Hallowed Hallway

There you fell and there you died.

All the machinations of breaths

and pummels upon your chest

could do no good–too late, too late.

Too late the glossy ambulance, the

paddles and the tubes. Somehow

they coaxed your heart into a grievous

beat and forced your breath to

circulate precious blood grown too

cold. Could you hear pronouncements

doctors made to us in front of you?

Four days and nights they kept you

breathing, heart beating yet begging

for release.   And then we let you go.

Beautiful man, loving boy, faithful friend,

it was time to go home. Godspeed to

your great reward. Bask in His Glory.

Success to this writer is writing a chapbook of poetry–a memoir–self publishing it, distributing it to my children and older grandchildren and having them love it. I am easy to please.

Imagine my surprise when my granddaughter, Kara, told me (via the phone) that her husband was reading the poems to their children as we spoke. Another granddaughter, Erin, told me via Facebook that she read the poems every night and loved them.

Horatio Peter Borge, Malcolm Carroll, Alice Lambert, etc., you are now officially remembered by your family. It’s a good feeling and worth all the hassle involved to produce a book. Actually, it was a booklet–81/2 X 11, 34 pages, and bound at Office Depot. They did a good job.

Those of you out in internet land, think about doing something like this for your family members. Of course, it doesn’t have to be poetry. Do a short memoir, or a long one, for that matter. Your family will be happy you did so.

My next goal is to find out how this friend/teacher finds all of these writing resources. I’ll be embarrassed beyond belief if she gets many of them from Poets and Writers magazine. I take that magazine and am oh-so-lackadaisical about scouring the small print regarding writing opportunities.

I have some new books ordered:

 Story Matters by Margaret Love-Denman & Barbara Shoup

Tell It Slant by Brenda Miller & Suzanne Paola

Thinking About Memoir by Abigail Thomas

What If by Pamela Painter & Ann Bernays

I’ll report on each of them as I finish reading.

Poems, pictures, snippets out of magazines or newspapers. Didn’t we call such as this “scrapbooks”? Oh, yes, use an acceptable amount of actual writing in addition to scraps and snippets.

After reading “how to” instructions on the memoir, and reading some actual memoirs (recent, of course), I embarked on my journey of assembling a memoir. Most of the writing was already done (or so I believed), so the tying all of it together should be a simple thing. Right? Wrong!

Paper, paper everywhere and not a slip of it falls easily into place. I carefully copied the chapter titles, type of writing (prose or poetry), and subject onto 3 X 5 lined cards and then used those cards to assemble the book. The myriad papers stacked on my dining room table would not need disturbing. This procedure overflowed to my bed. Thankfully my room is next to the dining room.

Why doesn’t anyone ever tell us how hard some of this writing/editing/assembling/reediting/reassembling is?

I know, we’re not to ask why because there is no answer. Yes, I know–stop whining and get back to work. But first I want to picture my memoir finished, a thing of beauty, a joy forever, a sculpture in print, AND a book my children won’t feel they have to burn. Hmmm, well, that’s not happening.

Please, please, any of you who might read this post, do not be discouraged about writing. Just know that it really is work. And the hard part comes at the editing and assembling stage–unless you’re one of those left-brained people who can edit and assemble as they go. And yes, I am jealous of the left-brainers. The organized ones. The planners. The always on top of things ones. But I also love ‘em. My only sister was a LBrainer and encouraged this Rbrainer in all I ever did.

So just hang in there, writers. It’s going to be fine. I almost forgot to tell you this: one of my pieces of writing won an honorable mention in a recent contest. And it’s a piece that will be part of my memoir. Oh, happy day, happy day. I’m rejuvenated just telling you this. Come back and visit soon. Hopefully I’ll have a good report on the memoir.

Before there were written languages people all over the world remembered and passed on their important stories through oral poetry. They used predictable rhymes and rhythms based on the natural flow of breath and beat of the heart because it made them easier to recall.

These ancient poets or story tellers were revered as they were the memory keepers of culture and community history. Without them there was no continuity.”

from http://write-out-loud.com

A book by Roger Housden called Ten Poems to Change Your Life is a good read for anyone interested in poetry. Give it a try.

If you enjoy writing poetry, jump on this bandwagon with me and WRITE. Doesn’t matter if we’re nowhere near Tennyson, or Dylan, or whoever. We’re ourselves and that’s good enough. Try your hand at writing a poem using one of your favorite poet’s poems as an example. Here’s mine:

        MY LAST MOTHER

Yes, that’s my last mother on the wall.

Sir Ryder paintedit well, for all

the ambition glitters within the eyes

and the lips–a hard, thin line where lies

will never form again. Do you think

I am narrow-minded? Observe the trap

in which she snared herself. The worst was in

her wish to replace another–a mortal sin–

especially when her predecessor could

not answer accusations from her wood

coffin in the ground. Now to replace another

seems not so bad? Say rather to deface

the memory of is closer to the truth.

Ah, my mother, who since early youth–

beloved by almost all. This my last mother

could not bear, and so with wiles of another

world she tore apart the only one who could

have saved her. So now her reign is done forever.

Yet how loudly groan the night sounds

and how rudely swells the ground.

With apologies to Robert Browning‘s My Last Duchess

Son Patrick on right--absorbed with crawfish

This delightful gathering was a graduation-from-high-school party for one of my granddaughters, Katie. Everyone is sooo intense in the peel process. The little crustaceans, boiled along with corn-on-the-cob and small, new potatoes, are a true delight to eat but messy to deal with. Many people use bibs for a meal like this. No kidding! Proof? Observe “Nanny” Linda in background on the left.

Table occupants along with Patrick from left to right are: Hostess Tina Hanson, Kara Siver, Tim Guillory (barely visible in blue shirt), “Pop” Bill Wilson and Patrick.

This water dumping has me worried. My street flooded during Hurricane Ike and was impassable for the better part of a week. Oh, the agony of indecision. It’s not like I have no one but my ancient self to get up and going. Oh no. I have two dogs, Cindy and Pepper, to get ready for an all-day trip, possibly an extended stay and a return trip.

Time to get off this computer and blog. Thanks for “listening.”

Butter gives specific directions about fiction writing. The writer upon arising, is to go directly to his/her desk and begin recording “messages” (or dreamscapes) from the unconscious. These may be only a word now and then, or a fragment of a sentence. They are markers for later writing–perhaps some would call them “prompts.”

But for those of us who are not “morning people,” this is an impossible task. Eyes glued together, noses beginning to drip, bladders about to burst–we need nurturing, commodes and running water. (I know you’re out there, don’t even try to deny you know what I’m talking about). Oh, I almost forgot to mention coffee. Yes, that first cup is a must for any non-morning person.

Hopefully, as I continue reading Butler’s book, he’ll have a brilliant idea for our type of people. I did write one fictional short story since beginning his book. So all is not lost–yet. Also, I can always apply for a role in the remake of the Wizard of Oz. Wonder what sort of costume they will dream up for a non-morning person looking for an unconscious?

When once I knock and fail to find you in;

For every day I stand outside your door,

And bid you wake, and rise to fight and win.

Wail not for precious chances passed away!

Weep not for golden ages on the wane.

Each night I burn the records of the day,

At sunrise every soul is born again.

Though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep:

I lend my arm to all who say, ‘I can!’

No shamefaced outcast ever sank so deep,

But yet might rise and be again a man!”

by Walter Malone