Warrior Wednesday

notebook noir
Originally uploaded by theilr

I had a great day, and I'm just settling in now to get a bit more writing done before bed. I wanted to pop in and post a couple of poems to tide you over until tomorrow's Thankful Thursday post. :)

Morning

Tin roof rain drops
and wings like sheets
flap toward freedom
perched atop the pine
single branch sways
nothing but the rain
can cleanse me now
face to sky, arms to wind
warrior waiting
behind a peaceful mask
ready to pounce...
always watching.
© 2009 J. Hudock

Numbered

Every night's pain
echoes into silent
voices across the void...
She picks up her pen
and tries to capture
it in words, but
there is only the
way it makes her feel:
speechless, but full
replenished, but alone,
as if she's numbered
every one of her own days
and given them new meaning.
She's sure that
he would never understand,
so she closes her book
and goes to sleep.
© 2009 J. Hudock

Untitled

Let it all writhe
and tangle together
like a bed of snakes
tale to mouth
euroburos

Let it all burn
and smolder together
like a pile of ash
blackened soot
funeral pyre

Let it all fade
and wash away together
like a bed of sand
loose shells
watery grave

Let it all go
and dwindle into nothing
like a galaxy into a black hole
spinning rim round
the end
© 2009 J. Hudock

Have a good evening everyone.

April Showers... Bring May Flowers

Its raining in my backyard-Hooray
Originally uploaded by aussiegall

Sometimes it has to rain. I know that. After a long winter, however, the transition from frigid and icy to beautiful and green is not always smooth. There are a lot of grey and icky days, as the fingers of death uncoil from the spring maiden, allowing her to go forth and bring life back to the sluggish and tired earth. This morning, I woke up to the sound of pouring rain, (as usual, I started to sing Skin Row's "I Remember You... because I am from the 80s, and that is what I do). Before I climbed out of bed, I thought about how sad today was going to be. A lot of intense things are underway in my life right now, some incredibly frightening changes, and the rain and gloom felt perfect for my mood.

I got out of bed, didn't even get dressed, and put my shoes on so I could take Loki the wonderhusky outside for his morning business. It was warm. Not cold, as I had anticipated, and though it was damp, there was humidity to because of the heat. I looked out into the backyard and realized that all the dead and barren plant life had been brushed by the hand of spring. Everything was green. It gave me hope.

I've got a lot to do right now, so my blogs may be a little sporadic. I will try to keep at them daily, as I do enjoy the interaction and sharing with those who take time to read. Today, I leave you with a couple poems that encompass my frame of mind right now perfectly.

Matches

What would she say to me
if she were to live
beyond expectation?
Would she say, "Light the
match," and exhale
smoke in tiny fingers
that dance upon the
wrinkles in her skin?
"My pretty girl, so smart,"
but not smart enough
to outwit her own defeat,
her own indulgences. My
kingdom for a compliment,
my entire world to be
shattered like an old
barn house window.
"Make a wish," then
she blows out the match.
© 2009 J. Hudock


Burn Scar

Sucker punched by the moment,
left struggling for breath.
Long after the heart stops,
pale ghost of want
flounders on the floor--
no one hears it screaming.

Strangled disease ended torment
flat on the back of a dream.
Short pulses of of subtlety
shine like a beacon
pounding at the door of
something to believe in.

Small and curled like a ball
a fetus in a womb of web,
snap judgments tear through
white waves of silence.
Grounded forever more,
nothing but a burn scar.
© 2009 J. Hudock

What is this?
Sundown and the strange
suffocation braces my lungs.

I thought we were over this,
basking in the cure
and absolved from old punishments.

Imprisoned by notion,
barred within my fear...

I open up the cage
and with this final breath
I set you free.

Fly, fly away from me.
© 2009 J. Hudock

Even if it's raining wherever you are, go stand under the downpour,and think of yourself like a flower desperate for a drink. Grow--like a vine if you have to. Stretch your arms toward the sun, even if it's hidden behind clouds. It'll be shining again before you know it, and you'll be all the better from all that rain.


Oh, and before I forget, my friend, James Melzer will be revealing the cover art for his novel, The Zombie Chronicles: Escape, tonight on his personal website at 7:45PM EST. James will also be stopping by Projekt X Radio around 8PM EST to talk about the cover. Check it out! I've sneak peeked the cover, and it's AMAZING!!!

Because it's Tuesday

Spring Lamb
Originally uploaded by Essjay is happy in NZ

I'm happy to say that I haven't been blogging as much frequently because I've actually been writing. That's always a positive thing. Right after finishing the draft on my short story Sunday, I actually started another short story. I've also been writing a lot of poetry, some of which I share here with you.

Whole

In the lion's jaws
this lamb lies still
bent neck, bleeding
all fear receding
as he lopes off
away from the pride
finding some dark
secluded place to hide
where he can lap at her wounds
until saliva mends the skin
and she is whole again.

© 2009 J. Hudock

The Sea

Waves rush in against the cliffs:
that is the crushing breathlessness of you.
Three gulls circle overhead, little spies
that carry pieces of me away in their cries.
I am nothing but the spray of rain on stone,
an essence of color, refracted light.
Breathe in all the mist that is left of me,
and carry me back out with you to sea.

© 2009 J. Hudock

Here's hoping your Wednesday is bliss.

Reflections...

Every night before going to bed, I process all of the day's thoughts and events, and then I write a poem. I have had other things going on lately, so I thought I'd post a couple of the poems I wrote this last week:

Underwater:

bubbles of frustration
squeeze from my lungs
small alien beings
like clear jellyfish
rise toward the distant
flickering daylight
fingertips glow underwater
extraterrestrial, unsound
I can see through my own skin:
blue veined, peaceful,
and it takes me back
connects me to the source
intravenously sustained
floating in the womb...

-----

Reflected

the mirrored reflection of something so yesterday
and yet beyond tomorrow wavers in front of me;
grins, not devouring, but straight and white,
clean and new, with an undercurrent of memory
of that whole time when I gave myself away
to someone that never really wanted me,
but took parts anyway to make himself stronger.
Somewhere, out there, he's walking around
with more innocence than he deserves and
bits of heart that do him no good.
He wears sheepskin, but cannot hide his teeth.


Random, completely. No structure, no rhyme. I've felt a little random myself lately, distracted, but it happens to the best of us. Perhaps I'll make some time later to actually blog, but until then...

"My Ancestors Believed"

corbel 28: sheela na gig
Originally uploaded by Sacred Destinations

The ocean was a sly, hungry goddess
who seduced and swallowed husbands.
Rarely spit out again and never seen
they dove willingly into her warm folds,
swam in the depth and bliss of her love
only to be carried away from wives
and children to distant paradises.

Can paradise be unveiled before a
billowing cloud of bubbles and fish schools,
or is that all part of the illusion?
The lure that captured their attention
bobbed on the surface like glass baubles
the ones ancient druids used
to interpret and determine the future.

It is not open for discussion,
or interpretation. All manner
of female oppression becomes
central. In reality not one
of those fisherwives needed a man,
and the boundaries of fidelity hang
wide open, like the Sheela-Na-Gig.

©2003 ~J. Hudock

"Wake Up," George Gordon said

For the last couple weeks I wake up every morning thinking about the Romantic Era and Lord Byron. It's as though the restless spirit of George Gordon hovers over me while I sleep whispering, "Away! we know that tears are vain, That death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less?" Why those words, I don't know. It just sounds like the treacherous beauty he might use on you if you're the first person to fall asleep at his birthday party or something. And of course, every time I wake up thinking about Lord Byron, I think of Gabriel Byrne, who once portrayed Byron in that crazy film Gothic. Yes, these are the insanities my mind plays upon. You probably had no idea... or maybe you knew all along.

Being winter, the wretched season of discontent, I have been trying to balance my thoughts between the beauty of the snowfall and the comfort of knowing I need not rush out if the weather is bad, but as Lady Death treads softly upon the earth in these, her final days, I cannot help the feelings of hopelessness that grab at me from time to time. The quick passage of time being one of the most pressing (and depressing...) thoughts, I try to fight it, but then waking up with my first thoughts on Byron's poetry is most certainly not a sign that I am winning any battle with bleak thoughts.

Poetry then. It's Byron's message. I know that beyond the macabre moanings of fear, doom and of course, death, there is another message. Write poetry. It's what I always do in the face of depression and adversity. I have done so since I was very young, and though I seem to write far less poetry than I did even five years ago, it is definitely something I miss and look forward to exploring again. I've even got the first few lines of something dark and brooding scribbled in my notebook.

The funny thing is, I have lost my touch when it comes to writing fiction or essays longhand. It used to be I could be found just about anywhere with a stack of paper or a notebook and pen scrawling out page after page of fiction, but after I got my first typewriter and then upgraded to a word processor, I never wanted to go back to writing on paper again unless it was poetry. There's something about writing poetry down though that compels me. The long thought process that pours into every word seems to flow more smoothly when it's done with a pen.

I did a lot of experimenting with Sestinas about three years ago. There's just something about the challenge of putting together a poem carefully constructed piece by piece. I am alway afraid that the words will sound forced, but then there is a strange, ethereal quality to the Sestina that really sticks with me. This is the first one I ever wrote, and I actually had it published in Strange Horizons back in 2006.

"Blood Moon Sestina"

You open up your arms, embrace the dark
night absorbed by the freshly fallen snow.
Face upturned as if waiting for a kiss,
you think he's your lover—it's just the moon.
The neon sign stains the streets like his blood.
You can't wash the memory from your hands

It's cold, but you refuse to hide your hands
in your pockets. "It isn't really dark,"
you say, but the snow white is stained with blood.
What crushes underfoot like old bones? Snow?
Shadows and clouds eat the face of the moon
and you're still out there waiting for that kiss.

Is it really that important, this kiss?
Every time you reach out to take my hands
I pull away, try to hide like the moon,
but there is no real safety in the dark.
The evidence is buried under snow.
Just like human skin, even snow can bleed.

It stains your shoes. "It's just a little blood,"
you say. Cold, blue lips parted for the kiss
you know won't come. Falling from the sky, snow
spirals toward the earth. "Catch it!" You hold hands
out. It could gnaw away at your darkness
and maybe absorb some light from the moon.

Like the face you thought was your love, the moon
peeks out, but hides again when it sees blood.
It's easier to lie inside the dark
about the lips you really meant to kiss.
They were not mine, but I still take your hand
and like angels we fall into the snow.

Beneath the blanket, we're buried in snow.
So deep, so far, not even a sharp moon
eye will find us. We are still holding hands
and I know you still want to try and kiss
me. All I can taste is the bitter blood
of a dying moon. Everything is dark.

And now the snow is melting into blood.
Old dying moon no one will ever kiss . .
it's on your hands now. Everything's gone dark.
Copyright © 2006 Jennifer Hudock


Time to start thinking about the six words I'd like to incorporate into my next Sestina. The words themselves will contribute heavily to the mood of the poem, so it can be a careful process, or an exciting free for all by just grabbing any six words and running with them. Maybe I'll write about Lord Byron, or Shelley maybe... the Romantic Era in general. Anything to capture the mood I'm in.

I leave you now with the words of Lord Byron:
"When We Two Parted"


When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this!

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow;
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o’er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee
Who knew thee too well:
Long, long shall I rue thee
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met:
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?—
With silence and tears.

George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824)