Tag Archives: writing

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The Poet’s Lair

Whiskey sour. The most appropriately named
of all libations. It dances circles around “whiskey
neat,” because I’ve never been neat about my
drinking, but I’ve often been sour.
“If you’re going to be scribbling in that journal,
howse about you take that someplace else,”
barks Rudy, my corner bartender. I’ve been
a steady since before Rudy came to work
here, but there truly is no sanctuary for the poet.
“Kiss my flattened arse, you bastard, and pour me
another,” I reply without even looking up. He laughs,
flips me the finger, and grabs a near empty bottle
of Maker’s Mark. “You ever published any of that
shit?” he rejoins as he pours. “Listen,” says I, “stick to your
areas of expertise, which I believe is football (soccer)
and whores, and leave the writing to me. We’ve
both problem enough with our own curses.”
“You ever write about me..the bar?” he persists.
“Not until this very moment.” I concede and with
that I slam my notebook shut with profound defeat.

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We Shall Remember (An Ode to Dan)

Your night has fallen,
and the light of the new moon
is filtered through an
unbroken mass of cloud,
a brilliant ray reflecting
upon your works.

Your verse remains standing,
redeeming the world from darkness:
they seem to move and
we are filled with awe.

Your words were mountains,
iron-like masses thrown heavily
against the somber sky -
and as the dark blue deepens
into purple and purple black
we reflect upon your poems,
which were gurgling streams
cutting through our consciousness.

One never thinks of velvet
when the light is cold and thin
when snow lies deep
and the intense light dazzles the eye,
but your lines were velvet in their
silver light and inky blackness
and we shall remember.

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Tortured Scribe

Delusions scattered like dying embers,
How shall I then progress?
The world revolves on a shaky spindle;
The heart barely beats in my chest.

Having given so much to this life,
I fear I’ve gone insane -
I awake at night with a sudden fright
And a fever in my brain.

I reach into the night descending;
A trembling hand extends.
My fingers white, with no insight
I grip the writer’s pen.

Words drip onto a page uncurled;
A scattering of thoughts still burning.
My soul calls out, “God, let me out!”
And speaks of desperate yearning.

Like splattered pools of fallen rain
That swallow my reflection,
I’m lost again and deep within
The fog of introspection.

And still no words to rise within
My consciousness this day;
Expressions of this tortured scribe
Must find another way.

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The Poet’s Defeat

Let the night unfold as may;
I am sleepless and nocturnal
a carpet of stars lights the way
across blank pages of my journal

Though little light is cast, and sure
No verse forthcoming pours from me
for all the emptiness I endure
One inspired word would set me free

Yet these droplets fall in un-metered rhyme
for me to unravel, on bended knee
I am as useless as soliloquy to a mime
Or autumn leaves to a winter tree

So loose my bonds and set me free
No more my pen to scribe
No vacuous lines of poetry
There’s simply nothing left inside.

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How I Write a Poem

When I write, it is as though a murmuration of swallows
has taken flight within my mind. I am stupefied and mesmerized
by words flying about in an almost geometric dance,
each word seemingly afraid to be the first to land upon my page.
It’s both a beautiful and frightening process,
but when the first letter of that first word finally alights,
something intense and magical happens:
the sky of my imagination opens up
like a storm cloud on a summer afternoon,
releasing a torrential rain of verse or rhyme.
My job is to run around with bucket in hand and catch what I can.
When the pail is full, I carefully pour it upon a page.
To approach this in any other way would drown me
in my own vain attempts at creativity.
When the pail is dry, I walk away, and the poem is born.

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Writing for Hogs

Writing can oftentimes seem like
an exercise in slopping the pigs:
You throw your words into the mud
and hope they whet the appetite, but
even the most discerning hog will turn
up his snout if it stinks too much. Your
only hope is that a truffle or two will
sprout beneath all that filth; a sparkling, tasty jewel
in a sea of slop that sparks a feeding frenzy.

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These Bleeding Words

For every word written, a piece of the poet dies.
The quill might as well be filled with blood,
Leaking out upon the pages
Like a hemophiliac, prose flowing with little
Regard for the health of its father. Slowly,
Drained and deep in pain, awash in fear
And certain disdain, the task is finished,
As is the author. So many artists die
By their own hand, or at an age that attests
To the evil of this sport. Why, then, do we
Do it? Because to live without words flowing
Through our veins is to have already given
Up the ghost. It sometimes hurts more to live
Than to write your own obituary.

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Process

Words fall like polished stones

tumbling upon the page with a splash

and I take no credit

for how they configure

A wind blows through me

and emotions stir

My only job is to give the wind

a voice and to put a new page

down when the old is full

Writing is less me having something to say

and more something which must be said having me.

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The Hunger of Poems

I write because your reading feeds me
My pen exists because words need me
Each spill of ink, each drop of blood
A new branch grows, a new leaf buds
With every new verse, a piece of me dies
But for this poem to exist you must realize
It nourishes itself upon my very soul
Consumes and assumes me, makes me old
So please read slowly, my existence demands
A frugal consumption, this poem in your hands
When you have finished, with closed eyes pray
There’s a few words left for another day.