Interact 5 - jd4george speaks

[twelveoone]

I like jd4george.I like jd4george a lot, both he and Tathagata have written quite a bit that I commented that I wish I had written. jd4george scares me, he has written things also that are exactly the way I would written them. I don’t know if that is a compliment. One must consider the source.
This is not to say I consider myself his equal, I am not. I once called him the “Master of Repititon” largely based on “I’m not Joseph”
http://www.literotica.com:81/stories/showstory.php?id=154885

turns out I may have been wrong, he has a good ear for other people’s voices; a good eye for other people as in “Geezer Man Says”
http://www.literotica.com:81/stories/showstory.php?id=158261

He has agreed to have two of his posted for dissection, questions, etc.,
this one, because he is humouring me, and I’m totally clueless about it
"The 1947 Carving of Icabod Crane "
http://www.literotica.com:81/stories/showstory.php?id=161984

and "Old Orchard Beach, 1962"

which I did not link because it is a new posting and the link will change.

Another Note: jd4george will not be around today to answer, but as I don't have the time to do this tomorrow, it going up a day early.

 

[twelveoone]

Old Orchard Beach, 1962

Old Orchard Beach, 1962
by jd4george ©


Carnie bells and barker noise
drip with the promised sin of
popcorn-cotton-candy, and
merry-go-round tilt-a-whirls
spinning peals of laughter
and little big-girl screams.
The Quebecois and brazen tarts
speaking French along the pier,
babble queued up and keyed
with pennies in hand,
two minutes of delicious fear
squeezed out in golden heartbeat
rings and chimes.

The salt air sticks to belly
skin and nipple peek, leering eyes
lusting for Japanese plastic dolls
and kewpie pies, booty spilled
and plied with whiskey-beer
and lipstick soda pop for the kids.
Mother snapping pictures in bellowed
camera frames as the old man hollers.
We jump at his command, holding hands
under sparkling lights popping beneath
the rooftops in colored zip-zapping:
To enter here, the line starts here.

Our calliope eyes dizzy,
spinning and bumping, jostling
for the front of the line,
fingers tight around the next ten cents
extorted from our mother,
as the tickets spit out in ones and threes,
with one left out and one left over,
and I-the-oldest told to wait…
a ten-year-old ogling the garish cutout
of the big-breasted plywood woman
with the nasty hole carved above her tits,
heads poking in and out,
hands shoved in my pockets.

The tar walk oozes frosting warm
with pebbles and spit-out gum.
Gulls scream and shit…
French fries drown in white vinegar
as the lifeguards hold swim trunk court,
jostling and fondling smiles.
Women twittering and babies crying,
diapers dumped in sand
as the ocean laps at castles
abandoned by children dragged home in cars,
fathers swearing and mothers cursing,
and my siblings begging: more!

With a Jesus-Christ-you-fucking-kids,
my father doles out nickels
for our one last promised ride.
My brother drives the bumper cars
as my sisters straddle painted horses
who have their feet nailed
to sticky candy-flecked floor,
and I-the-oldest told to watch them
as my father darts beneath
a bar sign glaring at the street:
To enter here, the line starts here
and the tickets spit out in ones and threes,
with one left out, and one left over.

 

[twelveoone]

The 1947 Carving of Icabod Crane

The 1947 Carving of Icabod Crane
by jd4george ©

- a poem of interchangeable verse

(CODA)

Two legs with eye hook joints… Torso wrapped
in black wool… wooden head… no pumpkin head…
Eye hook joints and carve… (FINIS)

Wood in Normal School… Farmington Normal School…
School for Girls… Normal School… Hands carve
wood… Wooden head… no pumpkin head… Carve…

Two legs… a torso… no cock… No cock in Normal School…
normal school… Farmington Normal School…
Class of '47… Normal School for girls… Carve…

A man from wood… Wears a pumpkin head…
Can't carve pumpkins… Can't carve pumpkin seeds…
Can't carve cocks… Can't eat pumpkin seeds… Carve…

Two legs… two arms… one pumpkin head… one
wooden head… one torso wrapped in wool…
to dangle feet… to dangle arms… Carve…

Dangle wood in normal school… Farmington Normal
School for girls… Carve wooden men with wool
wrapped torso… Two dangle feet… No cock… Carve…

(CODA)

 

[twelveoone]

First Question

I want to know about "The 1947 Carving of Icabod Crane"

 

[sandspike]

good luck, this is a deep well

I wish I could help you but it ain't in the cards. All my
thoughts on Icabod change with each reading. I guess
it started out w/ one Ica and ended up with another. The end
is the being and at the end Ica doesn't have a head.
Don't get too caught up in Geo. I have a feeling he may be
even deeper than he appears. I think he got his Drs. degree
in poetry while severing time. I wish he had happier thoughts
and a shorter vocaboray (?).
Both poems listed are very different and very good.
I like Orchard Beach better because I could put a beat to it as I read, and it was about a beach side park. sandspike

 

[flyguy69]

Freud slips in

You've got to love this:

... while severing time....

in a discussion of Icabod Crane!

 

[thenry]

Old Orchard Beach:

How do you choose line breaks?

 

[PatCarrington]

Re: First Question

I want to know about "The 1947 Carving of Icabod Crane"

who wouldn't?

all i know is, it gets better every time i read it.

 

[jd4george]

First, a little manditory background.

I’m honored, flattered, confused and a little scared.

Flattered and honored to be asked, obviously, though I need to question Twelveoone’s sanity in selecting me. Beyond the question of sanity, I’m a little confused as to why he selected me. Some of my stuff is a bit experimental… some is mundane and cliché… some is classically linear… some have some marketability… some are inaccessible as hell. Hopefully, some of it is good.

That’s probably where the fear comes from.

I’ve spent most of my life writing in a vacuum. Beyond the occasional workshop, this is the only place where I’ve received feedback on my poems from the readers. Not just mindless “gee whiz, that was good”, but comments that say why, and ask questions.

Not counting the exercises we all went through in grade school, my first real poem was written in 1966. I happen to know the date, because it was also the first time that I discovered the “weed”. It was a dreadful little piece called “Somewhere There’s a Place for Me”. Every line rhymed, and is was awful. Even stoned, it was awful.

At the same time, it was like losing my virginity… such enjoyment… such satisfaction… such a longing to do it again, and again, and again.

In short order, I became one of the strange, literary-type people in High School: a definitive non-jock with thick, black-rimmed glasses… overweight and non-cool… and actually was shot down for a date with the excuse of “sorry, I’m washing my hair that night”. But poetry, (and art, band and theater), gave me a chance to belong.

It was the mid-sixties, and much was changing in the world. I am definitely a product of those times: no longer a typical baby-boomer, but not quite a long-haired, hippie weirdo (as we used to say). My freshman English teacher was a strange woman (who, believe it or not, was the famous Playboy cartoonist “Sokol”. By the way, there’s a reason that the women were gorgeous, and the men in her cartoons were fat, wrinkled old bastards.) She tried to encourage my penchant for poetry, letting me spit out verse for my class themes. The all seemed to get an “A” for concept, and a “D” for mechanics.

Midway through my freshman year, I knew that being poet was somehow important to me. I began to read everything I could get my hands on. With a couple of friends, we lobbied the school librarian to bring in books by the likes of Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Allen Ginsberg and even Rod McKuen. The words were fresh, and the books made rapid rounds between the dozen or so of us “high school poets”… until the words fuck and Christ and cocksucker were discovered by the administration. Poof! They were gone.

My mother was going to college at the time. I stole her Norton Anthology of Poetry as soon as her class was over, and it became the cornerstone of my present collection of poetry books. I subsequently stole her books by Howard Nemerov, John Logan and Robert Lowell. I was discovering that poetry consisted of more than Longfellow, Robert Frost and Walt Whitman, though I still considered them to be master-poets.

By the time I went to college, I had some pieces published in local and regional magazines. I was going to poetry readings and hearing the likes of Allen Ginsberg spout off about how the face and voice of poetry was going to be an important part of “man’s coming of age”. That overweight, long-haired, bearded weirdo that said the word “fuck” like it was just another word became my Pied Piper. I made up my mind that one day, I would walk through a bookstore and see a slender volume with my name on the spine. It’s a dream I still chase.

I started experimenting back then…. different styles… different formats. I came to understand (believe) that poetry was more than simply pretty pictures and clever metaphors. It was more than how words felt when they came off the tongue. It was more than the music. It was all those things… but not necessarily any of them.

I wrote serious stuff. Humorous stuff. Political stuff. And, of course, little poesy-woesies about love. I discovered that a good poem could get me laid. And, if I read it to her just after writing it, I might actually get head! And, I understood that all poems, regardless of their strength, have the potential to effect/affect people.

I continued to write poetry. I soon came to realize that I didn’t have a choice. Every time in my life where I have allowed the poet in me to languish by not fulfilling that need to write, my life has eventually spun out of control. For me, poetry is a passion… a need… a sustenance. It’s not something I can ignore, without consequence.

I became a copywriter, and puked out words for a living. I banged out press releases, and magazine articles. I made money, and it sucked. I branched into graphic design, and soon became the creative director for a rather large, Maine advertising agency. Then, I became a partner and owner… and lost my soul. I took a state-mandated vacation from my life, and met Betsy Sholl. (Wonderful poet… and everyone should make an effrt to read some of her stuff). She got me to listen to my heart, to the poet within. Because of her, I started to write and submit. Thankfully, I had some success and got to feel the joy of opening a respected literary journal and seeing my name there… and knowing that someone had spent money to place my name in print.

It’s a good thing, because professionally, I had slipped from earning six figures to being a convicted felon/dishwasher. The more I concentrated on poetry, the more my life made sense. I moved up the food service food-chain, and eventually became the chef-owner of my own restaurant. I scored 4 ½ stars, and lost a shit-load of money. I closed it and moved on.

And, I again tried to ignore poetry.

Midsummer, I finally realized what was missing from my life, and I discovered this odd community of poets at Literotica. I started writing again, and began to get some rather pleasant, positive feedback. That experience led to Twelveoone’s demented request that I consider being part of this “Interact”.

 

[annaswirls]

Hey! Who're ya callin' odd?







eh hem I will write a real reply tomorrow



oh and quit the modesty, 1201 may be crazy, but you know you are good damn it.



oh and 1201, kidding of course, you may be demented as pickles and pimento, but not crazy.

 

[Angeline]

I am fascinated, jd, by the way you combine an articulate literary-infused flow in your language with an almost onomotopaotic (sp?) musicality and a willingness to experiment with form. One doesn't often see poetry that draws on these at the same time--and, even better, carries if off so well.

How do you think you come to put these features together in poems? I know you don't do it all the time, but you do it a lot. Who are your major influences? Who are your most recent influences?

 

[jd4george]

Thenry, I’ll get to your question about “Old Orchard Beach, 1962”, but I promised Twelveoone that I’d tackle “The 1947 Carving of Icabod Crane” first.

Angeline, I'll get to "articulate literary" in an bit. (That means smart sounding shit that sounds good.... right?). And anna... I'm talking about you, (and a lot of others... myself included). After all, poets be a tad odd!

I believe that good poetry is like a picture of a room. The stronger a poem is, the more you discover inside that room. A door is not only described, but invites you to open it. If you do, you should be able to see what awaits on the other side… other rooms and other vistas. Inside the porcelain boxes on the table, you should be able to see the contents, should you decide to open them.

Most good poetry should have images. It should have metaphors. It should have music. If the piece is truly inspired, then it should have multiple layers of each.

It does not, however, have to be marketable. (Icabod ain’t). It does not have to be accessible. (Icabod ain’t, again).

BACKGROUND.

I started to write a poem about a doll that I own, that my mother carved while she was still in school. It’s wooden, has dowel like arms and legs that are jointed with eye-hooks. The body is stiff, and unmoving. It’s clothed in wool, and has a face that is oddly reminiscent of Abraham Lincoln.

I scribbled a few short images, and discovered that I was having a hard time simply writing the poem… or letting my muse carry me wherever she might. I was having a hard time getting anywhere, and realized that the reason I wasn’t was because I wasn’t listening to what I “had” to write about.

My mother carved the doll for a Literature class in her last year at Farmington Normal School for Girls. It was one of those old-fashioned places that acted as a feeder to the State College. It was just for girls. It was quaint, and cloistered, and safe.

She was married the year after she finished going to school there… young, out from under her mother for the first time, and alone. She had a child, and soon was in divorce court. The judge offered her custody in return for some time spent on her knees under the bench. She refused, and lost. On her way home from that court hearing, she was raped by another man and was impregnated. She told her parents, and that very night, my grandfather had a stroke and never spoke again. She was whisked out-of-state, gave birth to a daughter (whom I have never met) and came back to the Portland, Maine area. She began working at the old Mercy Hospital, and it was there that she met my father.

He was a hard-living, hard-drinking, occasionally suave and debonair man. He also was uneducated, an ex-con, a liar, a gambler and a cheat.

But, in light of my mother’s recent past, he was the best she believed she could ever get. So she married him, and continued the cycle of sublimating herself to life. Along the way, she became an expert at acting the martyr… but that’s another story, (or, is it?).

THE POEM.

I wanted to write a poem about that silly little doll. My muse, however, would not let me ignore the fact that the doll seemed to symbolize the harbinger of what was about to transpire in my mother’s life.

Having minored in philosophy (among other things) I began to wonder about cause and effect. If things had transpired differently, would she have landed up in the same place? Did the order of those experiences matter? The notion that one is the sum of its parts, led me to the conclusion that no matter how they were shuffled, those events would lead my mother to the same place.

Could I explore that, in a single poem?

FORMAT

Could I write a poem that would start in one place and always land up at another, regardless of the order of the verses? Could I write a poem where one might actually drop a verse, or two, or three, and still land up in the same place? And, if I did, could the phrases within the verses be jumbled at will, and still have the poem make cohesive sense?

It was time to experiment. (Something I do a lot, for fear of stagnation… or some other equally demented rationale).

The musical notion of “CODA” offered some possibilities. I knew from my old band days, that the first CODA marked where a passage started, and that the second CODA meant to return to the first, continuing until you came to “FINIS”. Hoping that would be enough reference, I started to write again:

“Two legs with eye hook joints…”

INTENT

Once I finally had my mind wrapped around the concept, the words came quickly. First, I was writing an experimental poem. Second, that poem would appear to simply be about a silly, little doll. Metaphorically, however, it would be about that life-altering (condemning) time in my mother’s life.

If I was lucky, it might work on all those levels.

The nightmarish story of Icabod seemed to hold some corollary. The fact the Icabod doll had no cock, made sense to me. Pumpkins took on various meanings. So too, did seeds. Homonyms like “eye” seemed to now have a life of its own. I began to suspect that “Normal School” might not be so normal after all. Head, and dangle, and even carving seemed to have a jumble of meanings. The question was, how far could I push it, and would it still make sense?

I was writing an experimental form poem. I was writing about an Icabod Crane doll. I was writing about my mother’s life.

I’ll shut up for now, before I ruin any further “discovery” of the poem.

If you have a question, about Icabod (or any other poem), or why I do what I do… etc., ad nauseam… just ask. I’m opinionated, candid and stupid enough to answer.

 

[annaswirls]

Hey! Who're ya callin' odd?







eh hem I will write a real reply tomorrow



oh and quit the modesty, 1201 may be crazy, but you know you are good damn it.



oh and 1201, kidding of course, you may be demented as pickles and pimento, but not crazy.

 

[jd4george]

Annaswirls... I beg to differ. I hope to one day be good. I hope, on some occasions, that I'm actually lucky and inspired enough to write a good poem. But, I can't be good, yet. I refuse to be good, yet. Why? Because I am still evolving as a poet. I'm still growing. I'm still changing. And God willing, I will continue to do so.

That is the very reason I call myself a "wannabe"... and I do so, with pride.

At the same time, I have tried my hand at this wordsmith art of poetry long enough to have developed what litfolks call "voice". It wasn't purely happenstance. I am very aware of how poetry "sounds", and what my words sound like in my heart. I also know what the sound like read aloud, because I read and reread and reread them aloud. In my mind, the music is one of the important differences between poetry and prose.

The more I have come to listen to, and have faith in that voice, the more courage I find to stare at blank pages without fear.



Sandspike and PatCarrington... I'm pleased that something more seems to crop up on each reading of "Icabod". It was my intent.

I also realized that because I was trying to tackle something out of the ordinary, in both form and content, that the poem would never be "marketable". I use that term meaning publishable, and easily accesible to "everyman". Icabod is not everyone's cup of tea... hell, it might not even be tea!

And Spike... I might well have recieved some sort of doctorate while "severing time", though it might have been advanced study in spades & pinocle... how to bend over in the shower without surprise... survival techniques for thinking men... and self-study in monkey-slapping & chicken-choking.

Most of all, I learned the value of time, and that no man can control anything beyond his word.

As for happy thoughts, I have them all the time. Perhaps the reason that more of my stuff isn't happy-go-lucky is that personal distain for "poesy-woesy" where it's easy not to be honest. I'd like to think that some of my better stuff works, because I have been brutally honest about how it felt... and looked, and smelled.

(However, if my poetry is marked by an element of "non-happy", then the time has come to push myself out of that mold).

 

[jd4george]

While folks are hopefully musing... amusing... confusing themselves with another read of "The 1947 Carving of Icabod Crane" (I hope), and generating questions about that, I'll try to address one other questions asked.

Angeline... You gave me a lovely compliment when you referred to the "articulate literary-infused" aspect of some of my stuff. When I read that, I mused, "Really? Hmmm."

In hindsight, I realize that a lot of my stuff does have references. A lot of times, it is a line of dedication, as in "Treading the Breakers", where I credited inspiration to Sue Walker's poem, "Shorings". Sue is an excellant poet, and is (was?) the editor of Negative Capability press.

Other times, I bury references (both obvious and oblique). For example, the Oscar Wilde references in "Wyndham Gaol". I wanted due deference and homage to his wonderful "Reading Gaol", and the line: "Each man kills the thing he loves, by each let this be heard. The brave man does it with a sword, the coward with a kiss."

I also did it with several other refences to works of his, and well as "that man has got to swing".

Why? The first was conceptual. The second was to avoid theft in referring to his words.

I also have discovered that sometimes, classical references allow me to say something descriptive, without having to write unneeded verse. For example, if I write the line: "some intended torture by a big-ass, white whale"... most readers will get the reference to Moby Dick, or at least to Jonah. There's a whole story of conflict and resolution in "big-ass white whale" that I don't have to explain, and can draw continued reference to.

In Icabod, the whole story didn't have to be told, and as Sandspike pointed out, he loses his head in the end. Metaphorically, my mother did the same.

Perhaps it's inspiration, and cleverness.... but I suspect that it is more accurately a matter of laziness.

 

[PatCarrington]

Sandspike and PatCarrington... I'm pleased that something more seems to crop up on each reading of "Icabod". It was my intent.

I also realized that because I was trying to tackle something out of the ordinary, in both form and content, that the poem would never be "marketable". I use that term meaning publishable, and easily accesible to "everyman". Icabod is not everyone's cup of tea... hell, it might not even be tea!

jd, i disagree. i think the poem is marketable as hell.

you just have to find the right market.

 

[flyguy69]

And the story behind it is twice as marketable as the poem! Thanks JD4G, for sharing the workings behind the mind that creates such a remarkable and unusual piece.

Two of the things that make your work so compelling are the deliberation behind word choice and the numerous cultural references. I find myself pondering your work because I am confident that, buried within the poem, there are surprises to be unearthed. Your Wyeth and Dali pieces were good examples of that.

 

[jd4george]

PatCarrington... The right market, in this case, might be tough to find, though suggestions to that end are happily accepted, (hint... hint...). Still, to the coffee-drinking poetry readers, the reaction to Icabod may well be: "what the fuck?"

Flyguy... Thanks for the compliment inherent in "deliberation behind word choice". The poem waiting in the wings for dissection (Old Orchard Beach, 1962) might hold some small bit of prommise in that regard.

I suspect, however, that all poets who work their craft spend an inordinate amount of time over the right word. I'm not so sure that the search is ever complete. At least, in my case, it never is. I rework poems years, even decades after the original write. Personally, I'm amazed that so many poets find they can bang out a piece in 20 minutes, and post it moments later. Part of me envies them for that... another, is suspect.

As for cultural references, I'm pleased my work intrigues you that way. Sometimes, it is simply the reference. For example, I didn't need too many Salvador Dali references for readers to suspect I was writing of a surreal place and time. Prison, to a thinking man, is exactly that!

The other example you mentioned, was "The Helga Pictues of Andrew Wyeth". In a way, I feel like I cheated in that poem. Wyeth, (with the help of his wife), created some wonderful titles for his paintings. The poem has either 20, or 21 of them hidden in it!

Which, I suppose, means I stole a lot of words. Then again, I did obviously credit the source. And, I'd like to think that I wound them together in a way that pleasant... even, perhaps, well-done. And, most of the words were (would have been) mine.

If I'm lucky, then the reader got a small taste of the forty years of inspiration and work that he produced while staring at that woman.

(Lucky SOB for having such a model/muse!)

However, flyguy, that you might ponder after a read, is high praise in and of itself. Can an honest poet ask for more?

 

[*Catbabe*]

PatCarrington... The right market, in this case, might be tough to find, though suggestions to that end are happily accepted, (hint... hint...). Still, to the coffee-drinking poetry readers, the reaction to Icabod may well be: "what the fuck?"

If the writing is strong enough, as I think yours is, the reader might say that and go back and read it again and again until they see something that speaks to them. Maybe it isn't entirely what you intended, but does that matter?

Put the poem out there, jd, "what the f---" isn't always a bad reaction.

It's a much better reaction tham "Ohhh wasn't that nice."

 

[sandspike]

Long but great explainations

If I could spel I might of lived a more interesting life.
I appreciate your fine answers in the above posts. It
seems we just had a beer together and I know more
about you and poetry. thanks spike

 

[jd4george]

Hey, Spike... I sheepishly admit I'm long-winded. It's borne out of that I.A. Richards thing: "Rhetoric is the study of misunderstanding, and it's remedy".

Sadly, I belabor the shit out of things!

Thanks for the beer... but it was way too light and not at all filling! By the way, you get the tab, next time! (And hell... I'll drink the cheap stuff).

As for knowing more about poetry... well, thanks. But I'm no expert, just a lucky wannabe. (Though I am pleased you might have enjoyed some of my stuff, and perhaps even learned something from them).



Catbabe... Thanks for the vote of confidence! Honestly, part of me isn't quite ready to start watching the mail for the inevitable "Not these, none of these... take a fucking hike" notes again. I have a large collection of them already. At the same time, I don't know if Icabod will ever make its way into print, and I don't think I care. It is an extremely personal poem for me, and I probably wouldn't try to get published until after my mother passes away.

You struck on something I think is important. You said:

"...the reader might say that and go back and read it again and again until they see something that speaks to them. Maybe it isn't entirely what you intended, but does that matter?"

The answer is no.

The most, and I mean the very most I can wish, is that my words might affect someone. I'm always astounded when poets take affront, commenting something akin to "you've got the poem all wrong".

My reaction has always been the same: "Excuse me all to hell, but isn't how your words made me feel, the only thing that is important? It's MY reaction, after all!"

Fine, Mr. Poet. Tell me what you meant, if you must... but don't tell me how to react to it!

 

[*Catbabe*]

Hey, Spike... I sheepishly admit I'm long-winded. It's borne out of that I.A. Richards thing: "Rhetoric is the study of misunderstanding, and it's remedy".

Sadly, I belabor the shit out of things!

Thanks for the beer... but it was way too light and not at all filling! By the way, you get the tab, next time! (And hell... I'll drink the cheap stuff).

As for knowing more about poetry... well, thanks. But I'm no expert, just a lucky wannabe. (Though I am pleased you might have enjoyed some of my stuff, and perhaps even learned something from them).



Catbabe... Thanks for the vote of confidence! Honestly, part of me isn't quite ready to start watching the mail for the inevitable "Not these, none of these... take a fucking hike" notes. At the same time, I don't know if Icabod will ever make its way into print, and I don't think I care.

You struck on something I think is important. You said:

"...the reader might say that and go back and read it again and again until they see something that speaks to them. Maybe it isn't entirely what you intended, but does that matter?"

The answer is no.

The most, and I mean the very most I can wish, is that my words might affect someone. I'm always astounded when poets take affront, commenting something akin to "you've got the poem all wrong".

My reaction has always been the same: "Excuse me all to hell, but isn't how your words made me feel, the only thing that is important? It's MY reaction, after all!"

Fine, Mr. Poet. Tell me what you meant, if you must... but don't tell me how to react to it!

Ah, but what if you got a letter that said, "Thank you Mister jd, we would like to included the following pieces of your writing in our spring edition?

I agree jd. I love hearing the thoughts behind your writing and also others who have participated in these threads, but for the most part, as a reader I don't want to know exactly what the poet intended as long as the piece feels accessible to me on some level. If I am on the wrong level what does it matter? One floor up or one floor down, doesn't matter a bit if we all find something to take home from the store. The better the writing, the more floors there are to choose from, I believe.

Pardon my use of your thread for a second jd... fuck . There. That's for those of you who thought it was funny that I didnt say it up there.

 

[jd4george]

Catbabe... I am fortunate enough to have a nice little collection of those, as well. To me, the joy of recieving acceptance letters is second only to actually seeing the poem in print for the first time. Then, poof... it's gone, and another blank page awaits.

Vying for contention with that joy (especially in terms of ego) is having an editor ask you to write a companion piece to another poem. Or, unsolicited, to inquire if they might include a poem of yours in an upcoming collection.

But that's not why I write. Like I said, I have to.

And Catbabe, I think your reponse was right on the money. As for using this thread to say "fuck". Please feel free! It's been around for a long time, and Tennessee Williams' use of it made it okay in these here poetical, literary-type like places! (When in doubt, simply attribute the quote to him!).

 

[*Catbabe*]

I can already sense that. There is always a blank page and a thought that teases your ear like a butterfly or worse like a mosquito. : )

I was just trying to get you to submit it, not so much for your own sense of success, but for other people out there who haven't had the pleasure of reading your stuff.

 

[jd4george]

Thank you, Catbabe. I may well do that... someday. In terms of submitting for publication, I am trying to concentrate on a chapbook, perhaps even a full blown collection.

Should you ever stumble across a book of poetry called "The Barracoon Poems", that badboy be mine.

As for you kind words regarding sharing my stuff... you might be right. Perhaps time has come to once again traispe my stuff across the transom. Time will tell if I listened.