Monday, November 30, 2009
A Beatific Bard I Am Not
By Devon Rhodes
I list to port
Sailing upon unfamiliar seas
Without a compass.
Silken threads bind.
Insecure in my security,
A feathery touch doesn't reach
Yet leaves a bruise.
Marked invisibly within,
Anonymous, I move among the hordes
Recognition is impossible.
With a stretch of flesh
The impermanent grafts,
Never to sunder.
Pain is fleeting but irrevocable
As I move beyond
Hull is breached,
She is boarded
By a fated foe.
The impact inevitable.
I have a very organized mind for the creative sort. I drive with a bird's-eye view map in my head, I'm equally at home with literature and accounting, and although I love the blurred edges of Impressionism, I am comfortable, happy with its definition of images, boundaries.
Anything abstract takes me right out of my comfort zone. I like to be able to clearly label things, have organization in my world.
When it come to either reading it or penning it, poetry makes my heart stop...not in a good way. Too open to interpretation, too vague, too few rules. Now, I'm sure that someone who is an afficianado of poetry will tell me there are rules, however my mind can't wrap itself around them or easily sense their boundaries. They are not readily apparent to me, and my mind revolts when I try to read it.
Even my sample above, to my mind, came out more like a draft of an idea than poetry. Time and again, I had to restrain myself from breaking into prose. I tried my best to feel my topic and take the process seriously, but I felt silly writing it, and even more silly putting it out there for others to read and roll their eyes over.
I love the idea of free-flowing thought and truly admire those who are able to express themselves in this manner.
But I ain't a poet...and I know it.
Historicals are a different matter. I absolutely love to read a well-done historical, of any subgenre. And I aspire to write one someday. However the attention to accuracy, the placement of things and events, the language and vocabulary, all overwhelm to make it seem a daunting task.
Every time I attempt one, the littlest details pull me right out of the story.. Was that even a word back then? What did they call underwear in that period? How did you address someone of that rank again?
Before long I've lost my thread amongst the minutiae. Harrowing to say the least, especially for someone who writes by the seat of their pants often as not.
But I do love the craft of historicals done well, and I haven't given up all thoughts of attempting one.
My guest blogger this week, Ava March, has a beautiful historical style and voice which effortlessly pulls the reader back into the Regency period, whether in her Ava m/m novellas, or what I call her "hot het historicals" as Evangeline Collins. Sigh. So wonderful.
A published historical by Devon? One day, I hope.
Poetry? Not so much.