%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 All that remains: in afterlife as 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. 20k views |
|
Obshchak Some torn to the ground ▼ Read here some old blog entries...  2018 Highlights ▼Brian K Compton   -- ![Merit Badge in Second Time Around Contest
[Click For More Info]
Congratulations on winning the Grand Overall Prize in [Link To Item #2164876] with your beautiful poem, [Link to Book Entry #933358]. This poem really moved me. Great writing!
Rachel *^*Heartv*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Second_Time_Around_Contest-2164963_14.gif) Short answer, mostly relatable. |
| Attempt at Allegory When she sidled up, she couldn't match his long strides. Roxanne had introduced herself with simple innocence. He slowed his pace, knew he was not to be left alone, roam free. She had accosted him with such clever sweetness it could make any man's head turn. But, he could not know her. She was not even a vision -- just a guardian to lead him back to his room. Brian had a history of anxiety, meltdowns. He couldn't just wander about, conjecture to the others. He had felt that soft hand guide before. He was always led to quiet places. It was like the smell of glue, crayons and markers -- given busy work to help with the obsessing. Each time he realized even sooner the ruse. Feeling manipulated, he would go along with the game long enough to earn their trust back...again. A door slid partly opened facing a gray wall. "Why are we here?" "This will be your new home in a few years. I thought you would like to see it," Roxanne pleasantly replied. A concrete floor laid before a windowless room. It was just like he imagined: no air vents, square and dead silent. He noticed the peeling numbers '6, 0' on the entry. What he dreaded was presented like a new opportunity, or the beginning of the end. His days wandering the halls were now numbered. Before waking from this dream, Brian had an odd feeling. How long had he lived in this asylum? Maybe, stay in bed a little longer, give lucid dreaming one more try. |
| Some days, I feel I’m the only adult at a kid’s table. And, they’re trying to intimate I should be somewhere else. Indifferent, they play amongst themselves. If I chime in, furrowed brows and scowl as they whisper in hushed tones. Yup, just sip the imaginary tea old man. Observe. |
Apologetic Postscript Of A Year Later by Robert Louis Stevenson IF you see this song, my dear, And last year's toast, I'm confoundedly in fear You'll be serious and severe About the boast. Blame not that I sought such aid To cure regret. I was then so lowly laid I used all the Gasconnade That I could get. Being snubbed is somewhat smart, Believe, my sweet; And I needed all my art To restore my broken heart To its conceit. Come and smile, dear, and forget I boasted so, I apologise - regret - It was all a jest; - and - yet - I do not know. |
Before the boys wake the refrigerator hums discontent -- furred, snarled dragons ply smooth, dead floor about idle, be-socked feet -- hardwood surfaces plateau from toe to eye glossy, forlorn in chilled autumn morn -- our clear vestibule prison warm, satisfies Before one voice unwinds silence uninterrupted night already nearing -- mindless echoes still chirping draw dragons' eyes out return their desires chained to domestication in padded sofa/lounger play land Nearing the crack of pipes emerging mechanical waterfalls an empty hull longs fill to the brim with expectation neglected brown coffee cold Thoughts ▼ e.e. was right about i though We never met. 🤔 |
| I woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep when I realized I had Bonnie Raitt on a loop in my head. Mostly it was the chorus, possibly reminding me that art rejects this dreamer. It could be I'm stuck idling over stuff that's easy to do rather than tackle the monster that's been alive in me all these years. I might pine over a what-would-have-been woman, write her odes she'll never see. But, it keeps coming back to me: what I'm afraid of, intimacy and the ultimate rejection of that which we don't have the mental fortitude to master. Maybe, never had or never will sail that craft. Wrong metaphor? Out of place. I looked at at dark wall for about an hour, tossed. I knew I could disturb her, in every sense of the word. So, I went downstairs for a respite. Even after telling my wife and daughter I was getting published last night, put on some enthusiasm so they could appreciate what I should be joyful about, I had that gnawing in my gut. Seeing a poem in print isn't what will suffice. My brain didn't negotiate what the dreaming mind keeps relating at 3 a.m. When are you going to write her? I had a dream about her (LuAnne) again the night previous. My mind is deceiving me into believing we live in two altered worlds. The LuAnne I knew and the story that could have been, at least about her. I had a scene play out in my head that would be the climax to our story. I had woke and was jotting it all down when real life reminded I needed to shower for an appointment. I wanted to revisit her, if even to reread the notes. Reality kept us apart. Though, she didn't disturb my slumber tonight directly, I was reminded I was neglecting her call...the true vision that could make her come to life. I've wrestled with the story, thought about it from all perspectives. The thought of wading through chapters of disjointed material...it's difficult to separate what really happened to what I could imagine our outcome to have been. That's not something you toy with, like second-guessing if the life you lived is worthless in pursuit of one that was not. It was a path not chosen. No sliding door references, but a portal keeps opening to my past and shoves me back to pursue a woman seemingly unwilling to meet me. So, it's me, not her calling? We took separate trails. But, all the odes I've ever written, the one most prophetic is hidden in a folder somewhere, begging me to try again recapture the feeling...so I can move forward without her once again. And, my mind will always come back to this place at three a.m. when I'm not thinking anymore about why she didn't love me. She did. It wasn't in the cards. Yet, she (me) haunts me some nights, but leaves me smiling. She's not really gone, you know. As long as I wrestle with writing and some kind of acceptance to validate me (acceptance that I must validate myself), I'll be stuck with this misery. Maybe, I'll stop getting near to others in hope of the same kind of shared intimacy only to shove them away once I've had a taste and find it doesn't compare...(don't you dare sing, Sinead!) I'm lost like Disney's Stitch. I'm prone to break stuff like David Banner when he's Hulk. I'm running through a village chased like Frankenstein because I'm just too damn ugly, I shouldn't exist in anyone's garden. Stitch finds love, the abomination of revealed science kills his master (or gets a bride, you choose) and Banner will be haunted forever unless Marvel has the decency to kill him like Spidermam (although, like D.C. and Supermen, they'll bring him back. Just wanted to make you feel something since we're all getting bored with all the super hero nonsense and it's like a billion dollar industry). And so... At 3 a.m., after I exhaust these thoughts, I'll sleep, wake and sober to these meandering internal reflections. Are you ever going to write her, Brian? Afraid to rebuild your monster because you might kill her, or will it destroy you? I'm guessing this lifelong process of wrestling with the art of it all includes suffering, brooding and a need to be misunderstood...yes I like aloof! And because I can only access a friggin' iPad, I type with one finger as fast as I can, making sure this stream doesn't close. It's closing. Adieu sweet ghost until deja veux? I'm sorry to all those who have to suffer when I'm around...like a moody goth teen. It's easier to accept your rejection than realize I'm screwed up and am forever figuring out the coordinates to this portal so I can just get inside and destroy it...or forever merge with it. Just had a flashback to 'Eureka.' Look it up. What I struggle with:
Written 30+ Years ago |
| My son is taking AP Lit in his senior year of high school. He came to me with a poem 'Crossing the Swamp' by Mary Oliver that was a task master and said, "Okay, Dad. Explain poetry to me.' We got distracted with dinner and other obligations, so I decided to write my discourse on poetry to him, hoping it will help: To Alex, Why watch a movie called Titanic, if you know how it ends? There is more to the story than beginning, climax and outcome. It's about how they got there, what you experience along the way. A poem can be like that. A poet wants you to feel what they are experiencing, but they don't want to just shout out the answer in these never ending games of charade. You have to guess. But, who's going to tell you you're right? It's like working a New York Times Sunday crossword alone now. You figure out the parts that are easy to understand and place them next to other clues and puzzle it together. But, the whole time, you have to remember, you must stand back and let this wash over you. Don't strain too hard. Because a poem is like a painting that can be wild in color or muted in tone. What type brush strokes, canvas? In essence, what is their medium? Is it traditional rhyming (feel good) or free form with line breaks putting emphasis on some words for extra meaning. How do the words layer over one another like the painting? You might feel better as you go along collecting clues, assembling them, getting a general spirit for the writer's game. In the end, they want you to feel something in your gut. It's experience. If it's something you can't relate to because of lack of experience, it would be hard to feel empathy. Sympathy is a tool for those who can feel your emotion but cannot relate. Everyone (except, maybe, sociopaths) experience joy, pain. This is why reading poetry about stuff you know will help you understand/feel poetry -- poetry that uses form (can be lyrical), poetic devices (personification, imagery, allegory) and those words so cleverly paired to give us coined expressions. (Just Google Shakespeare and you will see.) I'll end with this, for now. I can explain further in the days, weeks, life ahead. But, I wrote a poem in college that was my rant about people confusing my writing for greeting card stuff. Though, it doesn't prove my point (it would take many toils to come), it describes what a poem was to me then. My 25-year-old self to my near 18-year-old son: What do you make of a poem? A poem is a poem, is a poem, is a poem. Is that all you can make out of that? Wherever you roam, you roam, you roam, don’t forget to bring a hat? A rose is a rose, is a rose, is red, now dead. Now what do you make out of that? You killed it with your drool you fool; slobber from your face you spat. A dream is a dream, is a dream, is a dream. What a scene you made out of that. You killed it with your vision, division; television spawned the illiterate brat. I woke up one day, saw daisies, a meadow; a brook full of leaping trout in their raincoats, trying to land on hooks. Caviar bellies splash on the cement, bake in the sun. Now what do you make out of that? Nothing? I see you, I dream you; you’re just fiction. You breathe my air like gas, pass out from fumes too real for your kind of imagination. So what do I make out of that? A poem is a red rose, is a dream. A poem is a field full of fish in raincoats. A poem is nothing but what you see; not television, it’s fiction, too real for your imagination. Now what do you make out of that? Indirectly quoting Gertrude Stein while thinking about Shakespeare: https://www.phrases.org.uk/meanings/15900.html
Truth is elusive. It makes you doubt it exists. (Your current dad) |
| Poem to be available in future ekphrastic poetry collection. I'm up to 2. Um, I might have a third on a series of Kiya's images...when it turns up Sorry, it's gone. |
Looking at these private colleges and all the shiny incentives they throw at you reminds of that sleek Cadillac of envy that would be a dream to own. You sit down after presentations and tours and go over all the options and start to think it's doable. They laud the kid with their presidential, top-of-the-line, merit-based scholarship in high figures. There's a chance of an elite education, to rub elbows with greatness? Getting a fuzzy glimpse of this teen's future might make a person misty-eyed. Then, when those numbers go crunch, the gap between tuition and grants still can't match the cost of a state school. So, you go back down the block and kick the tires on that Plymouth Duster...again...and a BMW buzzes by. I imagine 'I'm a proud alum of...' frame on a vanity plate. Meanwhile, 'the kid' has just spent his tenth straight hour on the X-Box. The light of a fading day pours in as I enter that room. His pupils constrict as I greet his dull response. That's when the vision of owning a speed boat at my new cabin on a lake arrives. He found his passion. Maybe, I should indulge my dream instead. |
| I didn't want to open the email, so I had my wife do it. The new Wisconsin poet laureate Karla Huston read my poetry and had advice for me. I doubted I'd get a reply, let alone the next morning. I didn't want to be intrusive...and she wrote me a long and thoughtful email. Ms. Huston wants me to submit. She also located three poetry reading spots where I can share and suggested I join a poet's group of about 500 that's over 60 years strong. She talked about all the ins and outs of approaching publication and being a poet today. She knows poet laureates that don't submit and just self-publish! That's because they write, teach and talk about poetry everywhere they travel. I submitted four poems to this poet laureate. It was very difficult choosing while hopefully not overwhelming her. What I picked...the styles of two contrasted the other two in verbosity. "Thank you for sharing a few of your poems. I really liked 'Feeling Autumnal' and 'Celtic Roots.' My taste runs to poems with simple language and smart metaphor. That's my taste, though."
Now, going classic school girl, trying not to gush, I thanked her in a short follow up, letting her know I appreciated her time and helpful advice, which I will use. |
| "But there is wisdom in being circumspect about such things, to reflect before telling what can never be unsaid, or sharing some supposed “honesty” that may wound beyond healing. Better to swallow even that which scalds than to unleash, for whatever reason, an unknowable damage that might have been spared." Henry David Thoreau https://www.imagejournal.org/2017/09/21/secret-mercies/ Perhaps, what drives us as writers is not knowing, not understanding what is going on, denied. We try to fill in the gaps, try to make sense with our unknowing, by writing. Maybe, the origins of fiction came from being denied the truth. 9.24.17 This life isn't palatable, send it back. 9.23.24 added the above and 'denied' in my first sentence, re-title, and changing 'was' to 'came'. |
| "You don’t get to control everything. You can wake up at 5 a.m. every day until you’re tired and broken, but if the words or the painting or the ideas don’t want to come to fruition, they won’t. You can show up every day to your best intentions, but if it’s not the time, it’s just not the fucking time. You need to give yourself permission to be a human being." http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jamie-varon/to-anyone-who-thinks-theyre-falling-be... |
| Discovered wattpad finally (my kids have been using it). Taking a trial run and thinking about putting a majority of my writing there on the app, once I get familiar enough with it. Not exactly the place for old farts or poets, but I have to see what else is out there for me. Need to move my roots around and see what else is out there. I've likely outlived my usefulness here, though I love creating items to share. I'm failing fellow writers in the feedback area because I'm too focused on me these days...and the eyesight thing.  They say wattpad is 90% readers. I can finally pursue fiction on my terms. I have long been a cheerleader for this site, trying to share it throughout internet and social media, hoping to build a following here. I guess it didn't have the desired impact. When someone told me I was among the Top 10 writers on this site, I thought, need to find a bigger pond. Fortunately, internet streams connect writers everywhere. Just need to see where this new journey takes me. Plus, I think Brian Keith Compton might resurface! |
| I did the Ancestry.com DNA sample kit that I got for my birthday and have been wrapped up in genealogy. Most of the work was done years ago by my cousins Dennis and Debra (my Mom's side). With Celtic roots, I'm 67% Great Britain, only 21% Italy/Greece (sorry Dad). And, nine percent located in: Belgium, France, Germany, Netherlands, Switzerland, Luxembourg, Liechtenstein. Less than one percent Asian. I learned I am the great, great, great grandson of Irishman whose name came from McAdoh or McHugh or McCue. McAdoh is said to be Celtic for "son of fire." He participated in the 1798 Irish revolution and dropped the Mc from his last name (to hide from the English) when he moved to America not long after -- where met a woman in Pennsylvania and married. She gave birth to my great, great grandpa and died shortly thereafter. He married twice more and his lineage carries nearly 1400 offspring to this day. Funny that my great Italian grandpa's story has similarity. He fled supposedly because of a murder. He didn't want to be implicated, moved to America and got settled. Eventually all but one of his offspring relocated here, too. My grandpa Bertolomeo fought for the United States in the Spanish-American War of 1898. He was an iron miner. I'm learning one of my all-time favorite writers may be a distant relative -- Margaret Atwood (10th cousin). Still trying to confirm, since I'm not a premium member of Ancestry.com. Dennis said we are related to Laura Ingalls Wilder and a descendant of a Mayflower voyageur. Not done building my family tree and yet to visualize the full work of my cousins. Hoping to add more. |
| Kathleen Fisher - You ...if only 7.22.2017 https://laist.com/2009/10/09/fisher.php https://i0.wp.com/instinctmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/11/images_blog_po... |
| You can't say things better than this: "His heart beat faster and faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete." -F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby Poetry and fiction are intertwined. |
| I will still exist in Twitterverse long after my days on other social media platforms... https://mobile.twitter.com/glaedrfly I don't interact well in most worlds, except the real one...where I still have very few followers and fewer fans. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
![Merit Badge in Rare
[Click For More Info]
I like your work!](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/general-Rare.gif)
