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@annaelizabell
Molasses
A sticky, syrupy smear crystalized on smiling cheeks
Hour by hour, she makes delicious time
Sober, sweet drops tether brim to brim
Saccharine ring âround saccharine lips
She strains tongue and teeth greedy for the last drop
Tenacious fingers dip and dip
She licks it up without a trace
From her jar labeled âParnassusâ
All she gets is a taste of molasses
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(Anna Bell)Â
   For my creative writing course, I wrote a short collection of poems inspired by my childhood. The four poems all stem from a place of remembered innocence and adolescent sentiments. Simple in style, I hope they express the humble marvel of a child at the inspiriting things of nature as well as the bittersweet, often heartbreaking, adventure of growing up.
   âMoon Chaserâ is about the delighting experience children have while riding in a car at night and pretending to be at race with the moon or to be chasing or being chased by her. She comes in and out of view, sometimes runs ahead of you; then suddenly she comes up from behind. This custom is a vivid memory of mine, and I wanted to celebrate the joy that comes from surprising places.
Setting sun takes leave of me
His brilliance sinks beneath sable trees
When hope seems lost to all for good
There comes a flash then flees behind the woods
I pass the birch and oak with humming haste
And catch mad glimpses of a friendly face
That shining lady who tames the seas
And tells the farmer when to sow his seeds
I search the spangled sky with eager eyes
Ready for her rushing radiance to baptize
It is a game she plays, blessed and spellbound,
Of peek aâboo and Hide nâ Seek and chase around
She, from her lofty place, peers down with a smile
To cheer and charm a lonely child
Moonlit Stroll
Painting by John Atkinson Grimshaw
I am not a poet.
The Swamp Witch
I am bogged down with myself
My feet trudging through the murky, muddy water
The tall roots beat me bruised
I look down to a cloudy, quivering reflection
Hollow wet orbs peering back at me
The fickle moon jilts me beggared
I hunch under the weight of all that I am not
Quick, heavy breaths drowning my tedious thoughts
The sultry air suffocates me breathless
I sink deeper below the grimy surface
Faceless creatures wriggling in through my gaping mouth
The lukewarm water chills me bitter
I lift my cracked hands above my swimming head, hopeful, desperate
My lonesome fingertips feeling for a warm stroke of wind
The pitiless sky forgets me melancholy
an original poem by me, Anna Bell
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As a relatively quiet creature, I grew up with a keen interest in listening. Listening to my father and my mother. Listening to my teachers, my pastor, my friends. But in all my twenty-three years of listening, little has delighted me so much as my Papaw Ericâs reminiscent diversions. One slight word or trivial remark had the power to swerve the entire conversation into a meandering trip down memory lane. Most stories would make you laugh or grin or at the very least stoke the warm hearth of gratification. Some stories, however, had a heavier air to them, one that left an eight or eleven or a twenty-something-year-old baffled at the world we have made for ourselves. His parables were prescribed healthy doses of hard reality.
My papaw, Eric Bell, served as the Sheriff of Chester County for 25 non-consecutive years. During those busy times, he, my grandmother, and their three children (one of which being my father) became well acquainted with some of the countyâs most colorful characters and their grim little lives as well as with a number of out-of-towners. Papaw Eric was more than just a man with a badge and a gun; to many of the prisoners, he was a man they respected and by some meaning of the word a friend. The main character of a short story I have only begun to write is largely inspired by my papaw and his experiences as Sheriff. The fictitious man I will write into the narrative will not be a mirror image of the real man, but I hope to capture the same spirit and instill the same values in my protagonist Sheriff Russell Oakley.
What Do You Need to Be Creative?
Creativity is instinctual. Penguins march 62 miles every year to breed; human beings invent the wheel and iPods. They compose Symphony No. 5 in C minor, Op. 67 and â...Baby One More Time.â They build skyscrapers and Lego sets. They form clay into bowls and colonies into a new nation. Whatever product is birthed from it, we owe a lot to our nagging impulse to create something new and improved. As for the question of what is needed to be creative, I would answer very little. In fact the fewer resources readily available, the more creative we are forced to get. But nothing ever came from nothing. Something has to go into the creative machine if you ever expect anything to come out of it. The first thing youâll need is a functioning brain, preferably your own; the second, a cause. Sometimes the cause is just because, but thatâs cause enough. The third ingredient is an eraser, for two reasons: #1, to obliterate any restrictive lines getting in your way. Borders lead to inside-the-box thinking; #2, creative endeavors invariably involve risk, and risk invariably involves mistakes. You will require an assortment of erasers of varying sizes and materials as your mistakes will range from the microscopic and hardly-worth-mentioning to the catastrophic and career-ending (please create responsibly). The remaining pieces will differ from case to case. Some will need a paintbrush set, oil paints, and a canvas; others, their fingers, different earthen minerals, and a dim cave wall. Do the best you can with whatever you can legally get your hands on and make something revolutionary, something more efficient, something useful, something beautiful. Just make something.
(Anna Bell)
Listen to What Really Creams My Corn by Anna Bell #np on #SoundCloud
What Iâm trying to say is...
It is a confounded pickle
To have something to say
And always come short of ways
To say it all with.
Beneath one layer of hair and flesh
And another of hard bone,
Within the fluid matter,
Live many somethings
Scrutinizing thoughts, boundless ideas
All muddled by a tongue tied.
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âWe were strangers starting out on a journey, never dreaming what weâd have to go through. Now here we are, and Iâm suddenly standing at the beginning with you. No one told me I was going to find you. Unexpected, what you did to my heart. When I lost hope, you were there to remind me this is the start. And life is a road, and I want to keep going. Love is a river. I want to keep flowing. Life is a road now and forever. Wonderful journey. Iâll be there when the world stops turning. Iâll be there when the storm is through. In the end, I want to be standing at the beginning with you.â
âAt the Beginning,â a song that came to mind when I considered my approach, or relationship, to literature. Itâs my heartâs anthem to all the stories I am hung up on.Â
I am a long-time re-reader. Itâs a part of who I am. You take that part away, and Iâm not entirely me.
I must savor the last page, the last words, the last syllables that will complete the glorious journey I have been swept up in. Eventually (to my dismay) having run out of printed story, I feel a heaviness in my chest. Melancholia floods my heart. This rush of gratification laced with grief is the mark of a devastatingly great story. I keep reading, returning from the last word to the first, punctuated by a mere inhale and exhale. Itâs not that I am beholden to do so; Iâm free to forge ahead to untried adventures in unexplored lands with new companions. There are no impeding forces at work keeping me here. I simply choose to begin again. And again. And again. And again.
From a certain perspective, this choice deprives me of a wealth of knowledge and experiences. There are stories I donât know; some I will never know because I keep coming back with new eyes to the familiar, eager to unearth something unfamiliar: morsels of wisdom missed in the first, third, or even sixth passage through.
As exhilarating and promise-filled as beginnings are, they all lead to an inevitable conclusion and that heavy feeling once again. But the last page of a book doesnât always have to be the journeyâs end. There is so much more to be discovered if we just start again at the beginning.
I hoard my memories. Stack them like newspapers in piles miles high to form a convoluted, inescapable maze, in which I am quite content with losing myself. Thankfully, for me, Memory Lane is a cakewalk. I count it a monumental blessing to have had such a childhood as mine. I can step into the hazy future with a comfort in knowing that regardless of whatever hideous moment or period Iâm intended to endure there is much more to life than grief and pain. And I have a keepsake box of memories to prove it.
I struggle to piece together the fragments of my life that I have succeeded in saving. Itâs impossible to say what each one gave to make me who I am now and why I chose to salvage the ones that I did, but I am enormously grateful for them. The story they tell would not break the box office, but I wish I had caught them all on camera.
I spent my early days as any young girl ought to spend her days. Carefree. Romping through the little wood between mine and my grandparentsâ house, my faithful canine Lady Bell scampering nearby always within earshot; losing Monopoly Junior to my older brother Eric; occasionally conquering him at a round of Chinese checkers; foraging for blackberries and honeysuckle blossoms; rehearsing and performing our very own production of Tchaikovskyâs âThe Nutcrackerâ with my cousin; racing down the Tennessee on the old Pontoon boat after a long day under the sun. These moments donât amount to much in the grand scheme of life, and they may not mean anything to you, but when I have nothing else, I will have my memories and the love for the people with whom I made them.
I wander the forests of my mind, trek the lofty mountains, and rest in the happy valleys. And in all my leisurely exploits and roamings, I discover reimagined ideas that expand my world and carve my character. There, in times of thoughtful solitude, my voice rings out loud and clear. I let the words come naturally, repeating a thought over and over again, building on it as I go until Iâm satisfied, and the thought is complete--for the meantime, that is. With the help of that voice in my head guiding me, I find all the different parts of myself: my ideals, desires, strengths, weaknesses. Itâs the voice I have trouble defining. And though I hear it often, Iâve marked it as uncharted territory. As much as I long to make that journey, I am fearful and delay it. So long as the voice remains carefully tucked away inside my mind, kept hidden from the world that isnât all mine, I have no reason for mistrust. There, it is harmless. The words that come so freely to me when I have no plans to fix them with ink and paper grow timid and cower in the shadows if threatened by the perils of exposure. I fight for the words my mind refuses to relinquish. I find myself too often heavy with doubt over the few I do manage to coax from the dark, troubled by their feebleness. Overcome by my insecurities, I forget that even a small, awkward voice can speak with meaning and urgency. I know that when I take the path leading to the strange, unexplored lands of my mind, I will grow more assured with each step.