https://books2read.com/The-Travelling-Detective-Boxed-Set
https://bwlpublishing.ca/donaldson-yarmey-joan/
My
Poetry Moment
Over my writing career I have had
articles, short stories, travel books, and mystery, young adult, and science
fiction novels published. And one poem. When that one poem was accepted for
publication, I felt I had taken my writing to another level. I decided, though,
that my contribution was going to be different, that I was going to take the
poetry community by storm. I wanted to make my mark, to stand out in the poetry
world. And to do that I came up with a new poetry sub-genre that I called
Script Poetry. Just like a movie script I set up the
scene and the tone for the poem and give some background of the story in the
poem by using a script layout. It made the whole poem more visual and that way I
could get right to the meat of what I wanted to say.
I enthusiastically sent out my script
poems and waited for the accolades to come in.
Surprisingly, the publishers were not as galvanized
about this new style of poetry as I was. No one accepted them for publication.
But
never underestimate the power of a script poet scorned. At the same time as I
was planning my burst onto the poetry stage, I was writing my mystery novel
"The Only Shadow In The House," the second book of The Travelling
Detective Series. I gave one of my characters the career of a poet and her
specialty was Script Poetry. Needless to say the publishers and critics in my
fictional world were highly impressed with the poems. The poetry was very
popular with the reading public and the poetress won many awards.
To quote from my
book: One
critic wrote that her poems have an innovative, revolutionary style that is
shaking the foundations of the conventionally staid poetry community, while
another critic called them insightful and powerful.
I have taken one of the script poems from
that novel for you to judge for yourself.
Fade
In
Act
One
Exterior-Farm
House-Night.
There
is snow on the ground. Stars twinkle in the clear, night sky. A vehicle pulls
into the yard and a woman climbs out. She stares at the house then takes a deep
breath. She releases it in a vapour. With slow tread she climbs up the steps
and enters the darkened house. Inside, she stops and listens.
There
is no noise in my house, it is dark and silent.
Today,
I buried you. Is this what it is like in your grave,
total
quiet, total darkness?
I
flip on the light and wander the house
looking
at the possessions that
represented
a life that never existed,
except
in my own mind.
This
has been our home for nineteen years
but
it now feels alien to me.
Because
from now on I know that mine
will
be the only shadow in the house.
I
must leave here soon.
End
Act One
Fade
Out
Fade
In
Act
Two
Interior-Farm
House- Night.
All
the lights are on in the house. The woman is in the kitchen. She pushes over
the shelving holding plant seedlings and pots. She heads to the dining room and
goes to a china cabinet with no doors. All the shelves hold figurines and
dishes and knick knacks. They crash to the floor with a sweep of her hand. The
ones that don’t break, disintegrate under her foot.
“Damn
you, Ben. Damned you to hell!” I yell.
I
want you to hear. I want you to know
the
sorrow and the pain you have brought me.
I
go from room to room, expunging.
I
spray your shaving cream on the walls.
I
dump your aftershave in the tub.
I
grab a knife and shred your clothes.
Finally,
there is nothing of yours left.
I
feel some satisfaction.
You
destroyed my life and now I have
destroyed
everything that represented yours.
“There
you bastard,” I say. “Rot in hell.”
Fade
Out
End
Act Two
Fade
In
Act
Three
Interior-Farm
House- Night
The
woman is standing in front of a picture on the living room wall. The furniture
and floor are littered with debris. She takes the picture off the hook and
stares at it a long time.
I
find our wedding photograph on the wall.
I’d
had it enlarged for our tenth anniversary
as
my loving gift to you.
Were
you as pleased as you said you were
or
was that just a sham?
I
smash the glass against the corner of the table.
I
cut my finger removing the shards.
I
look at you smiling back at me.
Were
you an impostor in our marriage?
For
now I wonder how many other
women
did you see over our nineteen years.
I
slash the picture with the knife. How symbolic.
End
Act Three
Fade
Out
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