Tattertongue
This is the way of the world: you get what you want and you’re just left wanting more. My first professionally published poem is now available through Strange Horizons. Needless to say, I am QUITE excited. Even so, it’s a quiet excitement. A spontaneous black hole excitement. At random points in the day, I’ll remember: someone gave me money for my words. My blog is no longer the only place that publishes me. That says something! Justification! I’m REAL. And then, after the blip of joy that inevitably follows such thoughts, I think moremoremore. Getting published is good incentive to keep trying to get published. It’s some sort of drug, I guess.
So. The poem. TATTERTONGUE:
Where have you been, Tattertongue?
lying with pelvis and ribcage
wanting want
old. old.
reading the mouth for
sugared ginger for
blood sausageWhy did you leave?
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Speaking of more, not long after this poem was released, I received another acceptance for another poem. Won’t say much about it now, except alien vampires.
Ekphrastic 20/Wonders of the Invisible World
Floss, spider webs, flax , from scalps
these are the wonders
the wanderers, their fish-belly key.
A blonde prism/on, wonder ous.
Good luck finding
the invisible, if you’re too dark to
turn to cold breath to
grub between the silken rawhide.
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Anyway. Twenty ekphrastic poems. HEL. That’s a lot. Only it’s not, considering that I’ve been writing these things for exactly a year and a month (I posted my first ekphrastic on January 15th, 2012). Only twenty to show for all that time? Obviously, I’m not trying hard enough. I started writing them for deception. I wanted to trick my skull-meat into thinking about art. Not just swallowing it (yes, brains have mouths). But recently, I’ve started reviewing each book I read, and that’s working far better. Poetry’s too abstract (if you make it so); I can get away with too much shiit and say too little.
So, I’m going to hit 25 ekphrastics and stop. But not really. My next poetic project is this: work through Lewis Turco’s The New Book of Forms, which is what it says–a book of poetic form. Countless kinds of poetry for me to learn. I’ll go through the whole thing, form by form, week by week. Embarrassment by embarrassment. You have permission to jeer at my ass-baring.
….in the meantime, I’m going to go cuddle my last few weeks of ekphrasis.
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Previous ekphrastic: Ekphrastic 19/Sisters, Pain of Salvation (Sean Thomas covers)
and
What the hel is ekphrasis + Ekphrastic Poetry Archive (For poems about A Game of Thrones, anime, music, The Hunger Games, Blood Meridian, etc–basically, just the stuff to fulfill your brain’s literary sugar-cravings.)
celestial wolves
I don’t use bookmarks because I’m paranoid that someday I’ll lose my mind. You’d think I’d try to find some better insurance against memory loss, but Escher made my brain-mechanics. Which probably spells doom for me either way. But I’m hoping that memorizing page numbers will save me from Alzheimer’s.
There was a point to all this.
Oh. Right. I forgot, just like I forgot to finish Kim Stanley Robinson’s latest book, 2312–which happens to be why I started this post in the first place. So, the book: I started it, gobbled it, and then stopped reading the thing five pages from the end. Why? That’s a question I can’t answer. All I know is that I’m a little in love with the main character, Swan–a wolf-chasing sculptor of planets who runs around the solar-system trying to solve the mystery of her Mercurial city’s murder. Among other things. (Of which there are many.)
Sometimes I felt distant –the pain Swan’s supposed to feel when her grandmother, her ‘everything,’ dies never resounded–but you, know, she ate some aliens once, which makes her a little extra-terrestrial, so resonance probably isn’t what I’m supposed to feel. And yet. In those last five pages, I was grinning so hard when she finally (silently, Swanishly) said yes to her toad-ish lover. And, of course, I share infrasonics with her, for the wolves and her feral depth.
So maybe I’m confused, maybe our aortas tangled a little–but it was the alien in her that knotted us together, no so much her humanity. Which seems to speak of how we humans are as disparate as the elements–and as inseparable. Which, in turn, speaks to the core of the book: spacers verses earthlings, spacers as earthlings, earthlings with space-longings. We are star-stuff.
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Books read, 2013:
Moss
As I prepare myself to rejoin the elves, goats and plant-powered cities of my current manuscript (FABLE), I’ve been drawing. You’d think that rereading the first half might be more conducive to the whole preparation effort–especially since I took a 2-month long break to work on my band’s EP–but I’m just going to pretend that that’s not the truth and instead, give you a glimpse of Moss, one of two main characters in FABLE (he’s the one who has his apartment invaded by a narcissistic fire-elemental pop-star–the other anti-hero of the tale).
This is obviously just the line art, but I’ll be honest: I’m relieved. I’ve finally (finally) figured out how to achieve clean digital line art. That took far too long. (Also, for whatever reason, the image looks a tad fuzzy on my screen; if you have the same problem, click on the picture–that should take you to a crisper view.)
resistance
It’s been a long time since I kissed anyone, but Meken’s good at it. Somehow, he knows to put his hands in the places I like—cheek/jaw and lower spine. He tastes like chocolate, grease, salt. I pull back. He sags against me, dazed, wary. I’m not sure what that means. I don’t think on it. “Open your mouth a little more,” I tell him. I won’t eat, but I’ll taste. I want flavor so bad. My hands grip the counter behind, my tongue finds his tongue.
[excerpt from FABLE, the novel-in-progress]
(Playing with the program Paint Tool Sai, slowly teaching myself how to paint digitally. Critique and art mauling welcome.)
Copyright Jenn Grunigen © 2013. All rights reserved.
Prince of Pricks…uh, Thorns
So, in the spirit of trying to shame myself into reading more, better material, I’m keeping track of every book I read this year. But the shaming, apparently, is failing. Why? My first pick: Prince of Thorns, by Mark Lawrence. It was exactly as I expected it to be–which is to say, full of unrelenting rape and misogyny (and no, it’s not just the story). Actually, I read it because of the rape and misogyny. Because I like to feel sick and degraded. [1]
I’d write a review, but I think these two say all that needs to be said:
“People who like this sort of thing.” Being a review of Mark Lawrence’s Prince of Thorns
And…
Mark Lawrence’s PRINCE OF RAPE QUEUES and the neckbeards that defend it
(Which isn’t a review, precisely, but is still enjoyable.)
[1] Uh, no. I read it because part of me enjoys raging at things, and also because there’s a lot (something?) to be learned from bad books.
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Books read, 2013:
Prince of Thorns
sex with a thunder god
I worry about losing myself to overexposure, harsh light. As if putting myself into publicly intimate words will erase me into non-existence. But look at that metaphor–it negates my fear. Espaliering and evisceration will give me knowledge. I’ll be my own intestine-oracle. Know myself better. And other people? Will think they know me better, but let’s be honest–good luck with that…[1]
So I had this dream. Partly inspired, I think, by N.K. Jemisin‘s The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms. If you haven’t read the book, the main character (Yeine) has sex with the god of night, chaos and change while flying through the universe. [2] So–that was basically my dream, only I was fucked by Thor. I don’t actually remember the sex (probably thankfully), just that I had it with the god of thunder. And then, the dream jumped and I was watching my husband record growls for our upcoming EP in a co-worker’s car, while said co-worker was watching outside the window with her boyfriend.
Hm. (WHAT?) I just…dunno.
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[1] Do I think I’m ego-brained and special? I think I’m ego-brained and special.
[2] Quote almost completely stolen from Requires Hate‘s review (last sentence of the fourth paragraph).
Ekphrastic 14/Beasts of the Southern Wild
tusks in your body
snout at your throat
beast in you
scaling your bowels
born in grease and ashes
on a shovel blade
hot-coal-heart, biting sparking
anger the metal keen
boiling rock splitting whine
your scream
your battle crying
earth rage, you goddess child
you death pigs
you goddess child
gaia child
death child
mother child
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[Ekphrasis is art in reaction to art. Basically. And I don’t think about the art I consume enough. And I haven’t been writing poetry as much as I should. So every Friday, I’ll post an ekphrastic poem about whatever art I’ve been eating lately (books, poetry, anime, paintings, films, so on).]
Ekphrastic Poetry Archive:
Ekphrastic 1/RIN: Daughters of Mnemosyne
Ekphrastic 4/ A Song of Ice and Fire: A Storm of Swords
Ekphrastic 5/Sextraterrestrial
Ekphrastic 7/A Study in Aphroxology
Ekphrastic 8/雲のむこう、約束の場所 (The Place Promised in our Early Days)
Ekphrastic 10/The Hunger Games
Ekphrastic 13/Redline
She was double-skinned in see-through plasticine
a burning carbon diamond-paned diamond-flamed
bodysuit
she had her strawberry-kiwi-straw-buried
hair up wrapped around antlers and
and she was fast.
She stepped on flowers and they died in fires
that left seeds
with blood inside electric like robot eyes
she fried hearts on her fingergrills
ate them to feed her engine.
Off-planet/on-moon, green-injected
nettles rip from her pipe in her mouth as she races
blowing her followers
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[Ekphrasis is art in reaction to art. Basically. And I don’t think about the art I consume enough. And I haven’t been writing poetry as much as I should. So every Friday, I’ll post an ekphrastic poem about whatever art I’ve been eating lately (books, poetry, anime, paintings, films, so on).]
Ekphrastic Poetry Archive:
Ekphrastic 1/RIN: Daughters of Mnemosyne
Ekphrastic 4/ A Song of Ice and Fire: A Storm of Swords
Ekphrastic 5/Sextraterrestrial
Ekphrastic 7/A Study in Aphroxology
Ekphrastic 8/雲のむこう、約束の場所 (The Place Promised in our Early Days)
Ekphrastic 10/The Hunger Games
We are scarce.
Veritable.
Influx.
Make me want you.
The rose, ice-petaled and exhaling fog.
Her robot was a nice one.
It had loved her, but not enough.
To her luck, she had never loved it.
So things were good.
Then she met a man.
She loved him.
He loved his robot.
Hearts lined with machine oil.
Is that supposed to make us start?
Or go?
Just decide.
Love me. Love me not.
Take me. Take me. Take.
This life is just ice.
Her eyes were wood grain.
Brown globes. No continents. A core, though.
Curl next to me.
Our serrated edges fit together.
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Also, everyone should read this article in The New Yorker about The Hunger Games:
White Until Proven Black: Imagining Race in Hunger Games
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[Ekphrasis is art in reaction to art. Basically. And I don’t think about the art I consume enough. And I haven’t been writing poetry as much as I should. So every Friday, I’ll post an ekphrastic poem about whatever art I’ve been eating lately (books, poetry, anime, paintings, films, so on).]
Ekphrastic Poetry Archive:
Ekphrastic 1/RIN: Daughters of Mnemosyne
Ekphrastic 4/ A Song of Ice and Fire: A Storm of Swords
Ekphrastic 5/Sextraterrestrial
Ekphrastic 7/A Study in Aphroxology
Ekphrastic 8/雲のむこう、約束の場所 (The Place Promised in our Early Days)
Starvation and Books that like to Steal: Hunger Games, Game of Thrones, sex, and another thing…
Because I just went for a twelve mile run and refuse to eat until my dear lover wakes up, my empty stomach is too distracting to get any book-editing done till after I’ve eaten. In the meantime, articles on The Hunger Games and Game of Thrones, and other book-related posts I’ve been reading.
I worry a lot about appropriation, because I write. And I try to write deep and complex and specific. I write about aliens, I write about earth goddess; I have characters who kill people, characters who are men who love other men and–naturally–have sex with other men, characters androgynous and aquatic with blue-silver skin, characters who are more swamp than human.
Keeping all this in mind, I obviously don’t just ‘write what I know.’ Strictly following that rule is an act of stupidity. I’m a writer, I’m a liar. I’m going to write what I like. But. I’m going to do it with care. And that means authenticity. It means specifics. It means research and heart, a lucid mind and sensitivity. Which is why I worry about appropriation. Taking someone else’s beloved, or painful or–or just heartclose experiences and basically raping them is not okay. And needless to say, I don’t want to do that. But, also needless to say, no matter how hard I try, I probably will.
So what to do? Write. Write. Write. Research. Talk, interact. Absorb. Observe. BE. Be human.
Yes, I’ll screw up. But hel, I was born, I exist. Screwing up is a way of life.
One way I try to minimize the screw-ups is by reading. By understanding the art I enjoy and, simultaneously opening my eyes to its flaws:
[Take note: I don't strictly agree with everything said in the following. Accord is not my purpose.]
What’s Wrong With The Hunger Games Is What No One Noticed and The Hunger Games Is A Sexist Fairy-Tale. Sorry.
These articles are about Katniss Everdeen of The Hunger Games. About how she’s basically emptiness shelled in badass. I like The Hunger Games. I grew up reading Hatchet (and the million books that followed thereafter) and Far North, My Side of the Mountain, Hungry for Home, Julie of the Wolves and essentially any book that involved trees and killing/wildcrafting to fill your belly. Add in wolves and I was a very happy, feral child indeed. The Hunger Games is all this (minus the wolves–no, the mutts don’t count), plus dystopia, another favorite thing of mine. But it still has its problems.
White Until Proven Black: Imaging Race In The Hunger Games
Another good article about The Hunger Games. This one, though, discusses not how screwed-up its characters are, but rather, its fans.
Next, Enter Ye Myne Mystic World of Gayng-Raype: What the “R” Stands for in “George R.R. Martin”
I like A Song of Ice and Fire, but we have our troubles, that series and I. This article touches upon some of them.
Also, an article about writing sex and what you DON’T know–Queering SFF: Writing Sex–To Do or Not To Do?
Along the same lines (but with a focus on place and people): Euro-Fantastic. And the list that, in part, sparked the just-mentioned post: Recommendations: Non-European Fantasy by Women.
And, finally, just how much is Smaug’s treasure-hoard REALLY worth?
Below, you’ll find two of my favorite comments (by the same guy):
wip 1/arrival page 1
This is what happens when you start something that should already be finished: you obsess, immerse, stay glued to the computer for hours, trying to figure out how the hel your new tablet works. (I’m still working on that, but slowly, we’re learning to get along.)
