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Antiquated Language In Poetry - The right choice for thee?

Author: Holly Bliss

My Creative Writing professor once passed out sheets of poetry. They were in pairs according to genre or topic of the poem. Our task was to pick the poem that had a greater depth to it. The �better� poem � not that the other poem was bad, by the way � and I chose correctly in every case, except one: the correct choice had antiquated language.

I can study period poetry that has antiquated language, that�s the way they spoke back then, but I have a real problem reading modern poetry that uses antiquated language. There are exceptions, but I�ll get into that in a minute.

Before anyone gets their britches in a bunch because they love their "forsooths," let�s go over some pros and cons.

Antiquated Language CONS

-Difficult to effectively communicate your message to your twenty-first century reader.

-Can seem lofty, as if the writer is trying to be something he/she is not and a portion of trust is lost between the reader and writer.

PRO Antiquated Language

-Adds voice to certain topics

-Can add a comedic effect (as a contrast to the subject matter, etc)

NOTE: these pros and cons can be said for things like: prolific profanity and slang, as well.

Read this poem written in 1849:

Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-1861)
Say not the Struggle nought Availeth

Say not the struggle nought availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not nor faileth,
And as things have been, things remain;

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers--
And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves vainly breaking
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright.

Roberts, Edgar V.. Literature, An Introduction To Reading and Writing. seventh. NJ: Pearson Prentice Hall, 2004.

While this is a great poem as is, it is much easier to understand the parts of this poem not peppered with antiquated language.

Now that I have you convinced you, you have decided to use antiquated language nevermore.

But wait!

There are pros listed up there. Don�t use it �because it sounds like good poetry.� Like any poetic device: If you use it, use it with purpose and on purpose.

2006 Holly Bliss. All Rights Reserved. This document may be freely redistributed in its unedited form and on the condition that all copyright references are kept intact along with the hyperlinked URLs.

About the Author: Using her writing as paint on the canvas of her life, Holly Bliss is an eclectic writer, newsletter editor and an author on http://www.Writing.Com/ which is a site for Poetry.

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Modern Poetry - Poetry for Everyone
Author: Michelle L Devon

Poetry has changed over the years, and modern poetry is not the same eclectic and elitist prose you may remember from your high school reading. Modern poetry is written in plain English, filled with imagery and emotion, and is so much easier to read than poetry of the past. If you haven't read modern poetry, you don't know what you are missing!

Edgar Allan Poe wrote the Raven, which is a wonderful piece of prose or poetry, and it is filled with imagery, emotion, metaphor, and hidden meaning. It's also filled with Old English and esoteric lines, making it difficult to read without having to stop and analyze the deeper or hidden meaning behind it.

Even some current poets write in the eclectic poetic stylings of the past, but the reader will spend so much time trying to figure out what the writer meant, that the meaning and emotion behind the writing is all but lost. Poetry is not something most readers want to analyze. It is something readers want to feel and experience.

The old style of poetry writing is great if you have the time and inclination to sit and read through it and study the meanings and imagery behind it. However, with today's busy schedules, only the literary types or students have the time to stop and put that much thought into something, when poetry should really be evoking emotion, not analysis.

That's what makes modern poetry works!

Modern poetry creates a short story, with visual imagery, in a few lines rather than a few pages. Modern poetry touches your heart, by evoking emotion with which you can relate, about things you probably have experienced yourself.

The common themes for modern poetry are love and romance, nature, beauty, and loss and grief. These are all things that everyone can relate to, and when written in verse form, with modern language use, a poem or piece of prose can bring about feelings long forgotten, remind of times of strong emotion, or speak of dreams for the future...all in a few lines, instead of pages of story.

A good book or a novel makes you think, striking the imagination...poetry and prose makes you feel, striking the emotions. Why not give modern poetry a chance? You can search online for samples or go to your local bookstore and pick up a copy and check it out. You may just be surprised how much you enjoy reading modern poetry!

Michelle L Devon is a freelance editor and author for Accentuate Services http://www.accentuateservices.com as well as several traditional publishing houses. Ms. Devon is also the author of a newly released modern poetry and prose compilation entitled In a Perfect World. For more information or to purchase a copy of Ms. Devon's book, please visit http://www.MichelleLDevon.com

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Modern Haiku Poetry - What It is and How to Write It
Author: Edward A. Weiss

The venerable haiku poem has been around for hundreds of years. Traditionally composed in Japan using a 5-7-5 arrangement of syllables, western poets have loosened this form to create what is now considered modern haiku poetry.

The modern version still sounds somewhat similar to the original but it does not adhere to making the syllables come out to 5-7-5. This is a good thing! It frees the poet up to explore what is truly important in haiku writing and that is its spirit!

To write modern haiku poetry one needs to know the technique behind it and that has everything to do with understanding fragment and phrase theory for haiku today is composed using this technique. For example, take a look at this modern haiku poem:

summer mist --
sap trickles
down the pine

Here we have a haiku consisting of a fragment and a phrase. The fragment "summer mist" gives us a macro view while the phrase "sap trickles down the pine" shows us a specific detail. To write modern haiku poetry, you don't really need to know more than this. Really.

Notice that emphasis is not on the syllable count. Emphasis here is on the poem itself. But the poem retains the essence of what haiku is because it is created using fragment/phrase technique.

Notice too that this poem's subject is nature. Haiku, if it's about anything, is about nature�how we see it and how we feel about it. The above poem simply describes an event happening in the present moment - another trademark of haiku poetry. Modern haiku poetry doesn't seek to transform what haiku is or the beauty of it, it just doesn�t care so much about counting syllables!

Edward Weiss is a poet, author, and publisher of Wisteria Press. He has been helping students learn how to write haiku for many years and has just released his first book "Seashore Haiku!" Sign up for free daily haiku and get beautiful haiku poems in your inbox each morning! Visit http://www.wisteriapress.com for haiku books, lessons, articles, and more!

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Love Poetry and Its Countless Faces
Author: Joy Cagil

There are many interpretations and expressions of love. When love appears as an emotion, people experience a strong magnetic force pulling them to their beloved.

Most lovers complain that they cannot properly express the way they feel. For lovers who are also poets, however, the situation is different, because poetry has the power to hint at, explain, or lay bare what is unexplainable and what is intense.

This intensity of emotion comes to life in a love poem through wit, passion, eloquent phrases, imagery, symbolism, and other tools of poetry such as alliteration, assonance, rhythm, anaphora, metaphors, similes and the like.

Many types of love poetry exist in literature. The love poem of the instant addresses the falling in or out of love in one single moment. Dante Alighieri put together a love-at-first-sight poem expressing a lover's feeling of being reborn.

La Vita Nuova

In that book which is
My memory . . .
On the first page
That is the chapter when
I first met you
Appear the words . . .
Here begins a new life

Another type of a love poetry carrying immediacy and impulsivity seizes the moment without caring what happens afterwards. William Shakespeare says in "O Mistress Mine":
What is love? 'Tis not hereafter;
Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure:
In delay there lies not plenty;
Then, come kiss me, sweet and twenty,
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

Most commonly written love poetry, by professionals and amateurs alike, is the love tribute. Here is a good example by Oscar Wilde:

To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poems

I can write no stately proem
As a prelude to my lay; From a poet to a poem
I would dare to say.

For if of these fallen petals
One to you seem fair,
Love will waft it till it settles
On your hair.

And when wind and winter harden
All the loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden,
You will understand.

Another kind of a love poem puts forth a proposal to the beloved as Pablo Neruda does in Love Sonnet VII:
I said it again: Come with me, as if I were dying,
and no one saw the moon that bled in my mouth
or the blood that rose into silence.
O Love, now we can forget the star that has such thorns!

Then, there are those poets who treat love philosophically. One such poet is William Blake.

The Clod and the Pebble

Love seeketh not Itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care;
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hells despair.

So sang a little Clod of Clay,
Trodden with the cattle's feet;
But a Pebble of the brook,
Warbled out these metres meet.

Love seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to Its delight:
Joys in anothers loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heavens despite.

At times, love is one-sided. Worse yet, the beloved may not have any inkling of the lover's feelings. Walt Whitman voices that in "To a Stranger" by writing:
Passing stranger! you do not know
How longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking,
Or she I was seeking
(It comes to me as a dream)

Sometimes, lovers have to overcome a few obstacles. Matthew Arnold says in Dover Beach:
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

Every so often, the beloved leaves the lover, and then, the poetry sings sadly of remembrance or regret. Thus, from centuries ago, Sappho echoes:
I have not had one word from her
Frankly I wish I were dead
When she left she wept
a great deal; she said to me This parting must be
endured, Sappho. I go unwillingly.
I said Go, and be happy
but remember (you know
well) whom you leave shackled by love

If the lover is lucky, the beloved will leave a token when he departs. Here is one such poem from Emily Dickinson.

I Held a Jewel

I held a jewel in my fingers
And went to sleep
The day was warm, and winds were prosy
I said, "Twill keep"

I woke - and chide my honest fingers,
The Gem was gone
And now, an Amethyst remembrance
Is all I own

The many faces of love has been playing peek-a-boo with the poetry lover from millenniums ago in ancient history when Solomon sang "The Rose of Sharon" to Emerson who urged us to "Give all to love" to our present day when modern day poets describe moments of epiphany and feelings of love in fragments, in concrete images, and in sound combinations obliquely, and at the same time, clearly.

Whenever we take a fleeting look, like any great art, love poetry turns out to be the most admired type of poetry that takes a human emotion and transforms it into something sacred, correct, and spiritual. I remember reading love poetry when I was in my teens. Some of those poems stick in the memory after many years and their magic still remains.

Joy Cagil is an author on http://www.Writing.Com/ which is a site for Love Poetry. Joy Cagil's education is in foreign languages and linguistics. She is a poetry enthusiast.

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Life as Poetry : Haiku and Zen as an Experience of Things-As-They-Are
Author: Isaac Blacksin

The realities (rather than concepts) of emptiness (sunyata), suchness or the thing itself (tathata), and the oneness of the phenomenal world are the essential enterprises of the haiku poem. In its expression of true reality, poetry of this and other kinds finds experience in Zen, as the direct awareness of things-as-they-are. In experiencing the world as it happens, rather than ideas about it, Zen espouses the impossibility of describing or hanging on to truth. Zen is truth, it is life. As D. T. Suzuki writes, �Zen, being life itself, contains everything that goes into the makeup of life: Zen is poetry.� He continues, �Zen is not to be confined within conceptualization� Zen is what makes conceptualization possible.� The nonconceptual nature of Zen, of reality itself, is built into the haiku expressive form, its breadth and structure, its refusal to initiate subjectivity or duality, its ability to capture and experience a moment in time. As a mediation of Zen religiosity, haiku often seeks those aims that Zen avows: the spontaneity of the satori experience, in which the self is transcended and a realization of emptiness, suchness, and oneness with the universe is momentarily glimpsed.

While other form of poetry, Eastern and Western, likewise carry the ability to touch this deep transparency, it is the haiku that builds this experience into its form. The syllabic restrictions of haiku (seventeen in total) can be examined as an avoidance of barriers in the pursuit of essential reality. Adding words means commentary, conceptualization, a finger pointing to the moon (as the old paradigm goes) rather than the moon itself. To the degree that words and description are not reality, �it reduced words to a minimum� [because] they stand in the way of reality. Zen believes in saying by not-saying.� Haiku mediates this belief. As with the inherent barrier of words, the subjective nature of self likewise intervenes in the attainment of oneness, in touching things-as-they-are. To this end, haiku has an inherent preoccupation with discarding the self and the ego, as in Zen practice. Basho, the most famous haiku poet and the ideal of the poet-ascetic, instructed: �Learn from a pine things about a pine, and from a bamboo things about a bamboo.� This communion with the object of the poem aims at the dissolution of subjectivity, and thus the ego. Dualisms between poet and object are transcended to initiate and express the satori experience. �The true poet,� writes Makoto Ueda, �has his mind totally transparent� during his composition.� This transparency, the absence of ego, speaks to both the transpersonal tendency of haiku poetry and the central practice of Zen, meditation. The one who is able to forsake personal emotion for transpersonal energy, through deep contemplation and communion with the universe, reaches a state that can allow for spontaneous creation. Haiku is thus formed, not through force or logic, but ideally from a place of emptiness, of satori. Similarly, haiku poems avoid reference to universal oneness, the emptiness and suchness it attempts to experience. �To speak of the one as though it were an entity among entities is precisely (and wrongly) to constitute such an entity.� Again we see how concepts, in Zen and haiku, become useless. As an expression of Zen ascetics and values (if there can be said to be such a thing), haiku is perhaps the natural mediator.

The essence of haiku, in its ability to touch essential reality, seems more a result of poetic spirit than reliance on specific form. All poetry can initiate Zen fundamentals. �Poetic spirit,� Basho wrote, �through which man follows the creative energy of nature, [allows for] everything they see [to] become a lovely flower.� Thus a poem is simply the result of a much larger poetic framework, the expression of a holistic mode of being in which life itself becomes poetry. This is the real nexus of haiku and Zen, of poetry as religious dialogue. As the natural result of a religious/poetic existence (one in the same given the Zen approach), poetry is written all the time, not simply with pen and paper, but through the discourse known as life. The poem simply �crystallizes the moment of becoming or melting into the eternal stillness� It is an enlightenment as returning to the original oneness.� But this crystallization is born of a much larger method, one which entails a deep connection with the phenomenal world, with nature itself. Most Zen poetry deals with concrete phenomena, the song of the cicada or frog, mountains and mists and moons. Any �notion of enlightenment that would transcend the phenomenal world in search of a world beyond� is rejected. Washing dishes, weeding the garden � therein is found satori, and thus poetry.

As the experience and expression of satori, of things-as-they-are (tathata), ego-transcendent emptiness (sunyata), of the oneness of the entire universe, poetry initiates an awareness as realized in Zen. While the haiku does so in form as well as substance, all poetry that is written from a place of emptiness, from a transpersonal perspective of suchness, can touch essential reality and instigate the essence of Zen mind. Yet the poem is only half the equation: the ability of the reader to likewise ascertain the transcendence of self, the momentary glimpse of satori, carries equal weight. He or she must also be available to the spontaneous connection, ready to experience that which a haiku or other poem seeks to transmit. �The reader comprehends the poem only to the extent that he himself is able to achieve similar intuitive perception through the re-created experience of the poem.� Our own availability to the transmission of the satori experience is perhaps the completion of the poet�s work, the circle that closes back in on itself, in which reality-as-it-is becomes realized, transmitted, and experienced anew.

1.Hiraga, Masako K. 1987. Eternal Stillness: A Linguistic Journey to Basho's Haiku about the Cicada. Poetics Today, 8(1). Durham: Duke University Press.

2. Huntley, Frank Livingston. 1952. Zen and the Imagist Poets of Japan. Comparative Literature. Eugene: University of Oregon Press.

3.Norton, Jody & Snyder, Gary. 1987. The Importance of Nothing: Absence and Its Origins in the Poetry of Gary Snyder. Contemporary Literature, 28(1). Madison: University of Wisconsin Press.

4.Lama Purevbat. Interview. May, 2006. Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia.

5.Rextroth, Kenneth. 1971. One Hundred Poems from the Japanese. New York: New Directions.

6.Suzuki, D.T. 1951. The Philosophy of Zen. Philosophy East and West, 1(1). Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press.

7.Thich Nhat Hanh. Interview. March 2006. Thenac, France.

8.Ueda, Makoto. 1963. Basho and the Poetics of "Haiku." by Makoto Ueda The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism. Philedelphia: The American Society for Aesthetics.

9.Watanabe, Manabu. 1987. Religious Symbolism in Saigyo's Verses: A Contribution to Discussions

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Interview with Judith Dupree, Author of Poetry Collection "Living with What Remains"
Author: Juanita Watson

Judith Dupree is with us today chatting about her recently published book of poetry that focuses in an unusually prescient way upon the losses we face in our complex society. Welcome to Reader Views.

Juanita: Judith, you have written a lovely book of poetry. What inspired you to write �living with what remains�?

Judith: Well, I�d offer a pot full of reasons, but the over-riding one is decidedly my mix of hope and despair: an anticipation that buoys me constantly � but, always eating at it, my grief over the unraveling of our world.

And, as a citizen of the �first of the first-world� peoples, my nibbling sense of shame. So many factors impel it: our dysfunctional cultural mindset (�In greed we trust.�), our political rabidity, our increasing polarization and �dismemberment.� This covers a lot of different aspects, but all of the causes are interrelated, of course. We are watching our environment unravel, and know deep down that we�re all participants � each of us has received the �charge� to live differently (�Less is more�) in light of what we know, and to address the convoluted issues that pertain. We rarely do more than shake our heads and point fingers, and fuss about it all (or deny it) � trying to live comfortably with that �elephant in the living room.� Or the oil tanker in the swimming pool? That�s a major aspect of my need to write this book. I guess you could call it a jeremiad of sorts? Anyway, there�s a lot of yin and yang in the book.

Juanita: Why do you think so many people are in denial over the unabashed dysfunction plaguing these times?

Judith: Ah, another pot full! I have to say this: it is hard to be �human.� It is difficult to lift one�s head and look beyond one�s own needs and yearnings, and absorb the harsh realities that lie around us � and respond to them sensitively, effectively. That alone significantly accounts for the �ostrich effect.� (The poor bird got a bum rap with this one!) Playing into that are our individual prejudices and pretensions, both of them largely unrecognized or unacknowledged, and of course our fear of anything that threatens our steady course through life. We don�t want to be challenged in such dreadful ways! We don�t want to know that life is so tenuous, and that we have harsh choices to make � particularly because the right choices were not established by our fathers and their fathers. If we can blot out future woe (as did our political/corporate grampas) and cling to what we have with tenacity, maybe we won�t lose our grip on it. Close your eyes, click your shiny red heels and spin! We have lived largely in Oz.

It�s scary � growing up, for us grownups. Add to this stew a ladle of self-indulgence that has congealed into greed. Our corporate mentality, our CEO complex. Them what has, gets. In spades. And, finally, considering all this (and all I�ve omitted), we don�t really want to know that God, to whom we pay such pallid lip-service, is watching us . . . and, only if we choose, watching over us. Which are two far, far different matters. If we don�t believe this, our elaborate fig leaves won�t shield us. (Nor will the emperor�s clothes�)

Juanita: Is this a book of Christian poetry and if so, will it only appeal to a Christian audience?

Judith: It is indeed �Christian� in context; I am a disciple of Christ. But that isn�t or shouldn�t be an impediment to the reader. Alongside that foundation, and predating it, is my response as one member of humanity to the whole of it. I have always experienced, perhaps as a basic instinct, a deep sense of the woundedness of mankind. Long before my overt spiritual awareness began, I fed upon works of past writers � their acute observations and laments and their dreams of something better, greater, than what they saw before them. Rumi comes to mind. The Greek philosophers, of course. And Latino poets. I literally inhaled their �expirations� throughout my college years, and have spent a lifetime sorting and shifting, adopting and adapting. And when the message of Christ became more than intellectual persuasion, it all gelled. So � to ask about the �appeal� of this work, I�d say �Read it as the cry of humanity itself.� In writing some of this, I felt that I was standing naked before the world, saying �Shrug it all off � all the filthy rags; let�s go skinny-dipping.� (And this from a rather old lady!) We are all in this together, and I suspect we�ll sink or swim together, ultimately. I believe, therefore, that this is not merely �a Christian book� in the sense in which we often weigh and measure concepts. I don�t write with that concept as a focus.

Juanita: What is the theme that ties your book of poetry together?

Judith: I�d say that would be an over-riding sense of both the sacred and profane. How they come before us endlessly. And how they rub against each other, how they both balance and unbalance each other. There is no phenomenon without its counterpart: thesis, antithesis. We walk through life on a tightrope, in a way, trying for steadiness. Truly, we don�t always recognize what �unbalance� really is. I have tumbled off the thin strand of reality many a time, of course. It is primarily a sense of the sacred that has held me in a kind of stasis, providing a point to fix my eye upon. Something to walk toward. All this is thematic for me. These poems are my walk, what I take with me, what I see ahead: The growing darkness, and the incredible largeness of life, and the wonderful stubbornness of the human soul toward renewal. And ultimately, the personalness of God invades, pervades, provides �shelter� for us when it gets rough.

Juanita: How did this collection unfold onto paper?

Judith: As I leafed through the growing pile, I felt something developing � mulching � within it. My personal manifesto, perhaps? A way of saying (with Martin Luther) �Hier Ich stehe!� Honestly, I was a bit scared to put it out there, with all the pain it contains. But it was the beauty of life � the holy antithesis � that gave me the push I needed.

Juanita: When did you start writing, and is this your first book?

Judith: I started writing when I started putting words on paper. Terribly, of course. My earliest efforts were simply ways of getting words to rhyme, which I thought was the whole of it. Throughout my youth and young adulthood, I blurped out occasional, rather innocuous or dreadful poems � love and existential despair, etc.. The usual. And I was seesawing between art (I did portraits.) and writing. I loved both, but had no direction. I finally got serious about words when the Fearsome Forties loomed before me. Ultimately it gave me a book: Going Home,1984. My next book actually began in 1976, prompted by our BiCentennial � and I wrote at it sporadically over the decades, between other projects. It�s a long historical narrative � a prose-poem titled I Sing America � rather Whitmanesque. (I played on his title, but the content is much different.) I didn�t feel it resolved coherently until about four years ago. It ends with 9/11. I sent out some review copies, and got a few fine comments, but never really marketed it. It�s in revision now, and I will release it through Quiddity Press when it�s ready. An unusual journey�.

Juanita: Tell us about the cover of �living with what remains� and what it represents.

Judith: The cover picture on this book is simply an ancient, enormous dead oak in our small village. It is one of multiplied thousands in CA lost over the past few years to drought and disease. A common symptom of our times. This skeletal tree represented to me our centuries of �covering,� and how exposed we are now. Loss and survival again.

Juanita: What are some of your favorite gems that fill the pages of your book?

Judith: Well, beauty is famously in the eyes of the beholder, but the poems that haunted me most in the process are probably my favorites, if only for that reason. They may not be the best, of course. �Coveting It All� was one that kept urging me on, feeding my �greed� to experience and encapsulate nature. The poem �The Mantis� was a remarkable transcendental experience. My husband and I were both a part of it, and my sense of identity with all earth-life was truly affected. The poem I consider most awkward is also probably one that fits here: �Dear World.� I literally didn�t know how to put it on paper, and finally left it stumbling along to the end. One of my most poignant experiences was the finale of �I Bring To You.� It literally fell together before me. The owl, eyeing us with his unending �Whooo?� � as if we could answer him. As if we can answer each other.

Juanita: What would you like your readers to come away with after reading your book?

Judith: I guess to share both the shame (even vicariously) and the hope. Taking a long look at humanity and its frailty and strongholds . . . and stepping up to the benchmark that is always before us, seen or unseen: �Do unto others�.� That means to �do unto� those who are coming behind us, not simply around us. We�re leaving our grandchildren a potential disaster. If it is largely unavoidable, by now, let us leave a repository of hope. For me, it�s the Kingdom of God, an �inner territory� we desperately need to inhabit. �Blessed are the gentle, and merciful, and pure in heart, etc., �for they shall inherit the earth.� And perhaps, Deo volente, they shall renew it. But it is my adamant principle that we try. Each of us, in some small, incremental way.

Juanita: Judith, what would you say to people that think �all hope has been lost� for humanity?

Judith: I�d say we don�t really understand hope. Hope is anything but �pie in the sky,� or a magic reversal or retrieval. It is a personal attitude-into-act that grows from one choice after another. It comes to us as an understanding � a whisper, soul-deep, that says �You can do this.� Or �DON�T do that.� And we know, really. We always have the choice to create hope, to welcome hope. One step forward, or back, and we�re on solid ground. Sacred ground. Something happens, something is effected and affected that is true and good � and we will recognize what we have actually done by this [perhaps] smallish choice. We will realize that it takes us forward � even if, perhaps especially if, we have �stepped back� from some slight precipice. (Precipices can fool us with their slanted depths!) An �inch� of life has been restored by this. Hope is restored by inches.

Believing and receiving on behalf of our better self, thought by thought, we can engender hope even in the midst of despair, and despite gargantuan loss. We move away from frantic survival into a kind of Genesis mode. There, others find us and come alongside, and we welcome each other as a part of this new creating. This is not fatuity; it is practicality and perseverance and preservation: the timeless Kingdom of God among us.

Juanita: What writers have been your inspiration?

Judith: Those I mentioned before, in my student years. Off the top of my head: initially I found a lot of fodder in Frost�s elegantly simple � and rustic � look at life and nature. His impact remains. Emily Dickinson, of course. Some of Millay�s work, particularly �Renascence,� written at so young an age! Denise Levertov � and Mary Oliver: stunning! Some great guy poets, known and unknown: Whitman was a break-through person, of course, for all who follow after. Contemporarily, John Leax (i.e., Out Walking), a strong voice; Robert Wrigley, very accessible. And anything Wendell Berry says, poetry or prose. Solzhenitsyn, non-poet, for timeless reasons. And, among gifted unknowns, I have a poet friend in Oregon, David Kopp, who must be discovered. (He�s a book editor, busy churning out everyone else�s writing.) There are a lot of Davids and Judiths out there. I�ve read a number of them, eager for their witness to life. (Small poetry journals are a rich deposit. Rock & Sling and IMAGE come to mind. They know good poets when they see them, and give them a hand.)

Juanita: Tell us about AD LIB and your endeavors teaching poetry and creative writing?

Judith: My motto could be: Make lemonade. You know the old adage. When it became apparent that I was on a lonely trail, and I failed too many times to count, I realized I was, in part, a symptom of a larger problem: The state of the arts in America. Too many good artists and writers struggle on for years without encouragement or recognition. Maybe I could pull together a small �outreach� to reach just a few of them, giving them something of a home base. We have, with Ad Lib, done just that for 10 years. We meet in the Colorado Rockies every fall. Nothing spectacular, simply people coming together to share their arts-journeys and gulp the lemonade, so to speak. A couple of speakers and workshops. The principle I mentioned earlier, �Less is more,� actually applies here � in a different context. There�s no shame in being in a small place with a large talent, when you have fellowship to sustain you. I try to celebrate God�s diversity and daily Grace in ways that mend and heal and offer hope.

As far as teaching poetry/creative writing is concerned, I have availed myself of offers to do this off and on throughout the past quarter-century � at workshops and conferences, in retirement homes and schools. Keeping the edges honed. Now I�m developing a full arts network in our county, which incorporates a number of fairly small and scattered villages. We�ll see where it goes, what we do together. Fun stuff!

Juanita: You and your husband have developed Quiddity Press, a small publishing company. Please tell us more, and how your readers can contact you.

Judith: Well, QP is another glass of lemonade. I really wanted to offer others like me a voice � a creative, low-key way of structuring a publishing experience. It is stalled right at the moment for lack of funds, primarily due to a need for someone with marketing skills (hardly my forte) to come alongside, part-time, and get our small [pending] inventory �out there.� If that should happen, we can continue to move forward. Check the web site: www.quidpress.com, and you�ll see what we want to bring to the table. Maybe someone �out here� can give us a new idea of how to make this Dream viable.

Juanita: Judith, thank you for your interview. Are there any last thoughts you would like to share with your readers?

Judith: Maybe this: We each have a reservoir within. Go skinny-dipping. Let the encumbrances sink. Find out what floats to the top, and be faithful to it. That�s where the Hand of God will reach you

Juanita Watson is the Assistant Editor for Reader Views http://www.readerviews.com

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I Drank Tea in December
Author: Arthur Zulu


The two writers laughed aloud as I ended the story. Not that it was the kind of thing that one likes to hear in the morning. Some would quickly go on their knees and pray that the �cup� passes next door. But pray as they might, it is a �cup� that we all must drink from.



By cup, I am not referring to the cups of tea in our hands that we now resumed to enjoy after telling them the story. DD Phil, the romance writer who the ladies like to call Filemon, with a stress on the last syllable, was looking dreamily. Sitting with his right hand supporting his chin, his left on the chair, and the suspended tea cup on the table, one would have thought that he was plotting a scene in his next fantasy novel.



Of course, the story that I was telling them was more fantasy than real. What is real again in this world? For Val K the poet, sitting with all the cares in this world�his legs wide apart as the poles�everything (and that includes life) is poetry. It is no wonder that someone says, �Never take life seriously. Nobody gets out alive anyways.�



Whether the story was a comedy or a tragedy is another matter. But it was a story about life. And whether life stories are sweet or bitter is for you to judge. Look at the verdict of these people.



A chief of King Edwin says: �The present life of man is like a sparrow.� Apostle James, a Bible writer, calls it �a mist that appears for a while and then disappears.�



But the story was more about equivocations�double tongues. And is life not a tale of equivocations? So, after I finished the story, we resumed our tea drinking and compared the story with other equivocal tales.



The first to come to mind was King Croesus who went to consult the oracle before embarking on a major military expedition. He was assured that if he went to war, a mighty empire would fall. He believed and went to do battle. But the empire that fell was his!



And then there was Macbeth who was thoroughly deceived by the witches. He didn�t think that tress �move� and he never believed that there was any man not �born� of a woman. But he was dead wrong. Equivocation did both people in.

The best of such double tongues, however, was that of the great hinter who was warned that he was to be killed by an animal on a certain day. So the finicky hunter refused to step into the bush on that day. But lying in his room, the head of one the animals that he had killed which he had suspended on a rafter, got loose and landed a death-blow on his head!



When I got the message to proceed to the country with God speed, however, the first thing that came to my mind was not a word that began with letter E. And then the message became more incessant: You must come home in December. I refused the invitation. Yet, my people sent an emissary who spoilt the case for not explaining why I was wanted back home. So I tarried in the city, waiting for the war of the cyclpos.



January 10, 2005. I sat down to read a letter from home. And then came the sentence: �The juju priest who said you will die in December died that very month and has been buried.� That was when I knew the reason for the distress call in December. I had been required to come and to make sacrifices to impotent gods to survive December. Pity the �authoritative,� �all knowing� juju priest. Didn�t know that death is everywhere. Didn�t know that he was prophesying his own death. Didn�t know that I was enjoying my tea way back in December. Equivocation.



Mohandas Gandhi said: �Live as if you were to die tomorrow. Learn as if you would live forever.� That has been my guiding principle. Who is afraid of death? Someone said �the tragedy of life is not that it ends so soon, but that we wait so long to begin it.� What matters in the end is not how long we live. But �it�s the life in your years, said Abraham Lincoln. So the question that we should ask ourselves is, How would I be remembered? Not a few people care if they were remembered for vileness. But even if you were known in your lifetime for some spectacular achievement, it adds to nothing.



If the Bible were a book of epitaphs, the second verse of Ecclesiastes is dear to my heart. It simply states: �The greatest vanity! Everything is vanity!� And that�s the dinkum oil.



As we take our tea, with DD Phil and Val K happy that their controversial writer is still alive, the fact remains that we must die of something someday. And if my people supposing I was dead had wept over me and buried my effigy, I will have the singular honor or infamy of being mourned and buried twice.



Yet it is good to be alive.



So even if I were to pass on tomorrow, let it be known that the priest LIED. I drank tea in December.


Arthur Zulu is an editor, book reviewer, and author of Chasing Shadows!, How to Write a Best-seller, A Letter to Noah, and many other works. For his works and FREE help for writers, goto:
http://controversialwriter.tripod.com
Mailto: controversialwriter@yahoo.com
Web search: Arthur Zulu

About the Author

Arthur Zulu is an editor, author, and book reviewer.

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Hurricanes and Poetry Writing
Author: Lance Winslow

Some of the greatest poet writers off all times have had much adversity in their lives. Perhaps it is this adversity, which helps them see the world differently and makes them take stock of themselves and their surroundings?

They say that when people are threatened with a life-threatening illness that often they begin to appreciate life more and the little things such as the smell of a flower or just simply looking at the stars. It is those times of life that perhaps the greatest poetry of all times has been written.

Many a poet in love will write fantastic poetry. Likewise many people experiencing the ultimate adversity or challenges will come up with some of the greatest artwork in poetry ever written. During the 2005 Atlantic tropical hurricane season we saw regions of the United States of America, which were devastated and destroyed by major category hurricanes and many people lost everything or were forced due to mandatory evacuation to leave the areas where they lived and loved.

If you are considering writing some poetry and are forced to evacuate from your city perhaps this might be a chance for you to do so. After all what else are you going to do while you are stuck in traffic for 15 hours trying to get out of the city or state? You may as well take with you a notepad and a pen and start jotting down your thoughts. Please consider this in 2006.

Lance Winslow - Online Think Tank forum board. If you have innovative thoughts and unique perspectives, come think with Lance; www.WorldThinkTank.net/wttbbs/

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Haiku Poetry and the Concept of Wabi/Sabi
Author: Edward A. Weiss

It may sound like a tasty sushi dish, but the concept of wabi/sabi is a Japanese idea that literally means "sweet sadness." It's a feeling one may have when winter is approaching and you notice the change in nature's cycles. It's a feeling of impermanence that surrounds all living things on this planet. Nothing lasts and this idea finds its expression well in haiku poetry. For instance, look at this haiku poem by Bruce Ross;

winter sun...
the pigeons foot crackles
a dry leaf

The first line suggests the time of year and the general ambiance of the day. It is wintertime and as we all know, the sun's position and relative affect on the earth is quite different during this season. Lines two and three complete the poem and focus, quite remarkably I might add, on the activity of a pigeon. Here, the pigeon happens to walk on a dry leaf and the leaf crackles because of it.

Now, lines 2 and 3 really have no poetic effect by themselves. But, when combined with the sentence fragment "winter sun," we get what many have called an absolute metaphor.. a snapshot if you will of a moment in time. And it is precisely this moment in time that creates the wabi/sabi affect!

Nothing lasts. Not the winter, not the sun's position, and surely, not an incident so small as the crackling of a dry leaf. Yet these seemingly small events are what life is about. To catch them is the haiku poet's job and it is done superbly in this poem. When we read this haiku as a whole, we come away with that sweet sadness that most of us have felt at one time or another. We realize that this life is only temporary and that each "small" act is a miracle in itself.

Edward Weiss is a poet, author, and publisher of Wisteria Press. He has been helping students learn how to write haiku for many years and has just released his first book "Seashore Haiku!" Sign up for free daily haiku and get beautiful haiku poems in your inbox each morning! Visit http://www.wisteriapress.com for haiku books, lessons, articles, and more!

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Haiku Poetry - a Description and a Weather Report
Author: Edward A. Weiss

A while back I heard haiku poetry referred to as a description with a weather report. And while this may not always be the case, it's pretty much true!

Haiku poetry uses the concept of macro and micro very well here. For example, if I started a haiku out with the fragment "cool spring day," what we have here is a macro description of what kind of day it is - a weather report if you will.

Now, if I add a specific descriptive phrase to it like "a hummingbird darts out of sight," we have a micro view of something happening on this day. Combined, we have this haiku:

cool spring day --
a hummingbird
darts out of sight

Good haiku poetry need not be more than a description of the general ambiance of the day and something that is taking place during the day. As long as what is taking place is happening in "a present moment" the haiku will be OK. The problem some people have is that they remove themselves from the thing "as it's taking place" and describe something that already has or will happen. Not very haiku like at all.

Personally, I have a problem with haiku poets who try to be sophisticated thereby losing the haiku spirit. They try to write something that is "good" or they try and come up with something that will impress others. Don't do it! Keep it simple and your haiku will be little gems.

Edward Weiss is a poet, author, and publisher of Wisteria Press. He has been helping students learn how to write haiku for many years and has just released his first book "Seashore Haiku!" Sign up for free daily haiku and get beautiful haiku poems in your inbox each morning! Visit http://www.wisteriapress.com for haiku books, lessons, articles, and more!

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Grief of Loss and Healing through Poetry
Author: Joy Cagil

Any loss perpetuates grief, and conversely, grieving is the humankind's way of dealing with loss. William Faulkner says, "Between grief and nothing, I will take grief." Without adequate grieving, we lose our spontaneity and our sense of being alive. Life turns into something to endure and the world feels like a hostile place.

One way to mourn loss is to write about our feelings and what we have lost, but then, there are feelings for which straight prose is not always adequate, since grief refuses to accept definition. In this instance, poetry fills the gap, because poetry has the capacity to imply a lot more than what prose can achieve. Also, a poem publicizes and legitimizes our grief, making the community draw closer to us in our pain.

Probably, poetry for loss has existed before any written history. Since poetry is originally oral, it carries within itself a very long history. One of the earliest epic poems we know of is the Sumerian Gilgamesh. Inside this poem, the mighty Gilgamesh laments the death of his friend Enkidu and orders the creation to never fall silent in mourning.

The epics of Ramayana, Iliad, and Odyssey contain serious laments about the nature of loss through poetry. In Ramayana, Raja Dasharatha grieves just before his death, lamenting:
when the the season for fruit cometh he will grieve!
So is it now with me: I die of grief for Rama's exile."
After Raja dies, he too is grieved by Ayodha.

In Odyssey, Homer says:
"Even his griefs are a joy
long after to one that remembers
all that he wrought and endured.

Then, in the Iliad, Achilles' grieves.
�Why mourns my son? thy late preferr�d request
The god has granted, and the Greeks distress�d:
Why mourns my son? thy anguish let me share,
Reveal the cause, and trust a parent�s care.�

He, deeply groaning��To this cureless grief,
Not even the Thunderer�s favour brings relief.

In the Jewish tradition, a poem was the most powerful way to express grief. It probably started with David's dirge urging the Israelites to teach their children to weep and mourn. The same feeling is echoed in the Latin hymn Dies Irae where David's word is mentioned in the first stanza.

A grief poem or an elegy has always been a balm against despair. Classic or Romantic Age poets and poets up to our day have used grief to announce to the world that pain eventually teaches us solid values and an understanding of the human experience.

Of all the grieving poets, Edgar Allen Poe has raised his sorrows to the altar of poetry. Who can forget the mourning in Annabel Lee, in the mystery of Ulalume, or in Raven's bleak utterings of "nevermore"? Then, closer to our time, Whitman created a true monument for Lincoln, in "O Captain! My Captain!"

Today, contemporary poets choose a more poignant attitude towards grief. Late Stanley Kunitz's "Night Letter," Billy Collins' "The Dead," and Jane Kenyon's "Coat," are examples that come to mind. Rather than using expected phrases and conventional lamenting, these poets hint at their sorrow by shaping their lines around concrete images and physical objects. As a result, their poetry carries a genuine voice with a delicate and powerful expression of feeling.

Joy Cagil is an author on http://www.Writing.Com/ which is a site for Poetry. Her portfolio can be found at http://www.Writing.Com/authors/joycag

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For the Love of Poetry
Author: Terry Coyier

"Work is love made visible.

And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gates of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy.

For if you bake bread with indifference, you bake a bitter bread that feeds but half man's hunger."

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Five Keys To Leaner And Meaner Copywriting
Author: Robert Warren


Grab 'em and don't lose 'em. Every marketer knows that one. Human beings have very short attention spans, so you can't afford to waste your prospect's time - give them the good stuff and then let them go as soon as you can. Writing effective marketing material is all about writing crisply with just a handful of words.

Clean writing isn't an accident, but is instead the result of the careful application of certain principles and tools. Try these five techniques for crafting leaner, meaner, more effective business copy:

Avoid modifiers. Modifiers change the meaning of other words; the most common of these are adverbs and adjectives (words that describe verbs and nouns, respectively). They're used when the writer feels that the noun or verb needs a little something extra: "the shining sun", "run quickly", etc. Get rid of as many modifiers as you can and choose nouns and verbs that stand on their own.

No lazy words. Every word should be doing real work, conveying necessary information and supporting other parts of the piece. Think of your sentences as support beams and rafters in a building, and analyze the piece word-by-word: are there any nails sticking out of boards? Anything that's there purely for show? http://www.rswarren.com/articles/fluff.php">Anything that doesn't strengthen your writing weakens it. Strip your copy down to its most essential parts, and throw out the words that are sleeping on the job.

Reduce it to a single sentence. Do you really know what you want to say? You might be surprised - try phrasing http://www.rswarren.com/articles/writing_structure.php">your entire piece into one simple sentence. Can you do it, or are you insisting that your message is too in-depth? Taking your point down to a single statement can give your copy new focus and clarity.

One thought per sentence. Sentences and paragraphs are different things. Avoid long, complex sentences built up of multiple thoughts. Keep your sentences to one thought each, keep them short and simple, and use your paragraphs for the complex ideas.

When in doubt, cut it out. Every writer has written the perfect sentence that just doesn't play along well with others. Hemingway was right - kill your darlings. If you can't figure out how to ease that bit of poetry in with the rest of your marketing piece, cut it completely and don't look back. Be merciless. You'll be surprised how often that's the best solution.

About the Author

Robert Warren (http://www.rswarren.com">www.rswarren.com) is a freelance copywriter in the Orlando, Florida area, specializing in providing for the marketing and communications needs of the independent professional private practice.

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Dimly Lit Poetry - A Moonlit Journey through Urban Decay
Author: Owen Johnston

Urban Decay
Slowly descending
The spiral staircase
Into urban decay
On this night long journey -
Preceded by flashlight
And followed by the full moon,
Whose eyes hold us all in
His view as the street light
Flickers in and out in orange shades.

Spirit of the Past
The spirit of the past
Lives in
The whispers of the wind and
The hoot of the hoary owl,
Which echoes sadly evermore
Against the lonely trees -
Who for days uncounted
Have seen the endless journeys of men
Come to and end beneath them -
This final respite
Marked by names and dates
On lonely tombs.

Ghost Hunting
There is a ghost in the shell
Of every old place -
Whether the unclaimed metal skeleton
Of an abandoned steel mill,
Or the spirit that lingers
On the grounds of a historic graveyard.
These ancient places carry
The immortal remnants
Of old civilization.

Exploring them to
Examine their secrets
Like an urban archaeologist -
Chasing down the answers
To urban legends
And ghost stories -
Simply to know
What came before.

Abandoned Factory
Once full of life,
This old building;
With memories locked away
Under layers of dust.
Cigarette butts and broken beer bottles
Litter the lonely lot.

Once vital and active
In the world of mortal men,
Now immortal in its skeletal frame -
The ghost in the shell of the
Abandoned factory
Speaks secrets of long misused tools,
Broken cinder blocks,
And locked away rooms -
Modern ruins and electric tombs
Long left behind
On this hidden highway.
And evermore in urban legend.

Stomping Ground
Traversing the rural fringes
Of urban reality,
Haunting the spirits
With lamps and curious minds.

Marble City
I know when you were born and died,
But I want to see beyond the moss
On your gravestone.
Who were you in life?

Old Church

I. Cathedral.
I go back in time as I brush webs of dust
From the stained glass window,
Wondering what secrets this
Old church buried with its dead.

II. Esoteric.
As stained as memory,
This old window yet reflects light
Like the sermons once held
In the holy hall.

Farewell Party (Leaving the Old Church)
The ravens on the roof
Stand guard like gargoyles -
These grim feathered ghouls
Perch atop the once proud passages
That they now pretend to own,
And sing a sad a cappella
In mockery of memory.

To End a Journey
I leave as the morning light
Lifts the late night's velvet veil
And the moon bids farewell
To the starry sky,
Wondering if warning signs
Will be like hieroglyphs
To a future age.

Into the Light
Walking at the crack of dawn on
This early morn,
Through fresh cut grass
And beside foggy fields,
My shoes soaked with dew -

I stop to take a drink
And pause to think:
This simple heaven�s
Greater�n
That urban hell.

Atalaya
Dark watch tower
Overlooking the lonely beach
Built without blueprint -
Summer home sculpted
From brick and mortar,
Its plans first and solely sketched
In the dreams of a genius and poet.

Ordered chaos - artistic anarchy;
The sculpture room seems to
Summon the spirit
Of the poet's late wife -
As if the ghost
Of the lady sculptor
Haunts the mossy halls
Just to finish her last work.

Manifest Destiny
How wild was the west?
How true rang the gold,
That men sought and killed
For it?

How mighty the steed,
And how much mightier
The man who rode it
And held the law on his hip?
How long the roads of those days?
How deep the secrets?
Would the spirits of
Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp
Speak to us in the old saloon?

The above poems were excerpted from the author's upcoming online book "Dark Passage". View other online poetry at Johnston Arts - Online Publications. Join poetry discussions at the Johnston Karate Online Community.

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Complete your bookshelves with bookends
Author: Johann Erickson
When trying to decide how to best decorate a shelf or table top, http://www.onlinediscountmart.com/bookends-book-ends.html">bookends should be considered. They are great decorating accent pieces and also work as functional items, preventing book warping, decreasing page wrinkling, and protecting book covers. In addition to preserving your books, bookends add finesse to home offices, libraries, children�s rooms, and family rooms. For a unique decorating approach, place them in a bathroom to hold bubble bath reading material.


But bookends don't only hold books. They can add drama to a CD collection, accessorize photo albums, or hold folders of work to be completed�use your imagination. You can arrange cookbooks between bookends that match your http://www.onlinediscountmart.com/kitchen-decor.html">kitchen decor, whether it is roosters, apples, or http://www.onlinediscountmart.com/decorative-bottles.html">decorative bottles. Then, group with baskets, http://www.onlinediscountmart.com/decorative-plates.html">decorative plates, or a prized http://www.onlinediscountmart.com/cookiejars.html">cookie jar. Books that no one intends to read can be partnered with bookends and displayed on top of kitchen cabinets.


What kind of bookends are available? Any kind you want. You simply need to determine what material and shape the book ends need to be in order to contribute to the definition of a particular room. For example, a little girl�s room could utilize bookends that look like http://www.onlinediscountmart.com/29481.html">Noah's Ark to hold her collection of Childrens books. http://www.onlinediscountmart.com/31386.html">Brass eagle book ends would look great in a den filled with deer heads and decoys, while http://www.onlinediscountmart.com/06-33570.html">cherub characters may fit best in an elegant living room holding books of romantic poetry.


Are your books lined up neatly in a bookshelf? Don�t be afraid to jazz it up a bit. Take the books out of the case and divide them according to subject. Chances are good that you will have several titles per subject. Then purchase bookends in a style that matches the subject matter. Arrange them in groups on your bookshelf along side http://www.onlinediscountmart.com/interior-dzcor-picture-frames.html">framed pictures, http://www.onlinediscountmart.com/decorative-plates.html">decorative plates, or http://www.onlinediscountmart.com/flower-vases.html">vases.


Book ends provide an opportunity to infuse your personality or interests into a room. Because they serve a dual purpose, book ends are a justifiable decorating expense. You can preserve your books while adding a new element or focal point to your living spaces.

About the Author

Johann Erickson is the owner of http://www.onlinediscountmart.com">Online Discount Mart Please include an active link to our site if you'd like to reprint this article.

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Children�s Author Creates New Family Classics
Author: Lisa M. Hendey
Children�s Author Creates New Family Classics
Author Interview with Mary Quattlebaum, Family Reunion
By Lisa M. Hendey

I love the joy of discovering new authors and sharing them with my children, both of whom love to read as much as I do. One of my new favorites, although she�s been writing for years, is Mary Quattlebaum, author of the beautifully illustrated Family Reunion (Erdman�s, February 2004, hardcover, 32 pages) and the wonderful Jackson Jones chapter book series. A classic storyteller, Quattlebaum takes a little �poetic license� in the beautifully illustrated Family Reunion. Through the eyes of one young girl, the story of a family�s reunion at the shore unfolds in fifteen uniquely styled poems. Watercolor illustrations by Andrea Shine combine with Quattlebaum�s artful verse to make this a book your family will treasure together.

Moving away from the picture book format and into chapter books, Mary Quattlebaum has also recently released the second installment in her popular Jackson Jones series, Jackson Jones and Mission Greentop (Delacorte Books for Young Readers, August 2004, paperback, 112 pages). This celebrated children�s author has the gift of storytelling, and she�s working to encourage children to find their own voice. In conjunction with Reunions Magazine, Quattlebaum invites children to reflect on time spent at family reunions through their written or drawn reflections.

I recently had the opportunity to interview Mary Quattlebaum and am pleased to share her thoughts on writing and her books.

Q: I'm pleased to be able to share the following Book Spotlight interview with Mary Quattlebaum, author of numerous books including Family Reunion and Jackson Jones and Mission Greentop. Mary, thanks for your time and for sharing your talent! Tell us a bit about yourself and your family.

A: Hi, Lisa. Thanks so much for having me. I grew up with three brothers, three sisters, and many pets (dogs, cats, hamsters, chickens, ducks, horses, cows) in the country (rural Virginia) and now live in our nation's capital (Washington, DC) with my husband, daughter, guinea pig and numerous fish. I've loved writing since I was a kid and was lucky to have parents who read aloud to us. I especially remember my father reading Black Beauty and nursery rhymes before bedtime and my mother bringing us to the public library every two weeks. We'd carry all our books in a big wicker laundry basket!

Q: Family Reunion tells the story of Jodie, a ten year old taking a trip to a meet extended family at a special reunion. The book's artwork, by Andrea Shine, is incredible. Please share with our readers how this book came about.

A: Writing the poems in Family Reunion gave me a chance to re-live the joyful gatherings of my childhood and to explore what made them deeply memorable--playing with cousins, hearing grandparents' stories, eating fun food like watermelon. My daughter, nieces and nephews all enjoy today's family reunions for the very same reasons. Family Reunion is also a lot a fun to talk about when I visit schools. Kids love to share and write about their own experiences--whether they gather at the beach, Disney World, or their grandparents' home and whether they eat hamburgers, mangoes or spicy adobo. Kids also like finding the collage treasures (leaves, letters, bits of pretty paper) illustrator Andrea Shine has hidden in her beautiful watercolors. (Check www.maryquattlebaum.com for information on Reunions, a national magazine, interested in publishing kids' stories, drawings and photos about their family reunions.)

Q: Family Reunion is unique in that it features a story, told through a variety of forms of poetry. What was your goal behind using poetry, as opposed to prose, to share your message?


A: Through poetry, I hoped to capture and quickly convey a reunion's emotional high points for a child: the initial shyness of "Getting There," the fun of connecting with cousins in "Cloud Visions" and "Lightning Bugs," the pleasure of cooking and eating together in "A Feast and Talk-Fest," the sadness of leaving in "Going Back" and "Letter to Nana." Also, as a kid, I had loved (and still do!) the incredible "language package" that is poetry, the way everything--metaphor, rhythm, image, sound--is heightened, the way each word, each mark of punctuation is important. Family Reunion includes different poetic forms (sonnet, haiku, ballad, free verse, etc.) to expand young readers' awareness of poetry--and encourage their own writing.

Q: How do themes of faith and family impact upon your writing?

A: I'm often unaware of larger themes when I write a book. When I get an idea, I'm so curious about the characters that my early drafts revolve around trying to stay true to their voices and to figure out what they want to do next. The themes must sort of creep in, I guess, while I'm writing.

Q: My boys and I loved your latest children's novel Jackson Jones and Mission Greentop, for its great story and its positive themes. Do you have plans for future additions to the Jackson Jones series? Why do you think kids are so drawn to Jackson?

A: I'm so glad your boys liked Jackson! I've heard from other young readers that they liked this character for his humor and the way he'd "keep trying" even when things got rough. Some kids have also said that they enjoyed the community garden setting. As to another Jackson Jones book, I'm delighted to report that a third book will be published in the next year or so.

Q: I'd be remiss if I didn't ask you about your wonderful classic, The Shine Man. Tell us about this story and its moral.

A: The Shine Man was inspired by my father's stories about growing up during the Depression, a time when many Americans lacked food, warm clothing and adequate shelter. Larry, a shoeshine man, moves from town to town, trying to find work. One snowy evening he makes a little Christmas ornament--a spoolie angel--from scraps and suddenly encounters a poorly dressed, mischievous boy who teases him for the toy. When Larry finally gives it to him, the child gives him a Christmas miracle. So the book is about the power of giving--even when there isn't much to give. For me, it's been so touching to see how children interpret the ending. After one reading, a little boy sat back and said with satisfaction, "Well, now Larry is an angel."

Q: Mary, I know that you do a lot of work with encouraging children to express themselves through writing. What can parents do to motivate their children to write and to share their ideas, hopes and dreams in story or poetry form?

A: Probably one of the best motivators for kids is the example of their own parents! Families might set aside time after holidays or vacations to organize photos and write a paragraph or so about the event. It's fascinating to see how differently each family member will remember the same event! And it's so much fun to re-read those pieces as the years pass and to see how handwriting, perceptions, etc., have changed.

For more information on books by Mary Quattlebaum visit http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/external-search?search-type=ss&tag=catholicmomcom&keyword=Quattlebaum%20Mary&mode=books

Lisa M. Hendey, wife, mother and webmaster of http://www.CatholicMom.com and http://www.ChristianColoring.com is an avid reader and writes from Fresno, California.

About the Author

Lisa M. Hendey, wife, mother and webmaster of http://www.CatholicMom.com and http://www.ChristianColoring.com is an avid reader and writes from Fresno, California.

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Poetry
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Bringing Creativity to Poetry
Author: Jake Rose

There are many factors that create poetry. There are many factors that create all types of writing. With a poem, not only do you have to focus on meaning and style of writing, you also have to deal with size and form. Some people choose to use already made and famous forms, such as a sonnet, while others prefer free styling it. Either way, there are plenty of creative ways to make the poem stand out even more.

This is all about adding something more visual to the poem, not about actually altering the writing. Though it may seem unimportant to some, bringing the poem out of just being a piece of writing and more into a visual art can really capture the feeling and expression in the poem and make the reader�s experience more enjoyable.

The simplest way is to add artwork. This is the simplest way because it doesn�t involve actually dealing with the poem, but rather just adding some images near it. Depending on if the poem is on a website or a page of a book can determine just exactly what type of images you want to add.

The most complex would be scenery that brings the imagery of the poem to life. This can be very helpful for longer poems, those of more epic proportions, and help strengthen a particular scene or moment in the piece. For a smaller, shorter poem, this can be overpowering and not necessary.

Smaller images, a sketch of a character or object, can be effective too. It can put emphasis on certain meanings and focus in the poem. The key here is to not go overboard. You don�t need an illustration for everything mentioned, but one per page or so can just compliment the piece enough.

There is also borders, headers, or similar types of images. These don�t at first glance really have to do with the poem, meaning that sometimes the items or designs in them are not even mentioned in the poem, but they can be visually stimulating and help express a certain feeling the poem is getting across. Lighter designs, like using objects like flowers, butterflies, stars, etc, can bring a happy or romantic poem to life, while darker designs, like using weapons, bones, scary eyes, etc, can bring a sad or scary poem to life.

Another thing to consider is adding color to the poem. It doesn�t necessarily have to be in the whole piece. Like all the other visuals, this is to compliment the poem, not to overpower it. The key is to use colors that benefit the poem, such as using blue for a water poem or a sad poem, red for a scary poem or a romantic poem, green for a nature poem, and so on. There are a few ways to add color effectively to a poem.

One is to emphasis repetitious lines, phrases, or words. Not only does it make it clearer that these are repeated, it also puts more dramatic effect to them.

There�s also using color to make patterns. Even subtle hints in color can create beautiful designs, weather it makes the poem looked striped or something well-known, or a completely different and unique design. Putting a few blue letters to create a swirl might just be the thing to make a water poem pop out of the page. Or maybe it is some browns and tan diamonds to emphasize the ruggedness of a mountain poem, or green spots to compliment a tree poem.

The third way to add creativity to a poem is to play with its form. This doesn�t necessarily have to effect its style so to say. This could be as simple as indenting a few lines and making the outline curvy. It could also be making the poem look like an object: a poem about butterflies shaped as a butterfly, a poem about water shaped as a drop of water, etc. This can be very unique for short and medium sized poems.

Even putting the poem into an abstract form, with sentence breaks and not following the rules of grammar and typical poetry, can provide something different. It doesn�t half to look like a real object, or look like a common poetry style. It can be your own unique and quirky form.

Poetry doesn�t need visual aids to make it powerful. Visual aids can however make the poem more than just a poem. It blends literature with art and not only shows the author�s other talents and creativity, but can make people think differently about how they view your writing. It�s not a bad thing to think outside of the box. It�s not a bad thing to think outside of the poem once in awhile.

Jake Rose is an artist and an author on http://www.Writing.Com/ which is a site for Fiction Writing.

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Antiquated Language In Poetry - The right choice for thee?
Author: Holly Bliss

My Creative Writing professor once passed out sheets of poetry. They were in pairs according to genre or topic of the poem. Our task was to pick the poem that had a greater depth to it. The �better� poem � not that the other poem was bad, by the way � and I chose correctly in every case, except one: the correct choice had antiquated language.

I can study period poetry that has antiquated language, that�s the way they spoke back then, but I have a real problem reading modern poetry that uses antiquated language. There are exceptions, but I�ll get into that in a minute.

Before anyone gets their britches in a bunch because they love their "forsooths," let�s go over some pros and cons.

Antiquated Language CONS

-Difficult to effectively communicate your message to your twenty-first century reader.

-Can seem lofty, as if the writer is trying to be something he/she is not and a portion of trust is lost between the reader and writer.

PRO Antiquated Language

-Adds voice to certain topics

-Can add a comedic effect (as a contrast to the subject matter, etc)

NOTE: these pros and cons can be said for things like: prolific profanity and slang, as well.

Read this poem written in 1849:

Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-1861)
Say not the Struggle nought Availeth

Say not the struggle nought availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not nor faileth,
And as things have been, things remain;

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers--
And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves vainly breaking
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright.

Roberts, Edgar V.. Literature, An Introduction To Reading and Writing. seventh. NJ: Pearson Prentice Hall, 2004.

While this is a great poem as is, it is much easier to understand the parts of this poem not peppered with antiquated language.

Now that I have you convinced you, you have decided to use antiquated language nevermore.

But wait!

There are pros listed up there. Don�t use it �because it sounds like good poetry.� Like any poetic device: If you use it, use it with purpose and on purpose.

2006 Holly Bliss. All Rights Reserved. This document may be freely redistributed in its unedited form and on the condition that all copyright references are kept intact along with the hyperlinked URLs.

About the Author: Using her writing as paint on the canvas of her life, Holly Bliss is an eclectic writer, newsletter editor and an author on http://www.Writing.Com/ which is a site for Poetry.

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An Ode to Morpheus
Author: Ambreen Ishrat
Another night and Morpheus has yet again to deliver my share of sleep and so I lie on my pillow, gazing at the ceiling fan, while the rest of the world is in deep slumber.

How I wish to have hypnotized myself to sleep as counting sheep never helps, nor does hot milk. The sandman's sand has also turned colourless. Another night it is when sleep deludes my weary eyes and my overactive brain refuses to stop dwindling on the scenes of the day that has just ended and another one has started silently.

Sleep - the boundary between the two days - is missing. What's the big deal, you must think, for every now and then, a sleepless night is quite a normal thing for everyone. But for some, this is an affliction that happens more often than usual. And what makes me hysterical is the feeling that on one such desperate night, you also tend to discover that you have run out of your emergency supply of sleeping pills. So much for my emergency-coping capabilities!

The value of sleep can only be known to an insomniac and the bliss that it brings to one who is weary in soul as well. For me, sleep is what always restores my sanity, which can wear off the effects of gruesome schedules, worries and complications. It is a happy escape into the land of Oz, where I can slip into for a few hours and then come back to the familiar worrisome and often irksome daily routine. The problems remain the same, but my ability to cope with them certainly increases thrice-fold. Pimples on the tired skin reduce, the sting of heartaches lessen and deadlines become graspable. Like a magical transformation, overnight my body gets charged with energy. The brain starts brimming with activated and regenerated neurons and I rise as a new person who takes upon the irksome hurdles of yesterday with horns and does away with them.

So silent seems the world around me that I can hear the beating of my own heart. My weary eyes start to roam and scan the length and breadth of the four corners of the room. This is my room, my heaven, my prison and my hell. The walls wear my solitude like trophies and silence curls on my bed and encapsulates me like a shroud, where I lie with my hands resting neatly by my sides. I lift the palm of my hand and feel my own breath at the back of my hand - to seek reassurance that I am still alive and this isn't the silence of the grave. And if that is not enough, my mind goes on speculating on and on as to why certain things happened. At night, my mind turns itself into a backyard cluttered with half-conceived and half-aborted ideas and plans that I keep on stumbling upon. All the wonderful ideas and resolutions which flit like bats in the nook and crannies of my mind fade away on seeing the light of day. The mind is also the graveyard of memories and remembrances, which are easily resurrected in the dead of the twelfth hour. As morbidity tries to seize me, I kick my sheet off and get up, wishing no more to wait upon sleep or revel in thoughts of the past, analysis of the day just gone by and pipe dreams of tomorrow.

The chill gets the better of me and for one moment, the warmth of my bed tempts me to snuggle back again. But the body refuses to lay in monotony anymore. My mind swiftly scans the possibility of activities that can help me to kill time or to induce sufficient tiredness, forcing me to lull me back to the peaceful sojourn of sleep. A book to read maybe, a long overdue letter that needs to be answered or I can hook on the net and explore the web. All options are considered and struck off one after another, as my tired body protests. Hence, I decide to just lie low and breathe the surrounding silence in and out.

I enviously think of those who are sound asleep in their beds. I even envy those who stay up late by choice and still manage to get along with their day-to-day routine just fine. The marvellous generation of 'night people' - a different genre. What do I have in common with them? It is during such strange moments of serenity and uncanny silence that the likes of Keats heard the voice of the nightingale and so transported himself to the realm of beyond, and Matthew Arnold contemplated upon the crisis of faith for the mortals. As for me, I stand as miserable and confused as ever, feeling stupid that I have exhausted my supply of sleeping pills. I am not up because I choose to. I don't have the luxury of getting up late. With bleary eyes and a puffy and exhausted face, I must brave the world. I must get up at the crack of dawn and return late into the afternoon. Feeling panicky, I start to pace around the room. I ransack my medicine box feverishly like an addict, for a pill that might have escaped my groping fingers and must be hiding in some corner. But none are to be found. I sigh, as I can do nothing else.

I switch on the side lamp and see the room come alive in a soft hue of light and shadows, adding a delightfully mysterious and cozy look to the walls and ceiling. So often I am struck with the feeling that at nighttime, all non-living things tend to exude a life of their own. The fridge hums and drones silently, the walls whisper and breathe, as the electricity running behind them slithers, twists and runs with defying swiftness. I peer out of the window on to the street which looks deserted and dark. The carcass of a dying and spent moon is briefly revealed by the passing clouds and then its darkness again. Crickets creak, a dog lets out a churlish howl and the moths feverishly encircle the solitary lamp posts on the street, until the night watchman whistles and everything turns still, but only for a moment and then the rhythm resumes. A car passes by on the street, a midnight rider, whose stereo blare heinously and ruins the perfect harmony of the night and silence. As he passes away, the dog howls loudly in protest.

The breeze at night feels so very gentle. A few dry leaves and the ubiquitous plastic bags are sucked up by the breeze and they start to dance in whirlwind motion. The breeze turns into a wind, which twirls the leaves round and round on the deserted road, around the lamp posts and finally spits them out in a corner and then carries on its ballet alone. I prick my ears. A low rustle! Then a moan. It is the wind again. And the wind does cry. I switch on to FM radio, hungry and desperate for a human voice. The radio hums and creaks as I set the bandwidth and finally sweet sounds of rhythm and blues start to emit, filling in my jarred senses with companionship and peace. So I listen on and on, silently humming and rocking myself to sooth the dull pain in my body. I take up a long-neglected poetry book. Hours pass till I finally hear a slight chirp and then another one. The FM station has gone silent ages ago and static emitting from the radio drones on.

I keep my book away. I have survived a night without my sleeping pills and the delicate sensation of yesterday sleeps on my eyelids. I blink softly, hoping not to loose any of it. The aurora is wakening; the reign of darkness lies in recession. It's dawn and I am still looking through yesterday's eyes, though weary but with the hope that I am stepping into a new day and whatever it might bring. I will tackle it and I will tackle it well because I am a survivor, if not anything else.

About the Author

The author is a 26 years old single female, hailing from Karachi, Pakistan. She has earned her masters degree in English Literature from the University of Karachi. Currently working as a content and creative writer at an IT firm, she dreams of pursuing a M. Phil degree in literature some day. Her hobbies include reading and writing. For feedback, comments or critique she can be reached at galatia2001@yahoo.com.

...

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A French Teacher's Memories: How to Ride Poetry
Author: Gabrielle Guichard

I have a confession to make, I do not like poetry very much. As a part of my French teacher's job was to explain French poetry, I tended to dispose of this part in as few lessons as possible. Of course, year after year, the method proved to be little sensible: the juniors could not understand a course run at university level and I had to explain everything twice.

Usually, when pupils do not understand, they get bored and begin to chat, to conduct experiments on how to fly a paper plane, and many other activities that have little in common with the subject of the lesson.

Once, mine prefered to pretend to be riding a motorbike. Their arms were stretched out in front of them, their hands were clutching the handlebars and they were leaning to right or left, depending on the bend they had to take. It was a ballet, though it was danced by sitting people (and rather monotonous). At least, it was highly rhythmic.

I recognized this rhythme, even if it was the first time I "saw" it. It was Victor Hugo's verse rhythm. I flipped through my textbook quickly, to find a poem by Victor Hugo (you are sure there is at least one in any French textbook).

"Roar your motorbike to page xx and read in rhythm" I told them.

They read. Thanks to this ride, I was able to show them the significance of the rhythm in Victor Hugo's poetry. It was not an explanation, but I kept the control of the situation; it was not so bad a result.

Gabrielle Guichard, a French teacher who teaches French online in a Virtual Classroom.

...

Poetry

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An Ode to Morpheus

Author: Ambreen Ishrat

Another night and Morpheus has yet again to deliver my share of sleep and so I lie on my pillow, gazing at the ceiling fan, while the rest of the world is in deep slumber.

How I wish to have hypnotized myself to sleep as counting sheep never helps, nor does hot milk. The sandman's sand has also turned colourless. Another night it is when sleep deludes my weary eyes and my overactive brain refuses to stop dwindling on the scenes of the day that has just ended and another one has started silently.

Sleep - the boundary between the two days - is missing. What's the big deal, you must think, for every now and then, a sleepless night is quite a normal thing for everyone. But for some, this is an affliction that happens more often than usual. And what makes me hysterical is the feeling that on one such desperate night, you also tend to discover that you have run out of your emergency supply of sleeping pills. So much for my emergency-coping capabilities!

The value of sleep can only be known to an insomniac and the bliss that it brings to one who is weary in soul as well. For me, sleep is what always restores my sanity, which can wear off the effects of gruesome schedules, worries and complications. It is a happy escape into the land of Oz, where I can slip into for a few hours and then come back to the familiar worrisome and often irksome daily routine. The problems remain the same, but my ability to cope with them certainly increases thrice-fold. Pimples on the tired skin reduce, the sting of heartaches lessen and deadlines become graspable. Like a magical transformation, overnight my body gets charged with energy. The brain starts brimming with activated and regenerated neurons and I rise as a new person who takes upon the irksome hurdles of yesterday with horns and does away with them.

So silent seems the world around me that I can hear the beating of my own heart. My weary eyes start to roam and scan the length and breadth of the four corners of the room. This is my room, my heaven, my prison and my hell. The walls wear my solitude like trophies and silence curls on my bed and encapsulates me like a shroud, where I lie with my hands resting neatly by my sides. I lift the palm of my hand and feel my own breath at the back of my hand - to seek reassurance that I am still alive and this isn't the silence of the grave. And if that is not enough, my mind goes on speculating on and on as to why certain things happened. At night, my mind turns itself into a backyard cluttered with half-conceived and half-aborted ideas and plans that I keep on stumbling upon. All the wonderful ideas and resolutions which flit like bats in the nook and crannies of my mind fade away on seeing the light of day. The mind is also the graveyard of memories and remembrances, which are easily resurrected in the dead of the twelfth hour. As morbidity tries to seize me, I kick my sheet off and get up, wishing no more to wait upon sleep or revel in thoughts of the past, analysis of the day just gone by and pipe dreams of tomorrow.

The chill gets the better of me and for one moment, the warmth of my bed tempts me to snuggle back again. But the body refuses to lay in monotony anymore. My mind swiftly scans the possibility of activities that can help me to kill time or to induce sufficient tiredness, forcing me to lull me back to the peaceful sojourn of sleep. A book to read maybe, a long overdue letter that needs to be answered or I can hook on the net and explore the web. All options are considered and struck off one after another, as my tired body protests. Hence, I decide to just lie low and breathe the surrounding silence in and out.

I enviously think of those who are sound asleep in their beds. I even envy those who stay up late by choice and still manage to get along with their day-to-day routine just fine. The marvellous generation of 'night people' - a different genre. What do I have in common with them? It is during such strange moments of serenity and uncanny silence that the likes of Keats heard the voice of the nightingale and so transported himself to the realm of beyond, and Matthew Arnold contemplated upon the crisis of faith for the mortals. As for me, I stand as miserable and confused as ever, feeling stupid that I have exhausted my supply of sleeping pills. I am not up because I choose to. I don't have the luxury of getting up late. With bleary eyes and a puffy and exhausted face, I must brave the world. I must get up at the crack of dawn and return late into the afternoon. Feeling panicky, I start to pace around the room. I ransack my medicine box feverishly like an addict, for a pill that might have escaped my groping fingers and must be hiding in some corner. But none are to be found. I sigh, as I can do nothing else.

I switch on the side lamp and see the room come alive in a soft hue of light and shadows, adding a delightfully mysterious and cozy look to the walls and ceiling. So often I am struck with the feeling that at nighttime, all non-living things tend to exude a life of their own. The fridge hums and drones silently, the walls whisper and breathe, as the electricity running behind them slithers, twists and runs with defying swiftness. I peer out of the window on to the street which looks deserted and dark. The carcass of a dying and spent moon is briefly revealed by the passing clouds and then its darkness again. Crickets creak, a dog lets out a churlish howl and the moths feverishly encircle the solitary lamp posts on the street, until the night watchman whistles and everything turns still, but only for a moment and then the rhythm resumes. A car passes by on the street, a midnight rider, whose stereo blare heinously and ruins the perfect harmony of the night and silence. As he passes away, the dog howls loudly in protest.

The breeze at night feels so very gentle. A few dry leaves and the ubiquitous plastic bags are sucked up by the breeze and they start to dance in whirlwind motion. The breeze turns into a wind, which twirls the leaves round and round on the deserted road, around the lamp posts and finally spits them out in a corner and then carries on its ballet alone. I prick my ears. A low rustle! Then a moan. It is the wind again. And the wind does cry. I switch on to FM radio, hungry and desperate for a human voice. The radio hums and creaks as I set the bandwidth and finally sweet sounds of rhythm and blues start to emit, filling in my jarred senses with companionship and peace. So I listen on and on, silently humming and rocking myself to sooth the dull pain in my body. I take up a long-neglected poetry book. Hours pass till I finally hear a slight chirp and then another one. The FM station has gone silent ages ago and static emitting from the radio drones on.

I keep my book away. I have survived a night without my sleeping pills and the delicate sensation of yesterday sleeps on my eyelids. I blink softly, hoping not to loose any of it. The aurora is wakening; the reign of darkness lies in recession. It's dawn and I am still looking through yesterday's eyes, though weary but with the hope that I am stepping into a new day and whatever it might bring. I will tackle it and I will tackle it well because I am a survivor, if not anything else.

About the Author

The author is a 26 years old single female, hailing from Karachi, Pakistan. She has earned her masters degree in English Literature from the University of Karachi. Currently working as a content and creative writer at an IT firm, she dreams of pursuing a M. Phil degree in literature some day. Her hobbies include reading and writing. For feedback, comments or critique she can be reached at galatia2001@yahoo.com.

...