They Say Jealousy is an Ugly Emotion…

…And I couldn’t agree more. But I’m not sure if I’m jealous and that’s why I’m being so petty and bitter right now.

I read a successful poet’s work and just… cringed. I couldn’t even finish it, it was so bad in my uneducated opinion. And maybe that’s just it. Maybe if I’d taken a course on poetry in college I could appreciate its beauty, uniqueness… or whatever they’re selling. But that’s just it. I feel like I can’t relate to it. There are references made that are too obscure for the likes of me and I can’t help but wonder if this is a situation like The Emperor’s New Clothes. Maybe no one wants to admit they don’t “get” it, either and so they smile and applaud with all the other people who have no idea why they’re smiling and applauding, but they don’t want to stop in case someone finds out they’re ignorant, too.

I know that everyone’s tastes are different and I own that I’m way behind when it comes to the latest trends in either writing or fashion, but I know what I like and what I like isn’t that. What I read tonight (and the poem and poet will both remain anonymous) made zero sense to me and didn’t even have a lyrical quality to its nonsense. It was as if  someone used a pair of scissors, cut up words or phrases from a newspaper, tossed them up like so much confetti on the glue-slick floor to see what would stick. It was as if someone used predictive text on their mobile phone to write their next great masterpiece. It was as if their words were in a saloon brawl and they smashed through the window to punch each other out of existence because that’s what words do to each other when they’re drunk and someone called them out. I don’t understand it and I don’t know why I would want to. Again, I find myself ranting about how much I hate modern poetry about as much as I hate modern art and for the same reason: it’s all splats of nonsense to me and not the fun kind.

To be clear, this is not a “I hate free verse” bitch-fest. Maybe once upon a time that might have been true of me, but I’ve since read plenty of free verse that made me fall in love, cry, or think. This poem, though, didn’t do any of those things. The only thing it made me feel was bitter resentment that that is what it takes to become successful as a poet. The only thing  it made me think was someone sold their soul to the devil to have that piece heralded as art from a master. This poet must’ve been a Jedi master to pull such a mind trick over everyone of literary importance.

Seriously. What the fucking hell happened to poetry? It’s like the high school hottie aged like milk, underwent plastic surgery and the hack job made it even worse. I’m not saying love me instead or anything, but holy flying squirrel nuts, I finally understand why Cain slew Abel. I slave away for hours, digging in the dirt of my psyche, planting meanings here and there, nurture the words with tears, sweat, and agony and along comes some yahoo who turns in his crumpled, half-finished homework and calls his offering good.

Yeah, okay, I may just be petty and jealous. And I know I’ll get over it. Perhaps, one day, if I’m really lucky, I’ll get to infuriate someone else this much with my own crap writing.  Or maybe one day, I’ll get what all this fuss is about. But for the time being, I’m just going to cry into my carton of ice cream and wonder why not me in a “what’s that poet got that I ain’t got” way.

And for the record, I’m sure this poet is a nice person and I wish them much happiness. The bastard.

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“Mixed”

“Mixed” © 2018 Rebecca R. Pierce

I knew my blood was mixed
But the way they’d fixed
Their eyes on my face
Showed me I had no place
Among them.

Mixed meant I was less, not more.
The watered-down daughter
Of a traitorous whore,
A genetic eye-sore
That stung them.

They say I’m half like I’m broken
A dirty word unspoken
Better swept aside
Like something to hide
And forget.

Of two worlds yet none
I’m always on the run
Trying to lose this race,
Trying to find a place
For me yet.

*Author’s Note: I finally finished this piece. Took me long enough,, geez. I think I started this about four months ago and then either my toddler distracted me and I lost my mojo or some stumbling block like “what do I rhyme with this” or “how do I want to end this” kicked me in the brain.

That happens a lot. I get on a good gripe and I’m like, do I really want to bitch the entire time or is there light at the end of the tunnel? Well, as far as real life goes, who knows? But contrary to my angst-filled poetry, I do have hope that maybe one day we can stop trying to fit in based on appearances.

And not that it matters, but in case anyone is wondering, I’m half Chinese on my mother’s side and a blend of German, Irish, English, and Cherokee Indian. I usually get a lot of “wows” when I tell people that. I suppose my ancestors enjoyed travel a great deal and imagine my forefathers said something like, “Nice country you have here. Say, is that your daughter?” Ta-da! Clearly, I am the product of generations of fun.

Well, it’s late and I’m going to get off this sore subject before I get any more awkward. So, that said, have a good night and I hope you enjoyed the poem. If you can relate to being outcast for being of “mixed blood” (whatever the fuck that means), then by all means, leave me a comment. I’ll catch you later.

“The Time to Go”

Here’s a poem I wrote and published many  years ago. Posting here for Poetry Month. I’m always a sucker for rhyming poems even if I say to hell with tradition and write in any number of feet as I see fit. Though it’s old, I still rather like it for its Alice in Wonderland kind of madness it invokes. (Though don’t expect to see any rabbits with pocket watches or anything like that.) Anyway, the poem in question:

“The Time to Go” © 2004 Rebecca R. Pierce

The House of Cards meets the House of Matches.
Didn’t we burn beautifully?
Didn’t we burn the deep blue sea?
Now all that remains are the ashes.

Falling down, tumbling down,
Down, down…
The way we stood was misunderstood.
It’s not a matter of could, it’s a matter of would!
It’s all gone to Hell—very well—Hell’s well.
We all fall down, like the Prom Queen and her gown
Going down, like her crown…

The wine’s all drunk, the ship has sunk,
My flowers have withered away.
Only a scent as their freshness went
Today, yesterday…
Packed into a dusty trunk.
Time to travel—or unravel—
Time to go, you know?
What comes fast will not last.
But you could have loved me slow, you know?

 

Five Things I Do When I’ve Got Writer’s Block

It happens to all of us: writer’s block. You sit down to write and nothing happens. Or garbage happens. Words that limp across the page to die in one wheezing breath. The kind of garbage you don’t feel can be revamped into anything cool. What do you do? Well, I can’t say these methods will work for you, but this is what I do to move forward.

1. I switch stories, even genre-hop. Tired of writing gushy romances? Maybe it’s time to switch to horror and go for gushes of blood. Or vice versa. Sometimes, I need a cuddle after killing off so many characters. I’m a bad, bad person but bad people need love, too.
2. I edit what I’ve got. Sometimes, just polishing what I’ve already written will spark back the old writing flame. Not only will I love writing again, but usually I’ll find a new angle I didn’t think of before and will pick up where I left off.
3. Time to do some marketing. I always say I don’t have enough time to market myself because I’m too busy writing. So, when the creative juices aren’t flowing, I knuckle down and market myself in some way. In my case, I started the process of getting a website together. I looked again at my Amazon Author’s Page and know it needs a little more than the bare bones info I gave it. Maybe I need to make a few more posts on Twitter with #writing attached.
4.  Time to do some research. Whether it’s learning how to market myself, reading samples of how to write the perfect pitch, or finding the literary agent who can best represent my work, I use my downtime by getting lost in Google.
5. Take a break. Sometimes, I need to recover from burning myself out on writing. I typically will either read a book or watch a movie that’s closely related to my manuscript. Again, this is to rejuvenate my interest in my work and possibly inspire a new idea into my theme. However, taking a break is a tricky thing to do during writer’s block. All too often, I get suckered into taking too long of a break. So, if you’re like me, set a time limit on when you’ll get back to writing again. A day usually does the trick, but no more than a weekend. Then, ready or not, I work on one of the stories in my “to-be-finished” pile.

There you have it: the five things I do to combat writer’s block. What’s on your list?

 

 

I Have a Domain Name!

That’s right. I finally buckled down and bought rebeccarpierce.com so I can start the process of having a professional website and look like a serious author. (I hate that phrase “serious author.” I can crack jokes while being ambitious, right? It just conjures to mind someone of a stodgy disposition and that is SO not me.)

Because I want it to look nice, I’m saving up to hire a professional web designer to do it, too. (Plus I know nothing of SEOs and whatnot. Remember my post about how technology isn’t my friend? Yes, this is why I need a tech wizard to help me. And as far as I can see, my friend is Harry Potter.) To help give him an idea of what it is I want, I polished up my own Wix site. If you want to see what I’ve got so far, you can view it here. The poetry section is empty at the moment, but if you check back later, I should have at least three poems up.

Anyway, some exciting changes are in the air. Ooh, I can’t wait!

“I Woke Up in a Cage This Morning”

“I Woke Up in a Cage This Morning”

 

I woke up in a cage this morning.

Couldn’t breathe. Even the air

Felt trapped and recycled

Heavy and stale from too much care.

We’re broken under all that weight,

All that wait.

My heart tick-tocks like grandma’s clock

Wound-up tight until it just can’t take

It anymore. An alarm sounds

Just like a scream.

I bury myself under pillows, trying to disappear

Back inside a dream

Where I’m not me, and I’m not air

But I’m the cage and the gate and the key

So somehow there I can learn to be free.

“Seams to Be”

Tags

#poetry #life #insomnia #thoughts #aging

“Seams to Be”

Late at night, cracking my head on a pillow,

My thoughts spill out like a runny egg:

All fragmented and sorry

With how I  should have spent my time.

 

My bones feel heavy yet hollow,

Like I’ve fallen wind chimes for arms and legs

Laid out under a starry

Sky, all misaligned.

 

I used to pray because I believed.

Now I pray because I want to.

It’s hard to sleep when you’re

So far from your dreams

 

And so jaded you’re almost relieved

When they’re not there to haunt you

Lying in bed, wishing there was more

While Fate picks apart at your seams.

Poetry Publication News

I’ve already made this announcement yesterday on Facebook, but since I need to test my auto post function from WordPress to Facebook anyway, here it is again:

Four of my poems, “The Moon and the Sea,” “Slow Burn,” “Breadth of Life,” and “In the End” have been accepted for publication in Our Write Side’s Primal Elements Anthology! I’m so excited. As you may have guessed, one poem represents water, fire, air, and earth. For being my test subjects, I’ll go on and tell you a little more about them.

“The Moon and the Sea” is about that first flush of love, the twisting, gnawing, yearning one feels when love is new. “Slow Burn” is appropriately the opposite of the water-themed poem. It’s fire is about mature love, the kind that lasts until the moment of death. “Breadth of Life” is self-explanatory, but its title is a play on words. (Breath of life. Get it?) And my earth poem, “In the End,” is about death but specifically about death through war. (Extra, extra tidbit here: “In the End” was inspired by the song “Price of a Mile” by Sabaton. )

Anyway, thanks for reading and sharing in my good news. Until next time…

Technology is Not My Friend

While I love technology, it’s become apparent to me that the feeling isn’t mutual. I swear machines laugh at me when I approach and lately, to be honest, I feel bullied. There are just too many buttons with too many menus that lead to even more options. And then, just when I think I’ve figured it all out, along comes an update and I’m humped, having to relearn it all from the beginning. I know, I know, they have these wonderful “What’s New” pages for me to read and with the internet at my fingertips, I could look this all up but who has the time?

Anyway, this post is mainly to figure out how to get my blog to auto-post to my Facebook Author’s Page because lately, it’s not been acting right. It used to do it just fine–and WordPress diligently posts all of my entries to Twitter so I know WordPress is fine. So that leaves me glaring at Facebook with a raised eyebrow. What have you done, Facebook? Or maybe it’s me. Who knows what I unchecked and/or checked? Either way, bear with me yet again as technology and I face-off. I’m drawing a deep breath as I roll up my sleeves, knowing I’m about to get my ass beat again.

“Sidestepping on a Moonlit Beach”

“Sidestepping on a Moonlit Beach”

The pulse of shushing waters quakes again

And retreats.

The earth sifts upwards and aside.

Out climbs the many-legged shell,

Its tendrils tap the air, clicking,

Making fire to unheard music.

Dancing on shifting sands,

This lover, with arms raised,

Cannot quite embrace

The heavenly white crab he thinks he sees.

He digs himself once more in the sand

Where salty disappointment buries him.

 

author’s note: on occasion, I write poetry. Last night, while battling a little insomnia, these words came to me. I don’t usually indulge in free verse (since I consider myself bad at it), but for some reason this poem wanted to be written. This actually turned out decent so I’m sharing it with you. :*