All things competitive

bill cosby quote

While it may not be politically correct to use a quote from a man who has fallen so far from grace, the sentiment remains. In order to succeed you must fail – plain and simple.

I have been busy procrastinating. Life has kept me away from the screen so there hasn’t been much writing going on and I have decided to take a break from A-semester creative writing papers while I wait for the dust to settle.

I have however, been submitting some of my works to online poetry and short story competitions. This was one of my 2019 resolutions and I am happy to state that I am keeping to this.

Surprise! Nothing of anything has happened…. yet.

There is this faint hope amongst many of the writers that I know, that if you just persist in submitting work in competitions that you will be noticed. The reality is…….. Well this almost never happens. Submission in any form involves a whole lot of heartache and even more headaches. Editing and re-editing your work until it is sharp, and then it may not suit the taste of the person who is judging. Competing means that many pieces can not be shared even on your own blog or website as in many instances work cannot be pre-published.

One piece of great news that I have received this week is my published poem Don’t Dream of Gravity is to be included in a compilation video poem along with other pieces from the 2018 Mayhem Journal. I will get to read the two lines selected and it will be edited and published online. I am hoping that I will be able to share this link with you all soon.

In the meantime, I thank you again for popping by and reading my blog. Keep reaching for the moon, even if you don’t get there you will find yourself amongst the stars.

Lillith

I got published!

It’s always a celebration when you get your first piece published, no matter how big the edition it goes into.  I am so very grateful to have been chosen from hundreds of works submitted to the 2018 edition of Mayhem! I cannot replicate the piece here until after the magazine comes out, but I have for your enjoyment put below the winter piece I was working on, which was also submitted but not picked (this time!).

Winter storm.
Lillith Fontaine

Sad skies with silks of thunder
frost my skin with siren song.
Serve a palate of grey and afternoon
shroud heavy on my windowsill.

Hail, sculpt pearls for a blessed rosary
entwined in twig-bare hands.
Time to pacify the silver mere
as twilights curtain falls like dust.

Bring the lullaby of lightening
to douse insolent ears black.
Reverent night, now paints the canvas
shaken clean by snowflake stars.

Whiskey & winter

Whiskey siren

You’ve got to love this cold wet weather.

While most are hibernating under covers and chowing down endless Netflix binges, I have been busy writing. Some from long lost ideas and writing prompts that I found while trying to sort some of my class notes into a more ordered fashion. Not that I think writers do “organisation” very well, if like me, most have chaotic scribbling on endless pieces of paper that aren’t always suitable to hole-punch into a folder. Thank goodness for stick glue and family who know that I have a obsession with notebooks.

My other life NEEDS for me to be organised, with endless checklists and project management tools at hand. Every now there is a cross over. It also means I find nuggets of inspiration yet to be fully explored and (more than likely) finished and published.

I’m back in class this week with my very talented and award winning lecturer attempting a 300 level non-fiction paper. Excited to have passed A-Semester’s anthropology paper with an “A-” and now pushing myself to write in a different genre.

I also taking a small writers sabbatical at the inspirational beach home of Michael King looking over winters seascape with a whiskey in hand.

Yup, got to love winter.

 

To be finished……..

 

Sad skies with silks of thunder

Frost my skin with your siren song

A palate of grey and afternoon

Shroud heavy on my windowsill

 

Pearls of sleet a blessed rosary

To entwine in threadbare fingers

Silver puddles reflect the murk

While twilight falls as dust

 

Begin the lullaby of lightening

Assault my ears with black

Reverent night now the canvas

Century Seed.

Autumn.
Once in one hundred years of tears, I am dropped from my mother’s arms. Autumns neglect carries me far from my home until I get cast in the womb of a clay orphanage.

Spring.
Winter has passed. The earth is released from between frost-like teeth, and I have found another Mother. She has loved me into a shallow grave and waits for my resurrection. My stomach erupts, young green skeletal arms reach towards the light. Without hurry I take my one and only new-born step. My face searches for the suns smile, my ears fill with the song of birds. I yearn to hold one in my palm.

Winter.
Quick rapid growth past soft adolescence and I am no longer ungraceful, thin and raw-boned. The casing on my chest is rough; my arms many and strong. I breathe with confidence having secured my place as a young giant. I clutch at winter’s starry kiss, as it blows candyfloss ice across my broad shoulders. Within each cell my power grows.

Spring part 2.
Today I saw my birth mother in the distance, a veil of cloud crowned her majestic head. I waved with green palms but she does not recognise me. I am taller, stronger, and younger; I will out-rule her. I gaze at the horizon, impatient to see fatigued feathered friends as they return from the south. They will build their temporary sanctuaries in my stateliness.

Late Summer.
My almost audible flowers whose sound echoes silence bid farewell to this year’s fledglings. I forget the number I have nurtured in my arms, or those who never returned. Time is the cloak of my immortality. Only Mother and the Sun are older than I. Each leafy fingertip has traced the face of heaven; each rooted toe gouged the bowel of hell. I have seen all, heard all, from the barking dogs of thunder to each season’s sensual sigh.

Autumn part 2.
Rapture. One hundred years of tears slash the earth and I recall a distant memory sharper than lightening. My seed child is carried by autumns surging tide far from my expansive reach. It is likely she will acknowledge her birthplace; more likely, she will not.

There is no pain.

I endure.

 

Anthem of a graveyard.

When I was young I chose escape
pinkie promises discarded on block’s boundary.
Across the highway of metal mayhem
it’s almost quiet except for
The birds
The cars
The playing card
Singing hymns to the spokes of my antique bike

Sticky-sap needles cling to virginal soles
to enter through white Pearly Gates
under pungent summer pine.
Bright weeds nod with
A breath
A ghost
A vapour
Hosanna to a strange child in a strange place

Strips from bleach worn Sunday’s best
And brasso and elbow grease and determination
reveal lives stopped short.
Newborn
Unborn
Stillborn
Psalms for small forgotten bodies

Death lingers on cut grass
I am numb and I
work to rub the filth away.
Do not cry
Do not feel
Do not tell
Canticle for lives shorter than my 8, just as tragic

Unsure who is crueler
nature or time.
They went to lead another life
leaving us behind
Unseen
Unheard
Unmourned.

coimetromania