Writers Quote Wednesday: Genius

Genius. Who? Not me.

Today I would like us to celebrate the greatest, the genius Charles Bukowski. Bukowski is a German-American poet, novelist, and short story writer whose works are depictions of the downtrodden American social, cultural, and economic life. Known for his satiric and sometimes vulgar remarks, he has caught the interest of many (including me) with his crisp and clever style of writing.

I have read and re-read his poems but one can never get enough of them. He has a way of bringing poetry to the streets, to the masses. He is smart and mad intertwined. And much more. I’ve always wanted to follow  his style. To  say profound things in simple ways. But as of this time, it’s a work in progress.

“Genius might be the ability to say a profound thing in a simple way.”

― Charles Bukowski

How about you? What’s your writing style?

Happiest birthday, Bukowski!! ❤

Spilling Whiskey and Secrets

Spilling Whiskey and Secrets

Sleeping at my doorstep
Dried tears on my cheeks
Another whiskey down
Whisking memories out
Another night of tale-tells
Of drunken soliloquies
Won’t anybody listen?
Won’t anybody care?

There’s a story at the bottom of this bottle…

Let’s spill the night
With secrets—
You be the legend,
I be the pen.

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In response to dVerse’s Poetics: Musical Muse. Today, Mish asks us to choose some lyrics, preferably one line from a favorite song and grow our own poem from it.

Just recently, I drew the image above with the lyrics from one of my favorite punk rock bands, All Time Low. The song is entitled, Dear Maria, Count Me In, which they said was inspired by a stripper named Maria. *chuckles* Here’s my take.

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I Dream In Circles

I Dream In Circles

I dream in circles
Chasing the tail end
Of what once was
Of what will never be
Running after a shadow
Calling out a name
Only to wake from
The ghost of a dream
That fades like a mist
At the hint of daybreak

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In response to dVerse’s Quadrille #38: Dream hosted by De. Image source: Favim

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Dead-reckoning

Dead-reckoning

With a languid gait, she walks towards the stream. The scent of fall leaves hang in the air as her feet press the ground. She is a natural beauty, that’s what they say. But before her reflection, she only sees sadness hiding beneath a feigned smile. Her face embedded with years of self-doubt. The water feels like a looking glass and she dives into the labyrinth of her gritty past. She swims into the muffled silence, recalling her feats and defeats, descending to the very beginning of her life. And she surfaced proud. Today is her dead-reckoning.

Rivers of the past
Coursing through her memories
Running wide and deep

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In response to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie’s Wordle #168 hosted by Yves. Photography by Alessio Albi

This week’s words are: Feign, Gait, Torn, Press, Left, Labyrinthine (complicated, torturous, resembling a labyrinth), Look, Embed, Malformed, Gritty, Natural, Dead-reckoning (In navigation, dead reckoning is the process of calculating one’s current position by using a previously determined position, or fix, and advancing that position based upon known or estimated speeds over elapsed time and course.)

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What Visits In The Night?

What Visits In The Night?

She hides beneath the sheets
As if the fabric helps
To chase away the kiss
That memory has fetched
The bedroom door’s ajar
To let the nightmares out
That visits on her sleep
Within the midnight hour

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In response to dVerse’s MTB: Trimeter hosted by Frank with his piece, Blaming the Moon. This piece is inspired by a senryu entitled, Happening,  written by Davy  D.

Image Source: Favim

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Exes and Fires

Exes and Fires

I looked at you through the dissipating smoke. Your eyes have turned gray with age but the hint of smile never left them. As nostalgia sat between us, I wondered in silence why we didn’t last. What went wrong?

I thought of the day we decided to call it quits. There was no shouting in the room, just a sigh. A deep breath that freed us from the shackles of a failing relationship. We knew it was coming. The end was long overdue.

Your mouth curved into a smile as you stubbed out the cigarette in an ashtray. You probably can read my mind. You always did. So I threw the question out and heard your answer that mirrored my own: “We were each other’s fire.”

Two flickering sparks
Colliding into a fire
On a moonlit night

Image Source: Favim

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In response to dVerse’s Poetics: The End hosted by Paul Scribbles.

This evening I want you to think about ‘THE END.’ What does that phrase mean for you ? The end of life as we know it? The end of the road? The end of a relationship? The end of a job? The end of the poem? The end of the beginning? The beginning of the end? The possibilities are END-less 😉

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Submission

Submission

I submit to your dominance
Like a foolish myrmidon
Jump in circle if you need—
This soul’s entangled to yours
My virtues are figments
Lost in the willowwacks
Your love enslaves me and
With a glint of utter fear
I tremble of being free

© 2017 Maria. All Rights Reserved.

Photo Credit: MKAphotography

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In response to dVerse’s Quadrille: Fear hosted by Victoria C. Slotto and MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie’s Wordle #166 hosted by Yves.

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Writers Quote Wednesday: Are You a Poet?

Yes, I’d be happy say that I am. 😊

Dropping in for a quick sip of hot mochachino at Go Dog Go Café, D of Inside the Mind of Davy D, asks us this all-time high question.

I remember having this conversation before (right, D?) and my opinion remains unchanged. I still believe that the title “poet” can be claimed as much as it can be bestowed. Those great poets that we look up to started off as beginners, writing and re-writing their hearts out, until their words made its mark. They were romantics and they were mad before they were labeled poets. Same goes for most of us here. I think it all boils down to the heart of of the person who claims to be one. So long as poetry plays a big part in our lives, so long as it runs in our bloodlines— regardless if it’s an excellent piece or a work in progress (I refuse to call them bad poems), infamous or not, published or simply etched on a crumpled paper— then by all means let’s call ourselves poets.

And since this originally was a post for WQW, here’s a quote I found from the 1989 movie, Dead Poets Society, which pinpoints the core of a poet’s heart. Passion.

We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.

-John Keating, Dead Poets Society

So long as there is passion, this world will never run out of poets. Would you agree?

Have a lovely day, everyone. 💕

Breaking Free

Breaking Free

I will let no ill words permeate
This heart. No more vacant
Eyes from a soul left abashed.
I will tear the walls that caged
Me for years. No more waning
Hope and sagging will. Sharpen
Your knives, throw them at me
Like a bird of prey, today I will
Seize. You can call me a sinner—
Cast the stones but I will never
Conform and worship deceit.

© 2017 Maria. All Rights Reserved.

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In response to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie’s Wordle #165 hosted by Yves and Sunday Writing Prompt: Fly Like An Eagle hosted by Pat of Scribbler’s Dipstick.

I think I have developed a habit of merging MLMM’s Wordle and Sunday Prompt. 🙂 I would especially like to thank Pat for providing a lot of interesting and intriguing storyboards. Now that you’ve used this reference, I feel the urge to read Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray again. ❤

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