I start the new year, this calender year, in San Miguel Allende, Mexico. With poets and Poets. . . and as I sit here now, my last post for this year, my feet are cramping as are my calves and I am reminded by my body of where I’ve been and where I am. I kissed my husband goodbye as he went off to a gig. I called my kids yesterday to say I love you. I called my sister too, as well, with love. I may not have been writing as much poetry as I think I ought but I have managed to post on this blog, on average, once a week. That’s something.
You know who you are. And if you don’t see your name here, please add it as a reply
Skinner & Co
Rosanne and Joe, what a team
Nancy (NYC and ATX)
Denise of the Dragonflies
Terry Jane, you are there
Kathy – Emily= Ben= Malcolm
Urbans and Irwins
Chris my sailor
Alyce and your wonder
Delia and Dermuid
New York City
Vicki, Joy, Steven, Kate, Cash
Stacy, my body remembers you with every step
Drs. Chang, Kee & Seade
Shookie and MOMA
me and charlie, charlie and me
Charlie, Mike, Me,
In the short run or the long run it comes down to me. I gave myself this year to just stop. To breathe, to dream, to live in the body that I have, to move from survivor into that new identity. This year started with rejection and ache that I stared in the face and from this series of encounters I made art. In the making of this mixed-media piece, with all my energy intensely focused, came that knowing that I am an artist. And I gave it to the person for whom it was crafted. I will never see it again and for all I know it’s in a dumpster or a consignment shop. Doesn’t matter. The making gave me a gift.
So now at the end of the calender year, I pack to go to Mexico wondering about the state of affairs in the poetry world. And I’m taking my fancy crayons and some paper. And I’m taking myself because it doesn’t matter. I live with chronic pain and fuzzy thinking and feet I feel only parts of. But I live.
Grace Ann Gilbert
Ann Crosson Madden
James F. Crosson, father and son
Christmas Eve at Ancona’s
Edeville Rail Road
Caroling with Patti Z.
Thomas N. Madden
Danny Roy Young
My right piriformis muscle
Juanita, my old girl
to be continued
No, not that word. This one:Christmas
Here it is in all its shiny, wounded, wonderousness. I am not a Grinch nor a Hum-Bugger. . . I do not blame the large retail establishments for preying upon our cultural insecurities because we (in the USA) live in a semi-open market economy and companies need to make a profit. I find the TV ads annoying and yet charming and some just go over my head. . .perhaps due to my age or low socioeconomic background.
I don’t understand why all the children’s’ toys make electronic noises. Or why televisions have to be so big. I also think Martha Stewart made home-made cookies too fanciful and decorations too much work.
I say Happy Holidays AND Merry Christmas. . . I worked in a Jewish deli for two years in a run-down city in Massachusetts and the holy days for that religion is not on the same calender days as mine. It’s respect not political correctness. . . sometimes I say: “Happy Merry!” (Remember folks, Jesus celebrated Chanukah! He was after all Jewish.)
I loved Christmas and making the holiday special for my son when he was small. He was not a greedy boy and each year had one thing that was ‘the gift’. I do not have a large extended family and my siblings lived far away, so most years were a few of us. When he came to a certain age, we discussed what we wanted to do that holiday. . . picking and choosing traditions. While this gave my son autonomy for Christmas, it allowed me to keep a time budget as well as money. There were not many have to’s. We’d go to midnight Mass and open presents on Christmas morning.
So easy to say all that now, I remember one year when I was a florist. (Dear reader pause a moment and picture a floral shop in the holiday season.) My hands were raw and poked from roses and holly and seasonal greens and bows and. . .and . . .and. . .I worked late, 9:00 PM, came home to check on my four year old who was with my mother and then at midnight, drove across town to Zayre’s (a K-Mart kind of store) to get all the toys half price. Wrapped them with home cookies, finished at 3:00 AM and my son woke me up three hours later. So glad I took pictures. I don’t remember the rest of that holiday, except that my boy was happy.
One Christmas Day we ended up in the ER. He had a fever of 103 and wanted nothing to do with his presents. He had a nasty ear infection. In the early 80′s the CVS and Walgreens were not open 24-7. Pleasant Drug was open because the owners were Jewish. God Bless us every one.
Now in Austin, we spend Christmas Eve at a party like the one we give on Thanksgiving. . .a comfortable tradition. I do a tree decorated with only hearts and stars, lights and pearl roping. I do not put out the decorations that were those of my boy. I miss him.
Now in the northeast, he makes Christmas special for his boy. And I love knowing that. That’s my gift.
Since composing poetry and blog posts seems to elude me, I am taking advantage of this quick post format from WordPress.
Thomas Hardy? Really AMMI do you have the cojones to compare yourself with the novelist who brought us “Jude the Obscure” and “Far from the Madding Crowd”?
Yes, devoted reader, I am. Why you wonder? Because Thomas Hardy was a poet who wrote novels because his poetry didn’t sell. I’m a poet by inclination. . . but I love a good story. Oh hell, call me Irish. (I like wiskey too.)
I was to have my first book published in the spring. The publisher is folding her tents and silently stealing away. I carry no animosity for this woman, she’s a good lady who’s just done. I support this. But F*QUE. it just sucks. I have not written a new poem since. . .I hear a line, write a line but that’s it.
So, I tried the write a novel in a month thing. I only got to 3,000 words. But heck I wrote prose. . .even sitting on the floor of O”Hare beside a plug. Yet, I’m stuck.
Yes, POD publication is out there and more respected than it used to be. But I wanted a publisher imprint on my first book. I want to go in a bookstore and buy my own book.I so believe in this book and that there is an audience out there who needs it. But it’s not a book of metaphors and lyrics or abstractions. . . it’s documentary in style, with varied voices.
In the mean time, I’m a writer between genres. Not fun.