Would That I Might

There are times when I write a poem and I discover something new that seems better than the rest of the poem, or at least, as if I want to keep playing with it.  Tonight, for example, one poem I wrote contains a metaphor that seems very good, seems to fit with an image I have been attempting to express for a long while, and I am not certain if the initial poem itself is all that great, or if it can be made better as it is, but I do see that metaphor as a thing I will have to continue evolving, whether it is in drafting this particular poem again or taking it off into other work.  It may be that I do both.  That is certainly the most likely thing, as I doubt I will not return to this poem again, just as I doubt that I won't pick that metaphor up in other poems down the line.  It may be that it becomes richer and shifts in ways that make it feel powerful to have it developing through multiple poems, or it may be that this piece is just a small step towards another work that won't

A Small Thing Goes Wrong, But It Seems Like Everything I am hungry, but what is here is nothing I want, and to eat it would feel worse than being hungry, and anyone looking would say, "that is fine, you need to miss meals, the way you look," and they might be right if it were not wrong, were not dangerous, self-harming, even. I must not skip meals I am told, but I don't want to eat tonight, not if I can only eat  the things available that I did not want tonight in the first place. not if these are the choices forced onto me. I am being silly, should just accept it, this inevitable result, should do what is possible, even when it gives me the sense of agreeing that it is fine. I did not mention what happened, did not say that we ordered dinner, hours ago, we ordered, then the order was cancelled and we found another restaurant, and they cancelled too, and it was too late to order anything and there is nothing here which is why we ordered and it feels like being told: you c

We are back home in Florida, again, and I am glad to be able to get to work on my computer again.  I didn't get to any work beyond my usual writing today; we had to be up quite early to catch our flight, then Melissa and I had a few things to get done, and I spent a bunch of time this afternoon/evening napping.  Tomorrow, I am planning to get some work sent out, though, and I have a few important, writing related emails to get to, as well as owing a critique and commentary to another writer, which is long overdue.  I need to get into gear again, in terms of more than the writing itself, and even with the writing, I do want to diversify into writing more prose, both fiction and non.  I am still quite tired at the moment, though, and am glad to be finishing up with my work at, what is for me, at least, relatively early.  Tomorrow, I hope, will be a productive day, and the best thing I can do right now to help to enact that reality is, I think, by attempting to get some decent rest to

All The Way from Ohio, She Was Crying Her mother is not dead, not yet, but she is mourning, already.  She would stay, would be there daily until the day's are through. It is unclear how long it is, how many days or weeks or months.  Is it a year? No one gives those answers. A year feels so long, though, feels too long.  Each day, she has cried for her mother, cried for her, not over her death, not only because she is dying. It is her mother who is dying, who will be gone from her, but she knows her mother's age, she knows her mother is an old woman already. Dying is the thing expected of the old. That is not the tragedy. There is a tragedy, but it is not the death, is not that. She wishes she knew her mother had been happy, once.

I am rushing to get done with my work tonight, as Melissa and I are scheduled to fly home early tomorrow morning.  A part of me always thinks of just skipping for a day at such times, but I did not, and here I am, finishing up.  I am glad to be heading home, to be honest.  I have a bunch of things I would like to be working on that I want to do on the computer, not on my phone, including getting more packets ready to send out, and getting some advice on those short stories, as I mentioned last night.

I Do Believe You Care or, rather, believe you believe that you care,  but I do not think you know how, or maybe you only can love what you control, what behaves as you wish,, does as you desire or think best. You have told me as much, have made it clear that aby wrong you do must be accepted as fine. You do not want me to forgive, you want all your acts to need no forgiveness, no matter what you do. You do everything you can to make it clear I do not matter: even when your words are kind, it is only the words themselves, never your voice or eyes.

I have a number of short stories that I think are good, but I am never as confident with my fiction as with my poetry.  In part it is that I know my stories tend to be a bit strange.  A lot of the times I worry about whether the endings are satisfying, as many times they are intentionally not conclusive.  I don't believe you have to provide complete closure that simplifies a story into ultimate finality, but it is not always easy to make such an ending work to make the story feel finished.  As well, I know that I often am playing unexpected games with structure or language, attempting something that pushes me into spaces that feel new.  One story, for example, takes the form of a defensive online rant, but attempts to do it without ever offering the details of the underlying event, instead relying on the character, pointing towards the kind of manipulative logic they are employing.  I do not know if it works as a story, but I am quite proud of it, even just as an experiment, and I

You Are Right The damage you have done cannot be taken back. It is permanent. I do not know if it can get better, now. Do not tell me, again, how you know it was a mistake, how you are hurting too. I do not want to hear that. It is not an apology, only makes me wonder if it were all the same for me but better for you, would you care at all? You say you want to fix things, to heal these wounds, but you do not know how or if it can be done. You sound so resigned, defeated, unwilling to try. If you wish it to be better, I need to know  you are committed. I must be certain you will not turn away, even if it seems pointless, even if you feel certain it will not matter, I need to know you will continue. It is not fair, perhaps, but it is what I need in order to begin, in order to feel it is safe to even begin.

I have been thinking about the idea of creating a better strategy for getting submissions out.  I think I might have an idea, though it does not address all the issues I face, but it might provide a framework to motivate me and keep it somewhat manageable.  To be honest, as I try to describe it here, it feels silly to me.  This is not to say it isn't useful or won't be an effective method, but I recognize it as being rather absurd and, perhaps, illogical.  Basically, it boils down to sending out two new submissions for every rejection I receive.  These can be the same packet of work, or a new packet instead, depending.  The idea is sort of based on thinking about it in a sort of gambling analogy, where each chance is equal.   It is trying to create a sense of building and moving forward, even if only by feeling I am increasing the chances of my work being published.  It may be silly, but I hope it might be a useful strategy that can help me to manage some of what makes this pro

You Have, But I Have Not I have made efforts. It is not nothing that is done, but you have done more, have done as much as there was, done it all, long before this. I wish I were so diligent, or is it not diligence? There is a struggle, a difficulty beneath. It is not only not doing, but not being able to do, not finding the way to do it, not knowing what to do and what is too much, what will help. There might be harm. If it is done wrong, there could be harm.

I received another rejection today.  It is the first I have gotten in some time, and it had been quite a long time since the work was submitted.  Another form rejection, as most are.  It always has a bit of a sting, which I suppose is only to be expected.  I am still struggling with getting more work out to journals at the moment, though I have been working on it.  I wish it weren't so difficult for me, but I find the process overwhelming.  I need to figure it out, though, or nothing would happen.  I just wish it didn't feel like I was struggling towards just getting more rejections.  It might be less overwhelming if it didn't feel like all the effort will only result in so much negativity.  I realize that rejection is a large part of the process, but it does dampen some of my motivation for submissions.  Submitting work is essential, of course, and I need to find a way to handle it, but at the moment, it has been a struggle.  I have to sort this out, obviously.  I just wis

In The Night, Her Restless Shadow unclasped itself, slid from the bed thinned itself to crawl across a slice of light that pierced the cracked door,  found its way to the window, slipped off into the soft of darkness. It would not be noticed dancing in the night's dim, a shadow against the shaded land swaying to the wind's song. It would return to its station before first light.  It would not matter it had not rested through the night: it was restored.

I am fighting a rather intense headache tonight, and have been for several hours.  Even so, I did my writing.  I don't know if that is dedication or insanity, but I am glad that I did it, even if it might seem a bit obsessive or unhealthy.  It may be that some obsession is needed for an artist, that creating requires remaining dedicated at times when it can seem to be contrary to one's self-interest.

That Is Not for Now is too small, still so small and frail.  Let it rest, waiting In the dark. It is not hiding, is not running away or turning.  Do not think it must be forced forward, dragged out, made to dance, to sing, to juggle the plates, no.  It will not be gone. Watch it grow, wait for it, let it know it is wanted, nurture it.  For now, it is still so small, but it will grow. When it is large and strong, then you might need to take action, to wrangle and coerce, but that is later. It must be ready first.

I am thinking a lot about how to write the essay on vampires and antisemitism that I have been researching and conceptualizing for so long, now.  I have made several attempts, but I found the framing difficult.  I think, however, the deeper issue is one of fear.  Part of that fear is that I am dealing with some sensitive subjects, and there is a potential for things to be misunderstood or misconstrued.  For example, it is important to discuss the connections between antisemitism and hemophobia as this can color the interpretation of the sexualized elements in Dracula.  I recognize that this is a nuanced and fraught topic, and I don't want to be misunderstood as being disparaging of queer identities because of this.  I am aware that Dracula and other vampires are often interpreted through a queer lens, and I am suggesting that aspects of Stoker's work which lend themselves to those interpretations are actually intentional allusions to antisemitic tropes.  That, even today, there

I Know I Agreed but now I know I should not have, I agreed, but I do not know why, I should have known then, I wanted to be able, but I am not, I cannot. I am overwhelmed. It is an obligation, now, I must do it.  I have tried, but I have not been able. I do not want to admit it, to disappoint those waiting, to say I have failed, but I am not getting anywhere, I don't even want to try, am frozen.  Why did I agree? I should have known, but it seemed good, seemed to be a chance. It seemed a way to move forward, but now it feels like it was always a trap. I don't want to disappoint, to fail. It will mark me.  I am afraid  it will become another way that I have been marked.

Melissa and I spent a bunch of time at the nursing home today.  I wasn't there as long as Melissa was, but I did spend a few hours, and it was not easy.  Ann is clearly not as strong or alert as she was just a few weeks ago, when we were last here, and it is upsetting to see.  We knew that she was not going to improve and that things would worsen over time, but it has been a far faster descent than we had expected.  I wish there was something I could do that would truly help, but the best I can hope for is to be here for Ann and, more, for Melissa, to offer my support and love though this, however it plays out from here. 

Conditions as They Are will not permit what is necessary: it is required but it cannot be while conditions persist. Of course, as you know, the conditions themselves cannot be changed.

It has been a long day, and tomorrow is probably going to be another, so I am going keep this short.  Melissa and I arrived in Ohio this afternoon and are settled in at her Mom's.  I did my writing for the day, and am feeling good about the work I produced.  It feels as if my poetry is in progress right now, shifting and changing each day, and that is always an exciting development to experience.  I am hoping to get some time tomorrow to do a bit of revising, but I have to see, it may be a bit too busy.

We Have Traveled to A Winter Place The land, a blank glare,  the air is a sharp, dry, sting  my skin had forgotten. Tomorrow we will see her, will visit the little room where she now lives, sit beside her bed. They say she is alright, her decline is still slow, but we know,  it is still decline, the speed does not change the destination. It is so cold tonight. It will be as cold tomorrow.

I had wanted to get a selection of poems cued up for revision before Melissa and I leave tomorrow, but I was too distracted today to get to it.  I can still look from my phone while I am away, so it isn't that big of a deal, but I would have liked to be a bit ahead.  My goal, as mentioned in a previous post, is to pick work for a full length collection, and to revise it with that in mind.  I tend to think that the work in a collection should have a cohesive quality, and that their should be some sort of a connective thread to help propel the reader through the journey of the book, something to serve the function of narrative, though it is not so tidy or literal as that.  It is more stream of consciousness, where the poems have elements that carry through, threads that seem to weave in and out of the text, in a way that provides a pattern for understanding and crafts a sense of the deeper context for the reader.  For this to happen, the work has to include those elements, of course,

Why Am I Made The Outsider? You both do it, though it is denied, you will each blame the other, or tell me it is my mind, though, at times, you have excused it, said it was natural and needed, that I was selfish  to want to to be close, to feel I was included, was an equal part of the family with each of you.  It is that way since Dad died, me over here, you two together. I do not have a mother or a brother, not as my family.  You are together and I am the interloper who doesn't belong. You make it clear so often. You tell me each day. Why?  If you must treat me so, tell me why it is you do not want me, why I do not deserve to belong in the places where I am from.

I received my contributors copy of the Atlanta Review.  There is a great thrill in holding such a thing, in opening to the table of contents and leafing through to find the precise page, knowing that out in the world, others have that same edition in hand, might discover those words.  It represents a great deal to me.  There is something powerful about having a physical object of that sort.  It feels almost magical, like a thing I helped to manifest into the world.  Of course, my work is only one little poem, one small piece in the journal, and I am not deluded to think that is more than what it is, but I also know I need to honor the sense of accomplishment it does bring me.  I rarely feel that, and I think that I often stifle it or push it down in myself when the moments come that feel celebratory, as though I don't deserve them, or, even, as if feeling joy at it would be a mistake.  It feels so often that I am not getting anywhere, that nothing significant is happening, but when

There Are Too Many of The Too Much's Far too many, and they keep coming, another and another, the same one's over, repetitions of previous problems, disasters drifting back after we thought they were away, too many of the old problems, but also so much that is new too, so many problems that take so much energy, take so much away, that make what remains seem less and even lesser, make is seem we have lost too much, too many things that were or could have been, too many things that are all gone now.  Too much and too much and too much, but always too much of what is not want or is not at all, Too many absences, too much nothing, too many losses, too much that cannot be restored.  Are there different days to come? Can the days be different again?  Has it gone too long this way, already? If it goes any other way, will it be a thing that I can notice, that we can feel inside ourselves: will there be healing or has too much been damaged.  How many of these things can ever be made bet

Melissa and I are getting ready to go back to Ohio again.  We bought tickets to fly up on Saturday and are spending about a week.  Melissa has been very worried about her mother, concerned that her condition is declining and she might not be around that much longer.  It doesn't seem as if their is any drastic change right now, or that they expect anything in the immediate future, but things have been progressing, and she is slowly creeping towards the inevitable.  Ann can't, for example, hold things very well any longer, and has a great deal of difficulty with tasks like feeding herself, which she was able to do more independently until recently.  The nurses tell us she is still alert and interacts with them, but they acknowledge the trajectory as well.  It is clear we need to be spending more time there, though it is not so easy to do and is taxing on both Melissa and I in different ways.  So, we are going to head up this weekend.  I wish that I felt Melissa's family at le

I Do Not Need to Be Told, Again, Just to Do The Things I Can Do I am already doing them.  It is what I can do. I am not seeking to be told  to what I can for myself, to focus on those things, to make my goals things that do not involve results but just doing what I can do, what I can choose for myself. Those are the things I am doing. I am stuck and the blockage is not inside, is not that I am not taking action, is not that I am stagnant. Maybe that is so for others: I do what I can, what I must. Each day.  It is always being done. What I need, what I am here for, came to you for, what I have expected, is real help on how to progress. Do not tell me to do what I can when I am doing it already, when it has never worked  except as a form of madness.

How do I write about a gesture that I know is intended as loving and positive, that so many people whom I respect find touching, but that causes me pain?  Today, several times, I have seen a post from a woman writing letters of love to strangers.  The first time I noticed it, I didn’t really think much about it, even gave it a like from my Twitter account, but it kept appearing before me, posted and retweeted by various people I know or follow, and something was nagging me about it, some unspoken upset that I could not yet name.  Why would it bother me?  Was I so calloused and unkind as to be harmed by the notion of such a gesture? But, no, there was a reason, one hidden in a detail I had, perhaps with some unconscious understanding, not recalled: the letters are handwritten.   It may seem odd to be upset by this, to be pained by it, as I find myself to be, but, as a person whose neurology diverges in ways that make handwriting painful and difficult, I feel a sting at the inclusion of

When You Asked I was hesitant.  I am always hesitant. I do not trust people, not this way, and I do not trust myself, either, do not feel I can do the task that would be required, cannot reciprocate in kind in a way that works. I worry.  I worry you  will not understand me and I will not understand you. I was willing, though, for some reason, was willing to take a bit of risk, but now, I do not know. I am certain you think what you have asked for is not different, is the same, but it is not that way for me. I do not want to explain this, do not want to need to explain this. There is a difference you do not know, or that I have imagined into my reality, or is it, really, that I still have no trust, am looking for excuses to run.   I do not know.  I must try to explain this to you, but I am afraid. That I need to explain makes me afraid.

 I began working on that revision today, though only in small ways.  I read the piece a few times and have made some notes on where I think I want to expand.  I've an idea for a way to frame the whole piece that might work, but I need to think it through in terms of the full structure.  At present, I can see it as a larger shape, but the only part that is fully clear is how to work with the first portion of the poem.  If I were to follow this idea, the poem would become a sort of direct address to a specific figure, almost a letter to them, and the first part would frame what is there against a memory I have from childhood.  That memory correlates well with the poems starting point, but I would need similar movements for other places in the poem, I think, memories or observations that would illuminate other ideas in the poem in the same way.  As well, I would need to do some good research so I can tie it back in to the figure that I would be addressing, in this case the philosopher

When We Asked for Help it was never offered without strings, without costs, was never truly help at all or was not what was needed, was only an appearance of help that made more work in its wake. It was clear: you did not desire  to be of assistance, only offered because you felt obligated, but felt even the offer made us obliged.  It was unpleasant. It was that way so much, was never simple, always ulterior, loaded.  The help  became a way to take from us, to say you were doing what we asked, that it was in our interests, for our benefit. You did not want to do it, but if it was necessary, you would find a way, would squeeze it in, but it was clear, you did not want to.  We did not matter except as a hindrance, unwanted and in need. Do not pretend it was never this way. If you do not know, will not admit it, that is only more evidence against you. It was always clear.  You made it clear each time.  And now, when we say, no, we do not need your help, have made arrangements are prepared

I spent much of today just resting.  The festival, even in its online format, is a lot, I suppose, and I didn't realize how tired I was.  Tomorrow, I hope, I will be in a better place to really get going on some of the work I want to do.  I have one poem in particular that I feel is important, and which I think I know what I want to do with it.  It is the same poem that I workshopped yesterday, and the reactions in class have me thinking that it is already most of the way there, at least in terms of what is present now, but I had already recognized that it needed some grounding, and I know the title isn't working at all.  To be honest, I kind of threw the title on.  I knew I needed to title it, and I had a sort of placeholder idea of what I wanted to gesture towards in the title, so I just threw one on that didn't quite fit, but would help me to keep track of what I was doing with the poem.  I may have a better sense of how to frame the piece, now, and it may be that I will

The Answer I Did Not Give Do not ask why it is taking so long unless you want  to do something to fix the problem, to fix the real problem, the one that caused this. It is your fault, you know, is a result of your betrayal, all these delays came because of you, because your actions stunned me  into an inaction of my own. I did nothing, so now, nothing is happening, nothing is getting done because I waited, stalled. And now, I don't care, I don't want what is coming, what was supposed to be good, you have ruined it.  It will not be good, will be nothing that was wanted. You asked why it is this way, will you take responsibility or are you going to say, again, that it is not your fault, or just look sad as if I am cruel, as if I am the antagonist because you feel bad, now, when it is too late?  I feel awful, each day I feel awful,  have felt worse and worse since you started this. I do not want to be here, do not want to be waiting, do not want what I am waiting for. If you want

 Today was the final day of the poetry festival, and I am a bit down about it.  I had a second poem workshopped in class today, and I feel that it went quite well.  The poem is rather thorny, as it is a bit abstract and philosophical, but, after hearing the comments of my classmates, I feel that it is working in a lot of ways already,  As well, I have a far better sense of what I want to do in revision, which is the best result I can think of, other than being told it is already perfect, which never happens.  I am very grateful to have been able to share this time with the others in the class, and that sense of good fortune is a part of what makes it hard to say goodbye.  At least I will have the time, now, to dig into the revision work that is waiting for me, not only with the poems that I got feedback on this week, but my work in general.  I am feeling energized and inspired to push forward with those efforts.  As mentioned previously, I've a strong desire to put together a full

She Is Afraid She did not go the market on her way home today, or she did go there, but she never got inside, never got out of the car because she saw  my brother's car and so she left. She does not trust him, does not want to be near him. She tells me, asks if she is being cruel. I do not want it to be this way, but I cannot change it, I only know she is scared. "You must protect yourself," I say, "that is why you left. It is not cruel." I wish my brother had not betrayed us. I still love him, he is my brother, but I cannot ask her for the same. I know.  It is not good. He needs to understand, to accept what he has done, but I know his response will be to say it is done, to say it is impossible for things to be better. "She doesn't like me," he would say.  No, it is not that she dislikes him, not that at all.  He broke trust, did such harm already. She is afraid of what might happen if she gives him a chance to hurt her again.

 I am honestly quite sad that tomorrow is the last day of the Palm Beach Poetry Festival for the year.  It goes by so fast, but especially so when it is online.  It is still very packed and I have been learning a great deal, but the interactions that occur when at the festival in person are so much a part of the experience, and the online festival doesn't have that element.  Don't get me wrong, I am thrilled with my experience.  My workshop has been stellar.  I feel very close with the group, though we just started working together a few days ago.  I turned in another poem for class, and again, it is one that I feel a bit concerned about, but I have a sense of trust in the workshop group, and that is not always the case.  I don't know exactly what it is, but it feels like a safe space in the way that workshop should be.  Beyond the workshop, the craft talks have been incredible, with some very deep discussions, and the readings have been fantastic. It is always more impactf

"The aloe plants are happy here, with you"  she tells me, looking at their leaves. They are still small, but are growing, seem to be, as she has said, happy. I like their company too, I tell her. It is the truth.  I like them being here, sitting with me when I sit outside in the sun. I will talk to them, sometimes.  I tell her this, too, tell her that I talk to her plants.   What do you tell them, she asks me, and I do not even know the answer. I tell them anything, everything. I read them poems I am reading, or ones that I am writing.  I speak to them. I do not think they understand me. I do not believe that.  I speak to them because it is a connection. They are alive, are not just things, but beings.  I talk to them, I do not care what I say because I do not think they care what I say.  They don't understand, not the words.  Maybe they know something, maybe they are aware of me, of my voice. I don't know if that is the case. I don't really care, though.  I do it

I am thinking that I want to begin working on collecting some poems into a full length manuscript.  I think it is the best way for me to push myself into doing more revision work right now, plus, I have a strong sense of how I can assemble the work into something cohesive and meaningful.  The key, for me, is in interconnecting the poems in various ways, and to have the elements that connect the work build into something larger by the end.  In creating my last chapbook manuscript, I did this by creating twinned sets of poems and building a structure for the book out of how I arranged those pairs in a pattern.  In a similar way, I want to interlink the individual poems in the manuscript together to build a structure for the book.  The idea is to have a sense of movement and progress for the reader as they go from one poem to the next.  It doesn't need to be literal, but it needs to create an emotional journey of a sort.  I think that I know how I can do this, by sharing elements betw

Would There Be A Difference if you were here, or had been when I came?  I do not know, I do not know if it was too late, already, but it seemed to be possible, if you had been here.  You made promises, and I wanted to ask if you would keep them, wanted to find out if it was ever true. I like to think it was true, like to believe, but it does not matter now. If it was ever meant to be true, you didn't follow through at all, you left, and I did not have a way to follow, a way to be part of that.  You were gone and that was all that came of it, and when I came to find you, you were gone again, were an absence that everyone around me felt. And then you were dead, were gone in the one way that does mean gone and not just absent, and it was too late, and I am not so sad for what you did not do, I am not so sad for what you might have done, not now, not when you cannot be here. It would have been good, would have helped, maybe, but it is not what I miss, not now.  It is not the thing I mi

We had our first day of actually workshopping poems today.  My work is on the docket for tomorrow.  I have to admit that I am a bit nervous.  It is not that I don't think the work I passed in is good.  I think it is already fairly solid, but I also feel the need to push it to another level, in some way, though I am not certain what.  It is a sort of persona poem, in which the speaker is a kind of authoritarian voice demanding that the reader remember things as they are being told to do.  It does not describe, in any way, what is being "forgotten," what the new memories are replacing, and their isn't a straightforward turn in the piece.  I think it is effective for what it is doing, but I wonder if it is too simple, if it needs to go farther and do something more.  I think my concern is more about the fact that the class is so short and I have little opportunity to workshop my poetry, so any piece I bring in feels inadequate.  I kind of wish I had picked something more

Directions They keep saying there are no shortcuts as if I have not been walking the long way for a long while already.  Others have arrived who I know started after me, who have found a way through without taking the long route, but if I ask how to get there, I will be told to keep going along this same path, keep walking it.  I must make it. I cannot walk all this way, cannot keep walking and walking, cannot have walked so far already if I won't make it.  If it is always to be farther down the road, with no other path. I do not need a shortcut.  It would be too late, anyway, it would not be short at all. I only want to know a way there, a way that I know will get me there. I am glad to keep walking, but I need to be certain I am getting closer, to know I will arrive.

It is really nice to have a chance to spend time thinking about poetry and talking with other poets and hearing their work and ideas. I mean, that sounds simple and, perhaps, just a bit silly, or overly obvious, but I don't have those chances all that often, and I can't help but remark on it. I know I would be far better off if I were able to exist in a community of poets, to be honest, but, at the moment, I get one week a year for that, and I am grateful. It doesn't make anything better, in a practical sense, but it provides a sense of connection and opportunity; not feeling alone makes things easier. I am still frustrated in many ways, and I still feel that it is necessary for me to find a way to change things that aren't work, and, simultaneously, that those are things I have no power to improve in any meaningful sense, but I feel more access to new possibilities when I am at the festival than at any other time of the year.

I Heard Someone Outside more than one person, I think.  It sounded that way, as if it were a conversation happening just outside, beyond the open door while I sat in the garage. It was raining, hard rain, which is why I was in the garage, not sitting outside, enjoying the air. I am sure I heard people. They seemed to be standing about, I heard no urgency in their tone, no sense of distress at the weather. Maybe they like the rain or maybe they had umbrellas or were in a car with the window open. I do not know.  I will never know because I did not look. At the time, I did not care much, but now that it is too late, now, I wish I did know. I wish I knew everything that can never be learned.

In the introductory session for workshop, tonight, Matthew Olzmann asked everyone to consider their definition of poetry.  He offered his own thoughts on the matter, pointing to the idea of it as an art, and as an attempt to create empathy, to give the reader an experience from outside their own life, that might be alien to them, inaccessible for their normal self.  As well, he spoke of the notion that the form is an element of the content in a poem, which I tend to agree with.  I have heard many definitions of poetry from teachers, and their is always a sense that it is not possible to really reach anything conclusive, maybe not even anything truly descriptive.   It took me a bit of time to think through my own thoughts on this tonight, to come to something at all coherent, and I can only call this one way of thinking about it, certainly not the only way, not even my only way.  One thing that I've always thought about poetry, is that it is the effort to bring the reader to a place

Forgotten Legacy I do not know if there are still hollow stemmed bushes hidden in the park, cannot recall where to look, though I know my father showed me, many years ago when I was a child. I should have asked to see them again, but when would I have? It would have been silly, too small a thing to matter at all, but now it is lost like so many things, is buried there. I was one who heaped the dirt.

My conference with Nickole was very helpful, and I am excited about getting to all the revisions we discussed.  Beyond this, it was also really positive me to get her general feedback on the work I shared and the progress of my writing over the years we have been working together.  I think I first had a conference with Nickole in 2017, though it might have been the year before, and she did a lot to push me back into writing poetry more regularly.  While we have only talked for about an hour each year, it has been a very important connection for me, and I feel as if she has seen enough of my work, at this point, to have some sense of it, and her positivity about the direction I am going, and about the potential of the work I brought in this year means a great deal.  I am excited about this entire week, of course.  My workshop is with Matthew Olzmann, a poet whose work I greatly admire, and I feel as if my writing shares certain qualities with his.  I know that it is going to be amazing,

Do Not Complain to Me about the repercussions ofthe decision you made when you took such care to keep me from knowing until it was too late for my input to matter. All of us are harmed now, but you had a voice. I do not want to hear what is happening, I do not want it. Find a way to fix it, or find a way to change what was chosen, or, make it so I was never excluded. Do not tell me  you dislike the outcome. You forced this on me, though I too had a stake, and now, you want sympathy, want me to recognize you as a victim, as injured by what was done. All that harms you is harming me too, but you were involved in making this choice. Do not tell me it was the wrong one when you made certain I would not even know it was being made.

Tomorrow morning I have my meeting with Nickole.  I spent a bit of time looking over the work again, but I am hoping to get up early and do a bit more before our scheduled conference time.  I wanted to get to bed earlier for that reason, but I had difficulty getting into my writing tonight.  Once I got going, the work that came out felt exciting and interesting to me, but it took a long while to get there.  I am glad I have the festival this week; in the past it has done a lot to help me recharge and rebuild my creative energy, and I am hopeful that this year will be no different.

Do Not Offer An Alternative or speak of shifting the goal, of changing what is wanted. Those are impossibilities, are diminishments,  require acknowledging what cannot be accepted, what will be too much. I know what is true. Do not think I don't know. I am not asking for anything that is at all realistic: I know that.  But, I know what is true inside, I know what can shift and what will only break, what cannot be otherwise if I am to be.  I am sick of it, am sick of being here, but what can change is not the "I" part, not with this.  Anything that is who I am, that is the same "I", any version of me that is who I want to be has these same qualities, is in the same pursuit and will not accept how things are. Anyone who does is not who I wish to be, is a shadow.  I can't explain it. If there is to be help, it must accept the premise, it must acknowledge the truth of certain needs, needs to offer a way forward that leads towards what is wanted by who I am, not

I think that I am going to try to do some work on the poems I sent to Nickole before we meet on Sunday.  The notes she sent already provide a lot of guidance that I am finding very helpful and I wonder if I might not get more from my conference if I have done some of the work she suggests.  I can think of a few pieces in particular where she gave very actionable suggestions.  In one case, there is some confusing language that I know needs to be sorted through, for example, and I think working that out might make discussing the poem more fruitful.  In others, where the work needs to go a bit further, it seems helpful to try to put that work in if only so I can ask for guidance in a more specific way if I need it.  I also know that my session with Nickole is going to be early in the festival, and I am going to be busy with things throughout the rest of the week, and won't necessarily be able to spend time thinking about and working on these revisions.  Getting myself started with tha

They Will Wait And Wait until it is too late to matter and the difference can't be made no matter how well it is done or how strong the commitment, how big the investment: it will come after, will come because nothing else worked, because no other choices remain, then they will do it, will follow the advice that was always best, will act as if every earlier effort was a necessary action, useful, good, was not just allowing disaster to grow, will not admit it was a mistake, that it might have been different, better, will say it is the last option, is too drastic. They will get there, will arrive, it seems inevitable, but not until it is too late.

Tonight, I received notes from Nickole on my poetry packet.  I read through her comments, but am planning to go back over it again.  A lot of her suggestions are about pushing further within the work, which I agree with.  The poems I sent are, mostly, ones I know still need work.  A few are ones that I feel more strongly about, but which I know can still be improved, but most are ones I see having potential to be fulfilled, and finding that way to push on is an important strategy.  It may be that I need to dial in on how to get there.  I think that I often hide behind craft and cleverness.  It is easy to let those elements carry the work, and it is not, inherently, a bad thing, but there still needs to be something meaningful underneath.

A Conjecture                            -For G. Pardlo The part that calls itself by a name, that calls itself a self at all, it always knows in words, turns experience to language. It cannot be at all if it is not that way. It is an act of language, to be as a being is an act of language. It is what I believe, is the sensible answer. There are questions, and proof is an absurdity, but I find nothing my mind knows that is not bound in words within me.

I am quite excited for the Palm Beach Poetry Festival this year, though it is being held online once more.  I am not pushing for it to be in person, to be clear, I understand the prudence of doing things remotely, but it is not the same, and a lot of what I most enjoy about these events is missing, especially in terms of the social aspects.  Even so, I am, as I said, very much still excited.  The festival provides me a chance to recharge some of my creativity by letting me be part of a community of poets.  I often learn a great deal in the classes, but even more, it is the communal sharing of the work and being involved in that process of exploration and discovery with other writers.  I don't have a real community of poets that I interact with on a regular basis, so this is the main chance I get throughout my year, and I cherish it.  I wish there was a way I could find to have more of that in my regular life, of course, but I spent many years when I didn't have even this one we

No One Arrived at The Party They could not get through, wandered for hours just beyond the door, could not approach it through the crowds, the wildness of the night was too much for them. I was waiting, was staying there, excited for them to come, for my friends, but it was impossible. They were not allowed, could not make it across the street, not until it was so late they could not stay. I only remember greeting them  outside the door. They never entered, they only left.

I am glad to be back home again.  For one thing, I don't have my computer in Ohio and have to do my work on my phone.  While I have gotten accustomed to using it, I know it is not the same for me as using a keyboard.  In some ways that can be good, can shake up my work but after a week, it becomes a bit tedious.  It is also just the feeling of being back in my own space.  I am not entirely comfortable in Ann's house.  I don't think that Melissa is particularly comfortable there either.  It is not the home she grew up in, or where she ever lived, I don't think.  She purchased it when she married her second husband, who Melissa has never fully trusted.  The worst part of staying there is the sleeping situation.  There are two beds, each one big enough for one person, but they aren't in the same room, and it is not all that practical for Melissa and I to move them together, so we wind up sleeping apart for our time there.  We have considered how we might change this, b

A Birthday Gift from My Mother I did not bother to say anything when I opened it, did not want to be rude, but I know I told you, but you did not listen, or did you listen and do it anyway, do it on purpose to say you did not care? You asked me and I told you and you did  what you wanted. You asked me, said you wanted to be certain it would be right, that it would be good, be something I wanted, and I said little, but I made clear what would be wrong, what I did not want. Did you hear me? Am I so small and unimportant you just forgot. Or was it a choice? Did you choose this because I said  I did not want it? I do not know. I am not even certain if it matters at all, But I believe it cannot be fixed, I do not think anything between us can be made better again.

I had to get up quite early this morning to get to the airport.  As well,, I was worried, as there was news of many flights being cancelled, but it all went fine and I am back in Florida at home.  Melissa and I both fell asleep this afternoon, and I woke up in the middle of the night and realized I had not done any of my writing for the day.  I could easily have chosen to not write, and that would not be a bad thing to do, in general.  If I had not woken up, or hadn't thought of it, I wouldn't hold it against myself.  I might do a bit of extra work after, but that is not a major thing.  I am writing a lot less than I did for a long time, and I am alright with that.  I am glad to have done the work, though, and I do like the inertia of continuing each day.  I don't think it is a necessity, but I know that, for me, keeping going this way is better than attempting to restart again.

Perihelion It happened, already, about an hour ago, for me as I write, this planet rolled by the sun, reached closest to that great, glowing one which centers out orbit. It is night, here, so I could not stand out and wave, as if I were a cruise ship passenger journeying besides a small town and sharing a visual greeting with the locals, I did not even notice it, did not realize it at all, I was distracted by closer things, by the dark sky tonight,  looking for the moon.

Tomorrow morning, Melissa and I are supposed to fly back to Florida.  We have out N-95's ready, but it is still scary, especially with the explosive growth of Omicron, but it is important for us to be able to visit Ann, Melissa's mother, in the nursing home.  Melissa has taken on managing everything for Ann, so it is not only the importance of seeing her, but also the need to deal with other matters that can't always be handled remotely.  I wish we could just stay safe at home right now, but these are obligations that cannot easily be put aside.

For Those Years the engine of my day was the cat, he needed so much.  It was work: pulling myself from bed early each morning so I could give him his medicine. It was most always a chase before breakfast, and again, before dinner.  He would come when it was lunch, though.  It was strange, how that time of day, he walked over himself, sat himself down by the bowl, looking at me, waiting for what was to come.   Sometimes, he might do the same when his 4am dose was due, but in the morning, in the evening, he ran.  Each day, he needed it. The only time sleeping in was possible was when he was in the hospital with seizures. I am told he had a long life for a cat with seizures:" a week shy of four years. I miss him, miss those tired mornings, the playful struggle as he ricochetted about, under the bed, then into the living room, around and around the couch, too fast for me to reach him  before he had darted off again. It was never an easy thing, but I wish it were still that way, wish m

As the year begins, I want to get started submitting more work.  This is a bit of a difficult thing for me, as I have discussed before, as I find the process rather difficult to navigate competently, but I know I need to conquer this in one way or another.  The real solution is to find some help with this, but that hasn't proven easy, and I want to get a jump on things.  I am not certain what the solution is, but I need to find a way.  I know that even submitting widely won't assure me of acceptances, but not submitting certainly does more to eliminate that possibility.  

Too Much Is Done Too much that is permanent. What comes next will not change it: the future builds on the past, never unmakes it. Things have happened, and not only the events but what was communicated by the will to act this way, the choices and who made them, who was considered, who was dismissed. Do not call it "mistake," it was always clear, but now it is too late, and still they want to be treated as if they did nothing wrong.

Tonight, I received word that I have been nominated for a pushcart award.  Now, I know that is not all that uncommon, but it does feel significant for me.  I have been struggling to place my work.  I sent out quite a few submissions(with help from Freesia), but only two acceptances this year, and I have found it rather difficult, at times, to feel that the work I am doing is of value.  While a Pushcart nomination is not rare, it is a significant to me that the work in question matters to those who are publishing it.  If nothing else, it gave me a boost at the end of the year, and I can't help but hope, as naive as I know it is, that it might be a sign of positive changes as this new one starts.

Here, The Year Began With A Storm I heard it through the windows, did not need to look out to confirm. It came just a bit after midnight, or perhaps it was closer to one. You were in bed already, but I was not done with the day. I sat, wondering, wanting a better year, though it is absurd to tie such a change to the Earth's orbital return, the random point our kind has selected, demarcated as the starting point in the ceaseless elipse of the planetary orbit. What has that to do with such things? What does gravity or the sun know of luck? Maybe the storm, though, perhaps it matters. Certainly, it will mean more to us, will have an impact, when we awake, this storm, what it has done, I am certain that will be more important than Earth approaching the sun.