Since 1973, I have stored literally thousands of poems away in binders or the word processor, plus a novel attempt or two. The novel I was working on at Stanford sits in a trunk of my attic, not reexamined since I left, this even though Wallace Stegner had told me that it was sufficient in its form for a Stanford masters thesis. I have sent out maybe a handful of poems over the years, but without persistence. The only published poem to my credit I paid for, in one of those contests in which you buy the huge tome, if you want to see your work in print. The poetry continues almost daily, with seldom more than a month's gap between new sequences. When they cease temporarily, I am dismayed. They give form and expression to my days. I have pared this grouping down to the present grouping of 200 poems or so. Others that like preen alone and refuse to coalesce and so have been left for a later distillation. If nothing else, this effort has forced me to shuffle through old bins. Which pretty much fill a closet. Which, if not disposed of, will burden my heirs for years. This is a move in the direction of relieving them of that burden. I am surprised at how well this generally nongregarious lot has managed to cooperate here, or so I imagine. A few may dismay, due to language, but they are few and express what they expressed, at the moment. Spin Pause is the first in a series of recent pursuits, with work progressing quickly on the follow-up.
KARMA
The apportioning of spoils. Meat from the oils Can be so exhausting. After the hunt, the harpooning. And then there's the severing of carcasses, The need to be tidy Or of having it carted away For feasts or for storage Before one calls it a day or Just its beginning, This harvesting of dreams. And then there's charity, The God-bargaining, the alms. Determining who will be last When the first finally get theirs, And the last are avidly Still apportioning memory.
Since 1973, I have stored literally thousands of poems away in binders or the word processor, plus a novel attempt or two. The novel I was working on at Stanford sits in a trunk of my attic, not reexamined since I left, this even though Wallace Stegner had told me that it was sufficient in its form for a Stanford masters thesis. I have sent out maybe a handful of poems over the years, but without persistence. The only published poem to my credit I paid for, in one of those contests in which you buy the huge tome, if you want to see your work in print. The poetry continues almost daily, with seldom more than a month's gap between new sequences. When they cease temporarily, I am dismayed. They give form and expression to my days. I have pared this grouping down to the present grouping of 200 poems or so. Others that like preen alone and refuse to coalesce and so have been left for a later distillation. If nothing else, this effort has forced me to shuffle through old bins. Which pretty much fill a closet. Which, if not disposed of, will burden my heirs for years. This is a move in the direction of relieving them of that burden. I am surprised at how well this generally nongregarious lot has managed to cooperate here, or so I imagine. A few may dismay, due to language, but they are few and express what they expressed, at the moment. Spin Pause is the first in a series of recent pursuits, with work progressing quickly on the follow-up. 