The Cuckleburr Times » poetry

How Jumping Genres Saved Me

A Guest Article Writer — Tue, 15 Feb 2011 20:00:14 +0000

I was a poet. I ate, read, wrote, and slept poetry. It was all I cared about. It was my entire identity. I based my self worth on my meter and syntax. Talk about putting all your eggs in one basket. I had remarkably fragile eggs and a really tiny basket. I was obsessive.

And I managed this delicate balance, this precarious existence, for years. I had another job (that I chose specifically to complement the poet-lifestyle) that paid the bills, and I spent all my free time pursuing the poetry. I made just enough money at it to pay for (most of) my postage stamps and reading fees.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t interested in other genres. I read them. I just didn’t believe that I was capable of creating them. I had gone to Stonecoast for my MFA, and those fiction and nonfiction writers just seemed so untouchable. And they told me that poets were strange artist types who liked starving. There was a definitive divide between genres and very, very few crossed it.

But after years and years of poetry, I started to grow tired. Though my work was probably accepted for publication about 25% of the time, the other 75% started to nag at me. My muse left me. She just up and moved out. I didn’t feel like writing poetry anymore. I wondered if I was depressed. I wondered if I was losing my mind. I had been writing poems every day since I was about five. And suddenly, I just didn’t want to anymore. I stopped writing, stopped submitting, and even turned down offers to read at some of my regular venues. I was just tired.

And then, I heard a submission call from a nationally recognized magazine. They wanted poems and essays. And for reasons that I cannot even identify, I decided to write an essay. And I submitted it. And it was accepted immediately. I took this as a sign. Maybe I was an essay writer?

And so I began to write essays and felt some of the old thrill I used to feel when creating poetry. I began to feel alive again and I returned to the keyboard. The dam broke, and essays gushed out of me.

And then, something weird happened. The poems came back. They came back gently. There was no pressure, no aching need – they just eased their way back into my life, back through my fingertips.

And then I had a crazy idea. I wrote a short story. It was published and I got more feedback from that one story than I ever got from any dozen poems.

Suddenly, I was a cross-genre writer. I became so excited about writing that I couldn’t seem to do anything else. I began to churn out the work again, but I wasn’t obsessive anymore. I was really quite relaxed. It just sort of happened.

Students will sometimes ask me for advice. I used to give them some cryptic zen maxim that couldn’t have possibly been of any use to them. Now I just say, “Don’t limit yourself. Experiment. You don’t know who you are as a writer if you don’t test your limits.”

So while there is a lot to be said for focusing on what you are good at, I’m so much happier now that I don’t. I sit before you now, still a poet, but more importantly, a Jane of all trades, master of absolutely none.

Article by Robin Merrill. Robin is a poet who happily spends a lot of her time writing prose about Criminal Justice Jobs and Criminal Justice Colleges and Universities. She splits her time between Maine and Michigan. Robin has an MFA from Stonecoast and she is the proud mother of two terrific toddlers and two behaviorally challenged hounds, Maybelle and Orville. Visit Robin at http://robinmerrill.com

This is the price you pay for perfection

A Guest Article Writer — Sat, 17 Apr 2010 19:32:35 +0000

“You are a strange man, Ludovico,” complained Alessandra Benucci. “You say that you love me, but you care as little for me as you do for your career.” Ludovico Ariosto looked out of the window and did not reply immediately.

His new job as governor of Lucca was difficult and his salary meagre, but the beauty of Tuscany never ceased to astonish him whenever he looked outside. “Sometimes, you have to slow down to prepare yourself for a long run,” answered Ludovico, shrugging his shoulders. “Anyway, at this moment, this was the only job I could get.”

“But you promised that we would get married soon,” went on Alessandra, walking up to him and setting her hand on his shoulder. It was June of 1516 and, in three months, Ludovico would be 42 years old. He turned around to face Alessandra and saw his promises reflected in her eyes.

“I am just asking you to have a little patience, my love,” he said, taking in a deep breath. “We will be married as soon as I have saved enough money to lead a proper life.” How often had he tried to explain that to her? A hundred or a thousand times, it didn’t matter.

Ludovico had changed jobs often, always moving forward, working endless days only to be able to devote his nights to his passion. After years of efforts, he had just completed his poem Orlando Furioso, although he was still planning to make some revisions.

“You should just let it go as it is now, Ludovico,” exhorted Alessandra. “Your poem is more than good, it is even more than wonderful! It is high time for you to forget about it and work on something else. Why don’t you write a Venetian comedy to please the Bishop? Or a song dedicated to the Duke?”

During the following eight years, Ludovico saved as much money as he could from his small salary. Shortly after his 50th birthday, he fulfilled his promise and married Alessandra. The couple purchased a small farm near Ferrara and retired to live there.

When Ludovico Ariosto’s poem Orlando Furioso was published, only eighty six copies were printed. During his retirement in the farm, his revisions of the poem never ceased. It is believed that he rewrote parts of it at least two hundred times.

Little by little, the reputation of Orlando Furioso began to grow. By the time Ludovico was 57 years old, his poem had been already reprinted many times and was already considered the work of a genius. Ludovico, nevertheless, continued to make new revisions one after the other. After his death, Alessandra Benucci published the final version. It was absolutely perfect.

Article by JOHN VESPASIAN. John writes about rational living and is the author of the books “When everything fails, try this” and “Rationality is the way to happiness.” He has resided in New York, Madrid, Paris and Munich. His stories reflect the values of entrepreneurship, tolerance and self-reliance. See http://johnvespasian.blogspot.com a blog about rational living.

P.S. Editor’s Note: you can read an English translation of this epic poem online here.

Six Techniques to Make Editors Notice Your Poetry

Ronnie Smith — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 06:01:17 +0000

If you want editors to notice (and publish) your poetry, here are some ways you can get a competitive edge.

Avoid one-word titles. Or at least be sure your one-word title is amazing and unique. Titles like “Inspiration,” “Passion,” or “Remember” are easy to overlook because they don’t pack a punch.

Reject clichés. They say there are no new ideas, but you’ve got to write in a fresh, new way. To know if your writing is truly innovative, you’ve got to keep an eye on what other poets are up to. Read contemporary poetry. Lots of it. That’s the only way you’ll know where you stand in relation to your peers.

Short and sweet. Poems that are one page long seem to be the most popular among editors (who are often pressed for space in their literary magazines). Also, watch your margins. A poem that is too wide may not fit on the pages of literary journals.

Nix the rhyme. Rhyming poetry is difficult to publish. For that reason, we can’t even work with poets who primarily focus on rhyme. If you want to rhyme, please do. There are plenty of venues online and even a few print journals for rhyming poets. Just know that at many magazines, rhyme is not favored.

Build a strong bio. The better your bio, the more likely you’ll be well-received. Don’t be discouraged if you have no credentials. Start small and work your way up. If you get too frustrated doing it on your own, find an author’s submission service that can help.

Submit three to five poems per submission. Also, don’t submit more than ten pages total (5-8 pages is best). You don’t want to skimp or overwhelm editors with too many or too few poems.

Ronnie Smith is President of Writer’s Relief. Ronnie tells us “Writer’s Relief (est. 1994) is a highly recommended author’s submission service. We act as specialized advisors and industry-specific personal assistants to help creative writers navigate the ins and outs of publishing. Along with strategically targeting submissions to the best-suited markets, we provide professional manuscript preparation, formatting, proofreading, market research, and tracking. We are endorsed by many in the writing community, and our clients include established authors, celebrated poets, tenured professors, editors, and promising new writers.

Visit http://www.WritersRelief.com to learn how we can help you submit your creative writing to agents and editors. Our FREE Writers’ Newsflash offers useful articles and fun contests for writers of all levels. See you there!”

Enjoy that? You can read more from Ronnie at The Cuckleburr Times here.

Captain of My Ship

Dennis Copson — Sat, 10 Jan 2009 02:25:22 +0000

I am Captain of my ship,
the majestic ‘Destiny’.

Nautically she’s well equipped
and crewed for any sea.

She is well – turned by a rudder
designed by predilection.

A keel as strong as mighty oaks,
it was my own infliction.

Her mast against all winds won’t shudder.
(Truth, ’tis a contradiction!)

With sails as her canvas cloak,
the ‘Destiny’ traverses.

And, although I safe harbor seek,
at times there are reverses.

But, despite maelstroms and heavy seas,
I navigate undaunted.

I am the Captain of my ship.
Take heed – I flaunt it!

Major Dennis Copson is a retired US Marine and lives in Oceanside, CA where he is the Director of Sales and Marketing for Nature’s Big Bud Worm Castings and a freelance writer available for assignment. More information is available on his website at www.naturesbigbud.com and www.gogreenaid.com.

Crimson Illusion

Dennis Copson — Thu, 27 Nov 2008 17:09:15 +0000

My lover picked me roses
From her garden last Sunday morn,
Red blossoms in seductive poses
Nestled coyly amongst the thorns.

She vased them in a crimson arrangement
Displayed by the window in the sun.
Then I watched in naive estrangement
As my illusions came undone.

As those roses, I’d sung of love, heart crazed.
But I sang alone, remember?
What had been a raging blaze
Soon became a smoldering ember.

Red roses too soon wilt and die
Without love as their lullaby

Major Dennis Copson is a retired US Marine and lives in Oceanside, CA where he is the Director of Sales and Marketing for Nature’s Big Bud Worm Castings and a freelance writer available for assignment. More information is available on his website at www.naturesbigbud.com and www.gogreenaid.com.

Hope is Wearing Mittens Signing its Message to the Blind

Jeff Brown — Sun, 19 Oct 2008 07:27:21 +0000

Her squirms of protest accompany
the morning alarm. Stumbling to the
community wash she takes on
Thumbs and Butternut, tenants
that send dogs scurrying into the
street, hitting themselves with
newspapers to discourage pursuit.

She once asked the ventriloquist next
door for a little relief from defective
life, so he put 13C on his lap and
gave it the timbre of high rent.

Here dirt cleans itself on passersby.
Pink neon glows, tries to bathe the
street, only to draw back–like
peers from an eight-grader oozing
with too much brain and forehead,
and zip on the varsity letter potential.

“Gwenda the good witch don’t come down here.
Never seen Sante or the April Bunny either. So wadaya spect?”
Slithers Billy Tooth, as he shakes down the naked cabby.

At Ninth and Elm she spots the soft-shell cockroach
that lives in the church basement.

On Hanover she stumbles over Ham Sandwich and
Pig in a Blanket, then they steal her lunch.

There is great commotion out back of Ratellas,
outside the kitchen: nobody wants to
give up their place in line to the new kid;
The one with two good fists,
fresh gauze and tape over his eyes.

There really is something she wants,
knows, needs . . .
She’d felt it watching one of those dopey shows,
(the people with half hour problems),
in the final minute when the dumb
remarkably see.
That light in their eyes . . .

that is to covet.

Jeff is a Motivation, Self-Improvement, and Success expert and can be found at SelfGrowth.com. He has written 100’s of essays and articles; over 50 poems; and several books: At Amazon.com, you can find Black Body Radiation and the Ultraviolet Catastrophe, a novel to inspire young adults and the young at heart. For more inspiration, get his collection of poems, To Die at the Age of Man at Lulu dot com. Coming soon: Give and Grow Yourself Rich (July, 2008); Education is a Waste of Time, (early 2009); and a children’s novella The Search for Adriana (late 2008). Currently, he teaches writing and owns Inner Projection, a self-improvement business.

Fossil and Root

Jeff Brown — Mon, 06 Oct 2008 17:45:11 +0000

Fossil and root are stories that begin with the end,
exiled, ravaged of neglect, living in darkness.
Nevertheless, in the fossil
answers to the foundation
of civilization
boil and quake,
activity in still life.
And the root
without fanfare,
unseen,
the groundwork for being.

Our depth of meaning, understanding,
is gleaned of human experience,
combined layer upon layer.
Why does the pressure crush some?
While others produce eternal gems
of power and light.
Granted, we deal not in perfection
but those striving the hardest
look to build sapphires, rubies,
and then
seeds to root
to posterity’s delight.

And the vanquished, well,
their shame is not reveled in,
and at their request
the gem builders
exile their darkness
to unconditional light,
seed to root with ancient law,
a gentle guide for the vanquished,
if wisdom shows true ache to play.

With patience root will to fossil,
a radiant gem, aglow in the night

Not Enough

Dulce — Fri, 05 Sep 2008 23:56:32 +0000

When the words we say are just not enough,

When the emotions we feel are just too tough.

When we keep things from those we love,

When we bend the reality into something is not.

Who decides what is true and what is not?

If it isn’t right why then do we lie?

Do we protect our loved one more than we harm?

If it is easier to say the truth why then do we not?

If I could keep you forever… I should.

If I could make you forgive me… I would.

When it’s not in your hands where do you turn?

If it happened to you would you let it go?

If it tears us apart would you survive?

Make it all better you have done it before.

What’s the difference this time?

Is it because you’re on the other side?

Am I just not enough?

Tell me again will you or just show me this time.

Visit Dulce at her blog here.