Foregone Under Honey

That woman opened

Her mouth,

Foregone under honey, 

and the rough Trading began.

Domiciling spelled permissible

grasped at felicity

Recast the girl and

Sated all the zone.

Until

An alliterative gradualism

Uncollected, shook water from ears

blistered with enterprise.

Art and Yoga

Tonight, as I lay in Savasana, I thought about something my teacher said:

“Yoga makes you a better observer.”

Earlier, she had noted the changing season and daylight saving time — that the studio would be dark before the end of class, and then the dreaded: “it may snow tonight.” I moaned a little with my sweaty forehead pressed to my kneecap, slightly annoyed by the distraction.  She then added, “Hot yoga helps me tolerate the cold better.  In the same way, I tolerate heat better as well.  I don’t judge the hot or the cold, I just observe it.  It is hot.  It is cold.”  

This may also be the case as I deepen my artistic practice.  Admittedly, I’m not reading as much as I’d like, or rather, I’m reading differently.  I don’t read longer works like I used to.  As an English teacher, I read the same works over and over, and that’s enough for me right now.  Can one ever read Hamlet too many times? Things Fall Apart? Brave New World? I’m happy to report that I still enjoy “A Modest Proposal” as much today as I did 15 years ago.  It’s become more relevant for me today anyhow.

An observer? Yes.  Decidedly so.  Distractedly so.  

I can’t watch a movie without tearing it apart by its imagery and locking away turns of phrase that I might weave into some poem.  I heard an anecdote today about a science teacher whose lab experiment went haywire and I made a note to fold it into a story.

Detached from judgment?  I’m not sure yet.  I have always been overtly positive about art — rarely critical, but not inarticulate.  I appreciate a “bad” seventies B-movie, especially in the horror genre, as much as a good David Lynch film.  It’s just a different appreciation (and you can’t tell me he didn’t study those movies, too.)  

It’s art.  Not hot, not cold.  Just art.  Does it matter what the purpose is?  Sure it does. At least, it still matters to me, in the sense that I’m still moved.  Aesthetics is still critical to creating art — otherwise we are like strictly technical jazz musicians with perfect timing but no swing.  No soul.  Of course judgment is still involved in my observation, but there’s judgment about form and technique, and then there’s the life of the piece.  The luminous heart of the work. That which induces a trance-like state for me, not unlike the bliss of a sun salutation.

But thankfully, it will never explain my swoon.

Previously Unpublished

This goes out to all the blogging writers, posting poetry and snippets of prose: You do realize that you won’t be able to submit this work for publication, correct?  

Most publishers won’t consider works that are published on personal websites … which is why I’ve been removing work from this site, after enough time passes for me to not hate it so feverishly.

Don’t get me wrong, the whole reason I set up a blogging site in the first place was to hold myself accountable for a little regular writing.  I wanted to be more active, and write consistently, and then I started thinking it would be nice to interact with other writers. Mostly, my mom commented on my work, each poem my “best yet!” according to her.  

Writing, posting, editing, posting, revising, writing … it was enough to create some momentum and courage.  I kept writing. I kept posting.

I go through phases where I send out work like crazy.  I’m licking envelopes the old fashioned way and submishmashing at the same time.  I make trips to the post office on deadline days.  I get puffed up and confident.  I know it will be awhile until the rejections arrive.  Now it’s time to get serious, for real.

I’ve taken down the old site and made sure this new one is linked to social media sites for purposes of self promotion (you’d better believe it, twenty-first century baby).  It kills me to write a new poem and keep it to myself, and yet I love wanting to share it after so many years of hoarding.  Now I’m not sure what I’m writing for daily consumption, exactly.  Stuff like this, I suppose.  Commentary and reflection, and blah, blah, blah. Just like everyone else?  Thanks, but no thanks?

The golden age of letter writing has passed.  Now, we document grave and trivial moments in 140 or fewer characters.  Margaret Atwood referred to social media and blogging as modern diary keeping — it’s just public now.  We are all exhibitionists. 

I’ve been avoiding my nonfiction goals for almost four years.  I just need 35 pages of text to circulate, but it’s been killing me.  I guess here is as good a place as any to hold myself accountable once again.  Just don’t be surprised if the posts disappear after a few weeks.  

A Brief, Humble Opinion Inspired by National Novel Writing Month

There is no such thing as the great American novel. Earn respect when you: wrest words, fashion text, craft language. Not because you check a box, or hop-skip-jump through hoops, or lube the path to publication. There is but one reason and one only, to write a novel: Because you cannot live unless you do.

Thursday in the Stationwagon

I’m sorry for saying I didn’t like it

It’s OK

I’m sorry if I made you feel bad about it

You didn’t

I was just jealous of the others

Really?

Yes. The Mike Lewis one, mostly.

Really?

Yes.

No.

I want you to be honest with me

Then that’s the one I’m jealous of.

OK.

I want my head to be heavy, too

But I know now that there’s different kinds of heavy

That’s true

Different styles can both be heavy

I want your honest opinion

But you gotta know that I don’t know

It’s like handing you Hamlet

Right

Saying, “read it, let me know what you think”

I didn’t understand a lot of what I saw tonight

I didn’t understand a lot of what we saw tonight

We are going down this alley.

Can we get out?

Like those toes

I didn’t like those toes.

We can take Upton

Down Upton

Over on Upton

And the toes,

They were schmaltzy.

There was something going on

And if we knew what her head space was like

We might say—

But should we have to know?

Should it need to be explained?

I needed Picasso explained

I needed to watch him paint

Picasso

And when I did, I saw how sick he was.

I understand Pollack more from learning about him

I don’t like Pollack

It’s not about liking, rather

Understanding

But I don’t really know.

Watch out.

What was it?

Birds. You missed them.