Tuesday, January 2, 2018

The Daily {W}rite, January o1, 2018 wk o1

Yes, a fresh new year has begun. Day one. A new beginning, new rules, new desires, new life choices that will be worked on or at until . . . until we no longer care to try. Not uncommon in humans. To try to change one's path, trajectory, the size of an ever expanding universe . . . alright, yes, I'm way over weight a stomach area that's already reached Hitchcockian dimensions.  Yes, alright and I will say too I'll write every day . . . EVERY day . .  . and I will intend to do just that but . . . will I? And yes new poetry, brand spanking new not retreads from the years before but a whole new world of words and rhymes and secrets about this life I've lead. Yes my intentions are pure but will I follow through?

Tuesday, January o2, 2o18 3:43am

Devastating loss at the Rose Bowl for OU fans. But we'll live through it. I'm wondering how the only Georgia fan at Louie's tonight made out. Extremely vocal every time the Bulldogs made a touch down. A few of the hardcore Sooners took it personal. One lady even said something to him which made her "friend" yell at her for acting like an idiot and she yelled back and the next thing we knew he grabbed up his hat and coat and stormed out of Louie's leaving the poor woman sitting there alone. In Oklahoma three things you never argue about: 1. Religion 2. Politics 3. OU friggin' football.

He grasped the open air
and found nothing there.

I don't own a bed just a couch, which makes sleeping a precarious endeavor since the couch's length is shorter than my body. My legs dangle over open space when I lay down. So, I wind up sleeping most nights in a sitting position. Having my feet on the floor when I sleep always makes my subconscious  wary  that while I'm off in dreamland some vagrant mouse might invade the apartment and nibble my toes . . . and i wake up every hour or so to make sure I still got feet. It would be very difficult to wear the new Chucks David bought me without feet.

Thursday, January o4, 2o18 12:5am
So, David turned me on to another great American poet who I had no idea existed. And yes, he is quit the master of words, Archibald MacLeish!

Ars Poetica by Archibald MacLeish

A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,

As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown—

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,  
Memory by memory the mind—

A poem should be motionless in time  
As the moon climbs.

A poem should be equal to:
Not true.

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea—

A poem should not mean  
But be.

So, this had me thinking all day about poetry and how much of a poet I am . . . not. No, seriously. I have no understanding of the art. Poems SEE things differently than us mere writers of words. I mean, I write about the moon but it is always the moon as others have seen her or as I have always seen her, but Archie looks at the moon and sees: A poem should be motionless in time /As the moon climbs,/ Leaving, as the moon releases/Twig by twig the night-entangled trees . . .
Do you see how beautiful his moon is, how alive it is, how well written? But maybe I shouldn't be to harsh. How does this hold up to A's description of the moon?

Lately though, he noticed the Moon, his Moon,
her looks had started to fade, to go.
Too many large craters along her brow, these days.
Shadows cut deep gullies along the inside
of her tender Maria . . . transforming her,
bending her pale smile into a dark and dusty frown.
Her charm all but dried up, and his desire
to be with her . . . all of a sudden . . . gone.

Memory. The ghost that haunts us all. The rattling thought, dark and bright like a jar captured in sunlight. I, the me a dreamy thought plastered against the moody shores where black face ducks pick breadcrumbs off each others back. A crack of thunder, faces staring through the cracks, stern, globular blobs, we see the past throbbing, we see the hairs sprouting from the misshapen snouts and there is rain, an army of rain overrunning the hilltops where childhood hunkers down in muddy foxholes. We cannot rip our eyes out fast enough. We cannot wake fast enough  from the slaughter of our youthful smiles and hopeful dreams that have turn on us becoming nightmares, spoiled milk dripping from mother's dead smile. 

Saturday, January o6, 2o18
Started working at Bette Maffucci's Town Tavern sometime in the mid 70's. Great little restaurant. But to be honest I was a terrible short order cook. Horrible. I couldn't take the fast pace a place like the tavern demands. I was angry all the time, mean to everybody including customers . . . and for some reason I never got fired. One Saturday night, I went to the Tavern to eat and Tony Maffucci (Bette's husband) called me over to the booth he was sitting in. I sat down and he shot me this big smile and asked, "You doing all right, Woodie?" And I told him no, and then he asked what was wrong and I just started telling him my whole life story . . . mom and dad divorced when I was young . . .blah, blah, blah . . . drunken stepfather knocked out my front teeth with his fists when I was 16 . . . blah, blah, blah . . .!" and I went on like that for a good 20 minutes or so until I just ran out of things to say. When I finished Tony leaned forward and said, "Hey, don't worry about it, things will get better." And usually when some one says that kind of line you just blow it off. But when Tony said it, I believed him. He was really interested in you in your life.
I mean, through that whole diatribe Tony didn't take his eyes off of me. He wasn't checking his watch and secretly praying I would shut the hell up! None of that. And that was Tony's gift. He was fascinated with other people . . . and other people were fascinated by him. He'd walk into the Tavern and everybody's eye would go to him . . . and he hadn't done anything but walk in! He just looked like someone you wanted to know. He was a good friend to everybody, even strangers. Tony left this plane of existence this last Friday morning. And the world truly is a sadder place with out him.
I think it was his natural smile, you know. Always that welcoming smile on his face, "Hey, sit down, tell me all about yourself."

Sunday, January o7, 2o18
So, the end of a week in the new year. Not bad. Got a bit of writing down, and started a few new poems. I'm gearing up to start searching for publishers for my book of poetry. It's taken a while to get up the nerve to actually try to get published. We'll see what happens. :)

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