You Tube Tuesday: From 35,000 Feet/Praise Aviophobia

 

(*YouTube Tuesday idea originally came from the Martians Attack blog)

 

Earlier this year, I had an opportunity to interview both poet, Geffrey Davis, and film-maker, Chad Howitt in regards to the above film (originally presented by Motionpoems).    For the first time ever, I had a credit in a film for assisting with the film-maker on the poem.  A pretty cool experience 🙂

 

I love the whole premise behind  Motionpoems in their goal to take poetry and bring them to life through film.

 

Incredible.

 

To see the original film and interviews, the links are below:

Film

Interviews

 

Motionpoems now in the midst of its seventh season, and I hope they have many, many more.

 

If you’d like to participate in YouTube Tuesday, post something from YouTube that you enjoyed and tell us a bit about it.  Don’t forget to include the link to this post in yours so I can check it out.  Also, if you’re on Twitter, tweet about it using the hashtag #YouTubeTuesday.

Advertisements

An Ode To Spring: A Contest Winner

Over at I held a contest called, “An Ode to Spring,” where writers could write poetry about the coming of Spring (or hopefully, warmer weather!).   Today, it is my delight to present you the 2nd Place winner, Tate Morgan, for his beautiful poem, Spring Love.

 

In spring lovebirds hover fancy

till morning lit by the dew

Takes back winter’s heartache

restoring the love in you

 

The desperate cries of anguish

from a heart that knows no joy

Feeds long upon its own regret

tossing the soul as if a toy

 

Give to me your heartaches

lie down in the meadow green

Let go the sorrow of past loves

have rain wash the soul clean

 

Always to blossom in springtime

love feeds us of our dreams

Washing away the winter sorrows

from each one or so it seems

 

Take all of what you’ve been given

set aside pieces in you there-of

No broken promise of joy’s embrace

can outshine a true heart in love

Enjoyed his poem?  You’re in for a treat then!  Visit his page for loads more. 🙂

Crossroads (A Matter of Perspective)

crossroad4

 

As a writer, what does this poem say to you?

 

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

 

 

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.

All The World’s A Stage by William Shakespeare

With today being the 400th anniversary of Shakespeare’s death, I want to honor him with one of my favorite poems that he wrote.

 

“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.”

 

 

What is your favorite Shakespeare’s poem or play?

My Struggles to Achieving My Creative Dreams (Special Guest Post by Lidy Wilks PLUS a Cover Reveal of Her Chapbook AND Giveaways!)

can you catch my flow blog tour

*I have a special treat for you all today!  It is my honor to introduce to you Lidy Wilks who will be talking about her passion as a writer and poet, and how she came through her struggles to achieve her dreams.  The cover reveal above is for her poetry chapbook, Can You Catch My Flow?  Be sure to check out the special giveaways at the end of this post Lidy is promoting! 

 

 

I’ve taken a few detours on this creative journey. I’ve stumbled and detoured away from it.  Funny, when I think about it.  As I’d always known, from the moment I read Little Women and Moby Dick, that I wanted a future involved with books.  I didn’t know then what kind of job it’d be.  But I never doubted for a minute, that whatever that job entailed, I would find where I belong.

Yet, I’ve had my highs and lows in trying to achieve my creative dreams.  My first fan was my friend and classmate.  Her excited response supported my interest to become a writer and write more stories.  I held those aspirations all the way through high school; until a teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I got older.  Naturally I said “I want to be an author.”

Well, imagine my utter shock when I was told that writing was just a hobby.  Making money from writing wasn’t a high priority.  I wanted to write and have readers enjoy my stories.  To my teacher, becoming a published author was unrealistic.  Writing could not feed you, clothe you or pay the bills. That was the reality of things.

Despite her quick and crushing, pessimistic assessment, I couldn’t let go of my dreams.  But it still affected me so much that I changed my intended major on my college applications.  I’d decided to major in Mass Communications instead of my favorite subject English.  At least with a Mass Comm degree I can get a job in print media/publishing that’ll pay well.  Fortunately, this little detour didn’t last long.

What happened? I was reminded of what I really wanted after my first semester.  I only majored in communications because I was afraid of a future that hadn’t even happened yet.  I let that fear guide me on a different path.  A dream of becoming a magazine editor/writer as a way to hold onto my creative dream; but that fell apart because of an elective creative writing class, and the professor who encouraged me.

So I spent the next four years writing to my heart’s content.  Studied and read British and American poetry, and Shakespeare’s plays in Old English.  Taking non-fiction creative writing, and poetry workshops.  All the while minoring in Mass Comm because I might as well finish what I started.  Plus, it could come in handy (and it did a bit now that I’m a blogger). Point is, I was never happier.  And then I graduated.

True to form and I don’t want to admit it even now, I did not find a job with my English degree.  I started temping and found a job at a non-profit.  I got married, had kids and before I knew it, writing-wise I had nothing to show for it.  Life had taken me on another detour until a company move to a new city gave me the kick-in-the-butt I needed.  Dust off the story ideas I’ve filed away throughout the years, and exercise my writing muscles.  And not just write again; but, write more poetry and submit them to literary journals, magazines, etc.

Looking back, all these detours served as lessons.  To never again let my doubts, lack of confidence, or the opinions of others take me away from what I love doing.  And believe me, I almost completely turned my back from it especially after receiving a nasty rejection letter from a poetry editor.  But as much the support I’ve received helped validate my writing dreams, I should believe in myself more especially against those whose opinions would deter me from it.

After all, I will always question myself and whether I have the talent and determination to continue on this journey.  Questions like what is this poem about? Who is the poem for?  How could I ever had written this?  Or, being filled with writing envy and asking why didn’t I write that?  But these are questions I deal with whenever I pick up a pen to write, or read a poem.  And that’s not something that will ever go away.  It’s one of the things that’s part of a writer’s life. And it’s a writer’s life for me.

arrival of monarch

exultation

 

 

 

 

 

 

giveaway lidy wilks

Click on above image to enter for the giveaway!

 

 

lidy wilksAbout the Author:

Ever since she was young, Lidy Wilks was often found completely submerged in the worlds of Dickens, Louisa May Alcott, Sweet Valley High and Nancy Drew. She later went on to earn a Bachelor degree in English with a concentration in Creative Writing from Franklin Pierce University where she spent four years knee-deep in fiction, poetry and creative non-fiction workshops.

Lidy is the author of Can You Catch My Flow? a poetry chapbook, and is a member of Write by the Rails.  She currently resides in Virginia with her husband and two children; and an anime, book and manga library which she’s looking to expand, one day by adding an Asian drama DVD collection.  Lidy continues her pursuit in writing more poetry collections and fantasy novels all the while eating milk chocolate and sipping a glass of Cabernet, or Riesling wine.

Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Blog

Poetry: T.S. Eliot

Poetry is not a turning loose
of emotion, but an escape
from emotion; it is not the
expression of personality,
but an escape from
personality. But, of course,
only those who have
personality and emotions
know what it means to want
to escape from these things.
-T.S. Eliot

Motionpoems: Short Film & Interviews

motionpoems image

 

 

I’m interrupting my usual posts to bring you a special short film: Creased Map of the Underworld

 

This film took a poem written by Kim Addonizio which was then put into motion by film-maker Bryan Michurski.  It’s gritty, and it’s dark.   After watching it, you may never look at the world, or death, quite the same again.   Through Motionpoems, I had the honor of interviewing both Kim and Bryan.  You can read it here.

Another Year’s Ending

What a year this has been for me and my family.  Packing and moving from NC all the way up to ND…talk about a culture (and weather!) shock.  Christmas was quiet for us as it was just us (all the family’s back east).  It felt strange.  Even my 12-year old son commented on how it really didn’t feel like Christmas this year even though there was nearly two-feet of snow on the ground.    We’re still settling in , and adjusting to our new life.  These things just don’t happen over night.

Need to keep reminding myself of that.

I’m not one for resolutions.  They never really worked for me.  My only goals for the coming new year are:

  1. Write often (daily if possible)
  2. Read as many books as I can
  3. Seek out and connect with other creatives

That’s it.  Simple is always better.  Anything else would be gravy.

What about you?  Have any specific (or general) goals for 2016?

 

Happy New Year!

 

 

*Here’s one of my favorite poems by Lord Alfred Tennyson called “The Death of the Old Year”:

 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing:
Toll ye the church bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low,
For the old year lies a-dying.
Old year you must not die;
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year you shall not die.

He lieth still: he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.
He gave me a friend and a true truelove
And the New-year will take ’em away.
Old year you must not go;
So long you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year, you shall not go.

He froth’d his bumpers to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not see.
But tho’ his eyes are waxing dim,
And tho’ his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.
Old year, you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I’ve half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest,
But all his merry quips are o’er.
To see him die across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-haste,
But he’ll be dead before.
Every one for his own.
The night is starry and cold, my friend,
And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend,
Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow
I heard just now the crowing cock.
The shadows flicker to and fro:
The cricket chirps: the light burns low:
‘Tis nearly twelve o’clock.
Shake hands, before you die.
Old year, we’ll dearly rue for you:
What is it we can do for you?
Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone,
Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,
And waiteth at the door.
There’s a new foot on the floor, my friend,
And a new face at the door, my friend,
A new face at the door.