Showing posts sorted by relevance for query Poetry. Sort by date Show all posts
Showing posts sorted by relevance for query Poetry. Sort by date Show all posts


Last week I headed into one of the toughest, yet most rewarding weekends of my year.

Of what do I speak? Breathe Christian Writers Conference. The event in Grand Rapids covers fiction, nonfiction and poetry, as well as insights from editors, agents and marketers on how to get published and grow your platform.

The tough

This year (my third as an attendee) came on the heels of me accepting a new job as a reporter at Grand Rapids Business Journal. I knew my job would be starting the Monday after the conference. This gave me exactly one day to rest in between.

So I was stressing out. Worrying that I would be drained from all the socializing and networking. Fretting over my lack of creative writing productivity the past year. What will I have to tell people about who I am as a writer if I didn't write much in 2016? Who's going to believe that I'm a poet and a blogger if they google me and don't find anything recent?

The good

Breathe blew me away — AGAIN. It showed me how much room there is in God's plan for MY story, the one that includes fits and starts, fruitful days and dry spells. 

Some of the most affirming things: 

1) Novelist Tracy Groot's lunch forum, "On Creating a Good Work" encouraged me that our best always starts with our least. And so the question I should ask myself is not "How can I do a perfect job?" or "How can I have the most productive year?" but instead "What is the least I can do today to get the job done?" God isn't looking for perfection. He is looking for movement in our hearts.

2) All the poetry sessions on Saturday were great. Amy Nemecek led a session on the poetry of Luci Shaw, and Matt Landrum led two sessions: one a poetry critique workshop (SO helpful!) and the other on submitting to literary journals. I was so grateful for the extra emphasis this year on the craft of verse. I walked away from the critique session armed with suggestions on how to revise one of my poems, and I felt a deep sense of encouragement that I'm on the right track.

See how much the good outweighed the bad? I'm really glad I didn't listen to all those nagging fears about the conference. It refreshed my soul.
I just attended a poetry workshop at Jot Writers' Conference. The workshop leader, Matt Landrum, of Structo Magazine, asked participants to bring poems to be read and critiqued by the group. I brought my poem "Wildscape," which I shared in my last blog post.

I really, truly appreciated the feedback the participants shared, so I'm reposting the poem, updated to incorporate some suggestions from the workshop.

First, I've played with the structure. The lines run longer before breaking, which I hope gives the dream-like vibe more room to breathe.

Second, I've taken out the parts in which the narrator passes judgment — e.g., "he smiled at me sardonically / and answered me laconically" and "the years had not been kind" — and I've replaced them with more detailed description — aiming to show instead of tell.

Here's the updated poem:

(Photo: Free images)













"Wildscape"


By Rachel E. Watson

I met an old friend last night in the wildscape of my dreams.
It had been at least a dozen years since we last locked eyes.

I saw him sitting at my mother’s aging patio set in a sunny
wildflow’r garden bordered by a treehouse with a ladder.

He leaned back, tipping his chair, with that middle-parted
hair, grinding grooves in the ground as I regarded him anew.

I asked if he recalled basement jams and living room horror
film fests. He stared, lip twitching, and said, “It’s all gone.”

I saw his gaunt, waxy face—his frayed sweatshirt, sleeves
pushed up, baring black veins and cracked, stained nails.

How did such hardness spin from a childhood we shared—
our histories running parallel like train tracks for miles?

For all I knew, he saw the garden, the table, the treehouse
and chairs, and pitied me likewise, for not getting out— 

For staying put.


And again, here was the original draft of the poem, to compare. Fun stuff!

About Jot Writers' Conference


Jot is a semi-annual, one-night only conference founded by a Michigan writers' group, The Weaklings. The four-hour event features speakers from all walks of the writing life, from publishers and agents to folks who write fiction, nonfiction, memoir, blogs, poetry and children's literature. The lectures are followed by hands-on workshops in which small groups meet to share and discuss their work.

To learn more about the event, visit jotwritersconference.com, or "Like" the Jot Facebook page.
I've been waiting excitedly all week to share these poems with you, readers, and tell you just why they mean so much to me.

They were introduced to me in various literature classes in college — the place I learned to truly appreciate poetry. Before that, I'd read bits of poetry here and there, but the discussions on a higher level in college, with professors adept at literary criticism, opened a new world of words to me.

Without further ado, here are the three short poems I love:

Is there anything more melancholy and beautiful than fog? (Photo: Free images)

"Fog," by Carl Sandburg, 1916


The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

I love the metaphor of fog being like a cat, coming to observe. It's in the city, but not really of the city. It springs up seemingly out of nowhere. It makes no sound and can scarcely be felt. But its presence is by turns eerie, soothing, mysterious, aloof or comforting.

Cats are just like that. They steal your heart and win your cautious respect.


"So sweet and so cold." (Photo: Free images)

"This Is Just To Say," by William Carlos Williams, 1934


I have eaten 
the plums 
that were in 
the icebox 

and which 
you were probably 
saving 
for breakfast 

Forgive me 
they were delicious 
so sweet 
and so cold

This poem is written like an apology note on the kitchen counter. It tickles my funny bone. It makes me think of how sometimes, the food being saved for a special occasion — whatever it may be — is more tempting than the food that's freely available. We're all human; we all feel the pull of forbidden fruit.

Reading this poem made you hungry for plums, didn't it? You weren't even thinking about them until I shared this, were you?

The innocence of a child. (Photo: Free images)


My Papa's Waltz, by Theodore Roethke, 1942


The whiskey on your breath 
Could make a small boy dizzy; 
But I hung on like death: 
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans 
Slid from the kitchen shelf; 
My mother’s countenance 
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist 
Was battered on one knuckle; 
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head 
With a palm caked hard by dirt, 
Then waltzed me off to bed 
Still clinging to your shirt.

This poem, admittedly, is very bittersweet. I remember being disappointed and angry after I first read it — angry that the poet would celebrate drunkenness in verse. Alcoholism isn't something to laud, my college self said. 

But eventually, I peeled back the layers and found beauty underneath. The more I've thought about it over the years, the more I have come to realize Roethke did what artists the world over strive to do: Make something honest and beautiful out of something broken.

The poem illustrates that troubled people show love in troubling ways. It's love that's as imperfect as love always will be this side of heaven.

I haven't read much about Roethke beyond his Wikipedia page, but I'm willing to bet the poem is autobiographical. I'm thankful he took his pain and spun a refrain. (Ha! See, I'm a poet, too. ;)

Share your favorite poem


Can you think of a poem that has affected you deeply? I'd love to hear about it. Leave me a comment here or over at my Facebook Community page.
(Writers must write. Photo: Free images)

Did you know Grand Rapids has a writers conference that's absolutely free? Welcome to the delight I felt when I learned about Jot: The GR Writers Mini-Conference, a semi-annual one-night event hosted on Friday, Sept. 12, at Baker Book House. 

I felt invigorated and refreshed by what I heard and learned about blogging, editing and the discipline of writing regularly. I'd like to share some of those lessons with you.

'The Gift of Vulnerability' in writing


I found the most to connect with in the talk by Ellen Stumbo, a blogger and journalist who spoke on "The Gift of Vulnerability." Vulnerability in writing is something I strive for, but I often struggle to let myself be open out of fear of what readers will think of me in all my messiness. 

Like cracked pavement, we're all broken. (Photo: Free images)
Stumbo, a pastor's wife as well as a writer, opened her speech with a confession: She wanted her daughter to die. Having hooked me with that opener, she could say anything next, and I'd be along for the ride. 

She described the dark days after her daughter was born with Down syndrome, during which Stumbo often dug her nails into her palms so forcefully that they left marks, just to keep herself from doing something worse.

When she began blogging honestly about her fears and anger, she was set free from the shame. She began to connect with other women, other moms, who had felt the same way but were too scared to say the words out loud. When she said the words, "I wish my daughter away," she released herself -- and countless others she inspired -- from the bondage of fear. She could let it go -- and heal, and offer others hope.

Stumbo's gift to me on Friday night was multi-layered:
  1. She reminded me of what I've been told lately by more than one writing mentor and friend: Share that passion inside you. You've had experiences unique to yourself, and you've responded to them and learned from them in ways that only you can share. 
  2. Stumbo stressed that half-truths are no truths at all. If you share only part of the story, without revealing any of your weaknesses or motivations, you have not served the reader. You have preached a message you believe, but have not explained why you believe it. The reader might end up feeling confused and alienated by your avoidance of the whole truth. The reader might walk away worse off than when s/he came to your blog.
  3. She clarified that vulnerability is not a chance to put someone else down, a chance to be spiteful, a confession without discretion, or a chance to say "it's not fair." It's also not a good idea to offer up the whole hot mess if you're still in the thick of it.
  4. She emphasized that vulnerability is a chance to offer hope, a chance to bring light into darkness and a chance to share your brokenness to bring about redemption. I would certainly say she is flying that flag in her own writing, after having read a few posts from her blog.
I look forward to following the presenters in the future -- especially Ellen Stumbo -- and I'm so thankful to the Jot organizers for their labor of love in putting on the free conference.

I hope to meet some of you, readers, at the next Jot gathering.

About the conference


The event, now in its fourth year, was organized by four local writers: Andrew Rogers, a published nonfiction and short-story author and acquisitions editor at Discovery House Publishers; Josh Mosey, a fiction writer, blogger and Baker Book House employee; Bob Evenhouse, a fiction writer who is in the process of seeking publication for a young adult series; and Matthew Landrum, MFA, poet and poetry editor for Structo Magazine.

The organizers created a four-hour, post workday structure for the event, which I found to be very helpful. Four keynote speakers gave brief talks with five- to 10-minute breaks between each, then at the end of the keynotes, attendees could choose among three simultaneous workshops: one on poetry, one on speculative fiction and one on blogging. I attended the blogging workshop.

The keynote speakers were Alison Hodgson, a writer and humorist; Andrew Rogers, conference co-founder; Ellen Stumbo, a blogger and journalist; and Sam Carbaugh, a cartoonist, illustrator and newly published children's book author. I appreciated the insights shared by these speakers and fellow writers I connected with during the workshop.
(Photo: Free images)
This Holy Week, I have been blessed by passages my husband has read aloud from his copy of "The Book of Common Prayer" at night before we go to sleep.

After hearing the Wednesday-before-Easter reading, I was struck by one particular phrase: "strange blood."

To put it in its biblical context, this refers to the animal sacrifice the ancient Jewish priests made in the tabernacle each year to atone for the people's sins. The priests, as commanded by God in the Book of Leviticus, would take the blood and pour it on the altar as a covering for transgressions.

A strange practice. A strange command.

Christians believe Jesus Christ was the fulfillment of that practice — he is the Lamb of God in human form — and because of the blood he shed, we no longer need to offer sacrifices as atonement.

While pondering this concept, I felt the combined weight of all the things I've been studying and learning start to soak into my skin.

On Maundy Thursday, aka The Last Supper/Passover celebration, Jesus predicted his death, burial and resurrection, and he also predicted Peter would deny him three times. Later that night and into the wee hours of the morning, it happened just as Jesus prophesied.

BUT, after the resurrection, he forgave Peter for his faithlessness and reinstated him into the fold of his disciples. Peter became the rock on which the church is built, one of the most passionate and outspoken apostles of the early church.

Oh, the power of forgiveness.

In the spirit of Christ's atonement and all else I learned this week about forgiveness, I wrote a poem yesterday called "Strange Blood." I won't share the whole thing here, because I intend to submit it for publication.

But I can share the first stanza. In the poem, Jesus is addressing Peter.

This cup full of strange blood,
spilling from my crown, my hands,
my feet and my heart,
is painted across thy lintel,
is poured over thine errors.

If you're going to remember one thing today, this Good Friday, remember this holiday exists to shout from the rooftops that your errors are covered, once and for all, because of Christ's "strange blood" poured over your sins.  

Read more of my poetry-related blog posts here.


Social Media Blues


By Rachel Watson

I’ve got a deadline. A project due in less than a week.
I open my blank document, start typing titular details,
left-aligned, top of the page and single-spaced.

 Then I see a little red “1” on my phone screen, so I go
check that. It’s just a status update from someone I starred.
She was sharing a Buzzfeed quiz.

 But oh, wait, I haven’t seen this quiz. Maybe I really need
to know whether I’m a mountain or beach vacation.
It will only take a minute. Promise.

 Great. Quiz done. It’s time to focus. Shoot. I just remembered
that last night I finished reading a Neil Gaiman novel
and totally forgot to update Goodreads.

 So I go do that, moving it from “reading” to my “read”
bookshelf. While I’m here, though, I might as well check
to see if anyone’s left me a recommendation.

 What! How did I not know Anne Lamott had another
book out? Time to hop over to Amazon and order
that bad boy. Omg, I’m getting free shipping on this.

I’ve got to tell my Twitter followers it’s out, that I liked
the Gaiman book, that I’m a mountain vacation
(in the Alps, no less), and see what’s trending.

How did it get to be lunchtime? Where has the day
gone? And then I hear the whooshing
sound of a new text message.

Rabbit trail re-entered. Shuffle and repeat.

Copyright © Rachel E. Watson 2015.

Read more of my poetry blog posts here.
It's time to get serious about this blog. (Photo: Free images)

I learned a thing or two about blogging during a workshop at Jot Writers' Conference last weekend. It's time to put those ideas into practice.

My main takeaway from the workshop was that, in order to find success — that is, to gain and retain readers — a blogger should be consistent in how often s/he posts, and should have a clear mission, i.e., a theme, for the blog.

With that in mind, I'd like to articulate my plan for this space going forward. This is my commitment to you, my readers:
  1. I will update the blog three times per week: Tuesdays, Fridays and Sundays.
  2. I will write about what I know and what I like. I've done a thorough content audit of my past posts, and I'm confident the structure I have in mind will work well with my areas of interest and expertise. If you like what I like, then this will be the blog for you.
With those two goals in mind, here are the themes to which I'll stick on each of the three days I'll post:

Groovy Tuesday


Music is one of my top passions in life. (Photo: Free images)

Tuesdays will be devoted to waxing eloquent about music. I'm no expert musician — although I did take piano lessons for 10 years — but I'm very good at appreciating the stuffing out of music. I learned how to critique it intelligently in my college Music Appreciation 101 class. (Thanks, Professor Vandermark!) In that class, I also learned how many types of music I enjoy — which is almost every type I've heard so far.

I love to review concerts, albums and share new music discoveries. I'll make it my goal on Tuesdays to expose you to as wide a variety of tunes as you can possibly handle. 

I will welcome your suggestions and recommendations, too.

Fine Art Friday


The world is a colorful place. (Photo: Free images)

On Fridays, I'll talk about poetry, visual arts, drama, film and sometimes other categories of literature. I might discuss more music on this day, too — most likely classical or sacred music.

With ArtPrize coming up, I'll plan to do a couple of posts about what I see there during the competition.

Storytelling Sunday


Oh, books! I love you so much. (Photo: Free images)

I am a journalist. Storytelling Sunday will offer a chance for me to share tidbits about what I'm learning at work. 

It also will give me a chance to review a book here and there.

But, primarily, Sunday will be the day of the week on which I'll share the tales of what's been happening in my life, from people I've met to places I've been to events in the past to goals for the future. 

I'll tell other people's stories as part of that. If there's one thing I love about being a journalist, it's that I get to share the untold stories. The fact that I and my fellow journalists are entrusted with this responsibility is a delightful miracle. I don't take it for granted.

My first Groovy Tuesday


I'll keep this first one brief.

The song below, "Ain't No Rest for the Wicked," is by Cage the Elephant. It was released in 2009 in the U.S. after its 2008 debut in the UK.

The first time I heard it and really listened closely was when it came on my Pandora Black Keys station a few months ago while I was running at the YMCA. [The Black Keys fuel my running playlists many days of the week.]

I find value in this song because it illustrates how no kid dreams of growing up to be a drug dealer or prostitute, but a series of unfortunate events, choices or circumstances certainly can make it seem like the only option. And, once you get in, it's hard to get out.

Listen via the YouTube video below, and try to absorb its emotional impact.




What do you think of the song?


Now that you've had a chance to listen to it, I'd love to hear from you. Leave me a comment here or over at my Facebook Community page.
I would like to dedicate this poem to Linda Russ, Pam Elmore and Melody Wilson. You were my "guardians" this week. May I always remember to reach out and grab the hands that are extended. 

(Photo credit: environmentalaska.us)

In the Belly of the Bird
By Rachel E. Watson

The great white shark surges up
to snap my tightrope in two,
plunging me deep into the belly
of the icy upper Pacific—
shark- and whale-infested waters—
and I really, truly,
believe I cannot swim.

But then a rescue copter
calls out to me from above:
“Kick your legs,” the pilot says.
I kick until I feel my legs give out.

Just before my limbs fail me, 
the guardian ties a rope
to the chopper’s landing skids
and starts to descend
down to the mooringless waters.

Extending a strong arm,
she pulls me up.

I am now in the belly of this bird,
not in the belly of the waters.
Hours elapse before that sinks in.

A soft, fleece blanket has been wrapped
around my shoulders—who did that?
I’m not sure I’ll be able to thank her
because my whole body is shaking.

I’m not on that tightrope,
I’m not kicking in shark-infested waters.
The stinging smell of the saltwater cannot harm me,
although its briney taste still pierces my tongue.

I have to retrain my brain
to look at the horizon, 
to converse with the pilot
and to thank my guardian.

The shore is hours away.
I don’t have to swim there.
And that is enough.

© Rachel E. Watson 2015.



I have noticed some writers squirm when the word "prolific" is used to describe them. Why is this? I also have noticed some of us call other writers prolific, but we struggle to believe we could be, too.

I'm puzzling through this conundrum today as I ponder the craft of writing, my Sunday habit of late. I'd like to share a few words of encouragement on the subject.

1. Writing is a commitment. It takes effort. You have to decide for yourself when, how often and for how long you will write. If you are looking at friends' writing lives and wondering how they are getting published so much, the answer is probably simple, yet difficult: They have decided to commit. They have set goals, and they have put their work in front of editors and publishers. Repeatedly. You can do this, too.

2. You don't have to be a prodigy to be a writer. I suspect this is why some writers bristle when you call them prolific. The word can carry a connotation that the published writer is a wunderkind. That the prolific writer is exceptionally brilliant or lucky. But that's not necessarily true. Behind the scenes, the prolific writer has made a difficult choice to do the work, regardless of the cost. And that deserves respect.

3. Writing daily adds up. Let's brainstorm. If I write five poems a week for a year and submit half of them for publication, even if 70 percent of the poems I submit are rejected, I'll have 39 published poems at the end of the year. That's enough to compile into a chapbook of poetry. Wow.

4. Making publishing inroads is hard work. Your writing might be great, but maybe you haven't found a journal or publishing house that's a good match for your style and themes. The writing friends you see getting published might have good instincts about where to submit work. Or they might have been born into a literary family with connections. Or, they went to a university with ties to a publishing house. The good news is, you can develop your instincts. You can network to make more connections. Be patient. It will take time.

5. Prolific, schmolific. Some of the world's best-loved writers are known for the quality, not quantity, of their work. (Think Harper Lee.) The important thing is to write because you love it, not because it gives you status. If love is your motive, you'll stay grounded through everything the world throws your way.

Now go forth and write!

What do you think?

When you call someone "prolific," what do you mean by it? What do you think others mean by it? I'd love to hear your thoughts. Leave a comment below (no account necessary). 
In my book, this has been one of Michigan's loveliest autumns. The weather has been comfortably cool without being too cold, and the trees have been such brilliant hues of red ...

A maple near my office in Walker, Michigan. (Photo: Rachel E. Watson)

yellow ...

The tree in my front yard. (Photo: Rachel E. Watson)

and all the colors of the spectrum ...

Trees along M-46 between Lakeview and Edmore. (Photo: Becky Howard)

It makes me want to take time out to confess that of all the fine art I could possibly enjoy and celebrate in this world, whether it's music, poetry, film, literature, painting or other visual arts, none of them could exist were it not for the Creator by whose power the universe was formed.

And who can top the beauty in His world? 

Today, while I was walking on the trail that cuts through my office park, a strong wind rushed through the trees and set them to swaying, and a golden brown leaf tornado spun up from the ground as I watched. 

In that moment, hymns began playing, one after another, in the symphony of my mind. These are the hymns I heard:



"For the Beauty of the Earth"


For the beauty of the earth, 
For the glory of the skies, 
For the love which from our birth 
Over and around us lies; 
Lord of all, to thee we raise 
This our hymn of grateful praise. 

For the beauty of each hour 
Of the day and of the night, 
Hill and vale, and tree and flower, 
Sun and moon, and stars of light;
Lord of all, to thee we raise
This our hymn of grateful praise. 

For the joy of human love, 
Brother, sister, parent, child, 
Friends on earth and friends above, 
For all gentle thoughts and mild; 
Lord of all, to thee we raise 
This our hymn of grateful praise. 



"This Is My Father's World"


This is my Father's world, 
And to my listening ears 
All nature sings, and round me rings 
The music of the spheres. 
This is my Father's world: 
I rest me in the thought 
Of rocks and trees, of skies and seas; 
His hand the wonders wrought. 

This is my Father's world, 
The birds their carols raise, 
The morning light, the lily white, 
Declare their maker's praise. 
This is my Father's world: 
He shines in all that's fair; 
In the rustling grass I hear him pass; 
He speaks to me everywhere. 

This is my Father's world. 
O let me ne'er forget 
That though the wrong seems oft so strong, 
God is the ruler yet. 
This is my Father's world: 
The battle is not done
Jesus who died shall be satisfied
And earth and heaven be one.



"How Great Thou Art"


O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder
Consider all the works thy hands have made,
I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder,
Thy power throughout the universe displayed:

Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee:
How great thou art, How great thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee:
How great thou art, How great thou art!

When through the woods and forest glades I wander
I hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees,
When I look down from lofty mountain grandeur,
And hear the brook and feel a gentle breeze:

Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee:
How great thou art, How great thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to thee:
How great thou art, How great thou art!

 I'm so thankful for Creator God, the finest artist, the best composer, The Word Who Became Flesh.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here. 
Robin Williams as Mr. Keating in "Dead Poets Society."


Last night, my husband spent some time reading poetry aloud to me. One of the things he read was Walt Whitman's tribute to Abraham Lincoln after his assassination, "O Captain! My Captain," which was made more significant to our generation by its mention in the film "Dead Poets Society."

The tears rained down my cheeks as I traveled 150 years backward into our nation's history and tried to imagine the heartbreak I'd feel if Lincoln had been my leader and I'd lost him. I commented to Adam that I again felt the transcendence of creativity as I cried over words written so long ago, by a man who is dead, for a man who died. That words should live so long in our collective memory and carry so much power truly is a beautiful mystery.

Do verses penned in our time hold such sway over our souls? For me, the answer is yes.

The other day, my mind was drifting into the past, and a song an old friend wrote came to me.

I googled the lyrics I could remember and was startled to find that there is no trace of the song anywhere online, despite the fact that it was recorded on an album of his from 10-plus years ago. I still have that album, and it's almost unlistenable because I've over-loved it through the years. The latter tracks are scratched beyond repair, which include the song I'm thinking of: "Grieve."

The only place I can play the CD is in my car; it skips too much when I try to use my computer. So this morning, I sat in my car in the garage listening to it over and over so I could transcribe the lyrics before it's totally unplayable.

Since the song's beauty and melancholy have stuck with me, I want to share the lyrics with you today, in hopes they will connect with your heart like they've stayed in mine.

I only wish I could share a recording of it, too.

"Grieve," by Titus Cole


She put her feet on the cold, hard floor
Glanced in the mirror and walked out the door
I wonder, how can she be so sure?

She lives her life as if
She’s a flag on a hill who just can’t catch a drift
Of wind to help her to unfurl

Ooh, I know what I have to do
And I laugh at the pain that we’ve both been through
But, Sunday morning comes and
Though we both know what needs to be done
I just swallow
And the phone sits on the shelf

If God in heaven has changed your mind and
If you now know what it means to be blinded by others,
And the whims of falsity

If the rumors I hear are true
Then why am I standing lonely and blue on the brink?
Hopelessness is constancy

Oh, I know what I have to do
And I laugh to think of such a pair of fools
But, Sunday morning comes and
Though we both know what needs to be done
I just swallow
And the phone sits on the shelf

[Instrumental interlude]

As long as there are tears left to cry
As long as there is any truth left to deny
I now realize
That I will love you still

And if you never give a thought to me
And even if age should come to claim me
I realize
That I will love you still

Oh I know what I have to do
And I laugh every time that I think of you
But, Sunday morning comes and
Though we both know what needs to be done
I just swallow
And the phone sits on the shelf

And I grieve for you
I grieve for you
I grieve

That verse, "She lives her life as if // she's a flag on a hill who just can't catch a drift // Of wind, to help her to unfurl" resonates with me greatly. I remember feeling that way so often throughout my adolescence and young adulthood, and even sometimes still, as I doubt my own abilities to write. 

As members of the human race, we know there are gifts inside us, but we need help opening up to them and displaying them for the world. This is what people like Mr. Keating in "Dead Poets Society" can do for us. They can see our hidden gifts and coax them out into the light. 

Today, I'm thankful for the teachers and coaches among us. I'm thankful for artistic talent. And I'm thankful for the transcendent power of the written word.

What about you?


I'd love to hear from you if there's a song, poem, story or artwork that won't let you go, even after years and years. Leave me a comment here or at my Facebook Community page.

Read more posts in the Fine Art Friday series here.
My musical tastes were shaped early on by piano lessons, church songs, free subscriptions to BMG music, and my buddies' basement bands.

Although I've branched out since then and found my own faves, occasionally I find myself returning to my roots.

This morning's commute to class was one example as I played into my Tuesday mood and listened to the effortless lyric poetry of Chris Rice (no, he's not related to Damien.)

Smellin' Coffee, anyone?

What beauty he captures, what simple joys he finds in life. If more of us could tap that joy, we'd all be a little better off.

Recently, I was reminded to take seriously that each day is a gift. I can forget that truth amid the rush of work projects and the worries of life. Because my editing 9-to-5 is so much about meeting deadlines and staying one step ahead of the mountain that threatens to swallow me, I can forget to look around and appreciate the most important treasures in life.

This post is about recovering that sense of wonder. Here are some of the things, large and small, for which I am thankful:

1. The right and privilege to vote in U.S. elections


(Photo: Rachel E. Watson)

This is a solemn responsibility and at the same time a great privilege, one that the women of my 238-year-old nation have only had for 94 years. It fills my heart with a sense of power and pride when I step into that booth after careful research and fill in the bubbles that represent my choices. 

On Election Day last Tuesday, I couldn't help noticing the looks of satisfaction on each of the faces in line. Here we are to vote, and here we've just voted. How simple a joy. The smiles were infectious. 

2. Poetry and songwriting


In meter and wonder, with rhythm and expression, words and music weave a tapestry that conveys our shared human experience. 

How is it that one person can pen a song that moves the hearts of thousands? When we read or hear the lines borne out of the writer's mind, we can't know fully what it was that led to the writing. But we can feel it deeply inside. We can connect. We can welcome the words and sounds into our spirits and carry them with us into the night, a great sustenance through the valley of the shadow.


3. The power of spoken prayer


(Photo: Free images)

I like to be alone, where I may speak my fears to God. I find Him at the zenith of my frustrations outside in nature, where I walk alone and talk to Him aloud. 

Speaking my thoughts moves them from the confused cage of my brain into the light of day, where I can see them for what they are. When they are said aloud, though I hear no audible response from God, they lose power over me. 

One example last week was when a project took a sharp turn just when I thought it was finished, and I lost my cool. 

I gathered my keys and coat and headed for the woods to seek solitude. I remember telling God, "What's going on here is not cool! I'm really angry that you'd let this happen! And then there's the matter of my niece born today. I was really hoping to get out of here early so I could go see her, but then all of this happened. She's not getting any younger, God!" 

After I said those words, I just burst out laughing at how I sounded. I was released from anger's grip.

Speaking of my niece ... here's my final item of gratitude:

4. A new life to love


While I was praying on my solitary walk on Friday, I realized that I already loved my newest niece, November "Emmy" Rose, born that morning at 3:30, even though I hadn't met her yet. 

Emmy sleeps in my arms. (Photo: Adam Forrest)

And when I did meet her, I couldn't get enough of those tiny features, the small hands with perfect fingernails, the head of thick, silky black hair, the little button nose and chubby cheeks, the personality waiting to be discovered. 

What will she love? Who will her friends be? Will she like to read? As her limbs grow strong, will she test their limits in sports and work and play? 

I'm thankful to God for her, and for each new breath He allows me to enjoy all of His good gifts.

Read more posts in the Storytelling Sunday series here.


Over this past fall and winter, I was acclimating to a new job that was almost completely writing-based. I enjoyed it immensely, but was dealing with depression and fatigue at the same time, and so I stopped blogging and writing poetry, essays and fiction for nine months.

I'm here to tell you, I needed that break. And here I am ready to step back into the blogging world again. I also intend to slowly add back in my other writing projects.

In the meantime, here are a few things I learned while on "furlough":

1. It's OK to take a breather. Unless you are facing a book deadline, which I wasn't, you'll find that it's actually quite easy to disentangle yourself from most types of writing. And no matter how much it hurts your heart, if you are burned out, you need the break. Cut yourself some slack.

2. Your blogging friends will still be here when you get back. This was a hard one for me, but I didn't comment on other blogs during my furlough. I simply enjoyed Facebook as a means of keeping up with friends and families' lives, and didn't worry about sticking to "online generosity" of reading, liking and commenting on my friends' blogs. Now that I'm back to blogging, I expect to start re-engaging with my blogger buddies.

3. No one will fault you for taking a break. And if they do, it's their problem, not yours. You know what you need in this season. Keep calm and stick to your guns.

4. You might be surprised by how refreshed your creativity will be post-break. Already my journal is much more interesting to read (if I were to let anyone else read it!) and I'm regaining ideas for blog posts and other types of writing.

5. Even if your break is shorter, you still need days off. This will probably not surprise you. You are a human, not a machine, and the Bible says, "Six days shall you labor, but on the seventh day you shall rest; even during the plowing and harvest season you must rest." (Exodus 34:21, NIV) See, even the animals need rest.

Now, happy writing, but also happy resting!


I usually post my own poetry on the blog on Fridays.

But, today I thought I would take the opportunity to do something a little different and post work by the celebrated American poet Edna St. Vincent Millay. I had the honor to quote her work in a college play in which I performed in 2005. (That's another story for another day.)

Here's the poem of hers that caught my eye today:

"Love Is Not All," by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love cannot fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.


Isn't that sly? Throwing that last line in to twist the rest on its head.

What say you? Do you think she means love actually is everything? Or is she building a case that it's something but not everything? Are there other options to consider?

I'd love to hear your thoughts.
You'll know you're a '90s kid if you can name this TV show. 





’90s Kid


By Rachel E. Watson

I am asked to sing at a ’90s throwback party.
The guests will wear acid wash jeans, unbuttoned
flannel shirts, crop tops, high tops and flat tops,
scrunchies securing towering side ponytails.

I search YouTube for a suitable set list:
perhaps Destiny’s Child or Spice Girls,
Britney or TLC, Smash Mouth, Barenaked Ladies,
'N Sync, Boyz II Men or Backstreet Boys.

I don Hammer pants and a windbreaker,
and try to relax as memories of how very,
very uncool I was then sweep past me
like one of the fast kids at the roller rink.

I cling to one important thing as I ring
the hostess’ doorbell and walk into a
living room that looks like the Huxtables’:
I lived through this once. I can do it again.

Copyright © Rachel E. Watson 2015.

Read more of my poetry blog posts here.



I have thrilling news to share on the creative writing front!

Some of you might remember that I've been attending Breathe Writers' Conference here in Grand Rapids for the past five years (this year will be my sixth!).

One of my favorite workshop leaders at the conference, Amy Nemecek, who is an extraordinary poet and book editor, decided she wanted to do more for the attendees than provide breakout sessions; she wanted to offer them a venue in which to submit work.

Back in October, as the conference was drawing to a close, she announced she would be starting Exhale: A Journal of the Breathe Writers Conference — a literary publication for Breathe attendees past and present featuring fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry.

I submitted three poems in January and found out last night that two of them, "The Fallow Field" and "Hymn for Hesitation," were accepted for publication in the inaugural issue.

I am beyond excited to hold the journal in my hand this fall and read the beautiful words written by women and men from all walks of life who I've come to know over the past half-decade.

Stay tuned for the big reveal this October!

Update: A link to the journal, where the Exhale issue is available to purchase, is here.
It's been my pleasure to track the musical evolution of one of my old college pals, singer-songwriter and piano rock artist Zach Vinson.

Vinson's third solo album, "How We Spend Our Days" officially releases today. And it's good.

I've been absorbing its sounds and letting them rattle around inside my head for a few weeks now.

The six-song album is full of wisdom and poetry about love, life, family and Vinson's Wisconsin roots. The melodies compel me to dance fast and slow, to upbeat, piano-driven "You're the One," to the gentle, acoustic guitar strains of "A Simple Verse," to the contemplative, yet joyful rock 'n' roll of "Home."

I have to admit I wasn't prepared for the heavier electric and bass guitar rock elements on the track 4, "Something About the Way," as Vinson's first two albums leaned more to the pop side of the pop/rock spectrum. But the good news is, Vinson has the musical ability to flow from one set of sounds to another with skill and ease.

My favorite song on the album is "A Simple Verse." It's the essence of marital affection. Words fail. Just listen and appreciate its simple beauty.



"A Simple Verse"

I wanted to write a simple verse,
Something not feeling too rehearsed,
To remind you that in good times and in worse,
I am not leaving.

Cause this year's been different than before.
The row's we've dug run far beneath the floor,
And most days I'm the one who's keeping score
And I am not winning.

Is there a way to know everything?
Each bit of your pain,
Each memory you've seen?
Is there a way two can be one
and the same?

I wanted to write a simple song,
A melody in your head while I'm gone,
To hold to when you just cannot hold on.
I'm gone, but I'm not leaving.

Cause you and I are different than before
And your wrinkled smile lines hint at something more,
Something gleaming, something leaping at the core
Hiding inside you.

Is there is a way to know everything?
Each bit of your pain, each memory you see?
Is there a way two can be one
and the same?

I wanted to write a simple verse,
Something not feeling too rehearsed,
To remind you that in good times and in worse,
I am not leaving.

Zach Vinson's music

If you like the song I shared, you can buy Zach Vinson's third album, "How We Spend Our Days," as well as his two previous albums, "The Streets Will Turn to Streams" and "Cracked Open," at his website. To get updates about Vinson's shows and future album releases. "Like" his Facebook page and follow him on Twitter.

Read more of my blog posts about music here.


The last two nights I've gone to bed much later than planned. I've been spellbound by a book that's having its way with my feelings. I can't put it down.

The novel, "The Paying Guests," is by British author Sarah Waters and is set in London, in 1922. Formerly upper-crust widow Mrs. Wray and her single, 26-year-old daughter, Frances — who has a past we learn more about as the story unfolds — lose their family in World War I and are forced to take in lodgers to supplement their dwindling income.

The tenants, Leonard and Lilian Barber, bring their loud, lively, emerging middle class ways into the house, and they provide a catalyst for awakening within Frances.

I don't know all of what happens yet — although plenty has happened so far — but I marvel at Waters' ability to tap into the yearnings of the human heart and get me, the reader, to feel what they're feeling. And this despite the fact that I have hardly anything in common with her characters. Shoot, her characters hardly have anything in common with each other, and yet unlikely friendships are born. Love blossoms.

... And later, there's a crime and a subsequent cover-up. Bet you didn't see THAT coming!

But the rich, emotional detail is what I aim for, as a writer — whether in my poetry or short fiction, or someday, perhaps, in a novel — to be able to take readers on an emotional journey. To help them to feel the feelings that make us human.

Loneliness. Pain. Anger. Romantic love. Sadness. Joy. Fear.

Reading about these emotions in fiction helps us tap into and identify them in our own lives, and to recognize and understand the feelings of others. Reading schools us in empathy. It teaches us how to be better humans.

What a worthwhile endeavor.

What does reading do for you?

 Can you recall the last book that tugged at your heartstrings? How did it make you feel?
This weekend brings one of my favorite times of year: Breathe Christian Writers Conference, a time of gathering with like-minded writers and lovers of literature to learn from nationally acclaimed speakers and local folks alike on the craft of writing. 

This year's theme is Celebrate Story, and the smart, savvy group of writers, agents and editors who run this conference have been promoting the theme on their blog since, oh, about May.

My friend Alexis, who is on the planning committee, just picked up the programs today:

(Photo courtesy of Alexis De Weese)

Bellissimo! 

I can't wait. I am excited about learning more about appreciating, writing and pitching great poetry; how to become a better blogger; how to hone my voice as a writer; and how to persevere through those pesky dry patches and times I just want to give up.

On top of all that, I'll get to see the many writer friends I met there in 2014 and 2015, browse through a mobile bookstore courtesy of Baker Book House, and enjoy catered meals as part of my registration package.

If you want to come, it's not too late to register. Hope to see you there!

About Me

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I think, read and write. I might review books, mull on music, spin original poems, share insights or tell stories, but you can be sure whatever you read here comes from a thoughtful and considered place within.

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