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Date Posted: 18:18:18 04/16/10 Fri
Author: debikm
Subject: Now that tax season is over...
...let's move onto something fun-- our writing! This (bi) week's prompts are a day early in the hopes that if something new is already there Saturday morning, I might snag more players. With that in mind, let's see what there is to contemplate this time around.
1. It is indeed Poetry Month. Think about the music that language can be, the images that can be conjured with mere words on paper. You know what poems you like, but does your character agree? What is his or her favorite poem/poet and why? Is all they know of poetry dirty limericks? Then post one! Tell us what they like or dislike about poetry (this includes songs and lyrics, after all, songs are poems set to music.) or have that character tell us in a short scene or essay.
2. Line, please. Use the following in a scene: "Can you please turn the camera off?"
I look forward to some interesting resluts.;-)
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Don't know how interesting it is, but it's different! ;) >>>> -- 
Page, 12:59:39 04/20/10 Tue
(Also, what's a "reslut?" LOL!!)
My two favorite poems are mentioned several times in Carey On, but none of the instances are very long or much in depth. (Luckily, they're both in the public domain, so I can use them. Woo hoo!) One of the poems, though, seems to weave a thread through the book despite its few appearances. That said, I've gathered up the instances in which the poems are mentioned in the book and present them to you in a nutshell (a homeworkshell?)
Excerpts from Carey On
©2010 by Juli Page Morgan
Posted for purposes of critique only and does not constitute publication.
From Chapter Seven, Storming the Castle
“I like Millais’ work.” Katie tilted her head and smiled. “But I like Rossetti better. Of course, that’s because of his poem, Sudden Light.”
“And why is that?”
Katie squirmed a bit under his intense gaze. “It’s my favorite poem. Has been since the first time I read it.”
“Hm.” Still regarding her closely, Jay smiled and held out his hand. “Come with me. I think it’s time for lunch.”
~~~
From Chapter Eighteen, Mine Incommunicable Pain
Remembering Katie’s love for Sudden Light, Jay gave her a book of Rossetti’s poems along with a copy of one of his favorites, Grass of Parnassus by Andrew Lang. Katie fell in love with Lang’s epic poem. Each time she read it, her delight was aided by the memory of Jay’s soft voice quoting, “Last night, last night, in dreams we met; And how, to-day, shall I forget?” It made her laugh, too, when she recalled his quoting another line, his voice an insinuating growl: “Believe me, love, it is not good to hoard a mortal maidenhood.”
~~~
From Chapter Twenty-Five, The Nature of the Beast
“You sound tired. Are you sleeping okay?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I think I can sleep now.” He smiled and quoted from the Andrew Lang poem they both loved. “Come to me in my dreams.” His mind supplied the following stanza: And then, one saith, I shall be well again.
Katie sighed. “I’ll be there.”
~~~
From Chapter Forty-Six, Carey On
God, she wanted Jay. Not for sex, but just to have him near, to feel his warmth next to her, hear his even breaths, to see the shadow of his dark hair on the pillow, to smell the scent of him.
Her subconscious called up a stanza from Andrew Lang’s Grass of Parnassus, the part Jay used to quote to her:
Last night, last night, in dreams we met,
And how, today, shall I forget?
Katie whispered the remainder of the stanza into the darkness:
“Or how, remembering, restrain
Mine incommunicable pain?”
With a muffled sob she sat up and flung the covers back. Not stopping to think further, she got out of bed and hurried into the living room where she took two sets of keys and a flashlight from a drawer. Minutes later she let herself into Jay’s house.
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It is interesting! -- Debi, 06:09:49 04/21/10 Wed
The poetry is a good reflection of how Katie and Jay feel about one another. I like when you can weave a little classic literature into a contemporary story.
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Thank you! >>> -- Page, 20:53:40 05/06/10 Thu
>I like when you can weave a
>little classic literature into a contemporary story.
Me, too! And I love finding those references in books I read. I can't tell you how often a line of poetry or quote from another work in whatever I'm reading has led me to something new and interesting to read.
And I'm so glad the poems I chose help define Katie & Jay's feelings! Thank you, Debi!
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Hey Page >>> -- Esther, 14:14:17 04/21/10 Wed
I don't think I've ever commented on the poetry you have introduced through your characters before. So yay for a homework giving me an opportunity!
Okay. So I think what you have here is perfect. It is woven in beautifully, and so seamlessly, and the name of the author doesn't stand out as odd, nor do I, as a reader who knows nothing about poetry, feel like an idiot for not recognizing the poem in the first place. When Katie and Jay quote the poem, it is in harmony with the emotion that the few words of poetry convey.
Beautiful, I say. Just beautiful.
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Aw, shucks >>> -- Page, 20:56:52 05/06/10 Thu
>Okay. So I think what you have here is perfect. It
>is woven in beautifully, and so seamlessly, and the
>name of the author doesn't stand out as odd, nor do I,
>as a reader who knows nothing about poetry, feel like
>an idiot for not recognizing the poem in the first
>place. When Katie and Jay quote the poem, it is in
>harmony with the emotion that the few words of poetry
>convey.
>
>Beautiful, I say. Just beautiful.
Thank you! I can't tell you how much I appreciate that! To know I'm doing what I set out to do by incorporating those poems makes my day! Thank you, sweetie!
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I had to look up 17th century Irish poetry >>> -- Fi, 16:42:36 04/21/10 Wed
I had to look up 17th century Irish poetry for this exercise (I didn't think I could use the camera prompt). It's an addition to a scene I'd already written. This is a little later in the book than the other extracts I posted. Richard is 21 and he's showing a Spanish visitor one of the taverns in his native town.
As usual, any feedback would be appreciated.
(And I think a "reslut" is someone who had "gone good" but has now reverted to sluttiness ;)
*******
From Claddagh [working title]
by F.H. Hurley
Copyright April 2010
For critique only
Galway, Ireland, 1674
As Richard and Miguel opened the tavern door, the wind whipped up the orange flames of the hearth and made the braziers flicker. An incontinent mutt on a lambskin yipped at the rabbits in his dreams, his own aroma mingling with the turf smoke, sailor sweat, and slops of ale. Close to the hearth sat an old man holding a pipe with fingers like twigs. Near one of the braziers, a boy in his teens played a wooden flute while a red-bearded man beat out a rhythm with a pair of spoons.
A yellow-haired girl plonked two tankards of ale on the table and swept past Richard and Miguel to bump shut the great wooden door; she gave quite a thwack for such a skinny-hipped girl. The flames shivered a moment before steadying themselves, casting shadows on the dark walls and ruddying the faces of all around. There were no windows.
“It's as cold as the devil's hearthstone out there.” She sniffed.
Richard coughed; some smoke had caught in his throat. “You're right, Nelly. It would freeze a cat's bollocks off.”
“Haven't seen you around in months, Richard. Ale for yourself and the stranger?”
She nodded towards Miguel; the conversation had been in Irish and the Spaniard had not understood a word.
“Beautiful,” he said in English and gave an ostentatious bow. Nelly hid a giggle in her hand and returned to the bar. The two men found a seat near the musicians and unbuttoned their cloaks, Richard's smallsword clanking against the bench as he sat.
“She is a friend?” Miguel asked Richard in Latin, the language they both shared.
“I've just been here too often,” said Richard.
When Nelly returned with the drinks, Miguel leaned close to her ear and even in the half-light her blush was obvious. If he'd been an Irishman she would likely have slapped him, but it seemed that a foreign accent could excuse many sins.
“You'll sing for us, won't you, Richard?” said Nelly as the flute player finished his tune.
The man with the spoons gave an energetic final thump against his knee. “You've got a voice on you, then?”
“Oh, I can't really sing that well...”
Richard made the customary demurement and the crowd joined in with the customary encouragement, Nelly flicking her gaze from Miguel to Richard and back again. After the customary amount of protest, Richard cleared his throat and and the tavern went quiet, or at least that corner of it did.
"My little Rose, don't be sad, for all that has happened"
When he closed his eyes he could still feel the fire flickering on his lids. The music glowed within his chest, rose into his throat and swam out into the room.
“Long the journey that I made with her from yesterday till today,
Over mountains did I go with her, under the sails upon the sea,
The Erne I passed by leaping, though wide the flood,
And there was string music on each side of me and my Little Dark Rose!”
He had them all in his net: the old man with the pipe, the bearded spoon-player and his stilled hand, even Nelly and Miguel paused their play of eyes to listen. They belonged to him, and he belonged to the song, to the little dark Rose, and to the flame-shadows on the wall, and to the inhaled breath and heartbeat of everyone who listened.
He opened his eyes and the spoon-player slapped his back. “That's a fine voice that God has given you.”
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And that's a fine story... -- Debi, 18:34:05 04/23/10 Fri
>(And I think a "reslut" is someone who had "gone good"
>but has now reverted to sluttiness ;)
*snerk*
>
>*******
Close to the hearth sat an old man
>holding a pipe with fingers like twigs. This was the only thing that tripped me up. It sounds like the pipe has fingers, not the old man.>A yellow-haired girl plonked two tankards of ale on
>the table The only table in the tavern?and swept past Richard and Miguel to bump
>shut the great wooden door; she gave quite a thwack
>for such a skinny-hipped girl. Nice image, I can just see her!The flames shivered a
>moment before steadying themselves, casting shadows on
>the dark walls and ruddying the faces of all around.
>“Beautiful,” he said in English and gave an
>ostentatious bow. Nelly hid a giggle in her hand and
>returned to the bar. The two men found a seat near the
>musicians and unbuttoned their cloaks, Richard's
>smallsword clanking against the bench as he sat.
>
>“She is a friend?” Miguel asked Richard in Latin, the
>language they both shared.
>
>“I've just been here too often,” said Richard.
>
>When Nelly returned with the drinks, Miguel leaned
>close to her ear and even in the half-light her blush
>was obvious. If he'd been an Irishman she would likely
>have slapped him, but it seemed that a foreign accent
>could excuse many sins. Don't they though? Sean Connery could read the phone book and I'd listen for hours.
>
>"My little Rose, don't be sad, for all that has
>happened"
>
>When he closed his eyes he could still feel the fire
>flickering on his lids. The music glowed within his
>chest, rose into his throat and swam out into the room.Love this image!
>
>“Long the journey that I made with her from yesterday
>till today,
>
>Over mountains did I go with her, under the sails upon
>the sea,
>
>The Erne I passed by leaping, though wide the flood,
>
>And there was string music on each side of me and my
>Little Dark Rose!”
>
>He had them all in his net: the old man with the pipe,
>the bearded spoon-player and his stilled hand, even
>Nelly and Miguel paused their play of eyes to listen.
>They belonged to him, and he belonged to the song, to
>the little dark Rose, and to the flame-shadows on the
>wall, and to the inhaled breath and heartbeat of
>everyone who listened.
>
>He opened his eyes and the spoon-player slapped his
>back. “That's a fine voice that God has given you.”
Beautiful excerpt! Aside from thos little things I noted, I think it's perfect. I am eager to read more of this.
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This is why an extra pair of eyes is good -- Fi, 09:25:49 04/27/10 Tue
>Close to the hearth sat an old man
>>holding a pipe with fingers like twigs. This was
>the only thing that tripped me up. It sounds like the
>pipe has fingers, not the old man.>A yellow-haired
>girl plonked two tankards of ale on
>>the table The only table in the tavern?and
>swept past Richard and Miguel to bump
>>shut the great wooden door; she gave quite a thwack
>>for such a skinny-hipped girl.
Nice catch! I've changed it to:
"Close to the hearth sat an old man, with fingers like twigs, smoking a pipe. A yellow-haired girl plonked two tankards of ale on a table..."
Glad you enjoyed the extract and I hope to post more soon
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