My poem “Letter to Wright from Between Gusts” is live at Heduan Review. I am grateful to editor-in-chief Anya Motwani for taking this piece, which was originally published in The Lake.
Poem Up at Heduan Review
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Poems Published at The Big Windows Review
A handful of my poems have been published since January, and in the grip of my illness I did not properly acknowledge the publications. I hope to make up for this, at least in part, by providing links to these journals.
My poems “In That Moment of Clarity,” “Hearse, Departing,” and “In This Gray Morning I Think of Hiroshige” were published at The Big Windows Review in March. I am grateful to editor Thomas Zimmerman for taking these poems,
Celebration 3
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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.
Poems Up at Within and Without Magazine
A handful of my poems have been published since January, andI’ve been remiss and have not kept up with my end of the bargain. I hope to make up for this, at least in part, by providing links to these publications.
My poems “When Madeline Said No” and “Poetry in the Dark” are live at Within and Without Magazine. I am grateful to editors Gracie DeSantis and Heather Curran for taking these poems, and to poets Lynne Burnett and Ken Gierke for providing the titles during a mini-fundraiser for Brick Street Poetry a couple of years ago.
Celebration 2
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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?
Celebration 1
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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?
Where Have I Been?
Featured
We’re all terminal, but some of us have accelerated time lines.
A few months ago I was diagnosed with late stage metastatic lung cancer. The prognosis, as you might imagine, is not good, and the timing is uncertain. Do I have six months? Three years? More? Less? No one can say.
Before the diagnosis I lived for months with intense pain, a wildly plummeting heart rate, a lost voice, and questions. Many questions. As of today, the pain and heart rate are under control, the voice is returning, albeit sporadically and in a diminished state, and the questions have dwindled. WHAT has been answered, and WHY no longer matters. I am left with the ever-wavering WHEN, which I refuse to dwell upon, and HOW, which has morphed into “how shall I spend my remaining hours”?
To that end, I choose to celebrate, to share those brief wonders and observations, the sights, feel, smells and sounds of tangible and intangible joys, the moments and experiences, no matter how small and seemingly insignificant, that weave through our days and add immeasurably to our lives.
I’ll post these brief notes here from time to time, as circumstances allow. I hope you might join me, lend your wisdom and insight, tell your stories, offer poems, share your moments, memories and precious time. Life is good! Let’s celebrate!
Self-Portrait as Hoot Owl
Self-Portrait as Hoot Owl
Who do you think I am, what will
grace serve, where in this moonless
void might you lie, can we echo
through the hours and never attach
ourselves to one discernable tree?
Is query my only song? Is sadness
yours? Wrapped around these
priceless silhouettes, our voices
merge downhill near the creek’s
rustle, below the seeping clouds
and stars yet somehow above the
night and tomorrow’s slow ascent
into more questions, more doubt.
* * *
“Self-Portrait as Hoot Owl” first appeared in Issue 125 of Right Hand Pointing. Thank you to editors Dale Wisely, Laura M. Kaminski, F. John Sharp and José Angel Araguz for taking this piece.
On Parting (after Tu Mu)
On Parting (after Tu Mu)
This much fondness numbs me.
I ache behind my drink, and cannot smile.
The candle too, hates parting,
and drips tears for us at dawn.
A non-poet friend asked why I’m dabbling in these adaptations. After all, she said, they’ve already been translated. Why do you breathe, I replied, admittedly a dissatisfying, snarky and evasive answer. So I thought about it. Why, indeed. The usual justifications apply: as exercises in diction and rhythm, it’s fun, it’s challenging. But the truth is I love these poems, these poets, and working through the pieces allows me to inhabit the poems in a way I can’t by simply reading them. And there is a hope, however feeble, of adding to the conversation a slight nuance or a bit of texture without detracting from or eroding the original.
The transliteration on Chinese-poems.com reads:
Much feeling but seem all without feeling
Think feel glass before smile not develop
Candle have heart too reluctant to part
Instead person shed tear at dawn
This first appeared on the blog in October 2014.
Dry Well
Dry Well
I trace the symbols.
In the dirt, among the grubs and crooked
weeds. Writing of loss. Of missing things.
Wondering if words will fill my mouth
with wool or grit. With pebbles and salt.
If truth is what I want.
* * *
“Dry Well” first appeared in Vox Populi in August 2019. I’m grateful to editor Michael Simms for his steadfast support.
O at the Edges 