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Introducing Poet’s Day by Neetu

September 26, 2018 by in category Poet's Day by Neetu Malik tagged as , , ,

Poet's Day | Neetu | A Slice of Orange

Poet’s Day

A Slice of Orange is delighted to welcome poet, Neetu to our rotation of authors.

Neetu’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).

Neetu lives in Pennsylvania, USA and will be publishing a poem on the 26th of each month here on A Slice of Orange. Her column will be titled Poet’s Day.

Enjoy!


A Clock Stops

A Clock Stops

In the shapeless hours

                                        of an endless night

the old clock

                     stops ticking

I hear it chime once

a labored groan, only half-shrill

I do not need to look

at its brass pendulum

to know it is still

all I know this time

unlike all other times is

its motion cannot

be restored.

© Neetu Malik 

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Things That Make Me Go Mmmrrh … I Celebrate an Amazing Lady

July 27, 2017 by in category Things That Make Me Go Mmmrrh . . . by Geralyn Corcillo, Writing tagged as , , , , , , ,

Things that make me go mmmrrh ... | Geralyn Corcillo | A Slice of OrangeI am a very lucky duck to know book reviewer and entertainment journalist Tracy Miller  Tracy is also a gifted and prolific poet who has published over 20 books of poetry! After working diligently for over two decades as a lawyer (after winning full scholarships to Temple and University of Pennsylvania Law School), she is now fulfilling her life-long dream of writing full time. And Tracy doesn’t just write poetry and reviews of books and television – she uses her talent to write birthday poems for people she knows, admires, remembers, as well. On July 4, she and her twin sister Stacy celebrated their birthdays, so I wrote Tracy her very own birthday poem and pasted it all over Facebook this past July 4 . And Here is the birthday poem I wrote for her:

 

 

A peculiar Lady stands in line
At Whole Foods and the bank.
And if you try to suss her out,
You’re sure to draw a blank.

She speaks into a hand-held mike
And says the strangest things
Of plots and tropes and characters
And poetry that sings.

Her mind’s forever active
And her heart’s always replete.
She’s composing all the live-long day
Her demons to defeat.

She celebrates the lives, the art,
The love both here and gone;
The memories she yet holds close
Their might she pushes on.

She’s like a warm and searching poker
Stirring ashes ‘neath the grate
To find the embers burning there
And make them glow. But wait-

No, not a piece of iron
To grow cold when set aside.
But a lively torch that catches flame
To light the air on which it glides.

Like a Firefly she bops along
Brightening the dark,
Building fires or fanning flames, or
Nurturing a spark.

That well sprung magic of her own …
Oh! Such poetry transports.
To be precious, mentioned, known so well ..
Or just to read these dear reports!

It’s not just about her poems though
That makes her heaven-sent.
The prose she writes in her reviews
Is truly incandescent.

To know that someone’s work reached out
And lit another fuse …
To share the secret, bounding joy
Of audience and muse!

When someone’s efforts speak to her
She tells it to the world
In such detail you’ve never read
Creation is unfurled.

Writing is her full-time gig
After decades of the law.
She made her precious dream come true.
Tracy Miller I applaud!

Tracy, Girl, I know that life
Has hurt along the way.
But know that I am grateful
You and Stacy have this day!


Enjoy Tracy’s work on the website she’s dedicated to her mother, Arlene Miller Creative Writing and read her reviews of books and television in the online magazine The Nerdy Girl Express.


When she was a kid in Scranton, Pennsylvania, Geralyn Vivian Ruane Corcillo dreamed of one day becoming the superhero Dyna Girl. So, she did her best and grew up to constantly pick up litter and rescue animals. At home, she loves watching black & white movies, British mysteries, and the NY Giants. Corcillo lives in a drafty old house in Hollywood with her husband Ron, a guy who’s even cooler than Kip Dynamite.

 And she loves to connect with Readers! Check out her monthly post here on A Slice of Orange and drop by to see her daily posts on Facebook and Twitter where she would be thrilled to comment back and forth with you. And you can sign up for her RomCom Alerts emails to get access to exclusive content, deals, freebies, contests & more!

 

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Poetry

September 24, 2012 by in category Archives tagged as

I majored in English in college—I have always loved stories.  I can’t even remember now what my period of interest was—maybe 19th century English and  French literature?  That sounds reasonable.  I read a fair number of novels, plays and…poetry.  Yes, I fondly recall a seminar in French symbolist and surrealist poetry.

Homework was reading poetry, and I remember how first I’d just read an assigned poem.  Then I’d go back and look up all the words I didn’t know or understand and translate it.  Then I’d read my crude translation to try to understand the sense of the individual words and the vision of the poem.  Read it again trying to internalize the meaning of the words as I read them.  Read it again out loud to hear the language.  It took hours to read a few lines of text on a page!

While I was wrestling with this class, I remember going to some event and chatting to two somewhat inebriated English graduate students and explaining that really, I just didn’t get all the hoopla about poetry.  And having them earnestly explain that poetry was it.  The pinnacle. The point.  The Ultimate in the pantheon of literature….

I didn’t buy it.  I figure they just liked to lord it over us lowly undergraduates and needed to pick something obscure and difficult (indeed often impenetrable) and pretend they understood the secret language, and others lacked the refined ear and were not worthy of the key to unlock this treasure.  ENC (Emperor’s New Clothes) I thought.  Nothing there.

Flash forward several years.  Had broken up with my college/post college boyfriend, moved to New York, gotten a job.  But  I was still connected with our collective friends when I found out from other sources that he was getting married to a woman who had banned all of his former friends (our friends) as a pre-condition.  He had to give them all up for her, and he did.

I  felt compelled to write to him.  It couldn’t be any kind of lengthy explanation of my disappointment in his actions: his willingness to betray long term friends to satisfy an utterly inappropriate perception of threat.  To roll over and allow for such bad behavior.  To not stand up for himself.  To be so utterly lacking in integrity.  No.  No explanations.

It had to be brief–no more than 3 sentences.  Expressive. Dignified.  Ruthless.

I wrestled with words.  Wrote and rewrote.  Crafted my note. Every word had to have resonance, had to have it’s own integrity and then when juxtaposed to another, and another, create a new and nuanced meaning.  I flashed back to my conversation on Poetry and realized…

Poetry is it.

It is the challenge of packing the world in a thimble, of making each word do double, triple duty or more.  Of creating a multifaceted object that you can turn and turn again, see through it, see yourself in it, see other dimensions within it.  Within yourself.

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POKING DEAD THINGS: Confessions of a Romantically Challenged Author

February 15, 2011 by in category The Write Life by Rebecca Forster tagged as , , , , , ,

Rebecca Forster

A dear friend sent me a T-shirt for Christmas that declares, “I love poetry, long walks on the beach and poking dead things with a stick”.

I adore that shirt beyond reason because it so totally captures my outlook on romance. Poetry is okay if it rhythms, beach walks are good if it’s not too hot, but poking dead things with a stick rocks. Please do not take this literally*; realize this is a metaphor for my romantic soul.

All this brings me to the question of the (Valentine’s) day: why am I not romantic? More specifically, why the thought of poking things with a stick accompanied by the person I love is more romantic to me than walking on the beach in the moonlight with a poetry loving guy? Or even more precisely, as an author, why don’t I love writing about – well – love?

I began my career writing category romances. There were many things I liked about the genre – a clearly defined format, brilliant marketing, loyal and supportive readers – yet, when I tried to write sex scenes, I embarrassed myself (not to mention my mother). Worse, I agonized over whether I was doing it right. Good lord, I’d been married for years and had two children, you’d think I would know how to write about ‘IT’.

I tried writing more delicately about romance only to find myself disinterested. I never cared for whispered sweet nothings. I have a wee bit of trouble hearing and there’s nothing worse then asking to have a sweet nothing repeated. Longing looks make me nervous. I once dated a guy who liked to stare into my eyes and all I could think of was that game ‘blink’. I remember that guy didn’t blink and it freaked me out. Long walks are fine but inevitably I find myself hungry and cranky if the walk lasts too long.
How, I wondered, could my incredibly talented romance author friends pen multiple books a year, revel in the challenge of making characters fall in love again and again while I struggled to get my characters to their first kiss? Romances did not come trippingly off my tongue, I had no idea how to build delicious tension, my heart was challenged and therein was the problem. As much as I admired true romance writers, as much as I wanted to be one of them, my heart was different.
The final blow came when I was fired from romance writing by an editor who suggested I was cut out for something different. “You cannot,” he told me, “kill everyone before you get them into bed.”
He was right. I preferred a good murder, a fabulous stalking, an excellent mystery, an angst filled story. But did that preclude writing about romance? I think not. I believe every story needs to have a compelling relationship as part of the mix. So how could I satisfy my romantic heart and my thriller soul? The answer was simple. Romance writers had defined their romanticism; I had not defined mine.

For me, fictional romantic relationships were a means to an end and not an end in and of themselves. My characters fell in love so that the plot stakes would be higher. If you love someone and had to choose their life or yours then that made for great suspense but it also was the ultimate in romance.**
What turns me on as a reader is the same thing that excites me as a writer and intrigues me as a woman. I want to be invested in people with a sense of purpose, people who show their mettle in situations bigger than themselves. That kind of story sets my romantic nerves atinglin’. This take on romantic entanglements wasn’t bad it was just different than my romance-writing counterparts.
Once I gave myself permission to side-step the bedroom, I became a more fluid writer, character relationships grew from the plot and my storytelling took on a new spark. Now, when my characters fall in love it is because they have poked and prodded one another, talked through problems, worked together and, yes, poked dead things with a stick together. It is their inquisitiveness about the world around them, not their exclusive curiosity about one another that define my romantic parameters. Strangely, I find I write more realistic relationships now that I am comfortable with my own rules.

So, I confess, I will always find a body on the beach more exciting than a walk in the moonlight. I will always appreciate the quirky gift over a dozen roses; I will anticipate with bated breath the first kiss of two people who are caught in the crossfire more than two people headed for the bedroom.
The nice thing is that I know there are others out there who think like I do. There are honest-to-God-stick-carrying- dead-thing-poking- curiosity-seeking folk who will fall in love with the way I see love. When we pass our poetry-spouting- hand-holding- dreamy-eyed romantic counterparts on the beach they will smile, we will raise our sticks in greeting and all of us will be romantically satisfied in our own, very special, very unique way.
So, to all you writers, musicians, artists, husbands, wives, girlfriends and boyfriends this Valentine’s day, poke something, walk somewhere, kiss the one you love or watch their back. However you decide to romance that someone special it will be perfect.
*Okay, literally. I do poke dead things with sticks when I find them but I don’t find them very often.

**Currently I am reviewing my romance and women’s fiction novels and find that, indeed, I had a glimmer of a romance writer in me. Dreams, Seasons, and my mother’s favorite, Rainbow’s End even brought a tear to my eye and I think a good cry is always romantic.
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