This is how poetry happens. By noticing what you’re noticing. Not some crap about being visited by the muse. Just pay attention to what catches your eye, your senses, galls your sensibilities, your curiosity for language. And play with that, follow that. Even if it’s consternation about the name of a company while waiting at a stoplight. Click the arrow to read this here little poem.
Most of my poems lately have been too long to post as pictures. Here’s one of the recent shorter ones. Occurred to me while walking around campus, wrote on my phone when I arrived to the next class. Click on the right of the photo to advance to the next part.
I haven’t read poems in public in quite sometime. Freddy at Vegetarian Alcoholic Press invited me to join for the Lit Fam series in Milwaukee so I’m going to dive in. Details on this here flyer. Have to get some practice in for putting my next book out after I graduate in spring. Come for the fantastic beer selection – stay for the rampant poetry!
During the snowstorms we had in the Midwest, I was driving behind a snow plow and started noticing the nuances of the driver operating the vehicle. I pulled off the freeway, wrote this poem on my phone, sent it to the 89.7 WUWM Lake Effect staff, went home to shovel snow, then went to the studio to record. Give a listen here.
When you’re a poet going for a journalism degree, filling out the teacher evaluation after attending your first ever poetry writing class, but stylistically have always been a journalist amongst poets. I added actual constructive criticism afterward, but couldn’t not write this down once the idea occurred to me.
This class was taught by poet Brenda Cárdenas, and I enrolled specifically because she was the teacher. I plan to take another in spring, one which deals with book layout. On my computer sits got a decade-long backlog of poems waiting to be published, so this class should prove convenient and helpful. The writing has been done, that’s the important part. Publishing can always happen later.
Americans are so bad at death. Once someone dies it’s like they end up in a time capsule that is never questioned or discussed. Here’s a poem remembering somebody’s unpredictable sense of humor that flourished regardless. Click the arrows to read the next lines.
I stopped by the 89.7 WUWM Lake Effect Studios last week to record a poem about sitting in the woods and feeling certain that everything you hear is a deer – until it isn’t. Give a listen to my deer little ditty Orange Blaze of Glory. Don’t worry, it’s not graphic, in case you’re one who doesn’t eat meat.