Sorry so silent...

Yeah. I haven't posted in awhile, and I apologize. It is submissions time for me; trying to get things turned in for some journals and of course the academic awards for undergrads in my program, but today is the deadline so I will slowly become more active on Blogger as summer approaches. For now, here is a poem that I wrote not too long ago. I wrote it while watching the last hurricane like the last poem I put up, but like the other it also went in a surprising direction. I had been reading a lot of William Blake and W.B. Yeats at the time so that might explain it, who knows? Enjoy.

Great Gyre

Wild winds whip and wail,
the world, held hostage
by creations fury, bends
fearful knee to the mirror
of its own destruction.

The Power that breathes
wondrous life brings death
and strife; doomed... we who
walk as gods over the earth,
trapped in mortal toil.

Stay the hand
that would end it with a supernova,
a flash of terror as indiscriminate as the wind
if the wind could blow across the earth and end.
We will do this task instead,
then perhaps we will understand
at life’s last...
Stay the hand.

By: T.J. Seale
Copyright 2008 Thomas Taylor

More fiction poetry...

There is a collection of tile art in the SFASU courtyard along the side of some steps near the Liberal Arts building; the mural is made up of many different images, each on tiles about 10in square. They were all created by different people so the styles vary, but one of them caught my eye; it appears to be a nondescript figure hunched in a small boat in the middle of a pond. This is his story, enjoy.

Reflections

Light seeps through the thick fog of morn leaving
streaks as it falls down to earth. The mirror
reflects a rippled image of the
world much clearer. Upon the water rests
a tiny barque, gently moving without
any disturbance to mark its passing.
The only passenger is and old man
hunched about his tackle, another day
alone on the clear water to ponder
memories of old times when moving was
easier. Thoughts of past mornings, perhaps
less foggy but still and serene, they cheer
for a younger man to come back again.
Peering into the looking glass he sees
wrinkles that the dark water erases; hair
that was long gone comes back, no longer gray.
Hands he knew as his own are steady
as he readies his line for casting, threading
the tiny string, agile and confident.
The only passenger is a young man,
hunched about his tackle, another day,
another day…

By: T.J. Seale
Copyright 2008 Thomas Taylor

Fiction Poetry

I created this piece during our last big hurricane. The lights were out and the storm was blowing outside; It put me in a very vulnerable mood and I used that to write this creepy poem. Originally I conceived it as being a part of a mystery/thriller novel that I have been thinking about the concept for lately. I was thinking that a major part of the discovery would come through journal entry poems found by the main characters. The problem is that I don't write genre fiction, so until I find a deeper theme among my ideas it's not getting written. SO... here stands this dark little poem with no greater work to be a part of, yet.

August 12, 1827: I awake from horrible dreams

What spirits
and specters spy
on me from the dark
corners of this place? Hark,
no angel hath the gall to guard
a soul so stretched and stripped.

Madness…! Quiet?
What is it then that
causes my mind to madden?
Silence still enough that echoes
of the past and future sound as sirens

in my poor
drums. Weary yet
from worry and soon regret,
but no, I cannot become as wrecked
as the wonton wretch who fills my head

with murder.
Horrible horror: thoughts
meant for devils dreams, the brains
of imps and denizens of the deep dark
shall be my feast… For I have none left

with which to fight,
and my will diminishes
with the twilight grey. I fear
oh God that neither I nor they will last
until the blessed day redeems us in its copper tones.

By: T.J. Seale
Copyright 2008 Thomas Taylor

A cynical attack on my classmates.

I wrote this for my intro to creative writing class about two years ago while sitting in the courtyard at SFASU. There is a fountain/statue of Stephen F. Austin poised on a surfing star in the middle of the courtyard; it serves as the centerpiece to most of the social interaction on campus. Although this is certainly one of my sloppier poems I did some editing just now; I think it improved it some. Let me know what you think and enjoy (unless you happen to be one of the groups of people I am referring too, in that case what are you doing here? lol)

The Shallow Charade

A posse of prim prey
chatters by with their superficial
smiles and "Oh, my God, really?"
On a star across the yard stands
a darker gent, alone, with a coat
of bronze and a triumphant pose.

Then a herd of all identical brutes,
clad in caps and flip-flops approaches
the prim posse and the ritual begins.
After some "You hittin' up da club tonight?"
and "Ya, totally." fired back in response,
the brutes beat their chests in a display
of power and the prims, giggling, flaunt
their colorful plumage. Shortly after
the shallow charade concludes.

One tribe wanders off to go practice
remedial math, while the other
is undoubtedly off to memorize
the Greek alphabet. The lone one stands,
silently still as I, except I am
observing, and he isn't even there.

By: T.J. Seale
Copyright 2007 Thomas Taylor

Possible Opportunity

So, I found out that Stephen F. Austin State University, where I attend, is pending approval of a new academic journal for creative writers that will be printed annually and will accept poetry, both fiction and non-fiction, and critical essays. I am very excited about submitting and the possibility of some of my work getting published. I have some pieces in mind and am currently waiting anxiously for the submission period to open. This could be a great opportunity for me to break the ice. Cross your fingers.

I will post again later in the week with some more creative writing; school and work have kept me pretty busy, but stay tuned.

New friend, old work.

Friday, during my short lunch time break between classes, I made a new friend. After getting to know her for a bit I discovered she is also interested in creative writing. We began talking about scansion vs. free-form and I introduced her to the sestina which is a very rigid form of poetry that can take hours, days, or even weeks to finally complete, depending on your level of obsession. It's closer to putting a puzzle together than it is to writing a poem, and I have managed to work out only one of these 39 line beasts. After challenging her to attempt it I feel it's only right, be it to my chagrin, to release my own to the wolves. Here it is, enjoy, it's not just iambic, its a big mix. I sacrificed on alot of the iambic to make it fit the word repetition required but the metre is uniform; be gentle.


Childhood Memories

So there we sat, tingling all over,
staring at the dilapidated house
owned by the crazy old lady Miss. Fitz.
People rarely saw her. Armies of cats
could be seen but never counted, always
appearing and disappearing through holes.

We mustered the courage and emerged, whole
into view, still afraid to go over.
The cats noticed us and came from all ways:
out doors, windows, and from under the house.
We shielded our faces fearing a cat
attack, huddled on the ground like misfits.

The cats stopped and stared, “Yum, look! Two misfits
to eat!” their eyes told us. Surely the whole
posse had come; all shapes and sizes, Cats
on top of cats. Cats still coming over.
Being not eaten, we approached the house.
The cats parted like the red sea, always

watchful for their benefactor. Always.
Eyes everywhere, waiting for their Miss. Fitz.
We were sure that some cat inside the house
had warned of us. Our eyes scanned over
and under for attack from any hole
she could fit through, only seeing more cats.

From what direction would the giant cat
lady come? Perhaps from the ally-way
to the left. No. Too obvious. Over
the roof like a cat, a cat-like Miss. Fitz.
We moved in but still no one came. The whole
house was the same as any other house

except hundreds of cats; a huge cat-house
with cat food, cat bowls, and even a cat
lady. We moved through the threshold, the whole
army behind. We searched the house, always
quiet, until we came upon Miss. Fitz
towering in her old rocker, over

by the house’s fireplace. We looked, always
on our guard, but the cats had eaten Miss. Fitz
whole, just a Fitz-skeleton left-over.

By T.J. Seale
Copyright 2007 Thomas Taylor

Been busy.

Sorry I haven't posted in a couple weeks, I have been really busy. School starts back Wednesday and I will be posting something then after class. I just got back from UNT to visit a couple of my friends and I drove a U-haul up there for them as well. Which sucked, U-hauls in traffic are not fun to drive. We had a great time though and it was good to see them before this semester sets sail. I have some trepidation about my schedule but I am going to go in optimistic and see how it goes before trying to alter it, which would mean taking an extra day from work. Either way, we shall see and I promise to post something Wednesday; probably poetry.

Until next time,
Thomas Taylor