Trapped in the Pages of Insanity

Our first fiction assignment was to write a flash fiction piece - something short and to the point.  The added element is we had to include something referred to as a "trope" - a singular object, idea, etc around which the action in the piece revolves.  Suggestions for locations included a yard sale, so I started thinking about a yard sale gone wrong.

This was what flowed from my fingertips, sitting in class...

Trapped in the Pages of Insanity

 

 



The sun, burning through the early morning fog, cut the chill like a barber’s razor.  Grass crunched under heavy feet, dew glistening like diamonds.

The tattered remains of a former life scattered the lawn on rickety wooden tables.  Brightly colored plastic, smooth glazed ceramics, and tarnished metal beckoned like the perfume of a beautiful woman.

Among the broken toys and tattered clothing, he saw something – something as beautiful as it was terrible.  He’d been looking for this book for years, and here it was – tossed aside like garbage.

His fingers gingerly brushed the cover, cool to the touch… jagged along a torn edge.  He lifted it, the smell of paper, ink, and dust – a heady aroma to any bibliophile – assaulted his senses and touched parts of him he’d thought long dead.

He must have it!

Setting the book down, he reached for his wallet.  He checked for cash and, elated with his find, went to grab his treasure again.

It was gone!

He looked around, wild eyed and panicked.  He must have it!  Where’d it go?

A woman walked away from him, something in her hands.

“Give it to me,” he shouted.

She looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

“I just found it!  You can’t take it!”

She shook her head and turned to leave.

He ran, tackling her from behind and knocking her to the ground.

“I have to have it!”  His eyes, glazed with adrenaline, bulged from his face.

He ripped it out of her hands, only to find his treasured book was a lunchbox the lady had just bought.

He rolled off her, defeated… depressed…

He laid there, looking up at a clear blue sky.  In the distance, flashing lights and sirens grew closer.

As soon as he escaped again, he’d find his precious book…

His prize…

His treasure…

… that part of his soul he’d lost so long ago to the ravages of time and insanity.

Petroglyph

This poem is another which flowed from the Walk and Write at the UAF Museum of the North.  The first exhibit I saw were these petroglyphs recreated on large, smooth river stones.  I sat in the floor, running my hands over the stones, letting my fingers dip into the carvings, and immediately had to write.

This is what I wrote (it has not been edited or rewritten):

Petroglyph

 

River stone
Washed smooth over the
Course of a millennia,
Rough edges eroded to
Reveal the heart

Chosen not by size or color,

Not by location or age
But by emotion…
Intuition…
Insight…
Hope.

Excess stone chipped and chiseled,

Piece by piece,
Like paint flaking in the sun.

Hands move carefully…

Deliberately…
Guided by the ghosts of
Those gone before
Until a shape is clear.

Cast in pale relief from a dark shell,

The tale is told, the story sung,
A myth made real in the face of that
River stone.

Re:

Poetry surrounds us in all forms.  A common theme in some poetry is starting with a question or idea while yet another common element is repetition of an idea, object, etc.

This assignment was to write a poem beginning with the line "I'd like to begin again" and, within the poem, we had to have some repetition. 

This was also our first wild word assignment.  My word was splices.

The thought with which I was immediately struck was how some people in internet chat rooms simply say "re," if another chatter has disconnected and quickly rejoined.  This is the poem that flowed from that idea.

Re:

 

I’d like to begin again…

Rewind

          to that first moment
Reset
          the clock to zero hour
Reboot
          the CPU which splices memory
Rearrange
          circumstances, fate, chance

Yes, I’d like to begin again…

Recognize

          moments too precious to waste
Reembark
          on that path leading to my future
Reform
          my opinion of time, of choice
Rebuild
          my sense of me

We should be allowed to begin again.

Turn Back Time

Studying poetry forms, we read one type of poem where the content is pure supposition.  Our assignment was to write a poem like that.

This was also a wild word assignment.  My word was smoke-filled.

Turn Back Time

 

Suppose you could turn back time –
Dispel those smoke-filled echoes
Of a memory,
A hallucination of regret
Which causes a fear…
A fear beyond comfort.

Suppose you could rewind your life –

Erase the mistakes made until,
Once again,
You stand alone in a
Fragment of nothingness.

Suppose futurity no longer

Teemed with endless destruction –
A future where the righteous and
Unrighteous alike were
Consumed…
Consumed in an eternal fire with
An air of breathless intensity.

Leaving an Unforgettable Mark

This was an interesting assignment.  We were talking about music and poetry, and we read some poems that revolved around music at their cores.

The assignment was to write a poem that centered around music - whether it was an actual song or if it was something like the birds in the trees or the call of whales.

Leaving an Unforgettable Mark

 

Surrounds by chaos,
Swallowed in the mists of the time,
Someone plays my song.

The first few notes

Pierce the miasma,
Taking me back again

Hot, humid, almost holy

Summer sun’s sweltering stare
Streams through clouded windows

Sitting in the back pew,

Exchanging glances and notes,
His hand brushing mine

Silently laughing at a

Shared joke, a thought
Meant to entertain

First blush of love

At the height of youth –
Naïve, trusting, fleeting

Struck down by distance –

The miles, the years –
Before the bud could bloom

Left with the memories of

A summer romance in
The innocence of childhood.

All that’s left?  A wistful smile

Echoed in the refrains for
My son of a preacher man.

A Night to Remember

This poetry assignment was really a very fun one.  We'd read emotional poetry capped off with love poems that were more about the stupid things we do for love.

Our assignment was to write such a love poem - possibly from the point of view of a particular character or figure we know. 

This was also a "wild word" poem.  My wild word was nuzzled.  All I could see in my mind's eye when I pulled that word was a man, romantically nuzzling his date's neck - only to choke because her long hair got caught in his mouth.

For some reason, with the instructions and the mental image my word conjured, all I could think of was what Mr. Bean might do on a date.

This poem is the result.

A Night To Remember

 

He planned a night to remember…

Dinner for two, picnic-style,

In front of a fire
To fan the flames of desire.

Dessert for two,

Rich, sweet, creamy
To heighten the senses.

Romantic movie on TV,

Sitting together in the dark
Alone.

He planned a night to remember…

Feet tangling in the blanket

Moved too close to the flames,
Starting to smoke.

Strawberry mousse with cream

Remaining untouched –
Pesky allergies, you know.

Video broken – scratched and warped

Nuzzling her neck,
Only to choke on her hair.

 

It was a night to remember.

 

Pillar of Strength

Part of the exhibits in the UAF Museum of the North is prehistoric mammoth & mastodon bones and teeth.  There's a femur bone you're allowed to touch, so, during our Walk and Write, I spent time just studying it; running my hands over it to feel the textures; enjoying the way the bone and the history both gelled in my head.

This poem is a result of the time spent with that femur bone.

Pillar of Strength

Strong yet hollow

It stands the ravages of time

An outer face,

Once pale and unblemished,
Darkens…
     Cracks…
          Chips.

Smooth from wind and rain

Preserved by Nature

A supporting character –

Just a part of the whole –
Unlocking history

Fragile,

     Easily broken

Indestructible,

     Resisting pressure

Beaded

This is another poem inspired during my "Walk and Write" at the UAF Museum of the North.  I spent probably ten minutes just studying pieces of Alaskan Native bead work.  The intricate details, the patterns, the amount of effort that goes into any piece...

It was definitely inspiring.

Beaded

 

Tanned hands

Stiff with arthritis
Yet fingers still nimble

Deftly, deliberately

Needle darts, moving like a
Hummingbird.

Soft, supple hide

Rolls in the hand,
A natural, worthy campus.

Gossip shared, news delivered

Politics discussed
Friendships rekindled

Functional, ceremonial

The labor of love worn
Distinguished and powerful

Davis Soccer Fields Complex

Our poetry assignment on our fourth day was to write a haibun.  This is a form of poetry that combines a haiku with short prose.  The prose can either come before (traditional) or after, but you must have both elements in this form.

Our assignment was to write a haibun about somewhere we'd walk.  Since this was the day after spending five hours at different soccer games, it was no wonder I chose the soccer fields as my inspiration.

Davis Soccer Fields: A Haibun



The grass is mottled, colors changing from green to yellow to brown and black again.  Small cylindrical plugs of grass layered with rich dirt lay scattered about like forgotten toy soldiers.  The air, all at once, is chaotic yet quiet – a moment of solitude in a sea of cacophony as you cross each grid.

The complex is a place of life… of fun… of youth… of sport.  Colorful white lines of tacky spray paint mark the unforgiving, unrelenting borders you dare not cross lest you yield position to your foe.

Uniforms ready

Feet forward to attack

Black and white missiles fly

Who Walked Here

This workshop has been excellent for generating new ideas.  During the first week, we took an afternoon to do something called a "Walk and Write" at the University of Alaska Fairbanks Museum of the North.  During a Walk and Write, the idea is just to look around and, whenever you feel inspired, write about what you see or how you feel or how something makes you feel, etc.

This poem was inspired by an exhibit in the old part of the museum that outlines the six geographical areas of Alaska.  The exhibit has a small brown bear and a bald eagle on it and, in front where the placard explaining the exhibit is, there is a plaster mold (dyed to look like hardened mud) of several different footprints from Alaskan animals.  The footprints part is called "Who Walked Here" and it is explaining which footprint belongs to which animal.

I sat in the floor, in front of that exhibit, running my hands over the contours and roughness of the footprints, feeling the valleys where thick pads dug into soft soil and the sharp peaks that formed between toes.

This poem is the result of that time.

Who Walked Here

 

Footprints

A memory made in malleable clay
Set hard by sun and heat

A moment

Bright and fleeting
Caught forever like a fly in amber

The shapes

Sharp peaks and soft valleys
Mimic the landscape.

Their tale

A well worn path freed of brush
That shows their struggle.

Footprints

A snapshot depicting the life
The journey of a land long ago.

The Funeral

This was one of the first poetry assignments we had in this creative writing workshop.  We were talking about memories and read different poems where the memories revolved around a scene in a kitchen.

Our assignment was to write a poem about a scene in a kitchen.  We had to include some heat source, something dead, something green, and a female of some sort - and we were not allowed to show up in the poem.

The Funeral

 

Baked in the Easter heat of

An early desert summer,
The kitchen is crowded and warm,
Perfumed with the
Inviting aroma of her favorites
Masking the unforgettable
Malodorous musk of a
Surprised skunk.

They stand together

Talking…
Laughing…
Hugging…
Crying…

Memories made over

A handful of recipe cards;
Tales traded over the
Cordial cacophony of
Clattering cast iron lids.

The tables and counters are full –
Full of food…
Full of love…
Fully of sorrow…
Full of family

Still they cook –

Aunts, nieces, cousins, friends –
Cultivating the memories of her as
Grandma once did her roses.

A Field Guide to the Dragonfly

Again, this poem is another assignment from my creative writing workshop.  This assignment was to write a poem with a list.  And, once again, my brain went immediately to the dragonfly and part of an assignment from the previous day.

The assignment was specific about the title.  It had to be "A Short History of ______", "A Field Guide to the _________", or "The Industry of __________".  Hence the title...

A Field Guide to the Dragonfly

 

Low comforting buzz of wings
Slicing through the air in an acrobatic ballet
Vividly verdant
Awesomely azure
Wings,
Clear as Caribbean waters
Lined in an intricate weave of
Veins as golden as an Autumn sunset.

Scurries
Dipping
Weaving
Turning
Diving
Pulling up at the last moment before an
Unseen foe can jump

Graceful

Beautiful
Soft lines and
Delicate daintiness
A ballet dancer moving in a
Primal performance choreographed
In the mists of time.

Snake's Servant

A little background on this piece before you read it.  I've been in a creative writing workshop for two weeks, working on mastering different forms of writing.  One of the emphases in this workshop daily is exploring different forms of poetry.  This poem was written for an assignment on a form of poetry called Via Negativa.  You can play with the form and actually list things the item about which you're writing is NOT or, as I did (inspired by a poem called The Hand), write about what the object or idea IS by saying it is not that quality.

Another complication to writing this poem was we had to choose what our instructor calls a "wild word".  Before the instruction begins, we're given a slip of paper on which we are to write a single word.  Each slip is thrown into a bowl and we choose one at random.  On this day, my wild word was innocence.

The poem itself was very painful for me until a very fluid, beautiful line formed in my head, inspired by the dragonflies I'd been watching during the soccer games I attend on Mondays and Wednesdays.  From there, using descriptions of the dragonfly and bits & pieces from myths written about dragonflies, I was able to write a poem of which I am proud.



Snake's Servant


Neither graceful nor lithe,
Not propelled on wings of
Spider silk spun stained glass,
The dragonfly is neither dragon nor fly
Nor airborne acrobat,
Swirling and tumbling,
Never crashing,
Never ceasing.

Not prey,

Not toothy predator,
Neither overly large
Nor damselfly small,
The dragonfly does not fly
Nor does it scurry across water,
Exhibiting primal power...
     Presence...
          Poise.

The dragonfly does not

Measure the worth of a human soul,
Guilt or innocence,
Good or evil,
In the single stroke of
Startlingly self-clarity.

The dragonfly is not summer.

It is not autumn,
Neither prosperity...
     Potency...
          Purity.
It does not harmoniously hover
Just above the curves and
Contours of imagination.

The dragonfly is...

Nothing yet
Everything
For its very essence is the
Fluidity of cosmic, karmic change.

Night's Darkest Hour

Dark, quiet, air so cold
Evening hour growing old
Zephyr's breath howl and moan
Here I sit, all alone
Distant stars gazing down
Form my melancholy crown
In the midst of blackest night
Desolate, desperate - a ghastly sight!
Winter's chill does kiss my skin
Frosts my soul from within
Midnight hour seems so bleak
When the heart still does seek

Ghosts

A fear beyond
All possibility of comfort.
A monster devouring with
A thousand salivating mouths;
Trampling, kicking with
A thousand, cloven hooves.
Ghosts' shrieks invade -
Haunt our souls -
Dramatically persistent like
Roadside beggars -
Dirty, unkempt, angry,
Loud... fatal.
Monsters, my dear, are real.
Ghosts are quite real too.
Living inside us -
Cold, ominous, starving;
Possessing our spirits with
Bloodied eyes and
Desperation so thick, so cloying -
Permeating like grandma's Chantily,
Coating your lips... nose... tongue...
Until you cannot breathe.

Metamorphosis

Cocooned.
Grief walled around you,
Wrapping you in silken strands of
Despair, depression, and doubt.
You wear this shell,
Not knowing how to go on
With such a hole left in your life.

Time passes and
You begin to shift,
To stretch within your bleakness
You test the integrity of
This grey prison
Looking for just one weak thread -
The thread that will save you.

A crack emerges,
Allowing light to peek through -
To illuminate the corners of
Your heart, mind, and soul.
A softness falls upon your face,
Warming emotions long since
Grown hollow, cold.

A hole is broken open and
You blink, hesitantly.
This world is not
The one you'd left,
This world is full of light.
This world is full of peace.
This world is full of love and compassion.

You break out of this hardened shell,
Stretching like a new born deer;
Your grief replaced with reminiscing;
Your despair replaced with hope;
Your depression lifted on
The wings of cherubs,
Clearing your doubts.

Spreading newly grown wings,
Your heart soars with memories -
Old and new; good and bad -
Taking to the great heights
You've always been destined to reach,
Supported by those who have
Come before.

You emerge, no longer the same.
Wiser, older, stronger, positive,
You are more prepared to
Continue down your life's path,
Never forgetting how you got here
But richer for the journey
Butterfly.