Posts tagged ‘writers’

December 30, 2016

english majors are the smartest people in the world

i love it when a colleague
tells me that English majors
are the smartest people
in the world. to me, it makes sense,
everyone, everywhere has to eventually
read and write and on and on–
i aver any language major is smart,
but especially if you want to
be a writer and write about your
life, it is wise. tho i suppose if you
want to make money and eat
you had better study finance,
because even dilettantes
can write Moby-Dicks, and even
heartbroken bums can write supreme poems,
and even the most crossed-jaded can
write an eloquent essay of purpose sometimes.
so if you want to stay full and paid and happy
and moderately sound safe sane,
you had better study some finance.
there is smart English logic for you.

Advertisements
December 23, 2016

what to expect when you sit down to write a poem

When you sit down to write a poem
it mostly happens. I believe that anyone can do it.
Writing poems is easy, depending on the poems
you write and the audience you write to.
If you were a press and your goal was to make money
off of poems, then your audience would be donors.
I assume they are harder to write to than bloggers.
I guess an idea that blew my mind is
publishers would have competitions
and offer cash prizes and then after they rejected you
they would send out emails about
how they need your money. I never got that.
People asking for donations after they rejected your work,
as if the words you wrote lacked the luster
and the importance of the words of others.
I suppose certain grant writers get more money
for certain words, certain editors need salaries,
and certain ideas hit closer to home.
I mean, I am a father, a husband; I am white and male
(but none of that matters; but identity is chic now);
I have tried hard as any to get to where I am.
I would say I am a poet but by most accounts
and the emails I get, that means I am a failed poet.
I don’t make rent or pay bills off of my work,
it pays in smiles and a sort of pride
that only you and I would understand.
What I do is safe as a handrail on icy stairs.
What I do is very, very, very easy
because doing something you love shouldn’t be hard.
What I do isn’t exactly defined, thankfully;
in a scene you have to either be or not
or just keep going until someone notices you
and either says “shit” or “genius” or “you are that poet”
and that really depends on the time of year
and who you are close friends with,
and what kind of poem you read at the open mic, and how.
So, I have noticed, when you sit down and write a poem
it usually happens, and you can do it,
though I would say most are worried about perfection,
how other people feel about their ideas,
and would hide their art because
it might lack meaning, identity, or a soapbox purpose,
absolutely defined by others in a social vaccuum.
But we will never know. And that is why I wrote this poem
precisely for you. I find it a huge success.
Writing mostly happens, or I guess it doesn’t.
Easy as mom’s Facebook post or Trump’s tweets.
Easy as pressing keys and not marketing.

February 7, 2016

Too many is never enough (You’re Not Alone)

It’d be a shame to not realize…

this breakfast has more passion,
my tongue has more taste;
the bold world we now live in,
everyone’s got something to say.

Oh, you’re also a local writer?
Oh, you write about injustices too?
See, I want something truly novel,
I really want something new.

And what about the morning coffee?

April 24, 2015

Ironic Idiot

And you have an idea
where the mass of society is stuck within technology,

not in life,
not in environment,
not there—just socially aloof,

a society prop void,
a somnambulist day to day,
interconnected;

and that same person,
one akin,
counters with, “that idea is trite.”

as they reach for their smartphone
to update their profile
with a semi-interesting proclamation,
for all to measure.

They are lost as an ironic example,
trying to be anything but.

March 23, 2015

we are the same

You, me; us we—forward or backward,
together we are the same.

Parts of a carnal body, whole—
built of dust, thoughts, and air;
no scar is without a measure,
no action still unmoved,
shell of human being outside,
ghost of us within.

We are compelling a kind,
eyes peer to see;
from Franklin and Nicollet to NE,
Middle America to Middle East.

Still, forward or backward, we are the same.

February 6, 2015

The Endangered Writer

An endangered species is the writer,
In the truest sense;

We have people, “writers” who can talk about
Writing non-stop,

But do they write?
I am not sure.

Lesser animals do more.
I ask:

Does a bird talk about flying?
Does a fish discuss the idea of swimming?
Does God sit and tell his friends he will create?

Writers are an endangered species, because like the Koala Bear* they just won’t do it.
-Fuck.

***

*conservation status: LC, Least Concern.

January 23, 2015

Pages of the City

The city center has
Been filled with

Trash.

These spots to grab attention,
To make you buy: react.

Local rags remain,
Good at that, and intact.

Though,

What stands out is
The importance they lack.

We have books by the stack,
Micro-brewed beers,
Diverse weather,
And bike paths.

We have beaches
In the summer months to relax,
And theatres like
The Guthrie to see acts.

Local mags don’t really map that;
They attack,

-With photos, lists, and ads.

Painting a picture without paving a path,
They write on setting precedent, because they can’t.

***
I suppose one day I will be surprised when an article proves friendly to my eyes.
But only after realizing how much effort was put into marketing to my demographic.

November 4, 2014

Lind Hall in the Fall

Minus an hour,
Gained moonlight;
In the cold wind that blows,
Under moonlit skies.

Trees spoke to shadows—distant,
As the wind rustled
Through long hung dried leaves.

-A paper-rattle crescendo.

Night fell in the Fall;
With these empty halls, abandoned stairs, to exit doors freely.

What a season came in,
What off cry sustained.

October 26, 2014

A Toast to the Fake

Real is as real as the best fakery that could;
if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t work-
And by not working it’d prove no good.

When the fakest of fake, take the best from the most,
don’t sob in the shadows,
bask in the light,
and give them a toast!

Cheers!

September 26, 2014

Hollow Bones or Dead Teeth

He sat,
Clasped hands,
Sometimes clattered on the desk,
Wearing his nails long;
Hollow bones or dead teeth,
Criticizing,
Moving with gestures-

-Words on gender and pleasure.

One must point the finger
At self
In a mirror
To find out.

Once to be challenged
Once to be inspired.

Ah, the English Major exacting his critiques on me…
God save silence, God save Education, God save humility.