creative writing

Write Your Own II (A Poem & A Picture)

/ Janna Hill / Leave a comment

Write Your Own A Poem & A Picture

This post was intended as part of Wordless Wednesday but I have to say this. I do not/did not expect a public response but in last weeks Write Your Own (A Poem & A Picture) Sarah replied with a beautiful piece blending the poem and the picture. I must say it was a very pleasant surprise. I understand many of us are timid about publicizing our words/thoughts; potentially exposing ourselves to ridicule but if any of you would like to make your take of the photo in the reply section I would love to read it.

Spring by Edna St. Vincent Millay (A Poem & A Picture)

/ Janna Hill / 2 Comments

 

SPRING FLOWERS A Poem & A Picture Spring

From Second April (Courtesy of everypoet.com Classic Archives)

SPRING

By Edna St. Vincent Millay

To what purpose, April, do you return again?

Beauty is not enough.

You can no longer quiet me with the redness

Of little leaves opening stickily.

I know what I know.

The sun is hot on my neck as I observe

The spikes of the crocus.

The smell of the earth is good.

It is apparent that there is no death.

But what does that signify?

Not only under ground are the brains of men

Eaten by maggots,

Life in itself

Is nothing,

An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.

It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,

April

Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Don’t you love the last line(s)? They do strike a chord with me — maybe because I am just living out loud and flinging cake against the wall, right?!

Getting Me Back (The Voices Within) released this month and is now available in digital or paperback. AND to show my appreciation for your support there will be a gift of random books by ‘moi’ each weekend in April. Check in, check them out and follow my Author Page at Amazon for future updates.

P.S. A little history on Edna St. Vincent Millay: After her husband’s death from a stroke in 1949 following the removal of a lung, Millay suffered a great deal; she drank recklessly, and had to be hospitalized. A month later she was back at her farm (Steepletop) where she  passed a lonely year working on a new book of poems. She died in 1950 of a heart attack. For more about her works and life visit Poetry Foundation.

 

As rust falls from the anchor (A Poem & A Picture)

/ Janna Hill / Leave a comment

And on we roll..

Week two of NPM (A Poem & I Picture) where I share a photo taken by me and a poem by some awesome poet. I hope you all had a lovely weekend.

Anchor for A Poem & A Picture

 

 

By Chris Green (Poetry Soup)

Where do sandcastles go

when the tide engulfs the view and

lonely shorelines crest in tear drops

beneath white capped dream chasers,

foam laced erasers combing sanded wishes,

taking towers in the water’s rage

as moats become minor indentations

on a beach bathed in the moon light,

moving gleams in metronome tickling

as our hearts wash out to sea

drowning in the depths of forbidden love

and with my final breath,

salt water drenched I profess

that forbidden or not, I love you

and the lighthouse shines its orbiting light

as I go under for the last time

happy in my declaration

as rust falls from the anchor

and I wait until we meet again,

on the island of meant to be

 

Psst, if you want to read some of my poetry Getting Me Back (The Voices Within) released this month and is now available in digital or paperback.

Cloud- by Sandra Cisneros (A Poem & A Picture)

/ Janna Hill / 9 Comments

 “If you are a poet, you will see clearly that there is a cloud floating in this sheet of paper.”—Thich Nhat Hanh

 Cloud

Before you became a cloud, you were an ocean, roiled and murmuring like a mouth.

You were the shadow of a cloud crossing over a field of tulips.

You were the tears of a man who cried into a plaid handkerchief.

You were a sky without a hat.

Your heart puffed and flowered like sheets drying on a line.

And when you were a tree, you listened to trees and the tree things trees told you.

You were the wind in the wheels of a red bicycle.

You were the spidery Maria tattooed on the hairless arm of a boy in downtown Houston.

You were the rain rolling off the waxy leaves of a magnolia tree.

A lock of straw-colored hair wedged between the mottled pages of a Victor Hugo novel.

A crescent of soap.

A spider the color of a finger nail.

The black nets beneath the sea of olive trees.

A skein of blue wool.

A tea saucer wrapped in newspaper.

An empty cracker tin.

A bowl of blueberries in heavy cream.

White wine in a green-stemmed glass.

 And when you opened your wings to wind, across the punched-tin sky above a prison courtyard, those condemned to death and those condemned to life watched how smooth and sweet a white cloud glides.

*Sandra Cisneros (born December 20, 1954) is an American writer best known for her acclaimed first novel The House on Mango Street (1984) and her subsequent short story collection Woman Hollering Creek and Other Stories (1991). She is the recipient of numerous awards including a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, and is regarded as a key figure in Chicana literature.

Oh my goodness, those final lines left me a little misty eyed. I do not recall reading Sandra Cisneros before but I certainly enjoyed Cloud and in case I haven’t told you 1000 times  Getting Me Back (The Voices Within) released this month and is now available in digital or paperback. I will be saying it again, and again… and again in case you missed it. As a matter of fact I am going to paste it on every NPM post.

P.S. If you have a recommendation for a poem (even your own) Get in Touch

Just Stopping In to Say Hi (Wish You Were Here)

/ Janna Hill / 2 Comments

Well that was the best 55th birthday I have ever had!janna-waving-n-empty-rocking-chair-1024x636

This winter sabbatical thing is nice. Thank you Florida, Key West & all you ‘keysies’ that made getting older so much fun. The free roaming fowl and the cockfights brought back [old] memories.

This winter sabbatical is going much faster than I had hoped and it is time to get back to Texas and work on the poetry book due to release in April.

Future Poets

/ Janna Hill / 2 Comments

Adding to our poets of the future, laureates in waiting, aka not yet notorious composers today I present to you Typhanie Tijerina- Hill. No we are not related as far as I know but if she were to win a Pulitzer or become a future Poet Laureate that might change.

UT_Tyler_bell_tower.jpg
Typhanie is currently a student at the University of Texas at Tyler studying Chinese, Literature and History.

Prior to UT she attended Trinity Valley Community College where she studied theater, literature and history.
Typhanie is also a wife and a mother. Anyone who has juggled such roles knows the hardships and the rewards. It takes an iron will and an artist’s heart and that is a kick- *ss combination.
I chose A Willow Among the Maple because (for me) it reflects humility and strength… Coming to terms with who we are and accepting our limitations without conceding defeat.

A Willow Among the Maple

By Typhanie Tijerina-Hill

I am a willow among the Maple
I weep while they pour out syrup so sweet
I am droopy and they are strong
I fight for survival while they grow with ease
My roots are planted deep
But are small compared to their large core
They hover over me mocking my fragile limbs
I know I will never be as big as the maple
But I don’t have to be

***
I really, really liked this poem because it left me nodding my head and thinking…

Sometimes it’s like reaching for the stars on a cloudy night. But if we keep reaching, groping into the unseen – maybe one night the clouds will pass and maybe, just maybe we will find a star in our hand. Perhaps not the biggest or the brightest star – but it will be the best star because this one will have our name on it.

 Yes, I wax poetic on occasion.

Not Yet Notorious Composers

/ Janna Hill / 2 Comments

This week I’m not featuring renowned poets.
This week let’s look at future poets or should I say not yet notorious composers.
The following poem was taken from

Poems for MIT Students.

A simple cover for a deep book.

It was written [and I quote] “by MIT students, for MIT students.”

Of the 20+ poems in this little chapbook I chose Almost by Julia Kimmerly.

(I hope 🤞🏼 this links to the free PDF file.)

 

MIT_logo_black_red

 

Ahh you thought MIT was a boring technical institute with some weird shorthand logo that has occult meanings.  Maybe that was my line of  thinking? No, all I can think of  is the Bee Gees so y’all go ahead and read while I sing. 

And the lights alllll weennnt out in Massachusetts…

 

Julia Kimmerly / 2013

it’s been a while since the smile of a pen has styled my page,
ages since mental meandering, penned pondering, wistful wandering
wondering about mysteries, histories, blistering bliss stories
of sinister misters, kissed-hers, twisted listening and
tea: a small plea from me to indulge.
today is a break from the intensity.
it makes a bulge in the tense immensity of stress,
incensed duress.
Dad’s mom’s locket rests in my palm,
her psalms next to his curbed proverbs:
once begun half done
measure twice, cut once
a stitch in time saves nine
but what about when the second half is baffling,
twice doesn’t suffice,
and the stitches come undone
like poorly hitched horses looking for fodder?
what about:
everything in moderation
variety is the spice of life
everything is relative—
relative to what?
it’s all the same insane struggle,
trouble bubbling over from one night to the next.
fight the biting light, the tightening sight as eyelids sigh
sleep is nigh
the group droops with equations left unsolved
greek letters in an unresolved war
equality separating the horror.
symbols swapping sides and constants barring pi’s.
Intensity Has a Taste For Pain.
this feast of information has ceased to be fun.
the yearning of learning gone,
no longer appealing.
the feeling of prolonged gratification
empty.
the anticipation not
tempting.

teachers hold the treat just out of reach,
each time bringing me forward
toward the future, it’s
badder, better, bigger, baller, butter from the stick
but if I don’t get out of this mean fiendish routine—
color outside the confining outline—
i won’t survive.
my thriving creativity of young,
now stifled insensitively,
clung to by what grip I have left.
i want to rip away from the
numerical masochism
hysterical workaholism
compensation for lack of sensation.
i have forgotten how to live,
rotten, now oblivious to what reality does,
sacrificing who I am now, or was, for who I could be.
but that to-be she is only one possible me
a successful breast full of delicious accomplishments.
yes, enticing time now is dimes and cents to my future dollars
a smaller price to pay for a greater later
a relentless satyr of ambition
searing volition to steer myself straight to the top.
but I don’t want to wait and be
a fated one-sided, dull-minded, blind signer
i want to be alive.
strive for more than better letters and wonder numbers
get out of this slumber and
find time for stars and clouds and dimension counting
Mars and How’s and existential doubting
the so-bad-its-good idea talks
the late-night, fate-type of walks
more coffee shops and railroad stops
beer stein hops and sly eaves drops
i want to tout the now and
scout the crowd for smiles and Guastavino tiled lies
(he knows woe woven into faulted vaults).
i want to drive and be driven.
And given the chance, yes i will.
but until the game is won, tassel hassled and the famous cap flung,
i have to persevere
buckle down for my career
gear up for my dear job.
study, read, feed my mind until it wants to be fed.
beg, plead, lead my mind until it wants to be led.
heed my mind until it is ahead, not overrun.
until all is said and done.

The First Year as an Indie (Apples to Oranges)

/ Janna Hill / 9 Comments

Part II (This is Me)

In the first portion of my annual Indie report I shared a few things I have learned regarding support, reviews and social media. I like the number five so if you’re interested I’ll share a couple more. I believe I left off at #3 in Lessons Learned. Since inquiring minds really want to know “how many books are you selling and how much money are you making?” We’ll start #4 with sales.

# 4 Sales: This is like comparing apples to oranges or beets to hamburgers. To simplify it allow me to use e- books and a twelve month period because a year ago I had maybe four titles available, all e-books exclusive to Amazon. Today I have about sixteen, most available wherever books are sold.

Don’t say wow yet. That number includes several books that were combined or joined and counted as a new title.  I.e. The Rage Trilogy, The Perpetual Series and Interior Verse/ Pose Prose & Poems.  Also Disturbed Affections was created for Barnes & Noble  which combines The Perpetual Series and Dour Number Four. Price trials were done and settled between 99¢ and $2.99.

For apples to apples sake March 2012 Amazon e-book sales were roughly about $5.80 with paper books way outselling them. March 2013 sales were about 50x that with very few paper books being sold. That’s two hundred and ninety sneering tight-lipped little Washington’s! Greenbacks baby! $1 smallYou can say wow now but hold that victory dance — I need to tell you something.

Sales over those twelve months were like a bipolar Bohemian. They were all over the place, feast and famine, up and down. Whew! It made me dizzy, now I know that’s just how it goes.

Looking at statistics is supposed to help me understand Bohemians’ such patterns and utilize them for … I don’t know but the good news is I made a few dollars. Woo-hoo – go ahead, dance with me.

#5 Stats and Ranks: OMG poke me in the eye! My website stats? I sort of saw a pattern of increased visitors equaled increased sales but it could’ve been my mind playing tricks on me. Example October hits were good and November sales increased. Why, how, what or who made it happen? Was it a tweet, a post or a random recommendation? I suspect it was a combination of factors or a cousin. I have lots of cousins.

Visitors: My door is always open and people apparently come and go while I’m in the shower or taking a nap. I am supposed to focus on unique visits, unique sites and unique referrers. [sigh] Okay. Most visits occur around 3:00 PM CST. Top referrers are direct requests followed by Google, Bing, A porn site I know nothing about (I swear!) and some from WordPress — that is probably fellow bloggers. Thank you all very much. See how boring data is?

I prefer to look at search string results. Search strings are interesting because you can see what query people use to arrive at your site. My favorites are “who is Janna Hill, “who the hell is Janna Hill”, “is Janna Hill really Janna Hill”, “Janna Hill + Symphony Angel, “is Janna Hill married to Joe Hill?” and “big ugly feet”. Really?! Someone searched “big ugly feet” and arrived here. [scratches head] Okay. Moving on…

Ranking: I use Amazon’s author tools. Just login and click rank. I occasionally break above the 12,000 overall in e-books. I know that sounds pitiful but when you came from ranking 500,000 to 12,000 I call that progress. C’mon, let’s dance again.

I may never be in the top ten or even the top 100 but I’m singing the Jefferson theme song and movin’ on up. I don’t want a deluxe apartment in the sky but I will take a small piece of some humble pie with a cup of coffee please.

The data above was gathered from March 2012- March 2013 reports. Yes I know we just entered July — I would make a great government employee, huh?! It has been (and is) one hell of a ride and I am truly grateful.

This is me. Not me writing on behalf of someone else. Not me pretending to be someone else. Not me wishing I was someone else. This is just me in all my rags of glory.

Addendum: Though it’s too early for me to offer a report or an opinion I can tell you I am seeing sales now at Apple. Maybe someday I’ll do an update and compare them to oranges. Ahh, I crack me up.

Oxalis and G-ma’s

/ Janna Hill / 6 Comments
Oxalis Furling

Sun Set on Oxalis

My grandmothers are deceased but I still think of them often. As a matter of fact thinking of them prompted this post. I was sitting here nibbling on a handful of wild clover (Oxalis to be exact) and thought first of my maternal grandmother. I loved them equally yet they were as different as night and day.

It’s funny how certain things send us flying back in time where we awake to find ourselves strolling down memory lane.

My mom’s mother was somewhat prissy and constantly scolding me for eating wild things. If she didn’t know what it was I wasn’t allowed to eat it. “Mustang grapes and blackberries are okay but everything else is poisonous.” she warned. I didn’t care much for either and I generally ignored her warnings, tasting every berry and leaf I came across. It drove her to fits.

Once she threatened to tan my hide if I ate from the Black Persimmon tree behind the house. I of course did exactly that when she wasn’t looking. The soft shiny berries were too irresistible. To my surprise she wasn’t angry; I suppose she laughed so hard she made herself tired after seeing my lips and teeth stained black.

My paternal grandmother on the other hand would cook, can or consume just about anything that grew, moved or acted like it wanted to bite. (Yes, that one)

After I had settled down and started a family she would sometimes visit. We would walk through the woods in search of an undiscovered herb or animal. She’d scan the ground for changes and jab her cane in every hole until a rabbit ran out and she’d say, “Lookie there Jennavenay- there goes supper.” And we would laugh.

We ate a lot of wild vegetation throughout our years together. We didn’t know the benefit or threat or even the name of most of the wild plants but we learned to avoid the ones that tasted bad. Our walk always ended with her sitting by a large Oak and saying, “This is how I want to die. Like an old Indian I’m gonna set down against this tree and just pass away.” She wasn’t an Indian and that isn’t how she left this world. But that’s how it goes. Life, bittersweet like the Oxalis.