All entries for November 2007

November 26, 2007

week 8–9

Well, we had to find quotes by authors on the writing process this week for ICW so here they are. 

The first principle is that a poet writes his personal life in his work out of its tragedy, whatever it may be, remorse, lost love, or mere loneliness

- W.B. Yeats

I’d been having a bad week. The script I was meant to be writing just wasn’t happening, and I’d spend days staring at a blank screen, occasionally writing a word like the and staring at it for and hour or so and then slowly, letter by letter, I’d delete it and write and or but instead. Then I’d exit without saving. Ed Kramer phoned and reminded me that I owed him a story for an anothology of stories about the Holy Grail which he was editing with the ubiquitous Marty Greenberg. And seeing nothing else was happening and that this story was living in the back of my mind I said sure.

   I wrote it in a weekend, a gift form the gods, easy and sweet as anything. Suddenly I was a writer transformed: I laughed in the face of danger and spat on the shoes of writer’s block. Then I sat and stared glumly at a blank screen for another week because the gods have a sense of humour.

- Neil Gaiman

On sitting down to write: It's like standing on the edge of a cliff. This is especially true of the first draft. Every day you're making up the earth you're going to stand on.

- Peter Carey

The act of writing appeases one’s memories and eases the act of forgetting. When I write, I make my memories tangible, and in this way I can get rid of them. On the other hand, writing is but a ploy to convulse memory back into life. And the more I write, the more my memories return to inhabit me.

- Jorge Semprùn

November 01, 2007


We did haiku too.  They are fun and short so I did quite a few.  I like the images they create in general and it was fun trying to remember enough Japanese from the course I took last year to write one in Japanese. 

O sakana wa        Oh the white fish
Aoi mizu de iru      Is in the blue water
oboemasen          It doesn't remember

White foam of the waves                                      Fog is cold and damp
Stands out brightly in the dark                              Shrouding everything in gray 
Of the vast ocean                                                  Sunlight shimmers through

A puffy white cloud                                               Rain spatters the ground  
Floating above the great earth                            The droplets dotting the dust

Reflects in the lake                                               Smell of soil released

The air is smoky                                               Wind blows the orange leaf
The dust covers everything                              Through the clear frosty air
Dark sky and red sun                                        Across the green grass

The rainbow glitters                                         Tall brown cliffs are touched
In the mist at the fall’s base                             By the clear azure water
Thundering water                                              While the sun beats down

The brilliant blue sky
Encompasses the mountains
Imposing and gray

La gemma verde            The green bud
E` piccola ma cresce      is small but grows
sara` la foglia                It will be the leaf


We had to write a poem where we were really big, so here it is. I liked writing it since it is an intersting idea. :D
I pass many balls
Floating in the darkness;
Small and rocky and cold
Or larger, but my hand
Simply passes through the gas
Of blue or gray,
Though there is a solid core.

The largest has a red spot
Like a red dwarf
Among the swirling
Yellow, whites, and browns.

I like the one with rings.

The line of brown pebbles
Doesn’t bother me

As I pass through

I am getting closer
To the source of the light

I am growing warmer

A small rocky red one
Is too hot on one side
Too cold on the other.

It is mean.

I see three more balls
But two are too close
To the flaming source

Of heat and light.

I am forced to squint
But I can see
A beautiful orb of blue
With wisps of white

And hunks of brown and green

It is pleasing
So I pick it up,
Throw away the small rock alongside it,
And brush off the bugs.

So many!

None of the others
Had bugs on them.
Just my lousy luck.
Oh well.
They’re gone now.
Time to play.

November 2007

Mo Tu We Th Fr Sa Su
Oct |  Today  |
         1 2 3 4
5 6 7 8 9 10 11
12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25
26 27 28 29 30      

Search this blog



Most recent comments

  • It's great blog!! My friend is a poet !! Last week he purchased a Glorious Garden from From You Flow… by talisha on this entry
  • Your first point seems to be that a poem that "shows" is purely descriptive, and mime's nature as it… by on this entry
  • I'm gonna have to disagree with Claire here. I think this does qualify as poetry, though it's clearl… by on this entry
  • some nice images here, although maybe perhaps you could experientment a little bit more with your ad… by on this entry
  • It's a lonely poem indeed, but I do agree with Claire, it isn't subtle. Still, sometimes poetry is f… by on this entry

Blog archive

Not signed in
Sign in

Powered by BlogBuilder