Tag Archives: writing

Timing

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Several days ago, I discovered a fly in the bottom freezer drawer,
-dead from cold- beneath the packaged, leftover gumbo made with a roux, the kind that must be stirred slowly – simmering on low heat- so that it does not burn.
***
Claudia crossed her hands as she spoke of her upcoming schedule, the dangers of narcissism,
and the joy of creative moments -her blue eyes betrayed an infatuation with cleverness- and later she cast her burdens on a subscription magazine and a glass of pinot grigio.
***
Further on that day at the convenience store, after receiving change -76 cents- for the purchase of his lemon-flavored tea and Marlboros, an un-named driver whistled a Meredith Willson tune -to mark his time in the parade of customers- turned and walked out

clearing before the door shut.

untold

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forever, relentless
late amid a lemniscate,
the space between the lines
ever rending – surrounded
by the never ending,
closed in a space
where moonlight
skews with sunbeam queues.
banners flying underneath
the breathing of the winds bequeath
a conquest perpetually given
and in few words, love’s recognition.

NaPoWriMo 2013 Day 29

doppler collusion

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speak the sound,
then it resonates back
in waves that traverse time,
sometimes delayed.

When I was a child,
I used a tape
recorder to
compose sounds
and mimic noises and
imitate voices from what I heard.

Then played them back.

They were old,
voices
from movies and
TV shows, trustworthy sounds
to my ear, both as I spoke them and
as they were played back to
me from the tape.

sometimes
Stan Laurel wouldn’t
come out the way I heard him
when I spoke,

and I realize now,
I was only six.

***********************
NaPoWriMo 2013, Day 6

genesis

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R.S. Wesson

Original Art – R.S. Wesson


at the beginning
there was a blank sheet,
and in the darkness
creation was held in place
before the sparks and ember glows
set their marks in the distance.

a sound arose from the corners
of the universe
and echoed
with a sun’s laugh of approval

while luminous seeds flew from a nova,
floating outward
in waves of solar mirth,
and left an imprint of light and sound
set with the hand that created it.

**************
Genesis is an ekphrastic poem, inspired by the artwork shown above, by R. S. Wesson.

Adventures in Productivity

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Early Sunday morning, I awoke with the idea that I wanted to make a loaf of sourdough bread. I received a breadmaker from my son as a Christmas gift. I have enjoyed making bread “the old fashioned way” for many years, and entertained the idea of a breadmaker because, well, I like bread, and sometimes there is not enough time to mix ingredients, let it rise, divide the dough, let it rise again, and cook it. I will do it that way for holiday bread, but it is time consuming.

Scrounging around the kitchen at 7 AM, I realized that I did not have enough all-purpose flour to complete the recipe. What I did have was whole wheat flour. I have never heard of whole wheat sourdough bread…so I went to my computer to google search.

My internet connect was dead.

We have a funky wireless connection at our house. It drops out my wife’s laptop most of the time, but rarely does my computer lose the signal. I rebooted the modem…nothing. I rebooted my computer….still nothing.

The definition of insanity is, doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result.

I rebooted everything again…just in case. No luck.

Then I took an ethernet cable and hooked my computer directly to the modem…good,

then to my wireless router…bad.

tangled wires

I am fortunate to have purchased a spare router^, so I powered everything down, replaced the router, plugged everything in, powered it up and …..BAM….

working internet.

Amazing.

A little searching for bread recipes and I found the following:

A hearty whole wheat yeast bread with the tangy flavor of sourdough. This recipe was written for use with bread machines.

Sourdough Whole Wheat BreadFor 1 1/2 Pound Loaf:
3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons water
2 tablespoons vegetable oil
1 cup sourdough starter (room temperature)
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1 tablespoon granulated sugar
3 cups whole wheat bread flour
2 teaspoons active dry yeast

I loaded the ingredients in the breadmaker, plugged it in and pressed start.

Three and a half hours later, we enjoyed a warm loaf of whole wheat sourdough bread with lunch. It did not have an extra heel, but we were joyful nonetheless.

bread
********************************

Why does this matter?

I have been reading Steven Johnson’s book, Where Good Ideas Come From: The Natural History of Innovation. It is one of the five or six books (paper and electronic) that I have cracked open at the moment^^. He discusses the coral reef as a model for technology development – filling the needs required by those in the environment so they don’t have to reinvent something from scratch to fill their need.

Adaptation to the situation via the adjacent possible.

To make a loaf a bread required not only the ingredients (whether I could use whole wheat flour or not), the knowledge of how to mix them and cook the loaf, the technology of a bread machine, how to troubleshoot an internet connection, performing a search of information out in cyberspace…you see where this is going right?

Steven Johnson’s point is that we don’t have to know how all of these things work, but simply how to use them. That opens up the adjacent possible…If I use it there, maybe I can use it here.

That is how new ideas are born.

Trying the bread with a little margarine and apple butter is my next big idea.

*********************************

^We purchased a certain provider’s bundled internet and phone package a few years ago, only to find out recently, when our phone connection went out, they no longer support the equipment…so we have to do that on our own. I found what we needed and we purchased a few of them.

^^Yes, I can’t seem to finish a book without starting another. I won’t apologize for that any longer.

Poet in Mind: E.E. Cummings

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For National Poetry Month, I wanted to spotlight a poet that I enjoy reading. There are plenty of them that I like…for different reasons.

One of the poets I enjoy reading is E.E. Cummings…Edward Estlin Cummings.

He was born in 1894 and actually wanted to be a poet at an early age. Between the ages of 8 and 22, he wrote a poem a day. He explored many of the traditional forms and by the time he was finished at Harvard in 1916, found a voice in dynamic use of language. His subject matter focused on traditional themes: love, childhood, flowers…all somewhat old-fashioned by “modern” standards of the day. Yet, he succeeded through experimentation with language and syntax, lack of punctuation or overuse of it, and was an innovator in concrete poetry, or shape poetry. Very much a romantic, he was able to inject life into a lyrical voice with such ingenuity.

A wonderful example of his use of language, and how the tone of his words shaped the poem (even though they make no sense grammatically) is in [anyone lived in a pretty how town].

>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did.

Women and men (both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed (but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
with by spirit and if by yes.

Women and men (both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain
published in Poetry (August 1940)

Other poems are far more obscure and yet, architecturally interesting. The sound of the words together with the flow of the line makes a sing-song quality to much of his poetry. You can read some of them here. Cummings was raised in a Unitarian family and was a pacifist in his younger years. During the 1st World War he enlisted in the ambulance corps, and was actually detained and imprisoned for 3 months by the French on suspicion of espionage. He and a friend were apparently bored with their jobs and inserted veiled and provocative comments into their letters home, just to baffle the French censors.

O sweet spontaneous by E. E. Cummings
O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the doting

fingers of
prurient philosophies pinched
and poked

thee
has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy

beauty how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy
knees squeezing and

buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
but
true

to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover

thou answerest

them only with

spring

Apparently, the man was also a philanderer. He wrote a trove of love poetry, some quite racy. He had an affair with one of his best friend’s wives, fathered a child with her, while they were still married. His friend continued to work on his behalf as a publisher after that. Cummings had a way with words…

supposing i dreamed this)… (IX) by E. E. Cummings
supposing i dreamed this)
only imagine,when day has thrilled
you are a house around which
i am a wind-

your walls will not reckon how
strangely my life is curved
since the best he can do
is to peer through windows,unobserved

-listen,for(out of all
things)dream is noone's fool;
if this wind who i am prowls
carefully around this house of you

love being such,or such,
the normal corners of your heart
will never guess how much
my wonderful jealousy is dark

if light should flower:
or laughing sparkle from
the shut house(around and around
which a poor wind will roam