A Gray, Insecure Century || Fragments

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 la Tarzan'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.


  1. Strange this - but of all your posts I appreciated this one maybe most. For its honesty - and the tiny window it opens to "you".
    Not that I ever believe we can truly reveal ourselves in print. Words can be distorting. They can conceal as much as they appear to reveal. And the narrators voice is seldom as honest as it likes to think - particularly when it is attempting to hold a mirror to itself...
    Though you manage this with integrity. Thank you.

  2. --what doesn't help is the fact I am getting more impatient. Which makes me make opinionated in my blogs. Which builds up arguments.

    I do not like confrontations.

    But I do appreciate your comments overall. Helps to keep me grounded.

  3. I understand D-G. I have never enjoyed confrontation - not when it related to me, personally. Though I recognise now that it is through confrontation and chalvenge that I have grown. And I have often reflected that despite my antipathy towards confrontation I chose the most confrontational of professions to follow...
    In any case, I am glad to be of some help...


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