looking for a book--
cat near the end of its life
passes by the window
I'm a University Lecturer in English and the author of a novel, The Secret of Hurricanes (MacAdam/Cage 2002). My life is summed up by Rumi, who said: "My story gets told in various ways: a romance, a dirty joke, a war, a vacancy." Rumi's quote is the epigraph to Hurricanes. The purpose of this journal is to explore creativity and the writing life.
Pages
▼
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Found
I was looking for a certain book today and found an old stationary box that I had kept because of its whimsical drawing. The theme of the stationary was "The Art of Dreams," and I remember using that paper, sending letters to friends, picking out just the right image for each friend. The box was crushed and I wondered if I should throw it away. On impulse I looked inside and found a single note, written in purple ink. I suddenly remembered this student always wrote in purple. What struck me was the date and time of the note, its brevity, and its fullness in what it managed to say:
12-24-03
10:33 p.m.
Theresa--
A lot has happened lately...J. & I are divorced, I have a house and a regular Tradesmen Job??? Who woulda thunk it...
I'd love to talk w/ u ...
heart-- A.
[address]
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Today and Yesterday
A Productive Couple of Days
1. Two acceptances
2. Revised and submitted three new poems
3. Started new project, tentatively called Everwhere Else It Was the Sixties
4. Put together a chapbook of poems, possibly to submit in the near future
5. Finished a new creative nonfiction piece
1. Two acceptances
2. Revised and submitted three new poems
3. Started new project, tentatively called Everwhere Else It Was the Sixties
4. Put together a chapbook of poems, possibly to submit in the near future
5. Finished a new creative nonfiction piece
Monday, September 06, 2010
Words
Edward Thomas is one of my favorite poets of the Modern era. He's often lumped in with the "war poets" of that time, and he could write convincingly of ugliness and despair. But it's a sweet poem, "Words" that brings me to Thomas today.
It's natural for writers to reflect on the sources of their inspiration. Few have done it as gently and honestly as Thomas has here. He speaks directly to "Words," not cajoling or begging or feeling sorry for himself. He simply asks for the blessing to be able to say what he needs to say.
In speaking of writing, we often say that we "use" words. It's as though words are a resource not unlike the oil we pump from the bottom of the ocean. After reading Thomas's poem, the idea of "using" words seems coarse. Thomas says the word "use," too, but, ah, it's the way he says it in conjunction with "choose" which has about it a sweet whiff of grace.
It's good to remind ourselves where it all begins, in the kind of glory that Thomas shows in his poem "Words," in the humility Thomas expresses, in his love for the words that patiently give themselves to us.
Words
Out of us all
That make rhymes
Will you choose
Sometimes -
As the winds use
A crack in a wall
Or a drain,
Their joy or their pain
To whistle through -
Choose me,
You English words?
I know you:
You are light as dreams,
Tough as oak,
Precious as gold,
As poppies and corn,
Or an old cloak:
Sweet as our birds
To the ear,
As the burnet rose
In the heat
Of Midsummer:
Strange as the races
Of dead and unborn:
Strange and sweet
Equally,
And familiar,
To the eye,
As the dearest faces
that a man knows,
And as lost homes are:
But though older far
Than oldest yew, -
As our hills are, old, -
Worn new
Again and again:
Young as our streams
After rain:
And as dear
As the earth which you prove
That we love.
Make me content
With some sweetness
From Wales
Whose nightingales
Have no wings, -
From Wiltshire and Kent
And Herefordshire, -
And the villages there, -
From the names, and the things
No less.
Let me sometimes dance
With you,
Or climb
Or stand perchance
In ecstasy,
Fixed and free
In a rhyme,
As poets do.
Edward Thomas
It's natural for writers to reflect on the sources of their inspiration. Few have done it as gently and honestly as Thomas has here. He speaks directly to "Words," not cajoling or begging or feeling sorry for himself. He simply asks for the blessing to be able to say what he needs to say.
In speaking of writing, we often say that we "use" words. It's as though words are a resource not unlike the oil we pump from the bottom of the ocean. After reading Thomas's poem, the idea of "using" words seems coarse. Thomas says the word "use," too, but, ah, it's the way he says it in conjunction with "choose" which has about it a sweet whiff of grace.
It's good to remind ourselves where it all begins, in the kind of glory that Thomas shows in his poem "Words," in the humility Thomas expresses, in his love for the words that patiently give themselves to us.
Words
Out of us all
That make rhymes
Will you choose
Sometimes -
As the winds use
A crack in a wall
Or a drain,
Their joy or their pain
To whistle through -
Choose me,
You English words?
I know you:
You are light as dreams,
Tough as oak,
Precious as gold,
As poppies and corn,
Or an old cloak:
Sweet as our birds
To the ear,
As the burnet rose
In the heat
Of Midsummer:
Strange as the races
Of dead and unborn:
Strange and sweet
Equally,
And familiar,
To the eye,
As the dearest faces
that a man knows,
And as lost homes are:
But though older far
Than oldest yew, -
As our hills are, old, -
Worn new
Again and again:
Young as our streams
After rain:
And as dear
As the earth which you prove
That we love.
Make me content
With some sweetness
From Wales
Whose nightingales
Have no wings, -
From Wiltshire and Kent
And Herefordshire, -
And the villages there, -
From the names, and the things
No less.
Let me sometimes dance
With you,
Or climb
Or stand perchance
In ecstasy,
Fixed and free
In a rhyme,
As poets do.
Edward Thomas
Friday, September 03, 2010
New Publications
I've had some new publications recently:
A short story
"The World in Red" in The Sun Magazine
Three haibun
"Memorial Day" in Contemporary Haibun Online
"Cairo, Illinois" in Haibun Today
"Spring Passage, May..." in Notes from the Gean
You can read an excerpt of "The World in Red" by clicking on the link above.
Bruce Ross, one of the editors of Contemporary Haibun Online, chose "Memorial Day" as his commentary piece. Drop by to read what he says.
"Cairo, Illinois" is based on my Ohio River River journey of 2005. Friends of this blog will remember my preparations and hopes for that journey. It is only now starting to yield results in my writing.
What to do with this little blog? It's gone through so many incarnations. I think from now on I'll be publishing less original poetry. I have another (private) blog I've set up for the purpose of organizing and archiving poems and another for haiku. This one will probably revert back to writing about process and experience in my world of teaching and writing. Some photographs and art from time to time.
To the future.
A short story
"The World in Red" in The Sun Magazine
Three haibun
"Memorial Day" in Contemporary Haibun Online
"Cairo, Illinois" in Haibun Today
"Spring Passage, May..." in Notes from the Gean
You can read an excerpt of "The World in Red" by clicking on the link above.
Bruce Ross, one of the editors of Contemporary Haibun Online, chose "Memorial Day" as his commentary piece. Drop by to read what he says.
"Cairo, Illinois" is based on my Ohio River River journey of 2005. Friends of this blog will remember my preparations and hopes for that journey. It is only now starting to yield results in my writing.
What to do with this little blog? It's gone through so many incarnations. I think from now on I'll be publishing less original poetry. I have another (private) blog I've set up for the purpose of organizing and archiving poems and another for haiku. This one will probably revert back to writing about process and experience in my world of teaching and writing. Some photographs and art from time to time.
To the future.