Carie Juettner

The Night Before Deadline

TheDesk

The Night Before Deadline

‘Twas the night before deadline, and all over my desk
not a character stirred—the manuscript was a mess.
The computer was on, the cursor was blinking
in hopes that a plotline would soon enter my thinking.

The coffee cups were empty, the blogs had been read,
yet nothing—no nothing!—danced in my head.
I’d just poured the wine and sat down in my chair,
lamenting the fact that life’s so unfair

when suddenly in the back of my mind came a spark,
a tiny dim flame that lit up the dark.
Away to the keyboard I flew like a bat,
toppling my wine and disturbing the cat.

The monitor glowed with a whiteness so bright,
illuminating a screen empty of type
when my desperate eyes, full of repentance,
saw letters and words and even a sentence!

With such clever language and the skill to enthuse,
I knew in a moment it must be my muse.
At eighty words per minute, her ideas arrived,
and she crafted and molded them, brought them alive

with similes and metaphors and unique turns of phrase,
without tropes or adverbs, nor worn out clichés.
From exposition to denouement,
she filled my story with suspense and awe.

When the last word was written, the document saved,
I thanked my muse and decided to be brave.
“Please,” I said, “will you show yourself?
I’ve no idea if you’re human or elf.”

“I yearn to behold the face of the being
who inspires the writing I do that’s worth reading.”
There was a jingling sound, a flash and a shimmer,
and the air in the room seemed to get thinner.

For only a moment, my vision was blurred,
then on my desk perched a girl like a bird.
Her fingers were pencils, her toes were erasers,
her teeth, when she smiled, were sharper than razors,

perfect for cutting unneeded description
and murdering darlings with flawless precision.
Her feathery hair was purple and long,
and her delicate wings were the color of song.

She wore loose-fitting clothing with numerous pockets;
around her neck, hung trinkets and lockets.
Her colorful pants were rolled up to the knees
and ornamented with stitched memories.

She wiggled her nose and winked one green eye,
then stretched out her wings and started to fly.
“Wait!” I called, finally finding my voice,
“Can’t you stay? Must you go? Is there no other choice?”

“Think of the work I could do in a year
if only you stayed by my side, always near.”
She blew me a kiss and tickled the cat,
and said, “Silly writer, where’s the fun in that?”

Then, with the jingle bell laugh of a sprite,
my muse fluttered out into the dark night,
but I heard her whisper as she took to the skies,
“Now that it’s written, don’t forget to revise!”

HAPPY HOLIDAYS to all the writers out there! 🙂

[Remember– if you comment on my blog posts between now and December 31, 2015, you’ll be entered to win my book giveaway!]

Things That Could One Day Find Their Way Into a Poem

BestAustinPoetry

This week I’d like to share a poem with you. It holds the record for the longest title of any piece I’ve written so far.

Things That Could One Day Find Their Way Into a Poem
(in no particular order)

the way I hold my hot tea by the cup instead of the handle
after it has cooled to the perfect temperature;

the little glass coasters with the photos in the center—
a sunset, a statue, you when you still had long hair;

the spot of green paint on the windowpane;

the smell of the dog’s blanket (not a nice smell
but not a terrible one either—sharp, earthy, a hint of salt);

the postcard lying on the desk, corners bent, ink smeared;

the look on your face when you’ve just said something clever
and you’re wondering if I noticed;

the person who walked by the house while I was writing this,
not the one the dog barked at, but the other one
with the backpack and shaggy hair,
who the dog sensed was not a threat;

the sound of the space heater dulling the season’s chill;

the itch in the corner of my eye that would not go away;

and the photo of the bird, taken on our honeymoon
at the Chinese tea gardens in Portland, Oregon,
just after you read a poem to a group of strangers
because the guide asked you to, delighting your new wife
who didn’t know that might be the only time
she’d ever hear you do that

This poem won the Austin Poetry Society’s Elzy Marathon Thompson Memorial Award last May, and was published in their anthology, Best Austin Poetry 2014-2015, which just came out last week. If you’re interested in reading the rest of the winning poems, including a second one by me, you can order your own copy of the book from Lulu.com.