One of the worst things about being so ill, is that there are poems I wish to write (sometimes I even take notes on one, or start research or an outline). But I never get around to the writing.
I just don't have the energy, or there are too many other (urgent) things taking precedence.
Thank goodness I AM getting some blogging done once in awhile, or I would feel absolutely bereft.
I am, and always have been, my art...
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Daisies
Smooth and pristine white petals circling
a yellow center in perfect symmetry,
all held together by a delicate green stem.
And carefully cultivated by big nurseries
for lovers to give lovers in bunches.
Yet, I prefer wild growing snapdragons.
a yellow center in perfect symmetry,
all held together by a delicate green stem.
And carefully cultivated by big nurseries
for lovers to give lovers in bunches.
Yet, I prefer wild growing snapdragons.
Hawk
Hawk soars
above checkerboard fields,
beside granite slabs of mountains,
through deep wooded canyons.
Hawk beats
the air with wings of strength,
wings that can make the thunder roll
out across the land.
Hawk saves
the lightening in its dark eyes
to hurl at enemies in streaks and bolts
during battles of will.
Hawk hunts
with eyes that miss no movement,
with sharp talons that pierce cruelly,
and with a forever hunger.
Hawk kills
and tears apart till quivering flesh,
spreading the bloody entrails
across the high mountain ledges.
Hawk's soul
is a fast moving black shadow;
once it barely brushed against me.
I shivered.
above checkerboard fields,
beside granite slabs of mountains,
through deep wooded canyons.
Hawk beats
the air with wings of strength,
wings that can make the thunder roll
out across the land.
Hawk saves
the lightening in its dark eyes
to hurl at enemies in streaks and bolts
during battles of will.
Hawk hunts
with eyes that miss no movement,
with sharp talons that pierce cruelly,
and with a forever hunger.
Hawk kills
and tears apart till quivering flesh,
spreading the bloody entrails
across the high mountain ledges.
Hawk's soul
is a fast moving black shadow;
once it barely brushed against me.
I shivered.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Separation Anxiety
Oh, I knew of your going
weeks before you stepped on the plane;
a mutual friend informed me.
But I didn't pick up the phone,
call to get all the details. I thought
that I would not miss you,
that I would surely be able to hold
you firmly in my mind during
the months of your travels.
Yet now I keenly feel the ties that link
us, thinly stretched across
continents and oceans and time.
And I am suddenly reduced
to walking past your door and phoning
to hear your voice on a machine.
weeks before you stepped on the plane;
a mutual friend informed me.
But I didn't pick up the phone,
call to get all the details. I thought
that I would not miss you,
that I would surely be able to hold
you firmly in my mind during
the months of your travels.
Yet now I keenly feel the ties that link
us, thinly stretched across
continents and oceans and time.
And I am suddenly reduced
to walking past your door and phoning
to hear your voice on a machine.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
(This is the CENTRAL poem and theme of the ebook: Odium Bar & Cafe, available at www.powells.com and other online retailers.)
1
A warm, almost tropical in it’s feel, summer
Saturday night, settles in over
the still busy, but starting to quiet city;
traffic diminishes, as shops and stores close.
The main artistic event of the local poetic
season, anticipated by many, is about
to take place at the Odium Bar & Café,
downtown, where Seventh and C collides
in a concrete jumble of tall buildings and wide
streets, and trendy new establishments. A heralded
event where poets, aficionados, and musicians
will gather to make and present their works of art;
to share common visions, and long worked
on productions of voices and sounds. To strut their stuff.
Though still dusk, a number of people are already
present inside the brightly lit Odium Bar & Café;
the owner supervising preparations
for the profitable evening ahead, staff members
bustling back and forth, poets and others
who had arrived early, and musicians setting up
instruments and sound equipment. Some of these
early patrons mill about the large
room, checking out the modern art,
hanging prominently on the pristine white walls.
Some visit with each other; many
being acquaintances, amid the heavy wood
tables and chairs, all newly refurbished and heavily
lacquered in bright, shiny, primary colors.
Circulating amidst the staff and patrons,
wafting on the unseen currents of artificially
cooled air, float the odors of sweet cinnamon
and strong espresso. The enticing aromas fill
the room and the nostrils, with hints of delights for the palate;
as the sounds of acoustic guitars being tuned,
promise to nourish the varied collection of souls.
1
A warm, almost tropical in it’s feel, summer
Saturday night, settles in over
the still busy, but starting to quiet city;
traffic diminishes, as shops and stores close.
The main artistic event of the local poetic
season, anticipated by many, is about
to take place at the Odium Bar & Café,
downtown, where Seventh and C collides
in a concrete jumble of tall buildings and wide
streets, and trendy new establishments. A heralded
event where poets, aficionados, and musicians
will gather to make and present their works of art;
to share common visions, and long worked
on productions of voices and sounds. To strut their stuff.
Though still dusk, a number of people are already
present inside the brightly lit Odium Bar & Café;
the owner supervising preparations
for the profitable evening ahead, staff members
bustling back and forth, poets and others
who had arrived early, and musicians setting up
instruments and sound equipment. Some of these
early patrons mill about the large
room, checking out the modern art,
hanging prominently on the pristine white walls.
Some visit with each other; many
being acquaintances, amid the heavy wood
tables and chairs, all newly refurbished and heavily
lacquered in bright, shiny, primary colors.
Circulating amidst the staff and patrons,
wafting on the unseen currents of artificially
cooled air, float the odors of sweet cinnamon
and strong espresso. The enticing aromas fill
the room and the nostrils, with hints of delights for the palate;
as the sounds of acoustic guitars being tuned,
promise to nourish the varied collection of souls.
Friday, February 20, 2009
The Ant
A small red ant hesitantly stretches translucent
rainbow hued wings. Seeming unsure
and without direction, she wanders my forearm,
perhaps seeking comfort or guidance before assuming
the heavy responsibilities of queenly destiny,
before spreading transitory wings
to the summer wind for that one ordained mating flight.
I understand fully, try to provide
her with the needed female support, empathy,
and I'm subtly reminded again how undeniably hormones
lock us into predetermined roles; hormones
and tender ovaries swollen with fast ripening eggs.
Suddenly, the ant spreads her wings
and effortlessly soars off into the waiting sky.
rainbow hued wings. Seeming unsure
and without direction, she wanders my forearm,
perhaps seeking comfort or guidance before assuming
the heavy responsibilities of queenly destiny,
before spreading transitory wings
to the summer wind for that one ordained mating flight.
I understand fully, try to provide
her with the needed female support, empathy,
and I'm subtly reminded again how undeniably hormones
lock us into predetermined roles; hormones
and tender ovaries swollen with fast ripening eggs.
Suddenly, the ant spreads her wings
and effortlessly soars off into the waiting sky.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Mothers
Each year, late in spring,
mother Sparrows nudge
fledglings from their nests.
Just as mother Vultures do.
mother Sparrows nudge
fledglings from their nests.
Just as mother Vultures do.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
High Tide
During the early morning mists
heavy waves thunder to the empty beach,
their frothy wetness spewing forth
long strands of kelp.
Kelp recently uprooted from the ocean
floor by some far off storm.
Kelp that lies flaccid and drying atop
the hot glistening daytime sand.
Kelp that is gradually baked
as the hot summer sun climbs in the sky.
Kelp that is kicked about
by children busy at their work of play.
Kelp that is ignored by the hoards
of sun worshipping adults
that arrive with their paraphernalia;
drinks, chairs, books,
which will eventually disappear
back into the hulks of cars
patiently waiting in crowded public lots
as the fiery red orb begins
to sink into the azure Pacific Ocean.
Leaving behind for the night
a bare and empty beach. Except for the
dead strands of kelp.
heavy waves thunder to the empty beach,
their frothy wetness spewing forth
long strands of kelp.
Kelp recently uprooted from the ocean
floor by some far off storm.
Kelp that lies flaccid and drying atop
the hot glistening daytime sand.
Kelp that is gradually baked
as the hot summer sun climbs in the sky.
Kelp that is kicked about
by children busy at their work of play.
Kelp that is ignored by the hoards
of sun worshipping adults
that arrive with their paraphernalia;
drinks, chairs, books,
which will eventually disappear
back into the hulks of cars
patiently waiting in crowded public lots
as the fiery red orb begins
to sink into the azure Pacific Ocean.
Leaving behind for the night
a bare and empty beach. Except for the
dead strands of kelp.
Friday, January 2, 2009
False Gods
Do these people really believe
that they will never die?
These grimacing
runners and joggers
that fill the parks and sidewalks
every Sunday morning
instead of the hard wood pews
of local churches.
You know the ones I mean;
with their vacant eyes
and designer shoes and sweats.
The misguided ones
trying so hard
to take such good care of
their outsides.
What will these folks do when,
sooner or later,
they finally meet their maker
and are asked
for an accounting of their life;
about lessons learned,
or good works done?
About honesty and ethics?
About love?
Will they try to present muscles
smooth and hard,
or numerous plastic credit cards
and cold cash?
Surely, the Gods must
be rolling on the floor, laughing.
that they will never die?
These grimacing
runners and joggers
that fill the parks and sidewalks
every Sunday morning
instead of the hard wood pews
of local churches.
You know the ones I mean;
with their vacant eyes
and designer shoes and sweats.
The misguided ones
trying so hard
to take such good care of
their outsides.
What will these folks do when,
sooner or later,
they finally meet their maker
and are asked
for an accounting of their life;
about lessons learned,
or good works done?
About honesty and ethics?
About love?
Will they try to present muscles
smooth and hard,
or numerous plastic credit cards
and cold cash?
Surely, the Gods must
be rolling on the floor, laughing.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Never on Suday or any 'no' mail day
Years ago, in some writing workshop or other, I was given a piece of advice that 'stuck'. And I want to pass it on to budding writers of any genre. I was given this tip by another woman writer at a time when, all by myself, I was trying to work full-time at a day job, raise two children, AND actively pursue the Muse! I wasn't willing to give up any of these 'aspects' of my life; I was feeling ineffective and overwhelmed, and I probably was... The advice? NEVER, EVER, no matter WHAT, work on any aspect of writing on any day when mail is NOT delivered! Do not even jot down a quick note, get into a conversation with another writer on the phone, or otherwise get involved in your writing life. Try not to even THINK about your writing or writing projects on those days! As overwhelmed, and as behind in so many things as I was, this sounded nuts. But I was urged to just try it for a month and lacking any other solutions, I did. The result was amazing and almost immediate. That one day 'off' every week (and now, with so many Mondays being Holidays - two days off in a row!) refreshes my creativity in some inexplicable way. On the next 'working' morning I am ready to get to it! And usually do. Even if, on my 'day or days' off, I work hard, wear myself out on other stuff; it is NOT writing stuff. I may paint a room, re-pot all my patio plants, do the laundry and housework, go shopping, go to a parade, or make a big pan a spaghetti sauce from scratch. But I do not 'work' at the art of writing! On my days 'off' I try to not even think about writing or my various writing projects. This is more difficult, but it can be done with a little practice. When you catch yourself thinking about writing or a writing project, just gently put the thought on hold. Tell yourself you will think about it tomorrow. For example, all day yesterday, producing this Blog entry was sitting heavy on my mind; I had to fight off the impulse many times to take some notes, or just sit down and do it! Having decided to share what to me, over the years, had turned out to be a valuable tip, I wanted to do it! But I was able to wait and here I am, first thing this morning, a 'mail delivery day' making the entry. Nothing was lost in the waiting. In fact, the thoughts, and ideas behind the impulse to Blog this writing tip probably unconsciously coalesced during the waiting. Certainly, during my time 'off', the 'other' aspects of my life have been lined up, taken care of, settled, and are out of the way so the Muse can have full rein. The reason for trying to not even think about writing on your days 'off': if you think about it, you are likely to do something WITH THAT thought. You are likely to interrupt your gardening, cooking, painting, whatever and will find you've spent hours working on writing... Initially, I had to actually schedule in my weekly writing time on mail days, to meet deadlines, finish projects, in order to have those non-mail days off. Then it got to be a habit, no matter my domestic or day-job situation, I never ever write (WORK) on Sundays or Holidays. Yes, I still often greatly resent this particular self-imposed 'writing rule', have to remind myself of the why and how of it. After all these years, I often re-evaluate and remind myself that it's worth it. And you probably will too! Giving your Muse (no matter your genre of writing) some regular time off works! It's a habit that has proved beneficial to me and to my Muse!It will probably work for you also. Give it a try!
Monday, October 6, 2008
Early one Tuesday morning
PUBLISHED:
The New York Quarterly (The ONE poem that make me a NYQ Poet!)
Number 37
October 1988
Early one Tuesday morning
you'll walk into this very same room and sit down, primly
cross your legs, and sit perfectly still, as only
you can. And, as usual, I'll be attired in my best demeanor.
"Today, let's start with my agenda," you'll say
as I routinely start to slip out of it;
slide it easily up my torso, over my head, then discard it.
"Are you still taking four Lithium a day?" you'll ask
though by now I'm sitting naked before you,
my prized demeanor lying crumpled on the dusty carpet.
"What about the anti-depressant?" you'll continue
while I take your hand, methodically taste each finger,
then trace the lines in your palm with my tongue.
"And the Xanax, how much are you taking?" you'll inquire
as I unbutton your shirt, move my face over
your chest; nuzzle the thick blonde hair, the erect nipples.
"What about your other medications?" you'll query
while I smoothly unbuckle your thin brown leather belt, unzip
your slacks, tug them and your bikini briefs down.
Then start a frenzied search for your appendectomy scar.
"This is not therapeutic!" you'll cry,
finally having noticed your own state of near nakedness.
"Nor would any of my peers approve!" you'll wail.
Reacting immediately; I'll pluck out my brain,
and then frantically offer it to you in way of an apology.
"Have you been feeling suicidal lately?" you'll ask.
(All Rights reserved by author: evvy garrett)
The New York Quarterly (The ONE poem that make me a NYQ Poet!)
Number 37
October 1988
Early one Tuesday morning
you'll walk into this very same room and sit down, primly
cross your legs, and sit perfectly still, as only
you can. And, as usual, I'll be attired in my best demeanor.
"Today, let's start with my agenda," you'll say
as I routinely start to slip out of it;
slide it easily up my torso, over my head, then discard it.
"Are you still taking four Lithium a day?" you'll ask
though by now I'm sitting naked before you,
my prized demeanor lying crumpled on the dusty carpet.
"What about the anti-depressant?" you'll continue
while I take your hand, methodically taste each finger,
then trace the lines in your palm with my tongue.
"And the Xanax, how much are you taking?" you'll inquire
as I unbutton your shirt, move my face over
your chest; nuzzle the thick blonde hair, the erect nipples.
"What about your other medications?" you'll query
while I smoothly unbuckle your thin brown leather belt, unzip
your slacks, tug them and your bikini briefs down.
Then start a frenzied search for your appendectomy scar.
"This is not therapeutic!" you'll cry,
finally having noticed your own state of near nakedness.
"Nor would any of my peers approve!" you'll wail.
Reacting immediately; I'll pluck out my brain,
and then frantically offer it to you in way of an apology.
"Have you been feeling suicidal lately?" you'll ask.
(All Rights reserved by author: evvy garrett)
NON-FICTION CREDITS
Copper Hill Quarterly, Alliance Advocate, Rapping Paper, Network News, All Worlds Together, Diabetes Interview, Turbula, The Unicorn, The HamFanz Grudge Report, etc.
NON-FICTION
I'm also a multi-genre non-fiction writer; articles, short humor, opinion, memoirs, current events, etc. Though I'm currently working on my first mystery novel (if it ever gets completed).
I've written, and been published, in various non-fiction genres: song lyrics, the occasional speech, a large questionnaire project for a county, humor, personal experience & opinion pieces, as well as ongoing columns. Clips available on request.
In recent years, I've done much 'blog' content, please see http://hamfanz.blogspot.com/
I've written, and been published, in various non-fiction genres: song lyrics, the occasional speech, a large questionnaire project for a county, humor, personal experience & opinion pieces, as well as ongoing columns. Clips available on request.
In recent years, I've done much 'blog' content, please see http://hamfanz.blogspot.com/
POETRY CREDITS
AKA, Alura, Anemone, Arizona Unconservative, CAMI Journal, Capper's, Chicago Sheet, Copper Hill Quarterly, December Rose, In Your Face, New York Quarterly, Pearl, Poetic Space, Poetic Space Anthology #1, Psychopoeticia, Radiance, Rant, Rapping Paper, Riverrun, Radiant Woman, Romantic Bower, San Diego Lesbian Press, Shadows Project, Turbula, We Accept Donations, Writer's Info, etc.
POETING
I'm a non-university, post post-modern, feminist oriented, poet. I strive to integrate the academic, the populist, and the formalist in my work. All while trying to keep the content within the range of what's pertinent today.
I'm listed with POETS & WRITERS INC. (www.pw.org).
I've given many readings and have taught both creative writing and poetry workshops. I also mentor selected poets.
I'm listed with POETS & WRITERS INC. (www.pw.org).
I've given many readings and have taught both creative writing and poetry workshops. I also mentor selected poets.
bio & credits
POETIC EDUCATION
I have formally studied poetics with:
Bayla Winters
(1979-1980, Los Angeles, CA)
Brook Hallock
(1981-1983, Salt Lake City, UT)
Steve Kowit
(1985-1988, San Diego, CA)
I have formally studied poetics with:
Bayla Winters
(1979-1980, Los Angeles, CA)
Brook Hallock
(1981-1983, Salt Lake City, UT)
Steve Kowit
(1985-1988, San Diego, CA)
Friday, February 8, 2008
New York Quarterly Poets
I was amazed yesterday to get an email from this new website http://www.nyqpoets.net/poet/evvygarrett . Even more amazed after I checked it out, as it's for real, not a scam. Apparently, the publishers of New York Quarterly, one of the most prestigious 'literary poetry periodicals' , has set up a web site featuring the poets they have published. I am one of them! My poem 'EARLY ONE TUESDAY MORNING' was published in NYQ on page 115 of issue number 37 (1988). That one poem makes me a proud 'NYQ Poet'. I just hope that THAT wasn't the height of my poetic accomplishments... EARLY ONE TUESDAY MORNING is posted to this blog.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Bayla Winters
I just found out that my first formal poetry teacher has passed on. Bayla Winters apparently died 3 years ago, and I just, quiet serendipitously, found out. We were not close; I called her about every 10 years or so, after I left the Los Angeles area, and she didn't seem to be a 'computer person'. But I studied with her for a couple of years, first in formal classes, then in a private poetry workshop. She taught me much about art; the art of poetry and the art of living as a poet (this at a time when I still wanted to be a 'Stephen King'!). So that is to say, I learned a great deal from her. She was already working on this poem 'JANICE JOPLIN AND THE FOLDING COMPANY' when I first met her in 1972. In fact, she had volumes of handwritten notes on it. And as far as I know, this could be only one stanza in a long poem. But this one was published in Free Lunch. I ONLY present it here in her memory. (Hey, Janis, pour Bayla one, will ya?)
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