-
I WISH
You probably imagine thatthe life of the poet is one of greatexcitement and adventure.There are moments that mightbe deemed exciting or adventurousbut those happen just as oftenin the lives of those who despise poetry.And believe me, poetry is not onlynot a career, it’s not a job unless yousit in some city square and offerto write…
-
LONE STAR
I feel like I ought to beliving in Texas againfor everything, they say,is bigger in Texas and youdon’t argue with a Texan. So much in my life is bigger nowa computer monitor that wouldpass for a moderate sized TV,with font so large a single pagefills the screen, and the tabletthe size of, but thank Godnot…
-
DEGENERATION
I feel like I ought to beliving in Texas againfor everything, they say,is bigger in Texas, and youdon’t argue with a Texan. So much in my life is bigger now,a computer monitor that wouldpass for a moderate sized TV,with font so large a single pagefills the screen, and the tabletthe size of, but thank Godnot…
-
CELESTIAL RHYTHM
It was a certain rhythm that he loved,one he felt it in total silence, yet it fadedin the presence of sound, a doumbekof the soul he would describe it. He remembered how it was beforetheir one god rendered him and his kindmere mythological creatures fit onlyfor poetry and dusty library shelves. He would have his…
-
REDUCTIO AD ABSURDUM
Gertrude Stein saidpoetry is vocabulary,or so Simic reported it,but in that casewhat do we makeof Haiku, wherea poem at maximumcan use onlyseventeen words. Perhaps, if wefollow Levi-Strausshaiku is not poetrybut art, for all artis reductionand there is littleyou can doto reducea haiku further.
-
GREATLY EXAGERATED
Many now say the age of great literaturehas died, the mortal woiund inflictedby the advent of the self-correctingIBM Selecric typewriter, when wordsbcame evanescent, as suddenly goneas when they spilled onto the page. Others, I count myself among them,believe the wound was not fatal,deep certainly, but yet there remainsa faint pulse, ressuscitation possiblewith the application of…
-
TAILORING
My adoptivegrandfather could take bitsof cloth, a needle, threadand with magiclygnarled fingerscreate a garmentfit for royalty, to be wornby the old womanliving in the walkup down the street. I take wordsbits of ideasand hope,and with manicured fingerscreate whatI can only hopepasses for poetryto be ignoredby thoseliving nearbyin my suburb.
-
DEFINE-ITELY
It takes only moments for someoneto ask for a definition of poetry. That task is at once terriblysimple and equally impossible, a poem is many thingsbut not now or ever: a paean to a self-aggrandizingleader without soulor sense of direction,moral and literal; a rant on howall are conspiringagainst you despiteyour stable genius; a Jeremiad decryingfacts…
-
OLD SCHOOL
How much better off would we beif every poet and wanna be werecompelled to write using only paperand a quill pen dipped regularlyinto a small glass inkwell? You must wonder if we would seemore elegance, villanelles, sonnets,and the other forms now lying jumbledin the great literary waste bin. What would we discover if leftto our…
-
A LOST PEN
I wrote a poem for my father,about how one afternoonthe oddly green ’57 Caddyappeared in the drivewayand he polished its chrome for hours,even waxed the black bumper bullets.It was the love of his lifehe said, except for his wife,he added after a moment.The years would provethat addition was most likely false.I could send him the…
-
Subscribe
Subscribed
Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
an old writer and his words 