Poetry Train Monday - 174 - No Courage Left For the Next Time

This poem was written during the 3:15 Experiment in August.



It's a backstory poem for my falconer character, Richolf, who is featured in my serialized Saturday fiction. I was just brainstorming his storyline over the weekend at my annual real-life writer's retreat at White Point Beach, Nova Scotia.

I've based him on Scottish-Peruvian actor Henry Ian Cusick.














No Courage Left For the Next Time


Cowering in ceaseless dark
He didn't know what was worse
The waiting
The knowledge there was no more waiting
The tiny flame of hope
The hopelessness
The weight of iron on his wrists
The moment of weightlessness
The sound of their footsteps coming for him
The silence of solitary
Were they coming with food?
Would they drag him down the corridor?
Would they break something?
Would he beg them to stop?
He didn't know what was worse
The memory of his cries, his screams
Or the knowledge there were more lurking inside of him
It was hard to say
Hard to know what was worse
It was all worse
He could see no way out
There was no courage left
For the next time he heard their footsteps
For the next time the keys clicked in the lock
But he was so hungry
So thirsty
Maybe he heard something
Maybe they would bring him something
He had to ride the turbulent hope and dread
He had no choice
The iron pressed down on his wrists
The cold seeped up from the stones
The bruises ached from the last time
His stomach growled
He hoped they arrived soon
He hoped he never saw them again
He couldn't take much more
How long did it take to go mad?
Or was it already too late?


© Julia Smith, Aug. 9, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 173 - There For the Taking

This poem was written during the 3:15 Experiment in August.
















There For the Taking


New day
New blade of grass
New whisker

I'll mow
Snip
Pluck
Shave
Tidy

New dawn
New wave breaking ashore
I'll stand
As it washes over
I'll trust
Anticipate
Rejoice
Reflect
Revive


© Julia Smith, Aug. 3, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 172 - The Things That Aren't Things

This poem was written during the 3:15 Experiment in August.




















The Things That Aren't Things


Things in my room
Castles and Palaces of Europe
Schloss Neushwanstein cookie tin
A red McFarlane dragon figurine
With its crystal ball in its talons

Things in my room
A framed collage of The Arts, signed by the photographer
A framed Taming of the Shrew ballet poster signed by the featured dancer
A dry-mounted poster for my 4th year film screening, including 'Exposed Film' tape to secure the date & time of screening

Things in my room
A pile of photocopied pictures featuring the actor-muses for my fictional heroes from last year's writing retreat
The 'Bravo!' card featuring a single pink rose that Brad gave me when I finished my very first NaNoWriMo
A pile of paperbacks written by fellow members of my writer's group

Things in my room
Two pairs of slippers, one fuschia, one black
An outdated computer tower & monitor
A pile of my dog's stuffed toys she's stashed under the bureau

Things in my room
A pile of programs from special National Ballet of Canada performances
An old cassette tape of my dad talking
Two spiral notebooks containing family stories I've collected

Things in my room


© Julia Smith, Aug. 22, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 171 - Further In and Around the Corner

This poem was written during the 3:15 Experiment in August.






















Further In and Around the Corner

Maybe not right now
But soon
Maybe not on my tongue
But I can taste it

Perhaps the vision is too
Misty to grasp in my hands
Perhaps the words are muffled
Drawing me further in and around the corner

Maybe the climb is still steep
But at least I have those mountaineering clips
Perhaps I run out of day before I run out of done
This journey becomes more soothing, revealings its own joys, its own insights

© Julia Smith, Aug. 27, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 170 - Defining Moment #2

This backstory poem for Richolf, my falconer character who appears in my Saturday serialized fiction, was written during the 3:15 Experiment in August.













Defining Moment #2


Delicious glances as they wove between the other dancers
Three sword points levelled at his face
The searing bite of the blade upon his brow

His invitation to the soiree
Had been heartfelt
By a grateful noble
One of the hunters who
Wanted to reciprocate
The falconer's hospitality

"Go on, go on"
His master had urged
Declining the offer himself
A twinkle in his eye

So many beautiful girls
So many intoxicating ladies
Richolf danced with them all
Smiled at them all
Clasped her hand
Brushed his lips upon her knuckles
Locked gazes
Felt the heat

Until he was called outside
Surrounded and threatened
In the chill night air
The sweat from the party
Turning to the sweat of fear

He'd danced with the wrong girl
He didn't even know which one
Had inspired these three sword points
To level at his face

A kick from behind
His cry hanging in the night air
The distant sounds of the soiree
His heart beating as he realized
All the moments of his life
Would end in this dusty moment

But the hands which held him
Only meant for the sword to
Kiss his brow
A reminder for life
Not to mix his lowly breed
With that of one born to the blood

They left him
Laying in the dirt
Dripping red between his fingers
That still held the thrill
Of all those girlish hands
Those womanly sighs

© Julia Smith, Aug. 25, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 169 - Drawing You In

This poem was written during the 3:15 Experiment last month, just after my sister's second wedding shower, hosted by her new family-in-law.
















Drawing You In


Your in-two-weeks sister-in-law
Had tears sparkling in her eyes
As you held up the
Handmade
Cooking apron

All the women
In your new family
Have a handmade apron

With her thread
She draws you in
With her stitches
She binds you to her
And to all of them
Even before you say

"I do"

© Julia Smith, Aug. 30, 2010














My sister with her husband and his brothers and sisters. The sister who made the apron is second from left.

There will be lots of wedding pix for Thursday Thirteen - never fear!

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Poetry Train Monday - 168 - Son of Whispers

Well - I did it.

Starting on the night of July 31st/Aug. 1st until the night of Aug. 31st/Sept. 1st, I wrote a total of 31 poems for the 3:15 Experiment.

"Founded in 1993 by poets Danika Dinsmore and Bernadette Mayer, the 3:15 Experiment is an annual 'collective consciousness' writing experiment.

Each year a menagerie of poets scattered across the globe wake EVERY August morning at 3:15 am and write. An epic conversation, this exercise explores hypnogogic and hypnopompic states (between sleeping and waking), challenges writers and provides insight into the collective sleeping/dreaming mind."

- Gwendolyn Lawrence Alley / Danika Dinsmore / Tod McCoy

Technically, the idea is to set your alarm for 3:15, wake up and write a poem, but I had already decided that the alarm thing wouldn't be necessary, as I generally get up at least once a night. The poets who run this event also insisted that the exact time wasn't important, as many people who would participate in this event are naturally awake at 3:15 am.

The important part was to write in that sleepy, half-awake state. And to be honest, I feel that I've never written poetry so easily or so vividly.

I've definitely been learning over the years to ignore my inner editor and just write. It's never been easy for me. But I've kept at it. In fact, writing this blog has been an instrumental part of learning to let go and just post it, already.

For the month of August I posted five of my 3:15 poems - in their raw state, as scribbled in the hazy dream state:

At Least

I Love Your Desire

Expecting Someone Altogether Different

You Reached Out

Defining Moment #3

I'll be posting all of my 2010 3:15 poems on the Poetry Train, as they appeared in my bedside notebook. If I work on any of them in the future, I'll state the transformation status.

This is a backstory poem for the adult Scorpius, whose childhood I'm exploring for my serialized Saturday fiction. I did a series of poems exploring this period in Scorpius' life, and it brought on an actual nightmare for me - an unusual and jarring experience.

















Son of Whispers


Dragged to the room of torment
He expected to see
The man whose unlimited creativity
Drew the sounds he most despised
From the darkest parts of himself
He expected to see
One lord or another
Who stood in the gloom
To question him
He did not expect to see
The fellow captive

This man
Was definitely
Of the blood
Though just as pale
Just as frightened

Yet it wasn't the noble prisoner
Who howled
When the lord
Would not answer their questions
Dragged to this room whenever
Their captors needed privileged information
He watched the
Tears collect and fall
In the eyes of the nobles
Who fought to keep their secrets
At his expense

Over time
There were things he
Expected to see
But when his fellow captives
Were freed by ransom
He did not expect
To hear the voices raised
Beyond his cell door
The negotiating
The keys jingling
The door creaking open
Yet no guards to drag him
To the rendezvous with agony

He did not expect
To see the face of the noble
Pale
Haunted
Resolute
He did not expect
To see the lord's hand
Reach out to beckon
To coax him forward
Who could expect
That their freedom
Would demand his own?
The shock stole the strength
From his legs
Which refused to work
His head swam
His heart beat too fast
But freedom would not be
His undoing

He dug past the point
Deep inside himself
The point which always
Slammed hard into resolve
The point his jailers knew
So many routes to uncover
He grabbed fast to that part of himself
He made his legs move forward
He ignored the tipping
Of the walls and ceiling
He crossed the threshold
Into the corridor
Not dragged

He knelt before the noble
Who had wept at his torment
Who'd never given up his secrets
Who'd come for him now
When his own freedom
Would have made it easy
To leave the son of whispers
To perish on the damp stone floor

© Julia Smith, Aug. 11, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!