My Trouble with Poetry

(Taken from http://theodysseyonline.com/montclair-state/easy-steps-overcome-writers-block/335202)

Lately, I’ve been reading Billy Collins’ Aimless Love, a collection of new and selected poems. Thumbing through, a poem or two a day, I came across one of my old friends: “The Trouble with Poetry” from the collection of the same title (2005). The trouble with poetry, I re-realized, is exactly what Mr. Collins says it is—it urges me to write poetry. It doesn’t have to be, nor will it ever be in most cases, good poetry. I haven’t really written a decent poem for a while. Some of you may question whether I’ve ever written a decent poem, but I digress. Last week I attended a literacy conference, which included a smattering of sessions on poetry, performance, and instruction by educator poets Georgia Heard and Brod Bagert. Interacting with them just sprayed lighter fluid onto my ardor to write poetry.

However, and I must add this however in here, the trouble with writing poetry for me right now is time. I have no time to watch out any window. Even across the hall from my classroom, the broad glass panes streaked with bird droppings and hard water stains fail to call to me. I have no time to invite the muses over for tea or for a cup o’ Joe or Jack or whatever it is they’re drinking these days. No dainties or doilies or even paper napkins holding store brand excuses for cookies and flavored sugar water in slightly smashed Styrofoam cups either.

Several weeks ago, Miss Lee, one of our math teachers, asked if I would write some examples of Pi-ku—a poem where each line corresponds syllables (or letters or words) with digits of pi—for “Pi(e) Day” last Monday (March 14). I jumped at the chance when she proposed the idea, but I couldn’t even eke out a semi-intelligent 3-1-4 poem by the deadline, let alone the twenty digits she initially asked for.

So this morning, I am making time in class, after reading the Collins poem aloud a few times with my students, to write about trouble. They are writing about the trouble with waking up first period, the trouble with Mr. Anson’s English class, the trouble with social media, the trouble with Donald Trump, and the trouble with girls. And I am writing about the trouble with poetry.

However, during the few precious minutes I steal each period, after attendance is taken and before students share their writing, I have not been able to complete any of the poems previously begun over past months. The ideas in my head repeatedly hit the snooze and demand “five more minutes” before waking. I’ve managed to stir up few scraps, a few images that remain clogged in my brain and resurface just often enough to remind me that the trap needs to be emptied, or at minimum, the filter needs to be changed.

Images of a cemetery with fall leaves and lichen creeping over the sandstone, along with an incomplete tribute to my father appear, as do words of a semi-formed piece pre-titled “Death Sucks,” which is a phrase I stole directly from Chris Thompson—to be perfectly honest for a moment—my friend and colleague whose ramblings about the run-ins with the reaper I jotted down and carried with me in a side pocket of my suit coat as I participated in more funerals in the past ten months than I have in a lifetime.

Maybe, if I ramble long enough, the tip of my pencil will burst into a little flame as I sit here in the metaphoric dark.

Because Nothing Else Really Felt Write, I Mean, Right

            Several years ago, when I thought I was a good writer, I would stay up late at night, sometimes until sunrise, scribbling until something came.  I would even rewrite drafts of old, horrific poetry that I had hatched over the past years.  It was an exercise that always seemed to jar my brain.

Right before I went away to school, I thought I’d make a handwritten copy of everything I’d ever written.  I slaved for hours, usually after a long day of work at Camelot Music, or traversing Illinois and Missouri in my trusty ’82 Buick Skyhawk Fred.  Sometimes I’d take in a Cards game or meander through Forrest Park across the Mississippi.  But at the end of the day I’d hole up in my room, turn on some tunes—soft enough not to wake up Mom and Dad—and write and rewrite and write and rewrite some more.  My ragged schedule forced me to fall asleep writing.  More than a few times I fell asleep on my arm, and I’d wake up with no feeling from the shoulder down.

Those last few days as I said farewells and gathered supplies for my life as a college bachelor, I operated in pain.  No one else knew.  Not my parents, my friends, nobody.  After I headed out west I acquainted myself with muscle relaxant creams (non-prescription) to get some feeling back into it.  And after a couple of weeks, it was good as new.

Oh, I still wake up a little stiff and sore most mornings, and more often than not, my struggles to decide what to write (like tonight as I attempt to spill my brains onto paper) overwhelm the few creative juices that flow in my veins.  However, now I know when to shut down the computer (mostly) and when to push forward, forcing myself to produce words on the page.  Sometimes I just need a reminder when to shut up.

Practicing What I Preached

True to what I implored all of you to do for the National Day on Writing, I wrote today.  (Most of) My students did, too.  They came away with quite a few projects that they are anxious to pursue, too.  A successful day if a do say so myself.  Here's my draft:

“Melancholic Block”

I flip blankly

through the curling blue-covered notebook

in my hands—

seventy pages of college-ruled nothingness—

and chew the end of my eraser,

along with my thoughts,

spitting out nothing—

digesting even less

Memory’s phonograph drones

its nondescript tune

until it reaches the inner-most

circumference of the aged vinyl—

song over;

the needle, abandoned and forgotten,

trips incessantly—

going nowhere

Melancholy wanders over

and notices that I

don’t look up

she drapes her dusty arm

over my shoulder,

her wispy tresses trailing

like a metaphoric afterthought

that means nothing in particular

and listens to the same slow symphony:

sad

a glance from her ashen eyes

clarifies:

words won’t work today—

the muse is absent—

home with a sore throat

but even without words,

understanding exists,

as she places a

tepid hand over mine—

not grabbing

not holding

not squeezing—

just there

it’s reassuring,

knowing these doldrums

of unmoving lines,

will be weathered,

but for now…

I break out the oars

and strike for the other side

As always, comments and criticism are welcome.

Canned Snippets (Not Quite as Long a Shelf Life as Vienna Sausage

I've tried to blog several times since the end of last school year.  Honestly, I'm getting so frustrated that my writing groove took a hiatus (beware the groove), that I'm almost desperate.  Like Macklemore, I'm ready to take your grandpa's style (Can I have your grandpa's style?) and raid the thrift shop for some hand-me-downs.  I'm not all the way back yet, but I thought I would drop a couple snippets since I haven't posted in three months.

13 August 2013

Writing with fresh ideas is like cooking with fresh ingredients.  You don't have to reconstitute anything.  No adding water or thawing needed. Sure, you can cook some pretty darn good stuff with mixes out of a box or can, but there's nothing like fresh, original thoughts.  This post, for example, had to be put on ice since I'm traveling and don't really have a way to do anything but preserve my thought in a few notes.  Yes, I'll get to it by and by, but it won't hold the same appeal (or nutritional value) of using it when it was fresh.

(...as self-fulfilled by me posting this two weeks later.  I've had some other ideas percolating, but either I haven't had the time or the energy or the right pictures.  Yes, folks, I will be posting pictures in the near future.)  Here are a few more rambles that didn't really go anywhere.

29 July 2013

Last night I attempted to write about my experience at Arlington National Cemetery, and the over-used adage about missing something one day and I feel it, missing two days and those close to me can feel it, missing more than that and the general public can tell; well, anyone who might still be reading this should be able to tell by now that I am off my groove with most everything (except eating, that is).  Writing comes in at the top of the list; however, even reading for pleasure has been more of a chore lately.  I realized this as I forced myself to stay up late to read Doyle's "The Speckled Band" over two nights, when it's normally one of my favorite Holmes mysteries.  It should only take me 20 minutes or so.  How sad is that?

As I type and retype and retype this in my WiFi-deficient hotel room, I reconfirm all theories and postulates and such regarding the need for consistent literary practice. To show you how bas it really is, I don't even know where a pen is at this moment.  And I usually carry one everywhere!

So now, as my family sleeps soundly, and I fumble in the dark on my too-small iPad keyboard, I resolve to never let myself become so deficient with my reading and writing again.

To start out, Ill try to get back on track by blogging a little more.  Some of you have noticed that I haven't done that since May.  Yikes!

28 July 2013

After lunch, Amy, Kevin, Brad, Brian, and I visited Arlington National Cemetery.  I had never been, and I have to say, that it was a very cool experience--one that I will always remember.

The sporadic drizzle that broke through grey skies felt refreshing in the high humidity, which, by the way, soaked us more than the light rain.  I haven't sweat like that in quite a while.  And it was only around 87 degrees.

Arriving 15 minutes before the changing of the guard, we hoofed  it (and huffed) across the grounds to witness one of the coolest rites I have experienced.  Pondering the symbolism, the simplicity, and the crisp elegance to which the soldiers performed their duties, I stood as the solemnity washed over me.  As we hiked up to the Confederate Memorial, I commented to my brother-in-law that I think (and I still think) that I was more impressed with this changing than that of the guards at Buckingham Palace.  Sure, the pomp and ceremony is overwhelming--bright colors, giant crowds, fuzzy hats-- (SWITCH THIS PARAGRAPH AROUND).

On a lighter note, we ran into one of my former students at Arlington house.  I seriously can't go anywhere (even 2200 miles away) without running into one of them, can I?

We also saw the gravestone of Abner Doubleday.  And I honestly don't care if he wasn't really the "inventor" of baseball, it was just cool to see.  Some loyal fan left an homage of two baseballs on its ledge.

The flame at JFK's grave reminded me of the flame for the soldiers' monument in Philadelphia.  Wet, hot, but very cool.

Despite all the screwy things that happen in our country and in the world, regardless of the corruption that runs rampant through all aspects of life, there are some things that are good and proper and right.

Blah.  More thoughts are on the way, and despite all my less-than-adamant protestations that writing about what I did over summer vacation being boring and pointless in most cases, I'll even let y'all in on the goings on of the fam.

P.S.  Check back later and I may have added some pictures to this post as well.  Then again, maybe not.