Obsession is my natural state.
As an undergraduate in Electrical Engineering at Texas A&M University, I was required to take a Mechanical Engineering course where we analyzed the forces in a truss. Trusses, often triangular networks of beams, are commonly found in bridges. As I recall the course material now, some 40 years later, there were two methods of analyses. I had been intently studying those methods for an upcoming test, when I closed my books and went to bed to catch some z’s. Immediately, I began to dream about trusses. In my dream there appeared two beams. As I, with great speed, analyzed the forces in each beam, the beams themselves, like some terrible organic disease, reproduced. Suddenly, there were four beams. Terrified, I worked even faster, but the beams again reproduced. Now there were eight. Pencil flying, I analyzed. Sixteen beams.
Thankfully, my roommate shook me awake. “You’re mumbling,” she said. “Are you okay?”
I have no idea what I replied. But when I closed my eyes, two beams appeared. I began my calculations. Ut oh. Four beams. Eight beams. Sixteen beams. Thirty-two beams.
She shook me awake again. Understanding it wasn’t real, I cried out, “There is no truss!”
Yes, she thought I was nuts, but I did manage to sleep without that nightmare returning.
Years earlier, at thirteen, I had discovered poetry. I remember jotting down lines of verse on any scrap piece of paper I could find. When I was sixteen, and got my driver’s license, my mom sent me all over Dallas running errands. (Yes, I loved it.) One evening, flying home on the freeway, I pondered the word “mobile.”
I pronounce this word with a short ‘i’, like the gas station, or a child’s toy hung over the crib. Thus, it is nearly impossible to stop the word from leaving the palate quickly. As I drove, through the mix-master and across the city of Dallas, I repeated the word “mobile”. Mobile. Mobile. Mobile.
I was in love with words.
Somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention, when I didn’t realize what I was losing, I abandoned my love of words and my love of poetry. Perhaps I was too busy pursuing romantic love or trying to analyze trusses. But now, years later my obsession with the sound of words, and all things poetry, has returned.
Consider the word, “blink”. Say it out loud. “Blink”. Notice how the hard “b” at the beginning and the hard “k” at the end are like clicking switches. So that the word “blink” turns on with the “b” sound and turns off with the “k” sound. Great word, “blink”.
And yes, I’m entering poetry contests. Not once, but as many times as allowed.
This could get expensive.
I’m obsessed. And I don’t mind. I’m dreaming about poetry. (It is infinitely better than dreaming about trusses.) I’m waking up in the middle of the night and scribbling down lines. And no, I don’t want it to stop. My mind has gone down a rabbit hole.
Pour the tea. I can handle the Queen of Hearts. I love it here.
–Kidd
Hey, have you ever thought about the words effervescence and quiescence? Go on, say them fifteen times. I LOVE WORDS!!!
At a recent writers conference (the Write Stuff in Bethlehem, PA) keynote speaker Jonathan Maberry shared that he reads poetry for 30 minutes every day. He does it, he said, because it helps inspire his prose.
I have a fair amount of poetry on my shelves, and I do enjoy reading it, but I don’t read it every day. (I don’t write poetry; or rather, the poetry I write is best not shared with anyone.)
But Maberry has a point: Poetry can tell a story, illuminate a concept, or create a mood with a minimum of words—each word chosen by the poet because it’s exactly the right one. And that approach can inspire our writing of prose, because honing language is also what we strive for when we revise and polish our manuscripts.
I went to my poetry bookshelf and randomly pulled several volumes:
For this exercise, I skipped over my book of Shakespeare sonnets and any poetry anthologies, as well as the two books of poetry I’m currently reading: Life on Mars by Tracy K. Smith and The Best of It by Kay Ryan.
I’ll share a snippet from the poets listed above and what struck me about their passages.
From Mary Oliver’s “Snow Geese” (breathtaking visual image)
One fall day I heard / above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound / I did not know and my look shot upward; it was / a flock of snow geese winging it / faster than the ones we usually see, / and, being the color of snow, catching the sun / so they were, in part at least, golden
From Natalie Diaz’s “The First Water Is the Body” (depth of the soul)
We must go until we smell the black root-wet anchoring the river’s mud banks. We must go beyond beyond to a place where we have never been the center, where there is no center—beyond, toward what does not need us yet makes us.
From Sharon Olds’ “The Promise” (interesting juxtaposition of opposing elements)
With the second drink, at the restaurant, / holding hands on the bare table, / we are at it again, renewing our promise / to kill each other.
From Sarah Arvio’s “Malice” (superb characterization)
An ever-so-alluring deceiver / is the one who tells you your every dream / as though it were the truth of the future; / meanwhile there you stand in a wash of sweat, / your hopes lifted high only to be dashed.
From Paul Muldoon’s “The Old Country” (clever wordplay)
Every malt was a single malt. / Every pillar was a pillar of salt. / Every point was a point of no return.
From Billy Collins’ “Absence” (metaphorical excellence)
This morning as low clouds / skidded over the spires of the city / I found next to a bench / in a park an ivory chess piece— / the white knight as it turned out— / and in the pigeon-ruffling wind / I wondered where all the others were, / lined up somewhere / on their red and black squares, / many of them feeling uneasy / about the saltshaker / that was taking his place
I came away from this exercise re-energized to dip into poetry regularly—most likely not every day, but perhaps weekly, when I’m staring at my screen, wondering how to dig myself out of the writing hole I’ve created. A poetry break may help provide just the shovel or pick axe I need.
What poets do you read? How have they influenced your writing?
Dianna Sinovic
Certified Book Coach, Editor, Author
Anthology contributor: That Darkened Doorstep, An Element of Mystery
Blog contributor: A Slice of Orange
Member: Sisters in Crime, Horror Writers Association, Bethlehem Writers Group
Diasin Books LLC
www.dianna-sinovic.com
“Art is fire plus algebra.”
– Jorge Luis Borges
Winter. Lifeless, asleep, dead. All is gone. Lost. Until the last frost melts away. A sprig peeks up through the earth and winks at the sky. Buds and flowers appear bearing gifts of fruitfulness. Year after year, spring arrives; ever the same, dependable, faithful. Life renews. Time passes. Distance separates. But vibrant colors burst through the faded tapestry of memories. Friendship. Never-ending, never-waning. Ever alive.
Veronica Jorge
See you next time on February 22nd!
Neetu Malik’s poetry is an expression of life’s rhythms and the beat of the human spirit. She draws upon diverse multicultural experiences and observations across three continents in which she has lived. She has contributed to The Australia Times Poetry Magazine, October Hill Magazine, Prachya Review, among others. Her poems have appeared in The Poetic Bond Anthology V and VI published by Willowdown Books, UK, NY Literary Magazine’s Tears Anthology and Poetic Imagination Anthology (Canada).
Her poem, “Soaring Flames”, was awarded First-Place by the NY Literary Magazine (2017). She has also been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, 2019 for her poem “Sacred Figs” published by Kallisto Gaia Press in their Ocotillo Review in May, 2018.
Neetu lives in Pennsylvania, USA.
Hover on the cover for buy links. Click on the cover for more information.
Neetu Malik’s poetry is an expression of life’s rhythms and the beat of the human spirit. She draws upon diverse multicultural experiences and observations across three continents in which she has lived. She has contributed to The Australia Times Poetry Magazine, October Hill Magazine, Prachya Review, among others. Her poems have appeared in The Poetic Bond Anthology V and VI published by Willowdown Books, UK, NY Literary Magazine’s Tears Anthology and Poetic Imagination Anthology (Canada).
Her poem, “Soaring Flames”, was awarded First-Place by the NY Literary Magazine (2017). She has also been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, 2019 for her poem “Sacred Figs” published by Kallisto Gaia Press in their Ocotillo Review in May, 2018.
Neetu lives in Pennsylvania, USA.
Hover on the cover for buy links. Click on the cover for more information.
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