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~
Tag Archives: poet
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 My fiction may not be published yet and I may not have earned one penny for it, but my love of writing is firmly grounded in making shit up and writing it down in a clever, interesting,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?
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