Magpie 103: The Surgeons Hands

The Surgeons Hands

reaching skyward the chiseled hands

cupped as a vessel

yet extended in exaltation

extended  fingers—   precision tools

against the distress of body

against the anguish of passing

fingers that move the veins of life about

that spread open incisions— explore - extract

supplicate the God of mercy

for the generosity of more time

more life

a precious organ

the hand offers

dear God

make this body whole

again

Michael A. Wells

Magpie 103

Like that Chrysler Super Bowl ad with Clint Eastwood? Thank a poet

Of the three people credited as copywriters on the powerful Chrysler advertisement, the one featuring Clint Eastwood that aired for the first time during Sunday's Super Bowl, one is poet Matthew Dickman.

[Story]

Trying to catch up on some reading...

Perhaps you've missed one or more of these items:

Nobel winner left behind new poems ~  A new book of poems by Nobel Prize winner Wislawa Szymborska, who died at the age of 88, will be published in 2012.

Texting As Poetry? Rubbish, Says Oxford Professor ~ "Texting is like the old ticker tape: highly dramatic and intense if it's reporting the Wall Street Crash or the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour, not through any inherent virtue of the machine. Is the breaking news which runs at the foot of the screen on the BBC news channel condensed and consequently poetic? I fail to see how anyone could rationally claim that it is. Again texting is linear only. Poetry is lines in depth designed to be seen in relation or in deliberate disrelation to lines above and below."

Taking A Second Look At Gertrude Stein - And Finding A Lot To Like ~ "Not every 'genius' is equally suffocated by the label. Readers know the extraordinary reputations of Shakespeare and Virginia Woolf, but some prefer 'Richard III' to 'Richard II,' or 'Mrs. Dalloway' to 'Orlando.' They feel at liberty to discriminate. Fewer readers imagine they can create their own Stein; many feel she is beyond their capacity to understand." The

Thursday Confession

Yes, I missed Confession Tuesday. 

I will also confess that I have blown off writing in general this week for the following reasons:

a. tired
b. feeling under the weather
c. my stressors like rubber bands have been stressed to the point they no longer retract to their normal size.
d. my creativity has left he building
e. when what I write today sounds like yesterday and he day before that, something is amiss and needs a break.
f. I'm not sure, but I may not even care.

Nothing New

"Most of my life was spent not understanding, and I can assure you it was not easy."  ~ Rilke

Superbowl Sunday and I have no desire to watch this years game. The puppy bowl is no alternative because once you've seen it - you've see all there is - ad nauseum.  What I could go for is simply a special feed of the Super Bowl commercials back-to back. 

Yes, I sound a little cranky.  I'm cranky for a number of reasons of which one is the fact that for the third time since Thanksgiving, I'm sick. Three times in three months!  Who is responsable for inflicting these germs upon me? I'm ready to turn my body over the Dr. House knowing full well he'll make me sincker before I get better... but then I will have the answer.  Calling Dr. House!  Calling Dr. House!

"Patients sometimes get better. You have no idea why, but unless you give a reason they won't pay you. Anybody notice if there's a full moon? ... let's rule out the lunar god and go from there." [citation]

I'm not a person who does sick well (in case you haven't noticed) and my family knows that once I get down, it means really not feeling well because I'm the kind of person who fights it. All the time the body signs are screaming "your sick," my matra is the repeat, "you are not sick, you are not getting sick, you will not be sick..."  I suppose you could argue that there is a degree of deleriam associated with my view of the surrounding facts. 

So here I am, tired of lying around this weekend - caughing till my chest and head are sore. Feeling closed in.  Knowing that what I want to do is throw the windows open and let some air (albeit cold) throughout the house.  I want to do something besides look at the ceiling from the bed and I certainly don't waqnt to watch the Super Bowl OR the pupy bowl tape loop - both of which make my stomach turn. Yes, I know the puppies can be cute. but it isn't long before it's like reading principally the same poem written by six different people. There is nothing new. 

Confession Tusday - The Blonde Edition

It’s been one week since my last confession and I’m in a rush so let’s get to the confessional.

Dear Reader,

Yesterday, during the morning drive, I stopped at Quick Trip for a Diet Coke. My daughter, Shannon was with me because her car was being serviced. She ran inside with me and was getting a coffee (I take not responsibility for her taste in coffee) and I confessed to her that, “I had a Starbucks’ Blonde over the weekend.”  Shannon looked a little puzzled and said, “I’m not sure I’m following you.”  Realizing the duality of meaning I quickly acknowledged that I had not tried the blonde barista but rather their new light roast coffee. I suddenly realized this could have been confusing to Shannon since I normally enjoy my coffee to be a rich dark roast variety.  She has actually been so busy of late she knew nothing of the new Starbucks blend.  Actually for a dark roast kind of guy I found the new blend very palatable. I think I would consider buying it in whole bean to make at home since I usually make everything espresso strength at home anyway.

As you can likely tell if you read my earlier Journal Bits post that I’m fighting with a bunch of creative dead weight. I confess this has me in a bit of a funk and it’s been going on for several weeks now. It has started to affect my mood on a much broader level then just as it relates to my writing. In fact it has me so upset that I have tended to write less the past few days then trying to push though it by writing on.  I can’t seem to allow myself to write crap and yet I confess that I know I should just keep on working through it.  I write for twenty minutes and look at it and throw my hands in the air and pitch my journal off to the side or if I’m on the laptop just stop and fold up in frustration.

Before I get any more frustrated I’m going to call it quits on this confession.

Journal Bits

Journal Entry for Tuesday, January 31, 2012:  The ability to be receptive to some broader interpretations of even the most common events and things around me seems to have died and I’m lugging this dead body around inside of me.  I don’t know if it succumbed to some disease, died from lack of nutrition or just plain apathy— all I know is it is like dragging around dead weight that has not an ounce of creative spark alive within it.