To my nameless friend,
You know full well who you are,
Allow me to express,
For the bloodshed prevented,
My profoundest thanks.
It would not do for young love
To result in amputation.
To my nameless friend,
You know full well who you are,
Allow me to express,
For the bloodshed prevented,
My profoundest thanks.
It would not do for young love
To result in amputation.
It’s spring… and it’s time
For furious rants
About the damned spawn
Of amorous plants.
The roads and the cars
Are all sporting a glaze
A Residual effect
Of this damned chartreuse haze.
Go out in the sun?
I’d love to… but can’t,
That yellow-green mist
Makes me cough and pant!
I fight to get by
In so many ways;
Happily this lasts
Just a few days.
This mournful face hangs
In a long abandoned hall
Waiting silently
For a jovial ringing
Destined to be unanswered.
Of late, many of my female friends on social media have been bemoaning the limited and often misogynistic descriptions of female characters in books written by male authors. Many feel that they, personally, would never be described by male authors because they lack a “proper feminine image”.
In response to these, not wholly unwarranted, criticisms I find myself pondering literary character descriptions in general regardless of the gender of the author.
Do female authors do a better job of creating realistic male character descriptions than male authors do with female character descriptions? Do you think I would get a more accurate character description from the likes Nora Roberts or Danielle Steele?
Somehow, I have an equally hard time seeing my self described favorably in a work of modern fiction penned by a woman. In fact, I imagine something like this:
“He certainly rippled- or maybe jiggled- beneath his, overly tight, oxford button down as he hastily stumbled down the steps of his mid-town office block to hail a cab, no doubt, to take him the three short blocks to the nearest Chinese Restaurant where he would, undoubtedly, bury his feelings of professional inadequacies under a small mountain of Szechuan Chicken and plot his revenge against all those who failed to see his worth.
What does it say about our society that fictional characters are, more often than not, simply stereotypic caricatures that perpetuate distorted and unhealthy images of human value? How often is a fictional hero or heroine that is a fully formed person with merits and flaws and underlying beauty, humanity, and value realistically concealed beneath an unflattering mortal shell?
Not very often. Because, I suspect, even when authors write stories with characters like this, editors reject them because “it will never sell” and mainstream film makers never make movies from them because they won’t be able to cast any “A-List talent” to take a role like that and without the glitterati of a major box office draw, it’s “just another art film”.
From her lofty perch
She regards her whole domaine
Queen of all that she surveys
Shed layers litter
Tables in the entry hall.
Cold weather cast-offs.
Oh, elusive sleep,
Why have you forsaken me?
Or have I forsaken you?
Shall we make reparations?
What’s the fucking point?
Every conversation, something goes awry.
Some twisted phrase, a skewed perception.
Demons from distant pasts
Rise, shrieking from the dark,
Sinking bloody talons, venom coated fangs
Into every fleeting moment.
Tearing harmony, rending joy,
And leaving, in its wake…
exhaustion.
Buddha stepped away
From all these earthly glories
Questing for a greater truth
Hidden somewhere deep within.