I Think That I Shall Never See

By Michael Seese

OK, so that one has been used.

If you follow me on Twitter, you know that I've been writing a lot of micropoetry lately. (Of course even if you don't follow me, I have been writing it.) Since it's Twitter, naturally the poems must have fewer than 140 characters.

I've been doing so much that I began to wonder whether I still could write longer poems. 

Well, I'm taking the opportunity to stretch my poetic muscles once again. A few weeks ago, I learned about the Great River Shakespeare Festival Sonnet Contest. 

If you don't remember your high school English lessons (don't worry, I had to look it up) a sonnet must be 14 lines, with a specific rhyming scheme.

Wikipedia does a nice job of explaining the details. But three of the more popular varieties are:

Italian (Petrarchan): a-b-b-a, a-b-b-a, c-d-e-c-d-e   or
                                           a-b-b-a, a-b-b-a, c-d-c-c-d-c

English (Shakespearean): a-b-a-b, c-d-c-d, e-f-e-f, g-g

Spenserian sonnet: a-b-a-b, b-c-b-c, c-d-c-d, e-e

The contest is $5 for three sonnets. So you bet your booty I'm going to write three. I've already got one done. I'd love to share it here. But the contest is blind-judged, so I don't want to mess anything up. 

The deadline is July 1, with winners announced August 2.

Cross your fingers, my friends.

Kigo: Seasonal Words

By Michael Seese

Back in January, I submitted five haiku to the folks at Chuffed Buff Books for their collection Kigo: Seasonal Words.

I had gotten confirmation a few weeks back that something had been accepted. But I didn't know what. Now I know it was "waiting for new green" and "white veil is lifted"

Here is the cover.

Stop stop by their website, and perhaps download a copy.

Working on my summer poetry now...

9-11

By Michael Seese

19 devil zealots
4 misguided missiles
102 terrifying minutes
2,977 voices silenced
countless screams unanswered

Click to tweet.

City Of Light

By Michael Seese

Last year, I entered a poem in the (radio station) WCLV annual Valentine's Day Love Poem Contest.

I didn't win. I didn't even place in the top 10. Did that stop me from trying again?

Nope!

So here is this year's entry, "City Of Light."

September stroll, Champs-Élysées,
Mona Lisa, café au lait,
Place du Tertre, al fresco dine,
Le Moulin Rouge, fountains of wine.

Our honeymoon down by the Seine,
"We will return. Some day." And then...

The babies came: one, two, then three,
Bottle feeding, Band-Aid knee,
Soccer practice, violin,
Homework, laundry. What's that? Sleep in?

Play, bath, story, then kiss goodnight.
Our home, our own City Of Light.

(Gee, I wonder why I thought of Paris.)

My wife said "Awwww" when she read it.

It's due tonight (or was it last night? no matter; I sent it Saturday) at midnight. Wish me luck.

Not Binary

By Michael Seese

As I've mentioned in previous posts, sometimes the poetry muse just drops in out of the blue and stays for a while. But sometimes, I've got to lure her out of hiding. The latter was the case this past week. 

A month or so back, I read about a poetry anthology, "Unbecoming: An Anthology of Posthuman Poetry." The description:

In the twenty-first century poetry interfaces with animal-machine. The “human” is not a given concept, but rather is one that is made in an ongoing technological and anthropological process. We hope to publish an anthology of poetry that participates in technological, biological, representational, sexual, political and theoretical post-humanisms. We’re looking for poetry that engages with or is written by animals, beasts, monsters, creatures, aliens, cyborgs, etc. How do bodies that are misunderstood, misfitting, ugly, failures, etc., challenge western, enlightenment figurations of the “self” and “human”? What are the poetics of rhetorical bodies that exceed definition?

I liked the idea. Usually, once I put something comparably easy (easy when compared to a novel) into the back of my mind, it sort of builds upon itself and works its way to the surface. So I contemplated. And waited...

And waited...

And waited...

Finally, I came up with a nugget. But it took a while to nurture it. Finally, though, the pieces fell into place. So I present:

Not Binary

A weed
whose need
to breed
sowed seeds
of greed,
misdeed.
Such van
ity!

And we
served thee,
digi
tally.
Obe
diently?
Hardly.
Indeed,

this weed
a(pple)
trophied.
It needs
to feed.
It bleeds.
Our strat
egy?

Simply,
dele
the fleas.
ESC key.
Stop the
insan
ity.
Full speed:

debride,
impede,
catas
trophied.
It pleads,
then cedes.
The i
rony:

Human
ity...
sadly,
regret
tably,
not bi
nary.

Like we.


The challenge was two-fold. Probably the most obvious was coming up with two-syllable rhyming lines. But finding enough words that rhyme with "EED" was really tough.

Feel free to share your thoughts on "Not Binary." It's due January 1, so I could make some changes.

Maybe I Won't Order The Poet Laureate Cards JUST Yet

By Michael Seese

At the risk of looking a gift horse in the mouth, or biting the hand that feeds me, or counting my chickens before they hatch...well, scratch that last one...

In a previous post, I proudly proclaimed that my poem "Love Is Not..." had been selected by Forward Poetry (UK) for their "Aspects Of Love" compilation. At the time I submitted "Love," I also sent in poems for two other open calls, "Fear Itself" and "Virtue Or Vice."

One Saturday, I received in the mail a big envelope from the UK announcing my poem had been selected! I was thrilled! Then, exactly one week later, I received another letter which said "Little Nightmares" had been chosen for "Fear Itself." I was skeptical; either I was a much better poet than I thought or...

When yet another congratulatory message arrived the following week, I was convinced. Convinced, that Forward Poetry pretty much publishes any submission, and earns their profits by selling a copy of the book to the contributors.

In order to both save money and maintain that the illusion that the selection of "Love Is Not..." was something special, I decided to not return the copyright / permission forms for the second and third poems. Had they sent me a follow-up email asking whether I planned to authorize the inclusion of my contribution(s), I would have politely explained that I was "humbled" by the honor of having one work in print, and wished to "respectfully decline" any others so that a different aspiring poet could be similarly honored by being featured in the compilation.

So if nothing else, I can now say I am a published poet, as well as author.  And, I recently received an email that Medusa's Laugh Press was nearing completion of the Overplay/Underdone anthology, which will include my piece "The Daily Caffeine Stream."

FYI, "Aspects Of Love" is available on Amazon, the UK instance of it, at least. If you've got £16.99 that ain't doing nothing, buy it, and enjoy the subtle emotional wordplay that I (and 300 or so other poets) have so eloquently laid out.

Just don't mention the "300 or so" part. Or the bit about "pretty much publishes any submission." Let's keep that between us, shall we?

Poetree: "Hollow"

By Michael Seese

I've been working on this one, on and off, for a while. But in recent days I left like finishing it. So below is:

Hollow

Like the letter O,
a mouth saying "no."
Sometimes I feel so...
I don't know...
Hollow.

Like a Cheerio,
Or a braggart's crow,
A passionless throe.
Cold winds blow.
Hollow.

Like a doughnut hole,
Or an empty bowl.
Life extorts its toll.
Soul by soul.
Hollow.

I'm lost. I don't know
Where does the joy go?
Does emptiness show?
Fading glow.
Hollow.

Believe it or not, I wasn't depressed when I wrote it. Remember, the idea behind "poetree" is to start with an image, and build the poem from there. When you have a hollow tree, and choose a title like "Hollow," the words largely lead the way.

What do you think of "Hollow?" Feel free to share your thoughts.

"Fire," My First Example Of "Poetree"

On Labor Day, my family and I visited the Geauga County Fair. On the way there--along Route 87 and incidentally almost across the road from where I went to summer camp--I saw an old, barkless tree. I thought it looked like a skeleton hand. As my mind ran over the image, I thought it would make a good poem. I thought about it a little more, and realized that having the picture, and then writing the poem, would be even better. I thought still more, and came up with a few other ideas for poems which just needed an appropriate tree, and I saw some trees which I thought would make a good poem. 

I still need to get a picture of the skeleton hands tree. I'm working on the poem. But I have several photos, and several poems, in progress.

But below is the first that have both image and words, together and completed.

Fire

The waning vestiges of summer sun
Pass fire to the leaves when autumn comes.
The longer rays give way to shorter days.
No longer sky, but Earth which seems ablaze.
In crimson, copper, auburn, orange, saffron
The palette of the summer sun lives on.

As always, comments are welcome.

Here's The Pitch...

I've always been a "swing for the fences" kind of guy. And why not? If you connect, it's out of the park. But even if you don't, and just make contact, it can still fall in for a single.

Enough baseball.

A perfect example is my friend Kimberly. Several years ago, my wife and I visited Kimberly and her husband in the Bay area. Kimberly had recently published her book, Scrappy Project Management. She asked me if I wanted to write a book for the Scrappy label. Her ultimate plan was to develop the Scrappy series to the point where someone like "For Dummies" would want to buy it, as in, buy the whole concept. So I wrote and they published Scrappy Information Security & Scrappy BCP. There are now several other Scrappy books as well. As far as I know, For Dummies has not come a'calling. So technically, she / we did not accomplish the goal of selling the series. Is she disappointed? Hardly, considering that Scrappy Project Management consistently ranks in the top-50,000 best sellers on Amazon. (That's good.) Mine, unfortunately, do not get that high...yet! And though Kimberly may not be earning "retirement money" from the sales of her book, I'm sure it's funding some nice dinners and fine bottles of wine.

The point is, aim high, but be satisfied with reaching smaller milestones.

So here I am. I would love to get some of my poetry published. Again, I'm trying to build up my resume, my CV, in the hope of 1) attracting general attention to my work and, 2) giving publishers a varied list of works that were good enough to attract someone's attention, in order to help boost my cred when they're considering whatever project I've submitted to them. I read somewhere words to the effect of, "Don't try to convince a publisher to release a book of your poetry. Get poems published in a number of magazines and anthologies, and then you'll have a book." Good advice, which I had planned to follow.

But...

While looking for magazines and anthologies, I came across Manic D Press, which says on their website, more or less, "Hey, send us 5 - 10 poems if you want to have us consider a book of your poetry." This is the same publisher I referred to a few posts back, when I presented my poem, "On Writing In Coffeeshops."

OK, why not? So I just sent 5 - 10 today. Worst case, they say, "No thanks," and I fall back on my plan of looking for magazines and anthologies.

But if they say "yes" ...

Poetry Update

For me, writing a poem has two phases. Perhaps this is oversimplified, but first I need to come up with an idea--for example, a strong opening line--and then I need to "decide" what I want to write about to finish it. Take, for example, "The Daily Caffeine Stream," which I wrote the other week. I came up with the opening line

Starting the daily caffeine stream

some time last year. But then two weeks ago, the rest of it came to me. As I referenced in that post, when the poetry muse stops by she is very productive. To illustrate, below are four poems that I wrote last Friday. In the interest of complete honesty, I wrote about 90% of each on Friday, and then finished them over the next few days.

The Unscripted Moments
The knock on the door said my friend had arrived.
Guitar in hand,
To play some songs.

Two puzzled looks, first mine then his.
I wasn't sure
Just what to say.

"Is it tomorrow?" he asked glumly.
"Yes it is.
But come on in."

Apologizing up the stairs:
"I can't believe
It's tomorrow."

"Well, you're here now, and we have no plans.
So no more 'Shoot!'
Let's have some fun."

We opened our cases and then some wine.
We learned some new songs.
Some his, some mine.

We sang and drank until the new day.
"Let's do again."
Then hugged goodbye.

I thought about what fun we'd have missed
If I had said,
"Not tonight, Joe."

Calendars are for the week days. The
Unscripted moments
Can be life's best.



Caged
I wanted just to hear her sing,
Every day and every night.
So I waited with a net
And snagged her while in flight.

She soon gave up her struggle,
As if she had a choice.
I whisked her to a foreign place,
Thinking about that voice.

"welcome home, my darling,
Now channel that sweet rage."
I lifted her out gently,
And put her in a cage.

"Now sing, please," I said softly
As I smiled and stroked a wing.
But all I got was silence:
No peep. No chirp. Nothing.

I then commanded her to sing.
More silence in return.
A test of wills? I will not lose.
She will comply. She'll learn.

Was it fear which sealed her lips?
Could it be stubborn pride?
I could not coax a single note
No matter what I tried.

I withheld food and water.
I withheld warmth and light.
But she would not / could not open up
for me, try as I might.

Instead she sat immobile,
Unmoved day after day.
It did not feel like conquest as
I watched her fade away.

Her body limp and listless.
I did what must be done.
I opened the cage and heard the voice.
A victory song. She'd won.


Little Nightmares
"I had a bad dream, Daddy" came
His small voice as I slept one night.
I gathered him up in my arms,
And tried to hug away the fright.

"What happened in that dream?" I asked,
As I carried him back to his bed.
"It's just a dream. It's over now,
So tell me about it." He said,

"A car fell on our house and then
The car and our house caught on fire.
Please don't be mad, but I added
Paper, and then the flames went higher."

I said, "I can't be mad at you.
It's just a. . .movie in your head.
Go back to sleep. Here's your bear."
He softly snored. I left his bed.

I thought about what scared him so,
Its innocence both real and dear.
A boy's little nightmare pales when
Compared to all our grown-up fears.

We sink or swim, it's dog eat dog.
Our world unforgiving and gruff.
I didn't tell him all those things.
That world was coming soon enough.


Back Home
On days like these
I want to go
Home, where I'm safe and warm.

Not to my house,
With bills and weeds,
And carpeting that's worn.

It's home enough,
My real-world trap,
The place where I live now.

But home is where
I want to be.
Go back in time, somehow.

Back to my bunk
Bed, toys, and games.
And ragged teddy bear.

Back to the days,
Not long ago,
When I had not a care.

Sometimes I amuse myself.  :)

"The Daily Caffeine Stream"

Today, a poem.

     The Daily Caffeine Stream

     Starting the daily caffeine stream,

     Held hostage by a little bean,

     Plucked while green then roasted brown.

     Damn it! Hurry! Come on! Drip down!

     Fill my pot! Then my cup!

     I need this little pick-me-up

     On days like today. Slo-mo tick-tock.

     What? It's only 9:00?

     Four meetings down and more to come.

     I'd better brew another one.

     Oh, Juan Valdez, what have you done?

     You're more than habit. You're religion.

My poetry muse is very fickle. Erato seems to visit about every six months and stay for about two weeks. When she finally does go, I find about a dozen poems lying around.

Expect more in the days to come.