writing

why i write every day: Part II

there is a pain that comes

with expression. A peculiar

suffering to utter yourself

into existence. To exist. To

cut a little part of who you

are and to let it be. It’s a

tranquil river flowing with

tiny fish, and occasionally,

the fish crash and die. And you die

with them.

.

I write every day because

I am afraid of dying when it’s noisy.

There’s a hidden presence,

somewhere I cannot see.

I’ve tried talking to it but

it doesn’t respond. I am afraid of

failure. Of being a failure. I write

every day because if I do not then

I will be a failure and the wind

chimes will sing underwater. The air

will grow thick with a starving muse. The

Starry Night will twist and turn

in agony with each brush stroke.

.

I do not write because I want to.

Sometimes, I look outside my window

and I just stare. There is much to be said…

Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror

and I just stare. Sometimes, I just stare.

I take my time. Every word I write is a

warm-worn slipper, after all.

.

there is nothing to be said here.

Just read. Listen to the silence,

and once you hear it, start writing.

notebooks

2:23 on a Saturday, thinking

of salted sea biscuits, Sunset Drive,

and stapling my eyelids. Poetic repetition.

I write something, smear it. I look at the

half-torn aluminum foil on my window,

and then I write something again. I brush

my teeth before going to sleep.

.

there were talks of Pablo Neruda and

a stern-looking Baudelaire fellow. I

wrote down, this was years ago, to write

more. To run more and to forgive

[redacted]. There were talks of the

Consciousness of Morality and the

awakening of a dormant unconscious.

.

I had a little paper in my wallet for a while,

a relentless reminder. Peering.

When [redacted] had cancer I did not write.

.

the stacks of notebooks have a life of

their own. Flesh and meticulous soul.

Uniquely similar. A poor man’s silver

tongue, alas, beggars are not choosers.

When I die they shall live.

.

Ethereal Aurora Borealis.

I HUFF and PUFF, and I SHOUT,

you EGG! And it replies you need

to look closer.

colored clay

lime plastic chairs,

and a rough woolen carpet.

In the corner is a tent, filled

with colorful balls and dolls

of sloths and accountants.

.

worlds were molded in

cotton candy daydreams. When

someone entered the room, they

always watched for a moment

before leaving and slowly

closing the door.

.

I once had John Cena catapult

himself off a flying dragon to wrestle

Pikachu. I also made a table.

It was difficult to remove colored

clay from under my fingernails. So

I kept it.

.

my friend once told me,

when we were on the bus,

that he liked what I had made.

With colored clay.

.

an orchestra of imagination resides

in the green forest where time

stands still. On the golden shore with

slow, passing waves. Sitting on

the retro orange couches found

in solitary cabins.

.

coincidences are written,

and everything is a metaphor.

.

colored clay is why I write.

The Passage to the New World.

this is not sm punk this is shimos


this month.

I’ve been writing daily to myself. Starting today, I will be posting whatever I write here on the blog. They’re unpolished works, so that’s why I have elected in the past to keep them to myself. However, after some thought, I’ve decided to publish them. This is my blog, after all, so why not publish the rough edges of my consciousness?

I’m writing differently. I used to write in an effort to use “flowery” language. This means that I would try to go out of my way to make the things that I write sound fancy. This is not bad, per se, but that’s not how I’m writing now. Poetry presents itself as fancy, but it can be many things.

What I’m writing now is much more raw. It’s just a stream of my consciousness. It’s unpolished, but it’s me. It’s my thoughts, straight from pen to paper to webpage. These will not be daily magnum opuses, but I hope you enjoy them. I’m not sure if I should call them poems or just ramblings, but I’ll try to write them as poems for now. However, I will be posting them under “Thoughts.”

This will go on every day for this month.

All the best, from me to you.

The Ode Less Travelled by Stephen Fry: A Discussion And An Update

*In supplement with light readings from The Discovery of Poetry by Frances Mayes and Making Your Days by Kenneth Koch. I urge my readers to read this excerpt with intent and self-reflection.

The Ode Less Travelled is an introduction to poetry written from the viewpoint of Stephen Fry, an English comedian. Why on earth is a comedian writing a poetry handbook? I don’t know, but his book is an absolutely fantastic introduction to the ins and outs of poetry. He was able to communicate concepts that are not easily digestible in a clear, efficient, and pretty humorous manner. The light readings that I have done only supplemented the ideas present in The Ode Less Travelled, and in terms of introductions, they might be heavier reads as compared to Stephen’s book as they were written much more formally. If anyone is looking for an introduction to the meters, rhyming structures, forms, and other facets of poetry, I highly recommend the Ode Less Travelled.

There is a certain appreciation for the written word by these authors. Of course, if one attempts to write a book about poetry, they surely must have some sort of appreciation, or else their words would simply fall flat. That’s the thing about these poets, including Stephen Fry who is a poet in his spare time: they see the world differently. Their eyes are sharply directed at extracting their daily experiences and feelings and converting them into some written form of art. Art in one of its highest form, I might say. Art unparalleled in its nature, with an ability to truly move the soul to those willing to accept it. I think it’s just absolutely beautiful. These people literally see the world differently. They do not experience the world with passing thoughts, no, they cannot afford to do so! Every thought is savored, its root explored and the feelings it stirs recorded in the poet’s mind. These writers, they live for their craft. They live and breathe their craft. It’s their honor, their calling, to take up a pencil and start writing. Drafting. Editing. Publishing. They rejoice in rejections, and rejoice when their work is accepted. This is a lifelong game of of storytelling, with millions of unique voices all sitting around the campfire. These writers, they write with a certain type of language. One of high awareness and appreciation for their lives. An appreciation for the good sunny days and the bad rainy ones. An appreciation of life’s all-encompassing nature as we are guided towards our own Illuminating Paths. Such is the mind of an artist. These writers, they’re wholeheartedly reveling in reverie.

All this discussion invites a natural question: why am I reading these books in the first place? Why, yes, that’s a great question, and I am still searching for a precise answer. Firstly, before attempting at any new venture, it is wise to build a strong foundation within this specific venture or trade. Prior to these readings, I had no base in the teachings of poetry except for school’s tedious poetry analysis methods, which made me shy away from poetry because of how pretentious I believed it to be. No, poetry is not read only to realize that it uses this form or that, or that it means this or that, and then neglected. The poem needs to sit a bit longer, linger on the mind, to be engaged with in deep thought. That is how one truly tastes the full range of flavors provided by a new poem, while unfortunately, the school’s way of reading only leaves a bland taste. Now, through these readings, I have read about a bajillion forms and rules and meters, and I do not have them all mentally memorized, but I have practiced these teachings through exercises. I have also written down a summary of The Ode Less Travelled within my green notebook of the basics that I need to know about poetry. A foundation has been built, and is being currently supplemented by readings of poetry collections as well to gain a higher understanding and appreciation for the art of poetry. The question remains unanswered: why am I reading these books? The simple answer is for the love of the craft. For the passion that possesses me for this sublime art. This question, although, invites even more questions. What is the end goal? Am I thinking of publication? Why even publish? Is it important to do so? Is it for money? Recognition? All these things have to be considered, and the craft must remain at the forefront of the vision. A plan is surely needed for a long-term vision, or else a goal is not set and not worked towards, but there is one thing that I find myself clearly exhibiting from these questions: I love this craft, and I do want to lift my pencil and write down my stories.

Naturally, next in line is the writing. The honing of the craft in a lifelong manner. Simply having the will to write is not enough, and it will never be. Immense discipline is required, as that may be the deciding factor that separates an artist from Crazy Uncle Abdullah down the street who can sometimes draw a perfect leaf (see “Leaf by Niggle” by J. R. R. Tolkien for an insightful short story on discipline). So, I realize what I have to do. I cannot await inspiration, or “feeling ready” (whatever that means), or when I have free time (we know how that is probably going to work out). I simply have to write. Write, write, write. Just get up and write. Inspiration does not come along unless I call upon my muse, as I was able to do for the poems on this blog. Many of my writings only came to me when I actually started my attempts at writing, and not beforehand. This principle can be applied to anything one wants to work on, of course. Picasso was not globally recognized because he only painted when he felt inspired, but because he practiced every single day. Consistency is key. Now, another idea: to stand out, one has to be different, and thankfully, we’re all born different. To bring that “different” element out, though, is also immensely difficult. To find your voice as an artist is your lifelong calling, as it is the only factor that will separate your work from others. To find your voice, discipline is required, as is consistency. Write, write write. Find your voice and let the world hear it. Listen to it. See how everything is connected? It’s a simple job to connect the dots once everything is laid out. All this, however, requires deep self-reflection for any aspiring artist, and to push this further, for any aspiring individual.

Taking the first step carries with it an element of natural fear. Yes, the unknown can be a terrifying venture. But here’s the thing: to chase after something that one has never chased after before, one has to do something that one has never done before. It’s a simple concept. A simple principle. The first step has never been easy, but that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t take it. The mere fact that it scares us is only more reason to take it. New experiences only await those who are willing to take that first step, and now is the time for me to take mine. It is time to now write for venues outside of this blog, if only for the love of the craft. Write, write, write. With these books read and dusted, the time for me to take that first step has finally cometh.

I thank the fellow authors mentioned above for their literary contributions and for sparking this discussion. I thank you all sincerely for reading.

As part of my writing, here is a short exercise draft that I wrote yesterday, practicing iambic pentameter and trochaic substitutions, as well as playing around with rhymes (all found within The Ode Less Travelled). I tried placing myself in the feet of a sixteenth century European player of the lute. The road ahead is a long one indeed:

The Lute

Thy sweet sprucy caramel allures glamour
Wandering eyes in awe of elegance
Enchanted by thy silky eminence
Patterned by working hands in reverence

Thy tunes and melodies deep into the night
Awaken dreams of melancholy far
Profound than rainy streets and faint cigars
Awaken dreams of beautiful joy and glee
Lilacs and violets and a kiss from thee
Great Lute! Play my heart strings and verse recite!

Why Even Write?

Have you ever stopped to think about why you have the hobbies that you do? why there is a certain sense of passion for certain hobbies? well, I’m not even sure why I write, but I feel like over time it has developed to become an interest of mine. Why so? I have no idea. Why do you paint? play an instrument? engage in photography? so that’s the question I’ve been asking myself lately: why do I even write? and here is what I found after some contemplation:

It’s a creative outlet. I can create literally whatever I want through writing, and that’s the beauty of it. The possibilities are endless, which might present difficulty choosing a subject at times, but it’s far more exciting than scary. Navigating my subjects, with thousands of words at my disposal, is where I find fun in writing. Similarly, other hobbies present the same enjoyment. If you enjoy painting, well, you can paint literally anything as well. I feel like in the midst of our boring routines, whether we’re going through school or a job, allowing ourselves to be creative breathes life into us again. We break away from being on auto-pilot and we indulge in activities that give us personal value and delight.

Other than writing here, I used to have a journal where I just wrote about my personal experiences and the lessons I learned from them. It helped me improve my writing through sheer practice, but more importantly, it allowed me to process whatever lesson it is I learned more clearly. Writing can be therapeutic at times, and if something happens in the world around me and I’m affected by it, I will most likely write my personal take on the matter right here. Putting thoughts down to paper (well, to a web page in this case) is more helpful that you might expect.

Finally, In essence, I feel like the primary purpose behind rekindling the fire I have for writing is because I can sense that there is more to it. Ok, allow me to elaborate. I know I love writing, and I know that I have a passion for it, so why don’t I push it further? What if, instead of being simply a hobby, I can make something more out of it? What that “more” exactly is undecided yet, but with time, it will be found. I’ve posted poems here and there, and the reactions I’ve gotten seem to be positive. I’ve tried writing a short story for the first time during this vacation, and I can see that I have a huge room for improvement. This won’t be an easy endeavor by any means, but since when has easy given me anything of value? It’s a new challenge, one that’s probably going to take an unholy amount of time, but I welcome it with open arms. There’s something of value in writing, and I aim to find it.

So, why even write? because I simply want to.

Yours,

Nasser

Note: Again, a HUGE thank you for anyone who reads through this blog. I value your time deeply, and you have my gratitude for taking some of it out of your day to read through an excerpt.