Yo what’s up! It’s been a bit, so here’s my newest piece of poetry titled “The Cry of the Weatherman:”
Poetry: “The Cry of the Weatherman”
writing
“Two Strangers” – A POEM
Hey, coming at ya with some freshly made poetree. More surreal and metaphorical than most of my other poems (wait I take that back, all of them are already super metaphorical I think). But definitely more dream-like and intangible. With an interesting ABAC rhyme scheme, where only two of the four lines rhyme. Perhaps that does something in the way of propagating the story content of the poem, where there’s organization and reason to events, but at the same time, an ungraspable abstraction.
Yes, the structure of a poem can portray something about the conceptual, the ideas being expressed within writing, sometimes:
Sneak Peak: “The Cashier” – a short story
One of my more recently completed short stories, aptly titled “The Cashier,” is now on Amazon as an eBook – this merits an explanation, does it not? Explanations to questions such as “what is this short story about?” and “is it worth the $0.99?” and even more rude questions like “and I care because…?”
So I thought I’d share a few things about it. “The Cashier” materialized into existence as I sat on my couch in my dorm room, a blank Google Doc open on my laptop, my brain on high speed due to the energy drink I’d recently ingested. Never underestimate the power of a good energy drink over your creative juices. The only thing you should be estimating, for that matter, is the ingredient label. Make sure it’s healthy, not sweetened with sucralose, or even cane sugar, but rather a natural blend of something like stevia, monk fruit extract, and the like.
That is neither here nor there.
All that to say, I stared at my blank screen and searched for context to begin my first sentence. Given that this was a spontaneous short story, I had not formulated a detailed outline, character study, or plot arch. Usually, in these scenarios, I start a random sentence and let that decide the direction the rest of the story is headed. This was no different.
Preview it here:
I used to bus tables at a restaurant before college, so I decided to write about a character who worked at a pizza place. Instead of bussing tables, of course, he would be selling pizzas at his cash register. The common theme here was “customer service,” which I decided I would write about. So I began:
Continue readingVarious Forms of Poetry
When we think of a poem, no doubt there is one specific poem stereotype that surfaces in our mind. Perhaps Louis-Stevenson’s “whose woods are these, I think I know,” or the over-used “roses are red, violets are blue,” or something of the sort. Some may think poetry is merely any combination of rhyming words.
Oh, but poetry can take on an infinite array of formations. Oxford Languages put it well, defining poetry as a “literary work in which special intensity is given to the expression of feelings and ideas by the use of distinctive style and rhythm.” No mention of rhyming, or repeating patterns, or certain number of syllables. A poem is a poem for its expression of feelings and ideas in which there is marked style and rhythm. What that style and rhythm you use, as the poet, it completely up to you.
Continue reading“Island in a Water” – POETREE
“Island in a Water“
by Michael Metzler Jr.
Behind my house, on the other Side of my garden, There’s a hill, and through this hill There is a burrow, that leads to a Different somewhere. I’m not certain Where this certain somewhere is, But it’s a place I like to go When the sky clams up And the stars in outer space Run away, I think. Down through my garden, Passing rows of cauliflower, Escorted by the bees As they make their way from Tree to tree. Entering the tunnel, where the Darkness comes to greet me And I leave behind my garden And my rows of apple trees. The musty dampened clamor Of the millions in the city Square, pummeling each other With their tongues, this Noise. Tries to reach me through the tunnel But my tunnel doesn’t care. Silence. It’s then I sit on an island in a water My reflection looking back Into my soul. And I become still. Stiller than the water that I’m sitting on. No one else knows of my Tunnel, or my Island on the water, If they did, then I am sure It would not be there Anymore.
the end
Poetree: Overcoming “Writer’s Orb”
For weeks I was stuck inside a writer’s orb. Commonly mistaken as a “writer’s block,” this writer’s orb was even more discomfiting. It was round – it was all around me. Whereas a writer’s block has distinct edges and sides marking the lines between your boundless creativity and a lack thereof, a writer’s orb is hard to distinguish most of the time, and harder to solve. Defining the circumference of its constraints in an attempt to solve mental confabulation is a tedious and uncertain venture.
Writers tend to overcomplicate most writer’s blocks (or orbs, in my case). They sit upon the same old blank paper and think the same old blank thoughts. Breaking free from writers block, as in this case, is sometimes as simple as reading the works of other authors. For me, as I sat down to write about a rose (this was as far as I’d planned), I decided on a whim to emulate the rhyme scheme of Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” For those unaquainted with this classic poem, let me share the beginning:
Whose woods these are I think I know.
– “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
To make a short story shorter, I was intrigued by the rhyme scheme, having, myself, rarely executed an AABA rhyme scheme, so I created one about a rose. Yeah, yeah, there’s a lot of deeper meaning to it, and the rose is just a symbol, and there’s a ton of metaphor, blah blah blah. Don’t worry about all that. Here it is:
What beckons me from endless sleep, When I am caught in slumber deep? What power summons me awake, When soft away doth silence creep? What orphic spell around me flows, Enfolds my being from head to toe? What substance had my transient doom, That, back to it, I’d ever go? When clutcheth, I, this thorn-lined stem The lights shine bright that were once dim, The sun says “night be ever gone,” As it jumps ‘round horizon’s rim. Somehow this rose so strange and red Appeared to me while I, in bed, Dreamed of it in another world At once did cease that pang of dread. When picketh, I, that flower bright, For soft and lov’ly was this sight, It’s thorn did prick, my finger bled My mind spun fast, from left to right. I woke up in a pale haze A temporal and well-lit daze, A moon that I had never seen Held fast my non-expiring gaze.
That’s it for now! As always, thanks again for stopping by, and be sure to check out my previous post!
Michael Metzler Jr. 