Wednesday, June 17, 2015

One More Poem

When writing YA, sooner or later the writer runs into hormones, which is very problematical because the "rules" surrounding teenage sexuality are firm and unyielding: romance okay, but nothing more. (Which is totally realistic because I don't know of any teenagers who ever think or talk about sex.) So how do teenage characters be realistic without crossing that line? Every writer has to find their boundary, but I think a general rule of thumb is to remember that while teens think and talk about sex, they don't generally want adults as part of those conversations. I'm not talking about serious conversations like birth control, but the general talk that goes on with their peers. The key lies in hints rather than explicitness, such as these inner thoughts of the girl Wanyika as she contemplates Antwan washing in a river (Bagnosgura was a rough town where society's outcasts went to live):

Wanyika’s Smile

Give me him, god carved from coal
Concealed beneath the water’s flow
Drips run down tight chest to slow
At waist’s edge short of my goal.

Whence he came-young buck ‘pon my knoll?
Cause of cows to sound and low, O
Give me him, god carved from coal
Concealed beneath the water’s flow

With such a one I long to foal
But promised was I long ago
To Bagnosgura I will not go
Yet just once I’d yield my soul …
Give me him, god carved from coal
Concealed beneath the water’s flow.

Tuesday, June 16, 2015

Antwan's Pride

This one gives you a taste of important plot developments (YA novel, Tiger Claws, search on Amazon for ebook or paper version). Do not be offended by the foreign swear word. I struggled for quite a while deciding how to keep the character authentic, because urban kids cuss, and how to keep the text presentable for a wide audience. My solution was to give Antwan a talent for picking up foreign languages quickly and using them. I think it quite elegant although you may disagree. However, you can't quibble with the rare talent for languages. I based it on an actual person who was a spy for the U.K. during the 1920s and drove the Russians mad because he sounded like a native and could go into areas of the country that the Soviets did not want the world to know about.



Antwan’s Pride


Those conchetumadres, they carved my chest
With burns and cuts they marked my fate
In a deep well they made me wait
Yet of all of them I proved best

Kill the tiger--me they pressed
While at their feasts they sat and ate
Those conchetumadres, they carved my chest
With burns and cuts they marked my fate.

But I tracked the beast. I said yes
To their strange dare, and weirder bait
Fourteen to hunt a tiger great
With that man-killer I had a date
Those conchetumadres, they carved my chest
With burns and cuts they marked my fate.

Monday, June 15, 2015

Poetic description of main characters

As I share some previous poetry about my YA novel, Tiger Claws, and the characters, here's another one describing Antwan but also his best bud, Amadi, and the people he is living with. Yesterday's poem was a rondel. This form is often used in middle school and is known as a diamond poem. What I did with it was to contrast two characters in one verse. The last technically is about one people, the Oonani, but they have two (or more) sides to them as does any society.


Antwan
Fierce, combative
Challenging, fighting, finding
Anger, peace, agony, snarl
Hunting, preying, killing
diseased, black-striped
tiger



Amadi
Free-of-fear, wild
Playing, TRAIPSING, TRAINING
Laughter, Joy, Mantle, rank
Leading, Striving, burning
Stoic, ambitious
Nakara


Oonani
Structured, kind
Adopting, teaching, resisting
Iron, coal, trade, law
Watching, Patrolling, giving
Friendly, wary

Oonani

Sunday, June 14, 2015

Antwan

Revisiting some of my favorite characters and some fun I had trying to describe them in poetic form. Antwan is the protagonist (hero) of Tiger Claws, a YA novel.


Antwan


Born of dark night, he shows hard form

Boy whose riddle you cannot crack

Divorced from this world, he’ll not come back

But he crashes ‘pon you a fierce storm



Flint strikes fire. His spirit grows warm

The challenge is what he’ll always attack

Born of dark night, he shows hard form

Boy whose riddle you cannot crack



Foes around him come to swarm

Boy alone to slap and whack

Drive him down but he fights back

Unafraid. Fists up his norm

Born of dark night, he shows hard form

Boy whose riddle you cannot crack.

Saturday, June 13, 2015

The Mind's a Dusty Chalkboard

Something different this time--a piece from about 20 years ago:

The mind’s a dusty chalkboard on which the’logians write
They stand before, pushing and smudging chalkdust to the sides
And taking the chalk they leave their thoughts
Splitting atoms of doctrine more finely than what was done before
And writing on, their chalk grips the slate stronger more and more
The chalkdust enters the air cloying the tender nostrils
Of those whose fate it is to stare at the figures writing and to decipher
The minute logic and philosophic upon that great gray board.

The mind’s a dusty chalkboard on which the’logians write
To die unknown ‘tis their central fright
Their voice unheard by their generation and peers
So they think they have to say something new--never heard before
Thus they smudge the chalk of their betters’ labors
To write new dogma more stranger and stranger
Till their immortal souls have come into the danger
Of the eternal fire for many are the souls who go astray
From reading as the the’logians write away.

The mind’s a dusty chalkboard on which the’logians write
They seek philosophy and astronomy, psychology and biology
To wrap as their theology
Never realizing that Revelation is not found in human thought
Nor ideas, nor systems, nor in debates fought
Revelation is not upon that dusty chalkboard captured
How does one write for the eyes to see
What the Word is sounding for ears to hear without recourse
To the old gray slate.

Do little flecks of calcium multiplied upon thousands
And millions and billions once wrote by the Hand of God
In carbon make sense when human flesh endlessly rearranges them?

Yet, still, the mind’s a dusty chalkboard on which the’logians write.