Musings of a Nascent Poet

By Stephanie Barr

Myths and romance, Armageddon and the occult, teddy bears and fairy tales, anything can be fodder for an epic poem and Stephanie Barr proves that with this collection of poetry from her earliest days writing that is eclectic, quirky, evocative, brilliant but highly accessible while somehow holding to old-fashioned notions on poetry, making it sound as good as it looks. This is poetry made to be read aloud, all but sung.

The years seem eons, ages,
Since I traveled, young and free,
When the songs my harp would whisper
Would bring everyone to me.
Women young and soldiers aged
Came to hear my siren lyre,
Came to lose themselves in music,
Dulcet sounds of sweet desire.

So, if lyric language is your bag, if you still get transported with the poetry of Keats and Poe, but long for messages a little more here and now, this may be the poetry collection for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephanie Barr
• Release date: Dec 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311843234

Stephanie Barr

Although Stephanie Barr is a slave to three children and a slew of cats, she actually leads a double life as a part time novelist and full time rocket scientist. People everywhere have learned to watch out for fear of becoming part of her stories. Beware! You might be next!

Book preview

Musings of Nascent Poet

By Stephanie Barr

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Stephanie Barr

Discover other titles by Stephanie Barr at Smashwords.com

Conjuring Dreams or Learning to Write by Writing

Tarot Queen

Beast Within (First of the Bete Novels)

Nine Lives (Second of the Bete Novels)

Saving Tessa

Dedicated to Stephanie, Roxy and Alex, always.

A special thanks also to Sandy Knauer Morgan and Nancy Ternes Hodson.

Cover created by Stephanie Barr using 1© Ianlangley - 1950 Teddy Bear Photo licensed through Dreamstime

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return toSmashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Introduction

Idealism R Us

Inspiration

Rewriting Stories to Suit Me

Myths

Dedicated to the ones I love

Epic (largely original) stories

Lovelorn

Off the Beaten Path

Silliness

About the Author

Coming Soon

1Introduction

Again, as in Conjuring Dreams, I'm writing an introduction and will include some explanation on these works. I do this even though I feel strongly that, as a general rule, writing should stand on its own without extraneous explanation. It should be self-explanatory.

So, why?

Several reasons, not the least of which is that this poetry was among my earliest work. Many of these poems were written (probably the majority) when I was still a teenager. Rather than rewrite them in keeping with the way I think now, I have chosen to largely preserve them (with a few syntax corrections and the like) as they were rather than updating them into something different. Part of this is to document how I grew as a writer (another reason for the explanations) but also because they were a reflection of who I was back then, what I was thinking and feeling, what mattered to me. That's one of the things poetry can really do well and changing them from that would completely change their significance.

Another reason, as I noted, is that this work can showcase what I was experimenting with and learning to do better as a writer. There are some aspects of my writing, especially reaching for an emotional response, that I did best in poetry, but still helped me hone skills and an understanding I tried to carry forward into prose. In fact, you'll see a number of poems that are the same or similar stories to those that were later made into short stories.

There was also a considerable amount of experimentation, trying to imagine myself in very difficult circumstances or doing things I would never do myself. That means that, while most of my writing is a fairly good reflection on my view of the world, several poems reflect positions or viewpoints that are antithetical to my own views or beliefs. Still the exception and not the rule, but important to understand as I am not nor ever will be a vampire.

Lastly, given that I was just starting writing, my work was far more heavily influenced by authors and movies and stories than my later work. A large number of my epic poems were retelling myths or came from watching some movie (often not that good) and hating some aspect so that I had to rewrite it to suit myself. Several other poems were based on taking a line or an impression from an author I admired and putting my own story with it. But, without some explanation, it could be bewildering.

I also should provide an explanation, some sort of warning to what you are about to be subjected to: with one notable exception (a story all its own), all of my poetry is rhyme and rhythm, much of it long and of the epic variety. Also, in keeping with my influences and my tendency to think happy rhyme/rhythm poetry sounds silly and greeting card-like, most is sad if not downright maudlin. Believe me when I tell you, that's about as unsellable a set of poetry as one person could devise. If that scares you, you can stop here and I won't blame you. Some of my poetry is old, dated or concerned with issues that have fallen largely by the wayside. Even so, old-fashioned or otherwise, I also find it compelling even now, some twenty-thirty years later. There's some work I'm very proud of in here, reflections of how I think and why I feel and act the way I do. They are special to me, not only as to where I've been, but as a reflection of what mattered to me, how I've grown, and how I haven't.

Also, though rhyme/rhythm is totally out of style, this is good stuff. Good enough that, if I were born 150 years ago, I think you would have read about me in school.

Note also, 1because sound is a part of these poems, they were made to be read aloud.

If you're going forward, I hope you enjoy it.

Idealism R Us

I included this poem, written with my father in mind, in Conjuring Dreams. It is, in fact, the first thing I've written that I didn't toss (which is what happened to my earliest poetry). I wrote it when I was thirteen or fourteen. My father was something of an inspiration for it given that he was quite concerned about the Cold War and the potential for nuclear war. When I showed this poem to my father (who was not much for fiction or poetry by any stretch), he made me promise never to throw any of my work away again. And that's why there's a book of poetry here at all.

The notion is somewhat dated today. Still, I was not alone in my concerns and the daunting realization that we had the power to effectively destroy the world as we knew it. Even now, I think that the fact that destructive power we still have is something to be concerned about, though, of course, we're trying to kill our world more subtly now. The other two poems that follow are along the same lines, though without the religious aspect.

Cold Wind on the Hill

One August morning as nighttime had paled,

Fighting broke out as the peacetalkers failed

And the War had begun that no one would win.

Grieved for His children, He looked on His kin

And sent down an angel to quiet the din.

But no one would listen for he had no right

To sue them for peace when they wanted to fight,

'Til, fin'ly, repulséd, he fled in disgrace,

Quite sick to the heart for the Master he'd face

To tell of the end of the earth's human race.

Yet, though it seemed futile, God, too, had to try

To keep all those missiles from wounding the sky,

But man just ignored Him and forced His retreat,

Weeping with grief for His mankind's defeat,

And for their blind bloodlust he couldn't unseat.

So, man set his guns up, his missiles, his bombs

And sent them all out on one hot August dawn.

Then cities exploded in huge clouds of dust,

While millions were killed in this political must,

Whole nations reduced to just heat-blackened crust.

Now, on a small hill does a lone Figure stand,

With tears in His eyes and blood on His hands.

The land all is barren; the grey air is still,

Which tortures that gentle Soul, there on the hill,

As, for once in His life, God, Himself, feels a chill.

A Song for the Future

A gentle breeze blows from the sea

To stroke the golden shore,

A sloping beach of gilded sand

That children walked before—

But childish laughter's long been dead

And men walk here no more.

The deep dark sea's waves dance and play

As once the dolphin played

Who soared and sang in azure foam,

Their lovely strange ballet,

But dolphins sank their final time

And blue's now steely grey.

A snow-tipped mountain glows ice-blue,

A rugged monument,

A place where once a forest grew

And deer were resident—

But with the trees and deer now gone,

Its face looks scarred and rent.

The sunset once again glows red

And violet-pink indeed,

More wondrous than it ever was

Before the doomed decree,

More lovely than the other sky—

But no one's there to see . . .

The Shadow

There is lightness all around me,

A fairyland of light.

The sun is shining gaily

As the birds carouse in flight.

With their trilling and the sunshine

All the world seems wondrous bright,—

A clear delight—

To me, it's dark as coal.

There's a shadow on my soul.

All the flowers smell of summer

And the fields are rich and green.

All around me there are colors

That are very seldom seen.

The wind skips by me, laughing,

And its breath is warm and clean—

Its taste is keen.

To me, it's bitter cold

For the shadow's on my soul.

Somewhere it is filled with gloom

And rain pours, dark and drear.

Unclean, it comes from tainted clouds

That float in skies, once clear,

But stained with dust from cities

That had huddled once in fear—

Then, disappeared . . .

For man had lost control

On the shadow on his soul.

Ryan's Dream

Soldier Ryan had a dream

That filled his soul with pain.

His heart sang out a mindless scream

That echoed through his brain.

He walked upon a bloody beach

That he had seen before

And stepped a bloody footstep

Upon the bloody shore.

Slain comrades laid beneath him, broke:

'Twas in their blood he stepped!

Ryan all at once awoke,

Then bowed his head and wept.

Abhorréd vision, go away!

The sight made to deplore:

The squelching crimson boot that fell

Upon the bloody shore.

He vowed to save those comrades

When, the next day, they would flight.

He vowed he'd save them from the raids.

He vowed it all that night.

But his eyes just saw the scarlet sea

That made his terror soar.

He felt that bloody footstep fall

Upon the bloody shore.

The next day, he went crazy,

Fought like he had lost his mind,

And mowed down ranks of enemy,

His friends left far behind.

'Til finally, it was over;

Opposing forces were no more

And not one friend had lost his soul

Upon that silent shore.

So, now, he walks in glory

On the beach's stainéd sand

But stained by his adversity

Who stained his feet and hands.

The vanquished lay beneath him

But his heart will cry no more . . .

As he steps a bloody footstep

Upon the bloody shore.

Interesting story about the previous poem. My high school English teacher showed it to a college professor (along with several of my other poems). Both of us were rather taken aback that he missed the point of nearly every poem, reading only the surface ideas and missing what was underneath. This was notably true of this poem (Ryan's Dream) which, in case you missed it, is blatantly pacifist. The professor wrote in the margins: Why is she glorifying war? I was floored. Ironically, he also added the complaint that my poetry was too superficial. In some ways, I treasure his comments. My English teacher suggested I make the pacifism more obvious, but I chose not to. The fact that it's subtle, that the dream comes true and he doesn't even recognize it is the whole point.