Tag Archives: poet

Spring is like

Forecast for New York today is sunny and 70, so although I’m two days early for the official start of Spring, I give you this gift to start your week, one of my all-time favorite poems:

Spring is like a perhaps hand
(which comes carefully
out of Nowhere)arranging
a window,into which people look(while
people stare
arranging and changing placing
carefully there a strange
thing and a known thing here)and
changing everything carefully
spring is like a perhaps
Hand in a window
(carefully to
and fro moving New and
Old things,while
people stare carefully
moving a perhaps
fraction of flower here placing
an inch of air there)and
without breaking anything.
~e.e.cummings~
Advertisements

5 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

I am that I am.

There aren’t too many things that have remained constant over the course of my life, but one of them is that I have (somewhat) consistently been some kind of a writer. When I was younger I wrote poetry, until graduate school squashed 0ut of me any creative urge I might have had. At least for a few years, anyhow. I spent some time exploring memoir. Those were the staring at my navel years. Not. Good. I’m published in a professional journal for nurses, where I condensed research findings into readable news bites for a year or two. I’ve also been a ghost writer, floating around in the background of someone else’s story, helping them find structure and cohesion and the right words. Currently I write proposals for my business clients.

But when I tell people I’m a writer and they ask me what I write, I always answer that I’m a fiction writer. Why? Because I am. My fiction may not be published yet and I may not have earned one penny for it, but my love of writing is firmly grounded in making shit up and writing it down in a clever, interesting, unusual, beautiful, funny or evocative way. Sometimes I do this successfully. Sometimes, not so much. Perhaps if I were a more structured person (or committed?) my second manuscript might be complete. Nevertheless, complete manuscript or not, I’ve walked a long road paved with poetry and research and autobiography, haunted by ghosts. And I’m a fiction writer.

How about you? Do you define yourself by what you produce or by what you say about yourself?

3 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

a poet is a penguin—his wings are to swim with

mem•o•ry | ‘mem (ə) rē | noun (pl. –ries)

1 a person’s power to remember things : she had a great memory for jokes | she never lost her memory although she eventually lost her capacity for vanity.

the power of the mind to remember things : the brain regions responsible for memory are gossamer draperies, diaphanous, quivering shrouds.

the mind regarded as a store of things remembered : I searched his failing memory frantically for him.

the capacity of a substance to return to a previous state or condition after being altered or deformed. See also shape memory, changing personality, dementia, possibility of after-life

2 something remembered from the past; a recollection : my memory of his kindness is not a fabrication | my heart overflows with the memory of her love.

the remembering or the recollection of a dead person, esp. one who was popular or respected : she wants to spend the day at the grave drinking champagne, it will be a day devoted to the memory of an amazing woman

the length of time over which people continue to remember a person or event : she didn’t remember feeling quite this fragile in recent memory

3 the part of a computer in which data or program instructions can be stored for retrieval.

capacity for storing information in this way : it was shocking how quickly a man could lose so many Mb of memory, horrifying how the brain is no better than a laptop

ORIGIN Middle English : from Old French memorie, from Latin memoria, from memor ‘mindful, remembering,’ from the fissures in a breaking heart, from here to fucking eternity, from Linda to Molly & Herman

1 Comment

Filed under Uncategorized