A letter to Gertrude

Last semester my daughter started her first year of college. She doesn't have a car and wanted to take a Monday night creative writing course. I decided to take it with her. We had a lot of fun. We had a class writing assignment to write a letter to any writer we chose. We had to type them up and include them with our final portfolio.

Dear Gertrude,

Of all the writers I had to chose from which are millions if not more, I chose you. First I want to tell you, you made it. You are an extremely popular figure in American literature. I own many of your books; although, I must admit, I haven't read them all. I do plan to one day, and I know this is okay because I asked my psychologist who has a whole wall covered in books on shelves; I asked her if she's read them all, and she said no she hadn't, but she planned to some day. I told her, I was worried because I have so many books that I haven't read. The book shelves are full, and my desk and dressers consist of stacks of books. There is a book shelf in the hall, full - with books stacked on top. There is one down stairs that looks the same and a random book here and there that I might want to read when I have coffee. Your books are all together on a small shelf of special books because they are amongst the first I collected; anyway, my doctor agreed we know something about every book we own which is more than not knowing anything at all.
I actually discovered you by the artists, and Hemingway and that is because he wrote letters; I was writing letters, so it seemed appropriate I read his book or books. That's when I began to buy books. I still intend to read them all. It all happened so fast. The first book I bought was actually a book about Renoir. I bought that book because I wanted to learn how to paint. Then I bought Monet, and I don't remember what happened after that, except that I went back to school late in my life because I wanted to learn to paint. I felt terrible that I was getting older and didn't have as much time as some of the others. I don't remember exactly where your name came about, it might have been Picasso, but it was one of the two. And, I knew you moved to Paris from California and collected art - oh yes, and that you wanted to be a lion, and I had just finished a painting where the lion played part as the weather - well I tried, but it was a terrible painting.
That's one of the reasons I went to college. Anyway, I was very interested in color theory, which lead me to study the cubist painters, which lead to the mystery of Picasso, and you were there in the middle of everything it seemed. It was around that time, I earned an AA in liberal arts, and then I transferred to the university and changed my intended major from fine art to literature.
I kept collecting more and more books, one of which was Hemingway's book, A Moveable Feast, which I did read and learned a lot about your life in Paris. I know well of your part in the lost generation - an excellent term by the way and a truly quintessential experience.
I just want to say, I respect you not only for your outstanding writing abilities, but for your courage to be yourself and be proud of that, and that brings me to why I am writing this letter. I'm supposed to be writing about important things a writer needs to know, and I believe you are an example of many of those things. First, a writer needs to be their self. I don't think they need to prove anything or defend their self from all the self appointed judges of everyone's life but their own - just be who they are and have a good time with it. We are all different, we all have our strengths, but our personality needs to lead the show. There are always more people out there like us being beat down by whoever decide they deserve to - like you used to do to Hemingway... just thought I'd throw that in for fun. We all learned a lot from you, all of you.
It's the real people that make it to the future. The critics may get some attention in their time with their little games, but they don't stand out in the future. They have a few friends that laugh at their stupid jokes - just the dumb following the dumb. They are so cruel, but I think it's important, we let them tell their own side. When history looks back, they will see the truth. I prefer real people following real people.
From most everything I've read, humanity seems to be a central thread that ties the generations together - well that and knowledge. It's us and them; they include: the critics/judges, the politicians, and the war makers.
It takes real courage to stand in front of a crowd of stone throwers and not try to hide your true identity. Take Jesus for example; his story lives on, but none of those guys throwing stones ever got very far in the future. I bet there was some real funny guys back then too. I also believe education is important. I know you studied psychology. It takes a lot of work and respect for those artists that pave the fragile road to our future. Perseverance is important too and a good catcher's mitt to catch those stones in time.
Well Gertrude I'd better let you back to your novel,


Sincerely,
Jolie

A collection of Fibonacci poetry

Fibonacci Poetry
The Fibonacci number sequence 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13… etc.
The next number in the sequence is found by adding the previous two.
Ex:
1 + 0 = 1
1 + 1 = 2
2 + 1 = 3
3 + 2 = 5
5 + 3 = 8
8 + 5 = 13
Most of the Fibonacci poetry I’ve read on the internet is created at this level, but there is no restriction to the form. The next number in the sequence is 13 + 8 = 21. I’ve seen them reversed, mirrored, doubled and anything imaginable adhered to the basic mathematic structure. You can make it as complicated as you like. If you’re a mathematician, you can probably find some really cool combinations, but for us guys who like to keep it simple, this is all you need to know. This is a spiral pattern as illustrated here:
http://www.mcs.surrey.ac.uk/Personal/R.Knott/Fibonacci/fibnat.html#spiral


Handful of Stars

I
held
a hand-
full of stars,
a palm of live wires,
glowing red like an x-ray
tiny fragments of light building energy
nudging, crevasses between fingers particles free
and
race
into
the night sky
shooting in reverse
to original position
taking wishes of the night from lovers' lips,
casting them back to a time before they fell in love.
(Fibonacci poem Doubled)


The Ledge
Here
on
the rock
ledge, I rise
to meet with challenge.
My spirit knows its strength endure.
Shadow plays its turn beneath an eagles open wings.
Ghostly images tell a tale
on a barren stage.
Unknowing
I am
still
there


Dear Adam ~
Just
look
at them
in chaos
fighting like monkeys,
the greed and jealously your genes,
I’ll admit to sharing, but my part was justly love.



Sing
song
blackbirds
early break
of day, gather in
multiples, arrange in a tree
to celebrate rain with song to light the edge of night.



Blame~
They
believed
it was right,
so we forgive.
Their side was no crime.
It’s a human mistake.
Blame is justifiable.
They truly believed; they were right.
Even when they see, they close their eyes
to humiliation that covets them.