Confession Tuesday

It's Tuesday again and I find myself at the virtual confessional.

Dear Reader-

It's been one mowed lawn and lots of rain since my last confession. I confess I'm fearful how high it will be by the time it is dry enough to mow.

This week I am dog sitting so it is later then normal by the time I settle in for the night.  Looking after these two dogs, it is still much quieter then at home.  I had expectations of getting a lot of writing done in the evenings this week but so far I've brought office work home with me every night. I confess that I'm conflicted by this. On one hand I want to walk way from the office clean and not have to think about it till the next day.  At the same time, getting a bit of work done in the evening makes the next day not quite so overwhelming.

While driving an listening to  NPR this week I heard a story about the two remaining (long running) soap operas coming to an end soon.  I confess I felt a bit sad and I'm not a consumer of their programing.  The thing is that recalling the women in my life, most if  not all at one time or another were dedicated watchers.  I realize this is the end of an era. Grandmothers to daughters to granddaughters passed down this practice and in many cases obsession.  In a way, soap operas were sort of the social media of yester-year. You couldn't text but many people probably spent more time then they should have watching them and then everywhere women gathered they talked about the characters like real people in their lives.

I confess that I've been living on the edge these past couple of days.  Sunday we had a flat and I put the donut (spare) on and have been driving with it since.  That of course means I'm now driving with no spare. And another confession...the other three tires are at the end of  their life as well. I've replaced all four this afternoon and I confess I will feel better driving tonight.

Lately I have been more focused while working on a manuscript.  I'm starting to see threads that pull a number of poems together and this is both scary and exciting at the same time.  I just hope this is not a case of the Monkey House as Kelli puts it.

I give you the images I know...

“I cannot promise very much.

I give you the images I know.

Lie still with me and watch.

We laugh and we touch.

I promise you love. Time will not take that away.”

 

~Anne Sexton

 

The images I know tonight...

 

• A sofa of zig-zagged pillows.
• An asphalt road that curves right - forever. 
• A bird nest driven into a tree by tornadic winds.
• The river running rampant outside its banks.
• A starless sky adrift upon ceiling.
• Tired brown eyes - like no other,

Magpie Tales - 62 - Poem: Gemini Sunrise

A Gemini sunrise
medium, split open—
the morning
bread was broken
the day began

 
 

2011 © Michael A. Wells

 
Magpie Tales 62

Cats & Writers

A catless writer is almost inconceivable. It's a perverse taste, really, since it would be easier to write with a herd of buffalo in the room than even one cat; they make nests in the notes and bite the end of the pen and walk on the typewriter keys. ~Barbara Holland


Photo: Evie -  whiteboard

Thursday Thought - Charles Simic

"Here in the United States, we speak with reverence of authentic experience. We write poems about our daddies taking us fishing and breaking our hearts by making us throw the little fish back into the river. We even tell the reader the kind of car we were driving, the year and the model, to give the impression that it’s all true. It’s because we think of ourselves as journalists of a kind. Like them, we’ll go anywhere for a story. Don’t believe a word of it. As any poet can tell you, one often sees better with eyes closed than with eyes wide open."    — Charles Simic



In the darkness of my mind
it's cobwebbed cold
strings flap in the current
that blows       grease are frozen
in flight        and still against the hope
that dawn brings a thaw
and wisps of interest that is lacking
as the stars are silent

© 2011 - Michael A. Wells



Closing your eyes... what do you see?

Dead Poem Mentor Series - Part One: My Selection

As I have mentioned before, while mentoring under another poet it was recommended to me that I select a dead poet mentor; a concept that seemed a bit odd at first but grew on me as I came to visualize the possible benefit. With so many dead poets (you know how most people think they all are dead) I had quite a field to choose from.

I’ve read (and own) an extensive collection of biographical martial, poetry and letters on Sylvia Plath a as well as Ted Hughes. I know Plath well enough already that I will sometimes read little things that I instantly know to be at odds with most biographical material and I therefore passed on Plath for the simple reason I have already become well acquainted with her and I want my dead poet mentor to be able to reveal new things to me. 

In the end, it would be Anne Sexton that I would choose for a couple of reasons but the priority in this selection was placed upon the fact that Anne was not schooled in poetry in the traditional manner. No MFA or anything close to the academic equivalent for those times. Yes she took some classes and workshops from the likes of Lowell and other well known poets but her formal education was limited. She came to poetry initially as a form of therapy but in the end her work progressed to the point that she was able to carve out an acceptance among the academics of her time. Her reputation would ultimately earn her teaching positions at several universities. In a way I view Anne Sexton as the patron saint of the “self made” poets. She was able to elicit help from others, but she found her own way to the success she achieved as an enormously significant voice among 20th century poets.

So at least for the time being, Anne Sexton is my choice for a dead poet mentor. To learn as much as I can about her, about her work, to be able discern her particular voice. To turn to her at times for inspiration and to get past writing blocks and at moments of need, to ask the question, “What would Anne do?”


And the great thing is she can’t say no to me.


* Series continues.

Confession Tuesday

Dear Reader-

It's been 6 says since my "late" non-confession confession. 

In the past week it has occurred to me that I've done very little for the sake of National Poetry Month this year.  Normally I do a very nicely printed - special edition - numbered broadside. I elected not to do it this year, or my budget sort of made that decision for me.  I decided not to do a-poem-a day either. I confess that I'm not especially disappointed on the latter but I do regret I don't have the broadsides to distribute.

I've never been a big fan of the hiaku.  I've written a few and occasionally I hear one that I like but I'm just not a big fan for the from. A poetry friend recently gave me a book entirely of baseball hiaku.  I confess that I've been enjoying these bits that seem to roll of the page like a seeing eye single that slips through the infield for a hit.  Golden little gems.

I had another rejection letter today and I confess I should be busy sending out more work tonight but I'm tired and maybe tomorrow night.  Definately tomorrow night.

That's it for this week. A little boring perhaps - but hey, I'm on time!

Have a graet week!