"If my poetry aims to achieve anything,
it's to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and
feel."
~Jim Morrison
Hello
Jingle Poetry @ Olive Garden girls and boys,
welcome
to another Weekend Poetic Reflection .
I
am Blaga
and today I would like to meet you with Eric Alder.
Enjoy!
Bubba's Photo
Who is
Eric Alder?
I’m a 46 year old life-long Michigander. I’ve been married
over 16 years and we have one son. I’m not a blogger in the 'daily
diary' sense. I post photographs, poetry, prose, short stories,
opinion pieces and whatever else pops into my head.
Tell
me about your blog(s), about the name and what it means to you? When did you
start blogging?
I started
my first blog in November 2007. It was a Windows Live Space, which has
since been migrated to WordPress. I started posting on Blogger in May 2010.
I called
my blog Bubba’s Place
(http://thisisbubbasplace.blogspot.com/)
because Bubba is a family nick-name of mine and I liked the twist there because
I don’t think people expect poetry from someone nicknamed “Bubba”.
I called
my photography blog Bifocal Univision (http://bifocalunivision.blogspot.com/) because
I’d recently started wearing bifocals and wanted to juxtapose that with having
a ‘singular’ vision.
Haiku Koo-Koo (http://haiku-koo-koo.blogspot.com/) is my
collection of haiku-styled poetry. It’s often non-traditional (i.e. not
really haiku) and I usually incorporate my photography in them.
Your first
poem, do you remember it?
I haven’t a clue when I wrote my first poem. It was probably back in grade school, and I have no doubt it was simple and rhymed.
Is there a
style of writing you prefer? Do you write only poetry?
I seem to gravitate towards paired styles like quatrains and
couplets, but I write plenty of prose. And, of course, my various
haiku-styled 5-7-5 pieces.
Favorite
poem you've written?
One I was
particularly pleased with was “Earth Mother’s Song”. I’ve received a lot of
praise for that one.
Earth Mother’s Song
I’ve seen a broad field awash in fog,
gray-blanketed like a misplaced pond.
That same field, one dark summer morn,
lay a-twinkle, festooned with bright fireflies.
I’ve seen a great horned owl appear,
alighting atop a tall pine, majestic and wise.
Resting briefly, then silently swooping down
to disappear into the dark woods.
I’ve seen a pine martin stealing along,
dipping between the fallen birch and cedar,
popping up unexpectedly in a new spot,
red eyes glowing in my flashlight beam.
I’ve heard a tom turkey’s questioning call,
seeking to uncover this brash imposter.
A slow, hidden funeral procession
bursting forth to claim their roost.
I’ve heard lake echoes of spring frogs peeping
seeking mates among the green reeds,
the surrounding din of a million crickets creeping
on a hot August night, throbbing with life.
I’ve heard thunder roll along for miles
'til a blinding white flash strobed silhouettes
of stark, stiletto tree shadows all around
and the deafening clap froze me in place.
I’ve smelled the sweet, pine-scented winds
that blow through the north woods, thick
with undertones of green moss carpets
and ferns inexplicably bright in the shade.
I’ve smelled the musty down of a grouse
that loudly took flight at my approach,
unseen through the yellow aspen boughs,
revealing this visitor clumsy in his ream.
I’ve smelled an oncoming storm
blowing in from the west,
deepening the sense of isolation,
submersion in a still-wild place.
As a child I learned Earth Mother’s song
and it still sings deep within my heart.
I learn a new verse each time I venture
into those places where she yet dwells.
gray-blanketed like a misplaced pond.
That same field, one dark summer morn,
lay a-twinkle, festooned with bright fireflies.
I’ve seen a great horned owl appear,
alighting atop a tall pine, majestic and wise.
Resting briefly, then silently swooping down
to disappear into the dark woods.
I’ve seen a pine martin stealing along,
dipping between the fallen birch and cedar,
popping up unexpectedly in a new spot,
red eyes glowing in my flashlight beam.
I’ve heard a tom turkey’s questioning call,
seeking to uncover this brash imposter.
A slow, hidden funeral procession
bursting forth to claim their roost.
I’ve heard lake echoes of spring frogs peeping
seeking mates among the green reeds,
the surrounding din of a million crickets creeping
on a hot August night, throbbing with life.
I’ve heard thunder roll along for miles
'til a blinding white flash strobed silhouettes
of stark, stiletto tree shadows all around
and the deafening clap froze me in place.
I’ve smelled the sweet, pine-scented winds
that blow through the north woods, thick
with undertones of green moss carpets
and ferns inexplicably bright in the shade.
I’ve smelled the musty down of a grouse
that loudly took flight at my approach,
unseen through the yellow aspen boughs,
revealing this visitor clumsy in his ream.
I’ve smelled an oncoming storm
blowing in from the west,
deepening the sense of isolation,
submersion in a still-wild place.
As a child I learned Earth Mother’s song
and it still sings deep within my heart.
I learn a new verse each time I venture
into those places where she yet dwells.
Inspirations!
Where do you find them and what makes you comfortable writing?
Most of my inspiration comes from nature. Being an amateur
photographer, I like to get outside and take pictures, especially in the fall.
I’m also inspired by other bloggers. There are a lot of very talented
folks out there, some of whom I even have the privilege of chatting with on
occasion.
Favorite
books? Authors?
I have a hard time picking a favorite book because I like to many different
kinds, and they’re not all cross-comparative. My favorite genre is
science fiction and a few of my favorite sci-fi authors are Roger Zelazny, Ray
Bradbury, Arthur C. Clarke and Isaac Asimov.
I've read
in one of your posts about the "Frost" poem style you created, will
you share about it with the readers?
A “Frost” poem follows a simple five-line structure having three,
seven, six, seven and eight syllables per line, respectively, following one of
five possible rhyming schemes.
There is also a variation I call an “aFrostic” (a variation of
“acrostic”) in which the poem follows the previous guidelines and also
spells-out “F-R-O-S-T” with the first letters of each line.
(For greater detail, people can refer to my original post: http://thisisbubbasplace.blogspot.com/2011/02/new-poetry-form.html )
If poetry
was a color, which one would that be?
Poetry
comes in all colors - and in every shade from white to black.
If you
could live in a book, which one would that be?
“Dandelion Wine” by Ray Bradbury. Anyone who has read it
will understand why, and those who haven’t should read it and find out why it’s
one of my all-time favorite books.
Being part
of Jingle community, what are the benefits?
Jingle is not only a wonderful advocate for poets and poetry, but
her community brings together many talented writers from all over the
world. I’ve discovered some of my favorite bloggers through participating
in the weekly Poetry Potluck.
Any advice
for people who would like to write poetry?
Write, write, write! Nothing improves a writer like writing.
Don’t get discouraged if you think your work isn’t good
enough. Just write down what you’re feeling, whatever that may be; when
you write from the heart, people will respond to your words.
When
you’re not feeling inspired, if your Muse seems to be on vacation, then just
take a break! Don’t pressure yourself to keep writing. Writing
should be enjoyable, not a chore, and you don’t want to practice bad
habits. Get outside, take a walk, go visit a
friend. Recharge your battery. Forget about writing for
awhile. Soon you’ll find your inspiration returning!
~*~*~*~*~*~
That was all for today.
Wishing you a lovely day with my favorite poem from Eric.
Image Credit: Eric Bubba Alder
You can find more of his amazing writing at http://thisisbubbasplace.blogspot.com/
~*~*~*~*~*~
Sculpture
I find clay, cold and gray
stiff and stubborn
reluctant to change
heavy and still, lifeless lump
I lift it up
bending and kneading
the clay resists, but I persist
in my visceral pleading
I fold and rub
and lean into it
it warms and softens
starts to give acquiesce
I work it thoroughly
earnestly
I put my back into it
vigorously
Arms and hands
pulling and pushing
the clay slowly gives in
to my demands
Manual pleading
insistent and urging
it conforms to my will
more easily now
I start to shape it
twist and form it
make the clay into
what I want and need
Smooth and contour
form and sway
graceful curves
the clay obeys
Soon the form is there
the shape I desire
to put to my use
to make it mine
Through trial of fire
it hardens and sets
sleek and smooth
in colorful glaze
I caress my creation
feel its purpose
sure and certain
solid and strong
My pride restrained
but not wholly shunned
for there is much good
in what has become
When I am gone
into my decay
this shall remain
what once was clay
stiff and stubborn
reluctant to change
heavy and still, lifeless lump
I lift it up
bending and kneading
the clay resists, but I persist
in my visceral pleading
I fold and rub
and lean into it
it warms and softens
starts to give acquiesce
I work it thoroughly
earnestly
I put my back into it
vigorously
Arms and hands
pulling and pushing
the clay slowly gives in
to my demands
Manual pleading
insistent and urging
it conforms to my will
more easily now
I start to shape it
twist and form it
make the clay into
what I want and need
Smooth and contour
form and sway
graceful curves
the clay obeys
Soon the form is there
the shape I desire
to put to my use
to make it mine
Through trial of fire
it hardens and sets
sleek and smooth
in colorful glaze
I caress my creation
feel its purpose
sure and certain
solid and strong
My pride restrained
but not wholly shunned
for there is much good
in what has become
When I am gone
into my decay
this shall remain
what once was clay
~*~*~*~*~*~
Stay tuned for next Weekend Poetic Reflection :)
Peace & Love
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