Poetically
St. Valentine's Day
It's all about poetry, today. First, my essay "Fresh Graves", about horror poetry, is in the February Horror Writer's Association newsletter. I think it's a good essay, and I'm reprinting it here. Many of the points I try to make are relevant for all kinds of poetry, not just horrific poetry, so...
Next: the wonderful pamie, in her infinite fabulousness, has put up the Fourth Annual Valentine's Squishy Entry. And she's put the poems from the last three years up, too. This is wonderful. Valentine's day was always my favorite at Squishy, because of the poems; and though Squishy is gone, the poems are not. La.
Finally: I wrote a poem for Heather today. Here it is:
Future History
So how about this: after we're both
exactly equally
famous, and you've been blessed
By Oprah's book club
(and taken it with good grace),
and have won a Tiptree
or three,
and I've picked up a World
Fantasy Award and a couple
of Rhyslings
(oh, and we're rich),
let's get a house in Santa Cruz
near those cliffs Ellen Bass
writes about, where there
are white butterflies
and sea lions out on a rock.
Or maybe up in the hills
in a redwood cathedral
with newts in the yard
in the raining winter; I'm
not picky. We can have
a backyard that's a riotous
garden, where the smell
of flowers and herbs knocks
you down and lifts you up again,
transformed into a happier
being. With cats, yes, loose
in the yard, slinking through
the house, sure, how about
that? And a hot tub,
where you can soak away
the aches of a day at
the keyboard, and I can
drift, stupefied by comfort,
thinking of stories about
giant lizard demolition derbies
or something like that.
We'll have dinners of pasta
and sun-dried tomatoes, glasses
of wine on the deck,
a lemon tree in the yard
for the improvement of our
gin & tonics (we'll have
Beefeater's and Sapphire both
on hand; why not?).
We'll have babies, who become kids, then
surly teenagers, then some sort of
grown-ups; they'll be people
we made, and I suspect we'll find
that more momentous than writing.
We'll sit on the roof and learn
the stars together, make up
our own constellation called
The Lovers; sort of sappy,
yes, but when has cynicism
kept anyone warm at night?
Even if we're not so rich,
though, some things won't
change: pasta, cats,
children. Even if
we're not so famous,
we'll read each other,
write together, build a story
of our lives.
(but who am I kidding?
Of course we'll be famous)
We'll have a salon,
of writers, people we've
never heard of yet, and old friends;
we'll talk; we'll read
magazines and drink
iced tea all day.
We'll build a family;
oh, we're so young.
I said a few days ago
that I felt like I'd
arrived. I wasn't waiting
to finish college or move
away or get a new job,
I felt done, stalled,
finished.
I say such stupid things
sometimes.
Because I haven't arrived.
We're on our way, and the trip
couldn't be better. I've got
the best companion in every
possible world, you,
Rambleflower, tender
of the garden of my heart,
healer of my broken places,
my muse and my poet,
my love.
This doesn't begin
to say it all,
but it's a start,
and anyway,
I have the rest
of our forever
to finish telling you
how I feel.
February Solitary Short-Story Dare (now with bonus poetry!)
Total words written: 12,550
Words written today: 500
Stories written this month: "Henchman Blues"
"On the Underworld Line"
"Melancholy Shore"
Poems written this month: "Dreaming Apep" Roses, roses, nothing but roses.
Tim Pratt Join my notify list
"Poor Bahumut"
"Laughing Blood"
"Future History"
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Berkeley, CA 94712-4222