Poetry Train Monday - 170 - Defining Moment #2

This backstory poem for Richolf, my falconer character who appears in my Saturday serialized fiction, was written during the 3:15 Experiment in August.













Defining Moment #2


Delicious glances as they wove between the other dancers
Three sword points levelled at his face
The searing bite of the blade upon his brow

His invitation to the soiree
Had been heartfelt
By a grateful noble
One of the hunters who
Wanted to reciprocate
The falconer's hospitality

"Go on, go on"
His master had urged
Declining the offer himself
A twinkle in his eye

So many beautiful girls
So many intoxicating ladies
Richolf danced with them all
Smiled at them all
Clasped her hand
Brushed his lips upon her knuckles
Locked gazes
Felt the heat

Until he was called outside
Surrounded and threatened
In the chill night air
The sweat from the party
Turning to the sweat of fear

He'd danced with the wrong girl
He didn't even know which one
Had inspired these three sword points
To level at his face

A kick from behind
His cry hanging in the night air
The distant sounds of the soiree
His heart beating as he realized
All the moments of his life
Would end in this dusty moment

But the hands which held him
Only meant for the sword to
Kiss his brow
A reminder for life
Not to mix his lowly breed
With that of one born to the blood

They left him
Laying in the dirt
Dripping red between his fingers
That still held the thrill
Of all those girlish hands
Those womanly sighs

© Julia Smith, Aug. 25, 2010

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Poetry Train Monday - 168 - Son of Whispers

Well - I did it.

Starting on the night of July 31st/Aug. 1st until the night of Aug. 31st/Sept. 1st, I wrote a total of 31 poems for the 3:15 Experiment.

"Founded in 1993 by poets Danika Dinsmore and Bernadette Mayer, the 3:15 Experiment is an annual 'collective consciousness' writing experiment.

Each year a menagerie of poets scattered across the globe wake EVERY August morning at 3:15 am and write. An epic conversation, this exercise explores hypnogogic and hypnopompic states (between sleeping and waking), challenges writers and provides insight into the collective sleeping/dreaming mind."

- Gwendolyn Lawrence Alley / Danika Dinsmore / Tod McCoy

Technically, the idea is to set your alarm for 3:15, wake up and write a poem, but I had already decided that the alarm thing wouldn't be necessary, as I generally get up at least once a night. The poets who run this event also insisted that the exact time wasn't important, as many people who would participate in this event are naturally awake at 3:15 am.

The important part was to write in that sleepy, half-awake state. And to be honest, I feel that I've never written poetry so easily or so vividly.

I've definitely been learning over the years to ignore my inner editor and just write. It's never been easy for me. But I've kept at it. In fact, writing this blog has been an instrumental part of learning to let go and just post it, already.

For the month of August I posted five of my 3:15 poems - in their raw state, as scribbled in the hazy dream state:

At Least

I Love Your Desire

Expecting Someone Altogether Different

You Reached Out

Defining Moment #3

I'll be posting all of my 2010 3:15 poems on the Poetry Train, as they appeared in my bedside notebook. If I work on any of them in the future, I'll state the transformation status.

This is a backstory poem for the adult Scorpius, whose childhood I'm exploring for my serialized Saturday fiction. I did a series of poems exploring this period in Scorpius' life, and it brought on an actual nightmare for me - an unusual and jarring experience.

















Son of Whispers


Dragged to the room of torment
He expected to see
The man whose unlimited creativity
Drew the sounds he most despised
From the darkest parts of himself
He expected to see
One lord or another
Who stood in the gloom
To question him
He did not expect to see
The fellow captive

This man
Was definitely
Of the blood
Though just as pale
Just as frightened

Yet it wasn't the noble prisoner
Who howled
When the lord
Would not answer their questions
Dragged to this room whenever
Their captors needed privileged information
He watched the
Tears collect and fall
In the eyes of the nobles
Who fought to keep their secrets
At his expense

Over time
There were things he
Expected to see
But when his fellow captives
Were freed by ransom
He did not expect
To hear the voices raised
Beyond his cell door
The negotiating
The keys jingling
The door creaking open
Yet no guards to drag him
To the rendezvous with agony

He did not expect
To see the face of the noble
Pale
Haunted
Resolute
He did not expect
To see the lord's hand
Reach out to beckon
To coax him forward
Who could expect
That their freedom
Would demand his own?
The shock stole the strength
From his legs
Which refused to work
His head swam
His heart beat too fast
But freedom would not be
His undoing

He dug past the point
Deep inside himself
The point which always
Slammed hard into resolve
The point his jailers knew
So many routes to uncover
He grabbed fast to that part of himself
He made his legs move forward
He ignored the tipping
Of the walls and ceiling
He crossed the threshold
Into the corridor
Not dragged

He knelt before the noble
Who had wept at his torment
Who'd never given up his secrets
Who'd come for him now
When his own freedom
Would have made it easy
To leave the son of whispers
To perish on the damp stone floor

© Julia Smith, Aug. 11, 2010

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!

Janet says Tied in with what I've read on your Writer's Weekend - just makes me want to read more. And congrats on the 31 poems. Amazing what we can do when we leave that internal editor snoring in bed, eh?

Travis Cody says Powerful.

Art Predator says Congrats, Julia - 31 3:15 poems in 31 days! YOU DID IT! Whee! And what a rip roaring poem you posted too! I'm so impresed that you'd awake with a character in mind to write about.

Poetry Train Monday - 136 - She Was Too Strong For Me

Here's a backstory poem for one of the characters in the story I worked on during NaNoWriMo in November.

Cavan is the grown son of the village wise woman in a 6th century Welsh village. He spends his days hiding his own sorcerer's power from his mother. He both adores her as a son and fears her power as a witch.

For more poetry, Ride the Poetry Train!












She Was Too Strong For Me


My cries filled our hut
My cries
Mother roused long enough to soothe me
I was too distraught to fight off
Her quick charm

I slipped back into sleep
Slipped back for
More torments
Unwilling to see what
Must surely come next

I sat up
About to be sick
I sat, watching Mother
I whispered the words of my own charm
Sadly I whispered with a seething anger

Did all mothers try so hard
To care for their sons
Did all mothers force sons to be cruel
To break away from so much caring

I remained sitting
A pitiful attempt
To stay awake
Soon my head
Dipped down
Upon my chest

I jerked awake, stiff and
Disoriented

Mother stirred

I moaned
Tried to force myself
Past Mother’s whispered charm
She was too strong for me

An eerie comfort, her strength
Even as it sent me
Those silent screams
Only I could hear

"No…" I moaned
Sweating with effort
I fought her
Fought the invisible bonds

I thrashed about
With all the might I possessed
Thrashed and fought
But all in my mind

In reality I lay
As though deep in sweet slumber
I sensed Mother rising
Sensed Mother creeping over
To look

Felt her soft fingers brush
A sweaty tendril of
Hair from my forehead
I moaned

Mother bent down
Mother kissed me
She whispered a soothing charm
Thinking to keep her son safe
From dream demons

Couldn't she hear
That my moans were really screams?
Her charm muffled them
Like thick cloths stuffed hard in my mouth

I fell into dreams
Down and down
To places no one should be made to go
“Hush, now,” Mama said

Forcing her breast in my mouth

I shook my head from side to side
Protesting this outrage
She guided my face with
Immovable hands
I was made to suck

In a while it comforted me
But I had sharp little teeth

I watched as Mama’s face
Lined with the pain of feeding me

- Julia Smith, Jan. 17, 2010

Nikita Banerjee How do you come up with such good poems? :)

Andy Sewina Phew, I think this would work well on the radio!

Janet says I'm always fascinated by a writer's process - is character backstory something you usually do as you write, before you write?