Stories and pieces

There's an art to it: letting go.
Or perhaps that's what art is. 
I'm a monkey, hand in jar, and craving
every candy, but I'm trapped
with full hands and an empty heart.
where every one is a child,
smiling, vested in filthy rags and hungry,
let them, too, find the world and love -
peace without me, or pieces
crushed in my unyielding clasp.
there is always a choice
there is often a goodbye
hello, mon ami, farewell.



I'm appreciating Ted Kooser more with each poem I read. He captures moments of time as exquisite pictures, as though he's frozen moments of ordinary and, by radically shifting our lens, transforms them into the extraordinary and the beautiful.  A female figure-skating into the future; an overweight fisherman becoming weightless in the moment of reverie, casting into the lake of peace; a poem within a poem on morning rushing over the hilltops.
I felt the need to cry and soak my tears into the moments of incredible joy, melding my experience into those poem-graphed. As Ted Kooser sends me skating, dreaming, trembling at the dawn soaring in like swooping hawks, and Robert Bly reminds me of the Virgin and her candles, and how a starfish is more than it seems, and how to unearth the mystery of the night. Poetry gently soothes me and I wish I could fly on these words and lift others off the earth with mine.
What a magic these poets possess - what pulchritudinous prowess.


-- I invented the word poem-graphed
-- I had to use the word pulchritudinous. It's the lumpiest word for beauty ever imagined. Like if I was writing a story from the perspective of toads, they wouldn't consider each other beautiful, but pulchritudinous.

Wind in the wings

The winds are lost, running every which way: chinook, the salmon wind, bursts by in a flicker of silver and white; boreas, boring down south like winter birds, though colder and heartless; diablo and his devil breeze, or zephyr breathing lightly over the hilltops and trees, brushing the flowers. But here, tonight, it's the doldrums for me. Nothing sings with the wind, tonight; nothing dares stir, and my heart aches for motion.

Can I climb the tallest mountain and rest in the lee of the trees, listening as the music of the rain patters all around me? May I run along the riverbed of the mighty river, or leap into the sky and lounge on the clouds over the city at night, watching it sleep and rise and dream again?

The cyclones hurtle in circles; white squalls whip the sea into meringue-pie peaks of waves; the squamish hovers over the fjords like vikings of yore, in sleek, longboat gusts; the euros, full continents lost, carry the rain ever south and east. But tonight, here, along these lamp-lit streets and beneath the evergreens, I throttle time and hold my breath, waiting on eternity.

After Years

I wanted to write a poem, tonight, as a self-portrait. Something comical, satirical, and surreal that I might read later and remember fondly. But this week has been overwhelmingly busy at work, and I'm loathing screens at the moment. I can journal just fine, but the instant I sit at this computer for writing, the words look tired and unappealing.


After Years
Today, from a distance, I saw you
walking away, and without a sound
the glittering face of a glacier
slid into the sea. An ancient oak
fell in the Cumberlands, holding only
a handful of leaves, and an old woman
scattering corn to her chickens looked up
for an instant. At the other side
of the galaxy, a star thirty-five times
the size of our own sun exploded
and vanished, leaving a small green spot
on the astronomer's retina
as he stood in the great open dome
of my heart with no one to tell
- Ted Kooser (Delights & Shadows) 

I really appreciate Ted Kooser's poetry. He started out working as a life insurance executive, similar to how I am just a computer programmer. It's difficult starting out with poetry, but it is encouraging because so many of the other famous poets seemed to get jobs as poetry translators (Bly, Simic, Bishop etc). But Ted Kooser, like Wendell Berry, seems more human, as though this poetic mastery is within my grasp, also. And his poems delicately peal open the folds of my heart and sew intricate flowers into the lining, hurting and beautifying my life at the same time.


Draw away the curtained lines,
let the petals bloom in summer light,
touch-kiss and unravel
the eyelash webs of sleeping life -
what do you see in the wells
dark and deep of my soul?
a tiny child, believing in miracles,
or superheroes, high in the skies.
but no, child, these streets are owned
by villainy.
there's no good, not here, they warn me.
but search still deeper in those pools
of mystery, and you'll know
there's fire in my eyes


yucky. not a poetry writing night, that's for certain. I guess I'll let Ted do the talking and I'll just listen as his words pour over me.

Nights reading Bly and not writing much

Today, I started reading some of Robert Bly's prose-poetics collected in: What have I ever lost by dying?The title originates from a Rumi quote (adapted by Bly) and the works inside are beautiful interactions with natural things. He has an elegant simplicity in his writing that is refreshing. I've been reading Elizabeth Bishop lately, and she tends to be deliberately ambiguous AND hesitant. Like she's putting on a shadow show behind a curtain with a weak light.

In contrast, Bly's easy naturalistic writing doesn't create a war within me as I claw at the words to understand them. (I love doing that, don't get me wrong - sometimes it's nice when poetry doesn't require such a commitment)

I love monday nights. First: it means that monday is finished, which is always a bit of a relief. Second: monday nights are often quiet nights where I have the opportunity for reading, playing guitar, writing, and avoiding electronic devices for the most part. I know some people who crave the simplicity of screens after a long day of work. Not me. After spending a full day of work at the computer (sorta. I do like to work on paper, even for coding), I eschew screens if at all possible.

Since I already spent a good portion of today editing, journaling, and discussing writing, I'm not particularly exciting tonight. Apologies.

So, to console your weeping eyes, here's possibly my favorite ee cummings poem, posted for the n-billionth: (it's the last stanza that breaks my heart)

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look will easily unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands 

E. E. Cummings

Science Fiction Short

I'm not actually a science fiction writer, and it has actually been a month or two since I've written a story, but Matthew posted a link to a science fiction short-story (and I mean SHORT) competition, and I decided it would be fun to write something.

Guidelines: 500-600 words (no more or less)
Appropriate for radio reading (still working on this one)

I wrote this piece this afternoon and it has not been edited as yet, though I have shared it with a couple of people. The story has to be set in the future in the genre of "hard science" which apparently means that it has to be reasonable. (hopefully copying into this keeps the formatting, otherwise this is going to be a mess)

Comments appreciated, but be gentle. It's a rushed piece. I have 5 days to tweak it.

Augmented Holy War

The ungodly biotics, Isaak thought, and spat into the sink. Augmentation, that obscene convergence of man and machine, should never have reared its ugly head. Ever since the scientific breakthrough allowing easy integration of circuitry and flesh, everyone with affluence or influence crowded in line to upgrade their fragile humanity into something… superior.

                And humanity suffered. Poor children no longer dreamed the American dream; the advantages of the rich were too substantial. Rich children ran quicker, thought faster, and engaged with data at artificial, computerized speeds – how Isaak loathed the Augments.

                Isaak finished brushing his teeth and straightened his tie before his cracked mirror. Satisfied, he strolled towards his typewriter and collected his editorial with a self-satisfied grin. If all went well today, it was the dawn of a holy war, the beginning of the end of these self-wrought monsters. Humanity must prevail.

                Across the interwebs, a vast quantity of the populace had read his well-articulated complaints, and he’d amassed a large, devoted following. And Isaak wrote with venomous strength: what was the worth of a man, if it came from the quality of his implants? And: when did it become metal, and not mettle, which determined a person’s enduring merit?

And they swallowed every word.

                The sun shone through his dingy windows with a brittle, glassy glaze, filtered through dust and grime. Long had he molded the populace of this state, turning the weak against the powerful. They seethed, inwardly, but lacked direction, a distinct target for their indignation.

As Isaak walked out his door onto the street, the manuscript tucked beneath his arm itched with purpose and fury, a righteous call to arms. He’d typed everything on his typewriter, leaving no chance an Augment hacking his systems might leak his prized works prematurely. Everything was calculated precisely, Isaak thought. Today, they’d have their target.

The streets were empty today, a national holiday, and everyone’s eyes were affixed on screens of all sorts, hungering for stimuli. The railcars that lined the streets sat like vacant coffins and hearses, devoid of life.

As Isaak stepped gingerly onto the street, he imagined how he’d celebrate with his lover tonight:  wines, cheeses, and perhaps a relaxing walk beneath stars. He’d earned that. A day of relaxation, for a change.

Lost in his reverie, he completely missed the midnight-black railcar that slid around the corner, accelerating in his direction, and because the streets were empty, no one was around to see the accident.

Isaak woke in a dark, dimly lit room, and he was not alone. His arms and legs were cuffed to his chair, and his mangled manuscript was piled on a rusty, iron table beside him. Across the table stood two dark figures, a male and female.

“What do you want from me?” Isaak asked.

The two figures glanced at each other, and the female responded while the male approached Isaak, pulling a scalpel from his cloak.

“We want you to see with eyes unclouded,” she replied.

Isaak squirmed in his chair. “You won’t gain anything by torturing me!” He saw the gleam in her eyes: augmented, the both of them.

“We will not torture you.”

                “Traitors! Augments!” Isaak screamed as the man began his surgery on Isaak’s arm.

                “It doesn’t hurt,” the female whispered.

                Isaak continued to scream, wrenching his body in his chair, until the man forced Isaak’s head down to look at his own arm. Isaak saw the incision, bloodless, and beneath the pallid flap of exposed skin, Isaak saw glittering lights, blinking circuitry.

                Isaak yelled again, in loud anguish, and he felt nothing.

Questions without answers

You asked questions about places: countries and cities lost and found across the globe, and I have no answers. Again, you spoke of health and dancing, animals and fancy shoes, and I simply cannot fathom the depths of your oceans, nor answer your questions, dear - but I am listening. You furrow your brows, and penetrate mine with your eyes - are those questions, too? I know nothing.
In a frenzy, a flurry of effort, you direct me inquiries of people, media, drinks, and the features of the moon, of lunatics and fanatics and events of the news, but what can I tell you of these? You discover me empty.
Sighing, you fall back into your seat, at a loss, for of what worth can he be?
So what can you do?
I'm a magician, petty. I catch butterflies in a finger cage and, gently blowing on their wings, transform them into rainbows; I pick a rose from your hair and lay it beneath your feet, gingerly, with utmost care; I sing to the storm and it walks on knees of lightning across the country, blowing its lugubrious horn; I carry hearts across deserts, and where no water is found, I shed my own to share; I seize the wind by its hair, and send whispers along its length; I walk the edge of the world, balancing on the edge and dream, leaping over the rim into the sea of stars; I crave the power of wheat and see the scimitar sweep of the moon in my sleep; I leap the lilies of life alone, but you may come along, if you please; I hide the feather of the phoenix behind my ear, and it warms me there, and upon it I may wish anything; I can change the shape of the clouds, and make every carpet fly; I disappear, I'm smoke and mirrors, there's nothing dearer than a night at the ankles of trees, falling asleep to the breeze beneath the celestial winks of stars.
Can you hear it sing? If you have questions still, after listening to the mountains, the rivers, the streams, what joy will my answers truly bring?
No, I have no answers.

pt1

Inklings of Surrealism

On ponderous nights, the clock never dies.
it ticks, it tocks, in silent watch of twilight -
if you tell me your dreams, I'll tell you mine,
when I find them - I fear I've lost
the road between the folds of the skies,
the clouds, and starlight.
Flee the path... come, dear,
until you dance in the trees, you'll never feel
the
  brush
    of
      falling
leaves, imbibe the scents of pine and be
one with the wolves and the wind, again,
drink in the freedom of the springs,
leaping, running, flying -
if even the woods understand,
can love really be so hard?



I've started drawing. If you know the first thing about me, it's that I'm the worst artist in the history of everything. My stick figures look like they were hit by a stick-truck, and then were stick-mauled, and stick-mugged. But I purchased a book from Powells on drawing for idiots, and I'm sketching a couple of hours every day (during lunch hour and breaks).
Yes. After two days, I am still at least as lousy as before.
I'm finishing up the Prophet (Kahlil Gibran) tonight - it's a thirty minute read - and reading some more Neruda. The translations of Pablo Neruda were written and edited by James Wright and Robert Bly, both famous modern poets in their own right (wright, aha!), and at least one other poet whose name I do not recognize.
Discovery of the night: Neruda is a fascinating surrealist writer. (though I already knew this)

March days return with their covert light,
and huge fish swim through the sky,
vague earthly vapours progress in secret,
things slip to silence one by one.
Through fortuity, at this crisis of errant skies,
you reunite the lives of the sea to that of fire,
grey lurchings of the ship of winter
to the form that love carved in the guitar.
O love, O rose soaked by mermaids and spume,
dancing flame that climbs the invisible stairway,
to waken the blood in insomnia’s labyrinth,
so that the waves can complete themselves in the sky,
the sea forget its cargoes and rages,
and the world fall into darkness’s nets.
- Pablo Neruda


He translates so seamlessly the intangible into the picturesque, so we see, clearly, a galvanic image of reality through the lens of poetry. It's a beautiful writing that I can only imagine being all the more exquisite in its native tongue. One of the great parts about this Bly-edited book of poems is that it leaves the spanish translation on the left side, and shows the translation on the right. Unfortunately, I cannot speak spanish well (or at all), and even reading it, I know I skewer the pronunciation. Still, I feel so close to the original beauty, how can I not try reaching out with shaky, greedy hands?

You're lost in the cities of anthill life
searching the clouds, you eagerly sought to fly
and found no one in the skies -
is it lonely, seeing the world as the stars?
is their vision blurry with tears, or just mine?
come home
i'll love you ever, still