100 Day Project Three – Day 2

DAY 2 (June 13th, 2018)

IF I COULD REACH

If I could reach
into the past
and pluck a petal
from that ghostly flower
I’d pull you back
and tell you that I loved you.

In your dying hours
I saw that you tried
to do the things you loved
in life, but you were so tired.

Death hung around your neck
and pulled your head down
so that all you could do
was stare into the dim morning—
dimmer now,
grayer now.
You crawled into the bitter end
with all the life left to you.

I pluck you from the past, dear one
and make you whole again.


Novel X

Daily Word Count: 120

EXCERPT

“Charlot sighed, looked at Burt, looked at Blek, then muttered something indiscernible under her breath.”


The 100 Day Project

The 100 Day Project

The 100 Day Project is a creativity excavation. It’s about unearthing dormant or unrealized creativity by committing to a daily practice everyday for 100 days.
Creativity is a skill. The more we practice, the more skilled we become. Practice takes time. Practice takes commitment. Practice is a radical act in this speeded up world. Through practice, we develop a creative habit. Through habit, we reconnect with and know ourselves again as a creative being.

I started this, my third, 100 Day Project on June 12th, 2018. My project is to write at least one first-draft stanza inspired by a poem, a quote, an idea, a painting—anything, really (or nothing at all) and to write at least one hundred shitty first-draft words of my novel. I’ll post the results here.

Enjoy!

100 Day Project Three – Day 1

DAY 1 (June 12th, 2018)

ON WRITING POETRY

The first verse is easy.
The second one strained.
The third one is broken.
The fourth one maimed.


Novel X

Daily Word Count: 122

EXCERPT

“As I previously stated, and according to law, I cannot,” Blek responded, “and indeed, I would not wish to, and would consider such an action a travesty, even if I could.”


The 100 Day Project

The 100 Day Project

The 100 Day Project is a creativity excavation. It’s about unearthing dormant or unrealized creativity by committing to a daily practice everyday for 100 days.
Creativity is a skill. The more we practice, the more skilled we become. Practice takes time. Practice takes commitment. Practice is a radical act in this speeded up world. Through practice, we develop a creative habit. Through habit, we reconnect with and know ourselves again as a creative being.

I started this, my third, 100 Day Project on June 12th, 2018. My project is to write at least one first-draft stanza inspired by a poem, a quote, an idea, a painting—anything, really (or nothing at all) and to write at least one hundred shitty first-draft words of my novel. I’ll post the results here.

Enjoy!

100 Day Project (Three) Kickoff

The 100 Day Project

I started my first 100 day project a little over a year ago. For three months over the summer, I spent time during the week and much time over the weekends writing first draft poetry in my little black notebook and on my computer.

I feel that summers are fitting for writing first-draft material. You may walk unencumbered in the open air and ruminate and reminisce while drinking in the sun, unworried and unhurried.

The idea behind that first project was to read a poem and write a first-draft stanza in response to that poem. However, as the project wore on, I began mostly writing first-draft stanzas, not as a response to poetry I had read, but more simply based upon thoughts and impressions I had at the time.

I was OK with that … as long as I continued to write. That was the important thing.

For my second 100 day project, I took much of that first-draft material and crafted poems out of it. Additionally, I worked a bit on my novel.

While there were some gaps in my production, overall I was quite happy with the results. I created some pretty good poems (in my estimation, at any rate) and developed a process for writing poetry to boot.

I started yet a third 100 project, but I abandoned it about a third of the way through. Let’s just say that life got in the way.


Well, summer is in full swing. In between projects, I have been writing poetry quite consistently. The habit I feel is ingrained in me now.

Jane Hirshfield wrote in her essay ‘The Myriad Leaves of Words’ that in the Heian court culture of Japan “… no significant experience was to be entire until it had found expression in verse.”

I understand the import of those words now. And whether or not the meaning I imbue into past experience with verse is really real or not does not detract from the effort. If one thinks too hard and too deeply (and honestly) about life, one may draw the inescapable conclusion that it is ultimately senseless … at least, on a cosmic scale.

To find meaning in life, therefore, is an exercise in creativity. It is absolutely necessary, in fact, to maintain well-being and keep one’s sanity. And while this creative effort may not be, in an objective sense, true reality, it is real as real can get. Life really is what we make it.

At any rate, I want to write new first-draft poetry this summer. And I want to continue to work on my novel.

So, without further ado, I’m pleased to present the daily goals for this, my third, one hundred day project:

  • To write at least one first-draft stanza each day. This work may be in response to poetry I have read, in which case, I may present that poem. Or it may be in response to a picture or an idea. Or it may just pop out of my head unadorned in all its brash and unpolished glory.
  • To write at least 100 new words a day on my novel.

Of course, there may be times when I miss a day or two here or there. That’s to be expected. Make-up work is allowed! I am quite fallible and all too human.

So, there it is. Wish me luck!

Note To Self

THE STEPS

Step One: Let go of anger and hate, for they otherwise will consume you.

Step Two: Let go of sorrow. It will pass.

Step Three: Find peace in the present. You will see God in all that surrounds you.

Step Four: Find hope for your future. Good things will come.

Mercy

A Short Poem

TREASURE ON THE WATER

My heart sank
in the pitch
alone—
upon my table a bowl
of sorrows and a spoon
made of bone.

I expected no one—
only tears
to consecrate this bitter meal.

And yet you came.
And I cried and cried—
long into the joyless night.

Your heart was heavy for mine
We shared my wretched burden.
Mercifully,
you seized my shoulder,
lifted me up
and through my hovel window shone
first light—
treasure glittered on the water—
where before there was none.

(Thank you, K.)


First Draft Words While Reading Octavio Paz (2)

Not Ready

I’m not ready to die just yet.
I’ll keep pushing this body past its years.
God will forgive me if I covet yours
for a little longer
if I offer up my desire
to all that suffers.
God tastes the tenor of my intent
and why I spread my fingers
over your yielding turns.


Excerpts From Toward the poem (starting points) by Octavio Paz:

The poem creates a loving order. I foresee a sun-man and a moon-woman, he free of his power, she of her slavery, and implacable loves streaking through black space. Everything must yield to those incandescent eagles.

Copied from the the book Selected Poems, which you can buy here:


Resurrection

A Prose Poem

Resurrection

The bird had been broken—shot through by a huntress with a cavernous mouth and teeth like stalactites and from its depths was heard a long echo. The bird’s neck was twisted like a pretzel—its head and brittle yellow beak (the two small holes in which were full of dried blood) and its eyes, dried like raisins, stared upward from its ossuary of wild grass toward a mothering maple tree. The summer sun—gold leaf to some (the living, most of all)—but to this poor creature only caused flies to circle in insidious buzz.

Carried God the Man a sylvan bourn to this lifeless animal—and he knelt, not to worship but to relive, and perhaps to reawaken, for he had died, and that death was his compassion—he was twice-born, so he no longer worshiped death, having died a child to be born a man.

His eyes filled up with water—blue-black oceans that teemed with glowing fishes. Ice-capped mountains formed on his brow and a third-eye sun dawned upon his head. The fishes schooled together and swam upright onto land to penetrate emerald green forests to become sheep and wolves; and to each sheep paired a wolf, and from each sheep-wolf grew wide wings of pearl and lapis lazuli. And they climbed the canopy of sheltering trees to become mighty birds that took flight into the dark night toward celestial spheres to become angels—to sing and shed tears—life-giving rain that fell mercifully on this poor creature around which flies circled in insidious buzz.

“These are my tears,” he whispered and the bird craned its neck to hear. How can one not love that which must die, for all that one loves is extinguished in death. His love mended its broken wings and its neck uncoiled like spring, and its eyes filled up with moisture—rueful, bewildered, and fragile.

And it looked up to God the Man as a nestling might to its mother and said, “Now I am forever always, as must be the wind through which I’ll soar.” But in its seeing eye was a mote of disbelief, as if it didn’t quite believe it was now alive, and that perhaps it was all a dream. And yet it flew, and flew—into the bright blue sky it flew.


It Fades

A Short Poem

It Fades

She did love me once,
if only for a night—
it fades and it fades
by the hour and by the day—
what was once so real
is distant memory.


Year 2018 365 Photo Journey (April 11th thru April 30th) – Downtown Indy, Downtown Chicago, Windmills

Here are some pics of downtown Indy, some windmills on the way to Chicago, and Chicago itself. Enjoy!


365 Photo Journey

Apparently, this is a thing. Consider it a challenge, a journal, or a journey (I prefer journey). Take a picture a day and post it to your blog. Here are some reasons why you should try it, too.

First Draft Words While Reading Eugenio Montale

Your Words

I once thought
to bind you with my words,
but now to your words
I wish only to be bound—
and to the devil if they fall
on faces bittered by them
and ears deaf to your song.


An excerpt From Mottetti (Poems of Love) by Eugenio Montale

You know this: I must lose you again and cannot.
Every action, every cry strikes me
like a well-aimed shot, even the salt spray
that spills over the harbor walls
and makes spring
dark against the gates of Genoa.

Copied from the the book Mottetti Poems of Love which you can buy here: