Yearly Archives: 2018

118 posts

Why Is This Writer So Embarrassed?

poetry writing inspiration writing poetry

embarrassed

Embarrassment. Like death and taxes, it’s universal, only Ben Franklin overlooked it. Embarrassment is the title and subject of Thomas Newkirk’s latest book, and although the target audience is teachers of students whose learning is compromised due to the big “E,” it might as well be dedicated to all of us, especially writers and poets who put themselves out there each time they share or publish one of their works.

First, let’s look at the schools we all went through. Then, let’s draw parallels to writing. In school, there are many ways in which embarrassment yanks the reins on learning. As a reader, consider the moments you were forced to read aloud in class and tripped over or mispronounced words. Ouch. As a writer, consider the moments your paper was red-inked by the teacher or the moment your work ran the gauntlet called “public critique” in writer’s group. Ouch again.

Public speaking? I need not go into details. Being called on when you never raised your hand? Uh- and -oh. Listening but not getting it? Been there, done that (think math class). And, as Newkirk emphasizes with studies to back himself up, all of this embarrassment is magnified ten times by our stubborn conviction that everyone in the room is focused on our missteps, hesitations, incorrect answers, horrible writings, etc. Not true, of course, but the self is a mighty deceiver.

Writers and poets? They suffer embarrassment each time they share their work and the response is “I don’t get it” or “What is this about?” In fact, Newkirk champions the late Don Murray, a fellow University of New Hampshire professor, who often used the line “What is this about?” as a start when offering feedback. The follow-up from Murray, after listening to the writer’s embarrassed sputtering, was often, “If that is what it’s about, you don’t really get there until about page 5.” (Poets, you may substitute “stanza 5,” “line 15,” or whatever applies.)

So, yes, the very first step in finding your work a reader (for otherwise it is the falling tree that makes no sound) involves inevitable, if often well-intentioned, criticisms.

Surely getting a poem published in a journal changes everything, right? Wrong.

What if you read your own work in a journal and find it “looks different” or that it “doesn’t seem as impressive as it did on my computer monitor” — especially if you are reading it months after it was accepted (and you will be).

Time loves to embarrass you. No, I don’t mean things like wrinkles on your skin, a balding pate or white hairs, I mean your written work when it mischievously decides to look different from when you last set eyes on it.

What about when you get a book published? Are you immune? Safe at the plate? Not if you follow reviews. Surely there is someone who is bound to find your work so-so or even horrible, especially if they are comparing you to Keats and Coleridge and Frost (and some of them will).

What about when your book isn’t read (and the book you gave to Aunt Mae doesn’t count)? What if you ask yourself, “Why aren’t people reading my book? It took me months (or years) to write! It’s actually pretty damn good!” and the response is only people promising to read the book (so easy to do) but not actually following through (making them a breed apart).

It gets you thinking. And you KNOW what happens when you get to thinking! It’s Negative You that gets to do the thinking. Thoughts like: “Shoot. Maybe I’m kidding myself. Maybe this writing actually sucks after all.”

Next thing you know, like some blamed fool, you look at your sales numbers on Amazon dot all-is-never-calm. Lord. What could be more embarrassing than that? The wise athletes never listen to sports talk on the radio or read Twitter with their names hash tagged, so why would any writer make like a chump and look at his Amazon all-is-not-calm sales numbers as they make like inflation and head for the skies? Rhetorical question, I assure you.

Newkirk counsels self-generosity in his book. He argues that embarrassment is human nature and universal. And, most refreshingly, he uses himself as an example multiple times. He is shy. He doubts himself regularly. And yet, to the outsider or to someone watching him present at a conference, he comes across as a confident and successful professor / author.

In truth? Not quite. And for all of us who put ourselves out there with such little support and encouragement and even readers, it is a form of consolation. We’re not alone. We’re in this together. And, as we learned so well in schools (better, in fact, than what we were taught), embarrassment is life–as writers, life magnified multiple times.

So go ahead. Write, send it out, and doubt yourself. That’s the tour of duty you signed up for and part of the blushing game….

Haiku-Like

Lost Sherpa of Happiness my poems poetry

moth

With poetry, inspiration often comes from small, unexpected sources. And ironically, it often comes when you are actively engaged in doing nothing, which speaks to the wisdom of leaving the race to the rats, the type personalities to the A’s, and the technology to the phone addicts.

Exhibit A: Last summer, while lying on a dock floating on a Maine lake, I simply stared over the edge, down into the water. That was my occupation for an hour or maybe more, who knows? Deadlines were dead, after all, as was the urge to check any messages or address any “Honey-do” lists. My partner in crime? The sun–lovely and warm on my back.

Soon I saw floating some six feet away a moth stuck to the still surface. It fluttered its wings, but wings on water are ineffectual. Instead, the moth became the epicenter of a small drama, sending an almost imperceptible ring of ripples to broadcast its final story. Only who would hear this story, I wondered?

This moment of “doing nothing” became the mortar and brick of something. Something called a poem, haiku-like in its brevity as nature poems often are. It appears in part two (“Second Search”) of my current book, Lost Sherpa of Happiness.

In our ways, we are all moths excited by the light of life. Some days we are down–stuck to a lake surface–but escape. And one day, we will not. But that is as it should be, because life’s great affinity is the circle, which figures prominently (in its quiet way) here:

Another Calling by Ken Craft

A moth, heavy
with water-
wounded
wings, fluttering
on the lake
as if the surface
were hot.

It sends
circular sonar,
saintly halos
of life
to the distant
bass of its
deliverance.

Ode to a Country Not in the Olympics

my poems poetry The Indifferent World

I’m not a big fan of nationalism, even when seen in the Olympics. I am a big fan of the country in the sky, though, particularly the night sky in the darkest-before-dawn when I’m out with the dog.

Here’s my pledge of allegiance, then, to that far away land, its president named Orion, its vice-president a bright and clever dog:

Another Country by Ken Craft

Under the frozen dome of December
mornings, the scrim of dawn
not even an orange thread
caught in the eastern branches,
I often marvel at the dog’s earthly
preoccupations when my nose,
called to greater heights, sniffs
at the cold and dry scent of the heavens.

His cold black snout, quivering
over a stale snowbank claimed
yesterday by some stray adversary,
is oblivious as the alpha dog
above us herds stars
and bounds at the heels
of his boreal master, belted
and deliberate in his stride.
In my heart I know that the crunch

of my blind boots in this darkness
carries an unearthly echo, that the stride
of the hunter heading for a hearth
deep under the western horizon
crackles over another country,
its frozen furrows black and uneven,
its broadcast ice studding the endless way.

©Ken Craft 2016, from The Indifferent World, Future Cycle Press

Denise Levertov on a Biblical Scale

poetry reading poetry

In February, like it or not, our thoughts turn to love. Or, as Frank Sinatra would have it: love and marriage. Not that love always rides shotgun with marriage. To love and to cherish till death do us part is a tall order.

Some say all literature is about death. Others say it is about love. A rogue third group says, “What’s the difference?” because they are philosophers and are paid to argue. One thing is sure, however. Marriage is a fraught thing, making it the perfect subject for poets, who are all about catching fraught in whitewater with a wood spear.

One poem I have always admired for trying is Denise Levertov’s “The Ache of Marriage.” No one exchanging vows at an altar thinks of marriage in terms of “ache,” but they haven’t been in the belly of the leviathan yet. Marriage can ache on a biblical scale. And think of it: “ache” can be as good as it is bad. You can “ache with love” just as easily as you “ache with hurt.”

Check out Levertov’s metaphors and Biblical allusions. And check out the sound devices at the end. The last stanza I love to say aloud again and again–just for the sheer joy it brings my ears. It makes them ring, in fact. The tinnitus of truth, call it.

Here you go:

The Ache of Marriage by Denise Levertov

The ache of marriage:

thigh and tongue, beloved,
are heavy with it,
it throbs in the teeth

We look for communion
and are turned away, beloved,
each and each

It is leviathan and we
in its belly
looking for joy, some joy
not to be known outside it

two by two in the ark of
the ache of it.

If you’ll pardon the pun, you Noah good poem when you stumble upon it. You might not want to get up, in fact. At least for awhile, anyway. Sometimes the ache is a pleasant thing. Share it, why don’t you. The marriage of ideas is always a good first step….

Give Us This Day Our Logodaedaly Bread

humor poetry

What the heckage is logodaedaly? A word, apparently. This morning I found it on my doorstep. The dog growled, then jumped over it to get outside. It was quite a jump, given how long the thing was.

“What are you, anyway?” said I to logodaedaly.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

Apparently this fool hadn’t heard of Google. Searching it (after 27 misspellings), I found that both Merriam and Webster defined logodaedaly as “arbitrary or capricious coinage of words.”

Very cool. Words arbitrarily made at the U.S. Mint.

Before I put it in the bank, however, I checked the be-all, end-all called Wikipedia. It assured me that logodaedaly is only found in larger dictionaries. And on my doorstep. And in a poem called “Defenestration,” which is about jumping or being tossed out of French windows in an adventitious way, monsieur.

We should all get more fresh air, no?

To make a long word short, I took the little logo in. Maybe it would be useful, in a brillig kind of way, for future poems. Ones where I couldn’t come up with le mot juste because le mot juste was being une petite pisser and playing hide-and-go-seek.

But for now, there’d be no writing or coining. I had a football game to cook for.

First, though, where to store the logodaedaly. Ultimately I stuck it in the portmanteau. That’s where I keep all things that confuse me, like 500-piece puzzles and Trump sentences.

“Any portmanteau in a storm,” I was taught as a kid. That and, “Out of sight, out of mind. Sleight of hand, sleight of mind.”

And now, as a good Massophile, I will begin my prep work for some savory thermochiliancarnage made by way of slow cooker. You know, for the tomcast tonight–the one with all those great commercies and that wonderful intersticialact at hemitime.

Nota Bene: If you’re a poet in need of logodaedaly, it can be had at $3.99 a pound on Amazon. “If it ain’t a word, it is now,” says the description (now that’s poetic license). Click to cart, is my advice. Amazon is open on Sundays. Mice and track pads are standing by!

logodaedaly

Of Groundhogs, Super Bowls, and Sappho

poetry

Thank-God-It’s-Friday Musings…

It’s Groundhog Day! Only I wonder, is Groundhog Day only an American event? I suspect yes, though anyone in any nation can enjoy the movie, which is Buddhist in nature, though there’s not a monk or mantra in sight. If you haven’t seen it, do. If you have, see it again. And again. And again.
Issue Two of The Well Review (just rhymin’, folks), out of Ireland, just released this week and is available for purchase. Check this line-up of poets out! That’s right–that’s me in the alphabetical C’s, keeping company with Sappho (in the alphabetical S’s), Dorianne Laux, Gregory Orr, and Anne Carson. I always wanted to appear somewhere with Sappho, so I guess I can pluck that from my bucket list. As for you, I hope you click “Add to Cart” and enjoy the art (of poetry).
Let’s see. Sappho. Fragmentary poems. Themes of love. Isle of Lesbos. Yep. That’s all I’d be good for on Jeopardy!
Just finished Daniel Mendelsohn’s An Odyssey: A Father, a Son, and an Epic. In it, Professor Daniel regales us with the story of his 80-something-old dad sitting in on one of his Bard College classes on The Odyssey. It’s a memoir and an analysis of The Odyssey combined, but what strikes me is how different Homer’s epics are (read on).
How many witty sayings start with this line: “There are two kinds of people in the world…”? I’ll add one: “There are two kinds of people in the world: Those who love The Iliad and those who prefer The Odyssey. Which are you? Me, I’m an Odyssey guy. Unlike The Iliad, it moves. And unlike the The Iliad, it’s less violent. Uh. Until the massacre of the suitors, anyway, at which point a mini-Iliad breaks out in Ithaca.
There are two kinds of poetry lovers in the world: Those who love rhyming poems and those who don’t.
Foxes and hedgehogs.
Chocolate lovers and vanilla sorts.
Ginger and Mary Ann (Gilligan’s Island), Betty and Veronica (Archie comics).
Those who like “There are two kinds of…” statements, those who tire of them.
Ever have trouble when someone asks who your favorite poet is? Why is that such a task? Robert Frost is a safe bet, but many of the poetically-inclined abhor “safe.” It’s just not cool to like what a lot of other people like. Ask any hipster.
Super Bowl weekend! Another drinking holiday! (Oh, yeah. And some football.)
Which, as was true with Groundhog Day, leads one to wonder: Do any other countries really care?
Extension of favorite poet exercise: Who is the greatest poet of each country in the world? Making the list should take you until Valentine’s Day at least.
Ugh. Valentine’s Day. Why prove your love one day a year when you’re proving it the other 364 days a year? (By the way, that line does not work with my wife.)
Chocolates and flowers = overrated. I would add diamonds, but the ladies in the audience would laugh.
Have any Twitter people ever wanted to use the hashtag “Who Cares?” to about a million tweets they read? How about Facebook posts? Thank God this blog isn’t on Twitter (#whocares) or Facebook (#whocares).
My pick for the Super Bowl? Being a Green Bay fan living in New England, I have no horse in the race. I’m also not the biggest fan of Tom Brady the Self-Marketer, though he’s earned his keep as Tom Brady the Quarterback. My pick is whoever wins. The over-under is a number. Take it to the bank and…
Happy Friday, friends.

The Winter of Ivan Turgenev

my poems poetry The Indifferent World

One winter in the finished basement of my childhood home, I went on a Turgenev tear, reading all of Ivan’s novels in those black Penguin paperback versions. I didn’t get much exercise down there, but I surely enjoyed the visit to Russia. Here’s a poem from my first collection, The Indifferent World, about those times.

Turgenev Time
by Ken Craft

As a young man, I lay in a finished
basement for years, bound
to an oatmeal carpet, sickly and citrus-skinned
under the tangerine glow of incandescent bulbs.
Outside it was winter in Connecticut; far
away it was Hell in Vietnam; but inside it was merely
hard Berber rug, a gas heater,
and my gentrified Russian novels.
The knot-paneled room offered neither hope
nor despair nor thought of escape. Warm-woozy,
I dozed, awakened, read
more as the heater exhaled comfort.

In the books, lime trees rattled and rooks took wing.
Kvas-drinking peasants laughed and cursed.
On the wind came the smells
of horse and rain and superfluous ideas.
Outside it was spring in Oryol; inside it was
black-backed Penguins, ocher-edged paper,
ink in Monotype Bembo, the chalky outline
of my sun-starved body on the floor.

I remember my mother’s art deco clock, gold spikes
gripping the dark pine wall, how it dripped
hours and minutes, weighing tick for heavy tick
with the pinging heater, submerging
me and my future pasts—all of them—
in the calm killing current of Turgenev time.

— © Ken Craft, The Indifferent World, Future Cycle Press, 2016

The Dangers in Quoting Only Parts of a Poem

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Two days ago I shared the first stanza only of an Edward Hirsch poem as an example of unexpected and delightful word pairings. Some readers disagreed, which got me thinking about fairness. Is it right to pull a stanza out of context, sit it like an only child and say nothing of its sibling stanzas? As a poet, I know I wouldn’t like it.

Thus, I decided to share Hirsch’s poem in full. Readers can see how the unexpected “forehead of night” in the opening stanza comes back in different form in stanza 4, for instance, giving it a more artful touch.

Of course, reading the whole poem won’t change everyone’s minds. Psychologically, once a reader has an opinion, it is difficult to change no matter how much additional data is provided. Still, I think all will agree that reading the leading stanza in the context of the whole is not only fair but right.

This poem originally appeared in The New Yorker. Yes, poetry is a matter of taste to a degree, so I always say, if I don’t care for a poem and it appears in a big-paying glossy, “That’s a good thing! As a writer, it gives me hope that the big gates can, indeed, be crashed!” How’s that for silver linings for everyone? (Rhetorical question.)

And now, enjoy. And forgive that I cannot replicate the indentation of lines in the original, which was not all line-justified left. Still, again, a whole! Consider the poem purchased at Whole Poems, aisle six, and be glad:

MEMORANDUMS by Edward Hirsch

“I feel anxious to insert these
memorandums of my affections….” — JOHN CLARE

I put down these memorandums of my affections
To stave off the absolute,
To stave off the flat palm of the wind
Pressed against the forehead of night,
To stave off the thought of stars
Swallowed by the constellations of darkness.

Winter descends in knives, in long sheets of ice
Unravelling in the sky,
In stuttering black syllables of rain.
There’s a vise grinding on my temples
And the sound of a hammer thudding
Somewhere far back in my mind. I can’t sleep,

And when I sleep I dream of murky chemicals
Washing across the faces
Of my grandparents floating face down
In a swimming pool. I dream of un-
Born children drifting overhead
And out of reach. I dream of blinding lights.

I put down these memorandums of my affections
In honor of my mother
And my mother’s mother who cooled
My forehead with a damp washcloth,
My two sisters and the aunt
Who ministered to my headaches in childhood,

My grandfather who kissed me on the upper arm
And tucked me in
At night, my father who touched
The blanket in the morning, gently.
I think of my mother-in-law
And my friend–my only brother–who died

Because cancer feasted on their ripe bodies
From the inside.
I remember the ravaged stillness
And peacefulness of their faces,
Their open lips and sealed eyes
As they were zippered in bags and carted away.

I put down these memorandums of my affections
In honor of tenderness,
In honor of all those who have been
Conscripted into the brotherhood
Of loss, who have survived
The ice and the winter descending in knives.

We will be lifted up and carried a far distance
On invisible wings
And then set down in an empty field.
We will carry our hearts in our bodies
Over shadowy tunnels and bridges.
Someday we will let them go again, like kites.

*************************************************************************

Unlike major publishing houses, small, independent publishers have no marketing budget to speak of, so they depend upon word-of-mouth enthusiasm among their readers. If you are a poetry reader, help keep the word-of-mouth buzz rolling for Lost Sherpa of Happiness by visiting Amazon for a copy.

Memorandums Edward Hirsch

Rupi Kaur vs. Ken Craft, Round-by-Round

humor Lost Sherpa of Happiness poetry poetry books

It wasn’t too long ago that I thought “Rupi Kaur” was a semi-precious jewel or a monetary unit from a faraway, exotic island. Then, wandering lonely as a cloud through the poetry section of a bookstore, I saw end caps with little books titled The Sun and Her Flowers and Milk and Honey.

For some reason (maybe my wife who, for the eighth time, was saying, “Are you ready to go yet?”) I did not pick up either book to browse and that was that. Lately, though, the less unfamiliar name of Rupi Kaur has been popping up again. Lots.

I saw a big feature on her, for instance, in a magazine (though the magazine’s name escapes like Harry Houdini) in which the author insisted that those who criticize and/or marginalize Ms. Kaur are kidding themselves. I got the impression that said critics weren’t laughing at their own kids, however.

I took a look-see at Amazon and lo, Rupi’s Flowers were #16 overall in Books (hardly wilting), and her Milk and Honey was flying at #15 (no evidence of curdling). That’s stratospheric, as they say on the Weather Channel!

Finally, last week, it got personal. A virtual friend on Goodreads went virtually Biblical on me by marking Milk and Honey (sans Land of) as “To Read,” adding she was curious as to what the fuss was all about. (Get in line, sister!)

Half jokingly, knowing she had yet to read a single poem of her virtual friend Ken’s, I commented: “Really?” (Of course, I already knew the answer: Really!)

I knew then it was time to take off the gloves. I knew then it was time for my latest book to step in the ring with Rupi’s blockbuster from 2014, round-by-round, reader by reader, if it was to have any chance at all of breaking free and going from little-guy obscurity to big-man-on-campus notoriety (with letters and honey).

Overall, the judges weren’t kind, but judges aren’t paid to be kind. They’re paid to bang gavels, wear gowns, and take recess (a terrific perk, if you like fresh air and nostalgia for grade school).

ROUND ONE: AMAZON SALES

As of 23 January 2018, Rupi Kaur’s Milk and Honey, stands at #15 overall in Books. Ken Craft’s latest, Lost Sherpa of Happiness, sits at 1,816,631 (note: you would, too, without a compass).

Winner: Tie, as judges cannot figure out how to say “1,816,631” correctly.

ROUND TWO: AMAZON CUSTOMER REVIEWS

Milk and Honey ganged up on me here. Together the breakfast staples combined for 4,455 reviews averaging 4.5 out of 5 stars. Nice work if you can get it! My book? At this early juncture (hers came out four years ago, mine two months ago), only 2 reviews averaging 5 stars.

Winner: Lost Sherpa of Happiness by 1/2 star. (Happily, the judges did not take Statistics in school.)

ROUND THREE: “SPONSORED ITEMS RELATED TO THIS ITEM”

Milk and Honey is sponsored by the following related book titles: Her, Her II, Sex, Not Love, Candy, and Lachlan Immortal Highlander Book 1: The Scottish Time Travel Romance.

Lost Sherpa of Happiness is sponsored by space, the final frontier. (Hey, at least it’s in the black.)

Winner: Milk and Honey, and move Sex, Not Love to cart.

ROUND FOUR: EDITORIAL REVIEWS

Milk and Honey features nine editorial reviews, including ones from USA Today and Huffington Post.

Lost Sherpa of Happiness chose not to feature editorial reviews, having forgotten to mail review copies to USA Today and Huffington Post. (The judges, asked to reconvene this round at a later date due to extenuating circumstances, refused.)

Winner: USA Today and Huffington Post, dressed in milk’s (or maybe honey’s) clothing.

ROUND FIVE: FIRST POEM IN COLLECTION

Milk and Honey’s:

the hurting
by Rupi Kaur

how is it so easy for you
to be kind to people he asked

milk and honey dripped
from my lips as i answered

cause people have not
been kind to me

Lost Sherpa of Happiness’s:

When Babcia Caught Her Breath
by Ken Craft

The first summer we owned the camp,
we brought my grandmother,
who wore the same one-piece floral bathing suit
each day. I said no, but she took the broom
outside, swatted webs
from the clapboards, tried to reach the eaves.
“Babcia, please! Come by the water,”
but she bent near the foundation blocks and posts,
pinching and pulling weed heads between rough
peasant fingers, the strong lake breeze
blowing her white hairs, mad dance
of dandelion fluff holding on.
Unbending herself slowly, she swore
in Polish, shuffled to the wood’s edge, tossed
ripped roots on Canada Mayflower,
Indian pipe, a Pink Lady’s Slipper.
“Come, now,” I said. She finally sat in the Adirondack
beside me, her tanned, bony chest
rising and falling, the sweetness of breath.
Silent, she stared at this lake before her. And me, I inhaled
its strange newness in her name: The waves
against rip-rap. The wild mint smell. The nuthatches
scribing arcs about pine-bark.
And, on the water, whitecaps drunk with the passing.
She took this in and more,
then said, simply, “I can’t believe
it’s almost over.”

Winner: In lines, Lost Sherpa by a Himalayan landslide. By italics, Milk and Honey running away. In the category of romance, hurt, desire, and Instagram videos, it’s Rupi, Rupi, Rupi early and often.

With that, only 2:37 into the fifth, the bell rang repeatedly and the judges interceded to stop the sherpa bloodshed. Milk‘s arm was raised, then Honey‘s.

Me, I just have to train harder: write shorter lines about longing, illustrate my poems with a graphic pencil, and invest in more italics.

That and drink lots of raw eggs….

The Number One Trait of a True Poet?

poetry word choice writing writing poetry

What is the number one trait of a true poet? Good question, and one which opens with talking points about the abstract (traits like “creativity”) vs. the concrete (harder-edged stuff, like “skills”). For the sake of argument, then, let’s dig in with skills.

Some skills you’d like to find in an accomplished poet’s toolbox might include the abilities to conjure through imagery, figurative language, and symbols. How about skills with openings and closings? Deft use of sound devices? Rhyme? Rhythm? Meter? Facility with words, language, sentence structures? Mastery of forms?

The head literally spins, but me, I’m going to go out on a lonely branch and pick something in the “word” category: the ability to make unexpected word pairings that first jolt and then resonate with the reader. As a reader of poetry, there’s nothing I like better. As a writer of poetry, there’s nothing I’m more proud of.

Examples? Let’s look at the first stanza of Edward Hirsch’s poem, “Memorandums”:

Six lines, three unexpected word pairings, all novel and oh-so-pleasing to the mind’s insatiable desire for reverie. First we get the “flat palm of the wind,” then the personification of it being “Pressed against the forehead of night.” Wind with a palm? Night with a forehead? In a poem about memories of lost ones? Of course. Why didn’t I think of that? (Because I’m not Edward Hirsch.)

Then he finishes with “the thought of stars / Swallowed by the constellations of darkness.” Here we have the expected word, “stars,” but she is like an ignored former lover left at the curb as “constellations” drives off with its new beau, “darkness.” One doesn’t ordinarily think of “constellations of darkness,” especially ones that swallow the very thought of stars, but its perfectly tuned for the dark subject of loved ones who have gone before us. Our memories of them can be traced like lines between stars, but they are frustratingly swallowed by the final stubbornness of night.

When I read poetry, this is what stops me. Makes me read again. And again. Unexpected word pairings. True poets have the knack, and reading their works is why poetry readers have a strong advantage over the humdrum masses slapping each others’ backs over the latest novel.

Ho-hum. They know not what they’re missing.