ars longa, vita brevis

Ancient Trees and Underbrush

2012-02-04T09:41:00.000-06:00

For a brief interval in my childhood my father smoked a pipe. One of my earliest memories is of visiting a small tobacco shop watching him go through the process of selecting the right blend of leaves and finding the proper resulting aromatic scent. The air was always dense with various fragrances—from a sharp cinnamon to a drowsy oak. A forest of impressions. Dad always chose a vanilla-apple blend, a scent somewhat similar to the sensation of burning leaves in October. The store was kept in warm shadows, from the dim lighting to the dark colored woods making up the counters and shelving—the proprietor always conscious of the specific conditions of the rooms to ensure longevity of the leaves.

This memory only explains further why I venture into coffee shops and tea aisles in markets— a flooding over of the olfactory senses successfully reminds one of the details of the past.

In fact, used book stores and university libraries produce the same results for me these days—a slight sensation of falling, dropping back into personal history—especially the older books, the leather and cloth bound books which have texturized bindings marked by use over time. I miss the row of used bookshops I visited in Saint Louis in the Nineties—each visit produced a treasure hunt for an unknown item, the unanswerable curiosity of the week.

Today I fall into these recollections due to the fact I finally found a copy of a text casually mentioned by Isabel Allende in her essay: “The Jungle Queen.” In midst of her exploration of the Brazilian Amazon and within herself, she casually states: “Finally I understood the meaning of the last line of a famous Latin American novel: ‘He was swallowed up by the jungle.’” Although she never mentions the title of the work, nor the author, with the help of a few students I at last located an English translation. Ironically, none of the anthologies which list the essay never follow through with research to explain Allende's reference. This in itself is one of the problems I have with many college textbooks these days. However, I finally discovered that the book Allende refers to is titled La vorágine (The Vortex), written by José Eustasio Rivera and set in the Colombian jungles during the decade of the Twenties.

Finding an English translation of the book seemed impossible. Thankfully, after a month or two, my local library found a copy and now I am lost in the middle of the plains of Colombia following the treks of the protagonist Arturo Cova as he searches for some sense of inner peace. He does frustrate me however. Cova is displayed as a very emotional, reactionary man— very self-centered, egotistical in a vain-youthful manner. But a good protagonist is supposed to show a different perspective on life. Through Cova's complexities the reader develops a stronger understanding of a portion of the South American experience.

The translation of José Eustasio Rivera phrasings does manage to convey a strong sense of the poetic nature of book. Furthermore I can see why Allende references it within her own essay. A commonality of intention exists in the creative presentation of the topographical landscape within South America.

Which of course is what I venture into myself every now and then, losing the self in a landscape of an imagined region, in a wilderness of one’s own creation. I have been lax with creating new poems for the project series Grackle, Fox, and She-Bear, but the full forest of poems sits in my head ready to be slowly presented— I often picture Brendan as he works his way through the ancient trees and underbrush, encountering a variety of creatures and obstacles within the resulting verses. With a better layout of my time, I should be able to approach the full labyrinth of ideas again, fairly soon.

Yet another resolution: break down the sensations for all projects under development: one-by-one, poem-by-poem, progress towards the full idea.

Oedipus and the Hummingbirds

2012-01-29T16:43:00.000-06:00

•••
On the corner of my writing desk leans a pile of notes, clippings, scraps of papers. One leaf of photocopied information contains an illegible scrawl in my handwriting—made with a red felt marker, which I rarely use, the script displaying a rhythmic pattern, wave-like, expressive scratches asserting a strong point. An indecipherable point, but something of importance nonetheless. One portion of the note seems to state the word hummingbird then a few words later rather than Oedipus. Since I do teach Sophocles’ play Antigone, the marginalia could reference the lecture— but why hummingbirds?

This past summer when the Texas landscape burned from drought conditions, migrating hummingbirds became displaced as their territory became engulfed in sudden flames and progressive wildfires. My parent’s backyard transformed into a haven for these miniature birds. Almost every afternoon we would watch handfuls of them stitch across the property line of trees, darting and embroidering the landscape to reach a feeder filled with syrupy nectar— each little warrior representing an idea. A word. An unclaimed sentence. A bridge into a stronger metaphor. A miniature epiphany ready to dart close to a woman’s ear and whisper newly disclosed secrets.

Of course, today, middle of winter, the back gardens are in disarray. Milkweed stalks cut back expose left over weeds spreading out in the mulch. The sight of the backyard generates a sense of overwhelming responsibilities. New projects to finalize— every day a new line added to the list of chores. Oddly enough, Brendan sleeps longer during his afternoon nap; he has merged his two daily naps into one lengthy sleep during the middle of the day. But I am afraid to move sometimes. I know as soon as I start working on something he will awaken and demand a yogurt or some fruit concoction to satisfy his growing desires. So I take projects at a slower pace. Ready to stop and cater to his needs whenever I am the only one in the house. What results, in the end, I allow the projects to sort themselves. The various poems shift and float in the head as carp waiting for food— the larger ones scurry quickly to the surface of the water to gain a mouthful compressed pellets, a new phrase, a rewording, a casual additional word.

Lately I hunt for newer, more elusive wordings. Phonetics which I have unintentionally avoided in the past. Take raunch for instance, or vulgarity,— the typical word that would not appear in a haiku. A rust-covered shovel or decomposed remains of a bird—I have said this already in the past weeks. But it bears repeating. Reinforcing the intentions into my consciousness, into my active writing mind. My series of haiku dealing with a dive dance club continue to develop themselves. It’s interesting how a series of short fractured verses blend and blur into something larger.

A handful of my own favorites:
17/ A man just walks in— wears a dragonfly tattoo on his left shoulder.

24/ As he walks into the back room his dragonfly tattoo flutters once.

26/ Waiting to score a trick, he leans in the alley— breathes in smoke— exhales.

•••
More important: in March I will be participating in a poetry reading in New York. Twenty-five poets in Manhattan reciting their work. Building up a sense of nervousness considering what poem to read, what jacket to wear, what ad lib remark to introduce the work. Full information can be viewed here: Assaracus: A Celebration of Gay Poetry.•••
Still cannot comprehend my old note—human? humanity? humus? Maybe in a few days the verbiage will click again once I go over the full page of notes. Then again, making a connection between hummingbirds and Oedipus would be interesting.

Item of Interest || Random Notes

2012-01-26T13:42:00.003-06:00

from John Gallagher's web log Nothing to Say and Saying It:
Never worry about the reader, what the reader can understand. When you are writing, glance over your shoulder, and you'll find there is no reader. Just you and the page. Feel lonely? Good. Assuming you can write clear English sentences, give up all worry about communication. If you want to communicate, use the telephone.
I want to tattoo this on my forearm for future reference— a constant reminder. Or across my shoulders as a warning.
•••
A few days ago I found a list of practical approaches to poetry created by William Matthews. See number three.

Random Notes for a Bar at Last Call
• a tray of glasses falls
• he stands under clump of devil's ivy or mother-in-law tongue
• in the corner of his eye
• another moment
• lights rise / fog of alcohol lifts
• then he hears soemone call his name

•••
The above random notes establish phrases for possible later use— a situation undefined and without cohesion.

The Rebellion of Individuality

2012-01-20T12:06:00.001-06:00

Today exists as a day without a concise organized movement— that is, the mind’s goals quickly become tangled into a maze or obstacles and hurdles— partly self-induced, partly outside circumstance. So. After two early morning lectures on basic Analytical Literary Criticism I walk across campus for a strong cup of coffee— set a short path to an achievable prize. Not as an act of procrastination per se, but rather as a method of stalling to clear the head. Break free of the patterns built into the blood.

Lack of sleep does not help. Last night Brendan woke up howling at 11:36, either from a nightmare or discomfort, something unknowable at any rate. His diaper was only slightly damp, but he cried continuously for a good fifteen minutes after the changing. Perhaps it all stems from the fact that last week he started walking and instantly he moved into the toddler mentality of self-independence. He understands barriers exist. He strides into the room now ready to conquer any potential obstacle. He demands attention. He expects answers. One can see the strategy of his young mind seeking preferences for the toys or the picture books scattered in the room. Last night was no exception— after the change of pajamas it was clear he did not want to be rocked back to sleep. He communicates now with arching and twisting towards his desires: away from the parent and towards the goal. Last night he wanted to be placed back in his crib and have his back stroked— only this action served as consolation— only the smallest amount of my parental presence was required, my fingertips running in circles around his shoulder blades. He and I have reached a new level of communication.

Afterward, as expected, what resulted was the fact I could not go immediately back to sleep. I lay in bed trying not to think. Scattering of responsibilities always managed to drift to the surface of my consciousness the more I tried to submerge details of the approaching day. Phrases of poems bobbed on the brim of sleep, as carp wanting food. The remainder of the night existed as a series of rising and falling motions, short series of slight slumber, then half wakeful awareness.
•••
In my e-mail this morning however, a blast e-mail from the Academy of American Poets provided a poem by Arthur Sze that stood out, titled “Comet Hyakutake.” I cannot pin-point which specific line or image or phrase that connects, yet Sze weaves together a collection of unexpected elements to show a commonality within diversity, ancient and modern. To simply quote a phrase breaks the intense structure of a full river of information. To select only one fragmented line from a collection of fragments destroys the whole.

Here is the full poem with the line breaks preserved as the e-mail presents them: “Comet Hyakutake” Arthur Sze

Comet Hyakutake's tail stretches for 360 million miles—

in 1996, we saw Hyakutake through binoculars—

the ion tail contains the time we saw bats emerge out of a cavern at dusk—

in the cavern, we first heard stalactites dripping—

first silence, then reverberating sound—

our touch reverberates and makes a blossoming track—

a comet's nucleus emits X-rays and leaves tracks—

two thousand miles away, you box up books and, in two days, will step through the invisible rays of an airport scanner—

we write on invisible pages in an invisible book with invisible ink—

in nature's infinite book, we read a few pages—

in the sky, we read the ion tracks from the orchard—

the apple orchard where blossoms unfold, where we unfold—

budding, the child who writes, "the puzzle comes to life"—

elated, puzzled, shocked, dismayed, confident, loving: minutes to an hour—

a minute, a pinhole lens through which light passes—

Comet Hyakutake will not pass earth for another 100,000 years—

no matter, ardor is here—

and to the writer of fragments, each fragment is a whole—

In part what Sze creates here confirms what my newest project attempts, deliver minute fractures of a picture, allowing in the end for the reader to piece together his/her own unique story through a process of blending all of the supplied various elements together.
•••
I find it ironic he uses a comet as a major vehicle for his overall theme of the work, whereas with my poem, the image of a comet is strictly a simile, a short bridge moving between two ideas.

For the Grackle, Fox, and She-Bear series of poems here is the latest:

Turn the page. The thought
lingers behind— yet splintered.
Yet whole. A red fox shifting
between cypress trees, moving
as comet, as metaphor.

Silence weighs heavy—
without warning the language
of leaf and branch snap
shut, forgotten. Phrases lost
can no longer be carried.

Reddened cypress leans
forward to tell me something—
but comprehension
scatters. Brought down to nonsense
sounds: foot-treads through under brush.

A slight smear of blood
on a pale white kimono
or a red cypress
branch spearing a bank of snow:
at one time past, this was me—

or rather a brush
fire at midnight, red trails
slipped over landscape
in the darkness, a blank page
suddenly stroked in red paint—

Now I’m limited
to one shape— one small shadow
kept clipped to the ground—
my definition remains
whole, but without translation.
•
Let me clarify—
Its hard to provide private
information—or
personal accounts, details
of a true hidden nature

even to myself,
even with open moments
like this: an open
book in your hands, your face close,
leaning to knots of my words…

At this point my major hurdle is preventing the work from transforming into something much larger. There is an art for simplicity and understatement. I, on the other hand, tend to overstate and over-embellish, translating a simple idea into a grandiose, complexity of language. Trimming back excess remains a challenge at times. As the world’s readers spin closer and closer towards wanting smaller clumps of information, my poems spiral out towards pages of text, volumes of discourse and (re)examination. What was to be a six stanza poem becomes almost three typed pages.

So it seems I am much like my son— wrestling against the safe and the expected. Wanting the rebellion of individuality. Only thirteen months old and he has begun teaching me new ideas about myself.

The Ghost of T. S. Eliot Comes to Visit

2012-01-15T00:59:00.002-06:00

The latest poem in the newest sequence remains untitled, still. This fact hovers over the entire project. For some unknowable reason I need a title to help flow the tide of words and phrases. Titles act as an anchor for the reader. A stability to base the flow of information which the poet-writer provides. In this particular case, with this serious of poems a strong grounding in some sense of reality or logic is necessary do to the fantasy-folktale world the project bases itself.

Anyway. Currently I collected a menagerie of possibilities, each one a slight rewording of the main idea—from January 11:
• Monologue from a Displaced Character
• Displaced Nō Character in Monologue
• Character Monologue from a Japanese Nō Play
• Displaced Character Wearing a Japanese Nō Mask of a Fox
• Ray Soto as a Displaced Figure from a Nō Play
• Ray Soto Wears the Mask of a Displaced Fox
• Narration from a Displaced Figure in a Nō Play
•••Obviously, none of these work. They are too specific. Too clinical. What resulted: the ghost of T. S. Eliot came to visit and snickered at my distress. Every school term I lecture on the Modernist movements and of course "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"— which shows how a poem can be defined by what it is not. The title declares an expectation which the poem does not deliver. Nor does the title directly warn you it will be a narrative monologue. This classic example of creative manipulation set me into a knot of contradictions. What needed to be resolved: what is my main purpose in the end?

In my particular case— unlike the works of say Jean Valentine which depend on a lack of strong realistic reaction of the world— or the nightmarish situations Yannis Ritsos creates, which defy logic and coherent thought— my recent series of proposed works need a clarification to help justify their quest-theme.

I do dislike the word "justification." It is too close to the word "defend" or "explain." The independent-rebel-artist in me cringes at the need to "validate" a creative description."Confirm" is a good word choice. Or even "uphold"— "support." Let's use support then: A strong title will support the quest-theme in the series of verse.

It falls into the logic of choosing, or not choosing, a specific form for a project. A restriction for a traditional sonnet sets the goal-posts in a recognizable pattern. Likewise, a strong title sets up a sense of a restriction for how the poem will perform.•••
Tonight, therefore, I fell into sleeplessness, again. Found myself wandering around the titles verbiage:
• ~~Displaced Character Wearing the Nō Mask of a Fox~~
• Narration from a Displaced Character in Transition, Wearing a Nō Mask of a Fox...

"Narration from a Displaced Character in Transition, Wearing a Nō Mask of a Fox"—

—for some unknowable reason this works. Within this established definition of the work lies room for experimentation and creative phrasing. At least what resulted is something to play with and develop over the next few weeks.

Slightly Drunk, with a Blurred Voice

2012-01-08T00:28:00.001-06:00

So. Here I am again. Insomnia returns like a past lover. Calls up in the middle of the night, slightly drunk, with a blurred voice in the phone. Wants to talk about what actually went wrong.

Bullshit.

Basho would more than likely use this opportunity to compose a psychological-intense verse. Me? I begin to rant like an irritated old man. That old song and dance. Yes. Well.

Trying to remember the last time this happened. The sleeplessness, I mean. It has been quite a long time ago... maybe even more than a year... yet now, for the last three nights in a row I have awakened after only an hour's rest, the mind slowly re-emerging into the waking world. After maybe five or ten minutes, then full consciousness, signaling sleep has left the building. And then the anger sets in— maybe bitterness is better word. And resentment. A review of failed goals, broken ideals. Again: bullshit. Fight the cynicism.

Spent Saturday revising lectures on Thomas Jefferson, Phillis Wheatley, and Benjamin Rush— so, even now the trio sit in my head having a discourse on American slavery, race issues, and definitions of poetry. The academic mind interrupting the creative writing mind; at the moment an early Kronos Quartet recording murmurs from the stereo: Monk Suite. A CD purchased when living with Bob in Minneapolis, one of the worst winter's on record, and me walking to work in a small arts supply chain in the middle of downtown, spending more money than I could possibly earn in a year. Often I would drink gallons of coffee, paint expressive abstractions all night, or write elaborate modern verse for later use. The cold temperatures would drift under the windows, brush against the arms and hands— You see? Yes, those old ghosts again. Funny how we develop patterns within patterns, the older we get. Is this the catalyst of my insomnia? Regrets of Minneapolis, twenty years later?
•••
Trying to fall into the mindset for haiku—

For my short series on the coat check clerk at the Mid-America night club:

08 b/ ~~Tonight he daydreams arms on the counter, he daydreams~~ Head in hand, the coats dissolve into a cloud of blackbirds.

08 c/ ~~When no one notices,~~ With no one around, he inhales leather musk of the patron's jackets.

08 d/ With no one around, he buries his face within each leather (winter?) jacket.
•••
—or the longer tanka forms; the Brendan poems: the scene plays out in my head but refuses to fall on to the page— metaphorically, at this stage, the poet-speaker is an older man wearing the mask of a ghost-fox, but he cannot take it off— so he sits in his wilderness ruminating in his multi-fold robes of orange-red, fires and ashes, ruminating, seeking closure. But then the sound of a flute in the distance. Brendan playing a flute to the grackle.
•••
The head is tilting forward slightly now; eyes a little more sluggish... first sign that sleep is trying to return. Perhaps it is time to turn off the system and lie down again? Perhaps the demons were cast out once more.

Insomnia and Paralysis

2012-01-06T11:33:00.001-06:00

•••

For some unexplainable reason, bouts of insomnia return to haunt me these days— in my particular case, when these moments strike, they hit me with a paralysis— if I try to follow the recommendations of leaving the bedroom and shift the feelings aside, the body sends mixed signals and incoherent thought patterns which result in a lack of productivity. In other words, I cannot write or read or draw or watch television— this is the closest I find myself to a state of vegetation. In these moments, I exist, unable to move or think creatively. The body may be at rest but the mind is raging forward, almost a hormonal storm at sea. Waking nightmares in a sense. Frustration.
•••
2011 was a good year in a number of ways—received a few poetry acceptances, made strong connections, developed new ideas, proved to myself that the Internet’s Social Media concept can work in small ways.

What surprises me, on further reflection, I have six magazines submissions and seven manuscript inquiries floating around publishers’ desks— without any indication of possibility or decline. Usually by year’s end I will have two or three slower responding journals, who react once a query e-mail is sent— but this year a total of thirteen different publications have yet to respond to various projects. THIRTEEN. I find myself checking for new mail every other hour hoping I overlooked a response.

What this situation generates is a feeling of invisibility, of non-existence. Of paralysis. Perhaps this is my second greatest fear: being unable to creatively function in the world. To be unable to respond to the world or to not have the world respond back. This is a death in itself. A frustration building stronger as time passes. In a way, it is the same situation on campus when the semester begins, when the students place zombie-masks over their faces every term. Self-induced nihilism of intellect. A blank no-face. Silence. Communication shut down. Nothing going in. Nothing coming out. An existential crisis in itself.

The worst offender surprises me: Hunger Mountain. Back in March I sent four poems through the Submishmash submission manager system, and my work sits there, in the in-box, “in progress” mode. Two inquiry letters were sent. Posted a gentle “tweet” asking for clarification. No response at all. Not even a form letter saying my message was received.

And of course I have been circulating the work elsewhere. Simultaneous submissions are frowned upon by various journals; fewer these days than from a decade ago I notice. However, waiting over six months for a form-reject-letter is too extreme. So multiple mailings are sent.

Perhaps what irritates me the most is the fact Hunger Mountain was recommended to me by another writer. And the fact that the magazine is sponsored by Vermont College of Fine Arts in Montpelier. Where I earned my MFA. Hello?

Perhaps it is time for the stone-age-out-dated system of communication: a phone call. We’ll see what happens in the near future.

The Raw Underlining of Modern Experience

2012-01-01T11:22:00.002-06:00

A beauty lies in decay. In dilapidation and rust. Even in haiku poems, scenes of elaborate filth and squalor or raw tones of decomposition can be utilized to embellish a poet's message. Modern writers such as Richard Wright and Santoka Teneda knew this when creating their memorable poems. Even Basho on occasion used this technique to his advantage. There is a danger making haiku verse into a sentimental recording of an event, a danger in capturing only picturesque moments or sequences of "deeper meaning"— Recreating moments with disturbing images or even mundane, ordinary objects can impact a reader with a strong emphasis, allowing them to transcend the information into something other.

Some Quick Examples:

25/
     A horse is pissing
In the snow-covered courtyard
     In the morning sun.
                                   —Richard Wright

754/
     While urinating
I feel slightly self-conscious
     Before the spring moon.
                                   —Richard Wright

179/
Making my way through the fallen leaves,
I have a good shit in the fields.
                                   —Santoka Teneda

360/
Red urine—
How long will I be able
To continue this journey?
                                   —Santoka Teneda

531/
fleas and lice
now a horse pisses
by my pillow
                                   —Basho

•••
What these five poems have in common is the emphasis of articulating the grit of everyday living— and moving beyond the "ugliness," beyond the unspoken rituals of existence.

•••
With this in mind, I am currently developing a series of haiku sentences on themes not normally associated with such meditative verse. The first handful I have generated specifically delve into the night life of a gay dance club— the ones with less than posh atmospheres, the ones that carry scenes of a warehouse dive, or the hidden Mid-American beer joints with secret entrances.

What I hope to accomplish is a stronger, more direct approach towards my writing— a frank honesty, or a means to expose the raw underlining of modern existence. To utilize themes less expected from an average haiku.

A litany of these will be posted on Twitter: @Pan_Within.

A Quick Preview:

1/ From the stage— leaning through a blur of cigarettes— their hard bodies sway.
•
17/ When he drinks, his tongue slips forward first—darting into the mouth of the glass.
•
25/ On backstairs, he hears brusque intakes of breath. Then invisible whispers.

Works Cited Page

Last Winter Tanka

2011-12-27T11:21:00.000-06:00

•••
Rain-slick December.
At wet cross streets a sudden
cypress flames out rust
red against the winter mist.
Only my mother sees this.

Poets Totally Get Cognitive Obstacles

2011-12-24T11:00:00.001-06:00

Found this old link-draft page sitting in the blog's dashboard— a sign to always double check one's settings at least once a week. It is old news from the Poetry Foundation— yet the relevancy remains.

As a writer it is important to set obstacles in your path to test the limitations of your creative theories. Why else would I torture myself composing nightly haiku and the occasional tanks verse? To discover other phrasing. To invent a new language. To rediscover experience.

Read full article: Poets Totally Get Cognitive Obstacles : Harriet Staff : Harriet the Blog : The Poetry Foundation

A Gray, Insecure Century || Fragments

2011-12-23T12:03:00.002-06:00

My boy, Brendan, sleeps— offering time to catch up quickly on random blog commentaries. The signs show he is going through a growth spurt: change in eating habits, shift of sleeping schedule, and increase of curiosity of the workings of his new world. This morning in fact I caught him swinging from the window blinds à laTarzan's boy. Which caught me off guard. A frozen moment in time and panic. How he managed to work his way from floor, to couch, to window in less than five seconds is beyond me. To put this in clearer perspective: he only reached his first birthday earlier this December. I was not anticipating the terrible two phase for another six months. Naive me.

His first birthday itself was a milestone event for the family for numerous reasons. A multitude of justifications, too many for explanation. Suffice it to say, his adoption served a dramatic moment in our lives on many levels. Worthy of a Charles Dickens novel. As a writer myself I tend to hold back revealing intricate plots in an abrupt journalistic fashion. Situations sometimes need further examination, further desensitization before even considering putting them into print.

Yes, even though I maintain a blog, a casual reader may pick up on the fact I often do not delve into extreme details of my personal life— there is a notion of discomfort displaying my private self, allowing it to mix in with my public persona. I want the poetry to do the creative talking, not my day-to-day impressions. Some bloggers can achieve a nice balance of honest-disclosure with their audience— and in fact I enjoy reading of others' adventures in this wilderness. These types of journal-blogs allow for a commonality and a sense of security in this gray, insecure century (to paraphrase Charles Simic). However, for now, for me, a little silence is good, until we get to know one another better.
•••
Rejections from publishers seem rather absent these last few weeks. Roughly speaking, five or six manuscripts of poetry are floating around the ether of the internet, patiently waiting for an editor to open a file and show a sign of interest or quick "no, thanks." My methods for finding a printing house appear lacking. I will be the first to state this out loud. Even in casual living I tend to hesitate, pause, hold back too often. I question my talents too much; I react too late to offers.
•••
The current project regarding my boy has a tentative title of Grackle, Fox, and She-Bear. Odd how titles often arrive sooner than poems. Titles for me act as a point of reference, an established goal. My muse seems to think in fragments and allows me for stitching and revision along the path.

In this case, this project motions in a different manner than other writing— I am used to poems falling out in a rush or in a necessity to be put on the page— the current words slowly work across the notebook paper... a fractured long poem slowly working together over a number of weeks and months. This is of course due to the fact the full series of poems sit in plain view, the full amorphous work wants definition, shape, embodiment.
•••
—and now the boy awakes. Demanding voice. Today will be a fragmented journal as well.

Hydrant 23 || The Manner Language Stumbles at Night

2011-12-20T09:58:00.000-06:00

•••
The goal of freewriting projects often falls into the territory of discovering self. Or falling into memory to define one's self. Through a rambling pattern of words and imagery. Broken phrases and de-constructed sentence forms. Which is why I often use these hydrant photos as a starting point— almost none of the photographs can be traced to a specific epiphany moment. I can meander through any odd assortment of phrases— a sea of language. My newest project deals with folktales, or the logic of magic realism, set in a current, a stream of social thinking from a fictitious village somewhere in Europe, thatched roofs and white plaster walls, seaside location perhaps— but not a relevancy for the plot because I want the character to wander on foot through the typical wooded conflict— confusion of shadows and tricks of the light, lack of light, when mice and beetles roam, owls and bats. The manner language stumbles at night when the mind is sleepy, hesitant. Waiting for to idea to find you, not the other way around—

•••So I pick up a book at random, Stephen Dobyns Heat Death, remove the bookmark from the title poem, page 67, section eight: a reaffirmation of a fragmented, older idea which corresponds to my current reality, (but taken out of context):

think of it as a child in a red coat. Think of
that child on a flat acre of woods and the whole
acre pried and cut from the earth like a table top

—that child is my newest poem series— that child is my son on his adventure— that child explains my new direction in writing.

115/365 - 119/365 || Five Grackle Tanka

2011-12-09T07:57:00.003-06:00

— with fractured language
falling from a blueblack beak.
Stuttering vowels,
split phrases. Cacophonous.
Raw words costumed in plumage.
•••
The moment fractured—
an acorn splintered, broken
segments all representing
past, present, future motions,
the day hunched and fragmented—
•••
The moment hovers,
circling with iridescent
wings, suspended close—
an unfolding overhead
as a dark epiphany—
•••
The night once fractured
into fractions of the flock—
jab and clutter, full.
One voice echoed the many—
now there is only silence.
•••
We were a gesture,
a completeness undefined;
yet we shaped the wind,
the patterns of elm branches
crossing over the sky.

114/365 || One Last Conversation with Winter Moon

2011-12-02T14:18:00.000-06:00

Three days after posting the "Twelve Conversations with the Winter Moon" a new tanka emerged in my notebooks. At the risk of going back and editing a finished post, for the sake of coherent chronological records I'll leave the individual thirteenth verse as an isolated post. Maybe if in the near future a formal publication is achieved, the official title will become "Thirteen Conversations with the Winter Moon." Somehow the association of the number thirteen works well with our satellite.

••• Unexpectedly,
your image returns at night
when I least expect
it: a cliched metaphor
in endless repetitions.

Items of Interest || I am Compelled to Share Anything Woolf-ish

2011-12-02T14:02:00.000-06:00

One of my favorite literary blogs, but.if.and.that., recently posted material regarding Virginia Woolf, one of my favorite authors— and of course I am compelled to share anything Woolf-ish.

The Same Dirt Road through the Woods

2011-12-02T10:57:00.001-06:00

Failed to mention that this last November, I was interviewed by The Fertile Source. One question in particular struck a chord with me due to the nature of the query.

FS: In “As A Figure of Hermes” the narrator open with the writer’s dilemma: “A moment of confrontation: me and the blank paper,” dilemma enough without the presence of a child to raise and love and imagine a life for over the rest of one’s days. Eventually the narrator latches onto the metaphor of Hermes, sliding into reverie about mortal son. Can you speak to the relationship between fatherhood and writing? How has fatherhood come to bear on your writing life?

DGS: With the experience of becoming a father last year, and the whole process of the adoption of our son Brendan, I quickly fell into a mode of redefining myself. Almost immediately a whole new understanding of my goals and aspirations emerged—I know it sounds cliché, but once the title of Father is attributed to you, a strange mindset develops without warning: no matter how much mental preparation you are supplied.

The poem in particular was a projection of a future possibility once Brendan reached his middle teen years—written before a birth mother had even matched with us. What I find interesting, although the projection of him as a dark-haired boy is inaccurate, my fear of a loss of communication with him is very similar to the fear of losing touch with my creative energies. Once, in the mid Nineties, I experienced a long spell of writer’s block, partly self-imposed, partly circumstance. My fear of the blank page echoes my fear of Brendan not understanding the creative energy of a writer-father.

••• At the time I left my answers somewhat short— however, ironically, more than once a full multi-page essay could have been generated as a response. As an example, I realize my fear of writer's block is the same fear of possible failure as a father— and until now— I never connected the two feelings. My above reply limits my reactions in a self-centered manner, that is, I address Brendan's emotions towards me, rather than addressing my emotions returned to him. To be more balanced I should add that of course as a writer I have a relationship with my poetry, just as intense as my relationship with my son. At one time I thought the two were separate from each other, running different paths, heading off in different directions. Now of course it is plain that the two elements run along the same dirt road through the woods, the same goal, the same resolution. My son has become my poetry, more-so than any metaphor could express.

It all comes down to identity and definition of the self. The titles of "poet" and "father," even "partner," "son," and "brother," braid together within the components of self awareness and creative output; these multiple labels in the end are all reaffirming who I am today.

Read the full interview: http://fertilesource.com/2011/11/possible-futures-poetry-puerto-rico-and-adoption-with-david-glen-smith/

102/365 - 113/365 || Twelve Conversations with a Winter Moon

2011-11-25T12:03:00.000-06:00

The analogy
should be made obvious. Clear.
The words in the book
become the voice in your head.
My voice repeating my words.

•
You hold a pebble.
The pebble aches to increase
in size, move beyond
perimeters of your hand,
or notions of being owned.

•
Sometimes you appear
after a long night drinking,
blurry-eyed. Wrinkled.
A dark edge of unshaven
whiskers on your curved features.

•
What was— is now gone—
burnt out embers, cold ashes.
Circumstances change
overtime— the stove once hot
transforms to a stone-cold shell.

•
— and even your eyes
carry the ghost impressions
of your former past.
Shadows which cling at your heels
distort in the morning light—

•
A shirt lies empty,
forgotten on the unmade
corner of the bed—
transforms to ghost memory
or a mere speculation—

•
As an empty plate
left on the table’s worn edge—
unspoken symbol
or expectant metaphor—
you pause—an apparition —

•
A lamp left burning
on the darkening side street,
as unfinished poems
piled on a desk top by
the window with open blinds.

•
Outside each window
your face shifts between the glass,
a ghostly voyeur
witnessing each falling word,
each failed gesture between us.

•
Other times you fade
in the background as a blur
in a photograph,
a forgotten phrase pausing
on the tip of a blunt tongue.

•
Like the time you tripped
walking up the stairs, drunk on
experience and
returning home with someone’s
breath still warm inside your mouth—

•
You linger palely
resting on the horizon
as a vague notion,
or a sight hesitation
I cover up with one hand.

Treading slowly through the Labyrinth

2011-11-23T10:45:00.002-06:00

Hagiography or Folktale?

As it is with most projects, a current idea has begun, quite by accident. Recently my boy fights falling into sleep; he effectively resists the plunge into slumber by holding firm to a strong resentment, most often during the period of his mid-afternoon naps. His anger lashes out, all energy channeled into defiance and independence. As a logical means of calming him down, I chant repetitive poems, or sing foolish songs I learned from camp, or casually talk about the day's events— anything to distract his moods away from rebelling against rest.

Recently, I found myself building a story from scratch, assembling a rough adventure typical of the Grimm brothers containing talking animals, dense forests with darkened paths, and a recognizable plot pattern of basic conflict-resolution. As I stand holding him, swaying, the rhythm of my motions often picks up the construction of the narrative, the phrasing of language basing itself on my shifting arms. In a sense, the story transforms around me, becoming a challenging labyrinth of information, forming itself slowly in my head of its own volition, even as I stand in the act of recitation.

Often in a caffeinated rush I visualize the full project in a formulated draft: three or five sections of verse, each division standing on its own, yet working together to form a plot, a hero's motion towards a successful denouement.

Originally I had planned beginning a modern hagiographical retelling of Saint Brendan and his adventures with the whale— of course based on my boy's sleeping habits and our whole adventure in the adoption process. But, now I find myself swept up in a sudden fantasy world of its own making— a hybrid concept stemmed from Galway Kinnell's The Book of Nightmares and Anne Sexton's Transformations. Perhaps, carefully, treading slowly through the labyrinth both projects will formulate themselves. •Three of my poems have been posted by The Fertile Source this week. I am excited mainly because this trio of verse are all relatively new works— composed in the last two to three years. All three deal with Brendan in some fashion— as a background character, as a metaphor for my collective writing, and as direct conversation to his future-self.

Read the full poems at: http://fertilesource.com/2011/11/learning-spanish-as-a-figure-of-hermes-i-tell-my-son-to-burn-down-all-bridges-three-poems-by-david-glen-smith/.

96/365 - 101/365 || Blood Releasing Itself within Itself

2011-11-18T12:00:00.001-06:00

We walk everyday
among our ghost memories,
wading through past tense
experiences, misplaced
moments. Poems never written.
•
I feel my worn hands
grow dry in the night, casting
off moisture, slowly
transforming, shifting into
copies of my father's hands.
•
A young, displaced hawk
balances on suburban
backyard boundaries—
his savage poetry leans
from the fence— then leaps forward—
•
Tonight a ringing
in the ears, a pressure change—
or blood releasing
itself within itself. Yet,
the pace of the night maintains.
•
An old dog wanders
along the garden stone wall
pausing long enough
to leave traces of his name—
small, watery graffiti.
•
Clear night overhead.
The chimes likewise are quiet.
Only one light burns
in the house, here beside me—
and the sounds of you breathing.

Nights of Alcohol and Cigarettes

2011-11-18T09:52:00.000-06:00

After eight months of drafting and revising a poem I finally finished the last stanzas— and revised the title from "A Dream-Poem to a Former Lover in Minneapolis." I have mentioned in the past how the work often faltered, stalled out without warning. The title itself changed three times. The phrases kept meandering without an sense of closure, no ending nor grand emphasis or moral to wrap up my point. Currently it sits with seven distinct sections— the only commonality between them all is the fact they are composed in tercet stanzas, and a loose chain of a story-line. Overall it sums up my understanding of a failed relationship during my college years— a brief five year span which left me wounded.

Even now a large sense of regret lingers. A sense of waste: R. often fell into a series of weeks filled with drunken binges, angry nights of alcohol and cigarettes. Material for poetry he would claim during calm sober afternoons. Before the binges began again.

The catalyst for the poem of course is R.'s early death last November, his sudden leap into finality.

A portion of Section 3 reads:

I never understood
why you wanted Death to rise
within your life, personified

as a trick in his late twenties.
Glassy-eyed. Coked up.
His right arm flicking ashes indifferently

as he lay next to you
in the dark. Without emotion,
as he breathed in smoke,

considering the hairline cracks
running along the ceiling—
considering your t-cells spinning languidly

in thin-walled veins. Sometimes while you slept,
he would curl beside you, caress your forearm,
and tap inside the elbow to raise

the lines of green-blue channels,
to loosen out a casual
bruise for a matter of days.

He would watch it fade
from a dark violet to a sickly green...

•At least now he has the closure he always sought— leaving me with many unanswered questions and speculations of my acceptance to the news.

92/365 - 95/365 || Malleable Words

2011-11-09T11:46:00.000-06:00

A silence invades
my notebooks— heavy winter,
without stain,— smothers
words, all languages erased.
All that remains: vast brightness.
•
My mind wanders back
and forth, shifting words around,
reshaping notions
of the verse. Malleable words.
I hear chimes in the distance.
•
I hear chimes. Off key.
A night wind drifts without goals.
The night itself pulls
overhead without purpose—
sudden memories flood close.
•
Rocking you to sleep:
every few moments, you glance
up, open slow eyes
to verify I still stand,
shifting with you — back and forth.

A New Masthead Design

2011-11-05T15:30:00.000-05:00

Blogger has been adding some new templates lately; I have played with a few, much to my disappointment. The concepts do not fit my plans for the site. At any rate, I did change the headline photo to an ink illustration I completed last year. It seems appropriate for a writing/poetry themed blog.

Fractures and Personae || Publication Updates

2011-11-05T12:07:00.001-05:00

Originally I planned on developing a formal rant regarding a recent rejection letter-- I always reserve the right to be angry over editorial comments; my expressionistic rumblings may still hit the laptop this month-- however, positive news was delivered to me over the last series of weeks. As I tell my students, the old adage: focus on the positive; ignore the negative.

First, The Centrifugal Eye has posted their recent issue. On page 27 a long poem of mine is shown: "Fragments: East Saint Louis, 1996." This work in particular went through numerous revisions and changes over the last few years, due to the number of literary magazines which rejected it. Thankfully, the original intention remains, a theme of psychological dilapidation and ruin. The stanzas themselves are fractured shards. --as a fallen ceramic vase or a dropped glass ornament. I should add, this poem is an example of the poet talking through a mask of a bitter poet-narrator. I channeled a very bitter moment in my own life while I lived in Saint Louis, then spiraled the feelings into a dark voice. It is interesting how reality blurs with fiction and speculation... Within the reality of the poem is a scene of the downtown portions of the city which still maintain the crumbling early Twentieth Century architecture-- still beautiful in their decorations and scroll work along the edges of the buildings' structures. One section of the city contains an old brewery which I remember being a part of the Lemp Brewery chain... details are not clear for me at this stage. All recall is the levels of brickwork and dusty decay of the older sections of the factory. A full cityblock of early history of Saint Louis.

Likewise, in mid-November, the print version of And/Or will be available. They accepted three of my more experimental works which deal with different personae and their interior monologues. In particular, my long poem "9 Fugues for Jazz Piano" was selected for this issue. It also involved a memory of Saint Louis from the Nineties-- but less personal, more fictitious. The voice is that of a jazz pianist lost in a break up, which results in his decent into a drunken state of denial and resistance to the situation. He was an interesting character to channel-- difficult to maintain, but based on reality of loss and refusal for change.

To date I have never read these out loud; I may attempt to get a reaction from one of my higher-level writing courses near Winter Break. It would be nice to discuss these characters in-depth with a collection of opinions.To get a reaction from an audience regarding their acknowledgment of another person's pain.

Hydrant 22 || Almost Translucent

2011-10-31T09:56:00.000-05:00

There is a moment outside when walking across the commons to a small pond you cross through a cloud of gnats; they spiral as individual galaxies, a fog of stars blurring in front of your eyes for a moment,then hover just out of your vision, then return. Unintangible. Almost translucent. Always out of reach. Unphotographable. As the early twilight moon skimming the horizon. A dim crescent in a moment of hesitation.

90/365 - 91/365 || Two October Tanka

2011-10-31T09:41:00.001-05:00

As an afterthought:
ignore these fading ideas,
lost conversations
trapped in technology,
a limbo of wandering—
•
In worn leather shoes,
October stumbles, falling
forward slightly, scraps
of blank paper slipping from
holes inside his coat's pockets.

89/365 || We are Separate

2011-10-25T14:47:00.002-05:00

Randomly, I composed a haiku and tanka based on the same scene, the now moment just before ten o’clock with the cat curled against me with R. asleep even with the lights on as I read the poetry of Santoka Teneda. My two short verses follow the notion of the two of us in one bed, on the one hand living a tight bonded life of its own patterns and habits— and yet. On the other hand, we are separate. Individualistic. A clear division between our positions. Unique islands, two territories.
For now, the tanka:
As I turn the page
you roll over half asleep—
nightly ritual.
Our two lives lie side by side.
Only a cat between us.
•

85/365 - 88/365

2011-10-18T12:49:00.000-05:00

The moment hovers—
a peristent present tense—
unfolding itself,
slowly uncovering both
of us lying prone on the bed.
•
All I remember
from today: wood doves clustered
along the back fence.
The sweet weight of the baby
falling into a deep sleep.
•
We bundle the baby,
and his frustrations, outside—
spoon into his mouth
a stronger identity
and a greater sense of self.
•
The baby frowns and
considers the buttons on
my shirt as I hold
him close— his fingers tug tight
on the threads that bind us close.
•
As of tonight, I like the repetition in the last verse. The wording emphasizes the lack of distance which lies between Brendan and myself, at this stage of his life. Lately he stares thoughtfully, intently at the most mundane objects: a ring of keys, the open electrical sockets, the autumn decorations we hung on the front door. When he gets into these serious modes, you can see the thought processes forming, the formulas building up the cause and effect aspects of the household. And then, on occasion, satisfied, he will look up at me and grin wide, and proceed to waddle off to a new corner for further examination of all his toys.

Item of Interest || Ten Oldest Books

2011-10-14T18:56:00.001-05:00

from Vintage & Anchor:

Due to the ever-changing nature of archaeology and dating technology, the literature currently considered the oldest in the world may shift in line with newer, more exciting technologies. Regardless, however, these ancient texts will always remain amongst the oldest known to humanity. Typically of Egyptian, Sumerian, or Akkadian origin, the world’s first works of literature provide an integral glimpse into how the peoples who initially recorded their histories, stories, and religious beliefs lived out their daily lives. By educating oneself in humanity’s past, one does nothing but forge a deep understanding and awareness of the present.

Read more: http://vintageanchor.tumblr.com/post/11320065072/the-10-oldest-books-known-to-man.

79/365 - 84/365 || Domestic Tanka

2011-10-14T12:06:00.000-05:00

You feed the baby
in the backyard— while I walk
around the warm house,
with buckets of green water,
for plants wilting on the porch.
•
Another listing
of negation: no crickets,
no fire flies, only
sudden, endless rain falling
on top of this house of light.
•
Suddenly sleep tugs
at my sleeve—insistent child—
I almost consent—
until sudden wordings fall
in my lap, as steady rain.
•
While waiting for words
to emerge on blank paper,
the floor fan spirals—
creating drafts in the room—
coiling back empty pages.
•
It is time I moved
the round stone head of Buddha
among the milkweed:
soft divine fires for his night,
new platitudes for his days.
•
You sleep soundlessly,
never moving beside me
as my hand furiously
motions over lines
of paper, a soft blurring.
•

Hydrant 21 || The Ether Background of Living

2011-10-14T09:51:00.002-05:00

This moment is forgotten— the inspiration lost in the ether background of living. But I can say this much, as a means of reaching for closure, stretching for a point beyond blue hydrants on greening grass, the last few days proved how one can become lost in their own rituals, not as in a rut, but in the stress of motioning forward day to day. Chores which should take a matter of minutes took hours: confirmation of a prescription at the pharmacy, driving across town to pick up my boy, feeding him as he squirms, as he resists the straps of the high chair, the limitations I place on him as a father— how soon does one's inner drive kick in? Is he already a viable personality struggling against authority, even as a ten month old? Yet, he still needs a sense of comfort and control; I must acknowledge that his want of my presence does overwhelm me often. Echoing my want to reply with confirmation of his identity, his stretching shadow across the kitchen floor in the afternoons—

Steel Toe Review || The Myth of Pain

2011-10-08T10:45:00.000-05:00

This month, Steel Toe Review posted one of my earlier poems: "The Myth of Pain." The work opens with the notions of personal violence, what people will do to themselves in a fit of guilt or resentment:

At the bus stop, we watch the other couple.
They have hidden themselves in a corner,
away from the general movements of travelers.
There is a quiet casualness in the way she tugs
at a strand of her straightened hair, as she pulls
back her sleeves, exposing her brown arms when she leans
against her boyfriend’s shoulder. The same slow motions
you took, angry and drunk,
leaning against a bathroom wall, marking
your arm with a paring knife, cutting soft scratches
into the skin.

The notions here, even a casual scene replicates hidden anger— and how one on the outside reacts to the situation.

In the poem I flipped the concept so that an average couple without issues is being observed by a couple who have issues. The plural "we" voice carries the burden of knowledge of self-injury; the other couple is oblivious to the situation or the fact they are observed. What results, the "outsiders" view the "norms" of a community. Yet a commonality is reached through the accepted definition of pain. One character keeps herself in a well of guilt over her mother. Another character suffers from specific issues of self-harm, self-mutilation.

Read the full poem: http://steeltoereview.com/2011/10/07/the-myth-of-pain-by-david-glen-smith/.

76/365 - 78/365 || Three Water Tanka

2011-10-07T11:38:00.000-05:00

Four days of silence.
No ideas merge on paper.
But tonight I dream
of a mountain in Japan.
I lean back and drink it in.
•
In a calm fountain.
Mosquito larvae hurtle
and plunge as small ghosts.
Pale incandescent bodies.
Translucent under water.
•
From outside, daylight
collects in a metal tub,
already filled with
unripe, greening rainwater
and the impatient autumn.

Hydrant 20 || Tilt -- or the loss of a metaphoric bridge--

2011-10-01T16:11:00.005-05:00

Times exist when a fluid annoyance easily flares up at myself— for not creating elaborate commentary for these photographs— the loss of a metaphoric bridge, or rather for not building a metaphoric bridge between an image and a creative ideal. For instance today's picture displays what should allow for instantaneous exemplifications, remarks regarding the state of the world or tilted political discourse in America— but all I recall is the moment itself— the short walk down a sidestreet in Houston this summer. The buzz of traffic blurred in my ears as I crouched down to shoot the photo. Brendan was asleep in his carrier; Ricky was busy with a meeting in an air conditioned hotel room. The day presented itself with much promise—

Hydrant 19 || Cypress Grasslands in Triplicate

2011-10-01T16:03:00.001-05:00

Hydrant 18 || Roadside

2011-10-01T15:50:00.001-05:00

Recent construction has removed this hydrant from the back roads. The full area is being renovated and repopulated by a new subdivision— what was once scrub-land is now dirt fields with wood spikes measuring territories for houses and streets.

75/365

2011-09-28T12:19:00.000-05:00

Five ponies huddle,
cluster in a raw circle,
their nostrils flaring.
The almost-blue sky widens
with the moon shifting westward.

74/365

2011-09-26T12:13:00.000-05:00

As flotsam, jetsam,
plastic supermarket bags
drift, then recede,
transforming themselves into
clutches of saltwater cranes.

Item of Interest || Decomposing Summer

2011-09-21T10:31:00.001-05:00

Recently had the pleasure of seeing some of my newer work published on-line. I remember once being hesitant regarding electronic publishing. Often a greater (psychological? spiritual?) distance is put in place between the casual reader and the computer screen. However, the efforts put into producing Decomposing Summer proved me wrong. These pages do not lie still: they show strong design and awareness of the craft.

A strong feeling of pride exists to be included in this inaugural publication.

from but.if.and.that, editor Aaron Geiger comments:

[T]his publication is an exercise in dipping the toes in a stranger’s pond. What the collective “we” hope to accomplish is: 1) Bring literature to the public in a free and visually engaging format; 2) Bring joy to the English language; 3) Showcase authors and poets, artists and photographers, and assist them with their endeavors; and 4) Learn along our journey new ways of engaging with the “audience” of our peers, friends, readers, and the great unknown.

Read more at: http://www.butifandthat.com/decomposing-summer-e-pub/

Random || 71/365 - 73/365

2011-09-21T10:06:00.000-05:00

I have nothing new
to add to this world tonight—
save for a loose scrawl
of ink on the page, hasty
scratches of ill formed ideas.
•
Sudden clarity
can arrive just by leaving
a room, the door shut
behind you with a firm grip,
closing out all memory.
•
A conversation
suddenly starts up next door,
just as you trim back
my hairline, down to the scalp.
Clumps of hair fall to their words.

A Humming || 66/365 - 70/365

2011-09-21T09:50:00.000-05:00

Corner of the room,
a small fan hums patiently;
middle of the night,
his songs deepen, fill up rooms
with an assertive presence.
•
Even now the moon
lingers along the landscape,
hesitant as a
low humming on the edge of
the horizon— just waiting.
•
A small copse of pines.
Humming with a steady pulse.
Cicada chorus.
Continuous. Even with
the sudden downpour of rain.
•
Inactivity
hums in this small grey room; while
the unmade bed waits
for revision, the light bulb
burns out without a warning.
•
Subtractions gathered
at the crossroads, suspended
on telegraph wires—
a migration of darkness
humming, chattering loudly.

Tanka on Fire || 63/365 - 65/365

2011-09-21T09:38:00.001-05:00

A mile from the house
fields are burning, spewing out
dense ash, as grass burns—
we watch a column of smoke
stretch over the horizon.
•
A yellow moon
echoes the pale front porch light—
but not even this
is strong enough to console me
as brush fires motion closer.
•
Ash drifts in the yard,
falling from nearby brush fires—
too close for comfort.
The air, heavy with silence,
hums with a strange emphasis.

62/365

2011-09-21T09:21:00.000-05:00

Unexpectedly,
without any real warning,
words fall down on me,
grab hold, make obscene gestures,
rude demands— then flee— laughing.

Item of Interest || Sources of Inspiration

2011-09-16T11:26:00.001-05:00

from Art Durkee's Dragoncave:

[O]ne of the rules of creativity is: The more you do, the more you do. The more you do, the more you are able to do. It's anti-entropic: it feeds itself, it starts to run under its own power, like the ancient dream of perpetual motion. One of the reasons you know that the creative process is divine is precisely because it's anti-entropic. Doing work over there feeds work over here. Being in the flow means that everything is flowing, the river of creative force is available to feed all the various media that you might work in. Activity here increases activity over there, because the floodwaters are non-specific. Everything feeds everything else.

Read more at: http://artdurkee.blogspot.com/2011/09/notes-to-overcome.html

On Inspiration || 61/365

2011-09-16T07:49:00.000-05:00

They wander the house,
every room, like mice hungry
for scraps of stale food—
words I mean, ideas. They roam
looking for closure. For warmth.

52/365 - 60/365

2011-09-09T07:53:00.001-05:00

Stumbling through the house
in the middle of the night
treading carefully
not wanting to wake baby—
yet all doors howl like a dog.
•
A metaphor hides
openly in tonight's storm.
You stand whispering
in the middle of the house
watching the dark with your son.
•
A poem of absence:
in the distance, no train shows.
Only a flat line
of the horizon spinning
forward into the landscape.
•
Twelve books remain closed,
as the outside settles, close—
and leans at the house.
Every light, in every room,
confirms the open silence.
•
For a brief moment,
standing outside in pitch heat,
you feel the earth shift
forward on its axis as
your father waters his plants.
•
The moan of a truck
passes as we lie in bed—
a shifting of mood—
slow whine of machinery
fades into the warm distance—
•
Slacked mouthed, a single
bloom opens out in the night—
an exclamation,
or point of witness watching
from the shadows of the room.
•
The back garden wall
dreams of being covered in
a heavy ivy—
to be consumed completely,
to become hidden ruins.
•
A poem of presence:
in my dreams you still enter—
an unwanted ghost
of the past. Firm. Persistent.
Waiting to be acknowledged.

46/365 - 51/365

2011-09-04T13:44:00.003-05:00

Within the bedroom,
on the edge of the window,
dead insects collect.
At night their ghosts haunt our dreams,
diving, buzzing in our ears.
•
The clock confirms ten.
Every light in the house burns
against the night's hour—
and I lie in bed waiting
for a deeper darkness.
•
Throughout the full night,
the air conditioner chirped
every five seconds;
I dreamt of fields at midnight,
a wide chorus surrounding.
•
Copper-blue horses
covered with clapperless bells
carry small children—
whose arms are filled with heavy
absence— to see dry rivers.
•
A surprise sense of
contentment emerges when
off of the back roads,
in the middle of dry fields:
one blue pony seen galloping.
•
Random hawks circling
tight spirals over backroads—
they coil summer winds
into a close braid of past,
present, and future tenses.

33/365 — a revision

2011-09-02T12:09:00.000-05:00

The last few days I have stared intently at one of the past entries posted here recently. In the original posting, I showed a collection of twelve tanka verses, loosely grouped together by a theme of darkness, night. In particular the opening verse often stumbled with my reading eye, causing a slight irritation, an inner twitch. Up till now, I ignored the critical reaction, wanting to respect my primary objectives: to show a short verse as it first appeared on the page without an extensive over-editing process and without creating multiple revisions of the piece. This was a means of connecting to the impulse of a moment, even in a limited fashion, bridging back to the spark of recognition of the epiphany as it unfolded in memory. Perhaps realistically this concept is flawed in itself. These words after all represent my own creative compulsions; some minor refinement is not a bad thing.

Looking at the poem in question, originally I wrote:
      Front of the courthouse,
      making his proclamations
      as Martin Luther,
      a grackle shouted his speech
      to anyone who would listen.

My annoyance emerges with the sounding of verb tenses, particularly in line four. The utilization of past tense grates against my teeth. Instinctively I want the phrasing to fall into a present tense logic, to show the moment as it forms in a “now” sensibility, not as a past event. Which leaves me considering the point: why do I prefer present tense in poetry in the first place? For now, I am not going to belabor the point. Perhaps an essay can later derive from this questioning (?). However, it is important to note that with present tense in this case, this individual epiphany impulse lies exposed as a raw moment— as if the event occurs for the first time to the reader in their own time stream and sense of self.

The poem now reads:
      Front of the courthouse,
      marking his proclamations
      as Martin Luther,
      a grackle shouts out speeches
      to anyone who'll listen.

Item of Interest || Antagonists and Conflict

2011-08-31T12:02:00.001-05:00

from Jed Alexander's blog:

There are many different kinds of conflict. All stories don't have to have antagonists, but antagonists are often a critical part of genre fiction. But all antagonists do not have to be villains. Villains portrayed as evil and unredeemable not only reduce your conflict to a black and white morality tale, but they make your stories less complex, and less interesting. The key to great character development is identification. If your reader can identify with some aspect of the character, if they can have a sense of what it's like to be in that character's shoes, it enriches their understanding of what it's like to be a person. It provides a model for empathizing with real life people whose motives and actions you don't always agree with.

Read more at: http://jedalexander.blogspot.com/2011/08/unsympathetic-unredeemable-antagonist.html

33/365 - 45/365 || Twelve Nighttime Tanka

2011-08-31T10:09:00.000-05:00

Front of the courthouse,
making his proclamations
as Martin Luther,
a grackle shouted his speech
to anyone who would listen.
•
Spent the day writing
out short poems to anyone—
while you slept turning
over in the fresh halfdark—
murmuring broken phrases.
•
The cat roams dark rooms,
with you beside me breathing
in the night softly—
unaware I lie awake
staring down at blank pages.
•
Looking for a poem
reveals a full absence tonight,
an incompleteness,
a richness of nothingness—
as whispers on a dirt path.
•
Persistent image:
the moon rises yet again
in one of my poems
before the full night descends,
holds me closely in his hands.
•
From across the room,
the Virgin and Child stare down
from the boundaries
of the wall: nonjudgmental,
yet locked in observation.
•
Late night ritual:
the cat argues his feelings
from the bedroom floor,
then jumps onto the mattress,
only to leave one more time.
•
An unfinished poem
waits nearby on the nightstand,
folding itself up
rocking in the window’s draft,
with a resolved impatience.
•
Four days pass without
murmurs of passing tankas.
Their presence evades
the house skillfully— even
my papers burn with absence.
•
From the crib he calls—
a litany of new sounds,
each small syllable
from his mouth fractures language—
words change into paper moths.
•
Left unattended,
the crack in the window grows,
splits out a new path,
creates a hole large enough
for the full moon to slip through—
•
The bones of the house
settle down in the middle
of this persistent
drought— the lingering dry winds
callout ghosts from all corners.

28/365 - 32/365

2011-08-25T08:02:00.000-05:00

Along the highway,
ahead of the approaching storm,
a crescent moon hangs
balanced in hesitation
between waxing or waning.
•
He sits in the sun—
every morning the same man,—
same intersection—
bags piled around him. The sun.
No, he keeps shaking. No. No!
•
Despite the dry winds,
and the extended drought's reach—
fireworks can be heard
across the dark neighborhoods,
splitting the night with echos.
•
Even a small kiss
on the baby's shoulder blades
leaves behind a mark—
the act of loving transforms
to unintended bruisings.
•
Baby in your arms.
You pace the room. Trying to calm
his fresh energy
which rolls him as a comet,
restless, ever in motion.

A Short Observation || Small Poem

2011-08-24T16:45:00.004-05:00

Manuscript rejections keep filtering into the house— this month I picked up the submission inquiries to reclaim years lost when I isolated myself from any writing community. It's interesting how the interval between request mailings and publishers' responses has lessened over the last fifteen years, dramatically. In this digital age I should not be surprised at a hasty rejection note, but I still retain the expectation of waiting months before an official answer. Yet, even with the quick replies, I have found I must package up the manuscript as soon as possible to mail it out again. A step before the negativity compounds, resulting in a deepened inaction. Self induced paralysis is deadly; it locks up the creative drives, leaving one in a static rut.

On a more positive note: a short poem appeared in a benefit journal this week, Notebook Somalia. Using a Twitter feed, the editors hope to raise awareness of the ongoing African famine this season— offer some relief to the chaos.

27/365

2011-08-24T15:38:00.000-05:00

From his rooftop perch,
the mockingbird shouts warnings,
siren-like details,
still maintaining an order—
despite the empty nest.

26/365

2011-08-19T10:55:00.000-05:00

The baby's birthmark
flares from the back of his neck—
as a smudged thumbprint
set on the top of his spine—
his own crimson signature.

25/365

2011-08-18T15:05:00.000-05:00

The open book slips—
in the middle of the night—
falling from your side
of the bed, tripping into
my own small territories.

24/365

2011-08-17T11:45:00.000-05:00

Tonight, images
refuse to fall into place;
words fail to cohere
with meaning— and yet, you sleep
unaware, with hands clenched tight.

Item of Interest || Watching Television

2011-08-17T11:22:00.001-05:00

from Yahoo! News, a recent study shows the ill-effects of television viewing:

For every hour of television watched after age 25, lifespan fell by 22 minutes, according to the research led by Dr. J. Lennert Veerman of the University of Queensland.

But other experts cautioned that the study did not show that TV watching caused people to die sooner, only that there was an association between watching lots of TV and a shorter lifespan [...]"As a rule, the more time we spend watching TV, the more time we spend eating mindlessly in front of the TV, and the less time we spend being physically active," [Dr. David L. Katz, director of the Prevention Research Center at Yale University School of Medicine, further commented:]"More eating and less physical activity, in turn, mean greater risk for obesity, and the chronic diseases it tends to anticipate, notably diabetes, heart disease and cancer."

Read more at: http://news.yahoo.com/too-much-tv-may-years-off-life-231005195.html

23/365

2011-08-16T09:23:00.000-05:00

Paper magnolias
group darkly in the corner,
open their wide mouths
to swallow down the daylight,
take in all lingering hours.

22/365

2011-08-15T13:30:00.002-05:00

Without clear warning,
my foot suddenly arches
as a fist, twisting,
transforming itself backwards
in an angry half circle.

21/365

2011-08-13T14:47:00.002-05:00

Middle of the night
the baby calls out in fear,
an irrational
weeping— until you hold him,
endless rocking back and forth.

Item of Interest || What Happened to Downtime?

2011-08-13T12:03:00.001-05:00

from 99% an article stressing the need for disconnection and creation of privacy:

What Happened to Downtime? The Extinction of Deep Thinking & Sacred Space.: There has been much discussion about the value of the “creative pause” – a state described as “the shift from being fully engaged in a creative activity to being passively engaged, or the shift to being disengaged altogether.” This phenomenon is the seed of the break-through “a-ha!” moments that people so frequently report having in the shower. In these moments, you are completely isolated, and your mind is able to wander and churn big questions without interruption.  

However, despite the incredible power and potential of sacred spaces, they are quickly becoming extinct. We are depriving ourselves of every opportunity for disconnection. And our imaginations suffer the consequences.  

Read more at: http://the99percent.com/articles/6947/What-Happened-to-Downtime-The-Extinction-of-Deep-Thinking-Sacred-Space

20/365 || Faulty Tanka

2011-08-12T11:53:00.001-05:00

A depression settles—
no, rather a bitterness
emerges inside— weaving
itself tightly in my chest.

Item of Interest || Definition of Haiku

2011-08-10T11:08:00.001-05:00

Particularly for my English 1302 students: I stumbled on the Haiku Society of America’s definition of a Haiku. What is relevant here, although terminologies and traditions change over time, this page offers a background which explains the notions of this short form of verse.

For more information visit: http://www.hsa-haiku.org/archives/HSA_Definitions_2004.html

19/365

2011-08-10T09:26:00.000-05:00

Sporadic days of writing. My ritual of a poem-a-day is off track and sputtering. Maybe the habitual pattern will return this week.

In the back garden,
everything withdraws, pulls tight
within itself as
the drought lingers, settles down—
even the moon fades to black.

temporary silence || item of interest

2011-08-10T09:06:00.001-05:00

After a few weeks of inactivity-- postings will resume on a steadier basis. First, for the time being, wanted to share a poem I found at decomP magazinE (not a typo). Benjamin Winkler's piece, "Atavism" stood out for me due to his sparse details in the phrasing and fragmented sentence structures. The idea of producing fractured verses always appeals to me as a reader of the avant-garde— the more experimental the poem, the more I enjoy it. Gertrude Stein, can you hear me?

Winkler's impressionistic style allows for numerous levels of interpretation— permits a psychological analysis of the poem's creative process and the persona in a sense.

The opening stanza reads:
naked days       and panic grass
father’s father put to seed
mouths     unto weed
hands     trowels     halfway
down     stuck     to clay

Is the speaker burying the past, or digging it up? Father-as-weed metaphor? Presents an interesting riddle to unravel. Hope to uncover more of his work in the future.

Read the full verse at: http://www.decompmagazine.com/atavism.htm/.

12/365 - 18/365

2011-07-12T18:04:00.000-05:00

—so predictable,
the cat chooses his options
of occupation:
curl at the foot of the bed—
or roam nighttime's darkened house.
•
Second time around
the pond, drowning in heat
of early twilight,
a bell rings with flattened chimes
—and then I notice the moon.
•
For a brief moment,
we confuse the sound of a
distant dog barking
with the baby three rooms down
the hall, yet sleeping peaceful.
•
An odd depression
unfolds over me— dark wings
opening slowly—
unexplainable motion
without justified reason.
•
After eye exams,
the outside world burns with fire—
pale auras surround
everything, every object
reveals hidden energies.
•
I can hear silence
throbbing in my ears, shifting
as darkness settles.
We lie in bed, side by side—
locked in a firm present tense.
•
Some nights its harder
to reach within that storehouse
of words, gather seeds
of sensory impressions
as from a pomegranate.

This is not a rant—

2011-07-12T17:38:00.000-05:00

Since Brendan's birth, much of my free time dissolves into absence. Why this surprises me, I am not sure. Why I did not plan to compensate for my loss of personal time, I do not know. My concentration for creative work lessens as well— which alarms me. Grading papers or editing material for my free-lance gig, these still function with normal processes. Yet, whenever a blank page sets before me and an allotted time span exists— a sense of overwhelming fatigue takes hold. The mind wanders through web sites of useless information, or worse, I get lost in the confusing paths of various tweets or blogs. And then also, I continually anticipate Brendan to call out. The responsibility of raising a child slowly erases my past identity, remolds me into the role parent, father, authority figure.

I do not mean for this to sound like a bitter rant. These words serve as a notice to myself: be more careful of your ideas. Plot free time very carefully. Read more often in spare moments.
•
Yes, as of late I have been rather negligent with updates and regular posting of materials. I do have a ready list of excuses: newborn, teaching summer courses, lack of sleep, distraction of secondary projects, et cetera, et cetera. At one time these rationalizations would be a central theme in my journals and conversations with other writers and curious students. Likewise these pleas would factor in as heavy subjects in my blog entries— somehow today for the first time I realize how much weight these excuses carry in day to day activities. I shold have seen the evidence. One of my greatest complaints to students is their prepared dramatic speeches for not turning in homework— I collect these notes in numerous digital files for ready examples for future classes.

My point: if I expect my students to not rely on a quick excuse for a lack of personal motivation, the I should do the same for myself. In basic terms, drop the cliched phrases and just do the work.
•
Received a wonderful rejection. Pank Magazine, a source on line I hope to be associated with one day, sent me the best "No, sorry—" The difference this time, I felt that a connection was made. They understood the experimentation on the page. The poem's fit with their publication was just-not-right.

Read their material. It contains many teeth. Bites quick. But carries a strong point.
•
On a mor positive note, another magazine, but.if.and.that chose a short poem for their theme of "Decomposing Summer." The selected piece began under a new approach— utilizing a different set of images and words I never put to verse. Once the e-publication is live I'll post a link. Until then, visit their site as well to see what they offer. Good bag of tricks.

Item of Interest || Why Kids Need Scary Stories

2011-07-09T09:41:00.002-05:00

from Jed Alexander's blog, I Apologize in Advance:

Theres no denying that violent stories are compelling. The threat of violence is the easiest way to put your character in jeopardy. But I think there's another reason these stories are so brutal, even if it wasn't a conscious one. Before modern medicine, children were surrounded by death; death in childbirth, death by disease, death from violent mishap. People simply didn't live as long, and you never knew when someone you loved or cared for might die some horrible death. I think these kinds of stories served as a buffer for that. As a safe container for, and point of transition to accepting real death and real violent misfortune.

Read more at: http://jedalexander.blogspot.com/2011/07/why-kids-need-scary-stories.html

Item of Interest || plagiarized haiku: george swede’s tale

2011-06-23T18:47:00.001-05:00

Most lawyers, as well as the general public and haiku poets, probably think of the world of haiku as a peaceable kingdom — inhabited by gentle souls of goodwill. While looking for a few of my favorite poems by George Swede yesterday, and hoping to supplement them with new ones, I discovered a darker side of haiku: a tale of plagiarism and haijin posses, and swift justice. Here’s what I learned:

Read more at: http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/ethicalesq/2006/02/14/plagiarized-haiku-george-swedes-tale/

Item of Interest || Fernando Pessoa

2011-06-13T15:52:00.001-05:00

The following article written by Syma Tariq appeared in the UK's Guardian: December 4, 2010.

The melancholy writer Fernando Pessoa, who died 75 years ago this week, was likely unaware of the effect he would have on Portugal decades later. Pessoa is still read by new students of literature, and older readers who constantly rediscover his work. He has been immortalised in statue form outside Lisbon's beautiful Brasileira cafe, and performances, exhibitions, and films pay him consistent tribute. There is even a table football in his old house-turned-museum – 11 wooden Pessoas competing against a cast of artistic and literary figures.

Read more: http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2010/dec/04/fernando-pessoa-portuguese-writer-multiple-faces?CMP=twt_gu

04/365 - 11/365

2011-06-11T15:20:00.000-05:00

An open hydrant
transforms into a fountain—
water burgeoning
everywhere— grackles cluster
as a jubilant coven.
•
Resisting the fall
into sleep, my son disguised
as the moon, tumbles
and rolls across the surface
of his crib repeatedly.
•
The final sun drifts
along the back garden wall,
releasing flocks of
red wing blackbirds: testaments,
each and every one of them.
•
Within the corner
of my left eye, a small vein
blossoms, opens out
a single blood flower
waiting for acknowledgement.
•
Tonight, no more words.
Leave the lights burning in every
room— open all doors.
Let actions replace the text
of this moment's arrival.
•
Two grackles bicker
perched on the edge of this year's
drought. With strange formality—
closely circling each other—
wildly spitting out curses.
•
A persistent whine
in the background. As a ghost
child humming lost rhymes
or perhaps instead it's a
mosquito trapped in the room.
•
Yesterday, four cranes
emerged from the pond, despite
continuous drought
pouring over the landscape
with a controlling embrace.

Item of Interest || e-Books Fail

2011-06-10T17:51:00.001-05:00

At first glance, e-readers and e-books seem like a good thing for consumers and business users. After all, they've been found to increase the amount of reading people do, and prices on the readers keep getting lower, putting them within reach of an ever-larger proportion of the world.

Read More: http://www.pcworld.com/businesscenter/article/229888/why_ebooks_are_bad_for_you.html

03/365

2011-06-05T20:59:00.002-05:00

Within memory,
a lizard scurries across
the kitchen windows—
just managing to escape
the prowling neighborhood cat.

02/365

2011-06-02T08:42:00.000-05:00

We have driven past
the same scene before: burnt out
ruins of a home
that's collapsed within itself.
An abandoned metaphor.

Item of Interest || Developing Your Creative Practice

2011-05-31T16:34:00.004-05:00

From The 99%.com site, Developing Your Creative Practice: Tips from Brian Eno. How the creation of music and literature can operate in similar fashions.

Read more: http://the99percent.com/tips/7034/Developing-Your-Creative-Practice-Tips-from-Brian-Eno

An Item of Interest || The Existential Life of the Lonely Writer

2011-05-29T12:46:00.002-05:00

From Honest Publishing, an article discussing the isolation of writers.

Let’s face facts. There is never going to be an Indian, American, or British Idol television show for writers. You and your work will sit together in a room until it comes out onto the page, you rearrange this puzzle of quartz, diamond, and granite until it all makes perfect sense, and then you click Save while at the same time saying a short prayer. You then send your work out into the ether where this world mostly full of walls, labyrinths, hurdles, and sometimes tight Himalayan trails, tries to whack you down until you are this bloody mess, left there questioning yourself, your sanity, and your choice of professions.
Read more: http://www.honestpublishing.com/news/the-existential-life-of-the-lonely-writer/

Lurking in the Background Shrubs

2011-05-23T12:53:00.006-05:00

After more than five years I finally selected a new photograph for my main web site: click here to view the new image.

As a result I may set up a ritual of changing the image once a month, just to add a sense of variety, diversity. Likewise doing so forces me to rethink the necessity of maintaining a presence on the web, allow a strategy to be developed.
•
The Centrifugal Eye officially accepted my long poem “Fragments: East St. Louis, 1996”— should be out in August this summer. This one accomplishment makes up for many rejections over the past eight or nine years— every time the poem was passed up by various magazines I questioned the experimental approach placed in the text. I questioned the message, the theme of bitterness, the persona’s insistent persistence at finding beauty in ruins. Ruin in his personal life. In the decay of buildings constructed during the height of the past century.

Over time I did make changes, slight re-phrasings of some stanzas, but always kept the poem’s basic structure. A sharp eye may notice the format for section i and ii are deconstructed blank sonnets. Section iii in turn becomes something other, no longer following a formula or scheme. I wanted the text to act as a metaphor of inner city decay. The older ideas shown merging with an encroaching modernism—which results in a destruction of the old foundations, rather than a restoration of the past architecture. The poem is divided up into four sections, each one composed of a collaged approach towards reality; fragments of similar verses loosely, somewhat haphazardly combined into one full poem. The persona, lost in a scene of dilapidation, begins reflecting on the chaos in his life and tries to reconstruct a sense of strength in his individuality, rather than maintain an attitude of loss. Midway through the poem the “you” addressed by the persona shifts from a representation of anyone/everyone to a representation of his own self, or the city or a companion slightly distanced, emotionally and physically.

Eve Hanninen, the editor of The Centrifugal Eye did make some astute editorial tightening of lines. And two grammatical errors were fixed, errors I should have seen lurking in the background shrubs of the poem. Over all the acceptance proves to me that my voice does carry merit—a fact that I need to repeat to myself on the bad days when rejections are more plentiful than accolades.

01/365

2011-05-23T11:00:00.000-05:00

From abstraction. Grey
waters receding. Pulling
back. Revealing stones.

Ivy & Brick

2011-05-23T08:53:00.006-05:00

Ivy & Brick, originally uploaded by d_g_s.

Perspective

2011-05-23T08:53:00.004-05:00

Perspective, originally uploaded by d_g_s.

Brick

2011-05-23T08:52:00.002-05:00

IMG_0292-adj, originally uploaded by d_g_s.

Tilt

2011-05-23T08:51:00.002-05:00

Tilt, originally uploaded by d_g_s.

Suburban

2011-05-23T08:50:00.003-05:00

Suburban, originally uploaded by d_g_s.

Wild Grass

2011-05-23T08:49:00.003-05:00

Wild Grass, originally uploaded by d_g_s.

Roadside

2011-05-23T08:48:00.002-05:00

Roadside, originally uploaded by d_g_s.

I Have No Resolution

2011-05-19T09:06:00.001-05:00

Going to attempt a second round of proofing / editing / revising my Quintet manuscript. At one point it was to be sent off to a contest at the beginning of the week— but circumstances "intervened" let's say. I still do not feel confident in the arrangement of the poems. Which of course is a major warning sign. If hesitancy exists, examine the nature behind the pause. And at this point I have no resolution. So the document sits on the other side of the room, on the floor, hidden under some file folders. But I hear it calling out, demanding attention. Just like the baby. The two of them have the same insistent call.

A Poem by Valzyna Mort

2011-05-19T08:18:00.000-05:00

After waking the house up at five this morning, the baby is finally back in his crib, sleeping peacefully. Myself, still half-asleep, existing between school terms, in a psuedo-limbo. Time to get my reading and writing back into their old habits. Stumbled on a Berlin-based magazine, Sand. Their material is in English, despite their European roots. Seems a good connection for future reading.
At random, I selected the following poem.
•
sylt II || Valzyna Mort

the wind that makes your hair grow faster
opens a child’s mouth full of strawberry and sand.
slow and sure
on the scales of the ocean
the child’s head outweighs the sun.

Read the full poem:
http://sandjournal.com/issues/valzyna-mort

Item of Interest || Dragoncave: More Poems Without Categories

2011-05-17T12:49:00.001-05:00

Dragoncave: More Poems Without Categories:

"—if Orpheus hadn't failed by turning on the last stair, his foot already half into the daylight, if he hadn't lost Eurydice in that turning, her shade falling back into the shadows—well, what would we have left to learn? What would write about? The gift is in the failure. The gift of this long-term illness is how it has pared my life down to what really matters. You try to live a good life, and still, everything goes wrong. You do everything right, and follow all the right advice, and still you have to go forward knowing that none of that matters, that it could still fall apart at any second."

Read more: http://artdurkee.blogspot.com/2011/05/more-poems-without-categories.html

Rejections Still Sting

2011-05-17T12:00:00.001-05:00

Trying to recover from a full day of grading. And the knowledge tomorrow will be the same. And Thursday. Repetitious. The whole while, Brendan spent time amusing himself, allowing me possibilities for concentration. Himself, he was intent on understanding the mechanism in his “exer-saucer,” a device that allows him to partially suspend mid-air, in the midst of his toys, as he fiercely chomps and sucks on his pacifier. Every so often he would look up from a rattle or a bell to make eye contact.His smiles are beautiful. When he breaks into a smile I understand so many levels of parenthood which were never open to me in the past.
•
The Spring Semester is closing. And another quiet student leaves me a handwritten note saying they liked the course—this term the letter is delivered by a young man: glasses, bookish, intelligent, yet someone who hardly speaks out in the room. He earned a high mark before the commentary; he knows he’s done well in my class, so his words are not mere fluff to my ego— however one defines such a connection, it manages to justify crawling out of bed at 4:45 AM every morning, blurry-eyed.I need to save these notes. Maintain a collection for the bad days. The days when I question the validity of higher education, or the mentality of the average college student freshman.
•
Received a cold rejection this week. I should expect these. After twenty years, or more, dealing with literary magazines, I have had many fair share of “sorry.” Plus, as a former editor for a student-run magazine, a college intern for a poetry journal, and as a former Editor for an industry publication, I know how multi-tasking skills are important and how time crunched the position can be. However, rejections still sting. Especially after waiting over six months and then getting a form-letter. No extra postscript. No “try again in the future.” No apologies for the extended reading period. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
Ah, well.
•
With the completion of my 365-Haiku project finalized, I am taking a few days to redirect the energy into a new cycle of poems. The “Dream-Poem” should be closer to a final draft by this weekend—barring no surprises. Despite the fact I need to confirm the flow of Summer term’s syllabus, completion of a working draft is an approachable goal.

Poetry Notebook Entry: Shifting Reality

2011-05-17T09:46:00.000-05:00

On the way to work, juggling radio stations, I found another approach to a stalled poem, due to a flashback in memory. Now I cannot even recall the song flooding the car which triggered the memory of Des Moines, Iowa, more than twenty years ago: that ill-furnished apartment close to campus, that never-ending winter of endless snow. The memory provided an alternative series of stanzas to blend into the existing mix of impressions and rants.

What I want to acknowledge is the perceived actions and perceived values of another, from my past, yet brought up to date with the current times, expressing the current formula of our individual lives.

I used the phrase ‘up to date’… perhaps ‘reinvent’ is a better choice. Since this is a characterization reimagined a firm understanding of actuality will never be certain. Which leaves me room for shifting reality— the persona after all is a figure based on my impressions, yet then he transforms into someone other.
•
(I never understood why)
you always wanted Death to enter your rooms
personified as a trick in his late-twenties:
glassy-eyed, coked up with slicked back hair—
•
indifferent, disinterested, immaterial, cold, unemotional, callous, distant, silent, unresponsive, unfeeling

365/365

2011-05-17T08:51:00.000-05:00

Recently visited the cardiologist for a stress test and an ultrasound of my heart. There was an odd comfort being able to view the workings of the organ, the actual muscle itself pulsating and throbbing, generating its internalized rhythm— a rare wild flower, sacred blue flame, a ripening wild apple surrounded by wasps. It was an overwhelming moment, building a stronger connection with myself.

The metaphors collect, gather for a future poem— a nice image for closure of the 365 haiku-cycle.
•
In the doctor’s suite,
they show me my awkward heart,
cased in sacred flames.

362/365 - 364/365

2011-05-16T12:42:00.001-05:00

05.13.11
In my chest's center
sets a bowl, filled with poems,
lost and forgotten.
•
05.14.11
Unintended night
showering of the lawn: two hours
of pulsing sprinklers.
•
05.15.11
As I close in on the final poem of this cycle, I wanted to experiment with a lack of punctuation as a means to suggest double meaning, a play with phrases. In tonight's three lines no commas exist. No end stops, nor semicolons. No dashes.
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For whatever reason, I often personify the moon, offer up a personality to the satellite's presence. What results below: either the moon is reflecting on poetry or the persona is meditating on poetry. Both figures participate in the formula simultaneously and individually, a blurring of action between the two realities.

the full moon rises
contemplating a haiku
while I brush my teeth

A Poem by Ravi Shankar

2011-05-14T16:10:00.001-05:00

Another discovery today. This one from the Chronicle of Higher Education. They offer a lengthy commentary afterwards.

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Breast Feeding at the Blue Mosque || Ravi Shankar

Hidden from a queue to bag shoes a woman nurses a child
under a wool scarf in the shadow two fluted minarets cast
pitched towards incessant sun, a necessity somehow an insult
to sharia law, no matter what sustenance a lemonwedge
of breast, God’s own, yields, puckering a tiny mouth
until bright eyes glaze to doll loll. Fairly alien to ponder
raw biology of milk conveyed by ducts lined with capillaries,
made from pouring stuff of stars: nourishment that manifests
minerals for bone from pulsing light.

Read more: http://chronicle.com/blogs/arts/mondays-poem-breast-feeding-at-the-blue-mosque-by-ravi-shankar/29274

Item of Interest || Emily Fragos on Emily Dickinson’s Letters

2011-05-14T15:44:00.003-05:00

From the Paris Review, a recent post discusses a new publication of correspondence from Emily Dickinson. Emily Fragos on Emily Dickinson’s Letters

Dickinson’s missives are the only prose she ever wrote, and they make an intriguing complement to her veiled, often mysterious verse. I recently corresponded with Fragos about the portrait of Dickinson that emerges from this collection of her lifelong, ardent epistles.

Read more: http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2011/05/10/emily-fragos-on-emily-dickinson%E2%80%99s-letters/

Item of Interest: The Canon Is an Argument (Ongoing)

2011-05-14T11:22:00.002-05:00

Nothing to Say & Saying It: The Canon Is an Argument (Ongoing)

Of course we know the canon is an argument that says as more about who we are now than who we were, but it’s nice to see examples now and then, just to be sure.

A Poem by Diane Lockward

2011-05-14T10:45:00.001-05:00

Stumbled on the following poem this morning. The archived site: Ars Poetica seems to no longer post material on a daily basis— more exploration of the full web site is in order.

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My Husband Discovers Poetry || Diane Lockward

Because my husband would not read my poems,
I wrote one about how I did not love him.
In lines of strict iambic pentameter,
I detailed his coldness, his lack of humor.
It felt good to do this.

Stanza by stanza, I grew bolder and bolder.
Towards the end, struck by inspiration,
I wrote about my old boyfriend,
a boy I had not loved enough to marry
but who could make me laugh and laugh.
I wrote about a night years after we parted
when my husband’s coldness drove me from the house
and back to my old boyfriend.
I even included the name of a seedy motel
well-known for hosting quickies.
I have a talent for verisimilitude.

In sensuous images, I described
how my boyfriend and I stripped off our clothes,
got into bed, and kissed and kissed,
then spent half the night telling jokes,
many of them about my husband.
I left the ending deliberately ambiguous,
then hid the poem away
in an old trunk in the basement.

You know how this story ends,
how my husband one day loses something,
goes into the basement,
and rummages through the old trunk,
how he uncovers the hidden poem
and sits down to read it.

But do you hear the strange sounds
that floated up the stairs that day,
the sounds of an animal, its paw caught
in one of those traps with teeth of steel?
Do you see the wounded creature
at the bottom of the stairs,
his shoulders hunched over and shaking,
fist in his mouth and choking back sobs?
It was my husband paying tribute to my art.

____
from Eve's Red Dress (Wind Publications, 2003)

Great Shakes - NYPOST.com

2011-05-13T17:12:00.001-05:00

Great Shakes - NYPOST.com

Article by Stephen Marche

William Shakespeare was the most influential writer who ever lived. Even those who haven’t read his plays know his words, from “to be or not to be” to “let slip the dogs of war.” But his influence goes beyond quotable phrases. Here are five ways he altered our lives.

Read more: http://www.nypost.com/p/news/opinion/books/great_shakes_miZ813pu9xBfSER5Aq4baK#ixzz1MGzDE8FU

357/365 - 361/365 || repost of 5 lost haiku

2011-05-13T13:33:00.001-05:00

05.08.11
darting in milkweed,
ghost of my brother returns
as a hummingbird
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05.09.11
Directly overhead,
the moon half opens itself,
an unfinished poem—
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05.10.11
The blank page swallows
me completely. Nothing left.
Not even a word.
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05.11.11
Again. No ideas.
Yet the night still circles low.
Ink across paper.
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05.12.11
After the storming—
fresh shoots of honey suckle
coil around the hours.

stumbling drunk through poetry

2011-05-09T09:30:00.000-05:00

04.28.11: Found a chance to experiment with a Blues formula—laying out lines of strategic, repeating phrases— based on the old Robert Johnson tracks. In particular, his “Crossroad Blues” always haunted me—on many different levels. Johnson captures a strong sense of isolation in this song. The lyrics soak in a heavy desperation, an extreme loneliness.

For myself, I began with the construction of a framework based on folk-logic—the manner a culture will explain aspects of human behavior through natural elements, or how natural objects become personified with human qualities. What I’ve used are universal insects as stepping stones to explain the persona’s emotions: mosquito, fly, wasp, moth.

But I do need to add brief scenes of mundane, everyday experience to counter balance the notions of magic-realism. True to form I’ll more than likely chuck out all sense of logic—delve closer to the psychological weakness of the persona. He shows a sense of isolation—but at the moment nothing is well defined. He appears more as an observer of his surroundings, rather than a participant.
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04.30.11: Feel as if I’m stumbling drunk through poetry. Case in point, with the blues-poem in development, it seems to need additional three or more verses. It sits truncated, without a closing rhyming couplet. It lacks a resounding, firm resolution which expresses a clear concept of my theme: the fear of the future, of the unknowable element. Furthermore, it remains untitled. Usually the title emerges first, and then the work. I cannot explain it. This is how my creative brain works. A tentative path needs to be seen, if only vague notions of directions: dirt and loose gravel. On a plus, I managed to rummage through plausible titles. Random blues, Mundane blues, Existential blues…
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Half-an-hour-later: after consulting a rhyming dictionary and juggling placement of stanzas—I think the issue is resolved. Going for: “Devil Wasp Blues”— now the sense of direction is established.
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05.01.11: Phrases from nowhere: fractured:
the stone split in half / Brendan smiled
Dream of Saint Brendan
Brendan dreaming of the Whale
Saint Brendan Dreaming of the Whale
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Brendan, my child, dreaming of the whale, which becomes the story of St. Brendan and the whale, with a quote from the text.

Just as well I couldn’t sleep tonight. Brendan woke at 11 o’clock hungry, ravenous, as if he were never fed in his life. Within fifteen minutes he devours seven ounces of formula and collapses back to sleep.Of course, now I am more awake. Trying to relax, concentrate on the white noise of a fan or the air conditioner in the vents.

May have finished “Devil Wasp Blues”—which makes reference to Brendan twice as a background figure. Very little reality exists in the piece. It shows a reactionary approach to the world.
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05.04.11: After a delay, finally found time to work developing the structure of my Quintet MS. It does have a structure, yes. Must retain the positive sense of what changes have appeared in the text. Tomorrow when I print it off then I can be over-critical. Pin-point hints of weakness in the sequence. At this moment, I should feel the satisfaction of creating over 50 solid pages of work.
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Odd restlessness in my head tonight: cannot concentrate. The ideas of potential possibilities keep interrupting the actuality of the now moment. I should be finding another verse for “Devil Wasp Blues” or at least composing a haiku—
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Once I have Quintet in working order—next on the list is to return to the preliminary MS and sort it out. Resurface the emotional depths—circulate it to publishers—almost every one of the poems were printed by various magazines. It carries a worth.

355/365 - 356/365

2011-05-08T11:41:00.000-05:00

05.06.11
Words tonight burn close
to the page— turning to ash.
No hesitation.
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05.07.11
Almost forgotten:
moment with Brendan outside—
Hummingbird. Cannas.

Item of Interest || the 99%

2011-05-06T10:56:00.000-05:00

A short essay on creativity I found recently—