Book Recommendation: David Orr’s Beautiful and Pointless * * * * *

I greatly enjoyed David Orr’s book Beautiful and Pointless.

It is intended to be an introduction to understanding modern poetry. I found the book to be interesting, enlightening, and well written. I was surprised and pleased with the unexpected humor found in the book.

I appreciated Orr’s examples and poetry recommendations. I now have several new artists to investigate.

I felt a kinship to Orr and his writing, as well as his take on poetry. I’m sincerely grateful someone recommended this book to me.

This week I’m reading The Discovery of Poetry by Frances Mayes (which I found mentioned in an Amazon review of Orr’s book), and Edge by Jeffery Deaver.

I think the Mayes book is going to be really good. It already made me cry, and I'm not even through the first chapter.

Relevant references:
Amazon Link to Beautiful and Pointless.

OSU library link to Beautiful and pointless.

OSU Library call number:
808.1
075b

Happy reading!

Odd Thomas

I have been reading Odd Thomas by Dean Koontz. I'm not a big scary book fan. I am more into suspense. But I've been struck by the poetry in Koontz's writing.

It really amazes me how it is written. Like this:

"The soft features of his wan face brought to mind pale mushrooms that I once glimpsed in a dark dank corner of a basement, mealy puffballs clustered in a moist mounds of forest mast." Dean Koontz - Odd Thomas

Now that's a whole lot different than saying perhaps - He had a pale mushy face. There is a greater depth of description, and it's beautiful.

I also liked this -

"She served it hot, kissing plate to counter without a rattle, as she always does." Dean Koontz, Odd Thomas

What a depth of meaning in two short lines. I love it.

I've been using the Stephen King principle in my writing (KISS), just tell the story and get it done, don't put too many ruffles on it. But when I get good - really good - I hope I have some flavor of Koontz in my writing.

King doesn't seem to think much of Koontz. Go figure.

Luckily - I can love them both. Who do you think is better?

Happy Thursday!

Poetry should ride the bus

I am a new fan of Ruth Forman's poetry, especially "Poetry should ride the bus"

I really like how she uses simple language and the tone of her culture to convey strong images and a rich history. "Poetry should ride the bus" gave me a window into a life I am not a part of, sat me down, and made me feel at home.

Poetry is for people from all walks of life, and we can find poetry in all things.

If you would like to listen to Ruth Forman read one of her poems in her own voice - courtsey of NPR, visit this link.

I think we should put poetry on Bob, and literally - ride a poetry bus.

Here's hoping you find a little poetry in your day.

Happy Friday.

On Writing

I haven't been writing much lately. For the last couple of weeks - I might try to blame it on second child's graduation from HS, Father-in-law's week in the hospital, oldest child's massive eye infection and subsequent week-long set of doctor's visits, husband's promotion or something like that. But it might just be that I don't have the energy.

Poetry (and other forms of writing) seems to take a great deal of concentration and energy. And...time.

Do you find that does for you as well?

I hope to recapture some time, very soon. But until than, I'll just do my second favorite thing to do - read.

But sometime, hopefully sometime soon - I'll get back on my writing 'horse.'

Best wishes,

Chris

left to my own devices

Some days I write with a thick pencil,
ham fisted in a Big Chief tablet,
barely literate - smudged and smeared,
unwieldy, childish prose.

Every now and again,
I write with a scalpel,
All bloody and pain wrecked -
words excised, still dripping.

On Fridays, I write with a rain gutter,
catching the words as a down pour,
sluicing them in the general direction
of a downspout, wet and soggy.

More often, I write with a plow.
Heavy lifting, dirt worked
in the hot sun, sweaty seeding
hoping for something besides a weed.

Most days, I write with a shovel,
heaving sticky piles of steamy manure,
from one plop
to the other.

On a very rare day,
no matter my device,
everything...
works.

Poetry as art

I have been haunting the literary boards lately, looking at writing submitted by others, and listening (as objectively as possible) to critques about my own.

During this process it seemed to me there seem to be a variety of reasons people write poetry. Some people seem to write to 1) Get in touch with their own emotions; 2) deal with past experiences; and 3) relate to other people. I'm interested in all the reasons people write poetry.

Here are some of my reflections:

When some people write poetry, they seem to examine more deeply their own emotions, in order to accurately share them to others.

Sometimes, people write poetry as therapy. They use the process to purge demons, cement their memories, or describe a state of being or experience.

I also think that people write poetry to share, display, work, and enrich their own lives by connecting with others.

The unique thing about poetry is the artistry.

Each and every poet is an artist.

Sometimes the poetry picture flows and is easy on the eye, and you catch your breath at the wonder of it. Sometimes, it shocks and rips you open. Sometimes, it is vanilla bland, cheesy or mundane.

Perhaps the paint the poet has used is not your favorite color. Perhaps the lines they draw are bolder, or thinner, then you would use. Perhaps the subject is not your favorite... But what you take from the writing, is your unique experience. What you take from the poetry picture, is up to you.


Why do you write?

Written for a poetry contest. Kind of missed the mark, but...I was pretty caught up in it and had to submit it to get rid of it! Don't know why but I like it. Maybe someone will 'get' it.

My Whimsy

Gray rust steals over a wrought iron gate.
Unconcerned, dandelion fluff skips across pitted black marble.
I lie on my back and watch white cotton wisps
twirl up and join animal shapes on a lazy stroll across a puffy sky.
Between – droopy birthday balloons roll slack on graying grass.
Their sun bleached ribbon streamers wrap and wind
a once bright pinwheel's leg.
The faded pinwheel spins with whimsical disregard,
It's steel leg buried deep
in the graveyard.