One Year Later -- A Kidney Transplant Anniversary

May 10, 2011

One year ago at this moment I was waking up in the recovery room after receiving a kidney transplant.   I still can't believe it actually happened.  After all the dialysis and struggle, I received a kidney from an anonymous living donor.  Yes, this is as humbling and amazing as it sounds.  You can read my previous blogs and Don Colburn's Oregonian articles for the full story behind my unique experience.

It's been the fastest moving and most joyful year of my life. I've seen my wife smile for the first time since my kidneys failed. I've met my donor and her family. We've developed a beautiful and unexpected friendship with them. I've had the privilege to leave behind the food and fluid restrictions that come with chronic kidney disease and indulge myself. Oh, the simple pleasures like chicken soup, strawberries, and beer. So much delicious beer. Thank you Portland!

I've had terrific success with my poetry. I won a few contests and was lucky enough to have a poem published in a journal right next to the work of former U.S. Poet Laureate Ted Kooser.  I've also had great professional success. I've taken a new job as the brand manager with a healthcare technology start up founded by Intel and GE called Care Innovations. This allows me to continue my mission to advocate for healthcare reform and new models of care for all of us. Even with all those changes, I've managed to take a vacation for the first time in years. The pictures in this blog are from Maui where Tracey and I ziplined atop the trees and over the canyons. This serves as a pretty good metaphor for my life this year.

Still, I continue to think of those who wait endlessly for transplants and struggle to live a day longer. I brood over the idea that Medicare, which served me well and is so important to our seniors, is under political attack. I lament the widening gap between rich and poor. I ask myself why I can't do more to help. Most regrettably, I find myself returning to old, bad habits, obsessing with work and not communicating often enough with the friends and family I love so much.

Mostly I just feel lucky as hell that I get a chance to keep learning and trying to be a better person. Thank you, Brenda Hanson for this opportunity. I promise to keep zipping above the trees and canyons for as long as I can.

You Are Invited

April 23, 2010

If you're in the Portland vicinity on May 19th,  I'd like to invite you to hear me read my award winning poems at the 100th Monkey Studio as part of the Figures of Speech reading series.  I have the honor of reading with Marie Buckley, President of the Oregon State Poetry Association.  No fooling.  The reading starts at 7 p.m. and there will be cookies!  If you've never been to a reading, they're very casual and welcoming.   I promise there will be plenty of laughs (mostly at my expense).  Please mark it on your calendar and join me.

The Poetry of Progress; a Thanksgiving Story

November 20, 2009

I had no idea this familiar poem had anything to do with Thanksgiving. I love Thanksgiving. I'm the pie guy in the family. It's a pleasure to cook a pumpkin pie and a pecan pie for the holiday. The last few years, the pies have even been edible! What is not so tasty is that I'm not good at giving actual thanks. In the spirit of the holiday, let me give it a shot.

When I started this crazy poetry obsession, I had no credits to my name. Heck, I had no name. There came a point where my blah, blah, blah about poetry seemed to bouncing off brick walls creating quite the echo chamber. So, I went on a self-imposed quiet period.

The quiet period is over. What a difference six months make. I've won several awards, local and national. I've been published and accepted for publication in some respectable journals. I am no longer creditless.

Most importantly, I've found a supportive Oregon poetry community. I joined the Oregon State Poetry Association and had the pleasure of attending two of their conferences and meeting some of the region's best poets.

I'm part of a group called the "Tall Poets Society" with award winning poets Steve Williams and Shawn Sorensen (we're all over 6'5"). The camaraderie has been wonderful and they've been very thoughtful in providing feedback on my work. Their great work has also inspired me.

When I was stuck with a bit of writer's block this fall, the very talented poet Constance Hall was kind enough to give me some encouragement and advice.

After seeing my work, a very generous Fran Turney sent me a classic book on Hiroshima. She also showed my poems "Japan 1944" and "Hanford" to Lawson Inada, the Poet Laureate of Oregon. This is especially meaningful for me because of his experiences in a U.S. Japanese internment camp.

Sandy Didner, a college professor in Florida, read my poem "Time and Fates of Man" and asked if she could teach it to her students. I also had the pleasure of offering encouragement and advice to a couple of young, talented kids whose creativity gives hope for our future.

My wife Tracey, who really isn't a huge poetry fan, puts up with a lot. She reads my poems, many times under protest. She helps me put together contest entries. She also endures more of my non-stop blah, blah, blah about poetry than you could imagine.

I need to stop myself. I just realized I did not actually say "thank you" to any of the people listed above. I just bragged about myself, again. Horrifying! I told you, I'm not very good at this thanking thing. One more time...

Thank you, everyone, for your kindness and support. Thank you for reading. You've enriched my life and work. You've made everything taste as good as pumpkin and pecan pies. I hope your Thanksgiving is as happy you've made mine.

Contest Results Prove it. I am Insane.

April 9, 2009

Some good news today. My poem "Hanford" won 1st place in a regional contest and publication in "Verseweavers." I won the prestigious "Poet's Choice" category. In a couple of weeks at their spring conference, the Oregon State Poetry Association will present me with a certificate and a check for a few shekels. I also get to read my poem to the attendees. This is the first contest I've entered since winning the Willamette Week "Smokin' Word" contest a few years ago. This is a very humbling and satisfying result.

What I really look forward to is meeting the other poets at the conference. Poetry in Oregon is a serious business. I've read the work of many local poets and the level of talent in this state is off the chart. It makes sense when you remember that Oregon poetry is the house that William Stafford built. I started writing seriously in June of last year. It's been very solitary. I realized a few months ago that to grow as a poet, I need to cultivate relationships with other poets and learn from them. Makes sense, no?

For those of you that don't know, I do most of my writing in dialysis. It's taken being pinned to a chair three times a week for four hours at a shot to eliminate the excuses for "not" writing. The process has been slow going. Dialysis isn't exactly gentle and every single minute the treatment progresses my mind slows, dulls, and finally thuds like a dove hitting a window. Let's just say I spend a lot of time in revisions. Honestly, I haven't been able to gauge if my work is any good. I'm often suspicious that I've accidentally hit my head on the diving board while jumping off the deep end. I took me until late February of this year to get the courage to submit my poems to contests and publications. I've asked myself on more than one occasion, "am I completely fucking insane?"

Just so you don't think I'm getting too full of myself, the news of the win came on a day that I received yet another rejection (one of many) from a publication I admire. I was very down, wondering if my words were just spinning in air, breaking up in the tornado. They probably are, but this is confirmation that at least I'm being blown in the right direction.

Click the pictures above to see comedy genius Marty Feldman's Myspace tribute page. It'll cheer you up.

Wergle Flomp

April 1, 2009

My good friend Kevin made a suggestion for today's blog. He suggested that instead of focusing on bringing you good poetry, that it would be fun to bring you bad poetry, very bad poetry, poetry so bad that it should be spanked and sent to bed without supper. My pleasure! Normally, I try not to crush anyone's literary dreams (at least in public), but I found a way around this that leaves my conscience unblemished.

So my friends, without further ado, I introduce to you "Wergle Flomp." Just a little background, because jokes are always better with some context.

In your web walkabouts, perhaps you have bumped into Poetry.com, a "vanity" contest site where quality is not a consideration. If you enter this contest, prepare for heaps o' praise for your work. The best part is that everyone who submits is guaranteed to be a "semi-finalist." Congratulations! Now, wouldn't it be great to share your success with friends and family? All you have to do is buy a shitload of expensive, ego stroking junk like poorly produced anthologies, personalized plaques, medallions, silver bowls, coffee mugs, commemorative plates, license plate holders, t-shirts, posters, panties, condoms, tattoos, bible addendums - you name it. Open those wallets and purses! It's a celebration of your genius.

So here's the game: Wergle Flomp is a contest offered by winningwriters.com to reward the person who gets the most outrageous, laugh out loud, ridiculous poem accepted by one of these vanity contests. Here's a "fair use" excerpt from the poem by last year's contest winner, Benjamin Taylor Lally. This work would do Stephen Colbert proud. Click the picture to see the whole poem. It gets funnier as it goes along. If you're a poetry geek like me, there's another whole layer of hilarity as the poem is a spot on parody of Walt Whitman.




Here's another winner for your entertainment. Click the picture to see the whole poem.

There are some poems so unbelievable and outrageous that I could not actually show you them on my little blog, but will happily provide these links for your entertainment. Pure Comedy gold.

Notice the praise that Poetry.com lavishes on this poem by Rick Lupert that is so disgusting, I couldn't excerpt it here.

Here's a past winner, "The Craven", that takes Poe's "The Raven" to new lewd heights.

Finally, here are the poems "Flubblebop" and "Yew Gotta Larf" by David Taub, the genius that started everything. Be sure to scroll down to see what Poetry.com sent him back.

There are many more past winners that will blow your mind. Just cruise around the winningwriters.com site to check them out. Enjoy! Let me know your favorite.

Anniversary

March 26, 2009

Around this time last year, I returned home from the hospital after living through kidney failure. In retrospect, I shouldn't have been surprised. In 1987, the nephrologists told me I had 20% function in each kidney and estimated 2 years until kidney failure. I was 19 years old then and the diagnosis did a Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robot punch to my skull. The news knocked my concept of "self" into a mist that floated outside my body. I felt very temporary about this world and my prospects on it.

It took 10 years to regain some semblance of consciousness. Thankfully, I have good friends and a supportive family. I avoided any truly destructive behavior, was smart enough to always take my high blood pressure meds and stayed away from known kidney killers. I learned to cope with or ignore the exhaustion, headaches, and gout attacks. I directed my limited energy into work and avoided thinking about the future because keeping busy and good old-fashioned denial seemed to be my best coping strategies. 2 years stretched to 22.

Denial is a mule that can pack a lot of weight. A few years ago, I noticed that I wasn't performing as well at work. I had a hard time having the impact and driving the kind of change that had been so satisfying. I chalked it up to burnout. I contemplated changing careers. I thought that maybe I was depressed and considered anti-depressants and counseling. I decided I was far too fat and got in shape and lost a ton of weight. I went on a half-hearted search for an artistic outlet to replace acting and writing that were so important to me when I was young. Finally, I broke my vow never to marry and even invested in a dog. That's a ton of good positive weight for the mule. It felt good. It still feels good. I was living.

Unfortunately, my ass continued to drag (so to speak). I could barely get out bed. Honestly, I thought it was mental. It seems ridiculous now, but I refused to believe or acknowledge it could be kidney disease. It wasn't until my hands swelled to size of surgical balloons and my face was yellow and puffy with fluid that I looked in the mirror and realized, "oh shit, I'm in kidney failure."

So, a year ago after an emergency doctor appointment, I was hospitalized. Just in time, by the way. My blood pressure was something like 60/40 when I was admitted. Today, I have been on life saving dialysis for one year. I'm not celebrating with a cake and candles, but perhaps I should. Anniversaries are about counting stuff, so here are the numbers: 1 year, that's 156 dialysis treatments @ 4 hours a pop on the machine for a total of 624 hours, or 26 full days. I have also been on the kidney transplant list for six months with probably another 2 years to go.


You know what? I have never been happier. Being stuck in a chair has given me the time to write that I could never seem to find. It's slow going because my brain fuzzes out, but I already have 75 poems to my name and a finished book manuscript. I also know what truly matters to me. I have wonderful friends, a loving wife and an insane dog.

Best of all, I no longer feel temporary about myself.

Shocking Discovery on the Value of Poetry

March 18, 2009

In my last installment, I made a pretty long-winded and lofty argument about the value of poetry and how you could find it for free everywhere. I now refute my entire argument. I am now forced to admit: Poetry is not free. In fact, poetry can set you back a pretty penny. How?

I now present to you the poetry of one Elvis Aaron Presley.


Yes, ladies and gentlemen, for the estimated auction price of $4,000-$5,000 dollars, this little gem can be yours. See for yourself at gottahaverockandroll.com. While we may debate the "quality" and "maturity" of Mr. Presley's literary offering, there's no doubt this light verse from Elvis will inspire the financial investment of a lifetime.

Why would someone be willing to invest hard earned dollars for these specific poetic words?

Many people think "The King" may have been the embodiment and resurrection of Jesus Christ. At the very least, Jesus and Elvis share startling parallels. Now before you send me angry emails, click here for compelling evidence of this truth.

Some of you may be disturbed by the graphic nature of Elvis's poem and find it cruel and contradictory to the teachings of Christ. It is my assertion that hidden in the subtext of the poem, or perhaps even water-marked into the edges of the paper, only visible under ultraviolet light, there is an additional verse where Elvis's next act is to:

"tenderly touch a peanut butter and banana

smeared finger to the sweet birdie's head

and raise the feathered fucker from the dead."

Sadly, I will never be able to test this assertion, because I don't have $5,000 to purchase the original work. My apologies for leading you astray. Alas, I will never doubt the monetary value of poetry again.

Words thus Worlds: A Brief Case for Poetry

March 5, 2009


I finished up and mailed off a blizzard of journal submissions and contest entries for my poetry last month. It was an annoying amount of effort that interfered with time usually spent writing this blog, my newsletter, and even (gasp) poems. I sent off everything from a single poem to complete book length collections. I was very busy. You can check out the poem titles by clicking on the "Word Clouds." Pretty cool? You can make your own at http://www.wordle.net/. See, I'm already giving you great value for investing a couple of minutes reading my blog.

Now, I'm going to give you even more amazing bang for your buck and perhaps even change your life. Bold claim, I know. Just bear me out. Here's my thesis: For the investment of 1 minute a week, you can save time, money and enrich your life. Sound too good to be true? How is this possible?

Simply read a poem a week. It's really cheap and easy to do. 99% of the world's poetry is absolutely free. In fact, you don't even have to do anything special to see it. You will see poems pop up on busses, billboards, in newspapers, magazines, blogs, at church, in programs, novel introductions and an infinite number of unexpected places. You don't have to do a darn thing, except open your eyes and read.

Why you should read poetry? I'm going to answer that question for you right now. I'm so serious about this subject that I'm going to break out the Billy Collins. Please take 20 seconds to click on Billy and read...are you back? Did that poem nail your feelings about poetry, amuse you, make you nod, or even transport you back in time to an unfortunate highschool English class? Amazing, isn't it. A complete adventure in 20 seconds. What's great is that your mind supplied the images that accompanied the words. You co-authored the poem in your head while reading it. What's even better is that because you participated, the images are completely relevent to you and your life. You were the director of the movie that played in your head. You didn't have to suffer the vision or punches of a clod like Uwe Boll.

Here's another example, a wonderful poem called "Prodigy" by Charles Simic. This takes, at most, 60 seconds to read. Not convinced? What's in it for you? For the investment of 1 minute, you will receive the riches of an entire World War Two movie without sacrificing a scintilla of depth or meaning. You don't have to invest a butt-numbing 2 hours and 44 minutes. Just a single minute. What's even better is that this investment can permanently alter the way you see the world. After reading "Prodigy," perhaps the next time you see someone playing chess you'll remember the kindness of others in terrible times. Perhaps when you see a boy at the store clinging to his mother's coat, you'll wonder what you would do to protect a child's fragile innocence. This is the stuff that enriches one's life experience and touches one's bare humanity.

To summarize: poetry is everywhere and it's free. For just a few seconds a week, you can immerse yourself in an entire world that you help co-create. Poetry combined with your imagination can change your perception of the world. All I'm asking for is your commitment to read one poem a week. Please try it. It's a good value. And once you start, I bet you find that poetry is like Lay's potato chips. You can't stop at just one.

Words Matter. Context Matters More.

January 14, 2009

I admit it, I have high expectations. When Barack Obama takes the oath of office next week and gives his inaugural address, I expect oratory fireworks. I expect words that spark and pulse and burn hot across the curtain of history, setting the damn thing afire. I expect to oooh and ahhh and let the embers slow fade into my memory. This occasion demands greatness and so do the people.

Narrative has a fascinating article called, "First Words: The Best and Worst of Inaugural Speeches." It's ironic and prescient. I highly encourage you to take a look. Just a taste:

George H. W. Bush, January 20, 1989

There are times when the future seems thick as a fog; you sit and wait, hoping the mists will lift and reveal the right path. But this is a time when the future seems a door you can walk right through into a room called tomorrow.

...and apparently a recession and the first gulf war

George W. Bush, January 20, 2001

We will build our defenses beyond challenge, lest weakness invite challenge. We will confront weapons of mass destruction, so that a new century is spared new horrors.

...he told us his agenda in the first few lines of his inauguration.

Words matter, folks. They really do. However, using beautiful or powerful words out of context just makes you a jackass. This brings me to Rod Blagojevich, the soon to be ex-governor of Illinois.

Literary Douchebag of the Week

Allow me to rant here. This Chia Pet-haired and clay-brained doofus did the world of poetry no favors this week. After the Illinois senate voted to impeach him, he held a press conference. The content of the press conference was laugh-out-loud ridiculous. But he really pissed me off, when at the end of the press conference, he delivered his parting shot. He quoted the classic poem Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson. He took the ending of the poem out of context and used it as a defiant rallying cry for his continued fight against his usurpers. Disgraceful.

If you haven't read this poem, you should. It's amazing and you will immediately find it familiar. In the context of the poem, Ulysses is near the end of his life. He finds ruling tedious and recognizes that his skills are a poor fit for the job. He proudly passes his kingdom on to his son, Telemachus. Ulysses is wistful and reminiscent of his times as hero. He rails against the indignity of old age and death. He craves to set sail for one final adventure with old friends. How is that for a little context? It's certainly not a rallying cry for an embittered and corrupt public official. I guess co-opting a classic poem is small change for a man who'd sell a senate seat to the highest bidder.

Just a warning, poetry is not a cloak of invisibility that you can hide behind. Poetry is an invisible cloak that reveals what's within.

Poetry Sucks!

January 5, 2009

Does the video below reflect your opinion of poetry?

Ah, the slow motion raspberry. I bet many of you found this little video to be vastly more entertaining than a poem. Former Poet Laureate Ted Kooser writes in his book "The Poetry Home Repair Manual" that "of every one hundred readers of The New Yorker, ninety-nine prefer the cartoon over the poem." Sound familiar? I can feel you shaking your heads in agreement. Why is this? And as a poet, why on earth would I bring this to your attention?

There are many long-winded arguments, erudite laments, and detailed analyses of the "state of poetry," but I think it comes down to this...ninety-nine percent of you are stupid.

No. Wait. That can't be right. (insert winking smiley face here)

Serioiusly, how many times have you read a poem and said to yourself, "I don't get it," or "what the hell does this mean?" Does the word "Poetry" give you a flashback to high school and some dreaded English teacher droning on about a symbolism and the art of interpretation? The truth is that reading poetry is too much damn work for most people. There are many faster and transparent ways to communicate experience.

The problem is that poets forget about audience. They write to themselves or for the benefit of other poets. Don't get me wrong, there are a few folks out there who pride themselves on their ability to get to the core idea of a poem no matter how difficult it is. However, I'm here to tell you that a poem shouldn't be a puzzle. Good poetry is not designed to make you feel stupid. Does this mean I believe poets should dumb down their work? Of course not. I'm just advocating that poets need to work a little harder to meet the reader half-way.

The best poems offer an alchemy of intimacy between the reader and the poet. Let me explain. It's like cooking. How many times have you followed a recipe to the letter? If you are like most people, not very often. If you're making roast chicken, you may modify any number of ingredients based on your preferences, dietary needs and life experience. You may reduce the salt, use fresh rosemary and lemon thyme, cook the bird upright on a beer can or with root vegetables and other aromatics...it's up to you. At the end you'll still have roast chicken, but it will reflect a combination of the recipe, your experiences and choices.

In the right circumstances, the poet's carefully chosen words combine with the reader's experience and imagination. This creates a unique experience that reflects nuances of the human condition and complex emotions that are hard to replicate in other art forms. A good poem that connects with a reader can change their perception forever.

Here's a good example of a beautiful short poem by former U.S. Poet Laureate and Pulitzer Prize winner Mark Strand. It's called "The Prediction." I think this poem is accessible yet very rich and reflective. Enjoy.

Do you hate poetry? Let me know what you think.

Personal Archeology

December 16th, 2008

I've been doing some excavation. I've been digging into my old works. Why would I do this? I can safely identify a couple of reasons. One: pure morbid curiosity. I've been writing since I was fourteen. I wanted to see if I could discern the original spark of talent that I was so convinced I had. Two: I wondered what it was like for me before I knew I had kidney disease. Was I a less serious person? Was I blissfully happy? I was diagnosed with kidney disease in 1986 at the age of nineteen. So, I had about a five year window when I was writing to see what my life was like before.

So what did I learn? It's complicated. I learned the Jon of twenty-five years ago is an absolute stranger. I have memories like anyone else, but they seem to be from someone else's life. I know that sounds odd, but I am convinced I wouldn't recognize my teen self on the street. As for this idea I may have been "happier" when I was younger or before I knew I had kidney disease, that didn't turn out to be true. Not at all. Look at the poem on the right. It is a fairly straightforward poem that chronicles what it's like to be in the process of growing up. In my case, way up. The language choices in the poem reveal that my internal processes were not without a flare of adolescent ennui and drama.

While this younger Jon may feel like a stranger, we have more in common than I thought. We both have a flair for the dramatic. We both write to help ourselves unscramble our feelings. We both feel like we are "in progress" and growing. Today, I am in the middle of this end stage renal disease to transplant journey. My pain is mostly physical rather than emotional. However the situation has given me the opportunity to imagine, much like when I was younger, what my life will be like "after." I feel much like I did when I was younger that I have the unique opportunity to invent myself (or in reality re-invent myself). I feel there are new possibilities ahead. I feel my life has untapped potential. However, there is one significant difference between me and my younger self. Thoughts of the future and what I might become made the young Jon quite anxious. Most surprisingly, today, I am hopeful.

I've posted a couple older pieces of work on my website http://www.joneseaman.com/. "Inheritance" is a poem and "Absolute Zero" is a short story. I wrote both over twenty years ago. I think these pieces show where I came from and how far I've travelled. Perhaps they even reveal that raw spark of mythical talent as well.

Poet or Patient? Curious Readers Want to Know.

December 4, 2008

The short answer is poet, first and always. However, it took this nasty confrontation with my mortality to spur me to action.

Today I do want to write about being a patient. Many kind folks have emailed me or signed up for the newsletter. The question folks ask repeatedly is "Why did your kidneys fail?" As you can imagine, this is a sensitive topic. Most people are genuinely curious, but sometimes it feels like there is an accusation hiding beneath the polite layers of inquiry. In fact, a few people have even bluntly asked, "What did you do to make your kidneys fail?"

First, I assure you that my kidneys did not fail because of some moral weakness or divine retribution. The damage did not come from alcohol addiction or drug abuse, drinking the water in third world countries, unprotected sex, over the counter pain medication or too many cups of coffee. Lastly, my kidneys did not fail because I struggled with obesity for a time. However, that word "failure" is powerful. Failure is personal and demands introspection and accountability. It carries a heavy aura and acrid bite. Sometime I feel its stench on me. How do I explain this? I have asked myself in quiet moments, "Am I defective in some crucial core way that makes me less worthy of life than someone else?" and "Do I deserve this?"

Here is my personal story, the short version. From the time I was a baby until I was three, I had recurring kidney infections. They discovered my ureters, the tubes that connect your kidneys to your bladder, were defective. This caused urine to reflux (backflow) into my kidneys. So, I had an operation to reimplant my ureters. The surgery worked - no more infections.

The rest of my childhood was healthy, as evidenced by my 6'8" frame and active mind and body. Then in college, at the age of 19, as a joke, I stuck my arm into a blood pressure cuff. My blood pressure was abnormally high. After a month of tests, we found that significant kidney damage was causing the high blood pressure (and vice-versa). This damage stemmed from the reflux I experienced as a small child. Unfortunately, kidney damage is a downhill race. The doctors told me that I would have 2 years until kidney failure. This was in 1986. I cannot explain how this affected me. You will have to read some of my poetry for insight. Suffice to say I felt very "temporary" about myself. This reality colored every aspect of my life.

How does this story end? My kidneys did fail...in March of 2008, beating the estimate by 20 years. You see, I took charge of my life at 19 and went on high blood pressure medication. I followed a diet based on the best medical evidence at the time. I monitored my condition with doctors regularly.

Now when I look deep inside and ask myself if I am a "failure," I smile and say, "Hell no!" I am a success story.

Discoveries

11/19/2008

I'm kind of a science nut. I'm curious about everything. My mind is hungry for the "new." I'm enthralled by anything that peels away the layers of what's visible to reveal the workings of the invisible beneath. I'm equally fascinated by knowledge that expands my field of vision beyond the narrowcast of our daily lives. So, last week when the story broke that astronomers had taken the first pictures of planets outside of our solar system, I totally geeked out. Invest a couple of seconds in this NASA video and see what you think.



A little dry for you? This quote from the LA Times put the accomplishment in a perspective that fired my imagination. "Scientists compared the imaging of these so-called exoplanets to taking a picture from Los Angeles of a firefly buzzing around a searchlight in New York." Creates an image doesn't it. For the full article, click http://www.latimes.com/news/science/la-sci-planets14-2008nov14,0,435832.story

How does all this relate to poetry? Obviously it is source material and inspiration. Poetry uses heightened language to explore our relationships with both the intimate and vast. Poetry illuminates shared experiences and unexpected interconnections. When done well, poetry has a visceral emotional impact. Here's a link to "Astronomy Lesson" a poem by Alan Shapiro. I admire the accessibility, intimacy and relationships in the poem as it contemplates the ordinary and the infinite space between. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=171394

As for my own work inspired by this discovery, stay tuned.

Revisions

11/14/2008

I continue to work on my first book of poems called "The Skeleton Watch." My goal is to have fifty polished poems ready to go by December 31. I am well on my way to that goal. Central to the work are a few core poems that are gateways into the theme and act as connectors to bring everything together. Last night as I was working on one of these poems, when I realized how intensely personal and intimate these core pieces are and how very difficult they have been for me to write. Let me see if I can explain.

I used to be a professionally trained actor. One of the classic dilemmas my actor friends and I loved to talk about was nude scenes. Would you do a nude scene? What are the specific circumstances where you would be willing to be nude on stage or film? It is a fun gut check where you place your desire for fame, artistic integrity, and morals in a thought blender. The resulting goo was always predictable. The "serious" actors among us would end up with the predictable conclusion, "only, if it is in service of the story." That's a nice and noble answer. The play's the thing, after all. However, it is bullshit. Here what is really behind the nudity question; are you willing to make the most private part of yourself public? Should you? If you do that, what is left that truly belongs only to you? Perhaps most importantly how will people respond? There is nothing more terrifying than exposing yourself and facing rejection, derision or worse apathy.

On the other side of the equation, we have all experienced a moment where someone crosses this line and "over shares." This usually happens with a person who you don't know very well, in a drunken moment, in a public setting and for some reason you can't escape. You just have to sit there and squirm.

Back to poetry. Yes, poetry itself can be a very personal and intimate art form. Unfortunately, poetry can also be a squirm worthy over share. There is certainly a fine line. These core poems in my book are definitely a step beyond my comfort level. They are risky. They express things that I don't talk about at all, with anyone, ever. What I hope is that the construction, the art of the words, the unique expression, earns the intimacy of the reader. I am naked here. Exposing the inner workings. Wish me luck.

Poetry and the Battle Against Cognitive Decline

11/10/2008

This is a risky thing to admit in a blog, but I am experiencing cognitive decline. Sounds melodramatic doesn't it? Unfortunately, this is one of the well-known side effects of chronic kidney disease and dialysis. I have to be honest. I am experiencing this daily. For example, I have found that my ability to concentrate has diminished. My memory is no longer as crisp as a cold Fuji apple. Sometimes specific words I am looking for vanish in a curl of vapor just before materializing on the tip of my tongue. The worst and most frustrating aspect is that my ability to make connections quickly is gone.

Think of it like this; imagine you are an excellent jazz pianist. You have internalized the music and instrument. When you play the music just flows from your fingertips. You easily touch ether without the burden of consciously calculating every note Now imagine you are forced to play with ski gloves. Not only would it blunt your speed and technique, but you would have to rethink nearly every single aspect of how you play.

That is how I feel. Often time for me poems would "appear," translate themselves from the invisible and appear on the page in just a few minutes. Now I find that a similar poem takes four or five hours to make its way to the page. In addition, when it arrives, it does not just need a little polish, everything is askew. It is not as if I missed a button on my shirt. It is more like the buttons are too large for the holes. It's damn defective. The meters all fucked up, god-awful cliches stare at me, and somehow the central threads of emotion are unraveled. This makes me unbelievably angry. Often times in the revisions poems take a much darker tone than I originally intended. I know this is not unique. I think back on other artists who have experience illness. It manifests itself in the work. How could it not?

What keeps me going? Pure stubbornness mixed with shot glass full of hope. I write poetry despite the frustrations because I simply must. What helps me play through the ski gloves is the fact that with a kidney transplant my cognitive ability could return. There is hope. Check it out.

http://www.transplantliving.org/community/news.aspx?id=1171

Pet Poetry?

Dead dogs do not good poetry make.

A few years ago, I was talking to an editor of a literary contest. He was moaning about the "quality" of entries. He told me that of the 800+ poems entered; at least 700 were about pets, or even worse, dead pets. Amazing, yes? I racked my memory. For the life of me, I could not think of a single good pet poem. Hell, I still can't. Other than rhyming couplets on roses, there is not a more painfully clichéd topic.

Now before you lynch me, I do love my dog. I know that people often care more for their furry friends than fleshy ones. I'm also sure there must be a perfectly good 'Eulogy for Pogo" or "Ode to Mr. Socks" out there. I bet there's even a famous one or two. However, the thought of reading an earnest pet tribute makes me cringe down to my chromosomes. As for contests; keep your pet poems on a tight leash at all times.

Stafford Inspires

I have been reading a wonderful book from the Poets on Poetry series, "William Stafford: Crossing Unmarked Snow, Further views on the Writer's Vocation" edited by Paul Merchand and Vincent Wixon. The book is a combination of Stafford's poetry and his thoughts on the writing process. Why should you care about Stafford and his thoughts on crafting poetry? It's very simple. In his lifetime, William Stafford authored over 20,000 poems. Of those poems, 6,000 were published. The sheer volume of his productivity is mind-boggling. Here's the most amazing part. Stafford didn't publish his first book of poetry until the age of 46.

Predictably, he has some very strong opinions on the process of writing poetry. Much of his advice concerns letting go of obsessive thoughts of quality, embracing the feeling of being lost instead of fearing it, and simply allowing the poems to come to you. I have to admit that I sometimes get wrapped around the "quality" axle. Many times I feel myself getting so tangled in expectations that everything becomes a slow grind. Here are a couple of quotes from the book that helped me "ungrip."

"A writer must write the bad poems in order to approach the good ones--finicky ways will dry up the sources."

"But this makes me think that if you write...the way I do, accepting what comes--then many of those poems will seem insignificant and they are insignificant even ludicrous and grotesque to those who have standards. I'm willing to look awkward when trying to catch the one that can't be caught, to stumble because of the inability of language to get from there to here. So, I don't feel protective of poems."

"Somewhere deep where we have no program--our next discovery lies."

I admit I have a personal connection to Stafford. In 1983 when I was 16 and first learning to write poetry, Stafford visited my high school in Salt Lake City. There were about 30 of us in the library to meet with him. He was very stately with Silver hair. He had such personal dignity and patience. He answered questions slowly, as if holding them in his mind and imaging them in three dimensions. This consideration and seriousness made me feel like a person of worth instead of a dumb ass teenager. He then read a few of his poems. I'll never forget one image about crossing his knife and fork before every meal as a silent protest against war. Imagine the trust he must have had in us to share this kind of thinking. It wasn't until much later in my life that I read he was a conscientious objector. Most importantly I was left with the knowledge that poetry has value beyond the smothering ether of black letters on white paper. Poetry lingers in the mind, often for a lifetime.
Here's a nice bio on Stafford:

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poet.html?id=6496. You can also find links to some of his poems at that site.

Musing about Villanelles

I have been thinking about writing a villanelle. These poems are powered by two refrains that repeat strategically through the 19 lines. If written well, the refrains echo with new depth and layered meaning with each repetition. What the heck am I talking about? If you are not a traditionalist, you may recognize the form Dylan Thomas' juggernaut classic "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night." Notice how the refrains (lines 1 and 3) repeat through the poem and close the final quatrain.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do you have a favorite villanelle? Feel free to share. Here's a link to one that I admire. Felix Dennis's "White Vase." http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoem.do?poemId=1513
It's a doozy about Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun's last moments.

Have you written a villanelle? The meter tends to be pentameter, but I understand that this is completely up to the author. It seems to me the key is nailing the refrains. Any advice before I give it a try?