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Right on, Write on.

Keeping a blog is one of those things.  No, not those things. Those things.  One of those things that appear unnecessary and superfluous on the surface.  It “eats” time and takes energy that could and “should be spent elsewhere.  Such as in writing “legitimate” pieces, be they poetry, essays, letters, or even email correspondence.  But the fact is, as I often discount, keeping a regular journal — online or otherwise — often makes this other writing easier and more productive. 

Sigh.

Still, I have a terrible time allowing myself to write a blog or a friendly letter when I know I have so much else I “should be doing.”  Such as paying work.  But I digress.  Here I am.

This past week was wonderful for planting seeds and for finding motivation to write.  Last Thursday I managed to make it to the local monthly poetry workshop group.  It’s thanks to that group that I manage to write even one poem a month.  I mean, I have to have SOMETHING to share there.  So I usually write it in the 30 minutes before I have to leave.  I wish it was a bi-weekly group instead. Two poems a month would mean I would probably have enough for that collection I’ve been working on for about 5 years now…

On Saturday, thanks to my husband and a good friend who watched my kids for a couple hours, I managed to make it to the SCWW Writers Intensive workshop/lecture.  It was good, though I was only able to stick around for the first half, and I caught the speaker who was less relevant to my work.  Still, the opportunity to network was wonderful, and the speaker managed to convince me I need to do some work capturing and gathering some family memories, if only for the sake of handing the stories down to the next generation.  Ideally, though, I would love to write them into a Dave Eggers style novel/memoir.  I even went as far as to tell my mom the plan.  I’m not sure how on board she is, but I think she’ll help.  I hope so.  She and her siblings will be essential to this.

On Sunday I had the privilege of attending a moonShine review release party.  The day was HOT, but there was a pool, wine, plenty of good food, and a crowd of people who I respect very much and whose work I enjoy.  Not the least of these people was the hostess of the party and chief editor of moonShine, Anne Hicks, who also edited my chapbook, Lemonade & Rumors.  It was wonderful to see her.  And, frankly, I ate up the encouragement she doled out, prodding me to get that second collection done.  She wants to edit it, which would be wonderful.  Her help with the last collection made the experience such a rewarding one.

Still, since Sunday, what have I written?  This.  Period. 

But at least I’ve written that much, right?

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Dancing to the music of poetry

I am not sure where I am but I am in Massachusetts in an old mill, converted to gathering space. There is a bar. There are people, talking. And there is music here. Jazz. Poetry.

I am feeling the warmth of all of the above, including the low hum of one plastic cup of chardonnay. I am missing the words to this poem: they are playing the "da-daa da-daa" baseline of "Billie Jean," and it makes me smile.

I see Robert Pinsky talking with some bearded man I don't know. Really. And I think, "how different to be a poet." A rock star would not have this breathing room. He is alone now in the crowd, Mr. Pinsky, that is: the man with the beard is laughing with a woman now. I wonder if the Poet Laureate is alone out of respect or his fans' introversion. I suppose both.

There are drums now and woodwinds to charm a snake. I move my hips — Mom used to call them "snake hips" — and think, "this is the closest I will ever get to Java Joes," and I'm ok with that. This man is singing in bright exotic jazz tones about "the word."

I think of God.

The instruments have stopped, but the music continues with the buzz of conversation to soften it. My ears will ring when I leave here, filling the silence in the streetlight lit streets. The weight of words in my limbs.

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Temptation on the Sixth Day

Here at the office, the monotony of the work lengthens the day, stretches it as if the tied to some archaic torture device, threatening to draw and quarter the hours. A good playlist can counter this, of course.

Well, for the first time since I started my fast, I was tempted to open my media player here at work. (Really, up til today, I had been busy enough and away from my computer enough that there was no point. That and the streaming radio at 1079thelink.com was pretty decent.) So I opened it to find the last played playlist: a mix of Jason Mraz, Jump Little Children , Jars of Clay, and Ari Hest. Rather than cull out the forbidden tunes, I figured it was time for something new altogether. So when I went to pick my ear-candy, I notice an “album” that I’d not listened to as a whole, and I figured it was about time.

Enter Billy Collins.

I have such respect for Billy C. His poetry is, at the same time, finely crafted and highly accessible. The poetry community should aspire to these traits, always and concurrently. By creating work that reveals the true beauty of “plain” language and thought, we all are given a flicker of the hope of creativity, maybe even enough of a spark to spur our own poet within.

I’ve read plenty of Billy Collins’ work, but there’s always something magical about hearing him, or really any fine poet, speak his own work. I took the 30+ tracks I had and made a playlist of only those. Wow. Good stuff.

If you’re not yet a fan, or if you are but never thought to look for his spoken work, do yourself a favor and download a few (or all) here.

And on the sixth day, Billy C. saved me from temptation.