Wordsmiths' Soiree

You hear me --

you don't? 

Ah, well,

so it rains. 

Words tasted,

words wasted --

no efforts,

no gains. 

We whisper, we shout,

we rhyme, we "prose" --

nuances layered

beyond what shows. 

So wrap your heart warm,

or wrap your heart cool

in words for the wise,

jests for the fool. 

Take your pick, or leave it,

it's all up to you --

evocative verse,

or straight dialogue for two. 

We write, we rest,

words wax, words wane --

shadowy haunt

or bright windowpane. 

You bring self to bear

on the false and the true: 

How will the words fare

when their beholder is you?

Just This

There are millions who'll say it
better than I
Discouraged, I wonder
why I try
Unique is prized --
fiction, preferred
So where can a simple heart
go to be heard?

Candor's Price

Silhouettes of things

I'd wished to say

float above the page

and drift away; 

twilight weeps, wind shivers,

and the damp will stay

while eye grasps for the last

splash of bright left by day . . .

as I await that strange burn

in the depths when pride pays

for author's confessions

of blues, blacks, and grays.   

Letter to My Readers - April 24, 2012 (reprinted from above)

Tuesday, April 24th, 2012 

Hello, Readers,

Happy Spring -- and a gorgeous one it's turning out to be!

As I reflect upon my own poems and essays, I reflect also upon those of others.  On behalf of all of us whose blogs are not time-bound daily "updates" but rather discrete artistic endeavors of writing or other forms of art, I wish to highlight the point that our "archived" pieces, therefore, are just as timely today as they were on the day they were posted.  Because each piece is meant to stand alone (unless, of course, it's written in parts, or chapters), it doesn't "age" the way a time-bound blog update would age.  Poetry, essays, creative writing, and the visual arts don't age at all.  The word "archive," in this case, does not imply "out of date" or "now potentially irrelevant" as it might in a different type of blog.

So I ask you, please, to try and look into the archived months on this blog at some point in your browsing.  An author's earlier works can help flesh out one's interpretation of his later works.  

And, yes, following my own advice, I do always attempt to "look back" at my fellow writers' earlier, or earliest, pieces.  I have found this to be a rich source of understanding and ongoing significance.

Speaking of significance, for those of you who are Armenian and for all others who appreciate the momentum of history, I wish to commemorate this memorial day of earthshaking significance:  Armenian Genocide Memorial Day.

In his soul-rattling book, Black Dog of Fate, author Peter Balakian captures the horrific reality of the Armenian Genocide -- understood through the eyes of his beloved grandmother -- with a traumatically jarring poem toward the middle of the book.  The whole work really must be read.
     

In honor of this day, I enclose here a link to one of my favorite musical works (please click on title below):

"Amen Hayr Sourp" - "Amen Holy Father" - by Levon Minassian and Armand Amar (Songs from a World Apart)

May the blood, sacrifice, martyrdom, and tears of the Armenian people and their descendants bear renewed life and meaning for those in the homeland and in the diaspora.

God bless you all.

Sincerely,

~ Turquoise

Mentor

There was a mentor,

influence felt, not heard,

who listened to the lilt of the word,

just receiving. 

No degrees had he,

but a knowing of a kind

that can take words

or leave them,

burn through them

or seize them,

with reckless precision

of mind. 

Though he go a-seeking

new verse to till,

"mentor" he will remain

still.

Author, Found

Perhaps you will read me at coffee cup's bottom

or on the print of an old tin can

Perhaps you will read me in the daily news

or in tales of a foreign land

Perhaps you will read me in Rachmaninoff's

visceral sounds swirling 'round your head

engulfing you in feelings

you'd long given up for dead

Perhaps you will read me only

when my poetry is done

and packed away in dusty trunk

'neath window's setting sun.

Growing Pains

The hardest thing after writing, it seems,

is to let a poem hang,

just hang there on the line . . .

waiting  . . . waiting hard to be read . . .

and sometimes it hurts,

hurts far too much,

to see it hanging there;

and I must seize back my poems --

mine!  all mine!  please don't hurt them! --

but, then, how does one hurt a poem?

Ah,

one fails to read it!

So, although it hurts,

I put the poems back . . .

back . . . back into view,

because I see

(and I've seen this before but then I've forgotten)

that poems live, breathe, and sing

to be read!

And I understand now that my poems,

like children whom we cannot spare all suffering

and struggle in life,

are actually willing

to wait.

Raison d'Etre

Maybe . . .

when the wind blows

the words will scatter

and someone strolling

on a balmy summer day

will bend over

to pick some up,

turning them over,

looking for patterns

and lines

significant,

not satisfied

until he finds their true

raison d'etre.

(Speaking Colloquially) 1st Step: "Yo"

Yo . . . . .

or

Hey . . . . .

Yes, that would work. 

I mean it very nicely, not intending to be rude or disrespectful at all.  I have trouble, in certain cases which remain mysterious even to me, uttering first names.  This difficulty, when it arises, also carries over into email -- email being a parallel genre.

I've tried writing, "Hello, So-and-So [first name]."  This, however, doesn't fit because, due to my difficulty, I don't habitually greet people by their first names.  I've then tried writing plain old "Hello."   But that just hangs there. 

Of course, I can always resort to my no-fail tactic of simply launching into dialogue.  But this has its drawbacks, such as when my intended recipient occasionally must ask (when I do this in person), "Are you talking to me?"  And, in email -- well, I don't know how this tactic comes across in email.  I probably don't want to know.

Now, "Yo" -- humble, perhaps even despised, monosyllable of slang though it may be -- would really help to ease me through this challenge.  Sometimes I can even manage a first name after the "Yo."  (Fringe benefit:  The "Yo" helps you slide right into the first name painlessly.  Like anesthesia.  You don't even know you've done it, but there you are.)  

Of course, there are those who simply will not tolerate "Yo" or "Hey," or whose age or status clearly forbids such relaxation of expression.  In similar category are those with whom we are newly or more professionally acquainted, either in person or in writing. One must obviously retain common sense in such circumstances and obey the higher standards -- no matter what.  However, there are other, more fluid circumstances which might actually permit one some degree of slow, steady progress from the bottom up.  

It's not "new" for me, this "Yo."  It's old.  I eased out of it over time, thinking that age, alone, had conferred the readiness to give it up.  But, honestly, the freedom to slip into "Yo" or "Hey" with forbearing others, when needed, would make speech and emails so much easier.  After all, I can't expect to move upward on this ladder of difficulty unless I first meet myself where I really am.  And, as you can see, I'm at "Yo."

~ Turquoise

Homegrown

For months I wrote all alone on faith
that the readers God wanted would come.
To push this along felt hasty and forced,
so I followed my lonely sun.
Readers will come, and readers will go --
either way, something wants to be said.
So each day I invite myself
to rearrange thoughts in my head.
Even when I feel alone
with poem after poem after poem,
I trust that God will find some souls
meant to carry my words back home.

Impact

I have seen truth

in a very brief word --

no long, postured dialogue,

yet powerfully heard.

Truth's Fire

"No words for you,"

reports the wind. 

Thank you," nod I,

my trust undimmed.

"What keeps you steady?"

wind asks anxiously.

"A light burns afar," say I,

for the words that will be."

Restorative

Worn down easily

by the frivolous and excessive,

I take frequent siestas

of solid, unmoving print.

I am surprised

when people find this rude.

I see it as a polite form of rest,

as there is no snoring involved.

En Route

And what do they know

of who you are?

Words are like kites

rustling mutely, afar.

But let it be, let it be --

let the words have their day.

Let some thoughts touch ground

before blowing away.

Teacher to Student

And so you have a poem.

But it is not the poem you wish to write.

Yes, it is an "acceptable" poem.

But you --

you are not "acceptable."

Nor should your poem be.

No, your poem should shock and scandalize

with truth,

chortling loudly over shallow propriety,

raising hairs on complacent heads,

shattering illusions,

uprooting delusions,

and electrifying through connections

musically charged,

configured only

by your unique and unrepeatable

mind.

So close down the poem --

close it down until you're ready

to fling wide the doors of petty convention

and look words in the eye,

choosing only those that

sizzle like shooting stars

and burst like flares,

showering the world

with your own personal fire.

" . . . 'Course he isn't safe . . . . ."

There are moments, even hours, when I ask myself if I'm not self-indulgent, absurd, and downright foolish for yearning to write, for desiring to communicate with the world at-large.  Writing then seems to be a potentially humiliating business, and I, "spilt milk." 

It seems, at such times, that the truly smart ones are those who sit back and let other people do the creative calisthenics, as in:  "Better you than me." 

This is an unpleasant thought which engenders an uneasy feeling.

I suppose it all comes down to how much I have invested in my own dignity, in being "smart," and in "playing it safe."  Writing decidedly does not feel "safe" in terms of "protecting the self."  It may not be terribly "smart," either.

Perhaps I am, after all, just a writing fool.  Although the implications of stupidity are alarming, being a writing fool, in itself, doesn't feel particularly bad.   My logic is simple:  The more I reach out, the more chance I have of meeting Jesus "on the way."

This I do not want to miss.  For what, or for when, might I be "reserving myself," otherwise?  The more alarming thing, to me, would be to treat myself as though I'm a pickle in a jar, awaiting optimal brining.

I'm not a pickle, and the time is now.

"Safe?"  said Mr. Beaver;  " . . . Who said anything about safe?  'Course he isn't safe.  But he's good.  He's the King, I tell you."  (C. S. Lewis: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe)

Of Blogs and Eardrums

Perhaps I am ready to disclose the Web address of my blog to some actual persons.

I say "perhaps" because one can't be perfectly sure.

It's rather like the moment just before one executes a diligently practiced dive from the diving board.  I did one truly successful dive once -- straight down to the bottom of the pool.  I knew it because the pressure changed so fast, I heard and felt a loud, hard click in my ears, and I thought I'd ruptured my eardrums.  This, consequently, became my last "straight down" dive -- at around age 10.

Hopefully, sharing my blog address won't turn out to be anything like nearly rupturing my eardrums.