The 1000 Word Picture Challenge # 1

We used to have a exercise in our english class wher the teacher woul give us a picture and we’d have to write about it. I decided to let my friends on Facebook challenge me to do it now, only I had to write 1000 words (seeing as a picture is worth one thousand words). The challenge was that not only did my friend choose the picture they also chose the style of the piece.

As I sat alone, I felt so very alone

As if a thousand hand made bricks

Were built into a hundred walls

Each a reminder of some action

Performed by my hands

That I cannot undo.

The bricks are inscribed so delicately

With words that haunt me now

Burrowing deep inside my brain

Feeding on that which once I dealt out

But now drown in daily.

I feel that presence over my shoulder

Overshadowing every decision I make

Bearing down on me like a freight train,

Growing in speed and weight

With every thought that flows;

With every word carelessly uttered;

With every selfish push and shove.

A wise man once said

(with all the wisdom of the universe)

That how people treat you is their karma –

That word worms its way into my memory

An replays over and over and over again

Playing on and on for infinity

Or until my poor addled brain

Turn completely in on itself

And eats away at its insides

Like a parasite gnawing away

Upon its hosts defenceless body.

That self same wise man also stated

That how you react is yours –

I oft remember the tale told

Of a lowly farmer of Scottish blood

Who, working hard to keep his kin,

Heard the plaintiff cry of a forlorn boy

Coming from yonder bog, so sad and scared.

He ran towards that cry for help

And saved the boy from certain death.

The boy, upon arriving at his home,

Did tell his father of the heroic deed.

This man, of noble birth and heritage,

As soon as the sun graced the sky once more,

Rode to the farmer’s humble abode

In a carriage fir for such wealth and status

And offered the farmer some just reward.

The farmer, honest and proud,

Could not, with any good conscience,

Accept a gift for doing what any decent man

Would do in the same situation.

The Nobleman, seeing the farmer had a son also,

Offered a deal to replace the gift rejected:

To educate the farmer’s son

As he would educate his own flesh and blood.

The farmer, knowing the deal was good and true,

Shook the hand of the Nobleman.

Over the years both boys grew,

Physically and mentally developing,

A source of pride for both fathers.

The farmer’s son, with brilliant mind,

Discovered that which would save millions

And yet would also save a man

Who, once being a small boy trapped,

Had been rescued by his saviour’s father

So many years before.

What splendid words did fall

From the lips of that once small boy twice saved

When he uttered that line,

“We make a living by what we get,

We make a life by what we give.”

Here I sit having made my fortune,

Having scaled the dizzy heights

Of finance and all that goes with it.

Now I would give all the coin,

No matter how hard earned,

To have what those I stepped over

To get to where I am now

Treasure so very dearly and hold so very close.

I wonder where my friends are

As I look around at staged photos;

And where my trophy wife is,

Except I am the only one who thinks like that,

That she might be something to be won

And displayed as an ornament.

Is it any wonder no-one would consent,

Not any warm and nurturing woman,

Only those as materialistic and vacuous

As I have been to this point

And hold no attraction for me.

I wish I had listened to those who said,

“One good turn deserves another.”

Too many times I used and abused

And now I sit, abused and used

By the consequences of my own actions.

Living a life where you care not for others

Lends itself to others not caring for you

And now, in the twilight of my years,

Without a friends in the world

And only my bad decisions to keep me company

I know my reactions have been my karma,

The results of my decisions a harsh teacher.

You might say that fate,

She has been a cruel mistress,

But my undoing was not at fate’s hand

For I brought this all on myself

And must bear the weight

Of every despicable action

Upon these weak and narrow shoulders

For all eternity and beyond

Unless I can find some measure of respectability,

Something to redeem my shallow soul.

I want to write Mr Buechner a letter

And ask him now I take them back –

All those touches that burned,

That scolded, stained and scarred.

He will surely tell me that I can’t,

That what has passed will always be

And that those minor indiscretions,

Those major ones too,

Will flow through the universe

And come around to bite me in some way

Or maybe topple those hundreds of walls

Filled with thousands and bricks

Like dominoes set in motion

What feels like a million years ago.

And as they fall the words written

Will burn into my once thick skin

Until there is nothing left of me

But a broken body and a tormented soul.

If I could move from this chair

Before that final domino falls

Then maybe my life is worth something,

Maybe I have evened out the balance.

Now I face that impossible choice

Made such by present circumstance

(Though my current predicament

Is wholly self inflicted and

I have no-one to blame but my own greed) –

Do I continue down this path

That I have worn so well

Or turn and face up to all I have done,

Bear the consequences of a thoughtless existence

And hope that, in doing such an act,

The universe will grant me the favour

Of allowing me some small measure of humanity

That I may leave some mark on the world

Which is not the ruins of what was a life

But instead is that which may blossom

And perhaps grow through nurture

To be bigger than itself

And be a legacy of my time here.

Writing Poetry

A poet’s work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world and stop it going to sleep. (Salman Rushdie)

I like to write. I will write about anything and everything. I do like, however, to get my teeth into a tough subject. I have written about religion. I have written about law and order. I have written about love and lust. Sometimes I will play the devil’s advocate just to get a feel for the other side. What I write is not necessarily what I believe. Sometimes being on the wrong side of the argument is more fun, especially when you know it’s pushing other people’s buttons. If I can make one person think about an issue and consider the pro’s and con’s of a subject then my work is done.

Poetry is like making a joke. If you get one word wrong at the end of a joke, you’ve lost the whole thing. (W.S. Merwin)

Quite often, I will write a poem and think it is ok. A few days later, I’ll read it and think there is something wrong with it. It can be a word, a line, a stanza; it can be the tone or flow. It doesn’t have to be a big thing either; the smallest mistake can ruin the whole poem. I suppose that’s why we need editors. Having said that, my poetry is written for no-one but myself. It doesn’t bother me if no-one else likes it or enjoys it. If I have enjoyed the creative process, it’s been a good day. If I enjoy the finished product that’s a great day. If other people like it then that’s a bonus.

Poetry isn’t a profession, it’s a way of life. It’s an empty basket; you put your life into it and make something out of that. (Mary Oliver)

It’s true that many poets write from personal experience, even when writing about something completely unfamiliar they will find something that they can relate to and run with that. For me, my poetry is very much from person experience and I’m quite sure that if the people I write about knew what I was writing about them they would be mortified, hence why I never publish names of people or poems containing the names of people along with my poetry if I can help it.

I am also someone who cannot turn off my brain when it comes to poetic thought. Not every thought makes it to paper, though, and I’m sure that some excellent lines have been lost to the wind because I haven’t had a piece of paper and pen handy. I see a flower and want to write an ode to it. My heart skips a beat for a handsome face and an epic begins to form in my mind.

Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality. But, of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things. (T.S. Eliot)

I like to think I have personality and I know I have emotions. Some of my best (and worst) work has been at the height of an emotionally charged episode. I hope that I have injected some of my personality into my work. It’s a hard thing to judge, really. How much of yourself do you want to lay bear? The poems which work best for me are those that start out as pure, unadulterated emotion that, after reworking, develop a smoother edge. The initial outpouring is important; it lays the foundations for the work. The reworking is important also, it is being able to step out of yourself, to leave your own personality behind, and be objective.

Writing poetry is the hard manual labour of the imagination. (Ishmael Reed)

Finding the perfect word, or turn of phrase, to fit a line is the most difficult thing and the easiest thing in the world. When everything is flowing it hardly feels like work but when the words don’t fit and you need to exercise those little grey cells, the chore can seem laborious at best. The effort can sometimes feel like it’s not worth the reward, when the work is average at best and is what I like to call filler but when that magic happens and the right word worms its way through your brain to spill out onto the page then that is as near a religious experience as I am ever likely to experience.

Breathe in experience, breathe out poetry. (Muriel Rukeyser)

The older I get, the more I understand. The more I understand, the more I question. The more I question, the more I write. Every experience gives you the opportunity to expand your writing, to make it more in-depth or robust. The experiences that have shaped me are many and they all lend a little light so that I may see the big picture and the minor detail. Many of my works have similar subject matter but their metamorphosis can be seen as I have matured and experienced the world. The knowledge I have gained from living is equal to that I have gained through books and both inform my writing.

You can’t write poetry on the computer. (Quentin Tarantino)

Never has a more true statement been uttered. The computer is not conducive to creative flow; it is too impersonal, in my opinion. I prefer, for poetry, the feel of the pen and paper; the crossed out word, the changing of the order of the lines, the complete rewriting all show through in the hand-written form. A computer does not allow for humanity. For prose, I have no issue with computerised texts but poetry needs, for me, to be a more personal matter, which I can scribble and scrawl in my own fashion. I like to see the brain’s processes before I commit it to the computer screen.

I've got mixed feelings about poetry 'cause done well poetry is fantastic. But not many people are capable of doing it well. I think you should have some kind of license to perform poetry. A poetic license perhaps. (Craig Ferguson)

I tend to think everyone’s voice should be heard but those more capable should speak louder. I am not saying I should be one of those special people. I am in no doubt that not everyone like my work, or that everyone even likes poetry, and I also feel that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

To read some of my poetry visit my other blog: Nona's Poetry Corner