Less F*cks and More Tambourine

What's all this business with making resolutions for the new year? Does the calendar changing from December to January really wipe the slate clean and give us all a second chance at trying again? What is it about seeing 01/01 (or, if you're in England, 01/01) on the calendar that makes us think we're going to do it this time, we're going to lose those pesky ten pounds, we're going to learn French, we're going to pay off our debt and we're going to sit down and write that damn novel?!  Okay, Self, take a deep breath. Yes, those are mine. Those are the same resolutions I've been making for years, and yet, every year rolls around and I find myself making them again because I failed to follow through the year before. And the year before that. And the year before THAT.

So what's going to change?

Nothing. Unless I make it so. And this year, I'm making it so by saying STOP.

This year will be about less fucks and more tambourine. Instead of following the beat, it's time to make my own. There are a million words out there waiting for me to write them and there's no way to find them unless I go looking for them. In order to do that, I've got to branch out and put my heart on my sleeve so everyone can see it.

Here's my new sleeve! Check me out at Wordpress. I know, it must seem so tacky, advertising a Wordpress page on a Blogger page, but I've never been one to conform to to social uniforms, (we just don't talk about the year of the polo shirts...) and so here I am, formally announcing my move to Wordpress.

PLEASE FOLLOW ME OVER TO A BIGGER, BRIGHTER, FANCIER, SCHMANCIER VERSION OF YOUR SATURDAY EVENING POET AT saturdayeveningpoet.wordpress.com

New features include pictures (!!!) and audio (!!!) of your author delivering pieces in the voice intended. I think this is really going to enhance your poetic experience and I'm SUPER EXCITED to be sharing this new media with you!

SO COME ON, EVERYBODY... MAKE THE MOVE!

xoxo :)

Imitation, Parody, and All That Jazz

It has been said that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. To an extent, this may be true. I certainly find it heartwarming when my girls say things like, "when I grow up, I want to be just like you!" That I am a role model for these little people is amazing, and I aim to be a good example for them in everything I do.

This is also true for writing that I submit to publishers. I strive to send in my best because that is what I want to be known for. I want to set a bar for myself that even I have to stretch to reach. I think this is how any fledgling writer or artist feels. They want their work to be taken seriously, they want legitimate criticism, and they want feedback that allows them room for growth, rather than acid-like words that leave them withering in the dark confines of their defeat.

But when things come out in a way those artists or writers didn't expect, those words can be used against them. The concepts they attempted to introduce or discuss are picked apart by people who are out for one thing: attention. Of course, writers want attention for their work, and artists want attention for their paintings, sculptures, projects, what-have-you, but for someone else to incorrectly and haphazardly dissect your piece of intellectual property for the public to make a half-assed opinion on, that's just wrong. They're doing it for the ratings, while you're doing it for the sake of art or the sake of having something important to say.

Sometimes these aren't even pieces of huge impact. Look at Rebecca Black's "Friday" single that blazed across the World Wide Web like wildfire. All the girl wanted was a little fun, to have an experience. That people took her work to make fun of her and make rash judgments about the music industry being decimated by talentless bags of money with nothing better to do is sickening. That girl will never live down that experience, and it will follow her forever. From that moment on, pretty much anything she decides to do with her life will be shadowed by the parodies that will taunt her for the rest of her life.

I was thinking about this last week, while scrolling through Facebook and hearing several different versions of the classic Christmas poem, The Night Before Christmas. (Or, as originally titled, "A Visit from Saint Nick.) The man who wrote the poem, Clement Clarke Moore, wrote that piece for his children. That it became a deeply rooted Christmas tradition for many families is a wonderful thing, and the most that any writer could hope for. However, I have a feeling Mr. Moore would be shuddering in his grave at the idea that our children are now hearing versions such as the Redneck Night Before Christmas, or the Politically Correct version. 

http://www.appleseeds.org/twas-night_vers.htm  Politically Correct and many other versions

http://www.joe-ks.com/archives_dec2003/Redneck_Christmas.htm Redneck version

Sure, it's funny. A little. But what those parody writers are failing to recognize when they do things like this, those poems are what we are being left with, while the originals are fading back to traditions we're letting go of. I think it is abominable when the pieces that make fun of other work becomes more popular than the original itself. 

If I am ever published, I hope that my poems are the stuff of romance novels. I hope that people quote me in their love notes. I hope they write them on the bathroom mirror for their significant other to find when they step out of the shower. I hope they strum the heartstrings I plucked those words from. 

Quote me to your heart's content, but don't steal, then twist, my words for the sake of a laugh. Don't insult me, or other writers who poured their hearts and souls into their work. 

It is one thing to imitate work you admire. I find myself being influenced by many different writers. I use elements of other artists/poets techniques and styles to mold my own writing. I feel like this is the best way to flatter those writers. 

And if you're out to insult them, then you're a jerk, and I hope you got a big ol' lump of coal in your stocking.



This is my last post for 2013! It's been a fun start to this writing blog, and I look forward to a new year filled with amazing words, beautiful lyrics, and lots and lots of acceptance letters! Or even one or two! Hope your new year is filled with as much love and optimism as mine. xoxo : )

Words in Space and Time

Wow, this year is already coming to a close. I can’t believe how fast time has flown in 2013, and yet, I look back on all that has happened in my life this year and can’t believe it’s only been a year! At the beginning of the year, we were blessed with our little rock star Rory Gibson. Over the past ten months, I’ve watched him grow and learn and blossom into the bloomin’ little sunburst he is today. I’ve received promotions at work and I’ve made great strides in school, putting another three quarters under my belt. Only three more (or so) to go! The girls have grown, not just taller, but I can see how much they’ve changed since our family dynamic has changed, and at some point in the next two weeks, I guess I need to sit down and really take a look at what’s going on around me… because life is flying by, and it feels like, one more blink…and it will all be a thing of the past.

I’ve started submitting pieces for publishing this year. This was the first year that I've really paid attention to reading periods and publishing houses and magazines, and the first year that I've had the courage inside myself to put my words out there for others to read. This is the first year I've attempted to work as a writer. This is the first year I've written a resume in the hopes of finding a job that requires a pen and excellent grammar. This is the first year I’ve read my poetry in public – and I loved it! This is the first year I’ve allowed myself to explore this possibility of having pages with my words on them in other people’s hands.

At the end of last year, my fair ginger lover and I took a trip down to Naples, Florida to see his family. I had never met any of them before except his father, George. (Whom we should have named our son after, but I stubbornly held out for Rory so as not to doom our son with a little old man’s name for his entire life, which was subsequently made completely awesome by the royal couple naming the future king after him instead. So I’ll just say that I gave Kate and Wills the name and opted for naming mine after the Last Centurion, the last part of which was absolutely true.) 

While we were down there, we met some super groovy people and I completely and utterly fell in love with the place. The beachy vibe, the slower pace, the wonderful strangers who embraced me without knowing my name or story. I played bongos on the beach and knocked off so many things off my Bucket List, it was insane.

Then I came home, kicking and screaming the entire way. I haven’t stopped missing it, and I haven’t stopped fantasizing about a nice little ranch under the palm trees, somewhere only a bike ride away from the ocean. I could live that life, drumming on the river with a group of old hippies, getting my groove on and throwing my words out into a corner of the Universe that still wants to hear them.

It was the end of December, and yet, I forgot more than once while I was down there, what day it actually was. I forgot what month it was – because it felt like summer and not just because of the weather. The atmosphere down there was just so damn cool.

Well, I’m still in Michigan. There are too many things holding me here right now. Work, school, a home I like with a landlord who is pretty awesome, if I were to rate him as a landlord. I have family here, and my girls are here – and so are their fathers. So, Michigan it is right now. But here’s the issue: I still crave that creative space!

With three kids and a Labrador, my house is not the most peaceful place to be all the time. It seems that when the mood to write strikes me, everyone is home and the volume is full blast. Throw in the noisy neighbors, the traffic noise from being the middle street between two major roadways in town, and the constant wail of sirens (I wouldn’t say I live in the “hood,” but I can definitely see it from my front porch!) and it is a bit obvious that this environment isn’t exactly conducive to creativity.

So what’s a girl to do?

I like to think I’m pretty efficient. I’m a big multi-tasker and I don’t like to make two trips. (Ask anyone on a Sunday morning at Bob’s while I’m carrying two trays piled high with breakfasts.) So I’ve taken to keeping a Memo app on my phone’s homepage, and now I have a little notepad wherever the mood strikes me! There are just too many things that fly through my head at any given moment that are too good to let go. Sometimes I just have to stop and write it down.

Many times, I’ll come up with things as I’m driving. I can’t exactly stop and whip out my pen and paper, or even get my phone out to jot down a quick memo. In those cases, I try to repeat it to myself over and over again, or expand it into a song so I can keep it in my memory. Sometimes I’ll get really into it and start narrating an entire story to myself. As soon as I get to my destination, I stop, scribble down the good parts in my server book or cell phone and continue on my merry way.

I forget these little notes sometimes. I forget them, tucked away in drawers and glove boxes, slid between pages and piles of papers. (I tell myself not to end up like my mother, and I always seem to tell this to myself as I’m doing something she would do, like rearranging large piles of junk mail into smaller piles tucked into other piles of mail. Weird.) I find them months later, sometimes years, and it’s amazing how easy it is to go back and remember what I felt in that moment.

It’s awe-inspiring, how words on a page can change a mood, can transport someone through time and space. It’s really cool to think about how powerful words can be. They can change the environment, they can change the mood, they can change the way people feel, act and think. Words are agents of change and I want to make changes. I want to make words worth reading, worth making a change for.

I guess I don’t really have a theme for this week’s update, but if you get a message out of this post, let it be this: Words are the lightest things we pack ourselves with when we venture out into the waking world, and sometimes, they have the heaviest weight. You can take them everywhere, but you can’t just use any of them anywhere. If you don’t have a place for your words, tuck them away in the piles of junk mail in your mind and come back to them later. Hold on to the good stuff.

Where is your creative space? Where do you find your inspiration? When you’re in the middle of something and the creative lightning bolt hits you, how do you cope with the awesomeness of it all? What’s your sorting system for holding it all together?

Please comment and share ideas and thoughts. I’m so thankful for anyone who reads my words, but feedback is so greatly appreciated!

Thanks, all. Have a fabulous week. xoxo : )

Music to My Ears

Sometimes, the best poems are not meant as poems at all. They are intended for ears rather than eyes, but still aimed at the heart. There are some songs that, when read aloud, one wouldn’t think it was ever set to music unless they’d heard it.

This week was finals week at my college, and in my Oral Communication class taught by the very talented Cristina Trapani-Scott, our final was an interpretive reading. I haven’t done a reading like this, save for my one (and only, so far) poetry reading, since high school Theatre Arts class. This was a fun way to finish the class, and I got to hear some really interesting stuff, including some of my favorites, like Edgar Allen Poe’s “Annabel Lee,” which is a classic interpretive reading piece.

Nobody read Edna St. Vincent Millay, though. I was a little disappointed.

What I did hear, however, were a lot of songs. I heard a lot of music in the words, but not even the music it was set to for the radio. There were a handful of really good interpretations of these pieces that I wouldn’t have associated with the words otherwise.

I can say this – I won’t hear “Stairway to Heaven” the same way ever again. I love Led Zeppelin, and I unabashedly love this song. I don’t think much about the lyrics while it’s playing in the car, though. Maybe because it’s an eight minute song, it just starts to blur into throbbing guitar and whimsical storytelling tones. That’s what happens for me, and for most Zeppelin music. The words are somehow lost in the “muchness” of the whole. After this class, though, I feel like I have a better connection with the song because I’ve heard the lyrics written as I feel they were originally written: as a poem.

A great example of a songwriter who makes beautiful music with lyrics that seem better equipped for poetry is Tom Waits. I love the way his voice growls, rambling on into tangents and bringing real personality to his work. “Kentucky Avenue” is one of my very favorite songs and I love the way the lyrics tumble out. You can really imagine him as a bright-eyed smart-mouthed kid. When I first discovered this song, everyone was citing it as a love song. But check out the words:

“Kentucky Avenue” by Tom Waits

Eddie Graces Buick got 4 bullet holes in the side
Charlie De lisle sittin' at the top of an avocado tree
Mrs Storm'll stab you with a steak knife if you step on her lawn
I got a half pack of lucky strikes man, come along with me

Let's fill our pockets with macadamia nuts
Then go over to Bobby Goodmansons and jump off the roof
Hilda plays strip poker and her mama's across the street
Joey Navinski says, "She put her tongue in his mouth"

Dicky Faulkner's got a switchblade and some goose neck risers
That eucalyptus is a hunchback, there's a wind up from the south
Let me tie you up with kite string and I'll show you the scabs on my knee

Watch out for the broken glass, put your shoes and socks on
And come along with me

Let’s follow that fire track, I think your house is burnin' down
Then go down to the hobo jungle and kill some rattle, snakes with a trowel
We'll break all the windows in the old Anderson place
And steal a bunch of boysenberrys and smear 'em on our face

I'll get a dollar from my mama's purse
And buy that skull and crossbones ring
And you can wear it around your neck on an old piece of string
Then we'll spit on Ronnie Arnold and flip him the bird
And slash the tires on the school bus now don't say a word

I'll take a rusty nail and scratch your initials on my arm
And I'll show you how to sneak up on the roof of the drugstore
I'll take those spokes from your wheelchair and a magpies wings
And I'll tie 'em to your shoulders and your feet

I'll steal a hacksaw from my dad and cut the braces off your legs
And we'll bury them tonight load in the cornfield
Just put a church key in your pocket, we'll hop that freight train in the hall
We'll slide all the way down the drain to New Orleans in the fall.

Is it the words, or the melody, that makes the song? I think this can be argued in both directions, really. Sometimes, the song is worth more in music than it is in words. I feel this way about rap sometimes. I can’t always follow the lyrics, maybe because I literally can’t keep up, or because I can’t identify with them (I’m a little white girl, I don’t know much about bitches and money) but the melody keeps me tuned into the station. So let’s not discount it entirely, because I think that’s where a lot of rap comes from, too. It starts as poetry, evolves into spoken word, and once a track is put behind it, there’s the magic formula that sells.

If you know me, you know I can't waste any opportunity to plug my absolute favorite rock band of all time, NIRVANA. There are several examples in their discography like this. Kurt Cobain is a often-quoted lyricist, and often ridiculed for his writing style. Which is funny, because he would be the first to admit that his writing style lacks style at all. He used to say that he didn't much care about the lyrics, as long as the music made sense. This is how we ended up with such lyrical gems such as "aqua sea foam shame."

(Which actually does mean something, by the way. In his journals, Cobain wrote of the side effects of heroin, one of which was a fuzzy sea-foam green blur over his vision. So, consider yourself educated!)

Have you ever heard a song that had such lyrics you’d think they were a poem? There’s a basic formula to write a song. Verse, chorus, verse, chorus, verse, bridge, chorus. You can take a few, leave a few, but those are the basic parts. Some of my favorite songs are the ones that break away from this pattern. It’s pretty recognizable when someone reads a song aloud as a poem. But sometimes, it’s not. Sometimes, a song is so well-written that it stands alone as poetry, and today, I celebrate poetic music. (And my sister’s birthday – Happy Birthday, Katelyn!)

Which musical poems (or poetic songs) are your favorites? Please comment!

Thanks for reading, and ya’ll have a great week. xoxo : )

Why Write?

Hi loves! So glad you made it back for week eleven of The Saturday Evening Poet! I've gone over a few different lessons over the past couple of weeks, and while that's all fine and dandy, I think we're going to go in a different direction this week and just chat a bit about why I write.

I love to write; I love poetry and prose, short stories, flash fiction, pretty things. I love a beautiful sentiment put to simple words. Sometimes the riddle of our feelings is put together so simply that I have to go back and question myself after reading them. Sometimes someone just puts the words together in such a way that makes me think, "yes - THIS."

I wrote a few weeks ago about my new fave poet, Lang Leav, out of Sydney, Australia. I love the way she is able to take simple words and phrases, and put them together so stoically, so quietly, and yet speak volumes with them. It is a height of talent that I aim my stretch towards.

Some people build things, like houses or machines or even sandwiches. I like to build emotions. I like to be the reason there are tears behind your eyes. I like to be the tug at your heart, the small smile you didn't realize was blooming on your face. I like to bring words to the stage of paper and let them flail about passionately, zealously, even, in the spotlight of the reader's eyes. 

Each line I write on a page is a direct representation of my inner child doing a wild pirouette. Look at me! I cry, look what I have made for you! I want to be seen for something, seen as something, recognized for something - and I'd like those somethings to be something I can be proud of. I want to be proud of my words, and I want others to know them, remember them, recite them and share them. I want others to know my work and aspire to write such words. I want to be a good poet - and I think the wanting is half the battle. Writing is such a personal journey, a war within oneself. The battle against time, procrastination, the mental blockage, fear and maybe even shame... all of these can be overcome by sitting down and forcing oneself to 

just.

put the words.

on the page.

JUST PUT THE WORDS ON THE PAGE, DAMMIT.

But which words? Which ones are the right ones? Which ones are the best? Who matters more, the reader or the writer? Do I want your opinion? Do you want mine? Do I want you to want mine? Once they're out, they don't come back. Bullets of the fiercest caliber, so choose wisely.

Most of the time, I write for catharsis. There's something built up inside that needs to be freed. Sometimes it's pain, sometimes it's the rush of that giddy roller coaster ride between the first kiss and the last. I like to write in tribute to others. I like to write to frame the moment on a page so I can go back and remember what that moment felt like. 

I wouldn't go so far as to call my memory eidetic, but it has been called remarkable. I can remember moments, certain snippets of conversation, the chill of the air, the look on someone's face, the way my heart dropped or soared. I can remember the thought in my head at the time, or the spot on the wall or whatever it was that I focused on so as not to focus on the trauma of the moment. 

I write to remember, not just for me but for others to do so as well. I write so that people will know, and maybe when I'm gone, they'll reanalyze their preconceived notions about me or what I wrote, and my writing will truly have a purpose - to make someone think. I write to inform, but not just to teach or to educate. I write to announce, to share, to think aloud, in a way. I write to make moments that shouldn't be forgotten, unforgettable.

I think some of some pieces of poetry like tattoos. Shredding skin with every painful word being brought up from under the surface, laying feelings out on a canvas in an intricate design. When it's over, you feel like you've been through something. It's an experience. I feel like, when I'm sitting in the chair listening to the buzz, knowing it's literally tearing apart what God created so as to make way for my own design, I'm the one in power. I'm the one controlling that tiny fragment of the Universe, and damn, does it feel good.

I have nine tattoos, and I can tell you a story about every one. I can tell you what it means to me, what I went through to mentally earn it, how I came to decide on the design of it, the reactions of the artists when I explained what I wanted, and the feeling of closure that comes when the needle finally hits my skin and I get that surge of adrenaline that tells me, "you went through THAT, you can get through THIS. If you get through THIS, then THAT will be worth the pain."

When the book comes out, that will be the ultimate tattoo. That will be the graffiti I want to leave on the world. I just want something that says, "Shannon was here."

What do you write for? Ask yourself and answer honestly - what is your motivation? If it is good, go for it. Hell, even if it isn't, go for it anyway. I'm not in the business of crushing dreams. I'm here to write about them.

xoxo :)

Contrasts and Opposites

Thanksgiving and Black Friday – these are two consecutive days that go hand-in-hand. Lately, it seems as if these two days are being treated as twin days, much like the large double doors at the front of a smart shop with great sales, am I right? These two days usher in the holiday shopping season and for me, this is where I draw the line at Christmas music around my house. My girls are huge Christmas music fans and if not kept in rein, might sing carols into July. I think Christmas needs to just cool its heels and allow Halloween and Thanksgiving their proper due, too, that’s all. So we don’t really do the Christmas cheer thing until after Thanksgiving.

Funnily enough, that’s when everyone else seems to start their holiday freak-out, too. So Black Friday has turned into a race to open, a race to sales, a race for the highest profit. It has become a race for the best thing, a competition to BE THE FIRST, THE BEST, THE WINNER, and this is true for consumers as well as the corporations feeding the frenzy with their earlier-and-earlier openings.

This Black Friday creep into Thanksgiving has put me in a sour mood. It has changed the traditions of Thanksgiving from it being a day to bask in our blessings to a day we race through our conversations and our meals, we skip the pie and coffee and find ourselves freezing our asses off outside a mall, plotting the self-indulgent takeover by way of ruthless consumerism while the “crazy” people sit inside watching the football game surrounded by the warmth of family and friends.

This has created such a contrast in meanings. Those twin days ushering in the holiday season have turned into the worst type of fraternal twin: the good and the evil. Why is it that one day can be about giving so much thanks, and the very next day be about the complete opposite? It feels as if we are all running a similar track of “bi-polarity,” as I call it. We switch gears as quickly as we flip a light switch.

In life, this makes me sad. In writing, I find it a pleasant challenge. How does one present contrast in a poem?

It can be done obviously, with opposite words. It can be structured like this example, a limerick my grandfather likes to recite:

I went to the show, tomorrow
Took a front seat, in the back.
I fell from the basement to the balcony,
And I broke the front of my back.

Even though the poem didn’t make much sense, it is still a good poem. It still had good rhythm and is still memorable. I love this about poetry – you can use any words, mash them together, carve them into something, and voila! You have something. I don’t think there’s really such a thing as a “bad” poem unless it isn’t cared about, and I think that as long as someone goes through the trouble to think it up and write it down, there’s some degree of care put into it.

That limerick is one example, and it isn’t subtle about the opposite words. In other contrast poems, the words themselves may not be the contrasting element of the piece. It may be in the title, which beckons the reader through a door where they find the other side isn’t what they expected. My fair ginger lover pointed out a great example of that to me today – a song with sad lyrics, written to a happy tune. “Any David Bowie song, really,” he said. Another example I came up with is a song that was popular a few years back, “Into the Ocean” by Blue October. A catchy melody, one that sticks to the short-term memory in that way that makes you hum the chorus for the rest of the day, but listen to the words. The guy is talking about committing (or attempting to commit) suicide. That’s not really something I would expect to want to turn up in the car on my way to work. Such a buzzkill, but open for other interpretations because of the tune. If you don’t listen to the words, it’s a really happy song. If you keep to the melody, or the “beat” of the poem, without absorbing the words too much, it can work this way with poetry as well. The contrast comes between what the reader expects the poem will be about, and what the poem is actually about.

A great example of this is a poem called “Flowers” by Dennis Roy Craig. He talks of not knowing the names of the flowers because of his upbringing; he grew up in a desolate concrete jungle where flowers did not grow. The vision we are given in the poem is a sad, dirty industrial one devoid of color and joy. When the speaker finally encounters flowers, the joy they bring him is so great he does not need to give it a name.

FLOWERSWritten by Dennis Roy Craig
I have never learnt the names of flowers.
From beginning, my world has been a place
Of pot-holed streets where thick, sluggish gutters race
In slow time, away from garbage heaps and sewers
Past blanched old houses around which cowers
Stagnant earth. There, scarce green thing grew to chase
The dull-grey squalor of sick dust; no trace
Of plant save few sparse weeds; just these, no flowers.
One day, they cleared a space and made a park
There in the city’s slums; and suddenly
Came stark glory like lighting in the dark,
While perfume and bright petals thundered slowly.
I learnt no names, but hue, shape and scent mark
My mind, even now, with symbols holy.

This poem is how I have viewed this kickoff-to-holiday-season weekend, in a way. First, a wonderful day of family, friends, humility and maybe a little bit of gluttony, with a day of selfish greed and utter consumerism, this gimmegimme mine-mine-mine attitude hot on its heels. Black Friday has become such a rude tradition that it has eroded the celebration and even the meaning of Thanksgiving.

This year, I had to work for a few hours, and it wasn’t bad. I was able to come home and chill out with my husband and my son, and we stayed inside and watched crap on the television and ate frozen food out of cardboard boxes for our harvest feast. It was a wonderful day. It gave me time to consider all that I am thankful for, and this year, I have one more thing to be thankful for: the opportunity to share my words with others. For that, thank you fine readers who check out my blog every Saturday evening.

And as always, I am thankful for poetry. For words, for the music behind them, and for the feelings and memories they evoke. I am thankful for poets who came before me, and thankful for the chance to become one of them.

Have a fantastic week, and remember to take a moment each day and remember what you’re thankful for!

xoxo :)

Our Favorite Words - Mad Lib Style!

Now THIS is flippin' cool. THIS is my newest obsession, my new Candy Crush. I am so excited to have discovered this, and I am SUPER stoked to share this with you. If it isn't something that is already taking the world by storm, then it should be. Hey word junkies and language geeks out there: get a kick out of the MOST EPIC NEW THING IN POETRY:

*drumroll please!*

AUTOCORRECT POETRY.

I'm sure you're all familiar with AutoCorrect. Even those who are still carrying around those dinosaur flip phones, or - gasp! - a candy bar phone, you'll know what AutoCorrect does. It turns completely innocent text messages into great fodder for conversation later, inside jokes, and now, amazing works of writing.

What I like about the concept of AutoCorrect poetry is that it has no form, it has no style. It is freewriting in our most modern form. It is mobile poetry. There is no longer any excuse for not having the time to write poetry. If you can text, you can create!

I had been mulling this over in my mind for a while now, and the other day I voiced my ideas to my fair ginger lover. We turned it into a bit of a game, to see who could come up with the better text, based on how hard we laughed at it. We spent the next half hour in a sort of texting date, writing hilarious and completely nonsensical things to each other and giggling like children. We probably looked so stupid, sitting there on our phones, snorting into our sleeves with laughter.

I noticed while doing this that my AutoCorrect sometimes repeated words I had already used, like it was on a loop of words in a bank. Where did these words come from? From the person holding it, of course, which is me - and I realized that these aren't just funny words. These are my favorite words. These are the words I use most often because they are the ones that are most familiar to my tongue. The way they roll off and clamber about the Universe after jumping out of my brain - those are the ones I reach for most often.

What words do you reach for? What words are in your vernacular? How do you expand your vocabulary? I recently discovered this great Facebook app called "Word Porn" (excuse the title) and while I'm not one who really gets into the "sharing" of all those random Page pictures and cutesy sayings and whatnot, I find myself sharing a lot of these updates because these words are just... splendiferous.

In three days, I was introduced to, like, FIVE of my new favorite words. My first new favorite word was a word I wish I had known in fourth grade when we wrote and submitted orally a paper on what we wanted to be when we grew up. If you know me personally, then you know what my aspirations were back then. Innocent as they truly were, they were absolutely scandalous that day in my fourth grade classroom.

Keep reading. Maybe I'll tell you the story.

This is such a great word - a word to describe me perfectly. Not me as a complex, complete being, but the essential Me. The word is "quaintrelle." The definition is I take this one at face value - I realize that it is to mean the female counterpart to a dandy British male, and that is not as I mean it. But read the definition and interpret it for yourselves, and I think you will realize what I'm trying to say.
"A woman who emphasizes a life of passion expressed through personal style, leisurely pastimes, charm and cultivation of life's pleasures."

Another one I really enjoy is "heliopheliac." One who basks in sunshine, and is reluctant to leave it.

Another is scripturient - having a consuming passion to write. Oh, how that one fits me so well.

I love this one, this is probably one of my very favorite new words, "retrouvaille" which means rediscovery, the joy of finding a loved one after a long separation.

And balter. Because that is hilarious. It is pronounced like "falter" and it isn't far off. It means to WAVE YO HANDS IN THE AY-ER LIKE YOU JUST DON'T CAY-ER. It is the stuff of that thankfully lost video of my wedding night after the third? pub of the crawl... one very, very happy bride very much enjoying her new status as Mrs. Fair Ginger Lover. "To dance artlessly without particular grace or skill, but usually with enjoyment." Just hearing the word makes me giggle.

Which brings me to the best part - the part of the evening where you learn how to write your very own AutoCorrect poems! Hope your seams are double stitched.

Also, be warned - I apparently have a sailor's vernacular because my phone allows my AutoCorrect to swear.

Fuck the bus stop!
She is super proud
of my birthday party.
And,
she would love Mondays.

I would absolutely love to do this as spoken word, as slam poetry. I think it would be hilarious. Just me and a spotlight, deadpanning for the audience. I want to make this happen! Here's another good one.

For example,
a little ridiculous,
and the grocery shopping cart system -
it's not connecting with his toes!
I don't want the baby giving them
to the store in the Middle East.

I noticed that a lot of my little poems ended up being about the baby. My little Muse. He is his father's son in so many ways. Love that little bundle of joy from the ends of his wispy blonde hair to the tips of his tiny little toes, but sometimes, I think my AutoCorrect captures my worst 3 AM moments. For example:

Give me a good day sweetie.
Try to get rid of them,
in their fucking frustration,
by throwing out the baby.
(wow, I must have been really, um, tired.)

My phone is very Smart. It keeps up with current events. For the most part. It's a little behind, but I still give it credit for knowing that Carlos is always to be associated with Danger.

Carlos Danger is not connecting
a little more sweetie Love
to the midnight showing.
We need an experienced programmer
who has been CRAZY
about my teeth.

This is one from my husband's AutoCorrect - and I took it personally, it was that sweet.

Thus the baby happy,
and the fantastic four of us
to come home to

and snuggle - with you,
though I love you more

than any Hostess cake.

Aww.

Try it. Let's start a new thing. Send an AutoCorrect Poem (ACP) text or post to someone and see how they react! When you get the inevitable "WTF?" explain the concept, and enjoy the hilarity.

Comment or submit your own AutoCorrect poem, thanks SO VERY MUCH for coming back to read this week, and please share and pin and +1 the crap out of The Saturday Evening Poet! I want my words to reach every furthest corner. I appreciate every like and share and click and skim. I thank you so very, very much and hope you have a great week.

xoxo :)

Oh, fine. Because you were kind enough to read to the end, I'll tell you what happened in fourth grade.

I didn't have such a refined vocabulary back then. (Where were you, Word Porn?) We were given an assignment to write a paper on what we wanted to be when we grew up. I didn't know the word "choreographer." I was also not familiar with the term "interpretive dancer." All I knew is that out there somewhere, according to my Highlights for Children magazine, there were people who got paid to make up funky dances and teach them to people. I wanted to get paid for getting my groove on! I tried to think of the most technical term I could come up with for "funky" because that probably wasn't anywhere near a list of occupations. I chose the most elegant sounding word, "exotic."

Thus, my paper, which was presented via speech to the class, which was in full attendance that day, including the boy I had a crush on who sat in the front row right in front of where I was standing, became a speech on how I wanted to grow up to become an exotic dancer.

You're welcome, and I'm very sorry if you were drinking anything. :)