In Which I Confess Something, Podners

Wyoming's been my home, yet I've eschewed
Its native genre, Westerns, overall.
Comes time now to adjust my attitude,
For as you know, I've a new project, y'all.
Weird western writing with a friend across'd
Th'Atlantic! So perhaps it's best to add
Some westerns to my reading list. I've lost
My count of what I've planned so far. Too bad!
Zane Grey's entire ouvre safely dwells
Within my Kindle now, and hey, I did
Take up the challenge of one hundred books
In this fine year, and must do as I'm bid.
So giddayap, and lose those silly looks.
I'm drawing and I'm reading western stuff,
But still avoiding rodeos. Enough!

In Which I Scribble And Sketch

I'm working hard at my new challenge, which
Is something that I've never tried before:
A drawing ev'ry day. I've had the itch
To try since last year. Back then nothing more
Than the odd insect sketch came from my pen
(Or pencil, really, but these words still need
To fit the meter and the rhyme scheme when
I write a sonnet!). Now, as I proceed
I'm trying first to draw the people who
Do populate a novel which I write
These days with Adam Christopher -- not new,
That project, but it soon will see the light
Of day, if we continue at our pace.
So far this year feels like a caucus race!

In Which I Reflect On A Productive Day

If only I could keep this, ev'ry day,

The change that's brought about by knowing that

Procrastination's nothing but a way

To duck the "twinge of starting": that my flat

And dull insensibility is fake;

That work, when I'm deep in it, is a joy

In which I lose myself, in which I make

A day into a wonder. By what ploy

May I remember this, that once I start

I'm happy, and it isn't toil; that chores

Just sound that way; that once I give my heart

To what I'm doing, nothing ever bores

Or pains me? This, perhaps, is my real task

As this year starts to wear on, if you ask.

Sonnet Dare: The Mysteries Of Art

Rita, originally uploaded by qatesiurade.

A lovely face, done up in graceful lines,
A sonnet where the poet bares her soul...
Through these something of what is inside shines
But even so, they're under tight control,
Expressions such as these. Transparency
In art is just a myth. Deep in those eyes
Sketched in with charcoal, much we do not see
Remains unknown. Though naked, the disguise
That is its surface hides from us what true,
Intriguing secrets might be there beneath
Its calm. There's always tension between you
Who apprehend, and those who do bequeath
Such work to future ages. You may think
You know what's going on, but we just wink.

SESTINA SATURDAY: Insomnia And Her Aftermath

I wake up in the night; the urge to write
Implacable, that or the urge to draw.
And at their bidding I answer the call,
As ever I'm an abject slave to hope
That I'll produce something to match the thought
I had on waking, and not what I fear.

Futility and poor work, these I fear,
Twin demons sit my shoulders as I write
And torment me, disturb my ev'ry thought.
To banish them I grab a pencil, draw
An insect or a friend, all in the hope
That I will placate that creative call.

Sometimes, though, what I want to do is call
Out to someone I'm thinking of. I fear
Disturbing him or her; this trumps my hope
That I am in those thoughts as well. I write
Long letters that I never send to draw
Myself from my paralysis of thought.

My life is nothing like what I once thought
It would be at this age. I would not call
Me old, though it is true that I do draw
Near to the middle-age. I do not fear
What it will bring, that stage. I bow and write
Like always, still a-chase after my hope.

That I can do this still renews my hope
That something yet may come of all I've thought,
That one day something that I yet may write
Will place at last that longed-for, unknown call
For peace and calm to quiet all my fear
Before it all must end and I withdraw.

So by the lamplight, late, I sit and draw,
My totem creatures, in each line a hope
And in each empty space a kind of fear --
Of what? I dare not entertain the thought
Through darkest watches. One day it will call
And I will answer, though. Till then, I write.

When sleep eludes me, then I write and draw.
My heart still makes the call to what I hope
Will justify my thought or prove my fear.

SESTINA SATURDAY: A Sketchy Offering

Sing gaudeamus; notice them and watch
Their movements and their natures when they're still.
There's much they can reveal; and careful eyes
May linger long on details. Just those wings
May fascinate with their venation, form
And color, all together in one line.

A kind of prayer it is, within my line,
Observing insects is. I keep a watch
For them where'er I go and form
A judgment of a place based on what still
Is there, take my delight in what takes wing
Around me, an intruder in their eyes.

Minute and captivating, how my eyes
Are strained to take in each and ev'ry line
Of these small aliens among us. Wing
And tarsa, spiracle, cerci - just watch
Each tiny miracle emerge, and still
There's more to see within this strange life form.

My love for them takes on, now, this new form:
I sketch one ev'ry day. Before my eyes
My pencil conjures them, though I am still
A duffer at this art. Each shaky line
That firms up is an offering. I watch
This happen e'en as all my thoughts take wing.

That entropy increases, says this wing
Beneath my gaze, must be a lie. This form
So intricate and tiny; the innards of a watch
Are not more orderly. These compound eyes
Assembled of mere proteins, all in line
Embody order. Hush now, and hold still.

As yet I still must work from just a still,
Unchanging photograph. Gone are the wings,
Just eggs and nymphs sleep underground. Each line
I make is secondhand, but soon each form
Will be there right before my own two eyes
In nature; all I'll have to do is watch.

Till then I must keep watch through the long, still
And wintry chill. My eyes long for those wings.
For now I am content to form these lines.

SESTINA SATURDAY: Performing Art

"The Smoking Chap" - speed painting by Chris Butler, aka Isoban

I watch it all begin with just a line,

Then more, from which will soon emerge a shape.

A face appears! Then as he adds some shade

And fine detail, there bubbles up a word,

Perhaps a name: The Smoking Chap! What verse

Can I create to catch this painting's tone?

An ugly face, say all, which sets the tone

As this chap comes to life. With ev'ry line

More tufts of hair and wrinkles show (in verse:

The flow of time is speeded on). My shade

Is there to follow Chris's hand; the word

I want is "telepresence." More takes shape.

O that a world like ours now holds its shape,

So real, though so much of it has the tone

Of fantasy! The ether bears my word

To he who draws; he answers. A new line

Appears upon his screen and there's a shade

Of character there now to haunt my verse.

We live now in a wholly sci-fi 'verse.

Our daily world has taken on a shape

Which leaves both Verne and Wells off in the shade.

No one imagined one day that his tone

Of voice as he makes ev'ry brand-new line

Could be shared with so many, and each word.

Some still believe it started with a Word,

This world; they quote in turn each Bible verse

As though it had that power. Not my line,

Such thinking, though I watched as Chris did shape

A Fremen next by my request. In tone

It owed much to Leone's cowboy shade...

Now migraine-haunted I lie in the shade

Of my cool room; unbidden comes the word

"Sestina," all-commanding in the tone

Of this, my smoking muse, demanding verse

To celebrate his strange birth, taking shape

From Chris's hand to my uncertain line.

A line and then another, thought and shade

Bring forth a shape and then a hail of word

To form a verse whose tone is veiled in smoke.

Sestinator's note: Today's sestina was largely inspired by a most unusual experience I shared with a few friends earlier this week. The creator of the speed painting which appears above executed it live via his Ustream channel. He -- and we -- enjoyed it so much that we're going to do it all again sometime this weekend. If you would like to join us, keep an eye on Isoban's Twitter feed for the announcement and follow the link. Join our painting peanut gallery!