December 11, 2012 § Leave a comment
Poetry is what gets lost in translation.
March 2, 2012 § Leave a comment
Poets are not born in a country.
Poets are born in childhood.
June 8, 2011 § Leave a comment
Listening for poetry in the flow of the traffic. Heat already overwhelming.
March 30, 2011 § Leave a comment
It helps to know the wilderness around you enough
so you can hide in it when you have to.
[My poetry is getting more prose-like. I don’t know why, and I can’t stop it.]
March 17, 2011 § Leave a comment
Another thing to avoid in poetry: taking yourself too seriously. Ezra Pound did and look how he ended up.
March 3, 2011 § Leave a comment
Six rifles, six shotguns: I grew up with them. They remained unremembered until a year ago when the pond by the house was drained. The bottom of the pond was lined with a couple of inches of lead shot.
Six rifles and six shotguns in the den, not far from the TV and the fireplace. Their stocks were of the same wood that lined the walls and the floor. All the wood shined.
I touched one once, proving to my father at thirteen that I would never be able to shoot skeet one winter Sunday at the skeet range that he and my uncle had built around the pond. The clay pigeons whizzed past faster than I could aim the gun and I emptied two shells’ worth of shot in the direction of the water. The rest of my Sundays were spent inside.
The house is gone and the pond drained, the layer of lead shot and a few empty shotgun shells there for everyone to see, And now it has been a year, and the lead shot hauled away and contained. And now I remember the Sundays and the guns and my father who has been gone one more year.
January 25, 2011 § 2 Comments
Especially this morning when I have found here in Boulder a coffee shop that doubles as a poetry book store. I sit here with my latté surrounded by everyone from Yeats to Yvor Winters, three shelves of Pablo Neruda, Mary Karr and Ray Bradbury. Ezra Pound‘s complete Cantos are sitting there staring at me, waiting to set off little cherry bombs in my mind.
I break off the ice and apologize to myself for not writing.
Innisfree Poetry Bookstore and Café
1203 13th Street, Suite A