A Page of Woe Absolved

Take me to the river, drop me in the water

2012-01-07T19:24:00.001-06:00

So my plan on my previous post didn't happen. Oh well. Family visitors trump it at Christmas. On the other hand I did put a link on my left side bar for my poems published online. This, for one reason: now I will have to start sending stuff out, so it isn't left all by itself. I do have a few more publications, but they aren't online.

It's funny in a way. I haven't been thinking about the long story that much, but I've been thinking of poetry lines every day. I wonder if there is brain space for only one at a time. I know my brain handles these separately, so I guess I'm not surprised. The flow can only be on one stream at a time, to give it river imagery.

My dreams have also been very different since I haven't been writing. I gotta get some of that energy onto the page. Very diverse to say the least.

(I'm so not used to the pad on my new laptop. So prefer a mouse.)

That is all. Have a good one. Maybe I'll read the last chapter I wrote, to see what it actually looks like, not just what I remember writing. Again, two very different things.

sway our great designs

2011-12-24T16:01:00.000-06:00

Haven't written here in forever. Mostly because I was on a good solid run on my long story, and had been posting everywhere less because of that. The story had its huge climax (never thought that was the right word for a story) and then I was interrupted so I haven't been back to it since. But I got that bit down, so I'm ok with it. I hope to get more done before the new year, and if it went the way I'd like, it is possible that I'll see its ending. Yay.

Then I plan on printing out all my Napo poems and seeing what is right with them, and dealing with updating and revision, and maybe sending some out. If they are worthy. /Wayne and Garth moment.

Then, I plan on starting revisions on the long story. Then it will be April, and I'll decide about that again. Now I think of the new year as 3 months to Napo, rather than, you know, the new year.

In the midst of all that, I also want to work on my other short story that seems to have the heart of a longer. Who knew? Well, I did, because I always thought it might have that.

Have a happy holiday however you celebrate.

Best dedication ever

2011-11-19T13:24:00.001-06:00

I'm reading Where To Start (2010 Holland Prize winner) by Samuel Stenger Renken. His dedication is the best I've ever read: "-For Bill Kloefkorn, who called me poet & made me believe it."

Just a couple of poems in, and I'm impressed.

Lists of poets by nationality

2011-11-13T08:29:00.001-06:00

Have at it kids! Happy Sunday!

Woohoo

2011-11-09T14:52:00.002-06:00

I've reached 100,001 words on my story. 193 single spaced pages.

And I was just surprised by a turn the characters made even at this late place.

I hope to be done the first draft in a few weeks. Then I will let it sit, until it has sat, and then I will start revising. Hopefully my notes I've made throughout will be useful.

Haying fork = trident

2011-10-26T14:43:00.002-05:00

Well, that worked out well for my story!! I love when two parts come together ever so nicely, tying plot, theme, mythology and metaphor.

2011-10-15T15:29:00.002-05:00

The new issue of Hobble Creek Review is up, and I'm happy to say I have a poem there in the tribute to William Kloefkorn! Go enjoy!

Vicky

long story is long

2011-10-08T21:38:00.001-05:00

I've topped 90,000 words on my long story. 91133 to be exact. Feel like I'm in virgin territory again, the first time since I started the story in 2004. (see title of post) I felt that way long ago when the story hit me, and I started writing it, and it kept going, in fits and starts, and now I can see the end. I know mostly where it is going, mostly. I can still be surprised with this. A case of me sitting down, and letting it happen. I'm just as surprised as anyone about this, the fact that it is working (mileage may vary), and that I've gotten this far. And soon, I will begin the morning after hung over attempt at revision. I read that analogy somewhere recently and it felt true. Writing is the party, and the revision is the hangover the next morning. Maybe that is where the virgin-ness feel is coming from.

Anyway, I'm glad. I read a month or two ago, that one shouldn't be blogging as long as there is writing to be done, and again my own mileage on that theory varies, but it has kept me quieter on these fronts because of that ~~guilt~~suggestion~~not quite the right word, but hey, it worked.

I popped out another thousand tonight, so that was good too. Dialogue writes more quickly now that I've gotten more of it written. The words beget the words, or something. (See how specific I can be?) It still isn't my favorite part of writing. I'd rather write lingering paragraphs, or a poem, or watching the story unfold, but alas, people have to speak. A huge part of my revision will be in the second half of the book, where characters are interacting, and I will have to build the world around the written dialogue. I have learned I can't do both together. Different brain bits. I also learned that if I visually imagine my characters speaking, then it works more smoothly. Translating the visual words to the written words.

Have a great [insert word of your choice].

2011-09-03T08:10:00.000-05:00

In the poem Black People by Amiri Baraka, there is this line:

"words. The magic words are: Up against the wall motherfucker"

I found the poem in the most round about way ever. It is buried on page 9 of the Google search results for ""Black People" poem Baraka", in Google Book results.

Talk about silence.

When I read the line the first time in a post about silence, I misread them with no punctuation.

The magic words are up against the wall motherfucker.

No truer words as to writing, I gotta say.

::looks for magic words::

2011-08-23T12:00:00.000-05:00

This interview is well worth reading. Robert Peake interviews Mark Burnhope. Mark has a new book out, The Snowboy. My copy should be arriving soon. After reading this interview, I find it harder to wait.

So in a way, the brothers force me back into my own birth, which had its problems. I survived, but I’m contrasting that with my child that never lived, who we saw as a ‘miracle child’ (I’d been told I was unable to father children). The brothers throw ‘me’, the begrudging survivor, ‘miracle child’, back into the dark. It’s confusing, but it’s a fever dream, so I like that.

This portion of the first half of the interview especially. For me anyway.Who gets to live and who doesn't is always striking to me. How Chance plays its role. How it moves us around and how we get moved.My son who didn't get to live, and the one who did. Twins separated. Parents separated from their child. Fairness doesn't have a role. I think Fairness ought to get to step up more often. But the oughts, the expected welcomed states, are often nought.I will find this paragraph quoted above living with me for a while. So, thank you.

Empty mantel

2011-08-13T12:39:00.000-05:00

Working on my long story, and all the characters have come to a stopping point. I have to get them riled up again...no gun on a mantel or anything. Hmm...

I do have a hearse parked so maybe that would work...

2011-07-11T17:11:00.004-05:00

Dear Blogger: You are not Wordpress. Please don't try to be. Thank you.

I wonder if I can switch the new Blogger In Draft Dashboard back.

the end of our elaborate plans, the end of everything that stands, the end ...

2011-06-26T15:47:00.000-05:00

Ending a novel, aka first draft, is much harder than starting one. I'm getting to that part, the tying it all up phase, and it is much more difficult. I'm only in the beginning of the end, so I'm not worried. But this will be the first end I've written for a longer story, so I am hoping it will be satisfying.

It is still somewhat vague, but generally that is how all my writing is as I'm planning. Seat of the pants, seat in chair...

time, time

2011-05-07T14:27:00.003-05:00

I guess I should get back to the long story soon. 7 days post-Napo, and all... I wonder what they all have been up to. Can't wait to write it and find out.

April 30: It's True, You Know

2011-04-30T07:07:00.000-05:00

It's True, You Know

Like a switch that's flipped,
or a turn you didn't see coming,
the darkness can happen
even in the sweet light.
Your acceptance
of it as true, doesn't
showcase your ability
to see, just books the truth
you call your own.
I know you
still don't believe,
but am glad you aren't
blaming, with a knife's
serration, anymore.

Last one. And ending on a sharp knife. Huh.

April 29:: "Ambition Shall Be Glanced At"

2011-04-29T06:41:00.002-05:00

"Ambition Shall Be Glanced At"*

I pick through the tender
baby romaine feeling
for the grit and hoping not
to find slime. Offerings packaged
in the clear plastic bins, are strapped
around tight like a pinched
belted trouser. I spin
the lettuce dry and abandon
it into the salad bowl, augment
with other ingredients, which
colour and bind, in Caesar's name.

* Julius Caesar: I, ii

April 28: Dendrite Bedazzled

2011-04-28T06:16:00.000-05:00

Dendrite Bedazzled

Title suggested by Jeanne G

It wasn't your effulgent ass
that bedazzled me,
but some other
provocation that sparked
and sparkled
across the screen,
excitable as fire,
receptive as mesh.

April 27: At Eight Years, Walking Distance

2011-04-27T06:16:00.000-05:00

http://www.shorpy.com/node/10338
http://www.shorpy.com/search/node/walkerville

At Eight Years, Walking Distance

We used to walk toward the smell,
thick in the air, like thieves. The whiskey
drenched the tracks, the town, and lit the air.
I tilted my head looking, and my friends
and I snickered over who would lead
the way under the bridge, as we
weren't allowed to travel over it.
We didn't know what was inside; the racks
and racks of what our fathers
and grandfathers craved. Quenched
of any need for it ourselves, the tracks
like a one way street, pointed to
where we were not supposed to be,
not supposed to act,
and the smell welcomed us home.

Blogger's not letting me upload the picture. Oh well. Click away if you like.

April 26: Come Out And Play

2011-04-26T05:56:00.000-05:00

Come Out And Play

The day dawns
applauding the outcome
of the night. The slouch
of your eye charts
postures and viewpoints
as I bend
to the door like Justice
accommodating her scale.

April 25: Spies

2011-04-25T05:04:00.000-05:00

Spies

I'm hiding out,
underground,
behind closed doors,
writing poetry.
House guests are
wandering, opening
doors, peeking around
corners, watching
where the pens lie.
So the pen
sputters
and the lines
get shorter
and clipped
and quiet.

April 24: April All Over My Mantle

2011-04-24T08:38:00.000-05:00

April All Over My Mantle

Spring wants to be spring
as much as I want it, too.
Pollen explosion

across my mantle.
The cuttings even took root.
They are resting now.

(I have succumb to the dreaded fake haiku.)

Happy Easter.
Vicky

2011-04-23T08:01:00.002-05:00

Ploughman's Lunch

Title suggested by Salli Shepherd

You didn't convince me
that our lunch
over the Giant's Causeway
settled the Troubles.
The up and down columns,
some marching, some shooting
barbwired into history.
Ancient eruptions
shaped us all, those
daggers and cliffs
remindful of the sausage
and sharp cheese.

April 22: Months Of May

2011-04-22T07:11:00.000-05:00

Months of May

I didn't expect a note
of solace folded into thirds
and neatly tucked gently
into the issue. The issue
to remember, forever,
the remembrance
all these twelve years
later. Spring springs again,
always May, it is always
May. I wish it hadn't
been May.
The "may I"s that weren't.
The "weren't"s weight
more than the "haves",
twice as much,
half as much.
How the scale can
balance, how each
of the two still work
together, never knowing
how close and far they are.
So a letter of solace,
balances the scale,
something justice
never would.

April 21: Pipers and Payments

2011-04-21T05:57:00.000-05:00

Pipers and Payments

Legends like children
come and go. Rats
get blamed but they
were always there.
Who determines the price
and the cost, must realize
that rifling of cashiers
profiting off the land
whittles the pipe
to the future. Being
hypnotized by the high pitched
notes doesn't amend the true
cost. Edges of rivers
aren't the solution
but neither is the dark
cave where the piper
wants us to live.

April 20: Wringing

2011-04-20T06:19:00.000-05:00

Wringing

The clothesline opens its arms
to the sun; its clothes hang
like teardrops. Grass grows
fat shaded below. Her laundry pins
hope on the unmangled slap of wet towels.
Each sheet and pant line
up with undocumented precision,
of a metronome beat, pressed down
smooth down the line. Each
wrung and folded over,
clasped with wooden soldiers.
The wind blows and snaps
the day done. Vigorous
removal in the threat of rain,
the portent of folly.

April 19: Another Poem

2011-04-19T05:58:00.002-05:00

Another Poem

This one sits straight up
like a cat looking
to the countertop.
Her tail swoosh snaps
back, forth, denying
possibilities
of the can's failure.
Once open, the cat
pounces like a pen
devouring lines
across which words flow.

April 18: Landscape

2011-04-18T06:22:00.002-05:00

Landscape

The clock reads only
12:31 on a wispy Sunday afternoon.
I snuggle under a chocolate
blanket, fleeced, weave
warm, yet my hands
are chilled. I struggle
to write, hand cramped, despite
the day's generous hours.

The TV is on, me hoping
for a word that will warm
my hands with inspiration.
I touch my pen
to my cheek, and find it cold
too. Zakaria speaks of Gaddafi,
the support he receives, the surprise!
shock of those who lean to
the dark. Capitalism
is found in piracy again,
a pirate handbook they have,
words they have.
My lids weigh heavily,
the fuzzy llama on the sofa is looking
away. I turn the page
and hear Zakaria say
"Come back soon."

April 17: Rendering

2011-04-17T07:33:00.002-05:00

Rendering

She swoons for him like a willow
dips into the dousing river. The fast
flowing water blanches her
leaving. His voice, blacker
than his dry eyes, calls
her back. She returns
in an autumnal blaze, his hand
braids her attempts, a cool
sunrise, a liquid noose
she can't resist.

April 16: Erasure

2011-04-16T08:26:00.000-05:00

Erasure

I took the best line
out of my poem
yesterday. Promises shave
poems, make them wedge
the truth. That line, not
on the page, the silent
one that can't be spoken
reminds me of her order.
I wish, I could
make no promises,
no signatures like laundry,
dried in the dark sun,
wrinkled in the sharp air,
folded on a divided page.

April 15: Interment

2011-04-15T06:05:00.003-05:00

Interment

Dusting around you
became the only custom
we have. Undone
by time, detained
in brass, you remain
like the dust,
escaping my grasp.

Half way!
Vicky

April 14: The Triangle Trumpets The Piano

2011-04-14T06:05:00.001-05:00

The Triangle Trumpets The Piano

We throw facts
across the bed.
You crane your ear
listening for the catch.
I cast a line
or two hoping not
to become unmade.

(Title from a poster at my daughter's clarinet lesson. The instruments seemed to be tense.)

April 13: It Slipped My Mind

2011-04-13T06:08:00.000-05:00

It Slipped My Mind

Among the wind whipped
green octaves, settling
between the branches,
and the popped button
pant deliveries, the dirt dig
with intent to bury bricks,
the preservation of the concrete,
that widely agreed upon by nod and denial,
the doctor busting calls,
the false weight
of the now, it slipped
my mind.

April 12: Sacred

2011-04-12T06:09:00.000-05:00

Sacred

The oil pumps spout squeaked
and hollowed that time.
Efficient fattening, reviving
to the lifted cars, engines rev with vigor.

The mother fed her baby.
Her texting screen shone
on the baby's bottle. Blank eyes,
baby fingers grip.

Yet another story from the car dealership.

April 10: Big Eyes

2011-04-10T08:12:00.000-05:00

Big Eyes

Inbred air starts a new ecosystem,
dire ripening, it festers, rots while it ages.

Open windows
unshuttered like big eyes,
return us to
the clear day.

The house welcomes
the new season intruder,
surrounded with pointed
blossoms, weaponized
blue floating sky above.

April 9: It's going to be buried

2011-04-09T08:00:00.000-05:00

It's Going To End Up Buried Anyway

I want that cat,
the April cat named Napo,
to steal
from the litter box
in the sky, and sprinkle
shovel some my way.

I will paw it gently,
pushing the bits
this way and that.

I will try to keep
it from being stinky,
or from plopping over
the edge onto the newspaper beneath,
making an even bigger mess.

Deodorant for poems, please.
Vicky

Ack, as in acknowledging the month.

2011-04-08T13:34:00.000-05:00

I've never had such a busy April before. I've had heartbreaking ones, '09, and ill ones, and out of town husband ones, but never before such a busy one.

Ack.

April 8: Transplant

2011-04-08T06:10:00.000-05:00

Transplant

I keep moving
the plants around
the yard; they eat
the soil here
and over there.
They look west
most of the time,
coughing up roots,
swallowing the sun.

2011-04-07T05:54:00.000-05:00

"We don't do badly very well."

The disease of conscience
wore him
like a soldier's chain mail.

(Another quote heard during my adventures at the car dealership. ??!!)

April 6: Overheard

2011-04-06T05:55:00.001-05:00

Overheard At The Car Dealership While Waiting For Repairs

"I can't be alone!"
she cried, strangling
her braid back
against herself.
"I can't lie either!"

Dealings with him,
and him, cost her
the price of shame.
They left her ground
like the dark coffee
she sipped. Her tapping
feet danced a gestured duet,
of loneliness and lies.

"I don't know what to do."
Her clutched purse
heaved and sighed
on her tight chest.
"Someone will get hurt."

Vicky

April 5: Morning Walk

2011-04-05T06:05:00.000-05:00

Morning Walk

Almost a moist paste
ground into the concrete,
the damp chalk circles
its way around the sidewalk
in flowers and alphabets
which announce!
a Harry Potter party! invitation
in pink and violet
shades, colours
Hermione would never choose.

They skip and twirl
their skirted childhoods
away into sing songs
and cupcakes, those favours
garner hugs and kisses,
ruffles and bows,
in the wait for more fantasy.

April 4: Clearly, A Solution

2011-04-04T06:05:00.000-05:00

Clearly, A Solution

I put away the poem
I never wrote. Tucked away
and buried, never to see
the light of day
or night. Variations
keep popping up, reminding
me of its potential,
a line here, a line over there,
lurking in the viburnum,
or under unfluffed pillows.
Worse than housekeeping
those bits announce themselves.
Hiding things is noisy.
Word burps.

April 3: Stringers

2011-04-03T07:15:00.000-05:00

Stringer

I Google Street View
my way around my childhood.
I cruise around those maps
like I bounded around
those blocks, years before.
Those times jetting
in playgrounds,
like big ants
in concrete alleys,
with uncertain dust on my shoes,
the allowed Band-Aids on my knees.
The winning count now
are hopscotched
digital chalk squares, left
to the tossed stone in time.

April 2 Incursion

2011-04-02T07:46:00.000-05:00

Incursion

The benches are padded now,
tables smooth, not cut,
waitresses even bring drinks
to the seated patrons. The sub-
woofers don't pound lungs
at a frightening ocean deep
pitch. There's no skanking
or straight edged mohawks.

At least, the remembered
heady power chords still bang
away, lost, moshing their way
around the now pop covered
dance floor.

April 1, Picking Up The Past

2011-04-01T06:16:00.001-05:00

Picking Up The Past

In my past, lived
a thin little girl,
with red plaid pants, short
for her ankle, a white starched blouse
with those colourful embroideries
buttoned to the collar like her
very own chasuble. Tight tails
of the pony sort,
relieved her center
part of the weight
of her hair, sometimes braided
like her tight fingers, wrapped
in pose at church, or at Sunday dinner.
She bowed her head, down.

On the altar, draped in white,
she could look up and
count the decorations,
and the parishioners,
or the Marys.
People commented
on her piety.
"You are always praying," they said.
She never told
them what she was doing.

I'm yellow this time!

2011-03-30T13:03:00.001-05:00

Just dug out a notebook to use for Napo. I usually hand write the poem, edit, rewrite, edit, and only then type it up to post online. I edit again then too. That rarely stops.

It's yellow this year. I picked a colour I like, because I'll be looking at it for a while. I think last year's was blue.

I have no idea how it will turn out this year. Every year is a little different, depending on what's going on. Not that I write autobiographically, but you know, it turns out that way sometimes. You can't escape yourself! There I am! Though the last few years I've lied between my teeth in a few poems. I love those. Not me, honest, except for the lying.

The best poems are the ones where the lies tell the truth, or maybe the truth lies. What do I know! Not a question btw ;-)

it's the final countdown...

2011-03-17T13:40:00.001-05:00

I'm now getting excited about Napowrimo 2011. I've passed the phase of "OMG I'll never get it done again" and passed into "Wow, maybe I can..."

The end of April might be a mess because we will have guests, but I usually spend a few of the days of April writing two poems. I'll hopefully do that again, and just save them for the final days.

I've done so many Napos now, I actually have to check my blog sidebar for the number of years. This will be my 7th go round.

Shoot, now I've got the Final Countdown song by Europe as an earworm. Go me for posting a line of lyrics.

Trapper and friends, slow going

2011-02-26T20:56:00.001-06:00

I've found this post terribly useful. I wish I'd found it 6 years ago, but it is what it is.

I passed 70K without even noticing, so yay for that. I knew it was on the near horizon, but it slid by invisibly.

When I first started this story, I had no idea what it would be. I didn't know that I'd get stuck spending time (years!) in an endless loop of revising, so that the actual story wasn't being written. It was only in the last year or two, that I haven't worried about major revising, and that has helped me tremendously. The story needs to be written, or else it is just an unfinished draft. Since changing the strategy, things have progressed much more. I can see the end in sight. There are still a few happenings that will occur, but they are tying everything together. Or at least I hope so. That is the plan! Then on to the next draft, where I fear, and look forward to the work that will entail.

2011-01-23T16:46:00.000-06:00

After our son died, I remember looking for poetry that lent itself to how I was feeling. There wasn't much that really understood. I have a list of those that did. But recently I've found poets that actually speak of this sadness, having been through it themselves. And speak of how it changed them, drew them to writing again. Peake mentioned this book a while back about surviving existential crises with poetry. Can't say poetry helped me survive, but it did help order thoughts about things. It always has. That book is on my to read list. One of a million, but still.

As to my recent writing, I have been in a ordering the plot place, rather than a get it down on paper place. A few ideas have come together, so that is always useful, to get the butt in chair, and words on paper.

And my usual January, "OMG April is upon us soon" post! And my annual, will I do it again? query. Tradition is important!

He let it go!

2010-12-29T07:54:00.000-06:00

John Siddique's Elder Moon "is one of a series of 13 animated films based on a sequence of poems from Recital -- An Almanac (Salt)."

Very cool.

(I would have kept it.)

I teared up.

2010-12-18T13:46:00.000-06:00

Christian Wiman, editor of Poetry magazine, is profiled by Kevin Nance in the November/December issue of Poets & Writers Magazine. Very touching, moving. Get a hold of a copy of the print issue if you can. Unfortunately, it isn't online.

And it makes me super curious to see more of Wiman's poetry, and more of Nance's writing too. Really well done.

The other literacy

2010-12-13T14:22:00.002-06:00

I find myself considering the differences in mind-space needed for writing dialog and for writing the in between spaces around the dialog.

I can't write both at the same time. I have to go back and fill in. I focus so heavily when writing dialog, that story time, space, location, description get lost. It's like a script almost. Then I go back. I'm hoping that the dialog is pulling those things along, so maybe that is okay. But it seems sparse. I can write long descriptive passages, visual writer here, so the dialog just seems bare. Not an aural writer. I can't see conversations. Same reason I have such a hard time with meter in poetry. I can't see it. I wish there was a way for me to merge all this. Maybe in time, and practice.

But plus side, I just popped out 902 words.

This and this

2010-11-27T19:34:00.002-06:00

This and this are excellent.

The first, Robert Peake:

"Hope is a form of desire. And so, instead of riding the constant swings of hope and disappointment, I choose instead to focus on the inherent value of courage."

The second, Chuck Palahniuk:

"And whether we envied or pitied this guy in the cold, he kept painting. Adding details and layers of color. And I'm not sure when it happened, but at some moment he wasn't there. The pictures themselves were so rich, they filled the windows so well, the colors so bright, that the painter had left. Whether he was a failure or a hero. He'd disappeared, gone off to wherever, and all we were seeing was his work."

I can only hope my writing achieves both of those some day.

the pain grows stronger, watch it grin...

2010-11-01T13:48:00.000-05:00

Still writing, still putzing, but now I'm researching, and goodness, it's depressing. I'm afraid to click on the links because I worry there will be photos. Don't want to see it. Anyway, I hope to be able to write this scene with enough sensitivity that it will make up for lapses in research.

I'm at 58K. Maybe the Nano month will keep me in gear. Last week, I didn't accomplish as much as I had the previous few weeks, so make up time now. Now also, back to peering between my fingers at links I'd rather not see.

Gwyneth Lewis

2010-10-11T08:43:00.000-05:00

She says some incredible things about writing.

"The poem writes you."

Out loud and a great idea

2010-09-11T12:08:00.000-05:00

I meant to link to this before. Nic Sebastian is reading poems. Out loud and she's sharing them all with us. Bunches of new poets, to me, and a few I've read before. She has a great voice and does a beautiful job rendering them. I don't even necessarily feel the need to follow along with any text, so that is an impressive feat.

Not abandoned

2010-09-11T10:26:00.004-05:00

Not an abandoned blog here, despite last date of a post, but actively writing. I am racking, wracking, wrecking (pick one) up a word count on the Trapper story, that I'm still hesitant to call a novel. Talk about pressure. As long as it's a story, no pressure. If it's a novel, then OMG.

In other news, this is fabulous. About the up and comers in what seems to be a new Detroit. I've written poetry about Detroit, I post links when ever I can about Detroit, despite not be a Detroiter. I think I'm one at heart. I grew up in Windsor, across the Detroit River so I've was able to see a great American city over the years. I love that city. It grows on you, its vulnerabilities, its scariness, its kindness, its honesty. In particular its honesty. Detroit is always truthful. It never lies. I think I used that line in a poem about Detroit once. I partied there as a young adult in its punk clubs. I once was in a car with friends in front of Clutch Cargo's (I think it was) and a man shoved his arm, a Joe Louis fist if I ever saw one, into the car to grab the car keys. Knowing how Detroit could be sometimes, I feared for my life. Turned out he was a cop who thought we had alcohol in the car. We didn't. He checked the trunk and let us go. I think he might have apologized too.

I'm very sentimental about Detroit. I think this is where my love for the city comes from. When I was 6 or so, I saw it burn. Mr Beck, our neighbour, let us use his binoculars to look across the river at the tall buildings burning. I asked my mother if it would come "here" to Windsor, and she said no. I was much relieved but I worried about the people there. A city burning, I had dreams of things burning after that. I think I'm always worrying about the people there a little. They've been through so much, and that is why I'm happy to link the film above. They mention in the film, that Detroit is a city of hope. I believe that fully. I was always hopeful when I went there. To have fun, to see a big American city. I lived in a smallish Canadian city. The draw was northwest. Yes, Detroit is northwest of Windsor. A Trivial Pursuit question I always get correct. Detroit is north of Windsor. America, north of Canada. That always amused me too. So many twists with that city, so much to give and share, which it did happily. Detroit always offered itself to America, and the world. Even in its dark days, it did, it does. How cool is that?

ETA: Detroit's poet laureate is Naomi Long Madgett. Here is a link to a few of her poems.

time does tell

2010-08-07T20:15:00.001-05:00

I love when something I wrote 3+ years ago on my long story, and forgot about, completely ties into the current stuff I'm writing on the same story.

I'm glad my subconscious knows what I'm doing, and apparently remembers, because evidently I don't. LOL

I can't believe it tied together so well. I've been adding the parts where I wrote in parenthesis, [ADD MORE HERE] (my process!) and it's coming together nicely.

Now I can't wait to type it all up! Probably tomorrow.

2010-07-31T16:04:00.000-05:00

My two week vacation only resulted in one poem and no writing on my long story. None and nada. So much for those plans. I had planned and plotted but didn't actually get anything written. That is the rub. The rub on pen on paper.

I think I've gotten caught up on reading online since getting home. This saddens me. It is too bad it came to that but I understand. I think the online world lets people be who they are. It's just too bad that there are so many who use their words in ways that don't lift the conversations. On vacation we were discussing how alcohol shows who a person really is. It isn't a cover, but lifts the lid on who they really are. Same as online IMO. Who do you want to choose to be? Simple question I think.

Ron Silliman's blog opened the online poetry world to me, finding places and topics I wouldn't ever have. So for that I'm grateful.

Now to boil some potatoes and consider what words I'll write next.

Who knew?

2010-07-10T22:24:00.000-05:00

There is a new stats section on Blogger now. Apparently I have a Eastern/Northern European following (or bots that take up residence) in the last little while:

Russia 4
Ukraine 3
Germany 3
Latvia 2
Switzerland 2
Netherlands 2
United Kingdom 2
France 1

Welcome!

Speaking of stats, I've been collating word counts, and since the beginning of the year, I've written 10K+ on my long story. Plus other words on other stories, plus the April Napo count of 30 poems. I don't count those poemy words. I don't care about word count really, because the story or poem will be what it will be /Doris Day moment, but just for output reasons, it's interesting in a time spent sort of way.

Now I'm off to see if the baseball game is over, and people are home. I can't hear them over the air conditioner. Toodles.

2010-06-18T13:04:00.000-05:00

I attended one session of the local writer's conference here the other night. The poetry section entitled: The Poetry Editor: Insights into small presses, book contests, publishing online & other poetry publishing endeavors.

I guess I went into this with different expectations than I should have. It wasn't until the end that things got interesting, and then it ended. The moderator asked a few questions of the panelists, and then they took questions from the audience.

Most of the conversation was about traditional paper publication and how to send in poems, a little discussion on how to put together poems for a collection vs. a chapbook. Good advice, much of which I've read online or in texts.

When the conversation turned to online publishing, it got more useful I think.

Kate Bernheimer, the editor of Fairy Tale Review, talked about having to "put in the hard and loving work." I love that perspective. I can't wait to read some of her publication.

Zachary Schomburg when asked if he wanted his Octopus Magazine to go to print he said it wasn't a "wannabe print journal". Loved that! He also said that there is no chance of making big money with poetry, and that keeps it pure. I certainly have thought that before.

And I think therein lay the problem I found at the session. Print is still considered the standard by the more traditional types, and there was some unawareness about what is going on online. This is when the session ended. There were people there that did not know that poets post, publish, blog, or promote online. My thought is 2010! now.

A few had inklings and whispers of what they wanted to see online, and some of it is already out there.

But you don't know what you don't know I guess. I just can't imagine the poetry world, as big and huge an umbrella that it is, not recognizing a huge part of their family. Not talking about liking it, or finding it resonant or good, but strictly knowing such a huge part of it exists. A half hour of googling will get you to a firm starting place, all linking to one another. Certainly not difficult.

I will admit that because there is so much out there, it is easy to not know it all. Myself included. But still.

Zachary suggested that because poetry is so alive now, that you can pick up a rock and find it. I laughed, because it's true.

I have a hard time finding poetry here offline, major stores and smaller ones don't carry much, so being online has opened the poetry world to me, so I will admit also a very soft spot for those that share so openly and don't keep it hidden from those that will rarely find it.

Speaking of which, I picked up Zachary Schomburg's collection Scary, No Scary after the session. Very much impressed with what I've read so far, the first 30 pages or so. One poem in particular, in a volume of interconnected, twisty, and image filled poems, Look Through a Complex Eye and See 1000 of Everything, I found the last strophe amazing and startling:

Everything I plant
I bury.

This struck me. The images move through the poems freely, but anchor each other in a way I'm not sure I've seen before. There is a raw energy here, partly built by the tone and topics, but also by the title of the volume. It's childlike in a way too, with a gentle quality that belies the title. This tension between the two is really cool. Can't wait to read the rest.

Best thing I got from the conference session

2010-06-17T20:58:00.000-05:00

Zachary Schomburg's Scary, No Scary. Buy this book of poems. Highly recommended!

More later, when it actually gets typed up.

Library finds

2010-05-26T11:31:00.000-05:00

I checked out from the library the other day, Margaret Atwood's Negotiating With The Dead: A Writer on Writing, and liked it so much, I just got a copy on Amazon.

Best thing I've read of hers in some time. I liked the Canadian references very much. I also like the memoir-ish nature of the book. Not a huge amount of writing advice, but definitely a time-stamp on Canada's writing scene in the late 50's and 60's. She sets the table well in this, giving a pretty complete view of what it might feel like to be writing. Certainly many things I've considered before about writing.

Fun snarky quote I found the other day in The Greek Poets: Homer to the Present, edited by Peter Constantine.

A quote by someone named Christophoros of Mytiline:

How much better if an ox were to sit on your tongue,
than for your poems to plod like oxen over fields.

I laughed out loud.

When I picked up the book, I assumed from the cover that it was only the older Greek poets but was pleasantly surprised when I realized it went to the present day. Great stuff there. I wonder what it would be like to feel that sort of history behind you. The poetry hearkens back very often as one would expect. Hell, I would. It was also cool to feel the landscape change as the centuries passed. One thing I like about long views in collections, you can get that feeling and you do in this book.

back in the saddle, or office chair as the case may be. Do people ever put saddles on their chairs?

2010-05-12T12:53:00.000-05:00

I think that would be funny. (I'm also curious as to how long a Subject Line could be here on Blogger.)

Napo always wipes me out, and I haven't written anything since. I tried figuring Word out for chapters this morning and that is a lost cause. So I reopened yWriter and am going to read my 39168 word story, and then begin anew. Anew and anew, because that word is used often in regards to this story.

I wonder what Trapper has been up to since I saw him last. This could be interesting.

I do have an idea for the book in the story, literally back story for the story.

Now I'm closing said internet and getting to work. ::wishes really hard::

Googling is dangerous

2010-05-08T17:11:00.000-05:00

Flash to my past man, memory lane it is.

April 30 Huzzah

2010-04-30T08:43:00.002-05:00

Flow

I haven't used up
the notebook yet. Its remaindered blank
pages lay behind my writing
like the persistent fossils they will become
buried away, mummified over
the years. How the future
brooks the past is beyond
my petty worries and blank pages.
Through small changes and random swells
the tangled bank of savings run.
The course flows rampant with its
meandering banks, and twisty turns.
No end point of deposits, no
remains untouched. Unlikely ambition
fishes from the banks,
depositing more words on the page,
no money left to spend.

April 29

2010-04-29T06:31:00.000-05:00

Lemon Pepper and Butcher Knives

Last night's dinner was made
of crazy. It was mixed and stirred,
and served in leaping heaps
and quantities that filled the holes
of thought, which followed
ridiculous puns and other hors d'oeuvres
of silly. The four of us
sat grinning with smiles
as big as cantaloupe slices. One of us,
not to be named, was helped
along with Pinot Evil, a devilish red.
No food fight broke out, but was as close
as sin for a moment.
The amusements wound down,
and the table was cleared,
the condiments put away, the dishes loaded,
the floor was swept. The wine wasn't
finished, but stashed away
for another later silly.

Vicky

April 28

2010-04-28T06:10:00.002-05:00

No Such Luck

When the call comes, the ring
shatters the silence of ignorance,
the before moment that will never
return. The news is as tightly wound
as the cord. The world folds
over like the morning newspaper left
on the table next to the dried
stains in the coffee cup.
The back door swings free in the breeze,
the garage door is up too.
The skid marks on the street direct
attention to the new path
taken, suddenly.

April 27

2010-04-27T08:51:00.003-05:00

Sunshine

A rosebud shelters
the greening leaf, the sunshine's
perfection's attempt.

a ducking hatches
gets in line with her siblings
bright sun yellow returns

perching mourning dove
the branches muted jewelry
coos through morning sun

white clouds separate
the trees outstretched arms gather
the sunshine's blossom

April 26

2010-04-26T06:23:00.000-05:00

Catting Around The Neighbourhood

We have a visitor cat who drops by
in the morning with the paperboy and the rising sun,
and guards the paper until our arrival.

There are rumours in the neighbourhood
that his name is Felix, a strong, rather
traditional, now somewhat cliched, cat name.

My daughter, saddened by this, had named him
Remi long before the rumours
surrounding the naming narrative.

We occasionally find him lurking
near the bunnies whose tally has dropped
in number since his arrival.

This shadowy cat has no
schedule, no family, though he was once
caught out walking with a dog.

We think he cat burgles
time with all the families around
ensuring his well being and skritched ears.

This strategy is successful,
his dance card as full
as his stomach.

April 25

2010-04-25T08:09:00.000-05:00

Call Me

My children name me
with a noble look, an attraction of milk
and cookies, a tender banquet,
a towering glance from below.

My parents named me after
grandmothers, saints and queens.
No royalties in coins or jewels,
but an simile I'll never
achieve, the false teeth of expectation.

How you call me, brand me, affords
a flag of understanding.
Imagine how different I
would be if you named me
otherwise, named me as

This started out to be about embalmed cheese. LOL
Vicky

April 24

2010-04-24T08:02:00.000-05:00

You Finish What I Started

The gods have turned
their backs. Their little children
have returned to their makers.

We tried to call,
the phone lines were empty.

The tone has changed,
the war bleeds. Its eyes
burned, the crying torn
from its larvaed lips.

We tried to write,
the pens were dried.

The serpents left too,
their ache diminished
in apathy of the rest,
so sin is left alone.

We tried to talk, the words
were gone and so were you.

April 23

2010-04-23T06:31:00.002-05:00

At Risk of Doing Nothing

Justice's scale balances
success in a tray. It tips,
a see saw bouncing on attempt,
the deterioration of intent,
to failure. A destination,
a sinking rig, or an inhale
who pauses for time. We risk
our breath to hold
our child's hand, to lend
the moment to them.

April 22

2010-04-22T06:36:00.002-05:00

Not For You

When you find that fate has come
around again, this time looking
you square in the face
and smiling, you can almost
be glad again.

Fate turns away from the other,
and glances your way, you can
smile a mean little smile back.
No forgiveness there, but perhaps
a chance to tell your own story,
in your own purchased words, a place
to start another foundation, another
charge of light, one's own smile.

April 21

2010-04-21T06:22:00.003-05:00

Support

The pillows are propped up behind my back
and under my knees, a soft cradle
surrounding my sore bones.
The nit nit nit of scraping aches
chine down into the marrow,
a gourmet meal of attacks. Shock
and ow blast nauseous lead
rings down my backbone, down my legs
like a train scrubbed off the tracks.
My crumbling will, weak, needs
a spine to hold me strong.

Vicky

April 20

2010-04-20T08:45:00.001-05:00

Could We Focus Please?

My eye keeps getting distracted
by the gold pollen in the velvet
tulips and by the brown brush
of bark on the willow tree.

The baby sunshine green of the new
leaves steals away my focus on these
words, which are as evasive
as a thief of memories in the night.

The apple blossoms vased on the table
strew their petals like I
want to. Cutting the branches
took time from this poem.

How pretty my home looks
in April as I decorate
my house, my mantel and my self
with all those lost words.

April 19

2010-04-19T06:30:00.002-05:00

Angels of Detroit

(title suggested by Glaucon)

The angels reside on the ground
here. No flitting on high like
the last gasp Renaissance, circling watch
on the city below. Angels here look up,
their wings brushing the days
and nights in a mostly empty
heaven. The guardians
of the vacant lots and scrub weeds
remind the lost gods of the city
where they used to live. They are gone
those former gods, have left the buildings
to those that chose, or are left, to stay.
Cowards, those fallen kings and captains
whose shifting gaze walked away.

But like a new Eden, gardens
are growing, seeded by angels
whose winter Ice House shines reflecting
a dark turned light, bringing
sustenance to those who stayed. Other
uniformed angels war for peace, undercover
praying to those far above
the urban roof tops for safety
while ever slowly the city returns
under its angelic protection,
and makes its way from thought.

http://icehousedetroit.blogspot.com/

Vicky

April 18

2010-04-18T08:40:00.002-05:00

Let's Not Get Crazy Here

The deck next door hasn't been used
in ages. Glass table, comfortable as feather
chairs, serene taupe umbrella never
opened, all abandoned to the seasons.
Squirrels and the mourning doves moved
in two falls ago. The leaves gathered
at the feet of the chairs, washing
the soles with their crunch.
Snow was easily measured on the wind
broken corners. Life here
a shadow of the parties that haven't been
written. This empty
outdoor home space mimics
those neighbours we never see.

The mother's new boyfriend prompted
the redecoration. Flowers once danced
in vases on late night dates and wine.
The daughter's boyfriend cut
the lawn, impressing both with his
dedication to the various mowing
patterns. But neither
man is ever home now.

The cats used to prowl
waiting for the birds
at the feeder. Empty now
with the remaindered fallen seeds
having sprouted last season.

The tulips are finished
blooming, and the would be
shadow people could enjoy the soon
blooming irises. In the bright
afternoons, the tree casts another
shadow onto the dark deck, waiting
for the people to finally sit down.

April 17

2010-04-17T09:20:00.002-05:00

Unlocking A Consecration

If you find me, I know I will exist
in your mind. I feel lost
where flowers turn away. Faith finds
believers like you find me. Lonely
blessing demand uplift, me suddenly
certain like an inoperable stone.

April 16

2010-04-16T10:02:00.000-05:00

Fun Folly

Clapping monkeys scale the trees
in the jungle. They watch
the others perform their lives,
the monkeys hoot and holler
their approval. Heroic light
and other glaring attempts
of the palm readers, searching
the lines crossing like vines,
a tangle of greed and need,
a neighbour's folly.

(this had a different title up until a second ago, when I realized it wouldn't work)

Vicky

April 15

2010-04-15T07:53:00.002-05:00

Seems Like a Sketch To Me

I tie my hair in a braid.
Each section wraps over
and under the others plaited tight
like rope styled through history.

Utilitarian, there is nothing
wrong with normal. Inquisitive
family introductions, manifestations
of plaited histories.

My tea sits piping,
steam shower awaits. High levels
of patience for the weary.
Wayward satisfaction carries on.

Vicky
Half way woo hoo

April 14

2010-04-14T08:37:00.002-05:00

Physical Therapy

A lifetime of wrong
has left me
twisted and torqued,
bent to the winds
of voices whose postures
are fraught with error.

Now, the straightening
and leveling of hips
and backs produce a potency
defying gravity,
a pain free solace
of flexible will,
a lasting line.

April 13

2010-04-13T08:53:00.002-05:00

I Almost Burned The Sausage

This poetry business
is serious stuff. Brimstone
and fire wroughts
itself across the page,
tormenting its patrons
and advocates both,
while the sausage burns.
Moments away from flames
and splattered bits, the poem
only arises when I did
to turn down the heat.

April 12

2010-04-12T05:53:00.001-05:00

Kitchen Table Talk

She pats the white lace cloth flat
edging the pattern back into being
trying to manage
the days and nights.

He leans tipping his chair
back, tapping his cigarette
from the end of his breath,
into the filled ash tray.

Dinner will be ready soon,
the forks and knives are set,
the kids are called in,
as the street lights are on.

The pots are stirred,
and the food is served
bowlful and plateful filled
until the bellies are mostly sated.

April 11

2010-04-11T07:31:00.000-05:00

Natural Process

I'm doodling around
the hole punches, circling
ellipses with my pen.
An eye, or nipple, or a donut,
each a poem, or not.

Fire In The Sky is on
TV, detailing the fear
of the expected future
crashes. Dinosaurs and flattened
Siberian forests mark
our past. Thank you
for being incinerated dear
dinosaurs, your fall
was our rise.

Moving bodies each swell
past our gravity, a moment's
pause in history, a staggering
rendezvous pocked with success
and failures. All in a day's viewing.

April 10

2010-04-10T07:31:00.002-05:00

The Boy Who Ate Three Pickle Slices

Lunch with boys means
smiles and shouting, scarfing
of food. Fries dangling
like cigars, puffing
chests and fake hunting. Food is
stored in lunch boxes
like ammunition. Ready and waiting to be
loaded. Tater-tots fly like bullets,
cocked back and launched
into mouths open, baby birds
swallowing. Ego and lines battle
for supremacy, those mute
fast in time, eat three pickles,
sucking the vinegar out, to dry.
Parched in an exercise
of sheer will versus anger.

But the wind shifts, bells ring,
so guns are withdrawn, packed away.
The soldiers stand
and march orderly
outside to recess.
Freedom at last.

April 9

2010-04-09T08:52:00.002-05:00

Miriam

A voice sang up
to rescue the future.

Levees may break, the waters rise
and follow you, and walls will tumble
down the breathy cliffs.
Pages will turn the golden years
and your children may come and go.

The braided leaves wind
around your forehead, your choices
cursed by the template
against you. Justice is
gathered by your song.

April 8

2010-04-08T06:57:00.003-05:00

Prayer for the Unfaithful

We know drama, we know shame,
we know forgiveness, all the same.

Apathy and unmade beds,
skip to the rue, hide your heads.

Locked up tight and sent away.
Who are you? What will you say.

I don't know where the heck this one came from.
Vicky

April 7

2010-04-07T05:58:00.002-05:00

Not Domestic

Sneaking around in the back rooms,
snooping in the drawers and files,
I will see you.

You are within my day.

Like binoculars staring
at the free birds, my ducks in a row,
or a telescope grazing over
the tight power lines, watching
ants scurry, I will focus on you.

I hide behind the cracks
and slip under the foundation
of your nightmares, your memories,
I am not menacing,
just determined.
I will find you.

Your phone will ring soon.

April 6

2010-04-06T09:26:00.002-05:00

The Goldilocks Zone

Just a tiny radius of circling
around you, I can feel
the warmth out of the cold
reach. Your conditions
are suitable for a time, for dying,
a future promise.

As I spin I find
it's not about anything,
the gravity of a day spent.

April 5

2010-04-05T07:55:00.002-05:00

Equivalence

I used to think
love was finite,
a closed door
or a stop sign.

You sprang from a shell
like a weightless bird,
and flew higher than
I ever knew.

The paradox found in those
days, whetted what I knew,
basking with fireflies in spring
on a moonless night.

April 4

2010-04-04T07:31:00.002-05:00

Hearth Goddess

The brownies are out
of the heat, their aroma
haunted with honey.

Knife in hand, I cut
pieces, licking up
the crumbs, a sacrifice

for their helpful service.
Time will tell
how long they last.

Only those worthy will
be given protection
from the dire pinch.

The empty seat fills
in anticipation of the sweet,
mine never to be abandoned.

April 3

2010-04-03T07:17:00.000-05:00

Night

The road curves like a gibbous
moon. Houses stack north
pointing to the bend.

Children's toys run, lacing tight
both sides of the street,
like a corseted back
straightening the soft spine
of the hushed neighbourhood,
full of baby's
breath and roses, crayon artwork
and drapery.

Parked in tongued driveways,
minivans, a sign
of breeding,
reflect front yards straddling
the streetlights who button
the milky sky, waiting
for the brighter dawn.

April 2

2010-04-02T08:36:00.003-05:00

Wicked Grin

Candles drip tears
and wicks melt under
the drilling flame.

We like to believe
diamonds are forever
or the spring will rise
apace with our hopes.

Like miners heading down
the meaning of the error
remains until we can scale
away and find the grin.

Vicky

April 1

2010-04-01T06:04:00.000-05:00

Morning Manners:

laundry tumbles
pen in hand
paper to find
boxes to sort
eggs on the weekend horizon
skylights shine

Others, busy on the grey shore, dodge
waves in Amsterdam.
The North Sea drenches
over reliable emails.
I've written further for less.

Thanks,
Vicky

Saturday considerations

2010-03-27T20:49:00.001-05:00

“Inspiration” isn’t part of my natural vocabulary. I’m wary of anything that seems to mystify the writing process and tend to prefer the most matter-of-fact accounts of the writer’s work. That said, no exercise of will alone has ever produced a poem worth reading. The most difficult part of writing, I think, is contriving a way to be open to surprise. Not surprise in general, of course: that’s merely another kind of sameness. But the right surprise: the realignment of attention or the rip in consciousness that will advance the argument or the meditation.

My bolding. As to the inspiration, well, I think that is the start, not the finish. If you put a poem, a piece of writing away for a while (to rest, bake, vacation, whatever works for you), you should see the difference.

This quote from a excellent post by Linda Gregerson on a blog I'm liking very much. How a Poem Happens is concerned with the same topic as this month's Poetry magazine. Poets talking about their poems, something in which I'm interested. Especially with Napowrimo staring me down. How a poem gets to where and what it needs to be.

::runs for the hills::

2010-03-23T08:35:00.000-05:00

Napowrimo is a go.

6th time a charm?

One can only hope.

And I give you....

2010-03-07T08:31:00.000-06:00

Great post, and resulting comments about opening lines in novels.

out of time

2010-02-19T13:29:00.000-06:00

I just had a *surprise* POV change in the story I'm working on. Oops. ::fixes::

Though I wonder if my story is telling me something. I'll continue for now in 1st person, but maybe the story wants to be 3rd person. We shall see.

Time keeps on rolling

2010-01-29T11:44:00.000-06:00

Now that I'm not employed, I've been using the time to write. Every day I've done some writing, including starting a new story yesterday. Just the barest so far, but Rose has been niggling at me for some time. Actually a long time, but I've only had a semblance of what I've wanted to write for a little. Castles that lose their kitchens...

I've gotten some nice editing done on another short story. I'm pleased with how it's going, and can see it starting to take shape. This story a case of plunking it all down first, and then worrying about it. That seems to work for me.

I haven't had any poems pushing their way at me, but I've learned to just wait for them. It'd be nice if they showed up, but in their own time. They tend to be better that way too. And April's Napowrimo isn't far off either. First call!!

Have a great day!
Vicky

Alive and kicking

2010-01-18T10:41:00.000-06:00

Today, driving home, I heard three songs in a row, that were apropos to my mood. This one, Simple Minds:

This one by OMD:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XJfKyHR5-1M

And New Order, True Faith:

I miss the 80's sometimes.

So news. I'm now unemployed. My formerly part time job became full time, and I was unable to take it. Mostly for the good, though I will miss the money. That is what it had become. So now I have time. We still have a Christmas guest who will go home next Saturday. Then I will have even more time, something one who tries to write goes on about. Guilty as charged. Therefore I have a two pronged plan. I will eventually find another part time job, but in that interim, I am hoping to really get some writing done. Some real writing, not the sort that I have so far. I write in bits and pieces, and honestly, I feel like it looks like that too. I can't retain any sort of flow in that, and the interruption really keeps me from making headway.

::pauses for interruption by arguing children:: ::begins again::

See.

Anyway, my 2007 resolutions are still on the table. I put together a list back then of how I'd want to write given the time. I've been given the time. Sometimes life does give you what you need, and luckily I'm fortunate enough to be able to take this pause, however long it might be, or not, to actually do something I want to do.

In other news, I've been catching up on reading. Another thing which had gone to the wayside. (The wayside must be a very filled place.)

Andrew Philip's The Ambulance Box. Buy this if you can. It's sneaky. If you didn't know the center of the book, you would still love it anyway. And if you do know the center, or have experienced it yourself, then you will be blown away. Lullaby in particular. It's is very touching.

this is the man you fathered-
his voided love, his writhen pride and grief

After our son died, I scoured books to find some semblance of something of what I was experiencing. There wasn't much. Since then I've collected a group of poems that did work or got near, and now I've added this collection to it. Simply amazing. The Invention of Zero is another poem here that stunned me too.

What like was it
this abundant world

where nothing was not-
no neat ring

shackling us to absence
no way not

His twisty words, never what they should be, because this experience is not how or what it should be. Andrew also layers English and Scots. I don't know Scots, having never read it before, but it still reads as a sort of shadowed English, so there is understanding, but no understanding. Again, like this experience.

But the experience is not the whole. The poetry is the core center. Another thing I've noticed, and have written myself, is poetry that can't escape the experience. The experience has to be there, but if it's not poetry, good poetry, only the experience remains. That isn't enough to be poetry. Andrew escapes the experience enough to get the poetry there. Outside of the experience, but fully within it. Success. I keep dipping back in, and seeing more, reminding me of more, both of his own experience, and my own. That is cool. I don't mind reminders, and in fact they are comforting.