This is a photo of a digging bar, weighs about 30 pounds, six feet long, with a point at one end and a little flattened at the other. You can move some big, heavy objects with this thing.
I don't know how to put it briefly so I won't try-I just identify with a lot
I think I'm yet to grow, into the first kind -if I have time and other things. I'm not sure I have them.
It's usually second or third, to me
needless to say-I also like the second. it's a trance-like thing.
Third-feels just like being me all the time. One does get tired falling down and it's hard to see what's written on the bottles on shelves etc. You know you'll hit the ground eventually-but you're not sure you want it either, neither you're sure it'll end the journey.
So yes, there's no destination, not necessarily.
I love enlightments-yet they're not destinations not always. You were just able to see a bottle, or somesuch, touch it when falling
I really like that notion of seeing something and then touching it while falling-that's what it feels like.
About having the time- I am recently retired so I'm learning about taking my time since, for the first time in my life, I have so much of it and it's a magical thing to have.
I often wonder when a tune pops into my head, or something flows through my pen, is this me, or am I simply tapped into the Greater We? And when I write of Plato, or Milton, or Proust, have their words, their minds, come home to roost? as they say we stand upon the shoulders of giants, for when I write effortlessly, these words do seem to hold validity. But, in the end, I care not, as long as my words hit like a gun shot!
How can you not realize how much the gods (and goddesses) love you when you receive gifts like these?
And yet it’s purely you. You claim not to understand how but it’s your pure soul, I think, that did not permit the muses to overlook the heart of the young American boy who was once - and even now - standing in their midst. You were invited in, embraced and always welcomed.
The first paragraphs are poetry too. Very much so. Don’t overlook them.
Thanks Patris. I do believe that you understand these things better than I do and in this instance especially, I take your word on it. I appreciate the reassurance. By the way, in yesterday's mail, I got the last proof copy of the 107 poem book and it is flawless. So, pretty soon, I'm going to set up the Lulu thing with hardcover, paperback, and Ebook. Still working on the last two. Did you already give my your mailing address? You can send it via email for privacy.
There’s a light surrounding you I see (and in two others I’ve found here too) that is clear as day to me.
Did I ever tell you that a great-great- grandfather was visited by the leaders of the Greek war of independence because he was apparently known to have the gift of sight/prophecy found in the entrails of a sheep? Fun fact.
Had a teacher at the AmAcademy (perhaps your brother had him for history too?) His name was Stavroulakis. Very British accented snob of a wealthy family from Crete educated at Oxford. Doctorate in Biblical studies - which he taught during the summers in Tel Aviv. Openly gay and drove a classic MG so I of course had a killer crush on him though highschool.
When teaching modern European history we touched on the Greek war of independence- lord Byron etc etc, and he told us the last documented incidence of human sacrifice took place on one of the Greek navy’s ships before a battle (the Greeks won the battle). A physically beautiful Greek sailor agreed to die and take a petition to Poseidon asking his favor in the battle. He then drowned, falling from the ship into the sea. I can’t recall if he was ritually killed before going into the water.
I never encountered one though there was a ritual Tom’s mother taught me to banish the evil eye that involved a candle floating on a slick of water in a glass and prayers specific to banishing curses. I never came across it on the island but her own mother was from the Peloponese (and Attica) they lived with the ghosts of Turks and napoleonic soldiers.
Funny. Soon after reading your poem, I started a crossword puzzle and one of the first clues was ‘one of six simple machines’, the answer I thought of first being lever, which was correct. Now I am wondering what the other five are.
You can often tell a poem is near to being completed when, after several or many visits, it remains unchanged. It may resist having words removed, it begins to develop favorites and loyalties you weren’t aware of since you thought you were the creator and could edit as you liked, but you were wrong.
As you approach the poem with a scalpel you will hear phrases like, “Go ahead, take that word. And while you’re at it, take this one and those over there, go ahead, take ME!” Things can get a little hysterical.
Better moments in proofreading and editing come when you show up and everybody looks in costume, the set is great, the acting is all you could hope for, the director is doing their job, and yet, something is wrong. When you spot the phrase that needs to be cut or the word that needs to be changed, everyone heaves a sigh of relief, like a collective splinter has been removed. That’s good editing.
A lever is a worthwhile muse, however my use of this tool was for digging holes in hard clay and rock--holes to plant in, holes to dig water trenches, holes for outhouses, holes for earth lodges and sweats--don't remember if I ever used it as a lever...
It certainly is a curious thing, this creative impulse. I used to spend a good bit of time in my mom's studio, looking at all the different mediums she would work in-wood, plastic, clay, concrete, wire, marble, oil paint, glass, bronze and on. I would ask her about something she's working on and she'd say, "I don't know what this is, I just wanted to work on a curve like this." Then, months later maybe, on another project she'd say, "You see that curve again here in this piece." Her life was one 80 plus year long string of interconnected creativity that never ended. I think of her a lot now that I have stopped being a carpenter and spend my time on poetry.
I like how ordinary physical things such as a lever are lifted up metaphorically to something so much greater. My brain remains elsewhere, though, as I read a sentence as “walking like bird” and wondered how one does that?
“But the third kind, like the one below, are written from a place where ordinary thinking doesn’t occur. It’s like walking blind. You knowing where you are but not the direction you are going. Yet even with all that, the destination is not clear. Having a destination is usually integral while writing a poem. Anybody can start a poem, after all, but you’ve got to have an ending in mind if you want to complete one.”
I enjoyed your comments regarding the process. As for the poem I am afraid to say I am not getting it. My brain has a toothpick lever and just can’t lift up the ideas to a conscious level.
Well, to an ant a toothpick lever would be quite a game changer. I can even see a mouse walking around with a hunk of cheese at the end of his toothpick. I confess, and this is rare for me, that I don't understand this one fully either but I wrote it in some kind of a trance. It may just be nicely worded garbage, time will tell on this one.
Hey, by the way, in yesterday's mail I got my last proof copy of my book of 107 poems and it's perfect. I am saving that copy for you Jack. You will always get the first one. What is your mailing address these days?
Thanks for presenting the idea of moving the world. I believe we are at time when we need to think big, or we will perish.
Yeah, we may well perish and the earth will just give a shrug like we were some momentary bug.
I don't know how to put it briefly so I won't try-I just identify with a lot
I think I'm yet to grow, into the first kind -if I have time and other things. I'm not sure I have them.
It's usually second or third, to me
needless to say-I also like the second. it's a trance-like thing.
Third-feels just like being me all the time. One does get tired falling down and it's hard to see what's written on the bottles on shelves etc. You know you'll hit the ground eventually-but you're not sure you want it either, neither you're sure it'll end the journey.
So yes, there's no destination, not necessarily.
I love enlightments-yet they're not destinations not always. You were just able to see a bottle, or somesuch, touch it when falling
I really like that notion of seeing something and then touching it while falling-that's what it feels like.
About having the time- I am recently retired so I'm learning about taking my time since, for the first time in my life, I have so much of it and it's a magical thing to have.
I often wonder when a tune pops into my head, or something flows through my pen, is this me, or am I simply tapped into the Greater We? And when I write of Plato, or Milton, or Proust, have their words, their minds, come home to roost? as they say we stand upon the shoulders of giants, for when I write effortlessly, these words do seem to hold validity. But, in the end, I care not, as long as my words hit like a gun shot!
That's is great stuff.
It’s as if you’re sketching the silhouette of possibility, letting the reader decide what it becomes.
That is exactly how it feels, sketching an outline and hoping the reader will fill in the rest of it.
How can you not realize how much the gods (and goddesses) love you when you receive gifts like these?
And yet it’s purely you. You claim not to understand how but it’s your pure soul, I think, that did not permit the muses to overlook the heart of the young American boy who was once - and even now - standing in their midst. You were invited in, embraced and always welcomed.
The first paragraphs are poetry too. Very much so. Don’t overlook them.
Thanks Patris. I do believe that you understand these things better than I do and in this instance especially, I take your word on it. I appreciate the reassurance. By the way, in yesterday's mail, I got the last proof copy of the 107 poem book and it is flawless. So, pretty soon, I'm going to set up the Lulu thing with hardcover, paperback, and Ebook. Still working on the last two. Did you already give my your mailing address? You can send it via email for privacy.
There’s a light surrounding you I see (and in two others I’ve found here too) that is clear as day to me.
Did I ever tell you that a great-great- grandfather was visited by the leaders of the Greek war of independence because he was apparently known to have the gift of sight/prophecy found in the entrails of a sheep? Fun fact.
I’ll resend my address - can’t wait!
That is incredible. Do the Greeks have a version of a shaman? I know they have the Oracle of Delphi.
Had a teacher at the AmAcademy (perhaps your brother had him for history too?) His name was Stavroulakis. Very British accented snob of a wealthy family from Crete educated at Oxford. Doctorate in Biblical studies - which he taught during the summers in Tel Aviv. Openly gay and drove a classic MG so I of course had a killer crush on him though highschool.
When teaching modern European history we touched on the Greek war of independence- lord Byron etc etc, and he told us the last documented incidence of human sacrifice took place on one of the Greek navy’s ships before a battle (the Greeks won the battle). A physically beautiful Greek sailor agreed to die and take a petition to Poseidon asking his favor in the battle. He then drowned, falling from the ship into the sea. I can’t recall if he was ritually killed before going into the water.
I never encountered one though there was a ritual Tom’s mother taught me to banish the evil eye that involved a candle floating on a slick of water in a glass and prayers specific to banishing curses. I never came across it on the island but her own mother was from the Peloponese (and Attica) they lived with the ghosts of Turks and napoleonic soldiers.
I fully concur on process. You break it down beautifully. Great job jumping off from Archimedes, too! Feels exactly right. Thanks, Wes.
Thanks Alan, I appreciate it.
Funny. Soon after reading your poem, I started a crossword puzzle and one of the first clues was ‘one of six simple machines’, the answer I thought of first being lever, which was correct. Now I am wondering what the other five are.
inclined plane, screw are some others.
I really like and appreciate your process.
Thanks Stan. I also wrote this about the process.
You can often tell a poem is near to being completed when, after several or many visits, it remains unchanged. It may resist having words removed, it begins to develop favorites and loyalties you weren’t aware of since you thought you were the creator and could edit as you liked, but you were wrong.
As you approach the poem with a scalpel you will hear phrases like, “Go ahead, take that word. And while you’re at it, take this one and those over there, go ahead, take ME!” Things can get a little hysterical.
Better moments in proofreading and editing come when you show up and everybody looks in costume, the set is great, the acting is all you could hope for, the director is doing their job, and yet, something is wrong. When you spot the phrase that needs to be cut or the word that needs to be changed, everyone heaves a sigh of relief, like a collective splinter has been removed. That’s good editing.
Wow
A lever is a worthwhile muse, however my use of this tool was for digging holes in hard clay and rock--holes to plant in, holes to dig water trenches, holes for outhouses, holes for earth lodges and sweats--don't remember if I ever used it as a lever...
That is quality work which means you passed your "bar" exam.
Your writing process is so interesting and varied. I also sometimes write from the gut, other times more deliberately, but always from inspiration.
It certainly is a curious thing, this creative impulse. I used to spend a good bit of time in my mom's studio, looking at all the different mediums she would work in-wood, plastic, clay, concrete, wire, marble, oil paint, glass, bronze and on. I would ask her about something she's working on and she'd say, "I don't know what this is, I just wanted to work on a curve like this." Then, months later maybe, on another project she'd say, "You see that curve again here in this piece." Her life was one 80 plus year long string of interconnected creativity that never ended. I think of her a lot now that I have stopped being a carpenter and spend my time on poetry.
Wow. That is magical. It’s great you both found ways to express yourselves. I’m glad you’re sharing your work with others.
She's long gone now but I do feel her spirit all the time.
I like how ordinary physical things such as a lever are lifted up metaphorically to something so much greater. My brain remains elsewhere, though, as I read a sentence as “walking like bird” and wondered how one does that?
Where was that “walking like a bird” phrase?
Paragraph three:
“But the third kind, like the one below, are written from a place where ordinary thinking doesn’t occur. It’s like walking blind. You knowing where you are but not the direction you are going. Yet even with all that, the destination is not clear. Having a destination is usually integral while writing a poem. Anybody can start a poem, after all, but you’ve got to have an ending in mind if you want to complete one.”
Cheryl, I think you misread the word blind for bird….
That’s exactly what I did…short attention span syndrome.
Ha! It really is so comical how we slowly fade in our abilities. I spend a little time every day focusing on not losing anything.
You’ve sailed over all the fences, thus far, Wes. Keep swinging!
Ha, thanks Paul.
I enjoyed your comments regarding the process. As for the poem I am afraid to say I am not getting it. My brain has a toothpick lever and just can’t lift up the ideas to a conscious level.
Well, to an ant a toothpick lever would be quite a game changer. I can even see a mouse walking around with a hunk of cheese at the end of his toothpick. I confess, and this is rare for me, that I don't understand this one fully either but I wrote it in some kind of a trance. It may just be nicely worded garbage, time will tell on this one.
Hey, by the way, in yesterday's mail I got my last proof copy of my book of 107 poems and it's perfect. I am saving that copy for you Jack. You will always get the first one. What is your mailing address these days?
We had that evil eye thing in our house too, from Greece.