Today I managed to spend the entire day blogging, with exceptions for hauling the son around and feeding the cats. By “blogging” I mean visiting lots of other bloggers online, trying to get my photos to cooperate, and writing in my blog.
All my writing life I have felt guilty and self-indulgent when I spent time writing for pleasure. Sure, I got paid for it in various venues, and wrote lots as a student, and even sneaked in some time writing short stories or novels that I never finished. I still have four novels floating around aimlessly, with characters and everything. That kind of writing has always been, to me, more of a treat…a sort of stolen pleasure, so to speak.
Not so much that the Writer’s Life is considered glamorous and exciting and adventurous. When I was a girl I had aspirations to be, in no particular order: an…
Yesterday’s post reminded me of how much I enjoyed the poetry classes I and about a thousand other bloggers participated in last year. The classes were so popular they had to shut enrollment down…I think. The moderators presented us with some really obscure, to me anyway, terms and forms of poetry. I dimly remember poetry classes in school back in the dark ages, the days of my lightheadedness and depth of my soul combined to write really bad poems about lust and love and despair at ever experiencing either.
Having re-read my favorite nonsense poem about the anteater and the eel, my contribution to the assignment for the day, which was Assonance. Reading the poem again I realized that I had no clue as to exactly what assonance was, so I googled it. The link that came up is just marvelous…and made me SO jealous of the famous zealots that wrote and wrote their hearts out back in their day.
One word of guidance…poetry that rhymes and/or possesses a metric cadence just cries out to be read out loud, line by line, not mumbled silently and skimmed for meaning.
I belabor the obvious here, again, and state that I am not a poet. I respect poetry, I do, and although I understand the agony of who are dead serious about writing and rhyming. For me the main rule is that any piece of writing, poetry or novel, song or joke…needs to have meaning.
A bit of toe-tapping helps get in the mood. Jumping rope always sets the pace too… “Dan and Susie sittin’ in a tree, k.i.s.s.i.n.g….” sorry, I wasn’t well enough coordinated to jump rope effectively.
(This rhythym sort of works to the tune of “Sweet Betsy from Pike.”
or even “Beverly Hillbilly song.”)
A natty Anteater’s Aunt wanted a chance to meet an
Easy-going Eel sufficient in charms, the
Idea she had was to learn how to dance, but
Only one catch–the Eel had no arms. So
Unity of moves was hard to enhance
until the Risqué Raccoon suggested:
“Why not freelance?”
If there were a movie about my life, there would be a certain song or instrumental for each segment.
Childhood: Itty Bitty Fishie in the Itty Bitty Pool
Mares Eat Oats and Does Eat Oats, and Little Lambs Eat Ivy
Teen: Vaughan Monroe, Ghost Riders in the Sky
Bill Haley and the Comets, Thirteen Women…on the flip side of Rock Around the Clock.
Third Man Theme
Peg O’My Heart
Work Era: Bizet, Carmen
Mario Lanza, Song Angels Sing
Be My Love
David Carroll’s band, In a Persian Market
I Love Paris
Song of India
CCR, Heard it on the Grapevine
CCR, Bad Moon Rising
CCR, Green River
Stevie Nicks, Edge of 17
Knights in White Satin long version
Roberta Flack, Sometimes…all I need is the air that I breathe and to love you
Here are some shots of my current cat shelter. It has been very cold this year so far, and my walk-in contraption works great. The outside cats enter from the top of the storage-box shelter roof. Two cats live in this structure, Peggy and Cat Henry.
This is one of my personal favorite assignments from writing class last year…in response to rules that the work be a limerick and contain certain other attributes of writing poetry. I had great fun writing it—
THE DONALD’S MARCH TO INFAMY
There once was a boy named Donald
Who wanted to be rich, and grow up to be President
ha ha! said the people as he started to
but he knew what he was doing and had all the cards he needed to
and win the game
opponents screamed like angry cat matrons
and picked on his hair and his noisy patrons
but Donald just said they should “lump it!”
“You haven’t a chance, you’re not one of us,” they wailed
“is that so?” said Donald as he placed a standing order for tea and crumpets
to serve to his fans to keep them from starving on the campaign trail
His crowd of the faithful grew and grew
’til they filled the land
so they bought him a very big trumpet.