Shut Up And Let Me Write

Often times when I sit down to write, the editor inside prevents the free flow of words. She mutters such phrases as "that's cliché" or "not that image again" or the ever popular "and you call yourself a writer?". I've, on occasion, had to write with my left hand. For some reason this activity is hidden from the editor, and I'm able to write uninterrupted.


Shut Up And Let Me Write

Sometimes the writing stops
because too much thinking hinders the flow.
The pen, joined to the soul,
leaks in blood upon the page,
but the editor, employed by the mind,
tries to transpose,
translate,
transform the lines
into something of its own making.

Just shut up and let me write!


© JMariah, 2009

Woodland Cabin

Here’s a poem I wrote about feeling alone and feeling like no one noticed that a part of me was dying. Anyway, I don’t want to give too much of it away. Or maybe I already did. My nickname in high school used to be Jo.

Woodland Cabin

The sun beat down one afternoon upon the cabin roof,
The musty air inside lay thick and still.
A summer breeze blew fragrances of honeysuckle rose
That wafted lazily from off the hill.

The woodland creatures roamed that day around the trees and bush,
The air made light the branches of the trees.
But stillness pained this summer time that brought a chilling touch
And deafening silence, hallowed by the breeze.

A rocking chair stood on the porch, a pipe lay to one side
Upon a tree stump cursed with blackening rot.
Collapsing steps and peeling paint and beams in ill-repair
Had marked this woodland home that time forgot.

And there within the belly of this dark and lonely hut,
Amid the dust from summers gone before,
Engulfed in foul-smelling air, the shriveled mound of flesh
Of Hermit Joe lay rotting on the floor.

The sun beat down that afternoon upon his lonely grave,
O’er which no sorrowing eyes had bowed and cried.
It gently heated up the dust and age-old rotting flesh
That housed and fed the worms that bred inside.


(c) JMariah

Bees, Words and Dead Flies

I didn't have time to post this earlier, but after my very interesting conversation with my friend today (that started at a decent time in the morning and hurled us both so quickly into the afternoon), words came at me. We had ended our conversation with her telling me about the wasps that had attacked her honey bees and how they were out to get her ever since she doused their nest (but that's another story - and it's hers so I won't be telling it). Well, as I sat at my computer again, these words just came at me from nowhere. I closed my eyes and just let my fingers dance in the dark. And this is what they typed:

words tumble
and roll off the page at will.
they shake and drop
to the floor like dead flies.
some attack me around my ankles
and I stamp them out
and I hear them squeal
still
I have no mercy.
They tremble and shake
as they tumble off the page
where my poems used to be,
and all I can do is watch in disbelief,
till they attack -

and then I stomp.

(image by Marina Camargo)

Locked Away For So Long

OK, so this is the third morning that I've gone to bed when I should have been getting up! I've also been away from all my friends (online and off), spending most of my waking hours updating my websites, writing articles and preparing to do a big promotional push of my poetry books. I'm exhausted today. I'm not as young as I used to be. So here it is, Labour Day, and all the little kiddies will be returning to school for their first day tomorrow. I supposed I should get to bed early tonight....yeah right!

My plans for today will get me away from this computer and into a neighbourhood park, where my daughter and I have planned to carry our easels to do some painting. She had to call to wake me up, but I reminded her of our painting date. It's a little overcast here, so I'm really hoping that it doesn't rain. I'm a little behind in my schedule, too, as a friend called to talk to me about a dream she had last night. We both got so excited about the details of it, the symbols in it and what they could possibly mean for her, that a couple of hours passed without our notice. Well, it seems I'm her dream doctor.....lol, yeah we laughed about that too. She's the expert when it comes to numerology and astrology, tarot and runes; I guess I'm the expert when it comes to dreams.

...gotta run...daughter's on her way over and I'm not dressed...

An Informative Article by Brian Scott

I have just read an article entitled "Pitch Your Book With a Persuasive Blurb" by Brian Scott. In this article Mr. Scott summarizes the values of writing a blurb before writing your book, and he goes into the very simple steps to achieve this. I think this is a very helpful article and would recommend that anyone planning to write a book, who is unfamiliar with writing blurbs for the back cover, read this article.

Notes On The Word 'Love'

This note was previously posted back in 2005. But I thought it noteworthy or republishing.

Love

The word “love” has become a cliché, an over-used word who’s meaning has been reduced to a vague, trite, even laughable collection of emotions that song writers and poets pen, that teenagers aspire to attain, and that mature adults avoid mentioning for fear of being shunned by their peers. And what makes the romantic dreaming of love so commonplace, while the true and honest act of loving is so difficult to obtain? Is it that we have romanticised the once-upon-a-time and so totally swallowed the lie of the fairy-tale happy-ever-after that we’ve left the whole idea of love void of rational thinking? Is it that we are expecting to easily “fall” into love as opposed to work our way through it? And after all, is it really the ending to a story or a process of life?

Read poems about love by JMariah

The Sadness Of Unfulfilled Dreams

Here's a poem about the sadness of dreams that go unfulfilled.

Dance

Dance
said my little girl,
dance
as she twirled the way I used to
whenever mother put on her tap shoes
and made the dining room her personal
stage

she said she was revisiting the remnants
of discarded dreams
the same way Grandma would
jump in and out of old photographs

I never quite understood
till I married
and started having children
of my own


Read more poems by JMariah

Sometimes, I Just Can't Seem To Write

I've been battling much writer's block lately. It's such a painful thing.

Still I Write

I sit with my pen poised
at the ready
and my heart longing
to write,
saddened that all the words
and phrases
I scribble
have been lain down
on parchment before,
strewn
hastily
or with grave caution
upon a page
somewhere
before.
And in me
there is nothing new.

Read more poems by JMariah

I Thought Of An Old Flame Last Night

This poem came to me just as I lay down to sleep. It was tugging at me so hard, I had to get right back out of bed again to write it down. I'll have to work on it in the morning.

Memories

I lay my unclad body down upon my open bed,
the gentle whispering of a spinning fan
blowing against my skin.
And I think of you.
I close my eyes and remember you
touching me in the memories
that dance around in a time
far behind me.
And I ache
to drag you into my room,
or to go back to meet you
where you are.

Read more poems by JMariah