  Poetry
This week: Observations While Sitting at my Desk Edited by: Fyn  
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As a composer and as a musician I'm a true believer - and this is not to be overly diplomatic - I'm a believer that there's artistry in everything from a lawn gnome to a desk chair to a symphony to an Andy Warhol painting. There's art in absolutely everything.~~Darren Criss
Your work is to keep cranking the flywheel that turns the gears that spin the belt in the engine of belief
that keeps you and your desk in midair.~~Annie Dillard
When you sit at your desk, if you're lucky, there's a moment when you feel empowered to be someone or something else, to leap into another skin.~~John Updike
My morning begins with trying not to get up before the sun rises. But when I do, it's because my head is too full of words, and I just need to get to my desk and start dumping them into a file. I always wake with sentences pouring into my head.~~Barbara Kingsolver
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I spend the majority of my time sitting at my desk. If I am not there because of work, which I am 80% of the time, I am there to write. For me writing as opposed to for 'others' writing as in reviews, book releases, author editing, proposals and the like. My desk (yes, that is my desk pictured above) has been on every wall, in every place in the room, but it always comes back to where it is now and is in the picture. Because it is also my office, what surrounds the desk has changed over time.
These days, I can look at my editor's desk, but I really don't want to see what she's doing as it is far too much like peering over someone's shoulder. Or when it looks like I am staring blackly at the corner, what I am seeing is a tree branch that 'grows' from the floor and spreads out across the ceiling almost touching the fan that spins like a giant propeller in the center. On this 'tree' hang butterflies, dragons, owls, leaves, birds, squirrels, a small birdhouse, a lantern and an ornament that looks like a typewriter. They move gently as a result of the fan and they look like they are all alive...living and breathing in my tree. Across the room is a corner desk. The surface of this desk is piled with papers, notes, books, and other things: all of which I've learned NOT to touch because he who sits there knows where everything is and there, apparently, is some cosmic order to the piles and detritus and who in their right mind messes with the cosmic order of things? On the shelves above this desk are a collection of ancient books dating to before 1900, dragons, fairies perched on the outsides of antique bird cages, odd critters, several leather bottles that appear to hold various genies, more owls and wood sculptures. A flying frog hangs from the ceiling fan. Three desks and the rolling chairs that accompany them make for convoluted traffic patterns when all three desks are occupied and someone needs the printer.
My desks holds a dictionary, a thesaurus, a quill (and ink),a lamp made of books, a leafy mug crammed full of pencils, pens, markers, paint brushes and a make-up brush (for some odd reason!). A slinky, candles in assorted holders, one of my numerous hats and a beautiful green stone necklace from one of my authors adorns the top of it. The desk surface is relatively clear (I had an author visit two days ago) but the ever present desk calendar blotter is covered by my keyboard, coffee cup and other necessary stuff.
A window is right next to my desk. This morning it is open letting the cool morning breeze waft in. Outside my window is an immense butterfly bush that attracts hummingbirds, bees, birds and more hummingbirds. The butterflies prefer the hummingbird feeder hanging there. I can see two of the three birch trees we planted last year, a dragonfly perched on the edge of the window box and a very fat robin working his way across the yard.
The point of all this is that there are many things to catch my attention, to sidetrack or inspire me. Sometimes, I sit here and literally see none of it, seeing only the scene, poem or action playing out on the screen of my mind. But other times, I find my focus narrows and I see the patterns of the piles of thumb drives in the owl-shaped bowl or the way the dust motes flit and flitter. For me, my writing environment is key to my writing. I need the pictures, the eclectic assortment of 'stuff' and life flotsam to spark my imagination. What might really be a crystal owl may also be the reason for a rainbow to dance across my desk. I have nooks and crannies, small desk drawers and a middle drawer that badly needs going though, but that I probably won't ever actually clean out because there is no better place for all the stuff shoved, hidden or swept into it!
There are colors everywhere in here. From the honeyed tones of the various woods, to the leathered binding of the old books, to the jeweled colors to the faries and dragons to ... to...to... everything else. Static and yet, ever changing. At the moment, there is a small brown wren, striped, and bright of eye, peering through the screen at me. He chirps, and I look over. He tilts his head, ruffles his feathers and hops closer. I keep typing, one eye still watching him. He just flew over to the butterfly bush and hangs on with tiny feet at the branch dips and sways under his weight. Bees, momentarily distracted, take flight and then settle. A vibrantly blue and gold butterfly lands on the hummingbird feeder and drinks. Some days, it is a wonder I accomplish anything, as it is easy to be lulled into watching small, the little things that go on around me. And yet, it is the little things, that often add nuance to our writing, and I am mindful of that as I tuck tiny moments away for future use.
Rarely, anymore, do I write with a pencil. Yet my #2s are sharpened, ready and dangerously sticking out of the mug should I want them. There is just something special about a handful of pencils ready to go that still inspires me, gets me in the mood to write.
A black and yellow butterfly (or is it a moth?) has replaced the wren. His wings open and close, slowly, carefully, still drying from the dew perhaps. Both wings are similar, almost a mirror image of each other, but there are subtle differences in the patterning. He flits away into one of the birch trees that are nodding and swaying in the breeze. The humidity is low today, although the sky is cloudy with great white and grey clouds skudding from west to east. My favorite sort of light filters through...soft, with blurred edges, casting the flowers on the bush to be a magenta verses the deeply purple they appear in bright sunlight...
Fiercely magenta spears of the butterfly bush
stab and spar with the breeze
while jeweled hummingbirds parry then
advance to fence with the fragrant blooms,
their foils darting in to stab deep,
to free the succulent nectar,
achieve their pointe.
[Thinking about my newsletter, I got up from bed in the middle of the night to write this down. Why not include it?]
Even my office appears differently depending upon the amount of natural light pouring through the window. Too much and the shade lowers else my monitor is covered in shadows or only reflects, turning into a mirror of my surroundings.
Drawn again to the window, I see the maple tree across the road has leaves that are just beginning to turn. August 10th and autumn is pushing its way into my world. An early winter, perhaps? My mind zings to falling leaves, raking, pulling out the winter bird feeders and wearing sweaters inside as my window is usually open.
Reining my brain back to the business at hand, I guess I am just wanting folks to really look at what is around them and see with fresh eyes what is seen day in and day out. It is the details, too often missed or ignored, that give added depth to writing. Poetry demands them. The details are what makes a poem jump off the page or vault from the screen to tangle its metaphors in your hair and let its emblazoned fingers pull, grasp or clench at your heart. It is the details that paint what your mind reacts to, that allow the rephrasing of an image to make it come alive. Being aware of the jet flying high overhead or looking up (instead of down) that lets you see the contrails forming an immense tick-tack-toe board cross the sky. Being willing to forgo a few hours sleep Wednesday or Thursday night to get up and drive somewhere away from streetlights or city lights or even, front door lamps and lie on your back on a blanket to watch the night sky and the Perseid meteor shower streak across the heavens and contemplate. Or, make wishes every time a meteor flashes. Do you know they flash in different colors?
[Added: 1:40 am, 8/12/15 --Lasted outside about an hour. I saw seventeen meteors...blips of light. I made two wishes, saw constellations, the milky way and several planes fly by. Some of the meteors almost seemed to skip along the edge of our atmosphere like stones skipping along on the surface of a galactic sea and one blazed a long, long trail across the entire bowl of sky. Super clear out. Even with my WdC hoodie on and wrapped in a blanket, I was a bit chilly. Amazing how small a person lying on a chaise lounge can feel, staring up...seeing the now in the planes and yet knowing the light from the stars left them eons ago. Sounds too, not lost in daytime noises. A train went by somewhere, as the nearest active tracks are some distance away. A far off siren. An annoying mosquito that insisted on adding her own night music. , I'm glad I stayed up, went out for a while and saw some 'shooting stars.' Good for the soul.]
Maybe you might get up to overcast skies. Even still, sit outside and listen to the night sounds, feel the air, smell the scents that only seem to appear in the wee hours of the dawning day, at least until the hum of mosquitoes drowns out the other sounds and sends you fleeing indoors!
Back at my desk, the clock is ticking, the deadline for my newsletter approaches and it is time to go on to other things. Poets, there is a new (well, new to now) contest on the horizon. The Construct Cup is back for the month of September and sign-ups are open now. A poem a day for 30 days. Are you up for the challenge? Word and picture prompts with words both to use and not use! Prompts designed to push you in new directions, stretch your (and readers) imaginations and get you to create writing with depth and nuance! It will require you to sharpen your focus, look at the everyday with a differing perspective and be a lot of fun. (And hard work, but writing is work, after all!) Link will be below in editor's picks! Check it out!
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A sample (of sorts) from a past version of the Cup and just fits this newsletter!
From a recent 30 poetic challenge:
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"Reflection"
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dragonflyrose  says: I once heard that poetry is the music of the soul. It can bring you to tears with the beauty of the melody, the feelings and emotions pulled forth with the words; it can lighten the spirit and enliven the heart with images and thoughts, or it can be a reflective, contemplative salve to sooth. Poetry is this and more. Thank you for showing us that no matter the situation - be it a raging storm or a calm sea - words can transport us there and everything experienced in life can be put into those words. Loved your imagery and I want to see the poem it inspired!
Thaddeus Buxton Winthrop  writes: Perhaps the "light shower", said by your phone really meant, shower of light? (lightening) haha. To sound as one of your neighbors the green clouds are the hail forming.
Loved this observation and the way you tie it together at the end. Beutimus description on the Cumulus! clouds.
Ẃeβ࿚ẂỉԎḈĥ  adds: Sounds like you had some intense moments with the weather alerts and storm system hitting. I do know what you mean about lightning striking trees and the outcome. Two huge fir trees were struck very close to our home. The crash of thunder was unforgettable and the scent of burning evergreen oils stick in the mind forever! The shame is the loss of both trees in the town square. They replaced them with a gazebo/bandstand. (Made out of composite-type of "wood," basically not wood at all.) I miss looking at the trees.
Great newsletter! Thank you for the highlight of my poem. 
Elfin Dragon-finally published comments: As I listen to a monsoon storm roll into my neighborhood this morning, I'm reading this newsletter.  I've seen storms like this when I lived in Oklahoma and the lightening shows were spectacular. There it usually rolled across the bottom of the clouds. Here in AZ the lightening is more spectacular and more dangerous. Far more ground to air (yes that's the way it happens) strikes. So much so that when a storm comes in and there is thunder, people run for cover. We also have micro-bursts with big storms. Think mini-compact tornados in a 50 foot radius (or less). Well, I'm just going to enjoy the sound of the rain for a while.
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Poetry: August 12, 2015 Issue [#7156]
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