One Stop Shop Blog Hop

So, this is part of a fun blogger’s initiative called a “Blog Hop.” Here’s how it works. I was invited by writer/poet friend, Lesley-Anne Evans, to join what amounts to a writer’s pyramid scheme. The rules of the game? Tag three other bloggers, all of whom will answer four questions about writing and the writing process. We post two weeks after the previous crew. Therefore, every two weeks, the number of bloggers posting grows exponentially!

The goal is simple – to connect writers who blog in a tighter community and hopefully, enrich others looking for answers to their own writing questions.   Lesley-Anne is a gifted writer and poet who spends much of her time beautifying neighborhoods, cafes, street corners…wherever really, with poetry “installations.” She also does a fun thing called “Pop-up Poetry.” To see her contribution, click here.  

We begin:

1) What am I working on? 

Light Write, June 26/14
Light Write poetry/photography exhibition, June 26/14

These days, apparently, poetry is the language I speak. I’m learning to speak this language with more weight (as Lesley-Anne would say!), clarity, and authenticity. But also, simplicity. The degree to which my language learning translates into quality production remains to be seen. But, like my poetry, I’m a work in progress.  

I’m pleased and proud to be an active participant in the process of broadening the literary/artistic voice in the Yakima Valley. This is a valley of varied, often harsh, beauty. Many poets, writers, artists, and musicians have stepped up to sing her praises. Recently I was chosen as one of thirty-four poets to contribute poetry for a mixed media art show featuring the work of local photographers. The event? Light Write. Read more about it here.

A snapshot of my work and process will soon be available on an exciting new Facebook chat room, Altarwork.  Alongside finishing a new EP with my son, Calum as producer, I’m working on a book of sacred prayers, poetry and liturgy, listening for a book of poetry to emerge with the working title, The Beauty of Wasted Space and helping my wife in her own process of writing a novel.

2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Piper Renee-Richmond and I at Light Write
Performing at Light Write with Piper Renee-Richmond

On one level, I’m not so sure it does. However, as a poet, I am deeply influenced by old school poets. But, I seek to bring their influence to my own emerging voice, all the while writing in more contemporary genres. It gives a certain “traditional non-conventionality” to it.

I am an advocate of language for its own sake. The beauty of the words themselves brings a joy that predates the images and meanings derived from those meanings. But I also love the challenges offered poets from adapting ideas and thoughts to preexisting forms. It’s my tip of the hat to iambic pentameter, triangle poetry, Haiku or sonnets!

3) Why do I write what I do?

My words here will echo every other writer I’ve ever heard who’ve answered this question. I write because it is a compulsion. That compulsion might be out of anger or frustration surrounding some issue about which I need to weigh in, usually for my own conscience! More often than not I write because I’m inspired to ‘word up’ what I see in the world around me. My experience of that world yields a seemingly endless supply of emotional detritus needing to find its way out. When it does, I’m either writing and/or composing.

For me, poetry is contemplative prayer. It is as much a spiritual exercise as it is literary, and one of the primary ways by which I connect to my center and to the Sacred Center of all things. What is most freeing about this arrangement is how seriously and, at the same time, laissez faire, I can take my approach to the art. At least right now, it grows from much that is yet un-mined in my spirit. If you’re okay with it, I am too.

4) How does my writing process work?

Assuming the process actually does “work”, it differs depending upon what I write. It has also changed. In terms of poetry, it is becoming more about less. It was at one time a game of output. Now, it’s more about input. I read much more poetry than I ever write.

Composing prose is more an act of ‘pin the tail on the donkey.’ I chase around an elusive gem that needs to be caught, tamed just enough to stay on the page, and released back into the world for the consumption of other hungry readers. I have discovered that writing works best for me when I simply barf up whatever is bubbling in my literary stomach and then ‘read the leavings’ for anything substantial, worthy of further consideration. I’m not generally an outline kinda guy!

Well, that’s it for now. Thanks for listening! For the next stop on the blog hop, I’ve tagged the following stellar individuals.

Seymour Jacklin is one of those delightful serendipities. A fellow ex-pat, he is becoming my friend alongside his considerable skill as a poet, blogger, editor, educator, and story-teller. We’re also mutual fans and players of Celtic music! Hear him play right…here.

Kelly Belmonte is a recent friend, having met online as mutual admirer’s of one another’s work. She’s a wonderful writer and a deep soul. But, rather than just tell you, you need to go and discover more about her right…here.

Paul Bowman and I began a friendship journey in 2008 when sharing a cohort in an MA in Spiritual Formation and Leadership from Spring Arbor University. We’ve since graduated from that program and are supportive of each other’s quest to spread salt and light through words to a thirsty world. Find out more about him, his writer-wife and gorgeous kids right…here.  

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If the next blog hop posts aren’t up by July 14, please check again in a few days.  Thanks for playing along and your support of online writing!

Amanuensis to a dream

Dream

Amanuensis to a dream –

a butler opening doors

with white gloves and

careless amusement.

 

Playing Pluto to Saturn’s

tune, the cloudless cosmos

settles in for dancing and drinks,

before retiring to deep.

 

All that is good drips heavy,

drunk on its own promise.

A shimmering green shrinks, succumbing

to the blue expanse, wan and

pilgriming. Empathy returns

 

to roost in harbor-homes,

and portraits replace selfies

gone bad. Smog gives way

to fog, sitting still, but

lifting for better songs.

 

Nothing more than minstrels,

casting notes like seeds on desperate

soil, pages of the best book,

written in our own history.

 

Image from here

Writing…about not being able to write

imagesOh, what a vexing irony: to sit and type out words about a losing game of hide ‘n seek with words. I will certainly not be the final voice on finding a lost literary voice. It’s just that, well, I didn’t think it would happen to me. So soon at least.

Shit, I’m only fifty years old. I’d hoped this wouldn’t happen until I had left an entire generation agog over my mastery of linguistic flare, and deftly adroit word choice. This is what happens to the aging novelist with one good one under her belt but finds herself paralyzed producing a second. Not me! I’ve yet to be published. By that I mean, more than the occasional University research paper, blogging, and the guy with the cleverest quips in birthday cards. As a writer, I am reaching for more than the guy with the best Facebook posts.

Shit, I’m already fifty years old. Shouldn’t I have something significant to say by now? One would think that this well-earned silver crop of thinning hair and commensurate wrinkles might have shoveled a thing or two into the loading bay. This sagging, white ass is well deserved I say. It’s watery impression sadly shaped into my favorite writing chair.

So, what happens when the words dry up? When the notes that come from pen or strings or keys no longer woo, titillate or otherwise amuse? When, instead, they are the stale, reused, overused bag ‘o tricks of a modern hack? When nothing sings anymore, but mutters imperceptibly under its own muffled (bad) breath? When one becomes a caricature of oneself – a sorry lump of stigma buried under borrowed artistry?

writers

Can good art descend as easily from the ordinary, unadorned lives we live at kitchen tables, card games, and board meetings as it does from our bungee jump moments? Does one’s life, in order to become pregnant with words needing midwifery, require the overheated backdrop of anger, anxiety or joy? Perhaps then the super cooled, glacial faces of fear, pain, doubt, foreboding, even despair? Can the altruistic and universal issue from us as easily when our feet are ablaze with the dance of heaven and running onward to new adventure as when they’re encased in the cement of toilsome drudgery?

 Men love when women laugh at their sorry ass jokes. I’m convinced that far too many women are far too polite as to give our jokes what they deserve – looks of disgust or grunts of disapproval. My wife still laughs at mine, oddly. I think, in part at least, it is because she’s often funnier than I am and feeds well off my fumbling attempts at humor. Mine is the bump and set. Hers the spike. Mine the missed lay-up. Hers the rim hang slam. She knows exactly what I’m about to answer when someone asks a question or tells me something either stupid or clever. If that was you, nothing personal.

My tricks are used up. Nothing surprises anymore. Little takes her by storm. This is okay in a good marriage. Not so much if one is the keynote speaker for a plenary address. Tell a bad joke to a packed house met by stony silence just once and you’ll never forget it (or so I’ve heard).

The flaccid, often noodle-y jokes that belch out of me these days are a good example of what I’m after here. To the uninitiated they may still speak or cause a chuckle or two. But, they’re not exactly earth-shattering stuff by any stretch. And every writer wants that – to be earth shattering, hugely entertaining, eternally perceptive, generously intuitive; all topped off with that orgasmic metaphor that leaves the reader with tousled hair and a far off look. We want to write that paragraph that causes readers to light one up afterwards.

I feel stuck, like the last dander of spring, clinging perniciously to the dandelion stalk refusing to admit summer. I’m that solitary bat hanging to the brick wall humming happily to myself while everyone else made it to Batman’s photo shoot an hour ago. Okay, so I exaggerate to make my point.

As a musician and songwriter, I’ve crossed this bridge before (there, see what I mean?) and what I’ve discovered is there are only three ways to overcome composing dry spells. One, write. Two, write. Three…well, you get my point. Best of all is when I’ve emerged from the songwriting dust heap I am always the better for it and have generally gleaned something helpful along the way.

writer-scull

So, here I am. I write to be a gooder writer, writing even gooderer stuff than ever before. It may feel awkward, like walking straight with one leg shorter than the other. But, at least it will be. I will have refused to be stifled by something, which, itself, refuses imprisonment. It barks insistently for release into the atmosphere it craves for its own freedom.

I’m not asking so much for the words as to dive deeper into the life from which those words await the pickaxe to dig them out. I don’t ask for inspiration as much as consternation that what comes has passed through the honing tapestry of a life, fully lived. I don’t ask for clever turn of phrase (well, that’s only partly true) as much as an honest churn of thought, where the ambivalence, arrogance, innocence and yearning that, together, form my life, blend and cohere into a face and a name to call my own.

Did I mention I’m only fifty?

Images shamefully taken from here

Thoughts gathering. Still listening. Longing.

He strode as heir apparent to a memory

in galoshes filled with dust

and leaves of threadbare

thoughts.

 

Gravel, like a road of broken glass,

bundles itself together in

tousled lumps of the old roads,

gathering.

 

Footfalls, freshly faltering,

appraise themselves of what had

gone before – like a wagging tongue, never

still.

 

Even the magpies mock their

cowboy choir – their country for

cajoling cowards, crowing without

listening.

 

Crumpled into corners of hours,

crouch the days of famished weeks. Years

rake up from the ditch, staring down his borrowed

longing.

country road

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Image found here

spring’s impregnation

spring flowers

 

 

 

 

like lead on paper the tactile scratch

of winter rakes her rusty back

 

dusting each day for fingerprints

our only hint that somewhere near

 

she hides. like water in the well

down under, below within

 

where the moist and rich grows

before making its appearance, sacheting

 

across a dark-soiled stage where

dirt crawls up her dress and

 

spreads her limbs, surrounds her cracking skin,

pushing until she explodes in climax of more

 

but for now, shivering haunches huddle

encased in dead and dying promises

 

night and dark have outwrestled

her brighter self, denying ascension

 

in her tomb of untouched virginity

she longs in unrequited passion

 

and, donning the satin sash of evening,

the smoky grey of night blows her tender kiss

 

to the shameless, bright day

and whispers, “adieu.”

Let Go the Moon

In the spirit of John O’Donohue, my Celtic mystic muse…

Let go the moon, you floating,

bloated fragments of dust

in puffy folds of grey garment.

 

A moth-like attraction awaits

slow-dancing lovers, awakening to

their sash of freedom, dipped in dreams.

 

Perform for us your indigo dance,

your crescendo voice, psalming, and

outsing our shadows, our climbing hopes.

 

Now you are but jesting,

your perfect belly aglow in purpose-

to hunt for keepers of secrets.

 

If we crack your mystery too soon,

your tricks are complete, your secrets lost,

and we miss joy-filled jaws, agape.

 

So, let go the moon, silly fools,

if only that she may this once boast

her naked story.

Flash Poetry… ready, set, GO!

My good friend and fellow lit-geek, Lesley-Anne Evans, has created a very fun little niche for herself in something she calls “Pop-Up Poetry.” It is only a small part of her total literary contribution. But it is one in which she has invited myself and any number of other poet wannabes to participate, share our words and, in so doing, have a blast. Go visit her at her website: http://www.laevans.ca and hang out awhile.

buddybreathing's avatarLesley-Anne Evans

DSC_0087Collaboration is invigorating, and when it comes to writing poetry, words from other sources at once challenge and enrich the process. Lesley-Anne has been experimenting with the collaboration potential of social media on her  Pop-Up-Poetry Facebook Page. For the past couple of weeks, Lesley-Anne has posted Call Outs asking Facebook friends to post words or phrases as comments, but only for a short period of time before closing.

Lesley-Anne takes all their submitted words, allows them to percolate until a theme emerges, then braids her own words into a new creation of poetry. The outcomes have been phenomenal. Participants are excited about it. Lesley-Anne sees the synergy and awakening to a new way of fast collaborative creativity as a fun means to build artistic community and challenge her writing.

Lesley-Anne will be sharing some of her Flash Poems at Inspired Word Cafe, this Thursday at the Okanagan Regional Library Downtown…

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When hope has turned her lovely gaze – a sonnet

For my amazing wife. A woman taylor made to deal with the likes of me! Thank you, God.

robertalanrife's avatarRob's Lit-Bits

lovers kiss in the rain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

April 10, 2013

 

When hope has turned her lovely gaze

t’ward soft’ning night and bright’ning days,

then eye of light upon me stays,

revealing what love lifted.

* * *

Like still night air we find our voice,

intoned and waiting to rejoice

where darkness once denied this choice;

we find what love has sifted.

* * *

As hands, rejoined, now find their place

to touch a lover’s loving face

returned in heaven’s sweet embrace,

to learn how God has gifted.

* * *

Hope has promised paradise.

Promised grace, new love enticed.

Picture: www.weheartit.com

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Writing and Creative Energy – A Post by Holly Ordway

Friends, since this blog is devoted to “words and words and about words,” few “do words” better than Holly Ordway at Hieropraxis. Try this one on for size. If you’re a writer of any kind, you’ll totally rock to this…

http://www.hieropraxis.com/2014/01/flow-writing-and-creative-energy/

Peace in words like grace in notes…R

A night with friends

Perfect for New Year’s Eve I should think.

robertalanrife's avatarRob's Lit-Bits

The evening, purple and plush, is tender.

Her breezy suggestions of tales, told late

well, often, and loudly from tables

laden with good friends. The fingerprinted

beer glasses fill with memories, plump with

well worded love, seed the new day

and push just a little harder toward joy.

Glasses emptied, giggles abounding

posture themselves as little brother

to guffawed grins on quivering chins,

twin bearers of gladness and gloom.

For soon the night must absolve

the room of her secrets, and

invite the neighbored goodness back

to places now refreshed in

the exercise of lingering laughter

late and perfectly balanced,

found only among the best of friends.

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