Monthly Online eZine  
News And Views For Working Writers

 INside Scoop
 IN Her Own Write
 Pen IN Hand
 Write On!
 Screen & Stage
 Top 10 Resources
 Book Reviews
 Items Of INterest
 Global Offerings
 INside Services
 Bill The Bard
 The Writer At Work
 Games & Puzzles
 Classic eTexts
 Free Software
 IN Banners
 Who's IN
 What's IN
 Editorial Calendar
 Join IN's Team
 Contacting IN

IN Front Cover


Learn To Be A Better Journalist

Buy Classic Literature Collections

Acclaimed Screenplay Writing Software

Books On How To Write Fiction

Become A Well Paid Travel Writer

Vote daily and raise our ranking!

January, 2008

IN Advertising

On Writing Early Riders
Life is as real as dreams
By  James Strecker

Poetry's golden wheat often dukes it out with the dreadfully popular chaff of cliche.
A long time ago in Manhattan, I was training under depth psychologist Ira Progoff who, one day, remarked, "Sometimes the lives we live are as real as our dreams."

We each smiled. Yes, the psyche was indeed a busy dude and commonly-assumed reality was often not much more than mere putty to one's imagination, certainly no match for one's inner world.

Now fast forward two dozen years and a request for command performance from writer Patricia L. Scott: "You have to write a poem to go with Andy's image." Andy Simmons, it turns out, is a Brit, Pat's friend, and an occasional and invariably worshiped contributor to a site called Renderosity.

There, alas, the golden wheat of his stunning art sometimes dukes it out with the dreadfully popular chaff of cliched monsters and a-sensual digital babes that could turn on only a microchip.

One click on Andy, however, and I am haunted. With unsettling ease, his painting Early Riders seduces me into a poetic dream that unfolds as real. So I begin to write or, rather, I begin to be.
His visual world gradually becomes the moist cool touch of morning on my skin, the potent yet gentle sound of waves creeping cautious toward me, the nostril-mastering smells that belong to horses and to both land and sea, the taste in my mouth of a thirst for shelter, and, most of all, the search for a woman.

As a poet, I come to his painting with intention to write; once inside it I feel myself seemingly nowhere else and uneasy with a sense of destiny. Am I new here? Am I what I was? Will any answer give more truth? Sure, there are other concerns here, those of the writer.

For one, there is need to control self-deception. Where? For one, in words intended for effect beyond that created by the inner momentum of the poem, in words that are simply answering the writer's and not the poem's needs. Words must do both and that's hard.

As for my poem Easy Riders, I'm not totally comfortable with the slightly expansive, almost narrative, perhaps too chatty, quality of it. This could mean that, as a writer, I am messing up a poem that could be more compact and incisive or it could mean that my writing wants a broader method, a new voice.

And since my recent poems have considered cancer, cruelty to animals and people, depression, and AIDS, the comparatively comfortable fantasy here seems to let me too much off the hook.

Still, when I first gave in to Andy's painting, I felt a shiver in front of my computer, a loneliness that would never reach safety, a fate of some kind over which I had no control, and a longing. And I get all that for now from the poem.

In it, the sky has human qualities, time and direction contradict themselves, so there is a reality-bending tension here. "My own flesh and I" can mean kin or dimensions of myself. And who is dreaming here, the unreachable lady or we the riders? Reality won't identify itself as any one dimension, though I didn't plan it that way.

But that wash of ambiguity here satisfies me as a reflection of the inherent mystery and maybe mythic thrust in Andy's work. Perhaps the sense of solitude in the poem is really just my own outside the painting, but it does feel genuine and true to me within the poem.

Perhaps I will soon edit the lines, but I can't say how or if the poem will indeed need revision. In any case, right now I don't want to.

Life is cruel and many deaths of late have been too hard to take, but this dream, at least, is still real.

Read James Strecker's poetry piece Easy Riders.
IN Icon

James Strecker is the author or editor of two dozen books and CD-ROMs. His collaborators as a poet include artist Harold Town, in the books Black on jazz and Pas De Vingt on ballet, photographer Bill Smith, and composers Barend Schipper and Wolfgang Bottenberg. He is also a journalist and a human development consultant trained in Focusing, the Intensive Journal, and Graphoanalysis. He is currently writing a book on creativity and is seeking a publisher for his book for writers.

Sign Up and Use Our New Forums! Voice Your Opinion! Discuss Our Content! Ask for Writing Assistance. Post Your Successes, Queries or Information Requests. Collaborate with Other Writers.

© Freelance Writing Organization - International 1999-2049

IN This Issue
The Long Life Of Poetry
Marketplaces For Your Poetry
Haiku: Highest Art
What Am I Doing Wrong?
Lyrically Speaking
Writing Poems
The Mind Of A Poet
A Poem Is A Little Path
Seeing Like A Poet
Speaking In Tongues (Excerpt)

Support IN
Receive Free Gifts
$20.00 Voluntary Contribution
$35.00 Voluntary Contribution
$50.00 Voluntary Contribution

New Novelist Software

Effectively Manage Your List

Writers Digest 101 Site Award

Your Ad Here

Traffic Swarm For Writers

Hottest Books This Month!

Whose Books Are Turning Into Movies?
Bald Ego
Mouse Over To Pause

Writer’s Block
The path to inspiration starts
Upon the trails we’ve known;
Each writer’s block is not a rock,
But just a stepping stone.

Poetry Is Not
Penned to the page
Waiting for us to admire.
It is only a lonely thought
Caught by tears on fire.

Silent Echoes
A quiet rhyme upon a page
Is what a poet gives;
Some gentle words whispered in trust
To see if memory lives.

Bard From Deadlines
What makes a poem finally work
Is not the time it takes;
It’s how the poet used the muse
To prophet from mistakes.

Be Mused
The art and craft of poetry
Are not so far apart;
The craft comes from the cunning,
The rest comes from the heart.

Fine Vintage
Don’t plant your poem on the page
As though you’re hanging drapes;
It’s shape and flow should come and grow
Like wild summer grapes.

Getting It Write
Writers write what they know best,
Their passions, fears, and dreams;
Writers rarely write about
What other call their “themes.”

Double Vision
A writer’s life is paradox,
It’s more than what it seems;
We write of our reality,
The one inside our dreams.

The echo of a promise,
The thunder of a sigh,
The music of a memory,
A child asking why.

Letter Perfect
Twenty six symbols arranged on a page
Can send a soul to heaven or torment it with rage,
Can free a fragile world or hold it in its net--
The power and the magic of the mighty alphabet.

The Write of Passage
The jump from writing just for fun
To getting paid for it
Begins when you first realize
You know you’ll never quit.

It is not the magic of his wings
That sets us free from our bond.
It is the muse within ourselves
That lets our words lift us beyond.

Photo Poet
Consider your mind the darkroom,
Consider your life the lens,
Consider your eye the camera
On whose focus the poem depends.

Rising Moon
A poem is a rising moon
Shining on the sea,
An afterglow of all we know,
Of all we hope to be.

Star Light
Writing a poem,
Reaching a star,
In making good art
We find who we are.

Spider Web
A poem is a spider web
Spun with words of wonder,
Woven lace held in place
By whispers made of thunder.

The final draft upon the screen,
At last my poem’s through;
A verse of only four short lines--
I rewrote twenty-two!

Read All Of Charles Ghigna's Poetry at

Our Own Banner Rotator System
Any banner seen below is either our own or one of our members.
Support the cause - click a banner.

Want Your 468x60 Banner Above? It's FREE For Newly Published Books

© Freelance Writing Organization - International 1999-2049
All Rights Reserved. Copying in any way strictly forbidden.
Our Disclaimer Is Based Upon McIntyre's First Law: "Under the right circumstances, anything I tell you may be wrong."