Birdless sky swells grey blue against trees that stand like brushes stiff in the cold The penultimate breath of a new earth The dark disappears in a steadfast philanthropy of color: red, orange, rose blush up from the land over lakes and hills and roof slats to tell the inhabitants Night has not prevailed. Earth e x h a l e s as the Sun spills her promise.
If I could I would gather all the words from the wild, pick them like berries and press them into these pages to bleed them, beautiful, into my notebook I would chase syllable streams that refresh dry banks and stop. at the quarry where I will cut confused hands on stone, going through the ruins of my dreams and I will bottle my cries to pour over the altar of my art If I could I would answer the laughter in the wind, unravel the rhetoric of the rain, and walking dirt and gravel transcribe the vernacular of city streets I would record every note of joy from children and undo the silence of grandmothers, ask them about dogged hope I would keep on west of my despair, right through the dying sun and spell the sunrise as it lights land and sea in the genius of resurrection.
this epicurean sea of wildflowers and opus
white blossoms stirs beneath a rising day
she spills seminal secrets as the bees and
winds drive pollen grains and promise past
the velvet parting into stigma and style
with the marksmanship of knowing.
this field, voluminous womb, awash with prose
drinks the sun that climaxes overhead. a rain
of white sapphire upon silken spires that
indemnifies last night’s shower,
and the dandelion memories too much
for me in the wind perish in a panoply of filaments
but here i lie on my earthen bed pregnant
with poetry, the story under stories of the grass,
translating the anatomy of nature’s mystery and
indulge myself upon this, my field of words.
Those who might have thought the Wayfarer congenial up until now must know The Godmother from New York has taken over this leg of the trip (see Uncle?) and California Girl’s backseat, engrossed in a book.
Last I checked, blogosphere was a beautiful democracy. If you are offended by what follows, remember you are free as the wind to check out or unfollow this blog. My point today is simple: learn the basics. Please.
I am not speaking of the innocent blue-moon typo. This proof of human fallibility is why we’re thankful for the saving grace of the edit. I’m not speaking to those whose native tongue is a language other than English. I’m talking to people who publish anything blissfully careless in the basics. You who faithfully streak your blog with words missing apostrophes or a whole letter as in your vs you’re, unabashed at the moments you regress to the achievements of a second grader. Before we get to the grammar, I’m talking about the mechanics that school drilled into you every darn year, third grade to middle. Do you know how to turn on the headlights so you’re visible to oncoming traffic? How’s the rear view? It’s the preliminary stuff the driving instructor wants to see you know before you pull away.
What have you to say of your intellectual laziness? Why would you give yourself license to be sloppy, to reduce your art, vandalize your presentation? If you were to take offense that I came over and markered your work, it would be curious irony given that’s what you do yourself. You owe it to yourself not to look less intelligent than you are. You owe it to your readers to be clean on paper and screen. Pave their way, shovel off the stones and debris so it’s that much easier for them. Why do you not show up to the office in slippers and the shirt you slept in – even if everyday were the Casual Friday it is in the Sunny State? An inkling of social protocol, respect for the boss. A hassle to learn once for all, you say? Honestly, it is doable. If fourth graders can get it, so can you. The mechanics are just a hairsbreadth up a notch from the alphabet. I’m not talking about complex constructions, style, voice.
Many of you have published. Tell me, would Doubleday or Bantam put out your final copy with the strings of indifferent technical blotches in your story? Okay then, would you self-publish that way? Then why in — name do you blog as you do? So you never claimed to be a writer. You’re here to share your hobbies and talk about your cat. Or showcase your art. If you’re going to put out more than two sentences and want anyone besides Nana and your best friend to see them, retain a measure of self-respect and file and sand, please. Ah, but you mean only to encourage others in their faith. Well, Scripture enjoins us to pursue excellence in all we do, and rewards the endeavor. “Do you see a man skilled in his work? He will stand before kings.” Proverbs 22.29. God-fearing Mafia, you must know. You’re not wired for the screws and ratchet of language; you’re a genius Right-Brain who’s busy being creative. It’s the (professing) artist who believes there is no harm in exchanging blue for purple. What musician would shrug a B for C? They might be only a note apart but a single note changes the chord, Bach lives on to say through his arpeggios of precision. Please don’t insult me. Would you be as satisfied as the construction engineer who wasn’t so worried about the details to the foundation of your house? But he was preoccupied with the layout and paint. The rigorous Left Brains get this. You might be easy about donating a penny to the Ronald McDonald House but see how happy you’ll stay with the accountant who doesn’t believe numbers must be accurate. Don’t gyp your readers.
The blitzkrieg of analogies is to bring home the simple reminder that the fundamentals remain nonnegotiable in every area of life. If you’re going to take up the dignified name of writer or poet and need some work with the simple Dos and Don’ts, do retrain yourself – once for all. I begin with the epidemic glitches which happen to be the most elementary and move up to high school for those who care:
1) Before you throw it in there, make sure it’s a possession (Sarah’s bag) or contraction (it’s = it is) you want to express. That apostrophe stands for something.
2) On this one matter of words ending in s, I dare to disagree with the Writers’ Bible The Elements of Style by Strunk Jr. and White: The authors favor the possessive with the additional ‘s (Charles’s friend) and go on to differentiate the times you tack on the apostrophe by itself (Moses’ staff), but the distinctions are just too much. Stick to the smokers’ room. The book has been out fifty years. Language favors elision over time, likes the path of least resistance. If it can drop something, it will.
3) The pronouns its, yours, hers, theirs take on no apostrophe because they already indicate possession.
its own ethic
song of yours
they took hers
that lodge of theirs
The preposition between takes objects, not subjects.
he and I
between him and
between her and
between him and me
between her and me
The law of elision, i.e. the law of human laziness, will eventually canonize alright. But all right stand as two words.
Also two words.
Use the simple subject pronoun.
myself arrived at the lake.
Cary and I arrived at the lake.
The reflexive pronouns like myself, himself, yourself need a noun or pronoun in the sentence to reflect back to.
There’s the I, the referent.
I congratulated myself.
I’m fine. And
There is no you the yourself can hearken back to.
I’m fine. And you?
Tanya hurt herself.
Tanya hurt her. (She hurt someone else.)
The numbers must match.
1) Each, either, everyone, everybody, neither, nobody, someone call for a singular verb.
they are cool. (Here, they refer to the subject everybody.)
Everybody thinks he is cool.
2) When none means not one or no one, it takes a singular verb.
None of them
None of them is going.
3) Either and neither take a singular verb.
Neither of you
Neither of you is coming.
Do you know if either of these is used?
4) It’s one number:
A number of cases have revealed that
A number of cases has revealed that
[One number of cases]
only think when writing.
You can think only when writing.
In the first instance, the only thing you’re doing is thinking because the only modifies whatever act follows. What you meant was to qualify the circumstance that allows you to write.
SUBJECT OF A PREPOSITIONAL PHRASE
the point of what
us writers are about
The underlined phrase modifies of and behaves as one noun. Try “the point of the story.” When uncertain between the object and subject form of a pronoun, cover the distraction and you’ll hear it:
what us [writers] are about —> what us are about
Now you know the phrase needs the subject: what we are about
the point of what we writers are about
If you’re still here, feeling positive that I wrote this just for you, I assure you it is not personal. How I would love the luxury of time to be able to keep track of who violated which writing law when. Maybe if I drew up a hit list of bloggers…
If you’re gun-shy at this point, you may breathe: I’m giving it back over to the Wayfarer. Decided on the hate mail? Send it to me. She’s a sweetie. I wish she were tougher. The girl refuses to police grammar in readers’ comments. Oh, homeschooling calls: Holistic Godmother goes off to teach her boy the ways of the Grammar Mafia.
Until next time.
i chew the leaves of my poem they fan green and spirited in the height of their hour veins visible like these that inscribe my hand, run with the life of dreams that have nowhere to go but back down to the branch to the root you don't see look: their asymmetry of being red oak stained with rain pollen much like the blemishes on my face t o r n by time and caterpillars that become f u l l and bloom into butterflies the leaves testify to all the seasons green ash have weathered the wild waltz of wind and rain hungry for the sun they drink from the clouds i feel the laugh lines on the maple and swallow their history - this one, curled copper like rusted edges but it's just the candor of time grain and weave of memories cru n ch between my teeth composition on my tongue i chew the leaves of my poem
I started a poem in my dream. I worked and worked through the rigorous process as I do in the day, felt the thrill of seeing the words come together. I wrote a real poem in my sleep – actually, a pretty good one. And then I — WOKE. I surfaced tired from all that thinking and by the time the grogginess had lifted, I’d lost the precious fruit of my labor to the daylight. It would’ve been too late to snatch it, preserve it, even with my blog book on hand. Aughhh. How do I take the notebook into sleep with me?
Samsung, Dell, Apple: Here, your next patent idea. I want 30%.