Sweetest Little Pick-Me-Up

Branching out from my seemingly-recurring theme of packing as much punch into the power of poetry, (love that line, I find alliteration so exhilarating!) let's shift lanes ever so slightly to this thought: saying so much with so little.

I watched an interesting program the other night. It featured comic forefather Stan Lee and the story of the comic book wave of popularity. One person they featured was a rough-around-the-edges wiseguy New Yorker-to-the-core type guy named Jim Steranko who told a story of a storyline he drew out, with the first 3 pages told in pictures alone. The man holding the purse strings didn't want to pay up, but with some gentle persuasion, the artist encouraged him otherwise. His defense? The audience knew exactly what was being said. So much so that the pictures (for example, of a phone off the hook, deemed "too suggestive" by the Comic Code Authority) had to be edited or replaced. Oh, the power of suggestion, and so much more so with the power of visual aids.

You can't have a poem without words - that's the best part! But, the point of it is to be succinct with your word. Consolidation, and be quick about it now!

Today falls on a very subtle holiday, hidden in the calendar, a day just for sweethearts. A Hallmark holiday created, in my opinion, as a freebie opportunity to earn brownie points for remembering. Just a moment taken between more mainstream holidays, all the hum and buzz of every other day. Sweetest Day, the quickie of holidays designed to celebrate love.

But like the fast and to-the-point business meeting between two bodies, it often doesn't happen, isn't remembered or thought of, and sometimes is ignored completely because it doesn't make sense, it isn't special enough, or is only for those who are still so in love with each other it's nauseating. You know, For Other People.

But sometimes, it's just about letting it out, satisfying a basic need. For me, this happens with poems sometimes. I'll have the words, I'll know what I want from them, and they don't comply. It is the second most frustrating thing in the Universe, I'm convinced; the first being that sensation I get when people break the "There, Their, They're" rule.

So what happens then? I become desperate for a moment to myself, a moment to get this poem out and feel better, feel a sense of relief and satisfaction. You can imagine what that might feel like. There might be a buildup, but there's no time for slowing down now. Put the words on the page as quick as you can, knowing that each word is a moment gone. In as few words as possible, build the tension, grasp the plot and let the best words go. 

Well, what did you say?

I wrote this, thinking about Sweetest Day, and my sweetheart, and close encounters of the quickest kind...

THE FALL

Quick glance

Cheeks blush

Hearts dance

Hands brush

Small smile

Bright eyes

Sweet guile

Sparks fly

Warm breath

Soft cheek

Hard kiss

Sneak peek

Pale skin

Black lace

Silk sheets

End chase.

Two words per line, four lines per stanza, four stanzas in all. Sweet and simple, a means to an end. My goal was to tell the story from first sight to seduction in the time it takes for a good first kiss.

I know I left you hanging last week. Hope this little ditty helped satisfy the tug of curiosity. Because honestly, I don't have an ending. Looking forward to when I do, though.

Enjoy your Sweetest Day and tell someone you love how you feel. Also, I'd like to leave you with one piece of advice for my married or cohabitating readers:

Set your alarm ten minutes early, and enjoy the ten minutes before you have to get up as thoroughly as you can. Enjoy a hug, a makeout session, something more, or simply bask in the comfort of turning over and snuggling for the next nine and a half minutes before the day invades your shared space. This tip has changed my mind about mornings, about marriage, and has greatly increased my appreciation for what can happen in ten minutes. :) xoxo

Ghostlight Films. (Producer). (2013, October 15). Superheroes: a never-ending battle [Television broadcast]. Detroit, MI; PBS

Memory Makers

"Every time I see a pair of Chucks, it makes me smile. It reminds me of you, of holding hands and windblown cheeks blushing scarlet. Even then, you made my heart race, albeit with more innocence. I adored you, with your long hair and your long words. Words that led my little heart along as if on a string. I'd follow you anywhere, content to be at your side. What was it? Your frayed edges, the ragged breaths in which you'd whisper how much you liked kissing me. The stubble of your cheek against the softness of my own. The way you smelled of leather jackets and that old truck. Oh, the good times we had in that small space between the driver's seat and mine. We'll just call it mine because there were no others who fit there like I did, and once I set my heart on you, you were mine, too."

I wrote that today. I love being married to my high school sweetheart. It provides me with an ocean of memories in which I can dip my pen into and bring up all sorts of amazing examples from which to draw inspiration from. Give me a topic, and I can write you something. Give me the choice of topic, and I will always write about him.

He made me feel stupid, stumbling over my syllables with the grace of a sea cow in stilettos. He challenged me to find better words, to bring something up from my soul that wasn't pure intellectual vomit. He never once told me, "this is crap," but the lengths I'd go to revise until I impressed him were extraordinary. I never had an audience so important to me before, and when he reached out and took each note I passed, a piece of my heart would always go with him.

I was thinking about this today, about the power of words to conjure up memories. A few years ago, (I say this figuratively, but it was actually closer to ten years ago, OMIGAWD) I was what you could go so far as to call "a fan" (haha, more like obsessed fanatic) of one Avril Lavigne, "punk pop princess" of the early 2000's. I emulated her in dress, style, vocabulary, and garnered quite a collection of various ties I would match with my only button-down shirt, which happened to be quite sheer and drove certain boys insane. I'm pretty sure those outfits were half the reason I had as many male friends and followers as I had. Still, I managed to recreate the persona of Avril, royalty of rebellion herself. During this time, I really began getting into writing poetry and songs. I didn't have the level of anger required to really rock out like I wanted to, but through various high school love triangles and mishaps and the epic romance gone awry that ended up being my happily ever after, I wrote some pretty ridiculous stuff.

I am ashamed as an "Avid Avrilian" (I totally just made that up and I'm going to stick with it because I've never heard it before.) to say that I have long ago lost my copy of her first CD, "Let Go." However, this morning, I jammed her sophomore album "Under My Skin" quite loudly (I should be embarrassed, but I'm not) and was pleased to find out that I still knew every single word. I was even more pleased to find out that my daughters, sitting in the back seat, could sing along, too!

It got me thinking about all those things I'd written back and the day, and I thought about going back to exhume some of the old stuff. See how stupid it was. See how true it still is.

A short story with the what-looks-to-be-tentative title jotted on the top of the page: Just Friends?



She sat there, shivering, in the stands. The lights were bright, the rain drizzled down, the excitement was high. The varsity football team played in the field in front of her, but her mind was elsewhere. Instead, she thought of her best friend, dry, at home, probably playing his guitar. The game wasn't going in favor of her home team, as usual, and she wished she were sitting on his floor right now, listening to his fingers as they plucked each string. Or he was here, with her, making her laugh. Maybe then, she wouldn't be so cold.

A black hooded sweatshirt landed on the bleacher, right next to her. She looked up. "You're so dumb, why didn't you just stay home like all the other losers?" Alin asked.

"Because I was bored. I dunno. Care to join me?"

"No." But he sat down anyway. He shoved his sweatshirt at her. She shivered and wrapped it around her, breathing in the scent of it. It smelled good. It smelled like him. She liked that.

"What are you here for?" she asked.

"To laugh at cold, stupid people like you," he answered. He moved a little closer. "Wanna be cool like me and ditch it?"

"That's probably the smartest thing I've ever heard you say." she kidded. "Let's ditch this joint!" She jumped up and put the sweatshirt on. He walked to the edge of the bleachers and hopped to the ground. "I'll catch you!" he called. "Jump!" She jumped, landing in his arms, nearly bowling hi over. He caught her perfectly, just as he promised. For a moment, they just looked at each other, then he let her go.

The drizzle had stopped, so she warmed up. She reached up and brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. He glanced down at her.

"Hey, you're gonna mess up my 'do."

"It's already destroyed. I'm fixing it."

"My hair rocks. Don't knock it."

"Yeah, it's you. Grungy."

"And...?"

"And I like it." she answered. She looked down. She was quiet for a moment. It felt strange, not having that ring on her finger. It was a relief, not to be held back by someone so restricting. That's what she'd always loved about Alin. He loved her for her.
"Hey, Alin?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
"Yeah, me too."
I'm glad we're just the way we are. You know. Just us."
"Best friends." he paused, "Most of the time. But we've got our moments."
"What do you mean?" she asked, looking up. He stopped walking. The streetlights were on, shining down on them like their own personal moon. He looked up for a moment, as if contemplating. He looked down at her. Why was everything about her so damn innocent? Yet he knew she was dangerous. She had the power to break him. He took the risk anyway. He slid his hand down her cheek as her eyes locked onto his. There was fear, but more than that, there was appreciation for a friendship that bound them.
"You're warm," she whispered.
"So are you," he answered.
"I am now."

He sighed and put his hands in his pockets. She looked away quickly and changed the subject.

"So you're still not going tomorrow night?" she asked.

"Why bother? I can't dance anyway."

"Anyone can dance. It's universal. Any time, anywhere." She had a look in her eyes and a mischievous grin crept onto her face.

"Why are you leering at me like that?"

"Any time, anywhere." She grabbed his hands and spun him around. "Dance with me, Alin!" she cried, throwing her head back and laughing. They spun around and around until they collapsed onto the grassy hill, laughing uncontrollably. She breathed in deep and stared at the stars. "What a romantic night for two people so against being in love," she thought.

"Yeah," Alin echoed.

"Yeah, what?"

"I know what you're thinking. I think so, too."

"Think what? What are you talking about?"

"Sometimes you wish we were in love. Just for the sake of living and being loved."

"Sometimes, maybe. Yeah. But I love you anyway." She looked at her shoes, now stained lime by the damp grass. Things were too hard to explain. All the feelings she felt for him, she almost wasn't allowed to feel. Rule #1 For Having The Perfect Best Friend: Do not fall in love with him. But rules were made to be broken. So.

"Do you ever hold it against me?" he asked quietly.

"You not returning the feelings? No." she replied. "But I can't say I don't wish."

"I know. But there are complications. You know."

"Yeah, I know. It's cool." she sighed again. She spread out on the hill and put her arms behind her head. She looked sideways at him.

"Do you ever think about it, though?" she asked.

"All the time. I'm not the only one with complications, though. You're fragile. How am I supposed to NOT break it? What if I do? I'm not really in the mood to break your heart more than I already have. Sorry."

"I'm not a child, Alin, I'm not a little girl. I know you can hurt me." She moved closer. She rolled on her side and propped her head in her hand.

"Why are you so afraid of me?" she questioned.

"Who said I was scared of you?"

"You would have kissed me by now."

"Well, who said I wasn't going to?" he pursued.

"You're too scared."

"No."

"Yes."

"No." He moved closer. She sat up, looking him in the eyes, intimidating him. Daring him to kiss her. They were face to face, inches apart. She could see he wanted to. He could feel her breath. It was warm and sweet. So sweet he could taste it. She reached up and tangled her fingers in his hair as he pulled her even closer and locked his lips on hers. She was soft, almost melted against him. She pulled him as close as she could get him. He wrapped his arms around her, and reveled in the feelings he was encountering. He was crazy, and he loved her. They parted ways and she snuggled her head in his shoulder.

"..."



I wrote this in 2004, during 10th grade. The year I can honestly refer to as the mushroom cloud of life-changing epic shit going down. I have no ending.


I have no ending. I need an ending, and I am personally reveling in the fountain of words I feel I've tapped into lately. I feel like an ending is going to show up soon, and I'm so excited for when it happens. Let's see what happens next week. :) xoxo

Six Words or Less

You came back! That’s awesome. Thanks so much.

I want to revisit something I mentioned in my last post, about saying so much with so little. In a way, a good poem is like a TARDIS - so much bigger on the inside! I think the point of poetry is to be succinct with your words in order to glean as much expression from them as possible. Those who speak the least sometimes say the most. This is why I admire poetry for what it is - the very best, the very favorite of those authors’ words, put together in a way that says more than what’s on the paper.

There are so many feelings attached to words, and they can mean a variety of things for different people. A piece about a rainy day may sound depressing or dull, but it may remind someone of a kiss in the rain, or the triumph of having weathered a storm. Finding the perfect word that can convey anything to anyone is the genius of the poet.

One day as I walked into Professor Fanning’s class in 2008, there were a few lines written on the board. “For sale: baby shoes. Never worn.” It is attributed to Hemingway, according to the legend of him having won a bet, writing a story in six words or less. I think this story represents the point I make. How much floods into your head when you read this? How many feels does your heart clench in its fist as you swallow back the instant lump in your throat? As a mother then, and the mother of a new one now, it struck me to my core. Two and a half sentences, and I already felt a connection to this piece. THAT is effective writing. Two and a half sentences and it already had a beginning, middle and end. THAT is good.

So the lesson was to write a short story in as few words as possible. This is a popular exercise for writers and can be a useful way to free write. It’s a great way to hone your editing skills, as well. Many of the themes were the same: the climax (not necessarily literal!) of true love, the happily ever after, the changing of one’s mind and irreversible decisions, broken hearts or death. These are some major emotional traumas, people. These are some huge plot lines that, if given the time, effort, ink and paper, these could be novels of infinite pages. But there we were, summing up the future classics in an average of six words or less.

What can you say in six words or less? Think of it this way: if you had six words left to say in the entire Universe, for the rest of your life, what would those six words be? Would they be the names of your loved ones? Would you say goodbye, give instruction, vent, tell a secret? I leave you with this challenge. Think on it, and please feel free to leave those words in a comment if you’d like to share!

Welcome to the Saturday Evening Poet!

First, thanks for volunteering to give me five minutes of your time, regardless of whether or not anything I write makes sense to you or gives you any reaction whatsoever. I appreciate that you've shown this much faith in me already. This is my first attempt at a public blog, one that isn't for personal venting reasons, or to passive-aggressively cyberstalk the mean girls or to write secret love notes to my fair ginger lover. Well, except for the latter, perhaps, because I feel that some of the best poetry is found not in the lines, but between them. So I apologize in advance if I tend to over-mush things; it is my favorite method of feels-expulsion.

I love words. They're the best; far superior to numbers. It took me six years to pass a college math class, and about six minutes to fall in love with my first poetry class, have my heart broken to find out the gorgeous professor was married (just kidding!), and have my soul mended with the words of the title poem of his debut chapbook, "Old Bright Wheel" which can be purchased for $14.95 + shipping from Merick Press. It remains to this day my very favorite poem, and I do hope you'll consider purchasing his book(s) to read it, and the rest. The book is less than a quarter-inch thick and it made me cry 6 times.

What I love most about reading a good poem is the fact that so much can be said with so little, and in such different ways that anyone can interpret them to mean whatever they need them to mean. Poetry is a balm for the soul and knows no boundaries. So many styles, formats, designs, so many words we hear every day but constructed in such a way that we never take the time to appreciate the beauty of the arrangement. The personal touches from each and every poet give it a universality that surpasses any other type of writing, in my humble opinion. Stories are passed down and changed through time as they pass into different ears and tumble off various tongues. Poems are condensed stories that don't have to change because it is, what it is. The translation comes from within.

As I said earlier, I tend to mush things up a bit. I love a good flowery phrase, something that tugs at the heartstrings. Being in love is grand, and being in love with someone that you know you'll love forever is even better. (And I know I'll love him forever because I already have. I counted.) However, that's a pretty long time and what better way to pass it by and preserve it than through poetry? This isn't a new idea - lovers have been writing down their flowery feels for centuries. Two of my favorite poets, Elizabeth (Barrett) and Robert Browning, chronicled their love affair for the generations to come and I've sought much comfort from her words, knowing I'm not the only woman who loves someone like this. I'm a sucker for a good fairy tale.

Love notes make the best poems. Just sayin'.

You can rip it apart, put different words together, make it something new and beautiful. Upcycle your love into more love! I've written an entire collection based on love notes passed between me and my now-husband, while we were in high school making big ol' cow eyes at each other.

On that note, I leave you with a poem I wrote a while back, aptly titled.

This, and a handful of other writings by the very talented Ms. Geva Salerno and others, can be found at her website, www.gevasalerno.com

LOVE NOTE

If I could, I’d drop all of your promises
In my pocket and carry them around
Like little love notes, reminders
Of every time you made me smile.
Even the smallest moments make their way
To the archives of my mind
Because you’re worth keeping,
So much more than I ever thought
A man could be. With me,
The girl who never got it right.



Now you know a bit about me, a bit about what I'm going to aim to write about, and there will be updates each Saturday, though I guess "Saturday Evening Post" was already taken. Huh.

I'll share some of my favorite poems, classics I admire, and if readers are interested, they may e-mail me at smbenjamin412@aol.com to inquire about having their work posted. I wanna read your feels!!! :)

xoxo