no words coming out

a month since a post
no words coming out

quiet room
hum of heater

quiet mind
hum of distractions

hot tea
no words

frosted concrete
no words

no leaves on the trees
no words on the branches

awkward typing
forcing words to come out

forcing thoughts to come down
out of the clouds

a month since a post
a few words coming out

This: In Tune

West Indian Sandalwood
on the back of my neck.
Roman Chamomile
on the soft underside of my wrists.
Be still.

In harmony: an agreement
of pitch and intonation.
My soul-engine
humming in step, in sympathy
with the poetry of this quiet house.

Unknown names breach
this frailest silence:
our ruptured trust lasts 32 seconds,
but there is always another pen
available in this suburban Walden.

The moon is but an evening light.
I embrace this monotony, pulling myself
into this rich sameness: this
soft silence, such long stretches
of Frankincense.

Letter to my brother in prison

Dear Eddie,

You were twelve-years-old 

when I left you to grieve alone.

You were in the seventh grade

when I left you to raise yourself.

You were just a kid when I left.

Mom was 45 when she died.

I left to start my life at 19.

What the hell did I know?

I knew our family was broken,

bongs and Bob Marley silkscreens adorning 

the kitchen table.

I knew our house was unsafe for any child.

I knew you would be just fine.

I knew that I had to get the hell out of there,

and believe that you would be just fine.

I was wrong.

You were just a kid when I left

stuck between a state of pathos 

and a synthetic happiness.

Are we reduced to just one line at the time of our death?

TJN of Denver, a daycare provider, died Monday.

What is your line?

ENJ of Denver, a drug addict and frequent inmate, died.

What will be my line?

AEN of Aurora, apotheosized sibling and lionized long-distant relative, died on Friday.

We are all trying to gain some insight or perspective

that will serve us when we put our pens down for the last time.

The presumption of opening my journal

The presumption of opening my journal
to write a poem:

I notice the rock,
an autumn character
who hurries between difficult languages.

Imagine the pattern
connecting two clouds
centimeters apart.
This season speaks with worry
knowing that Winter water is heavy and near.

I found this silent rock
and opened my journal to write
in the moonlight: my process protects me.
This presumption and experience say

little about my practice, but
much to my passion.

Scratching...

I don't have much to say,
but I'm saying it anyway;

And so I continue to fill the space
between my thoughts and the end of the page.

Scratching...

Scratching, scratching, thinking and
scratching until something comes out.

Either I'm profound and clever
or just sad and desperate.

And so I close my journal for the evening.

Ornithology, or how to identify your feelings

I am but an amateur:
my Pathos sits in the shade of a pool umbrella
as a yellow-breasted swallow performs
schizophrenic swirls upon
aquamarine translucence.

These are the dimension of love that are difficult:
full commitment to the dive,
then changing your mind abruptly;
Kamikaze Logos - my inward thoughts
performing as a handsome aerialist.

We use science to understand the world,
but I am still an amateur
misidentifying my regrets as I sit
by the pool watching this bird
eat his breakfast.

Song of Myself

Ah, Whitman!

The leaves of grass may be dead, yellow and brown,
covered with a littering of sharp pine needles,
but the ground is warm
and smells fresh and new.

I chose to sit in the shade, on this side of the tree
that slopes upward toward the concrete school.
I want to face downward, downhill, but I want to feel the strong,
rough bark of this tree hold me in the breeze.  I feel safer here,
so I try to avoid glancing at the school.

In order for you to understand,
I must look, but understand
I am doing this for you.

It's depressing, really, to see
the sun warm its cold, white walls.
The sun does not differentiate
between concrete and grass
(although it should).
It shines, warms every body,
tree, building, and child's head.

The juxtaposition of grass to concrete,
city to nature, warmth to cold,
is understood by us all.
Thoreau is not the only one
to notice the banks of Walden Pond.
Nor Whitman,
as he sat and cradled the leaves of grass
capturing their in nity
for us to understand.

The difference:
Thoreau, Whitman (and now myself, I suppose),
continue to notice and
continue to write.
But they are dead, you say,
They cannot write!
Ah! But they do, for
they write through me and in me,
and by me.

Thoreau: in every drop of water;
Whitman: in every leaf of grass.

They are still here, and so am I; glad I chose this side of the hill;
Glad I chose this pen,
and this day and this sun.

Matera

Take me out of this moment,
this place in time, and
invite me to your home,
smooth and quiet.
We can take my boat and

float down this milky-white river
and pass the rows of yellow tulips.
I will speak to the raven
overhead and ask him to fi nd me.

Take me to your cobbled streets,
and show me wide buildings
crowding the shops. Let me

sit in the cool corner
under forgiving basil plants.
I want to smell of mint and basil,
so let me bathe in Romanesque sun.

I can feel us nearing
the bright, green clearing, malve growing in Santa Lucia;
smelling the stones
of the short, wide homes.
I can see the raven calling
and the rain falling.

I am here;
we are near;
I do not fear
anything.

No more drafts

After receiving my latest rejection email, I have decided to put the rest of my poetry online.  I have been holding onto a few poems, some old; some new, that I have been afraid to publish on my blog because I am holding out hope that they will be published in various journals.  Yes, that would be amazing, but I am tired of holding onto these poems.  I want to release them out into the world for all to read and comment on.  I am not coming from a place of high-and-mighty: I do not feel that I have been depriving you all of my amazing poetry!  Instead, this is about release.  I need to let them go so that I can stop letting these poems hold be back.  I am only as good as my last poem and I have not written anything for a few weeks because I have been holding onto these poems.  No more!

Stay tuned for a slew of regular poem posting.  Thank you again for everyone who reads.  As always, I appreciate any comments you are willing to make for my poetry.  

Where is love stored in the heart?

I can feel it, starting in my groin, my inner thighs,
rumbling.  It isn't desire, love, nor sex.
It's dull scratch elicits nausea
as it rises to my abdomen.  I ignore
it's pull, tugging a my intestines, focusing
instead at the children around me, waiting for their
swim lessons, crying as rubber swim caps
get yanked over tangled hair.
Children waiting for their turn to splash:

chicken -- bird -- soldier

Different lives surround me and I can
still feel it growing, a direct B-Line
to my chest.  I stare
at the other mothers trying to distract
my brain, for once my head and heart are
connected, the rumble has won.
It is difficult to go back once it
has grown: full-blown longing, insecurity:
sadness takes over.

As a last resort, I dip into my reserve
supply of gratefulness, stored in the left
atrium, pumping oxygenated blood throughout
my body: a temporary shelter, a lean-to.

It's time to pick up my own children from the pool.

I may be untitled

I really would love to tell you that I can never

find the words to say:

I'm a poet/writer/coach/father/husband

I don't know why I drink whiskey
at night except to understand
and seek for understanding.
I love this album!
Sipping whiskey, I feel connected to
Yeats
Whitman
Heaney
and others....

All the other writers.

I'm drunk; or may be, but my pen is still moving.
This is the space I need and want
to transport me to a deeper, higher
level of everything.

I may be untitled, but I'm still writing.
I will see you on the other side.

Decision

The boiling water,
fresh from the whistle,
splashes onto
the black, glass
stove-top,
and I wonder
if I need to slow down,
possibly read a book,
or just stare
into the cool evening
waiting for dusk
to whisper into my ear.

Waiting for Inspiration

I find myself waiting for inspiration.  I journal each day, sometimes at the end of the day, recounting the details from the time I awoke, to when my pen hit the paper.  I am detailing these banalities hoping something poetic will arise from the ink.  If I go back through my journals, I can find an archaeological phrase or poem that I can post to my blog.  I flip through pages and am reminded that many of my days sound the same.  Perhaps this is why the days seem to blend together.  

Still I write.

I believe that it is important to write through writer’s block.  I think that with any work, there will be plateaus and times when you don’t want to continue.  If I repeat the motions, go through the movements, I may not have a book of collected poems or pearls of wisdom, but I will have written every day.  I will have written my life; documented it for my children’s children and all of the nameless, faceless Internet readers.

Still I write.

I received a few more rejection letters last week.  I should clarify that they were emails, not letters.  People don’t write letters anymore.  One of the emails was an obvious form rejection letter; the other one was more personal.  I appreciate the personal letdown, but sometimes the form rejection is easier to accept: like when you carefully insert a wrinkled and torn dollar bill into the vending machine and it is immediately spat out again.  There is no tiptoeing around the issue.  The bill was rejected.  So I try again and again and again and again until I get my damn candy bar.

Still I write.

The personal email feels more like a breakup than and rejection.  It is like they really wanted to accept my poems, but they just couldn’t: don’t worry, you will find someone out there who is perfect for you; not me, but someone out there is perfect for you.  So, I feel wounded, but not angry because they wanted me, but the universe said no.  I think prefer the quick dollar-bill rejection instead.

Well, here I am write a short blog post that is part journal confessional, part insightful essay.  I think I need a few hundred more words before I am allowed to classify this as an essay.  In the meantime, I will read my daily emailed poem, try and get through Alexander Hamilton’s biography and Beowulf’s saga, and go to work each day to change the world.  

I make dents in the universe.I thrive on inspiring others to greatness.I love questioning the status quo.I am a shaper.I create cultures that release the creativity and originality in others.I am an independent thinker; nonconforming and rebellious.I ask lots of questions.I push the boundaries of what's possible.

Still I write.

Still I Write

I will continue writing
until the lines run out;
then I will grab another journal:
more lines
more words

This is not a goodbye;
(so cliche, I know)
just a see you soon

Still I write
And still I write
Bowed head and lowered eyes
weakened by my soulful cries

But still, I write.

At the Grave of my Family: Father and 2 Brothers

This is the longest that I've spent with them,

lined up beneath the earth, side by side:

a united family.

This is the closest I've been to them,

all three so near, but 10 feet beneath my feet.

They all felt, at one time or another, that I was

better than them; put me on an invisible

pedestal high above them.

Now I'm above them.  I'm left alone

even though we've been estranged for decades.

I am alone.   It is quite here;

we haven't spoken in years.

I am the last on, penned with a name

that I had to grow in to;

A name that I pass along to my own children,

without strings attached to each letter,

each false memory, family lore that dictated

my behavior.  I.  am.  here.

staring at my name chiseled three times

into granite stones:

Here lies               Here lies               Here lies

I give my sons this name, Germanic and complete:

a name without lies;

The lies they told me, themselves,

the police.

Here lies the end of an era,

a fictional family made up of non-existent birthdays

Christmas cheer, Easter egg hunts, Holy Communion.

I have laid these lies to rest.

I turn around, take my sons' hands and

go home.

I'm emotional.  I drank too much wine and ate too much lamb curry.  Cat Stevens brings a single tear to my eye -- for the dad I never had, but always wanted.  Cher closes my throat, chokes me up -- for a mother, whom I miss so much it hurts.  I often wonder if I'd feel so depressed as often as I do if she were here.  She would annoy me for sure, but she might keep me in check.  I'm tired and sad and have a stomach ache, probably diarrhea tomorrow.  Tonight, I'll just puke out my feelings onto this page, scratching at the paper and the floor.

Marie

I think of food and her strong calves and
her flipping around in my dad's slippers
five sizes too big.

I think of her beautiful German accent on my answering machine. 

I think of her simplicity and her cleanliness. 

I think of her immaculate house with clean sheets. 

I think of the washcloths she made; her inability to sit still. 

I would wake up to a silent house, smelling 
seiza panna kuche.

I think of her smell; how hard she worked;
of her kitchen, surrounding me with food—always. 

I think of her soft voice. 

I think of how much she loved. 

I think of her little feet. I think of Laurel, MT. 

I think of her laugh: it was great, like a chuckle. 

I think of her drinking coffee with Aunt Frida. 

I think of how she would sneak sweets, even though she wasn’t supposed to, and the face she would make: like a little kid knowingly doing something wrong. 

I think of the amazing adversity she lived through. 

I think of how she would take out her teeth before bed. 

I think about how she was always concerned about her family. 

I think of how she never complained about anything, ever.

A Door Slams

Something brushed up against my leg as I finished listening to a poem being read by a NY poet about feeling small in a universe filled with suns and moons and Mars.  And so I am here.  I am left to dig up images buried beneath the soft silt below the ocean: God help me.  I'm trying to paint with words, not numbers; trying to be a devious craftsman, but sometimes all I have is red wine and ten minutes alone with my pen.

A door slams.

In Memory of John Ashbery

John Ashbery died today:
on one of the hottest September days we've had in years.
I've never read any of your poems
until today.

I guess I can blame many things:
graduating high school when Wakefulness was published.
I was the opposite of woke.
But, I read today.

I was seven when that snow fell near Lake Ontario
and you ran through thistles one moment
and across a sheet of ice the next.
I read today.

I was a new father when you wrote They Knew What They Wanted.
And while you were watching Turner Classic Movies
I was watching Little House on the Prairie
in between feedings, wondering how Pa managed it all.
I read today.

So, what am I, the reader, to make of this?
The rest is only drama; the noise which distracts us
from our inner poetry.
Some days I wish for a breezeway;
others, I try and slow
to see my banalities with fresh eyes.

The days go by and I go with them.

But today?

Today I read.

On Body Positivity

I promise her all the free sex
she can get if she just
loves her body: intuitively believe
you deserve my touch--any touch

We're in our upper thirties for Christ sake!
We're supposed to be enjoying ourselves.
There is that word again:
supposed:

generally assumed or believed to be the case, but not necessarily so.

Assumptions hurt.  Pause.  Think.
Or don't think
(this is harder than I thought).

She rolls her eyes and suppresses
a wince (she knows how difficult this will be).  I promise again.
As much as you want!
All you can want!  And more.

1. Reject your old mentality
2. Honor your hunger; your body
3. Respect your body

I want to skip to #s 3-7 and

go straight to #8: respect your body;

expressing the angry spleen.

Now, come to bed, please.

My Head Hurts

I'd love to close out my day
with a poem: something
pastoral or lyrical or political or important,
but my head hurts.
My daughter wants me to read her a story,
but my head hurts.
My wife wants me to watch TV,
but my head hurts.
Life hurts my head hurts my children hurt me I hurt myself I hurt them they hurt each other.
Everybody hurts by REM.

I want to be present and happy,
but I feel as though my children beat the happiness
right out of me; discarding my velveteen
body, worn from laundry, bedtimes,
shower arguments, homework, yelling,
lots of yelling, and they
throw me
away.

And so I will get ready for bed and sleep and start again
tomorrow because I love my family,
I love my children, and
I love my life.

My Own (draft #2)

I sign their names, as my own
underneath their poems
as if they were my own.

I claim that their words are my own
their memories, emotions, are my own
Because I am too scared to write
my own.

Perhaps this is a poem
a thought in time
that someone else can write down
when writer's block sets in
as their child interrupts because she poked herself
in her eye and needs a hug
while their spouse is upstairs
watching YouTube instead of talking.

Perhaps we all need someone else
to tell us what we are
who we are, and how we feel.
Perhaps we need to live vicariously through other people
because our own lives
are too clumsy, difficult, painful, mundane.

Perhaps.

He is a Writer

I helped my son write an essay last night. He’s eight.  He struggles with writing.  In fact, he hates writing.  It took us 35 minutes to write four sentences about a girl named Hannah getting ready for her birthday party.  Four sentences.  It was painful.  He hated every minute of it.  He does not see himself as a writer.  He looks for any excuse to pause or stop writing altogether.  It was difficult for me to watch him struggle through this assignment.  He focuses so much on the minutiae of writing: the size of the letters, spelling, finger spacing, capital letters, handwriting.  It is excruciating to watch him struggle.  

He is a writer.  

How do I know?  Because he can ramble on and on and on and on about a story that is as outlandish as it is believable.  He creates fictions that are ridiculous and funny.  He has a gift for lying and telling stories, which gives him a leg up on most writers today. Sometimes, I have to take a step back, press pause, and actually listen to his creativity.  Instead of being frustrated that he is listing the reasons why he is not responsible for spilling his water bottle all over the carpet, I need to listen to how he draws me into his world.  He may struggle with the mechanics of writing, but that is temporary.  

He is a writer.

I don’t want him to grow up and think that writing is effeminate and only for the smart kids. I don’t want him to think that he only has to write about flowers and his summer vacation and the book he had to read for school.  I want him to know that writing is communicating and when performed well, is powerful!  Words have power.  With great power will come great responsibility and I know he will listen because he thinks his is Spiderman.  Outside of school, he believes that he can conquer anything.  If I do anything successful as a parent, it will be to teach him that he can conquer anything, even school, because school isn’t where learning happens.  School isn’t where the real writing happens.  School is the day job he will need to keep in order to fund his writing life.  School will pay the bills and writing will amplify his soul, energize his spirit.  

He is a writer.

When he is ready, I will induct him into my secret society for boy writers.  

Who will go drive with Fergus now,
And pierce the deep wood’s woven shade,
And dance upon the level shore?
Young man, lift up your russet brow,
And lift your tender eyelids, maid,
And brood on hopes and fear no more.

He should not fear his lack of confidence.  I will help him lift up his russet brow, wipe away his tears, and tell him that he is a writer.  Tell him that his words dance upon the level shore of the blank page.  

And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love’s bitter mystery;
For Fergus rules the brazen cars,
And rules the shadows of the wood,
And the white breast of the dim sea
And all dishevelled wandering stars.

He is a writer.  He will not fall between the cracks.  He will rule the shadows of writer’s block and one day, I will pick up a book of his short stories, or see a preview for a movie adapted from his bestselling novel, and I will know that he knows he is a writer too.

A Writer's Life

My summertime indulgences of effortlessly reading poetry and easily finding time to write poetry every day, have sadly passed.  It is now just over a month until the Autumn Equinox, however, in terms of academic school years, we are well on our way to the start of a new Fall.  I enjoyed my reading and writing summer.  I slept in.  Drank tea in the morning and whiskey and wine in the evenings.  I read some amazing collections of poetry.  I took some creative risks and submitted some of my poems to various literary journals across the country.  It was wonderful.  Now that school has started, I am in the process of figuring out how to maintain some semblance of that summer writing life throughout the chaos and time commitments that come with work.  

Over the summer, I read Stephen King’s book On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft.  It was a much needed wake-up call and pep-talk mixture that told me to take the act of writing seriously.  He's right.  Of course, he is right: he’s Stephen King!  My history with writing was that I wrote as a distraction, not as a serious craft that I am honing.  When that happens, I hold back, attempt to pen poetic phrases instead of just saying "Fuck it!  I'm lost and pissed off."  Some of my best writing (at least the prose I enjoyed writing, where I felt I actually said something) came from those times when I sat down with a strong purpose and something to say.  At the beginning of the summer, I floated around, reading book after book after blog post after Twitter feed after poem after poem after poem, looking for something to grab my attention and say, "Adrian, this is important!  Write about this.  Tell us now!" Once I committed to writing every day, it worked.  I just sat down and wrote!  I discovered that my creativity wasn’t dead or hibernating or too ill to get out of bed.  It was just waiting for me to get busy and do some actual writing.  I just needed my pen and the guts to write down what I actually think.  

And then came Bright Dead Things by Ada Limon. Distractions are a regular part of living a writer's life. Hell, distractions are a part of any life! When I discovered Ada Limon, I discovered a gravel, Kentucky road, a few tire tracks imprinted from the summer before.

"Before the road
between us there was the road
beneath us." --Before from Bright Dead Things

I found this road and never looked back. I wanted to be a terrific writer, too, and the signposts she left for me gave me hope that greatness was a possibility!

The charged political atmosphere kept me inside most days this summer. Sure, I ventured out to the pool to watch my children swim carelessly, but I was worried about how to marry my words to my emotions. Clint Smith sat me down and shared his intensity and captivating poetic narrative. Together, we traveled from New Orleans to Cambridge, revisiting Duke Ellington and James Baldwin.

"Because isn't
this the problem? That we must write the most exaggerated versions
of ourselves to show them something they have already chosen not to
see? How can they think us more human if we don't' write ourselves
as such?" --Counting Descent

Clint poured me a whiskey and sat me down on the playground to chat about race, power, privilege, and the occasional cicada and the Charles River.

On my way home, I bumped into Megan Stielstra. I stopped because she reminded me of the essay. The great, crazy-difficult-to-write, inspringing essay. I hadn't read an essay in years, and she cornered me to discuss Kafka and diapers, and being a good parent. I was so happy to hear that we all struggle with the same demons and insecurities. So I read and read and read and read. I'll be honest, it is going to take me a few more passes at Kafka before I can feel comfort in his stories. Once again, Megan reminded me that writing is as important and your life because writing is your life. It is my life. I may doubt myself as a writer, but I never doubted Megan's coolness: she can quote the Pixies. I can't wait for The Wrong Way to Save Your Life.

So, am I a writer?  That is where I find myself today.  The self-identification of being a writer and living a writer’s life is a big step.  I have always wanted to be a writer.  I love writing.  I love teaching students how to write better.  I love sharing my love of writing with students.  So, am I a writer?  I journaled almost every day this summer.  I wrote a handful of poems.  Last year, I wrote a handful of educational blog posts and articles.  I decided to send out some of my poetry to literary journals and magazines.  So, am I a writer?  Is this the writer’s life?  

I am a writer.  Thanks to Stephen, Ada, Megan, Clint, and a dozen other writers long since passed, I started identifying myself as a writer, adding that to my list of identities: father, husband, educator, coach, friend.  Now, writer.  So, why is it so difficult to continue writing now that the year has started?  The truth is that each of these roles is dynamic and varies with the amount of time and energy needed.  Sometimes, my role as a father takes precedence (actually, it always does).   During the day, my role as a coach and educator can take over.  So, here I sit, trying to figure out ways to balance my varying roles.  I want to continue writing.  I want to continue reading.  Not just emails and Twitter feeds.  I want to continue developing this fledgling identity.  I am a writer and I will do the work needed to be a writer.  My writing life may not be the same as others, but it will be my writing life and I will write.

I am a writer.

Poetry

poetry:
listening
until my head aches.
Close my eyes.

poetry:
listening
until it soothes my aches,
my sorrows,
my being.

Lucy and her Diamonds

Lying face down in the grass,
my face is moist.
Dew collects on my hair;
I am sweating.
I breathe now, not having
done so for some moments.
The grass smells of summer.
The blades scratch my face.
I open my eyes:
cannot see.
I am disoriented:
breathing.
How long has it been?
I roll over:
cannot move.

My mind is processing movements.
My body is dumb.
The fresh air fills my stagnant lungs.
The sun warms my back.
At least I can feel it now.
I melt in the sun and slowly move.
Pain seizes my joints,
but I face upright.
I see my reflection in the sky
next to Lucy and her diamonds.

Twelve

1.
Her naked back,
silhouetted in the darkness,
is relaxed.

2.
An odd shape,
pools of white
reflect my image, my stare.

3.
Surrounded by the ashen forest,
a clear meadow
shines in the moonlight.

4.
The bright light
blinds me momentarily,
for I need to stare,
but remain in the shadow.

5.
Shielding the delicate,
it is powerful
and makes her strong.

6.
Sloping toward the shades of gray,
I cannot tell which side is up,
or where to begin searching.

7.
I am intimidated by the sheer
face of the cold slope.
I begin my climb,
but cannot finish.

8.
Sliding down her spine,
I cannot control
my movements.

9.
Heat radiates
and she begins
to glow.

10.
The ridges
of her vertebrae
are stacked like building blocks.
I want to play.

11.
Still and cold
her stone
collects snow in patterns.

12.
Water running
over her shoulders
collects at the nape.

In the Table

If I look
closely,
with my head
pressed to the wooden table,
and if the light
from a warm, April afternoon,
hits us
(me and the wood)
together...

If I look
closely,
I can see myself,
trapped,
in the table,
in the wooden
lines.

My nose
(its faint outline-long and German)

I am there,
if only for an
afternoon moment.

quantum scimus sumus

To become aware for the first time,
bringing myself to light:
refracted rays of sunlight;

Grabbing at its tail,
slipping through my fingertips,
I glisten in the warm glow.

I am what I know:

Nonconforming helps be sleep at night.
I write because I have to.
Reading is good for me.
I am solid and sound and insecure and brave.
I am one person.
I am emotional.
I forget.
I reconstruct my memories again and again.
I am constantly learning

quantum

               scimus 

                             sumus 

I create this space, this silence
for me, for you, for us.

In vino veritas

When commotion starts: kids at play,
I steal away;
A glass of wine in my hand
and disappear into my land
to read poetry.
And calm my mind.

Light

The quality of light from my window is black.
An absence of light.
Cold.  Dark.  Frigid
wind blowing outside.
A single car drives past onto some black road
into the black night
leaving my window behind.

He will never escape the darkness.
He will just drive onward trying to
lose it, but he cannot.

A writer with nothing particular to say

Flirting isn't the right word.  I am teetering with the idea of being a writer.  It is unsteady and lonely.  I like to write.  I love to read.  I know that I am capable of penning my thoughts.  I can definitely structure my days (blocking out specific time) to include writing.  Hell, I got my Master's and PhD while working and having kids.  I'm no stranger to late nights.  The difference?  With those, I had something specific to say.  I had a required format to communicate my ideas.  I wrote essays and papers and theses and a dissertation: hours and hundreds of pages.  It was difficult and sometimes I just wanted to go to bed, but the words always came.  They always came.

Now, I journal about my days, copy favorite poems, and every now and then I notice something that I try to fit into a poem.  The words come, but what do they say?  I'm not a pastoral poet.  I am not trying to communicate my love of summer evenings.  I'm no Allen Ginsberg.  I am not trying to describe getting drunk or the misguided politics of 2017.  I'm a dad.  I'm an educator on summer vacation.  I'm a writer with nothing particular to say.

I Hear America Crying

I hear America crying, the multitude sobs and sighs I hear,
Those of mothers, each one crying hers as they should be,
The child crying hers as she is called inside before dusk,
The father crying his as he makes ready for work, hoping he returns,
The student crying foul at the misogynist comment made by
his professor during a lecture,
The immigrant crying as he sits with his family fearing the
knock at the door,
The lawyer's song, the 25th Amendment rolling around his
head and off his lips,
The angry sobs of the mother, or of the sister, or of the
grandmother, or of the aunt -- all singing their laments together
for those lost lives: stolen from them instead of protected;
Each crying what belongs to them (undeserved and forced) and
to none else,
The day what belongs to this 4th of July -- at night the party of young
fellows, somber and scared,
Crying with open mouths their strong fight-song:

knowing where wheels and people are,
knowing where cops and traps are,
knowing where deaths are, where the kind kills are.

Converting all sounds of woe
into fine fury.

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Every summer I begin the process
of unsubscribing from mailing lists
I either don't read, or I forgot I joined.

And so begins my process:

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looking for the fine print;

becoming lonely.


See, an inbox of 25 new emails
(3 of which are important)
makes me feel connected and important.
I delete them
because I can.

Slowly, by the end of the summer,
I open my email to discover
I have 0 unread messages;
No responsibilities:

just my pen and paper
and thoughts.
See, I want to remember

what it was like before
the clicks and retweets

and empty importance.

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Summertime

He collapses in the grass:
the shade of a baby tree
not tall enough to provide anything.

Every so often, he turns and
looks at me: ten turns to two;
he seems so tall for a toddler.

The neighborhood boys stand sentry
discussing summertime,
passing around a water bottle

flipping it to stand on
it's own.
How proud they look

standing and loitering on their own.

Get busy and do some actual writing!

Stephen King just told me to take the act of writing seriously, and he's right.  Perhaps that is my problem: I write as a distraction, but I don't get serious; I hold back, attempting to pen poetic phrases instead of just saying "Fuck it!  I'm lost and pissed off."  Some of my best writing (at least the prose I enjoyed writing, where I felt I actually said something) came from those times when I sat down with a strong purpose and something to say.  Lately, I have been floating around a bit, reading book after book after blog post after Twitter feed after poem after poem after poem, looking for something to grab my attention and say, "Adrian, this is important!  Write about this.  Tell us now!"

Stephen King is right: I know what to say (if not exactly)l I just need to sit down and write!  My creativity isn't dead or hibernating or too ill to get out of bed.  It is just waiting for me to get busy and do some actual writing.

"If you can take it seriously, we can do business.

I know that I can take writing seriously.  I don't need a publisher, an agent, or a book deal.  I just need my pen and the balls to write down what I actually think.  I still have stuff to say.

Song of Myself #20

--Walt Whitman

Who goes there? hankering, gross, mystical, nude; 

How is it I extract strength from the beef I eat? 

What is a man anyhow? what am I? what are you? 

All I mark as my own you shall offset it with your own, 

Else it were time lost listening to me. 

I do not snivel that snivel the world over, 

That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth. 

Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, conformity goes to the fourth-remov’d, 

I wear my hat as I please indoors or out. 

Why should I pray? why should I venerate and be ceremonious? 

Having pried through the strata, analyzed to a hair, counsel’d with doctors and calculated close, 

I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones. 

In all people I see myself, none more and not one a barley-corn less, 

And the good or bad I say of myself I say of them. 

I know I am solid and sound, 

To me the converging objects of the universe perpetually flow, 

All are written to me, and I must get what the writing means. 

I know I am deathless, 

I know this orbit of mine cannot be swept by a carpenter’s compass, 

I know I shall not pass like a child’s carlacue cut with a burnt stick at night. 

I know I am august, 

I do not trouble my spirit to vindicate itself or be understood, 

I see that the elementary laws never apologize, 

(I reckon I behave no prouder than the level I plant my house by, after all.) 

I exist as I am, that is enough, 

If no other in the world be aware I sit content, 

And if each and all be aware I sit content. 

One world is aware and by far the largest to me, and that is myself, 

And whether I come to my own to-day or in ten thousand or ten million years, 

I can cheerfully take it now, or with equal cheerfulness I can wait. 

My foothold is tenon’d and mortis’d in granite, 

I laugh at what you call dissolution, 

And I know the amplitude of time. 

Aubade

I will think of you
alone in your study
3:00 AM blinking on the plastic face of the clock,

or perhaps you have an old grandfather clock:
long chains attached to circular disks,
slowly ticking the moments.

I will think of you
awaiting the first bird to deliver his call,
those 3 notes.

I will think of you
while I am putting on my socks,
lacing up my running shoes,
fighting my inner daemons of laziness,
plugging in my iPod,
putting in my earbuds,

awaiting aubade.

The Poems of Billy Collins

The Poems of Billy Collins--
I shouldn't be surprised
that I'm writing again.
It only takes about

half-a-dozen of your poems
to cause that itch,
forcing me to write again.

Do you use special ink?
Magical, mind-altering ink pens?
or are your books laced
with a drug that eliminates

even the most stubborn
writer's block?

Lost Ideas

I’ve had
more attempts of
poems
than poems.

I have sat,
pen in hand;
(actually,
open laptop,
white screen,
blinking cursor,
fingertips pressed lightly
on the keys,
almost feeling each letter)
to be more accurate.)

I almost hate
when an idea hits me,
square on the back
of my head,
like a hot slap,
after a sarcastic remark
to my father.
If I do not have
pen and paper,
computer and outlet,
the idea is lost.

So, I run
frantically
looking for
napkins,
tablecloths,
scraps of paper,
a pencil, pen, marker.
I would use a knife
and write in my own
blood,
if the idea was
that good.

Most of the time,
I wait,
looking over my shoulder,
for a periodic
slap,
that is a poem.

Jagged

The grey mist
swirls
around jagged and cracked rocks.
I’m staring out onto
an endless ocean:
“Am I alone?”

The glowing, grey dimness,
full of shadows,
approaches from the sea
like a messenger,
soaked with rain,
bearing ill news.

I hear the sound of waves
crashing on the rocks
below
my bare feet.
Cold, damp penetrates my skin
vibrating my bones.


The silence in the sky.

So much depends

so much depends
on
a little boy
held in my arms,
so many hours to go
before he sleeps,

so many hours to go
before he sleeps.

A Suburban Spring Evening

"Love is the last light spoken."

I'm either too tired or drunk
to continue reading poetry by the dying
Spring day light; waning
as evening approaches the gloaming
sun dims.

I can still see the blossoming
plum tree across the street, exploding
whites and dusky yellows iridescent
against drab background of model homes.

Listen.  The sun is setting in suburbia
and children are finishing their Sunday evening movies.  Listen.

I turn to poets' voices reading to me.

Dylan Thomas awakes me to the vivid 

and wild  barbaric nature of poetry (of words);

stirs me to the quick.

Robert Frost brings me down to the synecdoche

of poetry; the whole of his experiences

and his woods.  I prefer reading Frost while it storms outside,

horizontal rain obstructing my view of blossoming plum trees.

W.H. Auden elevates and stirs my imagination:

the pomp and circumstance and traditionalism.

Hearing his voice reciting villanelles

speaking to the importance of simplicity and a simpler era;

staves off chaos with reverence.

I shall learn my mother-tongue.

April 4, 2017: Thunder-snow 49 years later

for Martin


Thunder startles the sky
reminding me that you were shot today.

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness."

Can thunder, lightning, tempestuous rain?

I've never seen snow fall after thunder
cracked the sky; shattered into a spiderweb
of fear and hate.  Thunder-snow?
Snow acting as an acoustic suppressor,
dampening my experience, telling it is close.
You were suppressed.  You were close to achieving
justice everywhere.  Thunder-snow.

Nothing is more dangerous than silence.

I can't see through the snow-rain.
I can't see where I'm going.
I listen and keep moving forward.
The earth grows loud.

Emerging Now

It has been one week since my last post and two weeks since my last posted poem.  I am emerging now from a deep study of sound and rhythm.  I have been binge-listening (following along faithfully) to the Caedmon recordings of Dylan Thomas's poetry.  I have always been mesmerized by his voice, such a booming baritone for such a shy poet.  I felt that I needed to listen to him in his entirety when I stumbled upon these albums.  How could I not peek in on the hunchback in the park as he eats bread from a newspaper?  How could I pass on the opportunity to tour Fern's Hill and Sir John's Hill?  I have never traveled to Wales, but I felt myself transported to Loughharne with each poem; especially "Poem on his Birthday" and "Poem in October."  The best part of these recordings is that they are the poems that Thomas wanted people to hear and read.  I have always been a Thomas fan; his language and metaphor exquisite!  But I wanted a deeper dive into his use of sound, alliteration, assonance, and consonance.  I mean, who else write and speaks lines like these?

"Man be my metaphor."
"Now I am a man no more no more"
"seesaw Sunday nights"
"midlife mourn"
"tumbledown tongue"

His poetry can quicken and slow down immediately with his tongue-twisting language! Thomas' use of the personification of time as an omnipresent, binding force is mesmerizing.

Read this from "Fern Hill":

"Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes"

and

"Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means"

When I sat in my chair these last weeks, listening to his roaring roll of a voice, I began to really understand the intentionality of language in poetry. Poets use words and language to discuss and interpret their thoughts and feelings and interactions with the world around them.  Poets, especially Dylan Thomas, choose words pack a powerful punch and crafts lines that could not be written in any other way.  For example,

"When black birds died like priests in the cloaked hedge row"

What an image!  So, I am emerging once again with a renewed reverence for the language and imagery that I use in my poetry.  Dylan Thomas loves and reveres language.  He "cared for the colours the words cast on [his] eyes (Thomas, 1951).  He knew that he "must live with [words] and in them, always: a "writer of words" (Thomas, 1951).  He played with language, dragging up images from the depths of his mind in order to see how they would look and sound on the paper.  Listening to his voice reminded me of his 'imaginative purpose, which is to write the best poem he can" (Thomas, 1951).

I enjoy poetry.  I enjoy reading and writing poetry.  I feel that I can communicate through poetry.  My hope for the rest of the poems I post here, is that you, too, will enjoy them, because that is all that matters.  I will work hard at crafting my images and alluding to other moments only when absolutely necessary.  I promise not to just throw in an obscure Greek or Biblical reference!  I will concentrate more on how my poetry sounds, as well as how it rests on the page.  I may not be able to write a successful villanelle, but I will write more and more and more!

What's next?

It has been a week since my last Project: #UndiscoveredPoetry post.  I reflected on the process and took some time to figure out where to take this blog in the future.  April is #NationalPoetryMonth, which is always exciting.  When I was creating Project: Undiscovered Poetry, I purposely placed it in March so that I could give myself a nice head-start moving into April.  That is exactly what has happened!

Even though I have not posted any complete poems in the last week, that does not mean that I have not continued reading and writing poetry.  In fact, taking the pressure of posting every day has allowed me to go back to some of my favorite poets and spend more time diving into their work.  I am continuing to push myself to write every day, even if that means just journaling my thoughts, with the hope that I can mine through various entries for some precious poetry gold.  I am happy with a few images and ideas for poems that have come up in the last week.  So, what's next?

I would like to continue using this blog as a platform for improving my poetry.  Although I did not receive a huge amount of feedback, the feedback I did receive was valuable and I got better as a writer.  I wish we all had access to our own personal community of editors and copywriters and creative writing teachers; where we could workshop our writing from the comfort of our homes and coffee shops.  I think there is a need for this.  Sure, there are online writing courses and MOOCs (Massive Open Online Courses) that aspiring writers can sign up for.  Unfortunately, many cost money to enroll, and more often than not, we all cannot invest 20-30 hours per week for entire semester in order to learn all the ins and outs of creative writing.  Yes, that would be fantastic!  I love being a student, but when it comes to writing poetry, I love diving in to each other's work, making meaning, offering suggestions, and rewriting.  There is something satisfying about the creative writing workshop process that I would love to create here on this blog.

So, my plan is to continue posting poems that may or may not be finished.  I will continue to solicit feedback from anyone out there reading.  Please feel free to leave any comments that will move the poem forward.

I am going to continue researching the possibility of self-publishing a book of poetry, since that was the original endpoint for Project: #UndiscoveredPoetry.  I am not sure if that means using Amazon's self-publishing services, or possibly submitting some poems to journals and various writing contests. That is another world that I know very little about, so I will be taking some risks putting my poetry in front of specific editors.  We shall see...

In the meantime, thank you for all of your continued support and feedback.  I'd love to figure out a way that you can also share your undiscovered poetry with me and others in this budding community.  Perhaps you can start by leaving a poem in the comments section, asking for feedback?  I would love to read what you all have written, paying it forward for reading my poetry.  No matter what happens though, we all need to keep writing!  Write through the writer's block, even if it's crap, it is still writing and you are still improving as an writer.

I will be posting soon!

Adrian