• Screw


                  “My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
    Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
    What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
    I never know what you are thinking. Think.”
                                                          –T.S.Eliot
                                                   
    loop then
    loop again
    less a helix
    than a
    celtic knot
    so tell me
    again what
    you are
    thinking
    tell me
    again
    to the last
    detail
    until
    what should be
    your last word
    loops back
    and you
    tell me
    again
    and your
    words
    like a screw
    are driven
    through
    my feet
    my hands
    my heart
    my thought
    until
    like an insect
    fixed upon a pin
    I am collected
    (March 2012)

  • Interlace

    we me
    I you
    she he
    pronouns
    without
    antecedent
    I speak
    to you
    about them
    he laughs
    at her joke
    about us
    quietly
    so we
    won’t hear
    I wonder
    if he knows
    of me
    you know
    about her
    and nod
    toward me
    a secret
    connection
    as if to say
    despite all
    we are one
    (March 2012)

  • Into Place

    what puzzles me
    after forty years
    people think my words
    fall accidentally
    even close friends
    see the pieces
    and want them to fit
    into parts they know
    I too desire
    an easy answer
    to come to me
    like love
    when I was young
    and fell quickly
    like words
    on this page
    (March 2012)

  • Correct Behavior

    Protocol prevents people, I hear,
    from shaking hands with the Queen.
    Some things are best left undone: 
    what I wanted to say, what I wished
    you would do. Opportunity does not
    knock, but wanders down asylum halls
    wearing a bathrobe throughout the silent
    afternoon. Here is yet another way,
    another path through the woods,
    to a grey house tangled in vines.
    Such habits of my day build tight runs.
    Safety deflects all happenstance
    from stepping in a bit closer,
    until skin is able to embrace skin.
    I cannot tell you so many things:
    but secrets, best left unthought,  are
    traps troubled by simple leaf fall.
    Nearby a woodpecker taps out a
    rhythm as if to call forth possibility
    within an almost familiar frame;
    and, fear smiles wryly at some joke
    embedded among mundane shadows.
    I speak, as in a dream, without sound.
    Yet there is something behind these walls:
    the wind, your voice, another room
    without a door?  Despite the day’s heat,
    the stones feel cool beneath my hands;
    and having no place among the staid
    displays of circumspect civilization,
    hammers are best left locked at home.
    (March 2012)

  • Dowsing

    “a purposeful way of being dead”
                            Mark Strand
    To find a purposeful way of being dead
    is more difficult than Socrates’
    dictum to know yourself.  Life’s
    purpose is simple compared to
    finding yourself in death.  Today
    I went to work and talked
    about Macbeth and his desire
    to be more than who he was to be,
    then drove home to peel shrimp for dinner.
    Now I slowly work out this poem thinking
    of reasons to want to write another one:
    beyond this moment, beyond this life,
    as if the purposes of the present unfold
    with a clarity for just anyone to see.

    (March 2012)

  • Night Fishing

    Lines cast out across the water;
    the boat trolls through the night.
    Where I was going was as clear
    as now – – across the next trough,
    through the next crest.  The waves
    and boat moving maniacally along:

    the boat driven by a will, the waves
    by the idiosyncrasies of the moon.
    What catch is hauled up from
    these murky depths?  Bits of historical
    flotsam, jettisoned bits of culture:
    ten score or more decades sampling

    of what was said, centuries of gossip 
    and soap opera arcana:  Did Abelard 
    really love Heloise?  The snake bit 
    Cleopatra where?  Or was that Rama
    beset by snakes, then rescued by the word
    of a monkey?  What did Hanuman say?

    What words can throw the poison out?
    For what are these lines set?  The truth?
    Some kind of pat answer to chant over beads?
    I wonder at the hooks that return empty.
    The imagined beast nibbling delicately
    about the barbed query – – Is this fate?

    A gaping maw with agile lips sucking
    my life away so subtly no bite marks show.
    I shiver and stare into the maternal sea.
    The waves lap the boat like a rock
    incognizant of any motion or obstruction.
    The boat hauls in its lines as the sun

    waves another night away.  What is caught?
    What remains in the sea?  The horrors
    at hand are enough, yet one eye follows
    the thin line stretching into the water
    reaching out, like my hand held out,
    for something other than what is here.


    ( from “115 Missing Days” Circa 1996)
  • Abstract for a Hypothetical Inquiry

    We, who exist encased in this question
    nestled deep within the curve of an ear,
    listen close to the space between the words
    for the why of meaning to reveal love,
    where the rasp of a reply gurgles out
    in gasps welling below an ice pack to
    grow slow weeks of silence interbedded
    in the tectonics of this relationship.
    When an answer can bloom from rich loam
    we spread over our vague conversations,
    the chance of a late frost’s mockery
    will cause open buds to glow like wild stars.
    What we are left with in each of our hearts
    would be, how do we breach our mannered walls?
    (March 2012)
  • Narcissus Talks to Echo


     
    The Interview
     apologies to The Paris Review
    Context:  Why poetry?
    Subtext: (Laughs) What else is there? No, really I don’t know.  It is what has come to me.  I have tried to write fiction and I don’t seem to have the attention span for a sustained narrative.  Not that poetry doesn’t require precise attention, because it does.  But it requires a different type of attention: attention to the moment.  Fiction requires attention to the end, the resolution.  Everything is focused on how the story will end.  Poetry’s focus is in the word by word movement; the unfolding of the moment, which is what makes it so hard to read and write well. It requires one to attend to everything, all the possibilities in a very intense focus, knowing all the while that one is missing most of what is happening: kind of like life.  That kind of attention is hard to maintain in fiction: maybe a Proust, or Melville, could pull it off.  I think one almost has to be ADHD to follow the leaps and psychic shifts when writing poetry.  You know:  Look! A chicken!
    C:  But you also write essays.
    S: Yes, but essays are as Virginia Wolfe said, “the mind tracking itself.” Much like poetry. I find myself leaping along after my thoughts in both poetry and the essay.  Neither, initially requires plotting out what I am going to say.  I can rely more on the moment to moment flow of my thinking.  In both forms discovering what I have to say as I write and focus on the play of words and ideas is part of what makes writing exciting to me.  Not to sound Romantic, but it is as if I am possessed by something greater than me that is leading me toward some revelation.  Eratos, I guess.
    C: You just said you don’t have to plot out what you are going to say, yet in several of your long series you have fairly complex writing structures.  I am thinking here of  “My Book of Changes,” “115 Missing Days,” “Primogenitive Folly,” and in your most recent, “Sonnet.”
    S: True, but in all of those poems, I used a number system to either create a limitation, either small or large, to help me, or maybe better to say, force me to either write very tightly in the case of  “Book of Changes,” and “Sonnet” or to expand on my thinking as in “115 Missing Days.”  I did not have a direction, or even some kind of idea in regards to what I was going to say, I simply wrote.  Again it is more of a chasing after an idea, or image that is just out of reach constantly.  Kind of like Robert Browning’s pursuit of love, in “Life in Love:” where the speaker is always, like a hunter, in pursuit of his love, but never quite capturing his prey.  Browning is more interested in the pursuit than the capture, it seems to me, and I see that now as analogous to how I write when I first sit down to write a poem. As I said earlier, I am much more interested in where the poem will take me as I am writing it, rather than having a set idea of what I want to say and then figuring out how to say it.
    C:  So, if you don’t know what you are going to write about, how do you start?
    S:  I start with a phrase, a word sometimes, or an image, then go from there.  I don’t mean to sound so willy-nilly.  I write all the time.  Or I, at least, get out my notebook and stare at the page.  Sometimes I will re-read snatches of writing which led nowhere at the time they were written and find something there to salvage or something to prod me on in another direction.  Somedays, I just write badly, but other days I can re-read the bad writing I abandoned weeks or months before and find something, some fragment of an idea, which leads me into a larger world. Last year I even found several partial poems in notebooks I abandonded at least ten years ago.  I have learned over time that anything can start a poem; so I have tried to enable that by making a conscience effort to pay attention to everything: the short arc of a bird from one branch to another, trash caught in a whirl of wind, the beauty in the everyday occurrence.  Of course, for the most part that is a failure, but I do try.
    C:  Do you write everyday? Do you have a routine?
    S:  I try to write everyday, but I rarely ever do.  Even when I was writing “My Book of Changes,” I didn’t write everyday, although that was the intention when I started it, to cast the I Ching then write a six line poem using the hexagram I cast as a palimpsest through which to read my life in that day, and to do that every day for a year.  But that fell apart quickly because of work and having three children under the age of 5 in the house.  However, it made sense to try to write one everyday but to let chance operate allowing for some days where I just didn’t have time to write.  I wound up with 250 poems over the course of the year, and that led to the next series of poems, “115 Missing Days.”  But I am not really answering your question, am I?  There goes that chicken again; one thought distracts me from my original intention.
                No I don’t have a routine. No I don’t write everyday. There, that is the short answer.  I used to worry about not writing, the actual putting pen to paper kind of writing, but over time, I guess as I’ve gotten older I don’t worry so much about that anymore.  I think that as I go through my day, trying to pay attention to stuff, I am writing.  I am filtering out the ephemera, collecting images and thoughts, which I will later use.  Not necessarily consciously, but I find when I finally find time to write that often these thoughts and ideas flow back into my thinking sometimes from a few days before, other times from years in the past, in a non-temporal flood of memories. 
                I do carry a notebook with me at all times. I have done that for more than twenty years.  I like unlined sketchbooks.  I write in the book whenever I can catch a few minutes, or if I have an idea all of a sudden. Once on the way home from dropping my oldest off at college, I wrote an entire sonnet as I made the eight hour drive.  I stopped finally at a truck stop and wrote it down. So I guess my routine is to write whenever I can, but not on a schedule. Does that still qualify as a routine, if it is not in a routine manner?
    C: Yes, I think that would qualify.  Let’s talk about your “training,” as it were, how important do you think poetry classes are, or MFA programs?
    S: I don’t really have anything to say about MFA programs, since I have not been in one.  The two people I know who went through a MFA program, one at Iowa and the other at the New School in New York, seemed to get a lot out of the programs.  How much they learned to write in the programs, I am unsure.  At least one of them was a fine writer before he went through his MFA program.  I think like any school, a person gets as much as she puts into the program. I found the poetry workshops I took as an undergraduate and in graduate school allowed me a unique environment to write and talk about poetry with a very diverse group of people with different aesthetic visions.  It is rare, at least for me, to have that kind of environment after school.  I have written and thought about poetry on my own since I finished at Bread Loaf almost twenty years ago. I was lucky from the very beginning to have several people who took the time to read and talk about my work with a kind attentive eye.  It helped me learn to write on my own.
    C:  Talk about these people.
    S: Well, in high school when I first started thinking of myself as a poet, I had the good fortune to come into contact with two teachers, one a writer, the other a visual artist, Cliff Berkman and Ann Lockstedt, who took my poems seriously, or at least pretended to well enough to make me believe they took me seriously.  Berkman gave me books of poetry to read, probably the best thing any young poet can do; read voraciously, as Dylan Thomas said, “until my eyes fell out.”  Lockstedt introduced me to Art with a big A.  Something that was out of the realm of the milieu of small town south Texas, she took a bus load of kids to see the Cezanne exhibit in Houston, as well as several buses to Dallas and Ft. Worth to see the Kimball and several other art museums.  That kind of trip with today’s lack of funding for the arts in the public school system would be unheard of now.
    As an undergraduate at the University of Texas, I was lucky to be in several workshops run by Albert Goldbarth.  In the late 70’s and early 80’s, he taught there before moving to Kansas.  Again he talked to us as if we were poets, not as dumb-ass students, which we were.  He was sarcastic and cutting, but he also found something good to say about everybody’s poems.  What Katherine Bomer calls the hidden gems in students writing.  It takes a very patient mind to do this well, and Goldbarth made us want to write better, or at least made me want to write better.
    As a graduate student in English literature at the Bread Loaf School of English, I had one poetry workshop with Carol Oles, but just being at Bread Loaf was a writing workshop. The conversations about literature and writing with the professors and students that I had over the course of the four summers I was in Vermont were life altering, as far as my thinking about poetry was concerned.  Lunch conversations with David Huddle, Robert Pack, Ken Macrorie and others over everything from the weather to literature, to politics is indescribable in its influence on my literary life.
    C: What about your own teaching, how does that affect your poetry?
    S: I would say in an indirect manner.  When talking to my students about the “great” works of English literature I have come to see it in deeper more meaningful ways, not just because I have to explain the poem in ways the students can understand, but also because of the ways of knowing a poem the students bring to the work.  Also as I try to teach my students how to write, I garner insights into my own writing processes.  Teaching has deepened the initial training I had through the university, and taken my understanding of poetry further, I believe, than if I had gone off to sell insurance.  But that is because I am able to think about poetry on an ongoing basis, and have discussions with fellow teachers about writing and poetry. 
    C: How important is having a community of writers?
    S: Very important.  Writing is such a solitary activity. So much of the time is spent in your own head, wrestling with your own demons, caught up in self-evisceration that just being able to talk to others who have some common understanding of what it means to write becomes a balm to the doubt and insecurity that comes with being a writer. Even if all you talk about most of the is how the local sports team is doing, or how crappy your job is.  You also have the love of words and writing, which brought you together in the first place. 
    C: Do you think about your readers when you write?
    S: Yes, in the very real sense that I am one of my readers.  That makes me think of a line from Tom Raworth when he said he started to write because he liked reading what wrote. But as for making it easy for my readers, not really.  I write what I write.  I like it when someone says they have read and liked what I wrote.  I often wish they would be more specific about what they liked, but any kind of  positive response is welcome.  I think any writer who tells you she doesn’t care what people think of her writing is lying to you. As human beings we all want to belong, and writer’s want people to read what they write.  I think that is why so many writers seek out workshops, so they can have someone read their work.  The danger becomes that you change your vision to better conform to others’ view of the world.  That is also the horror of writing that no one can see the way you do, and you wind up screaming into the wind.  I haven’t sent out anything for more than 20 years, but I post on my blog in hopes that someone will read my poems, and maybe even respond. 

    (March 2012)

  • An Eye For Art

    pay attention
    the boredom
    excites
    a creative
    twinge
    in the day
    a casual
    match
    tossed
    towards
    dry
    hay
    a hammer
    clangs
    down
    upon
    a marble
    jesus
    (March 2010)

  • Exegesis

    he shuffles her words and gestures
    into personal significance like
    scholars piecing flaked bits
    of parchment into meaning or
    a raven lining his nest

    with a cache of shiny shapes

    (March 2012)



  • Self-Mockery

    and of course the conversation
    continues through the course
    of his life as if it were a dinner
    party where the guests were hand
    picked by a host who valued precise
    pairings of food and wines as well
    as how shades of people’s words
    can color an evening in the right hues
    which would make everyone look their best
    yet still cause them to feel as if they clashed
    at least tastefully with someone else enough
    to make their tired rants seem somewhat fresh 
    to themselves for one more night before
    they shuffle home alone and vacuous
    (March 2010)
  • another from "Sonnet"


    silence is no more silent

    than the thrum of blood
    heard underneath one’s breath
    in a thick moonless forest
    listening intently for the next
    twig snap to anticipate her approach



    (february 2012)
  • Rhyme Pattern: ababcdcdefefgg


    patience
    is
    a direction
    another dance
    before the night is done
    circle slowly
    around the room
    think again
    what might have been
    intent
    emerson’s eye
    forms the circle
    the first space
    my life
    in conversation
    at table
    with friends
    strangers welcomed
    wine flows
    glasses clink
    words weave
    between
    warp and woof
    near the garden
    a hint of roses
    edges towards me
    a presence
    on the periphery
    like a trace
    of laughter
    after
    she has left
    the room
    fear weaves
    like frost
    we each bow down
    to smell a different rose
    I am other
    and of course
    he had heard
    it all before
    the stock lines
    falling from lips
    he longed to kiss
    so what the words
    meant escaped
    unchanged by context
    falling between them
    like bricks to a wall
    again a condensate forms on the glass
    and a fog pulsates along the back fence
    one of our cats slip between the pink ladies
    hoping for more than our safe offering
    within his sarcophagus
    this tomb of words
    he hid from the love
    which would approach him
    until he vanished from himself
    a rabbit a few laps away
    from the protective briar
    sits still as his death
    near a dandelion and waits
    for her to notice him
    true to himself
    the chameleon’s skin
    becomes him
    we merge

    from “Sonnet” (Lines 1-14, tenth syllables)


    (December 17, 2011-February 21, 2012) 

  • from "Sonnet" line 12, Four poems

    Frenzy
    as if ariadne
    unwound multiple
    threads through
    possible passages’
    turns in time
    to choose all
    at once
    then he waits for the moment
    it takes the bud to open
    a hesitation between heart beats
    only in the tense demarcation
    of the word left unvoiced
    silence is no more silent
    than the thrum of blood
    heard while holding one’s breath
    in a dark moonless forest
    listening and waiting for the next
    twig snap to anticipate his approach
    Decision Point

    a rabbit a few leaps away
    from the protective briar
    sits still as his death
    near a dandelion and waits
    for her to notice him

    from “sonnet.” (work in progress, line 12, syllable 7-10)

    (February 2-12)