How to Write Euphonically How to Write EuphonicallyHow to Write Euphonically2 years ago in Writing More Like This
By Nic Swaner
Warning: This tutorial is half-learned and half-self-taught. I may use improper terms and techniques that I have found that just work (for me). If you study phonaesthetics, feel free to correct me.
More and more I see young writers try their hand at poetry and prose, and what follows is a seemingness to forget and forego the artistic side of writing. While your writing could be bogged down in the dust and details, it could just as easily be euphonious, or beautiful-sounding. But how do you write euphonic literature? Doesn't it just happen, and don't I have to be specific or the reader will have no clue what I'm talking about? No, and no. Writing euphonically is a painstaking pro
CecileI want to feel yourCecile3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I want to excavate what you hide within
Your soul, behind
The wall that stands between
What I am and what I want to be
What you want me to be
What they want me to see
I want to feel your
Tracing every mark of the scaffolding that keeps you
Your fragile breaking point when you begin
I want to know if I can fix you
I want to play you like a melody, and I can't even bring
Myself to see
When You Blind Me
I want to feel your
Cells and nerves on fire
I WANT your vessels to lift you high-er
I want your lungs breathing me in
I WANT your heart and your soul and your mind and your faith and your point of no return
Let me In
The KelpieA sail on dark water cuts through the reeds beneath green willow trees and rustling weeds under the light of a bright silver moon, like the sun at high noon, the fisherman fishing, the rower his daughter. He cast out his line and let the thread swing with a whispering zing; he sat to wait for a bite in that darkest of nights, twine glowing metallic in silver moon shine. On a mirrored sky the line never twitched unless became hitched on a deep hidden log under the murk of the bog no fish tonight to fry.The Kelpie2 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
Then a ripple passed through that black water of stars his daughter he guards and pushes away at the smell of decay while the shape underwater grew. Then with a splash a horse reared its head, a black thoroughbred with eyes dead as grey marble or ashes of charcoal. Its seaweed mane knotted and hindquarters spotted with hair become scales that morphed into a tail as it neighed in the fray with an ear-splitting wail.
The kelpie reared high and the fisherman paled, his courage
Poetry Self-Edit ChecklistPoetry Self-Edit Checklist2 years ago in Reviews & Guides More Like This
Poetry Self-Edit Quick Start Guide and Checklist
The idea behind this is to give newer poets a way to better edit their poetry themselves, without having to rely as much on an external editor. It can be frustrating, especially for new poets to request feedback from a friend, or worse, to post a poem, and have all of the responses be about grammatical errors and other details. We write poetry to convey ideas and emotions, and when something is off technically about the poem it distracts the reader. When a reader is distracted enough to notice an error or other problem it means they might spend the time they might otherwise have spent glowing about your poem to post a comment correcting you instead.
After this introduction is over the checklist will be as brief as possible while retaining its utility. The idea is to serve as an organizational tool and a reminder rather than to educate on effective
Six word storyDelightful nonsense doesn't change the truth.Six word story3 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
He Gave Me A RoseHe gave me a rose;He Gave Me A Rose5 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It represented our eternal love,
until it wilted three days later.
When you asked me what I wanted
I told you anything but flowers.
The rose is a hypocrite:
not at all profound
and even less prolific.
So, you got me a rose
made of glass, and
we laughed together
as I placed it on a shelf.
There it collected dust,
until it was toppled by
the tiniest jolt.
I gingerly collected the pieces
of fractured romance,
while you cajoled me with
it doesn't matter.
One day you gave me
a diamond, cut to look like
a white rose (of sympathy).
I kept it, but
I never got you back.
The Wood NymphThe sultry contemplation of his sunThe Wood Nymph2 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
deflects in angles bringing frosty chill,
and minty leaves within the breeze's stun
emits a cry, transition looms a thrill.
Emotion breaks, distilled in morning's dew
and icy tears bejew'l her hands in beads.
The rich aspar'gus frock has changed its hue
now hair of hanging orange peel supersedes.
Her rosewood lips foretaste his sweet caress
in dreams she dreams a season's love affair.
Her woodsy skin concealed in wedding's dress
of icy lace and snowy linen fair.
Though bitter, brisk, and bleak the season lingers,
the maiden treasures close her forest fingers.
Oh, Ed: I am not Your Annabel Lee AnymoreYou have learned to moveOh, Ed: I am not Your Annabel Lee Anymore2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
with the silence of ghosts,
the tense noiselessness
of bricked-up walls
shut out the night, and
shut out the night.
I, too, have changed.
I am a mausoleum,
my darling Poe
you curl up inside me like a child.
But there is hardly anything left to hold;
all that is left of me
is a house of moth-eaten lace,
green as arsenic,
collapsing amidst purple lightning flowers,
falling wingless over cliffs
that crash like waves against a dark sea.
CamelliasThe carcassesCamellias2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of pink camellia blossoms
litter the sidewalk,
a school of tropical fish
escaped from their captors' net
I wait for them to rise
into the sky,
a flock of bright angels,
fins turned toward the clouds.
They will bloom again tomorrow,
this I know.
Somewhere Only We KnowSomewhere Only We KnowSomewhere Only We Know1 year ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Here it is," Jesse's dad called from the driver's seat of the car. "She's old but we're only staying here temporarily; just until our house is bug free."
He and his mother both got out of the car and paid no mind to his father's talk. The Lawrence family was used to moving between houses and had never lived in one house for more than three months. Because of it, in all his ten years, Jesse had never made a single friend.
Jesse pushed a lock of his short-cut black hair out of his eye and surveyed the house. The old mansion was a big as he'd ever seen, but it had obviously seen better days. The wood on most of the house was a faded brownish green, and he spotted at least half a dozen spots where the house would surely leak on a rainy day. He closed his green eyes and tried to envision what the manor would have looked like in its prime. To say the least, it would have beaten his house by far, and theirs was the nicest he had seen prior to this
PaperPaperPaper3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Especially in the way
all the possibilities
in the world,
And in the way
that you can cut it
And it can cut you
Tips for the Messy WriterWhen the Muse StrikesTips for the Messy Writer1 year ago in Writing More Like This
I don't know about you, but most of my ideas for writing come to me in the shower. There I'll be, rinsing the shampoo from my hair, and suddenly a line flits through my head - a line so beautiful, so perfectly balanced between the universal and the personal that if I do not capture it immediately my muse will torment me with silence the rest of the year. Generally this situation ends with me haphazardly wrapped in a towel, running down the hall past the rest of the household - who have now learned to politely look the other way - to the dry erase board on the refrigerator where I can scribble out the thought before it evaporates into the ether.
If this is a situation familiar to you, then you may be what I call a messy writer. Messy writers are those for whom organization is not always advantageous, or even possible. This short guide offers five rules I've discovered help keep me on track once I've started a writing task. I hope you'll find them h
The Art of Refining ProseThe Art of Refining Prose6 years ago in General Non-Fiction More Like This
The Art of Refining Prose
Many writers dread the editing process. Not only does it delay the showcase of prose, it can seem a tedious and painstaking task. Often, editing is more time-consuming than the initial writing and consequently, it is either ignored altogether or briefly indulged. This is a great shame. Sincere editing not only proves a pleasurable experience but invaluable to prose, as this is a wonderful opportunity to buff, polish and tighten the impact of one's writing.
Some might argue that editing is not only unnecessary, but detrimental to the raw concept of ones inspiration. The answer to this is simple: select a prose that hasnt been edited and compare against one that has. Its soon evident that a well-edited piece is not only easier to read, but communicates the authors ideas with greater clarity. Few Bestsellers hit the shelves having skipped the editing office. And unless the author has behind them years upon years of writi
Hunger-Second VersionFire in the wild isn't the color you think it is.Hunger-Second Version1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
It's all amber and terra cotta,
one great roaring tower of
orange like the Wrath of God
in a chestnut tree.
I can't go back again to
Devil's Hollow, the small
rock - vale, all cinnamon
and nutmeg and dried pine
needles, where we used to
dance-just like so many
wolves old Nick will wait
for my return, blazing
burnt sienna and shining,
I am not ready to give up
the ghost yet; I am still
waiting for an excuse
to travel the galaxy
empty-handed. I want to
see those bronze nebulas
gleaming like forest fires.
Oh, loverI have watched you swim volcanic
craters, have seen your
flaming eyes amidst the
snow drifts all brown with
dirt, your eyes that mean
you live the element that
is inside you. Dragon mine,
you bring the mists in the
morning, set the roads to
smoking after the evening
you first came to me as
a henna dawn once when I
Nature's last green is gold.Nature's first green is gold,Nature's last green is gold.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
- Robert Frost, 1923.
Nature's last green is gold:
the deepening of summer
into rich yellows, oranges, reds.
In our maturity, grown
comfortable with ourselves,
we stretch out, languid,
in the embrace of a hay field –
Our flowers are not the
delicate sort that die away
after spring's first flurry;
they are smaller, less showy,
but sure of themselves
Indeed, the honeyed scents of a
ripened earth are strongest
just before winter, and
we lament Eden no longer.
Your touches are reverent
not only of my body, my soul,
but of my knowledge, my mind;
and I much prefer the hard skin
of an apple, its juices slick
in my throat, to the drab language
and fine print of scriptures –
orchard tastes of an autumn
kissed by gold.
And as winter swallows the
Bruises and InfidelityYour lipstick bruised his cheek,Bruises and Infidelity4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It was still there when they found him lying face up,
So they asked me what shade I wore and I told them I didn't,
That's why he said he loved me.
The bullet bruised his heart and
It was still there when I wiped my eyes with a borrowed
Handkerchief and watched them lower him down with a little effort.
You threw down some dirt.
Your hand bruised my chest when you
Threw me against the wall and warned me not to pry.
Strong for a little woman, and beautiful. You told me he would not be dead
If I had been just a little more exciting.
They washed your lipstick bruise away, like
They deleted his name from the bank account and
Stopped sending him junk mail on the off chance he might
Open it. Now at least they know he won't.
Appetite Comes with the Eating1. The real horror of OctoberAppetite Comes with the Eating1 year ago in Free Verse More Like This
is the winter, the rising darkness.
It's said they caught him weeping,
heard him babbling about the steam in the snow,
the brown mass that had been a person
his little girl, dead from the cold.
He ate his wife and daughters.
And when the villagers came for him,
he let them take himto the tree
in the center of the square, where he hung,
discolored with frostbite and gangrene.
They called him Wendigo,
gave him to the spirit of the Dying Season,
and hoped that he would rest.
2. My ancestors had a word for his kind
They would have cut out his heart
to stop him from feeding.
He walked again.
Ate his fill of the town that killed him
and marched south, slept every spring
to wait for the Season of the Dying
to come again.
3. I saw the flesh-eater once, in my youth
in a Massachusetts town
near Boston, out on a frozen pond.
I saw his face beneath the ice,
saw his teeth bent with bone-crunching,
before he disappeared into the black w
Character MotivationCharacter Motivation4 years ago in Writing More Like This
Everyone's heard that characters should have goals, something they want and must strive for, overcoming obstacles and antagonists in order to obtain. Because, well, a story is the record of your character's journey toward achieving a goal.
While all of this is true, I think a lot of writers lose sight of an even more important aspect of character. That is, motivation. Sure, you know what your character wants.
That's the gist of motivation. What is the psychology and reasoning behind your character's goal? If your character is driven to make money, is his motivation greed? To pay off a debt? To support his family?
Motivation is your character's emotional connection with the reader. When the reader comes to understand why your character has set out to achieve his goal, they will understand your character in human terms, relate to him, and become invested in what happens to your character throughout the story.
Without a clear motivation, your character's goals don't mean much. So wha
The Unsung SongThe words lie frozen in the wind,The Unsung Song2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Like scattered dust of ages past,
Whispering songs never sung,
Before the old moon waned.
My poetic script lays dying,
As the red sun fades again,
To an eternal twilight,
Ever hopeless for dawn's rebirth.
Voiceless is my message,
Which falls upon deaf hearts,
So though my song is unending,
It will no longer play for you.
SpringSoft licks of sunshine upon your breast,Spring3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
delicate blossoms go down the flesh.
Besotted bumble bees swoon
for the newly opened flower.
How sweet the honey is
as it melts on the tongue.
Once sensitive shy buds
now confident, unstrung.
The lilting breeze climbs, climbs, climbs -
flooding the smooth air
with spring's exquisite gift.
-That Wind-I've become that wind-That Wind-3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The wind that cuts fearlessly through the tree tops
Howling with the evening dogs, bathing in starlight rain
Waiting for the rising moon
Can you hear me?
Listen from your dreamless sleep
This is my time of insanity
I'm leaping through the last days of youth
Clumsily, I tumble into the yellow grass
Falling again and again
Remembering my Indian summer romance
I'll dream in chocolate vision once again
I've stolen everything the sky had to offer
Even so, my heart is insatiable
Send me another comet out of the hopeless silence of space
Fly it over this island drifting through the night
Into the gentile spring
Into my violent winds, charged with electricity
This is only the beginning of my longing
For the heart that has never belonged to anyone
For the dark eyes that pierce my soul as if I was empty
My wonderful dreams will dye this reality with vibrant colors
I'll pull the stars out of the sky myself until this final wish is granted
I've become that wind; s
Melodic DissonanceRoger watched with round eyes as two burly men carried the piano across the school yard. It was the biggest piano he had ever seen, a magnificent upright with glossy finish that reflected light like a mirror.Melodic Dissonance3 years ago in Short Stories More Like This
"Wicked." He turned around to express his awe to a classmate, a teacher, anyone at all, but found himself alone. A large crowd was clamouring around the brand new toy shed; Miss Phillips towered over them as she tried to open the door without crushing any children.
"They seem to be happy," she said, moments later, to Mr. Kentsworth.
He snorted. "They bloody well should be. That cost over a thousand quid."
She watched the children play piggy in the middle. "Have you seen him today?"
"No; probably skulking in the shadows, watching some poor soul." He glanced around, and laid eyes on Roger. "Ahah."
"Hmm?" She followed his gaze to Roger, then the piano. "Ah, so he wants to play the piano? Perfect."
Roger pulled his nose away from the window and stared with wide eyes. "Can I?"
Mostly No RoachesMostly No Roaches (The New American Dream)Mostly No Roaches2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
He works eight to three on the road crew.
Spends his nights stalking shelves with
food they can't afford to buy.
She was fired last week.
Late again because
the school bus forgot too many times
to stop at their run down motel.
It's not safe for the boys to walk
alone through this part of town
to the designated stop.
So now she sits
in the chair
by the phone.
Hoping someone likes her resume and
hoping there is enough gas in the tank
to get her to an interview.
He picks up the boys.
They walk home.
He tells them things will get better.
While he sleeps
she helps the boys with their homework,
crunching a roach across an essay on
The Great Gatsby.
It is the first one they have seen
in almost three days.