I promise to not detail much of the above, lest I launch a rant. Legitimate, but still a rant…and ladies don’t rant—except for one who does so with courage and justifiable outrage, and a second who informs with satirical humor aimed at the state of affairs, or the Affairs of State. What prompted my muddled, misdirected condition of mind was that because my one-and-a-half-year-old Mac crapped out (thank you, Murphy) at a crucial point in my work, I had time to “poor me” and watch TV. I don’t know Murphy’s opinion on lightning, but I know it CAN strike twice in the same place. I’ll expand on only the first topic, computers, as I have not had time to see anything humorous in the others.
Let’s hop in the TARDIS and shift back almost two years. There was Murphy, waiting for me, and he did a déjà vu of the future. He struck my seven-year-old Mac’s new hard drive with a blitz of color snow like old TVs. It was a built-in omen that Mac was about to suffer a heart attack. Which it soon did. And with a flagrant fizzle, frying some of my potentially Nobel Prize winning writing.
Walt, my patient husband, loaded Dead Mac and me into the van and rushed us to Apple Hospital sixty miles away, while enduring my many Navy Post-Grad creative invectives hurled at the Apple God for birthing such a demon. The heart transplant was successful, and Walt suggested he’d deal with Old Mac’s increasing age-prone illnesses and adopt New Mac for me. After saving up the hefty adoption fee, we welcomed Newbie into our home.
Back in the TARDIS to present time. Our infant New Mac suffers the same technicolor snowstorm and craps out. Another one-hundred-twenty-mile round trip to the AH (no reimbursement for mileage) and we are told it was a software issue. “One,” I asked, “that Apple has not solved in more than two years? Somebody needs to be fired!” I have visions of the failure cause and lack of remedy.
One: In ancient times, royal seamstresses went blind sewing extremely fine stitches in royal garments. Today, I see twenty-something blind women and men tapping their white canes down China’s roads as they are dismissed from working at creating computer circuitry.
Two: Apple Gods: “Hey, tech support is for only three years. Deal with it. Suckers will get pissed and buy a new computer. That will keep us in mega-bucks, and you in your cubicles.”
What has this got to do with writing? Really? Okay. A painful situation can be alleviated with satire, a hint of sarcasm, perhaps a sprinkle of anthropomorphism, and a little bit of creativity. Much more entertaining than the slush that ends up in the newspapers as vicious opinion, right? Remember Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels? Quite entertaining and a safer approach than a direct attack on the conditions of his times.
So, here’s your assignment. Take your finest pet peeve. Ruminate on it awhile and come back with a piece that makes us see things your way…or at least enjoy your humorous approach. Write on!
. . . a poem as lovely as the one by me! (Apologies to Joyce Kilmer) I think all writers believe this of their literary babies. And, like any babies, poetry pups need basic training. Like don’t pee on the poetic form. Learn your boundaries-and then let go! I, too, have learned the difference between the carpet and the backyard, so here I go.
I’ve read and reread books of poetry and texts on writing poetry. I’ve been stunned by a poet’s ability to weave ordinary word-yarn into beauty that fits any mind. Many poets spin the most painful subjects into poignant pictures of human conditions and emotions. Others stitch fine metaphors from all of nature’s threads.
And while the intricate rules of poetry shapes it chameleon-like into many cousins, I find some forms fascinating but sterile. Some seem intent on mathematics of the thing, discouraging all but the most savant with their formulas. Many seem the Rubik’s cube of time long past.
Granted no society can live without rules. No discipline or function, be it science, mathematics, surgery, or driving a school bus, can accomplish its goals without a blueprint, a set of rules, policies and procedures. But is there necessarily beauty in regimentation? In following the party line, be it religious, political, or poetic?
Those who love such restrictions may not love my words. Yet I follow my spirit as it responds instinctively, intensely, to all things. I know I am here by chance. I am from the same star-stuff as is every great and minute creation on, and even far from, earth. So my work must be the same-random and free-not bound by laws of physics or archaic forms, unless, on occasion, the muse dictates otherwise.
And yet, while fish cannot mate with fowl, duck with dog, or moose with meadowlark some prose in sheep’s clothing hopes to fool the unsuspecting into believing it is poetry.
Prose, poetic or not, often squeezes the maudlin or mundane into a paragraph, dialogue included, as if the writer has just run into an acute paper shortage and decides to call a condensed memoir poetry, when it’s flash-fiction-at-best, and a rambling diary entry at worst.
Part of a poem I wrote in protest of this attempt to mate dissimilar species by virtue of similarities in their DNA, reads:
… i believe, too,
in loosening poetry’s reins;
but what cruelty
to sever them entirely,
shotgunning unfettered words
across the literary landscape,
to fall fallow in their field.
(From “Poetry?” by Virginia Nygard 2014)