Unconscious Mutterings Week 451

You Say and I think:

1. Earrings :: dangling
2. Tomorrow :: never comes
3. Soft :: and fresh
4. Idiots :: Bush
5. Portraits :: School
6. Handicap :: golf
7. Collar :: dog
8. Blouse :: white
9. Wool :: sweater
10. Statistic :: hits

Get your own subliminal list weekly here

W.S. Merwin Reads for the 57th Annual Poetry Day - October 6th

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:
September 20, 2011

W.S. Merwin Reads for 57th Annual Poetry Day

CHICAGO — The Poetry Foundation, publisher of Poetry magazine, is pleased to announce that poet, translator, and environmental activist W.S. Merwin will read in celebration of the 57th annual Poetry Day on Thursday, October 6. In a career spanning five decades, Merwin has become one of the most honored and widely read poets in America. From his first collection, A Mask for Janus, which W.H. Auden chose for the Yale Younger Poets Prize in 1952, to The Shadow of Sirius, winner of the 2009 Pulitzer Prize, Merwin has written with sheer grace and limpid power about the natural world, time, and memory. Appointed U.S. poet laureate in 2010, Merwin lives, writes, and gardens in Hawaii, on the island of Maui. He has spent the last 30 years planting 19 acres with over 800 endangered species of palm, creating a sustainable forest. The property has recently been protected as the Merwin Conservancy.

What: Poetry Day: W.S. Merwin
When: Thursday, October 6, 6 p.m.
Where: Harold Washington Library
Cindy Pritzker Auditorium
400 South State Street
Tickets: Free admission on a first-come, first-served basis

Inaugurated by Robert Frost in 1955, Poetry Day is one of the most distinguished poetry reading series in the country, having featured such poets of note as T.S. Eliot, Elizabeth Bishop, Carl Sandburg, W.H. Auden, Anne Sexton, John Ashbery, James Merrill, Adrienne Rich, Gwendolyn Brooks, Rita Dove, Billy Collins, Seamus Heaney, Derek Walcott, and Robert Hass.

Find information about other Poetry Foundation events at www.poetryfoundation.org/ programs/events.

Confession Tuesday

Dear Reader:

It's been a week since my last confession. This is where I usually say something about how I can't believe how fast the week has gone. I confess that I don't feel that way.

I confess that when I see that my last blog post was on Thursday, a longer interval then I usually go or at least like to go without posting and yet it seems like an eternity ago.

I confess that my weekend seemed to kind of start late Thursday night and sort of been in a state of suspended animation except that suggests movement and this is more like a mobile hanging in a child room. Hanging and hanging and hanging.

I confess that I have strayed from my writing schedule and other than journaling I've really not written much of anything since last week.

I confess that last night I didn't even think of myself as a writer, a poet, for the first time in I don't know how long. This is a pretty devastating feeling since I think it's been a part of my own self identity for so long I don't know myself.

I confess that I did not want nor plan to post anything today on my blog. Yes, I confess I wasn't going to confess. How's that for honesty?  But I did, and I'm not sure why.  I'm off work today but was working on some work anyway. I think I just needed a break... I don't really know why.

I confess that I'm looking for a miracle for my San Francisco Giants.  They have started playing awesome again but winning the division is beyond their self determination at this point. They could win everything else and be close, but they need Arizona to stumble as well. Still they have an impressive string of 8 wins in a row under pressure. Let's make it 9 tonight!

I confess I feel the baseball season slipping, slipping out of my grasp. I can't hold onto it and stop it any more then I can stop the seasons.

I confess that I've had all I can take of robo calls from charities and collection agencies looking for someone else. If they get your contact information from a credit reporting agency that has your social security number but the person with the same name as you has a different social security number (which the agency has) should there not be some culpability?

I suppose this looks like a confession from Debbie Downer. Honestly I don't want it to seem that way, but you know what is all the rage to say these days... it is what it is.

Next week...  I hope.

It's all about the destination...

During the morning drive time I heard a piece on NPR about songwriter Annie Clark who uses the stage name St. Vincent. Speaking to NPR's David Greene about her latest album "Strange Mercy" she said something that I so totally feel the same about when it comes to poetry.  She told Green, "I think in some ways, it can do a listener a disservice to explain a song, I think I'd rather leave a little room for people to put themselves in it."

Thank you! I prefer not to hand out road maps with poetry. Let the reader arrive at whatever destination they can.  Really, the journey will mean so much more.

Anyway, I like what I've heard of the new album.  Check it out on the NPR site!

REMINDER - AMY LEIGH DAVIS TOMORROW AT WRITERS PLACE

Amy Leigh Davis Reading September 16

Friday, September 16, 2011 ~  7:00 PM 

 

THE WRITERS PLACE ~ 3607 Pennsylvania, Kansas City, MO

Amy will be reading poems from her new book The Alter Ego of the Universe as well as new work.

Confession Tuesday - Positively Rejected

September and I'm pinching myself. I'm like for real? Already? But it is and I can see little signs to confirm this. Let's go to the confessional.

Dear Reader: It's been two rejection letters since my last confession.

I confess that when I say that I've had two rejection letters in the past week I'm really not distraught or anything about this. In fact I really feel pretty good about it. I suppose because I've been much more proactive about submissions this year compared to last. I know that you are going to get more rejections then acceptances - it's the reality of the beast. The two recent rejections were very reputable journals so these were not cheap rejections. If I was just sending to any old place and getting rejected I might not feel so good about it, but these are journals that have rejection rates in the mid 90% range.

Today I was reading about the Poets on the Coast in Oregon [here] a women's writing retreat and I confess I was jealous. I truly believe women poets tend to be far better organized the their male counterparts. I suppose I understand women in the arts have been marginalized over the years and this has no doubt diven them to take on projects to support their female peers. I think that is great but I'm still jealous.

It's been cooler here in Missouri the past few weeks. Weather closer to the San Francisco weather I love on a couple of them. And the mood last night was mammoth! I know summer is over the verge of leaving us. Baseball season winding down, I confess that I'm at least subliminally aware that SAD is just around the corner. A period in which many people including myself struggle with melancholy.

I'm about confessed out at this point - thanks for stopping by! Have a great week!

Unconscious Mutterings Week 450

You say and I think:

1. Submission :: poetry
2. Lucy :: Linus
3. Feather :: pillow
4. Magnetic :: personality
5. Bowling :: for dollars
6. Stress :: deadline
7. Sweetly :: charming
8. Creamy :: Lemon meringue
9. Awaken :: early
10. Beaten :: up

Get your own subliminal list weekly here

Sealing the Deal

A kiss seals two souls for a moment in time.  ~Levende Waters

Magpie Tales / Poem: Revenant

That I was surprised
at his return
an understatement
at the cold calculation
of his every move never

would the diabolical
alive become anything
less upon return
from the grave

perhaps in the depth
of his rest he might
think about our past
but can the dead think
and if so what would be
the difference

the cerebral gift he had
was plotting not thinking
certainly not feeling
not emotion     the cold
in life could not thaw
could not warm the heart

Freon pumped throughout
his body he must be
brittle cold -- unnerving
what can he want
from me --  in death
but to possess
the very warmth
of my breath
suck it out of me
and pull me under too.



Michael A. Wells


Magpie Tales



*photo credit - The Revenant, 1949, Andrew Wyeth

A Time To Write

This week I explored some notions about time and writing and what follows are a compendium of my thoughts:

• We all have 168 hours each week to work with.
• Time spent at the office during the work week including hour allocated for lunch is 45 hours.
• Allocating 8 hours a day for sleep eats up another 56 hours.

Those are pretty much fixed expenditures of time. I could be a little more precise by throwing in travel time to and from work but leaving this as it is, the leaves 67 hours for all that other stuff,  [family time, travel, recreation, doctor appointments, grocery shopping, cleaning, shopping, lawn care, writing and so on...

There is a lot of stuff to eat up that remaining 67 hours. As a writer I have to figure out how and when to carve out time and then to make sure that allocated time is optimally used.  I've thought about the amount of remaining time and decided that I should schedule about 10% (rounding up to 7 hours)  of the remaining time for writing. It seems like a lot on one hand and yet it really not quite so much on the other. For example, I I am accustomed to writing often in 30 minute segments then I can think of it as a hour a day for seven days and it them seems like a lot. Now there are plenty of times that I buckle down and write for more then an hour at a time, working on new stuff and rewrites.  But that is not a daily occurrence and more likely then not to happen on a weekend. So a full hour every day then seems like a lot. On the other hand, if you think of your writing as a career/avocation then it hardly seems like much - 7 hours a week.

Another consideration is are we talking about writing or everything including writing related. If I start adding in the latter then we suddenly are talking about a lot of other things that could encroach upon that 7 hours. For example:

• Submitting work
• Organizing material in a retrievable fashion / backing up, etc.
• Reading (all writers need to be reading)
• Researching topics
• Researching markets
• Networking
• Attending events for peers and giving readings of your own work.

All of the above things are what I tend to refer to as administrative functions of a writer. They are not writing but they are ever bit a part of the process unless you just plan to write and stash your work in that third drawer of your dresser that you don't use for anything else because you have to stoop down to use it.

For now I have decided to embrace the 7 hour plan for a while and see how it works for me. I have yet to decide how much of that I will allow to allocate for writing related tasks. Realizing anything that comes out of time not a part of the 7 hours is essentially reducing the remaining 60 hours left after sleep and work.  These things have to be done but perhaps with a balance of not taking away too much from writing or remaining unallocated time.

I've decided that I need to do my best to elimination of distractions from the specific periods that I write. Some of those I can control and some are less easily effectuated but I need to try none the less.
For example - I can't stop to check my email or post on face book. I should park my cell during this time. TV off. Maybe add one of my writing play lists to the room to help reinforce what I am doing and as a way others entering may realize what I am doing at that specific time.

Getting 7 hours in would allow for example to take a night off to do something else and adding that extra hour to the weekend so I don't end up staying up late one night to get in an hour if we've been out for the evening. It allows for some flexibility with the weekend hours.

This is what my approach will be for the immediate future and I will address how is is or isn't working at 2 weeks and 4 weeks and make adjustments if necessary.

So how do you spend and allocate your writing time?

Amy Leigh Davis Reading September 16

Friday, September 16, 2011 ~  7:00 PM at  THE WRITERS PLACE

Amy Leigh Davis, author of The Alter Ego of the Universe   recently published by Finishing Line Press will read from her book as well as new work.  I've had the pleasure of knowing Amy and experiencing her writing over a period of several years now.  Her works always seems fresh and active. This is a reading I  especially looking forward to.

Two other poets with whom I am not presently familiar  will also be reading. The are Susan Rieke, Mary Rogers-Grantham.  Rieke has  two books of poetry are Small Indulgences and From the Tower. She is Professor of English at the University of Saint Mary in Leavenworth.  Mary Rogers-Grantham’s collection is titled Clear Velvet.


Mark your calender for this event  at The Writers Place ~  3607 Pennsylvania
Kansas City, MO 64111-2820

Confession Tuesday - Do The Math

My body keeps telling me it’s Monday but it isn’t. No, it has been a week since my last confession even though being off yesterday for Labor Day makes it feel a lot like a Monday work day. So join me if you will…

Dear Reader: 

I confess that 3 day weekends make me wish they were all that way. Actually they make me wish they were longer still. Give a guy a day off and he wants two. I confess that I get greedy that way.  

~0~

Over the weekend I tried to utilize some of the extra time doing what I call the administrative things a writer does. I’m not fond of these things but unless you are going to take the Emily Dickinson career path and stash your writing away in a dresser drawer and hope someone comes along and gets it published for you after death then the proactive approach seems to be necessary.  So sending out your work becomes the dreaded necessity.

I confess that I was not fond of math in school. Algebra was in my view something I needn’t concern myself with and I recall that my grades in the subject would testify to that fact.

Strange as it may seem, my post school days poring over and processing detailed election poll data, strategizing over ward and precinct numbers, margins of error, voter turnout, and then there was my fascination with baseball statistic.  My wife likes to remind me these are the very uses that I swore I’d never need such complexities of math for.

But over the weekend I noted that on Duotrope – my submission tracker tells me that I have sent out 56 submissions in the past 12 months and that I have an 8.89% acceptance rate and that is higher then normal (though I haven’t a clue as to what normal is).  So I confess that I am again dragging numbers into my life – my poetic life at that!  I confess it feels sleazy talking about it.  

~0~

Shamefully I confess that I also check my blog analytics from time to time. I suppose it is a good thing that I don’t yet have a book published or I’d be checking that sales ranking daily like it were the Dow Jones or something.

~0~

I confess that my San Francisco Giants are torturing me with their play these past few weeks.

~0~

I confess I need to pay my library file and check out some books

~0~

I confess I watched like three old episodes of Friends last night and felt like it was the good old times again.

~0~

I confess I’m loving the weather today because it is so San Francisco!   And I confess that when I’m resorting to confessions about weather it must be time to stop.  Have a great week everyone!

Thought on Waste and Enjoyment

The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time. ~ Bertrand Russell

Will I Ever Write a 9-11 Poem and Other Thoughts on America Since that Fateful Day

I recall once before blogging about 9-11 and remarking that I had never been compelled to write a 9-11 poem. Given that we are approaching the 10th year anniversary of that tragic event I thought it was worth addressing this again in my own mind and explore some other post 9-11 impacts of  my own.

While it has been nearly 10 years I think 9-11 remains pretty fresh in our minds and the feelings most Americans have remain pretty raw. I think there are several reasons for this.

• Any child of say 10 up into the teens was old enough to realize what happened on that day and ten years later these people are young adults. They have grown up with nearly half there life under the specter of 9-11 and therefor for many of these people it is a singularly defining moment.
• The events of 9-11 prompted an American war response that has continued to this day, at considerable expense to the American economy and loss of life and quality of life for many American servicemen and families.
• Since 9-11 we have all seen dramatic changes in security that have eroded some personal liberty and freedoms for which Americans have long held themselves different from other world citizens.

In spite of how fresh in our minds 9-11 remains for us I have continued distance from it poetically.  I recall one draft of work that has some vaguely distant reference to 9-11 but certainly is not a poem about 9-11.

Immediately after the attack everyone and their pet dog was writing poems about the event. I totally get this because poetry tends to be a terrific release of emotional energy. But doing so, releasing such energy onto a page does not necessarily make for the best poems. There were in the days and weeks immediately thereafter some horrible poetry written on the subject.  Not all of course was bad, I've read some remarkable ones, but I decided long ago that any poem I would write on the subject would need to be quite remarkable.

To me the 9-11 tragedies lives on daily. It is as if the loss of innocent lives that day were somehow not enough. It lives on in many ways and the least of which I'll summarize here:

• Fear!  Not a new word to us for we've been warned about the cost of fear on our lives decades ago, but to be frank, fear now touches us every time we travel, it has reached our economic stability, and it courts families daily that have sons, daughters, husbands, wives, etc. overseas in war zones.
• Civil liberties... in the years following 9-11 the individual civil rights and privacy of Americans have been in a watershed of erosion.
• National stature...  So many things from the breach of rules we have lived under for such a long time with respect to treatment of prisoners in detainment  to the very ill-conceived reasons for preemptive war in Iraq have led others to question our stature as a leader of the free world.
• Military readiness - our ability to defend ourselves from real threats has been severely compromised by the misguided long term military engagements that continued today as a result of 9-11, and to what end? Have they made us any safer?

For my generation, 9-11 although certainly tragic represents not a singular defining moment in our lives. We have had many of them. Much the same way generations before us have.  Perhaps my problem is that quite frankly my generation has had way too many tragic events.  The 1960's alone were littered with the losses of John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Bobby Kennedy and the Vietnam War. And let me say at this point I am not going to engage in debate over which is worse, the murder of one man or that of some 3,000. The deaths of JFK, MLK and RFK were not singular losses but the loss of hope and dreams for millions. They were no better or worse then they deaths on 9-11 as all were tragedies of a national level.

I suppose the one thing about the lack a poetic response to 9-11 on my own that mystifies me is that I am not at all adverse to poetry of witness. I actually am a pretty big advocate of/defender of it. Carolyn Forché is just one of many poets I admire, with a reputation for very such very work. But 10 years later, I still have nothing to add.

8th Anniversary!

A couple of weeks ago I was aware that the anniversary of my blogging at stickpoet was nearing an then I got busy and plum forgot about it until I read a comment from a reader this morning wishing me a happy blogaversity.  There is a small countdown tab at the lower sidebar that alerts readers the number of days till the next one.  It is obscure enough that it only catches my attention every so often.

It is true... this is the 8th anniversary and the 2,922 post and I look back and realize that anyone who blogs for any length of time invests a lot of themselves into the process.

Over these eight years poetry has not only been a passion but become a part of my daily fabric.  I am a true believer in the concept of a poetry lifestyle. I means you are constantly aware of things about you in a way others aren't. It means you are always looking for the language in pictures. Always trying to simplify the complex and sometimes look for more then there appears on the surface. I think there is a certain spirituality between the poet and the universe that just doesn't exist otherwise.

To those who stop by on occasion to read stickpoet or those who subscribe to a feed, a big thank you.  I especially appreciate those who leave comments & become part of a dialogue. Non-spam comments are always welcome. Spamers however, don't waste your time, due your existance the comments are moderated and those posts never see the light of day.

I have a few ideas for some posts and topics for the very near future that I hope many of you will find interesting. So thanks again and keep coming back!

Magpie Tales 80 / Poem: Promises

An hour clocked

in the wet footprints

cast upon past

each fleeting step

measures an instant

a crack     a mother’s back

a broken promise

I will do well in school

I will not stray

trouble will not

be my downpour

raining in some dark alley

hunkered under red

umbrella from showers

there are no guarantees

otherwise

Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales 80

Questions to ask when...

Dana Guthrie Martin asks the poignant  question, "Why does this poet live in my house, and is this the best place for her?"  Her Poem here

Confession Tuesday - Fleeting Edition

Come Along with me to the confessional…

It’s not only Tuesday again but it is almost the end of August ~ uh, what’s up with that?

Dear Reader:

I confess that I’ve absolutely no idea where August has gone. Seriously! It feels like it has been dwarfed by February… There just seems to be no accounting for the days. Has someone taken them while I was not looking?  And I know summer is fleeting because I come home in the evening and these little kids in helmets and John Wayne shoulders are practicing football on the baseball diamond across the street.  That is just not right!  I confess that I find such encroachment unacceptable. I’m sure that there is some sort of Capricorn justice in my logic.

~0~

I confess that a blog which I read often and have found to be creatively stimulating had dropped off the radar and it saddens me.

~0~

It seems there are a lot of people who are operating with something less then a full deck mucking about in this country these days. I’m sure the United States doesn’t hold any exclusive lock on such people. And to be sure, not all of them are Christians, but there seem to be a disproportionate amount of them that call themselves Christian fundamentalists.  Now, I’m not an atheists but it seems to me that the Florida pastor who has called for the creation of a National Registry of atheists could do better pasturing his flock then stirring up hate for absolutely no justifiable reason then his own lack of good judgment.  Perhaps doing so would prove to be too challenging to him. I confess the more I read thing like this, the more I am convinced such people have no concept whatsoever as to what Christianity is.

~0~

I confess that I have fleeting thoughts about self-publishing a manuscript. I confess fleeting is a word that has been hanging around me lately.  I confess that I worry that one day all my thoughts will be fleeting.

A Pleasant Find

I was looking through some of my sent mail and cleaning out stuff tonight when I ran across a draft of a poem written in July of 2009 that I sent to some poet friends that were sharing drafts back then.  There was a draft that I had forgotten though reading it after all this time I realized it was a remarkably strong draft to have since been overlooked. This was a surprising find and I promptly moved a copy of it to a working draft folder.

This likely is not an isolated incident for me.  I'm pretty sure I've a trail of promising drafts that have become neglected orphans. I need to revisit my old journals and old e-mails more often.

Do you have rough diamonds languishing in your sent folder, an obscure file folder on your computer or hard copies stashed in a drawer someplace? 

Journal Bits this week

Bits of notes, thoughts, quotes and drafts in my journal this past week...

• Aug. 19, 2011 - The morning glistens off the wet grass. Remnants of last night's storm. Do people ever glisten as a result of some natural phenomena?
• Aug. 20, 2011 - "It possesses a resilience/foreign to most people/a hundred times I chop it down/a hundred and one times it grows/back up against the house/sways against the bats and boards/waving to the sky as if to say, I'm back!"
• Aug. 20, 2011 - "While the night vaporises/I languish a secondary or lesser./A burning ember of a star."
• Aug.25, 2011 - I so love the geese and there were a group in the field this morning. One of the things about them I so like is how they seem to fit into the world around them. The traffic, noises, I can even walk toward them and they are largely unshaken. I have to get right on top of them before they seem to acknowledge my presence and move on.
• Aug. 27, 2011 - "...I sit sipping Colombian, dark, no sugar no one/to cut the quiet of this/conversation not happening// ...yesterday on the floor/your side of the bed/where a sock had rolled/self up to account for loneliness - its mate nowhere /to be found. 

On learning & perfection

We come to love not by finding the perfect person, but by learning to see an imperfect person perfectly.  ~Angelina Jolie

Learning to live

People need to be made more aware of the need to work at learning how to live because life is so quick and sometimes it goes away too quickly.  ~  Andy Warhol

Oh this is some heavy food for thought...

I saw this on Pinterest on Lisa Kaplan's board and wow, that is some heavy stuff to think about.

Untitled

Summer is confused
daylight is shifting
the nights come
under some spell
the landscape changed
in the blink of an eye
the possessed sleeps
with eyes open
and sees nothing

To rub meaning from moments

When I was reading Laurie Rachkus Uttich's Why We Write in the Sept/Oct Poets and Writers it struck me how important observation is to writers of all genres. Even when we protest that a poem is not about us, it really is about how we perceive the world around us. If I say all I need is a pin and paper to write I've really simplified things and missed a very significant ingredient in any writing recipe.

I found Uttich's essay thought provoking and believe she would be exciting teacher to study under, what I liked most and will stick with me was her following words:

"We observe and analyze, rub meaning from moments,

And yet none of it is truly real to us until we write it down,

And when we don't write, we end up on our knees."

Confession Tuesday - 13 Confessions Edition

Funny how Tuesday seems to roll around quickly no matter how fast the rest of the week drags on.  Let’s head to the confessional.

Dear Reader:

I confess the philodendron on my desk at the office is talking to me at me. In an ever weakening voice I can faintly hear the words, “water me.”

~0~

I confess that I’m becoming annoyed at technology. Especially when that technology has to do with phones.  I am increasingly annoyed by the following in no specific order, spam coming to my phone e-mail and text messages, work related e-mails that arrive on my personal phone on Sunday or late hours of the night., my own habit of using it to play games when I’m especially bored, and when others texting like mad in my presence.

There is no rational to finding what others do on their phone in my presence being any worse then me doing it, they both bug me. One thing I’ve made a conscious effort at is to try and not mess with my phone a lot when I’m eating out with others. I heard an NPR segment a week or so back about people who park their phone in the evening as opposed to carrying it around with them. I rather like that idea.

I confess that my tech annoyances also include Facebook but I have yet to swear it off.

~0~

I confess I was kidnapped in a dream the other night. I don’t know it ended badly or not.

~0~

I confess that I have been drinking more tea and less Diet Coke the past couple of weeks.

~0~

I confess seeing the geese on the field across the street this morning made me smile.

~0~

I confess that frustration seems to be a natural part of life as a writer and I don’t know how to change or even lessen the frustration significantly.

~0~

I confess I added a bit of honey to the peas I cooked the other night.

~0~

I confess need to read poems out loud more often.

~0~

I confess I think other people should read poems out loud too

~0~

I confess that I am astounded how little knowledge my 17 year old niece has of things outside of her seemingly tiny world.  I confess this worries me concerning the future of our country.

~0~

I confess that I am confessed out!

Magpie Tales 79: Poem: Maybe if We Hadn't Thrown the Cores

That summer we stuck
in the seats of the old Ford
our cotton clothing
clung to us wet
no one dared crank
the panes-

a few bugs would join
the ride but soon exit
the heat I think drove them
so we didn't

who knew there was
so much Missouri
corn and milo
some tobacco too

I lost count of orchards
stopped off for apples
juice dripping down
the chin- 

hurled the cores
onto the highway
till dad got after us

we saw signs
for real caves
but never stopped


Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales 79

Magpie 78 - Missing

The assemblage
from aerial view
a train wreck
pickup sticks
wool coat
camel hair
pigmentation
cans and pans
a handle
here and there
the worker
nowhere
to be found




Started biking - slowly but surely

A few weeks ago my right knee swelled up with a big knot on the lower inside of the knee cap. As it happened I was planning to get my bike out and start ridding for exercise. The knee thing drug on and I went to the doctors and between my two options started an inflammatory medication.  The other option was a cortisone shot which might have brought me swifter relief but since I'm a type two diabetic, my experience with any steroid is that it bumps my blood sugar numbers pretty high for a significant number of days.

But all this (the knee problem) seems past.  At least enough so that I got out by bike and aired up the tires and rode around a little (not to overdo it) and my plan is to ride some most nights after work for a while till I can build up my endurance.

Just so that I'm able to get a poetry connection in here, long time readers may recall that I won my bike a few years back in a contest to write environmental haiku's.

Opening Up~

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
 ~ Anais Nin

It seems to me that Nin's words above,  like so many of her bits of wisdom are in fact powerful maxiums we can all lean on in life. Everyone... but they seem so relevent to the writer's life - a life that often challenges one to risk opening the blossoms that reveal

Do you recall a time when your writing risked blossoming?

Confession Tuesday

Dear Reader: 

It's been almost a week since my non-confession confession and here I am heading to the confessional for a look back.

I confess that the week in view was a largely exasperating one. At work, at home, and at all points between. I think both mentally and physically I've let myself get deflated. I feel like one of those moon walk things kinds bounce on at outdoor events that are filled with air only the party is over and the air released and I'm just a jumble of plastic on the ground.

It seems like almost every night for the past week we've drug in late.  I got home later tonight because I needed to go to the store to replenish the Wells' Mother's cubbard.  I'm home now  and my poor wife has still not returned from work. I don't have room to complain - it's a problem that we have encountered together... still it is getting old.

Last night I confess that I came home, and did not write. I went straight to bed and when my wife came in, we watched The Closer and I  think another show and then I was out like a light. I don't like feeling like this, the wanr slick feeling. Quite frankly I feel like my body, mind and soul are all on auto pilot and I have no control.

~0~

I confess that one of the things that always brightens my day is opening the mail box and finding poetry. Yesterday I received a poetry book that I had pre-ordered a couple months back. I confess that I'm not the most patient person when it comes to waiting for any book... poetry are other. But when they do come, there is a satisfaction that's like a double layer German Chocolate Cake with traditional icing... the coconut and  Carmel stuff.  Of course the Poetry has no calories and won't raise my blood sugar ;)

So yesterday, I was happy when my copy of Amy Leigh Davis' book The Alter Ego of the Universe arrived. I think I carried it to the bedroom with all the excitement of a kid at Christmas, read two poems and fell asleep after texting Amy. Like I said before the energy just wasn't there!

So far, I'm hanging in there better tonight.  I will probably only journal tonight and read a few poems... not creative writing tonight... It's late as it is.

Till next week....

Grasshoppers

The grasshoppers have a routine

twitch and eat     twitch and eat

but we let then—

they invade our browning turf

scavenge-scoop our dying years

but we let them—

tobacco juices rolling off

their little faces

they rub their front legs—

back and forth

back and forth

I expect the friction

will smoke and blaze

anytime now

they are small

but all about ruin

Magpie Tales 77: Poem - Intimacy on the Porch

The intimacy of a front porch

on the summer night

was like no other place. 

The tongue and grove floor

was hushed as that they stood

still beside one another. 

Out in the yard fireflies

brought the starred heavens

to their level— 

all calm except

butterflies in their bellies

as each searched for words 

that can set this night apart

from so many other

date nights.

She searched the porch floor

for the right things to say

his eye traced smooth white legs 

subconsciously until stunned

by their own silence

their eyes meet— 

words no longer matter.

2011 © Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales 77

Picture credit: Summer Evening, Edward Hopper, 1947

Bad Poet

Yep, I missed Confession Tuesday. After work I went to a poetry meeting and it was late when I arrived home. I'm later getting in tonight for a different reason. Perhaps special dispensation would be in order since I was out doing poetry things.

Magpie Tales 76: Poem - It just stopped blowing

like dead in the middle

of a gust that was whipping along

the plains and kites dived,

birds were puzzled,

cumulus nimbus stalled. 

The heat that summer day

grew stale—   idle.

Grandpa said that was kind of

the beginning of the end. 

Folks didn’t know what to make of it

still don’t.  The sun just hangs there—

nights don’t much cool off either. 

Grandpa tacked the wind mill blades

on the shed. Said there was no use

for it except ornamentation, and life was

mostly bland these days.

2011© Michael A. Wells

Magpie Tales 76

Journal Bits - July 21 to August 5, 2011

It's time for some tid-bits from my journal entries of late.  My daily journal comprises a variety of things. Some general journaling on life, quotes that I run across that strike my fancy, a poem that I really like and of course my own writing drafts. Some very rough as I often take them to my laptop at some point to refine them. So here is a sampling of recent entries:

•  July 21, 2011 - "I need to find some "art date" project for this coming week coming up, time to do some inspiring things to boost my creativity."
• July 22, 2011 - "The conversation became a sidebar to the Dr. Phil Show..."
• July 22, 2011 - " t was uncanny how many tall women were there. I do mean tall! It was like a village of Amazon women. Several were quite striking. I'm thinking tall women poem material.
• July 23, 2011 - "Finished a draft of a new narrative poem and did some rewriting. Good day for writing for me. Also got a blog post done.
• July 24, 2011 -  [she] shot the dark sides/ of everything in photographs/drove a locomotive/off an acrylic painting/when she swears in German/dogs follow her heels.//
• July 26, 211 - A woman folds her dreams/into a tri-fold it seems/to bring the closer/to spiritual perfection. 
• July 29, 2011 - The banister reminded me/when my parents mad me/stand back against the flower print in the kitchen/we both stood because/someone else wished it/that way.//
• July 30, 2011 - In my youth/I carried folly/in my pocket/wore a reversible/smirk on my face.//
• August 2, 2011 - Yesterday I received an acceptance from WestWard Quarterly
• August 3, 2011 - Nic Sebastian in a blog post - "Role of the poet: interpret the status quo or subvert it?" Interesting, think about this maybe respond to her post.
• August 5, 2011 - She has used kisses/as currency/telegraph messages/settle scores
• August 5, 2011 - ... another day comes more like/the last- hold up in cubicles/whose walls have had shit/written graffiti sprawled across/niceties are checked at the door/for those who might have had any//

Reoccurring Themes



It is my feeling that Time ripens all things; with Time all things are revealed; Time is the father of truth.  ~   Francois Rabelais

Time tends to be one of the reoccurring themes in my own poetry.  What are some of your reoccurring themes?

Photo credit: DesertUSA.com and Digital West Media, Inc.

Perfect Understanding Vs. Pleasure

Even when poetry has a meaning, as it usually has, it may be inadvisable to draw it out... Perfect understanding will sometimes almost extinguish pleasure.



A. E. Housman

Confession Tuesday

I just finished working on a project I carried home from the office and before I move a way from my laptop I should get my confession over for the week.  Let's go to the confessional...

Dear Reader:  It has been four blog posts, 3.1 Lbs lost, news of one accept poem for a fall print journal, more heat the suitable for man or beast, and a second week of a bum knee since my last confession.

Two weeks ago I my right knee swelled up almost overnight.  A protrusion like a golf ball developed below the knee cap and left of center (I'm starting to sound more political then medical here) and it looked far worse then it felt. At first anyway.  I confess my week (last week) was far too busy to take time out from work to go to the doctor and I assumed it was simply an inflammation and it would go away. This was greatly annoying to my daughter Shannon.

By Monday morning I could not  put off the doctor visit any longer.  The assessment tended to support a major inflammation ant nothing more serious. Unfortunately it had gone from mildly annoying to quite painful, especially when driving. Day two post Dr. visit it's slightly better but the anti-inflammatory is playing hell with my stomach.

In addition to my dieting, I was planning to get the bike out for some exercise several nights a week, but the knee issue nixed this idea... for the time being. I confess the heat would probably be a little rough for starting a bike ricing program, but I was/am serious about it and I'm pulling for better weather and knee both next week!

I confess that I wanted to lose just a little more weight this week. I would have been happy with about 1.5 more lbs. simply because it would have psychologically broken a number that was a benchmark I would have been so psyched by dropping belows.  I know loss in the range of 2 lbs per week is ideal and going beyond should make me very pleased just the same.

I confess that seeing Congresswoman Gabby Gifford's return to Congress to vote in the debt ceiling increase was the most uplifting thing to come out of Washington D.C. news in longer then I can honestly recall.That woman is quite an inspiration! 

I confess I feel there is little to applaud in the outcome and process used to to reach that outcome in the debt reduction plan that was passed and signed into law.

I confess I'm out of confession!

Best wishes to everyone... see you next week.

Magpie Tales 75 - Poem : Cycles Sirius

All she ever wanted
was to ride
to let her hair down
to be a human streamer
on a world stage
far from her tunnel
childhood 

ride she did
a circus act
big as the night
she was Sirius
brightest of light 

taking the curves
smooth— feral flesh
blinking under a hot blue
sparkler strobe
woman reborn


2011 © Michael A. Wells


Magpie Tales75






Magpie

Couple of poems that caught my attention today...

Christine Klocek-Lim - editor of Autumn Sky Poetry has another steller edition.  Two of the poems that particularly caught my attention I have linked here.  Perhaps you will enjoy them as I did or one or more of the others. Happy reading!

• The Empty Playground by Zeina Hashem Beck
• Arriving Home Late One Night by David Hubbard
  

Sounds Like A Spot for a Writing Weekend

Among a number of other unique spots featured on AOL I found the Point No Point Lighthouse - complete with a lightkeepers residence this site is available for vacation rental at only $215/night + tax.

The Lighthouse dating back to the 1880's is about a hour from Seattle. It provides a bird's eye view of what goes on in Puget Sound and a view of Mount Rainier.

From a Seattle Times Review it sounds like an awesome place for a weekend retreat for writers.

Where are some places you have gotten away to write at and how did the writing end up?  Tell us about your successes or otherwise....                          

At A Loss

Then it rained
my hair wet
streams pulled it
over my forehead
I gushed with thoughts
I could not keep
soon I was up to my ankles
in loss

2011 © Michael A. Wells

Confession Tuesday - Weighty Edition

Dear Reader:

To the confessional...  It's been one week of hot-air in Washington, D.C. since my last confession. <sigh>

A confession that I have tonight is one I'd like to just be a secret.  I started a diet on Sunday and I'd just as soon it not be historically recorded on the Internet, but alas I some notion that as I confess it here it establishes some accountability. With that in mind I will swallow my pride and confess that yes, I am intentionally attempting to lose weight - reduce body mass, take up less space, etc, etc. My first weigh in was on Sunday. I stopped by the Y and weighed in again this afternoon. Result - 3.1 lbs lost.  So what did I do?  I went to lunch with out office to celebrate birthdays this month. We went to Winslow's BBQ.

Now you are no doubt thinking.... hum I'll bet he could put the 3 lbs right back on in a place like that. I was a relatively good boy... I skipped any fries opting instead for the BBQ beans and the Smokey Sandwich I ditched the bun on eating only the meat. My drink... ice tea.  Taking everything into consideration I didn't do bed for the day.  I'll try and remember to weigh in next Tuesday as an additional measure of accountability.

Where has July gone? I confess the summer feels like greased pig slipping through my arms. As we are nearly to August that leaves like two months of baseball left for the regular season. Football will soon be encroaching into it. Oh how I hate that!

In the poetry department I confess that I've been hanging onto drafts a lot longer - tweeking - tinkering - turning them around and standing them on end. I confess I'm not sure if this is a good thing or not. Yes, we can close the book on a poem and send it out in the world too early.  Sometimes I thing we can tinker too much as well. I think time helps just to allow for perspective shifts, changes can be made without wearing the words on the page out. I confess I am not likely to change how I approach this anytime soon.

That's a wrap for this today... have a great week and see you again on Tuesday!

Do no wrong

Writing away - in free write while listening to my playlist. No care given to what comes out - it's choppy and all over the map and that's cool because I will come back to it on another day and mine for gold. For now it's words - phrases and that is  all that matters. I can do no wrong.

Rainy Sunday Morning

Opening the front door this morning I stepped into the heavy smell of rain. The sidewalks still dark gray from the wetness. Sun straining through the moving cloud cover. There is nothing in this picture to suggest  however, the oppressive heat will be moving on.

For a Sunday morning I already feel good about the weekend in terms of
writing. Yesterday I pushed throw a new poem draft and tinkered in rewrite with some other material.  In terms of recent weekends I've felt better in terms of creative mind. I've been able to unencumber it from a lot of recent baggage that has cluttered it.