Writing

Poetry: Words Alive and Thriving 

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This morning, a friend sent me Brandon Griggs’ CNN article “Does Poetry Matter” and I was struck by it. In my mind, I agree with the opinion that poetry is far from dead; rather, it’s just being experienced differently in this ago of social media and ultimate connectivity. I have a dear friend who shares poetry with me frequently when she thinks I might need a pick-me-up or that remind her of me, some of which I’ve never read and that’s a delight. 

My husband is an avid lover of poetry and a much better poet than I in practice. The first time we spent significant time together, just him and me, he showed me some of his poems, which I know was intensely personal for him, I know. And I will forever appreciate the gesture and love him all the more for his sharing of his literary passion with me. 

My daughter hears poetry every day, in the storybooks that I read to her and the whimsical children’s shows she watches. It’s helping her learn words and cadence and she loves it. 

Poetry isn’t dead. No, no. We just need to acknowledge it in its evolved state as well as in its classic form. Poetry is a way of viewing the world with heart and words, just like we see with our eyes and experience with our souls. 

  

Years on a Calendar. Marks on a Page

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According to WordPress, I opened this blog five years ago today. It really doesn’t feel like I have been around here that long but I am thoroughly enjoying the ever-evolving process of being a writer becoming.

Since I opened this blog five years ago, I have participated in two National Blog Posting Months (NaBloPoMos), been a contributor for The Well Written Woman, and have been published in Forgotten Leaves: Essays from a Smial.

It’s been an awesome ride so far and I am looking forward to so much more. ^_^

The Bride in Blue

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Author’s Note: This is all my original work and belongs to me, Melissa Snyder. I do not know if I will continue posting updates after this but, again, I would appreciate first impressions/comments/constructive critiques. Thank you!

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They call her blessed, fortunate, prized among women. They touch her with gentle hands, whisper prayers of blessing, and utter yips of approval. She is set above the salt; she is raised high.

She is to be a bride in blue.

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Flash Fiction, Part 2: The Bride in Blue (Beneath the Veil)

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They call her blessed, fortunate, prized among women. All she knows is that, today, her fate will be forever decided for her. She will have no long-born legacy as a bride in blue. She will have no children. She will have no husband. She may even be virginal forever. With a few words, a blue price, and the intoning of a godsman, her destiny will be obliterated, swallowed up in others’ desires for prestige.

They breathe prayers of blessing and utter yips of approval as they drape the sapphire blue veil, embroidered with golden gods notes, over her head, and paint her mouth red, the color of cunning.

She lets them dress her, veil her, bless her. She lets them lead her to the fane, all without a word. Nothing for their blessings, nothing for her mother’s tears, nothing for her sister’s jealous glances, nothing for her fathers puffed-out pride. If she could slap his hand away, she would. But she cannot, not here, or risk the standing of her family, little as it might be on its face. So, silent as a grave, she lets him lead her into the fane, through a world blurred blue and gold, to the fate that awaits her.

Flash Fiction: The Bride in Blue

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They call her blessed, fortunate, prized among women. They touch her with gentle hands, whisper prayers of blessing, and utter yips of approval. She is set above the salt; she is raised high. She is to be a bride in blue.

She is to be a bride in blue.

A bride in blue is special, set apart, set above. She might not be the first wife, the last wife, or even officially a wife. A bride in blue is something completely different. She is not the lady of the family or the head of the household. She could bear children but, often, precautions were taken to prevent the marring of her form. If she does, they will be placed in the nursery and taken to breast and mother by another, that blessed name never reserved for her. She was the height of the social court. When her lord or duke, warden or councillor will give great feasts or celebrations, bedecked and glittering for their distinguished guests, it is his blue bride who will appear at his side, the shining star on his arm. She will reign supreme, the celestial gem seated enthroned in his court for that night. She is the one about whom the minstrels will sing, the poets will write, and to whom men will swear chivalric fealty and their bravery’s blood.

They call her blessed, fortunate, prized among women. They touch her with gentle hands, whisper prayers of blessing, and utter yips of approval as they brush her locks until they gleam, paint her lips an ember red, and drape the sapphire gossamer over her head. Today, she will be a bride. She will be no wife. She will be no mother. Forever, she will be a bride in blue.

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This piece was inspired by my daughter running around, my dancing veil of filmy blue sari chiffon draped over her head. I’d really like feedback on this one. Please, feel free to leave me your thoughts in the comments. ^_^

Fascinating Facets

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I sit with my daughter in my lap as she indulges in some Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood. As she sits quietly (a rare occurrence in and of itself), I take advantage of the opportunity to wrap her lovely pigtail curl around my finger and find myself once again mesmerized as I twirl it again and again and again.

Her hair is soft and glossy and smooth, as soothing as silk as I coil it around my finger. As I do and the curl tightens, I find myself marveling at it. It almost looks like an ombre candy cane, composed of shades of brown sugar and sable, though it is also shot through with bright copper and even honeyed blonde in some spots.

Her hair is smooth like her father’s but also curly like mine naturally is. She gets the shades of brown with red highlights from us both, but the shot of blonde is her father’s, as are her long eyelashes. We deal with the snaggles and tangles and she hates every minute of me combing them out of her hair. When her hair is loose, it is curly and fun and wild; when it is combed into pigtails or a ponytail, it is cute and coquettish. Either way and both, she is brilliantly lovely and I am constantly fascinated by the work of art that is my daughter’s hair. It is beautiful and unique and perfectly suited to her sunshiny, smiling face.

I dream of what that hair will be like some day, falling over her shoulders in abundant, glossy curls that bounce, the most superlative physical complement to my girl’s own buoyant spirit.

Stepping Fierce

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Also posted on The Well Written Woman – “I Walk”

I walk like I own the whole world.

My hips move clouds,

My breath guiding them along,

And water springs where my heels pierce the earth.

I walk like the world is mine to hold.

My steps ring confidence’s battle cry, thrumming wildly in its echoes.

I am a lioness, fierce as hell

But softer than gossamer.

My hands are made of fire,

To light and warm, to smelt and refine,

Though never to harm.

I walk like I own the whole damn world,

Because, right now, I really do.

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Several weeks ago, as I walked into a store, I felt strong, confident, and fierce. And these words fluttered and tumbled around in my brain, refusing to leave until they were given a voice. I will admit, sometimes I really like it when that happens.

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What I Choose

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What I did not choose:

My birth

My parentage

My skin color

The place I was raised in

The language I grew up speaking

 

What I did choose:

My faith

My education

My future

My partner and helpmeet

My family

My home

My tribe

My dreams

My child

 

What I will continue to choose:

To hope

To believe

To listen

To hug

To encourage

To pray

To sing

To write

To smile

To dance

To learn

To support

To love

I Wish You Could See…

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Dear World,

I wish you could see what I see.

I wish you could see the beautiful little two-year-old girl twirling in the midst of my living room in her pretty spring dress, church shoes, and winter coat.

I wish you could see the spring sunlight as the rays filter through my living room window and fill my home with light.

I wish you could see my little family at baby’s bedtime, prayers and I love you’s and kisses all round.

I wish you could see the little moments of joy threaded throughout my day. But, even more so, I wish for you to see the ones threaded throughout yours.

Love, Me

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I believe in good when my daughter wants me to sit with her while she colors, just because she wants me there. 

It’s still strange when I touch my cesarean scar two years later. It feels like a coil of rope embedded in my skin, worn smooth at its smiling edges. 

That moment when your heart is racing and you don’t know why or what emotion is prompting it: one of the scariest ones in my life. 

“[R]ules might give us some order but love and grace make life worth living.” – Sheila Walsh