Tag Archives: poetry

2014-01-30

The girl behind the counter just yelled energetically.  “I’ve got a yummy, yummy mango smoothie.”

A couple days ago, I read Found Poem — Tribute to Pete Seeger, composed of his songs and lyrics by Shawn Bird.  The poem was moving, and enlightening.

I was moved to leave a comment, and enlighten my ignorance.

Not sure on the exact meaning of a found poem, I looked it up.

Makes me wonder.  Is yummy, yummy mango smoothie an example of poetry found?

Perhaps when sung to the woman who paid.

2014-01-29

Lately, at home in the evenings, usually.  I think about my writing and where am I going.

Fog clouds my next couple-three steps.

In the story of me writing a book, I am just a little stuck.  I can’t decide.  Do I not understand what next I need to do?  Or am I having some trouble with the idea I am striving to communicate?

This is how it feels right now.  It’s not a loss of confidence at all.  It’s just a feeling of befuddlement.

Recently I wrote an absurd thought in my journal.

Just write.  Just get ideas down.

And yet, right now, it is so hard to do.

2014-01-28

=== 4:36 PM ===

XB

Yeah!  I got the writing table at my favorite coffee shop.  So called, because many write.  Here, over all the other tables.

I should be writing my timeline.  I had discussed it with the guy who evaluated my functional capacity.  Today he reminded me.  My timeline will help fill out his evaluation.

My timeline from my journals.  I have five years.   In them I discuss all my experiences.  Once I realized.

Their value.

Journaling keeps me sane.  I have found.  It works best if I pour my soul.  Lavishly, on the page.

And, that’s what I did.  Starting before it ever occurred to me.  Maybe I should discuss what I notice with my doctor?  The notion was vague, that the state of ship was amiss.

They cover everything from my thoughts on life and death, to the detail of each day playing out.  The ones worth remembering.

When I started using my cane.  How I thought.  Still.  That it wouldn’t get too bad.

Too soon.  It got worse.  And I discussed everything, from why I plopped onto the couch and fell asleep, right after work, to the pain that woke me in the middle of the night.  What else to do when I can’t sleep, but write?

And these journals also describe the sick days I took.  They agree with my former employer’s records.  How I never took many sick days until the last two years.  And how they grew in frequency.  And why.

I also have to write a cover letter for the evaluation report.  To the bureaucrats of the insurancy.  I want to make myself perfectly clear.

Don’t contest this any further.  You will lose.  You have no valid arguments regarding my case.

That’s essentially what it is.  Right?  Will my case stand up in a court of law?  That’s gotta be how they evaluate each one.  If we drop him, with the evidence we have seen so far, will the lawyers win?

In a suit?

So, my cover-letter needs to detail all of the evidence I have.  Just to be perfectly clear.  They will not!

It was the insight that allowed me to stop worrying about the situation.  My weakness is the strength of my case.

I need to spell it out, in my own unique way.  Because I am not merely providing the insurancy my evidence.  I am telling them how to see it.  Without ever stating my intentions directly.

I want the power of language.  Spoken.  Honestly to paint.  A picture in their minds.

I want them to see it.  From my position, they lose.

In a court of law, they have no case.  They will see it.

When I crush their collective will.

This, I can tell you. It’s true.

 

It is difficult to determine.

Anymore.  Whether.

The things I think are true.

It probably has something.

To do with age, I see my grandmother.

In me.  Right now.   She walks, unsteadily.

With a cane, the folds of skin.

That once contained a plump woman.

Shaking.  With each step.

Around the arm.  Holding her stick.

It also might have something to do with my muscular dystrophy.

I have read that this form messes with the executive.

 Function.  Of the mind.

That seems to be my experience.

Oh, Word Location, you bedevil me.

But, it definitely seems.

Due to the many times.

In life, I have had to shift my thinking.

To which, of the many minds I have been?

Does this line belong?

I know I once believed this.

But, was that an illusion?

2014-01-19

On the porcelain throne, just moments ago, I began to imagine my book as a novel.  Again.

I keep coming back to that.  And then, I have second thoughts.

A lot of ideas seem to be coming together for me.  The book-as-novel does not, yet, make sense.

When it does, I will feel it.  This odd piece of the puzzle.  It never seemed to fit anywhere.  Suddenly, it will either slip into place, with a click.   Or, I will reach a point where I am done.

And the novel was never necessary.

 

Yesterday.  Though.

Another epiphanic moment.

I began the actual book.

 

That’s how it felt.  I slipped into voice after a mere two or three sentences.  And I switched from writing a journal entry, to writing the opening to the book.

It is raw.  It needs to be cooked, or polished.  Maybe both.  But, I can imagine the book in that voice.  And the opening reading similar to yesterday’s words.

And after I wrote.  And even as I wrote.

The book began to open up for me.  I have a sense of the form of the narrative, from start to finish.  It meanders.  And in the end, it makes sense.  But, in the moment, the reader will only have questions.

I want it to read as a series of questions, building on each other.  I want it to read like it doesn’t make sense, until the end.  And I want the reader to read with confidence that it will come together.  I want the reader to trust the voice of the story to eventually make a big, epiphanic, point.