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4/28/2016

“A writer is not so much someone who has something to say as he is someone who has found a process that will bring about new things he would not have thought of if he had not started to say them.”--William Stafford

Each day I try to learn or discover something. Last night while talking to my writing group, I realized that three of my favorite poets all have the initials W.S.--Wallace Stevens, William Stafford, and William Shakespeare! So, I couldn't resist looking up other writers with those initials: and I encountered William Saroyan, Sir Walter Scott, William Shenstone, William Somerville, Wyslawa Symborska. Some I had come across before, some not.

And since I am sort of lazy today, and think that it is important for writers to read, I am posting something from each of these writers.

A STORY THAT COULD BE TRUE
by William Stafford

If you were exchanged in the cradle and
your real mother died
without ever telling the story
then no one knows your name,
and somewhere in the world
your father is lost and needs you
but you are far away.
He can never find
how true you are, how ready.
When the great wind comes
and the robberies of the rain
you stand on the corner shivering.
The people who go by–
you wonder at their calm.
They miss the whisper that runs
any day in your mind,
“Who are you really, wanderer?”–
and the answer you have to give
no matter how dark and cold
the world around you is:
“Maybe I’m a king.”

DISILLUSIONMENT OF TEN O'CLOCK
by Wallace Stevens

The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches tigers
In red weather.

WHERE THE BEE SUCKS (from The Tempest)
by William Shakespeare

Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip's bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat's back I do fly.
After summer merrily:
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.

From THE HUMAN COMEDY
by William Saroyan

“You must remember always to give, of everything you have. You must give foolishly even. You must be extravagant. You must give to all who come into your life. Then nothing and no one shall have power to cheat you of anything, for if you give to a thief, he cannot steal from you, and he himself is then no longer a thief. And the more you give, the more you will have to give.”

"O, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive!"--Walter Scott

DAPHNE'S VISIT
by William Shenstone

Ye birds! for whom I rear'd the grove,
With melting lay salute my love;
My Daphne with your notes detain,
Or I have rear'd my grove in vain.

Ye flowers! before her footsteps rise:
Display at once your brightest dyes;
That she your opening charms may see,
Or what are all your charms to me?

Kind Zephyr! brush each fragrant flower,
And shed its odours round my bower;
Or never more, O gentle Wind!
Shall I from thee refreshment find.

Ye Streams! if e'er your banks I loved,
If e'er your native sounds improved,
May each soft murmur soothe my fair,
Or oh! 'twill deepen my despair.

And thou, my Grot! whose lonely bounds
The melancholy pine surrounds,
May Daphne praise thy peaceful gloom,
Or thou shalt prove her Damon's tomb.

Alas, William Somerville just didn't make the cut, so I am instead inserting one of my favorite poems by William Carlos Williams.

THIS IS JUST TO SAY

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

CLOUDS
by Wislawa Szymborska

I’d have to be really quick
to describe clouds -
a split second’s enough
for them to start being something else.

Their trademark:
they don’t repeat a single
shape, shade, pose, arrangement.

Unburdened by memory of any kind,
they float easily over the facts.

What on earth could they bear witness to?
They scatter whenever something happens.

Compared to clouds,
life rests on solid ground,
practically permanent, almost eternal.

Next to clouds
even a stone seems like a brother,
someone you can trust,
while they’re just distant, flighty cousins.

Let people exist if they want,
and then die, one after another:
clouds simply don't care
what they're up to
down there.

And so their haughty fleet
cruises smoothly over your whole life
and mine, still incomplete.

They aren't obliged to vanish when we're gone.
They don't have to be seen while sailing on.

I will close today with a couple more W.S. quotes:

"The first step is you have to say that you can."--Will Smith
"Poetry is like making a joke. If you get one word wrong at the end of a joke, you've lost the whole thing."--W. S. Merwin (still a W.S. and I really like him...)

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Beyond Words

4/27/2016

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"There is a voice that doesn't use words. Listen."--Rumi

Today's blog is brought to you by Rumi...

Every day I spend time and words writing about writing. Strangely enough, several items I came across today pushed me to examine that level of thought that transcends language. And it occurred to me that perhaps the best writing practice is simply settling for words. Maybe we have to soar above language, and then as we descend, pick the best words to try to communicate our journey.

I am still reading A Religion of One's Own and letting it guide my wandering. I came upon my old friend Rumi today, and then ran into him again on my friend Sara's Facebook page. And then I recalled that Sara is a fan of Mary Oliver's poetry, and remembered this poem by Oliver:

APRIL

I wanted to speak at length about
The happiness of my body and the
Delight of my mind for it was
April, a night, a full moon and-
But something in myself for maybe
From somewhere other said: not too
Many words, please, in the muddy shallows the
Frogs are singing.

Another one of my friends posted a poem on her site, Autumn Sky Poetry. This one is by Susan McLean. In a different way, it made me realize that words are not the most important thing.

BURNING THE JOURNALS

Alixa shocked me when she said she’d burned
her journals. All those insights, lost. And yet
each time I’d kept a journal, I soon learned
someone had read it. Wary of the threat
of having candor peeled off like a scab,
exposing raw and stinging sores, I’d sworn
never to bare my secrets to the stab
of prying malice. I could not have borne
having each vagrant thought and wayward mood
viewed with amusement, prurience, or scorn,
like those whose webcams, hijacked, film them nude,
turning unguarded love to vengeful porn.
So now I light a match to every day,
and what I felt then, only I can say.

I think I will burn some words today. Sometimes when I am writing, I feel as though I am falling short of finding the perfect words. Perhaps knowing that the words will be destroyed anyway will free me up in some way?

“Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.”
― Rumi

I write a lot. And I have lost a lot of my poems. Sometimes they come back to me in strange ways. Yesterday I opened a CD titled "Billie Holiday Sings Standards," and when I took out the music CD, there was another disc in the case with a handwritten title, strangely enough, "Burn." It was a disc I had burned to keep up with some old work. Here is one of the poems I found. Rereading it, I find that it does not flow well, but I am glad to have it back and plan some revision...

A MACHINE FOR MAKING GOD

how do I interpret
these desires?
The I is incidental
the sky blue
perhaps chromatic abberation
explains how we
fall
repeatedly into the crime
refracted and
persistently seeking
refuge

stay   stand      stud      understood

obstinate
static
prostrate

and vision
is restored

all language in the personal realm shatters dualism
transcending images of other & self
human & divine

so
I am the prism &
every moment
is a different condition
every moment
the image changes
every moment
simultaneously
and as always at the center is
idolatry

no image maker worships the gods--
he knows what stuff they’re made of…

I am the ocean
& I am lit from within

break the surface
reflect the universe
the angle is critical

fall
here

“You were born with wings, why prefer to crawl through life?”
“I want to sing like the birds sing, not worrying about who hears or what they think.”
― Rumi

I have made it a practice for many years to periodically read Scientific American magazine. I think it started when I was working on my series of pseudo-scientific love poems. The articles are sometimes over my head, but I always learn something, as though just subjecting myself to the language changes me slightly.

Today, I read a fascinating article (You can read it here.) about what happens in our brains when we read, about how we see pictures and hear the words in our head. So I reread my poem with this in mind, experiencing it in a different way. I realized that this particular poem contained a lot of abstractions that were hard to picture! Maybe that realization is what will guide my revision?

Here is another beautiful poem by Mary Oliver:

SUCH SINGING IN THE WILD BRANCHES
It was spring
and I finally heard him
among the first leaves––
then I saw him clutching the limb
in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still
and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness––
and that’s when it happened,
when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree––
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,
and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward
like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing––
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed
not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfect blue sky–––all of them
were singing.
And, of course, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn’t last
For more than a few moments.
It’s one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,
is that, once you’ve been there,
you’re there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?
Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then––open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.

“When you do things from your soul, you feel a river moving in you, a joy.”
― Rumi

Here is another poem from my "Burn" files. Unlike the first one I posted, it does indeed stack up sensory experiences:

AGAINST BEAUTY
on mornings like this
when the air stays cool
and the sun burns through early
I think of you

contrast skin
against sheet
against shirt
against jeans
I go walking
flip pancakes
stir eggs without looking
and think of you
last week, I grew daring
and reached into the flame
just to straighten
a bit of wick
having forgotten,
for a flash, the pain of fire
and the strange beauty
of uneven burning

I'm going to close now and go write in my journal. And then I am going to burn the pages. I admit that I am strangely excited at the prospect!

“Yesterday I was clever, so I wanted to change the world. Today I am wise, so I am changing myself.”
― Rumi

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Train Roll On...

4/26/2016

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"A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving."-- Lao Tzu

When you are engaged in your daily journal writing, try not to think of it as writing at all. Think of it as a daily practice, much like exercise or meditation. It should be effortless. If it helps you to have a topic, do so, but remember that at some point your brain will probably become bored and demand that you venture from that path. Be ready and willing to go!

Ralph Waldo Emerson writes, "Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail." What a thrilling idea that you don't know where your own writing will lead you each day.

Yesterday I challenged you to look at something ordinary in a spiritual way. Since today is Tuesday, I will share a Tuesday poem with you that I wrote several years ago and recently (today in fact) revised.

TOO FAR GONE BY TUESDAY

Colors can push you over the
edge but I really like the sketchiness
of pencil-sound, the way the round
undefined housing protects me
from the lead.

I prefer the promise
of erasability, so ironically decisive,
yet I cross things out
out of habit.
Even this writing
is not without some danger
as the friction can become tiresome,
can become needy,
can become divisive,

and I might get caught up
in the reflection
of that shiny metal piece
that ties eraser to wood--
a small totem,
that little connector,
so needlessly intricate
and cold.

Tuesday's Challenge: Right Now

Thomas Moore advocates, in much the same way Emerson did, living a soulful life, "allowing for mystery and arranging life around that mystery." Today's challenge is to let yourself see mystery. Often a good way to do this is through nature. Try to spend some time in nature today. Even if it is just your own back yard. I have found it helpful to find a comfortable spot and do some deep breathing for relaxation. Be attentive to all of your senses. When you feel ready, engage in ten minutes of free writing. Set a timer so you don't have to watch the clock.

If you need specific instructions, check out this suggested practice from writingfromthe soul.net.

Begin by settling into a contemplative space of silence by taking a minimum of 21 conscious breaths -- or sitting in stillness for 5−15 minutes with your attention lightly on your breath, body sensations, or sounds in the room. Notice the atmosphere of your mind — whether soft and spacious or grim and tight — and set the intention to cultivate an atmosphere of warmth and openness toward yourself and your experience.

Set the timer for 10 minutes and free write without stopping, beginning with the prompt “Right now...” Don’t stop to reflect, edit, try to make sense or write a “piece.” Simply finish the sentence and keep going until you run out of things to say, then write the prompt again and finish the sentence, and so on, until the timer goes off. You don’t need to write fast — just without pausing to think. Be willing to let the words surprise you: The idea is to relax your mind so that you can source the layer under your discursive thoughts — though it is not “wrong” to write your conscious thoughts and feelings if they are dominating. In fact, there is no way to do it wrong.
When the timer goes off, take a few breaths and then read aloud what you wrote, listening deeply to yourself. Try to resist the temptation to read it back in your head — even whispering it aloud makes a difference. Notice what your mind does when you read it back — expectations, fears, pleasures and judgments will likely arise. Allow them to be just as they are in an atmosphere of warmth and openness. You might jot a few notes on what you notice at the end of your piece for later reference.
Now scan through the writing and underline any phrases, sentences or sections that strike you as particularly alive or that intrigue you for some reason — you don’t need to know why. Any of these fragments can be used as a prompt for another piece of timed writing, either now or in your next session. When you do use these fragments as prompts, remember that you can always return to the prompt “Right now...” at any time while doing a timed writing. This is the fundamental prompt for this practice.

The practice can be done anywhere, and varying location and time of day when using the prompt “Right now...” can give you a fascinating glimpse into yourself as you go about your life, whether you sit for ten minutes with pen and paper under a tree or in a waiting room, in a hospital or at your kitchen table, at a posh resort or in a Bombay slum.

Naturally

"To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee, And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few."--Emily Dickinson

Perhaps spending a little time meditating and writing in nature will lead you to write a nature poem. And just in case you need a little more inspiration, let's look at some nature poems by Emily Dickinson. (Note: All of her poems are titled by their first line.)

BRING me the sunset in a cup,
Reckon the morning’s flagons up,
  And say how many dew;
Tell me how far the morning leaps,
Tell me what time the weaver sleeps        5
  Who spun the breadths of blue!

Write me how many notes there be
In the new robin’s ecstasy
  Among astonished boughs;
How many trips the tortoise makes,        10
How many cups the bee partakes,--
  The debauchee of dews!

Also, who laid the rainbow’s piers,
Also, who leads the docile spheres
  By withes of supple blue?        15
Whose fingers string the stalactite,
Who counts the wampum of the night,
  To see that none is due?

Who built this little Alban house
And shut the windows down so close        20
  My spirit cannot see?
Who ’ll let me out some gala day,
With implements to fly away,
  Passing pomposity?

There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
Never mind faded forests, Austin,
Never mind silent fields -
Here is a little forest,
Whose leaf is ever green;
Here is a brighter garden,
Where not a frost has been;
In its unfading flowers
I hear the bright bee hum:
Prithee, my brother,
Into my garden come!

A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.

And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad,--
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head

Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home

Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, plashless, as they swim.

Consider the formal characteristics of Dickinson's work and how the simplicity of language plays against the form.

Today's Challenge

Write a poem that addresses Nature directly.

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Come Go With Me

4/25/2016

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"Every manifestation of the sacred is important: every rite, every myth, every belief or divine figure."--Mircea Eliade

In A Religion of One's Own, Thomas Moore writes, "Like a sleep-inducing spray in the air, the secularism of our culture numbs us. We breathe it every day and come to take it as only natural. It's so attractive that we don't notice as it slowly removes all sense of mystery, deep wonder, and awareness of a great Something Else or Somewhere Else..."

It is not religion or secularism that I want to focus on today, but instead, it is mystery, deep wonder, and awareness. I think most of us would agree that it is all too easy to get caught up in our daily lives in such a way that we lose our sense of wonder. And I am a firm believer that writers and artists must somehow retain that sense in order to see things in a different way.

I have always been a fan of the poet William Blake. He definitely had a way of looking at things from a unique perspective. In "Auguries of Innocence," he sees the mystery of life in an almost microscopic way. He writes:

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

On the other end of the spectrum, so to speak, astronaut Edgar Mitchell looks at a larger picture when he views the earth from thousands of miles away. He says, "I theorize that there is a spectrum of consciousness available to human beings. At one end is material consciousness. At the other end is what we call 'field' consciousness, where a person is at one with the universe, perceiving the universe. Just by looking at our planet on the way back, I saw or felt a field consciousness state."

Both of these are examples of a kind of shift in realization. Offering such a shift within our own poems or stories is a worthwhile goal.

And those of you who know me well know that I will never miss a chance to quote from the movie Joe Vs. the Volcano. I found Mitchell's idea very similar to that expressed by Joe in this scene. (Click on the image of the man and the moon to go to the video.)

Of course, if you took time to view the video, you discovered that Joe's state of almost supernatural awareness was probably brought on by dehydration. Our task to writers is to create an awareness in our readers using only words!

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin says, "Our duty, as men and women, is to proceed as if limits to our ability did not exist. We are collaborators in creation." He is also known for having said, "We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience."

Again, this is simply looking at something from a different perspective, what Moore calls "the sacredness of the ordinary."

Challenge Number One

In one of your journal entries this week, try looking at something ordinary with an eye to its sacredness. Don't worry about turning your observation into a finished product. Just let it flow down your arm from your mind to your hand. You can always go back and look at it later. Just don't edit yourself as you write.

Some Examples Worth a Look

Rest assured that no poet stumbles upon noteworthy realizations every time he or she picks up a pen, or a Stanley pencil. But for inspiration, let's consider these three short poems by Rainer Maria Rilke:

AGAIN AND AGAIN
Again and again, however we know the landscape of love
and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,
and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others
fall: again and again the two of us walk out together
under the ancient trees, lie down again and again
among the flowers, face to face with the sky.

LOVE SONG
How can I keep my soul in me, so that
it doesn't touch your soul? How can I raise
it high enough, past you, to other things?
I would like to shelter it, among remote
lost objects, in some dark and silent place
that doesn't resonate when your depths resound.
Yet everything that touches us, me and you,
takes us together like a violin's bow,
which draws one voice out of two separate strings.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what musician holds us in his hand?
Oh sweetest song.

MOVING FORWARD
The deep parts of my life pour onward,
as if the river shores were opening out.
It seems that things are more like me now,
That I can see farther into paintings.
I feel closer to what language can't reach.
With my senses, as with birds, I climb
into the windy heaven, out of the oak,
in the ponds broken off from the sky
my falling sinks, as if standing on fishes.

Challenge Number Two

What are your favorite lines in these poems? Why? Try using one of these lines as a jumping off point in your journal writing today.

Challenge Number Three

Evaluate the titles of these three Rilke poems. Did they intrigue you? Did they add meaning to the poems after you had read them?

Challenge Number Four

Make some metaphors or similes. I think we naturally create these types of comparisons when we are frustrated with language. For example, when my son was about three years old, he was unhappy with they way he was being disciplined. He said with much exasperation, "You treat me like, like, like... fried chicken!"

Now while this doesn't really make sense, we definitely get a bit of insight into his frustration. And needless to say, it has become a part of our family's lexicon.

So, for this challenge, make a list of five things that have frustrated you and create metaphors or similes for them.

Good luck with your writing this week. May you find meaning among the static that surrounds you. I will close today with this, another brief scene from Joe Vs. the Volcano. (Click on the static to open the video in another window.)

Just in case you haven't had enough "Joe" for one day, click on this sunset for a musical metaphor titled, "Why Is My Heart Marooned Without You."

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Hooked

4/24/2016

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"Sometimes I just cry at random stuff!"--Keith Urban

I have been reading A Religion of One's Own: A Guide to Creating a Personal Spirituality in a Secular World, by Thomas Moore. And, not to impose my own beliefs on anyone else, I plan to use this as a guide for my blogs for a few days. Mostly because many of the literary references in the book are my own personal touchstones.

The first sentence of the Introduction is: "I was born with the themes of this book buried like seeds in my heart." The mystery of this appealed to me so much!

Moore defines religion as "our creative and concrete response to the mysteries that permeate our lives," and soul as the "unreachable depth, felt vitality and full presence of a person or even a thing." I choose to discuss these elements because I truly believe that most of our poetry stems from these places. If you disagree, no problem. Just read along and disagree. One thing I have learned is that I should not only read those things with which I am aligned; I must also subject myself to those ideas that push up against me in an uncomfortable way. What better way to refine my own beliefs? And let me say, again, I am not trying to win anyone over to my way of thinking, just looking at a body of literature through a particular lens.

One of the first people Moore writes about in his book is Thoreau. He says that Thoreau "started a movement: shifting from the mammoth religious institutions to an inspired and educated personal religion." He added that "this new kind of religion asks that you move away from being a follower to being a creator."

I like that idea of being a creator. So, let's take a look at Thoreau's poetry:

Within the circuit of this plodding life
There enter moments of an azure hue,
Untarnished fair as is the violet
Or anemone, when the spring strews them
By some meandering rivulet, which make
The best philosophy untrue that aims
But to console man for his grievances
I have remembered when the winter came,
High in my chamber in the frosty nights,
When in the still light of the cheerful moon,
On every twig and rail and jutting spout,
The icy spears were adding to their length
Against the arrows of the coming sun,
How in the shimmering noon of summer past
Some unrecorded beam slanted across
The upland pastures where the Johnswort grew;
Or heard, amid the verdure of my mind,
The bee's long smothered hum, on the blue flag
Loitering amidst the mead; or busy rill,
Which now through all its course stands still and dumb
Its own memorial,—purling at its play
Along the slopes, and through the meadows next,
Until its youthful sound was hushed at last
In the staid current of the lowland stream;
Or seen the furrows shine but late upturned,
And where the fieldfare followed in the rear,
When all the fields around lay bound and hoar
Beneath a thick integument of snow.
So by God's cheap economy made rich
To go upon my winter's task again.

I would challenge you to read this poem again and to take note of each word which is not part of your normal vocabulary. Not just those words with which you are unfamiliar, but those words that you never use. Make sure you know what they mean. Make sure you know what they mean to YOU. Try to use a few of these words this week! And let's take time to discuss this poem at our meeting Wednesday.

I hate to leave you without a visual, or at least an auditory experience. So, for some reason this song has been on my mind: "You'll Think of Me," written by Darrell Brown, Ty Lacy, and Dennis Matkosky, and recorded by country music artist Keith Urban. I often find poetry in song lyrics. Listen to this. (Click on the song title.) Listen to the narrative. Read the lyrics. (I have posted them below.) And try to decide what the "hook" of this song was when the writers wrote it. Don't our poems need a hook?

If your life had a hook, what would it be?

YOU'LL THINK OF ME

I woke up early this morning around four a.m.
With the moon shining bright as headlights on the interstate
I pulled the covers over my head and tried to catch some sleep
But thoughts of us kept keeping me awake
Ever since you found yourself in someone else's arms
I've been tryin' my best to get along
But that's okay
There's nothing left to say, but
Take your records, take your freedom
Take your memories I don't need 'em
Take your space and take your reasons
But you'll think of me
And take your cap and leave my sweater
'Cause we have nothing left to weather
In fact I'll feel a whole lot better
But you'll think of me, you'll think of me

I went out driving trying to clear my head
I tried to sweep out all the ruins that my emotions left
I guess I'm feeling just a little tired of this
And all the baggage that seems to still exist
It seems the only blessing I have left to my name
Is not knowing what we could have been
What we should have been

So
Take your records, take your freedom
Take your memories I don't need 'em
Take your space and take your reasons
But you'll think of me
And take your cap and leave my sweater
'Cause we have nothing left to weather
In fact I'll feel a whole lot better
But you'll think of me

Someday I'm gonna run across your mind
Don't worry, I'll be fine
I'm gonna be alright
While you're sleeping with your pride
Wishin' I could hold you tight
I'll be over you
And on with my life
So take your records, take your freedom
Take your memories I don't need 'em
And take your cap and leave my sweater
'Cause we have nothing left to weather
In fact I'll feel a whole lot better
But you'll think of me

So take your records, take your freedom
Take your memories I don't need 'em
Take your space and all your reasons
But you'll think of me
And take your cap and leave my sweater
'Cause we got nothing left to weather
In fact I'll feel a whole lot better
But you'll think of me, you'll think of me, yeah
And you're gonna think of me
Oh someday baby, someday

Until tomorrow:

"People become famous through all sorts of different reasons... some of it through art and some of it through just wanting to be famous. And I think how that all starts tends to reflect how you live your life daily."--Keith Urban

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Repeatedly and with Great Enthusiasm

4/15/2016

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"Polka dots are fabulous."--Yayoi Kusama

Japanese artist Yayoi Kusama

Today I want to talk about repetition, and perhaps illustrate the idea of repetition with a few photos and drawings. It is a concept that impacts a writer in many ways. Of course, there is the repetition of action such as writing in your journal each day, which I highly recommend. There is the kind of repetition that results from trying and failing and trying again. (Illustrated by attempting and attempting and attempting to publish one's poems.) And there is the use of repetition to make a point or to elaborate on something, or to set up a pattern in order to break it. (By the way, if you are not familiar with the work of Yayoi Kusama, you should look her up. Very strange indeed... I linked her photo to her Wikipedia article.)

Because I am going back and taking a critical look at my "Falling Bodies" series of poems, I will use a few of them today as examples. "Medusa Envy" uses repetition by stealing sentence fragments and using them in the next line. It also discusses repetition directly.

MEDUSA ENVY
(Rejected by Poetry New Zealand, Fawlt Magazine, & Black Words on White Paper)

part of me wants to be the one
the one they all say is the ideal woman
the one every man says is ideal
with the perfect body not too much hip
and the daring face not too much lip
not too much eyeliner
and the mediocre mind

not too much like my sister
who tells everyone who will listen
about the highway patrolman
who stopped her for going ninety-one
and who was so bowled over by her beauty
that he was   yeah
that he was physically incapable
of writing her a ticket

part of me
wants to be
that one

part of me wants to take you away
for the weekend
for a long lazy weekend
and just for a few hours to forget the truth
to take you repeatedly
and with great enthusiasm
repeatedly
and with great enthusiasm

without concern for control
without concern for other
without concern for myself
not to think about self
not to think
   not to think
       not to think
I think
repeatedly

then I’d slide across the bed
like a liquid dream with no firm place to go
I would glide across that comfortable room
open the window
and see if anyone else understands

This next poem repeats the phrase "I remember" which then changes to "I don't remember" and "I wonder." (Also note that I was not even born when the Russians launched Sputnik. Poetic license at work!)

HOW TO GO ABOUT UNDERSTANDING
WITHOUT STEPPING ON IT DIRECTLY
(Rejected by Poems-For-All, Iota, Skidrow Penthouse, Umbrella, & Neon; Published in Haggard and Halloo, Autumn Sky Poetry, Litmocracy & Houseboat; )

I remember developing breasts,
(it was the same year the Russians launched Sputnik)
and going with my aunt to buy my first fully-trained bra,
and learning from the lady at Tots-to-Teens
how important it would be someday
to bend over at the waist when I put it on
and the first time I bent over.

I remember learning that there were men in the world
who wanted to teach me about the men in the world,
and how the faint strong smell of bleach
tinted my sheets last week after I washed the colors
with the whites and left them on the line to dry
bleeding happily all together.

I don’t remember learning I would die,
but it must have been like stepping casually
into a freshly laundered dream,
like stepping into a white tulip skirt
trimmed round the hem
with crimson quatrefoils and tears.

I wonder if I cried,
and when the flowers will start to bleed.

I am including this next poem because I submitted it for publication several times only to find that it was rejected again and again. Then I changed it from a free verse poem to a prose poem and it was soon published.

BUYING TIME
(Rejected by The Delinquent, and others too numerous to document; Published by Clockwise Cat)

Pointing northwest and northeast, all new timepiece hands are set at ten past ten. (An intentionally supplicating posture based on market research, subliminal message, and the appealing gesture of the raised hands.) In a life filled with such trivial manipulation, some days I am tempted to identify, classify and name all of my demons.

Some days you save me. You push against me as gently as a breeze. As surely as the blood thrum that accompanies a potent brew, you coax from me incantations, bright sounds springing from the same root as birdsong, and through mystical language, I am bound to be set free.

When I was a victim of self-forgery, you compelled me to see I could never have been born under the hands of another. When I lost my feathers, you offered music and opened my ears. If I could have brought forth, one by one, all the fish in the sea, I would not have found the magic salmon on my own.

In small tribute, I lift my hands--I touch your mouth--for to dive into such honey, is to be born into sweetness, pure sunlight again & again.

And I found this poem by David St. John to be a good example of repetition as well. Look for repeated words, sounds, structures, the use of color, and similar images that seem to morph into each other. Find the slant rhymes. Notice also how the poet changes from "I know" to "all I do not know" at the end of the poem.

I KNOW

I know the moon is troubling;
its pale eloquence is always such a meddling,
intrusive lie. I know the pearl sheen of the sheets
remains the screen I'll draw against the night;
I know all of those silences invented for me approximate
those real silences I cannot lose to daylight...
I know the orchid smell of your skin
The way I know the blackened path to the marina,
when gathering clouds obscure the summer moon--
just as I know the chambered heart where I begin.
I know too the lacquered jewel box, its obsidian patina;
the sexual trumpeting of the diving, sweeping loons...
I know the slow combinations of the night, & the glow
of fireflies, deepening the shadows of all I do not know.

As I close today, since I started with an artist, I will end the same way.

"Isn't life a series of images that change as they repeat themselves?"-- Andy Warhol

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No Shortcuts

4/14/2016

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"There is no royal road to learning; no short cut to the acquirement of any art."--Anthony Trollope

Since we talked in our group last night about Trollope and his dedication to writing a couple of hours each morning, I decided to use his words to punctuate and guide my blog today.
This seems especially appropriate since much of our discussion revolved about the difficulty of simply making one's self write!
As I was doing a bit of research on Trollope, I found an article titled, "How to Write 2,500 Words Before Breakfast Every Day." (Click on the portrait of Trollope to go to the article in another window. And perhaps take a moment to admire the man's hair style!)
I also found this interesting list of tips:

10 Timeless Writing Tips

Writers love to write about writing! This list was compiled by Richard Nordquist, who also wrote the Trollope article. He has a Ph.D. in English, is professor emeritus of rhetoric and English at Armstrong Atlantic State University and the author of two grammar and composition textbooks for college freshmen, Writing Exercises (Macmillan) and Passages: A Writer's Guide (St. Martin's Press).

Have something to say.
The first rule, then, for a good style is that the author should have something to say; nay, this is in itself almost all that is necessary.
(Arthur Schopenhauer, "On Style." Parerga und Paralipomena, 1851)
Say it.
Think it out quite clearly in your own mind, and then put it down in the simplest words that offer, just as if you were telling it to a friend, but dropping the tags of the day with which your spoken discourse would naturally be garnished.
(Frederic Harrison, "On Style in English Prose." Nineteenth Century, June 1898)
Don't wait for inspiration.
Had I mentioned to someone around 1795 that I planned to write, anyone with any sense would have told me to write for two hours every day, with or without inspiration. Their advice would have enabled me to benefit from the ten years of my life I totally wasted waiting for inspiration.
(Stendhal [Marie-Henri Beyle], Souvenirs d'Égotisme [Memoirs of an Egotist], 1892)
Keep it simple.
Use plain, simple language, short words and brief sentences. That is the way to write English--it is the modern way and the best way. Stick to it; don't let fluff and flowers and verbosity creep in.
(Mark Twain, letter to D. W. Bowser, March 1880)
Mix it up.
There are occasions when the simplest and fewest words surpass in effect all the wealth of rhetorical amplification. An example may be seen in the passage which has been a favourite illustration from the days of Longinus to our own. "God said: Let there be light! and there was light." This is a conception of power so calm and simple that it needs only to be presented in the fewest and the plainest words, and would be confused or weakened by any suggestion of accessories. . . .
Although this sentence from Genesis is sublime in its simplicity, we are not to conclude that simple sentences are uniformly the best . . .. The reader's pleasure must not be forgotten; and he cannot be pleased by a style which always leaps and never flows. A harsh, abrupt, and dislocated manner irritates and perplexes him by its sudden jerks. It is easier to write short sentences than to read them. . . . [T]he sharp short sentences which are intolerable when abundant, when used sparingly act like a trumpet-call to the drooping attention.
(George Henry Lewes, "The Principles of Success in Literature." The Fortnightly Review, 1865)
Chop wood.
Learn to split wood, at least. . . . [S]teady labor with the hands, which engrosses the attention also, is unquestionably the best method of removing palaver and sentimentality out of one's style, both of speaking and writing. . . . We are often struck by the force and precision of style to which hard-working men, unpracticed in writing, easily attain when required to make the effort. As if plainness, and vigor, and sincerity, the ornaments of style, were better learned on the farm and in the workshop, than in the schools.
(Henry David Thoreau, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers, 1849)
Read aloud.
He who wants to know whether he has written what he wishes to say, and as he ought to say it, let him read it aloud to himself. Even his own voice will seem as apart from him as that of an auditor. Or let him do as the shrewd Moliere did, read his composition to his cook, if no one else is at hand--read it to any one who will listen--and the reader will at once become sensible of redundancies, omissions, irrelevancies, and incongruities, of which his own wit will never make him sensible. Even stupidity as an auditor will improve style.
(George Jacob Holyoake, Public Speaking and Debate: A Manual for Advocates and Agitators, 2nd. ed., 1896)
Listen.
I always began my task by reading the work of the day before, an operation which would take me half an hour, and which consisted chiefly in weighing with my ear the sound of the words and phrases. I would strongly recommend this practice to all tyros in writing. . . . [B]y reading what he has last written, just before he recommences his task, the writer will catch the tone and spirit of what he is then saying, and will avoid the fault of seeming to be unlike himself.
(Anthony Trollope, An Autobiography, 1883)
Slow down--and rewrite.
The swiftly done work of the journalist, and the cheap finish and ready-made methods to which it leads, you must try to counteract in private by writing with the most considerate slowness and on the most ambitious models. And when I say "writing"--O believe me, it is rewriting that I have chiefly in mind.
(Robert Louis Stevenson, letter to Richard Harding Davis, 1889)
Cut.
In composing, as a general rule, run your pen through every other word you have written; you have no idea what vigour it will give your style.
(Sydney Smith, quoted by Saba Holland in A Memoir of the Reverend Sydney Smith, 1855)

This list definitely agrees with Trollope's assertion that, "There is no way of writing well and also of writing easily."

I also realized when I looked at a list of Trollope's novels, that I have read very little of his work. So, I downloaded Barchester Towers to take on my vacation next week. (Note that many of Trollope's books are free, or extremely cheap, in digital form through Amazon. You may click on the book title to go to the Amazon page.)

I think that most of us would agree that writers absolutely have to be readers. And as Trollope says, "The habit of reading is the only enjoyment in which there is no alloy; it lasts when all other pleasures fade."

So if you are having difficulty choosing reading material, click on the writer's hand photo to go to the list: "11 Books All Aspiring Writers Should Read, Because Spending Time With These Titles is Like a Mini-Workshop."

From this list, I chose to reread "Hamlet." And because the entire works of Shakespeare was only 99 cents, I downloaded that. Also from this list, I highly recommend Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale if you have not read it. And because I was intrigued by the commentary about it, I downloaded some sample chapters from David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest. (This sampling thing is something I do quite often to determine if I like the book enough to buy it. I have found also that in nonfiction (for example books about writing), the writer often begins with his or her best material, and that by downloading the sample, you can gain a lot of information, exercises, etc., for free. (Yes, I will admit that I am thrifty!)

So, I hope everyone has a productive week. I am still in art making mode today, but I feel the switch to reader/writer/traveler is about to happen as I clean up my studio and put everything back in its place. I will close this section of my blog today with a few final words from Trollope, which I choose to interpret as a reminder that ultimately we must be realistic, we must be kind to ourselves and do the best we can:

"Life is so unlike theory."--Anthony Trollope

Not the End

I forgot to remind everyone that we did not have a chance to address Paula's challenge from last week regarding truth. She wants each of us to tell her something we are sure is really true. So keep this in mind and I will make sure we take time to discuss these ideas.

Sharing is Caring

Also, for the benefit of my readers who are not in my writing group, I want to post a poem which was a response to this week's Ekphrasis writing challenge.

This poem by Paula Lemmon was inspired by a Daniel Arsham sculpture from his "Formless Figure" series. Note the way the shape of the poem mirrors the shape of the sculpture! (Click on the sculpture for more information on this sculptor.)

TELL ME

Mercy waits.
Come to me.
Bernadette returns,
or has never left.

The shadow
within the formless,
beckoning to shadow.
Within this serene and silver shade is a space for your truth.
These arms, this unseen heart will hold a place for speaking the unspoken.

Fill the shadow-embrace with your truth.
Tell me your story.
Tell me.

Still Not the End...

I have promised a discussion on different ways of titling literature. Perhaps this will help. (This list was courtesy of "canuwrite".)

1. Write the poem or song first. It will be much easier to write the title once you already know what you said and what you want to communicate. Read through it again or skim it before working on the title.
2. What is the tone of the poem or song? If this is a serious or sad poem or song, don't be too silly or off-the-wall with your title. If it is joking song or poem , meant to be funny or a little strange, it's ok to title it in a different manner. But the title should match the tone of the song or poem.
3. Pull out a few keywords that sum up your poem or song. After you have your keywords, brainstorm some ideas around them. Do the words fit together? Are they jarringly different? Do they remind you of another word that sums up the whole idea? Spend a few minutes brainstorming. Maybe one or more of the words can be a title.
4. Avoid cliches. Your poem or song may be about love or hate, anger or sandess as a lot of creative works are, but art is about expressing those ideas in a new way that calls out to the reader. If you want to express one of those ideas in your title, then try to think of synonyms.
5. Find a phrase from your poem or song that can represent the whole word, or that is particularly poignant or thought provoking.
6. Use a startling, interesting, beautiful or surprising image that can represent the work. It doesn't have to directly reflect the work but it should be related.
7. Think of images that are the opposite of your work and think if they can be made negative to show an interesting contrast for your poem or song's title.
8. Try some clever word play for your title such as a double entendre or word or words with a double meaning that could apply to your paper.
9. Ask someone else for help if you are still having trouble. Have them read over your song or poem and ask what strikes them.
10. If there is a repeating verse,that is always another option for a title.

I also came across this helpful article: "Expanding Your Poem with a Great Title." (Click on the title to read.)

Other places to look for discussion regarding titles:

Ted Kooser's Poetry Repair Manual, which is a terrific book. Unfortunately I could not put my hands on it today. It is probably under my bed, or in the closet, or who knows where writing books hide...

The Portable Poetry Workshop by Jack Myers. (Another book I am packing for my trip.) Here is a list of the many types of titles Myers identifies: (There is so much to look at here. I have provided very brief explanations of each type, but we will want to discuss these further in the near future.)

The self-evident title-what the poem is obviously about.
The literal title-calls attention to some aspect of the subject matter.
Titles taken from lines in the poem.
The formal title-names the form or genre.
The naming title-states the theme of the work.
Titles that capture a character or quality-focuses on a particular trait.
The symbolic title-raises a literal image to the connotative level.
The apostrophe-addresses someone or something.
The associative title-adds another dimension to the poem, sort of "off the page" thinking.
The layered title-contains more than one meaning which unfolds as the poem is read.
The plot title-completes the poem and supplies closure.

Finally, the End.

Special thanks to Paula for giving everyone in our group a carpenter's pencil! It is the perfect tool to utilize as we build our daily writing habits! Don't forget to write in your journal!

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Lost and Found

4/12/2016

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"Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words."-- Robert Frost

It seems this week that I have lost my ability to write. It happens. One thing that sometimes helps me out of a writing slump is to play with found poetry. It is a good way to force the writer to interact with language.

HERE ARE SOME HELPFUL INSTRUCTIONS:

Find a couple random paragraph from a newspaper, magazine, book, etc. The selection should contain 100-200 words. You can also try recipe instructions, legal notices, and horoscopes.
Read through your selection.
Highlight or underline words, lines, etc that seem promising to you.
Use what you selected to write a poem.
You may add your own words, but no more than 50% of final poem may include new words.
Your poem may be of any length, but it must focus on a single idea and be meaningful to you.

HINTS:

Your poem does not need to be about the original topic.
Each line does not need to be a complete sentence; experiment with ending lines in mid sentence and continuing on next line.
Pay attention to how the poem looks on the page, the length of lines, how line are grouped, etc.
Have a single idea in mind to help your poem come together.
Try repeating lines or single words throughout poem.
It is possible to create a poem without adding new words.

Here are a couple of examples from my files.

IN THE UNIVERSAL FASHION

When the innermost sanctum is locked up,
a seeker must be satisfied with a look at the walls.
Glimpsing houses packed tightly together,
we stroll down streets
where men greet each other warmly,
where they kiss on both cheeks,
where horns are forbidden,
and where woman, like old costumes,
follow suit as children are brought forward
to kiss lightly the hands of the sultan.

No glass in the windows. No gardens in yards.
But the desert blooms, and the peach tree
clings to a crag, a sort of blessing
where nothing is wasted.

In the universal fashion,
grown men walk the streets holding hands,
a curious custom to those with no closeness.

But don’t tease them;
they are made and unmade
according to mood.
As elegant as a new slaughter,
they send up flares of believability
like naked light bulbs offering the first rays of hope.

It sounds so romantic.
Perhaps we’ll pick poppies and be properly inspired
like bricks set in plaster at weird angles to the beam.

*****
A found poem from: The Land and People of Turkey by William Spencer, 1958

THINK LIKE A BULLET

the beauty of the system?
it allows an avid revolver man
to tinker endlessly
with his handloads
wringing the last bit
of performance out

a simple procedure
which allows a shooter
to swap his four-inch barrel
for an eight-inch
first pick up the barrel
and screw it into the frame
(the barrel goes nearly
all the way in…)

slide the barrel shroud over

male threads
and female threads
have a certain tolerance
between them
(if they didn’t, you wouldn’t
be able to use a wrench
to get them together…)

peace and quiet comes to an abrupt end
when someone smacks
the primer with the firing pin

then all hell breaks loose
an erupting volcano
looking for relief

can only overcome
the crimp
and go forward
into the throat

the system works

*****
a found poem from Hand Gunner, Jan/Feb 1993

So, I am even struggling to focus on my blog today. If you get a chance to watch these videos, they are provocative: "What are literature, philosophy and history for?" (Click on the Open Culture logo to go to the videos in another window.)

"Men die miserably every day for lack of what is found in poetry."--William Carlos Williams

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Visual Wandering

4/8/2016

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"Great things are done by a series of small things brought together."--Vincent VanGogh

I like to start out the day with a little mental perambulation. Sometimes I look at art, sometimes nature. I listen to music. I read whatever I happen across. I invite serendipity.

Yesterday I spent some time talking with my fellow artists. This conversation, primarily about sculpture and intentional distortion, guided my walk today. These are some of the images I came across. (Where possible, I titled them by the artist's name. Brief comments, and the occasional link, are included in the captions. If I mention a link, just click on the accompanying image to open the website in a new window.)

Today's Challenge

Of course, I am hoping that you will be inspired by these incredible images. In fact, I am so sure you will be that I am attaching a writing challenge! Why don't you attempt an ekphrasis poem?

An ekphrastic poem is a vivid description of a scene or, more commonly, a work of art. Through the imaginative act of narrating and reflecting on the “action” of a painting or sculpture, the poet may amplify and expand its meaning.

We have talked about this before when we discussed "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" by William Carlos Williams. (Click on the title of the poem to read it.)

And, as an artist, I can't help but want to tie that practice to my love of art. Perhaps one of these sculptural pieces appeals to you? If not, another piece of art? If you need help getting started, just do a little research on ekphrasis and find some examples to inspire you.

When I was cleaning off my computer drive and organizing it yesterday, I found this ekphrasis poem about Van Gogh's paintings that I had written several years ago.

PRAYER FOR A STILL LIFE
by Cheryl Hicks

How frightened you must have been,
over eight hundred paintings,
composing yourself again and again,
again fractured and out of control.

Green strokes so unexpected on a face
as the movement of your brush testifies
to the density of your pain, never stopping.
It must have poured out of you like tears,
running down your face,
down your chest down your arms, filling your hands
loading your brush, scarring your canvas
like stigmata uncontrolled. Yet it was delicate,
a moaning proxy searching for the road out
or a way in. Every painting dies
to leave the canvas behind.

Color theory be damned,
leave the canvas behind.

I have to believe each brush stroke
numbed the pain at least a fraction of a second.
I have to imagine you had disjointed flashes of peace
away from the razor of your life. But I fear
you could never coax those moments
into conjunction, that you were left
with only fractions and fractions and fractions--
until the slices became so small
they could no longer be measured.

I check the composition.
See those swirls of chartreuse?
Vibrations of complexion. And I can tell
in this light that truth lies not in theory,
but just behind the eyes. The viewer perceives
blue skies threaten to take over, yet your eyes
are somehow the focal point.

I am stunned when a solitary pipe
on a solitary chair draws forth the hopeless image
of a bandaged ear. Such divisionism,
such angst… such blossoming orchards!

But why the crows? Did you paint them
thinking they might know something of the eternal,
something of the radiance you were just beginning
to glimpse? Did you pray in the wheatfields?
Were you answered with those dancing lights?

Such a loss your calmness would have wrought.
And so I pray every starry night
not to live in brilliance,
but to hover, just out of reach,
dreaming of colors, colors mixed beyond reason,
as I remember your faces in the palette of spring.

Of course, a famous example of ekphrasis dedicated also to VanGogh, is this song by Don McLean: (Note that I copied the lyrics, as is, from the internet without punctuation.) If you would like to listen to the song while viewing VanGogh paintings, click on the song's title.

"Vincent (Starry, Starry Night)"

Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and gray
Look out on a summer's day
With eyes that know the darkness in my soul

Shadows on the hills
Sketch the trees and the daffodils
Catch the breeze and the winter chills
In colors on the snowy linen land

Now I understand
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free

They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now

Starry, starry night
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue

Colors changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand

Now I understand
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free

They would not listen, they did not know how
Perhaps they'll listen now

For they could not love you
But still your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night

You took your life, as lovers often do
But I could've told you Vincent
This world was never meant for
One as beautiful as you

Starry, starry night
Portraits hung in empty halls
Frame-less heads on nameless walls
With eyes that watch the world and can't forget

Like the strangers that you've met
The ragged men in ragged clothes
The silver thorn of bloody rose
Lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow

Now I think I know
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free

They would not listen, they're not listening still
Perhaps they never will

(And if that isn't enough VanGogh art for you today, click on the painting to go to a virtual tour of the VanGogh museum.)

Another tribute to Vincent is this highly pixelated portrait. Each square measures one inch and was cut from past issues of New American Artists.

I have been considering doing another version with even larger squares, perhaps 4" each. And it would be interesting to cut up some prints of his works to make the squares...

I am interested to see just how far I can carry the abstraction and still be able to see his face!

I will close today with these words from VanGogh, and I challenge you to apply this concept to your writing as well. (And just in case that isn't heavy handed enough, I will include an inspirational kitten poster!!!)

"If you hear a voice within you say 'you cannot paint,' then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced."

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Ink, a Drug

4/7/2016

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“Literature was NOT born the day when a boy crying "wolf, wolf" came running out of the Neanderthal valley with a big gray wolf at his heels; literature was born on the day when a boy came crying "wolf, wolf" and there was no wolf behind him.”
― Vladimir Nabokov, Lectures on Literature

A friend of mine has been reading a lot of work by Vladimir Nabokov recently, and so today, I will punctuate my blog with some relevant bits from Nabokov. I especially like the first quote about the creation of literature and what it implies about the development of the human mind. I think of my first attempts at writing poetry and am almost ashamed of my primitive output. But then I also recall the enthusiasm that prompted me to begin writing. I really don't know how I would go on without writing and art.

“Some might think that the creativity, imagination, and flights of fancy that give my life meaning are insanity.”
― Vladimir Nabokov

Sometimes I find myself engaged in a project and suddenly ask myself, "Now, what prompted you to do this?" This usually results when I am pushing myself to do something I have never done before. For example, a couple of years ago, I decided to make a text painting about four times as large as anything I had ever attempted. I cut up two volumes of A.S. Byatt's novel, POSSESSION, and created this piece which measures 4' wide and 6' tall. The image comes from the cover of the book, which is a painting by Edward Burne-Jones, featuring Merlin being beguiled by the Lady of the Lake who is reading from his book of spells.

Unlike some of my smaller canvases, the entire surface of this piece is covered in strips of text. Even the edge, all 20 linear feet of it, is a collage of the small illustrations which begin each chapter.

Sometimes I need to motivate myself by demanding more than I think I can deliver.

“Let all of life be an unfettered howl. Like the crowd greeting the gladiator. Don't stop to think, don't interrupt the scream, exhale, release life's rapture.”
― Vladimir Nabokov

This is one reason I find myself working in a series, whether in relation to art, or poetry, or creative non-fiction. One project just seems to naturally lead to the next. While I am making art, I am usually thinking about making more art. And the same goes for writing. While a piece must stand on its own, in my opinion, it often leads the creator to question, "But what if I do this next time?" or "This piece is related to a larger idea in some way..."

For example, from about 2004 to 2008, I worked on a series of poems titled, "Falling Bodies: A Pseudo-Scientific Approach to Love." Each of the poems, about 60 of them I think, used some aspect of science to examine the mysteries of love. My hope was that I would publish them in a book of some kind. But when my manuscript was repeatedly rejected, I began submitting them individually, and they have now all been published. Here is an example of one of the first poems in the series:

ACTS OF GOD AND OTHER MYSTERIES
(previously published in Clockwise Cat)

I smoke cigars now,
but only once a month,
and I no longer eat meat at all.
I still carry my arousal around
like a succulent fruit
in a semi-permeable pouch
just south of my solar plexus,
and I think of you when it rains
like it rained today.

I don’t spend much time
binding or unbinding my hair,
or enough time combing it
to cause even a small
thunderstorm.

I have found myself
strangely alone
and craving lightning.

Your going has left an emptiness in me
bigger than my original self
and I have denied words
until they no longer spill down my arms.
I write now in shorthand, disabled
and unwilling to transcribe the details.

Let the leaves fall.
Let them say she was taken
on a Friday, full-faced
and plastered on the cover,
no sense denying the truth.
Let them say she could twirl
like a leaf weighted down by her stem.
“Did you see how she fell?”
Like a soft, Sunday paper, still folded,
predetermined as a morning crepe myrtle
still loaded with dew. Still looking for wholes,
as vulnerable and transparent as a grape,
let them say she was seedless,
and without wings.

“The breaking of a wave cannot explain the whole sea.”
― Vladimir Nabokov

I have not yet given up on getting all of the poems published together, but looking back, I see now that some of them need to be revisited and edited. I am reminded that part of the reason for such revisions is that I myself have changed since I wrote these poems! Meanwhile I will continue to revise my writings and my self, and try to be more compassionate toward others.

“Do not be angry with the rain; it simply does not know how to fall upwards.”
― Vladimir Nabokov

I will close this section of my blog today by thanking each member of our writing group for the valuable feedback and discussion you are providing each Wednesday.

Among this week's challenges...

Don't forget one of our challenges this week is from Paula. She wants each of us to tell her something we are sure is really true. (Her inspiration for this challenge comes from novelist Colm Tóibín. (Click on his name to go to this interview.) The portrait on his website tells me that he has a different way of looking at the world!

Promised Links...

Click on this photo to go to "The Heart is a Foreign Country" by Rangi McNeil.

And click here to go to the poetry of Ellen Bass, including "Relax."

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Among this week's challenges...

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