Arts Institute Blog

I’ve included another poem here, and I want to talk about the process for writing this one. This one is in response to another story about a man who falls in love with a geisha girl and after she dies fairly young, he cannot seem to get over her. He dreams of her, and one night after having a dream of her, he paints her portrait on a silk panel (hence the title of this poem). 

After reading the outline of this story, several things came to mind; I thought about how the arts are a way of voicing something that we cannot voice in everyday speech; I have not experienced the same feeling of loss that this story describes, as it refers to losing someone to death, but I thought about what images can be used to describe losing love. I have been starting several poems recently with a sort of broad statement; for this poem, that’s “Art bares the beauty that we cannot speak.” I wanted to bring in the word ‘bare’ because of the play on ‘bear,’ and to show that this lost love and the feeling of losing a loved one is made apparent in this silk portrait in the story. So, the beauty that the speaker in the poem cannot bear is the loss of this young lover, who is the story is a geisha. I wanted to play around with this idea of painting because I thought it was interesting that the young geisha paints her face, and it is also through painting that this man deals with the loss of this woman. This portrait both connects him to this woman and helps her get over her, which is what I am trying to convey in the last few lines of this poem.

I am also working with a variation of the sonnet here, which I felt was appropriate given the subject matter.

Painting on Silk

            after “The Ghost of Oyuki”

Art bares the beauty that we cannot speak.

The losing you young, my painted woman.

I wake mornings, your face still there from dreams

left undone by the waking without you.

I paint what I remember to forget

the way you brushed your face with white, careful

with the curved lines at the nape of your neck.

To paint is to know the layers up-close,

the brushstrokes of brown that shadow your hair

against your brow; the curve of your lips, down.

I stand back to make sense of the lines there

on the silk. To understand your body

from a distance never practiced before.

The distance between bare brushstrokes and form.

When I was in high school we were required to study a foreign language. Living in South Florida, the prudent choice would have been to take Spanish and to actually pay attention in class but I chose to do neither. I chose to take the class that had the highest percentage of boys with long hair and black turtleneck sweaters: Mrs. Murray’s French class. I also chose to spend the majority of the semester looking over the shoulder of one Aaron Schantz, who had neither long hair nor a black turtleneck sweater, but who had something I found—to my surprise—much more interesting. No, it was not the secret to conjugating verbs in the past perfect tense. No, what Aaron had was a bag full of comic books and he would hide them in his French textbook and read them all period. And I would crane my neck to read over his shoulder until he got sick of me breathing down his neck and he gave me a stack to hide in my own textbook. And that is why I can’t speak French.

Though an avid reader, I had never before considered comic books as a valid literary option. They always just seemed like the hyper-active second-cousin to the Sunday funnies: all flash and tight pants and no substance. But boy was I wrong. Comics are visually compelling with complicated story-lines and intriguing characters—and they are not limited to adventure stories or superheroes. The medium is changing and evolving. Some of the most innovative story-telling and visual artistry is happening in comics. I’ve loved watching the form grow and discovering for myself artists and writers like Lynda Barry, Daniel Clowes, and Chris Ware.

With literary magazines publishing them, respected authors like Sherman Alexie and Mat Johnson (of the University of Houston) creating them, and awards like the Pulitzer and the National Book Award honoring them, comics are definitely not just for French class anymore.   I have recently decided to get off the sidelines and into the comics game myself—working in collaboration with my extremely talented artist mother, I have written and had accepted for publication my first literary comic. We are working on several more and in this blog I will talk about the collaboration process and the art of literary comics.

Who knows, maybe I’ll make a few comics fans along the way—though don’t follow my lead on the French thing. If you are in a French class, you should pay attention and save the comics for later. Because then you can read comics in English and French. Très awesome!  

Well, the ideas have been flowing better, and I’ve been doing some more free writing throughout the process of drafting these poems. I have been working on a poem for the project that includes aspects of the sonnet form. I am following the ababcdcdefefgg rhyme scheme and using a ten syllable count per line. It, again, has been interesting responding to these Japanese tales and using specific forms.  

I thought I’d include a draft of one of the villanelles that I’ve been working on for the project.  

The Change of Falling 

            after the Japanese tale “Kume and the Washerwoman” 

What makes us love what we cannot hold,

that which forces us to fall into the water

where women wash their dirty clothes?

Wasn’t I a god before I saw her, bold

and robed in clouds? I knew the thoughts

that make mortals love what they cannot hold.

A pattern of wanting things forbidden,

fruit, and places touched that must be bought

with blame and cleaned like dirty clothes.

They say it was her thigh where I lost my hold

on everything above, on knowing like a father

what makes children love what they cannot hold.

But it was her dark eyes that found me, showed

me what it was to be born out of the water,

the river where the women wash their clothes.

Loving her meant knowing what was old;

for time became something that mattered.

And what makes fools love what they cannot hold,

I found in that woman washing clothes.

I had written several poems, as I wrote last time, throughout the course of a week; I was happy about how these villanelles turned out. But, as I started writing a different poem (also based on a Japanese tale), I got stuck. I couldn’t decide what form I wanted to do, I couldn’t really decide what it was about the tale that I wanted to respond to….the list goes on. So, I thought I’d put what I had written about away for a little while and come back to it. I have looked over it several times since then, but I still haven’t figured out where I want to go with that one. I decided that I’d try a few things to get over my writer’s block.

 The tale that I was writing about was about a husband and wife who do not see each other for a long time, and when the husband finally comes home (after years of being gone in search of silk and work), he sees the ghost of his wife, still suffering from their separation. I think that getting started on writing poems for particular projects can be hard for a few reasons. You don’t just want to voice back what the story is about. You sometimes have to let the story sit with you a while.  In my case, I realized that I needed to write to work through my writer’s block (sort of ironic or contradictory, I guess). So, I started writing down whatever came to my mind about the story…images, things that the characters might be thinking or doing. And while I didn’t finish the initial poem, I ended up with a new poem, which I decided to write in the form of a sonnet. It also helped me to read information about the surrounding ideas of the tales. For instance, this last poem I wrote included an image of a flower that blooms at night, and while I’ve seen such flowers, I looked up more information about them, and looking up this information led me to other possible images and words.

I will often get frustrated when the ideas or words don’t seem to be coming, but sometimes it means taking a day off from trying to write (or even looking at the poem that won’t seem to finish), or doing a quick writing exercise to just get some ideas down.

I am beginning work on a project that involves several different disciplines– glass blowing, poetry, and Japanese legends about ghosts and demons. I am not an artist of all of these arts, or very knowledgable about any of them, except for poetry; but I am finding that both of these arts, in which I find myself a stranger, are influencing my writing in new ways. For me, poetry is about connections, whether its between people or between different art forms.

 Along with moving outside of my artistic knowledge base, I am also working on moving outside my normal mode of poetic form, free verse. I’ve written several villanelles, and I’ve been writing a collaborative renga in response to a Japanese tale about a woman who dies of grief when her husband leaves in search of silk and doesn’t come back for many years. It has been interesting doing a collaborative piece (I’ve been doing a 5-7-5 and a 7-7 grouping and then the next person responds to those lines, without repeating those previous images). It’s sort of like playing a game, in a way; your move depends on the previous player’s move, and you make your way through the poem. I don’t mean to say that this form is simplistic like one might come to associate games, though.

There does seem to be a simplicity to forms like the renga where I can count syllables and concentrate on nature…but to say that this form is simplistic is to not imply that it is easy- just as end rhyme may seem easy, if we look at how it’s done in children’s books and certain corny love songs where you can guess what’s coming at the end of the next line….”Sometimes I just forget; say things I might regret;….” For those of you who haven’t listened to Delilah lately, that’s a little “Glory of Love” for you.

One can hardly blame Sally Field for her display of pure, naked neediness all those years ago. That little speech is nothing—I mean nothing—compared to the total conniption fit of gratitude and delight that goes on inside my head for achievements far inferior to winning an Oscar. If I were to give an Oscar acceptance speech, it might look a little something like this:

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. You validate me as a human. You really validate me as a human and finally justify my existence. I’m not worthless. Hold me.

It’s not pretty, I realize. Especially when you imagine the sobbing and maniacal clapping of hands that would accompany that speech. Fortunately, I will never win an Oscar and all that frightening jubilation can be safely conducted behind closed doors, open to the scrutiny of no one but my cats—and they already judge me for less.

All this is to say, that while I have spent most of this semester griping about the pains of rejection, I do also know the joys of acceptance. Just this semester I have had two stories accepted for publication, and it feels great. That doesn’t mean that I will never be rejected ever again (though it should!!!!!!), but it does mean that I have a little something to prop me up when the rejections do come. I’ve made it before and I’ll make it again, I just have to hang in there. And then I can do my private happy dance and scare the cats again.

If you are interested, you can read one of my published stories here.

Here’s a great article that tackels another part of the publishing process: waiting 

http://www.postroadmag.com/9/nonfiction/ReadMyManuscript.phtml

We did this writing exercise in Elise Blackwell’s fiction workshop a few weeks ago and I thought I would share it. I love this exercise—it’s a great way to start a day (or 10 minutes) of writing.

Decide on two characters and a point of view. Write rapidly, without stopping to edit or censor yourself.
Write:
1. a sentence with a wall or boundary in it
2. a sentence with weather (temperature, wind, air) in it
3. a sentence with a sound in it
4. a sentence with a gesture in it
5. a line of dialogue of six words or less
6. a sentence with light in it
7. a line of dialogue of six words or less
8. a sentence with a ceiling or floor in it
9. a sentence with a texture in it
10. a sentence with an object smaller than a hand in it
11. a sentence with an allusion to literature or art in it
12. a sentence fragment
13. a sentence with a piece of furniture in it
14. a line of dialogue that is a question
15. another line of dialogue that is a question
16. a sentence with a hand or fingers in it
17. a sentence with a dash in it
18. a sentence with an allusion to a current event in it
19. a sentence with a metaphor in it
20. a line of dialogue that is whispered

Here’s what I did in class — it’s a silly way to warm up.

In a house, on the second floor, I opened a window to let in some air. The air whooshed in like bees, cold and yellow. I shielded my face from the sun and yelled at the sky, where are you spring? The sun shone hard. Where are you spring, it is time to swim in the pool. I looked down at the floor. The wood was scrubbed bare and smooth and it was cool beneath my feet. A grasshopper jumped, reminding me that I needed to return my library books. I sat down hard on my chair. Where was my hat? Where was my library card? I sucked my thumb and thought of the war — that dark stain. I whispered, where are you grasshopper?

Believe it or not, not every word I write is literary gold. Shocking, I know! Sometimes I start a story and it goes nowhere. Sometimes the story needs to cut some dead weight before it can move ahead. Sometimes it is obvious—painfully obvious—why I rejected these passages. Other times the lines seem to have some potential and, in fact, may one day become stories—but today is not that day.  

Taking a slightly different approach to my chosen topic, I thought I would share some of these rejected fragments. Take a look and judge them for yourself. See any potential or are they better left for dead? 

1. Jimmy and me lived in a one bedroom walk-up on the questionable side of town. Except for the bugs, the heat, the smell, the thin walls, and the over-abundant sexual acrobatics of our next door neighbor, it was a real nice place to live. And at least Darlene, the neighbor, had the good manners to act embarrassed when she’d see us in the hallway and sometimes she even baked cookies. I didn’t  mind the sexcapades, really. It gave me and Jimmy something to aspire to. And, besides, whenever the trains rolled by I couldn’t barely hear her. 

2. The yellow dog comes at me and carries in its mouth what appears to be a human hand. I stand very still and hope the dog will pass me by, but it stops and stares at me. I decide that this is a male dog because of his unapologetic manner, though I’m not sure why I care. He drops the object at my feet and I am relieved to see that it is, in fact, a suntanned human hand. Relieved not because it is human, but because everyone I know is pale. I step over the hand and leave it and the dog sitting on the sidewalk. I am fifteen minutes late for work.  At work, I remember that Cathleen had been to the beach lately but find her at the copier, both hands in tact. I am glad that she is not handless as I would be expected to pick up any of her copying or phoning duties that her handlessness might prevent. It was silly of me to worry about the hand, I decide. It is just a random hand—someone else’s problem. The hand is still lying on the sidewalk when I leave for home. I watch crowds of people step over it without noticing. One man kicks the hand and it skitters across the ground like a spider. The man doesn’t look back.  I walk to where the hand lies curled among the city trash and wait. I turn my shoulders to the passing crowd and point my foot toward the hand. Does anyone see it, I wonder.  Surely, someone will see it and pick it up. It is, after all, a human hand. When I glance down, the thumb seems to be pointing up and I take that as a sign to stop worrying and go home. 

3. Henry had been taking the I-25 to work for nearly six years, ever since the slithering beast had first been set loose on the country side. The highway snaked through the county, swallowing entire neighborhoods, parks and most of the native swampland, promising the fastest east-west route since people first got the notion to head in those directions. The day it opened, local residents sailed across town praising the gods of civil engineering as a half-hour trip took fifteen minutes, an hour trip took forty-five. That day, the I-25 was the best thing to happen to anyone, anywhere, ever. And that was the very last day anyone, anywhere felt that way, ever. 

4. Cosmo was a boxer. People called him a boxer because there isn’t a word for someone who stands in a boxing ring and wears gloves but drops so quick it looks like a conditioned response to the bell. He was more like one of those fainting goats that go stiff and fall over at the fist sign of danger. There isn’t a word for a person like that either, so everyone just went with boxer because at least he wore the right kind of shorts. 

5. Walter, the world’s fattest man, went on a diet. He lost fifty pounds in the first week, three hundred in the first month. His friends asked him how he did it. “I finally learned to let go,” he said.  When Walter was at last just an ordinary man, he tried to give away his clothes but no one fit them. All the charities turned him away. So did consignment stores. No one wanted his clothes. “Not even the fat farm,” he told Ida, his wife. “They said taking them would send the wrong message.” “Shame,” she said. “Guess we’ll have to keep them.” “No. I’ll just throw them away.”

I have nearly finished designing and working out the spacial situation for this painting.  Until this point there have only been a few colors involved which create a tonal map of the picture and allows the color and space to develop gradually.  I began this painting with raw sienna which created the orange and brown.  You could think of this as working in a specific key and the rest of the color will develop in relation to that key.   I find this a useful way to work because it helps in keeping color harmonious.  This is really the hardest stage of the painting for me.  There will be many more hours spent staring than painting.