IT WASN’T THE WORST THING

J. B. Drori

I squinted at the spires of sky-high forests of

cement-buildings piercing clouds, blocking the sun,

its beams searching for its ancient trees

in streets,  avenues, yards and parks.

Thousands of life-less eyes, quadrangular glass windows,

peer down on a throng of harried street-walkers bearing down.

I was propelled forward against a sullen red-eyed hulk and tightened my grip on my teen sister’s hand, hanging on.

That wasn’t the worst thing.

Countless automobiles, horns blaring, tires screeching,

careen up and down congested streets,

narrowly miss pedestrians or each other,

raising the noise to hypertensive levels.

I was staring at the most renowned city in the world,

wishing to be in my recent small town of Tel Aviv,

where people, horses and wagons, outnumber cars,

except, of course, for the occasional camel.

Nor was this the worst thing.

Page 2

Crowds of walkers, eyes dead ahead, hurried on,

as if their life and fortune were at stake.

No street, alley, avenue, sidewalk, or road

was devoid of the heaving, talking, driven man.

Always speaking, some gesticulated, few shouted or whispered.

Now and then I saw one or two leaning against a gray building,  eyeing the hordes as if monitoring entrants to paradise.

So much talking?   And all in a strange tongue?

That too wasn’t the worst thing.

Then came my first school day in Detroit.

I was standing in front of a blackboard,

before a class of children, younger than my age  of nine,

watching them gawk and laugh at me.

They whispered and jeered, pointing fingers,

and I comprehending not a word.

That was the worst thing.

I felt myself shrink down to a sparrow

and flit out an open window.

END

Page 3

THE LONGING

J. B.  Drori

A pale moonbeam,

straying in through my window,

muted the hum of darkness

and landed on my slumbering eyelids.

Lured by its silver light,

I followed it outside,

to the far side of my garden,

to a mount by a large pond.

Half the sky was aglow,

reflected in a pine forest on the slope

of a near mountain,

scintillating in the lunar light.

I gazed at the full moon

and sank to my knees,

jolted by two dark eyes

and a black line beneath.

“My God, is that you, Mother?”

Trembling, I lowered my head

and cried out, “ I roam the earth,

Searching for you.”

Page  4

A cloud darkened the moon,

An owl hooted in the distance.

I rose to my feet and shook my fists

at heaven, yelling my heart out.

“Why?  Why were you taken

before I got to know your face?

How am I to know who I am, Mama?”

But the moon was still dark.

The hum of darkness returned to my room

when I slid into my bed.  I shut my eyes

to muffle my voice of yearning.

A soft, caressing whisper sounded in my ear.

“Wake up, old man, wake up.

Or your nightmare will kill you.”

END

A Hymn

by  J. B. Drori

America.  America.

Glory.  Glory.

Higher than your mountains,

Greater than your oceans,

Is your innate nobility-

Your birthright,

Not taken or bestowed.

Masterful is your claim

Where every citizen is

His or her own sovereign.

A nation of kings dedicated

To rule for the common good.

Eternal be this truth for you

\                                              But not for all people everywhere?

Thus, despite the burden of your blemishes,

Or perhaps because of them,

You heeded the cry of your brothers and sisters

Reverberating around the globe.

And dispatched the flower of your youth

To deliver the people from their tyrants.

You opened your treasury to rebuild

Their homelands, burying your heroes in foreign soil.

Should you inquire, “Has any nation ever

Expressed gratitude for your offering of  liberty?

Do they commemorate

The day of their emancipation?

Do they remember?”

Ask the Jews.

They know.

Care to learn if any of the nations of the world

Ever thanked the Children of Israel for their

Gift of Ethical Monotheism?

Ask and you will hear a resounding silence,

A death knell of marching ghosts.

But mark this on marble pillars of your public halls.

A day will come – because of you – America,

When the nations of the world will see the light

And claim their birthright of liberty

For all of mankind everywhere.

America.   America.

Blessed are you among the nations.

Halleluyah.  Halleluyah.

Selah.

END

Blog – 1/12/11

Copyright -© J. B. Drori – 2011

JBDrori@comcast.net

THE ENIGMA OF IT ALL

J, B. Drori

After the beginning, the Lord God

Formed the Garden of Eden,

Created Adam – man, and Eve – woman,

And placed them there.

“This is your Paradise,” God said.

“You will want for nothing.

You will live long and happily

As long as you obey my every word.”

“You may eat of all that grows in the garden

Save for the fruit of the tree of life

And the tree of total knowledge.

Both trees thrive in the center of the garden.”

“Remember!  Do not eat of the forbidden fruit.

Don’t venture there.

Do not be tempted.”

And the Lord God vanished in a whirlwind.

Silence descended on the garden.

Nothing stirred.

Adam and Eve rose from their knees.

“Where, did God say?”  Eve asked.

“In the center of the garden.

But do not go there.  It is forbidden.”

“So why did God tell us?” Eve asked.

——–

And that is how our Paradise began.

_________

Oh, the Enigma of it all.

Blog – 11/29/10

Copyright  © J. B. Drori- 2010

JBDrori@ Comcast.net

To  STEVEN HOLTZ

NOVEMBER  29, 2010

J. B. Drori

Most cannot claim

The month of November

For their own.

Fewer could speak

Of  its twenty-ninth day

With pomp and authority.

Still fewer would

Hoist their banner

Conjointly with others.

And how many could charge

The world to also mark the birth

Of a new/old nation – Yisrael – on that day?

Therefore, I say to you,

Fellow Sagittarius,

Aim your arrow true and high,

For the target is always

Beyond our vision,

And forever shrouded in illusion.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

Jack -

11/29^ther

End

Copyright – © – 2010 -  J. B. Drori

 JBDrori@Comcast.net

 ADAGIO

 J. B. Drori

Twilight arrived in the forest on tiptoes.

It peeked through maple branches

and unreeled autumnal shadows.

Fluttering gold and crimson leaves

floated softly to the patient ground.

A tawny cougar, green eyes flashing,

wended unhurriedly among broken twigs.

It emerged from the tall grass

by the edge of the wood on the hill,

its black snout, sniffing.

In slow measured feline beat,

it curled its serpentine tail into a brush-tip,

lithely stepped on the sandy slope,

and headed for the harp-shaped pond,

throwing me at the shoreline a side glance.

It scanned the beach intently,

lapped up gulps of pristine water,

droplets raining down its jowls,

turned and climbed up the incline,

disappearing among the trees.

 I nestled in the soft sand,

basking in the warmth of mother earth,

and gazed up at the first stars, low in the eastern sky.

The stillness deepened, the light faded.

A loon’s plaintiff call echoed from the distant shore.

Nothing stirred.

Primal tranquility suffused me -

a moment of eternity -

An ineffable transcendence

                                                                     Time paused…

End

Know Way 

Copyright  ©  Peter C. Hjersman  2010 

          Right behind our ranch, the hills grew into the mountains.  The ranch cuddled the start of the hills, just edging the wilds.  Sometimes a cougar or fox would come after the animals and we’d rush out in the sleep of the night to see what the commotion was about.  Once everything was settled, I’d stand outside and watch the night.  Those stars were a nightly sight, so clear they stood, no reason to hide and nothing hiding them.  The breeze through the leaves, the trees standing in the silence.  Well, this would sort of settle in, the stars, the trees and me.  No matter what happened, I’d head back to bed and sleep like a bunk – still, sound and solid. 

          Sometimes, I had to get off by myself.  To get away from all them chores that ate the day away, from pre-dawn to post-dusk.  I’d pack my sleeping bag, a canteen and my knife.  That’s all I needed.  An-thing else I found in the woods.  Now, my knife.  It was stone-strap sharp.  I’d work it in my spare time, when we’d sit and chat.  It was sharp enough to cut a horse hair in two, from end…to…end.  I never knew when I might need a knife during ever day chores.  Maybe a horse’d get tangled in a rope and start to choke.  If the rope were cut faster than a mind can think, the horse would live.  Out in the mountains, a close knife was a sharp friend. 

          So I grabbed my bedroll and headed for the forest.  Among the trees, I could hear the earth, feel the woods, and sense ma-self with the forest and them mountains.  If I got hungry, there’d be nuts and fruit.  Sometimes I’d catch a rabbit.  Or…when I came ‘cross a stream, a trout may be waiting.  I would ease down, slowly edge up to the water, settle on the bank, slower than a calm heartbeat, reach down into the water and wait–without moving–and let a fish swim into my hand.  Gently, I would close my hand, and catch the fish.  The bears taught me. 

          Sitting by the stream and letting the day go by, watching the birds play and eat, see the leaves fall into the water, the animals coming to drink.  No rush.  Just being there reminded me of being part of this place.  I’m no more special than the mountains or any part of it.  We breathe the same air and drink the same water, the birds, the trees, and me.  

     One day, I sat next to this river and waited for the trout to swim into my hand.  I could feel it slowly nestle into my fingers, hesitate a few seconds, and then ease into my palm.  My fingers swift nicked into the gills and tossed it out.  I held this beautiful fish and stood there ‘miring it, its shimmering elegance in ma hand.  And thinking how good it would taste.  Then…I was not alone. 

          Slowly, slowly, I turned my head and looked up – was it a man, a bear, or…?  I saw a lean, mean hungry wolf a-gazing at me.  He was so close I could count the whiskers bristling on his chin.  Now I stayed more still than the stones under my boots and looked at that critter staring at me rock hard.  He was sizing me up.  I saw his ribs.  His eyes were still–yet very alive.  Those eyes, those unrelenting steel eyes were standing firm – he knew no backing down – they was telling a story faster than his motionless an-tic-i-pa-tion would lead one to believe.  His stomach was sore hurting but still had his strength.  He was hungry, desperate, and willing to take a risk.  We stood there, eye-to-eye.  Did he want the fish or me or did it matter?  Most likely, he would settle for the easiest food.  But even so, as we stared into each other’s eyes, my right hand moved from the fish and slower than a summer breeze through the trees, to my knife. 

          The longer he looked at me and dint show no sign of leaving, I started to get angry.  This is my catch.  I spent years learning how to catch fish.  What right does this wild beast have to take my food?  I spent some hungry nights ’til I learned the way. 

          The way – his eyes disregarded my anger and threw his own at me – the way.  What was I doing in the forest anyway?  Was it to prove something?  No gun, no four-wheel drive, no beer, no buddies with me.  Why was I staring into the eyes of a hungry wolf? 

          Then I started thinking: this place is nat-shul.  The wolf is natural and so is his hunger.  If I give him the fish, then all is as it should be.  His stomach will sing and so will the forest.  If I kill the wolf, this ain’t natural and not necessary.  The wolf dies, the forest cries, and I cain’t come back.  Slowly, I put the fish down and more slowly backed away.  He edged forward, paw after paw, shoulders down, watching me, grabbed the fish, and disappeared faster than I could let out a breath.  I put the knife back, and sat to watch the river for a while. 

          Back to the stream, I put my hand into the flowing water and the biggest, finest trout swam right into my hand.      

Strand District; London, England October 31, 1605

Copyright © William Stong 2010

Europe, England, London were in the throes of bitter strife that pitted the Spanish Empire and the Holy Roman Catholic Church against England and the Church of England. The struggle had been going on since 1525 (when Henry VIII wanted a different wive and the Holy See wasn’t about to accommodate him). After Henry VIII, Queen Mary married King Philip II of Spain and the future of Catholicism and the Spanish Empire looked bright indeed. Except Queen Mary’s harshness exacerbated the fight…and she died heir-less. Queen Elizabeth I ascended the throne of England. She was dedicated to keeping England free. This did not sit well with the Spanish Empire and Catholicism.

Intrigue pervaded every nook and cranny of England and London. In Regnans in Excelsis of 1570, the Papal See excommunicated the Queen and stated that the people were not obligated to follow the orders of a heretic. Ordinary Catholics liked this bull but European royalty, including the Spanish, weren’t enamored with the “so, subjects, you don’t have to listen to your sovereign” message.

Plots and more plots were discovered. Torture was an accepted interrogation technique. Leaders were tried and, when found guilty, publicly executed. These executions weren’t delicate. Beheading was the norm, followed by disembowelment—in that order for the lucky. Done in the reverse order when a political point needed to be made. Executions provided Londoners with spectacles for all; bringing either anguish or enjoyment. Suspicion permeated the fabric of English life.

England was also at the beginning of a dynastic change. The Tudor line had ended with Elizabeth I in 1603. The Stuart line had begun with James I. Gone were Elizabeth’s prudent fiscal habits. James I overturned his predecessor’s miserly approach and embraced a style more in keeping with a royal household. Elizabeth’s supporters and state infrastructure were being replaced with James’.

Despite all this strife and change, England was at the center of a stellar burst of creativity. Theaters abounded with shows from the likes of William Shakespeare. Theaters such as the Swan and the Globe sprang up near the banks of the Thames.

Swirling amidst all this, mingling with the throngs of people, seeping through the alleys of London, the forces of Catholicism and the protectors of England fought a deadly game of cat and mouse…

Strand District, London                     England

October 31, 1605

***

The wind wasn’t strong, a breeze really, but it was steady and from the north. Coming off the Thames, it chilled everything. It seeped through the tiniest cracks. The cold night had many stoking fires to stay warm: especially since so much heat was going to flee out the doors when trick-or-treaters came calling. James’ nostrils flared as he breathed in deeply. The night air was rich with coal and wood smoke.

He watched the evening crowds mill through the streets.  Alehouses and pubs were doing well tonight. Although he hadn’t paid much attention to the new fad of dressing up in strange costumes on All Hallow’s Eve, he had to admit it was a God-send tonight. All day he had been tailing different gentlemen. Each a suspected conspirator. He traded off with other agents so the prey wouldn’t recognize a face seen once too often. Around midday, he had slipped into a passing carriage and met briefly with Robert Cecil. The royal dynastic change, from Tudor Elizabeth to Stuart James, was happening much more smoothly than anyone could have dared hope, primarily because of the masterful skill of Cecil. Still, the country was ripe for trouble. James was convinced that the time was near for another conspiracy to strike. The clues were there. But he still had neither rock-solid proof, nor the identities of all the traitors. Cecil told him not to worry overmuch about the proof. That could be found. Nevertheless, James convinced Cecil of the vital importance of unmasking and capturing as many of the conspirators as possible. Any traitor missed would fade into the sewers of London like the rats. To bite in the future. England, and especially the new king, James I, could not afford more unknown assassins moving among the throngs.

Cecil had chuckled in the back of the carriage after James told him of the plan for the night. Glancing around the square, James smiled as he remembered Cecil’s rare chuckle. Everybody in the square knew he was there. But nobody was studying him. No one was trying to figure out whether he was a threat. His sudden smile was easy to miss. For James, London’s costume fad was a bona fide miracle.  He was standing in the open at the edge of a small plaza in the middle of the Strand district on one of the busiest nights of the year.  His mark, Robert Catesby, was on the other side chatting with two probable conspirators.  James didn’t make any attempt to hide. No concealment, no ducking into shadows. Indeed, people sauntered up to him, pointed him out to their friends and roared with laughter. The first couple of times this had happened, Robert and his two friends, Thomas Winter and John Wright glanced up. James had seen the brief squinting eyes and the ghosts of lips curling, before a hard calm returned to the men’s faces. Now, the small group ignored him and the attention he was attracting. Wouldn’t look his way, no matter what ruckus party-goers raised.

James was dressed as the Pope. His tall pontiff hat was cleaved in half by an ax–and the handle tangled out of the top of his head. Pig’s blood had been poured over his head. Gruesome red dribbled down his face and drenched the front of his white robes. Followers of the Church of England thought his costume was hilarious. English Catholics ignored the blasphemy. Protestants bellowed their approval. Adherents to the Holy Roman Church hide their disgust.

James hoped the sacrilege would incite the conspirators to accelerate their plans. This current game had gone on long enough. It was time to end it. Taunt them into acting faster; cause them to make a mistake. Draw them out before they were ready. Before they actually hurt anybody.

His costume pleased James. He could stand in the middle of the square, in plain sight, within a few yards of the conspirators, and not be seen. James shook hands with several revelers as three new people, two men and a woman, joined Catesby.  James traded jokes with the loud people in front of him, but his eyes narrowed as he recognized the tall one: Guy Fawkes. The other man was probably Thomas Percy. The woman was Anne Vaux.

A drunk shook hands with the ax handle. James took the man’s wrist, his thumb digging in. A sharp twist. Hot, garlic breath shot out of the sod’s mouth, proving the man wasn’t drunk enough to be oblivious to pain. He groaned and backed away. James smiled and waved goodbye to his admirers as they drifted away laughing, a women chiding the man as he rubbed his wrist.

James wandered around the plaza, generating laughter and interest. His eyes flicked to Catesby’s group from time to time. One more man joined: Keyes. James settled his rear on the lip of the center fountain. He smiled grimly. Tonight was an important one. There could only by one reason so many of the conspirators would risk getting together: time to strike.

Catesby jerked his head to the side. The group moved. They went a few steps, then like a school of Thames minnows, flowed into one of the streets leading away from the plaza.

James pushed off the stone edge and took off after them. Behind him, a rough hacking cough erupted from a beggar slumped against the square’s fountain. James jammed his toe between the cobble stones and stumbled. The ax handle wobbled as he regained his balance.

“Damn!” he muttered. His eyes grazed the filthy beggar, then continued to the far side of the plaza. He jerked his head, the ax handle chopping like it was still in use. Another of Cecil’s agents stepped out of the shadows.He meandered up the street Catesby’s group had just taken.

James headed in the opposite direction, for the public toilet, his lips moving silently. Bloody stupid fad.

***

Bill

Words: Visible Thoughts ^TM

Email: william.a.stong@gmail.com

PHW # 75

Copyright © William A. Stong 2010

Copyright © William Stong 2010

A year and a half ago, an opportunity presented itself: to be Vice President of CWC Mt. Diablo branch. I struggled with it but, in the end, accepted—even though it meant I wouldn’t be able to attend the branch’s Critique group.

A half a year ago, another opportunity presented itself: to be President of CWC Mt. Diablo branch. Again, I struggled with it but, in the end, accepted—even though it meant there were certain VP tasks I wouldn’t be able to continue doing.

A month and a half ago, an opportunity of a different sort presented itself: to work at a bank that was totally revamping its business model; embarking on a path to diversifying and expanding it’s sources of net-profit. Once again I struggled with it but, in the end, accepted—even though it conflicts 100% with my ability to be President of Mt. Diablo branch.

It’s a physics thing: a body can’t be in two places at the same time. Tomorrow, I head for Michigan.

I want to THANK everyone associated with CWC Mt. Diablo branch for opening my eyes to what the world of writing is all about. What it means:

● To write

● To be a writer

● To be part of something that, at its core, is creative

In the beginning of my association with Mt. Diablo branch, I knew I could write because I have always put words on paper. Now, three to four years later, I have been relieved of that knowledge. I believe I now have an inkling of what writing is, what it needs, and like a patient mother, what it demands.

I am deeply indebted to all those who have simultaneously exposed my ignorance and shown me ways to address it.

Best of all, my association with Mt. Diablo branch has been a wonderfully fun journey. I have had lots of good laughs with many people and each LOL grows a friendship and encourages me to continue with writing.

Which brings me to the whole “good bye” thing. Goodbye?! You’ve got to be kidding! Even if we were still using the Pony Express, as writers we would stay in touch, would we not? In today’s digital age, what is to keep us apart? In today’s world, with today’s technology, “Good-bye” is losing much of its meaning, sting, sadness.

So, I’m sorry I didn’t have enough time to say “goodbye” to everyone. But why even bother? This isn’t a “goodbye” as much as it is a crossing the threshold into a virtual relationship:

● Phoenix Hall Writers continues

● I’m on FaceBook

● I’m on Linkedin

● I have a Twitter account but don’t have a clue how to use it

● My blogs (except, for now, the business ones) will continue—although posting might be a bit more erratic…

As people around the world say:

Later! (English)

Hasta luego! (Espanol – Spanish)

Ato-de! (Nihongo – Japanese)

All the best & don’t be strangers,

Bill

Written Words: Visible Thoughts ^TM

Email: william.a.stong@gmail.com

PHW # 74

Copyright © William A. Stong 2010

January 2006 CWC Mt. Diablo Branch meeting

Icons/Photos:

1. From somewhere on the Mt. Diablo website; at one point

Blog – 10/10/10

 Copyright – ©-  J. B. Drori.  2010

 JBDrori@comcast.net

 READING  POETRY

 J. B. Drori

    It has come to me from friends and fellow writers that many readers don’t like poetry.

    Objections vary.  Some say poetry is boring and irrelevant.  Others claim it is difficult, obscure, at times opaque.  Few assert it’s archaic and inappropriate for the tempo of the fast paced minds of the multi-tasking generation of the 21^st century.  

     Granted that such poems do exist.  They frustrate and alienate readers.  Nevertheless, the majority of poetry does not fall into this category.

    Poetry is a venerable art form with a heritage dating back to ancient times.  Folk tales, prayers, incantations, and love songs, in various forms of poetic structure have come down to us over several millennia.  The extraordinary excellence of art, spiritual expression and intellectual achievement of these writings bespeak of their enduring quality and sustaining allure these great works possess. 

    One of the most beautiful love songs, a poem of courtship, ever written is the “Song of Songs” in the Hebrew Bible.  All the 150 psalms, also in Hebrew Scriptures, are poems of exquisite revelations of deep human emotions and profound supernal spirituality which speak to us even today.

    THE ILIAD, Homer’s epic poem (8^th cent BCE), is a hymn to the pangs of the national birth of Greece declaimed in beating mortal cadence.   

    BEWOLF, an old English heroic poem of Anglo Saxon literature (8-11 century) is a folk saga expressed in rhythmic verse as tight as a modern music score.

    Milton’s PARADISE LOST (1667), a poem in blank verse on the Fall of Man, thought to be one of the greatest works in English literature, deals with issues of faith and destiny of man, presented in soaring tone and rhythm.

    The language of poetry is the verbal distillation of thought, emotion and spirit, singly or in combination, rendered precisely in the rhythm of the human heart beat.  It comes in the form of the essence of an idea, a concentrated thought, or the core of a belief.  One extraneous word pollutes the verse as an extra drop of water would dilute the perfume of a delicate fragrance.

    Reading poetry is an individual enterprise.  There is no right or wrong way to read a poem.  The purpose is not to divine the poet’s intent but rather for the reader to discern the meaning in the reading itself.  By savoring a poem’s each word, allowing mental associations and imaginings to take hold and soar, thoughts and ideas to be stimulated, the meaning of the poem will emerge in the reader’s mind just as a mist is sure to rise from the Pacific.  It need not coincide with that of the poet’s intent but it may indeed do so if attention is paid to the framework of the poem. 

 As an example of the above points I reproduce here my poem A THIN LINE which I posted on this blog on 8/8/10.

A THIN LINE

 J. B. Drori

 A thin line separates evil from good.

It extends from a bottomless canyon

To the roof of the world,

Past Orion and the Butterfly supernova,

To where time and space are one,

Where tomorrow is yesterday.

Some claim that the line is hard as flint.

Others vow it is soft as a morning mist.

Many swear it is smooth as glass,

Revealing nothing,

While more teach it is an ancient parchment,

Thick with wisdom, the source of right and wrong. 

They argue that man, like Janus,

Is the double faced progenitor of malice and compassion.

He destroys the cities he builds,

Decimates the edifices he erects,

And strangles the creatures he conceives.

He loves and hates at the same instant. 

Driven by subliminal fear of his powers,

He unleashes fury at his own image – his kin,

Leaving death and havoc in his wake.

Yet, like a ray of light in the night,

Sacrifices of self and deeds of loving-kindness

Permeate the fabric of human interactions.

The Talmud asserts – wondrous is the ecstasy

Of saving a life, like saving a whole world,

Sanctifying humans’ right to life.

Life’s blessings are serene,

Unfolding endlessly over eons,

Replicating generations of sentient marvels.

Let then the word go forth to all.

“Banish fear from you hearts and learn to love yourselves

As you would your brothers and sisters.  Selah.”

 END

    The idea for this poem occurred to me on a morning walk while musing about a news headline of another suicide attack in a Baghdad market in which three score individuals were killed.  Humans have engaged in incessant mutual killings from time immemorial.  Although man has come a long way since the stone-age, this aspect of settling differences between us without recourse to violence eludes us.

    The first stanza depicts the images of the separation between good and evil.

    Continuing, my ponderings focused on what must be obvious to all, i.e., fear and distrust between humans.  What prevents us from trusting one another since we are all kin, after all?  Is it the fear of what we ourselves are capable of – and thus the other fellow looms as a threat?  Is pre-empting and killing first the only course of action?

    That’s what gave rise to the next three stanzas.

    Stanzas five, six and seven were the immediate counterpoint that emerged as I continued to cogitate.

    I thought of the adage of  “Love your neighbor as yourself.”  Known for approximately four millennia, why has it failed?  Is there another way?

    Stanza eight is the poet’s query of what might result if this concept were turned on its head.

    Perhaps we have to learn to love ourselves  –  not for ourselves -  but in order to learn to love others.

    We must first learn to banish the fear in our hearts, grow to love ourselves, and thereby learn to love our brothers and sisters.

 Selah, from Psalms, means may it be so for evermore.

That was how I constructed my poem. 

I hope this is instructive.  Let me know your thoughts.

Thank you.

J. B. Drori

Copyright © William Stong 2010

Last week covered half of the specialists who can provide tremendous benefit to frazzled, overworked, possibly overwhelmed, writers. Here’s the other half:

L

Language Lieutenant

Tells you how to use language

Libel Lecturer

Provides guidelines on what you can do and what you can’t do when you’re either talking bad about somebody, or pointing out inconvenient truths

Line-length Leader

Nags you whenever there is a string of sentences of the same length

M

Manuscript Mentor

Helps you create your magnum opus

Marketing Master

Sells the bejeezers out of you and your masterpiece

Monologue Manager

Adds credibility to monologues and their use

N

Narrator Negotiator

Clarifies just who should be telling your story

O

Oration Operator

Works out the triggers, length, tempo, and intensity of when, why, and how your characters burst into speech (aka dialogue)

P

Pacing Principal

Sets the rules for how fast your story moves

Plot Professor

Provides instruction and insight into developing the guts of your story: its plot

Punctuation Police

Arrests every punctuation perp

Q

Quote Queen

Finds the very best utterances

R

Realism Reviewer

Checks to see how credible your story points are

Reality Researcher

Figures out what really happened, or could happen, within the context of your story

S

Scene Superintendent

Directs content and sequence of scenes

Sensory Seer

Selects which sensory organ adds the perfect detail

Setting Supervisor

Makes sure settings exist; and aren’t mysteriously morphing while the reader reads

Site Spotter

Checks out the places you’d love to have in your book

Slander Sage

Zeros in on writing that’s perilously close to something that might trigger a press conference, followed by phone calls to lawyers, that ends up as a huge time suck

Spelling Sargent

Hounds every word into submission

Spice Spy

Finds writing that is over-the-top for some genre; pinpoints where more heat is called for with other genre

Sub-plot Sitter

Makes sure they don’t get out of control

T

Tempo Tracker

Surveys your story’s internal speed limits

Tension Teacher

Gives you the framework and rules for building tension

Title Tutor

Works to find the best name for your work—given the target market

Typo Typist

Mean people hire these to work for other writers

Typo Tyrant

Excoriates typos

U

Uniformity Uberführer

Insists on consistency

V

Voice Viceroy

Enforces your uniqueness throughout the story

Victim Vetter

Guarantees that victims are victims; expunges political statements and cliches

W

Word Waffler

Finds the words you use when your integrity is on vacation; or when you just don’t have a clue but should

Word Weasel

Finds words when you want to mislead, confuse, obfuscate, etc.

Word Wizard

Finds words that make your work sparkle

Word Whore

Finds whatever words you want

Word Wonk

Finds exactly the word you need; specializes in big, polysyllabic, unpronounceable ones

Word Wrestler

Finds the best word to fit any specific nuance

X

Xenophobic Xenophobe

Balances out international bias if you hire enough of them

Y

Yodeling Yahoo

If your story needs one, definitely adds color

Z

Zealous Zipper

Tones down over-writing; dampens excessive gushing

Whew! That’s it!

P.S. I spent so many hours poring over websites and the classifieds that my eyes swelled up as large as kiwis. Freaked my wife out. The point is: after a while my vision was so blurred I probably missed some service providers who could really help writers.

Please share any others that should be on this list!

Bill

Words: Visible Thoughts ^TM

Email: william.a.stong@gmail.com

PHW # 73

Copyright © William A. Stong 2010