Music: Move Me, Mark Me

From poems about music itself, to poems about the emotions evoked by a certain song, to pieces written with lyrical description, music has always been my #1 inspiration.  It has prompted my best pieces, my best lines, my best phrases, and even when I write non-creative pieces (like essays and research papers), listening to music while I write never fails to help me find the best ideas and compose my best work.

“sometimes I wonder what it is
beneath my ribs
that beats and flutters so
and rises with the words
of a crooning song
         the lyrics a cry for freedom
         the notes a bid for flight”

“I have become nothing but a helpless instrument of emotion tied to the beautiful music of the world with ribbons of scarlet and cobalt hue, strong as the chords of love and agony, and just as vivid.”

“…the music dances with wild abandon
among my wandering, delirious thoughts…

it rushes past the blued shards
of my tattered consciousness,
caressing them with a feathery touch as it goes by,
bringing the song to my lips
and I sing, sing for all the world to hear,
the sound in my throat bubbling with the beauty
of a writhing, twirling, forgotten art.

the perfection of its grace spins webs
of cobalt and ebony in the shadowed recesses
and craggy caves that wind through my skull,
weaving the bright ribbons of sound
through my very  b  e  i  n  g ...”

 “…if only I could lose myself
in the twirling play of the baby arpeggios
and breathe the pure beauty of their intricate song,
in that place where the only emotions
are the ones evoked by the crying melodies
and wistful harmonies that sing to me
as they carry my soul to the wavering edge
of their mysterious realm, which rests
between our world of tangible reality
and that realm where the stars  v  i  b  r  a  t  e
and the moon can hum.” *

Getting inspiration to write isn’t the only reason why I love music, though.  I’ve loved to sing ever since I was little, and even though I took piano lessons for a few years and violin for a few weeks in elementary and middle school, singing is the only music form that I’ve ever truly loved to do.  I’ve often thought that if I didn’t love writing as much as I do, I would have pursued a career in music.  Actually, I’ve often wished I had the time in my college schedule to squeeze in a music minor.

I’m sure it’s already abundantly clear through my posts, but I have an intense passion for art, and I count music and writing as two of the most beautiful forms of art there are.  For me, writing and music are not just hobbies or career choices; they are things that define me.  I wouldn’t be who I am if either one of them wasn’t in my life, and I know for a fact that my content and style of writing would be drastically different if music was not such an enormous influence on me.

I won’t go into who my favourite music artists are right now because that question alone has an answer big enough to fill its own post, but you can be sure it will be coming in the near future!  One thing you’ll come to understand about me is that when I get excited about something, it’s hard for me NOT to share it with others.  I love introducing people to the things I love so that they can come to love them too!

So what are your biggest inspirations?  What kind of music do you like to listen to and what role does music (in general) play in your life? I’m very interested to hear your answers, so tell me in the comments below!

 

*Each of these quotes are excerpts from pieces of my creative writing (though there are many more examples of music showing up in my writing than just these four examples!).  If you would like to read the whole pieces these quotes came from, just ask me and I’ll send you the links!  Or you can just wait for me to feature them in my Creative Writing posts (:

My Creative Writing: Poetry

Many of my creative pieces can be linked back to the specific songs that inspired them, and this one is no exception.  Music can evoke such potent emotion, and I love letting that emotion just carry me away.  As always, I appreciate each and every comment and critique!  Thanks for reading!

 

Cursive Lines

sometimes I wonder what it is
beneath my ribs
that beats and flutters so
and rises with the words
of a crooning song,
the lyrics a cry for freedom
the notes a bid for flight

it feels as though it wishes to burst,
as if
(if it swells any more)
I will rise on its current,
floating away in the wind,
the freest bird in the sky

but the cold of the world
drags me down –
the beat within the white cage
labors on,
the fluttery throb of hope
all but lost

for though I reach out,
my fingers grazing the rough edges
of my unfulfilled dreams,
they tease my fumbling grasp
and withdraw
out of reach

I wish to sing,
to let my voice be carried
to the ends of the world
as my inky fingers
dip again into the feathery depths
of the well of my inspiration,
my fingerprints everywhere
touching everything
everyone
with the words of whispered rhymes
and heart-rending tales

who hasn’t wished
for the beautiful dreams
that haunt the gold of sleep
to come true at last?
but ah, few get
the reward of white doves
and the chance to dream on

I wish that the beauty
                                                         higher

                                                me

of cursive lines would  take
as the sun in my heart burns on
longing for what?
its own song is a complicated string
of arpeggios and dissonant chords
that beg for my attention
as my mind wanders
following the flapping wings
of my fleeing fantasies

no diamond tears
or crystalline cries
will make the music of my heart
and the ink of my soul
translate itself into the weeping voice
and dancing fingers
of my wandering dreams

yet still I wail and    s  t  r  e  t  c  h    out my hand
toward something that seems
to move slowly away
an enigma of the flowing river
its caresses cold and gentle
against my bloodless body

so yes, I wait
as the condensation
of all that I wish to be
falls on the ground of
who I am.

 

 

 

~   fly me away
on wings of old
up to stay
among the stars so cold

on wings of white
and dreams that soar
show me the sight
of what flying is for

My Creative Writing: Poetry

Ok, I must admit that I’m really excited about this post.  This week’s piece of poetry is “balloons and fairy wings.”  Of all the poetry I’ve ever written, this one is my favourite. :3  I realize that in saying that, I’m setting myself up for high expectations from my readers, but I’m going to say it anyway!

This poem also happens to be one of the few pieces I’ve read aloud, so if you’re interested in hearing it, here’s the link: https://soundcloud.com/mistressofquills/balloons-and-fairy-wings.

Anyway, I always love and appreciate comments on the quality and writing I display in the “My Creative Writing” posts, so thanks for reading!

 

balloons and fairy wings

I wish emotions
could be tied to words
the way they’re tied
to memories:
like the way strings
are tied to balloons
or the way wings
are tied to fairies’ backs –
with a bow and a knot
so the words
are never forgotten
and the emotions
that swayed the heart
and captured the soul
at the time of their birth
are never lost to the snatching,
jealous fist of time

you see, it’s quite a journey
being born as a writer’s words:
you open your eyes
to a world of vivid color
and (sometimes)
crippling emotion
feeling the sharpness of reality
hearing the noise
of a deaf world weeping
tasting the tang
of an infant’s breath of old air
and noticing the scent
of a cruel, unsympathetic universe

an infant word
is like an infant star:
when you grow
(and become loved
by your Creator)
you mature to shine
with your own beauty –
a brilliance
to which very few things
can ever compare

yet you are distant
and your light so very cold…

but I love you
and the stars
anyway

My Creative Writing: Poetry

Finally I’m getting to show you some poetry that isn’t ancient history!  I feel like I’ve come a long way in improving my poetry since I started writing it regularly, so it’s nice to look not-so-far-back and feel good about the quality of these pieces.  Today’s poem is one that I wrote in March, called “I Never Said I Was Ordinary.”  As always, I would really appreciate comments about the poem’s quality – what works and what doesn’t?  Does the meter flow well?  Do the images make sense/ are they clear to you?  Do the rhymes work?  Is it too long/ are there parts you think are unnecessary?  Thanks for reading!

 

I Never Said I Was Ordinary

you look at me as if there are stars in my eyes
blinding you with an unknown brilliance~
at least, unknown to me.

you say I don’t know it, but that I am wise
and I push you to the limits of resilience,
though I am too far gone to see.

you say the glimmer in my heart
shows itself in my written art,
yet I can’t see what it is I write,
as though my mind takes flight.

for though you see an innate beauty in me,
I only see what my eyes perceive~
if that is truth, then so be it.

I only see the world in its reality
with all the pain of humanity it can conceive
and the fleeting beauty within it.

my mind roams amongst the sea mist,
floating like a bird o’er the water, sun kissed
so yes, my eyes take on the absence
and glimmer with the reflection hence.

you say I am noble, radiating poise,
that I show a dignity born of confidence –
if I do, it was born of a once profound disquiet.

you say my voice is light and lilting, a sweet noise,
that my words leave you listening in suspense,
but I only hear the beauty of the still and quiet.

my dear, I am simply crying to the moon,
aching to sigh and sing and croon,
my voice rising with the song of a faery –
for, my love, I never said I was ordinary.

The Writer as an Artist

How would you describe a writer?  What definition would you give?  “Someone who puts thoughts and ideas into words,” perhaps?  Or maybe “someone who creates stories” or even “someone who can express themselves through the written word”?

My definition is much more simple: a writer is an artist.  Artists use their surroundings, emotions, perceptions and ideas as their material to create their own medium of communication.  That medium is their chosen form of art, and through that art, they attempt to communicate their unique and profound perceptions of truth and beauty.  This is exactly what writers do.  There may be many, many, many forms of writing out there, but there are myriad types and forms of art too – painting, pottery, sculpting, drawing, photography, animation, jewelry making, cinematography, acting, singing…  The list goes on.  Granted, there will always be disagreements about which forms of writing (and other art forms too, for that matter) actually qualify as art, but my point remains the same: writers are artists.

Some would argue that writing is a lesser form of art than the ones I listed above because pieces like paintings and sculptures are forms of “visual art,” and are therefore universally easier to understand because they lack a language barrier.  I would counter that any kind of visual art can be just as hard to understand as a piece of writing that isn’t written in your language.  Every piece of art has a profound concept behind it, and it’s the skill and intention of the artist that makes that piece of art easy or hard to understand.  Also, other types of art have just as many restrictions as writing does.  Pieces of writing can always be translated (even if some of the original meaning can get lost in the translation), but other forms of art have other restrictions that writing doesn’t have – such as being confined to one still image if we’re talking about photography or painting, or being restricted to a certain time frame if we’re talking about cinematography or animation, or even the restriction of one specific pose or shape if we’re talking about sculpting or pottery.  All of these restrictions put pressure on the artist, forcing him to refine and clarify his concept before pursuing it in his chosen art form.

I would even go so far as to say that writing might actually be a way of reaching more people than any other form of art.  Because no matter what picture you wish to convey in your reader’s mind, it will always look different to every eye that reads it.  You want to paint the image of a beautiful woman?  She will be beautiful, no matter what details you use to describe her because everyone who reads that description will imagine their own version of beauty.  It might not be your version, but you succeeded in communicating what you set out to.

You want to describe a desolate wasteland?  An emotion etched into a character’s face?  An object of rare beauty and mystical power?  Use the best language you can find, translating it from the image fixed in your mind, and if your skill can make the image breathe, you’ve succeeded in your purpose.

Because words are not color; they are the brushes.

Words are not lenses; they are the light by which you see the model.

Words are not the end; they are the means.

Visual artists can only show you one picture, but words can not only show you the whole story, they can become every perspective, conform themselves to every individual’s imagination, and even communicate an ideal in its truest, purest form.  Because the idea behind the words is an essence even the blind can understand.

And everybody knows that even the blind can read.

 

Ramblings and Updates and Poetry!

Yikes…..it’s been a whole month since my last post…..oops.  Sorry guys!  I’m working a summer job right now, and in the time between work shifts, I’m trying to finish a commission that’s long overdue, so that’s why I haven’t been very active.  I guess I might as well say this – I probably won’t be very good at being active until the end of the summer – which for me is late August.  I do intend to keep this blog going, so I’m sorry for being so sporadic, but right now my schedule is too crazy for me to be able to promise regular posts. When I do get on, though, I’ll be sure to show you guys more of my writing!

If you’re the impatient type, though, and you want to see more of my creative writing that what I post here, this is the site that I’m by far the most active on:  mistressofquills.deviantart.com

I also have a facebook for MistressofQuills, and a twitter @mistressofquill  (I know…lame that I couldn’t fit the ‘s’ at the end -.-), and also an instagram (username MistressofQuills) if you’re interested in seeing some of my amateur photography!  I have a tumblr too but I’m even less active on there as I am here….  Hey don’t blame me, if I have too much internet in my life, I won’t have time for writing! (…it’s happened before…)

So!  Follow me on any of those websites if you so desire, and I’ll just continue tryyying to be more active on here…. TRY being the key word.

Now that I’ve rambled enough, let me show you another piece of poetry, since my creative writing is the whole point of this blog(:  This was written last September, so it’s actually a little weird for me to look this far back and see how far I’ve come…  Anyway, thanks for reading, and as always, please let me know your opinion!

 

Lights and Love

If I lit a little crimson candle
for every crystalline tear I cried,
for every shaky breath I sighed
and every time I’ve almost died
when you looked into my eyes…

My house would be filled with light,
and the heat of a thousand flames
that writhe and dance and play games
of flickering fun and flirty aims,
as if to taunt me and my pain.

So I pick them up, one by one,
while they continue their wild dance,
with a deep bow and a little prance,
as if their devious aim is to entrance.
They don’t understand: their purpose
is to light my heart and warm my soul.

They light the pier in a soft glow
that doesn’t rival the moon’s show…
silver brilliance, beams white as snow.
My eyes gleam with tears unknown.

The beauty of the night is lost on me…
the moon, the stars, the candle light…
the little flames dance with growing fright
as they bleed red tears in the night,
their life burning and bleeding away
as I sit there and weep and pray
for the day we are together again.

Because, my love, I miss it when
we could part and say “until then,”
and simply mean the next day…

I ache for that time to return.

So until then, my dear, know that I remember all the tender caresses.
I remember the gentle words, whispered in secret, fingers tangling in silky tresses.
Know that my love lives on, past the forced silence and the painful distance.
That I will wait for you, as long as it takes, for I possess an unwavering persistence.

Live, with those words in your mind,
Laugh, with that promise in your heart…
Love me, till the end of time.

Published!

Well, at long last, we finally got copies of my University’s annual art book, and my poem “Ink” got included! It’s not a huge publication, but it’s my first time getting my work put into anything that the public will read, so it’s pretty cool for me(: If you haven’t read my poem from a previous post, I’ve put it below. Thanks for reading, and thanks for your support!

 

Ink

I wish I could inhale ink,
infusing my fragile body
with the ichor of inspiration
I wish it would mark me as its own
a beautiful child of the Muse
born to wield ink and pen
like a jagged ebony sword
I would be born with the ability
to sing truth and spin epics
I would be the quintessence
of a writing-imbued soul.

I wish the ebony liquid
of the poets and great storytellers of old
would seep its way into my veins
cloak my blood in thick shadow
color my hair in dark secrets
so that every glimpse of me
would echo with the whispers
of spider-webbed story
and tattooed poetry
every reflection of me would shriek
with the screams of unuttered truth.

My eyes would shine with dreams
full of wonder and glorious chaos
whirling with the ideas of humanity
and the conundrum of eternity
the beauty of nature
and the simplicity of children
the epics of ancient time
and the words of the new
the complexity of emotion
and the raw surge of knowing
what life really is.

What can control me but
the black splashes of feathery ink
on the pristine white of death?
I live for the moments of
licking fire and leaping flame
power infusing my words
as they reach out their hands
calling their siren songs
to those who have wistful souls
and beautiful minds
easily ensnared by eloquence.

I dance in the black pools
my heart melting in the shivery warmth
it is comforting, it is home
I sink into its depths
letting its art coat me with beauty
tattooing me in verse and story
with writhing patterns
and screaming words
my lungs inhale the poetic air
and I gasp as it sears me
with eternal heat

With every shuddering breath
I would breathe life into the bloody ink
I would be the embodiment of writing
I would be words incarnate
rumbling thunder would echo
in memory of my words
as they were etched into eternal stone
starspun threads of silver,
shining veins of life woven
amongst the ebony ink
I would live forever.