Just Thought Something More Optomistic Might Be Good Right Now

Chemo

Liquid Poisons in
an I.V. Drip.
My mind forbade
my suffering body
to stay my head upon
its pillow. Sunday sun
drew me to a back door
porch, roofed and cool.
Everything around
me moved; but I did
not. Chest barely
rising to take another
breath, eyes never
blinking, aware of
familiar sights and
sounds, only far more
intense. The urban
wild of birds and
squirrels were far
more clear, more beautiful,
more musical,and remembered
more quietly. The sky
was never more blue, nor
the clouds so pristine,
white and low, and a
breeze whispered my
cheek. Memories, like
dewdrops on the smiling
faces of pansies, reminded
me of days before disease.
Odd, I found them less
exquisite than these.
My love, while I lay
dying, planted life from
seeds. He took me gently
by the hand and helped me
down the steps, toward his
little paradise of flora
grown. I felt ancient
beside his youth, until his
garden's blooms, the scent of
Lily of the Valley, my
favorite, filled my nostrils
with the sweet days gone
by, when I wondered about
death. Before me was life
that had flourished with
spring and summer's rain.
I marveled that one so
poisoned could still live,
yet, while my soul
experienced dwindling away,
I knew I would not
die. The Spirit of Rain
that freshens the Rivers
to the Sea would replenish
my strength; my spirit
would peek from the earth
- alive and free.

Read Write Poem

Poet's and Writer's magazine shared a delightful website for writers to converge, share their work and learn from one another. I joined a group whose administrator provides the beginning of a sentence with which to write a poem. This week's selected phrase was, "Through the gate. . . "

I hope all of you who learn of this site and write poetry, or just want to read poetry, will join. It's free!

The Dream of Poets

There isn't a poet who doesn't want to see their work in print. A poet doesn't exist who doesn't want to see their work in a single publication authored by themselves. It sure is my dream.

In search of the dream, I used Google in hopes of finding small publishing companies that might give me a fair reading and be so bowled over by my words that they would be banging on my door begging for the opportunity to make a book few people would read and that would cost them money they would never recoup.

Instead, I found this pithy writing by a fellow poet and publisher of a small press in Easton, Pa. - a little city near enough I could communicate by carrier pigeon and the bird wouldn't have to stop for a respite on its journey. Being inundated with poets, such as myself, inspired the editor to create a form letter of, gasp, rejection to remind us of why we write and, oh how horrible the thought, of why we won't be published unless we pay for it ourselves. Here is her letter.

"Dear Would-Be Poet, If you are expecting to be paid for poetry, you are sadly misinformed about the genre. You are wasting your time writing poetry because you have missed the point of the entire effort. You have failed to understand that poetry doesn't pay, it costs. Writing poetry costs your heart and soul. It costs years of study, of reading, and of listening. Poetry costs going to readings not only to read your own work but to truly hear the work of others. Poetry isn't a paying job; it is a way of life. If you expect to get paid for your work, dear poet, look elsewhere. Poetry pays infinite intrinsic rewards and few, if any, external ones. Sincerely, the Editor."

God pity me. My dream is in tatters and I'll probably always be poor and unknown, like most poets. She goes on to remind us of these truths.

"Friends, you've got to love poetry to be a part of it. What else but a love of the art (and make no mistake about it, poetry is art) could explain endless hours spent on one poem -- or even one line -- squeezing it, rolling it, shaping it, into something that makes the connection between heart and paper via pen? Or driving an hour to stand with shaking knees behind a podium (or worse yet, just standing up in front of a group with no "prop"), to read one two-minute-or-less long poem? Or sending out submission after submission in hopes of publication; not in payment, but in publication.

"You've got to love something that gives such small repayment for devotion: the ink on a sheet of printed paper that spells out your heart with your name attached. And yet, friends, I've got to tell you that after more than 30 years of writing poetry, just seeing a poem of mine in print, with my byline, is worth everything, nothing more required. Funny, isn't it?"
Carole J. Heffley

That byline is worth more than money. When I was writing special interest articles for a local newspaper, I had to fight hard to get that byline. Ever notice that most newspaper articles don't have one of these coveted and precious bylines? Editors are stingy with them. Credit isn't always given where credit is due. I carried my scrap right to the mayor. If I didn't get a byline, the newspaper didn't get my articles, and, since I was writing about a wagon train that was traveling through our town, the editors really wanted my article. I won and was forevermore given appropriate credit.

Now, I rarely win. Journals want a particular style or subject and they have their own agenda. I can't write for the market. I can't study a hundred periodicals just to find out what is selling and then write accordingly. Hence, my dear followers, I've decided to share more of my work here on this blog. It may be the only opportunity I have to share my work. I've awakened from my dream to live reality and, if the dream ever comes true, that will just be the icing on the cake.

Poetry on the Internet - Loss of First Publisher's Rights

Well, this is a source of consternation! Some of the best literary journals where I hope to someday share my poetry will not accept anything that has been posted anywhere on the internet. So, beware my scribbling friends. Unless you choose to primarily share your poetry with the world by means of your blog or through some other internet means, be very careful what you post. The literary journal "Poetry" is one such journal. Of course, this standard doesn't apply to all literary journals. There are still many that will accept work that has been on the internet.

There is also a lot to be said for just tossing all of those journals out the window; there could be a sense of satisfaction in rejecting them for a change - give them a taste of their own medicine. Sharing our writing by means of a blog or through any of those other on-line sources could be quite satisfying. Lord knows there isn't any money to be made in poetry anyway. And, most of us have to die before we acquire any real notoriety. If "Poetry" hasn't accepted any of my precious pennings by the time I'm, say, 90 years old, I'll gladly post them on my blog if I still remember where it is and my arthritic fingers can still type.

Sense and Sensibility

Sense and Sensibility rarely ride in tandem.
It seems that when one comes, the
Other goes flying off at random.

When tardy Sense falls behind, Sensibility will gain.
Moved by passions rash and thoughtless
Interjection – such will be my bane.

Sense withheld by something MONSTROUS and STRONG,
Whose existence I never stop to question
Who is right and who is wrong.

One says. “Now That Makes Sense!” I am very pleased.
Then Sensibility cries….”Have a Bigger Heart!
With Sense you’re merely teased!”

Now! There I’ve done it! Much without consent!
Pity reigned. Oh Hearty fool I am because
Good Sense my Sensibilities did thwart!

Poem 6

Poem 6

Hummingbird ‘prisoned
Frantic, fatigued sipped nectar
From our hands to fly.

Lying in our palm
Having no choice but to trust
Gaped its beak for strength.

Only once in a
Lifetime could such as we be
Blessed by such a bird.

The Monk

Random words: monk, palace, café, bosom, dashing and bemused

The Monk

He used to live alone, a hermit, foregoing the
Tenderness of like companionship in those vows
Of chastity, celibacy, poverty and obedience.
There was nothing else preferred but for him to
Live for the contemplation of his god.

Yet, alone and bemused by his self-imposed isolation,
Seeking like fellowship, took him on a journey to
A Palace of Privation – this Medieval Monk. Seeing
In the distance a Monastery of like-hearted men, The
Monk held within his bosom a surging, dashing pleasure.

His only redemption for this abounding happiness that
Filled his lonesome heart was prayers for guidance and
Fasting. Working within a communal garden, making
Cheese and wine, The Monk, without an earthly father,
Given away by god, discovered Frangelico, a nutty liquor.

Hazelnut contained within a bottle shaped more like a
Friar wearing the monastic, ubiquitous roped belt, The Monk’s
Habit was of undyed wool, face hidden by a cowl. Shrouded
Away, deep within the monastic walls, The Monk pleasured his
Heart with café’ royale as he scratched dutifully upon parchment.

To him would come those poor seeking mercy, never turned
Away, alms shared, heads bowed. The Monk, ever joyful in his
Service, often sought his solace by walking the Flaminian Way,
That great artery between Rome and Italy, ancient and worn. He
Served, This Monk, passed his Middle Age, content and wedded to his god.

Haiku Poetry - What Is It

For those who may not have an interest in poetry, I'll explain the Haiku Poetry writing. It is a Japanese form of poetry with three syllables for the first line, seven for the second line and, again, five for the third line. The English word "syllable" isn't quite an accurate translation for the Japanese word describing the style but it comes the closest.

The final line was to be ended with what the Japanese called a "cutting" word - a word that concluded the thought, rather an "aha" conclusion. It wasn't intended to be left hanging incomplete. The English writers took another liberty, if at the end of the poem they didn't have a cutting word, they would use either a dash or an ellipsis to convey the general idea of further thought left unstated.

This form of poetry always dealt with nature and seasons, but as the English began to compose from its model some things were changed from the original. Some choose a different number of syllables per line and some also choose different themes. So far, I've clung to nature and season; I would like to try my hand at social issues, an entirely different theme for sure!