How does one become disciplined to do something every day? I miss writing. I miss having a sense of accomplishment, instead of discouragement and frustration and the constant running and running and running from one thing to the next, living moment by moment with hardly a moment to breathe in between. And yet it seems to be the things I want to do the most that seem the farthest away. The show in the fall: in a city forty-five minutes away when I don't have a way to get there of which I know, and required presence at some other rehearsals later on that I'd have to negotiate. And being at Cedarville: I wasn't supposed to be back this year. I didn't want to be. Why am I still going back?
Maybe I'll write a poem later. But right now, it's all I can do to form words into sentences on here, let alone be creative.
I'm sunburned. It hurts.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
String
I found this playwright
who writes strings of sentences
and breaks them up
in pretty, tiny places
and calls it a play
made up of poemish things.
She puts in everyday jargon
all the ums and uhs and stuffs.
Like life.
Because that's how people talk.
See, hers were interviews.
But she broke them up
instead of blocking paragraphs out of words marching on and on and on and on until they stop with a period
.
. . .
and start
again.
And I thought,
hey.
I do that, too.
Except my plays
don't consist of my poetry.
But if sentences broken up
in pretty, tiny places
can be a play
then they can be a poem.
Like, a real poem.
Not just a midnight rambling
that makes it look like
I don't know how to write real poems
or work with pentameter
and alliteration and assonance
or write something like a sestina.
Because I can do that.
I just don't right now.
And neither did this author
when she wrote her play collection
of monologues and ums and uhs
and sentences broken
into pretty, tiny strings.
And it made me feel happy.
who writes strings of sentences
and breaks them up
in pretty, tiny places
and calls it a play
made up of poemish things.
She puts in everyday jargon
all the ums and uhs and stuffs.
Like life.
Because that's how people talk.
See, hers were interviews.
But she broke them up
instead of blocking paragraphs out of words marching on and on and on and on until they stop with a period
.
. . .
and start
again.
And I thought,
hey.
I do that, too.
Except my plays
don't consist of my poetry.
But if sentences broken up
in pretty, tiny places
can be a play
then they can be a poem.
Like, a real poem.
Not just a midnight rambling
that makes it look like
I don't know how to write real poems
or work with pentameter
and alliteration and assonance
or write something like a sestina.
Because I can do that.
I just don't right now.
And neither did this author
when she wrote her play collection
of monologues and ums and uhs
and sentences broken
into pretty, tiny strings.
And it made me feel happy.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Gone
Why is time
slipping like sand
through my helpless fingers?
I want to hold on
or stop it from going through so quickly.
Wait!
Go just a little slower!
Wait! Stop! Wait!
slipping like sand
through my helpless fingers?
I want to hold on
or stop it from going through so quickly.
Wait!
Go just a little slower!
Wait! Stop! Wait!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
