Autumn Will

The great oak sways proud, stands high,
Then paints its final will against an autumn sky:
That is how I wish to live, and how I wish to die.

Its branches like a lover’s arms; its shadows where the lonely lie,
Where the old find shelter and the young learn to fly—
The great old oak sways proud, stands high.

Embracing change from day to nigh,
It bows to hold the children; uplifts all passers by—
That is how I wish to live, and how I wish to die.

Its last leaf falls with bright flamboyance,
A crimson battle cry! — and still
The great old oak sways proud, stands high.

Its branches have broken, its roots run dry,
Reduced to a stump, it asks not why—
Just comforts each friend that
comes there to cry.

That is how I wish to love, and how I wish to die.

copyright Heather Grace Stewart, from her poetry collection Where the Butterflies Go (2008)

"Autumn Will", photo by HGS, Sept. 29, 2008

A Note About This Poem
The leaves on the oak trees in our backyard are beginning to turn a brilliant orange and yellow. As I was admiring the colourful show through our kitchen window early this morning, it reminded me of one of my rare rhyming poems, and the only attempt I’ve ever made at a villanelle.

I’m really terrible at definitions, and also at following “rules” in poetry, but in brief, a villanelle, made popular in English-language poetry in the 1800s and based on French poems in this form, is always 19 lines, and has only two rhyming sounds. It also has a refrain that repeats. Here is a better definition: The Villanelle

I tried. I really did. But my attempt ended up being 17 lines, and I didn’t exactly follow the rules – though I think I came close. I didn’t want my rhymes or the meaning of the poem to suffer simply because I needed a certain number of syllables or lines. I think this was the most challenging poem I’ve ever written. After writing this one, I have even more respect for the great rhyming poets. In case some of you were wondering, some of my favourites are Blake, Tennyson, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Dickinson, and Frost. I think my favourite may be a little-known American poet named Sarah Teasdale. I adore her poem, “Barter.” I’ll have to leave my Canadian and modern influences for another blog, as there are several.

My Cranky Muse

Often, I think of quitting my job as a writer.  Throwing in the towel.  Never penning another poem; stopping all efforts to improve my novel for youth; never sending another query letter out begging a publisher to notice my talent and “pick me, pick me!”

Yes, I have a publisher for my non-fiction books for youth, and I’ve put out a whole collection of poetry – but I have yet to find a publisher for my youth novel and children’s picture books. Not that I expected to be an overnight success, but it’s been a long journey to get to where I stand today, and I still have so much more I want to present to the world. Some days, it feels that some of these stories will never see the light of day – they might just sit in my computer forever – and that thought frustrates me to no end. I know, I know, Babe Ruth struck out some 1,330 times. I’ve only received about a dozen rejection letters. I need to keep at it – and I am. Some day, I’m going to appreciate the trips to that mailbox to get those letters that read, “We regretfully decline….” because they represent the blood, tears, toil and sweat I’ve put in. Maybe someday I’ll even have one framed in my (oceanfront) office. Hey, a woman has to dream.

On top of that, I feel like a publicity whore. I’ve never marketed myself more than I have this year, and I’m not always comfortable in that role. It’s a little weird to Google myself and find 14 pages of results – including, to my amusement, a listing for Where the Butterflies Go available online  at TARGET. It’s a little weird that I’m actually writing a blog confessing to you all that I Google myself.  Well, at least I’m honest — and web-savvy.

Sometimes I feel like this whole process of trying to find a traditional publisher/agent/ for my fiction is a game of chance and nothing else. Like I’m playing the lottery. Like talent and hard work just don’t matter anymore, because these editors have slush piles of submissions four-feet-high on their desks, and in the end, they are only looking for sure-hits by big name writers. That’s when I think: maybe I should just quit while I’m ahead.

But that’s not me talking. That’s my cranky muse. The term we writers use for  inspiration. And, oh my, does my muse get irritable. Often. It wants everything it ever helped me create published and credited. It wants all the children’s poems I’ve ever written in an anthology – not in a year’s time, but NOW. It wants all the picture books – and there must be a dozen – illustrated and on the shelves – NOW. It wants it all and if it can’t have it, it’s going to throw a tantrum bigger than any tantrum our three-year-old has ever thrown.

I know my turn is coming – perhaps it’s just around the corner – but my cranky muse isn’t buying that.

Maybe it just needs a good long nap.