mykuworld in memoriam board
Michael Jackson
From the outside, peering
through the veil, there
seemed a blend of deep
sadness & great joys.
In Memoriam
Your death means much to
one who never touched your
white gloved hand caressing
hearts with heady song.
Farah Fawcett
Farah Fawcett portrayed
women who struggled;
imprisoned by sexism,
she set them & us free.
Tapping memories can lead to poetry or prose. You can use them to write about what was real to you, and you can turn your memories into memories of your characters in fiction. This week, three very famous performers died. Ed McMahon's and Farah Fawcett's deaths were anticipated, Michael Jackson's was sudden and surprising. All three contributed to our world through the media.
Today, I am most struck by Farah Fawcett's life, and her dying time. As one of Charlie's Angels, she chose to act in the role of a strong woman who worked, and had men and women in her life as close friends. It was very unusual- a feminist role in many ways. Her film career also included complex female roles. She used her fame to fight for women's safety. She also publicized her fight with cancer, helping uncounted others to face their illnesses, and supporting research. She lived well.
If Farah Fawcett's story resonates with you, go read the blogs and comments from her fans. Take notes about how people feel, read her bio and film history on IMDB, and listen to people talk about her. Start a list of what you know and of questions you would like answered - the things you can't find. See if that leads you to a poem. Some poems are lists, sometimes the list is enhanced with adjectives and adverbs, sometimes, the story takes a longer, larger poetic form.
Michael Jackson's story is so complex it may seem hard to begin to write, but do the same thing. Explore how others feel and take note of the words they use to express those feelings. Listen to his music on pandora or youtube. Make those lists again. You may need to write several poems that touch on different aspects of who he was. One long poem may be way to complex. One way to tell if you need a different poem or a different verse is when you can't make a statement in your poem work - just doesn't go together right. This usually means you are trying to say too much in one sentence or one poem. Simplify.
Today, what you write may be to honor the dead, and to connect to others who also feel the loss. One day, you might use the knowledge and work to create fictional characters who may either be like those you memorialize, or may share your memories.
mykuworld In Memoriam
Katherine A Minden ©2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Competitions for Your Poetry - Walt Whitman Award
The Walt Whitman Award is posted on poetry.org.
The award is for a first book of poetry of at least 40 pages. The book will receive publication of at least 500 copies. There is a cash prize of $5000, and a one-month residency at the Vermont Studio Center, and incredibly beautiful studio in Johnson, Vermont.
Submission is between 9/15/2009 and 11/15/2009. Entry fee is $25.00.
I know at least two poets who are going to get their manuscripts together to enter - join us!!
The award is for a first book of poetry of at least 40 pages. The book will receive publication of at least 500 copies. There is a cash prize of $5000, and a one-month residency at the Vermont Studio Center, and incredibly beautiful studio in Johnson, Vermont.
Submission is between 9/15/2009 and 11/15/2009. Entry fee is $25.00.
I know at least two poets who are going to get their manuscripts together to enter - join us!!
Revolution by Steven Joseph Bruening
revolution!
let not the cry of common man go unheard
or the history of the oppressed be ignored and interred
so speak all you sons and daughters of emerson, pope and whitman
speak with passion and power the battle hymn of everyman ---
REVOLUTION!
let not that crimson tide of cruelty and vengeful hate
go unchallenged without words of eloquent and fiery debate
so speak all you sons and daughters of byron, keats and shelley
speak out loud words of freedom, justice, liberty and equality ---
REVOLUTION!
if there be but only one word that you write
you children of a legendary poetic birthright
let it be written by your collective and universal hand
and let it resound and forever echo in this vast and dismal land ---
REVOLUTION!
let not the cry of common man go unheard
or the history of the oppressed be ignored and interred
so speak all you sons and daughters of emerson, pope and whitman
speak with passion and power the battle hymn of everyman ---
REVOLUTION!
let not that crimson tide of cruelty and vengeful hate
go unchallenged without words of eloquent and fiery debate
so speak all you sons and daughters of byron, keats and shelley
speak out loud words of freedom, justice, liberty and equality ---
REVOLUTION!
if there be but only one word that you write
you children of a legendary poetic birthright
let it be written by your collective and universal hand
and let it resound and forever echo in this vast and dismal land ---
REVOLUTION!
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Competitions for Your Writing
Here's a fun one that Writer's Digest sent a lead out on today:
Horticulture
The topic is "Garden Verse." The submission is a poem of up to 40 lines. There are three prizes of up to $250. Deadline is September 1, 2009. There is an entry fee of $15 for the first poem $10 for each succeeding poem.
The point of entering competitions isn't to win, although that's a nice side affect. The point is to practice writing for different purposes, and to get inot the swing of getting your writing out there.
Horticulture
The topic is "Garden Verse." The submission is a poem of up to 40 lines. There are three prizes of up to $250. Deadline is September 1, 2009. There is an entry fee of $15 for the first poem $10 for each succeeding poem.
The point of entering competitions isn't to win, although that's a nice side affect. The point is to practice writing for different purposes, and to get inot the swing of getting your writing out there.
Social Myku - Small Poems of Support
Iran's Fate
Brave ones lead, take
risks, demonstrate-
change Iran's future, don't
affirm tyranny's her fate.
Iranian Women
Women in Iran do not have
equal voice or rights
"alloho akbar" they cry,
God protect days & nights.
Woman's Will
Deny not woman's will,
don't try to still her song,
She gathers her Irani
sisters to right this wrong!
Iran 3 on mykuworld
Fast for Darfur
Rabbi Saperstein fasts
for suffering in Darfur,
thousands displaced from
homes, hungry to the core.
Children Cry!
Humanitarian aid in the
Sudan is bounded by
government foolishness,
still the children cry!
Darfur on mykuworld
Abuse of Power
On the U.N. Human Rights
Council, Brazil tries
to limit oversight of
abuse of women- unwise!!
Latin America on mykuworld
Take a Stand!
In all our wealth & bounty,
children sleep at night
with hunger in tiny bellies
take a stand, make it right!
These United States
A multitude of us are
without jobs, lack
homes, eat little-
in these United States!
Underground Economics
Services offered include
anything that pays cash-
taxes come after food &
rent in the underground.
Local Public Library..
In Ohio and Virginia the
folks are up-in-arms,
cutting funds to libraries
will do our children harm.
Reading & Writing
Libraries & schools helped
helped us to read,
we're writing now, too,
look at each twitter feed!
Clime's They Are A'Changing
Gather round people, let's
get the news straight,
stop carbon pollution
before it's too late.
These United States on mykuworld
Brave ones lead, take
risks, demonstrate-
change Iran's future, don't
affirm tyranny's her fate.
Iranian Women
Women in Iran do not have
equal voice or rights
"alloho akbar" they cry,
God protect days & nights.
Woman's Will
Deny not woman's will,
don't try to still her song,
She gathers her Irani
sisters to right this wrong!
Iran 3 on mykuworld
Fast for Darfur
Rabbi Saperstein fasts
for suffering in Darfur,
thousands displaced from
homes, hungry to the core.
Children Cry!
Humanitarian aid in the
Sudan is bounded by
government foolishness,
still the children cry!
Darfur on mykuworld
Abuse of Power
On the U.N. Human Rights
Council, Brazil tries
to limit oversight of
abuse of women- unwise!!
Latin America on mykuworld
Take a Stand!
In all our wealth & bounty,
children sleep at night
with hunger in tiny bellies
take a stand, make it right!
These United States
A multitude of us are
without jobs, lack
homes, eat little-
in these United States!
Underground Economics
Services offered include
anything that pays cash-
taxes come after food &
rent in the underground.
Local Public Library..
In Ohio and Virginia the
folks are up-in-arms,
cutting funds to libraries
will do our children harm.
Reading & Writing
Libraries & schools helped
helped us to read,
we're writing now, too,
look at each twitter feed!
Clime's They Are A'Changing
Gather round people, let's
get the news straight,
stop carbon pollution
before it's too late.
These United States on mykuworld
Monday, June 22, 2009
Writing Prompts: Poverty
Poverty of material needs, or poverty of the soul, are traditional areas for poetic exploration. When it reaches out to the world, giving voice to the voiceless, and succor to the hopeless, then we are humbled even as we serve the greater good.
I lived in Brasil for a year and drew on my memories for this myku:
Na Favela, Rio de Janeiro
Rio's shanty towns, shacks
perched precariously;
pain's litany; children cry
amongst the litter & poverty.
For this one, I started with Amnesty International's site and went clicking from there to find the images and words I wanted to use to frame this myku about a place I have never been:
Nairobi's Slums
Hunger & fear are slow
death, Kenya's bane,
the slums of Nairobi
are misery and pain.
Join me at mykuworld.
I lived in Brasil for a year and drew on my memories for this myku:
Na Favela, Rio de Janeiro
Rio's shanty towns, shacks
perched precariously;
pain's litany; children cry
amongst the litter & poverty.
For this one, I started with Amnesty International's site and went clicking from there to find the images and words I wanted to use to frame this myku about a place I have never been:
Nairobi's Slums
Hunger & fear are slow
death, Kenya's bane,
the slums of Nairobi
are misery and pain.
Join me at mykuworld.
Writing Prompts: Illness 2
Fatigue is a part of so many immune system disorders. Our bodies are fighting to be well, and our minds can barely stand the disorientation fatigue brings. Time passes by and we wonder what happened while we were out of it. I often think about what I used to be like and ask whether it could have been reality. Did I ever once walk and ride bikes, sing and dance, even perform on a stage? Another lifetime, or a dream...
Myku are such short poems that perhaps even those with severe fatigue can join us in giving voice to our lives on mykuworld.
Fatigue Sets In
When fatigue sets in-
time passes uncounted,
leaden- my hands & feet,
my head heavy in a fog.
Once upon a Dream
Once upon a dream I ran
to you, strong & bold;
now, I only touch your
hand, too soon grown old.
mykuworld
Myku are such short poems that perhaps even those with severe fatigue can join us in giving voice to our lives on mykuworld.
Fatigue Sets In
When fatigue sets in-
time passes uncounted,
leaden- my hands & feet,
my head heavy in a fog.
Once upon a Dream
Once upon a dream I ran
to you, strong & bold;
now, I only touch your
hand, too soon grown old.
mykuworld
War the World Around
Iran is not the only place whose people suffer. Lest we forget-
Counting Their Dead
Though thousands died as
millions fled, Darfur's
genocide survivors are
still counting their dead.
Darfuri Refugees
Women & children wait in
Chad, memories haunt-
village on fire, lives
stolen, Darfuri refugees.
All I Have
Raped, beaten, my home
blazing in flame; muddy
water, food, firewood-
in Chad it's all I have.
Bricks of Dried Mud
Bricks of dried mud,
stack into walls;
how many years will
this camp be my home?
Darfur Refugee Rights
You speak of my rights,
of genocide- 300,000 dead;
what is that to me if
I have no food for my son?
New Millennial Slavery
A new millennium,yet
Sudan & Niger enslave
with impunity. Lives in
servitude to the grave.
Safety is a Relative Term
Refugee camps are homes
for the hunted,
safety is a relative
term, more lives stunted.
Inspired by photos and story at Darfur on Flicker
These are the poems I have written. Please come to mykuworld and write in the web of poetry. We are community!
Katherine A Minden ©2009
Counting Their Dead
Though thousands died as
millions fled, Darfur's
genocide survivors are
still counting their dead.
Darfuri Refugees
Women & children wait in
Chad, memories haunt-
village on fire, lives
stolen, Darfuri refugees.
All I Have
Raped, beaten, my home
blazing in flame; muddy
water, food, firewood-
in Chad it's all I have.
Bricks of Dried Mud
Bricks of dried mud,
stack into walls;
how many years will
this camp be my home?
Darfur Refugee Rights
You speak of my rights,
of genocide- 300,000 dead;
what is that to me if
I have no food for my son?
New Millennial Slavery
A new millennium,yet
Sudan & Niger enslave
with impunity. Lives in
servitude to the grave.
Safety is a Relative Term
Refugee camps are homes
for the hunted,
safety is a relative
term, more lives stunted.
Inspired by photos and story at Darfur on Flicker
These are the poems I have written. Please come to mykuworld and write in the web of poetry. We are community!
Katherine A Minden ©2009
War and Peace
More poetry of Iran from Iran, and Iran 2 on mykuworld.
Candles Light Your Way
In Brussels, Seattle,
Brisbane, Dubai, L.A,
men & women for Iran,
candles light your way.
Sea of Green
Iran is a seething tide,
a sea wall cannot hold her;
police firing tear gas-
washed in a sea of green.
Tears for Neda
Iran gathers at Tir Square
remembers her Voice. Police
firing tear gas do not
drown tears for Neda.
Sere Winds
Grieve the loss of sons
& daughters, children of all
mothers & fathers, our flesh
scourged by sere winds.
Peace for Iran
Outside of monarchy,
theocracy, & tyranny,
live liberty, democracy,
& peace for Iran.
We mourn together. There are times we cry out with pain, and times when the pain of loss becomes steel that let's us stand against the wind.
Lacrimas
Tears beg to flow
I deny them egress—
sweet-and-salty hors d’oeuvres
will not satisfy my grief.
I inhale deeply and wait for grace.
The sinuous surge of emotions passes
as small particles of water that circle
within wave forms, ride atop the ocean—
when the earthquake is small,
the undulating swells pass by,
the resulting erosion of the seashore,
is almost immeasurable.
Katherine A Minden ©2009
Candles Light Your Way
In Brussels, Seattle,
Brisbane, Dubai, L.A,
men & women for Iran,
candles light your way.
Sea of Green
Iran is a seething tide,
a sea wall cannot hold her;
police firing tear gas-
washed in a sea of green.
Tears for Neda
Iran gathers at Tir Square
remembers her Voice. Police
firing tear gas do not
drown tears for Neda.
Sere Winds
Grieve the loss of sons
& daughters, children of all
mothers & fathers, our flesh
scourged by sere winds.
Peace for Iran
Outside of monarchy,
theocracy, & tyranny,
live liberty, democracy,
& peace for Iran.
We mourn together. There are times we cry out with pain, and times when the pain of loss becomes steel that let's us stand against the wind.
Lacrimas
Tears beg to flow
I deny them egress—
sweet-and-salty hors d’oeuvres
will not satisfy my grief.
I inhale deeply and wait for grace.
The sinuous surge of emotions passes
as small particles of water that circle
within wave forms, ride atop the ocean—
when the earthquake is small,
the undulating swells pass by,
the resulting erosion of the seashore,
is almost immeasurable.
Katherine A Minden ©2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Let the Poets Fight by Steven Joseph Bruening
let the poets fight
let the poets go where even mighty eagles dare not tread
the vastness of the unrequited mind not yet read
to see what unformed dreams; what prometheans are still yet bound
yearning to be dreamt in glorious living stereophonic sound
let the poets pen those mighty words and deeds that others do fear to speak
for in the grey caverns of the mind, there are words not fit for the humble or the meek
but, for the undaunted and poet, great these fearful words are but the sound
of humanity’s consciousness eagerly demanding to be heard and written down
let the poets win us our victory without the cost of man’s bloodshed
without humanity’s great growing numbers of large diminished
fit is with words such as these: freedom, liberty and just equality
tthe poet, word truth armed, shall win resting peace for all humanity
let the poets go where even mighty eagles dare not tread
the vastness of the unrequited mind not yet read
to see what unformed dreams; what prometheans are still yet bound
yearning to be dreamt in glorious living stereophonic sound
let the poets pen those mighty words and deeds that others do fear to speak
for in the grey caverns of the mind, there are words not fit for the humble or the meek
but, for the undaunted and poet, great these fearful words are but the sound
of humanity’s consciousness eagerly demanding to be heard and written down
let the poets win us our victory without the cost of man’s bloodshed
without humanity’s great growing numbers of large diminished
fit is with words such as these: freedom, liberty and just equality
tthe poet, word truth armed, shall win resting peace for all humanity
Poems for Iran
You can find these on mykuworld Iran, and Iran 2 Please come to myworld and write with us. Many are also posted here on Saturday's post below.
Images of Revolution, Iran!
Lit candles; hands raised,
victorious; David wields
rock, challenges Goliath.
Images of revolution, Iran!
Bear Witness
What can we do from here?
they wonder, just we few.
Bear witness through our
writing, that we can do.
This next myku is a response from Steven Joseph Bruening, poet
RE: Bear Witness
Bear witness! Children
Of Whitman, Keats, and Bryon
With truth word well armed
Write & bear witness to all!
Back to myku by Kit Minden
Run Away Guards
Helmets and kevlar are
no protection when fear
becomes motivation.
Run away guards! Run!
Courage Undaunted
Today's deaths will haunt
for years, bring tears,
close distance between us,
leave courage undaunted.
Hope for New Peace
Green are the tree leaves
that wave in the breeze;
green insurrection
brings hope for new peace.
Basij Wearing Black
Cell phones & cameras
invite their attack;
or no reason at all for
Basij wearing black.
Women's War Cry
Women chant slogans, &
raise clasped hands high;
men throw stones
to the women's war cry!
Tehran June 21, 2009
Baton wielding police
shatter windshields,
bash students,
demolish Iran.
Neda Agha-Soltan, Daughter
Neda Agha-Soltan, daughter,
student; shot by basiji;
buried today near Tehran;
the world mourns her death
30 Years in Iran
30 years of beatings,
30 years of torture,
30 years of killing,
30 years of tyranny.
Dark of Night
The deep dark of night has
fallen on you. Hope still!
Dawn comes again, the sun
rises to kiss your cheek.
Katherine A Minden ©2009
Images of Revolution, Iran!
Lit candles; hands raised,
victorious; David wields
rock, challenges Goliath.
Images of revolution, Iran!
Bear Witness
What can we do from here?
they wonder, just we few.
Bear witness through our
writing, that we can do.
This next myku is a response from Steven Joseph Bruening, poet
RE: Bear Witness
Bear witness! Children
Of Whitman, Keats, and Bryon
With truth word well armed
Write & bear witness to all!
Back to myku by Kit Minden
Run Away Guards
Helmets and kevlar are
no protection when fear
becomes motivation.
Run away guards! Run!
Courage Undaunted
Today's deaths will haunt
for years, bring tears,
close distance between us,
leave courage undaunted.
Hope for New Peace
Green are the tree leaves
that wave in the breeze;
green insurrection
brings hope for new peace.
Basij Wearing Black
Cell phones & cameras
invite their attack;
or no reason at all for
Basij wearing black.
Women's War Cry
Women chant slogans, &
raise clasped hands high;
men throw stones
to the women's war cry!
Tehran June 21, 2009
Baton wielding police
shatter windshields,
bash students,
demolish Iran.
Neda Agha-Soltan, Daughter
Neda Agha-Soltan, daughter,
student; shot by basiji;
buried today near Tehran;
the world mourns her death
30 Years in Iran
30 years of beatings,
30 years of torture,
30 years of killing,
30 years of tyranny.
Dark of Night
The deep dark of night has
fallen on you. Hope still!
Dawn comes again, the sun
rises to kiss your cheek.
Katherine A Minden ©2009
Writing Prompts: War
Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan... the unending struggle of humanity against tyranny and towards self-determination, respect, humanitarian programs... Basic rights to safety, food, water, education, love...
As a writer, I feel a moral obligation to write about the struggles, to give voice to those who cannot speak for themselves, and to speak to those who may not otherwise know about these times. Memories of other conflicts can also lead to poems. Study history, read the news, listen to the first person accounts on the news and on the internet, and from your empathy, write.
To write about war, I try to find the emotion with its sights, scents, and textures. I let my mind sink into the feeling, whether it be despair or celebration. I may use my own memories, work from the words others have said, or the sound of their cries.
Start by trying to write myku, the micro-poems. Others will be inspired by what you post, and reading their work will teach you how to move through your longer poems.
Here is a poem I wrote on the American election that tore the US between Gore and Bush. It uses memories, history read, and the personal stories of others that I have internalized over the years.:
A Litany of Battle Scars
Where were you on the 4th of May in 1970 when the sun shone hot
and summer had begun to make itself known to spring?
I was at Kent State protesting the undeclared war in Cambodia,
acting as a citizen, doing my patriotic duty,
stunned when the national guard moved toward us
glad when they moved away.
Foolishly we followed, asking why they chose to represent
the men who called people gooks and had them slaughtered in their villages,
the leaders who lied and ordered their brothers to kill and be killed
in the name of liberty.
Where were you on the 17th of August in 1969 when the breeze swept through the mountains
cooling the hot summer air, singing through the trees?
I was at Woodstock dancing with my sisters and brothers,
women and men linking arms together against the lying man
bound by respect for the earth, celebrating.
It was peace and love, and the music of our time that filled us as we
watched the pain of the man’s rejection of our generation
being erased from our souls.
Where were you on the 30th of January 1968 when the chill had set in hard
and winter made it impossible to stand against the wearying wind?
I was in South Vietnam fighting with my brothers who had become my country,
of which I was a citizen, so I did my duty,
surviving the heat of the jungle, the dark of the tunnels,
saving each other to do it again; following orders, not questioning why,
just counting down the days on a short-timers calendar,
wanting to live long enough to fly home to the world.
Where were you on the 9th of November 2004 when fall danced his last tango,
twirling between the raindrops, sweeping away leaves in the wind?
I was talking to my neighbors, asking them to vote for change,
acting as a citizen, doing my patriotic duty
watching election returns with hope on my sleeve,
waiting for word from my daughter in Iraq,
praying she would live through a war led by a man who lies
in the name of liberty.
Katherine A Minden ©2009
As a writer, I feel a moral obligation to write about the struggles, to give voice to those who cannot speak for themselves, and to speak to those who may not otherwise know about these times. Memories of other conflicts can also lead to poems. Study history, read the news, listen to the first person accounts on the news and on the internet, and from your empathy, write.
To write about war, I try to find the emotion with its sights, scents, and textures. I let my mind sink into the feeling, whether it be despair or celebration. I may use my own memories, work from the words others have said, or the sound of their cries.
Start by trying to write myku, the micro-poems. Others will be inspired by what you post, and reading their work will teach you how to move through your longer poems.
Here is a poem I wrote on the American election that tore the US between Gore and Bush. It uses memories, history read, and the personal stories of others that I have internalized over the years.:
A Litany of Battle Scars
Where were you on the 4th of May in 1970 when the sun shone hot
and summer had begun to make itself known to spring?
I was at Kent State protesting the undeclared war in Cambodia,
acting as a citizen, doing my patriotic duty,
stunned when the national guard moved toward us
glad when they moved away.
Foolishly we followed, asking why they chose to represent
the men who called people gooks and had them slaughtered in their villages,
the leaders who lied and ordered their brothers to kill and be killed
in the name of liberty.
Where were you on the 17th of August in 1969 when the breeze swept through the mountains
cooling the hot summer air, singing through the trees?
I was at Woodstock dancing with my sisters and brothers,
women and men linking arms together against the lying man
bound by respect for the earth, celebrating.
It was peace and love, and the music of our time that filled us as we
watched the pain of the man’s rejection of our generation
being erased from our souls.
Where were you on the 30th of January 1968 when the chill had set in hard
and winter made it impossible to stand against the wearying wind?
I was in South Vietnam fighting with my brothers who had become my country,
of which I was a citizen, so I did my duty,
surviving the heat of the jungle, the dark of the tunnels,
saving each other to do it again; following orders, not questioning why,
just counting down the days on a short-timers calendar,
wanting to live long enough to fly home to the world.
Where were you on the 9th of November 2004 when fall danced his last tango,
twirling between the raindrops, sweeping away leaves in the wind?
I was talking to my neighbors, asking them to vote for change,
acting as a citizen, doing my patriotic duty
watching election returns with hope on my sleeve,
waiting for word from my daughter in Iraq,
praying she would live through a war led by a man who lies
in the name of liberty.
Katherine A Minden ©2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
More Myku for Iran
Come write with us on Iran at mykuworld and Iran 2 at mykuworld
Liberty or Death
Tweet quotes Patrick Henry-
"Liberty or Death" for
women and men in Iran,
fighting for freedom.
Wings for You
I send you wings so
your spirit may fly
from the men, basiji
who tear you away.
Tears Flow
Vietnam War protests,
civil rights marches,
memories return as
tears flow for Iran.
Clasp Hands
Clasp hands in a chain,
hold tight; when they hurt
one of us, do not let him
fall; hold tight to her hand.
Listen to Screams
Listen to screams, cries
of Iranians in revolution,
a generation abducted by
tyrant basiji soldiers!
Muzzenin
The muzzenin calls Iran
to prayer to God who is
all of our God, though we
speak in our own faiths.
No Silence!
Heart! Call for justice!
We are all one family,
sisters and brothers die.
We shout our grief!
Neda Died
She bore witness, and
they shot her. In front
of her father, she died.
Neda, voice of Iran.
Shoulder-to-Shoulder
The world rallies, tweets
becomes the call of millions
marching in spirit.
Shoulder-to-shoulder, all.
In Iran, They Die
In Iran, they die, tanks
roll down Tehran streets,
crush women & men. Lives
blink out & we are less.
May Allah Catch You
Boxed into corners,
basiji remove manhole
covers to make you fall.
May Allah catch you!
Believe, Iranian Friends
We tweet and twitter,
chicks in the same nest,
need food, warmth-
freedom to choose the wind.
Believe, Iran
The world still spins.
How is it possible when
nothing else remains the
same? Winds of change.
Katherine A Minden ©2009
Liberty or Death
Tweet quotes Patrick Henry-
"Liberty or Death" for
women and men in Iran,
fighting for freedom.
Wings for You
I send you wings so
your spirit may fly
from the men, basiji
who tear you away.
Tears Flow
Vietnam War protests,
civil rights marches,
memories return as
tears flow for Iran.
Clasp Hands
Clasp hands in a chain,
hold tight; when they hurt
one of us, do not let him
fall; hold tight to her hand.
Listen to Screams
Listen to screams, cries
of Iranians in revolution,
a generation abducted by
tyrant basiji soldiers!
Muzzenin
The muzzenin calls Iran
to prayer to God who is
all of our God, though we
speak in our own faiths.
No Silence!
Heart! Call for justice!
We are all one family,
sisters and brothers die.
We shout our grief!
Neda Died
She bore witness, and
they shot her. In front
of her father, she died.
Neda, voice of Iran.
Shoulder-to-Shoulder
The world rallies, tweets
becomes the call of millions
marching in spirit.
Shoulder-to-shoulder, all.
In Iran, They Die
In Iran, they die, tanks
roll down Tehran streets,
crush women & men. Lives
blink out & we are less.
May Allah Catch You
Boxed into corners,
basiji remove manhole
covers to make you fall.
May Allah catch you!
Believe, Iranian Friends
We tweet and twitter,
chicks in the same nest,
need food, warmth-
freedom to choose the wind.
Believe, Iran
The world still spins.
How is it possible when
nothing else remains the
same? Winds of change.
Katherine A Minden ©2009
Iran
From here, in my small corner of the world, it does not seem there is much I can do to change the course of events. Yet I can write. I can post my support on twitter and mykuworld, and here in my blog. Here are some myku in support of the Iranian people who march for their freedom against the forces of tyranny.
Prayers for Your Safe Passage
In Tehran, people gather,
risking all for liberty.
Prayers fly across oceans,
wings of hope from me.
What Price You Pay!
Students marching in
an endless spate;
soldiers fire on them-
memories of Kent state.
Believe
Your hand rises, green-
ribboned, a sign of peace
and victory to come.
My hand rises in unison.
Please join in the flood of support for the freedom of the Iranian people. Read it and write it.
Katherine A Minden ©2009
Prayers for Your Safe Passage
In Tehran, people gather,
risking all for liberty.
Prayers fly across oceans,
wings of hope from me.
What Price You Pay!
Students marching in
an endless spate;
soldiers fire on them-
memories of Kent state.
Believe
Your hand rises, green-
ribboned, a sign of peace
and victory to come.
My hand rises in unison.
Please join in the flood of support for the freedom of the Iranian people. Read it and write it.
Katherine A Minden ©2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Writing Prompts: Immediacy in Poetry
When I went back to poetry after so many years of just reading children’s poems to children, I had old forms in my head. Every line started with an upper case letter, proper sentence structure mattered, and I wasn’t aware of so many new ways to use poetry as art. Some things I learned over time were:
1. Initial caps on a line when it’s the middle of a sentence distract the reader and make it harder to understand the flow of the poem.
2. Begin and end a line on strong word if possible.
3. Write the poem, then go through and remove as many prepositions and conjunctions as possible. Slim the poem down to its essentials.
4. Use rhymes and meters only when they fit the subject and word choice. Try not to get trapped in them.
5. Build images by choosing good adjectives and adverbs. Don’t assume that your reader will visualize what you see if you don’t fill in the details.
6. If you can’t figure out how to make a line or verse work within a poem, use it in another poem. Sometimes, limiting complexity is necessary.
Working with myku on www.mykuworld.com is great for practicing an economy of words. If I use too many words, my line wraps, and the poem loses some of its visual beauty. Each myku teaches me more about expressing concepts in a nutshell. Writing haiku and senryu are similar, but there’s more freedom in a myku, and a little more space.
Here’s the first verse an early poem of mine about the local farmer’s market and the incredible women who work there, followed by one possible edit that is closer to the way I write today.
At the Farmer’s Market –First Verse
At the farmer’s market, women ply their wares,
Fruits of their labors- bread, honey, homemade soap, flowers.
Some days a profit made, some days not,
Yet they cannot cease their artistry.
Producing goods for others lets them keep some for themselves -
The money plowed back into fertile ground to grow more tomatoes,
To raise more chickens, goats and bees.
Some domestic art stays at home,
Stocking their sweet-scented larders,
Feeding their families and friends,
Communities knitted together with the wool spun from each woman’s spinning wheel.
At the Farmer’s Market –First Verse Rewritten
Farmer’s market women ply their labors’ fruits-
bread, honey, soap, flowers-
artistry unceasing.
At home, women plow
fertile ground to grow tomatoes,
raise chickens, goats, bees,
stock sweet-scented larders, feed families and friends,
knit communities together,
wool spun from each woman’s spinning wheel.
1. Try re-writing a poem that’s a year old. How would you do it now?
2. Use a simple visualization to remember somewhere you’ve been.
3. Write down all the details in prose.
Edit the lines by deleting prepositions and conjunctions. Take them all out, then put back only the ones that are essential. You may need to change some word order for each line to be understandable.
In the example above, Fruits of their labors transforms to labor’s fruits.
1. Change the verb tenses to simple present or past whenever possible.
2. Write a poem with a maximum of four words per line. Try three words.
3. Read some myku, haiku, and senryu to see what you think works well.
Anything can be a prompt for poetry. Last night, I wrote to my friends’ chatter on facebook. I wasn’t aiming for anything except to give them pleasure in a poem. One friend had earned a trophy in a facebook vampire game. Here’s what came out in his poem:
Vampire wars call him
to battle; triumph over
evil is so much simpler
than living his life.
Another said “Nitely-Nite!” as she headed off to bed. Here’s her poem:
Nightly, she climbs stairs,
climbs into bed,
climbs into herself,
climbs into his heart.
Tiny poems- micro-poetry- simple and plain, but poignant to me since they remind me of our friendships. They, and the others I wrote, are on mykuworld now.
Katherine A Minden ©2009
1. Initial caps on a line when it’s the middle of a sentence distract the reader and make it harder to understand the flow of the poem.
2. Begin and end a line on strong word if possible.
3. Write the poem, then go through and remove as many prepositions and conjunctions as possible. Slim the poem down to its essentials.
4. Use rhymes and meters only when they fit the subject and word choice. Try not to get trapped in them.
5. Build images by choosing good adjectives and adverbs. Don’t assume that your reader will visualize what you see if you don’t fill in the details.
6. If you can’t figure out how to make a line or verse work within a poem, use it in another poem. Sometimes, limiting complexity is necessary.
Working with myku on www.mykuworld.com is great for practicing an economy of words. If I use too many words, my line wraps, and the poem loses some of its visual beauty. Each myku teaches me more about expressing concepts in a nutshell. Writing haiku and senryu are similar, but there’s more freedom in a myku, and a little more space.
Here’s the first verse an early poem of mine about the local farmer’s market and the incredible women who work there, followed by one possible edit that is closer to the way I write today.
At the Farmer’s Market –First Verse
At the farmer’s market, women ply their wares,
Fruits of their labors- bread, honey, homemade soap, flowers.
Some days a profit made, some days not,
Yet they cannot cease their artistry.
Producing goods for others lets them keep some for themselves -
The money plowed back into fertile ground to grow more tomatoes,
To raise more chickens, goats and bees.
Some domestic art stays at home,
Stocking their sweet-scented larders,
Feeding their families and friends,
Communities knitted together with the wool spun from each woman’s spinning wheel.
At the Farmer’s Market –First Verse Rewritten
Farmer’s market women ply their labors’ fruits-
bread, honey, soap, flowers-
artistry unceasing.
At home, women plow
fertile ground to grow tomatoes,
raise chickens, goats, bees,
stock sweet-scented larders, feed families and friends,
knit communities together,
wool spun from each woman’s spinning wheel.
1. Try re-writing a poem that’s a year old. How would you do it now?
2. Use a simple visualization to remember somewhere you’ve been.
3. Write down all the details in prose.
Edit the lines by deleting prepositions and conjunctions. Take them all out, then put back only the ones that are essential. You may need to change some word order for each line to be understandable.
In the example above, Fruits of their labors transforms to labor’s fruits.
1. Change the verb tenses to simple present or past whenever possible.
2. Write a poem with a maximum of four words per line. Try three words.
3. Read some myku, haiku, and senryu to see what you think works well.
Anything can be a prompt for poetry. Last night, I wrote to my friends’ chatter on facebook. I wasn’t aiming for anything except to give them pleasure in a poem. One friend had earned a trophy in a facebook vampire game. Here’s what came out in his poem:
Vampire wars call him
to battle; triumph over
evil is so much simpler
than living his life.
Another said “Nitely-Nite!” as she headed off to bed. Here’s her poem:
Nightly, she climbs stairs,
climbs into bed,
climbs into herself,
climbs into his heart.
Tiny poems- micro-poetry- simple and plain, but poignant to me since they remind me of our friendships. They, and the others I wrote, are on mykuworld now.
Katherine A Minden ©2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Writing Prompts: Illness
I have Lyme disease which has a myriad of symptoms including depression, fibromyalgia, severe migraines, and fatigue. As much as I hate being in pain and non-functional, the pain has taught me more about how other people feel. I always had sympathy but now I have empathy for the frustration and hopelessness that a chronic illness brings. One way that I reach out to others with that empathy is through my writing. I also find that when the pain is extreme, writing about it distracts me enough for medicine to help, and by the time I am finished writing, I am much better. I also find writing about it is uplifting just by reason of having accomplished something. I am not completely useless if I have accomplished some writing.
When the pain is not severe, the details of just how bad it is may slip away. After all, admitting just how horrible the illness is and how much control it has over my life is about as depressing as life can get. To recall illness then, requires an effort. Close your eyes and think back to when you have been ill. Inventory each part of your body, traveling slowly through it and register how it felt. Write it all down. If you haven't been ill at all, imagine a person you know who copes with pain, depression, or other limitations. Remember how she or he moves, the way his voice may change with fatigue or pain, or how her face becomes rigid or her eyebrows lower, scrunching up in pain. What must his thoughts be? How does she process her illness? How does illness limit his activities or career?
Try this exercise with a child in mind, someone of the same sex as you and then the opposite. Does the expression of illness vary with people from different cultures? Does race sometimes impact the communication of illness? Try illness on one of your characters. Would he go to a doctor? Would she use homeopathic remedies or prescriptions?
If your character has friends or family, how do they perceive her illness? Do they believe he is a hypochondriac or take his illness seriously? What would you or your character do if confronted with an incurable, short-term illness? For example, what if a doctor found the presence of a 4th stage cancer? What things are left to accomplish? Where is it you have never gone and want to go? Is there any need to make amends? Are there regrets or none at all?
What if an illness that is supposed to be fatal suddenly seems to be reversed? How will you or your characters react? Look up a the stages of grief and see which ones your character goes through. Does he get stuck in one of them? Would anyone be able to help him move forward? Is she suicidal? Does she move to Oregon to get help ending her life?
Now, imagine your character's child is ill. Try just the flu, then try chicken pox, a chronic illness, and a fatal one. How does your character cope or change? What support system does she have? Does he withdraw into his online community or take an active role in supporting his child?
Here are a few of the poems I have written in response to illness. In the first, depression comes to life as an evil jester. In the second, a woman copes with the devastating effects of rheumatoid arthritis or some other extremely limiting disease. They are also posted on FanStory. The last ones are posted on www.mykuworld.com on a board called "Thirst"
The Ventriloquist
Today, my head hurts, the rest of me not far behind.
Depression rears his crowned head
appears like some evil jester in cream and gold with belled cuffs.
He shakes his rough blond mane, displays a lopsided grin, tongue lolling out,
lewdly, Depression laughs, knowing he has won the point-
I am become easy prey to his mockery.
He closes with me, isolates me,
his bitter fumes acrid to my senses; he obscures my view of humanity.
I am unwanted, trapped, a failure.
I wish there were some email, some friend calling right now
some proof that I am not alone.
Depression’s voice speaks in my mind-
he is a ventriloquist, a clever trickster,
speaking with my voice from deep within my brain.
I struggle to separate him from myself, extract the invasive tentacles.
He chants of rejection and loss, inserting the freed suckers into another pink and grey fold;
he is, by nature, overwhelming, and so brilliant.
He excels at his work, but he is also proud...
I use his words to draw him out on paper, he prances and preens,
crowing his victory, he is no longer vigilant.
Depression does not see that I am pinning him down, a beetle in a glass case,
robbing his life through the science of naming him.
Depression has become imprisoned, wriggling under my magnifying glass,
tentacles withdrawn, shrunken.
His voice fades to nothing in the light of day.
Hollow Bones
Sinew, muscles, skeleton, all affirm she has a fragile framework.
In her coiled pain, she feels neither pretty nor womanly anymore-
hollowed bones, claw-like hands and feet.
She perches on an escarpment,
imagines herself an ancient kittiwake diving on scuttling red crabs.
When a mistral blows up a squall, she will rise
to skim above the spume-tipped waves.
She likes the thought of it, soaring in the sky with the wind in her face
ascending in helical flight, a dizzying upward spin into the heavens.
She’ll strike off parallel to the coast, flying north
until she meets a swooping red and white diamond,
a kite she and her father flew seventy years ago.
Mirroring its cavorting jig, she will not stop until her heart is done.
She will plummet headlong into the foaming surf.
Before a wave crests, she will rise again,
to skim, roll and swoop,
ethereal spectral seagull.
Thirst
Pain is my shepherd who
leads me to muddy waters,
tears my soul; remnants
thirst among the ruins.
Quenched
Just for a moment,
or an hour, the pain
eases; feet still clumsy,
I imagine a dance of joy.
Refuge
Velvet hammer in guise
of pharmaceutical bliss
can slam the pain away
with its velveteen kiss.
Katherine A Minden ©2009
When the pain is not severe, the details of just how bad it is may slip away. After all, admitting just how horrible the illness is and how much control it has over my life is about as depressing as life can get. To recall illness then, requires an effort. Close your eyes and think back to when you have been ill. Inventory each part of your body, traveling slowly through it and register how it felt. Write it all down. If you haven't been ill at all, imagine a person you know who copes with pain, depression, or other limitations. Remember how she or he moves, the way his voice may change with fatigue or pain, or how her face becomes rigid or her eyebrows lower, scrunching up in pain. What must his thoughts be? How does she process her illness? How does illness limit his activities or career?
Try this exercise with a child in mind, someone of the same sex as you and then the opposite. Does the expression of illness vary with people from different cultures? Does race sometimes impact the communication of illness? Try illness on one of your characters. Would he go to a doctor? Would she use homeopathic remedies or prescriptions?
If your character has friends or family, how do they perceive her illness? Do they believe he is a hypochondriac or take his illness seriously? What would you or your character do if confronted with an incurable, short-term illness? For example, what if a doctor found the presence of a 4th stage cancer? What things are left to accomplish? Where is it you have never gone and want to go? Is there any need to make amends? Are there regrets or none at all?
What if an illness that is supposed to be fatal suddenly seems to be reversed? How will you or your characters react? Look up a the stages of grief and see which ones your character goes through. Does he get stuck in one of them? Would anyone be able to help him move forward? Is she suicidal? Does she move to Oregon to get help ending her life?
Now, imagine your character's child is ill. Try just the flu, then try chicken pox, a chronic illness, and a fatal one. How does your character cope or change? What support system does she have? Does he withdraw into his online community or take an active role in supporting his child?
Here are a few of the poems I have written in response to illness. In the first, depression comes to life as an evil jester. In the second, a woman copes with the devastating effects of rheumatoid arthritis or some other extremely limiting disease. They are also posted on FanStory. The last ones are posted on www.mykuworld.com on a board called "Thirst"
The Ventriloquist
Today, my head hurts, the rest of me not far behind.
Depression rears his crowned head
appears like some evil jester in cream and gold with belled cuffs.
He shakes his rough blond mane, displays a lopsided grin, tongue lolling out,
lewdly, Depression laughs, knowing he has won the point-
I am become easy prey to his mockery.
He closes with me, isolates me,
his bitter fumes acrid to my senses; he obscures my view of humanity.
I am unwanted, trapped, a failure.
I wish there were some email, some friend calling right now
some proof that I am not alone.
Depression’s voice speaks in my mind-
he is a ventriloquist, a clever trickster,
speaking with my voice from deep within my brain.
I struggle to separate him from myself, extract the invasive tentacles.
He chants of rejection and loss, inserting the freed suckers into another pink and grey fold;
he is, by nature, overwhelming, and so brilliant.
He excels at his work, but he is also proud...
I use his words to draw him out on paper, he prances and preens,
crowing his victory, he is no longer vigilant.
Depression does not see that I am pinning him down, a beetle in a glass case,
robbing his life through the science of naming him.
Depression has become imprisoned, wriggling under my magnifying glass,
tentacles withdrawn, shrunken.
His voice fades to nothing in the light of day.
Hollow Bones
Sinew, muscles, skeleton, all affirm she has a fragile framework.
In her coiled pain, she feels neither pretty nor womanly anymore-
hollowed bones, claw-like hands and feet.
She perches on an escarpment,
imagines herself an ancient kittiwake diving on scuttling red crabs.
When a mistral blows up a squall, she will rise
to skim above the spume-tipped waves.
She likes the thought of it, soaring in the sky with the wind in her face
ascending in helical flight, a dizzying upward spin into the heavens.
She’ll strike off parallel to the coast, flying north
until she meets a swooping red and white diamond,
a kite she and her father flew seventy years ago.
Mirroring its cavorting jig, she will not stop until her heart is done.
She will plummet headlong into the foaming surf.
Before a wave crests, she will rise again,
to skim, roll and swoop,
ethereal spectral seagull.
Thirst
Pain is my shepherd who
leads me to muddy waters,
tears my soul; remnants
thirst among the ruins.
Quenched
Just for a moment,
or an hour, the pain
eases; feet still clumsy,
I imagine a dance of joy.
Refuge
Velvet hammer in guise
of pharmaceutical bliss
can slam the pain away
with its velveteen kiss.
Katherine A Minden ©2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Writing Prompts: Genealogy
Writing about family, directly, can be fun, but it can endanger relationships. On the other hand, using your knowledge of your family to inform your writing and to create fictional characters communicates your humanity to your reader. One of the great resources the web has made possible is genealogical databases. Warriors and poets, good and terrible politicians, whalers, Cost Guard sailors, and curmudgeons abound in my ancestry. Their stories and the details of their lives become fodder for fiction and poetry. No need for writer’s block if you ask the right questions and then, answer them
For example, I went looking the other day and found a family crest I didn’t have on file. The crest was definitely designed when men were men, and women were the shoulders they rode upon. In other words, it didn’t have much to do with me. That got me thinking about what I would put on a crest. Would I modify the family crest or start from scratch? The next thought was that a family in one of my fairy tales needed a crest since they have a long history in Greenleaf’s magical land. In fact, every character in the tale should have a crest. Even the most persnickety character has traditions, albeit slightly warped. Would he or she get a warped crest to reflect their family’s view of the world? Or, is their crest actually the same as the royal family’s, implying a closer relationship than any would want to own up to?
I also looked into crest design, drew a blank shield, and ran out some copies from the printer. Then, I took them with me to an activity with kids at a local school. They loved figuring out what symbols represented themselves and their families. The designs they drew became their writer’s prompts. There were so many things they knew about people in their families, and most of what they had to say and to write was positive and beautiful. Some used the crests as a prompt for fiction , too.
Take some time today to design your crest, and the crests of your characters. What else does each crest tell you about your character’s potential? Would your character keep the crest as is, or create a new one? Perhaps, she or he would rather have it blank, or even to paint it black. to dim out the lights of ancestors and family.
Here's a link to the software my cousin, Pami, and I are using to assemble our family tree:
Legacy Family Tree
Katherine A Minden ©2009
For example, I went looking the other day and found a family crest I didn’t have on file. The crest was definitely designed when men were men, and women were the shoulders they rode upon. In other words, it didn’t have much to do with me. That got me thinking about what I would put on a crest. Would I modify the family crest or start from scratch? The next thought was that a family in one of my fairy tales needed a crest since they have a long history in Greenleaf’s magical land. In fact, every character in the tale should have a crest. Even the most persnickety character has traditions, albeit slightly warped. Would he or she get a warped crest to reflect their family’s view of the world? Or, is their crest actually the same as the royal family’s, implying a closer relationship than any would want to own up to?
I also looked into crest design, drew a blank shield, and ran out some copies from the printer. Then, I took them with me to an activity with kids at a local school. They loved figuring out what symbols represented themselves and their families. The designs they drew became their writer’s prompts. There were so many things they knew about people in their families, and most of what they had to say and to write was positive and beautiful. Some used the crests as a prompt for fiction , too.
Take some time today to design your crest, and the crests of your characters. What else does each crest tell you about your character’s potential? Would your character keep the crest as is, or create a new one? Perhaps, she or he would rather have it blank, or even to paint it black. to dim out the lights of ancestors and family.
Here's a link to the software my cousin, Pami, and I are using to assemble our family tree:
Legacy Family Tree
Katherine A Minden ©2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Kids Poet Laureate
I didn't know we had a Poet Laureate for kids until today. Mary Ann Hoberman's poems run the gamut from serious to silly. She has written tongue twisting poems, pieces reminiscent of Ogden Nash's Zoo, and kids views of huge events like getting a new brother. If you are writing for kids or just loving some you know, her work is definitely worth your time to read and enjoy.
The Poetry Foundation has a good article about the author.
Here's a link to one of her books of kids poetry on Amazon, The Llama Who Had No Pajama: 100 Favorite Poems
Katherine A Minden ©2009
The Poetry Foundation has a good article about the author.
Here's a link to one of her books of kids poetry on Amazon, The Llama Who Had No Pajama: 100 Favorite Poems
Katherine A Minden ©2009
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Urban Poet: Save the last dance for me.
Urban Poet: Save the last dance for me.: "Esav Benyamin"
Beautiful work from a poet I met on MykuWorld. He has his own blog going where he posts poetry and commentary.
Beautiful work from a poet I met on MykuWorld. He has his own blog going where he posts poetry and commentary.
Newsletter & More for Writers and Readers
Sign up for the email newsletter from The Kenyon Review You might want to keep an eye on their poetry and fiction contests, too. It's a great magazine with a long tradition of publishing excellent work.
Sign up for past poet laureate Ted Kooser's chosen poem and commentary in your e-mail at American Life in Poetry.
Sign up for past poet laureate Ted Kooser's chosen poem and commentary in your e-mail at American Life in Poetry.
Writer's Life - Starving for Our Craft
Prose submission is tough, and poetry submission is tougher. There are so many rejections to be had that you could pull a Steven King, lining them all up on the blade of a knife stuck in the wall. For poetry, the knife collection would be so extensive, the butcher block knife holder in the kitchen would be emptied before a month goes by.
In order to keep food on the table, most of us have other careers, or we write work for hire. I combine tutoring and tech writing. Lately, I've added academic paper mill websites to my list. The ethics of buying papers bothers me, but keeping the roof above us, food in the fridge, and occasionally, a good book coming in from Kingdom Books on abebooks, or from Amazon, has taken me across the line. I am not cheating but I feel I abet it.
What are you all doing to keep surviving? What's your take on the ethics of ghost writing be it novels, memoirs, or academia?
In order to keep food on the table, most of us have other careers, or we write work for hire. I combine tutoring and tech writing. Lately, I've added academic paper mill websites to my list. The ethics of buying papers bothers me, but keeping the roof above us, food in the fridge, and occasionally, a good book coming in from Kingdom Books on abebooks, or from Amazon, has taken me across the line. I am not cheating but I feel I abet it.
What are you all doing to keep surviving? What's your take on the ethics of ghost writing be it novels, memoirs, or academia?
Katherine A Minden ©2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
Steven Joseph Bruening, Poet
I met Steven on FanStory. His often uses the classics to inform his poetry - mythology, religious texts, etc. Some of his most striking work is on death and dying. Here's a a link to a new one he just posted tonight: The Bridge
Steven adds, "I originally studied to be theologian, thus, a great deal of my poems draw from the wealth of comparative religions I have studied."
Steven has given me permission to post this poem of his with his comments:
The Rape Of Me
you violated me
while i slept in newborn innocence, you came
you with your lofty ideas
your pristine struggles
no form nor motion did have i
rather you raped me with yours
you clothed in your rage
you smothered me with your love
raised me with your indifference
and enslaved me with your religion
you violated me
while i slept in newborn innocence, you came
you with your unnatural technologies
your man made philosophies
in the name of "tradition" you raped me of my
identity
eradicated from me my history
and erected unto yourself a monument from my bones
you violated me
raped me while i wept in newborn innocence
by Steven Joseph Bruening 2009
Comments on The Rape of Me by Steven Joseph Bruening
This poem is a reflection on how society's, especially oppressive and militaristic/communist based societies, attempt, through "education" and other media means, to indoctrinate their beliefs on an individual, suppressing the individual's own uniques. Its concept is drawn from the lain phrase "tabula rasa" or "blank slate", meaning that, philosophically, we are all born as blank slates and should be allowed to develop our own writings on our personae, rather than have them spelled out or indoctrinated upon us against our will.
Steven adds, "I originally studied to be theologian, thus, a great deal of my poems draw from the wealth of comparative religions I have studied."
Steven has given me permission to post this poem of his with his comments:
The Rape Of Me
you violated me
while i slept in newborn innocence, you came
you with your lofty ideas
your pristine struggles
no form nor motion did have i
rather you raped me with yours
you clothed in your rage
you smothered me with your love
raised me with your indifference
and enslaved me with your religion
you violated me
while i slept in newborn innocence, you came
you with your unnatural technologies
your man made philosophies
in the name of "tradition" you raped me of my
identity
eradicated from me my history
and erected unto yourself a monument from my bones
you violated me
raped me while i wept in newborn innocence
by Steven Joseph Bruening 2009
Comments on The Rape of Me by Steven Joseph Bruening
This poem is a reflection on how society's, especially oppressive and militaristic/communist based societies, attempt, through "education" and other media means, to indoctrinate their beliefs on an individual, suppressing the individual's own uniques. Its concept is drawn from the lain phrase "tabula rasa" or "blank slate", meaning that, philosophically, we are all born as blank slates and should be allowed to develop our own writings on our personae, rather than have them spelled out or indoctrinated upon us against our will.
MykuWorld
I became a member at mykuworld a while ago but just started writing there 2 weeks ago. It's a poetry site that is pretty cool. All the poems are very limited in length, in the style of a lot of Ogden Nash's short poems. Poems are written on a board that looks like a calendar page. Each black is space for a poem. Once the first person starts a board, another person can link to that poem, using it for inspiration for their own. It's community poetry. There's no critique although one can comment on another's poem. The best comment, imho, is to write the next poem, linked to the one that inspires you.
Here are some I wrote for my friend Marie who will soon celebrate her wedding under the board heading "Summer Wedding":
In love, she's young again,
explores him for the first
time as if none came before;
there is only this one love.
This good woman- friend,
mother, artist, dreamer,
she has chosen a good man;
marriage is just affirmation.
They will give themselves,
one to the other in love;
he and she pledge and wed;
all will know their truth.
Katherine A Minden © 2009
Here are some I wrote for my friend Marie who will soon celebrate her wedding under the board heading "Summer Wedding":
In love, she's young again,
explores him for the first
time as if none came before;
there is only this one love.
This good woman- friend,
mother, artist, dreamer,
she has chosen a good man;
marriage is just affirmation.
They will give themselves,
one to the other in love;
he and she pledge and wed;
all will know their truth.
Katherine A Minden © 2009
Becoming a Poet
I wanted the feedback of more experienced writers, so I began to attend a local writer's group. I recommend them. After about 6 months, the leader of our group, Larry, invited us to write poetry with him for a competition sponsored by a poetry group in West Virginia. Of course, I agreed to try since I am a team player. I won a few prizes, but more importantly I began to learn about the structure of poetry, and the way poems can hold images and emotions.
Sometimes I imitated a form, other times I got creative. When writing a poem, I imagine a scene, taste its flavor, smell its scents, see its colors - and then try to capture the sensations in words. I can still picture red and yellow slickers on my mentors in this one:
Alchemy
Women and men walk in time before me, shining in their aged raiment
as if the rain no longer falls, and the sun, newly emerged from clouds,
pierces through the late afternoon air.
It gleams, reflected from their yellow slickers.
Each one is a hero, or heroine, if you prefer,
I know this truly.
They have rescued children, sometimes themselves, from hell.
They have pushed the cellophane envelope of life,
when it tore, gently patched its fragile surface,
spit and sweat rolled between thumb and forefinger until adhesion formed.
Like alchemists of lead and gold,
running their fingers over the jagged rips, re-sealing the ancient folded form,
it becomes something changed yet familiar, altered to accommodate their needs,
like a growing womb that holds a child,
kicking its legs, punching its fists,
reshaping the sheltering cavity.
Their stories pull and warp my mind,
leaving residue like sticky strands of packing tape,
impregnated with strings that catch in your teeth and will not tear with ease.
Eradicate the strings at your peril —
pulling them off, they tear the skin of the corrugated cardboard box,
exposing the wrinkled interior,
leaving it weakened
almost useless.
Katherine A Minden © 2009
Sometimes I imitated a form, other times I got creative. When writing a poem, I imagine a scene, taste its flavor, smell its scents, see its colors - and then try to capture the sensations in words. I can still picture red and yellow slickers on my mentors in this one:
Alchemy
Women and men walk in time before me, shining in their aged raiment
as if the rain no longer falls, and the sun, newly emerged from clouds,
pierces through the late afternoon air.
It gleams, reflected from their yellow slickers.
Each one is a hero, or heroine, if you prefer,
I know this truly.
They have rescued children, sometimes themselves, from hell.
They have pushed the cellophane envelope of life,
when it tore, gently patched its fragile surface,
spit and sweat rolled between thumb and forefinger until adhesion formed.
Like alchemists of lead and gold,
running their fingers over the jagged rips, re-sealing the ancient folded form,
it becomes something changed yet familiar, altered to accommodate their needs,
like a growing womb that holds a child,
kicking its legs, punching its fists,
reshaping the sheltering cavity.
Their stories pull and warp my mind,
leaving residue like sticky strands of packing tape,
impregnated with strings that catch in your teeth and will not tear with ease.
Eradicate the strings at your peril —
pulling them off, they tear the skin of the corrugated cardboard box,
exposing the wrinkled interior,
leaving it weakened
almost useless.
Katherine A Minden © 2009
Becoming a Writer
A few years ago, I wanted to learn to write creatively as an adult. I hadn't done much outside of things for kids since my college days. The first thing I did was to start teaching a writer's workshop at the community center. (If I have to come through for other people, I will do whatever it takes.) Eventually, I moved the workshop to the local tea shop. I kept learning, and I kept writing materials to help others learn to write creatively, but I didn't get going on my own work. One day, the women at a gathering told me they would not bring me more of their work if I didn't start writing my own. That was untenable. I wrote a short short story, re-worked it once or twice, and sent it in to Writer's Digest under a pseudonym. I won a prize! Twenty-fifth place but apparently out of thousands of entries. I had become a writer.
Katherine A Minden © 2009
Katherine A Minden © 2009
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