Cascade Poem

This form was invented by Udit Bhatia in 2007. I found this form interesting and wanted to learn more about its creator, but unfortunately although a Google search brought up many Udit Bhatias, none of them was the one I was looking for. So I guess the inventor will just have to remain a mystery.

This is an elegant little poem. It has no set syllable count or rhyme scheme, but it does have repetition. In the author’s own example, you start with a stanza of three lines. This is followed by another three-line stanza, but the third line is a repeat of the first line of the first stanza. The third stanza has the second line of the first stanza as its third line, and the fourth stanza repeats the third line of the first stanza as its third line. Got that?

Maybe a visual will help:

1st stanza line one
1st stanza line two
1st stanza line three

2nd stanza line one
2nd stanza line two
1st stanza line one

3rd stanza line one
3rd stanza line two
1st stanza line two

4th stanza line one
4th stanza line two
1st stanza line three

This gives the entire poem a “cascading” effect, like a waterfall. I have seen longer Cascade poems – the first stanza has four or more lines to it, which require more stanzas to follow – but I don’t know if this is in keeping with the creator’s intent for the poem (one of the reasons I was trying to do some research on him) so I kept my examples to the three-line first stanza.

I quite like this form, so much so that I did two examples for you – one kinda dark, and one much lighter.


Dying Time

Death’s emissary comes for us all in the end,
it is beyond our power to put a stop to this –
the sky opens up and rains down my sorrow.

From the moment we are born
the clock begins to tick; we wait as
death’s emissary comes for us all in the end.

We live our lives as best we can but still
in the end we fight, even knowing
it is beyond our power to put a stop to this.

We have no choice in when we must go
And I was not ready to say goodbye to you.
The sky opens up and rains down my sorrow.



Faery Revels

Faery lights appear in the dusk,
lighting the garden and glade—
fey creatures revelling in secret.

The hot summer days give way
as the moon begins to rise and
faery lights appear in the dusk.

If you’re quiet, if you’re careful,
you might have a chance to see them
lighting the garden and glade.

The pixies sparkle and sing,
the sprites dance and play –
fey creatures revelling in secret.

Finding the Sweet Spot

Work-life balance means that you have managed to find that sweet spot where you're pushing yourself at work, and then taking time off to recharge.
― Johannes Larsson

Take a break from the stresses of life and use that time to rediscover the important things that matter to you most. We all deserve an anti-stress day to recharge our batteries.
― Dee Waldeck

The sweet spot is about shifting the small gears, the ones that rotate relatively easily. And because all the gears are interlocking, when we tweak a small gear, large gears start to move—effortlessly—as well.
― Christine Carter

Sweet spot can mean many different things to different people. In sports it can mean the maximum result for the minimum effort. In business it can mean finding that one thing you do best that will earn you the most profit. In geology it can be the perfect spot to drill for oil.

For me, the sweet spot is all about time, finding a balance to get all the things done I want to accomplish. I used to think I needed to carve out big blocks to get things done, which is probably why it didn’t work. Got a poem due for the poetry group? A sewing project that needs finishing? Some editing work to do? Well, you’d better make sure you have a clear day for it.

The problem with that is, even when I clear a block of time to do something, that doesn’t guarantee it gets done. And even when it does, that’s all I get done. Case in point this week.

Monday, I spent the day working on some embroidery. That was pretty much all that I did. And at the end of the day I looked back at what I’d done and it didn’t seem like much progress for the amount of time I spent working on it. I spent another day working on a poem. I neglected the several other things that needed doing, and at the end of the day all I had to show for it was a single poem, one that still needs work.

But yesterday I tried something different. I crocheted a few rows on the afghan I’m working on. I worked on the wordage report of this blog post. I read a couple of chapters of a book. I did some stitchery. I did some more reading. I finished the wordage report. And at the end of the day I looked back and I was pretty happy with what I accomplished.

I didn’t finish the afghan, or the book, or even this blog post. But by doing a little bit of all of them I made progress on each of them. And I even had time to check out a local craft sale.

Maybe I didn’t have some great epiphany, but it did occur to me that I’ve been going about things the wrong way. Maybe the answer for me is little blocks instead of big ones.

I think I started to subconsciously realize this when I ditched the “marketing Monday” and “techno Tuesday.” Instead of spending an entire day at those things (and not getting anything accomplished) I decided to spread them out over the week.

The other benefit of working in shorter blocks of time is that I’ll get more variety to my day. I won’t get burned out on a project, like I often do when I go to town on a craft.

Now I’m not saying this will work for everything. NaNoWriMo, for instance, will require bigger blocks of time. And when I go on a cleaning/organizing binge, that’s one of those things that’s best done all at once and as quickly as possible before I run out of steam. But for I think it will work for day to day things, and I’ll be left with that sense of satisfaction at the end of the day.

One step closer to getting back on track.

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

WORDAGE REPORT

Had a few extra words, in the form of an extra poem, but that was all. My over all word count was up though, but all that means is I was a little wordier on my blog posts.

NEW WORDS:
Blog Posts – 1,435+727+271+731=3,164
Poetry – 125 (included in blog post) + 215

Total words: 3,379

Goals For Next Week:
Try and add in some extra words to that total.

EDITING:
21 pages
Slowing down a little, but any progress is good progress, right?

Goal For Next Week:
Keep working on Magickal Mayhem.

MARKETING:
*sigh* No Marketing. Once again it just doesn’t seem to be a priority with me.

Goal For Next Week:
Submit two flash stories and one poem.

TECH & TRAINING:
Yikes! No Tech or Training. I don’t know what the heck I was doing with all my time, but it certainly wasn’t learning anything new.

Goal For Next Week:
Learn something new.

POETRY WEDNESDAY:
Explored the French Cinquain form and, seeing as it’s a somewhat short form, wrote three separate poems using three separate rhyme schemes as examples.

The monthly gathering of my poetry group was Wednesday – this month’s poetry prompt was “message in a bottle.” My poem was longer than I expected, and I rather like it, but when reading it out loud I kept expecting it to rhyme and it was (to me) a bit jarring when it didn’t. So I’ll need to fix that. Meanwhile, to make up for the poem not being quite finished, I printed it on parchment and got some glass bottles from the dollar store to put them in – messages in bottles, as it were.

Goal For Next Week:
Fix bottle poem and find a new form to share.

CRAFTING:
I took a day for stitching and now have four out of six pansies finished on the pillowcase. Slow going or what? There’s a border above and below the pansies and I have no idea what colours I’m going to use on that, and I’m going to have to figure out how to restamp a couple of sections of just that border where the first application was too faint to see.

I did not get the sewing machine set up and working again, so I did not get my skirt and blouse finished, although I did find another dress to cannibalize for another skirt. I did finally pull out my crocheting so I have it handy to work on in the evenings while watching T.V. and I came up with the brilliant idea that I could knit/crochet a couple of sweaters to also go with the skirt I’m working on so I can get some use out of it over the winter as well.

And then I down-loaded the instructions for a “huswife,” which is a small sewing kit that you can roll up and take with you – kind of like a needlebook, but I think it would be even handier. And I printed off instructions for a thread-catcher, which seems easy enough, just time consuming. So many projects, so little time!

Goal For Next Week:
Keep working on the pillowcase. Work on the cancer afghan. Get the sewing machine working and finish my skirt and blouse.

WHAT I’M READING:
Still haven’t updated my Goodreads account – the longer I put it off, the worse it’ll be but I just can’t seem to bring myself to do it. Maybe I should start by making a list of the books I’ve read since my last update, although it’s been so long for most of them that I’ll have to guess at the dates.

I went back to reading The Lost Girl Found. by Maisey Yates, but truthfully I didn’t spend a lot of time reading last week because I’m only about a third of the way through it. I’m enjoying it though.

Goal For Next Week:
Suck it up and update my Goodreads account!

GOAL REVIEW:

While I didn’t get any extra words in, except for that one poem, I still felt I did pretty good on my goals last week. I’m still a bit of an all or nothing kind of gal – spend a whole day working on my stitchery, spent another whole day working on my poetry – so I need to work on that a bit.

No tech or training, but also not as much time wasted on mindless games. Still haven’t tackled the shredding, but I was in the office to do my editing.

Gardening-wise, I should really take a picture to show how pathetic my garden is. I picked cucumbers off the fence (my neighbor told me too) and the green beans on our side of the same fence. I also picked my green beans, but there wasn't nearly as many of them.

I have a plan to make the spare bedroom more craft friendly. It won’t be a complete craft room, not with the bed for guests in it, and it’s going to be a long, convoluted project worthy of a blog post in itself some day when (if) I finish it. Don’t hold your breath waiting for it. :-D

Happy writing.

The Pond - Part 4

The place where magic was taught was a secret place, deep in the woods. Matyei was trying not to show how anxious he was as he walked beside his father. He wasn’t like Izolda. Even though she kept it secret, he knew her magic was much stronger than his. He wished she was here now.

Had his magic been stronger, he might have recognized the shadow flitting through the forest, mirroring their movements. Andrei paused, as though he sensed something, but the shadow melted away and after a moment he continued on, a frown on his face.

Izolda pressed her back against a tree trunk and breathed a sigh of relief. That had been close. She would do well to remember that her father had more magic than her baby brother. She needed to be more careful.

She hung back slightly after that. There was no telling what her father would do to her if he caught her following them. What she was doing was unforgiveable. But she was desperate to learn. The small magics women were allowed were not for her.

At last they came to a small clearing. Andrei and Matyei stepped inside . . . and disappeared. Izolda held up her hands and felt in front of her. The air was solid. She stepped off the path and followed along the edge of the clearing but it was the same.

Taking several steps back, she stamped her foot, letting out a small cry of rage. Wards! The clearing was warded so that only Matyei and their father could step inside. How was she going to learn if she could not see or hear what was going on?

She paced the perimeter of the rough circle, fists clenched. “I will find a way,” she vowed.

There was no point in lingering, and she was in no mood to bake bread, so she turned away and followed her own path through the woods. Another time she might have named the trees that towered above her, or tried to coax a squirrel or sparrow to her hand. She might have even gathered herbs, as they were always useful, but she still seethed with anger.

Once she reached the verge of the river she slowed her pace, following the river’s course until she came to where the great, black boulders edged it. Climbing the rocks to the very top, she finally stopped, and stood looking up. Her scream of unfettered anger sent the birds in the surrounding trees into the sky.

“Well, I hope that made you feel better.”

Izolda spun around so quickly she almost slipped on the rocks.

“Have a care, girl. It would be sorrowful waste should someone with such magic die.”

“Who are you? And how do you know I have magic?” Izolda asked, anger forgotten as she faced the woman sitting on the rocks behind her.

The woman looked older than the oldest granny around the family fire. Her face was a maze of lines, her steel-grey hair pulled back in a severe bun. She wore a dark brown dress with a white apron over it, and held a long wooden staff in one hand.

“Any fool with magic of their own could see what you are, should they care to look. Your father could, but he doesn’t believe women can wield the higher magics so he ignores what’s right in front of him.”

“Who are you?” Izolda asked again.

“I am Varnya,” the woman said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

Izolda shook her head. “I only know the legend of the witch Varnya. Mother uses her name to make my brothers behave.”

The old woman snorted and rose to her feet. “Some things never change. Help me down, girl.”

Having been raised to respect her elders, Izolda did as she was bade.

“What are you doing out here all by yourself,” she couldn’t help asking.

“Waiting for you, of course.”

“Me?”

“Do you know any other young girls with magic writhing under their skin, the desire to learn eating away at her?”

“You can teach me what I want to know?” Izolda asked eagerly.

“Yes. But if you wish to learn, you will have to do exactly as I say.”

Traditional Cinquain

Technically, a cinquain is any five-line poem or stanza. Traditionally it originated in medieval France, but can be found in many European languages. It was often employed by such poets as Philip Sidney, George Herbert, Edmund Waller, and John Donne.

It’s actually quite common in formal poetry, verses containing a strict meter and rhyme scheme. It was popular in England in the 16th and 17th centuries when iambic pentameter was common. In fact, most of the most well-known examples of the cinquain are written in iambic pentameter, although other meters were also used.

The number of cinquains in a poem often vary. The poem can be a single cinquain, or it can have many stanzas. The most common rhyme scheme is ABAAB, ABABB, or AABBA (limericks are a prime example of this last one). The syllable count is at the discretion of the poet.

Because this is such a short form, I felt like I should give all three rhyme schemes a try. To my surprise, my first poem begged more than one stanza. It’s an interesting form to work in – I think it helps that it has no set syllable count.


1
Invisible People

Invisible people all around
unseen, unheard, do they even feel?
Living their lives in the background
like spirits who have been earthbound,
ignored as though they are not real.

Like shadows in the corners lie –
ignored, we don’t want to see
the lost, the lonely, magnify;
there but for the grace of God go I.
That’s not the way that it should be.

2
Storm
They gather, grey and black, the clouds;
a warning crack of thunder
and then the pounding rain enshrouds;
we look out upon the wonder
as the world is torn asunder.

3
Shadow
I watch the shadow on the floor
As it inches towards the door
Relentless in its steady crawl
Not stopping even for the wall
Then disappears, the sun no more.

Sentimental Value

There is monetary value, and there is sentimental value. You tell me which is worth more, and I will tell you what your heart is made of.
― Richelle E. Goodrich

You can't put a price on a sentimental value.
― Astrid Yrigollen,

What counts now are the value-less facts, the material and the rational. All else is regarded with condescension as being of only sentimental value.
— Jean Gebser

I’ve been trying to de-clutter my house lately, but I’m finding it hard to let things go. Like that paper angel that used to top our Christmas tree (now sitting on a shelf) that the daughter and I made more years ago than either of us care to remember. It’s more grey than white (because of the dust), the styrofoam ball used to make its head is degrading, the paper making its body is eroding, and it’s halo is long gone. And we haven’t used it more than ten years. So why do I keep it around? Sentimental value.

We finally made our wills a few weeks ago, and one of the things we were told to do was make an itemized list of all of our things and what we want to have happen to them. And while it was easy enough to just write down “Everything goes to the daughter” we were told that isn’t good enough.

We have a LOT of stuff. I don’t expect to die any time soon, but accidents do happen, so now I’m looking at all this stuff I’ve collected over the years and I have to ask myself, who’s going to want it? Especially the stuff that has no sentimental value to anyone but me?

Like . . . I have this little, carved wooden dog on the shelf. It’s a little crudely done, and painted white. It was done by a little old man in the trailer park where my aunt and uncle had their trailer when I was a kid. I loved going to that trailer. And I loved watching that old man work on his carvings. So that little dog brings back many fond memories. But anyone else who looks at it is only going to see a crudely carved, little white dog. They’ll have no sentimental attachment to it.

You see my dilemma? If future generations aren’t going to want it, why am I hanging on to it?

Because I want to, that’s why!

The problem is, most of this stuff is just taking up space. Some of it’s hidden away so I don’t even realize I’ve got it, and some of it just sits on the shelf collecting dust. So it’s not like I’m getting great enjoyment out of it, although I did quite enjoy the collecting of it.

Periodically I go through my writing files and try to de-clutter them as well, with about as much luck. I have ideas dating back to my high school days. Some of them not bad, some of them very bad. But I just can’t seem to bring myself to part with them.

I remember going through a phase where I wrote down my ideas in blurbs. You know, that one or two paragraphs on the back (or inside cover) of a book designed to persuade you to buy it? The problem with the blurb is, it’s not the whole story. Nor is it the whole idea behind the story.

One of them was for an organization called “The Star Brothers.” It was about a group of men who went around the universe doing good. Not much to go on, is it? Yet I just can’t bring myself to scrap it. Maybe some day I’ll suddenly have an epiphany and more details will come. Although the title is a little sexist. Why “brothers” and not just “friends?” Sign of the times, I tell you what.

I have many ideas that need to be thinned from the herd, but I don’t see that happening any more than I see the house being decluttered. It was a different time, and I was a different kind of writer, and sometimes I can pull out those ideas and take a sentimental journey into the past.

Ideas, even bad ones, don’t take up a lot of space. Well, some of them were written before I got my first computer, so they’re in physical files. But the rest just reside, dust free, in electronic storage, waiting to be accessed whenever I’m feeling sentimental. They’ll become the problem of whoever inherits my writing stuff.

I apologize in advance. :-D

* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

WORDAGE REPORT

Still don’t have extra words to report, but at least I got all my blog posts done last week, even if I did produce less words overall.

NEW WORDS:
Blog Posts – 1,124+453+522+715=2,814
Poetry – 33 (included in poetry post)

Total words: 2,814

Goals For Next Week:
Bring that total up – maybe try to add some bonus words.

EDITING:
27 pages
Yay! Back in the saddle with the editing.

Goal For Next Week:
Keep workin on Magickal Mayhem.

MARKETING:
*sigh* No Marketing. It just doesn’t seem to be a priority with me.

Goal For Next Week:
Submit two flash stories and one poem.

TECH & TRAINING:
Once again there was no training, and only a little bit of tech. I got the Roku device working, but I’m really not happy with it. The one we got for the basement you basically just had to plug it in, attach it to the TV and that was that.

This one I needed to set up an account and give it credit card/PayPal information “just in case” I wanted to buy something through it. Apparently, they don’t trust me when I say I’m only going to use it for Disney+ and only on free stuff.

AND there doesn’t appear to be an off switch, so we have to unplug it when we’re not using it.

I don’t know if it counts as tech, but I did update the side-bars on my blogs, adding one in for the serial story.

Goal For Next Week:
Learn something new.

POETRY WEDNESDAY:
Only cheated a little last week. While I did use a form I’ve shared previously, I wrote a whole new post to go with it and added in an extra couple of examples. Upon double-checking my previous research for the Cinquain, I discovered there are two distinctly different formats to it, so I did the American Cinquain last week and this week I'll do the French one.

Goal For Next Week:
Give the French Cinquain a try.

CRAFTING:
I didn’t have a whole lot of time for crafting last week. The granddaughter was more interested in the pool than the glue gun. But I did get a little work done on the pillow cases I’d stamped for my pioneer outing. The hardest part is figuring on the colours, so I printed out a couple of pages of pansies as a guide.

Goal For Next Week:
Work on the cancer afghan for my sister-in-law. Get the sewing machine working and finish my skirt and blouse.

WHAT I’M READING:
Did not get my Goodreads account updated. I suspect that when I do it’s not going to be 100% accurate because I wasn’t very good at writing down titles. And the dates are going to be iffy at best.

As for reading . . . I started reading The Lost Girl Found. by Maisey Yates, but then I found a copy of High Noon, by Nora Roberts at a thrift store, so I read that instead. But it took me the entire week, so I’d call that progress.

Goal For Next Week:
Update my Goodreads account!

GOAL REVIEW:

Once again I didn’t get as much writing done as I’d hoped to, but I did get back to my editing. I did clean off my desk a bit, but I still need to deal with my shredding. And have I mentioned the dust piling up in my office?

No gardening at all – there’s not really much garden to work with. And I did a wee bit better on the crafting.

But this s a brand new week, and I only have up from here to go, right?

Happy writing.

The Pond - Part 3

It might have been natural for Izolda to resent her baby brother, but much to Andrei’s chagrin the two became very close. Izolda did her fair share of the fetching and carrying, cooking and sewing, but was never too busy to answer Matyei’s endless questions or play with him. The two could often be found curled up together in a corner by the fireplace while Izolda told him stories.

Andrei would often watch them, something dark in his eyes. The unwanted girl-child was strong and robust, but the favored son was frail and somewhat lacking. There was a part of him that resented this. The son should be the stronger one. Still, he allowed it to continue because the girl made the boy happy, and no one else had the time to spare to give him the extra attention he deserved.

Even as these thoughts went through his mind, the girl looked up from where she was showing her brother how to make a wicker doll. A shiver went up Andrei’s spine. It was as if she could read his mind. There was something uncanny about her and he often wished he’d had the portents read after her birth, as he’d done with his sons. She was a model child – thoughtful, unobtrusive, always ready to help. But he just couldn’t warm to her.

Izolda continued to grow, staying unobtrusive, and out of her father’s way. And she continued to give Matyei what time she could, becoming not just his playmate but his confident.

“ ‘Zolda, you’ll never guess!” he exclaimed, bursting into the kitchen where she was kneading the bread dough. He’d just turned seven the day before.

“I’m sure I won’t,” she said with a smile. She, herself, was now ten, tall and slender and able to wear her long dark hair up in a woman’s bun.

“Papa said I’m to start magic lessons!”

Izolda’s hands stilled in the bread dough briefly before she continued. Only two days before she had asked her mother if she’d be taking lessons in magic, as her brothers did. Olga’s smile was sad and she stroked a hand down her daughter’s hair.

“No, my daughter. You will not.”

“But—”

“It is not fair,” Olga said with a sigh. “I know. But that is the way of things. We do the small magics of the kitchen and home and keep the rest to ourselves. You have a rare gift, my daughter. I am sorry it cannot be nurtured as it should be.”

“I don’t understand,” Izolda said. “Why can’t it?”

“Your father is narrow in his thinking. He does not accept change as he should. And the idea of a woman being able to wield the same magic as a man is too big a change for him to accept.”

“But you learned magic.”

“Yes, bit by bit, spell by spell, and mostly on my own, as you will.” That was all her mother would say on the matter.

“How nice for you,” Izolda managed to say to Matyei now.

“Maybe we can take lessons together,” Matyei said, a little more subdued.

“Such is not for me.”

“Why not? You have magic, I’ve seen it. I can ask Papa and—”

“No!” Izolda said fiercely, spinning around to face him. “You must not tell Papa of my magic.”

“But I can ask about us taking lessons together,” he said stubbornly.

“It is no use, little brother. Papa will never agree, and asking will only anger him.”

Matyei opened his mouth to argue, but one look at his sister’s face and he closed it again. His exuberance gone, he left her to her breadmaking.

Later, Izolda brought him some witch hazel to put on the bruise rising on his cheek.

“You never listen, do you?” she said, gently dabbing his bruised skin. “Did you tell him of my magic?”

“No,” Matyei said dolefully. “I did not wish to anger him further.”

“Then perhaps you learned something after all.”

American Cinquain

Like last week, this week’s form is also one I shared more than ten years ago. However, in checking my research I discovered that there are actually two different versions of this form. This week I’ll explore the American Cinquain, and next week I’ll take a look at the French Cinquain.

The American cinquain is credited to Adelaide Crapsey (1878 – 1914), who was inspired to create it after reading A Hundred Verses From Old Japan, a translation of 100 haiku by 100 poets. The form consists of twenty-two syllables set in a single, unrhymed, five line stanza in the following format:

Line 1: Two syllables
Line 2: Four syllables
Line 3: Six syllables
Line 4: Eight syllables
Line 5: Two syllables

And if that format isn’t to your liking, you could also try one of the variations:

The Didactic Cinquain
Line 1: 1 word title (noun)
Line 2: 2 descriptive words (adjectives)
Line 3: 3 words that express action
Line 4: 4 words that express feeling
Line 5: 1 word (synonym or reference to title in line 1)

Or the simple form:
Line 1: One word
Line 2: Two words
Line 3: Three words
Line 4: Four words
Line 5: One word

Or a combination:
Line 1: One, two syllable word, preferably a noun
Line 2: Two words, total of four syllables, preferably adjectives
Line 3: Three words, total of six syllables, expressing action
Line 4: Four words, total of eight syllables, expressing a feeling
Line 5: One word, two syllables, referencing back to the first word

Other variations have evolved from experimentation by other poets and include:

Reverse Cinquain: five-line syllabic verse of the pattern 2 / 8 / 6 / 4 / 2

Mirror Cinquain: a sequence of a standard cinquain followed by a reverse cinquain

Butterfly Cinquain: nine-line syllabic verse of the pattern 2 / 4 / 6 / 8 / 2 / 8 / 6 / 4 / 2

Crown Cinquain: a sequence of five cinquains

Garland Cinquain: a sequence of six cinquains in which the final cinquain is composed of lines from the preceding five (generally L1 from S1, L2 from S2, L3 from S3, etc...)


And now, my examples. In the orginal post I only did one (because I didn't know about the variations) but for this post I'm adding a couple of the variations.

My original cinquain:

Midnight
darkly shining
perfumed breezes wafting
anticipation fills me up . . .
moonrise.

A didactic cinquain:

Thundercloud
black, menacing
racing, roiling, threatening
fearful anticipation, excited dread
cumulonimbus

Simple form cinquain:

light
dancing on
waves racing shoreward,
shards of light reflecting
sunward

Combination form cinquain:

Goblin
slippery cruel
grasping clawing slinking
greedy fearsome loathing kindness
golem

And that’s all you get. I strongly urge you to give the cinquain a try yourself. It’s pretty easy, but if you want a bit of a challenge try the Didactic or the Combination cinquains. They’re a wee bit trickier.

Happy writing!