Living in the Moment

We steal if we touch tomorrow. It is God's.

 ~ Henry Ward Beecher

Confession Tuesday - Bacon Edition

Another week has come and gone.  It's been one week since since my last confession. Let's get started.


Dear Reader:

I confess I love bacon. I mean who doesn't? But tonight I made a run out to get a Bacon Sundae.  I know it wasn't something that I really needed but it did hit the spot. I actually would like to hit it again with another one right now but I will restrain myself and not go out again. I have to say the combination of bacon, caramel, chocolate and vanilla ice cream is Walla!

I confess that I was really tired today at work and every time I turned around someone else was yawning. This only accentuated the draggy feeling. It was kinda weird because I slept really well last night.  Maybe I'd be better off if didn't sleep so well tonight.

If you read yesterday's post you know of my writing related fear that I've been struggling through. I confess that I wished the post has not sparked some discussion but last night I pulled out some old journals of mine and found some earlier stuff that was worth reworking. So this has given me a  momentary relief from stressing.

I confess that I'm glad that some of the shows my wife and I like to watch have started back up.  Rizzoli & Isles, Franklin & Bash and Suits are three of our must see shows. 

I confess it's 11 PM and time for me to hit the sack. Have a great week!

The Fear of Irrelevance

I've realized I have a new fear...   It happens between the pen and the page. It's not really the fear of writing as much as it is the fear that what I write becomes too predictable. Stale I suppose would be another word. 


You see I've reached that point where I realize that even that killer piece I wrote last October that has been published has to stand alone and what I write today and tomorrow has to be fresh and unique. Even if writing in a themed manuscript (especially if) you have to create from a fresh perspective. 


I guess what this really comes down to is the fear that my writing will become irrelevant. We all have to have fresh ideas or at least fresh approaches. It's one thing for a poet to find his or her voice, but that voice must be able to find a range of fresh ideas. 


So in those few moments when you first pick up your pen, what do you do to take your mind to some new direction?  Any tricks that you have to keeping your work fresh? I'd love to hear from others struggling with this and especially those who have fought this demon and are now secure in their writing as the pen and the paper first meet.

Father's Day

I had an opportunity to spend some time over lunch with three of my four children. Only Cathy Ann was not present as she is the only one out side the metropolitan area these days. Additionally my wife, daughter-in-law Claudia and future son-in-law Brandon were along. I just a while ago got off the phone from Cathy Ann and it was good to chat with her if she could not be here in person. 

I've thought about my own father from time to time today. Someone I really didn't know.  Only meeting him as an adult on I believe 4 occasions. He is deceased now.  Still, I think about him and the rest of my paternal side of the family that is principally gone save perhaps some cousins that I really don't know. I don't know any way to explain it other then this void that has plagued my life and I suppose always will.

I looked through a few poems to find one befitting of sharing on Father's Day and I chose the following:

To pull the metal splinter from my palm
my father recited a story in a low voice.
I watched his lovely face and not the blade.
Before the story ended, he’d removed
the iron sliver I thought I’d die from.
I can’t remember the tale,
but hear his voice still, a well
of dark water, a prayer.
And I recall his hands,
two measures of tenderness
he laid against my face

– Li-Young Lee, 'The Gift'

MAG 122 ~ Likeness

Puddle, 1952, M. C. Escher

Likeness

A puddle collective on the ground.

Mirror images mired in detail

reflective of all that's around.

Tracks and footprints form the frame

to cup and stabilize the fallen rain

of splendor in a muddy marsh.

Michael A. Wells


Mag 122

In Passing

We ate muffins out of papers;
spoke of logistics only in passing.

You bathed in tepid water.
The phone rang twice - I did not get up.

In the morning you left early-
left a note by the coffee maker

expressing your gratitude for the time
that filled the void.

I held the note for a while...
quite a while I think
but I don't really know time.

Friday Comes Early

This has been a crazy intense week at work and every since Tuesday my mind has been processing over and over one question, "Is it Friday yet?" When the end of the work day arrived tonight you know what? It was Friday. Well, it really is only Thursday still but since I'm at my max for vacation time or it gets truncated, I scheduled a day off for tomorrow. So Thursday is Friday in a manner of speaking. 


After work I drove home, picket up Meghan (daughter) and drove back into the city to a gallery showing of work by the Kansas City area artist Jennifer Rivera.  It has occurred to me that walking around taking in artwork after a long day or series of days is a great way to unwind. A glass of wine and paintings and it takes the handcuffs off your mind. I would say in this case it was therapeutic. 


Jennifer's artwork is extraordinary with textures and colors that can be nova star brilliant or the darkened minor keys in a  Shostakovitch symphony and the many points in-between. There were three pieces on display that I especially enjoyed. 

Celebrity Autobiography - Kristen Wiig reads Suzanne Somers

Can you guess

Which 10 Artists Investigated By The FBI? 

Huffington Post Slideshow

Confession Tuesday - Wizard edition

Dear Reader:

It's been three poetry drafts, one finished poem, a car breakdown and a car repair since my last confession


This weekend our Mercury Sable broke down on the was home from run out to fetch carryout dinner. I was able to get the car pushed out of the way of traffic and with the help of a very nice man in a pickup with his teenage sons. They then kindly offered a ride home- a distance of maybe three miles. Fortunately I was able to return to the car later and it started and was able to safely return it to the home.

I confess that my future son-in-law who is a wizard with all things mechanical especially cars determined that the problem was the alternator and the next day replaced it with one from a junk yard - thus saving us boo-coup bucks. Okay, he's not like a Harry Potter type wizard but just a cool.

I confess that that this weekend I received word a poem I wrote maybe four years ago found a home. Of course I'm always delighted to get an acceptance letter but this one was special because this is a poem that came so easily and was one I always believed in. It was one of those rare instances that the poem almost writes itself.

I confess that I found myself looking at an e-reader tonight when we were out shopping. I also confess that I like real books better. I do have Kindle and Nook on my PC and while I have used them I have been a very slow accept them. Poetry books I want to hold in my hand.

It's late and I still need to write yet tonight so until next week - be safe...

Mag 121: What I Count On

Still Life, 1670, detail by Jean François de Le Motte

The notes, lists, inventory of thought and miscellaneous,
my refuge for information is all there. I've come to depend
on a singular place; vertical and standing put.  


My mind tends to meander more horizontally
these days and often drifts off path. 


When I need to refer to something important
it is that assemblage of what-not 
stapled to the weathered wall that I count on. 


Michael A. Wells


Mag 121

Saturday in the Park… I think it was the 4th of July

 

No it’s not yet July but for some reason this song has been looping through my mind this morning. Thank you Chicago! I suppose it could be worse, after all I am a big fan of Chicago but I generally don’t like anything to loop through my mind. Certainly that is the case this morning. We have an Ozone alert today so it’s probably not a great day to be at the park anyway.

Instead of the looping, let me turn to my journal and look for a few tid bits from this past week and maybe I can get this out of my head.

• “The writer, when he is also an artist, is someone who admits what others don’t dare reveal.” - Elia Kazan
• “All my life famous people have been dying from a distance/up ahead just over the curvature I see the tops of them on approach/the distance is narrowing”
• “a fan chops the humid air/throwing it back in my face…
• “This free market thing/how is it working for you?/Mowing the lawn is getting pricey”

Technorati Tags: journal bits

The Right Person–The Right Time

                                                                                                

The announcement of the newest poet laureate offers some contrast to many of the past. Natasha Trethewey is by no means the first woman laureate but she joins a rather short list women who have held the post. It is equally noteworthy to me that she is quite young as poet laureates go. At 46 she is actually older then I had thought her to be, still many laureates enter the office in their 70’s or 80’s.

Yet another significant aspect of Tretheway’s selection is the regional flavor her work brings. She is from the South and much of her work is laced in history and people and times in the South. Merwin and Hall for example were poets that had geographical ties but there work could probably be described as more universal.
While universality in poetry is a good thing, some times there are stories to be told that are more parochial. That need to be part of the national dialogue. That without, we as a nation are not whole.Natasha Trethewey is a powerful voice that has been informed by a unique life story.

I’ve read some of her work over the past couple of years and heard much more in her own voice on NPR and the Poetry Hour on PBS. From some of the talk on Facebook I gather she has flown below the radar of more poetry readers then I would have guessed. That being the case, her selection is even more significant because she a voice that is worthy of being heard.


Technorati Tags: Natasha Trethewey,poet laureate

Confession Tuesday

Dear Readers:

It’s been another one other one of them… a week.  So here I am before you to offer my week’s confession. To the box….

I confess that this has been an emotional week. My son’s bulldog Hoss was put down. My daughter’s pet rat Mason was put down.  I confess that I don’t like the words put down. The phrase seems quite ugly to me. 

I confess that I went to see Dark Shadows and found it in some respects charming. The music from the 60’s-70’s period was a walk down memory lane that I really enjoyed.

I confess that I’ve grown tired this week of some people that allow their actions to be governed by egos larger then buildings. Adult bullies are no different than young bullies. In fact, there is something really lacking in them, that they reach adult age and have such an inversion of maturity and ego.

I confess that I returned two library books late.  I always want to sneak in and just leave them when they are late which is so silly because I’m still going to pay a fine for them being overdue. I just feel kind of dirty when I’m at that counter handing late books over to the librarian.

I confess that I’ve had several ideas swimming around in my head that want to be poems and that I really need to honor their wish and try to get them down on paper. 

That’s about it for this week…. till next time, enjoy each day ahead!

For Hoss

If you want to know why a tear is salty—

It‘s because salt is a mineral 

adding weight so tears run down our face

keeping us grounded in times of sorrow.

It’s because salt is a preservative,

a constant reminder what each day

together meant us.

In times of loss, however brave we seem,

the spring within us flows

because it comes from  having known.

Follow the bouncing ball...

I did...  I followed it to Target tonight.  This is one of two large balls outside one of the entrances of the Target Store. I chose to post the picture because this is a part of exercising my creative muscles.  Let me explain...

I've come to the realization that my creativity has suffered in recent weeks. Hell it's probably been stalled for over a month if truth be known and I decided it was up to me to do something about it. Of course this requires me to chart some kind of proactive plan.

In the car this morning I asked myself what I needed to improve my writing - I mean besides actually taking the time to write.  If my self-evaluation of my past few weeks has been that my poetry has been too little and less then satisfying, then perhaps my problem is like artistic atrophy. I think it is safe to say that I do feel my poetic strengths have been weakened and are feeling pretty light weight. So I decided I needed to start a creative exercise program.

My drive into the city then became a workout. I decided to pay special attention to things I encountered on the drive and think about them not simply what these things were - but how I saw them. The TV tower was not just a tall steel structure but as it poked through the clouds it was a portal into the heavens. So throughout the day, I've tried to be mindful of things around me and my exercise of the cerebral muscles was to see them in a new light.

My initial day of flexing my imagination went well. But like any exercise program the results don't come overnight. I'm going to follow the bouncing ball each day and see where the poetry takes me. Wish me luck!

LOOKING AT ONE POET'S PROCESS

How I Create: Q&A with Poet & Writer Samantha Reynolds

Only a year ago, in 2011, Reynolds pledged to write one poem a day to try to “be present” and not miss the fleeting first year of her son’s life. Now she wouldn’t know how to stop even if she wanted to. Bentlily has sparked a movement of people around the world to slow down and savor their lives.  Read Interview here.

Confession Tuesday - What day is it anyway edition?

Dear Reader:

It has been 2 weeks since my last confession. What a week anyway? I confess that my days have seemed like they have all run together for weeks now. Most of the time I'm scratching my head and wondering exactly what day it is.

Three day weekends usually make Tuesday like Monday to the Max. After work I've been busy with a lot of physical lifting and moving at home and this has created a viscous cycle. Tired when I get up -more tired when I get home and so on.

I confess that I am delinquent with library books.  I expect to be pulled over by the Library Police. I picture a female officer with her hair pulled back and thin black wire glasses.  She clears her throat and asks to see my library card. She reminds me I have books overdue and says she will issue me a warning but next time she will be forced to suspend my license.

I confess that my writing has been neglected recently. Less frequency. Out of my routine. It really has been hard amid all these run-together-days to tap into creativity. I know that I have the ability to tackle this problem and no one else. I need to make an effort to create some real defining differences to each day. Give myself a chance to be more observant - maybe get out for a short walk each day and try to stretch my mind to unlock the creativity that has been hold up and missing in my days.

Oh, and note to self... Trash pickup is a day late this week. Thursday - note to self. Trash to curb in two days.  

Bouncing Thoughts

Just finished mowing the front lawn. Came in with a diet coke - sweating and here I sit at my laptop and realizing it's just past 1PM I suddenly feel a large portion of my weekend  has slipped by with nothing to show for it (except a challenge to the people on the north and south side of us to take their lawn down a notch.

I've read several things this week (mostly on blogs) that have caused me food for thought.  Here are some of the items bouncing off my cerebral walls.

1. The first has nothing to do with blogs or reading...I simply  missed confessing on Confession Tuesday. The fact is my past week has been busy at work and at  home and I really had nothing exciting to say except I was out of energy and time.  Too much going on and it's still out there like a stationary front on the weather man's map. It's just hanging over the city all sultry. But enough of that because this is one super ball I want to find it's way outside my scull.

2. There is a long standing story that my writing poetry is an attempt to find a loophole in mortality.  So when I read in Book of Kells this week about poet Patrick Lane at the Skagit Poetry Festival how after a poet died the wife of the poet had the family and friends of her husband memorize each 5 poems of his. In this way, each of them had five of his poems alive within them and they would be able to share them with others. By doing this she was keeping her husband and his work alive in the world. So I'm thinking this immortality thing for poets can work.... kind of.

 3. Reading an earlier blog post by Martha Salino I marveled at the description of the writing relationship with Heather McHugh during an independent study. Sure, from what I've read of Heather and her work I've been exposed to this was the kind of thing any serious writer would likely be ga-ga over. Still, what this brought to my mind was not specifically anything about Martha and Heather but the value of interaction of writers in general. I've often thought for instance of writers I'd love to even just have an hour lunch with to talk poetry in general. Their writing processes or motivations. Where do they feed their creative hungers? Things they try never to do when they write. I think about who I'd tag for such an occasion - it's all fantasy - but after all, poets are good at dreaming of the far fetched. I always enjoy reading the letters of poets because there often is the more personal and revealing side of the artist that comes through.

I've read several poems online this week that have me thinking about various different topics.  Strife in third world countries, couple of poems about rather mundane items and last but not least, travel. These things have been rolling through my thought process because I like to thing about poems that I read that truly seem to bring fresh approaches to writing. For example, I've thought a lot about in writing collections of themed poems, how do you talk about one or two things for say 35 poems and keep your reader wanting to read the next poem? How do you keep it fresh... moving and different?

Never to Be Seen

Patches invigorate the ready to wear line

she put to test and no one could be certain—

she ever came out of the blind.

There were rumors, I’m sure

you’ve heard that she never wanted to be

seen after he left her; after all the fuss

over Palm Springs, over the night the moon lapsed

into a deep coma and the best that he could do

was a sad impersonation of a neurotic art whore.

The things he did for a painting or two…

no wonder the poor dear would cloth herself

in camouflage.