Weekly Short Stories Contest and Company! discussion

You have until June 18 to post a poem, and June 19-21 we’ll vote for which one we thought was best.

Please post directly into the topic and not a link. Please don’t use a poem previously used in this group.

Your poem can be any length.

This week’s topic is: Writer’s Block.

The rules are pretty loose. You can write a poem about anything that has to do with the topic. I do not care, but the poem you post must relate to the topic somehow.

Have fun!

Thank you to Thomas for suggesting the topic!

Excellent, M! Thank you.

Here is my poetry submission for this week's topic: Writer's Block. Feedback is ALWAYS welcome!

CRAYONS AND BLOCKS by: Melissa Andres

As Daddy came through the door
After his grueling newspaper job
Mommy spewed harsh words
Before he'd released the knob.

We tried to go to the park today
But he threw a terrible fit
He screamed, kicked and cried
And another child got bit!

He's only three-years-old
Daddy smiled and said
He can't be that bad
It's all just in your head!

I just got the baby down
Because she missed her nap
Please go and check on him
Don't let your lips just flap.

He had been in his room
For just about an hour
She had shown him she was boss
The one with all the power.

He's been in there alone?
Completely by himself?
He could get hurt with stuff
Or climbing on a shelf.

He's been quiet, Mommy replied.
I haven't heard a peep.
I'm sure he was pouting
And then went on to sleep.

Daddy walked into the room
Of his one and only son.
He couldn't help but laugh aloud
When he saw what had been done.

Etched upon the bedroom walls
Were deep dark crayon scribbles
Junior looked up at his Dad
With a big grin and a giggle.

Red and green, black and blue
Purple, brown and yellow
This freckled and mischievous kid
Was such a clever fellow!

Mommy peeked into the space
She gasped out big and loud
But Daddy smiled widely
And suddenly seemed so proud.

Picking up a wooden piece,
The square rolling in his hands
Daddy announced his offspring
Would be known throughout the land.

He'll pen the greatest novel
But now in his mind it's locked
See how he's written on this?
It's his Writer's Block!

Cold Water Flat, No Power, No Phone

I lived there once, some time ago
and spent my time inhaling rarefied air.
I ran out of tender to pay for a rhyme, so
I scanned the nearby neighborhood and moved there.

The cost to move to that draftsville hotel
was as steep as the stairs to my prosaic room.
Thirst-driven to write, still I found no well,
and had only one candle to chase out the gloom.

So again and again, I gathered myself,
and moved to a space my heart thought better.
I kept all my unfinished work on a shelf,
along with the most recent rejection letter.

No house, apartment, or efficiency unit
not even a park bench, where I'd wait for Godot,
inspired me, or moved me to change my tune, it
just gave me more words to tell and not show.

At last I found a boat at the dock,
and spent my time rowing away from self-pity.
I found other people who sat 'round the clock
staring at nothing, all over the city.

The thing about writing that I've come to know,
and you can take my word straight to the bank -
the ones who can live on Writer's Block do so
'cause they have a talented editor to thank.

*********
For some reason or other, this piece of idiocy showed up on my tablet screen. Until and if I come up with something better (what wouldn't be?), this will have to do.

The Water's Edge ODE TO SO LONG MARIANNE by Leonard Cohen

The way I fall to the page like the lover falls to the arms -
of a senorita or a man
on salty days when rituals are almost gone
the middle distance of a prompt

the wintry ocean explains what footprints do not
on the sand half bloomed under pressure according to prose

the expression of little brooks
climbing in chalk up car ports in cursive
snowy white as the rhyme scheme
salty borders that lead to solemn vows

of closed doors, and secrets constructed - the sentences
you would like to press onto the same as I would like to.
faith in a message, hope in a cause,

charity in ebbed words that pass between my toes
Where is the rhythm of me?
Aloneness refuses to visit my castle
much smaller than the star of your body

the truth is a companion that I truss like the britches
I throw into the water's depths before I bathe

at the ruffled water's edge
the midnight blue is my ink
i will carve a place beside
where you will either swim or sink.

fingers wonder what to write -
the feathers on the winds wonder whether to sail or to think

up billows of redemption in hyphenated clamors I drink to stammer civilly beside your waning heart when the moon is almost full.
(OR i WILL CARVE "RAVINES BESIDE..." - Thank you.

Writer's Block by Dummkopf

I have writer's block
But I have written
So I don’t have writer's block anymore

It isn’t as easy to write rhyming verse as Paula makes it look. (Well, maybe it is for Paula.) This stanza, because of the image and the way it’s worded, is particularly vivid for me:

At last I found a boat at the dock,
and spent my time rowing away from self-pity.
I found other people who sat 'round the clock
staring at nothing, all over the city.

Writer’s Block

The notebook you so casually held,
Carried my hopes and dreams,
The desires of my heart.
My soul was mapped in ink and lead,
On the dried blood of those trees.

It was the deepest kind of violation
When you laughed and scorned those pages.
By accident you uncovered my soul,
And just as easily caused its desolation.
My haven, desecrated.

Now my pen is immobile and uninspired.
Traumatized by your careless mockery.
It was all I had and you took it away,
Left me nothing but this paralyzing writer’s block.
Strange how ridicule can imprison the mind.

Wow, M! Thank you! There must be hope for me yet!

Everyone's poetry is so long and serious and beautifully written and then I'm just like, ha sarcastic humour.

But seriously, beautiful job everyone. I love reading poetry by people who actually know how to write (but oh well at least I have fun). I'll probably be too lazy to come back and check the topic before voting, so good luck to everyone!

I've been staring at a blank page for days now...

Oh, no! Writer’s block strikes when you least expect it.

Dummkopf wrote: " Writer's Block by Dummkopf

I have writer's block
But I have written
So I don’t have writer's block anymore"

Dummkopf:

I would be willing to swear on a stack of bibles that I had written a reply already to your submission. Maybe it was deleted, for reasons unknown, but in any event, I'll try this again!

Don't underestimate the appreciation this group has for humor and irony. Your entry is very similar to what I had planned on doing. I had thought that I would begin with "Once upon a time. . ." Then scroll down several empty lines and end with "Oh, well. . ." I like your version better! The only reason I didn't do that is the almost unconscious thing I wrote (at least I think I did) that, like I said, appeared on the screen of my tablet. Since that time I've had writer's block and have been unable to come up with anything better or worse or different, so kudos to you. In your one brief and complete thought, you managed to do what I couldn't! (Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your viewpoint, that's not too difficult to do!) I look forward to reading your future entries, now that you have broken through writer's block!

Paula

Angie wrote: "Writer’s Block

The notebook you so casually held,
Carried my hopes and dreams,
The desires of my heart.
My soul was mapped in ink and lead,
On the dried blood of those trees.

It was the deepest k..."

Angie:

This is lovely! I particularly like the thought and imagery of the final verse in which you personify the pen, having it stand in for the writer, or holder of the pen. Love it, so creative!

I have one question: I am confused by the last line of the first verse in which you refer to "those trees," as though they had been previously mentioned. To what are you referring - the paper on which your writing is done?

Whatever, I really like your poem!

Paula

Cat Grimalkin wrote: "The Water's Edge ODE TO SO LONG MARIANNE by Leonard Cohen

The way I fall to the page like the lover falls to the arms -
of a senorita or a man
on salty days when rituals are almost gone
the middle..."

Cat:

I appreciate the mystery of this poem, even though I am mystified by it! I must confess my thick-headedness that I often suffer when reading your works. It is so dense with words and images that one read-through is never enough.

Please don't get me wrong! I very much like, and often love your poems. They always hold within them such intensity, and purposefully and skillfully intense language. Thank you once again for another singular, altogether unique poem!

Paula

Ryan wrote: "I've been staring at a blank page for days now..."

Might I suggest boarding the nearest boat and rowing away? LOL! Good luck!

Who would've thought a topic on the inability to write could spawn such wonderful writing? These poems are so very good. I love that each has such a different take on the topic, a different style of writing, yet they all fit together so perfectly. Well done, you are all very clever,

Melissa: I like the contrast between childish fun/seriousness of your poem. The mother's frustration at the end of a long day and the father's joy at coming home to his son are both well-captured and conveyed. I absolutely love the way the father looks into a room covered in crayon and sees only the talent of his little writer-to-be. You have some beautiful ideas in this one.

Paula: thank you once again for offering such great feedback. What a feat, to have 'idiocy' of such calibre simply 'show up' on your screen :) Especially considering the topic! You and I must have different definitions of idiocy; I think your poem is fantastic. I agree with M about stanza five - it is incredibly deft writing. The line that really hit me on first read and has stuck with me ever since is, 'I ran out of tender to pay for a rhyme'. Pure brilliance. It says so much and hints at even more. I can imagine a whole story based solely on this line. It is one of the best single lines I've read in ages. I like the scene you've set and the overall feeling very much. Your writing flows so smoothly.

Cat: beautiful! Cohen is among my favorite song writer/poets and you've really captured the feel of his writing here. You've managed to convey the cleverly constructed lines, the beauty and the mystery very adeptly. Every week you dazzle me with your freshness and powerful imagery, this week is no exception.

'at the ruffled water's edge
the midnight blue is my ink
i will carve a place beside
where you will either swim or sink.'

Your poetry is sublime, Cat.

Dummkopf: as Paula has mentioned, humour and irony are both very well respected here. You've done an excellent job with this one, it is concise and dripping with a sense of the ironic. You've summed it up perfectly and made me laugh as I read. Well done.

Angie: I love the darkness of this poem. The language you've chosen to use is very consistently applied and really creates a feeling of desolation. You've offered a totally different (and completely realistic) form of writer's block than I'd even considered. I love, 'my soul was mapped in ink and lead'.

If I can presume to attempt an answer to Paula's question, the way I read the 'dried blood of those trees' is a reference to the paper on which the narrator's soul is 'mapped in ink and lead'.

Beautiful, deep poem, Angie. I really enjoyed it.

Paula, Ryan is correct. The blood of trees is a reference to the sap that some types of paper are made from.

Thank you both for your wonderful feedback.

Ryan wrote: "Paula: thank you once again for offering such great feedback. What a feat, to have 'idiocy' of such calibre simply 'show up' on your screen :) Especially considering the topic! You and I must have..."

Thank you Ryan. I confess that when poems come as quickly and easily as this one did, I feel it could not possibly be good. Besides, I am a TERRIBLE judge of my own work. I cannot view it objectively - errors and missteps that I have failed to remedy just jump off the page,and scream at me, very loudly!

But, on the other hand, I have finally decided to quit whining and I am now in the midst of preparing an e-publication of a collection of my poems and short stories. It's a self-publishing, self aggrandizing sort of deal. If I sell enough e-books, I'll do a print version. Don't know where I got the nerve, but maybe you and the rest of the pirates are to blame - you encouraged me too much! :-)

Thank you, Paula and Ryan! I wish I could be bothered to give such amazing and detailed feedback.

Thank you so much, Ryan! I am glad you enjoyed my poem! You always have such sweet, kind things to say! :)

Melissa wrote: "Here is my poetry submission for this week's topic: Writer's Block. Feedback is ALWAYS welcome!

CRAYONS AND BLOCKS by: Melissa Andres

As Daddy came through the door
After his grueling newspaper..."

Melissa:

The same thing that happened with my first comment to Dummkopf has happened to the one I wrote for you. This is going to drive me nuts!! What's happening to them? I fear the reason is the mischievous ghost that lives in our house, who is quite electronically oriented and computer savvy. Also it could be that I carefully write the comment and then forget to push the "post" button. Which do you think it is? Yeah, I think it's the ghost, too. Anyway, here goes (again):

I thoroughly enjoyed your very sweet and touching poem. I like the way the tension and suspense start to build as the husband/father puts his hand on the doorknob coming home, and the way it builds until he sees their son giggling! It has a very authentic feel to it. As a matter of fact, similar things happened in our household occasionally, although I don't ever remember locking one of our sons in his room (the doors had no locks! LOL!)

I also like the resolution. A very nice take on the theme. Good job!

Alex!

After reading Alex’s 5-7-5, I’m ready to go to work in a newspaper office. Goodbye to writer’s block!

I just love it. It brings back the old days of office haiku.

Why are you asking me? You’re the boss.

Ah, the world of typewriters, of high-heeled secretaries with fine gams, of the cedar-and-graphite smell of sharpened pencils . . .

In its way, Angie’s “Writer’s Block” explores the problem of self-image and creativity, of the effect of mockery on motivation. An interesting poem!

The speaker in Dummkopf’s “Writer’s Block” no longer has writer’s block, having overcome the ailment by writing verse. A clever approach!

Junior is a novelist in the making, but in the meantime he’s expressing himself through art. Melissa’s “Crayon and Blocks” is fun to read!

I’m mystified by the way Cat gets across images and meaning in “The Water’s Edge,” the way the writer falls to the page, the prompt is a middle distance, words run through her toes like surf at an ebb tide; the way “the truth is a companion that I truss like the britches / I throw into the water’s depths before I bathe . . .”

Thank you both, Paula and M! I love receiving such sweet comments! All the encouragement does wonders for me! :)

An Approaching Deadline


I hear the ticking of the clock.
I tie and untie my shoe.
What an attack of writer’s block,
with three more chapters due!

Such is the muse with which I live.
My face has stung from her slap.
I once gave her a laxative,
and all I could write was crap.

If she were a flesh-and-blood woman,
I’d rush out and buy her some flowers,
for I’ve not been able to summon
an inspiration for hours.

Dusty keys

I kick and stretch before I scream
and curse the old ticking clock
Spinning wheels and losing steam
knowing all along it's writer's block

I rub my eyes and roll them too
searching to pick this vicious lock
Many a thought but nothing new
trapped in the shackles of writer's block

Dark thoughts seep into my brain
Will I ever be a wordsmith of any stock?
On my creative fire pours a horrid rain
whilst in the tomb of writer's block

Tepidly I reach for untouched keys
The blank page seems to taunt and mock
A mass of nothingness causes me to freeze
I'm a tormented companion of writer's block

One small word appears to me
From the old Royal the sound of a knock
One letter forward and soon I'm free
Pursued doggedly by writer's block

I use an old Royal, too, an office model made about 1951. A very nice poem, Robert--great use of repeating rhyme!

Hi, just wondered - I have a 'writers block' poem in my folder that wasn't written for the weekly comp's - could I post that in this weeks competition or does it have to be a new poem? It's just I don't think I have 2 writers block poems in me!

Nicky, post it! It just can’t be a poem you’ve used in another of the W.S.S. weekly contests.

Robert: This is a great take on this week's theme, and really the only one so far that has tackled it head on. I think many of us are afraid even to mention the phrase for fear that it might somehow magically appear as though summoned. Now I know that if an attack comes on, it will be your fault. Always nice to know who to blame! LOL!

M:

I am afraid even flowers wouldn't kill the stench. . . So, thank goodness you didn't take that laxative! You came up with a wonderful and very funny poem! Thanks for the laugh!

Thanks M. I used to type on my dad's when I was a kid. His would have been from the 40's or early 50's. It might be nostalgia but I still like the sound of it. He has kept it in great shape.

Paula Tohline wrote: "Robert: This is a great take on this week's theme, and really the only one so far that has tackled it head on. I think many of us are afraid even to mention the phrase for fear that it might someho..."

Thanks Paula! Great last line in your poem. As far as blaming goes, I won't mind if you print my picture and throw darts at it if it will aid you when you get stuck. Anything to help as I can fully sympathize.

M wrote: "Nicky, post it! It just can’t be a poem you’ve used in another of the W.S.S. weekly contests."

Okay then - here it is!

Stumped

Entombed
And left to steep
Like socks in the sink.
Befriended by the blank sheet,
The loud tick of time
And the gaunt face
On the wall.

Dreaming
Of the winding track
A cup of Casey Jones's tea
A-steaming and a-rollin'
On the trembling table
And sheep on the hillside
As white as the page.

Knowing
While the sharp light
Beats down on the cooling toast
And stagnant brush,
The white knight in shining glory
Won't appear with a sharpened thought
To fill the gaping holes.


---------
N

Thank you, Paula!

Thank you, Emily! Writing 5-7-5’s for the haiku thread is the closest I come to a regular verbal workout, though it isn’t much of one. I easily stall out, but I don’t seem to find seventeen syllables intimidating.

Nicky, what an interesting poem! It follows some kind of formula I can’t decipher. There are six lines in each stanza, and the first line of each stanza is one word (in this instance, a past or present participle).

Thanks M - Is it good or bad that you can't decipher the formula?

It’s good!

I find that--unless the writer is deliberately drawing attention to the form--the more adroitly a poem is written, the less noticeable the form is.

[Sorry. Late entry.]


Not yet fit to print
But fit enough to fit in
The emptiest page.