Musings of a Nascent Poet

by Stephanie Barr



  Musings of Nascent Poet

  By Stephanie Barr

  Copyright 2014 Stephanie Barr

  Conjuring Dreams or Learning to Write by Writing

  Tarot Queen

  Beast Within (First of the Bete Novels)

  Nine Lives (Second of the Bete Novels)

  Saving Tessa

  Dedicated to Stephanie, Roxy and Alex, always.

  A special thanks also to Sandy Knauer Morgan and Nancy Ternes Hodson.

  Cover created by Stephanie Barr using 1© Ianlangley - 1950 Teddy Bear Photo licensed through Dreamstime

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Idealism R Us

  Inspiration

  Rewriting Stories to Suit Me

  Myths

  Dedicated to the ones I love

  Epic (largely original) stories

  Lovelorn

  Off the Beaten Path

  Silliness

  About the Author

  Coming Soon

  1Introduction

  Again, as in Conjuring Dreams, I'm writing an introduction and will include some explanation on these works. I do this even though I feel strongly that, as a general rule, writing should stand on its own without extraneous explanation. It should be self-explanatory.

  So, why?

  Several reasons, not the least of which is that this poetry was among my earliest work. Many of these poems were written (probably the majority) when I was still a teenager. Rather than rewrite them in keeping with the way I think now, I have chosen to largely preserve them (with a few syntax corrections and the like) as they were rather than updating them into something different. Part of this is to document how I grew as a writer (another reason for the explanations) but also because they were a reflection of who I was back then, what I was thinking and feeling, what mattered to me. That's one of the things poetry can really do well and changing them from that would completely change their significance.

  Another reason, as I noted, is that this work can showcase what I was experimenting with and learning to do better as a writer. There are some aspects of my writing, especially reaching for an emotional response, that I did best in poetry, but still helped me hone skills and an understanding I tried to carry forward into prose. In fact, you'll see a number of poems that are the same or similar stories to those that were later made into short stories.

  There was also a considerable amount of experimentation, trying to imagine myself in very difficult circumstances or doing things I would never do myself. That means that, while most of my writing is a fairly good reflection on my view of the world, several poems reflect positions or viewpoints that are antithetical to my own views or beliefs. Still the exception and not the rule, but important to understand as I am not nor ever will be a vampire.

  Lastly, given that I was just starting writing, my work was far more heavily influenced by authors and movies and stories than my later work. A large number of my epic poems were retelling myths or came from watching some movie (often not that good) and hating some aspect so that I had to rewrite it to suit myself. Several other poems were based on taking a line or an impression from an author I admired and putting my own story with it. But, without some explanation, it could be bewildering.

  I also should provide an explanation, some sort of warning to what you are about to be subjected to: with one notable exception (a story all its own), all of my poetry is rhyme and rhythm, much of it long and of the epic variety. Also, in keeping with my influences and my tendency to think happy rhyme/rhythm poetry sounds silly and greeting card-like, most is sad if not downright maudlin. Believe me when I tell you, that's about as unsellable a set of poetry as one person could devise. If that scares you, you can stop here and I won't blame you. Some of my poetry is old, dated or concerned with issues that have fallen largely by the wayside. Even so, old-fashioned or otherwise, I also find it compelling even now, some twenty-thirty years later. There's some work I'm very proud of in here, reflections of how I think and why I feel and act the way I do. They are special to me, not only as to where I've been, but as a reflection of what mattered to me, how I've grown, and how I haven't.

  Also, though rhyme/rhythm is totally out of style, this is good stuff. Good enough that, if I were born 150 years ago, I think you would have read about me in school.

  Note also, 1because sound is a part of these poems, they were made to be read aloud.

  If you're going forward, I hope you enjoy it.

  Idealism R Us

  I included this poem, written with my father in mind, in Conjuring Dreams. It is, in fact, the first thing I've written that I didn't toss (which is what happened to my earliest poetry). I wrote it when I was thirteen or fourteen. My father was something of an inspiration for it given that he was quite concerned about the Cold War and the potential for nuclear war. When I showed this poem to my father (who was not much for fiction or poetry by any stretch), he made me promise never to throw any of my work away again. And that's why there's a book of poetry here at all.

  The notion is somewhat dated today. Still, I was not alone in my concerns and the daunting realization that we had the power to effectively destroy the world as we knew it. Even now, I think that the fact that destructive power we still have is something to be concerned about, though, of course, we're trying to kill our world more subtly now. The other two poems that follow are along the same lines, though without the religious aspect.

  Cold Wind on the Hill

  One August morning as nighttime had paled,

  Fighting broke out as the peacetalkers failed

  And the War had begun that no one would win.

  Grieved for His children, He looked on His kin

  And sent down an angel to quiet the din.

  But no one would listen for he had no right

  To sue them for peace when they wanted to fight,

  'Til, fin'ly, repulséd, he fled in disgrace,

  Quite sick to the heart for the Master he'd face

  To tell of the end of the earth's human race.

  Yet, though it seemed futile, God, too, had to try

  To keep all those missiles from wounding the sky,

  But man just ignored Him and forced His retreat,

  Weeping with grief for His mankind's defeat,

  And for their blind bloodlust he couldn't unseat.

  So, man set his guns up, his missiles, his bombs

  And sent them all out on one hot August dawn.

  Then cities exploded in huge clouds of dust,

  While millions were killed in this "political must,"

  Whole nations reduced to just heat-blackened crust.

  Now, on a small hill does a lone Figure stand,

  With tears in His eyes and blood on His hands.

  The land all is barren; the grey air is still,

  Which tortures that gentle Soul, there on the hill,

  As, for once in His life, God, Himself, feels a chill.

  A Song for the Future

  A gentle breeze blows from the sea

  To stroke the golden shore,

  A sloping beach of gilded sand

  That children walked before—

  But childish laughter's long been dead

  And men walk here no more.

  The deep dark sea's waves dance and play

  As once the dolphin played

  Who soared and sang in azure foam,

  Their lovely strange ballet,

  But dolphins sank their final time

  And blue's now steely grey.

  A snow-tipped mountain glows ice-blue,

  A rugged monument,

  A place where once a forest grew

  And deer were resident—<
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  But with the trees and deer now gone,

  Its face looks scarred and rent.

  The sunset once again glows red

  And violet-pink indeed,

  More wondrous than it ever was

  Before the doomed decree,

  More lovely than the other sky—

  But no one's there to see . . .

  The Shadow

  There is lightness all around me,

  A fairyland of light.

  The sun is shining gaily

  As the birds carouse in flight.

  With their trilling and the sunshine

  All the world seems wondrous bright,—

  A clear delight—

  To me, it's dark as coal.

  There's a shadow on my soul.

  All the flowers smell of summer

  And the fields are rich and green.

  All around me there are colors

  That are very seldom seen.

  The wind skips by me, laughing,

  And its breath is warm and clean—

  Its taste is keen.

  To me, it's bitter cold

  For the shadow's on my soul.

  Somewhere it is filled with gloom

  And rain pours, dark and drear.

  Unclean, it comes from tainted clouds

  That float in skies, once clear,

  But stained with dust from cities

  That had huddled once in fear—

  Then, disappeared . . .

  For man had lost control

  On the shadow on his soul.

  Ryan's Dream

  Soldier Ryan had a dream

  That filled his soul with pain.

  His heart sang out a mindless scream

  That echoed through his brain.

  He walked upon a bloody beach

  That he had seen before

  And stepped a bloody footstep

  Upon the bloody shore.

  Slain comrades laid beneath him, broke:

  'Twas in their blood he stepped!

  Ryan all at once awoke,

  Then bowed his head and wept.

  Abhorréd vision, go away!

  The sight made to deplore:

  The squelching crimson boot that fell

  Upon the bloody shore.

  He vowed to save those comrades

  When, the next day, they would flight.

  He vowed he'd save them from the raids.

  He vowed it all that night.

  But his eyes just saw the scarlet sea

  That made his terror soar.

  He felt that bloody footstep fall

  Upon the bloody shore.

  The next day, he went crazy,

  Fought like he had lost his mind,

  And mowed down ranks of enemy,

  His friends left far behind.

  'Til finally, it was over;

  Opposing forces were no more

  And not one friend had lost his soul

  Upon that silent shore.

  So, now, he walks in glory

  On the beach's stainéd sand

  But stained by his adversity

  Who stained his feet and hands.

  The vanquished lay beneath him

  But his heart will cry no more . . .

  As he steps a bloody footstep

  Upon the bloody shore.

  Interesting story about the previous poem. My high school English teacher showed it to a college professor (along with several of my other poems). Both of us were rather taken aback that he missed the point of nearly every poem, reading only the surface ideas and missing what was underneath. This was notably true of this poem ("Ryan's Dream") which, in case you missed it, is blatantly pacifist. The professor wrote in the margins: "Why is she glorifying war?" I was floored. Ironically, he also added the complaint that my poetry was too superficial. In some ways, I treasure his comments. My English teacher suggested I make the pacifism more obvious, but I chose not to. The fact that it's subtle, that the dream comes true and he doesn't even recognize it is the whole point. I put the notes for this poem afterwards so I didn't taint how you read it. Also, this has nothing to do with Private Ryan which came out decades after I wrote this.

  The next poem is another one of my few religiously themed poems. I'm pretty open-minded about religion in that, though I have fairly firm beliefs, they don't fit neatly into organized religion. One reason I feel that way is that I think the way our higher power is portrayed is frequently pretty insulting. The way some religions portray him (or her or they - I'm open), he comes across as something of a selfish, self-aggrandizing callous megalomaniac. Since I don't agree with that (you can read my views on this here and here and here), I wrote at least one poem showing why. Plus, I've never understood the logic of thinking there is a Heavenly Father but no Heavenly Mother.

  The Queen Mother

  A silent Lady sits alone

  Upon a silent hill.

  The grassland is Her verdant throne;

  The crest, Her windowsill.

  Her pond reflects a setting

  Her immortal touch can't feel

  But no sorrow's She's forgetting

  For the sight is all too real.

  Humans run their petty race

  As it flashes, night to day.

  She watches every mortal face

  And listens as they pray.

  Their Father, governing on high,

  Exerts on them His whims,

  Worshiped in each prayer and cry

  And every rev'rent hymn.

  He loves their deference, up above,

  And wallows in their praise,

  But takes few steps to bring them love

  Or mend their wicked ways.

  His prophets went among His seed

  With words of light, so true,

  But humans made them cause for deeds

  That every glory slew.

  So, fin'ly, in a fit of rage

  For man's ways, harsh and wild,

  He sent His Son, the infant Sage,

  The Lady's favorite Child.

  They all were Hers, but He was young,

  The youngest from Her breast,

  A glinting gem that shone among

  The crudeness of the rest.

  But, down He went to spread His light

  And shape His misled kin;

  With naught but words, He went to fight

  Where weaponless can't win.

  And many listened to His words,

  The words, so soft and wise.

  They loved the joy His voice incurred

  And tender, gentle eyes.

  Yet, many aught were jealous

  Of this quiet, gentle Man,

  So, his foes, so "good" and zealous

  Plotted many horrid plans.

  "Behold the Jew! The King of Jews!"

  They nailed Him to a tree.

  Death or pain, He had to choose:

  "Has God forsaken Me?"

  And, at these words, She gave a cry

  That ripped Her soul apart.

  What an awful way to die

  With pain inside the heart!

  Now, the Son sits by his Dam;

  His eyes no longer shine.

  A sterner Man came from the Lamb

  That drank the bitter wine.

  His Father gave his Scion pain

  But pain He did not share.

  His blessed Son was torn and slain

  But did God really care?

  He loved His Son, or so He claimed

  But from what was His love wrought?

  And, on a cross, His Son was shamed

  Because God helped Him not.

  But Jesus Christ, His name was spread

  As was His brother, Buddha's,

  Mohammed's, but blood still was shed.

  They fought each sect and Judah's.

  And each sect twisted words of love

  Into words of fear and hate.


  So love, that soft and kindly dove,

  Was slaughtered by her mate.

  So, men rose up to slaughter men,

  And blood stank up the sky,

  The fight that only ended when

  There were none left to die . . .

  The Lady sits upon the hill;

  Alone, She sits again.

  Her Son had left the sight, the kills,

  That caused His heart such pain.

  Her Husband, He is still on high,

  The Lord each man reveres,

  But while His eyes are blind and dry,

  Hers are drenched with tears.

  He waves, Another earth is born

  But all She does is cry.

  Powerless, she can but mourn

  For children doomed to die.

  The Wife of His Eternal Light,

  She has the right to see,

  But, helpless in her total sight,

  No children can she free.

  How can She watch the fatal dawn?

  A splash . . . and the reflection's gone.

  My father was, perhaps, the greatest feminist I've ever known. He instilled in me a rather extreme hatred of rapists and child molesters and was never more furious than with one who did great harm to children without consequence. Those notions tend to bleed into many of my prose works as well.

  Song of the Lonely Child

  There is no one here inside me;

  I don't even think I'm there,

  Just an awful throbbing secret

  That I know I cannot share.

  Someone ripped and rent my childhood,

  Living out his fantasy.

  They say, "He just needs treatment,"

  But who will cry for me?

  They tell me I should pity.

  He can't help the way he acts.

  They say he is a pedophile

  And give a list of facts,

  But I'm the one he tortured,

  Who lived humility.

  I'm the one who lost it all

  And who will cry for me?

  It wasn't just the touching,

  The things he made me do.

  The act itself was bad enough

  But, then, when he was through

  He told me it was all my fault—

  I moved seductively.

  I wanted him, he told me,

  So who would cry for me?