Comments Section

Sometimes I can’t help but lose faith in our species when I scroll through the comments section of a youtube video.  The ignorance, and the hate, and fear I see makes me think we’re still a bunch of wild animals.  Language is our greatest invention, and we use it for all the wrong reasons too many times.  Here’s a poem I wrote in response to all the hate.  Feel free to cut and paste it to the comments section of a youtube video whenever people start acting like idiots.

man-couple-people-woman

 

The comments are loose like rabid beasts. Half blind,

gut shot, bleeding out, crashing mindlessly

toward anything that moves.

-Hawkelson Rainier

Creative Nonfiction

This week I’d like to take a look at the craft of creative nonfiction.  Sebastian Junger’s acclaimed book, The Perfect Storm, is an example of creative nonfiction at its best.  It’s journalism with a soul – both heartbreaking and hopeful.  It’s one of my all-time favorite books.

Of course, the scope of creative nonfiction is not limited to literary journalism, as is the case with, The Perfect Storm.  Personal essays would certainly qualify for this category.  So would memoirs.  As long as facts are presented in a personalized way, you’ve got yourself some creative nonfiction.

Admittedly, I don’t write much of it.  There’s a knack to making a completely factual narrative sound interesting to an audience, and I certainly could use a lot of practice.  So, that’s the challenge I’ve issued to myself this week – to write a compelling piece of creative nonfiction.

As always, constructive criticism is encouraged.  I’d love to hear from you.  And, by all means, let me know if you have a piece of creative nonfiction you’d like to share.

Keep writing, keep revising, and be kind.

 

-Hawkelson

 

bush-cricket-1594641_1280A Sort of Biblical Swarm

 

Being from Northeast Ohio, I had plenty of experience driving in bad weather.  So, for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why my car was hydroplaning on a dry, sunny summer day in Louisiana.  I fought the impulse to stomp on the brake, and I steered into the skid, regaining control.  I realized there was some kind of substance on the road, but I wasn’t sure what it was so I cautiously turned into a gas station.

The parking lot appeared to be wiggling, and I turned the radio off, as if the sound was somehow interfering with my vision.  Nope – the parking lot was still wiggling.  Then my brain finally accepted what my eyes had been seeing the whole time – grasshoppers.  There were grasshoppers everywhere.  Truckloads of them.  I could hear them crunching beneath my tires.

I parked, and tried to tiptoe inside the gas station to minimize the amount of casualties I was inflicting, but there was no helping it.  I could feel them squishing under my shoes, and  they were slippery as hell.  When I got inside I announced to the girl behind the cash register, “There’s grasshoppers all over the place.”

“Crickets,” she said quite matter-of-factly.

“Okay, crickets” I conceded.  “They’re everywhere.”

Another employee chimed in from the snack food isle, “I reckon they’re a might worse than I’ve seen in a while.”  He had a broom, and he was busy trying to corral some rogue crickets into a mop bucket.

“How bad are they, typically?” I asked.

“Sometimes bad.  Sometimes not so bad,” the guy informed me.

“Where ya from?” the girl behind the register asked.  “You sure do have an accent.”

“Ohio,” I said.

“What’s a Yankee boy doin’ way down here in Shreveport, Louisiana?” she said.  The word came out like, Lose-y-anna.  It sounded very exotic to me, and I suddenly realized how attractive she was.  I guessed she was around my age – early twenties, tall and tan with long dark hair and blue eyes like glacial ice.

“I thought I’d brave the biblical swarm of locusts so I could ask you out for a drink,” I said with as much confidence as I could muster.

“It ain’t no biblical swarm neither.  It’s just a might worse than usual. And I done told you it’s crickets.”

“Oh,” I said, dejected.  “Well, I’ll see ya,” I said as I turned to leave.

“My shift’s up in about forty-five minutes,” she said.  “There’s a little bar up the road.  If you want, I’ll meet you there for a drink.  It’s called, Scuddy’s.”

“Yeah, I know where that is.  I’d love to meet you for a drink.”

“It’s just one drink now, and it’s just us talkin’.  Don’t get no ideas.”

“Scout’s honor,” I said, and I raised my right hand to show how virtuous I was.

“And I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts you was never no damned boy scout.”

She was right about that, too.

#End

Genesis of a Poem

I can remember my high school English teacher casually instructing the class to write a poem in the spirit of Autumn.  It was late September, and the leaves were changing.  I’m sure that’s what inspired the assignment in the first place.  The poem was due the following day.

I didn’t know much about writing poetry, but I suspected the likes of Robert Frost and Walt Whitman didn’t just sit down and fill pages with beautiful verse on command.  I supposed there was a process – something introspective and meditative that had to happen organically.  Well, I didn’t really have time to wait for my muse to show up, so I forced myself to get something down on paper.  It was about how the baseball playoffs were shaping up in the Major Leagues, and the magic of playing the game in October when the World Series is on the line.  I thought it was a bad poem, but I got a B on the assignment. I was okay with that.

Looking back, I can say my instincts were sound.  There is a certain mind state I have to achieve before I can write a decent poem.  I’d like to share a few tricks I’ve learned over the years that might be helpful to your creative process.

There is poetry all around you.

Be observant throughout the day.  Appreciate small details, because the small details are the seeds of poetry.  For example, notice how weeds come up through the cracks in sidewalks.  On the surface, it seems like a trivial detail.  In reality, it’s a reminder that nature is a powerful force that wants to reclaim the urban landscapes we have stamped into the earth.  Now you have an entire concept to work with, and all you had to do is look at a few weeds poking up through the sidewalk.  Brilliant!

Your subconscious secretly writes poetry.

Doctors and scientists admit they do not have a very good grasp on how the human mind works.  They do know the subconscious mind is very active, though most of us are never aware of what it’s really up to.  A writing instructor I had in college taught me a good technique to get in touch with my subconscious.  He told me to carry around a dozen or so 3 x 5 index cards.  If I noticed something interesting, jot it down.  Every interesting thought or observation got its own index card.

Here’s an example.  I was crossing a road in July, and there was heat distortion coming up off the blacktop.  I thought the observation was worthy enough to note, so I wrote down: Heat distortion on road on one of the index cards. I waited a few days to go through the cards, and I came to the one about Heat distortion.  Without any effort I immediately jotted down, Shimmering Specter.  I put the cards away, and repeated the process a few days later.  I got to the one that said, Heat distortion on road, Shimmering Specter, and another thought just flowed from my pen to the index card: A halcyon oasis.  I was amazed when I realized I was subconsciously authoring one of the assignments due for my summer writing workshop.  It was a 5-7-5 syllable haiku.  Admittedly, I composed the last line with conscious effort, but it didn’t feel like pulling teeth the way composing poetry usually felt for me.  After ten or fifteen minutes I completed the haiku.  It read:

pexels-photo-274014

shimmering specter

a halcyon oasis

what beautiful lies

Okay, it wasn’t brilliant poetry, but it was worthy enough to present at a college level writing workshop.  Just by crossing a hot blacktop road my subconscious thought up a little story about getting lost in a desert and being fooled by a mirage.  Pretty neat.  And it took very little effort, save for having to carry around some 3 x 5 index cards all the time.  Now you can get a note pad app for your smart phone, so there’s really no excuse not to try this out for yourself.

 

Whatever kills me makes me stronger– Peter Griffin

The great thing about writing a poem is it can free fall from the sky, hit the ground, bounce a few times, and come back stronger.  That is, of course, if you’re willing to take an objective look at your work and make some revisions.  In my opinion, the revision process is the soul of good writing.  It’s where grandiose ideas, raw emotions, and penetrating insight are crafted into the concise literary forms we recognize as poetry.  If you have the luxury of workshopping your poetry, by all means, take advantage of it.  I know how terrifying it can be to put something as personal as a poem out there to be scrutinized and dissected. However, it’s been my experience that the process only leads to more refined versions of the poem, until you are left with the best possible iteration of the original.  After all, you owe it to your poem to take it as far as it can possibly go – to make it as good as it possibly can be.

 

Keep writing, keep revising, and be kind.

 

-Hawkelson

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Working on Relaxing

I’ll keep this post relatively short.  After all, Labor Day is coming up and I have to start working on relaxing.  I’m going to leave you with another haibun attempt.  It’s a quick read, and in authentic haibun tradition, it’s a first person account of an actual travel experience.  Questions and comments are always welcome.  Criticism is especially encouraged as long as it’s constructive.  That’s how we get better words down on the page.

Everyone be safe and have fun over the long weekend. As always, keep writing.

-Hawk

street-streetlight-street-lamp-trees-76282

 

Between Detroit and Toledo

Stacey talks expansively about Eastern philosophy and New Age medicine while I worry about tire tread and gasoline.  We’re driving south on I-75 trying to outrun a late winter storm that’s surging out of Canada.  It overtakes us somewhere between Detroit and Toledo – dark and writhing, and dumping snow at an astonishing rate.

I take the next exit – there’s a diner where we can stop until they run the plows.  We sit opposite each other in a booth by a window, and a tired waitress fills our coffee cups. The world outside looks like it’s composed of chaotic pixels, like the static on an old analogue T.V.  A screaming wind hits the glass hard like an animal trying to get inside.  Stacey recoils from it and brings her gaze back down to the menu.

She’s crying a little.  It’s been tough these last few months, and we finally decided to call it quits.  It was very amicable, for what it’s worth.  I agreed to take her as far as Lexington, and her cousin will drive her the rest of the way to Daytona Beach where she has a job lined up.

The waitress takes our order and leaves us in an awkward limbo.  Former lovers waiting for our food, waiting for the storm to pass, waiting for something better.

March tempest

winter’s death rattle

we hope for spring