Individualist Carol

I'm not a religious woman. I am, however, big on the power of each individual to make his life better and brighter. We all have that power within us, if we look for it. So, in honor of that power, I give you my version of an old holiday tune. (And in case you need a disclaimer, I really mean no disrespect to the original carol. I could listen to Nat King Cole sing it all day. This is just my take on it.)

The Individualist Carol

Oh Holy Night
The stars are brightly shining
This is the night
Of my own sweet rebirth

Long lay my heart
In sin and error pining
Then life appeared
And my soul felt its worth

The thrill of hope
The weary heart rejoices
For yonder came
A new and glorious morn

Rise from your knees
And hear the singing voices

Oh night divine
O-o-oh night when I was born

Oh night divine
O-oh night, oh holy night.

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What great things are you going to make of your life this year?

A Bit of Fun

If you're not familiar with the poet, Berton Braley, please take a moment to enjoy his poem "Learning to Write". It's a hoot. Unfortunately I cannot reproduce here because his heirs have requested that anyone wanting to use his work request permission. I don't mind, because it is their right after all, but I don't want to wait the 72 hours, so please visit the site and enjoy his collected works. It's well worth the time.

On the homefront, I'm back to writing again - and feeling 99% back to my usual state of abnormal. (Which is why I don't have time tonight for a real post. I have miles to go before I sleep.)

Poetry Break

I thought I'd take a moment and post an old poem for y'all. (It's public domain, and since Robert Louis Stevenson and all of his kin are long gone, I don't think anyone will mind.)

Childish Slave of Social Rules
by Robert Louis Stevenson

HAIL! Childish slaves of social rules
You had yourselves a hand in making!
How I could shake your faith, ye fools,
If but I thought it worth the shaking.
I see, and pity you; and then
Go, casting off the idle pity,
In search of better, braver men,
My own way freely through the city.

My own way freely, and not yours;
And, careless of a town's abusing,
Seek real friendship that endures
Among the friends of my own choosing.
I'll choose my friends myself, do you hear?
And won't let Mrs. Grundy do it,
Tho' all I honour and hold dear
And all I hope should move me to it.

I take my old coat from the shelf -
I am a man of little breeding.
And only dress to please myself -
I own, a very strange proceeding.
I smoke a pipe abroad, because
To all cigars I much prefer it,
And as I scorn your social laws
My choice has nothing to deter it.

Gladly I trudge the footpath way,
While you and yours roll by in coaches
In all the pride of fine array,
Through all the city's thronged approaches.
O fine religious, decent folk,
In Virtue's flaunting gold and scarlet,
I sneer between two puffs of smoke, -
Give me the publican and harlot.

Ye dainty-spoken, stiff, severe
Seed of the migrated Philistian,
One whispered question in your ear -
Pray, what was Christ, if you be Christian?
If Christ were only here just now,
Among the city's wynds and gables
Teaching the life he taught us, how
Would he be welcome to your tables?

I go and leave your logic-straws,
Your former-friends with face averted,
Your petty ways and narrow laws,
Your Grundy and your God, deserted.
From your frail ark of lies, I flee
I know not where, like Noah's raven.
Full to the broad, unsounded sea
I swim from your dishonest haven.

Alone on that unsounded deep,
Poor waif, it may be I shall perish,
Far from the course I thought to keep,
Far from the friends I hoped to cherish.
It may be that I shall sink, and yet
Hear, thro' all taunt and scornful laughter,
Through all defeat and all regret,
The stronger swimmers coming after.

Poetry Scams

Browsing through my bookmarked blogs this morning, I read an excellent post by Victoria Strauss over at Writer Beware Blogs! In Evaluating Literary Contests, Ms. Strauss covers all the bases, so I really don't have much to add.

I already gave my two cents in the comment chain, but my comment there brought a slew of memories to mind, I like to share here. (And it all dovetails nicely with yesterday's post.)

My chief experience in the world of literary scammers deals specifically with poetry scams. I was young and naïve at the time. I had no clue people would actively try to screw other people. Whoa, was I ever gullible. (Or as Bugs Bunny always said it - Gull A Bull.) Back then I was cranking out poems, and whipping them off to every contest I could find in the back of a certain writing magazine which shall remain nameless (to protect the innocent--namely ME.) I was a teenager at the time, so I didn't have any money to enter legit contests, but if it was free, they were getting an entry from me.

And I was getting offer after offer to be published. I mean, like, WOW. Unfortunately, all of the offers came with a nice letter saying I would be published in X Anthology, which I had to purchase myself for only $39.95 (or $49.95, or $59.95). Now, they weren't saying I had to buy the book to be published in it--that's a no-no. They were merely telling me I was published in the book, and if I wanted to see my poem in print, then I had to cough up the dough. I wasn't making enough babysitting money to shell out that kind of cash, so I shrugged and felt wonderful about my poems being in print somewhere, even if I couldn't see the pretty leatherbound edition for myself.

Until one anthology was offered for $12.95. Now that was more my price range. I gave the cash to my mother who kindly wrote a check to these people. 6-8 weeks later, my copy of the anthology arrived. I was glowing. I flipped to the page and there was my poem. *happy sigh*

Later I read a few of the other poems. My pride and joy was stuffed in amongst some of the purest crap ever published. (Looking back, my pride and joy was pretty crappy, too, but that's the point here.) Once my joy wore off, I looked at the book itself. It's a paperback, typeset in the oldest font known to man, the cover art looks like something my child could have done when she was 8.

I wonder if I'd bought one of those $59.95 leatherbound ones, would the quality have been better?