Sneezes and Avalanches

There. We moved. All I need to do now is figure out what, where, when, why, how, and who. In the meantime, between sneezes and avalanches, I think I’ll visit my favorite blogs. I’m anxious to see what folks have written and painted while I was away.

Update:
New Forum page added.

One Last Thing

One Last Thing
by Rachel Andrews
July 11, 2009

Thanks, Rachel, for the wonderful surprise!

Update:
In the Forum: At long last, after talking nonstop for six and a half years, we have a chance to stand up, stretch, and visit the bathroom.

Abandoned

Empty cupboards
and bare walls:
did you know
that we had gone?

What did you feel
that first long night alone?

A sigh at every window,
gray hands upon each knob.

And when strangers hurried on?

I drove them mad with groans,
made their fires all go out.

A wise approach. And now?

I’m as mad as anyone.

From Songs and Letters, originally published November 15, 2006.

Note: We’re in the process of moving to my mother’s house. We won’t have an Internet connection there until Thursday, July 16. The connection in this house will be on through that date, but I don’t know how practical it will be to work on the floor in the corner of a dusty bedroom — and yet, it’s tempting to try....


Updates:
A short note about our historic move added to News and Reviews.

In the Forum: anti-smirk training.

Let It Be Folly, Let It Be Prayer

There is no deep, brooding reason I work in the dark, aided only by the glow that emanates from my computer screen. I open the blinds and leave the light off simply to watch and absorb the arrival of dawn. I used to do the same thing, in effect, when we lived on the farm. I loved to be out before the sun was up, and to observe the solemn outline of the barns and trees and orchards and vines. City or country, to me, a day begun in this manner seems to have a better chance of being productive, fulfilling, and right.

I also like to work with the lights off at dusk, glancing occasionally out the window as the landscape fades and the neighbors’ lights come on. And I like to work during the day, when sunlight floods the room and brings colors to life and objects into focus. I like to work through storms, both meteorological and mental.

I like to work when daylight turns to honey,
the streets to cold black water, the earth to chocolate,
the sun to lemon, the stars to tears, the leaves to hands,
the shadows to friends, the mountains to myth,
the rivers to veins, the gravestones to miles,
the warmth of flesh to a cure.

I like to work knowing my life could end at any moment, and that the words I spend will glimmer, then fade. I do not want to live forever, but I already have. Or, if I must, then let it be for a short time. Let it be now, alone, together, distant, and near.

Let it be folly. Let it be prayer.

From Songs and Letters, originally published October 22, 2006.


Update:
In the Forum: P.F. Flyers, the sneaker encyclopedia.

The Shadow Knows

A man’s shadow refuses to cross the street. After arguing about a shadow’s rights and responsibilities, the man decides to cross anyway and is killed by a speeding car before he can reach the other side. A crowd gathers around his body. The shadow joins them. A policeman arrives, and after a quick count places the shadow under arrest. Filled with remorse, the shadow dies in prison before it can be brought to trial.

Note: File under Marginalia and/or Poems, Slightly Confused.


Update:
In the Forum: trying to remember old encyclopedia names.

River Incident

At a dangerous turn in the river, a raft loaded with farm animals hits a snag. Several fall off — sheep, pigs, goats, cows — and are swept into the current. The air is filled with heartrending cries. Those still on board jump in the water after them. One, however, a large tan-colored pig with black spots, calmly climbs ashore and starts foraging in someone’s brightly colored vegetable garden. The pig doesn’t notice when the others slip beneath the surface.

Added yesterday to the Annandale Dream Gazette. My thanks, as always, to Lynn Behrendt.


Update:
As the Conversation continues, we marvel at the simple wonder of Funk and Wagnalls Encyclopedia.

Full Circle

My father’s birthday once again,
and what do I remember?

The uncharted stillness
of his hands, and how our grapes
began to ripen at this time
of year.

From Songs and Letters, first published July 2, 2007.


Recently Linked: My thanks to Cedar, who writes the blog Cedarflame, for signing on as a follower of Recently Banned Literature.

In the Forum: the famous Funk and Wagnalls backpack.

First Try

Old crow, you sound like
my father’s outboard motor —
ten horses, no tails.

(first publication)


Updates:
“First Try” added to Poems, Slightly Used.

In the Forum: all Willipedia, all the time.

July Rain

Dying is such old work — I settle the dust in our yard with a hose.

(first publication)


Updates:
“July Rain” added to Poems, Slightly Used.

In the Forum: rhubarb redefined.

Time and Space

That’s interesting. Out of habit, I just stepped around the empty spot next to my work table where, until two days ago, a chair used to be. I wonder — what else do I unconsciously avoid?

7.4.2009 #2
7.4.2009 #1

At the Armenian Home

Even after his stroke and up to his death at the age of ninety-three, my grandfather never did forget who we were. Many at the Armenian Home in Fresno, where he chose to spend the last few years of his life, weren’t as fortunate. This short poem was inspired by our many visits there, and by the vineyards we used to pass on the way.


At the Armenian Home

He remembers
his old muscat vineyard,
but not their names.

Their faces are familiar,
like sunflowers
on wide, crooked stems.

The blue sky
above his field
is warm and clear.

His grapes are sweet,
with seeds like
small, hard stones.

He asks them to stay,
so they can enjoy
the abundant fruit.

Introduction and poem from Collected Poems, circa 2005. “At the Armenian Home” first appeared in Ararat (New York).


Update:
As the Conversation continues, an index is generated on the fly.

So I Hear

So I Hear
#2 Pencil on Dimpled Index Card
July 3, 2009

Recently Linked: A pleasant welcome to Mark Marcarian, who has just signed on as a follower of Recently Banned Literature. Thanks, Mark.

7.3.2009 #2
7.3.2009 #1

Smoke

Treasured belongings:
when you have to move them
the things you own
own you.

But not only then
and not only
things

it’s true.

From Songs and Letters, originally published July 2, 2009.


Recently Linked: My thanks to Gerry Boyd and Stepanos Keshishian for signing on as followers of this blog.

Update:
In the Forum: Crassus’s favorite poet.

High Tide

The sound of the freeway
is the surf,

the trucker’s brake
a spouting

whale.

(first publication)


Updates:
“High Tide” added to Poems, Slightly Used.

In the Forum: Crassus and rhubarb, according to Willipedia.

Sidebar Notes

Following this morning’s exchange of comments in the RBL Open Interview, I thought it would be a good time to mention once again that links to that page can be found under the “Departments” heading and in the “Reference Section.”

Also, the names of two blogs in the “Reading Room” were changed by their authors some time back. Russ Allison Loar’s blog “Another Poem” is now Writing A Poem.com, and Kevin McCollister’s “The Jimson Weed Gazette” has become East of West L.A. The URLs of both, however, remain unchanged.

7.1.2009 #2
7.1.2009 #1

Up Here On the Hill

The poem you’re about to read came into being this way: Last night, after I turned off the lamp beside the bed, I decided it would be fun to try to compose a poem before I went to sleep. But before I could think up a single line, I was asleep, although I didn’t find that out until later, when my eyes popped open at about four a.m. and an entire poem was looking out at me from the wall. Ah-ha, I said — there you are. And then I marveled at the poem for about two minutes. But the poem you’re about to read isn’t that poem, because I fell asleep again, and when my eyes popped open the second time the poem was gone, just as if it had never been written — which, come to think of it, is exactly the case. How do I know the poem you’re about to read isn’t the poem that came to me in bed? Simple: that poem was a lot better than this one. I wrote this one when I was awake, and, as most people already know, I am not nearly as sharp awake as I am asleep — not that I can always tell the difference.


Up Here On the Hill

Well, the story goes,
they buried me
up here on the hill
but I went right on talking,
pretty much to anybody
who comes along —
put a scare into some
of ’em, too, figuring
I am dead and all,
and the truth is I can’t
explain it myself,
whether it’s the location,
maybe, and all that nice air
up here on the hill,
and the grass that grows
and the flowers that bloom,
or I ain’t really dead
though I seem to lie here
awfully still, or just restless
in my head like I always
been when a storm is comin’ in —
whatever it is, I sure wish
some of ’em would answer,
’cause for a man in my place
that would be a thrill,
and life ain’t all it oughta be
up here on the hill.

Introduction and poem from Collected Poems, circa 2006.


Update:
In the Forum: the LSD of encyclopedias.

Lost and Found

Heirloom dishes
and my cousin’s dented trumpet

my mother tore her sisters’
picture yesterday.

From Songs and Letters, originally published June 29, 2009.


Elsewhere: My thanks to Lola Koundakjian for quoting my definition of Poet in the Armenian Poetry Project.

Abstract Dejectivism

Abstract Dejectivism
June 28, 2009
#2 Pencil on Index Card

Recently Linked: My thanks to Rudhi for signing on as a follower of Recently Banned Literature. You can see some of his artwork at his blog, Rudhi - By Chance, which is also linked in the “Reading Room.” And there is much to explore at his main website, here.

Update:
In the Forum: multiple Willipedias.

One Man’s Trash Is Another Man’s Treasure

Between sneezes, I’ve been finding some interesting things in the cardboard boxes I stashed away years ago in our eldest son’s closet — papers, folders, notebooks, and other remnants of my writing “career.” One such oddity was a yellow folder containing the second part of a handwritten collaboration with a friend in high school — a totally ridiculous story about a preacher prone to heart attacks, his devoted but simple-minded, drug-addled wife, and the “good” doctor who keeps them both in a state of frenzy as he tries to do away with the preacher and win the wife for his own. This was after the preacher’s big lecture tour, of course, which was also interrupted by several heart attacks. Ah, yes — those were the good old days.

Another thing I found is the typescript of a children’s story I wrote in 1992, I believe, called “Old Grandpa Moon.” One night many years ago, a friend of mine and I were walking in the neighborhood of his apartment in Fresno when he looked up and said, “There’s Grandpa Moon.” And he talked a little bit about spending time with his grandfather in the village where he grew up in Western Turkey — about going out into the field together and spending the night with him outdoors near a fire he had built. The image stuck with me, and a few years later I wrote the story, although it is set inside instead of out.

When I have time, I just might re-type the story on the computer and share it with the world. What I would really love to do, though, is find an illustrator — in this case, my wretched self-portraits simply won’t do — and publish it together as a children’s book.


Updates:
“One Man’s Trash Is Another Man’s Treasure” is the newest addition to my Notebook. Past entries can be found here.

In the Forum: HG Wells, Rebecca West, and Anthony Panther West.

A Carpenter and a Madman

I’m in a strange house with strange rooms oddly juxtaposed.
Doors are where they shouldn’t be; some open onto walls.
I ask the carpenter why this is so.
Muscular and old, he answers with a smile.

Now we’re outside, walking through an old industrial area.
I see trucks; workmen; the smudged rear windows of warehouses.

The carpenter is no longer a carpenter.
His work apron is gone.
Now he’s a madman with twinkling eyes.

Who knows what he knows.

Added yesterday to the Annandale Dream Gazette. Also added: “Comfort,” previously posted here.


Update:
In the Forum: HG Wells and Gorky’s secretary, Moura Zakrevskaya.