Denise Dietz
The full quote is "A poet is born, not made," by that great philosopher, Anon.
QUIBBLES & BITS
They (whoever "they" is) say write what you know.
Okey-dokey.
I was a lecturer for Weight Watchers, and I write a mystery series that stars a diet club leader. Once upon a long time ago, I sang with a British rock 'n roll band and wrote song lyrics, so I have an amateur sleuth who writes songs and scores movies. I rode horses for a trainer, thus my heroines ride horses in my historical fiction, and CHAIN A LAMB CHOP TO THE BED, the third diet-club mystery, takes place at an Aspen dude ranch and "co-stars" a horse named Satan.
At one time I wanted to be a world-renowned poet! Didn't we all?
No? Well, I did.
I also wanted to write the Great American Novel, but that's another story.
My first poem was published in The Village Voice. I was 12 years old. The poem was called. . .
GRASS
Grass stinks,
It makes you sneeze,
I'd rather skin my knees
On Pavement.
But it tastes good.
I wrote that poem lying on my verdant front lawn and chewing a blade of grass.
Although I created a Robert Burns-ish poet for one of my books (that was fun!), I'm realistic (at least, most of the time). I'll never be a world-class poet. But just for grins, here are two of my poems. Like my books, they have no socially redeeming values whatsoever and are meant to entertain.
Poem # 1:
PROMOTION
I was walking along a beach one day,
And thinking thoughts of woe,
When I tripped on Aladdin's oil lamp
And stubbed my damnfool toe.
I rubbed the lamp with the heel of my palm,
And chuffed like Stephen Booth.
I waited but nothing happened,
And I scowled at my lack of couth.
Then all of a sudden a genie appeared,
And I couldn't believe my luck.
He asked why I looked so awfully sad,
And I said my career was...stalled.
He said I had three wishes,
But he added a caveat.
I couldn't wish for wealth, or eternal youth,
Or the murder of a cat.
Career-related my wishes must be,
He said with an evil grin.
World peace and stop-global-warming
Was up to political whim.
I'd like billboards on every highway, I said,
Like the good ol' Brillcream days,
'A dab of Dietz will do ya'
Might make a catchy phrase.
And I'd like to sing on Idol,
With my latest book to flog,
I really don't care what the judges say,
As long as they mention my blog.
Third, I'd like to guest on Oprah,
I'd say something to make the news.
But I wouldn't play monkey or kangaroo,
Like that idiot, Tom Cruise.
"Granted!" Aladdin's genie said,
As he pruned his lips in a smirk.
I wondered if I had done the right thing,
But -- like chicken soup for the dead person -- I figured it couldn't hurt.
The genie lit a cigarette,
And sang a few lines of Bob Dylan's,
Then he vanished in a puff of smoke,
Looking just like Robin Williams.
I thought I'd accomplished much that day:
Billboards, Oprah, a song.
The only thing is, when the billboards appeared...
The artist had spelled my name wrong.
Poem # 2:
I was walking along a beach one day,
And thinking thoughts of woe,
When I tripped on Aladdin's oil lamp
And stubbed my damnfool toe.
I rubbed the lamp with the heel of my palm,
And chuffed like Stephen Booth.
I waited but nothing happened,
And I scowled at my lack of couth.
Then all of a sudden a genie appeared,
And I couldn't believe my luck.
He asked why I looked so awfully sad,
And I said my career was...stalled.
He said I had three wishes,
But he added a caveat.
I couldn't wish for wealth, or eternal youth,
Or the murder of a cat.
Career-related my wishes must be,
He said with an evil grin.
World peace and stop-global-warming
Was up to political whim.
I'd like billboards on every highway, I said,
Like the good ol' Brillcream days,
'A dab of Dietz will do ya'
Might make a catchy phrase.
And I'd like to sing on Idol,
With my latest book to flog,
I really don't care what the judges say,
As long as they mention my blog.
Third, I'd like to guest on Oprah,
I'd say something to make the news.
But I wouldn't play monkey or kangaroo,
Like that idiot, Tom Cruise.
"Granted!" Aladdin's genie said,
As he pruned his lips in a smirk.
I wondered if I had done the right thing,
But -- like chicken soup for the dead person -- I figured it couldn't hurt.
The genie lit a cigarette,
And sang a few lines of Bob Dylan's,
Then he vanished in a puff of smoke,
Looking just like Robin Williams.
I thought I'd accomplished much that day:
Billboards, Oprah, a song.
The only thing is, when the billboards appeared...
The artist had spelled my name wrong.
Poem # 2:
THE NIGHT NO ONE CAME
I'm really sorry, Deni dear,
I cannot fathom why no one's here.
We put the date in 'Main Event'
And hundreds of invitation were sent;
The wine is chilled, the cookies baked,
Your books are stacked, the yard's been raked!
Oh wait, there's John at the TV;
He's calling us to come and see
A car chase...cops...a celebrity.
True story. My booksigning was in California the night the cops chased OJ; everyone was, of course, glued to their TVs.
And finally (this is not a poem). . .
On one of my lists, someone challenged members to write a 50-word story using the following words: PICKLE, TOUCH and DEAD
I love a challenge. . .
TOUCH OF THE SPIDER MAN
"Pickle, pickle, pickle," Mary swore, having almost forgotten to pour a teaspoon of vanilla extract into her Weight Watchers milkshake. She added ice cubes and turned on the blender.
Twenty minutes later she was dead.
"Fickle, fickle, fickle," Charles chanted, as he surreptitiously pocketed the bottle of vanilla extract.
You don't have to count. It's 49 words :-)
Over and Out,
Deni
I'm really sorry, Deni dear,
I cannot fathom why no one's here.
We put the date in 'Main Event'
And hundreds of invitation were sent;
The wine is chilled, the cookies baked,
Your books are stacked, the yard's been raked!
Oh wait, there's John at the TV;
He's calling us to come and see
A car chase...cops...a celebrity.
True story. My booksigning was in California the night the cops chased OJ; everyone was, of course, glued to their TVs.
And finally (this is not a poem). . .
On one of my lists, someone challenged members to write a 50-word story using the following words: PICKLE, TOUCH and DEAD
I love a challenge. . .
TOUCH OF THE SPIDER MAN
"Pickle, pickle, pickle," Mary swore, having almost forgotten to pour a teaspoon of vanilla extract into her Weight Watchers milkshake. She added ice cubes and turned on the blender.
Twenty minutes later she was dead.
"Fickle, fickle, fickle," Charles chanted, as he surreptitiously pocketed the bottle of vanilla extract.
You don't have to count. It's 49 words :-)
Over and Out,
Deni
