Black Zodiac

Darkened by time, the masters, like our memories, mix   
And mismatch,
                             and settle about our lawn furniture, like air   
Without a meaning, like air in its clear nothingness.
What can we say to either of them?
How can they be so dark and so clear at the same time?   
They ruffle our hair,
                                        they ruffle the leaves of the August trees.   
Then stop, abruptly as wind.
The flies come back, and the heat—
                                                                 what can we say to them?   
Nothing is endless but the sky.
The flies come back, and the afternoon
Teeters a bit on its green edges,
                                                           then settles like dead weight   
Next to our memories, and the pale hems of the masters’ gowns.
________
Those who look for the Lord will cry out in praise of him.
Perhaps. And perhaps not—
                                                     dust and ashes though we are,   
Some will go wordlessly, some
Will listen their way in with their mouths
Where pain puts them, an inch-and-a-half above the floor.   
And some will revile him out of love
                                                                   and deep disdain.
The gates of mercy, like an eclipse, darken our undersides.   
Rows of gravestones stay our steps,
                                                                  August humidity
Bright as auras around our bodies.
And some will utter the words,
                                                         speaking in fear and tongues,   
Hating their garments splotched by the flesh.
These are the lucky ones, the shelved ones, the twice-erased.
________
Dante and John Chrysostom
Might find this afternoon a sidereal roadmap,   
A pilgrim’s way ...
                                   You might too
Under the prejaundiced outline of the quarter moon,   
Clouds sculling downsky like a narrative for whatever comes,
What hasn’t happened to happen yet
Still lurking behind the stars,
                                                       31 August 1995 ...
The afterlife of insects, space graffiti, white holes   
In the landscape,
                                 such things, such avenues, lead to dust
And handle our hurt with ease.
Sky blue, blue of infinity, blue
                                                         waters above the earth:
Why do the great stories always exist in the past?
________
The unexamined life’s no different from
                                                                          the examined life—
Unanswerable questions, small talk,
Unprovable theorems, long-abandoned arguments—
You’ve got to write it all down.
Landscape or waterscape, light-length on evergreen, dark sidebar   
Of evening,
                       you’ve got to write it down.
Memory’s handkerchief, death’s dream and automobile,
God’s sleep,
                       you’ve still got to write it down,
Moon half-empty, moon half-full,
Night starless and egoless, night blood-black and prayer-black,   
Spider at work between the hedges,
Last bird call,
                           toad in a damp place, tree frog in a dry ...
________
We go to our graves with secondary affections,
Second-hand satisfaction, half-souled,
                                                                        star charts demagnetized.
We go in our best suits. The birds are flying. Clouds pass.   
Sure we’re cold and untouchable,
but we harbor no ill will.
No tooth tuned to resentment’s fork,
                                                             we’re out of here, and sweet meat.   
Calligraphers of the disembodied, God’s word-wards,
What letters will we illuminate?
Above us, the atmosphere,
The nothing that’s nowhere, signs on, and waits for our beck and call.
Above us, the great constellations sidle and wince,
The letters undarken and come forth,
Your X and my X.
                                   The letters undarken and they come forth.
________
Eluders of memory, nocturnal sleep of the greenhouse,   
Spirit of slides and silences,
                                                    Invisible Hand,
Witness and walk on.
Lords of the discontinuous, lords of the little gestures,   
Succor my shift and save me ...
All afternoon the rain has rained down in the mind,   
And in the gardens and dwarf orchard.
                                                                        All afternoon
The lexicon of late summer has turned its pages   
Under the rain,
abstracting the necessary word.   
Autumn’s upon us.
The rain fills our narrow beds.
Description’s an element, like air or water.

                                                                                 That’s the word.

-- Charles Wright

Personal History

"I would love you ten years before the flood."
                -Andrew Marvell

A long time ago when cataclysms were common
as sneezes and land masses slid
around the globe looking for places
to settle down and become continents,
someone introduced us at a party.

Later on, as the Rennaissance flowered,
I fell in love with you, egged on by the sonnet
and the idea of your individuality.

We married during the Industrial Revolution,
coughing on a brown lawn above a city
humming with flywheels and dry belts.
The ceremony went like clockwork.

When we rattled the world, we shut the blinds
and huddled under a table while sirens harmonized.
Everything but our affection was rationed.

Now we find ourselves in the post-modern age,
using one of its many Saturday nights
to drive to the movies in a Volkswagen.

"It doesn't seem we've been together that long,"
you say, looking at my profile,
contractig the past into the rearview mirror,
beaming the future into the tunneling of our headlights.


-- Billy Collins

Tagged

Gela shared a worthwhile blog tag where I learned 20 practical and mostly human things about her journey as a writer (thank you, dear!). I'm much obliged to share mine. :)

Tagging Ate Tin and Andrew ^_^

1. What type of writing do you do?

I like writing esoteric journal entries that I'm pretty sure nobody will read, much less decipher in a hundred years. I've ghost written generic content for websites since 2010 and churned out online features for European tourist directories, plastic bag companies, optical stores, bridal stores, plumbing companies, construction supply, funeral homes, etc. I’ve also abridged a children's book for a publisher. When I’m not lazy, which is pretty rare, I write about my travels and exploits as well as interesting musicians who make great music. When overcome with existential spells, I write fragments of my memory whether they’re real or imagined. I’d like to think I write about human things. I also keep trying to write poetry. 

2. What genres and/or topics do you write about?

My works are mostly about isolation, love, loss, struggle, relationships (romantic and platonic), growing up and apart. I write about the world as I see it and I take it from there. 

3. How long have you been writing?

I’m a late bloomer. I regret not liking books or reading when I was a lot younger. I kept a blog in high school but I didn’t really think about writing until my third year in college.

If I count from the year I wrote my first workshopped poem, I’d be looking at seven years of trying to write poetry. But then, if I count from the year I decided to go back to school to learn how to write, it’d be about 5 years.

4. Are you published?

Ghost articles not included? Yes. 

5. What was the first story you ever wrote?

Believe it or not, I wrote a Final Fantasy fan fiction in grade school because I had a crush on Squall Leonhart. Come to think of it, I probably even wrote a Ghost Fighter fan fiction because I loved that anime.

6. Why do you write?

I try to write when I believe I have something to say, or at least have an idea of what I want to say. It’s a form of expression and the process is a way to understand the world I live in. It makes me focus and it keeps me still. I write with the hope of expanding my perspective. Finally, I hope such writing will widen a reader’s perspective. 

Unlike other really good writers, I can’t exactly say I can make a living out of the freelancing (hack-writing) I do. And as we all know, writing poetry isn’t the most lucrative of professions. I need a day job.

7. How do you find time to write?

I can’t really stick to a schedule, but my writing usually happens in the evening before I sleep because that’s when my mind tries to de-clutter. I write down all sorts of things when I have trouble sleeping. Sometimes I’d type a few lines on my cellphone in between doing errands. However, I sometimes get lazy and stop writing anything for weeks or months at a time, except of course for anything work related.  

I find it hard to concentrate on writing. It almost always feels as if I’m waiting for a mood (a miracle really). But when I do, I work straight for days. When my writing gets disrupted, I have a hard time getting back to it again. I curse the internet, I curse myself. I stop when I don’t know what to write next or when I’ve exhausted myself. Months or even years later, I’d find myself still working on the same piece. The time in between helps me assess my work a bit more objectively. 

8. When and where are the best times to write?

I guess it’s when you have something brewing in your mind. The point where you just have to write something down would be the best time. You could be anywhere when this happens, but it’s always better if you’re someplace quiet with your laptop or notebook. 

9. Favorite food/drinks while writing?

Earl grey or chai tea latte. I like sweets and I eat anything I can get my hands on. 

10. Your writing playlist

Soothing instrumental music helps. I made a post rock playlist specifically to help get me in a better mood: I like listening to Industries of the Blind, Mogwai, and Riceboy Sleeps. When it’s quiet enough, I prefer silence.

11. What do family/friends/loved ones think of you writing?

My folks have been supportive, although I can tell they worry about me from time to time. Freelancing isn’t stable and I haven’t decided on working full-time (but I most probably will soon). I’m very grateful my mom paid for half of my graduate school tuition. She told me to do what I wanted to do.

As for my friends, they were supportive of the idea. I just think few people are fond of poetry here.

My significant other is very supportive of my writing. I sometimes think he's more enthusiastic about it than I am.

12. Parts of writing you enjoy the most?

It’s good  when I find a way to articulate something hard to understand in a simple manner. The process is slow and painful, almost obsessive. While I’m at it, I appreciate discovering things about myself and the world around me. I imagine I’d enjoy finally finishing a poem or a collection, but that’s yet to happen. 

13. Parts of writing you find challenging?

Everything from motivating myself, fighting laziness, wrestling with my thoughts, choosing the right words, arranging words, struggling to make sense, revising, and revising again, and did I say revising? aiming for relatability, consistency, avoiding clichés, finding time to write, articulating complex emotions or ideas into simple writing, staying patient and focusing on work, etc. You know. The work never seems to end.

14. What do you use to write with and on?

I like big notebooks or discarded bond papers when I’m too lazy to work on my laptop. Any decent pen or pencil will do.

15. How do you overcome writer’s block?

Tough question. When it comes to writing, I’m not sure I’ve overcome dry spells. Writing for work is different; I get my ass going because there’s a deadline and the assignments aren’t as difficult. When I get dry spells it’s a sign I have to step back and simply live. I guess not writing is part of the writing process. I’ve tried forcing work before and it’s just not the same.

16. How do you motivate yourself to write?

There are certain films, songs, and books that get me in a writing mood. I sometimes pace around especially when I’m writing at home. I don’t know why, but I guess the motion helps keep my mind going. 

17. Authors who inspire you as a writer?

Carl Dennis, J.D. Salinger, Italo Calvino, Wislawa Szymborska, Mark Strand, Mary Oliver, Marie Howe, Haruki Murakami, Jeanette Winterson, Philip Levine, Robert Hass, etc.

18. Books that inspire you as a writer?

3 from the top of my head: 

Practical Gods, Carl Dennis

The Continuous Life, Mark Strand

The Simple Truth, Philip Levine

19. Best advice you’ve gotten as a writer?

Another writer once told me: 

“If you want to be a good writer, you’ve got to be willing to suck for a long time.”

While scanning my Twitter feed, I came across a post on Brain Pickings:

“Don’t romanticise your ‘vocation’. You can either write good sentences or you can’t. There is no ‘writer’s lifestyle’. All that matters is what you leave on the page.” –Zadie Smith 

Finally, this advice from Ira Glass about "closing the creative gap":

Ira Glass on Storytelling from David Shiyang Liu on Vimeo.

When we read a poem for five minutes or devour a novel in a span of days, we have no clue how much hard work goes into actual writing. While I think there are people born with talent, nothing comes into fruition without doing all the dirty work yourself. So I just keep going. 

20. Writing goals this year?

Come up with a 30-40 poem collection for my thesis. And perhaps get down to writing that nonfiction story I’ve been thinking of since 2012? It’s a long shot, I know. :)

Truth: I am a better reader/critic than I am a writer. 

As much as I’d like to claim I am a writer, I’m not sure I’ll ever be good enough to become one. I've always had to remind myself that writing poetry is all just part of it. The goal has always been to live.

Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem

My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think

praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what's happening,

it's what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of Old Battersea Bridge.
I like the idea of different

theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook

of a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,

your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb

but couldn't hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother's belly
she had to scream out.

Here, when I say I never want to be without you,
somewhere else I am saying
I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet,

in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever. 


-- Bob Hicok

Parable

Some fishermen pulled a bottle from the deep. In it was a scrap of paper, on which were written the words: “Someone, save me! Here I am. The ocean has cast me up on a desert island. I am standing on the shore waiting for help. Hurry. Here I am!”

“There is no date. Surely it is too late by now. The bottle could have been floating in the sea a long time,” said the first fisherman.

“And the place is not indicated. We do not even know which ocean,” said the second fisherman.

“It is neither too late nor too far. The island called Here is everywhere,” said the third fisherman.

They all felt uneasy. A silence fell. So it is with universal truths.


--Wislawa Szymborska, Sól (Salt) 1962

Apparition

Years later, I met my father’s ghost

one midnight in summer. He smoked

beside the house and walked inside

without shoes. In the hallway I stood

when he entered the front door

and went straight into his study

where no one’s been in ten years.

I was afraid he’d see me. I moved 

closer and he appeared as a young man

almost my age. I watched him

by the moon’s rays from the windowpane.

He unlocked a display chest, examined

a collection of watches, took one

and began to dismantle its mechanisms,

spread tiny metal pieces on his desk,

like he did during his better days.

I recalled my father always made

timely repairs. I sat in front of him,

as if to discuss my troubles

with a watchmaker, to tell him

my clock sometimes stops at certain

points in the day, that perhaps he should

take a look. Right then, he lifted his head

to address me, or so I thought. Perhaps

it was the other way around: am I the ghost

caught in the bend? I thought he didn’t see

me; he looked right through. My father stared

at the darkness of the abandoned room

waiting for something to emerge.

He raised his hands like a man drowning

in a river, eyes milky and blazing

with moonlight, till he vanished—Father,

did you find what you were searching for?

I remained where you had been, the moon

now a quarter rising above the haze of clouds.

Sleep of the Beloved

Oblivion: Happy/Sad Rooms from Amber Light on 8tracks Radio.