Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
27 May 2009
18 December 2008
Is There Poetry in my Home Town?
So I'm back in Michigan, directing a play in the town where I was born. I miss the mountains and the solitude and shooting 8-Ball at the Owl, but it's been interesting returning to some of the places of my childhood.
I drive down a street in my old neighborhood and memories come flooding from every porch and stoop. I step into a corner store and see myself buying penny candy with my birthday money, feeling rich. One may think that all of this would prove fertile ground for poetry; but, so far, nothing. The only thing I've written since being here is a piece that takes place in Kalamazoo.
I was there for a reading recently. A really wonderful night. Great crowd, reception, free beer, good dinner with friends. Caught up with old poet comrades; and met the subject of the one thing I've written since I've been back in my hometown. Or, started to write, that is. Haven't found the ending yet.
Anyway, the point of this is simply to ask: "What the hell?" Where's the flood of words to go with the flood of nostalgia? Maybe I left my writing soul back in the mountains, and am left to flounder here with the other six souls that bounce about within the walls of this morbid boil.
Time to shuffle off.
I drive down a street in my old neighborhood and memories come flooding from every porch and stoop. I step into a corner store and see myself buying penny candy with my birthday money, feeling rich. One may think that all of this would prove fertile ground for poetry; but, so far, nothing. The only thing I've written since being here is a piece that takes place in Kalamazoo.
I was there for a reading recently. A really wonderful night. Great crowd, reception, free beer, good dinner with friends. Caught up with old poet comrades; and met the subject of the one thing I've written since I've been back in my hometown. Or, started to write, that is. Haven't found the ending yet.
Anyway, the point of this is simply to ask: "What the hell?" Where's the flood of words to go with the flood of nostalgia? Maybe I left my writing soul back in the mountains, and am left to flounder here with the other six souls that bounce about within the walls of this morbid boil.
Time to shuffle off.
22 November 2008
Behind the "Elegy"
This month's Poem-of-the-Month at CrowVoice.com is a new, unpublished piece called "Elegy."
The cabin where I live (the "Grizfork Studio") is on the east side of the Yellowstone River in an area of Montana called Paradise Valley. In many ways, it's a fitting name. My "backyard" is the Absaroka/Beartooth Wilderness, and I've decided to focus on a small section: the treeline along the south fork of Deep Creek directly behind the property I'm living on. I hike there often, and try to get to know it as I would a friend or lover. To connect. Understand. Be amazed by. Love. To get there, I pass through a rising pasture that's divided into four fields by old ranch fences.
The first section I've named Spirit Owl Field, in honor of the experience discussed in this month's poem. Since first finding the owl, I've stopped by several times on my way to the treeline and mountains, usually bringing tobacco. It's good to see him returning to the earth as everything does. As we all do. Actually, it's not a matter of returning to the earth: we've never left. In fact, there is no we to do the leaving; is there?
Earth places Earth on Earth, watching Earth become Earth. This is a good thing to remember.
Remember.
The cabin where I live (the "Grizfork Studio") is on the east side of the Yellowstone River in an area of Montana called Paradise Valley. In many ways, it's a fitting name. My "backyard" is the Absaroka/Beartooth Wilderness, and I've decided to focus on a small section: the treeline along the south fork of Deep Creek directly behind the property I'm living on. I hike there often, and try to get to know it as I would a friend or lover. To connect. Understand. Be amazed by. Love. To get there, I pass through a rising pasture that's divided into four fields by old ranch fences.
The first section I've named Spirit Owl Field, in honor of the experience discussed in this month's poem. Since first finding the owl, I've stopped by several times on my way to the treeline and mountains, usually bringing tobacco. It's good to see him returning to the earth as everything does. As we all do. Actually, it's not a matter of returning to the earth: we've never left. In fact, there is no we to do the leaving; is there?
Earth places Earth on Earth, watching Earth become Earth. This is a good thing to remember.
Remember.
11 November 2008
Interviewed on "Destination Out"
Mike Johnston, host of the great experimental jazz program "Destination Out" on WCMU Public Radio and bassist for Faruq Z. Bey & The Northwoods Improvisers, called me the other day for an interview and to have me read some poetry for his show.
The interview will air as part of his next broadcast, Sunday, November 16; 11:00 pm (Eastern Time).
If you are in mid- or northern Michigan or the Algoma District of Ontario, you can tune in on one of these stations:
We discuss the link between jazz and poetry, current politics, and I read several pieces from both The Moon Cracks Open: A Field Guide to the Birds and Jihad bil Qalam: To Strive by Means of the Pen.
The interview will air as part of his next broadcast, Sunday, November 16; 11:00 pm (Eastern Time).
If you are in mid- or northern Michigan or the Algoma District of Ontario, you can tune in on one of these stations:
89.5 Mt. Pleasant
90.1 Bay City
91.7 Alpena
95.7 Oscoda
96.9 Standish
98.3 Sault Ste. Marie
103.9 Harbor Springs
We discuss the link between jazz and poetry, current politics, and I read several pieces from both The Moon Cracks Open: A Field Guide to the Birds and Jihad bil Qalam: To Strive by Means of the Pen.
25 October 2008
Those Pesky Picas
Actually, it's those pesky ornithologists.
Today, while researching another book, I found out that The Moon Cracks Open: A Field Guide to the Birds contains some faulty science. Fortunately, it's a book of poetry, so the science is of questionable import anyway. However, my poem "Writing at Grizfork Studio" identifies the magpie as Pica pica. Turns out, it should be Pica hudsonia.
They (ornithologists, not the VanPatten's) had thought, until recently, that the black-billed magpie of the western U.S. (and my poem) was the same species as the eurasian magpie. But now, the official word is nope. (Not a very official sounding word, I know.)
Anyway, here's the new version of the poem, based on the latest science. If you'd like to read the original, unscientific version, you'll have to buy the book.
Writing at Grizfork Studio (Pica Hudsonia)
Each day begins
w/ the conversations of magpies
who never run out of things to talk about
Each morning unfolds
w/ the fact of those mountains
who never feel the need to say a thing
I sit at my desk
w/ both of them and try
to grab hold of something that lies between the two
On a good day,
I come close.
Today, while researching another book, I found out that The Moon Cracks Open: A Field Guide to the Birds contains some faulty science. Fortunately, it's a book of poetry, so the science is of questionable import anyway. However, my poem "Writing at Grizfork Studio" identifies the magpie as Pica pica. Turns out, it should be Pica hudsonia.
They (ornithologists, not the VanPatten's) had thought, until recently, that the black-billed magpie of the western U.S. (and my poem) was the same species as the eurasian magpie. But now, the official word is nope. (Not a very official sounding word, I know.)
Anyway, here's the new version of the poem, based on the latest science. If you'd like to read the original, unscientific version, you'll have to buy the book.
Writing at Grizfork Studio (Pica Hudsonia)
Each day begins
w/ the conversations of magpies
who never run out of things to talk about
Each morning unfolds
w/ the fact of those mountains
who never feel the need to say a thing
I sit at my desk
w/ both of them and try
to grab hold of something that lies between the two
On a good day,
I come close.
13 September 2008
Today's Writing . . .
. . . Not a word, really.
I looked at chapter 3 of the new novel I'm working on. I changed one or two words. I remembered the the type of boat motor I wanted to have one of the characters use was an Evinrude 7.5 horsepower. But other than that? . . . Crickets.
Well, in all fairness, I did write most of a blog about 9/11 and having dinner with three amazing and pretty well-known writers, but it began to feel like a facade for name-dropping, so I scrapped it. There was a point to it, though. Maybe I'll rewrite it and just use their initials.
But the point is; I'm trying to get into the habit of writing everyday. At least a page. Or a poem. Something to justify this life of complete leisure I've managed to devise. Maybe I can decide that today was the last day of a little vacation and tomorrow it back to the grindstone. Yes, tomorrow there will be two pages to make up for today.
I did write something the day before, though. A short poem that I composed while still half asleep. It made much more sense at the time, but here it is:
Smoke rings silent
around the bell of his head
Bell rings once: deafening
I looked at chapter 3 of the new novel I'm working on. I changed one or two words. I remembered the the type of boat motor I wanted to have one of the characters use was an Evinrude 7.5 horsepower. But other than that? . . . Crickets.
Well, in all fairness, I did write most of a blog about 9/11 and having dinner with three amazing and pretty well-known writers, but it began to feel like a facade for name-dropping, so I scrapped it. There was a point to it, though. Maybe I'll rewrite it and just use their initials.
But the point is; I'm trying to get into the habit of writing everyday. At least a page. Or a poem. Something to justify this life of complete leisure I've managed to devise. Maybe I can decide that today was the last day of a little vacation and tomorrow it back to the grindstone. Yes, tomorrow there will be two pages to make up for today.
I did write something the day before, though. A short poem that I composed while still half asleep. It made much more sense at the time, but here it is:
Smoke rings silent
around the bell of his head
Bell rings once: deafening
11 September 2008
By Way of an Introduction
Greetings and Salivations!
So I've finally decided to keep a blog. I've been blogging erratically on my MySpace page and haphazardly over at AuthorsBookshop.com, but it seems high time I got a little more focused with the whole enchilada (blue corn from El Azteco).
My idea is to use this space to discuss background, backstory, and bacteria relating to my published and unpublished writings. I'll flesh out topics that perhaps necessitated being passed over a bit lightly in their original form (whether poem or prose piece). And I'll try to answer any questions that anyone may have regarding my work -- or anything else for that matter (I can B.S. like a PhD and PDQ, too. OK?)
What writing works are these, you may be asking? (Imaginary audiences are great: you can make them ask all the right questions. Plato knew that better than anyone, that's why he sounded so damn smart all the time.)
Anyway here's what's been published (feel free to give them a browse before continuing, and by all means, order a copy or two):
The Moon Cracks Open: A Field Guide to the Birds (Poetry)
A Handful of Dust (Novel)
Jihad bil Qalam: To Strive by Means of the Pen (Anti-War Anthology; Editor)
and three poetry chapbooks: Saginaw Songs, The Lost Writings of Miscellaneous Jones, and When God Was a Child.
There have also been several plays produced/performed at the 303 Collective, CAGE, and Bedlam Studios. You can learn more about them here.
I'm hoping that this blog proves helpful and entertaining to my readers (and helps new readers find my work). So spread the word, pour a strong cup of Josef, or open a bottle of red wine -- preferable a San Giovese (the "Blood of Jove",) or crack a cold one -- preferably PBR (the Drool of Joad), and put on your reading goggles: Here comes the CrowVoice Journal.
So I've finally decided to keep a blog. I've been blogging erratically on my MySpace page and haphazardly over at AuthorsBookshop.com, but it seems high time I got a little more focused with the whole enchilada (blue corn from El Azteco).
My idea is to use this space to discuss background, backstory, and bacteria relating to my published and unpublished writings. I'll flesh out topics that perhaps necessitated being passed over a bit lightly in their original form (whether poem or prose piece). And I'll try to answer any questions that anyone may have regarding my work -- or anything else for that matter (I can B.S. like a PhD and PDQ, too. OK?)
What writing works are these, you may be asking? (Imaginary audiences are great: you can make them ask all the right questions. Plato knew that better than anyone, that's why he sounded so damn smart all the time.)
Anyway here's what's been published (feel free to give them a browse before continuing, and by all means, order a copy or two):
The Moon Cracks Open: A Field Guide to the Birds (Poetry)
A Handful of Dust (Novel)
Jihad bil Qalam: To Strive by Means of the Pen (Anti-War Anthology; Editor)
and three poetry chapbooks: Saginaw Songs, The Lost Writings of Miscellaneous Jones, and When God Was a Child.
There have also been several plays produced/performed at the 303 Collective, CAGE, and Bedlam Studios. You can learn more about them here.
I'm hoping that this blog proves helpful and entertaining to my readers (and helps new readers find my work). So spread the word, pour a strong cup of Josef, or open a bottle of red wine -- preferable a San Giovese (the "Blood of Jove",) or crack a cold one -- preferably PBR (the Drool of Joad), and put on your reading goggles: Here comes the CrowVoice Journal.
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