If you enjoy love poems or spiritual/inspirational poems, do grab a copy of my poetry ebook As The Moon And The Sun: Poems Of Love, Faith and Dreaming (Rhyme Whisperer Series),free on Kindle US and Kindle UK for the weekend (May 19-20)!Have fun:)
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Saturday, 19 May 2012
Poetry ebook "As the Moon and the Sun" free for a weekend on Kindle!
If you enjoy love poems or spiritual/inspirational poems, do grab a copy of my poetry ebook As The Moon And The Sun: Poems Of Love, Faith and Dreaming (Rhyme Whisperer Series),free on Kindle US and Kindle UK for the weekend (May 19-20)!Have fun:)
Saturday, 12 May 2012
A Summer in Xanadu: Revisiting Coleridge's "Kubla Khan"
This would have been a post in the A to Z Challenge if I'd gotten closer to the end (X is for Xanadu, after all)... but that ship has sailed, and as *shameless plug* my poetry ebook As The Moon And The Sun is free for the weekend (May 12-13) on Kindle,* what better time could there be to revisit the world of dreams and fantasy that Samuel Taylor Coleridge crafted so well in his poem "Kubla Khan"?:)
Kubla Khan is a poem that intrigued me, fascinated me, from the first moment I read it. Said to have been written under the influence of an opium-induced dream, the gradual descent into the supernatural takes place very quickly within Coleridge's imagined pleasure dome. He is after all the creator of the now famous 'suspension of disbelief', so I suppose this was to be expected:)
We are first given a depiction of Xanadu, the summer palace of the Mongol emperor Kublai Khan (grandson of Genghis Khan), which is imagined as an utopian realm with a sacred river, measureless caverns, fertile ground, gardens and ancient forests... But Coleridge doesn't stop there. A reader enters utopia only to succumb to an otherworldly, savage version of Nature shortly after. There is, you see, a certain dark chasm neighbouring the pleasure dome, from which bursts a powerful fountain that travels through the sacred plains of nature, leaving chaos in its wake, only to sink ‘in tumult to a lifeless ocean’.
The chaotic tug of war between Nature and Man - Man and Nature - in Kubla Khan seems reasonable enough when seen against Coleridge’s views of reality impinging on man’s ability to transcend it; I believe his own creative imagination was frequently at war with the demands of a non-creative reality in his lifetime.
But of course, the intrusion of reality into the creation of Kubla Khan was more marked than usual if Coleridge is to be believed; it seems that Kubla was an unfinished poem, a ‘fragment’ as Coleridge called it, due to the interruption of an unexpected visitor while Coleridge was in the midst of writing his opiate-induced dream down. Once the infamous Person from Porlock left, Coleridge was sadly unable to recollect his entire vision of Xanadu. And so, instead of the apparent 200-300 plus lines that should supposedly have made up Kubla Khan, we are left with a measly 54...
Suffice to say, 'the Man from Porlock' (or 'Person from Porlock') has since became symbolic of unwanted disruptions of creativity. No doubt many of us will always wonder just who the notorious - and unnamed - visitor really was, and what his visit to Coleridge deprived us of. Certainly, I believe the poem's final stanza expressed Coleridge's own wistful yearning for inspiration to revisit him just one more time with visions of his fantastical Xanadu...
Well, at least we still have those 54 lines, lines which are full of imaginative power and strange allusions to creativity, imagination, Man, inspiration, prophets and Nature...
I could go on; there is a lot to be read into - and out of - Kubla Khan... But I should let the poem speak for itself. So here it is in all its glory, the famous poem Kubla Khan for your reading pleasure; I hope it captures your imagination and curiosity as it did me the first time I read it:
Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
*The free promotion for my poetry ebook has been cancelled/postponed due to a glitch in the Kindle US system this weekend. Apologies!
Kubla Khan is a poem that intrigued me, fascinated me, from the first moment I read it. Said to have been written under the influence of an opium-induced dream, the gradual descent into the supernatural takes place very quickly within Coleridge's imagined pleasure dome. He is after all the creator of the now famous 'suspension of disbelief', so I suppose this was to be expected:)
We are first given a depiction of Xanadu, the summer palace of the Mongol emperor Kublai Khan (grandson of Genghis Khan), which is imagined as an utopian realm with a sacred river, measureless caverns, fertile ground, gardens and ancient forests... But Coleridge doesn't stop there. A reader enters utopia only to succumb to an otherworldly, savage version of Nature shortly after. There is, you see, a certain dark chasm neighbouring the pleasure dome, from which bursts a powerful fountain that travels through the sacred plains of nature, leaving chaos in its wake, only to sink ‘in tumult to a lifeless ocean’.
The chaotic tug of war between Nature and Man - Man and Nature - in Kubla Khan seems reasonable enough when seen against Coleridge’s views of reality impinging on man’s ability to transcend it; I believe his own creative imagination was frequently at war with the demands of a non-creative reality in his lifetime.
But of course, the intrusion of reality into the creation of Kubla Khan was more marked than usual if Coleridge is to be believed; it seems that Kubla was an unfinished poem, a ‘fragment’ as Coleridge called it, due to the interruption of an unexpected visitor while Coleridge was in the midst of writing his opiate-induced dream down. Once the infamous Person from Porlock left, Coleridge was sadly unable to recollect his entire vision of Xanadu. And so, instead of the apparent 200-300 plus lines that should supposedly have made up Kubla Khan, we are left with a measly 54...
Suffice to say, 'the Man from Porlock' (or 'Person from Porlock') has since became symbolic of unwanted disruptions of creativity. No doubt many of us will always wonder just who the notorious - and unnamed - visitor really was, and what his visit to Coleridge deprived us of. Certainly, I believe the poem's final stanza expressed Coleridge's own wistful yearning for inspiration to revisit him just one more time with visions of his fantastical Xanadu...
Well, at least we still have those 54 lines, lines which are full of imaginative power and strange allusions to creativity, imagination, Man, inspiration, prophets and Nature...
I could go on; there is a lot to be read into - and out of - Kubla Khan... But I should let the poem speak for itself. So here it is in all its glory, the famous poem Kubla Khan for your reading pleasure; I hope it captures your imagination and curiosity as it did me the first time I read it:
Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
*The free promotion for my poetry ebook has been cancelled/postponed due to a glitch in the Kindle US system this weekend. Apologies!
Sunday, 30 October 2011
In The World of John Keats' "La Belle Dame sans Merci"
One of my favourite poems by John Keats, one not written in his usual style either, has to be La Belle Dame sans Merci ('The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy'). It is a piece which is all fey, all faerie... And yet there is a hint of the very real death Keats was facing at the time he wrote this.
I've always wondered who the beautiful lady without mercy represented to Keats; and I've often thought that the knight-at-arms must be a representation of Keats himself, one who is so 'in thrall' upon encountering the lady in the meads (meadows) that he follows her further and further into dark and bewitching realms until he is lost to reality altogether.
Always an inspiration to read, savour and simply take you back to times Romantic (in the classical sense), here is Keats' La Belle Dame sans Merci for your reading pleasure:
La Belle Dame sans Merci
By John Keats
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
‘I love thee true’.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Thee hath in thrall!’
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
I've always wondered who the beautiful lady without mercy represented to Keats; and I've often thought that the knight-at-arms must be a representation of Keats himself, one who is so 'in thrall' upon encountering the lady in the meads (meadows) that he follows her further and further into dark and bewitching realms until he is lost to reality altogether.
Always an inspiration to read, savour and simply take you back to times Romantic (in the classical sense), here is Keats' La Belle Dame sans Merci for your reading pleasure:
La Belle Dame sans Merci
By John Keats
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
‘I love thee true’.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lullèd me asleep,
And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—
The latest dream I ever dreamt
On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci
Thee hath in thrall!’
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gapèd wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
Thursday, 4 August 2011
More Rhyme Whisperer Goodness - 'As the Moon and the Sun'
My current immersion in literature of many genres and times - and the state of mind produced by this exposure to a more artistic environment than usual- has made me think of a time not too long ago, one that produced some of my better pieces of poetry.
'As the Moon and the Sun' has become one of the most popular of my poems. It was written about seven years ago. At the time, it was just another poem; one I enjoyed writing, but just another poem.
I've since realised how valuable this poem is to me, how much importance I've always placed on the uniqueness of the individual. And the fact that inspiration can find us more easily if we just accept ourselves for who we really are.
Whenever I feel a bit lost or overwhelmed by people or circumstances, or whenever something good happens because I decide to take a risk and trust my own judgment instead of giving in to those niggling doubts and fears of failure that can assault our senses on the best of days, this is the poem that always comes to mind.
It reminds me that it's important to give oneself space and time to appreciate one's own mind and ways - and that it's smart to seek inspiration and live life to the fullest as an individual as much as someone who's part of any kind of community.
It doesn't diss the value of being with another, I think, but perhaps it's a reminder that the individual should not be neglected in the pursuit of societal goals or ideals.
For those who need that boost of indivualism right now (with perhaps a touch of the romantic thrown in to sweeten the pot), I hope 'As the Moon and the Sun' strikes a chord with you too:
‘As the Moon and the Sun’
Don’t give me too many prizes,
Or I might forget I knew your kiss,
Just touch me as you did this morning,
And forgive me as you were forgiv’d.
Don’t shower me with such coy shyness,
Life’s own nature is too short,
Just speak, and speak out very loudly,
My mind can’t love what’s never thought.
And comfort me each time I falter,
As I comfort you for your own sake,
But, forget the seeking of my glory,
Forget the path that I should take.
The only road that you should travel,
Is the one that’s meant for you,
Do not mistake our living union,
For a union of one heart; ‘tis two.
Fly the way the wind is blowing,
But steer it as you ride its’ wave,
And if our fingers meet upon it,
Do not hold so tight they break.
We might be one when we’re together,
But we are two when we’re apart,
And God’s plan to so unite us,
Can never work with half-played hearts.
Remember, thread and needle’s working,
Would never create a single stitch,
Unless they learned the rhyme and reason,
Of differing in their union’s reach.
So spread your wings and fly forever,
And as you fly, so too will I,
And we shall still turn to one another,
Under Heaven’s one brilliant sky.
For each sky holds in its’ blue grasp,
And even in its’ grey,
A sun of closed eyes at night,
And a moon that sleeps by day.
Each giving light for its own reason,
Each meant for purpose divine,
But neither getting in the glimmering path,
Of the other’s celestial design.
So let us not forget this truth,
We are two although we are one;
And the better one we shall become,
If we lived as the moon and the sun.
(Note: For those who'd like to read more of my poems, do check out my poetry ebooks. 'As the Moon and the Sun' is included in two of them: 'As the Moon and the Sun', and the longer anthology, 'Just Imagine'.)
Goodnight, and happy reading:)
'As the Moon and the Sun' has become one of the most popular of my poems. It was written about seven years ago. At the time, it was just another poem; one I enjoyed writing, but just another poem.
I've since realised how valuable this poem is to me, how much importance I've always placed on the uniqueness of the individual. And the fact that inspiration can find us more easily if we just accept ourselves for who we really are.
Whenever I feel a bit lost or overwhelmed by people or circumstances, or whenever something good happens because I decide to take a risk and trust my own judgment instead of giving in to those niggling doubts and fears of failure that can assault our senses on the best of days, this is the poem that always comes to mind.
It reminds me that it's important to give oneself space and time to appreciate one's own mind and ways - and that it's smart to seek inspiration and live life to the fullest as an individual as much as someone who's part of any kind of community.
It doesn't diss the value of being with another, I think, but perhaps it's a reminder that the individual should not be neglected in the pursuit of societal goals or ideals.
For those who need that boost of indivualism right now (with perhaps a touch of the romantic thrown in to sweeten the pot), I hope 'As the Moon and the Sun' strikes a chord with you too:
‘As the Moon and the Sun’
Don’t give me too many prizes,
Or I might forget I knew your kiss,
Just touch me as you did this morning,
And forgive me as you were forgiv’d.
Don’t shower me with such coy shyness,
Life’s own nature is too short,
Just speak, and speak out very loudly,
My mind can’t love what’s never thought.
And comfort me each time I falter,
As I comfort you for your own sake,
But, forget the seeking of my glory,
Forget the path that I should take.
The only road that you should travel,
Is the one that’s meant for you,
Do not mistake our living union,
For a union of one heart; ‘tis two.
Fly the way the wind is blowing,
But steer it as you ride its’ wave,
And if our fingers meet upon it,
Do not hold so tight they break.
We might be one when we’re together,
But we are two when we’re apart,
And God’s plan to so unite us,
Can never work with half-played hearts.
Remember, thread and needle’s working,
Would never create a single stitch,
Unless they learned the rhyme and reason,
Of differing in their union’s reach.
So spread your wings and fly forever,
And as you fly, so too will I,
And we shall still turn to one another,
Under Heaven’s one brilliant sky.
For each sky holds in its’ blue grasp,
And even in its’ grey,
A sun of closed eyes at night,
And a moon that sleeps by day.
Each giving light for its own reason,
Each meant for purpose divine,
But neither getting in the glimmering path,
Of the other’s celestial design.
So let us not forget this truth,
We are two although we are one;
And the better one we shall become,
If we lived as the moon and the sun.
(Note: For those who'd like to read more of my poems, do check out my poetry ebooks. 'As the Moon and the Sun' is included in two of them: 'As the Moon and the Sun', and the longer anthology, 'Just Imagine'.)
Goodnight, and happy reading:)
Wednesday, 3 August 2011
A path less travelled...
As August 2011 begins, I can't help thinking that this has been a mad half a year - full of ambition and ideas, thoughts of nature and the elements and art and artists, and all as starry and dark as Van Gogh's beautiful painting, 'The Starry Night'.
Why such a mad half a year? Well, I'd finally taken time off to pursue my studies:)
Yes, I've been quite jobless lately, and studying William Blake and Samuel Taylor Coleridge to boot:)
It's been fun so far. But while it's been crazily good not to have to wake up early every day and hurry off to work, I have to say it was really disorienting in the beginning to become a student again.
I'd always suspected that I'd come to rely far too much on the social outlet of work to provide me my sources of inspiration. And darn it, my suspicions were proven true so fast!
Left to my own devices, I found myself feeling quite lost. And pretty unmotivated to get new writing out.
But family and friends were there (thankfully!), as were interesting classes on authors I've neglected to read. Studying them is a humbling, humbling process btw, one which has made me realise just how ignorant a writer I am... and how much room there is for any writer to learn and grow.
And though the quiet day to day can be really uninspiring a context for writing or studying or anything, really, the solitary aspect of being a writer and student has had its benefits.
The reason I wanted to take this time off for myself in the first place was simple: I needed to surround myself with an environment that would stimulate artistic growth and good literary work. My day to day job before this was one that wasn't too hectic, but it was extremely dry and dull for me. It wasn't a 'painful' job, but it wasn't passionate either. It was simply - comfortable.
Only, being too comfortable can be quite hazardous to creativity, can't it?
Every single day, I could feel the pull of being a writer thudding deep inside me. But I was unable to give that imaginative passion free rein.
Even when I did take the time to sit down for hours and write - enjoying myself hugely in the process - I became aware of an urgent, wistful whisper playing at the back of my mind. It was a kind of warning that, if too much time passed, my writerly self would simply vanish without a backward glance beneath the quiet demands of my comfortable job.
The thought scared me. I loved writing too much. I wanted to become a successful writer too intensely to simply give up that dream without a fight. I just wasn't sure if the fight was one I was equipped to win. This doubt ended up diluting much of my desire to make it as a writer - I thought that failure to make a living at the writing trade would be the ultimate defeat. Faced with defeat, I simply gave up trying (a curse of the perfectionist, if you will).
But the desire to write can be a stubborn, obsessive one, and this time I'm glad that obsession has had a positive turn to play for me. Basically, I was faced with the choice of carving a strong career path that didn't involve writing, or taking the chance to chase my dreams and make them happen. I knew that something in my life needed to change drastically if I were to choose the latter path. But enough time had passed that, emotionally, physically etc, I was confident enough to take the plunge.
Doing something drastic is different for everyone, of course, and comes in many guises. For me, the drastic change to my world manifested in the risk I took to leave behind a secure job so that I could further my studies in literature and reignite my passion for storytelling.
In taking this time off - a time off that I've worked hard for many years to finance btw, which makes it taste all the sweeter:) - I've found my creativity growing in leaps and bounds. In fact, my initial hopes in this respect were quickly exceeded!
Not only has reading works of nineteenth century Romantics and debating literary theory stimulated many, many thoughts creative - it's been an added bonus that exposure to works self-published by writers of old (and which subsequently went on to become classics) gradually influenced me towards entering the world of indie/self-publishing.
Now, a multitude of my stories/poetry have been sent out into the world. And they are actually finding an audience! What more could a writer hope for?:) I might not be the next millionaire writer out there - though I really hope that happens! - but knowing my audience exists is a huge motivator for my writer's soul:)
I suppose the question of the day is: How do you know when the right path has been taken, when the right step has been made in any endeavour?
Answer: You don't.
The important thing is, you have to follow your heart, dig in to acquire the skills necessary to make what you do the best it can be, and hope it all works out. If you must, have a back up plan. But make sure it is the back up, and doesn't become the only plan without you realising it/because you fear failure (which was my bugbear for the longest time).
Hmmmm, in the spirit of taking risks and paving paths that are often easily dismissed, I'm reminded of a well-known poem that's always been one of my favourites. I'm sure many of you love it as well. It captures a kind of magic - the magic of the moment if you will - promising that if you follow its shadowy trails, certain paths can change your life forever. I've loved Robert Frost's 'The Road Not Taken' since, well, forever! And I hope you enjoy it too:) -
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
by Robert Frost
Friday, 29 July 2011
Rhythm in poetry - a touch of the Rhyme Whisperer
After writing one of my last posts (Rhythm of Writing), it occured to me that I could have been neglecting rhythm in my prose because I started out as a poetry writer.
The rhythm in my poetry came pretty naturally, you see. Which is why I reckon I'd gotten the silly idea that such rhythmic prowess would translate instantly to my prose. Didn't happen, of course (big surprise:)).
But I shall not give up! This is merely yet another element for me to craft to perfection from now on. Somehow, I'll do it:)
In the meantime, after a fantastic dinner with a friend who ignited thoughts poetic:), do have a taste of my Rhyme Whisperer side.
'Just Imagine' is one of my favourite poems in the Rhyme Whisperer series (available in both 'As The Moon And The Sun' and the longer anthology 'Just Imagine'). It's only one among a variety of poetic styles and themes in my work, but it employs a particular trick of rhythm that one reviewer was quick to notice and appreciate:)
I hope you enjoy it as well:)
The rhythm in my poetry came pretty naturally, you see. Which is why I reckon I'd gotten the silly idea that such rhythmic prowess would translate instantly to my prose. Didn't happen, of course (big surprise:)).
But I shall not give up! This is merely yet another element for me to craft to perfection from now on. Somehow, I'll do it:)
In the meantime, after a fantastic dinner with a friend who ignited thoughts poetic:), do have a taste of my Rhyme Whisperer side.
'Just Imagine' is one of my favourite poems in the Rhyme Whisperer series (available in both 'As The Moon And The Sun' and the longer anthology 'Just Imagine'). It's only one among a variety of poetic styles and themes in my work, but it employs a particular trick of rhythm that one reviewer was quick to notice and appreciate:)
I hope you enjoy it as well:)
Just Imagine
Just imagine,
Random thoughts, in random tone,
With paintings sure as painter’s own,
Large manor house and servant’s grave,
With battlements and eager knave,
Great forests green, with streams as deep,
As dryads falling to their sleep,
Winged dragons’ snare, and crying wren,
For fallen kings, and fallen friends,
The erstwhile scamp, and roguish eye,
Accompanied by rascal’s ploy,
Steps down the Earth, and through the roof,
Past doorways to Egyptian tombs,
Sweet roses red, and poisoned fruit,
As sharp as note on crystal lute,
Wine amber-shine, and perfect set,
For dining halls and ballroom step,
Fine waistcoats worn with filigree,
To rival dukedom’s ennui,
Of wolves galore, and caves of gold,
Entrancing all with love untold,
Of warlike fiends, brave princesses,
Merry foes brandishing cutlasses,
Then sorcery, and magic lights,
To warm a stranger’s smoking-pipe,
Whose smoke will turn to genie’s flick,
Enchanting all with spell and trick,
Talking trees and moonlit seas,
To frame a merchant’s legacy,
Sorry states of turning fates,
That speak of strange, time-turning gates,
Mirages claiming watering grounds,
With bandits hoarding jewels newfound,
There’s shrinking of house,
And faltering muse,
And portraits with eyes,
That do willingly move,
Knives sharpened with glee,
To fell wrong enemy,
And black capes in the night,
With adventures to find,
Grand visions of wealth,
Tall, powerful elves,
With portals to moons,
And spindle-like spoons,
And as quick as you look,
A sight of gold hook,
Going in circles,
With green barnacles,
Hiding in pirate’s inn,
Just imagine.
Just imagine.
Monday, 20 June 2011
A Compliment For Poetry? Who'd Have Thunk It?:D
I've been a reader for as long as I can remember. I'm betting I learned to read before I could even walk, tho my mum might dispute that:) But I've definitely been reading since forever...
I can even recall vividly the moment I completed an entire book in one sitting: in case you're wondering, the book was Enid Blyton's The Enchanted Wood.
I stayed cosy and warm on my living room couch, unmoving and absorbed in those black words on white paper, for close to half a day. And wow, it was amazing to get drawn into an absolutely different - weird and magical - world from the one I knew I lived in.
That sense of wonder and awe at the power of the written word to compel a reader to travel all over the Earth and beyond has stayed with me since childhood. I'm always surrounded by books at home. And somehow, as messy as it sounds, I find a way to surround myself with books of some sort or another when I'm at work.
I love reading. I simply adore reading. I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't read another book. And I really can't fathom how some people go their whole lives without reading books. Everyone's different, of course. But to not read out of choice... That form of existence is anathema to me, and would no doubt depress me out of my wits.
Now that I've got across my love affair with reading, perhaps you'll be able to understand why writing became my more obsessive love. Maybe I'm trying to reproduce the magic I experienced reading the works of others. Maybe I simply feel an urgent need to contribute to the library of fascinating, everlasting stories that the human community has been compiling since the dawn of all things dreamt and spoken. Maybe I'm a dreamer who enjoys escaping reality sometimes:) Whatever the reason, I write every day, even if it's just a few words on my blogs, and I never fail to enjoy the experience of dancing with language and thought each time I write.
I think that ever since I read The Enchanted Wood though, I've been hoping also that some reader out there might just find my writing as wonderful and enchanting as I found Blyton's so long ago.
This hope was more like a dream, you know - ie, I never really thought this would happen in reality. I've since been proven wrong, and gradually developed what I thought was a healthy relationship with writing and being a writer.
But - somehow, there's always a 'but', isn't there? - when I started putting my writing up as ebooks on Smashwords and Amazon's Kindle Store, all the old doubts crept back in.
I'd spend days wondering which works would get the most attention from readers, which would be the most attractive and enjoyable to others. What if no one liked anything? What if every single piece of my writing sucked big time?? (yes, I became a bit nutty at one point:D)
Whenever these thoughts plagued my writerly mind, I girded my loins (hmm, never thought I'd ever use that phrase in my writing) and reminded myself of the power of self-promotion:D Frankly, I thought my short stories would do far better than my poetry, and was prepared to market 'em for all I was worth.
But the funny thing is, out of all the works I've written so far, it's my poetry that's given me my first (four star) Amazon review:)
Given the wonderful compliments in that review - especially a comparison to Emily Dickinson that made me go numb with shock (and awe lol) for some seconds *still jumping with glee inside as I write this* - I've become more convinced than ever that this is the path my life must take, but I've also realised how insecure a writer I can be.
I didn't think I'd need validation from others, but that's obviously untrue, especially since it was after that review that I began to feel really good about the effort I'd put into arranging all those messy words into perfect, neat, remarkable little sentences. All those late nights and frustrated thoughts of never making it as a successful author finally seemed worth something tangible, real... something Blyton-ish in power:)
Hmmm it seems that, for this writer, validation from readers is akin to sweet, soft balm for the writerly soul:)
Whatever happens from now on, at least I'll always know that someone out there has read and liked my work. What a gorgeous piece of knowledge for any author to have at the back of their mind as they sit down to create beloved, intimate tales for others to read:)
I can even recall vividly the moment I completed an entire book in one sitting: in case you're wondering, the book was Enid Blyton's The Enchanted Wood.
I stayed cosy and warm on my living room couch, unmoving and absorbed in those black words on white paper, for close to half a day. And wow, it was amazing to get drawn into an absolutely different - weird and magical - world from the one I knew I lived in.
That sense of wonder and awe at the power of the written word to compel a reader to travel all over the Earth and beyond has stayed with me since childhood. I'm always surrounded by books at home. And somehow, as messy as it sounds, I find a way to surround myself with books of some sort or another when I'm at work.
I love reading. I simply adore reading. I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't read another book. And I really can't fathom how some people go their whole lives without reading books. Everyone's different, of course. But to not read out of choice... That form of existence is anathema to me, and would no doubt depress me out of my wits.
Now that I've got across my love affair with reading, perhaps you'll be able to understand why writing became my more obsessive love. Maybe I'm trying to reproduce the magic I experienced reading the works of others. Maybe I simply feel an urgent need to contribute to the library of fascinating, everlasting stories that the human community has been compiling since the dawn of all things dreamt and spoken. Maybe I'm a dreamer who enjoys escaping reality sometimes:) Whatever the reason, I write every day, even if it's just a few words on my blogs, and I never fail to enjoy the experience of dancing with language and thought each time I write.
I think that ever since I read The Enchanted Wood though, I've been hoping also that some reader out there might just find my writing as wonderful and enchanting as I found Blyton's so long ago.
This hope was more like a dream, you know - ie, I never really thought this would happen in reality. I've since been proven wrong, and gradually developed what I thought was a healthy relationship with writing and being a writer.
But - somehow, there's always a 'but', isn't there? - when I started putting my writing up as ebooks on Smashwords and Amazon's Kindle Store, all the old doubts crept back in.
I'd spend days wondering which works would get the most attention from readers, which would be the most attractive and enjoyable to others. What if no one liked anything? What if every single piece of my writing sucked big time?? (yes, I became a bit nutty at one point:D)
Whenever these thoughts plagued my writerly mind, I girded my loins (hmm, never thought I'd ever use that phrase in my writing) and reminded myself of the power of self-promotion:D Frankly, I thought my short stories would do far better than my poetry, and was prepared to market 'em for all I was worth.
But the funny thing is, out of all the works I've written so far, it's my poetry that's given me my first (four star) Amazon review:)
Given the wonderful compliments in that review - especially a comparison to Emily Dickinson that made me go numb with shock (and awe lol) for some seconds *still jumping with glee inside as I write this* - I've become more convinced than ever that this is the path my life must take, but I've also realised how insecure a writer I can be.
I didn't think I'd need validation from others, but that's obviously untrue, especially since it was after that review that I began to feel really good about the effort I'd put into arranging all those messy words into perfect, neat, remarkable little sentences. All those late nights and frustrated thoughts of never making it as a successful author finally seemed worth something tangible, real... something Blyton-ish in power:)
Hmmm it seems that, for this writer, validation from readers is akin to sweet, soft balm for the writerly soul:)
Whatever happens from now on, at least I'll always know that someone out there has read and liked my work. What a gorgeous piece of knowledge for any author to have at the back of their mind as they sit down to create beloved, intimate tales for others to read:)
Friday, 27 May 2011
For Kindle Users - Rhyme Whisperer Series on Amazon.com Kindle Store!
Just click on the links below to get to the US pages (note, they're also available on the UK and Germany Kindle Stores):
Cheers, and happy reading to all:)
Thursday, 26 May 2011
Just Imagine: An Anthology of Poems on Love, Faith and Dreaming
If you had a blast reading/sampling my two earlier volumes in the Rhyme Whisperer Series, you might want to get a compilation of both volumes at a great price. Just Imagine: An Anthology of Poems On Love, Faith And Dreaming is now up for sale.
Quick buyers can receive a 100% discount on purchase price at Smashwords.com for a limited period (up to 5 June 2011), by keying in the coupon code VS68S prior to completing checkout.
Don't forget, if you'd prefer poetry volumes that are shorter in length, my earlier two volumes of the Rhyme Whisperer Series might be just what you're looking for:)
Have a great read!
Sample or purchase my ebook at Amazon.com's Kindle Store
Sample or purchase my ebook at Smashwords
Find me on Smashwords
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
In The Madness Of Meeting: More Poems Of Love, Faith And Dreaming
In The Madness of Meeting: More Poems Of Love, Faith And Dreaming brings readers more poems to enrich minds and hearts. It is now available for sampling and purchase.
Have a great read!
Sample or purchase my ebook at Amazon.com's Kindle Store
Sample or purchase my ebook at Smashwords
Find me on Smashwords
[To receive a 100% discount on purchase price at Smashwords.com for a limited period (up to 24 June 2011), please key in coupon code PS85T prior to completing checkout.]
As The Moon And The Sun: Poems Of Love, Faith And Dreaming
As The Moon And The Sun: Poems Of Love, Faith And Dreaming is a collection of poetry that will provide a refreshing reminder of the joys and wonder poems carry with them in a buoyant vision of hope and truth.
Have a great read!
Sample or purchase my ebook at Amazon.com's Kindle Store
Sample or purchase my ebook at Smashwords
Find me on Smashwords
[To receive a 100% discount on purchase price at Smashwords.com for a limited period (up to 24 June 2011), please key in coupon code PS76V prior to completing checkout.]
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