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All I have is a voice
All I have is a voice To undo the folded lie, The romantic lie in the brain Of the sensual man-in-the-street And the lie of Authority Whose buildings grope the sky: There is no such thing as the State And no one exists alone; Hunger allows no choice To the citizen or the police; We must love one another or die. W.H. Auden September 1, 1939 (1939)
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October and Pomegranates
I am thinking of my dear Aunt C a great deal today. I wrote two poems about the pomegranates that grow at her house, and I'm sharing them while I ruminate on the beauty, and darkness, that we find in October, that most brilliant of months.
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Perception, Imagination, and Experience: “Stairway to Heaven” and Melodies Unheard
What do John Keats and Led Zeppelin have in common? More than you think, if you're me.
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blog, editing, fantasy, fiction, nanowrimo, pilgrim of the sky, poetry, watcher of the skies, WIP, writing
Watcher of the Skies and Thoughts on NaNoWriMo
So, my last post really did make it sound like I wasn’t doing NaNoWriMo, mostly likely. And apparently that’s the thing that got me going. Or something. I’m not going to try and explain it in too much details, but it goes something like this. I screwed up my back. I had to take medicine. I found out my kid does, in fact, have Asperger’s. My brain was mushy, I was in need of escape in the form of writing therapy that wasn’t going to require much editing (see: medicine), and my best friend Karen started talking to me about Joss Raddick. Readers of Pilgrim of the Sky know Mr.…
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July July July
Life has been spinning by at a trajectory altogether too fast for me these days, but that’s what happens when you smoosh an actual career in between being an author, a blogger, a mom, a sister, a wife, and an editor. It’s really unfair of me to complain, since it’s the bed I’ve made, but thankfully our summer beach vacation is looming just around the corner and I am looking forward to a week with as little technology as possible, and basking in the sun reading books and maybe (just maybe) doing some writing. Which is not to say I haven’t been writing, only that the writing is slow. Instead…
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Weird Tales Uncanny Beauty Issue
I’ve been waiting to talk about this until it was official but, hey, look: official! And awesome. I had the privilege of coming up with a project together with Brigid Ashwood, a brilliant artist and fellow lover of speculative fiction. The piece in the upcoming issue is entitled “The Wakened Image” and it’s a look at some of the “made” women in mythology, taken from the Mabinogion and Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Brigid helped me brainstorm the subject, and then I wrote a three-part poem in blank verse; Brigid provided some astonishingly beautiful pictures to accompany the text. The issue isn’t available yet, but soon. I’ll keep you posted. I am so…
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Bright Star: The Beauty of Love, The Sensuality of Words
I don’t know what I was expecting in regards to Bright Star, though I suppose I thought it might irk me a bit, as biopics tend to do–especially when concerning authors. Far too often it seems directors need to sensationalize the stories, add sex and intrigue, muddle up the plot so the movie reads more like a Harlequin than a historical account. In some ways I’m one of the worst kinds of audience members to please in cases like this; I’ve read Andrew Motion’s Keats biography (upon which the film is based), I’ve read close to every Keats poem and a vast majority of his letters and criticism. I’m hard…
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Thursday poetry, 5/7 “Delight and the Word”
To keep my brain nimble and, um, creative, I’ve decided to start a Thursday poetry tradition here. I can’t promise the poetry will be awesome, or inspiring, or even good. But once upon a time I fancied myself a bit of a bard. So, here goes. Delight and the Word Delight and the Word met in a fever dance under the shadow of the ship’s mainsail– the creak of weathered wood and the hum of the engines played counterpoint. When the Word’s mouth opened, all was softness and breath, the hushed moist maw of the Beginning and End. But Delight was wilder and her hands were fleur de sel; her…
