Missing with my change up

It seems like I'm writing a lot of stuff these last few days that I am not at all happy with. Some with a few delectable lines, but overall I am not happy with the continuity of thought in the pieces. I feel a bit like a pitcher who's three best pitches are a breaking ball, a fast ball and a change up. I can throw one of them well, but the other two are off. Oh, I can still throw them, but location control is just not right. So, I can go through the motions of pitching, but I'm not winning. I know it just a matter of connecting mechanics and mind set. Still, being close is only effective if you are lobbing hand grenades, not throwing pitches, and certainly now writing poetry. Enough with the baseball analogy.


Are any of you familiar with Writing Poems by Robert Wallace, Jack Davis, and Michelle Boisseau? It's a text book I've been wanting and I ordered a used copy today. Michelle Boisseau is on the staff at the University of Missouri at Kansas City. I've heard her read, read some of her work and have a friend who in the program there with her. I've been impressed with her and heard good things from others about her.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I am so glad it is Friday. The weather seems improved today. It had been rainy - dreary here for several days and that coupled with the normal time of the year has left me feeling down. It's the SAD time these days.

Taking an inventory of the last twelve months of my publication efforts, I've made 35 submissions. Nine are pending responses. I've made 6 submissions so far this month. Overall, for the past twelve months, my acceptance ratio: 19.35 % - for which I am not at all disappointed. I only wish I had more stuff out there. Ah yes, a goal for this weekend.

Defining the inner life through poetry

Marvin Bell is gray haired and bearded. The 70 year old is Iowa's first Poet Laureate. In the mid 1960's Bell was an army officer so it is perhaps not at all surprising that he has written on the subject of war extensively. Of his 17 published books of poetry, many deal with war.

In a recent Des Moines Register interview I was particularly struck by his response to the question, "What is the role of art in war time?" Bell's response seems particularly relevant to writing in a broader prospective about any social concern, not just war. He said, "Poets talk about current events, just as everyone does, but some of us also embed it in our art. Poetry doesn't change minds. However, it becomes part of the consensus. It finds words for what it feels like during wartime. That said, there is no one way to write and no right way to write. A poet is perfectly within his or her right to graph the inner life without reference to outer events."

It seems that poets have long been charged with defining moments in the use of language. It is the utilization of individual words and phrases that bring "feeling" into better focus. This not only gives greater clarity to the feelings but the words themselves. I've had times and I am sure I am not alone, when I have felt some way that I was not able to adequately describe. That ability to graph the inner life is one measure of exceptionally good poetry.

Don't Worry, Be Happy

The brain lateralization test from October 10th prompted me to ask my immediate family if they would take it as well. My wife and two of my daughters have obliged. Interestingly the two daughters both scored 40% left - 60% right. Not far off my 35% - 65% split in favor of the right. My wife, not surprisingly split 85% -15% left favored. I will say, she has a strong aptitude for creativity so that 15% is well spent. Still, I am not otherwise surprised to see her more dramatically left brain orientated. She carries it quite well. ::smile:: ~0~

Let me take a moment to plug the e-mail syndication of stickpoet. If you find yourself reading these posts frequently, why not go to the left sidebar and sign up to get the posts in your e-mail? ~0~

This weekend I read a post on Kelli's blog in which she cited a poem by W.S. Merwin entitled Berryman (after John Berryman the poet).

I will tell you what he told me / in the years just after the war (it starts) and true to his word, the poem elicits advise. I was especially taken by the final stanzas of the poem.

...I asked how can you ever be sure /that what you write is really /any good at all and he said you can't //you can't you can never be sure /you die without knowing /whether anything you wrote was any good /if you have to be sure don't write

We write, proof, rewrite multiple times and finally conclude we are finished... yet worry endlessly. These are good words to remember. ~0~

The power of words against oppression.

It's always amazing to me the lengths many under oppression will go to by contrast to the relative apathetic nature of many in America. (see A war on words)

When Burmese officials use military force to crack down on pro-democracy advocates, it is the military against words. The opposition to oppression in Burma has little to offer but the burning desire to be free and the courage not to be silenced. Journalists and poets as well as the monks in rebellion against the government have been the target of officials who fear them to the point of imprisonment. These will be the historians of Burma. The officials do have cause to fear their words because they tell the story of oppression - a history the government can only change by changing itself.

Interesting

At different points in his life, Wolf has had episodes of hypergraphia, a compulsion to write that takes hold for hours, days, or even weeks at a time. Heartbreakingly Poetic Prose

Journal bits this past week...

• no amount of social acupuncture / would ease the burden I carried /in a crinkle brown bag / with the sweet stench of rotting fruit
• what have I to want but a portion of real estate 12x13 to call mine / plant my sovereign flag in its heart
• your festive laugh disordered my thoughts / I skipped something critical on vinyl
• silence poured out of a pause
• some days I am the father of righteous indignation / searching for my child / lost among conformists.

The sky has been weeping all morning

As I look out my window this morning to the ball field across the way, water stand in the infield like a rice patty. Then emptiness of a rainy fall morning and the approaching end of baseball for the year are like a deep blue blanket that has been drooped overhead. It reminds me of how, when I was young and had a parakeet, we'd drape his cage at night.

These are the days when the soul yearns for light and life. It is too early for the colors of fall that provide some solace from this dreariness and so it is a between time and it feel like we are stuck there.