What We Don't Want to Know

Sometimes we don't want
to know what we want to know.
Shivering in our bones,
the splinters piercing,
blood weeping from our flesh.

We know and we do not know.
And in the dark, the whispers
grow loud, sinister and
insistent.

Mumbling, we shelter
the incoherent moment,
fuzzy memory, hinging
on the eight ball.

Don't Blink

Don't Blink

The writer’ pen? The sculptor’s hands? The painter’s brush? The dancer’s breath? Here’s the truth – you can’t cultivate true art.

You can’t take crap and make magic. It doesn’t work that way.

What? That’s not what I said in class? You’re damn right I didn’t say it in class. Because in every class there is the artist who doesn’t recognize himself.

The truth is this – the artist is the one who is usually the most discouraged, the most convinced that he’s just kidding himself. He thinks of himself as a poser; she thinks of herself as a phony. They are not artificial. They are real. They are easy to spot. First, they are usually quieter than the other students. When they read, their voices are softer, smaller. They are unwrapping their babies for us. They are that invested in their work. Language is liquid for them, a symphony of horns, cellos, and bass drums. Every word has been examined, judged and found worthy. Their works stink of truth. We will shade our eyes and the remnant of the piece lingers with us years later like a first kiss.

And the other reason to not tell students that yes, you either have it within you or your don’t is this – some students who I encourage to “develop their craft” are artists who are not quite hatched yet. They lack courage – the courage to be honest in what they want to say – the courage to stand alone – the courage to let the work go out into the world unaccompanied.

Can you teach the craft of writing? Yes. You can teach dialogue, characterization, point of view, theme, voice, plot….

Can you make an artist of any student? No. Only students can make themselves artists.

And speaking personally, I wouldn’t recommend it for mere mortals. But for those among us who would be gods, be gods. Create worlds, sculpt, dance, sing, paint, write. Stare at the sun. Don’t blink.

Confirmation

As 2006 ended, I received two emails from writing students. One from George, whom I have had the pleasure of plumbing the depths of the writing craft for more than a decade and one from Rob, who only recently attended a class I was teaching at Anne Arundel Community College.

I love teaching writing courses. Although "teaching" is a wholly inaccurate term. I don't believe you can teach someone to write; the artists discovers writing and is already an artist long before I come on the scene. But working with other artists has always helped my work. I suppose what amazed me though about these two recent emails is that periodically I hear from "students" and discover that I have been privileged to have had a positive impact on their lives.

George had organized an "appreciation" class for me during our December session. Unfortunately I was beset by a physical problem that prevented my participation. Following up on that, George wrote me an email:

I'm not sure that your pain at our last meeting allowed you to take in what I said to you -- something like "...you are one of the five people who have had a major positive impact on my life. If you hadn't turned me on to writing, I would have gone bananas long ago."
Apart from that, I wish the world were filled with people like you.
Which is why I end all my e-mails to you with
"Love, George."

I don't think George would mind my revealing that he has been living for eight decades and I would never have imagined that I would find myself in such rare company as one of only five people. And once more I realize that perhaps none of us know how important we are or have been in others' lives.

Around the same time, I received an email from Rob.

I want to say that I have a great deal of respect for your obvious passion for the art of writing. To me, it comes out when your entire blog is taken as a whole. Your challenge to each of us to simply “write it down”, all of it, without over analyzing before hand is always on my mind and I am trying to do that everyday. And I want to say thank you for all that you gave me in the class. “All” is the big word here because there is no doubt in my mind that I will be discovering what the “all” is for some time to come!
The seed you planted has grown into a small bush through our group, which continues to meet, and is valued by each of us.

The class that Rob attended developed a writer's group when the class ended and that group has continued to support and push one another to more effective works. I hadn't really considered how exposed I am in my blog because most of the time I assume that no one reads it beyond my daughter and Susan and occasionally another writer (like George or Rob). But it would not change what I write, no matter who was going to read it.

More than imagination, more than perfect grammer, more than an extended vocabulary, a writer must possess courage. Nothing is more powerful, evocative, and beautiful than the truth. I am not the first to say so or think so. Was it Eleanor Roosevelt who said "The thing you fear you cannot do is the thing you must do." (Please write me if you have the accurate quote.)

I am working on a piece of writing right now and have written most of it, save for one bit, the part I cannot write. So I know that that is what I must write. My writing friends bolster my courage to do so and watching the leap that every class has been willing to take with me strengthens my resolve to keep moving into deeper crevices, even when the walls seem insurmountable.

Thank you: Susan, Jon, Wendy, Joe, Rob, D, Heather, Steve, Vicki, George, Vivian, John, and others but first and foremost, Anna Kirby Ward.

Channeling Sheryl Crow

Try to love me, if you can. Are you strong enough to be my man? My man.

I know a lot of people who say they have given up on relationships. I won't be one of them though. And I'm not at all certain I believe the ones who say they've given up: they can't trust, they can't open themselves up, they are too set in their ways. But I do realize that I present certain challenges (as does everyone). But one of the most daunting for any man is when he encounters a strong woman, no matter how attractive it may seem in the abstract, the reality will send most men seeking quieter waters. And who can blame them. So before things get too far, I usually raise the Sheryl Crow question. I'll let you know if I get any takers.

PS For the back story on the photo and the t-shirt, click here

Truth or Consequences

Sometimes when you adjust the view, the landscape, the whole world can change. I can't wait to see what happens next!

Phrases Like "Plumb Fond"

And even though it's August
She's thinking of Jan. 2005
and how it's just like a
farmer-boy hustler hitting on
an east coast lady to use
the phrase "plumb fond"
and go on and on about
her eyes.

And it's right about this
time he drops his shoulder
in the "aw shucks ma'am"
manner that Alice
decides she'd really
like to rip his heart out and
- bear his children
and crawl naked over that
hairy back -
all at the same time.

A rose by any other name . . .

Mary Lorraine -- [noun]: A poltergeist sent back in time to change the course of history forever 'How" will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Make No Sound

Here is the sound of
the trolley leaving in the snow,
and the weep of the empty cupboard.
Here is the room of sparse furniture,
thin carpets,
the upright keyboard with
dusty keys and snow
flakes drifting on the balustrades,
chipped paint and faded wallpaper,
solid brass work on the doors.


The world is so small:
A closet, a space behind the stair.
Live where the mice live.
Move only in the dark.
Make no sound.
Wear no face. Flat
mouth, eyes at 500 yards.

And so this is Christmas. I hope you had fun . . .

I love Christmas – it’s not that I’m particularly Christian except by the definition to be a “tian” is o ascribe or have allegiance somehow – as in Italian = from Italy and vegetarians eat only vegetables. So if I think the story of Jesus life as it is told to us is something to emulate; Would that be what it is to be a Christian regardless of his lineage – then I would be a Christian – and a Buddhist and a Darwinian and a Mostian (after Moses) and a follower of Ruth and Mary of Magdelena, and of Angelina Jolie and Bono and all people who look into the eyes of any human being, ANY, and sees themselves, sees G-d, sees the potential for humankind to be everything it is capable of being.

But that is not what I love about Christmas. My children have been with me every Christmas eve and morning since the days they were born. And since then, every December 24th and December 25th has been precious; full of laughter and hugs and a chance to surprise my children and give them things that aids their dreams. For Dylan this year it is a music journal to write his compositions and a good digital camera for Sara to take on her trip to Europe when she graduates from college and does the trip with knowledge she had not known she could possess to places she did not know she would travel.

Here is our tree – bought last minute on Dec. 23rd – Dyl’s piano and guitar and soccer ornaments and Sara’s childhood touched hearts and blind reindeer and Love the Irish ornaments and my own monkeys and wine corks, angels and blown glass. The children decorated it Dec. 24th in the afternoon while I was still showering and dressing for the evening. They did the final touches, made the decisions. They knew I needed help, had spread my efforts too thin, run behind, This is what they made.

But the moment on Christmas day when they leave is one I always steel myself against- make ready – I cannot not be ready for that – today it comes at 1:15 PM. My son leaves with his father, they slip outside into the rain, the chill air coming in through the door. Sara loads her car with her presents and comes back inside for a hug to hold her the rest of the day. Here is her beautiful face, her scarf and her whimsical sense just before she leaves.
Then she gets in her car, turns on her windshield wipers and drives off to her father’s house. This Marley’s chain that I have made, link by link, divorce by divorce. It’s mine. So as they drive away, I notice that by the cars left outside my sextet of townhouses, that I am the only one home, and with no one that I will be visiting. I only allow a moments sadness because I am the lucky one. I had a miraculous night of Christmas Eve, full and a warm, loving morning. Just as I am standing at the window watching the tail lights disappear in the misty gray rain, the phone rings – my brother Michael has phoned as he drives with his wife, Debra, to visit her family. He asks if I am okay, tells me he will phone me in the evening.

I also talk to my brother David and niece, Jennifer, and wife, Susan and they remind me how loved I am, how I am at home with them. It is clear how we care for one another, always have.

My brothers and I knew we had to care for one another. Now we want to care for one another.

Michael does phone on his ride home – he and Debra, making sure that I am okay, not sad, not too lonely. And I am not. Not at all because he has called, and because of my conversation with David and Susan and because later I know I will hear again from Sara.

My gifts are my children, my brothers, my sister, my family. And even my dog, Sally. Who must go outside and makes me get up and fed her and she climbs onto my lap and demands that I play and can not fall into any type of pity party. She makes me about life, here now. She eats and sleeps and plays and does not judge and displays her feelings honestly. If one owns/raises pets, one learns how to get through every single day.


So here we were. I am the luckiest of the lucky.

Heights

It is easy to make the mistake of

Scrambling up a trail or a staircase,

Seeing the promise of what is ahead,

Only to realize once you reach the

Summit, that the road back to where

You were is either impossible

Or is riddled with pain.

You Know Dylan, Right?

You are the black sneakers and Persagel.
You are the shaggy wool of the yak
And the smell of the new cut grass.
You are a winter storm coming
And the chipmunk running for cover.

However, you are not the brass
Elephant candle holder
Or the rolled carpet or
The Degas posed figurine.

It is possible you are the telescope at
The window,
Maybe even the lone falcon
Perched on a high branch
But you are not even close to
Being sunlight reflected on the windshield.

And a quick look in the
Aluminum toaster will show
That you are neither the
Tarragon growing on the deck
Nor the bike with the flat tires
In the basement.

You might enjoy knowing that
I am the sound of an LP falling
Onto a turntable.
I also happen to be the dance
In the leaves of the lilac,
And the smell of bread rising and
The flat tire on the bike in the basement.

I am the curved knick on the
Cherry tabletop and the sound of
The dog lapping his water.

but I am not winter coming
And the lone falcon. You are still
Winter coming and the lone falcon.
You will always be winter coming
And the lone falcon,
Not to mention the pine needles
crunched under the hunter’s boot
And somehow the barometer.

Rain Dancing

Sympatico

These were the things she could not say to him: That leaving him was like snipping the stitches from a yet unhealed wound. That snowy Sunday afternoons were cold and hollow. That she might not be able to maintain a one-dimensional relationship; not with all her dimensions constantly firing. She was sick of people telling her how strong she was, how smart, how capable, how pretty. Surely, if she were as smart, pretty, strong, capable as they said, she would not spend this long, lazy, snowy afternoon all alone. But she did. Finding the dressing for her Christmas tree, unpacking an overnight bag, suffocating any hope she may have felt in her heart, holding it securely under water, her fingers tightening on its blushing throat.

So was it by her own design - oh yes. She wasted men. Thought too much, wanted too much, talked too much about everything but her needs. Her need. It knotted up in her chest, squatted in the hollow of her neck threatening to scream out, but never could. It was pitiful to her - disrespectful. So she was quiet. She called no one.

And she thought how her children loved her - how there were adventures and fun times ahead for her, how lucky she was in her health and abilities, her comfortable home, even in her stubbornness, her resolve with the bricks in place and mounting higher.

Her phone rings - let it ring - one - two - three - her hand on it the whole time. "Hello," as if she'd just walked into the room to snatch it up while she had been otherwise engaged. The fraud. Jayne? Yes. Hi "Jayne, this is John with MCI." She doesn't even hang up on John, with MCI. Takes a moment to tell him, "No thanks, good luck on your next call."

This was her downfall - her weakness, men. Or rather the romance of men. Of love. It wasn't the individual men, per se. It was the promise of love, of caring, of safety. It was as mythical as the unicorn, pure shimmering hope with a solitary horn. A dream. She chased it, captured it, was disappointed by it and left it standing in a pasture with downcast head. Then, she asked for sympathy.

Finding Oneself in Story

“Was he the only one who had known about the dark places? The dirty dark places where you were so alone and wretchedly voiceless? Maybe she didn't know all that he had, but she knew enough. Certainly she knew he had been haunted, and would never look into a mirror -- any reflective surface, if he could help it -- after the sun went down. And she had loved him in spite of all that.” Stephen King, Lisey’s Story

This is what powerful writing can do, reveal ourselves to ourselves. If you have never read Stephen King you are missing out on an amazing experience. Ezra Pound said that as one is reading the book should be like a "bolt of light" in his hand. King's work is a "bolt of light." Frequently it is a light that illuminates something in myself that would also have driven me from looking into mirrors, but I am grateful in the end.

Apocryphal

Larry steps right into her apocryphal embrace,
steeped in lattice and widow’s peaks and
all things necrophilia.

Larry steps into handmade tablecloths and
and Steiff Rose silver and the mystifying scent of honey
dust in on the back of her neck.

Here is the tuck of her chin, the slope
of her shoulder and the anvil at the base
of her throat, full of silverfish.

Larry steps in, with the miner’s helmet and
pick and cannot unearth her secret places
and the words she never said.

shhhhh . . . .

in my head, all i hear are dialogues - they never shut up. when i think of shooting them to silence them, i realize the consequences.

Ah Coffee reading makes more poetry

It is a heady experience being a featured reader. Many of my friends came and bolstered my confidence and the hosts and creators of The Poet Experience were welcoming, and their poetry was awesome. Amy's compositions are so lyrical and her voice so amazing that she should sing all the time, even words like "Where's the pumpkin? I feel like a jack-o-lantern." And Sylvia had an image of a horse in her poem that lingers with me still and Don (I think that was his name) painted beautiful southwest landscapes and some one else read about her 31 year old self (sorry I forgot your name). Susan Moger's prose and poetry were so moving that my sister cried.

Last night I woke at 3:42 AM, my mind awash with details from the night. As it turns out, my friend Susan also awoke about 4 AM and wrote a poem in her head that just blows me away. Here is her poem and it speaks to the reading more than anything I could possibly write.

I want to be a poet for Halloween
With golden hair like perfect parentheses
Wearing a transparent-sleeved blouse like a metaphor for hidden meaning;
In shoes as beautiful as the words "heart" "belt" "dock" "coat"
I want to be a poet for Halloween
Glamourous in the old way -- magical, spell-binding--
Turning words and hearts inside out

I want to be a poem of Mary's for Halloween
With turns of phrase that hook the heart,
Water images that melt sugary surfaces of perception
I want to be a poem of Mary's for Halloween
At a party with other poems, in a ribbon-tied book, made just for us.

Public Appearance! Ah Coffee with Rocky Jones and Cliff Lynn

At 6:30 PM this Friday, I've been invited to be the featured reader at an event called The Poet Experience. This is held at Ah Coffee 1015 Bay Ridge Av, Annapolis, MD 21403

If you've never caught Rocky and Cliff's performances, they bring a whole new element to the poetry reading environment. With unconvential forms and Rocky's drums, they define a new expression in creative spoken word.

As for my work, expect poetry, a few very short stories, and a glimpse at my pillow book. These are not your mother's poems. There will be confusion. There will be questions. All answers will be provided in san skrit.

The reading includes open mic time so bring your own verses along and take a turn at the mic.

Last night I was chased by a big brown bear

Last night, I dreamed I was in a large wood, with cabins and trails and wolves who howl as you press your head to the pillow. In the morning, I took my long walk to see the sun fall through the lattice of the tree leaves. I reached the farthest rim of the park, the last cottage and a woman who was just packing her final suitcases into her Subaru outback.
“G’morning,” I breathed and smiled at her.
“Best be careful.” She said and nodded toward the outhouse in the woods just beyond the road. “Think the bears are hungry.”
A clapboard of planks housing a latrine under the arch of pines shook. The wooden door swayed a bit. She opened her car door. “But I needed the bathroom,” I say. It’s so ungracious, so human, such a thing in the woods to realize.
“Yeah,” she said. “I’d like to help. But I’ll miss my flight.” She opened the driver’s door and put her right foot in. “You better get on.”
And the outhouse door bounced open and the broad back of a large brown bear backed out. I didn’t wait for the bear to turn around.
Her car backed up the road over pavement. It was solid ground and uphill. Downhill there was brush, limbs, maybe rabbits, deer, and camouflage. Brush and other bear-like distractions and below was the camp meeting house, a glass walled A-frame.

I raced downhill with all the agility and speed I held when I was twelve. My legs were agile and strong, my feet were solid and sturdy and my speed was miraculous. So I reached the meeting house and turned to see the bear standing twenty feet away, the light coming from the house confusing him, messing with his vision. He was smelling me out. He was tall, brown and shaggy and sniffing the air.

I opened the door and the click was like a shotgun to him. He lowered and lumbered straight for the meeting house, an A-frame structure with only two rooms, a large meeting room and a small office. All the walls were glass except the door to the office, the bottom third, a solid panel, would hide me.

I raced inside and the camp dog raced out, barking and spinning, the black and brown spots on his white back spinning as he circled and yipped, his teeth bared and his ears on alert. The dog ran into the great room and I knew how to live. I knew what would happen. The bear was at the front door. I pulled the office door nearly shut, lay on the floor, pulled up close to the door and breathed the mushroom mildew scent of the floor, the metal smell of my own breath, and heard the dog growl, and bark, his claws ticking on the wood floor, faster than flamingo dancers. The bear’s heavy mud-cased step and sweep of the arm through the air terrified.

I raised my head. Saw the bear catch the dog, heard the cry, and put down my head and prayed that it would be enough, that it would satisfy the bear.

You’re Bringing Out the Elvis in Me.

Country music is not my first choice but once in a while a woman needs/wants/ thrives on the verses of Shania and Faith Hill. And as for me, I have to say when I ponder what it might like to be to have a partner where our blood beats with the same passion and build a universe we can call our religion, I think of Faith Hill and that guy she’s married.

But then I wonder. She wrote this song What’s In It For Me? And I should listen to this song more often. Instead I plummet into the stream of Breathe and It will Be Me. Isn’t that the way that’s love supposed to be? Maybe. But I can breathe and I know how precious the feeling is of the hearts and breathes in tandem. My babies sleeping on my chest, my own chest pressed against yours. . . same beat, bellies warming. So how do you find love after all?

This is the dichotomy of country music. I was reared in the role of the family enabler. Guilty as charged but, of course, not guilty. At this point you wouldn’t think I would confuse it with other things but maybe things swirl so it’s not all this or that; it so rarely is black or white. My needs are in the mix too. I know it. I can help you. Whoever decided that that concept is right anyway? How come an enabler can enable while people can really only help themselves and you can't help someone who doesn't want help?

I can do anything to which I set my mind. So here is my mind set: whether country music sets your world on fire or not (and it is not my first touch on the juke box), I want what I imagine Faith Hill has and I can find it, nurture it, curl it into my arms every night even if I find it like a piece of coal. If the conditions are right, we’ll have gems.

But just as often, I hear Cheryl Wheeler sing Almost and there is no doubt that I’ve been found out. I counter it with Faith Hill’s You’re Bringing out the Elvis in Me. It’s a good disguise.