all my poems are starts
they begin but never end
yet do they abandon me
or do i abandon them?
writing
Spring’s sure well-done over, at 100°
Poetic words flow much better in pleasant climes—
Springtime and autumn, more friendly for rhymes
Winter’s good too, we self-reflect well in cold times
But blazing summer melts words & numbs minds!
Poet’s id
Two most important things in a writer’s wallet: library card and
So easy, so hard
My poems are love-drunk letters to the universe.
An Artist’s Sorrows
As the nightingale went home in the morning and hung his golden harp on the peg, he said in a bitter tone — ’Let them be sure of this, I will not sing again.’
And his wife came up to him with chirpings and hoppings to soothe him: but nothing availed; it was clear to all that he was bitterly affronted.
Every night he went out and sang his loves to the rose; the night air throbbed and quivered to the sound.
His wife sat at home, and was contented if he was happy; moreover, she thought that, however his love raged, no harm could possibly come of it.
And now at her entreaty he told her of his sorrows, and how deeply he was wounded by what had passed.
‘I sang sweetly! I sang sweetly! the rose opened her leaves; it seemed to me that the moon rose earlier than her wont.
‘All things listened — all things near and far off listened, save only the youth and maiden who were close to me.
‘I sang sweetly! I sang sweetly! but they only turned and whispered to each other…’
—V. A. R., “An Artist’s Sorrows,” from the Kamschatskan, Poems, 1867
They healed my heart
“I have a request to make of those who read Empty Shells. If any friend surmises he has discovered the author he will be courteous enough to keep my secret. I have left out a great many poems that would have betrayed my identity, and put in none that I have cause to fear. Why then publish? I have no right to count on a long life and I am not willing to be ‘edited, revised, and corrected.’ On the other hand, I feel towards my poems as many women do towards their weak children; and treasure them because if they were conceived in grief they healed my heart. After the first smart of a new loss was softened, next to writing my greatest comfort was reading; and I did not then seek great authors. Shakespeare, Milton, and Goethe were naught to me: I sought minor Poets — of whom I dare hope to be one. Could I but be a like comfort to some simple, sorrowing hearts I should feel my life-griefs had not been in vain.”
Poetry
There is a pleasure in the pathless words…
To mingle with the universe, and feel
What I can ne’er express, yet can not all conceal.
The words are lovely, dark and deep.
I went to the words because I wished to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of language.
In the words we return to reason and faith.
Come to the words, for here is rest.
Literature does not grow wild in the words.
I put my heart to school in the words.
In the words is perpetual youth.
Whose words these are I think I know.
We are not out of the words yet.
Chatterbox
Prose is poetry that can’t stop talking.
Writing styles
After all these years I’ve finally pegged my writing style —
—“Ink marrow,” 2009
On the days I’ve had too much coffee, my writing style turns to overcaffeinated spiritual warrior.
—“Kiai!,” 2012
After thirty-four years of writing, I feel that I’m finally about to break free from my juvenilia phase. In a few
—“Self-taut,” 2019
Lost & unfound
opportune words
fall into my brain
at inopportune times
quickly lost to real life —
not to be found again, i fear
’til some inkless paperless afterlife
Imperfect
“I weep over my imperfect pages, but if future generations read them, they will be more touched by my weeping than by any perfection I might have achieved, since perfection would have kept me from weeping and, therefore, from writing.”
—Fernando Pessoa (1888–1935), translated by Richard Zenith, 2015
Imprinting
Poetry is an inky soulprint.
Analysis
Handwriting is autobiography.