Once They All Believed In Dragons

Here is a poem that was written by Jack Prelutsky. It’s not mine, but I really like this one.

Once they all believed in dragons

When the world was fresh and young,

We were woven into legends,

Tales were told and songs were sung,

We were treated with obeisance,

We were honored, we were feared,

Then one day they stopped believing-

On that day, we disappeared.

 

Now they say our time is over,

Now they say we’ve lived our last,

Now we’re treated with derision

Where we once ruled unsurpassed.

We must make them all remember,

In some way we must reveal

That our spirit lives forever-

We are dragons! We are real!

 

- Jack Prelutsky, The Dragons Are Singing Tonight (1993)

The Unspoken Poem

Here is another poem that I wrote back in the summer while I was in Spain. It is one of my favourite to read, not because it is particularly well written or insightful, but just because it means something to me. Anyway, I post it here now for you to read and comment upon.

The Fallen Leaves

Life can sometimes seem unchanging in its progression through time. Every clock turning backwards mockingly with every furtive glance. At other times it may change suddenly and without care as though an earthquake has just torn asunder all that you held dear. All around you lie the ruins of a life that no longer seems your own but something that once belonged to another life past.

Autumn seems to be a time of forgetting, where the dead things in our lives fall apart and decay. Hopefully, they might rest and not awaken from what dark oblivion holds them to haunt us in our dreams.

I myself have good cause to lay to rest the fallen fruits of the summer. I suppose that the best way that I might describe what has occurred to me would be to imagine an apple laying within a pool of light. One might pick it up and admire its gleaming perfect skin before savouring its delicious fruits. It is only then, as the first of the shadows lengthen, that one realises that the summer has ended and Autumn has arrived. The fruit that is so treasured appears different and then, upon turning it, one becomes aware of its underbelly all rotten and bruised. The surface writhes from the decay lying beneath it and with despair you let it fall. The sense of loss gives one insight into the true immensity of emptiness. The heart withers and dies, buried beneath the fallen leaves.

Dark and Stormy

“It was a dark and stormy night…”

Damn. That’s not right.

“It was a dark and stormy morning…”

Better.

I awoke to find that the heavens had given up the ghost and emptied the left over bath water from an exceptionally dry and muggy summer. As I considered whether or not it was even worth bothering with an umbrella I discovered a glaring red icon on my Mac desktop. I had an email.

Nothing all that new in that (although I don’t usually get that much mail), however, the fact that it was within my writing account suggested that someone was contacting me with regards this blog or possibly my manuscript submission.

Bleary eyed (it was dark and stormy after all), I clicked on the red stamp and watched as the screen went through the motions of revealing my mail. I sat there for a moment as I recognised the email address of the sender. It was from the literary agent that I had recently submitted my work to. As the arrow glided steadily across the screen I saw the beginnings of the response and new immediately that Halloween had arrived a week earlier this year.

It is akin to that moment of sudden and deathly clarity when you realise that standing just beyond the slightly ajar door is the machete-wielding maniac. The film is only half-way through and you know that means you haven’t got a hope in hell of surviving until the credits roll. That ticket is solely reserved for the hero/heroine of the movie and you definitely aren’t it.

The agent’s response, or rather that of her personal assistant, was short and sweet. My submission had been read but they did not wish to pursue it any further. Thank you and goodnight.

It happens. That is my third rejection to date. I shall send it out again, although I am having alternative thoughts. There is the possibility that I will need to consider rewriting it and have the story told in one, stand-alone, volume. It may well be the fact that the book is only the first of three that is getting it rejected. On the other hand, perhaps I need to reject the build up I had crafted and jump straight into the action from the get go. Another possibility is that the story or work itself is just plain rubbish.

It would be nice to have a measure of feedback, however negative it might be. Whether one buys into the criticism is up to them, but it would be nice to have a viewpoint from inside the industry to consider. I responded politely and briefly with a one-sentence question but have not received a reply. I probably won’t in all honesty.

My other thought has been to possibly let the novel rest for now and concentrate on another work of fiction that I have started. This would be a single volume story of around 50,000-65,000 words that would fit within the boundaries of publication. Perhaps I need to get my foot in the door with something else first and then look at getting my larger work published once I have someone willing to believe in my ability.

Hmm. I think the lurker behind the door is getting somewhat restless. I should just get it over with and throw open the door for them. Of course, it is important to appear surprised on such occasions.

Pleasant nightmares and have a delightfully terrifying All-Hallow’s Eve!