How to organize ideas and writing process for writers http://ow.ly/XqkUu
Author: judy.kohnen
Hurray! My short #story #memoir publishe
Hurray! My short #story #memoir published in #anthology, Tales of Our Lives/Fork in the Road at intro price of $0.99 http://amzn.to/20VYNJq
Say Yes to Writing
Saying yes to everything adds projects and makes me tired. But this article suggests a big YES for writing activities… http://ow.ly/WJGAP
I need more conflict and tension. Two ne
I need more conflict and tension. Two new approaches today (1) plot tension and (2) starting from middle of the plot to the end and beginning. Writers Write http://ow.ly/U54aq
On Edward Hopper, Nighthawks
There is open space, a window
Never many people. Only the
lines converge towards
perspective. The true meaning
is the artist’s reserved space.
Do not intrude.
Continuing this month of October with a tour of master paintings, and using them as writing prompts for poetry. A complete explanation of Ekphrastic poetry starts here with the talented Instructor John Brantingham, a local English professor. Join me!
Sad Sonnet
Odysseus blinding the Cyclops Polyphemus. Late geometric vase dating to 670 BCE. Earliest depiction of Odysseus and thought to be a burial urn for a young child.
Sleep, sleep this longest of the nights
I’ve tucked and folded your bedding tight.
After tomorrow’s pyre, what shall I fix?
Ashes, then dust, swept in a clay cradle,
A lonesome journey down the river Styx
respite from pain and Life’s betrayal.
I wonder, how will I know that you’re safe?
Odysseus used his wily spear for fight,
our bedtime hero, but you, my small waif?
I only have this urn for your body, so slight.
There was no escaping fate under lamb’s wool.
No happy way to kill the stupid giant
I drew him here, with a rhino, and a bull.
So I’m with you always, strong and defiant.
I will burn incense and send my prayer
to your gray world without disease and fears.
Although I may laugh to battle my despair
inwardly, I’ll be counting down my years.
Sleep, my child, sleep this longest of the nights
I’ve tucked and folded your bedding tight.
Continuing this month of October with a tour of master paintings, and using them as writing prompts for poetry. A complete explanation of Ekphrastic poetry starts here with the talented Instructor John Brantingham, a local English professor. Write poetry, or read it!
Women Ironing
Don’t you know how to iron?
My mother taught me
the British way, pressing
the crispness of a first appearance
on the edges of shirt cuffs
My Canadian granny would lift
country-air starch straight off the line
A Frenchman demonstrated
the naughtiest of tricks, pressing
fashion into parts seen while leaving
a haberdashery of rumples underneath
My mother-in-law instructed me
the German way, putzing
housewifely duty into the fibers
of every cotton product in the house
I am studied and fluent
in the many languages of ironing
My American self makes laundry
permapress easy and wrinkle free
Do you understand now, Husband,
the many ways to explore and press a culture
into the fine white collar of your workshirts?
Pea Cock
Although I walk in jeans and a T
I march as if covered in great finery
for I am the Shah in this world.
And I’ll pick one, or two, or three
and when I’m done I’ll have some more
of these fine ladies not so demure,
ripe and nude, under a dark chador.
iceberg
The core of the iceberg is solid and ancient and the edges glow blue and irregular but one day this proud immensity obscures the future and swallows its surroundings and the sky is polluted brown and the waves are indigo black only the wood that creaks is warm and movement lives inside a billowing wind and it is mid afternoon ample time for steering hands at the helm and what of that hollow construction is its intention afloat hapless or with confidence and does it hold a mind to measure and the eyes to see
My Sun and Moon
Reduce all that is
vexing and annoying
into a distillation of simplicity
Like a patchwork quilt full of color
without pieced work or careful stitches
meanwhile, this wiggle relaxes while
that uneven deception laughs
as it frolics with reality
creasing into a frown as it
approaches the most senseless
deformation of myself as a woman
gutted by an invasive sun and moon
sprawled lifeless on the museum floor