Misshelved: Winnie the Poe

Went to the children’s classics section in search of some light reading…now I am just wondering how many poor young Winnie-the-Pooh fans have been traumatized by Poe instead… 


Perhaps Eeyore likes Poe’s stories. “Nevermore” seems like his type of vocabulary. 

Still, “Welcome to your nightmares” is a daunting phrase to put on a book beside a beloved nursery classic. 

Oh, how I love when shelving decisions go awry. Endless amusement!

Late Night Writes

When night falls yet I cannot sleep, words crowd my brain. The following two poems, one serious and the other silly, are the products of last night’s writing:

“Hover”

I lay still in my bed

yet hover ‘tween the sheets

propelled by the heart 

which wakefully beats. 

A’whirl my mind spirals

through darkening, deep

space starry with fears, 

that burn bright without sleep.

 

“Poet’s Ale”

Insomnia is poet’s ale-

no ailment once in words!

And worry is a hearty pie

that fuels the pen to verse. 

.

Heartache makes a decent draught

to nourish sonnet’s rhymes.

And sorrow’s meal, though bittersweet, 

scribes songs of better times.

.

No writer ever sleeps with ease;

prose lends him no blanket.

‘Tis poetry for nights like these

to make the best of it! 

 

 

The Race to the Finish Line

Caption for the featured image: “I love writing, but it turned me into something escaped from Star Wars. #RememberMeAsIOnceWas”

I just finished the rough draft of what I suppose is my second novel, but is the first of what I hope to be a trilogy or series… And by “just finished” I mean I typed “THE END” not even twenty minutes ago before staring in exhausted disbelief at my laptop.

I had no motivation to put on real pants or leave my house today, so I decided to marathon to the end of my novel. I did not necessarily expect that to take nine hours of writing with only intermittent breaks for chocolate and coffee, but I am not complaining because, as tired as I am, it was one of the most fun days I’ve had this summer.

Weird, right?

But seriously, marathon writing was incredibly rewarding! Not only do I have a chunky novel draft to show for it (over 83,000 words and 375 pages woot woot!!!), I surprised myself with what I hope to be quotable lines, unique insights, character growth, and some google searches that might be a bit concerning should they ever be discovered… (Examples: “cat noses,” “Italian word for eyebrow,” and “Bacchic frenzy dance music”).

It was a long day of pajamas, chocolate anything, laughing at my own jokes, crying over my own adorable and flawed characters, texting my support group (aka, my poor best friends who have to deal with me on days like this), talking to my dog, avoiding my disheveled reflection, and praying my vision holds out until the end.

BUT I DID IT.

I’m sorry, but I need to take this moment to just celebrate.

My draft needs revision. It needs to be retyped. It probably needs to be restructured in places. But I finished it for now and that’s something to celebrate.

I complain about writer’s block, writer’s despair, and other #WriterProblems like inexplicably finding typewriter ink on my forehead despite writing with a Macbook, but I am overjoyed to announce that all of these make the Writer’s Victory even greater.

And with that, I am going to eat some well-deserved whipped cream and call it a night.

 

 

 

Sing, Muse

Dear reader,

Please read the following poem. Then, please click the link and listen to me read it; I have of late found great value in reading poetry aloud. Once you do those two things (it should take but two minutes of your time), you are welcome to read my explanation of the poem or to interpret it for yourself. I’d imagine both will lead to similar conclusions. Finally, if you are so inclined, I would love to hear from you! Thank you in advance!

-Ryanne

First, the written word: 

Sing, Muse, of rage-

     or rather- Desire.

     Drive with twin rhyming whips –

              Name and Fame-

     up mountains toppling, rising peak,

     ever crying, out of reach,

     “On, on, onward!”

.

Harpy howl to clamoring poets’ ears

     as siren song does fall.

     Dazzling, drawing, drowning:

     divine-seeming, it pulls

     still higher, higher

     up Tow’r where language

     began and begins

     “On, onward, pilgrims!”

.

So scaling e’er, traipsing eager,

     though weary,

     worshippers seeking sanctuary

     not for rest

     but to exalt,

     that which in climbing, we sculpt:

           New relic, sainted self.

.

Oh! To be one of the many few,

     who, pious, always “onward”

     and yet- when time trickles low-

     kneeling, wonder,

          “wherefore.”

.

Wherefore place an icon made

     (like us only in its fade)

     of substance age-old, ever-new:

     Ambition dressed as Holy Muse?

 

Second, the spoken word: 

 

Finally, a brief word of explanation: 

I found myself forcing creativity today, working to compose a piece of music without passion. I was inspired only by the thought that if I finish this, it will be another successful accomplishment to my credit.

But as I realized that selfish ambition was my main motivation (at the moment), I was deeply convicted. Why create at all if what compels me is untempered ambition? What profits it to climb what a favorite author of mine calls “the Alpine Path” if I seek only to plant my lonely, temporal banner at its peak?

And, as in most moments of intense emotion, poetry happened. In scribbling and speaking this poem, I was able to recall why I write and compose: not to glorify myself but, as in the parable, to be a faithful steward of my talents. To do this, I must write to the best of my ability to reflect the true Author and pray that my words will direct minds toward the living Word.

Kirkyard Clan

Once again, a graveyard has inspired poetry. This time, it was the historic Greyfriar’s Kirkyard. It was once the post of a loyal dog (Greyfriar’s Bobby) and now is rumored to be haunted by a malevolent poltergeist. It also features several tombstones with names that JK Rowling used as Harry Potter characters! Needless to say, it is a place overflowing with creative inspiration…and wildflowers. Enjoy! 

“Kirkyard Clan”

.

Tombstones sprout among 

and tower over you 

But you care only for 

the shady homes they strew.

.
And though graves lie beneath 

the crumbling, grassy ground,

You care not for the chill

 but joy in fertile found. 

.

That ghostly wind that blows 

can’t scare with screaming howls;

You care not for wuth’ring, 

though larger stems it bows. 

.

Though sun but rarely shines- 

even he hides his gaze-

What you care for are clouds, 

which white, reflect your face. 

.

Toil not, nor spin in strife 

for that’s a desert path. 

You care for torrent rain 

that to you is a bath. 

.

Though haunts may rumor’d be 

and others leave at night.

You care for quiet gloom 

that leaves you to bloom bright. 

.

The daisies short still stand, 

a clan that does not care

For dark decay and death 

that withers others there.

A Sonnet: Lunatic Reflections 


“We think to be the burning bright of sun

Which lends to us the glow we know as pow’r. 

And yet when seasons change and months are done,

We wax and wane with ev’ry passing hour. 

Beneath the pale and ever-shifting face, 

The darkened side is ever on the lurk. 

Pretending this is truly not the case

Becomes the end of all our earthly work. 

For yet we make an idol of the moon,

Exalting her and self as the true light. 

When we, lunatics, fade upon the noon

And only shine amidst the blackest night. 

The moon and we, are mere reflections dim 

Of all truth, beauty, goodness bright in Him.”
-Ryanne J. McLaren