I’m thrilled and honored to have received the inaugural Shō Poetry Prize for my poem “The Starlings Were You.” Persistence is key—this poem was rejected 28 times prior to winning the prize. If you believe in your work, keep sending it out!
Shō Poetry Journal is a print journal, but they’ve authorized me to post a photo of the poem:
Many thanks and much appreciation to Dominique Ahkong and Johnny Cordova for selecting this piece.
I am thrilled to announce that my chapbook, In the Garden of Wind’s Delight, a collection of 22 short poems exploring the ecology of mind, spirit, and music through meditations on learning to play the shakuhachi, the traditional Japanese bamboo flute, is available from the publisher, Illuminated Press. Founded by Laura Rowley in 2014, Illuminated Press specializes in books crafted by hand, featuring handmade papers for elements such as covers and endpapers. This book is hand bound in the Yotsume Toji binding, the traditional four-hole Japanese binding structure. Limited to 300 copies.
Many thanks to Laura Rowley and the Illuminated Press team for bringing this work to fruition.
My short creative nonfiction piece, “Ossuary,” is live at The Woolf. Many thanks to editors DB, Kristen and Susan for taking this piece, which first appeared on this blog about ten years ago.
My poem, “Ghazal of the Birds,” is live at Third Wednesday. Many thanks to editor David Jibson and the Third Wednesday team for taking this ghazal.
6
Today is my birthday. Six months ago I did not think I’d see this day. But here I am, celebrating Stephanie’s smile, the morning’s first sip of coffee, snowflakes (just a few, but hey!), modern science, the wisdom of Snoopy, friendship, love, and yes, my continuing existence. I am a lucky man.
Prayer
Death does not choose you at random
but approaches at your pace, rumbling
downhill or floating in the air,
debris or dandelion fluff,
concealed yet evident.
Listen: a small cloud bumps another,
merging into one larger being —
can you hear its ecstasies?
All the world’s souls, gathered.
“Prayer” was first published in Soul-Lit.
5
Woe is me! Break out the tiny violins! I am in full-whine mode!
Numbers, numbers, numbers, numbers. Add, divide, multiply, subtract. Take note, shift columns. Despair. For months, the numbers have been backhanding me, to and fro, up and down. Bullying, mocking, teasing mercilessly, always heading in the wrong direction. Property taxes have increased. Life expectancy has plummeted. The bank account is steadily dwindling. With my illness, work, or a job, isn’t really feasible, though occasionally I sell a book or two (not mine, mostly scholarly or collectible tomes), which brings in a few bucks. And inflation! Everything costs more. Just a few years ago I seldom paid more than a dollar a pound for chicken thighs. Nowadays we’re lucky to pay four times that amount. And so it goes.
But, a few weeks ago, the numbers finally stepped in firmly on my side! In May, scans showed that my lung cancer had spread to the brain; nine small lesions were found, cause for concern, as you might imagine. Now, nine is a fascinating number, majestic, mystical, some might say. Multiply it by two, and you get 18. Add the two digits that comprise 18, one and eight, and you get 9. Multiply it by three: 27. Total the two digits forming 27, and you get, yes, 9. Multiply it by four, by five, by six, by seven, eight or nine. Fifteen. Twenty. Add the digits that comprise the sum and you return to nine. Interesting, no?*
But I’ve digressed. Nine is not the digit one wants to hear when discussing the number of lesions manifested in one’s brain. That was the situation a few months ago. But now, apparently, the numbers have taken my side, and I no longer need concern myself with that figure. Recent scans revealed that the lesions have resolved; they’ve disappeared! In other words, the treatment is working. Oh, the cancer is still with me elsewhere, but after months of bad report after bad report, the news is finally trending in the right direction.
So today I praise the magical number nine, which, in my case, has transformed itself into nothing, a circumstance most worthy of commemoration. What numbers do you celebrate, and why?
*If this sounds familiar, you may have read my essay originally posted here in February 2014.
4
In my desk, nestled among the odd assortment of books and keepsakes (including Hashimoto, my stuffed toy dog companion of nearly sixty years), sits an old, chipped, cut glass ashtray bearing eclectic objects. The ashtray was my mother’s, and was one of the few possessions she was able to bring with her to the U.S. after she married my dad. It’s a rather ironic keepsake, as my mom, a heavy smoker for some sixty years, died from lung cancer, and it appears that I will, too, though I’ve never smoked. Nevertheless, it remains one of my most prized possessions. In it, you’ll find an old, broken, silver pocket watch (a father’s day gift to my dad in the late 70s), a lock of Stephanie’s hair, my dad’s original army dog tags, multiple mandolin and guitar picks, including one given to me by Kinky Friedman, author, musician, and one-time candidate for governor for the state of Texas, and various polished stones. Not one of these items has great monetary value, yet they’re all priceless to me. They all have stories.
What are your treasures? How did they come to be so valued? What are their stories?
3
I have always loved books, their smell and heft, bindings, illustrations, and of course, the stories within. But I don’t recall the title of the first book I personally checked out of the library. I was five-years old, in first grade. It was a Friday, the book was replete with color illustrations, and the story was, perhaps, about a little bear. So long ago. But I read and reread that book all weekend, and I felt (and still feel!) the awe and wonder, mystery and power of that glorious artifact.
Nearly sixty years later, that awe has never diminished. The books behind my desk’s glass doors offer glimpses at rare beauty and yes, secrets. In front of me sits a U.S. first edition of Remy de Gourmont’s A Night in the Luxembourg (Boston, 1919), which may be an interesting relic in and of itself, but this particular volume bears the bookplate of Jun Fujita, historical figure, poet and photographer extraordinaire. Alongside it rests a much thumbed copy of The Book of Symbols, a source of great contemplation, insight and forehead slapping.
On the shelf above that a volume titled The Anthropology of Numbers, also a treasured resource, nestles just to the left of Kaleidoscope: Poems by American Negro Poets, a landmark 1967 anthology edited by Robert Hayden, the Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 1976 to 1978. Should your eyes wander down this shelf, you’ll also discover an inscribed copy of David Wevill’s Other Names for the Heart: New and Selected Poems 1964-1984, Maggie Nelson’s The Argonauts, and Kenkō’s Essays in Idleness, translated by Donald Keene.
Why are these books here? How have they come to be gathered in this house in Indiana, on these particular jumbled shelves? Who are the authors? What is their significance? Who knows them, feels them, understands them? What wisdoms have they endured?
Share with me your favorite books—from the volumes you’ve read time and again, to the ones you own simply because you were compelled to possess them, and those that have great significance to you, even if you’ve not read them and never will.
2
Lately, the word “doing” has taken on increased importance in my world. Yes, I’m ill, but it’s not in my nature to sit idly by while others do. I abhor incapacitation. I enjoy, I celebrate, I NEED the encompassing rituals of doing, of preparing dinner, of the measuring, peeling, chopping, shredding, organizing and facilitating the timing of it all. So even when I’m not at my best, even if I have no appetite, I dice those carrots, deseed the poblanos, shred the cave-aged gruyere. I stand in front of the stove, ensuring the proper sear on the cubed beef. I flip the eggs, turn the meat, stir whatever needs stirring. I take kosher salt between thumb and forefinger, sprinkle it on the julienned peppers. As long as I’m able, I do.
Where do your compulsions lie? What doings must you do?
1
Today I celebrate the betweens, those fragments, those intangibles captured in the micro-instants between flicking the switch and the arrival of illumination, the thoughts wedged within action and its aftermath. Parentheses opened and closed. That moment directly preceding the first sip of coffee, right after you’ve smelled the dark roast’s fragrance, but before the liquid touches your tongue. Sunlight. Clouds. The anticipation of your loved one’s smile mingling with the male red-winged blackbird’s morning proclamation and the realization that more will follow. A chef’s knife callous and its long history. All that’s blossomed since that first kiss. And other conjunctions nested together. Laughter. Wind chimes. And more. Always, more.
Tell me, please. What are your favorite betweens? Where are they?
O at the Edges 