Last week was about digging out your oldest writing and
giving it a facelift. Now let’s talk about trying new things, and borrowing. Here
are some examples.
1.
Borrow some books to read:
Getting into the library is easy. Just email Rich and tell him
when you’d like to come. You can then browse to your heart’s content (Heart’s
Content was the name of my hot air balloon back in 1980—a good omen!).
If you want to borrow something, you just make a note of it
on the “Borrowed Book” list. He’ll cross it off when you return it. To quote
Jeff…”done and dusted!”
Borrowing books will do a couple of things besides the
obvious saving of money and not needing a library card:
First, it will acquaint you with
authors you’ve maybe never read. This may give you ideas about what who you’d like
to read next, and
second, don’t laugh. It’s almost
September. Pretty soon it’s going to be Halloween, then Thanksgiving, and then
whatever holiday you celebrate that includes giving gifts. You may want to
start making your list now so you can start saving. Browsing, and borrowing
from the library could help give you ideas for your list!
As a writer, how can wandering around among all those books
NOT get your juices flowing?
2.
Try a new form:
In the last six months I’ve read two or three poems that
claimed to be Ghazals. I couldn’t write a Ghazal if you bribed me with bacon,
but I know for sure those poems weren’t Ghazals. A beautiful one that Jeff and I
did see, and publish, was written by Ricki Mandeville, a lovely poet and editor,
author of A Thin Strand of Lights:
Rain Ghazal
Ricki Mandeville
At the station, I open my umbrella
against the rain.
I tossed all night beneath a roof
made of rain.
Standing motionless amid motion, I
wait.
Your train pulls in on tracks made
of rain.
You step down in your hat and city
shoes.
Your gray coat matches perfectly a
sky made of rain.
You see my lifted hand and turn my
way.
Your stride is careless, your eyes
made of rain.
I have been asleep between this
moment and our last.
Conjure a Sleeping Beauty kiss made
of rain.
All my recollections awaken, wear
your face.
They run together as though made of
rain.
I remember summers, falls and
winter winds.
I remember long green springs made
of rain.
With a thumb, stroke the salt from
my cheek.
Remind me that your promises are
made of rain.
You’ll notice the repetition at the end of the second line in each couplet. And the traditional form includes some rhyming. That’s all I know about Ghazals. If this sounds like a neat thing to try, google the form and you’ll learn more from that. Do the same with any other form that interests you. Even Haiku aren’t just 5-7-5 anymore!
3. Re-read some writers in your old contributor copies:
Not everyone has a library like Rich, but if you’re a submitting
writer, hopefully you’ve kept your old contributor copies. Go back through them
and read some of the other writers. You may read some flash fiction or prose
poetry and decide to try one of those forms. If there’s an author whose work
you really like, check out their bio. It may give you ideas for new places to
submit.
4.
While looking through your bookcase:
5.
What am I going to do?
I’ve been thinking a lot about Mexican opals. That’s my clue
that I have either a Southwest poem in my head, or any decasyllabic poem.
That’s a form I borrowed /learned from Jeff. I love the pacing of ten-syllable
lines. Whether I’m writing about the bruised desert sky, or an almswoman in
Poland, I’m not going to be satisfied until I write it.
Flight to Paso Robles
Wind arbitrates which runway is
active.
The pilot reports the field is in
sight
and banks his Cessna to final
approach.
Condors corkscrew down and flank
his descent –
those dour, airborne mongrels that
have brought down
fighter jets, flak-riddled or
bomb-laden,
in some faraway thick and weary
air.
To condors, crossed asphalt runways
are dark
brothers of their own lumbering
wingspans.
They hover for snakes or rabbits
they hope
have run shit-out of luck, crushed
to fine meals
worthy of any carrion-monger
whose blunt claws, and blunter
mind, go heedless
of men who trust in gauges, or
blind luck
to grant them a flawless
three-point landing,
a soft glide, that easy shudder of
wings.
What are you going to do?
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Tobi Alfier's most recent collection of poetry is Slices Of Alice. She is also co-editor with Jeff Alfier of the San Pedro River Review. Don't miss Tobi's columns on the craft of poetry: insert your email address in the "Follow By Email" box to the right of this article and you'll be notified every time a new article appears.
