Would That I Might

Well, I failed to get to work this morning, and did not make it to my office again.  I know that I have a real block around this at the moment.  As I have mentioned before, I know this is all related to Ulysses.  Since he died, I have been adjusting to not having to care for him.  Many mornings, I still get out of bed to give him his medicine.  Beyond this, I am also aware that my office is the only place in the house he never visited.  The office is a loft and he had never learned to use stairs.  I had intended to bring him up there at some point, but he died so soon after we moved, it never came to pass.  I need to face these issues, to learn how I can move forward, but being aware of that does not make it easy.

Planning Knowing what step is best to be the first step, which to take second, third, it can be good.  It can help deciding what to do if the road from here to there is closed, or if someone says no instead of yes, or of there is not enough flour, sugar, milk. Plan for what will go right and what may turn the wrong way.  Yes, it can be good to plan, but what if planning has become all there is? What good is planning all the right steps if you never take that first one?

I really need to press myself to write in the morning tomorrow, and to get up to my office.  I know it is possible for me, that I will be able to do the work, it is only a matter of getting to work.  I need to commit to that, so I think I will attempt to put a second poem on the blog tomorrow, but earlier in the day.  I know that commiting to posting on this blog is often important for keeping me consistent, knowing I have a commitment to more than just myself and that others can see if I do not meet this self-imposed obligation helps keep me on task.  It has been a successful strategy in the past, and I believe it will help me to get myself back into the habit of writing each morning.

Why? It may be that asking for reasons is considered fine, reasonable, to borrow back the word, but they are not owed, will remain a mystery.  It is not that those answers are undeserved, but instead, that in truth, there are no reasons, or only reasons that are not real reasons, callous choices, random choices. The color of eyes, the vowels in a name.  There are no good reasons, but it is better you believe it is only that we will not explain the truth.

I often am uncertain of my work these days.  It is not that I think it isn't good, but I am not always able to follow why I am choosing to write about this or that.  I am relying very much on what comes to mind as I start a poem, and am getting to a place where I trust those impulses.  I am certain that is a boom, but I am also still getting accustomed to the work that often results from that approach.

Mental Shift It was a moment moving from that to this, but it was a shift the mind could only make that fast, thoug it was big.  It was like leaping a stream, running up to the bank and soaring.  Any slower could never have worked, but it still meant a hard landing and a few moments to catch the breath.

I failed to get to work this morning, but I think my day may be more conducive tomorrow, as I needed to be out fairly early.  I should have a clear day tomorrow. In general, I am still in a state of writing most of my poems from a fairly stream of consciousness, almost free associative approach. It is interesting how ideas often come into shape as I am writing.  I am often surprised at the way things come into a structure, as if there had been a plan to start with.  I also know that the more I write the more I press myself to let out the deeper, more complicated and resonant work.  It can be hard to access that place, and for me, it often seems to be a matter of clearing out other material firat.

They Had Most But Not All but were unaware of what was absent.  They needed to find the missing piece, but how could they with such certainty that everything was present, that the problems could be solved with what they knew was present.

In writing poems, I find that I often have to just trust that I know what I am doing.  It can feel, especially when the work is in transition, as if the poems are somewhat random, at least when I am writing, but looking back I often recognize more.  I need to remember that a part of me is a far better writer, a smarter poet, than the bit of my mind that thinks it knows what I am doing.

Turn Back You have to.  This is not a place for you.  You think it is for you, being here, you have journeyed but this is no place for you.  I know, it was not a place I should have come, but I did, am here now.  Do not stay.  I cannot explain why, to explain would ruin you, would do what staying will do.  Just leave, turn away, trust me, please, though you haven't a reason, trust me: turn back.

Well, I did not get my writing done this morning, and instead rushed through a whole barrage of poems tonight.  I can write quite rapidly when I am focused, so I don't have any practical reason not to be writing in the morning, but I knew that.  More and more, I am certain a large amount of my resistance is connected to my feelings of grief after Ulysses's death.

Waiting Is What I Would Prefer Not rushing ahead, not pushing forward, not going for it, no, taking time, instead.  Yes, just wait.  It will be better to see what will happen first, besides, it takes so much energy to even try.  We should just wait, if we wait long enough it will be the same as trying and failing, so we can just wait and say we made a real effort.

I think the most significant change I need to make in my writing practice at present is getting back to writing in the morning again.  I am still writing a lot, but writing in the morning and at night was a major boon to my practice and built discipline as well.  I have many reasons for my resistance to writing in the morning at present, but I hope that recognizing its importance will spur me to resolve these issues, or at least move past them to reestablish my former habit.

Stand in That Field until the sun has dried all the puddles, stand with your right arm pointing always to the sun, left out to your side, do not lock your knees but they should not bend.  Stand still, feel the wind.  It is the one who will say.  It will tell you, but it may take some time to trust your ears.

Well, I am going to keep this short tonight, as it is already late and I have an early morning tomorrow.  I did my writing for tonight and feel good about much of it.  I am still feeling a bit hesitant when it comes to getting to work, but once I am writing it is often rather quick.  I also have not yet gotten myself back to writing in two daily sessions, and I think that will help as well.

Being There To go there is not possibly, because anyone who goes will find there is still just another here, can never be there at the time it is being experienced.

So, it appears that I made a small mistake last night.  Though I wrote an entry, it did not get posted.  I got to my office tonight and saw it sitting open, as I had it while writing.  I am not certain what happened, but I have posted it this evening.  Apologies to any regular readers who might have missed my upload.  In any event, I am getting back to working regularly in my office now, though it is still just the evening session at the moment.  I hope that I can get myself up here in the morning and begin moving back towards a fuller schedule.  In the week or so before the poetry festival, and even the first few days of the festival itself, I was writing twice a day, composing around ten or so poems per a session.  I think that is actually a sustainable rate for me, if I can get myself onto that schedule again.  It is an insane rate, probably, and perhaps I am fooling myself to think that I can create great work at that pace, but I believe that each new poem I write is teaching me,

Fool, Giving All That to The Ground when it was for the sky, now you must wait: the ground will accept your gift, but it is so much slower than the sky, will take a year, years to reward you, will never be clear about what it is you can expect in return or when. No, the sky is always above, will brighten itself to you today.  Even if the ground will offer you more, do you believe it is better to wait through such a season, and how can you be prepared, what do you know that makes it easy to have such patience?

Though it was another long day, and not an entirely pleasant one if I am honest, I am able to say that I made it to my office to work this evening.  As well, I finished earlier than other nights, and spent less time sitting about than many nights.  I can acknowledge that some of this is due to my having been on the phone, but I also felt a certain kind of freedom in the writing, as though I have stepped across another boundary, one that is allowing me to play in ways I hadn't always allowed myself.  I felt that a number of the poems I wrote tonight were very much interested in types of language that have always been fascinating to me, but which I have not played with much.  I feel unrestrained in some sense, though I cannot say what that means yet.

Appreciation Well, I know you worked hard and it was certainly clear there was hard work put in, effort.  It was a lot to do, I am certain you did a great deal, and I know you want to hear how much I enjoyed what you achieved, yes, that is what you want to hear.  I know how hard you worked.  It is nice you tried so hard, put in such an effort.

It is often a great deal of effort to get myself working lately.  Tonight was again slow, but I wrote my poems in the end.  I am finding that the work has a different tenor of late, as well, or at least it often feels that way.  It is so hard to judge the differences in one's own work because the huge amount of similarities that are so inherent to any writer's voice are often difficult to see.  In within the same filter that creates those effects, so I cannot observe them easily.  Still, it feels different in the act of creating this work, which does suggest to me a deeper change.

Unsatisfied It is nice here, but I want to go there.  I know what is happening here, and it is nice, but what if there is nicer, and what of all the other places that are neither. It may be nice here, but how can it be the nicest place.  Why should I stay here when someplace else is sure to be better?

I had another slow night.  I am thinking that I will get up to my office tomorrow, which may help with speeding up my work a bit.  At the same time, I am still noticing the same hesitancies I have mentioned before, but remain largely convinced that is a sign there is a breakthrough in the  offing.

Why Must You Dance into each room as though music is playing?  No one finds it cute any longer.  You are too many smiles, too many laughs, hugs, warm gestures.  No one believes you.  It was easy to think it was true once, but you have gone too long being happy that way, now if we thought it could be true, our own sadness would mean too much. You must show another side, we cannot be in a world where your joy coexists beside what we have known.

It was another very slow night of work.  In part, it is being on my phone again,  in part it is issues I discussed yesterday.  I felt a strong urge to quit early, which I staved off, but I think that often happens when I am facing resistance before a breakthrough.  Perhaps that is just me being optimistic, but I have to believe that even if I am wrong g about why I had difficulty tonight, not giving in when I face resistance is always a victory.

This Can Happen or it could not occur at all.  It will be one way or it will be another, or maybe both, maybe neither, maybe some other thing that is not either or both or neither, but does not fall into the realm of this.  It may be this, yes, it may be that.  What will choose?  Can anything be done to say which way is best or to choose among them if it were even clear?

I do not know how I am feeling about much of my work at the moment.  I know there is a transition happening, a desire to go towards deeper and different ideas and approaches.  As well, I sense that I am becoming more keenly aware of many aspects of language that were less than obvious to me before.  All of that is good, but it does mean that much of what I am currently working on is sort of trapped between what I am currently able to do and the new work I am sending.  I know this, but while I am writing, and even when I am looking over my work, it can become hard to keep it in mind.  In truth, while writing, I don't want to consider any of this, but the fact of being in such a transitional space impacts my ability, at times, to latch on to a poetic image.  It causes me to feel slowed down, at times, which creates a bit of doubt for me.  I wonder at whether I am losing steam at times, or if I am just wasting my effort.  I know these are all natural things, are nothing but the comm

You Say To Put It Off You want me to wait, to do all these things first, but I suspect it is only the way you have of making certain I do not choose what is best for me in my life because you fear it will impact yours.

I had another long day, and my ankle is not feeling much better, so I am writing on my phone again.  It is strange how the mode of  working can alter the product.  I think some if my work tonight was quite good, but I recognize how different it is from what I write when on the computer.  I don't know how much of that is just the practicalities of writing on a phone impacting my choices, in terms of the difficulties I have with the tiny onscreen keyboard, and how much results from a different mental approach when on my phone.  In the end, I am glad to be able to shake up my work, but I do much prefer  my computer.

We Sought It because it was a secret, because we knew you did not want others to see, to know, to find it.  We did not have any reason but knowing it was a violation was enough.

I have made it to my office this evening, though my ankle is still sore.  It felt important to do, though I cannot say if it is in spite or because of the pain of getting here.  It was an act of determination, certainly, and I know that working at my computer is often far preferable to me over other options I currently have, but it was not pleasant and my leg is telling me that it is unhappy.  Maybe it was stupid, though I tend to think it will be the same tomorrow either way...   Sorry to keep this so short, but I really want to get to bed, in hopes I will feel at least a bit better in the morning.

What We Have Left Out It is intended to be symbolic, to represent what is still unfulfilled, what is promised for tomorrow. We have to do this for memory, for meaning.  It is not an act for this world, for the place of balance sheets, calculators, legal pads, no, it is for other reasons.  If you do not understand, it is an issue within yourself, not a need for us to explain.

I am keeping this short tonight.  My ankle is bothering me again today(I believe I banged it slightly yesterday, and it was still recovering).  As a result, I worked on my phone instead of in my office, but I still completed ten poems tonight.  I am hoping that tomorrow, my ankle will be less sore and I can get back to my office.

The Sheets All the sheets on all the beds were too small.  They had been fine, but now, they were too small.  No one knew how it was they had come to change: sheets do not shrink for no reason.  They looked for new sheets, but it was all the sheets, so they learned to sleep with cold feet instead.

I have spent the last few nights doing my work, without having been able to get much done in the morning.  Some days, this has been a matter of having the time, as I've had some early mornings, but often it is purely a mental block.  Still, that I am getting the work done matters more, even if not in my ideal manner.  I am writing each day, am putting out a great amount of work (ten poems a day minimum of late, and I am hoping that will rise again soon), and I do wonder, at times, why I should feel the need to shift back to my old patterns.  I wonder if I would be better off saying to myself that I am obligated only to one writing session a day, but encourage two of them as an option.  Why do I feel compelled, though, to see this as turning in the wrong direction?  It may only be a fear that I could slip backwards towards not writing daily, but I haven't found that to be a real problem.  I tend to think there are other reasons, even if I am not aware of them in specific, that a

The Strings Are Tied now, but they are not knotted so tightly you wouldn't be able to untie them again, so there are options.  It is only that they needed to be brought together for anything to happen at all, but you can take them apart once more, can undo all of this, if you wish.  We did not make it permanent, though it will take time and no one here will ever be of any help in that process.

So, I am yet again quite exhausted, but I did get my work done.  In fact, I think I am back to twelve poems.  I did the work all tonight, but split it between two sessions.  I am hoping that I will be able to get myself on a more regular morning schedule soon, as I think I may be able to get a more regular amount of sleep soon.  Honestly, that would he the best thing that could happen right now, at least in terms of my personal well-being.  I have been rather sleep deprived for some time now, but I won't get into it here, suffice it to say that I believe having better and more consistent sleep will facilitate my getting to work in the morning. Again, I did find myself more easily pressing out poems.  It is often just a matter of going for it, of allowing an idea to take hold.  It can begin, quite often does begin, with just the language itself, or a small image or idea, but then it builds.  In some cases, I am aware of where an idea is going, but often, it is not clear to me unti

The Hand does not move without it being moved by the thought of the one whose hand it is, but we do not see them, back so far, the hand gloved, dark sleeves hiding even the arms. Who is this? We will not be told, can only guess the name.  They would rather we guess at who then consider the question of why it is the hand is here, what it is doing, manipulating with those digits.  Instead, of wondering about motivations we only wonder idly about the motivator.

I was able to get my work done again, though once more it was all in a single bought of writing tonight.  I actually found myself working quite rapidly, even for me, and felt that maybe I had found that knack for pressing on in the work, even when I do not come to the page with a new idea.  In all reality, even when I have a poem burning, it is likely that I don't have ten poems in my head at that moment, so I am likely to reach a point as I do my work where I am without any previous conception.  I think this is often a place of great possibility, where new ideas can take shape.  When I have an idea already, I am not as open to the direction of the work itself, but am guiding it, but at times when I have nothing planned, I can follow what happens recklessly.  That I am writing so much gives me a sense of freedom with that: if a piece fails, if following it leads to a dead end or some other type of problem, it is fine.  Indeed, such mistakes can be great opportunities for growth as

Water Is Dripping from the ceiling.  My brother is the one who noticed it, the leaking from upstairs above the laundry room.  I am concerned for the house, he wants to know if the water dripping down onto him went through a toilet, even if no one has used it at all today.

I am back to writing ten poems or so regularly, though I did miss my morning writing session today.  Honestly, after my late night, I needed a bit of a rest, and I had obligations later in the day, which involved attending a poetry reading by a friend of mine from the Palm Beach Poetry Festival.  The even also features an open mic, so I read a poem that I had not read before, and I felt it went over well.  I had not really planned to read, but was asked to sign up by the person running the event who knows my work. I do not want to miss my morning session tomorrow, and am hoping that I can get myself on track once more.  It is really an important thing for me to be writing daily, and that has been steady, but it is almost as important to get myself regimented again.  I am doing the work, but I know how much better I do, not only with my writing but in larger ways, when I am following my schedule and routine.

They Made Certain That We Could Do Nothing to avoid this calamity: years ago we asked to help, to prepare for what was coming, what we could see was beginning already, what anyone could tell was coming, was inevitable. But they did not let us help, told us it was not our place to be involved with any of it, but now, when it has come to pass, when the troubles they allowed have landed, now they tell us we must fix it, because they know it is too late and they can do nothing, now they expect we can still do what needed to be done before any of this had made it far too late for taking action.

It is quite late and I have had a rather long day, so I will be keeping this fairly short.  I have been getting more consistent with my writing.  At the moment, I am aiming at ten or so poems a day, but I am hoping that will jump back up soon.  It is funny, but sometimes I am writing and can just pull a new poem out of the air like nothing, other times it is harder to get started.  For example, this afternoon, I was writing and was in that zone, but then I received a phone call and when I returned to work was no longer in that state.  Tonight, though I did write my poems, I felt rather sluggish and had to force them out for the most part.  I wish I could understand what pushes me in which direction, though I would hesitate to choose to make it easy, as I think many times I write quite well when I am less inspired in that way.  As well, I am aware of how ironic it is for me to be complaining about sometimes being more inspired than others when I have the kind of writing output I do, but

There Is No Best Way but there are better ways and worse ones, though often a way one person thinks is better another will say is worse, and some ways do this better but not that while others will fix that but this will be a mess instead, but I am sure some ways are worse, some are to be avoided, though I have seen a few who prefer those, who make them work and work well, so it may be only that their is a way that is yours but you must find it.

It has been a very busy day, as usual when I work with Freesia, and, as usual once more, I have many new ideas.  I always feel gratitude to Freesia, but today there were a number of ways in which Freesia helped me out that I am extremely thankful for.  In the first, we did get some more submissions sent out, which is always a good thing, but that is also the most basic level at which we work.  I am glad we did it, and I think it is very important, but their were a number of things we discussed that really impacted me.  Some of this I don't wish to go into here, but suffice it to say that she offered me some sensible perspective on issues that I have been considering, and I am truly appreciative of her thoughts on these issues. One thing that Freesia did make me consider was my strategy in terms of publishing.  I've always been fairly reserved about where I send work, wanting to build a reputation of my writing appearing in certain journals, but I came to reconsider this today

He Pressed His Luck all of it, between the pages of books, like he had seen done with flowers, compressed it until flattened thin as paper.  He kept it, would not spend that luck, only looked at it, watched how light shifted as it passed through the tissue thin shapes.

I again did my work in two sessions, but I did not keep count of the number of poems I wrote.  I think it was around ten, but I am not certain, to be honest.  I still feel, at times, a bit of hesitancy around writing, though I am not certain of why.  I am not sure how to get beyond it, but I am dedicated enough to my work that I have never fully succumbed to the urge to not write.  I do hope I can overcome this desire to procrastinate, though.  I did get beyond it before, by regimentation, but I cannot help but feel that was largely inspired by Ulysses, and am finding it harder, emotionally and practically, at this point. Tomorrow, I will be working once more with Freesia McKee to get more of my work submitted.  I need to remain hopeful with that process, but it can be quite difficult.  In the end, I have to believe the work will find it's readership.  I trust the opinions of those who have told me that my work is good, I only wish some of them were the editors of journals where

A Lizard Got In My Mother's House It did not seem happy to be here, did not enjoy the comforts that modern homes can afford, was not interested in television or the stereo, did not want to lay down in bed or kick back on the sofa, did not seem to appreciate the art on the walls, the carpet, the decor. No, it did not approve at all, ran about manic, as though it did not appreciate the bathroom tiles or the large stall shower. It did not like the place\ at all, but still, it seemed insistent on staying, refused to leave even when I opened the door.

It was a very long and crazy day, and I had little time to work until tonight, so I only had one writing session, but I still pressed myself and was able to produce around ten poems.  Again, this is not to say that they are all particularly good, or even could be saved through revision, it is more about allowing myself to return to the working patterns I had been developing for so long.  I think that it is a natural rhythm for my work, in some sense.  As I mentioned last night, I have had other periods of writing in great bursts, it is more that I am now more steadily doing that work.  The amount, I think, is just a byproduct of that dedication, born out of a certain graphomaniacal tendency innate within me.  Or that is my best understanding of it.  I had worried about the quality going down because I was writing so much, but I think that is a strange and backwards concern, if I consider it.  While, yes, I can see an argument that doing so much writing might water down the results, tha

There Was A Theft, Today a thing stolen away, taken from each of us, removed by those who do not own it or have the authority, but no one knows yet what was taken or what it means that it is gone, and those who stole it will not allow themselves to see what they have done.

I wrote seven poems today, which is still far fewer than I had been writing for a long while, but I feel good about it as a step towards returning to my old habits.  First, I did not just write them all in a go, but split the work between two different writing sessions, both in my office, and both seemed felt quite fruitful.  I don't want to jinx myself by saying that I will repeat this, as I know tomorrow is going to be a hectic day, but I am hoping that I will. Also, for the first time in a while, I felt a certain kind of creative freedom in the writing, the sense that I can begin anywhere and will arrive someplace worth going.  While many times I do come to the page with things I want to speak of, poems that are in my mind already, may even be partly drafted, I also know that many poems I write come from following a random thought or snippet of language that is in my head at the moment.  For some time, now, I have not felt entirely at ease with that approach, only turning to i

Where To Start The ending can be a good place to begin, though you must put it at the end when the rest is assembled or it is not the ending and you only began with the beginning after all, not that this is so terrible a thing either, it is just not what is intended, is the straight path. The middle is not so easy a place to be, whether it is first or last or even middle as it will become, but it is always there, waiting.  But an ending, that is a solid place to start from, yes, knowing what will be, having ability to aim instead of catching balls from the air because you ran their same trajectory. But endings can start things well, they can, if only we could get to them without all the rest, then maybe we would find whatever peace is supposed to be after the rest has been resolved.

I am feeling the desire, once again, to ramp up in terms of the amount I am writing.  It is a feeling that I need to press through whatever is currently happening and get myself back into my old patterns.  In part, it is a feeling that I am slacking off, which I know many would think is ridiculous, considering it still involves writing a number of new poems daily (four or so, I think, but I didn't really keep count today), but I have become accustomed to my working schedule, to the amount of work I press from myself.  A teacher of mine once described the way Thomas Mann would treat his writing as a profession, waking each morning and going to his office in a suit and tie to sit down and write, with a break for lunch.  It is a way to regiment and control the chaos of creativity, and I admire it, though I do not know that I would go that extreme, exactly.  I think, also, of Trollope, who trained himself to write a certain number of words per a minute, pumping out his works at a rapid

I Am Invited to Lunch with my mother and her friends, but when I ask where we will eat, my mother names a place she knows is difficult for me, where the menu does not offer many options suitable to my dietary restrictions. My mother is insistent that I must lose weight, must make changes to be healthier, but when I balk, she only gives me a scowl, tells me this place "works for everyone," making it clear who I am here, what consideration I deserve or should expect.

Very often, it is pointed out how language can easily evoke a mental response, even when we do not intend it.  The classic example, of course, is "do not think of a pink elephant," or some equivalent.  The point being that once the idea is put into the mind, it is impossible not to imagine it for a moment at least, if only for the purpose of parsing the language itself.  This is true, of course, and quite important for anyone working with language, as should be apparent, but there is another side to this coin, one that is not as often mentioned, and certainly not as directly, and that is how words become inseparable from what they signify.  I mean by this that an object evokes language just the way language evokes an object. If you look around wherever you are and notice some object or other, you will find that the word or words for that object are already in your mind just from seeing it.  Of course, if their is not a name for the object, it may be a color or shape, or som

I Am Awake At Dawn Too Often Not to See The Sunrise From my home I cannot see the eastern horizon, it is blocked from view, so the day comes only as brightening of the sky, the sun itself hidden, only the rays tell of its ascent, let me know it has returned to the sky long before I will see its yellow face.

It has been another, extremely long, day, as I had to be someplace at around six this morning.  Tomorrow, I will again have to be up super early, though I can be there a bit later than six.  The best thing today, though, was that Melissa got home.  She is not going to be here long at the moment, unfortunately, but I am really glad to see her.  I did get my writing done, and I am hoping to begin increasing my writing output again soon.  I think I may still be quite exhausted tomorrow, but I will see what happens.  For now, I am heading to bed.

Problems It is easy to complain, but, we need them, I understand, yes, we need problems, they are part of how we organize the world, sort it, sift, understand, make sense, make the effort to change things for the better, yes, it is important to have problems, I know that, but why must I always have these problems?