The Long and Winding Channel

I'm finding my lost words here.

Perhaps all I needed was a used bookstore to operate and fall in love with, an island to return to and claim as home instead of a vacation spot, a different set of worries to toss about during the day, conversations with hubby that start out, 'I think we should..." instead of "What are we going to..."

Sunshine nourishes us. And the salt from the marshes fills us up with its satisfying scent, so primal. Sleep arrives so gently. We're lulled into such sighs of contentment we're often mistaking one another for the wind.

Just Like Tom Thumb's Purples

I’m way past blues. My words have all escaped, slipped out the door and into the woods, climbed the trees and been carried away by the pine siskins to nests so high I haven’t a chance at getting them back again. They're cozy in those nests. I’ve lost the knack to coax them down to this cold, blank screen.

Brown-Eyed Word

I’m mixing more than metaphors these days, as this raddled brain of mine plays its little tricks on me. When I knit, I tell folks about the easy “recipe” I’ve been following. When the sun goes down, I ask hubby if I should turn on the lights on the camp deck that are shaped like ice cream cones, except I call them “pine cones”. I call pencils “crayons” and blankets are “sheets”, close, but no cigar. Tough to write much of anything when my words are mixed up like this.

Last Train to Wordsville

They’ve been clicking down the tracks lately, those errant words that sometimes escape into the woods when I’m walking the pooch before I find time to commit them to paper or computer screen. Some of them are even worthy of keeping around for awhile. Most of them even turn into complete sentences, with coherent meaning found at the end of a paragraph. So maybe I haven’t totally lost it yet. Maybe that special poem is still locked inside my head just waiting for the proper time to make itself known. Perhaps the short story that spilled from my fingertips the other day when I opened my laptop while lounging on the deck in the woods will turn into something that does not generate a rejection letter. It’s even possible one of the novels festering on the shelf will rear its head and demand a rewrite.

I’m riding the crazy writing train again, words flying in and out of my head, and I’m catching some that matter now and then. What more can we ask for?

Me and Bobby Magoo

I feel as if I've gone blind, can't find any of the words I need to express the way I'm feeling right now. Or perhaps I'm seeing things too clearly? Hmmm.

Maybe freedom's just another word for nothing left to say.

Waiting For the Sun

This Could Be The Last Line

How do we know what our last words might be? When will I put my pen to rest, unplug the keyboard and call it quits? There are still rejection letters due to arrive….or perhaps not. Still. When does it become a chore and not a need? And do I have a say in what my last words might be? If so I’d want them to simply be this: I gave it my best.

Things I Didn't Say Today

It's been longer than days now, more like weeks, since I have put any words down that make any sense, that might be turned into a meaningful poem or grow up to be a short story. There's been to time to even edit the words napping in my notebooks. I'm hoping they haven't fallen into hibernation mode; sometimes it's too hard to wake them up again. If I don't keep nudging them, they'll act as if they are lazy teenagers, rebelling against my good intentions to dress them up and bring them out in public. It not as if I've nothing to say. That's rarely the case. I just can't seem to find my way to stay put at this desk. Responsibilities tug me away and are such an elevated level, my playing with words seems not to be the best use of my hours....at least in the eyes of others.

So, there are things I'm not saying today. Or tomorrow. Or possibly even next week.

Time Has Gone Again

It used to stretch in front of me. It was good to me, letting me swirl my words around until they found a pattern that worked, until a character came to life, until a resolution was found. It wound itself between my legs like a loyal cat wanting its daily wet, sloppy food. It seemed endless some days when the words didn’t flow as easily as I’d like. Other days it flew by as quickly as my fingers tapped the keyboard. But it was always there.

Lately, it’s simply gone. It’s not mine any more. Obligations and responsibilities have taken over again. And it’s so very true that the common denominator in all our lives in the 24 hours we each have in every day. So, “my time” has disappeared. Something has to give. And I guess it’s simple. I give up sleep.

Rakin' Robin

Yeah, I wasn’t “rockin’” but I sure was using that rake! It’s always amazing to me how many leaves there are to get out of the way before we can even open up the camp every spring. And, of course, as I raked, words seemed to flood my head. Isn’t that the way it always is? When there isn’t time or laptop available, the ending to that short story pops into my head, the perfect wording for the poem I’ve been struggling with. And today, in these early morning hours when the house is quiet and I’ve no obligations except to try to put words on this screen, I can’t remember anything but the swish the dried leaves made as I raked them onto the tarp I then dragged across the road and then dumped the leaves into a huge pile.

Ah, that’s where all my words went, into that huge pile of leaves! By the time I get back there, they’ll have blown away.

I once wanted to live long enough to benefit from time travel. My wish now, however, is for someone to invent a devise that transfers my thoughts into a notebook for me. Especially the thoughts that come to me when I’m raking leaves.

House of the Setting Sun

We’ll be heading for the woods soon, where I can sit on the front deck and watch the setting sun. My words float in the leaves there and then fall into my head so easily, I have to take long walks with the dog to catch them all and sort them out. Summer words are so much lighter, too. They laugh easier, stay around longer, don’t prick my fingers when they finally make their way to this laptop. My pencils are sharpened. Batteries are working in my hand held recorder. And I know my favorite trees are there waiting for me to come back and read my latest words to them as Rupert and I stroll by or stop to sit beneath one of them and enjoy the comfort of the day. I’m ready, ready, ready.

If Ever I Would Read You

I often have difficulty selecting poems to read aloud when asked to do a reading, mostly because my work is so personal. When something is troubling me, I write about it. I encourage other writer friends to do the same and the work of others I read certainly tells me I am not alone in doing this. Yesterday while sitting in the sun on the front porch I read poetry by Billy Collins, a favorite of mine. His “Ballistic” collection contained poems that made me laugh out loud and then choke back tears; if he has not just gone through a divorce himself, he certainly has been close to someone who has. His poetry in this book tells the story of it. I wonder if he can read those poems aloud without tears. Some of my poems I can’t read in public because I still can’t get through them without breaking down.

This week I had the extreme pleasure of listening to Seamus Heaney give a reading. His wealth of words is often what I turn to for inspiration, comfort, and support. Three of his poems would be on my list of my top ten favorites and I was in awe when he read two of them that evening. I will never read them again myself without hearing his Irish brogue.

One of my favorites, one with an ending that tugs at your heart – a style I’ve tried to copy in my work, never hitting the same chord as Mr. Heaney – is “Mid-Term Break”. He recited this from memory, on his 71st birthday, to a full house in Hendricks Chapel on the Syracuse University campus. It’s a chilling poem, so well crafted it sometimes makes me wonder why anyone ever would write another poem. What I did not know until that night was that it was written about a personal experience. I’m not sure why this surprised me, because I write about what happens to me, as do most other poets I know. He recited it so well, the words are so deliciously arranged, the emotions so crisp and raw…..and as one of his very early poems, I simply never imagined it had such personal meaning to him. How he can read it with dry eyes, I do not know, yet he handled it masterfully.

Although Seamus Heaney was inspiring on several levels and I will long remember sitting in those pews with my poet friend Mary Ellen enthralled by the Irish accent and the rhythm of his magical poetry, I will also try to read the poems I’ve written that are personal, because these end up being the most honest, the most real.

Also, I will keep these words of his in mind always now as I write: “Write through your grief for the pure joy of writing.”

My Baby Brought Me A Letter

When the white envelopes arrive in the mailbox, I expect them to be there. Those self-addressed, stamped envelopes I toss into larger envelopes that contain manuscripts I’ve slaved over before submitting to various places hoping someone finds my work worthy always return home sooner or later. I’ve gone quite a stretch recently without any landing on the doorstep. At least a dozen are floating around out there. I wonder what that might mean, when I dare to think about it. What I anticipate is opening the mailbox one day soon and having a dozen of these envelopes fall at my feet, slapping the porch with such force it will almost sound like someone whispering “I told you none of your stuff is any good!”

So when my husband handed me a white envelope the other day, I simply shrugged. At first glance I did not notice that there was a return address hand-written on the back. Instead I wondered why someone had written my name and address on the front of the envelope. Where had the address label that I always use gone? Had it fallen off? Had I made a mistake and forgotten to put it on? The postage stamp was the kind I use, the envelope identical. Someone had taken the time to hand address a rejection letter to me? Oh! Maybe they wrote me a note then to tell me why they didn’t find my work suitable for their publication. I ripped it open.

And read the letter enclosed twice before realizing that my poem had been selected as an “Honorable Mention” entry in a contest. I’d forgotten about entering the contest, one I’ve entered often and had some success with. Last year I’d won first prize. I had hesitated to submit this year, imagining that they would certainly pass on my work and give someone new a chance. What a pleasant surprise to be selected again!

Wonders never cease.

I Shot the Poet

At least that’s what it feels like.

There must be a wound somewhere, though as many times as I search, there’s no blood seeping through my t-shirt, no gash on my brow, no gaping hole in my thigh. I can’t find my pulse, can barely feel the contraction of my lungs as I gasp. Even the glorious spring sunshine flooding my room and such welcome warmer temperatures haven’t stirred words to the surface. When I open my mouth, silence dribbles out. My fingers feel frostbit, unable to peck out sentences that bring sense to anything I’m twirling through.

I’m trying to decide on a second mangled line to my song…..maybe it will be as simple as “I shot the poet, but I did not shoot the knitter.”

This reminds me of a quote I recently read, a thought Dame Edith Sitwell shared regarding Virginia Woolf: I enjoyed talking to her, but thought nothing of her writing. I considered her a beautiful little knitter.

I Wanna Hold Your Pen

May I borrow your pen?

Maybe then I could write a better poem, a happy poem full of sunlight and memories of days spent on the beach with summer wind blowing through our hair, no cares in the world.

Today all I write is fear, grey and dull, pulling me down into the void where even voices cut me into a dozen pieces I can’t fit back together.

We Can Write It Out

Whenever I’m faced with one of many difficulties life tosses my way, I tell myself to simply write it out. While not everything I write is purely autobiographical, issues I’ve dealt with do find their way into poems, stories and novels eventually. And if it’s not something I’ve dealt with directly, I’m not above stealing from the lives of my friends. A cousin once read something I wrote and then spent weeks stewing about it, feeling I had stolen a little too much of her life for others to read.

However, isn’t this how we often cope? I got through a horrible first marriage by reading fiction about others who got through horrible first marriages. The librarian in the small town I lived in then saved books for me after becoming familiar with the theme I seemed to select. I didn’t even realize that she eventually selected books for me about women who found their ways out of horrible marriages. I should have thanked her.

It helps to write it out. There are some things we never make sense of, such as the death of a loved one before we’ve had time to say all we wanted to say or do all we’d planned to do. Still, writing about it dulls the pain momentarily, or connects us for a second with someone else who remembers what that felt like, making us feel not so alone in our grief.

I read for pleasure and escape and also searching for connection. Instead of focusing on the differences between me and my neighbors, especially at first glance, I long to know what experiences we may have shared. Reading helps me learn about others who feared walking into a first grade classroom as the new kid in town or being a young mother afraid she’d end up screaming right along with her howling infant if someone didn’t lend her a hand or being that wife trapped in a marriage that seemed impossible to escape.

That’s why I write, too. If I can write it out, write what I’ve gone through, what I might have learned along the way, what I’m still trying to figure out, maybe I’ll connect with someone who can find their own answers through my words. Maybe I can help someone else write it out for themselves. We can work it out, if we write it out. Honestly.

Tiptoe Through the Daisies

Standing in the Shadow of Doubt

Every word is suspect, each sentence creeping across the page. Will it ever be good enough? Why bother? Isn’t there something better I could be doing with my time? The shadow cast by my doubts covers every word.

Then I hear him, the cardinal outside my window. He’s singing away, as he does most mornings when I first sit down to write. I close my eyes for a minute and imagine that this gorgeous flame red bird is the reincarnation of some unknown poet who spent hours toying with words urging me to cast away my shadow of doubt, lift my hands above this keyboard and allow my words to spill out of my head in the same manner as the cardinal’s song fills the morning air. He sings because he can. Does he care if anyone listens? Does he return to his nest and tell his mate, “Today I hit all the right notes"? No. He simply sings.

There are mornings I feel as though this cardinal is my only cheerleader. When he’s finished with his song and has flown off, the silence he leaves behind deepens, as does the shadow of doubt.

All those voices in my head seem louder in this silence: all those who’ve wondered how I could quit my “real” job to sit here and write, others who believe it’s a total waste of time, those who give me a smirk of a smile when they ask me what I do and I’ve replied that I’m a writer. Unpaid bills giggle at me and the pile of rejection letters flutter hello. I can even hear my mother reminding me that I have responsibilities to tend to, can’t spend all my time “pretending I’m Margaret Mitchell”. And then there’s the loudest voice of all, my very own internal critic, wondering if it’s worth it all.

And then the cardinal returns to that tree branch that sits directly in front of the window outside my office. He sings away again. Because he can.

A phrase pops into my head. I start scribbling a poem. Because I can.

It's Alright, Ma, I'm Only Writing

I can still remember it as though it happened only yesterday.

I must have been around 13. My parents bought me an antique desk for my bedroom. I dusted its wrought iron legs and shiny, slanted writing surface. On the book shelf that was part of this desk, I gently placed my treasured books: Little House on the Prairie, Dr. Doolittle, Little Women, Bartlett’s Quotations, Famous Poems Old and New, Mud Pies and Other Recipes.

Many a homework assignment was completed at that desk, and I fumbled at writing my first poems there, too, hiding them in my homework papers if someone should come into my room. Having this great desk to write at was partially to blame for my dream of being a poet. The librarian at our town library had also been saving biographies of poets for me. I’d read about Sara Teasdale and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, but the book about Sylvia Plath convinced me of two things: I could be a poet and the mood swings my mother experienced weren’t a novelty after all.

Then came the evening I coughed up the courage to tell my parents that I wanted to be a poet. We’d been discussing my high school class schedule, so it seemed a good a time as any. I’d already been accepted in the Advanced English class, one focusing on literature and writing. I figured all I needed was four years of French to assist me in ordering food at the cafes I’d be visiting on the Left Bank and I could skip Biology and Geometry. I paced my bedroom practicing the presentation I would give at the dinner table, until I was absolutely certain I had chosen my words so perfectly that no one could argue with the fact that I must follow my dream. I could stop hiding all the poems I was writing, start wearing a black beret, maybe smoke a cigarette or two….

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous! You’d never be able to feed yourself. You’re going to take a typing class.”

And there it was. My first review. My first critic. The same one that haunts me each and every time I slip a manuscript into an envelope to send out, every time I stand in front of a room full of people to give a reading. It never goes away. Partly because of the ring of truth within those words: I would never have been able to feed myself – literally – with poetry, although I have definitely fed myself spiritually. I don’t think this is something my parents would have been able to understand, though.

I am very, very thankful for one thing, however. I did, indeed, learn to type. And I have earned a very good living in the past because I knew how to type. BUT…..I’ve also been able to write more efficiently because I can type 80+ words a minute. I thank my folks, both gone now and unable to experience the poems that get published here and there, for making sure that I learned how to type.

Dissatisfaction

Dun dun da da dun da da dun, dun dun da da dun da da dun.....

Come on. You must know the riff. "I can't get no...." Well, yeah, I've changed the word because, in case you haven't noticed, the title of each blog post is an altered song title. But I guess I shouldn't be singing "I can't get no....dissatisfaction" because my cup runneth over with such.

Is the earth spinning on its axis at an unusual angle, and not the one that tips us a little closer to the sun that I welcome every year around this time? I mean the one that seems to be making everyone around me act almost exactly the opposite I expect them to, or whatever is causing situations I once felt to be well in hand to cascade out of bounds. I'm spinning my wheels, and I haven't the energy to run after myself any longer.

Where will I end up if I have to stop chasing words across my computer screen every day and return to the world of hiring/firing? I shiver to consider it, yet I see the path ahead of me and it's littered with poems bleeding by the side of the road because I have too many things on my "to do" list again to lavish any attention on their wounds, patch them up and ready them for the party. Will I turn into a resentful shrew with more grey hairs and a screech to my voice when I inform others that I "used" to be a writer? How do I hide my disappointment, buck up and take my turn at the wheel of our life, steer our course awhile in the gracious manner that I know is the route that should be taken instead of throw the colossal temper tantrum I feel welling up inside of me, totally unwarranted, that would inflict undue harm?

I've lived through those times when my words were THERE but the hours weren't. It wasn't pretty. Relationships with everyone within a hundred mile radius suffered. I don't even like myself when that happens. And the older I get, the less inclined I am to give up sleep.

I'm reminded of a favorite poem by Kenneth Koch: You Want a Social Life, With Friends. Basically he cautions that you can have a family, a social life and be a writer. But you can never have all three at once. I'm wondering today, did I learn anything from juggling friends, family, a job and writing when I tried it all before to be any more successful at it if I have to do it again? The very thought of it literally makes my stomach turn. If I was a drinker, I'd be drunk right now, even though as the daughter of an alcoholic, that's hardly my style or solution to anything. I'm terrified of losing my words again....especially now when, for the most part, they visit me almost every day, perky and ready to oblige. What I do know is that they'll vanish if they don't have the attention they deserve.

Oh...there's that riff playing in my head again.....I can't get no satisfaction, and no answers. Not today, at least. Not today.