Musical Inspiration

So I have finished my novel, or at least this draft of it. Or at least I'm done tinkering with it... for now. Or really, I'm just stopping because I have to turn it in Tuesday. Well, you get the picture. I think it's at a pretty good place. To celebrate, I've compiled a playlist which I will share with all of you.
Basically it's comprised of songs that I find inspirational Maybe the lyrics suit a character or scene or the sound is just atmospheric. Maybe I could see it in the soundtrack of the future series my books will obviously be turned into by a collaboration of HBO and the BBC. Right. Enjoy.

National Poetry Month: Me.

As a special for National Poetry Month, this is a poem I wrote for a class a few weeks back.
"A Tryst in the Greenery"

A single crimson droplet seeps to the surface
Trembling on the edge of my fingertip and
It is drawn into the fabric of my sweater,
Absorbed into the fine weave.
The thorny prickled bushes snatch at my hair
And entwine their arms with mine.
My cheeks are scratched,
Clawed by unseen hands.

There are flowers blooming in the dark,
Vines whithering untouched
And trees torn while still golden.
A tomato dangles on a whiskered stem
Soft orange, not yet ripe,
But the underside is blackening
Dying inside already.
And where are you?

So what do you guys think? I don't share a lot of my creative writing on here, but I rather liked this poem.

National Poetry Month: e.e. cummings

One of my favorite poems by the charming, funny, experimental and occasionally risque, e.e cummings:
"my sweet old etcetera"

aunt lucy during the recent

war could and what
is more did tell you just
what everybody was fighting

for,
my sister

isabel created hundreds
(and
hundreds) of socks not to
mention shirts fleaproof earwarmers

etcetera wristers etcetera, my

mother hoped that

i would die etcetera
bravely of course my father used
to become hoarse talking about how it was
a privilege and if only he
could meanwhile my

self etcetera lay quietly
in the deep mud et
cetera
(dreaming,
et
cetera, of
Your smile
eyes knees and of your Etcetera)

National Poetry Month- Christina Rosetti

"An Apple Gathering" by Christina Rosetti

I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree
And wore them all that evening in my hair:
Then in due season when I went to see
I found no apples there.

With dangling basket all along the grass
As I had come I went the selfsame track:
My neighbours mocked me while they saw me pass
So empty-handed back.

Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by,
Their heaped-up basket teased me like a jeer;
Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky,
Their mother's home was near. 

Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full,
A stronger hand than hers helped it along;
A voice talked with her through the shadows cool
More sweet to me than song.


Ah Willie, Willie, was my love less worth
Than apples with their green leaves piled above?
I counted rosiest apples on the earth
Of far less worth than love.

So once it was with me you stooped to talk
Laughing and listening in this very lane:
To think that by this way we used to walk
We shall not walk again!

I let me neighbours pass me, ones and twos
And groups; the latest said the night grew chill,
And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews
Fell fast I loitered still.

National Poetry Month: Emily Dickinson

"Because I could not stop for death" by Emily Dickinson, innovator with the em-dash.

Because I could not stop for Death –

He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –


We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –

National Poetry Month: John McCrea

This is one of my father's favorite poems. It was written by John McCrea while he fought during World War I. He didn't live to see the end of the confict.
"In Flanders Feild"

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead; short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe!
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high!
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

I'll be doing more poetry postings soon! Requests are welcome. I'm on a bit of a British Modernist kick right now, I'm taking a class on that era.

National Poetry Month: Dylan Thomas

"The force that through the green fuse drive the flower"

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

Please remember to read poetry this month (and every month). Support local open mic nights and check out poets.org.

Review: The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

"The circus arrives without warning."
So begins one of the biggest fiction hits of last year. The reader is then invited into the intoxicating world of Le Cirque des Rêves. The circus only opens at nightfall. Everything is painted in black and white, tents are not only places to watch the contortionist and the illusionist, but some tents are like whole other worlds. Step into a garden of ice or wander through a maze of clouds. Behind the circus lurks a historic battle between two magicians as they pit their students against each other on the stage of the circus.
I think that readers who were disappointed by this novel expected it to be an action-packed blockbuster, maybe in the science fiction range of the film The Prestige. No, Night Circus is a deeply layered flight of fancy. You become immersed in the circus and all the players that have become a pawn in the game. It is magical realism in the best sense. Grounded in the real world, the characters create their own encasement of whimsy.
It is a love story, but a love story with unusual stakes. Two students of magic were bound together from an early age, dancing around each other without making contact for years. When they do it becomes clear that they were too perfectly paired, too complementary. Beyond those that live and work within the circus there are those that follow it, feel its tug, the reveurs.
Though not perfect, Night Circus makes for a stunning debut novel. Morgenstern takes time to layer her story with the lives of her characters and the intersections they make. The atmosphere is so rich though, and so cleverly imagined, it will make you want to run away to the circus.