Pen and pruning hook

They say "the pen is mightier than the sword". True, but not true enough. The pen is a sword, the sword which is sharpened only when I turn it on myself.

Gone are the adolescent dreams of the glory of a tragic death, gone fascination with battles fought, won or lost. The validation of success is a tattered flag limp in the wind's fury. There is no enduring victory, only quiet at the end of things.

They say "beat the swords into plowshares and pruning hooks". The pen is also a shovel and a pruning hook. Dig and uncover the truth of things, the truth within, truth with a small "t". That is the truth that matters. Prune the rest.

Picasso's thoughts on poetry

"Poems? There are stacks of poems lying here. When I began to write them I wanted to prepare myself a palette of words, as if I were dealing with colours. All these words were weighted, filtered and appraised. I don't put much stock in spontaneous expressions of the unconscious." He added that long after his death his writing would "gain recognition and encyclopedias would say: 'Picasso, Pablo Ruiz – Spanish poet who dabbled in painting, drawing and sculpture.'"

Submissions update

In January I submitted material to four different publications . . . Rattle, StepAway Magazine, Agni, and Almanac for the Anthropocene: A Compendium of Solarpunk Futures. So far, two have replied . . .  Agni and StepAway. Agni was a rejection but with a personal note encouraging me to submit again. StepAway, a London based online publication, accepted the piece I submitted and the editor included a very nice note. The poem, Afterimage, will be in issue 31. A cool extra about StepAway is that they notify authors of successful submissions within 28 days. The wait to hear back about a submission can drag on for months, sometimes years, so much apprecited.

Rattle is still "in-progress" which is more common. I got their auto-reply immediately but, so far, it's been 41 days and have heard nothing else. Their average reply time is 119 days so it's still very much within their parameters. One thing I like about Rattle is they are writer friendly. While they don't accept work that's been previously published in print or online, they don't consider self-publishing to blogs, message boards, or social media as publication. Most magazines still cling to the tyranical opinion that posting something on your blog renders it unacceptable. Publishers are nothing without something to publish yet they demand fealty from the writer as though they are some medieval Lord land owner or King. My poetry blog gets about 200 visits a month and most of those are probably bots and crawlers so WTF!

As for Almanac for the Anthropocene: A Compendium of Solarpunk Futures, that is a one-time publication by Wagner & Wieland. They describe a solarpunk as someone who "imagines new futures in the shadow of and in opposition to environmental collapse, then works to create those futures". I haven't heard anything back from them yet, and may not. They're not soliciting poetry but I sent them one I wrote about the Anthropocene anyway. Submissions are closed . . . "unless you have a recipe/blueprint/direct action–basically, anything except essays. If you have something that might work, please feel free to contact us until March 15th".

More good news

Submitting to more publications this year than last wasn't a New Year's resolution but the fact that I just did send work to two more journals does land in my good news column. That makes three submissions so far this year . . .  one to Rattle, one to StepAway Magazine, and the third to AGNI. The piece to AGNI has been languishing around here for some time. I haven't know what to do with it. It reads like the opening of a novel but it isn't. It's more like a word sketch of a moment in time.

We back in Portugal now. It's easier here. Winter helps. Also no travel plans at the moment although M. is brewing some up.

Rainy night, Portugal

The view from my office window tonight.

Had a hell of a time focusing on writing today. My end goal is to get a few more things submitted for publication but I tend to get lost in the details. The last batch of poems I sent out was rejected but with a personal letter from the editor inviting me to submit something again for their following issue. I probably will. In the meantime, I'm looking for other journals that sound interesting but what usually happens, and it did again today, is that I end up muddling around with edits instead. At least today it lead me to finally making peace with a poem I wrote some years ago and have been arguing with ever since. It was always my idea to squeeze it into a haiku but it was never right. Finally, today, I surrendered to the fact that it is just not willing to cooperate. Words have a mind of their own.

Don't mess with the press - 4th of July - America

Front page - Medford Mail Tribune - July 4, 2018

What is it about

FREEDOM and JUSTICE FOR ALL

that the Party of Trump doesn't like?

Oh yeah.
That's right . . .
the part about
FREEDOM and JUSTICE
FOR ALL.

Demonstration against the ICE incarceration of
1000s of refugee children being ripped from their
parent's arms who are now lost in internment camps
throughout America.
Medford, Oregon, USA - 06.30.2018

Don't be silent.

Vote.

Donate what you can of your
time, energy, talent, and resources
including cold, hard cash.

Call your representatives.

We can do together
what we can not do alone . . .

STOP

this compromised, neo-fascist President
and his spineless, neo-fascist Republican Party
from continuing to undermine our Democracy.

Do

The word "do" entered our language sometime before 900 CE and although it's only two letters long it is incredibly nuanced. Whatever did we do before we got do?

Why tick tock, zig zag, ding dong, King Kong?

If you're a word geek, there's a delightful article at the BBC by Mark Forsyth I think you'll enjoy. Check it out. "The language we know but don't know we know."

The big bad wolf ie the rule of ablaut reduplication

“Adjectives in English absolutely have to be in this order: opinion-size-age-shape-colour-origin-material-purpose Noun. So you can have a lovely little old rectangular green French silver whittling knife. But if you mess with that word order in the slightest you’ll sound like a maniac. It’s an odd thing that every English speaker uses that list, but almost none of us could write it out.” - Mark Forsyth, BBC

Publishing and republishing

Besides publishing a current list of literary magazines accepting reprints, the blog Published to Death includes a link to poetry publishers accepting unagented manuscripts. And it's not just for poetry. There are listings for all genres, including visual, and their markets and includes cool links such as . . . calls for submissions by the month, paying markets etc. Yes, there are similar sites, but this is a good one.


Of course, Duotrope is, at least in my limited experience, the best of the best when it comes to offering an "extensive, searchable database of current fiction, poetry, nonfiction, and visual art markets, a calendar of upcoming deadlines, a personal submissions tracker, and useful statistics compiled from the millions of data points". Yes, that's their description but it is what they do and they do it well. I was a subscriber until they erected a paywall. After that I couldn't justify the expense. I seldom followed through and actually submitted anything.


I did a poetry blog instead. Poetry needs to be free. However, that means if I want to publish something elsewhere, in a "real" publication, I must find publishers who accept reprints.  Annasadhorse may be one of the the least visited sites in the universe but most publishers automatically refuse anything unless they get first rights. Rock and a hard place.

Day One, 2017

Happy New Year.

Is this idea of a "new" year merely a stupid fantasy? Oh well. Who cares? As Heraclitus said, change is the only constant. In that light, painful though it may be, here's hoping changes in this new year led to new, better beginnings.

Also, in keeping with the season, I published a new poem on AnnaSadhorse, Horary for the Third Millennium CE.

Notes on the fly

Currently I'm sitting in the Fort Lauderdale airport waiting for our flight to Costa Rica. We'll be there for two weeks. We've been in Florida a month now. Not much to report about it. Thea really loves going to the beach. We have to pry her out of the water when it's time to go but that's about it. It's been basically uneventful and very low key.

I take that back. Kristy and I attended a meeting of the Sarasota Writers Group, The usual format is an open mic with the option for feedback, if so desired, but this night there was a guest speaker. At first I was disappointed because I wanted to read but the speaker, Ryan G. Van Cleave, turned out to be really interesting. He's a writer, poet, professor at Ringling College of Art + Design and, as I understand it, he is the first person to offer a writing program there. Even cooler, he has integrated it with the visual arts and created an à la carte style program students can sculpt to fit their own interests and talents. He is also a one man writing scene that is more lively and interesting than any I have been in for a long time.

Writing scenes can be so weird. People get paranoid that their ideas are being stolen, there are ego games and toxic alliances but, at least at first glance, this guy seems immune to that bullshit. He's high energy, super enthusiastic about all aspects of writing and publishing and, best of all, independent. M. Lee has been talking about moving to Florida for some time now, a proposal I have been resisting, but after meeting Ryan, I'm am seriously interested in the idea. We shall see.

Morning update 09:16

"The world always seems brighter when you've just made something that wasn't there before."
- Neil Gaiman

This morning, being gray as yesterday, calls for another log on the fire and a hot cup of coffee to get things kicked off or, if you have neither, perhaps the Neil Gaiman quote would do. It got me going. Also along with my lukewarm morning cup of coffee, I read a good article at The Atlantic by Colleen Gillard titled "Why the British Tell Better Children’s Stories". It's worth reading if you have young kids or if you're any kind of storyteller.

So, that's it for the moment. I've been away from my post here in the borderlands, tending grandchildren for awhile. It was wonderful but now we're back in the swirl, moving south and, by next week, we'll be back in Nevada though M. Lee is already planning a next adventure.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note: There is a good discussion of Gillard's article on Metafilter. On the whole, seems the Mefites are quite critical of it. Lots of good points. 

Poetry Unplugged

Poetry Unplugged's cave

Poetry Unplugged is the only open mic I've read at in London. It's not because I like the room which is the tiny basement of the Poetry Cafe. Yes, it has a certain funky charm but it also gets very crowded, stuffy and extremely hot. And it's not because everything read at Poetry Unplugged, or any open mic, spoken word or slam event, is wonderful because it's not. It's because Poetry Unplugged is early enough, it's not held in a shitty, noisy bar and, for the most part, the people who show up to read there are not pretentious dicks who swagger through their own reading then leave.

The credit goes to the MC, poet Niall O'Sullivan. He does a wonderful job of keeping things interesting, fair, fun and moving. That said, included below is a review of the event which, to my delight and his credit, Niall posted on his own blog.

One of the worst evenings I’ve ever endured was at an event called Poetry Unplugged. About 50 people were crammed into a sweaty basement, all perched expectantly on orange plastic chairs. How nice, I thought, to see such an enthusiastic audience for poetry. As one figure after another leapt up to read their doggerel, the truth dawned. They were all here not to listen, but to perform. They would suffer each other's poetic rants, but only for their moment of glory. A woman in a red wig recited a poem about her vagina. A man in a blue jumper did a lengthy lament on lost love. It was a very long night.

Duh. Of course people are there to read but it's not the feeding frenzy this nube describes. Generally people are pretty open to each other at readings but come on! Why wouldn't that include a little quid pro quo? Yet, for all the years I've read at these things, I am still prone to what is sometimes breath stopping shyness. At the reading two weeks ago it hit me full force. By my second poem I basically caught up with my breath but that night I never fully got into the words.

Uncle Monkey, Ugly Bear and Clarence
discussing my NaNo manuscript

This week I was more at ease. The difference? Before reading I acknowledged my nervousness to the audience. Simple, right? No. When I got to the mic it was all I could do to glance at people and whisper, "I'm really nervous". Still it was enough to break the tension. It also helped I read Jazz which is more a performance piece than anything else.

I extracted it from the NaNoWriMo "novel" I wrote a few years ago. In fact, thus far these four paragraphs are all I have used from that entire 50,000 word manuscript. No worries. I may even write a second one some November. I loved banging through a month of crazy intensity, 2000 words a day, the world be damned, though no doubt it helped that I had zero expectations and no plot. I naturally share the NaNo point of view, "No plot? No Problem!". 

The cafe is now closed until the first of September. We leave London in about a week so that's it for me this time around.

Fish brain

Ideas dart in and out of my mind like fish, a flash of silver and they're gone. It's very frustrating. I grab for one, notice another out of the corner of my eye and miss both, leaving me empty-handed and empty-headed. Like now.

posted from Bloggeroid

Squirrel with a nut!

Squirrel with a nut!

And now I am off to do my five minutes. That is all.

Rainy morning update

For the last two mornings I've been practicing doing my "five minutes" of writing, writing writing, not blog writing which M. Lee claims is not writing at all. I differ with that opinion but I know what he's getting at. Anyway, two days ago I (once again) rose to his challenge and made myself "work". In other words, I stared down the blank page, fought off the Brutal Editor and scratched out a few words. So much easier to do this. Or, easier yet, photographs.

But, then again, griping about writer's block, is a device. I just need something to replace the current top post. I'm tired of that vulture staring at me whenever I drop by to grab a link or see if anyone on my blogroll has done a new post. By the way. Where's the Deconstructionist? It's been almost a year now! I know. Busy. But, back to that vulture for a minute. It feels like my blog is the roadkill laying in the street, and beyond that, the rest of my writing, what little there is of it, or might ever be, and that gets old.

It's bad enough that I'm already feeling pretty uninspired lately. I like Florida but I'm also really isolated here. Okay, I feel like that everywhere. On the upside, we have a healthy routine. We bike, swim and go to the gym on a regular basis. I'm grateful for that. But, once again, no friends, no history and not much chance of either. How would I make it different? At this point, I'm not sure I can. We'll be gone in a couple of months and do it all over again somewhere else. It's the curse of the road. Love it or leave it, right? My family is my anchor but they have their own lives. And so do I. I don't want to "live through them". That sounds so sadly vampirish and just plain sad. Even being a grandma is a relationship, certainly a wonderful one, a precious gift, but it's not my identity. And, I'm not "retired". I cannot even begin to wrap my head around that word. It doesn't make sense to me at all. I always have a project, a goal, a dream and my own personal nightmares.

I know. So get on with it. Blah blah. I've written about this before. Boo-hoo. The feelings will pass, even if the situation does not. I'll get to the Florida Writer's Association meeting next time they meet. That will help. They're nice folks and dedicated writers. Excuse me but it does help to sort it out here. So okay. Thanks for listening. I've got my feet back under me now.

In other news, the fight for domination of Frida's pineapple palm tree is all but won by none other than Diego Rivera, champion of the Battle Royale. The twins and Leon Trotsky gave it their best but Diego is a fearsome foe. You might ask, how can I know it's him? After all, we are talking about squirrels, are we not? Well, Diego has a distinctive tail. Of course, he's fatter and fuller than he was back in Frida's day, and that funny little ratty tip of his tail has filled in some, but the kink is still visible and the tip is still a bit on the ratty side. Plus, that's who he is, whoever he is. Easy.

Literary road dogs and Alligator Creek

Sunday - last day - Georgia to Florida

Forget Kerouac and Cassady. Perhaps, they were never really all that anyway. For this five day drive from Portland, Oregon to Florida's gulf coast, Rilke, Odysseus Elytis, Roy DeG., Galway Kinnell and Billy Collins have been our literary traveling companions. I should say Billy McCollins because, for all his admittedly delightful surprise poetic twist endings, and being a former Poet Laureate of the United States, Billy really is the Rod McKuen of the hour. Sorry Billy, but you know it's true. Anyway, their company has been, in turns, painful (Billy's same-ie sameness), lofty (Odysseus's romantic Greek modernism), electrifying (Rilke), heartbreaking (Galway) and delightful (Roy DeG.).

M. Lee, Roy DeG. & me in K.C.

When we got to Florida we turned off I-75 to gas up and found ourselves in an alternate Elmore Leonard universe and stopping at the Sarasota Trader Joe's we entered the alternate universe of "ageless" women sporting every implant known to modern and primitive man plus some double, perhaps triple, implants and lifts known only to aliens and Jersey surgeons before which we could only stand in jaw-dropped awe.

Monday - home - Alligator Creek

The old place looks good. Since we were here last, Frida Kahlo's pineapple palm was (finally) pruned. There was even a young squirrel in it this morning eating a nut! Surely, she is one of Frida's descendants. And, wonder upon wonder, Sonny Boy still lives with his parents across the street. He's been out in the screen porch all morning expounding to his mother about the fat epidemic, environment disasters, jail, death, work (which he does not) and a variety of other subjects as flocks of white ibises fly over the twittering, splashing mangroves on their way to the beach. In the last year, we've spent more time on Alligator Creek than "home" in Nevada. It's comforting to see that something of the world as it was still lives there.

Yellow Shoes

I posted a new poem at AnnaSadhorse the other day. Well, it's not new. I wrote it in 1988 for Lawson Inada, Oregon's poet laureate from 2006 to 2010. I was taking a writing for publication class from him at the time. One day I was wearing yellow shoes, ankle boots actually, and had my feet up on the chair in front of me. Lawson was talking, walking back and forth in front of the blackboard, when suddenly he grabbed one of my feet, held it up and told me to write a poem about yellow shoes and bring it to class the next day. So I did and here it is.

Footnote to the day

We're leaving in the morning for Sukhothai. It's a five hour bus trip from Chiang Mai. As usual, I have been unable to keep up with things here. We did a Wat crawl a couple of days ago. I took lots of photos but haven't had a second to organize them. The next day we did a 70 mile loop on the motorbike. I haven't really made peace with motorbikes yet but it was nice to get out of town. We saw some elephants along the road carrying tourists on their back but didn't stop. I didn't even photograph them. I love elephants but have no interest in seeing them in this context. And last night we had dinner with a friend who told us he used to be a practitioner of black magic. That was interesting.

I did add a few photos to my Facebook page but that's it. It all takes time but first thing every morning, we are up and out. The only time I have for any of this is at night but, like now, it's after 10 and I'm tired. Besides, the thoughts and impressions of the day are long gone.

Tonight some fucktards have turned on their fucking TV and it's blasting out over the courtyard. I'd close the big window but there isn't any glass in it. Yes. I'm complaining. Like JudyBlueSky says, sue me.

New old poem

I posted a new poem at annasadhorse tonight, Epitaph. This makes 27 to date that I've posted there. As with the others, this one is not new, just new to the site. I wrote it 25 years ago. I've never submitted it anywhere but I read it on the radio and at poetry readings. I was living in Ashland, Oregon at the time, a theater town and good place for poets. It's where I founded SkyRiver Press, but that's another story and it's late.