pen splatter
I’m still improving, if even in my own mind,
and those self-confidence levels of derring-do
waver like the swells of waves…
and there is still so much to do,
so many more ways to grow
and perhaps that something stellar
is lying in wait to pounce
and make me interesting and worthy.
So for now, I keep plugging away
and when I’m ready and worthy –
(probably near death)
I’ll drop you a line.
For me, this is not only an excellent poem but also a paean to hope melding into confidence. If your works, such as this poem, mean anything, you’re already “interesting and worthy.”
Michelle, this reads so well as a spoken reading, a performance of sorts. The slight satire (honest eval that most of us make) sets the tone and delivers very nicely. Terrific poem.
Michelle, wow, you expressed the halting unreadiness here so well…the troughs of waves between the crests of confidence.
no silliness intended but this is so you, Mik.
Nice work!
would anyone but those related by blood,
who feel obligated to read what I find interesting,
really care?
Exactly how I feel (about an autobiography). I’ll leave that to the famous for being famous people to do.
This is beautiful, Michelle!!
I love your way of “plugging away”, Michelle…
Thank you everyone for the kinds words! Much appreciated. 🙂
I could not resist this silliness.
There is no auto
for my biography;
I take the bus instead.
Ah, this strikes me as clever, especially since “bus” is short for “omnibus.”
Good one, Sheryl. Perhaps you can grab a ride with Barbara. Her auto has time controls.
😉
Ha! Sheryl, this is briefly deep. My life is on a bus as well, and I am not the driver.
I am not the driver either, Damon, and the world is a safer place because of that. 😉
Hahaha clever, Sheryl, very clever! 🙂
“To stir the dross
will tarnish the penny”
A copper penny
adrift in a river of gold
vibrates with the
current, the tumble
of fluid burnishing
the edges. To stir
the dross will tarnish
the healing tides.
An elegant way to say, “leave well enough alone,” it seems to me. It strikes me as significant that the river is “of gold.”
Interesting take on this prompt, Jlynn. I like it and the fact that you take the title from that quote. Marvelous!
How I love the word picture of this poem. It is so well expressed.
Delightful, J. Lynn, I loved this.
The word picture you have painted is exquisite! So lovely…
nice imagery and wording
I Used to be a Hussy
I used to be so naughty,
making friends and having fun
with disreputable people
that made nice young ladies run
for cover. Unrepentant,
I recall us unashamed
as we sought to suck the marrow
wild as birds, our hearts untamed.
I can’t say that I am sorry
for imagination’s exercise;
I tested lots of boundaries
and learned how to apologize
for chuckles made at solemn times,
for casting judgment to the winds,
for deeds just short of petty crimes,
for picking flawed and quirky friends.
Lord, I could tell some stories—
but what good would that do now
that we’ve all become like everyone
transformed from snakes to cows?
We’re old as hell and humbled;
on our surface, you can’t see
we regarded rules as dead weights
on our yin for running free,
with a taste for misbehavior,
with a flair for song and dance,
with no fear of loss or danger,
with a penchant for romance.
I could write outrageous memoirs—
entertaining, goodness, yes,
with a wealth of red disclaimers
that I swore not to confess
while my family was living,
while my friends were above ground;
lovely folks are always giving
me a chance to settle down.
But sometimes in celebrating
tales from memory’s menu,
I learn the tamest folks I know
are shameless hussies too.
Oh, my, Jane. Such an adventurous life you must have led. Reminds me of one who as an adult and attending her grandmother’s funeral, heard with scandalous reaction, of her granny’s tattoo and the wild shenanigans she used to get up to.
Great fun. I chuckled all the way through.
The rhyme adds to the delight of this poem, but the underlying story makes its point in vivid images and an ah, ha! finish. I note the use of “yin” in the 6th stanza; this could be a typo, but I took it as intended, with the “yang” being the “old as hell and humbled.” This is another keeper.
this is great, Jane
I was grinning all through it and love the ending – truth there I think.
Oh Jane, this is just too good! I love it! 🙂
Interesting prompt this morning, Walt. Tough decided how to approach it. At least for me. Hey there, William. So glad to put face to voice.
Too Many Chapters
Life’s book filled with chapters
Roaming image’s shop—how
Can I pick and choose those
Episodes worthy of gracing another’s
Attention?
Gracing another’s attention is meant
For things of relevancy, where
Past happenings, past selves
No longer apply to today’s chapter
Ending.
Today’s chapter ending moves my
Story along toward its ultimate
Finale with me saying goodbye,
My book’s chapters closed on up
Notes.
How to choose, indeed, or how to write a story as of yet unfinished. . .
The choosing was the hardest part of doing the Memoir Chapbook challenge here asll those moons ago. I still have tones of poems sitting in limbo waiting to be included in it. One of these days, for the sheer shock value, if nothing else. 🙂
I like the linking device of this form (I’ve forgotten its name, if I ever knew), and the ending suggests another link (or uplink) coming. I think this is marvellous.
Thanks so much, William. I’m glad you liked it.I’m afraid I don’t have a name for this form either.
This is so well expressed…and the linking form really adds to it, I think. Nice work, Claudsy! 🙂
Oh, thanks so much, Erin. I’m so happy you enjoyed it. It’s so good to see you here this week. Blessings, my young friend.
I enjoyed the title and the poem. Wishing you many more chapters…
Thanks so much, Nurit. I’m hoping for as many as possible. 🙂
which to chose? Definitely an issue.
Always, Linda. Always.
Auto-bore-ography
By David De Jong
Dreadful bore to read the lore
Of this one that stays ashore
Shoveled stalls of nature’s calls
Thrilling paint on drying walls
Touch of grit, occasional spit
Full of bull-embellishment
Slow at start and not too smart
Just a bald-headed old fart
Enough said, too much’s been read
Lest it goes, all to his head
As always, a marvelous humor piece, David. Lest it go to your bald head, just let me say that learning how a cowboy turns poet always fascinates, for few can equate the rider with the word beast.
This is such fun: it flows like a song and creates laughs as it goes.Love that phrase, “bull-embellishment.
Love your title!
I bet your autobiography would be very interesting, David. I’d read it.
That said, this poem is wonderful! I love the idea behind it. Your poems always make me smile. 🙂
perfect rhythm and rhyme. I also love the “full of bull-embellishment” line
This poem isn’t quite what you’re looking for , , , but it’s one of my favorite of my daughter’s, and she’s no longer here to share it herself. If I’ve shared this one before, please forgive me.
HOPE IN BLACK AND WHITE
How can I be such as I am in this world of white
In this world of white where everything goes right
But there’s a world of black
Where the sky is gray and no sun shines
I go into this world of black sometimes
Into a world of darkness and despair
But hope is always there
I am on a journey to hope
Where the sun shines and gladness stays
By Jolene Elizabeth Franklin
I’ve not seen this before, Darlene. She has a powerful way with concept and image poems and using them as she does. Thank you for sharing. In her own way, I think the did speak of her life and why she couldn’t do an auto-bio. Weird, isn’t it? How speaking of one’s life can fall outside the realm of memoir?
Yes. I see her heart in her poems and I feel joy and pride–and loss. At her funeral, they prepared a collage of poems and photographs that showcased some of her best work. She was seriously talented (IMHO)
❤
If her other poems are anything like this, I would think that holding one of them in your hand is like holding her heart. Very expressive reflection in her words.
❤ Sorry for your loss.
Pride, joy–loss. But it was like hearing her at her brightest and best. The person she wanted to be.
Wow. She must’ve been a marvel.
When she was 13, applying for a special high school (that’s another story), the director called her “articulate.” People would see her emotional problems and her childish affect and think she was mentally challenged. But she was bright, articulate, with the soul of a poet. All the more amazing since she could hardly talk as a child (hearing problems)
This is beautiful…she definitely had a way with words. I can see how reading her poems would bring her even closer to you. I am so sorry for your loss. ❤
Books on Wheels
“Take your books to the lady at the
front desk. She will check them out.”
(And also check them in again)
That was my job, off and on and over
A lot of years. Ffom schoolgirl to great
Grandma I stood at many circulation
Desks and handed books to tiny tots
And all the grades of school and some spots
Where older people spent their days, not
Always lonely when a bookmobile would pop
Into the drive and once again I would check
Books out and check them in again.
A happy combination, children and
Their books. A library is not always
Hushed and quiet. It also might not stay
In one single spot, but spend the day
Traveling from here to there, a real road show
Which was my favorite job of all, when
The bookmobile put out at dawn, visiting
Small ports in varied landscapes and then
Returned to the great big library again.
I enjoyed this tale so much. I remember bookmobiles, and the people who staffed them always seemed more jovial and light-hearted than most librarians. Your poem captures that aura. Thanks for posting it.
Ah, this is a lovely story!
I can so understand the draw of the bookmobile and the lure of the local library, even when it has as few as a hundred books. Such a wonderful memory and purpose of time used. Lovely, Marian.
what a wonderfully fullfilling job. I know that I loved our librarian. She knew most of us and what book would be of interest for each of us.
Without your examples, Walt and William, this would be a tough prompt for me. Heck. With your examples it will be a tough prompt, since you have set the bar high.
Three cheers for William, the most supportive and generous of readers!
Not Finished Yet
Any story of my life I might
write now would fall short
of the full story, leaving out
everything that comes next.
I need time to view the past
from a comfortable distance,
aligning all the versions of me
into one single protagonist.
No careful study I might make
of the dramatic arc allows me
a dispassionate vantage point
to just my place—rising action,
climax, or rolling faster toward
my resolution, denouement.
Leave my tales and their telling
to someone else, who’ll cry,
not die at The End.
I’ve savored this several times since I first saw it. There is a quiet serenity here, or so it seems to me; the first stanza captures that with “leaving out / everything that comes next,” which mingles hope and confidence that the best may yet come. The little ring of rhyme and alliteration at the end feels fitting: let some other poet summarize my life; I’m still living it. Beautiful work.
And thank you for the kind words.
I love the depth yet simplicity of your writing, Nancy. “aligning all the versions of me
into one single protagonist” would be an admirable goal! (and I wholeheartedly agree with your comment regarding William…)
Love this, Nancy. It fits so well for so many of us. Wonderful expression of knowing your life story affords grist for the memory mills of those left behind, more than for the one leaving.
Marvelous!
excellent work, Nancy
Hinting at a Questionable Past…Don’t Even Ask
The problem (if I told my tale)
is that you’d know what I have done
down to the bittiest detail,
how things were ended and begun.
I think my story’d shock and stun.
My memoir’s not quite your milieu:
Shhhhh – or else I’d have to kill you.
###
Well, I was wondering how’d you rhyme milieu. This, like so much of your work, is pure pleasure to read and recite.
Ohhhh, a lady spy… fascinating : ) I love the humor (and rhyme) of this.
I truly love the playful nature of this poem (and I won’t even ask…)
Oooo … now you have us all intrigued, RJ. Are you sure you can’t share just a wee, wee stream of story? 🙂
Love it. Short, fun, and enticing.
“I don’t think anyone should write their autobiography until after they’re dead.”
Samuel Goldwyn
INCOMPLETE…
By: Nurit Israeli
In the play that is my life
there is no script and
there are no rehearsals.
I am making things up
as I go along.
In the play that is my life
there is no director
to lead and oversee and
no prompter to cue me
when I forget my lines.
There is still no title
to the play that is my life.
I know most of the story,
but I cannot choose a name
until I make sense of the ending.
I don’t know how many acts
are in the play that is my life.
Whether it is long or short.
Whether it ends slowly
or abruptly in the middle.
And when the curtain
comes down, I don’t know
how long or how short it will take
for the play that is my life
to be forgotten.
So I improvise and I play
in the play that is my life:
There’s allure to the scenes
that cannot be foreseen,
my real and imagined −
a yang and a yin.
The allusion to a play recalled a bit of Shakespeare for me, and “abruptly in the middle” sounded like a Goldwynism. In the main, though, this poem emphasized for me the notion that we all are improvising every day, and the final play will have to await the rewrite man. The concluding line wrapped it all up for me. Thanks for posting this; I enjoyed reading it and thinking on it.
Thank you very much, William. Yes, despite the impressive body of quantifiable data explaining human behavior, and in spite of the useful evidence-based interventions, we still improvise… I am often amazed by the courage needed to continue improvising – as we sort through the confusing uncertainties that make up the play that is our life. I am humbled by the complexity and grateful for the allure of this process. Still pondering the meaning of “final play”– struggling to pinpoint beginnings and the endings…
“So I improvise and I play in the play that is my life” That’s mostly how I feel, too. Do the best you know how and leave the rest to God. I like your poem.
Thank you, georgeplace, for the nod of agreement. Yes – our best is good enough (especially when we can also enjoy playing in the play…)
Terrific, Nurit. This flows so well, meant to be spoken rather than read silently. It acts as a soliloquy, much as Hamlet’s. Thoroughly enjoyable.
Thank you, Claudsy, for the interesting feedback and for the support! Truly appreciated.
You’re welcome, Nurit.
nice work and I especially like the last stanza.
Thank you, Linda!
After Thirteen
My pivot point from a “normal” child
to an anxiety-ridden, depressive
teenager – No. Why dredge up
the years of sitting on one couch
or another, trying desperately
to understand myself, or those causes
that never did pop up like lightbulbs
over cartoon characters’ heads.
I am not unique; so many people
have similar stories, some, far worse.
It is not my intention to whine
about myself, or depress anyone else,
except in accepted forms, like poetry.
I was feeling a bit somber as I read this, till I got to the last line. Then I broke put in a great guffaw. It’s the perfect squelch. I have the feeling that many a poet is nodding in agreement.
Absolutely – “I am not unique” nothing new under the sun to share… love this and esp the funny ending
Thanks, William. So good to see you hosting.
hahaha So fun, Sara. I think we all come to a point like you describe when we see our lives as so ordinary that we ask ourselves why we bother sticking around to see how the movie ends. Love this for it’s humor and its underlying honesty.
Thanks, Claudsy. Maybe the movie will have a surprise ending!
You never know, Sara. Surprises are something you can’t plan for. 😀
Sara, I wrote and posted my poem before I read yours. The belief that we’re not unique is evidently a common one. But your writing, particularly in this poem, is uniquely beautiful in its insight to who you are. Very well written.
Thank you you so much, Susan. I appreciate your words.
probably a lot of people feel the same way
Could be.
Secret’s Not Secret
There’s too much I don’t want the world to know,
The inner thoughts and longings of my heart,
What makes it beat, what makes the workings go;
I don’t know how I’d write without my heart,
Without telling everything about me,
And I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to start,
Cause then the world would really, truly see
The side of me I’d like kept to myself,
The deepest things reserved for God and me:
Secrets wouldn’t be secret anymore,
The latch would be broken on this dark door…
© Copyright Erin Kay Hope – 2014
This poem has a heavy feel to it, or so it seems to me. It conveys an aura of pain or sadness through very effective writing, especially in its concluding line. Given your youth, Erin Kay, it’s a bit startling (for me anyway) to read lines like that. But that’s why you’re a good poet.
Thank you, William! I really appreciate your words. I guess even young people have things they’ve done/thought that they don’t want others to know about…
I prefer a little mystery myself rather than the boring ‘tell all’ – nice work here Erin.
Thanks, Debi! I like some mystery as well.
Oh, Erin, how . . .revealing? poignant. You have told me everything about yourself without saying any details. I too struggle continuously with the question, “if people knew the real me, they wouldn’t like me.” The me I can’t hide from God. And He loves me for whom I am.
I never thought of it as revealing…thanks for your feedback, Darlene! And it’s true, He really does. 🙂
So beautiful, Erin. Well done, indeed. The flow, cadence, and meaning blend to make this a true joy to read.
Thanks so much, Claudsy! That means a lot to me. ❤
You’re welcome, Erin. Miss you being here every week. 🙂 ❤
And I missed being here! This spring has been a little rough, but I’m going to try and be here as much as possible now. 🙂
I’m glad, Erin, and I think everyone will be happy to see you more often. I hope all the touch has smoothed out now and you’re ready to excel at your talent for verse. 🙂
Deeply moving, Erin, and so full of truth.
Thank you, Susan! 🙂
The latch would be broken on this dark door is an excellent line, Erin.
I’ll be back later to read and comment…hopefully. 🙂
❤ !!
❤
🙂 🙂 !!
I recommend an article in yesterday’s (June 14th) NY Times’ Sunday Review / Opinion, by William Logan: “Poetry: Who Needs It?”
“The way we live now is not poetic. We live prose, we breathe prose, and we drink, alas, prose…” http://nyti.ms/1kUW1AB
Thanks for sharing the link…I’m sharing it to Facebook! 🙂
Well worth the time to read. Thanks, Nurit.
Still Dreaming
Still dreaming
Still searching
Still asking questions
as basic as who am I?
Not looking back
on a long list
of accomplishments
like others my age.
Just getting started.
My auto biography
would be more like
a choose-your-own adventure.
Your guess of what happens next
would be as good as mine.
oh, Connie, I love this one, love, love it, even before I saw you had written. Esp. the “choose your own adventure” line. And as someone of a similar age, that’s the way I have to look at life, at what amazing things lie ahead instead of feeling like the best lies behind me. . .
🙂 Connie, you speak for many here. Whatever plan we make, few can map the final destination of any given, chosen path, so how can one tie the knots between then and now and what can be? Terrific poem.
This feels, and reads, like a checklist for the future. I love the upbeat, anticipatory aura of it.
Blockage
There’s a blockage in my chakras
The passageway is clogged
The. ‘I think i can ‘ engine
Has come to a T halt
I think I need some talking
To that buried little quell
The one that hides her extras
From even her own self
The sword has gained momentum
The pen has spilt its ink
We need a revolution
To reverse this story’s think —-
Wonderful poem, Priti! I love how you approach the subject and the perspective you take. This could hand on the wall of my office and apply so well on so many days. Love this.
This is wonderful; the allusion to health (or lack of it) is funny and yet thoughtful, and the concluding rhyme left me with a broad smile.
The rich palette of material here so far has me thinking that
Poetry
loves
good company.
BETTER LEFT UNREAD
As stories go, mine’s not unique.
I’m partly poet, partly geek,
a humdrum person, so to speak.
I’ve never been what some call wild.
In truth, I’m rather meek and mild,
not radical nor flower child.
I’ll never be a movie star,
excite the crowd with my guitar
or drive an F1 racing car.
I don’t keep house, don’t even cook,
can’t figure out a crochet hook.
Things I don’t know might fill a book.
But who on earth would want to read
what I’ve become by thought and deed?
Who’d waste their time on such a screed?
It’s just a life, in simple terms,
and as I hope this piece affirms,
let’s leave alone that can of worms.
© Susan Schoeffield
Your “can of worms,” it seems to me, is what used to be called, “salt of the earth.” I think this is is superb piece, and the monorhymes all work well; nothing forced. Great job, in my opinion.
I love this, Susan. With the exception of “don’t even cook” I can relate to this perfectly.
[…] for the 6/15/14 prompt at Creative Bloomings to write a poem about why you wouldn’t write your […]
Great to see you at the helm again William, truly — you have such a deft hand.
THE DARKER SIDE OF ME
(As if there could be one…darker
than the one that’s known I mean)
An open book, candid, out-spoken
She tells it like it is – that’s who I am
You can ask anyone…friends, family,
people who hardly know me
If they were told there was a mysterious
part of me, a dark side I didn’t put out
there for public consumption
My guess is, most would shake
their head, say no, that’s not possible
She’s so honest…probably the frankest
person around
True enough, as far as it goes
I don’t lie if I can help it
But sometimes I don’t tell
the whole truth maybe?
A long-time peacenik, a dove, a flower-child
Yes, admittedly, a left-leaning, liberal wing-nut
Pro-life, anti-war, anti-death penalty,
and all the things that go along with this
political mindset
It’s how I think, how I live, what I write about.
What I don’t talk about, what doesn’t show up
in my bios, or even in my thoughts, mostly,
is how much I like to shoot guns;
all sorts of guns…
How good a shot I am actually, even
though I don’t hunt.
Would I shoot a person? I don’t think so…
I used to be able to honestly say, and without
hesitation, “of course not”.
As anti-death penalty as I’ve always been, as
I still am,
there are certain people who I’ve come to believe
are not candidates for rehabilitation.
I didn’t use to believe in evil and I did use
to believe in God
Those beliefs have pretty much switched places,
and while it wouldn’t be often, it would be true,
there are some slices of evil,
I know I could put to death myself—be it pulling
the switch, releasing the poison, whatever it took.
I do not believe that every person who perpetrates
abuse against children is mentally ill,
especially some parents who kill their own babies.
I think they need to be put out of their misery.
That doesn’t make it into my mind often, not to
mention my autobiography…
As I read back over these lines, I find myself
wondering who this person could be.
That’s how alien they appear to me now.
But that’s now…
When I wrote them, they were true,
and sometimes, they still are.
I like this very much because it shows evolution in action in one’s life, though I imagine some (maybe you) might call it devolution. It’s also dynamic, as the last stanza makes clear.
wow, Sharon. This poem is so you yet even more you (or perhaps not you). I like the conversational tone of it and the last stanza really wraps it all up perfectly.
Thank you William, for your, as always insightful remarks. I hesitated to write this. Then to post it. It’s pretty dark all around but then so is the side most of us don’t want to look at, I think…And I agree with you, after many years, the way one evolves can feel like a devolution but it is, as the saying goes, what it is.
You never know were a prompt will take you. My muse has gone all architectural on me today.
Why She’ll Never Write an Autobiography
When it comes down to importance, she knows she’s
not the Sistine Chapel. As far as being known goes,
she can’t claim to be the Notre Dame Cathedral,
nor any lesser known gothic building with magnificent
arches and vaulted ceilings, fabulous facade, outer
walls decorared with gargoyles and delicately crafted
stone towering high up to the heavens. That’s not her.
She considers herself more of a Romanesque church,
still beautiful in her own right but with more simplictic form,
(though not boring) built with stout columns and study piers,
a much wider base to keep the sheer weight of itself
from crumbling down. Unlike more ornately-designed
places of worship with grandiose windows being
a major focal point, bringing light and a welcoming
feeling, the Romanesque windows pale in comparison,
generally tiny, as the force of the massive walls would
collapse into themselves if they included larger glassworks.
These small windows don’t offer much to visitors; no angelic
streams of light that make the inside seem more than what it is.
From the outside looking it, they offer but a glimpse, if that, of
what is held inside. She likes her windows that way.
Darn! Typo!
It should say STURDY piers. And lesser-known should be hyphenated.
This is beautifully crafted, and a unique take on the prompt Linda…it took me to many churches I’ve visited and some I’ve only seen from afar…and the metaphoric inferences are quite subtle but perfect. Nicely done.
thanks, Sharon
This is a fascinating metaphor (I presume) and a fascinating poem to read. I’m fond of medieval architecture anyway, so I could imagine many old cathedrals as I read, and got to wondering about “Romanesque” and “Gothic” folks. The small-windows analogy is a shrewd way to speak of a secretive or close-to-the-vest person, in my opinion. I think this is a superb piece of work.
thank you, William. And yes, this poem is full of comparison. The person considers herself interesting but not good enough for an autobiography (a smaller church and not cathedral) yet at the same time she is not sure she wants the world to know all that lies inside (the small windows looking in).