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.