This prompt originated with an exercise I found in Poets and Writers magazine. We have done a lot with nature and poetry, and I felt this was something different. See my adaptation below.
From P & W:
Our favorite actors and musicians often seem larger than life because they are able to produce powerful performances using personae that may or may not belie their more mundane, daily existence. Someone might always be the demanding diva or the goofy comedian on screen and live up to that reputation, or be the complete opposite once out of the public eye. Write a personal essay about one of your favorite celebrities, current or past. Describe the circumstances around your earliest encounters with this person's star quality, taking into account the elements of that celebrity image that were particularly striking or resonant for you. If you were to meet this person and have a heart-to-heart conversation, what would you share or hope to discover? How might your admiration change?
Adapation:
Personal essay is not required. Use any form your prefer. I would like to extend this to writing about anyone in the public eye -- does not have to necessarily be a "celebrity." Take this prompt in any direction that works best for you.
Happy writing!
"Art is the creative expression of the human spirit, and it cannot- it must not, for the sake of the human community- be limited to those few who achieve critical acclaim or financial reward." -Pat Schneider
Tuesday, September 25, 2018
Sunday, September 23, 2018
Mockingbird Brain
Response to prompt #43: Use Me, Hughes Me
Mockingbird Brain
He stands, conspicuously high in the air
perched on the branch of his tree in the sky.
His tiny little head and beady eyes
gaze down at the earth
He plans to skip hop quickly
through the farm and the thicket
among the insects and other small creatures,
seeking food and a mate
He stops to flash his White-patched wings
aggressively in song and dance,
searching shamelessly for a mate
protecting his nest and what is his.
He enjoys making his presence known;
loud is the mockingbird’s rant
mimicking pitch and rhythym of others
repeating vocalizations similar to his own.
He is not an open-end learner.
He learns not to sing new songs,
Photo Credit: http://nwbackyardbirder.blogspot.com/2009/08/backyard-birds-of-fresno-california.html |
He stands, conspicuously high in the air
perched on the branch of his tree in the sky.
His tiny little head and beady eyes
gaze down at the earth
He plans to skip hop quickly
through the farm and the thicket
among the insects and other small creatures,
seeking food and a mate
He stops to flash his White-patched wings
aggressively in song and dance,
searching shamelessly for a mate
protecting his nest and what is his.
He enjoys making his presence known;
loud is the mockingbird’s rant
mimicking pitch and rhythym of others
repeating vocalizations similar to his own.
He is not an open-end learner.
He learns not to sing new songs,
perhaps not to even listen.
Just repeat, repeat, repeat
Just repeat, repeat, repeat
Black Bear Introspecting
I lumber through these woods
Every tree and bush familiar
My black fur sometimes scraped
Off, left aflutter in the breeze.
The sweet honey I seek is truth
The berries, all meaning in life
Roots, bulbs, grasses; I get grumpy
If you come near my young.
My paws are hefty and balanced,
Claws gripping the earth, marking a tree
Deep, long, grasping, gouging
No even match for me around here.
And there is no predator to bother me
Free to hunt, to swim, to rest
My territory is all I see, all I intuit
Prodigious & purposeful, sweeping & substantial.
This is how I live until autumn comes
Entering the Great Void, the Dreamtime
I seem to die for a time to find answers
Meditating in my den is a great gift.
There is strength in silence and peace, too
No clamor & commotion, din & discord
This is the best way to get where I’m going
The spring flowers will bloom on their own.
Wild Horses
As I thought about prompt #43, I kept landing on the horse. I have always loved horses and even had a pretty sweet collection of porcelain and sandstone figurines as a young girl. I have always respected their grace as well as their power. As I carefully considered these vegetarians that are still capable of taking a finger off, I came up with this, hopefully speaking to the damage we do when we attempt to tame a force of nature.
Consider the horse in all its natural glory—
its silky mane flowing as it runs barefoot through a rolling landscape,
the hills no barrier to its freedom,
stopping to graze on the tall grass when hunger sets in,
resting in a field of wildflowers when it grows tired.
Consider the horse tamed by man—
penned up in a small space,
bone-dry hay beneath its shoed hooves,
barely enduring the strokes of the comb ripping through its knotted tail,
giving a warning stomp right before it raises its hind leg to land an angry kick,
dreaming of a field of wildflowers beyond the stable doors.
Consider the horse used by man--
foam rising on its glistening coat from endless hours of training,
running wildly to escape the sting of the whip its jockey uses to "encourage,"
knowing all along the track is an endless loop,
a hell it won't escape until its no longer useful.
Friday, September 21, 2018
Wild Pig Rummaging
Response to Prompt #43: Use Me, Hughes Me
Wild Pig Rummaging
By Natalie Elschlager
Wild Pig Rummaging
By Natalie Elschlager
Before mellow hues of pink illuminate the morning sky,
they dig.
Low grunts permeate the field behind Mr. Greene’s suburban dwelling.
Curious hogs.
One trots lightly towards a growth of palms,
rubbing bristly fur against the bark.
There’s satisfaction in this,
as the hairy tip of its tail curls with delight.
The others root about relentlessly,
hooves and thick shoulders rummaging for grub.
Before excavation, before building, before Irma,
these rituals performed before dawn were isolated to the wetlands.
Nowhere is remote anymore.
The unassuming stock of a rifle takes aim.
Feral swine.
Pop.
Squeal.
They migrate once more.
Tuesday, September 4, 2018
No Spring Chicken
This is my response to Prompt #42, For the Birds.
I am definitely no spring chicken anymore. That's not exactly a news flash, but it has become more apparent to me over the past few months, ever since my not-so-happy 49th birthday.
May I talk turkey for a moment? I am not enjoying this shit at all. My PMS has returned with a vengeance, turning me into a 12-year-old girl the week before my period--touchy, overly emotional, a tad dramatic. At least I can sympathize with the middle school girls I interact with when I'm out modeling lessons. I look over at some extremely grumpy 12-year-old girl who's watching me like a hawk and send a telepathic signal: I feel ya, chicky-poo, I feel ya.
But, unlike my 12-year-old self, I also have brain fog, turning me into a bird brain, barely able to keep my ducks in a row. Shit, I can't even keep my damn ducks in the same pond. How many ducks do I even have? I don't even know anymore.
And, then, there's the dry skin (new) and the shedding (not new, but exaggerated). Oh, the shedding. I could make a wig out of the nests of hair on my bathroom floor every morning. Maybe I should because at this rate, I may be as bald as a coot by next week.
The transition is really for the birds. I know I'm supposed to welcome it, look at it like a wise owl with the grace becoming of a woman my age. I'm sure it will grow on me, but right now, it's an albatross around my neck, leaving me feeling stuck and at times frozen in place, unmotivated to spread my wings and try something new, preferring the comfort of my own nest.
And, if this is just pre-menopause, what the hell is menopause going to be like? I fear I'll be a crazy loon, feathers all ruffled as the sweat from the inevitable hot flashes make me as mad as a wet hen.
I know this too shall pass--hopefully quickly--and I'll be back in fine feather. Until then, please forgive me as I wing it through this crazy transition.
I am definitely no spring chicken anymore. That's not exactly a news flash, but it has become more apparent to me over the past few months, ever since my not-so-happy 49th birthday.
May I talk turkey for a moment? I am not enjoying this shit at all. My PMS has returned with a vengeance, turning me into a 12-year-old girl the week before my period--touchy, overly emotional, a tad dramatic. At least I can sympathize with the middle school girls I interact with when I'm out modeling lessons. I look over at some extremely grumpy 12-year-old girl who's watching me like a hawk and send a telepathic signal: I feel ya, chicky-poo, I feel ya.
But, unlike my 12-year-old self, I also have brain fog, turning me into a bird brain, barely able to keep my ducks in a row. Shit, I can't even keep my damn ducks in the same pond. How many ducks do I even have? I don't even know anymore.
And, then, there's the dry skin (new) and the shedding (not new, but exaggerated). Oh, the shedding. I could make a wig out of the nests of hair on my bathroom floor every morning. Maybe I should because at this rate, I may be as bald as a coot by next week.
The transition is really for the birds. I know I'm supposed to welcome it, look at it like a wise owl with the grace becoming of a woman my age. I'm sure it will grow on me, but right now, it's an albatross around my neck, leaving me feeling stuck and at times frozen in place, unmotivated to spread my wings and try something new, preferring the comfort of my own nest.
And, if this is just pre-menopause, what the hell is menopause going to be like? I fear I'll be a crazy loon, feathers all ruffled as the sweat from the inevitable hot flashes make me as mad as a wet hen.
I know this too shall pass--hopefully quickly--and I'll be back in fine feather. Until then, please forgive me as I wing it through this crazy transition.
Monday, September 3, 2018
All My Black Birds
All My Black Birds
by Helen Sadler
In a spotlight on a stage in an
arena,
a
famous man sits on a stool with his guitar,
singing a song created by using the
melody
of
a Bach composition, a song about a blackbird
finding strength to fly free, a
song which has grown
more
popular over the years since the night I saw
the man sing this song during his
first American tour.
Paul
McCartney now says that the song was about
the struggle for Civil Rights he
had seen in the
United
States, but at the time the song came out
there was no mention of this, as a
matter of fact,
there
isn’t even a document with the lyrics
scratched out, as so many other
songs from that time
of
the Beatles history. Perhaps Paul just had
the lyrics come to him easily, so
easily
he
didn’t have to write it down, no broken wings to lift,
just another song from this genius
of a man
and
a musician. But others were listening,
like Charles Manson, who had found
his family of
wounded
birds and convinced them the Beatles White
Album
had hidden messages, in particular
“Blackbird,”
a
song that was telling the black man to rise up.
Charlie decided he had to show them
how it was
done,
and it was by inspiring others to go on
murderous sprees in the name of a
collection of songs.
Reading
Helter Skelter in the fall of ‘75 opened
my eyes to how art could be used
for any purpose
we
decide. But the blackbird is just one, there are more
birds that are black, like crows. I
still remember the
nightmare
I had while reading Stephen King’s The
Stand,
and the evil character of Randall
Flagg could morph
into
a crow to do his dirty work, and that
crow showed up in the night,
scaring the bejesus out
of
me so intensely I remember it now, forty
years later. To calm me down, I
turn to the Marty
Stuart
song “Observations of a Crow,” featuring
a storytelling crow on a wire
telling all the town’s
secrets.
That is a crow anyone could love, and it seems
more crow-like, after all. Crows
are black birds, but not all
blackbirds
are crows, like, say, “The Raven” Poe wrote about
so rhythmically, a raven stuck in
the eternity
of
grief, forever a shadow. But let’s get back to blackbirds,
like the “four and twenty
blackbirds baked in a pie”
as
the nursery rhyme says. Searching for this to make
sense, I found out that a 16th
century amusement
was
to put live birds in a pie so when you cut into
it they would fly away. Who thinks
of these things?
I
guess the house servants back in the day, as they wanted
to please the king, and Netflix
wasn’t available.
Those
birds deserved to be free, not baked in a pie,
which by the way, frightened me a
bit as a child.
Beaks
and feathers in a pie didn’t sound too appetizing,
let alone the spindly claw feet, and
the drawings that
went
with the rhyme in the book always showed a happy
baker, but it made
no sense to me, and still doesn’t;
but
humans are strange creatures. A huge song in the
20th century was
“Bye-Bye Blackbird,” a song which has
been
produced in many forms: Peggy Lee slow, John
Coltrane “17
minutes of greatness” fast, Ben Vereen dancing
Fosse
style. See them on YouTube! Lots of theories on
this song; is it about a prostitute
leaving
the
profession? or is it just what it sounds:
Pack up all my care and woe / Here I go,
singing low /Bye-bye, blackbird.
Why
are they singing to the blackbird? Just something
we do, I guess, like the man with
the Bach melody,
the
fireman’s son who grew up on Penny Lane,
soft in the spotlight,
melting his audience with
Blackbird singing in the dead of night/
take
these broken wings and learn to fly...
We desire to mend our brokenness, to look to our faithful
feathered
confidantes and be like them, flying free;
reaching, waiting, longing for our moment to arise.
Free
Response to Prompt #42: For the Birds
Fascinating creatures sky high earth rangers
Soaring and sweeping flapping and flocking
dainty, delicate power guided by the earth's pull
up to the clouds above the treetops
across the land over the seas
I wish I could fly
free as
a bird
And for your listening pleasure...
Fascinating creatures sky high earth rangers
Soaring and sweeping flapping and flocking
dainty, delicate power guided by the earth's pull
up to the clouds above the treetops
across the land over the seas
I wish I could fly
free as
a bird
And for your listening pleasure...
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