Poetry Challenge Pause

Hi! I've been enjoying writing a poem a day (and also struggling somedays), and I hope you've been enjoying the poems. For many years I've said that I was going to participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) and for many years, I simply haven't. I debated it again this year, and last week, God turned my imagination on full swing. I feel like I finally have a real shot at successfully completing the challenge.

However, I don't think it's wise to try to keep up with so many things at once! The podcast may be on a haitus but I still have planning to do for it, and there's the new YouTube channel! Maintaining the poetry challenge and starting NaNoWriMo sounds like a recipe for disaster. So, I'm going to pause the poetry challenge.

NaNoWriMo starts on November 1, and since I'm a master procrastinator, I haven't done a lot of the ground work I would like to do before starting (e.g. choose a name for my main character). I'm going to take these last few days in October to do some of that, therefore I'm actually going to pause the poetry challenge now instead of waiting until November 1.

I'll reseume the poetry challenge in December (and possibly still manage to get a poem or two written in November). Thanks for understanding!

Tongue Tied

Words are coming out,
Jumbled thoughts flow steady
Tell the world thoughts I understand
In broken riddles
And senseless nonsense...
I know it sounds crazy
It doesn't make sense
I know it sounds bad
It didn't come out the way I hoped
But the words can't change—
Permanent shears in the fabric of time
So I shut my mouth,
Seal away the tongue-tied fool
In favor of pen and paper
And hope for the scholar I know.

Time is of the Essence

I thought free time was what I needed—
Empty days and easy planning
Where the words can flow freely
And stories can be told
But my mind is blank
And my body tired...
Time is not the issue

When Words Fall Short

I've been quiet too long

Letting the words sit idle

Choked up, suffocating on my tongue

Waiting for them to be perfect,

But there are no words for this.

No literary devices to exact the right tone,

Only eyes to watch the world burn

To see survivors turn to killers

And brace for allies bombing allies...

Only eyes to shed tears over graves 

Where countless bodies are stripped of name

And watch the lights go out...

One after another they wax cold—

There are no words in this darkness

Nothing strong enough to lift murmured cries

Nor loud enough to drown out prattling hate.
Illumination will not come from speech,
This time, we need a sword.

Who Am I: the Revision

Earlier this year I posted a poem called Who Am I. It captured the a portion of what I was feeling, but there was something lacking. So, I turned it over for a critique on Poets of G+ and got some great feed back. Here is the newly edited version.

Image from HDWallpapers

Who Am I

I don't recognize her—
Red curls prancing,
Freed of brown straight jackets,
     scrawled upon the broken glass—
Rust tarnishes the frame,
Like the eyes peering out
     rust brown, bright but hidden
         those are not the eyes I remember...
Who is she?
Hiding in the realm of reflections deep—
Because she doesn't look like me,
     talk like me, think like me...
     who is she?
She is strong where I am weak
But then again, weak when I am strong—
If I could trade places,
Tag in and out like a game
     an hour behind solid glass
     for fifteen minutes of solid change?
If we shared this world,
          invisible but invincible—
     together we are mighty.
But who is she?
I dig deep to uncover her
Pull her from the depths,
     trace the curling cracks
And discover an image
          from the pieces of reflective glass...
But I am afraid--
     if I push too hard,
     if I search too deep
This old mirror will finally shatter
And the girl behind the glass will disappear.

The Blank Sketchbook

A blank sketchbook lies at my feet
It stares at me curiously as I walk by
Knowing emptiness is some kind of defeat,
It waits for me patiently to decide
On words to entertain countless pages
On colors to paint and brighten stages...

It knows something exists there
In the creases of forgotten paper
And given enough time to adequately prepare
Something, becomes a skyscraper.
A monument to the lack of emptiness
A testament to the found happiness.

Patience knows no bounds,
So it waits as I continue on
Hoping that one day I make my rounds
The sketchbook awaits my return,
Because it has faith in me,
It knows that I can and will succeed.

The Successful Blog

Everyone's doing it--
     or so it seems
And quality comes and goes
Like earthquakes on a Richter scale...

But its hard to stand out
      or make people care,
One person's passion
Isn't the world's rallying cry...

When it's hard to classify,
    it's hit and miss.
So we crown the blog
If it has a singular topic...

Hair, religion, politics--
     anything you can think of
Topics are a dime a dozen
And a dozen people have a comment...

So people tweet, share and like--
    they dedicate themselves
And in return they may get views
If they dedicate themselves...

But people come and go--
    they don't stick around
Because the topics change
And this topic isn't that one...

Consolidate--
    give up the range,
Or let the blog write itself
And let that be the success.

Searching For Perfection

The words are there--
Every dotted i, every crossed t
Punctuated, what seems so perfectly...
Staring back at me,
Waiting for affirmation
     and I can't give it just yet.
I'm looking perfection in the eye
Wondering if perfection is real,
Because I can't see it,
Right there,
In those words
In front of me
     and I'm searching still.
Waiting to find what already exists.

Birth of Imagination

Imagination brews
Unlikely places, unlikely creatures
All a beautiful concept
Waiting to be fleshed out
Waiting to be something
More than just a dream
More than just an idea...
Waiting on an expression
Waiting on life.

Crossing the T's and Dotting the I's

The fun (and burden) of poetry is when you re-read a poem and realize it completely captured a moment or idea (or that it didn't quite hit the mark). Last month I wrote "Heavier than Steel, Lighter than a Feather" but it didn't quite feel right. After submitting it for a critique and reading some of the comments I decided to do some editing and make some improvements. Perhaps next month, I'll look back and think this is exactly right (or maybe I'll edit it again).

Artwork by MechanicalHyena and found on deviantArt.

Heavier than Steel, Lighter than a Feather

They told me I was broken:

My arms unable to survive

And I heard them crank the saw--

Caught the glimmer of it's silvery blade,

Braced myself for the sound of pain,

Readied myself for the loss of flesh--

Dead weight can only hold you down...

So I laid there,
Drowning in my own tears.

Anticipating the loss from which I could not heal.

Time stretches on

Agonizing--

And the sound of the saw fades--

I hear doctors' voices,

Muffled in my stupor,

I hear them talking,
Hear them plotting...

What to do with the broken human?

The poking and prodding begins,

No reprieve from my suffering

Not a moment of silence or an ounce of peace...

But for the sound of the drill

There above my shoulder drilling

And the hammering--

I feel them pounding.

What more suffering can I endure?

I'm already broken...

So I pass the hours slowly

Tick, tock--

Until at last the mayhem stops...

And there hangs an unusual weight 

A tremor of pain from sore shoulders.

There lies something new 

A replacement for broken flesh--

My eyes catch the glimmer of green

Soft, beautiful green, glittering with gold

Caressed by the gentle touch of blue,

I see feathers flying free,

Hanging in place of what use to be...

Beautiful metallic wings, 

Crafted a top metal arms and metal joints--

They move with my thoughts,

They bend at my whim.

And I know, now, they are part of me...

Perhaps I'll fly away,
Look down on this memory
From skies soft and blue--
Just above the clouds
Chart my own way
Through turbulence, through rain...
There in the warmth of the sun,
In the presence of light
I fly high...

I spend my eternity
Basking in the presence of stars.

Writer's Block

The words are there,
Like magma,
     hot and red, oozing
Through the core of my mind.
The pressure builds,
Steam rises
And the plume of smoke
     is all you see...
Wait fearfully as the heat swells
Liquid fire waiting--
The explosion to come.

Lost Words

See the words hanging there?
Scattered with ellipsis--
     Unfinished,
          Dangling,
Memories and ideas trying to escape
While time ticks on,
The steady strum of each tick--
Deafening,
     the silence of the words
Left unspoken,
          Dangling...
Each word fights for a place
A snug and comfortable fit
On a littered page,
     crisp with other words
Carving a niche for itself
Creating a path to some story
Lost in the dangling and forgotten
Stronger,
     for their time in silence.

Art by Sean Williams. Check out more of his work at Seanings Designs.

Barred From Entry

I use to see visions when I closed my eyes,
Whisked away to far off places and different realms
Where fairies were as ordinary as me
And creatures unknown to any other imagination
Ruled high, from thrones above soft clouds.
Colorful birds large enough to ride--
Wild animals only the strong could tame
Soaring above active volcanoes and
Gently breaking ocean waves.
The birth place of wondrous adventures
Twisting turns and brilliant ideas--
A priceless sanctuary locked away in my mind.

If only I could venture there at will
Decide to travel to that beautiful kingdom
Close my eyes and set sail through the mind's canals
Find the missing pieces of stories half seen
Or just experience the peace imagination brings.
Perhaps I'd stay there for as long as I could
But I'd always return to tell the tales
Put to pen and paper words of treasure filled days
And express the danger of terrorizing times--
Dabble in magic and mysticism
Give away--if only a tiny piece--
The story of imagination's playground.

The Pseudonym

I've always known that eventually I'd have a pen name; it's not that I don't like my name so much as a separation between two halves of me that have always existed. Initially it was just something I found funny--the fact that half of my friends were certain I'd grow up to be a science geek and the other half assumed I'd go to a liberal arts school to major in English Literature. As I grew older and chose the science path of life, I realized I couldn't give up writing; it's become more than a hobby to me.  I knew I could continue writing in my spare time, that was a no brainer. What complicated the matter came to my attention when I entered grad school.

One thing I know all too well is that we live in the age of technology. Google seems to hold the answer to all of our questions and it's the first place most of us look for our answers. Suddenly, I imagined when applying for a job the hiring manager decides to Google me only to find poems and science-fiction novels. I imagined colleagues searching for my latest research only to find short stories and essays. Then I pictured fans (at least I hope I'll have fans) of my creative writing finding my technical papers and research documents. What a mess that would be! No, I thought, techie me and literary me have to have some distinction; they have to be separate niches of the same unit. 

Which brought me to a new problem. What on earth was I going to call myself? I applaud my parents on picking my real name; naming someone is quite a daunting task. Usually, when I create my characters this is one of the hardest parts of the creation. Sometimes a name just feels right, but until then everything seems off. When I was about 12, I came up with the name Icie Brown. Perhaps I liked the way it looked when I signed it. Or maybe I was going for something urban and cool. I'm not really sure where it came from, but once I started seriously contemplating a pen name I knew that Icie Brown was not going to make the cut. I wanted something a little more meaningful, more timeless, more realistic.

I thought and thought... And thought some more.

The most common naming tradition is to name children after their parents, grandparents, or someone the parents feel are worthy of being honored. My real name was in fact given to me as in memory of a family member who passed away too young. I decided that my pen name would pay homage to someone important to me, someone who had a large influence on the person I grew up to be. Naturally, that presented more problems (there are a lot of important people to consider here)! An easy choice would be my mother--after all I wouldn't be here with out her. I love my mother, but that just didn't feel right. I still wanted something unique (and my mother's name is far from unique).  So, I decided to take it a step further and name myself after my grandmothers. What's a southern belle without a double name?

And then I remembered I actually have 3 grandmothers (my mother was raised by her aunt as well as her mother). What to do? What to do? Sometimes, hard, clean, executive choices have to be made. This was that time. I saw my biological maternal grandmother probably twice and the truth is, I don't remember anything about her. So I chose to my other 2 grandmothers to create my double name. Which still wouldn't work because--surprise!--one of my grandmothers already has a double name.

(Banging your head against a wall yet? I certainly was.)

When in doubt, get philosophical with it. My grandmothers are the starting point, the baseline. I'm not exactly like them, but more like a piece of them that is a little different--changed, if you will. Therefore, I could slightly change their names to create my own, still pay homage to them, and actually add even more meaning to this pain-in-the-neck pen name. Thus I took Iella (pronounced eye-ella)  and changed it to Eillya (pronounced like "I'll"-yuh). Then I took Mary-Ann and changed it to Marí (variant spelling of Marie).

Now all I needed was a surname. My dad once researched our family tree, the farthest he was able to trace out family tree was to a woman named Sarah Kocumba. She is my anchor.

And so I give you: Eillya-Marí Kocumba.

WordArt

Quotes read from blank pages
Fill the air and linger above us
Beautiful words of inspiration
Paint illustrious images in the sky
Captivate each ear, each eye
But let us engage the message
Take it out of closed quarters
Graffiti it on unblemished walls
On display, sidelining busy streets
For the world to writhe at their display
Feel the weight of each voice
Echoing like obnoxious bass
From car to car, wheel to wheel
Circulating into hearts and minds
Creating a portrait of society

Tangible Thoughts

Incoherent--
A thought, a feeling
Just past the ebbing tides
In the sea of consciousness;
Lying there,
Just beyond my reach
Drifting closer
Rolling away,
Wave after wave...

My fingers brush
It's transparency,
Fall short
Awed at the softness
Of thin air,
Pawing yet
For something tangible
Sailing off to sea
Farther in the distance
Away and away.

Selfish

There's a melody playing in my head
Sweet notes drifting through my mind,
I can't quite put them to the pen
To establish existence to their lovely tune
Or understand their rhythmic cadence
To breathe life into their powerful words.
So I hum a tune, the best I know how
But its just not right; I can't get it out.

Idealist

So many ideas
Filtering through my mind
Passing by in hazy blurs
Snapshots of painted pictures
And troubled glimpses--
Feelings, images, words
Intertwined in some
Indecipherable fairy tale.
My mind is drunk with feeling
My mouth has yet to process
And my vocal cords
Unable to articulate...

Fading Fast

Fade away,
Words, images, thoughts, and feelings
     they drift away
In the coming Sun...
Their creativity,
Washed away in fire burning hot
     and a desire
To  reclaim this story
Overwhelms me--
A falling star
     shooting across the sky
A brilliant rainbow
     begins but never ends,
And somewhere in the distance
     this fading image
           waits for me.