"Fourteen to Fortyish: The Formative Years" An Intro - of sorts.

Yaaay! First post kicking off Year 7! Yes. Yes. I am getting waaay ahead of myself. Just a tad excited, is all.

For a moment there, I was beginning to wonder whether I'd finish coining the title of this post.

There are a few writing projects in train. The one I'd like to mention tonight is the poetry. You've heard about the poetry, yes? No? Well, allow me. (I have, in fact, mentioned a bit about the poetry in a few posts, and have also shared a few poems. But, I digress.) Over the weekend, I continued to work on my poetry project. It's a book of poems spanning quite a few years. After much to-ing and fro-ing, I've decided on the title and subtitle: Fourteen to Fortyish: The Formative Years. I also have a sub-subtitle, if you will. (If there's a more technical term, do share.) The sub-subtitle will be written in italics right under the title. I thought of it just today, so, there's no way I'm ready to share that here. But, I love you! :-)

Man, those things really added up! I'm looking at scores and scores of poems out of the lot. Like, seriously. They do, after all, span the years between 14 and 40-ish. Hence the title. Any surprises there? Okay. Who did not see that coming? As I've envisioned, the book has three phases, with a few pieces of short prose in appropriate spots. It's taking shape, from my mind to the page, and I like that.

I've had two beta readers so far. Yes. One of them was my mom. Of course. But, as thankful as I was/am for her positive feedback, it's...advisable to get feedback from folks who aren't family. The other was an editor I'd met via Twitter. I won't share much of what he said here. After all, I am thinking of asking him whether I may reproduce some of it in the book. However, one thing stood out. He said, afterward, that he felt like he knew me. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I'm still not sure whether that's a welcome thing. And, yet, here I am about to publish the book of rather telling poems! Hmm. For, you see, they are rather telling. I write from the heart - and wear it on my sleeve. An English Lit professor had once told me/the class: "Poetry comes from a place of deep emotion." Over the years, now and again as I wrote the poems, I'd remember him saying that. And I'd understand all over what he'd meant. The poetry itself is in the composition but you can't make that stuff up.

I'm getting the doc ready for another beta reader. Daniel Kojo Appiah is a poet from Ghana I met on Twitter. We'd had a few exchanges long before he was named the winner of the inaugural Ghana Poetry Prize in 2013. Just sayin'. He goes by the handle: @OZionn. During a quick chat the other day, the thought came to mind to ask him whether he would do it. He said he would. I'm looking forward to his feedback. I shall have to remind him not to be gentle.

As I prepare to get the poems out, I'm also getting ready to read a few of them at the upcoming 100 Thousand Poets for Change, Toronto, later this month. One of the organizers said she thought of me and so extended an invitation. We'd met at the Lit Café in town a few years ago, and she's heard me read my poems. She added, "...your poems reflect a depth and a beauty more than you realize." She said a few other heart-warming things, but I'll save 'em. :-) So, this weekend, God willing, I'll be sure to show up at the Lit Café to practise...I mean, perform. The pieces I've done there on repeated visits have been appreciated. This time around, I'll be one of the featured poets. That'll help.

(And, I simply must find a way to tie in my pen name - reserved only for the poetry - Dnafcnatgada. No. I do not know what it means. It came, quite simply, out of the air, as I pondered, at 14 years old, what my "poet name" should be. Yes, that's a silent "D", to boot. If it rings close to something in your frame of reference; your knowledge base; your linguistic armoury, or your stream of consciousness, do share.)

So, you understand my excitement. Rather, so, you understand my excitement! I'm so psyched! Getting this book published will be a huge deal for me. Always thankful for family and friends who've been über-supportive. Can almost hear a few of them going, "Finally!" Lol! Ohh, the sound of it: "A published poet." Tee hee. God continues to order my steps and each day brings me closer. And, what's that word again? Ahh, yes. Relatability.

"Funny, isn't it, how one moment can change a million after it." - Raya (Movie: How She Move)


Claudia
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Word-coloured Lens

I used that term on Saturday in a tweet. Word-coloured lens. And, I liked it. I was making the point that my poetry  - from teen years to now - has changed over time. Certainly, the way I write, has. It has become more ...mature, as is wont to happen with growth. Also, that through the word-lens, I could see the metamorphosis I had undergone. More than one, in fact. So, recording the fact of change - and how. In a more succinct way (the tweet): "Weird to behold metamorphosis through word-coloured lens. Core things remain- of course. I love thickly. Always have;always will. #PoemsToPC."

July has seen me typing these poems I've had over the years stashed away in note books and on folder leaves and post-its and jammed-printer paper and the clean side of fliers... Anything I could get my hands on when I needed to put pen or pencil to paper right away. Undertaking this compilation has been thrilling - funny, enlightening and thrilling. (Hoping to get it done for a book of poetry titled: "Fourteen to Forty: The Formative Years." Praying for God's guidance in that.) Now, the plan was to type about four to six per night. However, I think because there is some relief that my mind isn't at work creating the poems, there is ease in "just transcribing" and I get carried away to nine. Then I round it off. To ten.

Perhaps I'll share a bit more about the kind of change undergone in subsequent posts for July. We'll see. Before I go on to typing tonight's set, however, I wanted to share two poems with you. The first, at 17yo; the other at 41. (Maybe the book should be called Fourteen to Fortyish. Tee hee.) Anyway, take a look at what I mean. (And, the common "without" is sheer buck-up.)

Without Electricity

In that flame I see you

And I see me

Sitting by that same flame

Saying that we see each other.

The black wick symbolizes

The hard and trying times we go through

But, there is always hope

As the blue flame shows

And it leaps up into

That pyramid of bright light

Depth of sheer peace and joy.

- Dnafcnatgada

We had a laugh the other night as I read that one to sis @MizDurie, remarking that it was a long time JPS (Jamaica's electricity provider) had been treating us to power cuts. As I mentioned in a tweet to them: "Thanks JPS! Inspiring poetry and bringing lovers together (in the dawk) for over 85 years!" Lol! Anyway, here, now, is the other. 

Without the Kill

The nape of my neck is all aflame

As the sun's rays beat down

Mercilessly.

The hem of my blouse flutters

Responding to the whiff of breeze

That takes the slightest edge 

Off the heat.

I am wrapped in a heat

That cannot be ignored.

Too tightly wound, I am

Unable to move.

Hot and breezy

Trapped. Uneasy.

Like the way you have me going

Friend to lover

Bi-lovely.

It's how you make me feel hope

Yet hopeless

How you hold me

But without caress

How you kiss me. Hard.

Without the kill

And, killing me softly

Without the will

To love me

Back to life.

- Dnafcnatgada

Don't ask. Really. But, see what I mean?

Claudia

www.cyopro.com

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"Sand in My Shorts"

The poetry continues.  Quite frankly, "It never ends!" (Over the Hedge)

I read The Haunting at the lit cafe on Sunday.  (As a "brawta" I did I Can Dream.)  As I read, I felt comfortable.  It was a delightful almost-seven minutes.  I'd like to do it again.  A small group had gathered at the Moonshine Cafe in Oakville. And, they kept their word :-)  Reading and listening to poetry inside that literary cafe drew the probability of my being a published poet that much closer.  It was...inspiring, y'know?  I know.  I use that word here a lot - for the same reason spelled out in the phrase that I also use here a lot: "Sometimes, you just need to be inspired."

The poem I'm about to share was written when I was 21.  Gonna be honest.  I was looking through this worn and torn book of poems, reading and re-reading and, I just found myself laughing out loud. For a few of them, I had to compose myself to continue. Of course I'm not laughing at the idea of my younger self in love. That couldn't be it...Nah!  I'll work on it.  I have a theory but, more anon.

Here now:

Sand in My Shorts

You took me from my dream

Into your reality.

Everything that I've ever hoped for

You handed to me

Under a star-spangled platter

Then, nothing else seemed to matter

But your sharing my fantasy

That dream which you had now

Realized.

And, in your eyes

I saw you doubting

Whether or not my love was mounting.

And I closed my eyes

And loved you

Hoping for no hurting retorts

While I had sand

In the folds of my shorts.

- Dnafcnatgada

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