ladybug summer

if you didn't know this before, i love my hometown.

we're a small place, quiet and slow. the speed limit is just whatever it takes to recognize your neighbor and wave hello.

main street businesses open around 11am and close around 8, unless it's "shop-at-home" day. then it's 10.

on snowy winter days, all the neighbors band together to defeat the shadowy "snowplow-man" and his irksome "berms."

on memorial day weekend, at least half the townsfolk purge their closets and deposit their contents onto the street edges while the other half, along with the visitors from "down below," wanders the town for good deals and warm handshakes.

...and a magical thing happens when summer decides to arrive.

according to local legend, many years ago aphids plagued the greenery. it's difficult to grow things as it is in the dry mountain soil we've got, so this became quite the problem. no one thought of funky chemicals; no one would have agreed to it. instead, several large airplanes flew over the town, dropping thousands of tiny gifts from the sky: ladybugs. the beetle artillery gobbled up the aphids, and the town's greenery lived happily ever after. now, to this day, when the temperature begins to climb back into the seventies after long bouts of snowy frost, hundreds of these warriors' ancestors reawaken from winter slumber and fill the air, alighting on the sunbeams like fairies.

and guess what? today is that day. oh, joy of summer!

enjoy the hand-spun fairy sunshine today!

until you orbit by again,
maggie

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an open letter to the enigmatic writer's bane known simply as the "blank page,"

apologies for dispensing with the normal pleasantries, but i do not want to waste time with you any longer. i have spent too much time skirting you, avoiding you, and hiding from you to allow myself to beat around the bush again.
at first, i believed that you really wanted me to succeed, but couldn't come to my aid due to "busyness" or various extraneous circumstances. i would sit with you, hoping to work harmoniously with you to create story, but your imposing figure and stoic stare usually scared me away. i would tell myself: "he can't be prevailed upon to help; he's much too busy" or "he'll be there when I get back; no need to start now" or, as things worsened, "I must not be important enough for him; he's got his hands full with the likes of Stephanie Meyer."
oh, how i deceived myself in the service of my own fear! and what are you, anyway? you do not speak, you do not actively make moves to destroy me, but i've seen through your ruse. that little smirk that spreads over your face when i walk away and you think i'm not looking; oh, yes, i've seen it.
surely you know of the story that has haunted me since childhood. a story that has never been written, only skirted; the story that i must write. for as long as i can remember, i've sought it; i've enjoyed other stories just because they catch a bit of this other.
but YOU have kept it from me. i've realized that you have a vested interest in keeping me from completing it. you've sent me off into dead ends, deploying every weapon at your disposal: "brain fog," deep distraction, gnawing self-doubt, jittery guilt, even the great and terrible Writer's Block isn't below serving your ends.
what have i ever done to you, blank page? ah, but as i ask that question, i answer myself: if my story is ever completed, it will surely destroy you. are you as afraid of me as i am of you? but, fear not, blank page, for as you are destroyed, something better will be born in your place. the power of a single story dwarfs you, and perhaps you know it.
i realize that you will not willingly engage with me in a peace treaty as long as the "story" haunts me. very well; then, as long as the "story" haunts me, i will not rest until i complete it and destroy you. don't act surprised; you knew i couldn't accept your vision of the world, blank page. for you would have us all cowering before you, imprisoned in ourselves, unable to look up and see the beautiful bigness of our created universe. but story, true story, always drives us to look up.
blank page, consider this the end of our toxic relationship... and the beginning of a better quest.

i sign this most sincerely and definitively,
maggie

diversion to gallifrey

hello universe!
since i've recently discovered that many of my friends love the tv show "doctor who" as much as i do, i thought i'd share with you a bit of "timelord poetry" that i wrote a while back... besides, it is a good reason to post again. =)
this is supposed to be from the perspective of the 9th doctor. i wrote it right when i first discovered that i liked the show (a little less than a year ago). hopefully, it will still make some sense even if you haven't seen "doctor who." enjoy.

doctor's internal physics

eternal present.
earth moves, falls through space
cling tightly to my fingertips
and we'll break
free.
the smallest things will be the largest
and the last shall be first.
windows shatter.
lying beneath the surface, I am there
I wait for you because I love you
and we can save each other.
your world can be one disaster less
and my world can have substance.
new life.
in purpose, I can face existence
protect your world, for you have more than I
and you have more
time.
I look at the sky and see a painful struggle
waiting to be remedied
but you can enjoy its beauty
in spite of it.

you are still a child in this universe, so true
but I have learned so much from you.


until our paths cross again,
maggie

poetry muscle

hello universe!

went to the riverside art museum yesterday and it got me thinking about poetry again. more specifically, i realized that every human being has a "poetry muscle," if you will, that is exercised in any number of ways. the "poetry muscle" is the part of you that yearns to express the deeper beauties of life that can't be expressed through straight normal explanations. for people like me who are more literarily inclined, we might choose to write poetry or stories. others choose to draw, paint, or sculpt, like the artists showcased in the art museum. still others, that i call the "naturalist" types, choose to study the scientific details of things in search of this unexplainable beauty. some choose to plan events, start projects, or plant gardens. all can be called creative, and all seek (sometimes subconsciously) the deeper beauties of the universe in some way.

i think that the exercise of this "poetry muscle" is the thing that sets us apart from the animals.

how do you express your "poetry muscle," or have you noticed it?

until the starstreams spiral my aether-ship back to you,

maggie langdon

emotional objects

hello universe!

haven't been writing much lately; my poetic aether has been in a rather stationary and uninteresting orbit as of late. perhaps i should find some new inspirations.

one might be this: have you ever considered that pretty much every person has an "emotional object?" something that reminds you of something attached to deep emotion that causes the object to become more important than it literally is? i've realized that knowing about another's emotional object suddenly helps you understand something deep about that person's personality, something beyond words, something that's rather akin to poetry. some of the poetry of our lives can be written in a single stuffed animal, blanket, necklace or piece of fabric.

have you ever considered what poem might be written in your emotional object? perhaps soon i shall write mine.

until my aethership alters course,

maggie langdon

kingdom of the outplanets

hello universe!

otherworldly beauty is amazingly easy to find on this planet... just look around and notice. is this why the best poems are those written about ideas and people outside of one's self?

found this in my backyard the other day; to me it looked like a transplanted seed from an outplanet:

in other news, it has been very informative reading "Poet's Market" and noting what kinds of poetry is encouraged and discouraged by various publishers and magazines. I found it especially interesting how many discourage "religious" poetry. at first blush, this tendency appears somewhat discouraging to Christians like me, but after I thought about it, I realized that this too has to do with the idea that "the best poems are written about ideas and people outside of one's self." let me explain...

it seems to me that there are two kinds of "religious poetry," and most editors seem to know this, as evidenced by the fact that the Chautauqua Literary Journal gave a specific name to the undesirable kind: "hackneyed spiritual versifying." what makes the difference between the two kinds is the focus. "hackneyed spiritual versifying" is primarily self-centered in its heart. it is the kind that uses all the "right" words (like "born again" or "fellowship") to describe a vaguely spiritual feeling that makes God into a tool for our own self-exaltation. this kind of worldview also comes out in everyday life, but in poetry, the wrongness of it becomes more blatant; poetry, I think more so than any other art form, has a way of exposing the deepest orientations of the heart. as such, the "God-as-Santa-Claus" worldview tends to create bad poetry, the kind of poetry that just grates on every inner sinew of your body and makes you feel like you've touched some kind of deadly disease. this is not what should characterize "religious poetry." real religious poetry should be defined by its focus on God as He is, not as we wish Him to be to our own comfort. besides, the way He really is turns out to be way better than our imaginings of Him! this way, the poetry can "reach for the moon, and land among the stars."

an outward focus creates the beauty of the outplanets. the self is such a small kingdom, and poetry was created to plumb depths too large for self. is this why poetry is not as popular as it once was? because well-written poetry (even poetry that is not obviously religious) showcases the endless boundaries of God's kingdom and emphasizes the smallness of our own kingdoms? or because so much self-centered poetry has been written that people don't know what well-written poetry is anymore?

keep creating, friends, poetry and art and stories and structures and equations and lives that showcase the Kingdom without falling back on "hackneyed spiritual versifying."

until the aether realigns,

maggie langdon

new & seeking

hello again, dear universe!

continuing to seek inspiration for new writings... maybe an inspirational place? where do you consider to be inspirational places?

enjoy the outworldian beauties that surround you;

yours,

maggie