Of Books and Binders and Book Binder Poetry

Good morning!

It’s a beautiful Friday and we are back with our next installment of Evelyn-finds-something-neat-about-poetry-and-comes-to-share-it on The Rain-Drenched Writer!

Or, as my dad would say, “Have you heard Evelyn’s new poem? She didn’t write a single word!”

Well, I am sure we are all glad to be here. If you are new to these series, check out previous episodes: here and here and here. 😜

Today’s topic of discussion: book-binder poetry!

It’s a simple idea. You take a stack of books and arrange their titles into a poem.

(Quick note though: I do not necessarily recommend all the books displayed in this post. I have not read all of them but am only using them here for the purpose of poetry. :))

Here is the first poem I created:

 

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I began to realize quickly that verbs don’t show up much in titles. Neither do many “which” or “who” or “what.”

For my second one I was very glad to find a book titled With. I ended up using this book a lot… it was very helpful! (Keep in mind to ignore it’s subtitle… 😛 )

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My third one, I am quite fond of! I titled this one, Gossip.

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To my delight, after that, I found two books about a watchman…

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Then I decided to take a visit to the Christian-living bookshelf in our household and see what I could find there.

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Suddenly my poems became a lot less poetic and star-spangled, but more blunt and foreboding…img_1369-1

 

And finally, my very last one which I found quite by accident as these books were already right by each other, separated by only two other books:

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Which one is your favorite? Have you ever played around with book-binder poetry?

~ evelyn ~

The Imaginary Assistant Tag

Last week’s schedule was pretty full for me. Especially the first half in which I volunteered at a three day summer camp of twenty-five six to eight-year-olds.

I sharpened hundreds of colored pencils, cut out tons of little continents, and rocked my fancy nametag. I assisted with map-tracing, paper-gluing, white-board-cleaning, and picture-book-reading, as well as breaking up fights, escorting kids to the bathroom, and spending twenty minutes cleaning their paint brushes. (My hands were blue for the rest of the day…)

It is fair to say that it was a blast!

… but I was pretty exhausted at the end of everyday.

It is times like those (well more like times like now as I look back) that I wish I had an assistant. Someone to prod me off the couch, brew some tea, crank up the music, and stick a pen in my hand.

And now this week we’ve been busy hosting friends and working on some projects for a party tomorrow (like making a giant Bananagrams game to play in the backyard.)

Well good news!

My friend Aberdeen, as an honorary member of the Author Assistant Society, has most graciously offered to help me out and find me a writing assistant!

 

The formalities of this agreement:

1. Thank the person who tagged you and link back to their blog.

Thank you Aberdeen! (Drop in this handy-dandy portal to go give him a friendly Rawr.)

2. Link back to the creator of the tag.

Aberdeen the Authorosaurus. (Here’s his digsite if you somehow missed the two other portals. 😉 )

3. Tag 5-10 bloggers who need assistants (and if they don’t need them, tag them anyway).

4. Please answer the questions so the author assistant agency can find the right assistant for you.

 

The questions:

 

1. What type of creature/species would you like your assistant to be (human, animal, dragon, dinosaur, figment of your imagination, etc.) and why?

Something like a raggant from N.D. Wilson’s 100 Cupboard series, because they’re so small, smart, and loyal.

 

2. What do you want your assistant to look like?

So raggants are basically like gray rhinos with wings (like this), however… I would prefer to find a raggant that is unusually fuzzy, has huge dropping ears, and an elephant’s trunk.

(If any of you see one, let me know…)

 

3. What qualities are you looking for in an assistant (responsible, lovable, exasperating, etc.)?

Lovable, loving, and loyal, but fierce when needed.

 

4. What job(s) would your assistant be in charge of?

Researching random facts, sorting my character summaries, cleaning out my old folders, burning old poetry, putting the kettle on the stove, answering emails, and holding a fork to my back when I have writer’s block and then another later to force me to take a break and go outside.

Also reminding me to water my plants.

 

5. What would you like your assistant to be named?

Rufus. (:

 

 

6. What would you feed your assistant (candy, books, pickles, etc)?

Ooh hmm.

I would say pickles except I wouldn’t want to share mine. But then if that’s what his menu would be, I guess I’d have an excuse to buy pickles every month. 

Pickles, bagels, red peppers, and dark chocolate.

 

 

7. How would you pay your assistant and what benefits would you offer as compensation for their work?

The official position of honorary first alpha reader. Also free access to my bookshelf and pickle-popcorn stash.

 

 

8. What special abilities would you like your assistant to have (i.e. ice powers to freeze writer’s block, super strength to break writer’s block, or super stupidity to stare at you while you’re having writer’s block)?

The ability to eat old manuscripts for breakfast, misused commas for lunch, and spam comments for dinner.

 

9. Where would you like your assistant to be from (Jurassic Park, Narnia, your head)?

From wherever you can find a fuzzy, long-eared, elephant-trunked, raggant creature…

 

10. Will you solemnly swear to you will not fire your assistant in either sickness or in health, for richer for poorer, smarter or stupider, writing or not writing, for as long as you both shall live?

Yes!

 

And Aberdeen said I could pass along this offer to some other bloggers…

NC Stokes

Dekreel

Maya

M Kenechi Duatron

and

Camille

 

 

And that’s it folks!

Now I’ll just go sit out by my mailbox and wait for the official papers to arrive. 😉

TTFN!

i am a writer

I’m a writer, I’m a poet, I’m a
chapter I’ve written. A character built
out of nothing but my life and hands. They
stain my pages because I bleed and wilt.

I’m a writer, I’m a poet, I form
worlds out of words and people out of trees.
Watch me resurrect a dragon, a storm,
a tower of Babel out of dust and debris.

I’m a writer, I’m a poet, I see
angels in the dirt. There are pilgrims who
cross the dusty roads of life with me
shadows behind them of friend that they knew.

I’m a writer, I’m a poet, I play
with hearts of the young and dreams of the old.
I try to weave a story that may
drip in their house tiny drops of rose gold.

I’m a writer, I’m a poet, but just
a person too, striving to catch meaning
out of air, catch something to cling to. Gusts
of the wind in my bucket are singing.

Ode To The Family’s 2003 Chrysler Town & Country Minivan

Sometimes inspiration rises from the everyday happenings that feel so forlorn and bland.

Everyone has a unique experience and while they might overlook common formalities: another dinner, another drive, another drag of school. They can all be captured.

The art of the poet is to see the beauty in the commonplace; to encompass and package a little breath of truth to bring a little light, a little hope, a little sense of understanding to another human being.

Well, lately I’ve been focusing on metaphors and similes, and imagination in general within my poetry, as well as using familiar and everyday objects/activities as my subjects. Through these experiments, I’ve fallen in love with a more subtle rhyming method, where the rhymes do not fall at the end of every sentence and sentences carry over lines. Apparently the term for that is enjambment or run-over lines as opposed to end-stopped.

Here is a poem I wrote this week about my family’s minivan, which, unfortunately, appears to be living out its final days.

I hope you enjoy! (:


 

Ode To The Family’s 2003 Chrysler Town & Country Minivan

You are as old as me and yet somehow

still older. Every time we step into

your arms, your legs buckle, groan, and bow.

When you try to move from your night bed, you

try once, then twice before you lurch off the

gravel perch and stumble, for a moment

on the verge of crashing a pot with your knee

unable to command numb limbs so aged and spent.

Words are merely slurred and mumbled. We stop

to feed you morning coffee, the liquid

pools in your mouth, you taste it burn and smell

bitter potentness. It stains fingers amid

digestion. Even up and wakened well,

every pothole and stick rattles your teeth.

Your joints creak with every bend and you wheeze

that it’s always too hot or too far beneath,

for comfort, or life for that matter. We

give your back massages and clean your chipped

glasses. We even sit you in shades of trees

during outings. But time is time however kept,

We dread the coming day you’ll breathe your last,

And we pray that long you will stay steadfast.