Would That I Might

Many times, of late, I have discussed the changes in my work, and specifically talked about certain kinds of poems that I feel I am not writing as frequently of late.  While it is certainly true that I would love to produce more of the narrative surrealist poems, the animal fables and such, I also need to acknowledge that I have been finding myself writing certain other types of poems far more often. One type of poem that I have found myself getting more adept at is a particular sort of angry screed.  The poems I am thinking of are often a sort of direct address, offering a kind of instruction to the reader, but with a certain acerbic tone, mixed with a kind of cutting sharpness.  These poems are often very political, though they often do not include any direct details about.  For example, one poem is about being polite, but in a way that is ironic, with the idea that you must be polite even when being attacked, even when injustice is being perpetrated.  Now. I don't really kno

What Grows Inside? Something has fed too well, something within my heart that wishes always to feed on more, and makes pain from all the small things that should never matter much, makes mean faces inside my mirrors, stares out with them. It has eaten too well, and now it must starve, but I do not know how to keep the fear it feels at starvation from turning into a pain on which it may once more dine.

One aspect of being a writer which is often difficult is the isolationist aspect of the work.  I am not speaking about the personal isolation required for writing, though that matters greatly both in terms of time for work and time for solitary contemplation, but instead about a different form of isolation that has to do with the separation between writer and reader. For a reader, the work of a writer is often quite intimate, and their is an extreme sense that the writer is close to them.  This, in my mind, is a result in part at least, of the way writing functions.  Essentially, we are allowing thoughts to be inside our mind, in the form of the language we decode from the page, and thus it feels to the reader as though the writer is, in a sense, inside their own consciousness as they read.  As well, of course, the works own reverberations will contribute, but realizing that these occur on such an internal and intimate level, not as something witnessed externally but as something tha

The Empty That Is Empty as cracked shells after an omelet.   Empty like the place a shadow lies.   Empty of malice, empty of empathy.   Empty tank, empty gesture, empty promise, empty headed.   Emptiness of Mother’s defathered heart.   Empty drawers, empty shoes.   Empty threats of empty stomachs.   Empty place beneath the stair. Empty the filled bucket, empty the trunk, empty yourself of desire. Empty the mind and enter.

My poetry is undergoing any changes of late.  I believe I have discussed that their have been shifts in the kinds of poems I've been writing.  I've certainly written less of my animal poems, and the general surreal fables category as a whole, though I know those things will return, and I've certainly not had a complete drought of those ideas.  Yet, many of the poems that fall into those categories are certainly quite different lately.  They have a different tone and are somehow less concrete and more nebulous.  At least, that is how it feels to me. In some ways, these shifts are a bit discomforting.  That is not to say they are negative, as I do think my writing is improving and that these changes are in the service of that progress.  Still, change can be difficult, requiring adjustment.  In part, the discomfort is related to a sense of not really knowing what I am doing.  I am in a new place with my work, and in that sense, much of my previous thinking is inadequate.  Th

Already Over Moments pass away faster than we can even notice them: it takes time for the light that hits the eye to be understood as an image, let alone for the body to respond. It may only be fractions of a second, but what we think is now has already ended. Yet, somehow we can act upon this world as if we are present in the present, and not trapped just a few moments in the past.

It is quite easy for me to let myself be dragged down by circumstances.  Indeed, I am feeling rather down since Melissa left, though I am glad to report that her mother seems to be doing alright, though still in the hospital.  The point is, though, as I said last night, a part of me does want to let those feelings be an excuse for stopping or slowing my work. I am not allowing that to happen, and would actually be inclined to say that now is a good time to push myself further, if it weren't for the current circumstances.  It is certain that I often find my creativity jumps when I put a strain on it, often by increasing my writing output, but I think it is better to not press right now.  The bottom line is, right now, I feel that doing the work, even just the minimum of it, is enough.  I am not going to push myself, but I am also not going to back off, and will celebrate keeping apace.  It is not always simple, even to write this short blog entry tonight feels tiring and trying,

Another Morning, Another Poem Some mornings, rising from bed already I think I know what the day’s work will be.   Today, though, I am here at the blank page, wondering what I will make this morning. What comes is this, a silly thing, another unmajestic self-indulgence, existing only to say I marked the blank page. Yet, I know that this act is central, that writing even this matters to the muse, who will reward me, later with real work, hard and beautiful.

It has not been a particularly great day.  This morning, my fiance received word that her mother was in ICU, so she flew up to be with her family.  Unfortunately, for a number of reasons, it isn't really possible for me to go with her straight off, so I am staying here for now.  I am expecting that, depending upon things in the next few days, I may need to go up there soon myself. I almost didn't write tonight, to be honest.  I felt quite drained, and just wanted to get into bed for the evening.  But, I also recognized how I would feel if I didn't do the work I intended tonight.  The disruption of my daily writing regiment was not something I wanted, and I knew I would regret it if I didn't get myself into gear.  So, even being quite exhausted, and emotionally worn, I set to work.  Now, I don't know if the poems I wrote are really great, and I mean that quite literally, as I find it is often hard for me to assess my own work, but I know that doing that work matte

One Afternoon a few years back, I saw two otters on the lawn across the canal that borders our yard. I did not know there were any otters here, so close to our world, stood to watch them. But, of course, a neighbor saw me, came out yelling, frightened them off. She had thought I was watching alligators, was scared they might attack: her fear ruined my moment of wonder. In the years living here since, the otters have never returned, neither have I seen any alligator.

Recently, I was having a discussion with a friend of mine who teaches writing in college.  For those first learning to write on a serious level, a situation that many college students face, it can seem a bit odd.  For one thing, we are all used to utilizing language on a regular basis, and in contemporary society, that is often in some form of textual exchange, even if it is largely informal.  Many young people believe that the ability to utilize language to communicate should translate into the capacity to write effectively.  Even for those who do not have such an overt belief, the sense of proficiency with language can make it frustrating.  In any venture, beginners will miscalculate their capacity, as the ability to accurately assess ability relies upon the same skills as one needs for proficiency.  Thus, it seems to the student that they know how to write, and are doing well, even if the work is atrocious. This often leads students to ask for clear and hard rules about how to wr

The Bird Wants Answers Last night a giant bird came, ripped the roof off my house, plucked me from bed while my wife still slept. He was gentle, but still bird beaks are sharp and hard, and I didn’t know if he was aiming to eat me whole and live. The flight he took must have been all night long: when we landed there was the beginning of dawn lighting our surroundings. He placed me down upon soft grass, let me rise again to my feet as he regarded me in the dark wetness of his left eye. He spoke, sudden and sharp: “how are you?” he asked. “I have been better, honestly.” He did not reply, but turned his head to stare at me from the right. “How are you?” he asked again.   I looked at him. He was only a bird, repeating what he had heard someone say. So it has been now for how long?   I do not know my way home, cannot say how far we flew to come here or how many days ago. He loves to speak though only the one phrase, says it to

It was slow going today, with my poems.  I did get my usual lot finished, but I needed to force myself into gear.  That is, of course, not all that unusual, but it felt particularly acute today.  First, because it took me some time, both this morning and this evening, to get started once I was seated at my desk, ready to write, and second because I had to give myself the push of writing about the lack of an idea in my head.  Now, in both cases, that is not what I wound up writing about, and I feel that the work has merit, but whenever I feel creatively dry enough to need to go that way, it is itself a sign that I am not entirely in the swing of things. That feeling is not particularly significant, though, I don't think,  I mean, in the context of my continuing to work even when I feel this way, not being deterred by it, the feeling is not all that major.  I don't mean that in the sense of dismissing it as a feeling in and of itself, it is certainly a valid and meaningful expre

Things Will Change the path will swerve one way or another, maybe it will ride up into a mountain pass, the air growing thin, or maybe it will cut through a forest, or even a jungle, though it may not go that way, instead running over the beach, ocean water lapping the walkways edges, or it might go through a city, or maybe a small town instead, or a dessert, maybe each one in turn, or some combination, a city in a jungle, a forest on the beach, who can say yet, where the path leads, only that it cannot lead through lands like this one forever, it leads to different lands,   unfamiliar places.   Follow the path until you find a place that, though alien, calls you from wandering the road to make a home.

I spoke last night about trying to get my work out, and about the feelings that come up even when placing work here on my blog.  One thing that is helpful for me, in getting past my apprehensions, is just recognizing the sheer volume of work that I currently have.  At present, there are six or seven hundred poems on my computer, most of which were written this year.  Each day, for at least a month now, I have been writing four poems a day, and so that number is swelling rapidly. Now, the fact that I am so prolific at present is giving me a lot of freedom, as it makes me willing to take certain risks.  For example, as I mentioned, last night, placing work on a blog is a good way for a writer to eliminate the chance of it being published in a journal.  While that is true for an individual work, I am posting one poem a day, while I have already got a large stockpile and am adding four new pieces daily.  In other words, even accounting for the pieces that are bound to be duds, I am able

Penny The Phoenix had been around long enough, and around again after that, to know a few things about the way of things. She knew the seasons of the year, even the motions of the sun, who she often thought of as a sort of sister flying even higher than herself. Penny knew, too, her own seasons, the changes that she cycled through, aging again, feeling that sense of an ending. She wondered, each time, though, if it would be a return, once more, and pondered, often if the wintry grounds worried each time if the sun’s rays would bring them thaw, as she, always and forever, doubted if once more the flame at her core would blaze again.

At the moment, I am making efforts to begin building an audience for my writing.  This blog, of course, is a part of that, and sharing poems here is now a major part of that process as well.  In addition, I am submitting work to various venues.  I currently have two different chapbook manuscripts out, and I am working on a third as well.  All of this is new for me, really, and I have often been apprehensive in terms of sending out my work. That is, of course, a natural thing, I would imagine.  Sending out work to publishers, magazines, agents, and other venues is like asking for rejection.  While acceptances do come, they are often rare, and it can take months to even get a response at all.  Waiting that long for a  response, then receiving only a chain letter informing you to try again in the future and wishing you luck, well, it stings, and it is not hard to imagine why it might be difficult to get into the groove with that kind of work. However, even sharing work here on my blog

Starless Strange how brightness makes the dark sky seem darker: stars remain hidden, behind an unpunctuated, inky black, hidden by the yellow buzz of electric lighting. The moon is full, feels heavy, even to look at it carries a weight tonight.   Something should be howling at it, a sad lone call into a night that never answers back. Easy to sit here, wishing it were quiet, that the buzz of traffic didn’t echo, constant and directionless, that neighbors would turn radios off and end their evenings. But, this is the night as it manifests here, take it and look upon the sky it offers, look into the deep and distant universe recalling what the city’s light has blinded you from ever seeing.

In some ways the most energy it takes in terms of writing daily is getting myself to write each day.  Now, of course, I am at a point where it is a habit, and where I am bound to that work, but still, there are many times that I will sit in my office doing almost anything else but writing.  Working on emails, or reading, even just mucking about on my phone .  Once I sit down to work, pulling up the blank document and staring at it, I become locked in, but until that point, I am often reticent. It is strange, really, this feeling, and I know it is not something I alone am prone to.  What is it that makes me feel a desire not to do this work, when it is something I love, and when I know that doing it daily, as I have been, is a rewarding effort, brings meaning into days that might otherwise have been largely wasted.  I don't know why.  I am sure on some level it is a fear that I will not be able to write, but it is also some desire not to have to write. In part, I think it is

Lessons for A Young Poet Look everywhere: at the trees, their leaves marked as your own palm, the sky whose clouds disappear without you ever having watched, the ground, the dirt, the flowers, the bees, look at the old man at the bar, at the girl eating an ice cream outside the convenience store on the hottest day in June, at the speeding van that ran that red light, leaving cars honking, drivers shouting to no one who matters about the near accident that idiot caused, look at art that is beautiful, look at photos of war and famine, look at what makes you feel good and what makes you feel bad, look until you cry, until the beauty makes you cry as much as the ugly, look until you see how much more there is of both, until the absence and the presence are within you, until you know something about the world, a small thing that you can be certain is at least a truth.

I expect that this will be a rather short entry, as I am quite tired, and was actually hoping to get to bed early.  Ah, well, the best laid plans, as is often said... Anyhow, I feel that my writing is going well, though I am still adjusting to the shift that I feel in my work recently.  This is a change in process as much as content, and I think that it is truly the process related qualities about which I am uneasy.  In some ways, it is a matter of my feeling that this new work, which is often far more spontaneous, is not real work because it doesn't feel like I am taking the same time to craft it. The truth is, that's an illusion.  The time I take in advance considering an idea is not time actually writing, and I don't tend to spend much more time on a poem I have considered than on these new poems.  In writing these new, less planned poems, I am doing less that feels like "work" in some sense.  I mean, I am writing the piece without the same hindrance of

There Is A Snake in The Pool This Morning See it, there, head above the water? I do not know if it can make it out alone, but it does not trust my net is there to free it. I cannot catch it, though, must wait to see if it will find a way up the smooth tile wall. If only it understood that I want to help.

I am working to get ready for my reading next month.  It has been some time since I was asked to read, and I am feeling a bit nervous.  The best way to deal with that, I think, is preparation, so I am working on the things I can do to be sure I will give my best performance.  A big part of that is in selecting and ordering the poems I plan to read, rehearsing them, and just generally getting comfortable reading the material.  I am even considering the question of whether to memorize them.  I would still keep the pages with me, but it can be helpful to be liberated from looking down all the time, and it does provide a level of confidence, for me at least, knowing the material.  I am not certain if I am going to go that far, honestly, as it is a fair amount of material, but I will see. In all truth, I'm not certain that this reading will have much of an impact for me, but I do not know.  For many poets, a reading is mostly an opportunity to sell books, but I don't yet have any

A Butterfly Stops to Visit Me How long was this butterfly’s flight to get here to me? Generations ago, last winter, his tribe began north. He is of the many born along the journey who took the place of those who left, a journeying soul, flying towards a place his grandparent’s sought and he will never see.

It has been a very productive day for my work.  My friend and collaborator, Freesia McKee came to visit and to help me get more of my work into shape.  We got through a fair amount of work, including revision of various poems, organizing stuff for my upcoming reading, and preparing another potential chapbook manuscript. In addition, we also spent a fair amount of time doing other work and just chatting about poetry and related subjects. One part of this which was most helpful for me, in some ways, was going through some of my new work.  As much as I do believe in that work, the feelings I've had about not feeling the same kind of inspiration and not writing certain kinds of poems so much right now do impact my sense of the works value.  Thus, having a person like Freesia, somebody who is an experienced reader of poetry, who's opinion I respect, is important.  I can never provide myself a truly unbiased opinion of the work, even when it is of a more familiar nature. That Fre

Fruit of The City Walking in the city one day, a random turn leads down strange streets to a neighborhood filled with unknown scents and the sounds of a strange, unrecognized language.   The streets are line with carts, merchants thrust their wares out, shouting about the quality, the price (even in a foreign tongue, some things communicate). There are raw fish still smelling of the sea, strange frothy drinks in bright colors with candied fruit to garnish, and stews that smell of spice and meat. Then, there it is: an apple, simple and perfect.   Why of everything here does this call out? The woman at the stall is ancient, but moves swift and elegant and she tosses the apple onto a hanging scale, she looks over, her eyes staring deep, as though she must weigh something more than the apple to determine a fitting price. The apple is put away into a knapsack or messenger bag, and is forgotten, until that evening at home.   It becomes a

It took me a long while to be comfortable with the idea of sharing poems here on this blog, and I am still getting accustomed to the practice, in truth.  I am glad to have an outlet through which to share work, but I know that I don't have a very large audience at the moment, and most of the poems I have posted on here have very low readership numbers right now.  Of course, over time, that can change, and I do hope to see that happen, but I am not under any illusions about the popularity of poetry in general.  While I do admit that a part of my motivation is to get work out in a way that I hope will find an audience, I am also aware that the motivation for sharing these poems here needs to come from more than that kind of mercenary mentality. One thing that I find quite wonderful about the process, and which came to mind tonight when I selected the poem that I decided to post, is the opportunity it provides to go back through work that I have sitting on my computer.  If I am hone

Tree Troubles A new family moves into the house with the oak tree in its yard. They are nice enough people, even host   a party to introduce themselves to the neighborhood, hanging a big piñata off the tree. The kids from the neighborhood all show up to whack at it, split it open and grab fistfuls of candy from the ground. That piñata must have been what set the tree off: it just didn’t feel respected with the family getting familiar so quick. Now, the tree wants to move, sends a note to your daffodils asking if they will let it crash in that extra bed. You’ve always liked that tree, but when it is suddenly there blocking the view, blotting out the sun.   What an imposition. And the neighbors: they think you shoveled their yard apart in the middle of the night to steal it yourself. But the tree won’t even talk to them, wants to run away now and join the forest.   If only it still had roots in the community.

My desk chair in my office is a severe hazard at the moment.  The back support on it does not work any longer, so if I lean a bit too far, it falls back nearly parallel to the ground, and I can hear it making unnerving noises.  I need to replace it, but I am getting ready to move in a short while, and I don't really want to buy a new chair right now as a result.  In many ways, it would be probably be smart to replace the chair sooner, and I know that, but I am still waiting. In many ways, my not replacing the chair is a result of being in-between right now.  I am waiting to move from this house, and I am quite excited about that change, but it is not for at least a month right now.  To get a new chair would be silly, both because I am not even sure of the style and furnishings for my new office, and because it makes little sense to get a chair here, then have to move it again to the new house   So, while I have a practical need for the chair, the reality suggests that it is not

The First One Over I do not know the name of the cat that was the first to go over Niagara falls in a barrel, as a test for Annie Edson Taylor, the first human to do the same. The barrel, which Taylor had prepared, wasn’t all that special aside from a mattress and an anvil for ballast, but the cat was, beside a bloody head, fine, so Annie went down too. Annie, who chose the feat herself, a way towards fame and, if not fortune, security, was unscathed, but warned others against the effort, said of a repeat performance: “I would sooner walk up to the mouth of a cannon…” There is, of course, no record of the cat’s opinions.

In can be difficult to know what to write here on a night like this.  For some time now, I've been writing about my current creative state, about the feeling I have at present of a sort of down turn in my inspiration, attempting to understand that sense in the light of my continuing to produce a large amount of work, much of which is still quite good.  That has been the focus of my blog for quite a bit of late.  It has been the main, perhaps the only, subject for some time, and I have been waiting for a change to occur, monitoring conditions until it does. However, the change I am seeking is not something that seems forthcoming.  It is only natural, of course, that I am currently wondering what it might be that I can do to propel myself into a different mental state.  Now, this is not to say that I am expecting to change my current creative output, but, as I have suggested previously, that I want to alter my attitude in ways that value a broader spectrum of working processes and

The News About Foxes My friend looked up fox news from Fox News, who could resist. Honestly, I am jealous to not have done it myself, which is why I am writing about it at all if we are going to be honest. He told me about the domestic foxes, product of another mad Russian, this one a scientist set to prove he could domesticate anything, demonstrating on the fox.   It worked well: there are families with pet foxes around the world now, though few, as they all come from the one population established in those experiments. I told him I had heard some of this, and we mused about it for a moment. But there was one other story, my friend said. It is more recent, about the flying foxes in Australia. In recent heat waves, he said, those foxes have fallen from the air, there bodies dropping to the ground fully cooked from the heat of the sun alone. We do not discuss this so much.   What should we have said, anyhow?

There are many poems I've written this year which I am proud of.  I think that I have quite a few that are very powerful in one or another way, and I've found myself exploring many different kinds of work over this time.  While that is true, I cannot help but feel that their are a few poems that standout for me, in terms of their success in creating an experience for their readers.  Two in particular, both narrative poems, both with certain similarities in tone, theme, and content, stand out to me. I know the impulses that lead to those poems are still within me, and that all of the tools I used in crafting them are still mine, yet I cannot quite figure out, at this moment, another idea for a similar poem.  I feel that if I did,  I would be able to get back into that head space, maybe creating something new that takes that work further.  In many ways, it is the fact that I am finding it so difficult to get back towards work in that direction which is making me feel a bit off

Product Launch Window After years in development the company is prepared to launch their new product. It is far ahead of anything that any competitor has considered, well beyond cutting edge. But: disaster!   Day’s ahead of launch, a chief rival releases an identically designed component, accurate enough to make clear it must be espionage. The board is furious, investigates any possible leak, and quickly discovers the problem.   The CEO, who inherited his shares and thus the position from the companies founder, refuses the use of a dust bin or even a filing cabinet, insisting, instead, on turning any paper that passes his desk into a paper airplane and launching it from the window of his office on the seventy fifth floor. No amount of cajoling can make him budge, and when they set up a net outside his office, he goes across the hall and uses a conference room. They hire a consulting firm to study the problem, and, after looking at possible

It can be very hard to start work some days, lately.  Often, when I do, I find it rewarding, but something in getting started is a bit daunting, if that is the right word.  There is certainly a bit of hesitancy that I might not have a good idea.  Earlier today, I read a poem at an open mic, and it went over quite well.  The poem in question is a few months old at this point, and I am rather happy with it, but I feel a need to create work on that level.  The effectiveness of that poem is causing me to feel a bit nervous about work I am currently doing. That is a result in part of shifts in my work that have been occurring of late, and which I have spent much time discussing here.  In some ways, I have a fear that this new work may not be living up to the quality of previous work.  That is not true, though, and I don't want to buy into the notion that I should find a way back towards that work.  While aspects of the work I was doing are certainly things I want to reintegrate, I am

Remakes In Hollywood, it seems like no idea is no problem.   It would be nice to have that same license: nothing new comes to mind, so you remake someone elses book: write Ulysses, or Moby Dick, at least the taxonomy of whales is bound to be due for an update. Rewrite the Secret Garden but set in New York, updated to modern times.   Everything else can be the same, more or less.   Not a new story or even a reimagining: an old myth told with a new meaning. Nothing like that, not at all, just dusting off a story sitting on a shelf and taking it out again, cleaned up, maybe, polished and, perhaps, put into contemporary clothes, but not anything new. Why should I need anything new either? Hollywood seems to be doing a lot better business than poetry.

The poem which I posted tonight is one that I just wrote this evening, and I feel it is a good example of how sometimes the issues that surround my writing can actually find there way into the work as well.  If you have been reading recent entries, I am in the midst of readjusting some of my thinking about certain writing I have done.  On some level, I tend to think of certain kinds of writing as being more about practicing.  Now, this is not practice in the sense I often use it of "a practice", but in the more common usage of rehearsing or preparing for a future performance.  I am seeking to recognize the validity of these kinds of poetic explorations, and to stop viewing them as lesser.  In the poem, I was really just following the idea, mostly, not directing the action in a particular direction, something that I have been learning to appreciate as a mode for my poetry, and in so doing, I think it went to a place that is surprising and pleasing.  I don't think it is

Poems about Poems Are Still Poems even if they are still only poems that poets mostly write when other poems don’t turn up on the page, when the ideas aren’t right, when no particularity of the moon has been noticed, when the grass is too banal, when insects only seem like insects.   Even when only the words are there, nothing to say wrapped in a way of saying, that can still become something, adds itself to itself until more than words have come out after all.

Ideas are still formulating, but I have some interesting poems coming out, ones that certainly feel to me that they are cousin to those I've always written, though perhaps with something else, a shift that I cannot entirely place, but which I feel positive about.  I am hesitant to define this shift, perhaps some form of writerly superstition, but I am keen to see how it progresses. Even so, having this kind of change in the work can be a bit unnerving.  It is not that I don't feel the work is good.  To the contrary, my poems have qualities that I have not seen in my own work, even as I have admired it in others, and I am seeking new depths in what I wish my poetry to accomplish.  Yet, at the same time, it is unfamiliar ground, and the unfamiliar can often bring unease, even when it is a positive development.  In this case, as well, there are new elements at play in the poems that I don't know entirely how to control or deal with, which is exciting, but still requires a le

Poetry And The Cat My cat will sit in my office all day, he has a spot I keep empty, the bottom shelf in the closet which is his office within mine.   He will sit there hours, curl up and nap, or peer out from it as I read or listen to a lecture on the computer, perhaps.   Even when I am browsing the web he will remain here, but I start to type and he flees, I know it is only the sound of the keys clicking that makes him rush off, but I must have a truly sensitive self-image, maybe all writer’s have such egos as mine, for the cat's sudden departure at my beginning a new poem always feels like a critical response.

My work today went rather well.  Both this morning and this evening, I found that I was able to write my poems with some ease, and didn't spend a long time, as I have many days of late, waiting for something to take shape.  As well, I feel that the poems were rather good, as well.  In addition, some ideas are coming into shape for me, that I am rather excited about. As I have suggested in previous posts, I have felt that I've been digesting ideas and approaching a new understanding or perspective.  A number of very interesting ideas have begun to surface, finally.  These are rather large ideas, and I am still not entirely clear about them, but it is coming together.  One part of this is actually to do with an idea for a poem that is something I've been hoping to be able to do for some time, but which I hadn't had a clear handle on. Now, this is not about a specific poem, though at present I am finding a specific idea is taking shape, but about a way of creating what

In Conversation With A Friend, 10 Months After My Father’s Death “My parent’s belong to a club in New Jersey,” I pause, correct myself: “My Mother belongs…”

While I am not yet out of my creative "funk" or whatever it is, I did feel good about work I accomplished today.  Some of the work seems to me to be pretty strong, and I did feel that at least one piece was close to the kind of work I've been craving to get back to.  So, it seems that things are continuing in the right direction. It is rather ridiculous, as I am sure I have said, to be calling it a funk or anything, even when my work continues at the same pace, but I do feel that way.  On some level, internally, I genuinely feel that I am lacking some creative spark, that my efforts of late have been largely imitations of the real work.  That is a ridiculous thing, especially considering that it can be even more work to write when feeling less inspired, and because the output has remained at a similar level, and is consistent with other work in additional ways not worth specifying right now.  The point is, I could probably line up poems and even I might not know which

Violations Again, she has stolen overstuffed handfuls of nuts from the cupboard to feed the squirrels that live in her favorite of the trees behind the house. She has done this many mornings, dripping peanuts and pecans across the kitchen in her scurry to the yard. They see her and know, the grey tails freeze, noses pointing towards her, then they dart to the space at her feet where the prize will fall. She sees them, wild beasts coming to her, wishes to share more than just this.   Her mother watches through the window as she sweeps the kitchen floor.

It has been difficult writing today.  I am not going to mince about with that, but I will say that I got my work done.  Some of it might even have been good, though I cannot really tell at the moment.  In general, it usual doesn't take me that long to get myself going when I sit down to right, most days, but today, both this morning and this evening, were slow.  Once I began, found my rhythm, it became easy to keep working, but it was a difficult start. These are the days when it is most helpful to not judge the work as I am writing, and to allow myself to do whatever kind of work comes to me.  It may well be that I wind up writing about not being able to write, because that is what will come out, but I must realize that those poems can have value, and that they are also a tool for getting into the right creative mode.  Indeed, I was able to write the second poem, in each case, far more easily, because I began it almost directly after the first. On some level, I am sure that I

Not A Denial I won’t tell you any of it, correct your misinformation, the distortions to fact that have been absorbed already. I won’t tell you anything that changes who you think I am, the esteem you have of me that I see in your eyes. I’m not going to make it clear, even, that you are wrong, when you are, or right, either, when that might be true. No, I’ll sit here basking in all the things you think, what you know, what I let you keep knowing. It is better this way, so much better, not for you, maybe, but what doesn’t hurt me doesn’t matter, so, it is still better.

I feel that I did get some interesting work done today.  First, I wrote a poem this evening that I am feeling is rather interesting, and more connected to some kinds of work I have been keen to return to.  It is not specifically an animal poem, but is instead a poem that comes from thinking about how we use language and building images that exploit those kinds of phrases.  In this case, it was a personification, but other poems of similar types have included imagining places or things that grow out of idiom.  At the same time as I did write that piece, I also, at one point today, wrote a rather bald poem about not knowing what to write and lacking creative inspiration, so I am not thinking this was a sudden cure to whatever funk is haunting me, but that does not change it being positive.  Even being able to write baldly about my current funk, both in poetry and here on this blog, is a positive thing.  It is a way of recognizing and moving through this without stopping the forward mom

Make Room Inside where that tender thing the world would wound or steal may stay unharmed as it grows into strength, that one day a bloom might burst forth, fragrant, bright, prepared, finally to thrive beyond the shelter that kept it safe from storms, that it may take root in the earth, and meet, at last, the sunshine.

I am finding it difficult to write lately, as I have expressed, though I still keep to my schedule.  I recognize, of course, that this is what happens, that it happened not long ago, and then shifted to a different mode, and then came back around, but that does not alter how it feels in the moment, and it does not make it any less difficult to do work in this mode.  In large part, what is upsetting about doing work in this way is the feeling that I am attempting to abandon, as discussed yesterday, that these poems may be somewhat less effective.  Now, what is really funny about that is I know it is not true, or at least not universally so, as readers have responded quite strongly to poems that I have written in the recent past.  In essence, I am still doing the work I should be, it is only in my mind that I am having any sort of issue. It is absurd to think of my creativity as being in any sort of slump, as I am writing so much, but it still feels that way internally.  In part, thi

I Had Socks I Liked many years ago, bought a case of them from a strange store on the lower east side that sold only hosiery, or at least that is how I remember it.   They lasted for a long time, but eventually were worn through, but the store did not have that brand any longer, said the manufacturer was out of business, so I bought other socks that I never liked near as much.   Those I used dutifully, not wanting to wast them, despite the imperfections that rendered them inadequate to meet the wants of my ankles and toes.   Now that those are worn enough I won’t feel too guilty for seeking out an alternative, even that store is gone, and even if it weren’t, I am living far from there, hundreds of miles south, with no hosiery stores in the area, so, I have to hunt around online, hope what I order will be even close, despite my inability to check the merchandise before transacting the purchase, wishing I could find something that has not be

Some days it is harder than others to do my work.  On these days, I often just feel drained.  Right now, for example, I have a minor headache and just wish I could be in bed already. However, I did my writing, because it is a commitment that I have to myself, and to my work.  In the end, that dedication is the thing that I have to give, or at least the thing that I am most in control of.  Of course, committing to doing so much writing brings rewards.  First, the work itself.  Producing so many pieces at the moment is an incredible reward on it's own.  That is enhanced by the second boon, which is seeing the work change and develop with this continued effort.  It is impossible to do so much work and not see an improvement, or at least it is so for me, and I tend to think anyone would get better at a thing that they did so much.  Third, their is the outer rewards, which are slow to come but are starting to trickle in now.   Initially, I was offered a reading at a local bookstore, a

Reminders of My Father’s Passing It can happen any moment, when the sun shines this way or a car horn blows by making some particular sound, or seeing a shade of robin’s egg blue, even hearing one word, not even a word, a tone of voice, even; anything, it can be anything; at least now it is no longer everything.

There is something lagging for me these days, as I have said.  It is a bit of a lull in some aspect of my creative imagination which manifests largely in me not having an idea of what to write.  The result of this, though, is that I am forcing myself to work anyway, and finding myself following ideas that are not fully formed, that are often built on a snippet of language or some small thing that gets into my head at that moment.  These pieces are quite different from much of my other work, and while I do long to get back into gear again, I am also intrigued by this new work. In many ways, I don't think this work is necessarily as strong as the poems I am more akin to writing, but that may be both a matter of my own bias and a result of it being a new area for my work.  Muscles have to build strength, and I must learn how these poems function, what I can and cannot do in them, and how best to hone this kind of work without losing the process that makes them unique. Honestly,