February 22, 2010

About This Website

Welcome Readers. This site chronicles the process of my writing as well as showcasing some of it. It also hopes to help visitors become better writers and readers by offering connections to a community of minds brought together from throughout the digital universe.
I write novels with a style gained from writing songs and poems. My six novels are:
Tardy Son: A boy escapes an abusive home and becomes reborn into a world of revenge and the wonder of words.
Joe Island: A WWII bomber pilot suffering from PTSD washes ashore on a Greek Island to find a different sort of battle. [Now being re-written.]
Blues Pizza: After a songwriter loses his love and his muse, he gains recovery by his own writing.
Borderdance: A poet struggles to be free of the draft, a lover, and insanity during the Viet Nam era.
Tesora: After a seventeen-year-old cabin boy steals pirate gold, he is left marooned, he finds sanctuary in Cuba, and he falls in love with the daughter of a slave. His hopes for a new life turn to doubt when the pirates find him and the townspeople must decide whether or not to fight to save the life of the only white man in the village.
Dead String: [work-on-the-shelf] A songwriter escapes a family perverted by greed with hopes to find success in rock music. When her band falls apart, she meets a writer who brings poetic insight to her songs.

Some information about them is posted below. Please leave me a comment or question.

January 26, 2012

A Tanka for the season:

My Pond

Winter makes me squint
from wind and sleet and cold stares.
Crawl back to the cave,
look into dreams from my past,
darkness makes a mirror there.

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January 25, 2012

A poem I wrote this morning:

Goal for a Finger

Once I was a soccer
winger of thirty-four, and
when my back hurt itself,
I walked old-man style
to the Plough & Stars.
There was a cure then
and there was
pride to speak:
I hurt it bending in a
winner off the goalpost.
That story won me beer.

Now I rise from bed
at sixty-four. I’m healthy,
so I walk old-man style
to the toilet. Not much
to win there, who cares—
since I am an old man,
there’s no cure for that.
But there is pride to speak:
to walk anywhere now, I care,
and I bend a poem better than
any winger at thirty-four.

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January 24, 2012

A Poem

 

A Mother’s Hand, Memorized
(for Amanda)

At three years old
I heard my mother’s hands
touch the fingers of Bach
with the strings of her cello.
They played three songs at once
with ten fingers on four strings—
a miracle greater than the mystery
of Heffalump and Winnie-the-Pooh.
She tied those strings to me by
showing me how notes are words
made from the prayers of angels,
and that songs are hugs from God.

At age four I crawled at her feet
below keyboards of a pipe organ,
and sounds like monster lungs growled
through my knees and into my spine.
She called them fugues, but I knew
them as the songs of a god called Mom.

At age eight I paused between pages
of Mysterious Island to hear her cello
elevate a song called The Swan
up the stairs into my patch of ocean
to teach me how graceful birds
could sing songs of life after death.

By age thirty I read Notes from Underground
as I faced the author’s home across the Atlantic,
while she tossed a Beethoven sonata
into the clouds over the Pacific Ocean.
I don’t need a recording to hear that again.

Now, as I scratch
my way into this poem,
something in me remembers
every tone from her fingers.
No distance is too far
if you know it by heart.

January 23, 2012

Tanka Prose for the Soul

Tanka Prose consists of one paragraph of prose and one of tanka (or one tanka followed by one paragraph of prose). I think the paragraph of prose is the easier part to write because a tanka is a strict form and consists of five separate lines with each line having varying numbers of syllables like this: 5 – 7 – 5 – 7 – 7. Tanka is a much older form of Japanese poetry than haiku. To learn a full flavor of the sensibility of tankas, read historical Japanese writers such as, Kakinomoto no Hitomaro, Yamabe no Akahito, and Ōtomo no Yakamochi. A fine writer of modern tankas is an anonymous man from Maine with many posts of tankas on his site here. Someday I may get to write a tanka prose (I seemed to have misplaced my prose-writing hat this week), but for now, here’s something . . .
. . . my try at a tanka:

Sunshine Softball Tanka

One bat. Ten players
breathe out and wait for the pitch.
The ball flies to left.
I breathe in and scratch my knee.
I breathe out, I love this game.

Give it a shot, write a tanka, and post it here in comment box or give me a link to it. Happy poetics.

January 22, 2012

Writing Novels Is Simple, If You Like Simple Novels


A new writer recently protested while writing his first novel that he frequently felt disgusted and incompetent. He felt that perhaps he should give up—that he didn’t feel “normal” enough to be a novelist. My response was this:

Who told you writing novels was easy? Writing is like life, but more intense—like a life that if all you do is ride a ferris wheel crossed with a roller coaster that breaks down a lot and the only mechanic you know can only be accessed by psychic smoke signals and the only ink available consists of your own blood mixed with stomach bile and the sweat off your back.

It is like that, but it’s also harder than that for a true artist who writes. Also, it’s more fun than real life sometimes because you get to make it all up from your own imagination, although if you don’t have one of those, give up right away. It’s all those hard, sad times that make the good ones so great. Also, it makes for a unique book, and that’s the main point. If it feels like nothing else you’ve ever felt or read, pat yourself on the back—you have arrived. Enjoy the ride.

January 20, 2012

A Minor-Third Poem in Fog

Tropical Plant in a Winter Window Box

Eye Music

See my complaint
with your ears.
I wish eyes were
steady as lungs—
push air, pull air,
chew air, and
bend my E-flat
to your C-natural.
The minor third is the
strongest interval known
to ears because we can
see it: it’s blue, dark blue.
Mothers of babies sing it,
fog horns of ships sing it,
and it’s my song to you.
I wish you could see it:
Love doesn’t want
to see sad, but it’s 
on my lips when
I smile—blue. 
I need the whites
of your eyes to
make wit easy. Wit wants
to sing to your eyes only when
your eyes want to hear wit. 
They are the secret source
of the beat. Give them to me,
so that I know
we both know
the one and the two,
the one and the two. 

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January 15, 2012

The Work of Writing and Friends

The Work of Writing and Friends

WORK IS MEMORY: I was reminded by a writer friend of mine today about the struggle to work at writing when it is going poorly or not at all. It is an easy reminder for me because mine has not been going well recently. You can tell by my increased attention to my website here. I was also reminded by an opinion piece in The Times. Susan Cain writes: “One explanation for these findings is that introverts are comfortable working alone—and solitude is a catalyst to innovation. As the influential psychologist Hans Eysenck observed, introversion fosters creativity by “concentrating the mind on the tasks in hand, and preventing the dissipation of energy on social and sexual matters unrelated to work.” What did help me today was offering my time to help her by remembering my own experience earlier in my own career.

WORK IS PRACTICE: The best thing you can do is show up for it every day, because like any art, much of it takes place between sessions at the page and much of it takes place in the subconscious. I just wrote a paragraph about my main character in my Cuban novel where he imagines that his skin has turned dark overnight. It’s actually the first night he spends together with Tesora, and the vision signifies to him how shallow his prejudice against Africans had been: his mind is blown and his skin is now brown.

WORK IS CRITICISM: Yes, it’s hard to take criticism, but writing is a form of conversation, so feedback is important. Someone once said that whenever someone tells you a piece of your writing doesn’t work, the critic is probably right—at the same time that person, when they tell you how to fix it, they’re almost always wrong. You must stick to that inner self who knows the truth, whatever that is. Take time to sit quietly every day to listen to your inner voice (don’t worry if it sounds exactly like silence). No one can read the vision behind the piece you write.

WORK IS LISTENING: And to show up every day, is also to be a part of that audience yourself. You change and your point of view changes a bit every day, so you can be a better critic for yourself. One of my critics, a young Japanese woman, who writes urban fantasy, is someone I picked who would be far from my own point of view, certainly. She expects a whole different thing from writing—more present-tense action. Me, I think action is best emphasized by pauses, like music uses it to produce rhythm and cadence. I still enjoy reading books who were born in the 1800s. Plus, I have a propensity to enjoy and accomplish a certain lyricism. I enjoy reading it, and I enjoy creating it, too. So way to hang in there, writers: who told you writing was easy?  It’s simple enough; you just stare at the page until blood forms on your forehead: no problem.

WORK IS COLLABORATING: Writing with a partner right there at your side can be helpful too. For a whole year, once a week, I trekked down to the Reading Room of the Boston Public Library and met a friend and we both wrote for a few hours and then had tea to congratulate each other. It was a wonderful way to learn how to show up for the work. Writing regularly helps you to feel good about yourself, even when that time is not a big number. Other things always get in the way: keep writing and feel good about that. I wrote much of one novel commuting on a bus, surrounded by black high school kids yelling and blasting music. At first I thought it would be impossible to write like that, but then it just became part of my routine like the Boston Public Library. Years later it gave me the idea for my last novel with the plot involving a Scottish boy marooned in an all-African Cuban town. Did you ever hear the phrase, “acceptance is the answer to all my problems”? That also applies to writing as well.

January 13, 2012

Wise Blood a Novel by Flannery O’Connor

When it occurred to me I’d never read Wise Blood by Flannery O’Connor, I felt I’d be missing something if I didn’t. I’d read a book of her short stories and saw the movie of Wise Blood long ago so perhaps I imagined I’d read it. I’d never knowingly substitute the movie for the book. It is an amazing book. A minor annoyance is wading through the dialect-spellings she uses, but beyond that the book is a marvelous mix of clear writing and language with its impenetrable yet vivid characters.

Well, the characters are impenetrable at first, but also beautifully whole and unique. Mostly, though, they are as mesmerizing in themselves as mysteries which need solving. She does not supply easy answers for that. Through all this she creates a world both of this world and apart from it. I cannot put it down (except to write this review). The story has so taken root in my head, I couldn’t think of another book to mention from the past year.

January 11, 2012

From One Orion to Another

Welcome Orion Zahn Abrams to the world!
Nephew Ben and wife, Thea, have a new baby boy
and Isaac has a younger brother, and
just our luck, I have a poem of Orion to post.
(OK, I made it up, but that’s always how it works:
a little inspiration and voilá!) Enjoy.

Snake of Time

Hey, winding worm of decay,
did the hands of Shakespeare,
the fingers of Mozart, and
the lips of Charlie Parker taste
good to you in the dying light?
No matter that, here and now I
delight in the dance of the breath
they left behind—mental monuments
of notes from their neurologies.
We billions of humans stomping Earth
harder than those millions of dinosaurs
now attempt our own quantity over quality.
We deserve the death you promise
that words and music cannot overcome.
We vainly ship satellites into the galaxy
with man’s best art on board
though we know Hamlet and Porkpie Hat
will drown in oceans of vacuum and darkness.
Brother to brother to sister to mother
we are sad to say, hurt to touch,
lonely to listen, and wait and wait.
Yet the feeble smile and kiss
between you and me are smoother
than the galaxies of milk
and the skins of time tunnels
between Massachusetts
and the tip of Orion’s sword.

January 6, 2012

An Arts Olympics Blog: The Art of Competition

Arts Olympics Blog

Jim, I’m only a composer
who can’t run, jump, or throw
but let me write you a sonata
for theremin and five castrati
to accompany the Olympic event:
Haiku on Toenails of Dancers
(in the Freestyle Pas-de-Deux class)
or I could write a ballad for
one and a half poets in the
Three Feet and Five Cadence Race—
what do you think, Jim?

But first, Jim, some Arts Olympics news:
The gold medal for African Expressionism
goes to Nathan Katungi of Kenya
for the painting “Boston Common
in the Fog”—it’s the transparency
of light on wet sidewalk and
the deconstruction of brickwork
that pulled it off for him, Jim.
Ever since he pulled a hamstring
in Nude Speed-Drawing in the World
Championships, he’s been so focused.
In other news, it seems
it doesn’t matter what
the French judge says:
Monet is ineligible because
dead men don’t paint that well
—it’s just that simple.
Back to you, Jim.

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