writing: vernacular forms vs. standard english

jerry old

redneck, but brainy
I am old, way old. I've lived by myself, or been alone-sometimes my son's 'move in' but there not much company.
I started writing many years ago, primarily due to being lonely. I scribed, scribble... Several years ago, I got serious about
my writing. (Nine years ago I lost my internet access, you just can't write with pen and paper once you've become used to
Microsoft Word.
I'm primarily interested in exchanging ideas, form of writing, topics chosen to write about, basically, all forms of writing.
I consider myself an expert on Emily Dickinson, would love to find others of like interest.


S
 

AnnieA

Senior Member
Location
Down South
I consider myself an expert on Emily Dickinson, would love to find others of like interest.
Interesting that a recluse wrote in such an emotionally connecting way. Copying and pasting my favorite of her poems below. It's so haunting and full of yearning; I've always wondered if the absence of this person in her life contributed to her isolation.

The last line is particularly powerful. "It goads me, like the goblin bee,That will not state its sting." To me it means that she'd rather experience true physical pain than the painful emotions of loss and longing. And yes, I'm projecting, but isn't that how we interpret poetry and song lyrics? :)

And welcome to the forum! :) I love how you describe yourself!

If you were coming in the fall

If you were coming in the fall,
I'd brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.

If I could see you in a year,
I'd wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed,
I'd count them on my hand,
Subtracting till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemens land.

If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine should be,
I'd toss it yonder like a rind,
And taste eternity.

But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time's uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.




20
 

Last edited:

Liberty

Senior Member
Location
Texas
I am old, way old. I've lived by myself, or been alone-sometimes my son's 'move in' but there not much company.
I started writing many years ago, primarily due to being lonely. I scribed, scribble... Several years ago, I got serious about
my writing. (Nine years ago I lost my internet access, you just can't write with pen and paper once you've become used to
Microsoft Word.
I'm primarily interested in exchanging ideas, form of writing, topics chosen to write about, basically, all forms of writing.
I consider myself an expert on Emily Dickinson, would love to find others of like interest.


S
You have found a kindred sole in the admiration of Emily Dickinson...she once said, when ask about having a vocation outside the home something like I have found life so startling I can't imagine anything beyond my home. Love when she talks of funeral processions and life itself.
Of course she is known for her fav poem " Hope" -
“Hope” is the thing with feathers - (314)
BY EMILY DICKINSON
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
 

jerry old

redneck, but brainy
Original Poster
You have found a kindred sole in the admiration of Emily Dickinson...she once said, when ask about having a vocation outside the home something like I have found life so startling I can't imagine anything beyond my home. Love when she talks of funeral processions and life itself.
Of course she is known for her fav poem " Hope" -
“Hope” is the thing with feathers - (314)
BY EMILY DICKINSON
“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

She has another poem "...Hope is over there (behind) the chest-not sure about
behind, but she has lines that stick in your mind, reverberating, popping out at the most peculiar times.
Emily was a recluse. I'm a recluse, no doubt that is why #303, 'The soul selects her own society'
has such great meaning to me.
What's your take on #1463, "A route of evanescence,' that last line, 'an easy' Mornings Ride-' has perplexed,
bewildered me for decades.
You hang out on the site which has all of her poems? The viewers post comments..., The kiddies have invaded this site,
making immature comments; still it is the best around.
 

jerry old

redneck, but brainy
Original Poster
My book club read a wonderful novel starring Emily Dickinson titled "Miss Emily" by Irish author Nuala O'Connor. Great read!
I have yet to read it; I read everything published on her up to 2005, that is everything available to me, library or Half Priced Books.
Some were good, some not so good, publishers like to perpetuate 'the myth of the strange lady in Amherst.'
The publishers like her because, as long as they can keep 'the myth' going they can sell books.
Whatever Emily was, she lived outsides the norm of conventional society. If one can describe her as a bit peculiar in our time, imagine
how the wags of Amherst in the 19th century.
Let me correct 'our time'. There are so many weird events and weird people 'loose' today, few would notice Emily, even fewer would care.
We live in a strange time, a hard time for caring what others think or need...
 

jerry old

redneck, but brainy
Original Poster
She has another poem "...Hope is over there (behind) the chest-not sure about
behind, but she has lines that stick in your mind, reverberating, popping out at the most peculiar times.
Emily was a recluse. I'm a recluse, no doubt that is why #303, 'The soul selects her own society'
has such great meaning to me.
What's your take on #1463, "A route of evanescence,' that last line, 'an easy' Mornings Ride-' has perplexed,
bewildered me for decades.
You hang out on the site which has all of her poems? The viewers post comments..., The kiddies have invaded this site,
making immature comments; still it is the best around.
If you have not been to her site, go to- Emily Dickinson-American Poems-Analysis,Themes
 

jerry old

redneck, but brainy
Original Poster
Interesting that a recluse wrote in such an emotionally connecting way. Copying and pasting my favorite of her poems below. It's so haunting and full of yearning; I've always wondered if the absence of this person in her life contributed to her isolation.

The last line is particularly powerful. "It goads me, like the goblin bee,That will not state its sting." To me it means that she'd rather experience true physical pain than the painful emotions of loss and longing. And yes, I'm projecting, but isn't that how we interpret poetry and song lyrics? :)

And welcome to the forum! :) I love how you describe yourself!

If you were coming in the fall

If you were coming in the fall,
I'd brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.

If I could see you in a year,
I'd wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed,
I'd count them on my hand,
Subtracting till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemens land.

If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine should be,
I'd toss it yonder like a rind,
And taste eternity.

But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time's uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.




20
Ain't she a pistol. Our betters tell us Whitman was superior to Miss Emily in range, talent... Could he
take your emotions wring them out like a washcloth?
Keep reading, don't confuse yourself as I did by reading many books on Miss Emily, hoping to find the answer to her
in 'experts. They had to be experts didn't they, they wrote a book, how dumb I was (am?). Emily is where she always was and is-
tucked away in her quatrains, waiting for you and I to develop an entirely new method of perception.
 

jerry old

redneck, but brainy
Original Poster
Ain't she a pistol. Our betters tell us Whitman was superior to Miss Emily in range, talent... Could he
take your emotions wring them out like a washcloth?
Keep reading, don't confuse yourself as I did by reading many books on Miss Emily, hoping to find the answer to her
in 'experts. They had to be experts didn't they, they wrote a book, how dumb I was (am?). Emily is where she always was and is-
tucked away in her quatrains, waiting for you and I to develop an entirely new method of perception.
She is a haunter!
Ain't she a pistol. Our betters tell us Whitman was superior to Miss Emily in range, talent... Could he
take your emotions wring them out like a washcloth?
Keep reading, don't confuse yourself as I did by reading many books on Miss Emily, hoping to find the answer to her
in 'experts. They had to be experts didn't they, they wrote a book, how dumb I was (am?). Emily is where she always was and is-
tucked away in her quatrains, waiting for you and I to develop an entirely new method of perception.
 

AnnieA

Senior Member
Location
Down South
Keep reading, don't confuse yourself as I did by reading many books on Miss Emily, hoping to find the answer to her
in 'experts.
No fear of that! I thought about majoring in lit during my undergraduate years but dislike most scholarly literary criticism. It's like taking a beautifully prepared meal apart bit by bit to the point it's no longer pretty or tasty. Poetry is best savored whole as it came from the author's heart.

I do, on the other hand, enjoy reading about the lives of favorite authors.
 
Last edited:

Liberty

Senior Member
Location
Texas
She has another poem "...Hope is over there (behind) the chest-not sure about
behind, but she has lines that stick in your mind, reverberating, popping out at the most peculiar times.
Emily was a recluse. I'm a recluse, no doubt that is why #303, 'The soul selects her own society'
has such great meaning to me.
What's your take on #1463, "A route of evanescence,' that last line, 'an easy' Mornings Ride-' has perplexed,
bewildered me for decades.
You hang out on the site which has all of her poems? The viewers post comments..., The kiddies have invaded this site,
making immature comments; still it is the best around.
Think this poem was about a wonderfully beautiful morning filled with nature's best. The hummingbirds, the flowers smiling up accordingly,
perhaps to have their nectar drawn, getting the mail, it is an "easy ride". Since this poem was part of a letter and written in the early 20's it was probably in a horse drawn carriage, I'd guess.
 

jerry old

redneck, but brainy
Original Poster
No fear of that! I thought about majoring in lit during my undergraduate years but dislike most scholarly literary criticism. It's like taking a beautifully prepared meal apart bit by bit to the point it's no longer pretty or tasty. Poetry is best savored whole as it came from the author's heart.

I do, on the other hand, enjoy reading about the lives of favorite authors.
Yea, you nailed it. Remember Whitman's poem about the Learned Astronomy (can't remember exact title).
Yes, you tear enough legs off a spider, what's left?
 

jerry old

redneck, but brainy
Original Poster
Okay, ready here come master poems


The Soul selects her own Society —
Then — shuts the Door —
To her divine Majority —
Present no more —

Unmoved — she notes the Chariots — pausing —
At her low Gate —
Unmoved — an Emperor be kneeling
Upon her Mat —

I’ve known her — from an ample nation —
Choose One —
Then — close the Valves of her attention —
Like Stone —

Miss Emily says piss off- you have no interest in my talent, you've not shunned me, nor have I shunned you.
My world is immense, forest, flowers, pain, confusion, but you have no interest. Therefore, I've written a bill of divorce:
I will stay in my world, you yours. Pay heed to the sign on the door: Private, no trespassing..


Now for grit:


Death of the Ball Turret Gunner" is a five-line poem by Randall Jarrell published in 1945. It is about the death of a gunner in a Sperry ball turret on a World War II American bomber aircraft.
From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.


Number 2


Now an oldie, but goodie:


THE Eagle

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson



How’s this for imagery





He clasps the crag with crooked hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.



The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls,

And like a thunderbolt he falls.


NUNBER 3


Death of the Ball Turret Gunner" is a five-line poem by Randall Jarrell published in 1945. It is about the death of a gunner in a Sperry ball turret on a World War II American bomber aircraft.


From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

Wow, line one and two, his passage down the birth canal, still wet with afterbirth, just an innocent,,,
This newborn knows nothing of war: Yet the state grabs him, but him in a bomber where the NIGHTMARE FIGHTERS fine him.
A grateful nation honors him by washing him out of his sanctuary with a hose.




The brevity of the poem emphasizes it's power. You'll not find better.



e
 

jerry old

redneck, but brainy
Original Poster
Prose

Larry Brown-interview with the king of ‘Grit Lit”



“Joe,” is a novel of
Do you have any advice for aspiring authors?

Rejection.
Trial and error.
Make lots of stupid mistakes.
There are no shortcuts.
You have to learn to write fiction that grabs the reader by the throat and doesn't let him go until you're through with him.
And the only way to do that is to sit down and spend years writing and failing and writing again.
If you quit, nobody's ever going to hear from you.

And I failed plenty before than. Five novels. Burned one. I've written about
short stories. Poetry. All bad. I've done a ton of nonfiction, and love writing it. There are boxes and boxes and boxes of unpublished stuff in my attic. That's what it takes -- boxes and boxes of stuff that's no good for anything. But you have to sit there and write it anyway to learn how to do it right. That's the rules. No way around it if you want to be a really good writer.
 

bearcat

New Member
I am old, way old. I've lived by myself, or been alone-sometimes my son's 'move in' but there not much company.
I started writing many years ago, primarily due to being lonely. I scribed, scribble... Several years ago, I got serious about
my writing. (Nine years ago I lost my internet access, you just can't write with pen and paper once you've become used to
Microsoft Word.
I'm primarily interested in exchanging ideas, form of writing, topics chosen to write about, basically, all forms of writing.
I consider myself an expert on Emily Dickinson, would love to find others of like interest.


S
An exercise that is sometimes useful. Compose something, then go back and literally cross out every other word.
Read what is left.
Put back in only what is absolutely necessary.
During the process of writing, stop every few minutes. Read.
Ask: how does that paragraph carry the story forward?
Ask: how can I use fewer words to evoke in the mind of the reader the concept I want to convey?
 

jerry old

redneck, but brainy
Original Poster
Good advise Bearcat, there is no easy method. It's all blood
and sweat, and the trashcan.
 
I am old, way old. I've lived by myself, or been alone-sometimes my son's 'move in' but there not much company.
I started writing many years ago, primarily due to being lonely. I scribed, scribble... Several years ago, I got serious about
my writing. (Nine years ago I lost my internet access, you just can't write with pen and paper once you've become used to
Microsoft Word.
I'm primarily interested in exchanging ideas, form of writing, topics chosen to write about, basically, all forms of writing.
I consider myself an expert on Emily Dickinson, would love to find others of like interest.


S
I'm the opposite- even after all these years, I still can't get used to "writing" on, or proofreading on, a computer.
 

Em in Ohio

Senior Member
Location
OH HI OH
I am old, way old. I've lived by myself, or been alone-sometimes my son's 'move in' but there not much company.
I started writing many years ago, primarily due to being lonely. I scribed, scribble... Several years ago, I got serious about
my writing. (Nine years ago I lost my internet access, you just can't write with pen and paper once you've become used to
Microsoft Word.
I'm primarily interested in exchanging ideas, form of writing, topics chosen to write about, basically, all forms of writing.
I consider myself an expert on Emily Dickinson, would love to find others of like interest.
S
Hi Jerry: I was intrigued and a bit confused by your thread topic, to be honest. I love your responses and they clearly indicate that you are a fine wordsmith, but I fear this thread will get buried. I started a thread on favorite poems and someone else (sorry, poor memory) started a thread for original poetry works - I'd love to see this material in one or both of those. Perhaps you could start a thread for non-fiction or other specific types of writing. As for your interest in Emily Dickinson, is that noted in your profile page? It might help expand your E.D. connections. I'm new to social media, so these are just my impressions. EDIT: I just realized that there is a FORUM here at https://www.seniorforums.com/threads/literature-poetry.32632/page-2 and I'm not sure that I knew that or posted to it... That's, no doubt, where these types of topics/materials should go. My apologies!
 
Last edited:

jerry old

redneck, but brainy
Original Poster
DEMONS?




(Figurative language can be interpreted so many ways, if you keep pumping it. It is a method of imparting information which be, or may not be applicable to the recipient, depending upon the readers perception at the time it is read.)


The ogre hiding in the closet and the monster under the bed still survive and they are tired of living on dust balls.
The older you become the greater their desire for meat, for they have been hungry since you were a child and your soul is a delightful morsel.

Shadows demons and soul snatchers, parade within the synonyms for perpetual things in the shadows.
They have known you since childhood fears and continue to lurk, awaiting an opportunity to present themselves, once again. This time, much stronger, more savage, and extremely difficult to banish.

They know how you think, feel, and your habits; they know you must enter the closet, as a part of your daily routine, they know you must sleep-and they have endless patience.

Children and monsters know this; you have forgotten.
The years and memories you have accumulated
have given you cognitive spears to thrust at things
that bring harm. “I won’t think about it.”

Thus you and I withhold full recognition of the monsters,
demons, and ogres.
They are patient, they wait in the shadows, just beyond recognition.
 

jerry old

redneck, but brainy
Original Poster
Em
Song lyrics for you

Well, I was drunk the day my mom got out of prison
And I went to pick her up in the rain
But before I could get to the station in my pickup truck
She got run ned over by a damned old train

From hillbilly song "'She don't even know my name."
by David Allen Cole
 


Top