i need not worry of unspeakable enemies
  from across an ocean whose water i’ve
  never tread… never seen… much less
  traveled upon.
i’ve feet that’ve always recognized the
  earth… never having been
  a foreigner.
and tis this monotony of life which has
  systematically stolen my life.
i do not worry about an explosive death…
  one which would rip through me
  unexpectedly.
that is not to imply that such violence would
  be a welcomed end to a wasted life…
  but rather that i’ve a mind imprisoned…
  and till i seek escape, i’ll care little
  for the problems of the world.
till i step beyond my means, it will always
  be too big to fully comprehend.

How cruel that I stammer over words
  when written by someone else… that
  my mind cannot accept a logical progression
  of ideas and emotions.

But that I write my own… then, ah then
  I can dance with the language… I can
  play with it like a father tossing a ball
  lovingly to his son… a mother teaching
  a daughter the beauties of a changing
  form… a moment of grace before my eyes.

Still, perhaps my words only mean something
  to me, for I understand my fractured
  sentences… my thought patterns… my
  lack of purpose…
  but to live and breathe in the now like a child
  writing his first word in crayon. 

I believe that it is life altering events which shape us as writers.  They guide us, though not in the romanticized manner you would expect.

When faced with the end of one’s life, I do not believe that any rational human being thinks; “I wish I had written that novel” in lieu of “I wish I had spent more time with my family”.  We do not long for the solitude of a closed room and a computer with which to create, when faced with an uncertain future.  We crave human contact.

This is the catch-22 that is writing.  It is human contact which instinctively we need to survive, as well as to lend credibility to our words, and yet the very act of writing is one which removes us from others. 

The question becomes, if human contact makes us better writers, how then does writing reciprocate?

I’ve needed to think about this for some time.  Nearly a year, in fact.

by R.T. Laferriere

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Product Details

Printed: 109 pages, 6” x 9”, perfect binding, black and white interior ink
Copyright: © 2007
Language: English

“it’s about no longer being a bastard” is R.T. Laferriere’s second collection of poetry. The collection is arranged in such a fashion as to allow the reader a chance to see the narrator(s) through a healing process. The collection contains heart-wrenching pieces along with uplifting, spiritual pieces, including the 17 page fan favorite, “The King and I”, which brings a father and son back together through a game of chess.

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i feel that i need a new language
  as this one no longer serves me.
it confuses me and angers me to
  no end with its failure to mean
  anything beyond the mundane.
  there is no power but to say
  ’power’.  no passion… for such
  a word remains limited by a twenty-
  six link chain attached to a
  weighted ball.

i’ve thought of studying various
  other languages, though i
  fear in the end, that i would
  ultimately feel the same about
  them as well.

what i need is to create my
  very own language, complete
  with characters so profound
  in their meaning that words
  would drip with emotion. 
  context and tonality would be
  easily felt from the page, and to
  speak it would bring tears to
  one’s eyes.

such a thing would be beautiful
  indeed… though i fear i may
  jealously guard this language
  that it not be destroyed by
  simple-minded folks… the likes
  of which are currently destroying
  the English language.

and so it would be that only
  i would revel in this new tongue.
it would be lonely, no doubt.
though perhaps within i would
  still find serenity.

I’d initially planned on personally binding my third collection poetry, just as I had with my first two.  The first collection; Doing Time..., was soft-cover bound using an interesting spine clip.  The book was quite handsome, though I still felt there was room for improvement.  The second collection; it’s about no longer being a bastard, was hard-cover bound.  I practically ripped apart some hard-cover novels I owned, researched book making, and came up with my own design which I maintain looks phenomenal.  The only downside is that each book takes nearly 3 hours to complete.

I believe in allowing the mood of that which I am writing to influence the way in which I type.  That is to say, if I am writing a scene which is full of angst, I will pound the keys much more furiously.  If the scene calls for a gentle hand, I will be soft.

I believe that cadence plays a very large part in how I write, and in all honesty, I believe it makes me a better writer.

I forget who I am sometimes.

Forget what is important.

Forget that I am not quite as alone in this world, as I sometimes feel.

I forget to write, and spend my days wandering town talking to people and for lack of a better term, living.

I start hobbies, like building boats in bottles… building tolerance within my being. 

I practice photography… snapping shots of people whose faces I will then stare at for hours on my computer.  I will even go so far as to imagine what events in their lives caused various wrinkles or scars.

It is then that the seed is planted.