So tis the last day of submission. I’m sorry guys, if your poems weren’t selected. Don’t stop trying. Your poem’s got to move me in different, sometimes unexpected ways. Who said writing poems would be easy? But there’ll be a new issue coming up shortly, so you’ll still be able to submit if you wish. Whatever it is, if you’re a poet, you get to live a creative life, which isn’t quite what ordinary folks get up to. Other folks get creative in other ways of course. Dance for instance. Whatever you do get into the groove. Then you’d be happy. Meanwhile I’ve got to get changed and go for a musical. That makes me happy. Write a poem about what makes you happy.
It’s almost the penultimate day to the final day for submission. How’s your mood? Are you in the mood for writing? For submitting? For not submitting? I’ve just finished reading Emile Zola’s The Belly of Paris. It is set in and around Les Halles, the enormous, busy central market of 19th Century Paris. It contains pretty robust descriptions of a real-life market. For instance, pigeons being slaughtered by breaking necks and slitting throats. I’m old enough to remember how live chickens were slaughtered in the markets where I live. The theme of the story is in the final punchline: “What bastards respectable people are!” Respectability is a veneer, associated with prosperous living and the willingness to sacrifice truth, practice deceit, to preserve that at any cost. I also came across an article in which Pope Francis said that it’s better to be an atheist than a hypocritical Catholic. Hmmm. Write a poem about hypocrisy, either of a person or in general terms.
It’s almost the end of the season for our current issue. Some of you might be looking forward to the next issue and wondering what the theme might be. I’d say, whatever it is, themes all kind of overlap one another. Love, loss, lies, spies, and the process of making art. So you just feel deeply whatever your godhead is, and write from that place. The theme would be one that’s familiar. I just defamiliarize it by putting a name to it, that’s all, marking a new season of spring/summer. If you are in reality in the fall/winter of your life, look back on your spring/summer. The second time round (you wish) would be just as sweet.
Write a poem about nationalism. However that expresses it for you. How is that precious to you? How much of nationalism goes into making you? You could do it in a memoir form, which would mean how it was for you growing up in the country in which you were born. Describe the landscape, the people, the habits and how all of that becomes part of you. You get the idea. I’d like a peek into the country that made you.
Write a poem about mothers. I got inspired by this exchange.
Boy: Mom could you iron my shirt please?
Mom: No. Why?
Boy: Because you’re my mother.
Another one bites the dust.
Then take out the volume of poetry you’re reading, and quote one line from one of the poems. Why? Me: Because this is how poetry works. You: OK.
My quoted line, “our boy ate quite a pile of acid one time”, is taken from August Kleinzahler’s poem, “Green Sees Things in Waves”.
Howdy. Been a while. I’ve been too far away from poetry. And when I brush up against it, like a furry thing, it gets deep. Sometimes it’s too deep. It matters who you’re reading. Some poets are accessible and others not. So not that it’s easy to get distracted. But I’m gonna try. I’ll keep you guys posted. In the meanwhile you could try reading up a poet and then reference the title you’re reading. Like what I did. Mine’s “Green Sees Things In Waves” by August Kleinzahler. His work has been described as “experimentalist”, “angular”, “precise”, “chiseled”. Wish me luck as I drink from a new oasis.
I woke up to watch the live streaming of Trump’s inauguration. I wish you well, America. What sort of values will you espouse? Write about it maybe. Oh the dignity of that office, and how Trump will carry it, the world watching in bated breath. Holding it holding it holding it.