Confession Tuesday - My Passions Edition

Dear Reader:

It's been one more wedding anniversary, back to back home runs and a Saturday off from submitting and writing and yes, one more week since my last confession.

Saturday being our wedding anniversary I took a break from both submitting and writing so that we could get out of the house and celebrate without distraction. We succeeded in doing so and I did not worry that the sky would fall in. I confess that it would not have been surprising for me to freak out about not at least submitting if not writing, but I was proud of myself, maybe a bit relived even that I did not stress out. I was able to separate myself completely from any obsession that I changed my routine. It really was refreshing to feel the detachment.

My son and I went to the ball game on Sunday and amazingly the Royals had back to back home runs. Almost as amazing they won. They have had little offense of late.  Of course when it comes to baseball I confess my heart really belongs to San  Francisco.

A few days ago I read an article about another article.  And then another about the same article (of the second part). Okay, if this is getting confusing the article about which all others pointed was a Harper's essay by Mark Edmundson titled Poetry Slam or the decline of American Verse.  The Edmundson Essay sits behind the Harper's paywall, and I'm not a subscriber so I've not seen the real thing. (That too is a confession)  Edmundson at least by the quotes from other responses I've read was pretty harsh in his assessment of the current poetry scene. I've talked with a couple of other poets who have read the responses but again not the Edmundson essay.  It's funny but such discourse  about poetry/poetics often remind me of hot stove league. If you are not into baseball, the hot stove league is the chatter that of the happens off season between baseball fans pining for the real thing. They debate possible trades, theoretic benefits of such player swaps  between teams. I confess  I have long seen similarities between poetry and baseball. It's no wonder I love both.

 

Can A Person Be Reading Too Many Books?

It comes down to this... I'm wondering if a person can be reading too many books?  I suppose you can say that the answer to this question is subject subjective... each person is different. That answer works up to a point. If I were to tell you I am actively reading maybe eight or nine books right now would you think this crazy?

The fact is I do often read multiple books and quite frankly I'd say eight-ish is likely an accurate count if I were to sit down and list them. Do others have a ongoing host of books commanding their attention at one time? I haven't even mentioned the poetry books on my night stand that I've already read but continue to go back to from time to time, often in the evening to read two or three random works before I retire.

Yes, I could finish books faster if I stuck to one book at a time, but my mind gets easily fragmented into different areas and causes me to in any given week want to be feeding  my divergent interests. Is that such a bad thing?

I guess what I am wondering is... am I an enigma? Please, someone tell me that I'm not the only person who scatter reads multiple books at one time. Humor me, even if you would never think of it.

Confession Tuesday - Ginsu Knife Edition

Dear Reader:

Close your eyes with me and pretend it's Tuesday. Are you with me?  Good!

It's been one father's day,  one chiropractic visit, a new poem in publication  and a June week since my last confession.

I confess that it feels like we've transitioned into summer and that's all right with me. I'm not one who does heat well, but so far it has not been that bad. I realize the hottest part of the year is still ahead, but I have spent some time reading and occasionally writing on our deck as the dogs play. I confess that it may be early to be singing the praise of summer but I am going to try and embrace the spirit of summer. At least for now.

I confess that having three poems accepted in less then 48 hours last month has spoiled me. I am well aware that this was a most unlikely occurrence. I've had thee in one month before but never in two days. Having started Submission Saturday some months back, I confess that I am more optimistic about my work being  published. I hate to think of it like this but being published is a little like selling  Ginsu knifes or encyclopedias door to door; metaphorically speaking that is. You have to hear "no" a lot if you are ever going to get one "yes".

I confess another thing about June that is exciting is the fact that many of the shows we like to watch on TV are coming back into their new seasons. Yeah.

I had a dream last night that my wife and I attended our class reunion. This was pretty interesting since I confess I've never attended my class reunion. I've wanted to but Cathy has had no interest in attending with me. Don't get me wrong, she has never discouraged me from going, she just has never had any desire to go along. I've never wanted to go alone.  So last night in my dream we went together. This morning I could only recall one person out of all the attendees that we know.  I confess going wasn't worth it.

That will about do it for this week. Until next week, keep pushing your Ginsu knifes.

Toy Soldiers - Summer Issue of Boston Literary Magazine

Summer 2013 and The Poster Girls of Boston Literary Magazine

 

 

The Summer Edition of the Boston Literary Magazine is available and it features one of my own poems titled Toy Soldiers.

 

I have not devoured every morsel of the issue yet but some poems that I was particularly impressed with...

• Tewksbury Mental Hospital by  Elaine Moynahan
• The Gift by Corey Cook
• How We Too Haven't Stayed Young by Rene Lee

Always a good read.  My complements to the editors!

Amazon sales of Orwell's 1984 rise 9,500%

Given the recent attention to the NSA news of data mining  phone, e-mail and Internet records, sales of  George Orwell's novel about a society in which big brother knows all has skyrocketed. Knowledge of their once secret spy program called PRISM  has sparked new debate about the dangers of a government that has the ability to watch our every move.

Confssion Tuesday - On Time Edition

Surprise!

Dear Reader...

It's TUESDAY and it's confession time. I confess that I cannot recall how many weeks it has been since I actually  confessed on Tuesday. I've been late, late, late. I'm thinking  it's been three, maybe even four weeks since I last got it right.

Tonight I got together with some other poet friends in the northland. We read and wrote and it was all good. I confess that I realize that I need to get out more to readings & other events.

The past few weeks I've been hooked on Scandal. I confess that I often catch on to TV shows multiple seasons into to them. My wife and I both have been zipping through two seasons and wow - the shows are captivating. Honestly I was hooked 15 seconds into the first episode. My daughter Cathy Ann turned us on to it.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed as I type this. I've had some issues with my new laptop and I hope that these issues are all behind. I confess I've learned one thing about Windows 8... it is designed to just start all over when you have problems. Neat? I'm not so sure. Anyway, I'm typing with crossed fingers.

I confess tonight I wrote a keeper at the poetry meeting. I will return to it  in a day or two and start reworking it to see where it  takes me.

I came home tonight thinking of watermelon. We have had two super sweet ones in the past week.  I had that taste hanging onto my tongue all day. I confess it was all gone when I got home. Last year the watermelons were sub par and scrawny. I confess I'm looking forward to a replacement melon in the next few days.

The Mag - 172 / Walled Memories

Charleston Farmhouse Door

It could have been inviting.

An assemblage of colors

whose meaning is subject 

to ones interpretation.

I fancied a room, a child's room.

A room from long ago, 

whose inhabitant unseen

for one reason or another

for numerous years

while a proxy kept

watch over it and for

the return of the child 

grown.

But the lock withdrew

any invitation to the room.

A room unchanged

perhaps dusted pristine.

Perhaps too painful

the memories-

to be reconstructed;

too painful to forget.

Michael A. Wells (c) 2013

The Mag