You're Right, Mr. Keillor. You're Right.

Recently, I read an article by Garrison Keillor entitled, When everyone's a writer, no one is. I love Mr. Keillor. My mother used to listen to him when I was little, so that means I listened to him when I was little. He is funny and smart and his voice is comforting. Well, I read this article by him the other day. You can read it here. The article takes a hard look at the writing world layering today's reality with yesterday's nostalgia. After I read it, I was kind of sad and inspired all at once.

You see, before I could even read, I loved words. I pored over books and magazines longing to unlock the mystery of letters. And, after I learned to form those letters into words, the world opened, and books and pen and paper became friends. I scribbled down stories. I labored over words. I dreamed of one day writing a book, pictured my name on the binding. I read and watched Little Women and felt Jo was me -- apart from the whole time period thing. Point is, I wanted to be a writer.

Now, times are different. So different. Writing is not mysterious anymore. I'm not anti-self publishing, but I will say this new world of harem-scarum writing is kind of scary. I haven't been doing the social media thing lately because, if I'm being honest, the peddling gets old. Everyone's selling something even if it's their own image, and it wears me down.

In this brave new world, anyone can hit publish and be a self-crowned author, and it's odd really. Strange Harold down the block can publish a manifesto on why he thinks peanuts are evil and BAM! An author is born. I won't pretend there aren't fantastic self-published authors out there. And I do think the good will rise to the top regardless of publishing origin, but this new world has taken the allure out of writing for me.

I read Garrison Keillor's words:

Children, I am an author who used to type a book manuscript on a manual typewriter. Yes, I did. And mailed it to a New York publisher in a big manila envelope with actual postage stamps on it. And kept a carbon copy for myself. I waited for a month or so and then got an acceptance letter in the mail. It was typed on paper. They offered to pay me a large sum of money. I read it over and over and ran up and down the rows of corn whooping. It was beautiful, the Old Era. I'm sorry you missed it.

Then, I realize, I've got to get back to that place, the one where words matter more than images and tweets and status updates. I have to hide away when necessary to preserve the energy I do have so it can be spent on writing that matters to me, on writing that will matter to more than those who will scratch my back only if I scratch theirs. Yes, I'm going back to the words, people, and my unadulterated love of them. I'm hoping some of you out there might be willing to join me.

Does the new writing world inspire you, or do you find yourself wishing for a manual typewriter tucked in a cabin somewhere far, far away?

OpenLinkNight: Buzz

Impermanent haze pretends
to mask shards of incompetence.
If the scared soul could stand still,
root deep,
maybe wounds replete with animosity could heal,
could seal in hopeful juices not rancid,
rank.

Flitting souls abound, drown
in too much noise.
(Silence isn't golden anymore.)
And how many years will pass,
will fly through digitally-enhanced
fingers flinging words through space,
trying to replace touch
with pixelated versions better
suited for the fantastical
because ordinary just won't do?

The stimulation shark has no threshold,
you know:
bottomless pits,
feeding frenzies,
more, more, more, please
to appease
the questions,
doubts,
fears
of unarmed brains willingly
passing power over --
all for
a second-long
buzz.

**It's OpenLinkNight. Bring your poem, and share it with the dVerse crew here. All are welcome!

OpenLinkNight: Innocents

Fear (the only lonely friend)
pretends (as anxiety ends)
the spool will still unravel
leaving only empty spaces.

Racing to reel thread in again
won't make gaps invisible
or lost found
or wrong right.

World grinds down to dust
the collective ambitions of all
who've chanted hopes to an
empty room,
who've waited (with fidgeting digits)
for response from nameless,
faceless crowds of anonymous naysayers
chewing bits of innocent flesh for fun,
just because.

Split hairs seem silly in the fray of
loss,
in the wake of mourning
possibilities bottled like a ship
sitting empty in smoky glass
or a fish-less bowl --
blue stones strewn about for effect.

Yet,

syllables spill, pour,
gush furious across pages
already covered in layered
opinions,
emotions,
whispered devotions . . .

Even prayers and promises
feel impotent
scattered across the night of a darkened soul.

*Linking up with dVerse. It's a wonderful community where all are welcome to share. Feel free to join us. 

OpenLinkNight: Sparsity

Sparsity

When billowy pillows

give way to sparse stepping stones

every next step

becomes a leap.

And keeping time

tight in a bottle?

Impossible

as stretching clouds

across a stubborn sky.

*Linking up with dVerse for OpenLinkNight. Grab a poem and join us! 

**Also, I'm excited to announce the debut of Manhands and Meatloaf, a new podcast by Steven McClure and Mike McMullin (both have visited dVerse at least a time or two). Check them out on SoundCloud and follow on Twitter for the latest updates. See you soon!

OpenLinkNight: Expectation

Rotten layers burn, peel back, fall,
break uneven over blistered flesh.
Acidic juices drip down around empty promises.
Sweet turns sour,
signals final hour.
Wind stops blowing.
Endless groaning
cracks the strongest resolve.

In silence, truth reveals pain.
The tortured, wanting soul
refuses satisfaction
for wanting never knows an end. Even within
the sea of excess emotion, the needy swim with ease,
ignoring abscess within that festers
in the fight for body, mind, and soul.

K(no)w the craving never ends,
never bends.
It only breaks,
for expectation wounds us all
in the end.

*Linking with dVerse for OpenLinkNight. Please bring your words, and join us. All are welcome.

Poetics: Pecados

It was love, sí creo,
which wrestled to retrieve mi corazon
de oscuros recovecos impossible to find,
pero emptiness tiene una manera de ojos ciegos.

For all the million times he tried
to string mi corazon con cintas,
I cut them up
una y otra vez.

¿Y cuando te das cuenta de tu pecado?
Sometimes forgiveness has expired
dejando corazones oscuros hundidos
like cold stones dropped in a lifeless pond.

Incluso el amor tiene limitaciones
when confronted with the barbed-wired soul.



Translation:

Sins

It was love, I do believe,
which wrestled to retrieve my heart
from dark recesses impossible to find,
but emptiness has a way of blinding eyes.

For all the million times he tried
to string my heart with ribbons,
I cut them up
again and again.

And when you realize your sin?
Sometimes forgiveness has expired
leaving dark hearts sunken
like cold stones dropped in a lifeless pond.

Even love has limitations
when confronted with the barbed-wired soul.

**This poem was written in response to Fred Rutherford's inspiring Poetics' prompt. We were asked to write using a foreign language. I found it more romantic to mix the languages, but I do ask that you forgive me if I've confused translations horribly. Also, a special thank you to my husband, who speaks Spanish far better than I, for his help.

poetics: returns

Returns

Forward movement stalls
when rights become more important than people,
opinions more important than life

Strife never looked so disgustingly brilliant
in all its grand pomposity
dancing with grin
spinning wildly,
flamboyant
in grief's face

No new reactions
just familiar returns to vomit
after which
pretension marries ignorance
gives birth to indifference and pride

Besides
change isn't necessary
'til death knocks on our own front door
and even then
we tend to
tip our hats once again
to the reaper

**I'm posting this poem for dVerse's Poetics' prompt on change. It is one of my many scribblings about Newtown, though I've never posted any of them. It just felt wrong to offer one more commentary, but writing is about processing. I suppose now that some time has passed, it feels less self-indulgent. I don't want to be insensitive, but I struggle with our country's extreme division on how to fix the problem. It took only hours for the disagreements to pile high. It seems we're more concerned about our opinions than finding a real solution. I'm not sure I have the answers, but I know we need some. That is certain. I wonder if change will ever come. I hope; though my doubt is big.