Poetry, thy name is …

Like Lisabet, I wrote my first poem early in life, around third grade, but I started pouring them out in high school. Angst ridden. Pain laced. Dream filled. Emotions that I couldn't process and handle, I poured into my writing.

Now adays, I don't actually dabble in poetry that often. Mostly, I write poetry that is fairly sensual or erotic in nature. But it has been a while ...

THE DEFINITION OF DESIRE
By Michelle Houston

Desire:
To want,
To need,
To crave,
To yearn.

Wanting to feel his body over yours,
under yours, sliding deep within, filling you.
To want is to need.

Needing his soft touch against your skin,
his hands gripping your hips
as he pulls you against him,
his hips pumping into you with his need.
To need is to crave.

Craving his body, his passion, his lust.
Craving the heat of his essence flowing into you.
To crave is to yearn.

Yearning for strong arms to hold you.
Yearning for his strength,
his dominance,
his submission.
To yearn is to desire.

I have found that there are good poets, incredible poets, those that may want to write them but really shouldn't, and those that can string together the works but won't really reach greatness. I fall into that later category. I will never be in the running for any poetry awards, I can tell you that much.

But I have had some good comments about my efforts.

As Ashley mentioned, haikus are fun to write, and most of what I have done lately fall into that category. I love writing them, mainly because of the challenge of playing with syllables and rearranging words to craft an image.

LUST’S GEOGRAPHY

by Michelle Houston

The mountains, valleys

And serene, soothing river

I go exploring

I have often wished that I wrote better poetry, but it just isn't something I have an instinctive knack for. So I have to enjoy it when the rare moment happens that a poem does come to me.

Out of all my publications, I do have one collection of erotic poetry and flash fiction called Erotic Moments, which is available from Renaissance E Books. The poems above are from that collection.

My first...and last...poem

My apologies for piggybacking on Garce's Wednesday....I swear it's still Tuesday where I live!

This is a poem I wrote for a magazine contest when I was in elementary school. It didn't win, but it stuck with me as the only poetic effort I've ever been able to pull off. Unfortunately, it's one thing to write something like this as a kid. As an adult, though, my poetry still comes out sounding like a fifth grader wrote it!


Written here from memory....


I won't forget my days with you.
Your memory will not leave my view,
For you have changed my life, you see,
And in my heart you'll always be.

Your friendship is my greatest prize.
It warms my heart like summer skies.
In darkest shadows of the night,
Your friendship brings a guiding light.

And now I see through all my tears,
I'll never lose you through the years.
No matter what, we'll never part,
For I have locked you in my heart.


On that very relevant note, it's with regret that I'm announcing my "retirement" from OGG sometime this month. I've been struggling to find my centre during some personal upheaval, and it's clear to me that I need to reduce my commitments until I get my feet back under me. It's been wonderful, and I'll definitely still follow along with the Grippers, and hopefully be invited back once in a while for a guest post!

A Beatific Bard I Am Not

By Devon Rhodes


Disquiet.


I list to port
Sailing upon unfamiliar seas
Without a compass.


Silken threads bind.
Insecure in my security,
Uncertain.

A feathery touch doesn't reach
Yet leaves a bruise.
A scar.

A brand.


Marked invisibly within,
Anonymous, I move among the hordes
Alone.

Recognition is impossible.


With a stretch of flesh
The impermanent grafts,
Never to sunder.


A crack.

Snap.


Pain is fleeting but irrevocable
As I move beyond
Vows.


Creation degrades.
Erodes.


Hull is breached,
She is boarded
By a fated foe.


Irrelevancy.


Capsize complete,
The impact inevitable.


Awaiting salvage.


******

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.

A poem for the season

by Lisabet Sarai

serenade
to this march day
of unlikely ardor
burning the senses
            brown.

unbuttonings
city-wide.
unloosing all
the summer armies
prematurely;
            town-ladies,
open-toed and
hoop-earringed.

hazy sky
smiles benign,
spills time.

blessings on
the taxi drivers,
hungry-eyed, and
meagre busboys
smiling, sweeping
deli doors
of sidewalk dust,
and every shirt-sleeved,
melting executive
             watching me
             watch myself
in the windows.

(March 4, 1974)

Happy Spring!