PAD Day 6 – Ekphrastic – Summer Siren Lady

Summer Siren Lady

Seductive and slumberous lady you are magnificent
in your slip of sheer silk
Chestnut curls adorned with poppies so red
Oriental with their black fuzz centers
an eye on the world as you lazily regard me in your
contentment, a ripple of silver as your toes
flash in the waters of life
a moment of clarity shattered in the hazy sun
an afternoon sky of purest blue satin and white lace
You are the epitome of luxury and sin
a promise of what could be, hidden behind eyes so knowing
so full of mystery
Pluck my heart from the floor as your red lips
grace me with a kiss of longing
you temptress you
Oh Venus herself could not compare to your voluptuous self
as you tempt me with your body and eyes, promising more
the world? A night? Maybe more like hell in a moment
But I would dive into waters so deep to test your skin like
porcelain warmed by the sun, fragile and so pure
Lead me not into temptation with your smile so vague
Let me be and let me walk from this agony you thrust upon me
A moment of insanity lingers in your powerful touch

Okay, so today’s prompt was an ekphrastic poem, which is basically writing a piece from art. I wasn’t too thrilled with the images Rober picked, but I was inspired by the artist of one of them, Alphonse Mucha. I love Alphonse Mucha’s work, which has a very seductive them to the sensuous grace of women. A form of a goddess, untouchable and seductive in a way that even as a woman, I find so amazing. I love his seasons series, this being one of them. Summer. I wrote this as if I were a man watching (as much as one can write that way when one isn’t a man) with an inspiration of past poets, like Shelley, Scott, or Keats…



Explaining Art

Or in this case, not explaining art.

The introduction to the 35th-anniversary edition of Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand starts as follows,

Ayn Rand held that art is a “re-creation of reality according to an artist’s metaphysical value-judgements.” By its nature, therefore, a novel (like a statue or a symphony) does not require or tolerate an explanatory preface; it is a self-contained universe, aloof from commentary, beckoning the reader to enter, perceive, respond. ~ Leonard Peikoff

Atlas Shrugged

Atlas Shrugged (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yet I explain my writing.

First off, let me just say that Ayn Rand’s style of writing, while daunting with how much of it there is, is amazing. She writes like no other I’ve read. Magical and pulling you in.

I have found as I write, especially as I blog, I feel the need to explain myself. I preface my writing. I explain why I wrote something the way I did, or what motivated me to do so. I tell what I was thinking about, feeling like I will never have the reader really understand me unless I explain it away. I’m the type of person to explain a joke in more depth than just telling the joke. I’m the one who has to get down to the nitty-gritty of a dress instead of just saying, “a blue dress”. I have to go into way too much detail.

I guess I always feel like I won’t be understood, which is crazy, because if I write with just enough detail, won’t the reader be able to understand?  Do I need to reader to understand exactly how I am picturing what I write? I’m sure I don’t imagine Hogwarts to look like how J.K. Rowling  pictured it, but does she care? Can you care?

Honestly, it gets to be a little exhausting to get all the details out there about how you envision something. No, my characters will never be imagined how I describe them because each person thinks about things differently.

And each situation that I write will be experienced a different way by each reader. I can’t control how you think. Nor do I really want to. Sure, if I’m describing someone as looking like Brad Pitt, well then, you can imagine Brad Pitt. But all my other various situations, you can’t.

I didn’t really think that much about my prefacing everything I write until more recently when I realized at my writing group that I had to explain everything I was writing. Do I really need to? I think it comes from not feeling confident with what I have written. I always worry that maybe it isn’t good enough, so I had best explain it. I even did it this last week when I was at the writing circle because I wasn’t feeling very confident with the scene I had written. Not because it wasn’t good, but because there was no actual context for what I had written. I had had a scene in my head from a dream, it worked with an idea I had for a novel I have been writing for years, so I wrote it. But it takes place far into the novel. And it has no other scenes or ideas surrounding it. It just is.

See, even there I am explaining myself. Why? Do you really need to know all of what I am thinking? But yet I feel the need to explain why I wrote something.

Does Van Gogh’s Starry Night’ need explaining? Does it need a ‘preface’? Do we need an explanation on why Monet’s ‘Water Lilies’ are so perfect? No. Do we even need a reason why The Great Gatsby is one of America’s most wonderful novels?( I say that after reading Jesse’s post on the novel. I suggest you read it if you love Gatsby as much as we do.) But do any of these great works of life need a preface?


So, maybe I ought to stop explaining.


Photography at Nature’s Serenity

Moss button

Moss button

I futz with photography on a daily basis. I sell my photo cards in town and I am forever fiddling with my images. I love it. I LOVE photography and one day I want a good camera. Right now it’s just a Powershot from Canon, but I have gotten some spectacular images from it.  It’s a challenge and a great hobby, and also something really fun to talk about with people.  I linked my photography blog to here, but I’ve never talked much about it.

So, check it out at Nature’s Serenity.  And enjoy. I am trying to update it more and I have a ton of pictures to load, so keep checking from time to time.


What Did You Do To My Book?

9780399169731_Chasers_of_the_Light-320x440I sat there this evening contemplating blackout poetry. See, I find it rather cool, and lovely, and unique.  So far, one of my favorite ‘authors’ is Tyler Knott Gregson.  I have his book, Chasers of the Light, and some of his blackout poetry is within the pages.  Obviously he had to take a book and black out the words to create his masterpiece, but I wonder, has he ever wondered about someone taking his poetry and blacking it out for their own blackout poetry?

Probably not.

I am not one to destroy a book for art, but at the same time, I have started marking over a book for poetry. I found a paperback copy of The Language of Flowers by Vanessa Diffenbaugh, and I picked it because I liked the cover and couldn’t even get into the first pages of the book. I kind of wish I had a heavier book to do this in, but I haven’t found one I like yet. Hardback would be better.  But anyways, I’m marking the book and I have one poem done. And it’s pretty, though very beginner-ish.

I think I need to find a better pen than a sharpie….

But here I am marking a book and ‘destroying’ the words within for my own gain.  Would I feel so comfortable if I knew someone were taking my novel, my poetry, and marking it over?

Probably not. But art is art. Right?

Honestly, I’m not sure how I feel about the whole thing. I picked up an older discarded copy of C.S. Forester‘s Flying Colors (a Captain Hornblower novel) thinking that would be fun to mark the pages. But I just can’t seem to bear marking the book. It’s mixed feelings. Wanting to create, but not wanting to mar what might be a good book.

And while I love Tyler Knott Gregson’s poetry and how he uses scraps of paper, I cringe at the thought of taking a blank page out of the front of an antique or old book.

See, my first love over writing, is books. They should be cherished and loved like a woman, and you don’t just discard them or rip pages out of them and turn them into something new. The woman analogy still applies here.  So, I’m at a crossroads of creating. Do I destroy to create something new?

Or do I find alternative methods to creating these new styles of poetry?

Gads, what would Sir Walter Scott, William Shakespeare, and Emily Dickinson think of these new forms?


The Typewriter

In lieu of actually typing this bit of very free form poetry, you can see the actual typed copy in the picture above. I love typing on it, but when I have to hunt and peck for keys, it isn’t always easy, nor is the fact that there is not ‘deleting’ backspace button like my laptop.

My mother mentioned she enjoyed hearing the typewriter the past few days as I was typing up some things. I’ve missed it as well.

Oh, and there is no ‘plus’ (+) key on a typewriter. I don’t even know how to make it! And to make the exclamation point is exactly what I said.


Signing off


A Sample of Something New

I’ve been plugging away at a story that I started a couple of years ago.  It’s mostly for my own enjoyment, but it is something I have two volunteer editors helping me hash out the finer points.  Part of the reason I’m posting it here is because of a bit of a challenge over on Hallie Chandler’s blog, titled I Want To See Your Hook.

This is a bit more adult in nature, but I’ve kept it clean.  This is just an excerpt, but please, enjoy……


She padded into the classroom, her black satin robe tight around her nude form. She glanced around the room and took in the students setting up and the professor shuffling papers on his desk. It was a normal class for the most part. Girls studiously set out their pencils, paper, and smudgers. The smaller group of guys eyed her with interest. She could always got those looks considering the type of modeling she was doing. Although some were actually there to advance their artistic studies, there were a few bold stares. Stares like those made her wonder why she modeled.

Suddenly her eyes were captured by an intense masculine gaze. Electric. She felt the jolt hit deep in her belly—the shockwaves rushed up her spine and she almost gasped out loud because the breathless feeling was so intense. The tingling sensation raised the hair along the nape of her neck, down her arms, and tightened her nipples. She ducked her head as she stepped up to the platform, before risking another glance. He was studying her, his gaze no longer on her face but contemplating the rest of her body, the only visible skin showing from mid calf down to bare feet. With his eyes averted from hers she studied him easily right back.

He was an older man, early-to-mid fifties with short cropped salt-and-pepper hair. His eyes were deep set, but expressive. His darker brows enhanced each facial expression. The man had a strong chin, a cultured mouth and a patrician nose, all signs of class. That, and the fact that his clothes were casually modest yet evidently very expensive, a loose fitting cream shirt and dark brown slacks which enhanced his slightly bronzed skin.

Money, class, stature were all written on his form and the way he moved. He didn’t seem in a hurry as he studied her. He took his time, like he was savoring a fine painting. What a nice thought that was.
She sighed in pleasure as his eyes returned to hers. He gave a quick guilty smile then turned back to his tablet of paper, fiddling with some pencils. Well that was new, she thought. Normally men made her nervous and skittish and not the other way around. Men looked at her boldly most of the time and not with politeness. This one knew how to treat a lady. That faint boyish face made him look as if he’d been caught doing something naughty. She almost giggled.

Unfortunately or fortunately, she was facing away from this class today. She knelt on the soft chaise with her back facing the room and then proceeded to loosen her robe as Professor Sharp called the class to order. The object of the lesson was to study the play of light and shadow across the human body.

She slid the robe off her shoulders and let it pool around her hips so that only a faint suggestion of her buttocks could be seen. She half turned so that just the slight curve of one breast was visible to the class and arched her neck slightly, settling her palms in her lap. For the next hour she needed to sit as still as possible.

Thankfully she’d pulled her coppery blond hair into a simple French twist. A few loose tendrils had escaped and brushed the back of her neck and her left ear, softening what could have been considered a cold statue. The hairs made her look real, soft, and completely female.

She imagined the man’s eyes roving over her pale skin as Professor Sharp discussed and directed the students’ motions with pencil. Would he stare intensely, his brows furrowing, making deep creases in his forehead? Perhaps his look would be blank as he thought of where to start first on her form, the curve of her shoulder or the long smooth line of her back. Wherever he started, she wished she could watch, wished she could stare out towards the class, eyes following the movement of his pencil sketching on the paper.

She loved the soothing voice of Sharp and as usual the hypnotic tones of his voice lulled her senses till her mind drifted off. She floated away and her body relaxed slightly and changed the appearance of formidable marble to soft, sensual woman.


Signing off