A River of Stones: January Musing

5 01 2011

pebbles

I suffer from that malady many of us writers and poets suffer from. The dreaded writers block. It can destroy a writers soul. I believe that poetry comes to us, it’s less excruciating to wait for the butterfly to come to us than to run about wildly, catching bugs and bees and bark and swirling leaves, though they are nice too, but not when you really just want the butterfly.

Last year writing was like pulling teeth, but I learnt a lot about acceptance and waiting, but only after vowing I would stop writing altogether to put my self out of my blank page misery. I’m no Charles Bukowski or any of those other prolific writers, all I wanted was a butterfly. Maybe we expect too much of our muses.  Maybe we should be grateful that we can still imagine and dream even if we never write a word of it down.

So my muse was slothing around my house eating peanuts and making a deep impression upon my couch, when  I stumbled upon this project through twitter. A River of Stones, the idea to write one small stone a day for all of January. The intention is to really pay attention to one small thing, and write a ‘stone’, a small piece of writing about your observation (eg. a sentence, a small poem, a haiku).

Read more about  The River of Stones here, it’s not too late to join if so inspired. I’ve found it harder than it sounds, but if I stay still long enough, a stone  appears. Sometimes if it doesn’t and i’m pushing boulders uphill, I forget about it and often an essence will reveal itself later.

I am dropping my daily stones into my @myarspoetica stream at twitter (hashtagged #aros).

Here are my first five stones. I will update them to here every few days or so.

.

Curtains drawn in a darkening room; the TV, a computer screen, the dying light outside the window.

~*~

The Sea is all I see, a dream stone in a crumpled pouch, I wave to a bright yellow yacht.

~*~

Cockatoos screech violently at the Sun as it rises above the sleeping mountain.

~*~

Holding a small bottle of vitamin E, she shows me her forehead scar, healing.

~*~

The floods reach the top porch step, a blank faced man waves to the rescue boat.

~*~

The phone call, blood drains from her face, she curls up with a heavy stone embedded in her chest.

~*~

‘Her poetry was always so dark’. Yin and Yang glance at the boxed girl. ‘Disturbing.’

~*~

Sap drips on the car, birds dig up the garden, spiders crawl in uninvited. At least the remote control obeys.

~*~

I admire people who can just say things and it comes out right and fluid like turning on a tap to fill a glass of water.

~*~

My tap splutters and the pipes groan and I let the dirty water flush through and then I collect the water.

~*~

She wished her gravely ill father was an exemplary man so she could speak of his amazing selfless loving life but alas he was a brute.

~*~

Last week they climbed the tallest building in town. Today a little girl closes her eyes tight wishing her family back there.

~*~

Rain, blood and tears, I have no words left. http://twitpic.com/3poclu (Art for Queensland Floods)

~*~

Jim Morrison singing his own kind of scat, from the other side, subterranean poetry [save our city].

~*~

Night light, white noise, books, nothing could persuade her to close her eyes to meet the dream master. Please leave the hall light on.

~*~

This will be your year, things will get better, I hope you find your happiness soon. Things they said to be free of her melancholy.

~*~

The raging river and panicked faces took over her mind, the fading sounds of helicopters were the last to leave.

~*~

The mutinous river broke through the levee of her mind. A full bellied lake sighs, the fevers were back.

~*~

Paintings of puppets & robots lined the walls leading to the auditorium door, opened by a man with splintered hands. Her palms itched.

~*~

The great pearl has been rolled into the inky sky just above the eucalyptus trees. the stars are closed, the garden flowers are open.

~*~

Moonlight snaked up the road, slithering over shadows and around the silhouette of trees.

~*~

A six year grudge became sludge, the rains came and washed it all away. He did me wrong in a song, now I sing my own words.

~*~

She dyed her hair bright red, tattooed a tear beneath her eye, wore a bouncing tutu and a t-shirt that said ‘don’t look at me.’

~*~

A little girl believes she can change peoples hearts with her songs, singing as an angel for her mother who watches from heavens wings.

~*~

The spinning death cloud loomed on the horizon, all the animals silenced & folded themselves into peoples hearts to give them strength.

~*~

Hard stone, weeping stone.

~*~

Fold up your sorrows, throw them into a safe burrow, hold close.

 

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9 responses

5 01 2011
Fiona Robyn

lovely post! welcome to the river.

5 01 2011
Lily

Thanks Fiona, loving reading all the stones in the river. thanks for dropping by.

6 01 2011
Tweets that mention A River of Stones: January Musing « Lily Live -- Topsy.com

[…] This post was mentioned on Twitter by comettailrider. comettailrider said: Updated: A River of Stones: January Musing @ Lily Live http://bit.ly/h4OtRx #aros […]

10 01 2011
randallweiss

Seems like a great practice, even to do when not blocked.

10 01 2011
Lily

Hi Randall, good of you to drop by. tea? coffee, dragon juice?

To be honest, it just feels good to write, to keep the cogs going. Mindfulness, immersing oneself in the moment is something very hard for me to do, as I have a drifting mind. So I see the practice as good for truly living a moment instead of watching it go downstream without getting a good look at it first. This may or may not only make sense to me. I’m writing from on top of mountain and I can’t see much. Bloody metaphors nudging their way into my post! See you at the poet party Randall.

23 01 2011
mark

Writing short form poetry is hard. These were delightful to read, picture in my mind. The practice itself is so incredibly useful for so many other aspects of life. So very glad I stumbled into your tributary in the river.

23 01 2011
Lily

Hi Mark,ah thank hou for your praise upon my stones. I’ve found them more difficult to write than I first thought they would be, don’t feel they are exactly what I would have liked to achieve but i’m fairly happy with them. and so i keep on the search for more pebbles to skip across the river.

4 02 2011
Susan

What a brilliant practice and I love your writing… so glad to have stumbled across this river. You’ll capture your butterfly; like you so beautifully captured your words.

6 02 2011
Lily

Heya Susan, thanks for your kind words & for visiting here. I wonder if maybe we’re not meant to catch the butterfly? I certainly can’t catch anything at the moment, well perhaps a few GASTRO bugs. But that’s passed now, and the wait for re-emergence begins. Hope you’re well & dry!

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