Poet, teacher & critic
I am writing something every day, sometimes a revision, sometimes notes for something new, sometimes a first draft... hurray I am no longer afraid of the start of writing that - it wont BE anything... that I cant do anything today... Worth the struggle. Here is a Haiku style piece. :fresh cherry blossomin my garden's third yearand I am sixty. 5/04/2011
Joanne LimburgManaged one a day so far, some very short, others towards a book of children's poetry I'm writing. Here's one that's neither, slightly the worse for formatting - and haste:You Ask Me WhySomewhere, more a notion than a place,an angel squats, a cosmic civil servantof great power, who never shows his face.His function is to pick up excrementin handfuls from the trough in front of him,and then, with supernatural strength, to fling itover his shoulder, so that it flies at randomthrough creation, till something takes a hit.It doesn’t matter what you do, or think,it’s just a case of where you are and when:some never find out what it means to stink,most punters need a sluicing now and then,still others get a shit-shower every day,and that’s just how it’s always been, OK?
I ran out of steam after producing these two on Sunday. They are even less prepossessing than the previous attempts - so I'm presenting them as In Progress , to at least show myself I'm still trying - and I hope I will feel my way into tightening them up in due course. The first, being about a jazz trio (albeit with an ever-changing line-up) uses 3- or 6- word lines as a slight structural discipline. Will try again in the morning to continue the self-portrait series.GIUFFRE, BROOKMEYER, JIM HALLA valve trombone can also dothe tailgate thing – and as I write I seea group in tight black bombazinesuits and inconspicuous bowler hats they would I believecall derby entertainingon unpolished brassgenteel white ladiesin a teagarden –but in Brookmeyer’s hands the instrument plays smooth as an alto saxophone The Train and the River running side by side. The green country sound of guitar dreams lyrical into damp shade and lush grass stalks. “BOTH SIDES - ALL THE SIDES” a 5-day self-portraitDay 1He wanted to be a vagabond,a swashbuckler, not careif the hairbrush went in the butterin the frypan on the shelf, paintbig rangy abstracts, hitch his way off to Bolivia, to the Pyrenees:instead he went for security, sat for thirty years in a job, saw himselfa little grey man in a grey suitand an invisible pre-sixties bowler hat.
Hey Carrie, recently discovered your site. Specifically, the post with 30 new writing prompts! Just for kicks, thought I would share the first-fruits ;] (This is the first prompt...10 words from page 29 of the nearest book.)Nervous. Selfish. Aim. Saturday. Nonsensical. Flight. Failures. She'll tell you what's nonsensical,flight. One flies through the air,the result of nervous selfish aimand the other failures to a waitingstream, wings helpless this Saturday.
Another of those (triumphs, decade, darker, problem, godlike, break/staff, so-called, bound,crow, mark)POCKET GUIDEIn the darker place near my heartI’ll take a crow bound with raffiato keep him still but not quieton my bumpkin explorations.A decade should suffice to break him in:imagine the feeling of godlike triumphwhen the so-called problem of his struggleswill be overcome and I can walk the city streets,him perched wing-free, a hoarse but docile filialon my ebony staff calling out landmarks.