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September,
1978 (Star to Star)
RHYME, RHYTHM AND CHANT Ó 1999 By Dorothy H. Stiefel During the mid-70s, at a time when the roots of everything had become prime conversation and a focal point for multi-cultures within the vastness of the world’s population, derivatives of words and the base truths of folklore, legend, magic and mythology had once again seemed to stimulate the mind of man as he moved into an increasingly restless and transient status in society. It seemed almost as if this revitalization was a desperate attempt to rebind that which could not by itself be adequately expressed through impersonal pages of history texts. I must confess that previous contributions to this column in the name of poetry in all of its shapes, forms, categories and perspectives had left me in earnest contemplation as to what I was going to bequeath that hadn’t already been said. During my near half century of life, I had observed that everyone at least treats poetry with respect, if only in noncommittal fashion. But what does one really know about poetry, the poem, and the poet himself? I remember well my feelings about Edgar Allen Poe during 8th grade literature classes. To me he was the epitome of one who was not of this world but rather, ranking among the gods, and I established a personal pedestal for the fantasy he created for me through his woeful, pathetic pages of verse. He belonged to my world of magic, and poetry became to me that happened to special people. So, as I sat, reveling in my mental odyssey, I suddenly asked myself, "Where did poetry come from, anyway? Eureka! I herewith bestow . . . Starting with "What’s in a Name," the derivative of poem, as defined in the Winston Senior Dictionary, is the Greek word: poema :: potein . . . to make, and describes primarily a composition in verse, marked by beauty of thought and language; any imaginative piece of beautiful language, and anything resembling such a composition as in imaginative suggestion. It is evident from its Greek derivative that poetry that poetry had its beginnings in the mythology of the earliest traditions. Apollo was known as the god of all poetry, all that is eloquent. The muses were the nine goddesses who presided over the arts and sciences. The chief muse, Calliope, was identified with all poetic inspiration, eloquence and epic poetry, while Erato was goddess of erotic poetry, and Euterpe, of music and lyric poetry. Our word museum was the Greek mouseion, the seat of all the muses. The Mycenean period was a type of civilization existing in Greece about 1500-1100 B.C., the latter part of the Bronze Age, and it was during this time that "theogonies" were recorded—poems dealing with the branch of mythology which treats of the origin, descent or genealogy the gods! The poet, Pindar (5th century B.C.) in one of his odes, describes how the muses danced in a chorus led by Apollo at the marriage of Peleus and Theris, the parents of Achilles. The bards, who were Celtic storytellers, were regarded in Northern Europe, around the 12th century as possessing magical powers. They were considered the remnant of high-ranking pagan priests, or druids, which accounted for the magical flavor that was handed down. The old bards derived their inspiration and real knowledge of things from muses, who were called "The Daughters of Memory" by the poet Hesiod. Later on, when magic played an important role in the lives of the world’s people, incantations were known as verse-spells because rhyming patterns were more easily memorized. It is generally acknowledged that verse preceded prose in early literature because of this fact. Irish poetry of the period from 600 to 1100 A.D. flourished as an art in bardic schools. Cursing Poems were readily enjoined against animals and the forces of nature, not only by the Irish but also the pre-classical Greeks and Romans, the Arabs, the Eskimos, and the Ashanti. While some of these early verse incantations were of a maladictory nature, later ones were apocryphal folk-prayers with a blend of pagan and Christian beliefs. Magic is related to poetry, not just for its feeling for the power of words but because it depends on logic. As poetry relies heavily on similes, analogies and symbols so did magic. Magic and religion also shore with poetry a sense of the profound importance of inspiration, the grasping of fragments of the universe, linking creativity in the mind’s eye with that particle of truth that builds firmaments of eternity for the human race. The Nuer people of Africa believe that "God created the world and everything in it out of nothing, by thinking or imagining it, as one creates a poem. Among the gods of a
universal home,
Desperation + the pointing finger =
THE FIX © by Dorothy H. Stiefel "So, you’re a Junkie? Hmmm," mused Stretch. "So what's your cool?" "My mail, man, my mail. When I don't got my mail I get real uptight. Can't stand It. I pace up and down; my heart's beatin a drum' and I feel lost, like the world's gone and left me. Gotta get my mail to know I'm alive, man, you get what I mean?" "What's your beef, Sam, wha' happened to It?" "I dunno, it's not comin' to me anymore, been near a week now and I'm goin' crazy here ... can't eat, can't sleep worryin' when my next mail’s comin'" "Maybe there ain't gonna be no mail comin' to you ... "Hey!" Stratch poked Sam's rib cage in a jesting mood, "maybe you're just history and don't know It it! Anyway, call the Post Office and beef at 'em," he chuckled. "Aw, the phone's dead ... used to be it was always busy ... always people hasseling me..." "Hey, go out and buy a rag to read, anything... it’ll keep ya outa trouble, keep ya cool.... man, you gotta watch that paper-stuffed envelope anyway... It’ll getcha bad ... hook, line, and sucker on the opener's end." Stretch jabbed an index finger at Sam's bulbous red nose for emphasis. "I don't let 'em take me for much, anymore," Sam said defensively. The pyramid helsts have died down, the contests got boring, and sweepstakes ... I'm on the wagon with them." "Why don't you try the lottery ... It'll getche outa tho house and around the corner every week," suggested Stretch with a mischevous glint in his eye. "Hell, that’s no thrill... they got all my money ... ya know what I mean... all take and no give? Getting my mail was ... well.,. personal, Them people know me Inside and out. They care... they treat me with respect. Yeserrie! They call me "Colleague," "Friend," even "Sir." They know what I like, what I've bought, what credit cards I have... well, used to ... even what junk I buy at the grocery store. Yeah, my mail takes care of me alright. They stuff it all in my box. That's what I call attention. Why, one day I opened an envelope and it played the Australian anthem. Now, that's class. I even got one that played a birthday tune. It wasn't my birthday, but, geez, they tried ... no one else gives a damn about me here all by myself," He stopped and stared blankly at the floor. "Hell, I'm gonna die if I don't get my mail." "I dunno, Sam, I think you got it bad. You're hooked right outa your freaking mind, seems to me. You need a doc or something." "Hell, all I know Is ... nobody better mass with rny mail." His head wobbled from side to side to emphasize his feelings. Stretch reached out and clamped his left hand over his friend's shoulder and gave him a hearty pat. "Gotta go, pal ... take it easy, you'll get something ... soon." As Stretch headed for the door, he glimpsed a moving figure on the porch. "Hey, Sam, I think you got your mail," and went out to intercept the mail carrier. "Are you Sam Bunker?" "Hey, Sam, looks like you got something real special for missing all them days! Come get your mail!" Eagerly, Sam opened the door, stepped out onto the porch and reached for the stack held tightly by the mailman. "Uh-uh, just this piece, and you'll have to sign for It, right here..." Sam tore open the envelope in anticipation as he stepped back Into the foyer. His toothless grin froze as he scanned the urgent message. "Hey, buddy, whatse matter? You look like you seen a ghost." Sam squinted at the letter again for a second, then passed it to Stretch. "Looks like my mail's turning on me like everybody else. It says I'm gonna be evicted!" WRITING AND MARKETING TIPS Ó 1999 by Dorothy H. Stiefel So, you want to publish your book, but you don't know the ins and outs of publishing. Relax. If you have an interesting story or topic that can be marketed to a specific audience, you can publish it yourself. The following are some tips to guide you in the self-publishing process: Publish your own material. Do not waste your time and money with publishers, most of who will hawk their wares, or split your money with other authors. Carry out every function toward the completion of your book yourself. It will be time-consuming, but gratifying. After your first book, you can farm out the tasks you do not wish to perform yourself. Operate as a sole proprietor, not a corporation, and keep your books on a cash basis. Do not try to fit into a "mold" or copy the traditional big-time New York publishers. If you cannot find your niche, create one! It is sometimes better to decide on your market, then write, tailoring your book to the market. Market, market, and market some more. You will never finish "marketing". It is like eating breakfast every morning, or "don't leave home without it." You want to be able to keep selling your book, year after year. Drawbacks: You will have to spend more time selling than writing, so concentrate on marketing rather than editorial areas. Only you can do the marketing with zest and fervor. In a nutshell: Produce information of value; aim at a small audience; and charge a fair price. Word of mouth will do the rest! What about poetry? A noted poet once remarked: "poetry is an emotional experience, remembered in tranquillity." Perhaps that is so, but writing poetry means that you must become hungry and immersed in life itself; develop a heightened perception of all things, of all places and of all people around you. You must observe but seep in, digest and keep the thoughts flowing, learning as much about life as you can. You must be a voracious reader, especially of good books containing stories as well as books of good poetry, a little every day to exercise your mind, to add to your appreciation of literature. Invite Inspiration! And when that intangible nudge from your subconscious awakens and leaps within you, grab a pad and pencil and jot down the essence: a single thought or word that you keep to your heart like precious stones you might keep in a jewelry box. Poetry is considered by some, as an irrational art because it replaces something that is ... gone forever. Like childhood, youth, young love, mistakes, angry words, sudden first beauty and so many episodes and encounters that have passed away. The creation of a poem is hard to express. It is a feeling of infatuation, of being "turned on." A finished poem may appear something of a miracle to the reader, but to the poet it is the result of long apprenticeship, polish, rewriting, shivering in the cold, perspiring under a blazing sun, or shedding tears in a dark, forgotten niche. Let’s not forget "Light Verse." The themes for this type of writing do not require traveling to strange places of the world. Themes for light verse are all about yourself, in the high-rise building, in suburbia, small personal things, remembrances that you can instantly recall and enjoy all over again: people, places, and things: unpredictable, outlandish, hilarious and silly. Recalled childhood! Light verse is slanted at the intellect, to stir chuckles. The poet of Light Verse is like an adult laughing with glee on an old see-saw or swinging high to catch a brush on the brows that the breeze has teased a dipping limb; but the person who labors with serious poetry climbs a mountain to touch the stars! |
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