Monday, March 31, 2014

But Doctor, you can't be serious!

The Monster Test
(A First of April Sonnet)

Abomination serum in a chest,
Gleaming urns of plasma, row on row,
Rubied vials of reptile genes -- I know
That I am ready for the monster test.
To synthesize and carve shall call for skill,
And vaults of courage that my heart commands;
My chemistry, designed to curse and kill
Shall bring forth nightmares into sleeping lands.

The generations of my rancid brain
Shall make the world a charnel house by night;
My legacy of acid-spewing pain
Shall scar the human species into fright.
Prepare then, for a carnival of hate!
And maybe then you'll ask me for a date.

-- Tuesday, April 1, 2014.

On the First Day of April, My True Love Sent to Me

Experimental Decadence
(A First of April Sonnet)

Reptilian and blunt, the jaws erupt
From depths within the crystal of the sphere:
By sunset, we shall all be horror-supped
And steeped within the wine of primal fear.
Experiment successful! We shall bleed,
Torn apart by talons of the beast:
The raging mutant product of our need,
Created for the carnage and the feast.

Prepare now, give the syntho-reptile room.
Unroll the carpet, soon to gleam with red --
The banner of our greeting and our doom,
For once the form emerges, we are dead.
But wait! What is this wanton trickery,
This gemlike serpent woman that we see?

-- Tuesday, April 1, 2014.

Sunday, March 23, 2014

You Sang Them All Away

Once, my love, confronting every ghost,
You sang them all away; but now the space
Of dream and daylight vision bears the trace
Of revenants, and each one, furthermost
Or intimate within this constant host,
Wears the autumnal semblance of your face,
Or mimes the cirrus movements of your grace.
Now I am left with tremors diagnosed.

When we first met, a germinating peace
Took root within my anger and despair.
It seemed that calm would overgrow the strife
Long after my dead springtime: a release.
But how can songlike burgeoning compare
With silent echoes of your afterlife?

-- Saturday, March 22, 2014.

Saturday, March 15, 2014

Uncrippled by Idolatry

My isolated roads have often crossed
The trails of steady travelers intent
Upon some vague horizon imminent
Yet always far away, and often lost
To maps and habits of those who exhaust
The well-worn sidewalks. Curious, they went
Uncrippled by idolatry, unbent
By imitative burdens -- at a cost.

Yet even as they left my pace behind
Or ventured onto hillsides where my gait
Would only slide or stumble, I remained
Impressed by what these travelers could find,
And so I did my best to celebrate
Their journeys that too often were disdained.

-- Sunday, March 16, 2014.

Friday, March 14, 2014

Dreamed in a Colder Bed

"Your story does not suit our present needs."
And I agree, it cannot suit the times;
For it was crystallized in colder climes,
Dreamed in a colder bed that supersedes
The warmth and welcome that your office heeds
As bait for any buyer. Let the chimes
Ring out for those who match the paradigms
Which I cannot encompass. (He concedes.)

For I would be the first one to declare:
I have no fond connection to this age.
Its modes are all opaque beneath my stare;
I cannot greet it with familiar flair,
Or catch its modern rhythms on the page.
I trace the furrows of my own ploughshare.

-- Friday, March 14, 2014.

Encumbered by the Noon Today

I feel encumbered by the noon today,
And no degree of winter light can pool
Within the parched, recessive vestibule
Which houses all my uncreative clay
Sufficient warmth to make the atoms play.
Am I troubled by an empire's toxic fuel?
Stupidities of corporate misrule?
By slavery and war? I cannot say.

But then I see your face, at rest upon
A pillow that the moon has made a pearl;
The candour of your gaze, the cabochon
Glimmer that you share before the dawn,
Your innocence, your love. And these unfurl
The truth of my encumbrance: you are gone.

-- Friday, March 14, 2014.

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Some New Dawn Perspective

Contradictory Sonnet 2

Nothing is old-fashioned, nothing falls.
To every work of art, to every book,
To every song or symphony, we look
Or feel or hear and heed their distant calls
Through some new dawn perspective without walls
As long as we agree to take the hook.
Then we can understand, as might a cook,
That flavours never fade if one recalls.

And how am I to stand in this regard
With my old-fashioned writing, my concern
For syntax, and for grammar, for the hard
And self-reductive trimming of the lard,
For discipline, to make the phrases earn
The slow relaxing of the reader's guard?

-- Wednesday, March 12, 2014.

For Stragglers or for Strugglers

Contradictory Sonnet 1

If I should seem old-fashioned in my style,
In craftsmanship, in tone of voice, in theme,
Forgive me, for I chase a lightning dream
That perished in the passing of a while
Not fifteen years ago. The decades file
And scurry into corners, where they gleam
A fitful moment only their extreme
And failing glimmers for the evening dial.

For me, as well, the hour has run late
And my aesthetic choices are surpassed
By writers whom the eager celebrate,
And so they should. No century need wait
For stragglers or for strugglers. Let the fast
Proclaim this living season I predate.

-- Tuesday, March 11, 2014.

The Sector of Your Self

 Depression Sonnet (Hang on for now)

The sector of your self that longs for death,
Silent for an hour, has returned,
Reliably: for every hope that burned
Away its fitful moment in a breath
Has fled from you and from the shibboleth
That casts away all freedom. What is yearned
For, what you most desire, must be spurned
By order of "the voice that punisheth."

Heed the pause, the heartbeat of this time,
The glitter of the snow, the fading frost,
The dawn's initial drops from sunlit eaves.
Hear the wind, and every crystal chime
Of icicle that shatters and is lost.
Hang on for now, until the winter leaves.

-- Tuesday, March 11, 2014.

Sunday, March 9, 2014

The Writing Process

I've been invited by M. R. Cosby to take part in a Writing Process blog chain. James Everington will be posting his comments on the same day.

I'll have more to say about these writers in just a moment; but first, here are the questions and my replies.

1) Why do I write what I do?

I write because too many details of life can slip away before we understand their importance.

Impressions pop into our heads and fade before we can touch them; dreams evaporate in the morning light; emotions rise and pass by, to leave only tremors in their wake. I write because I hate to lose these beautiful, terrifying moments, and because I feel moved by their fragility.

One example: when I was nine years old, I dreamt that I had entered the mind of a non-human creature that had just been born from nothing.  It was not much taller than a grass blade, and I could see from its perspective on the forest floor; I could feel the autumn wind, and sense the overwhelming pressure of the night. Somehow, I understood that this tiny thing was vastly more intelligent than I was, and that its limited lifespan would end long before daylight. Within just a few seconds, it came to understand more about itself and its place in the world than I would ever gain from a human lifetime, but it would die before that knowledge could be shared.

As a child, I was haunted by this dream, and many others; I wanted to share this inner life. I drew pictures of the dreams, I described them to anyone who might listen, but I learned quickly that people had no interest in the stuff that cluttered my head.

By the time I was ten years old, I was already a book addict. Stories by H. G. Wells and Clark Ashton Smith made me realize that I could use fiction to share my dreams. This would be a challenge. I wrote for years and years, I studied, I read and re-read, but I would have to wait until I was nearing thirty before I could begin to write stories that captured the mood of my dreams. In everything, I've always been a late bloomer.

2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I'd like to believe that my stories belong, in spirit if not in quality, to many traditions: Sheridan Le Fanu, M. R. James, L. P. Hartley, Walter de la Mare, J. G. Ballard in the United Kingdom; Ambrose Bierce, Clark Ashton Smith, C. L. Moore, Avram Davidson in the United States; Marcel Brion, Marcel Schwob in France; Bruno Schulz, E. T. A. Hoffmann, Michel de Ghelderode, and so on.

One minor difference is that I have no belief in the supernatural or the spiritual, and so I tell stories about mental breakdowns, hallucinations, bizarre psychological states, paranoia. The irrational.

Although I can't use ideas or imagery from other writers, I do my best to apply their methods. For example, I like to think of "Who Would Remain" as my Clark Ashton Smith, R. A. Lafferty, M. R. James, Leigh Brackett, and Ronald Firbank story, because their techniques influenced the way I thought about the writing.

To show you what I mean:

Clark Ashton Smith would maintain the steady pace of a story by having his characters notice details of setting or scenery as they moved through them; there was nothing static in his visual descriptions. Ronald Firbank would strip down his prose to give his pages energy and speed, but would then shift gear for startling moments of painful emotion. Leigh Brackett would link a specific detail of the landscape to some looming, terrible event, so that any description of this place would become a reminder, an enforcer, of that anticipated threat. M. R. James would turn the arrival of his ghosts into subjective, psychological states, by describing almost dreamlike moments of perception. R. A. Lafferty would hold a wild or plotless narrative together by using repeated phrases as guide-rails or anchors for the readers to hold onto. And so on.

The beauty of technique is that it can be applied to any kind of story, and to even the most personal material.

This comes in handy, because I base my stories on things I've seen, people and places I've known, moments of personal dread or confusion, and above all, on my dreams. I have no choice: when I invent, my stories lie there on the page, dead; when I remember, they spring to life. For that reason, the only stories I've shared are the ones based directly on my own experience. The other stories have ended up in boxes or in woodstoves. Rest in peace.

I write dream and nightmare stories; that's my genre.

Still, I chafe under these limitations, and would love to extend my writing beyond them, but I've not yet found a way to do this with any good result. When I read someone like Anton Chekhov or Katherine Mansfield, I'm astonished that they can turn the simplest, most ordinary moments of life into something heart-breaking and powerful. It's beautifully mysterious to me, but for now, beyond my reach.

3) How does my writing process work?

I write every day, and aim for at least 1200 words, but that's no guarantee that I can type anything useful. I have boxes and boxes and boxes of stories that went nowhere, that failed to live up to my hopes, that tempted me to strangle them before they left the keyboard. Yet all the same, I had to write them: it was the only way to learn.

Because my stories are based for the most part on dreams,  I find it hard to hammer them into shape, to the point where they could make sense to the reader. Sometimes a story can take years to complete. For that reason, I work on several at once; I piece them together as if they were jigsaw puzzles with missing pieces; I type notes to myself and play around with plotting. When a story begins to click into place, I give it my full attention.

Sometimes I hit a vein of good luck, and I can finish several stories in a row. For instance, I completed "The Weight of Its Awareness" and then started immediately on "The Vast Impatience of the Night." That was a wonderful month!

In most cases, I have no idea where a story will go until I finish the first draft, and so I have to spend as much if not more time on revision. I'm glad for this, because I love to clear away the scaffolding and polish the floorboards: it's quiet, relaxing fun.

I also believe that every sentence, every paragraph, should be as clear as I can make it. If someone were to say, "In your story, I don't understand why this happened," I would reply that the story is like a dream, and for that reason, mysterious. But if someone were to say, "I don't understand your sentence, here," then the failure is mine. I revise to avoid that failure.

At the same time, I revise to compress: I try to convey as much as I can in the fewest words. Yet even though I love the effect, I'm still not sure of its wisdom. How do readers respond to density on the page? I won't know until they tell me.

On the rare occasions when I know from the start how a story should end (as I did with "All Roads Lead to Winter," one of the most autobiographical things I've written and therefore the most clear in advance), I like to revise as I write: every day when I sit down to begin, I revise from the start to the point where I had stopped on the previous day, and then I keep writing. This helps to maintain the tone, and it leaves me with less work to do once I'm finished; but I rarely have the chance to do this. Instead, I have to write to discover what I'm going to write.

4) What am I working on?

Right now, I have a pile of uncompleted stories; I always do. I'll see where the dreams take them.

* * * *

Saturday, March 8, 2014

From the earthworm crushed in the muck to the lightning that wanders in the deeps of the night

Another rough approximation of a poem by Leconte de Lisle.

Once again, there was no way that I could match the power of his language; but still, I wanted to give some hint of his work to those who have not yet read it.

Solvet Saeclum
by Leconte de Lisle.

You shall fall silent, O sinister voice of the living!

Furious blasphemies driven by the winds, cries of terror, cries of hatred, cries of rage, frightful clamour of the eternal shipwreck, torments, crimes, remorse, desperate sobs, spirit and flesh of man, one day you shall be silent!

All shall be silent, gods, kings, convicts and vile crowds, the hoarse roar of prisons and cities, the beasts of the forests, the mountains and sea, everything that flies and leaps and creeps in this hell, everything that trembles and flees, everything that kills and eats, from the earthworm crushed in the muck to the lightning that wanders in the deeps of the night! Nature, in a single instant, shall cut short its noises.

And there shall be nothing under magnificent skies: no happiness won back from ancient paradise, no Adam nor Eve to maintain the flowers, no divine sleep after so much pain; this will be when the Globe and all of its inhabitants, a sterile block torn from its vast orbit, stupid, blind, filled with a final howl, heavier, more headlong every moment, shall hurl its ancient, wretched crust against a stationary universe, and pouring out from a thousand gaping holes its oceans and interior fire, it shall fertilize with its vile remains the furrows of space where the worlds ferment.

Solvet seclum

Tu te tairas, ô voix sinistre des vivants!

Blasphèmes furieux qui roulez par les vents,
Cris d'épouvante, cris de haine, cris de rage,
Effroyables clameurs de l'éternel naufrage,
Tourments, crimes, remords, sanglots désespérés,
Esprit et chair de l'homme, un jour vous vous tairez !
Tout se taira, dieux, rois, forçats et foules viles,
Le rauque grondement des bagnes et des villes,
Les bêtes des forêts, des monts et de la mer,
Ce qui vole et bondit et rampe en cet enfer,
Tout ce qui tremble et fuit, tout ce qui tue et mange,
Depuis le ver de terre écrasé dans la fange
Jusqu'à la foudre errant dans l'épaisseur des nuits!
D'un seul coup la nature interrompra ses bruits.
Et ce ne sera point, sous les cieux magnifiques,
Le bonheur reconquis des paradis antiques,
Ni l'entretien d'Adam et d'Eve sur les fleurs,
Ni le divin sommeil après tant de douleurs;
Ce sera quand le Globe et tout ce qui l'habite,
Bloc stérile arraché de son immense orbite,
Stupide, aveugle, plein d'un dernier hurlement,
Plus lourd, plus éperdu de moment en moment,
Contre quelque univers immobile en sa force
Défoncera sa vieille et misérable écorce,
Et, laissant ruisseler, par mille trous béants,
Sa flamme intérieure avec ses océans,
Ira fertiliser de ses restes immondes
Les sillons de l'espace où fermentent les mondes.

There before the errant moon

For the past year, I've been fascinated by the work of Leconte de Lisle, to the point where I've wanted to offer translations for people who have not yet read his poetry.

I felt it was best to offer prose translations; there was no way that I could match his rhythms without sacrificing the beauty and power of his language, and so I had to fall back upon the roughest of rough approximations.

At any rate, here we go.