Would That I Might

I am going to keep this short tonight, as I am quite exhausted, and a bit stressed.  Even so, I am still quite happy with the writing I've been doing recently.  This week has been quite productive, and I think I am getting closer to some breakthroughs .  It may be partly that I am learning to mix newer approaches with older ones, or it may be that I am just in a particularly productive mental state, or it might be something else entirely, but I do feel that I am making real progress.  I am finding that the five poems are coming pretty quick these days, and if it weren't for the various obligations I have in the immediate future I would be pressing to get to six right now, but I am going to let that wait for a week or two, I think.  Of course, I have said such things before and found myself revising the statement when something just strikes me at the right moment, so it is possible, but I am honestly hoping I can wait.

Maternal Instinct My mother heard of the hurricane so she left town, fast as possible, even seemed irritated I wouldn't waste my gas driving her to the airport(there were already lines at every station I had passed), had to go, had to be sure she was safe. The next day, when she was no longer in danger, then she asked if I felt safe, offered me the option to leave. I told her, it was too late for that.

I've been spending a fair amount of time today and over the past few days thinking about certain aspects of my recent poems.  These poems are very different from many that I have written before, and I am not certain, really, how to describe them.  I am working towards this, but do not yet have a clear grasp on the language. Though I am not yet certain how to connect the ideas, I know I've been thinking about how these poems are exploring something that is connected with form and poetic structure.  While we talk of a form in terms of the way it is organized in language, their is always a reasoning that is implied within that structure.  The most obvious, or at least well known, example is in the sonnet, where the final couplet takes on weight due to the musicality, and thus it is natural for it to also take on weight in terms of meaning. Meter and rhyme exist to build patterns, as do many other tools a poet will use, and by operating these tools in a particular way, by creat

It Must Be There Was A Person lived in that shack, why else would it be there, out on that little island there, must have been for a reason.   Of course, maybe they did not live there, or didn't always live there, could have been a place for fishing, can't really imagine, if I think of it, how anyone could have lived in that place come winter.  I don't know what that bay would do in winter, but I am sure it is not easy to live on a tiny bit of rock out there even when the weather is nice, even in something more than that shack, but there it is, so it is easy to guess someone must have lived there, easy too, to guess, they probably didn't have much choice about it, either.

So, I am in the midst of a great deal of craziness right now.  I am in the process of moving to a new home, and we were supposed to close the contract tomorrow, but it has been delayed due to the threat of a hurricane this weekend, and so my mother, who just arrived in town a few days ago, panicked and decided to fly out of town.  Of course, she did not ask me or Melissa if we were interested in evacuating, which is really rather hurtful, if I am honest.  Indeed, she was actually mad that we said that we did not want to use the gas in our car to drive her to the airport under the circumstances... Anyhow, that is not really my point. In the midst of all this, we are still working at getting packed up, trying to be ready whatever comes.  On one hand, it may be that the storm is not a major thing in this area, and we need to be ready to go based on our original schedule, or it may be that we are hit hard and have to recover from that, but we will still need to be ready to go, as our lea

Someday Soon Not today, no, certainly not today, but maybe tomorrow, it could be tomorrow, you have been waiting so long, yes, I know, you have been waiting but it cannot be today, tomorrow, well, I am supposed to say that it may be tomorrow, but I know how long you have waited, so I will warn you, as a courtesy that tomorrow, no, that does not look much better than today, but it will happen soon, not today or tomorrow, perhaps next week will be better, perhaps you should try back next week.

Well, I've had a few very late nights with little sleep and am quite busy, so I am going to keep this on the short side, but I had some thoughts about the way my work has been progressing, and about some of what I think is different between my current approach that allows me to maintain my commitment. It is probably not particularly shocking to say that writing more poetry this year has helped me to grow and develop as a writer.  Of course, practice brings greater skill and understanding, and the more focused I am, the more attention that I give to my work, the more that I am likely to learn.  That is not at all mystical or surprising, it is merely a matter of the fact that more time is being spent thinking about writing, meaning a deeper level of contemplation and all that entails. Now, of course, it is possible to stultify in thinking that way.  Thinking about writing is, I believe, one of the biggest blocks to actual writing, as it can feel quite productive to do all this

Maybe One Day I Can Be Better Than This It feels at times, doesn't it, as if some other self is there beneath, a better person who does not allow lash out at that one for the wounds those others have inflicted, who allows malice to slide away, won't look in the mirror of hateful eyes.  At times, it is possible to hear that voice, to think a moment from that mind, see all the world through such eyes. Why does it never last, though, not even long enough to still my tongue?

I have had a very long day today.  It started at around 4:30 in the morning, when I woke and could not get back to sleep.  Instead, I got up and began my work for the morning.  I didn't expect much from that work, but it turned out quite well, I think.  It is, of course, possible that looking back on that work, I'll find it is mostly incoherent or just plain bad, but I felt quite good about the work at the time.  As well, despite my being rather exhausted when I set to work this evening, I feel quite good about the poems I produced. In some ways, the poems I wrote today felt more fulfilling to create than many of those I've been writing of late.  That does not, of course, reflect quality, but it does suggest something about the process itself.  It seems rather odd to me that this happened today, when I am so tired.  Yet, it seems to me that, when I consider it, their is a connection, though I don't know what it is entirely. I think a part of it has to do with the fe

You May Choose That Path if you wish, it is safe and flat and turns so little the end can already be seen there at the horizon even before you start the journey, letting you see what is to come, offering the assurance that it will be an easy route, but you must see, already you must know it does not lead to the place you truly seek.

I just realized that I passed the one year mark on keeping this journal.  It had been my intent to mark that day here, but I was not paying attention, and so I am a few days late.  However, I do think it is still worth my considering just how far I have come within the past year, and to acknowledge how much I feel I owe to the keeping of this journal.  In the past year I've made a great deal of progress as a writer, and I really do think this journal has been central to my recent achievements.  Over the time I've been keeping this journal, I've already written my second novel, several short stories, and a great many poems.  I really am not certain of the exact count, but I believe it is over a thousand at this point.  As well, I have, more recently, begun the process of submitting work for publication, with a bit of success in that already. All of this began here, with my beginning this daily record of my writing.  It has served to keep me on target, giving me a sense t

In School I Was Never the cool kid, always awkward, a klutz who wore the wrong clothes, listened to the wrong music, read the wrong books (meaning any that were not for class), not athletic, not part of any clique even an unpopular one, but I tried at times to fit in with the crowd, like the time I dragged my parents to every store looking for those hot new sneakers everyone wanted, trying to find a pair that would fit my extra wide foot, and the joy I had when, past the point where I should have given up the hope they even made my size, somehow they materialized in some sporting goods store, shoes I hoped would make some impact, show that I wasn't just the weird, fat boy who deserved all that ridicule and rejection. I wore them once, left them in my gym locker overnight by mistake, found by morning, they had been stolen, was certain whoever had taken them did not need those shoes or even want them, but took them only to makes certain I remembered such things were not for me.

I am going to keep tonight's entry short, as I am rather exhausted and things are quite hectic at the moment.  In all honesty, the most significant thing I can say is that I have been keeping with my writing schedule in spite of many distractions and obligations.  I am quite proud of that, and I would be, even if I were certain the writing itself was sub-par.  The act of maintaining this momentum is itself something I need to remember is worth celebrating at times, and the fact that I am now, also, pressing myself to get the work published is another thing I feel quite happy about.  Even if I do not publish the work I have already sent out, it is significant for me that I am making this effort.  I currently have two chapbook manuscripts out (with a third still to be finalized and submitted), and eight packets of poetry that I've sent to various journals.  This is the most work I have sent out any one time, and I plan to continue pressing forwards on that front.  For the first t

The Cat Will Not Go to Bed yet, he insists I take him outside, at least for a few minutes, or he will not calm down.  If I don't, I know what will happen, the noise he will make scratching the floor or the door, no sleep for me anyway.  He only wants to go out at night, these days, though he loves to lie in sunbeams on the floor each morning.  At night, though, he can stand in the dark, pretend he is alone, sitting always as far from me as he can without leaving the patio he knows is his domain.  He has to do it to seem cool, I think, as there are other cats who visit the yard in the night.  He stands as though he is alone, but always he will come back inside with me as soon as the door is open again.

Aside from my writing, recently I began a real push to begin getting more of my poetry published.  Part of that has been sharing poems here on this blog, as regular readers should know, but that is more about my own desire to feel that I am not just writing these poems and letting them sit around.  Posting the poems here is important to me, but I also know that it is not a substitute for getting my work into respected journals, or, eventually, collected in book form.  Placing poems here is personally rewarding, of course, and it does relieve me of the sense I had at one time of "hoarding" the poems I am writing, but I still need to do more. Towards that end, this past week I began sending out packets to a number of journals.  While I have sent poems out in the recent past, and even have a poem that is in this months issue of the South Florida Poetry Journal , this is a far more extensive press than I have made in the past, and while I am quite excited about this, I am als

At The Supermarket The little girl is staring at me.  She is only six or seven, I think, not that I am good at guessing the ages of children since I do not have one myself.  She is young, the girl staring at me is young, so when she says to me, "you are really, really fat," I try not to be hurt, but look to her mother standing there, thinking she might apologize.  I catch her eye, she knows what was said, can guess what I must want. She smirks at me, "well, she's right, she is just telling the truth.  I teach her to be honest." She is laughing, they both are laughing.

There are times, like tonight, when I find myself staring for long periods at a blank screen.  The poem can seem just out of reach, whatever words I start typing failing to grasp it.  I'll start writing, get a bit in, then erase it all to try again.  None of the words seem right, or maybe it is the idea itself.  It can be frustrating, really.  Especially since it often occurs when I am actually feeling as if I am already on the scent of what I want to be writing. Of course, if the poem won't come, there is little I can do about it.  I mean, I can't make this poem come out right now.  It may be that the idea isn't yet formed, or that I don't have the language to express the idea, yet.  So, I have to move on, try something else.  I set aside the poem I thought I was about to write and hope for something else to come along.  It is not as if I am willing to give up and not do the work.  I am committed to it, even on days when it is difficult. Often, when this hap

Not The Word I Would Use Don't say you do this for me, when we both know it is being done to me instead.

Today is one of those days when I am not entirely certain about the poems I am writing.  It happens often enough that a part of me is able to easily dismiss the feeling, at least in a rational sense.  I know that these are drafts, that they can certainly be reshaped through the process of editing and revision.  Most poems do not start out as masterpieces; many of the greatest poets I know have drafts and notes preserved, showing just how much work they required in order to achieve the results that made their writing so incredible.  I know I cannot expect the pieces I push out to come already in a state of perfection. As well, I have had a number of occasions when I showed poems that I felt this way about to others and had them respond far more favorably than I might have expected.  Being the writer, I am often so close to the work, with such a clear vision of what I did not achieve in terms of my intent, that I cannot see what is actually there.  I am not, as I have said before, the

Another Time, Maybe I can do that, but now: I will not, no, I could, of course, I could, easily enough if I wanted, it is not that it is difficult, no, it would be easy, you believe that, don't you, because I can, you know, If I want, but I don't want to, not now, maybe tomorrow or the day after that.

One of my teachers, the late poet Thomas Lux, was fond of pointing out that writing and publishing are two different things.  He stressed the need for a writer to focus on the work itself, not on the building of a career or the accumulation of publishing credits and other accolades.  Those things are not what a writer should be working towards, he would say, but instead the focus needs to be upon the craft.  He once expressed to me his belief that great work will always find a way into the world, even if it is after the artist has died.  Emily Dickinson is, of course, a prime example of this, though far from the only one.  That is a fine way to think about these things, but, and Lux also acknowledged this, to have a career as a writer requires doing all that other work. I tend to think that the writing itself is an important act on its own, having nothing to do with whether the work finds an audience immediately or not, and the publishing aspect as more of an ego based pursuit.  I do

No Messiah The man who will not include Jews as victims of the Holocaust now says he is beloved of my people, claims we call him the second coming, and I must wonder who we decided was the first?

Today has been another really productive day working with my friend and fellow poet, Freesia McKee.  On top of my usual writing, I also spent much of the day preparing poems for submission to various journals.  In all, I sent out five packets today, and I am intending to work on getting more out soon.  This is really a big deal, at least for me, and I am really thankful for the support I had in doing that today.  As someone with the learning disabilities that I have, I find it incredibly frustrating to deal with the pedantic differences in submissions between one place and another, and have a great deal of difficulty even with the task of formatting the work into the requested format.  I know that many would hear me say that sounds ridiculous and think that I am being silly, even say it is some type of "self-entitlement" issue.  I am clearly an intelligent man, why should I have such problems, but I do have those issues and cannot alter them. Many of the issues I have are r

An Heirloom From My Grandparents I was only a boy, you said, did not have a place for it anywhere, but, you told me, though you were taking it now, when the day came, when I had my own home, you promised, it would be mine.  Now I am, but I know, already  you have given it to my cousin, your daughter.  Is it that you  did not believe it important to me, thought I would forget that treasure of my grandparents' home, would not recall my inheritance? Or is it that you cared so little about what you told a child you do not remember at all, never intended it as anything but pacification?  Why am I wrong to ask for what I had always believed was mine already? How can I forgive this when I am still wondering why I should have to?

It is a constant, and being self-aware of it makes it no less true, though a tad ironic, but again I am in a bit of doubt about the direction of my current work.  I do feel I understand it, really, and I think it is much like what I was describing yesterday.  It feels to me that I am currently, perhaps, relying too much on the newer aspects of my work, not bringing the full power of what I have done in the past. This is not identical to the issue I had discussed yesterday, but I do think it shares the same underlying pattern.  In this case, I am writing a great many poems that I am finding fit certain more familiar aspects with my past work, but I am noticing that the smaller levels of the work are not reflecting elements that I would like to see more of again.  For example, I am not writing certain types of details as fluently at the moment. Now, I think this is, again, just a step in the process of learning.  At the moment, some of the new ideas I have are not fully formed, an

They Did Not Tell Their Stories, never shared them to the children, did not speak of the past, no tales of who had been before, all before gone and forgotten, not one thing recalled, not one made up myth, nothing, so the only story left to tell is this one of how they did not tell their stories.

Writing each day can be a bit of an odd experience, at times, at least in terms of how work develops and how ideas become integrated.  For one thing, it is true that I am not really in control of my work, much of the time.  By this, I mean that I must rely upon the process in that moment, as I write, often, and trust that I will be able to create something of value.  As a result, I am not choosing what to write much of the time.  Certainly, I can say to myself, and do, I want to create a poem about this, but for me, as someone who is writing so much each day, those poems are in the minority.  Besides, even when I write those pieces, I can't say what it will be until it is written, and am often quite surprised by what comes through, what it is that the poem winds up really being about. The aspect, however, that I think is truly interesting is how things progress and then integrate into the work.  Writing so much, I am constantly learning.  Repeating any action, practicing, is the

Tacky Neighbors The houses on that block are all monstrosities, terrors of design, each one painted conflicting colors the more garish the better, with awful lawn ornaments, gawdy things, too big and badly made, look at that oversize lawn flamingo covered in drips of dried paint, shaped as if based on a drunks drawing instead of any actual draft. It is not an accident these hideous places are here together, I am told, at least, am told they all are in a war to see who can make the most ostentatious home, the one that will drive the neighbors too madness, but it has not happened, they all hang in, just up the ante with new additions. That is why their is always something new being installed, a plaid gazebo, a weather vane topper that looks like Hulk Hogan, a ten foot sculpture of a chicken with neon eyes.  I do not know if it is a game or a war, but I am sure the philosophy they all hold: at least if you live in the ugliest house on the block you'll never see it through your o

When I think about my "career" as a writer, I often feel rather down, if I am honest.  While I am proud of my work, I know that I don't have a great deal of publication credit, and I am unknown, with no major opportunities knocking on my door at the moment.  I would like, of course, to have my novel published, would like to get my poetry out there, and I do feel a bit saddened, even a bit ashamed, about the fact that I don't yet have a book out or even very many other credits. This is not something that I don't acknowledge my own responsibility for.  While I am now very active in my writing, I spent many years not working very much at all, and I haven't ever made a major press to get my work published.  I have sent my novel out to various agents, but I didn't keep at it with real dedication and regularity, and I haven't yet pushed to get my poems published. Now, I am working at changing all of that.  I've got multiple submissions out right n

Correction Is it a sign of too much reliance upon the technology of spell check, that when I write a word, one that I am certain I have written correctly, and it is marked, those small lines appearing under like an invisible school master's ghostly pen, even if I find the word I intend is not known to the dictionary (which happens often, and with words I do not think are so obscure), even then, I doubt myself, turn to other resources to make certain that I am not mistaken, because the computer cannot confirm my accuracy for me?

Today was a very good day for my writing, I think.  Now, when I say that, I am not saying that I necessarily think the poems that I wrote are of any particular quality.  In most cases, after a few minutes have passed, I can't look back on most of my work without a degree of dissatisfaction at the discrepancy between what is on the page and what I really wish it could be.  The work that I wrote today is no exception and I will leave the ultimate question of the work's merit to others. So, then, what is it that happened that makes me feel that today was positive, if not that I produced better work?  If I didn't feel that I produced work that was special, what could make me feel that today was somehow particularly good?  It is not something easy to explain, but it is about my feeling about the way I approached the work, and the kinds of work I feel that I have access to right now. As I have mentioned in many previous posts, I have been feeling that certain aspects of my wo

Life Lesson In school we were given seeds that day, shown the way to plant them inside the small plastic pots, how deep inside and, too, the right amount of dirt to surround it with.  We were tasked with nurturing those beings, bringing them into the world: we watered them each day, waiting, watching for the small sprouts to begin bursting forth.  I do not know how long it took, days, maybe a week or two, but soon their were stems working their way out, breaking the dark soil with their first tendrils.  All the other pots, that is, mine never seemed to sprout. The teacher did not believe I had done what the others had, thought I must never have watered, just did not care, graded me a failure because I could not make a thing grow, because I could not instigate life, because I was the only one at whose pot remained empty of anything but dirt/

Any artist working in the modern era, and likely any artist even in prior times, has to confront questions about the value of their work that are informed by the context of the work that already exists in the world.  In the English language, writers often cite Shakespeare as the icon of literature, the greatest author of all time, according to many, and certainly a name associated with works that have withstood the test of time/  As such, it is not uncommon to hear writers comment about how they will never be so great as Shakespeare. I recall reading an article about this when I was in high school.  I think it was in the New York Times, and it was a writer discussing how they had often been gripped by the fear that they could not be as great a writer as those who had come before them.  Without that possibility, it felt pointless to keep working.  Writing is not an easy thing much of the time, and thinking that you are not really capable of doing more than has already been achieved can

A Surprise for The Writer A moment ago I thought I knew what this poem was going to be about, but this is not the one I had thought of at all, is something else entirely, and I must wonder where that other idea has gone, though I am not in charge of these things, it seems, no matter how I try to arrange things, if I were, I would have stuck with the first poem, I think it was far more winning than this.

I did not feel very much like writing tonight.  The last several days have been somewhat frustrating, having nothing to do with my writing, and I am just a bit exhausted, as well as somewhat upset.  That's not really a state that lends itself to feeling creative, but I also realize that I would feel far worse about all of these things if I let them derail me from my work.  If that happened, it would give these events a feeling of power over me, and set up the idea that my doing work is related to my mood or some such.  As I said yesterday, my attitude is that I am a professional practicing a craft, and that doing so daily is important.  Equally, it is important for me to know this is my work, that I must do it even when I don't necessarily want to, just like so many others who very often feel compelled to be working when it is the last thing they want. Now, as a result of this, I sat down and worked.  In taking that action, I took a certain amount of control, saying, even on

My Luck I think it will be easy to find, look around in places that seem likely, but no luck, so I  start to call all the stores near and far to find it, finding no one can help, but then one clerk says, yes it is there, in stock, I ask him to hold it and rush over, talk to a man at customer service who says, "wait, I thought that guy who just left was the one that called, he got the last one."

Writing so many poems, it may only be natural that I sometimes wonder if I am losing something by not allowing myself a bit more of a break.  It is often said that down time can be important for creativity, that fallow periods can lead to greater works.  Considering how often I've heard such comments, a part of me certainly does consider this when I am finding it difficult to connect with my writing.  I do not doubt that taking time off from creative work is often important for a writer in recharging their creative energy, and I would suggest that I do take a lot of time off from my work each day.  I only really am writing for the period in the morning and the evening when I am at the computer.  While I might have ideas in my mind percolating, I don't spend most of the day dwelling on that work.  Of course, this is not the same as taking time off from writing for a period, but I have not yet reached a day when I just can't write another poem/ I also tend to think tha

Why Have I Waited until now, until the last minute again?  I could easily have done all of this weeks ago, been finished without this pressure, but something in me would not act until I felt the fear of being too late.

Today was the first day since I had increased to five poems when I really felt the enthusiasm wane a bit.  It wasn't at all to do with my fifth poem, but instead was earlier, when I set down to work this evening.  I had written two poems already, this morning, and sat down at my desk to do my work for the evening. It took me some time to really get started, and I could hear certain negative, judgmental voices echoing at the back of my mind.  I did not have a clear sense of what I wanted to write, and that was a large part of what contributed to that feeling.  What is funny, though, is that yesterday I also needed to think up what to write as I was setting to work, so it is clearly not about that actual condition. My thinking tends to be that, at least in part, this is just the noise that I need to get through to do the work.  I mean, my negative thoughts are sort of like an obstacle that my unconscious is sending out to make me prove I am dedicated.  It may be that this is not

Those People Just look at those clothes and the way they are sitting there, that haircut even, really, it only takes one glance to see what kind of people they are, it is awful, and you can just tell from the way they keep glancing over, they think they are superior, but who are they to judge me.

As mentioned previously, today was my reading at The Book Cellar in Lake Worth, an event that I have been rather nervous about for the past weeks. I discussed much of this anxiety already, but it was mostly that I have not read in this way in a long time, and that I also felt a bit vulnerable in terms of a few of the poems I chose to read. I got to the area early and had lunch with Melissa, then we went over. At this point we were still close to an hour early, but one of the people I had invited had arrived already. I also spoke to Judy Ireland, who runs the series, and I asked if I could read second since a few of my friends were running late. That worked out, so I settled in for the first segment of the reading. I still, at this point, wasn't sure who I was reading with, as I had been told at previous events it was not determined. It worked out well, ashe other reader, Jon Mundell, is a fellow who I have met a few times, but I wasn't really familiar with his work. As m

Another News Panel There is one expert here who says this is the way it is, points out these facts, relies on them for one inevitable conclusion. The next expert, though, says those facts are not the facts at all, gives different information entirely, says it all leads to almost the opposite result. The first calls the second a liar and the second calls the first a fraud, then they are not arguing at all about it, but instead just fighting. Even whoever knows the truth.

Tomorrow afternoon I have my reading, and I am, I must admit, a bit nervous about the event.  I am sure that I am driving Melissa nuts tonight, to be honest, though I think she understands.  Part of the nervousness comes from the fact that this is my first real even of this sort in many years.  I've not done a reading, other than at an open mic, in a very long time, and I am a bit rusty.  That is why I have practiced reading the poems, looking them over and considering just how I want to present them. I also have to admit that part of my nervousness comes from the content of the work as well.  One poem in particular is about a fairly personal experience and sharing that piece means exposing intimate vulnerabilities.  That is, of course, a part of being an artist of any sort, but it does not make it less intimidating as an experience.  I am glad to be reading that piece, but this is the first time I'll be sharing it so publicly, and I feel vulnerable as a result. As well,

It All Came Out Eventually, they all admitted they had been wrong, acknowledged the lies being told, stated, for the record, that they had, of course, always known what they were doing, that it had not been just incompetence, though that had been a part, that they had willingly ignored what was clear, said it wasn't so to others, even when they were aware it would bring these consequences. Yes, they admitted it eventually, afterwards, when it was too late to make any difference and they no longer had anything to lose but for what they had sold away in the first place.

One aspect of increasing my writing output that I don't think I touched on yesterday, but which I am noticing, is the boost it gives me in terms of my own sense of accomplishment.  As stated before, I know it is a minor change, really, but I do feel enthused each day as I accomplish the task of composing five new poems.  I find it surprising, honestly, that I still feel that way at this point.  I mean, I have been increasing output regularly this year, and adding another poem becomes less and less significant, as I do so.  Yet, somehow, the feeling of accomplishment at the shift when I have done so is always somehow there and invigorating. I do think that I will need to discover other ways of making those shifts, if I am realistic.  I mean, I am currently writing five poems each day, and I can see myself increasing that, but at some point, it is bound to be unreasonable, if only in terms of a time commitment.  I am still living my life, and I don't need to write all day long,

Still, I Must Try What is the point of poetry when there is nothing more that can be said, when already too many words have been wasted, because words will not change it and those who can are clear they will not listen to what anyone who they do not agree with has to say.

It is counter intuitive, but for some reason, it always seems that pushing myself to do more work shifts my thinking and reinvigorates the work.  I have, for some time now, been a bit off kilter, as I have expressed at various times, and being in that state, I often wondered about the question of burn-out, of whether I might want to take a break or some such.  However, I also was aware that I still was writing, and that much of the work I produced had power for those who read it.  Though I might feel as if I was not in the zone, it hadn't impacted the work in either output or impact, so it seemed silly to really consider stopping.  Besides, I have spent too much time not writing, now that I have developed a successful practice, I don't have a desire to give it up. This week, however, I began writing an additional poem each day.  I had been writing four already, and adding a fifth seemed a small thing.  By the time I write it, I am already in my mental zone, and so it is not

There Is Always Luck no matter the amount of work, there is luck to it as well, luck for the work to work out, for the results to be right, the work will need to be escorted by luck, but remember the odds go up the more you play the game, the more you work, each time it is another role of those dice, so keep working until luck cannot avoid you any longer.

I have kept to five poems again today, despite my still being in great pain.  I am glad to say that Melissa is home now, which makes me glad, even though I am still sick.  I don't know which one would be more likely to knock me off task, being ill or having Melissa come home, but I am glad to say that I maintained my practice. I suppose I should not really be surprised at this point, having been writing this way for some time, but I still have days when I do feel a strong desire to not get the work done, and today certainly didn't feel particularly great for creativity.  Still, I did my work, and I feel that is worth celebrating, even if it is, by now, something that I should probably just expect.  Though, I do fear that the day I start taking it for granted is the one when it is most likely I will actually slip up.

Lament for An Old Tree I miss the tree from the corner of the yard.  It was taken down by men who work for the county. There was more shade, not to mention privacy, before they wrapped it in chains, ripped it out of the ground. It is like some old friend is gone, the yard no longer quite the place it was, a presence missing that I had never before recognized. Maybe I am imagining it, of course, just sad to have seen its death, missing  it for the practical reasons, but sitting outside I feel as though someone is no longer beside me who always had been.

Today has been a rather unpleasant day, as I have been a bit ill.  It is a condition which is not life threatening, but is rather painful, and prevents me from being particularly active when it is flaring up.  Unfortunately, I am still here alone, though Melissa should return tomorrow evening.  So, I have spent most of today doing as little as I can, really.  At the same time, I still managed to get my work done, and I feel quite good about that.  Writing is actually one of the few things I can think of doing that really did distract me for a bit from the discomfort I am in, but I am going to have to keep this short, as I don't think I can keep it up much linger.  Suffice it to say that I did write five poems, so I think that may well be my new standard.

Who Knows? Some part of this system which I have called myself must know the answers to so many questions of how I became this person, in body, in mind, even down to those minute details of how the body makes itself, how it grows, how it converts what comes in into energy, into cells. It must all be here, this knowledge, yet, even if I asked the most informed of scientists, they would never be able to tell even a fraction of that tale.

While I am still adjusting to the new qualities of my work, I am also aware that I may be at the point where I should start pushing myself further, in some way.  I think it may be that I want to start writing an additional poem each evening, starting at some point in the next week.  Tonight, I actually did wind up writing an extra poem, and I felt it came out fairly well.  Often, I have found that adding another poem is a way to push myself, creating a challenge that can help  jump-start my creativity in the end.  This is often not a direct process.  I may bang my head at times, but in the end, pushing myself to write more creates a pressure that results in creative growth.   I feel that I have been in producing work for a while that feels fairly consistent in some ways, though perhaps different than what I had been doing before, and a disruption can often be a good catalyst for positive change.  I have to consider it, but I am sure that the mere fact that I am considering it now wi

Another Night Without You I do not sleep so well without you beside me.  This week, I have been awake for the dawn most mornings, have been awake well past midnight, have not had real rest, instead turning towards the empty space where I wish you were once more.

As I have mentioned, I am getting prepared for my poetry reading at The Book Cellar in Lake Worth next Sunday.  I've been reading and rereading the work that I am intending to present.  Initially, I actually went through and did a final series of line edits to clear up a few little things here and there that I noticed, and since then have just been working to make sure I have the material in my head, at least to some extent.  Really, I would like to memorize the set, but I have been somewhat distracted and haven't succeeded at that so far.  It may happen, still, of course, but I am not counting on it. In part, I am being silly about it, but it feels like a big deal.  Today, I went and read a few pieces at an open mic here in Boca and I felt that the work received a warm reception.  I was careful not to read the work that I have slated for next week, as I was partially attempting to use this event as an opportunity to tell people about the event.  A number of people came up t

Frog Noise Only one kind of frog in all the world goes ribbit, only one of so many species that each make calls of their own.   Some howl or whistle or chirp, all kinds of frog noises, not at all like the ribbit that only one frog makes, but that is the one frog in Hollywood, the frog that we all hear in the background, the big star frog that gets all the parts, so everybody assumes the others must be just like it too.

Recently, it was suggested to me that one of my narrative poems might provide a good basis for a longer work.  The poem itself tells a complicated story that I can see being expanded, and I am drawn to the idea at present, in part because I feel it might provide a framework for some of my work.  As I have expressed, I do feel at times that I am not certain about what to write, and have particularly been longing to get back into writing more narrative poems of a certain type, which this poem falls into.  It feels as though it could be a good way to reconnect with some of those impulses. At the same time, I have certain concerns about expanding this poem, in part because I am not really certain what it would become. It is clear to me that, yes, there is much more in the story that could be explored, but the question is whether I feel there are themes and concepts that I want to bring out.  I can't write a longer piece that communicates merely a more detailed version of that same s

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It gets rather frustrating, at times, when I am in transition with my work, as I have been of late.  Often it feels that I am not quite hitting my target, somehow, but that feeling is often an illusion, born of the changing nature of what I am aiming for.  In some ways, the issue is that I am not always aware of what is happening in a poem I am writing.  This is true a lot of the time, when writing, not only when in this kind of transitional period, but in other times, it usually is clear to me how the poem is operating by the time I am through with a draft. In writing these newer poems, I am working from a position of trusting my intuition, as it is the knowledge that I am developing by writing so much comes from underneath.  It is not that I become aware of a new idea, it is that I discover it happening.  It is not a clear delineated learning, but instead a slow realization, often with my conscious recognition of what is really happening as a final step.  Essentially, the part of m

Let Each Day be a process: become what is within. It is too easy to be wounded by the world. Know: all things which turn against are meant to teach a different strength than ever might have been before.

The new issue of South Florida Poetry Journal went live on their website, including my poem "I Heard They Broke Up" which is the first of my new poems to be published.  So Flo Po Jo, as it is often called, is a small local journal that has a lot of really great people working for it and they have published some amazing writers, both new, up and coming voices, and more established writers.  It really is a great pleasure to have this work appear there. I would be thrilled, of course, about the work being published by this journal under any circumstances, but I discovered something today that makes it feel truly special for me.  That is the discovery that one of the other poets published in the current issue is Stuart Dischell, whom I have known since first studying with him back in the late nineties as an undergraduate.  At that time, I was a student at Sarah Lawrence College, and met Stuart while taking a summer writing program at SLC.  Stuart taught at UNC-Greensboro, and

Wish Fulfillment If I were asked what I would do with enough money for whatever it is I would conceive, I can tell you my answer: building the town of lost times. It would be a large town, a bustling place of houses and businesses, where people could live and work, but each place would be of an era. Every building would be from some particular time and place, a farmhouse from 16 th century Dijon, a post office from colonial New York. Recreations, inside and out. Imagine: a midcentury modern house like Rock Hudson had whenever he was on screen with Doris Day. Modular wooden furnishings, shag carpets, even a vintage radio: the whole of a place as if taken from another time. The neighborhoods would be arranged like normal neighborhoods in a town, not by era or geographia, but in commercial and residential, low rent and high. All the times jumbled up across the land. I would build it and wander, visiting the past, as close