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Eleventy thousand things, cobwebs, poetic advice, & rhyme.

I have eleventy thousand things to do, that’s just a rough estimate, mind you, (eleventy is a thing, my thing) — by my estimation I have time enough to complete approximately three of these things, and this is assuming I remove myself from the computer reasonably soon.

Problem. I would rather write. Or read. Or nap. –sigh-

Of course, writing is among the eleventy thousand things I must do, and for some of this writing, looming deadlines are attached. I’ve already procrastinated past the point of saying it can wait one more day. Today is kind of that day. –ugh-

Since the new bloggy bit I would rather be writing is going to have to wait, I’m dusting off the cobwebs from one of my early posts, which was seen by five people according to the statistical analysis of The Qwiet Muse. Actually, I am going to kind of, sort of, merge two posts together since the subject matter fits, and now that I’ve read them, I find pieces and parts I want to change, fix, adjust, add to, and . . . –argh- no time.

Now I must be productive and responsible and –extended sigh- get to work . . . I am going to need more coffee.

Poetic Perfection?

Dance of Words by Crystal R. Cook

Is there truly such thing as a perfect poem? What reads like unblemished perfection to one, may not receive the same praises from another. Poetry is a subjective art. There are guidelines a writer can follow which may endear their words to a greater audience of readers. The words of a poem provide the reader sustenance with which they can quell their hunger, but the presentation, the way in which the writer chooses to craft their words upon a blank canvas, is important to a readers palate as well.

A poem needn’t be epic in length, think of the power the words of haiku hold.

Writer - Haiku - Crystal R. Cook

Poetry is something which comes from within, composition and form are secondary to the words which will bring meaning and life to the page, but important still. Poetry comes in many forms, perfect to one – nonsense to another. What matters is the author’s voice tickling the reader’s ear through the whispered words of the page.

You needn’t use big words or flowery verse, it doesn’t have to rhyme, and it doesn’t have to be explained; the words and the composition of them should suffice. Writing poetry can be healing, thought-provoking, and at times, profound to both the writer as well as the reader. The perfect poem is the one that touches your soul when you write it, and invites the reader to become one with your words.

Seeking release

The laureate lamented
for her words were skewed,
her altiloquence mistaken
as being quite rude.
Her style clinquant,
her affectation too much,
too many mistakes,
like catchfools and such.
Circumlocution
and too many clichés
made all of her readers
turn quickly away.
What she thought
to be eloquent
was really quite fustian;
due to forced rhyme
she lacked any . . . lyricism?
Pedantry ad nauseam,
not even done right,
left the young writer
feeling contrite.
She vowed to improve,
she promised to change
and pay more attention
how her words were arranged.
Convinced of her talent
she started again,
but was soon held up
by heteronyms.
She stopped and she sighed,
then she started to cry,
for her poetic juices
had completely run dry . . .

CRC

Simply awful with that bit of forced rhyme and the ridiculous use of unnecessarily big words. I must admit though, it was quite fun to write.

Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme. If you cannot rhyme well, you shouldn’t rhyme at all. Forced rhymes destroy what may otherwise be a fine piece of work. Rhymed poetry needs to have a rhythm; it needs to flow seamlessly as it is read. It needs to make sense.

If writing a rhymed piece, ideally each stanza should have the same amount of lines; the rhyme scheme needs to be consistent. There are several ways to craft a rhymed poem, once you’ve chosen your style, remain true to it throughout the piece, the jarring effect of switched up rhyme schemes can throw a reader off.

Every line in a poem does not need to be capitalized; many writers tend to do this, for the reader though, it is often hard to distinguish where one thought ends and another begins. A poem can have commas, periods, and question marks. These details can certainly serve to enhance your work; don’t be afraid to use them.

Poetic beauty is personal passion, as it is with any art. There are those who love and admire the work of Picasso and others who are perplexed and not attracted to it in the slightest, yet both recognize the value of the art itself.

Words never rest,
an endless dance
of thoughts
and epiphanies,
which must
be forgotten
or given
life eternal
upon a page.

Words
ease fear,
create terror,
heal, hurt,
make
insanity
the norm.

They never
cease,
they never
fade,
never fail,
never stop.

CRC

We Write by Crystal R. Cook

And because we spoke of rhyme . . .

Stymied by Rhyme?

Rhyme

To rhyme or not to rhyme, if you choose to rhyme, you must rhyme well, for if you don’t, it will sound like . . . Well, you understand don’t you?

From the Devil’s Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce – RIME, n. Agreeing sounds in the terminals of verse, mostly bad. The verses themselves, as distinguished from prose, mostly dull. Usually (and wickedly) spelled “rhyme.”

When asked about English words without a rhyme, most will quite correctly say orange, purple and silver. There are actually many words in the English language lacking a partner in perfect rhyme.

If it’s true rhyme you’re looking for, you may want to steer clear of the words: anything, January, stubborn, apricot, dictionary and xylophone. Good luck with chaos, angry, hostage, rhythm, shadow, circus, crayon and glimpsed. Angst and empty, depth and width will be tough to rhyme, just like glimpsed and else and diamond and chocolate. Penguin and galaxy do not have any true rhymes, nor does elbow or engine, anxious or monster.

A perfect rhyme, sometimes referred to as true rhyme or full rhyme, is defined by the American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language as; a rhyme in which the final accented vowel and all succeeding consonants or syllables are identical, while the preceding consonants are different, for example, great, late; rider, beside her; dutiful, beautiful.

Pure rhyme can be broken down even further. Words such as dog and log are single pure rhymes. Silly and willy would hence be referred to as double pure rhymes. An example of a triple pure rhyme would be mystery and history.

The longer the word, the harder it will be to find a perfect rhyme, this doesn’t mean they cannot be used in the context of rhyme however. Para-rhymes are defined as a partial or imperfect rhyme, often using assonance or consonance only, as in dry and died or grown and moon. This is also called half rhyme, near rhyme, oblique rhyme, slant rhyme or forced rhyme. This refers to words that do not completely rhyme, but use like sound to form the desired effect. A common example is the word discombobulate, to create a fluid sounding rhyme, three syllables must be utilized, populate would work well as a half rhyme in this instance. Hill and hell or mystery and mastery are examples of para-rhyme.

Masculine rhyme, or monosyllabic rhyme, is among the most common; this technique stresses the final syllable of each word, as in sublime and rhyme, or went and sent. Feminine rhyme differs in that the stress is on two or more syllables such as pleasure and treasure or fountain and mountain. Identical rhyme is simply using the same word twice.

There are various other examples of rhyme; eye rhyme is a rhyme consisting of words, such as lint and pint or love and move with similar spellings, but different sounds. Rich rhyme is a word rhymed with its homonym such as blue with blew, guest with guessed.

Scarce rhymes are words with limited rhyming alternatives like wisp and lisp, motionless and oceanless. Wrenched rhyme is the rhyming of a stressed syllable with an unstressed syllable as in words like lady and bee or bent and firmament.

Internal and external multi-syllable rhymes utilize the rhyming of more than one word, in this example, bleak and seek are internal rhymes; words within the body of the stanza, while night and light are external rhymes and fall at the end of a line.

So she found him
in the bleak of night,
lost on his quest
to seek the light.

Assonance rhyme is the matching of the vowel sounds, feast and feed, fever and feature. In syllable rhyme, the last syllable in each word is matching, pitter and patter, batter and matter. Consonance rhyme is matching the consonants in each word, her and dark. Alliteration is matching the beginning sounds of each word, often used in a series; perfect, poetic, personification.

Many people wrongly assume writing a rhymed poem is an easy task, until they actually try to write one, that is. There is much more to it than seeking words that rhyme, but we’ll discuss it at length some other time.

Crystal R. Cook

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The Documentation of Experience -Writing

My Words by Crystal R. Cook

It makes my heart smile when someone reads the words I pen and they resonate with them in some way. I feel blessed when they respond, when I realize the message I intended to convey came across as I’d hoped it would.

Often, I write to share a truth or an insight I’ve gleaned at some point in my life. If it taught me something, perhaps it can do the same for someone else, or at the very least, validate a truth of their own or set them on a path they may not have known was there.

There is something important I wish to impart when it comes to what I give to the page, I am not necessarily going through what I write of in the exact moment I write of it, sometimes, but not always.

A writer’s mind, at least my mind, does not completely maintain a foothold in the here and now. The ebb and flow of my stream of consciousness is forever churning and changing direction, my thoughts rushing in as raging rapids or as gently trickling droplets.

I can think a thought or experience a moment of epiphany about depression or anger or grief during the happiest of times, sometimes I share these thoughts because I still need to learn something from them or simply set in stone what has already been cultivated from the garden of my experience. I share these thoughts in the hope someone may need to hear what I have to say.

Writers can also be a wee bit melodramatic — I once wrote two agonizing pages about fear, anxiety, and what was lurking in the shadows just waiting to get me. In actuality, I was in the park on a sunny afternoon watching my children frolic, yes they frolicked, and when I looked down I noticed an eensy weensy spider coming toward me at a speed which made me slightly less than comfortable; it startled me. I went with it. I didn’t have any curds and whey, so I ran with the whole deepest, darkest fear thing.

There are times I write of lessons learned long ago and my words may convey a sense of the now, when in fact, I have long since moved past that moment. I do this for those who may need to hear it in the now and might relate. I do this because it is a part of my story, it is how I felt, who I am, and how I came to be.

Sometimes I find a few scribbled words scratched upon a crumpled piece of paper I’ve left between the pages of a book, something I once wanted to write, but somehow forgot about, and it all comes back to me, begging to be set free and given its say. I almost always oblige it.

I can travel my own timeline as a silent observer, I take notes and create a written history of the events, the feelings . . . I capture them and breathe life back into them so none of it is forgotten or experienced in vain.

Everything I write is a truth, it may be an old truth realized and finally made tangible in print. It may be something I hadn’t felt the need to share just yet, or perhaps I was simply waiting for the right words to find me.

Maybe those words were just waiting for the right person to share them with.

Crystal R. Cook

Comfort zones, caves, and stepping out. A little.

Comfort Zone

 

These past few weeks have been a whirlwind for me, I’m a little overwhelmed in many ways. I ventured into the cyber world further than I ever thought I would and have made some amazing connections. Some of which I can already tell will bloom into more than passing acquaintances, I’ve found a few kindred spirits and friendships have began to blossom.

It is strange and amazing and I am thankful for it all, but still . . . It is new and maybe a little bit scary.

I am doing my best to embrace this new aspect of my life, I actually think I am doing quite well with it all, but there is a part of me that just wants to crawl back into my little cave and shut tight the door behind me, locking up all the little locks I use to keep the world from coming in.

I’m not going to, not today, hopefully not ever. If I do retreat, and I likely will, it will hopefully only be for short spells when I need to reflect, rejuvenate, and catch my breath.

I’ve been given an opportunity to expand my corner of the world, to branch out and see what there is to see beyond my own horizon. It’s beautiful and vast, parts of it I cannot wait to explore and other parts I already know will remain distant territory I will not be journeying to.

These new people I am encountering — some of them are so very different from me, yet with each one, despite these differences, there is a single thread somewhere in our own unique tapestries which sort of weave us together.

There is part of me feeling so far out of not just my comfort zone, but my league. I am reading the words these weavers of thought create and I find myself thinking, wow, I wish I could do that, and then one of them will comment and say, I love what you’ve written, I wish I could do that, and I am left in a state of shock and amazement.

I haven’t yet figured out how to manage my time and my energies, new projects are being presented to me, all of which I want to accept with a resounding, Yes! I would love to contribute! But how to choose and when to find time enough to dedicate just the right amount of me to these things is tricky.

Baby steps. I have to simply take baby steps.

Thanks for keeping me company as I find my way.

Crystal R. Cook

If We Were Having Coffee – You would wonder who invited me.

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If we were having coffee you would probably wonder who the heck I am. I would smile and ask you to pass the cream and the sugar and sit in awkward silence while I stirred a little wooden stick in my cup.

After a sip or two I might attempt to introduce myself, hopefully you would initiate the conversation though. I can be the teensiest bit socially reserved and ever so slightly shy. I’m not really shy, the sometimes awkwardly reserved part just gets in the way — at first.

I would tell you having company with my coffee is new, I typically sit by myself, but lately I am intrigued by the company I could be keeping, so I’ve decided to step outside of my bubble and join you.

Thank you for not switching tables.

If we were having coffee I would tell you all about the people I’m certain you already know, and if you don’t you should, who quite unknowingly reached inside my bubble and gently pulled me out. It all started with Lizzi. She kind of rocked my world some time ago and changed it by engaging me in conversation, by unconditionally offering her friendship. I kind of love her for that.

By now, I would be ordering another cuppa coffee and prattling on about life, love, writing, my children and the amazing happenstance that brought me here, #1000speak, you’ve heard of it, right? Of course you have, but if you hadn’t I would wait while you looked it up.

I would tell you I’m not much of a joiner, at least I haven’t been, but this whole voices for compassion movement moved me and now I am becoming a joiner. I would tell you I became a reluctant Twitterer, I joined a couple of blogging groups and I came out for coffee, with you.

You might not think these are very big things, but believe me they are bigger than I am accustomed to.

So Lizzi led me to #1000Speak, which led me to Twitter where GeneO the Sourcerer gave me a shout out and now, here I sit, having coffee with you.

If we were having coffee I would tell you it’s been one heck of a week full of new people I feel rather blessed to have found . . .

Crystal R. Cook

#confession, #1000speak, #octothorpe

#1000speak

 

I have a confession to make.

I hate hashtags. I love octothorpes. At least, I love the word associated with the symbol commonly known to most these days as, and I cringe to say it, a hashtag.

I am not entirely certain why I have such disdain for the new terminology. I don’t deal well with change. I realize octothorpe is archaic terminology, some even dispute its correctness, but I embraced it long ago. It has been called many things, pound sign, number sign, hash mark; none of which I have ever objected to, but for some reason, hashtag annoyed me the moment it became a thing.

I vowed to never, ever, not ever use a hashtag. Perhaps it was my way of rebelling against the text-speaking society we have become. It bothers me to see my beloved words reduced and mangled and mashed, I don’t want to spend precious moments deciphering messages like a spy.

I tried it once. I wrongly assumed WTF meant way too far; the conversation did not go as planned.

Back to my confession, I have embraced, semi-sort of and in a round-about way, the hashtag. Not entirely mind you, and it wasn’t without hesitation, but the reason for my change of heart is worthy. Well worthy.

#1000speak

1000 Voices for Compassion. Well worthy indeed.

The blogosphere is filled with amazing, talented, beautiful people and two of these beautiful people had a conversation, one that led to an idea, a glorious idea. They realized our world needed to embrace compassion, and indeed it does. Because of their compassion, a movement has begun.

The idea of 1000 bloggers, 1000 voices from around the globe coming together on the same the day to share a message. Brilliant.

On February 20, 2015, the interwebs will be inundated with words of hope, kindness, acceptance, and love . . . It will be filled with compassion, because of compassion.

It doesn’t have to stop at 1000 voices, we all have a voice. We share a global platform from which we can shout out this message, the world needs to be reminded compassion can change us, it needs to change us.

I invite, challenge, encourage, and implore you to join us on February 20th to share your thoughts, ideas, and from the heart feelings. You don’t have to be a blogger or a writer or a poet, simply share your message of compassion with your Facebook families, your Twitter fans, your Instagram and Tumbler friends.

Don’t forget to use the hashtag.

#1000speak

Crystal R. Cook

1000 Voices Speak For Compassion

#1000speak

On February 20, 2015 the sun will rise along with the voices of 1000 bloggers sharing a message of compassion and kindness from around the world. 1000 voices banding together to bring us all a little closer, reminding us that compassion, caring, kindness, and love can change the world, one action, one voice, one life at a time.

I am honored to be among the voices eager to reach out and spread this message, if even one heart is softened because of this beautiful endeavor, the world will be better for it.

Look for #1000Speak on your favorite social media platforms and join us in embracing compassion.

Twitter — #1000Speak

FaceBook — https://www.facebook.com/1000VoicesSpeak

Pinterest — http://www.pinterest.com/YvonneSpence/1000-voices-for-compassion

If you are a blogger and would like to join the compassion initiative, your voice is welcome!

When you over medicate a writer.

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I’ve not been feeling well, not well at all. I’ve been coughing and moaning, aching and groaning, all for great and good reason of course, I am sick. And tired. And sick and tired of being so very sick and tired, as anyone would be, quite obviously.

The aches have turned to pains, actual and intense and relentless pains, so much pain, in the matter of all things factual, I can barely walk. My back, the lower portion of it, has tightened and old injuries have found new ways to complain.

No matter, I have Pinterest to keep me occupied and my bed to comfort me. Neither are doing me much good, but at least I am semi, sort of, and somewhat comfortable. But not really.

There was going to be a point to this rambling. I think there was at least. Rambling! That was where I was heading, straight towards the rambling.

Because of the incessant coughing I was experiencing, I took some medication, the packaging clearly made promises of cough calming relief. Inserts included with such medication often make false promises, as this particular insert clearly did.

After some time, I took a muscle relaxer because of the pain induced by the coughing that was anything but being calmed. Because of the coughing and the pain, I was having great difficulty falling into the blissful, healing sleep I so desperately desired and needed, so in my sleep deprived, pain filled, chest congested misery, I added to the mix the smallest dose of something to help me sleep.

In theory, it all seemed the smart thing to do. Theories are sometimes ill-conceived and do not result in the outcomes expected. It was a long and strange night filled with fitful turnings and the oddest sorts of dreams.

I clearly remember waking, several times and reaching for my pen. In my groggy state one thing was clear, brilliant ideas were brewing. I recall writing what I just knew was going to be some sort of inspired masterpiece.

This afternoon, yes, the morning passed me by, I begrudgingly awoke with a wee bit of excitement to read what my subconscious had penned to the page.

Something was seriously amiss. The notebook and the pen and the reading light lay by my side, but the scribblings which greeted me were not quite what I was expecting. Not quite at all. A sampling, I give you . . .

www.theqwietmuse.com

It was, at least I think it must have been, at the very most, three days before the second evening of the month. I remember it was in the eve because she was tucking the sun into the horizon and placing the stars where the sun had spent the last part of the afternoon, and at the very least it could have been only yesterday.

   Ticktock, I’m lost and I’m late and it’s almost time for something.

For what?

   Something.

How do you know?

   Because it’s always almost time for something.

It is?

   Yes, actually.

Like what?

   Something, for certain. Sometimes lots of somethings.

You’re so dreadfully difficult to understand.

   I know. It’s delightful though, isn’t it?

It’s something.

   Almost.

It turns out my brilliance was not nearly as brilliant in the light day as it was in the darkest and deepest parts of the night. sigh

Still, perhaps I can use my nonsensical, over-medicated  ramblings to create some sort of little story someday. In the meantime, I will return to my misery until it subsides . . .

Crystal R. Cook

Asking myself

I fear I’ve forgotten how to write. I suppose that is a cop-out. I’m afraid I may be actively and purposefully avoiding putting pen to page. Why? I seem unable to come up with a proper answer for that particular question. I was hoping it would answer itself as it was asked, wishing a grand epiphany would knock me off my feet with revelation as to my reluctant sharing of thought.

I am still on my feet.

All I want to do is spill words on a page, pour them out into a puddle the size of an ocean and submerse myself beneath them. Instead they are building up behind a dam which surely must be ready to burst from the weight of them.

Do you ever simply find yourself with so much to say you cannot seem to say it?

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