Dept. of Creation

Monday, 13 January 2025 09:14 am
kaffy_r: Isha, child from Arcane S02, with miner's hat (Isha with miner's hat)
How Does a Poem Happen?

Back in the 1990s, oh, so long ago, I wrote a fair amount of poetry for myself; not many pieces and most of them short, but they did come into being.  Since that time, I haven't written much poetry, if any.

If I had to guess why, I'd say it's because I was putting my creative* efforts into my growing fic output - certainly that was the case after 2006 brought me the revised Doctor Who. But that's only one reason. I think I also lost the urge to write poetry. I can't really parse why and it probably doesn't matter, even if the analytical portion of my brain continues to gnaw at that like a dog does a bone.

The urge hasn't died completely, though, and recently it appears to have awakened from its slumber. In the most recent itration of winter weather here in Chicago, I found myself looking at the melting and freezing snow on the ground outside my windows. It's a common thought for me, one that invites meditation on the nature of micro topographies.

There's nothing in my head that tries to link that topography to the human condition, or to my condition, and perhaps that's why my thoughts haven't previously come together to create poetry. Then again, there's one thing I've learned - finally, and you'd think it would have dawned on me far earlier - is that poetry is about what one writes about and not necessarily about the human condition. (Really, I should have connected the dots far, far earlier, given my appreciation of poetry I've read and appreciated or loved.)

Now that it's dawned on me that this imagery is enough in and of itself to work with, I find myself wondering about how other folks handle their poetry creation process.  What do you do, how do you think about what you write about, and how do you integrate imagery of any kind into your work?


* A brief detour into grouchy grammarian country. When the hell did the world start nouning the adjective "creative" when the perfectly good noun "creator" is standing there? Yes, yes, the OED says the adjective got nouned in the early 1900s. All that tells me is that there were language ignoramuses back then as well. And yes, this is a hill I will die on.

*walks away, grumbling about her missing carpet slippers.*

Dept. of Old Poetry

Tuesday, 27 August 2024 10:38 am
kaffy_r: Animation of a Ghibli film scene, water rolling into shore. (Anoesis)
The Sun, My Lord, the Sun

After my last post, I checked the current temperature. At 10:40 a.m., in my neighborhood, the mercury stands at 95F, with a heat index of 111F. Not that pretty at all. It's supposed to ease after today, but I'll believe that when I experience it.

So I thought it appropriate to share a poem I wrote 29 years ago, in the wake of Chicago's disastrous 1995 summer heat wave, which killed somewhere between 425 and 719 people, depending on what source you check. It also killed our cat Rissa. My late friend Nick absolutely loathed hot weather, which he defined as anything over 65F, so I wrote the poem in his honor (and a bit in Rissa's honor as well.)

***   ***   ***


***   ***   ***   ***

Read more... )
The storms, spawned like mosquitos in the Gulf,
reached up and embraced us with heat this summer.
The dirty air lay over us, unable to rise.
The buildings labored and moaned to keep us cool
in the merciless downtowns.
We hated our clothing, hated our skins,
bathed uselessly.
We knew our sweat.
The air was thick with oil and garbage,
the effluvia of days that refused to end.
We woke to heat, walked in heat,
sank in it.
It defeated us.
We hid in airless caves, prayed for sundown.
Humid night followed cruel day and we were like children,
looking for kindness,
rewarded with nothing but another storm lingering on the lake's horizon.
Betrayed and bitter,
we leaned on our horns in the clotted intersections.
We clenched our fists
and closed our eyes.
We tasted stale salt on our upper lips,
slammed against the shimmering air, against each other
in realized desperation.
If the cool air had not surprised us,
the northern winds of final, blessed fall —
if the winds had not thinned our blood so that it ran in our veins again....
If we had not been able to breathe again,

we would have succumbed
and walked into the lake,
leaving empty streets echoing with the whine and snap of
useless air conditioners.

to Nick, October 1, 1995
kaffy_r: Twelve in shadow, with fire and sparks behind (Twelve in power)
Chicago, Summer, 1995

Back in 1995, Chicago suffered through a five-day heat wave that killed more than 700 people, a majority of them old, poor, and people of color. Almost 30 years later, a lot has changed in terms of the city's response to heat. But we still have many of the systemic problems that exacerbated the tragedy. And now we are dealing with a climate crisis that could make the Anthropocene the final hurrah for humans. 

Last week, Chicago experienced two days where the heat topped 100F (37.8C) in some neighborhoods, with heat indexes hitting 120F (48.9C). I'm not aware of any deaths, which would be a blessing. And our heat was certainly less dire than elsewhere in the U.S. or around the world. 

Still, we kept our blinds down and our curtains drawn for both days. The one time I headed outside, to take garbage to our dumpsters, I was staggered by how hot it was; certainly worse than I'd experienced for years - possibly since July of 1995, when the heat helped kill my cat, Rissa. 

Once the temps dropped (they're really lovely right now. We've been able to turn off the AC and open the windows the last couple of days), I started thinking of that time, and remembered a poem I wrote for my dear heat-hating friend Nick. 

In (dubious) honor of last week's heat, and the likelihood that we'll see more and more destructive summer heat, here's the poem. 

***   ***   ***   ***

kaffy_r: The TARDIS at Giverny (TARDIS at Giverny)
Relearning Poetry

I have written poetry in my time; mostly blank verse and the occasional ABABADADEE sonnet, including this one.

It's been years, though; my creative juices appear to have most recently watered my fanfic rather than poetry. And by "most recently" I mean thelast few years.

But somewhere in the copious spare time I had between reading the increasingly long, monstrously fluffy and feathery reply strings below my Oct. 6 Good Omens post and trying to keep up with daily work, I read a post by maia, in which she wished someone would write a Good Omens poem, one done in terza rima, with alternating trochaic and iambic tetrameter.

Oddly, this post (which read to me in large part like phrasing in a foreign language) coincided with my own growing desire to a) start writing poetry again and b) learn more about formal types of poetry, particularly sonnets.

She suggested I look for Stephen Fry's book 'The Ode Less Traveled: Unlocking the Poet Within." On a whim, I decided to check Chicago's library system and sure enough it was there. So I have it for a couple of weeks, and I'll take a dive into it. On the other hand, I'm also trying to take a dive into the scholarly review of fandom's creative works culture, and that's not going very fast. We shall see. Still, it's an interesting feeling to want to challenge myself. 

Dept. of Poetry

Thursday, 21 March 2019 01:55 pm
kaffy_r: Umbrella's, figure rise in a field; from Magritte? (umbrellas rise)
Today is World Poetry Day

I haven't written poetry in a long time; I'm not sure why. Years ago, I wrote more. Because it's World Poetry Day, and because next month is National Poetry Month, I went back to look for something to share, something I've done occasionally over the years.

So here, have this, because what I wrote in my last post reminded me of the ones I love.

Underneath )
kaffy_r: Joe Hill's last words - "Don't mourn; organize." (Joe Hill)
Things What I Have Done Lately

1. Had (yet another) bout of back pain. Luckily, not major spasms; unluckily, it hurts when I sit at my desk, to type. Which is, you know, my job. Back to the exercises, silly woman!
2. Seen "The Shape of Water," which I thought was close to a masterpiece. I read a very good piece on tor.com by Elsa Sjunneson-Henry, on why she was disappointed by it. She has some valid points to ponder, worth lowering my defensive "but ... but!"s and listening to. Still, I can't help it; I still think it's close to a masterpiece. Perhaps, had del Toro thought about some of the things that she brought up, it might have been even closer to one. Still ... close ....
3. Been put under even more pressure at work. It's painful to talk about, so I won't do it here. Just send me good vibes. I've been down about it, but I want to get up. 
4. Worried about BB. He is my rock, and my beloved, and I wish I could do so much more for him than I can. 
5. Made hotel reservations for FB's June wedding. Less than five months away ... it's still weird to me; I keep joking (not joking) about how he and Miss Em need to elope, dammit, but this is what she wants. And that's important. And now I have to think about weird-ass Middle American things like buying a mother-of-the-groom dress in the right color. Their wedding colors are teal and orange. Teal and orange. Sweet lord.
6. I found a copy of "Coastlines:The Poetry of Atlantic Canada" and ordered it. I bought a copy several years ago, and then lost track of my copy, and desperately wanted another. The two times I went back to Canada after buying my original copy resulted in fruitless searches. So off to Amazon I went, and I got it, and immediately turned to my favorite poems. And then FB told me today that he had my copy. Heh. 
7. Other things I shall probably remember when I am in bed. 


Dept. of Spring

Saturday, 29 April 2017 04:38 pm
kaffy_r: Animation of a Ghibli film scene, water rolling into shore. (Anoesis)
It's Still National Poetry Month

McCormick Boulevard )

Dept. of Remembrance

Saturday, 29 April 2017 02:53 pm
kaffy_r: The star poet from the SJ Adventures (Star poet)
Treblinka

It's almost the end of National Poetry Month. I'd meant to post this on Yom HaShoah. 

kaffy_r: The TARDIS says hello (Kiki dreams)
For [personal profile] merrymaia 

Because she reminded me that I once upon a time wrote poetry, and because she loves the outdoor world more than I do. 

What they said to me, what I learned )
kaffy_r: (We used to dream)
  photo fb3cd480-2f3f-4212-87a0-472a9271dbf6_zps3tzojemf.png

The New Colossus

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. 
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
Emma Lazarus
kaffy_r: Eleven is blue inside the blue TARDIS (Blue Eleven)
Story: Sonnet for Canaan
Author: [personal profile] kaffy_r
Characters:
The Doctor, the TARDIS and the rest of us
Rated: Gen
Word Count: 289, per Google docs
Edited by: unedited; all mistakes are my own.
Summary: The Thief's not tame, but worth it nonetheless.
Author's Notes: This was written for [personal profile] canaan 's 2011 [livejournal.com profile] fandom_stocking. I am not a poet, god knows, and know only the bare minimum necessary to cobble together the most common type of sonnet. And yet it seemed best to me to talk about the rhapsody of loving Doctor Who in verse. I labored over this (which probably shows, and is no predictor of quality) but I hope it reflects at least a little of the love I hold for its multiplex subject, as well as the occasional awe in which I hold it.
Disclaimer: As much as I wish it were otherwise, no Whoniverse characters are mine. They are the sole properties of the BBC and their respective creators. I intend no copyright infringement, and take no coin. I do, however, love them all, and thank the BBC for letting me play in their sandbox.




Our lives are ruled by minutes, seconds, hours )
kaffy_r: Japanese building w/flowers on blue ground (Blue Nippon)
National Poetry Month

Others on my f'list have mentioned that April is National Poetry Month; a few have posted some of their favorite poems. I'd like to do that, too.

It sounds very simplistic to say "I love poetry," but sometimes saying something like this is simple, rather than simplistic.

I do love poetry. There are times that verse and blank verse can speak to us, or speak on our behalf to others, in a way that even the most eloquent prose can not. It can be rigorously intellectual, it can be an emotional tone poem, it can be transcendent and spiritual, it can tell us things we don't know, or have forgotten, or need to understand, about our world. It can be all of those things, and more.

Put simply (that concept again!), poetry can be a particularly rich and nutritious food for our hearts and our minds. It certainly is for me. There have been times, in fact, when it is more food for me than food. (Which is a horrible, horrible sentence.)

So, in honor of what poetry has taught me and given me, here is a poem by Alden Nowlan. He was born in 1933 in Windsor, Nova Scotia, just a few miles from where I grew up. He was primarily self-educated and a newspaperman, two more reasons I think he's awesome. He died in 1983, after having won the Governor General's Award for Poetry and a Guggenheim Fellowship, and having won a reputation for the marvelous gatherings of people that flocked regularly to his home.

This poem, "The Red Wool Shirt," is, I think, Nowlan at his best. This is the Maritimes in which I grew up, this is fishermen's lives, and he puts it together with just the right number of calm, clear-eyed, remorseless words.

 
I was hanging out my wash )
kaffy_r: The TARDIS says hello (River Alive)
Because There's Not Enough DW Poetry ...
... especially really good DW poetry - I recommend this short piece exploring the Doctor and River Song, gorgeous and evocative, by [livejournal.com profile] cosmiccoz . I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Weather or Not

Monday, 22 June 2009 11:43 pm
kaffy_r: The TARDIS says hello (idalek)
Simmer Time
I have a friend at work who loathes - usually with energetic and colorful expletives - weather in which the temperature rises above 50 degrees Fahrenheit. I  have another friend for whom the longest days of the year aren't complete until he has been able to bask in shimmering waves of 90-plus degree heat, like some gila monster spread out in happy torpor upon a flat desert rock.

If I tend to either end of the scale, it would have to be toward summer, because I have a distaste for winter that only a child forced to play in the snow because "it's good for you!" can muster. It's truly hard to appreciate the crisp and porcelain beauty of the season when one's wrists are wet and chapped with snow melted into uncomfortable ice pills inside one's mittens; when one's feet snap and ache with cold, and incipient chillblains.

Still, I must admit that coming to Chicago has changed me. Summers in Chicago are inevitably moist and oppressive - sweat-daubed and reeking with the fume-rich blanket of hot weather inversion that tans our particular urban skies too many days between Memorial Day and Labor Day.

In fact, ever since 1995, when a heat wave took hundreds of lives in Chicago*, (including my cat Rissa. Not, certainly, as tragic as the human victims, but a loss we mourned), summer has reminded me that spring and fall are really the only seasons I can truly love these days.

This is not to say that I don't occasionally still love summer. There's nothing like walking on a summer night and appreciating the cool and the summer stars. I also love barbecues, and I adore swimming, and those are most definitely summer time arts. But I don't get the chance to barbecue much these days, and I haven't been on a beach for decades. All of which is my own damned fault, but it does limit those few aspects of summer that I truly adore.

So why my anti-paean to hot and cold running weather?

Simple: I was reintroduced to Chicago summer today, caught in construction-clotted traffic in an AC-deficient car for oh, about a century at high noon, in 88 degree sunshine.

Oh, my, I do not like hot weather.

* This is how much that summer affected me.

It's poetry. You've been warned. )
kaffy_r: The TARDIS says hello (Bad Wolf)
In the interest of reminding myself that things can be beautiful, I found a poem I wrote a while back. It made me feel better, and, since I deluged you (deluged, get it? Get it? See, there was all this plumbing...never mind....) with my cranky maunderings, I'm going to take this chance to remind you that I'm sometimes less than cranky.

Night Rain

A screen, a gentle knock and stutter of rain.
Lightning announces itself silently,
low rumble on its heels coming in with the wind.
I can feel my skin.
Pinpoints, the space between them filled with night air
and the shine of dark wet sidewalk.
One story up, the smell of summer pavement hits me.
I breathe it into the spaces between my points.
Will my skin contain me?
The lightning glows over the lake
I sit very still

and expand into joy.


June-July, 1996

Profile

kaffy_r: The TARDIS says hello (Default)
kaffy_r

May 2025

S M T W T F S
    12 3
45 6 78910
11 121314151617
181920 2122 23 24
25 262728293031

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Wednesday, 28 May 2025 03:03 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios