It’s often said that you learn to write by writing. This is true and this is false. You learn to write by writing with your eyes wide open. This is how you keep your eyes open:

  1. Don’t follow the experts. Experts know what they know about their own writing. Maybe 1% of what an expert knows applies to you. Which 1% is that? You can’t know that in advance. Expose yourself to experts, experiment with what you find, but always look beneath the surface and over their heads for the stuff that really belongs to you. Continue reading »
  • October 27, 2011
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Oct 082011

The world starts every day in sadness.
The taste of love is seldom in my mouth.
I dare not touch my finger to my lips:
the memories of poison and kisses
are unbearable.

I cannot reach the chair,
so I sit on the floor.
The sun moves like the lifetime of an emotion
that I cannot touch.

In the evening, I remember to give voice
to the desire locked in my soul,
but it is silent.

I have to strip everything off,
let winter ravage and tear,
to find that day’s spring,
an imaginary sunshine in the dark hues of evening
mine alone:
love medicine.

The funny taste on my lips,
poison and medicine,
kisses and ice,
if I don’t touch my own lips right now,
that’s what would be madness.

My finger doesn’t feel like a lover,
but it wakes me up,
it makes me believe in the dreams,
I want those dreams on my tongue,
I want a lover’s lips to make a place large enough
to hold all the fears, all the mistakes
all the hope
I have today.

Sep 262011

The door opened onto a street in Paris that he didn’t recognize. There was an office building directly across; the cobbles were well worn, and the evening was that shade of Parisian blue that speckles the heart with romance.

He spotted a patisserie a few doors down on the same side of the street. He noticed for the first time that his clothes were paper thin, that his beard was so long that it impeded his ability to see his feet.

He sat at an outside table; the air was cool, and a little damp. He ordered a double espresso macchiato, which he sipped and let the waves of intense flavor-pleasure ripple down to his toes. I should see if they have any pastries left, he thought, but the blue was fading to black. It made him remember the sun, the awkward questions, and finally it was his crumbled reputation that pushed him up out of the iron chair, back along the street, and he tugged at the door.

This time is really was locked; he was stuck outside now, and he sat on the stoop of his prison of twenty years certain he’d erred in coming outside. He didn’t hear the barista hollering at him to pay his bill. She put her hands on her hips and stared at him, then gave him that dismissive wave that knowledgeable and sensitive service people give to clients who have fallen over the edge: a bit of pity, a large dose of having been there, and a little wish for better luck.

He didn’t cry; he’d already lost everything. How was he to know that getting it back was the worst that could happen?

The city’s lights became brighter around him; a single star visible between buildings suggested to him that reality was simply too beautiful for sadness to comprehend.

  • September 26, 2011
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Aug 292011

ire
interrogates the soul
it’s not easy
to see the questions,
and ignore the demands.

It is the sea that burns,
but only the air that is fire.

Diving deep saves the soul
but leather lungs
are better tools
for those who would fly.

It takes honest effort;
hell is asking why.

LIberation is the fractionation
of living bodies:
a stack of crises,
a succession of surrendering cries,
the ketchup on life’s fries.

Trust is always misgiven,
it forges the trusted.

Fire accepts and destroys,
to be among the charred
is a badge
of faith
in faithless truth.

Sing with fire,
breathe like a whale.

Bulk Fuel Facility Gate

The gate itself, courtesy of Esmé Ann.

Children are huddled up behind
the faded wooden slats.
Excited, intense,
ladybugs crawling from wood to finger—

They scatter when I lean too close.

It’s an ugly gate
but the ferns touch it tenderly
fireweed and foxglove
reclaim and diffuse

Passion must hide
what intimacy reveals;
splinters stick in my fingers,
the gate is stuck

and heaven, and horses,
and dreams,
all on the other side.

Here is a link to the full-size photo on Google+ by Esmé Ann that this poem is based on. You must be a Google+ member to see; ask in a comment if you’d like an invitation to join.

I read a great article on research into cognition and performance today. The part that resonated for me was at the top of page 2, the paragraph that ends with this conclusion:

“A highly skilled writer can simultaneously be a writer, editor, and audience.”

I have had better and worse success with this in different forms of writing. My most complete writing was in journalism, particularly for radio. It took a while, but I was able to get all three of those going simultaneously. The fact that journalism is deadline-driven, and has specific styles and standards, greatly facilitated development of that skill.

Continue reading »

Picking madness out of my life
like a hiker in bad country
legs festering with nettles;
there’s a moment that divides
the pain from the acceptance;
the desire for wide open country
from laying down to die;
madness draws the boundary of the possible
closer and closer
until the hope of relief,
of even a place to sit,
and commit to picking those bastards out of my flesh
is too—

Clouds in the country of madness
still whoosh,
still poof,
still rain
on the pain
of shame.

Such photos as dreams are made on

It’s only a photo
but I see myself standing in this place.

I didn’t know it at the time,
but I was on my way to somewhere else.
I was certain that I was as rooted as the rocks,
as limited as that small boat in my range of places to go,
in the thoughts that I could have.

I was the island.
Bounded by unmeasurable seas.
My beach slipped away below,
A gradual slope into depression,
gray thoughts cowering under gray skies,
saturated with thinking,
a religious madness,
as naked as the rock.

If I was the changeable clouds—
but I was the clouds,
blown out to sea
by forgetting how firmly
I had stood, once.
I could be the smoke of a forest burned,
I could be the hesitation in the way I look at a woman,
I could be the rain itself,
the god of this place,
tirelessly flowing,
dissolving the land,
salting the sea.

The memory of water.
I am the rock—
yet the water
that my shoulders slide into…
water has drained this place out of me,
so what ghost stands at the fulcrum of this photo?
sniffing at the kettles full of kelp saturated with salmon roe—
but that is the other place,
and the ghost there is not figurative
but the price I paid
to believe that I was more than death,
as gray is more than black.

I found all the destruction I’d done,
all the destruction that had been done to me,
and I gutted them on the rocks,
I watched the blood of that birth
trickle
like the rain into the sea.
I see it flowing still,
in this photo,
the wind disturbing the surface of the water
but not nearly as much
as my feargreiftearsscreams
taunted the wind.

I was in this photo for love.
I came there to possess it.
But love escapes into the sea,
eager, ever, when;
and lovers? Cry not; only
answer to the wind.

Here is a link to the full-size photo on Google+ by Esmé Ann that this poem is based on. You must be a Google+ member to see it; ask in a comment if you’d like an invitation to join.

Partly to improve speed/reliability, and partly to get more control, I’ve moved my blog to a Mac mini sitting at my house. Since I had to reinstall WordPress, I also did a redesign at the same time.

The move was easy and fast – copy database, copy files, change configuration, go.

The redesign took more time. I wanted a template that was simple and well-organized. I went with a template that is anything but simple (Suffusion) but it is incredibly well-organized. Both the guts of it and the front end meet that requirement.

The name of the blog – Words & Blues – comes from the two things I love the most, creatively speaking. Writing and music pretty much make up my soul. For the graphic, I used the color of the American Southwest: watch any sunset and you’ll see the day give way with intense orange light, and the night comes on with blue. They tough, they mingle, and it’s easy to say that one is words, and one is the music of the blues, but they can also switch roles easily.

That tells you what this blog is about: speaking the truth, singing the blues, and never knowing which is which.

Aug 052011

verworked words, clustered together,
prisoners of my imagination.

Victims of every chaste decision,
unable to celebrate meaning,
until some other idea
slips between the sheets
wet
inflated
succulent as flesh:
poetry has to love dangerously.