The Poetry of a New Writer

Monday, December 29, 2003 :::

Judy gave me some great comments and I used very many of them to complete my story. Here it is, in its semi-final format:

Queen Anne’s Revenge

The morning blazed across the sky. The sun in all its glory burned a path across the heavens, filling them with vivid reds, oranges, and yellows. Dawn had come to the island; the shore bathed in new heat, and night’s hand rose away from new light. As the receding shadow shrank across the island, it came at last to an old, dilapidated shack facing the harbor. So old was it that it looked more like a haphazard series of sticks and rope rather than an actual building; it had so many holes that the sun’s rays pierced right through it and reflected in the waters beyond. The roof was adorned with patches of straw from all over the island, providing its inhabitants with some semblance of shade from the noon inferno. This decrepit shack provided a place of solace to many of the natives, a place to forget troubles, a place to drown sorrow with sweet island rum. All sorts of tables and chairs filled it, relics from colonial times, not a one bearing any similarity to any other, fitting in well with the patchwork quilt that was the shack. In the western wall there was a hole that served as a window, a remnant of a forgotten fight or perhaps the souvenir of an arrant cannonball. Through this accidental window on a clear day, the sunken remains of the old flagship which had made the harbor useless was visible on the horizon. All that was left above the sea’s surface was the bow beam. There was a man from the shack who would spend hours staring at that ship, from dawn’s first light to evening’s last. That man, this morning, had awoken quite late and was only now unlocking the door. The breeze blew silently around him, few sounds disturbed the tomblike silence of island mornings. But a loud creak soon reverberated all around, making it known to everyone that Wolfe was awake.

James Wolfe was his full name, but most people had long forgotten it. He was an ancient man, the eldest by far on the isle, and his first name had gone the way of his youth. His hair whiter than clouds and eyes glowing bluer than the sea, he lived a life of peace and carefree ease. Even for his many years, Wolfe had no close friends, had never married, and had never had any children. He kept himself busy serving drinks in the shack, but he spent most of his time there staring off into the western horizon, usually waking far before dawn to catch the first light.

But the new morning was far from ordinary. Wolfe’s hair was grizzled and dirty, his eyes were faded and red, his head ached. He stumbled through the door and fumbled for a stool. The sunlight danced across the floor in a myriad of shapes, one resembling a bearded man, until his hand reached across the light and cast a shadow upon the floor. He reached dazedly for the bar and clumsily poured himself a glass of water. The puddle left on the floor reflected Wolfe’s broken, dejected face as he drank. He wiped his lips with his arm and returned the glass to the table. A gentle wind swept through the shack. His hands shook. The old man looked in the mirror, or the cracked shards that were left of it, and could not recognize himself. He saw an ancient, pale-skinned man who more closely resembled a secluded albino monk than a proud healthy bartender. The reflection of the man’s eyes was scattered many times by the splinters of glass and Wolfe saw five blurred, bloodshot eyes staring back at him. He blinked. And again. He dared look lower, and saw a white shirt torn many times and stained yellow and red and brown and jeans that looked as if they had been left to soak in sand. Angered by the deceitful reflection, Wolfe picked up his glass and threw it at the mirror with great force, shattering it to hundreds of pieces, each flying its own separate way across the bar. Several nicked him, one or two giving minor cuts. The rest covering the floor. Looking down and surveying the damage, he saw the same shirt stained in several colors with far more red and the same jeans, now ripped. He clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white, until his fingernails cut into his palms, until small streams of blood trickled down his hands and joined the growing pool at his feet. He blinked again and shook his head. Grabbing the broom, he started sweeping the floor of the broken glass, spreading the red pool across the floor, dying the floor a permanent crimson.

The shards of glass slowly started coming together until a large pile was formed in the far corner of the shack. The light reflected majestically from the pile, refracting in all the colors of the rainbow onto the opposite wall, forming a vivid ring around the hole, drawing Wolfe’s attention to it. Through the hole he saw the sea stretch out into eternity, meeting with the sky on the horizon. Closer by far to the island, at the end of the cove where the water is barely one hundred feet deep, was the flagship. The bow cast a shadow over the sparkling waters, a deep black amidst an eternity of blazing blue and purest white. Wolfe was captivated by it. There was a loud creak behind him and he almost leaped from surprise, his gaze interrupted by the opening of the door. A women had entered.

She was a regular at the bar, coming often at any hour, speaking of everything and nothing. Wolfe did not know her name and never asked it. To him she was just a voice to fill the silence and a face to distract him from everlasting wood and glass. He always welcomed her presence and enjoyed listening to her speak, even though he rarely responded. He was quite accustomed to her come in and sit on some stool and order a rum before telling the latest news and so was quite astonished when she instead entered the room and with her first look screamed. The broom that he held fell to the ground with a thud, a thin red line along its surface. As her gaze shifted from Wolfe’s face and shirt to the newly painted ground, she screamed again. The change from his normal demeanor to this disordered, chaotic attire and appearance was so dramatic that it terrified her. The shack and its keeper, unchanged for so many years, were now disheveled, broken, and bleeding. Her eyes blurred and she took a few small steps in a circle before losing her balance completely.

It was closer to noon now. The tide was coming in and covered the beach. The sun’s rays could not pierce the thatched straw roof of the hut and at the moment of greatest heat and brightest light, the shack was eerily dark. The birds sang ignorantly in sweet cadence all around. The sky stretched peacefully, the clouds wafted across it lazily, and the lady who so often visited the shack now lay in it just as peacefully. Her body had collapsed, her eyes had closed, her skin turned pale, and she did not move at all. Wolfe picked her up, surprised at how light she weighed, and set her upon a table so that she would not have to lie upon the stained floor. He circled the room, carefully avoiding having to look at her, the window, or the pile of glass. Here was a woman, quite attractive, lying on his table and Wolfe could do little but pace in endless circles around her until he started to get dizzy. Eventually he merely sat on his stool and started half-heartedly dusting the bar table.

Minutes soon turned to hours. Wolfe had already worn the area of the table around him thin, the rag searing his hands from the friction. She did not stir. The shack suddenly darkened, but the sun was far from setting. The old man looked through the slits in the wall behind him and saw a dark cloud covering the sun. There were several others all across the island. A storm was coming. Wolfe ambled over to the woman and rested the burning cloth upon her face. No response. He went to the bar and doused the cloth in cold water, numbing his fingers on his right hand. Shivering slightly from the sudden cold, he once again placed the rag upon her forehead. A single droplet, freeing itself from the cotton rag, swam down her face, curving around her cheek and, upon reaching her jawbone, dropped slowly onto the tabletop and burst, spreading a pinkish hue across the surface. Wolfe’s jaw dropped in horror. Pink.

A loud crash erupted in the distance, followed soon by another. Wolfe, aghast, ran to the window and started into the green-gray sea, rolling heavily amidst the mighty wind of the storm. White crests of waves crashed decisively onto the beach, the sky was covered completely by a menacing, black screen. The elder’s hair blew in all directions, and the cloth flew from the youth’s head against the wall, held there by the gale. It was dyed a terrible color, the lightest crimson against the deep, dark swells of ocean and wind and storm. The shack shook violently from the merciless wind and one stick broke free from the eastern wall and flew straight through the rag, tearing another hole in the side and carrying the cherry-red cloth to the sea. Wolfe’s rags blew vehemently in the wind, billowing as sails on a seaward vessel, and he let out a mournful wail. He saw the small red pool beyond the poor woman’s head. Closing his eyes forcefully, he ran out of the shack, knocking the door down from neglect. The wind, littered with sand stolen from the island’s beaches, stung him as he ran from his home. The rain had begun to fall and within minutes the ground was inches deep in raging waters. The afternoon darkness was disturbed time and time again by flashes of lightning. Wolfe’s ears pounded from thunderous force, and he shielded his face with his arms. Each step was harder than the last, his clothes were drenched, his shoes flooded. An errant bolt of lightning struck the shack and it became ablaze. The bright flames appeared to Wolfe a late sunrise filling the small cove with vivid colors. The fire rose hundreds of feet into the air, a pyre fit for the woman inside. Tears streaked down Wolfe’s already wet face. They reflected the inferno, and the darkness beyond. Losing all sense of time and place and self, Wolfe finally reached the cove and dove into it. The splash was insignificant amidst the carnage of the waves and his scream was unheard beyond the thunder.

The shack burnt to the ground in a matter of minutes. All that was left were a few pieces of twig and rope, and a small cloth, stained beyond repair. The storm raged on ceaselessly for several more hours before dissipating. The sun set in the west upon a broken home, the sky fading to a dark purple. Off on the horizon lay the ship in ignorant peace. As the last rays of the setting sun shone across the island, a body was visible, hanging from the bow beam. Its white hair shone brilliantly in the last light and its blue eyes could be seen miles away. On the ship’s hull, now visible in evening’s low tide, were but three words: “Queen Anne’s Revenge.” The last remnant of a pirate legend had returned to his past.

So, does anyone but me like it?

For those of you still confused by the title, the "Queen Anne's Revenge" was the flagship of Mr. Edward Teach, better known to his friends and enemies as Blackbeard.

::: IM comments to Sphere991 or e-mail to sphere99991@hotmail.com. Posted by Barry at 3:37 PM

Wednesday, December 24, 2003 :::

I started working on my story today. Any ideas, advice, suggestions, etc.? I know the ending but I'm still at odds on how to get there. And yes, the title will make sense eventually, I assure you.

Queen Anne's Revenge

The morning blazed across the sky. The sun in all its glory burned a path across the heavens, filling them with vivid reds, oranges, and yellows. Dawn had come to the island, the shore bathed in new heat, and night’s hand rose away from new light. As the receding shadow stretched across the island, it came at last to an old, dilapidated shack facing the harbor. So old was it that it looked more like a haphazard series of sticks and rope rather than an actual building, it had so many holes that the sun’s rays pierced right through it and reflected in the waters beyond. The roof was adorned with patches of straw from all over the island, providing its inhabitants with some semblance of shade from the noon inferno. This decrepit shack provided a place of solace to many of the natives, a place to forget troubles, a place to drown sorrow with sweet island rum. All sorts of tables and chairs filled it, relics from colonial times, not a one bearing any similarity to the other, fitting in well with the patchwork quilt that was the shack. In the western wall there was a hole that served as a window, a remnant of a forgotten fight or perhaps the souvenir of an arrant cannonball. Through this accidental window on a clear day, the sunken remains of the old flagship which had made the harbor useless was visible on the horizon. All that was left above the sea’s surface was the bow beam. There was a man from the shack who would spend hours staring at that ship, from dawn’s first light to evening’s last. That man, this morning, had awoken quite late and was only now unlocking the door. The breeze blew silently around him, few sounds disturbed the tomblike silence of island mornings. But a loud creak soon reverberated all around, making it known to everyone that Wolfe was awake.

James Wolfe was his full name, but most people had long forgotten it. He was an old man, the eldest by far on the isle, and his first name had gone the way of his youth. His hair whiter than clouds and eyes glowing bluer than the sea, he lived a life of peace and carefree ease. Even for his many years, Wolfe had no close friends, had never married, and had never had any children. He kept himself busy serving drinks in the shack, but he spent most of his time there staring off into the western horizon, usually waking far before dawn to catch the first light.

But the new morning was far from ordinary. Wolfe’s hair was grizzled and dirty, his eyes were faded and red, his head ached. He stumbled through the door and fumbled for a stool. The sunlight danced across the floor in a myriad of shapes, one resembling a bearded man, until his hand reached across the light and cast a shadow upon the floor. He reached dazedly for the bar and clumsily poured himself a glass of water. The puddle left on the floor reflected Wolfe’s broken, dejected face as he drank. He wiped his lips with his arm and returned the glass to the table. A gentle wind blew swept through the shack and his hands shook. He looked in the mirror, or the cracked shards that were left of it, and could not recognize himself. He saw an ancient, pale-skinned man who more closely resembled a secluded albino monk than a proud healthy bartender. The reflection of the man’s eyes was scattered many times by the splinters of glass and Wolfe saw five blurred, bloodshot eyes staring back at him. He blinked. And again. He dared look lower, and saw a white shirt torn many times and stained yellow and red and brown and jeans that looked as if they had been left to soak in sand. Angered by the deceitful reflection, Wolfe picked up his glass and threw it at the mirror with great force, shattering it to hundreds of pieces, each flying its own separate way across the bar. Several nicked him, one or two giving minor cuts, with the rest covering the floor. Looking down to survey the damage, he saw the same shirt stained in several colors with far more red and the same jeans, now ripped. He clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white, until his fingernails cut into his palms, until small streams of blood trickled down his hands and joined the growing pool at his feet. He blinked again and shook his head. Grabbing the broom, he started sweeping the floor of the broken glass, spreading the red pool across the floor, dying the floor a permanent crimson.

The shards of glass slowly started coming together until a large pile was formed in the far corner of the shack. The light reflected majestically from the pile, refracting in all the colors of the rainbow onto the opposite wall, forming a vivid ring around the hole, drawing Wolfe’s attention to it. Through the hole he saw the sea stretch out into eternity, meeting with the sky on the horizon. Closer by far to the island, at the end of the cove where the water is barely one hundred feet deep, was the flagship. The bow cast a shadow over the sparkling waters, a deep black amidst an eternity of blazing blue and purest white. Wolfe was captivated by it. There was a loud creak behind him and he almost leaped from surprise, his gaze interrupted by the opening of the door. A women had entered.

She was a regular at the bar, coming often at any hour, speaking of everything and nothing. Wolfe did not know her name and never asked it. To him she was just a voice to fill the silence and a face to distract him from everlasting wood and glass. He always welcomed her presence and enjoyed listening to her speak, even though he rarely responded. He was quite accustomed to her come in and sit on some stool and order a rum before weaving her tales and thus was quite astonished when she instead entered the room and with her first look screamed. The broom that he held fell to the ground with a thud, a thin red line along its surface. As her gaze shifted from Wolfe’s face and shirt to the newly painted ground, she screamed again. The change from his normal demeanor to this disordered, chaotic attire and appearance was so immense as to be terrifying. The shack and its keeper, unchanged for so many years that no one could remember any different, was now disheveled, broken, and bleeding. Her eyes blurred and she took a few small steps in a circle before losing her balance completely.

It was closer to noon now. The tide was coming in and covering the beach. The sun’s rays could not pierce the thatched straw roof of the hut and at the moment of greatest heat and brightest light, the shack was eerily dark. The birds sang ignorantly in sweet cadence all around. The sky stretched peacefully, the clouds wafted across it lazily, and the lady so often visited the shack now lay in it just as peacefully. Her eyes had closed, her skin turned pale, and she did not move at all. Wolfe picked her up, surprised at how light she weighed, and set her upon a table so that she would not have to lie upon the stained floor. He circled the room, carefully avoiding having to look at her, the window, or the pile of glass...

What do you think?

::: IM comments to Sphere991 or e-mail to sphere99991@hotmail.com. Posted by Barry at 12:14 PM

Friday, December 19, 2003 :::

So back to poetry... Went to the Hirshhorn today, was in the so-called "Paper Room" (actual title: "at hand") for nearly an hour. What a great place. Here's my ekphrastic response:

at hand

White walls surround
a white room,
as white doves swoop
upon the snowy floor.

A man lies within
half buried beneath white sheets,
his black scarf resting
upon the surface.

A hand offers freedom from white burial â€“
blonde frost all around the soft silken snow.

But in peace he lies,
at rest beneath the rustling
of white manna falling
from heaven.

========================

at hand II

Two lovers lie upon
a bed of finest silk,
their beloved embrace
(amidst a bridal sea)
warms the floor in a ring
around them.

Whispers from the sky
disturb the peaceful silence,
rustling paper accuses them
of forbidden bliss.

Yet in their bed there is but love
and love always remains
even when buried so peacefully
under a layer of coldest snow.

And so they took their last few breaths
heaved their last sighs
as the final paper fell upon them
and covered the loversâ€™ eyes.

========================

I didn't actually mean to kill everybody. It just turned out that way.

::: IM comments to Sphere991 or e-mail to sphere99991@hotmail.com. Posted by Barry at 3:29 PM

Sunday, December 14, 2003 :::

Oh, and as far as music goes (I'll return to poetry eventually), I'm writing an orchestral arrangement of Evanescence's "Bring Me to Life" for my mom's birthday. This was brought about when I bought her the "String Quartet Tribute to Evanescence" and it was god awful. Mine's better: Bring Me to Life.

::: IM comments to Sphere991 or e-mail to sphere99991@hotmail.com. Posted by Barry at 5:13 PM

Thursday, December 11, 2003 :::

Alright, I started thinking, why not write a suite? So here are the beginnings of my Goblin Suite:

1) Jig. Please stop this at 1:35, before it flows into the 2nd part at way faster than it should go.
2) Dirge. This has just begun. No, I'm not done yet. It has a lot of work yet.

::: IM comments to Sphere991 or e-mail to sphere99991@hotmail.com. Posted by Barry at 6:06 PM

Wednesday, December 10, 2003 :::

This isn't exactly poetry, it's music. But it's mine anyway, tell me what you think.

I have my finished string quartet about the Thomas Mann story "Death in Venice": Tod in Venedig. I was being stupid and just entitled it in German =D.

I also started a second one just now. It's called "Goblin Dance" for lack of a better title. I only have about a minute and a half so far, so can I get some comments for the future? Like... does it suck?

::: IM comments to Sphere991 or e-mail to sphere99991@hotmail.com. Posted by Barry at 2:44 PM