Since Dana and I are epic failures at joint blogging (RIP Brunettes Unleashed), I thought I would kick off this blog I built a while back but never really launched.
I’ve been writing some poetry lately. I also have a new idea for a book that I admit, has been temporarily abandoned due to insecurity but I am trying to get myself in a good habit by at least working on some poetry.
Unfortunately, what’s coming out right now is far too graphic to post. I confess, it’s kind of a habit with me. When I’m staring at a celibate time in my life I tend to write graphically sexual masturbatory poetry. What can I say? I’ve always been a sexual person….writing is a good release when you are lacking, well, release.
Anyway, I am working on a couple of things that aren’t sexual or masturbatory, but the only stuff I actually like so far is coming out really graphic.
I often wonder how real modern poets write. What’s their process? I feel like my most honest poems are always spontaneous and completely unedited. I’m trying hard these days to tackle poetry like I do other writing, with care and thought for construction and editing.
But really, truly, I know I’ve always been something of a stream-of-consciousness writer in all forms. I think I just luck out when things come out right. I used to feel like that all the time when I was a reporter like “Oh that’s not the story I thought I was writing, but it works too.”
Maybe when it comes poetry that spontaneity works out OK as well. For long-form writing I think I need more discipline. Hence the fact that I am actually slogging through an official book outline for the first time in my life. Wish me luck.
In the meantime and for breaks, I am indulging in short-form.
For inspiration, I have been reading a ton of poetry from my betters. (Trying to avoid Bukowski because he makes me feel inadequate, but I go there for some necessary self-flagellation).
I was reading some Billy Collins the other day and came across this poem below—I just love it. I admit I love anything that touches on death. I feel like so much of what I write has an undercurrent of death, (except for the masturbatory poetry, though I suppose, it also holds its own brand of pathos.)
NEW YEAR’S DAY
Everyone has two birthdays
according to the English essayist Charles Lamb,
The day you were born and New Year’s Day—
A droll observation to mull over
as I wait for the tea water to boil in a kitchen
that is being transformed by the morning light
into one of those brilliant rooms of Matisse.
“No one ever regarded the First of January
with indifference,” writes Lamb,
for unlike Groundhog Day or the feast of the
This one marks nothing but the passage of time,
I realized, as I lowered a tin diving bell
of tea leaves into a little body of roiling water.
I admit to regarding my own birthday
as the joyous anniversary of my existence
probably because I was, and remain
to this day in late December, an only child.
And as an only child—
a tea-sipping, toast-nibbling only child
in a colorful room this morning—
I would welcome an extra birthday,
one more opportunity to stop what we are doing
for a moment and reflect on my being here on earth.
And one more might be a small consolation
to us all for having to face a death-day too,
an X in a square
on some kitchen calendar of the future,
the day when each of us is thrown off the train of time
by a burly, heartless conductor
as it roars through the months and years,
party hats, candles, confetti and horoscopes
billowing up in the turbulent storm of its wake.
Anyway, welcome to the new blog. I’ll try to keep on it better than I have in the past.
In the meantime, I’ve posted a bunch of old (nonsexual) poems below. Feel free to critique/comment.