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I WANT
I want my poem to scream out so loudthat you will hear it even if you are notpaying attention or are busy with other thingsyou think are more important than poetry. Too often my poems just lie on the paper,or are dead pixels on a screen, whisperingwhat I wanted shouted, but I am so oftena…
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UNSCRIPTED
I am so tired of readinglines written for me by othersalways a cold readinglacking emotion and substance.I have my own voice, readyto deliver my soliloquy.I have been livingfor seven decades.But I know that Iwill be seen as yetanother Yorickushered off the stage.And I imaging myselfremembered by someone youngerwho will recall no morethan a passing memory.
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WITH PEN AND PRAYER
It all came crashing down. That was the ending he had written, so that was how it would end. And this time he actually liked the ending which was not often the case. He could not remember a time when the ending came to him so naturally. And the ending was always the hardest part.…
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FOR ME OR THEE
Do not ask me why I write poetrynor for whom I write poems.You will not be pleased by the answer.You assume I have an audience in mindwhen I pick up the pen and put it to paper.That would be a false assumptionfor only the occasional poet writeswith a specific audience in mind.The rest of us…
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RULES
W. Somerset Maugham suggestedthat there are three rules for writinga novel, but no one knows what they are.I suppose the same could be saidfor writing poetry, with a twistfor there are three rules for thisas well, but everyone knowsprecisely what they are not.Writers and poets must be rebels,writing what must be saidand damning the consequencesfor…
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YOU OF COURSE, OR NOT
Someone, at a reading, asked me“who do you write for?”I avoided the obvious answer,“You” since he was there lesthe say someone dragged him alongmost unwillingly and my readingconfirmed his initial reluctance.The honest answer is that I writefor those who might stumbleacross my words, might seethem online browsing, or comeacross them in a coffee shopwhere I…
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WRITER
He knew he had the novel in him. He had no idea where it was hiding, but it was there and all he had to do was to find it. He had looked in most of the obvious places but all he had found was memoir and the odd bit of non-fiction. They were fine…
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MEMO TO MEMOIR
I will recitemy absurdist life,and do so without coercionsave my need to tell it.Imagine a new wave filmin French, perhaps,directed by Dali and youmay approach my truth.If this is beyond you, Idon’t care, do you?In the end it is youthe listener who writesmy story, my life,and I am merelythe pen and paper,the prompt, so pleasehelp…
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YOU ODE ME ONE
I should write an ode to my catbut she claims all of the good oneshave already been written and shewould not settle for less than the best.She says I could write an odeto the television remote or eventhe microwave oven, but I noteto her that an ode is to someone,something worthy, beneficialand she nods in…
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READING PAUL MULDOON
Reading Paul Muldoon this afternoonI thought of you for no reason.It wasn’t your birthday, notthat you celebrate them where you are,nor the anniversary of the day you died.And it certainly was not becauseI was reading about Ireland sinceI never imagined I had Irish blood, andyou never went there, and when I didI didn’t know you…
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an old writer and his words 