Dealing with Perfectionism

Every writer has to deal sooner or later with when to end the poem and/ or to stop working on it. There are many poems that I created that had wonderful lines in them or images that I could "see" with every fiber of my being. That is not always enough, the entire poem has to work..and it has to work for more than just you! I have poems I have worked on for years...yes, I said years... and I still don't like the way they came together....or I felt it needed just one more little tweak, but they still don't feel complete to me. We are often our own harshest critics, and it is so fun to punish ourselves repeatedly. I believe 90% of writer's block is perfectionism in it's worst form.
Everybody writes for their own reasons, but I write because my sanity depends on it. It doesn't do me any good to be harsh on myself, or to stop writing because it doesn't look exactly right to me. Write because you love words, write to tell stories, write to find your voice. Your writing is uniquely YOU, like your fingerprints...so tread softly and be gentle, just keep trying!



Two poems that I never "finished" or liked..but couldn't let of...

On The Art Of Blooming

The swollen buds hang un - birthed,
seemingly suspended by expectancy alone.
I laugh as the moon reaches a silver beam
to tickle with abated breath the plant
the plant that writhes to retain it's eminent blooms.

One elderly curiously gent pauses to consider the mirage of gold
his eyes at first perceived;
There -
slivers of canary color forewarn
of an explosive revelation.
The tension becomes increasingly acute.
Brilliance that demands disclosure
must first wrestle with restraining boughs
that know how beauty offends an ugly world.

we scream together for tomorrow's release.....

A mornings sigh will find our lives shattered,
splintered with the shrapnel
of a vibrant yellow forsythia.

1980


On The Value of Words

With trembling lip and acid dread
I gave birth to those atomic words.
"Poor victims that they were!"
they flew like a hare before the hounds
to finish a mercenary job,"Well done"

Though they had ruptured from my bowels like a sausage overstuffed
and ripped my soul with their urgency,
It might have made all the difference as a grain of sand
falling unnoticed from the workman's bench.

"Fool that I was!" to lower myself to words
that I might have thought would change the color of the sky!
Why speak such idiotic syllables?
if they become but a child's whim to wipe away the brownness of her eyes?

I did not think the blades of grass
would shout at me a brighter green.
nor did I dare to dream the Hyacinth would emulate a richer scent...
so why give wings to those cursed thoughts
that until not have only tortured the recesses of my heart?

My mind twists in pain
I now confess
were I to guess and admit with quaking fear,
my true motive for speaking such,
was hope...
you might have grasped those birds of articulation,
held their bloody treasure in your unstained hands
take that meaty mess
raise it to your lips

and kiss...


OK yes, I was in love, and yes I got my heart broken! Have yourself a good laugh at my expense! There is something awful about these poems! I still can't let them go! These are just some of my imperfect poems...so go ahead ..write ..and enjoy yourself!

Family

Our family forms the basis for all our future relationships. Like it or not, your family as a child was very important to how you veiw the world and who you let love you. My siblings were critical for my survival. We banded together to protect one another from our unpredictable father. We made promises to each other, we tried as best as young children could to meet each other's needs and experience joy in our lives. My youngest sister, Naomi was born when I as 10 years old. At first I was threatened by her appearance on the family scene, but soon pulled her into my world with excitment and love. She has grown up to become one of my closest friends and confidents. Here as a teenager,I write about her to encourage her to enjoy her childhood, several years later in college, I would write a more serious poem about how knowledge of her exsistance often gave me hope in a trying world.

Smile Naomi

Smile Naomi, Life's gonna pass you by
Smile Naomi, Your too young to cry.
Childhood's a fantasy, the only time in life you can be free.
Free from worry,
Free from care,
when games are life
and skys are always blue -
Smile Naomi, for the time will go too fast,
Smile Naomi, for your life will soon be past.
1/1976

Hope for the World in an Adolescant Little Sister

Pinned beneath the gaze of the city man's optical rape;

I whisper innocences name.....

Naomi.

12/1081

Looking back and letting go...

Looking back at much of your earlier writing can be painful, humerous and well...a bit...humbling! I wanted to start my writing blog w/ my beginning poetry so individuals following it could see the progression in my writing over the years. I have to admit it is is embarressing to start with your "worst" writings, no matter how proud you are of them! I find myself trying to correct, improve, edit or trash the old writings because I am no longer in that place any more. For that same reason, I am unable to improve them significantly, even I don't know what I was thinking back then!
As I post these old writings of a teenage girl in the midst of unresolvable angst, I have to smile and let her be who she is, young, immature and lonely. I have to let go of the writings in the same way; as they are the beginning of a trail that leads to who I am today.
I encourage those who are writing today, whether you be at the start of your journey ..or well along the trail; to let go of your past and ermbrace the writings that continue you to find meaning in your life today..

This is one of my first poems. I was smitten by Emily Dickenson at the time and you may see some of her in the writing. I think I identified with her loneliness, her shyness, and her somewhat dark sene of humor! I think I was seventen at the time of the writing of this poem.


Loneliness

Loneliness is a bitter friend , that knows no enemies.
He walks with ease amoung our lives
and never does he bend,
to broken hearts or swollen eyes or yearnings without end.

For some he touches lightly
then vanishes gingerly;
but to those that he attaches to
he haunts eternally.

untitled

This year I am the river
I toss up dead branches on the red clay banks,
leaving skelatons for smaller prey to nest in or devour.
Even with ice in my veins, I move on,
a glossy black ribbion of life winding from town to town.
I pick up only what is given
and discard on my shores, tin cans, bits of plastic,
tree trunks and sometimes human bones.
1993

Winterberry Gardens: A Gathering Space for Writers: Needed Emptiness

Winterberry Gardens: A Gathering Space for Writers:

Thought I would post with some of my older and...more "morbid" poetry. As a way of explanation I have struggled on and off with depression, and often my work reflects this obsession with the dark side of our psyche. I think I listened too much as a child to Tom Lehrer O'Lear with such funny songs as "Posioning Pidgeons In the Park" Check it out on youtube.com. I wrote this peice back in the early 80's when condo's and co op's where becoming popular. I wanted to convy the aloneness a person could experience even in the midst of many people. Hope you enjoy the "tongue in cheek!"

Something is Rotting in Chalet #5

Something is rotting in Chalet #5.
She's been there since Tuesday at quater to nine
Today it is Sunday and five days away
she loses her eyeballs as the world goes to pray.
The postman doesn''t notice
that the letters go unread.
The newsboy doesn't know
that the occupant is dead.
Old Mr. Cramer thought he smelled something "fishy"
while walking the dog, or, so he told biker Richie,
who coasts by her window each morning
Richie said he hadn't seen anything alarming
except that she used to sing every day
but had stopped...but that wasn't strange -
he thought singing "ODD' anyway...

The day Sally's meat pulled away from the bone
The lover cursed "bitch ! She won't answer the phone!"
It's a good thing the central air keeps down the bugs,
but it looks like this spells the end for the rugs.

The whole world goes on like it hasn't a care,
that the next thing she'll lose is her nails and her hair.

On June 23rd the rent's way overdue
and someone will come banging at quater to two.
He'll quick get impatient
cause the car's in the yard
and he hates collecting money when the tenants make it hard -
So he'll reach for the keys
on his black leather belt
and he'll wonder if it was garbage in the air he just smelt!
Then he'll gasp as he shoves the door roughly aside
and poor Sally Ridgfeild will have no place to hide.
She'll greet him warmly with a fleshless grin
and pay him with maggots as he stubbles in.

Keep writing!

Just a reminder to everyone to keep writing during the busy holiday season. Many deep memories are rooted in the scents and traditions of the holidays..keep your mind open!

The Beatitude of Tears

This is a link to an article I published with In Communion.

It is entitled, "The Beatitude of Tears"    http://incommunion.org/?p=396