Writing Poetry

In college I wrote a poem on a Greyhound bus from Maine to Boston, something about a water gun, sun, translucent plastic. The next poem arrived in slumber, The Brilliant Liar, you are a shining ripple on the surface of a stream, enticing all currents you are spread thin, and to the bottom you sink, like a now forgotten skipping stone. That earned me an 8-page single-spaced reply. Slanted, upside down, my ebullient view, my lens, the one I use to look at the landscape and us in it. Apart, distant, watching my inner introvert who lives in constant wonder. The ink has sat in notebooks, on trains, planes, imitating others, their rhyming schemes, becoming my future plans. I have used it to protest wars, entice love, linger longer in memory, where it all becomes eventually ephemeral. In the past I was mostly scared, to share it, the words. But now, in the social media world of half-truths, fake news, tweeting presidents, an eroding earth, I look for little bits of real, especially tiny slivers dwelling well within.

 

 

Blogger Memoirist

I’m on the iPhone again, searching for the perfect first sentence. Words in my head, mine, Mary Karr’s, Anne Lamott’s, whoever else I might be reading, they swirl, looking for release into the tiny screen where I’m always writing. Years of starts and stops have ended, my minutes now filled with a constant stream of images, ideas, stories. Memoir one day, blog the next, consistency like meditation, like cardio, only 44 years to get here. Reading Nick Flynn by flashlight, his cold nights in Boston visceral as my 5th grade Hobbit. The journey inside imagination used to be easier then, before all the distractions, the commodified television of life. I walk through dialogued streets of San Francisco, little bits of people flying out in all directions, particles I see, sometimes catch. The longer work, the life story is in a West Village bar now, tales never told in the blog. Like pedaling up hills, the only rule, keep legs moving, words steady, destination unknown.