Thursday, August 23, 2012

Poetry encore

Continuing with my plan to publish my poetry, whether the industry likes it or not...

Love is nourishment of life
milk on which it mouths
when drought of death
dries even tears. These years
we parcel out like playdough
colored pastel figures sculpted
by our fingers into shapes that linger
only till they parch and crumble
are too humble to contain the truth
that we possess nor age nor youth
but nod a dozy moment till
the breath of death revives us
and we wake and find it seems
we are the love we thirsted for in dreams.

What is Love?

Love is the lie we have to tell
Ourselves and others
It is escape from hell
An orphan’s prayer
That someone bothers
For the pain we feel in dreams
And every sunless morning
When we wake to face the raw
Reliving pain of borning
And melancholy hope of dying
Remembering with every breath
The truth that we are born for death:
That is why we are lying

Tuesday, August 21, 2012


I am casting about for the subject for my next book, which will be my tenth. I have a few ideas, but it occurred to me that some of you may have better ones. People are forever coming up to me and saying: I have a great idea for a book!

Therefore, I am soliciting ideas from you: fiction or non-fiction; stories, anecdotes, memoirs, dreams, fantasies, fears, suspicions, joys, heartaches, insights.

I realize this is a bit risky, but to this point readers of this blog have been pretty serious-minded and articulate. So if you have any suggestions, please send them to me - briefly - and I will consider them.

Thanks, and I look forward to hearing from you.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Poetic Fits

Back after a long absence. For me, the silence has been thick with depression and struggle; for many of you, I suspect it has been something of a relief.

Two years ago I brought out a volume of poetry. It was self-published since no corporation is foolish enough to publish poetry anymore. Most of the poems - some 450 pages of them - are love poetry, conceived in fits of passion which I can scarcely remember now, and which no longer seem to me of any importance.

Since I suppose that my volume of poems will never see the light of day, I have decided to publish one here from time to time, in case anyone is interested. I will begin with this one, which, because it is not about love, is uncharacteristically upbeat...


what came before endures behind
was and is are merely states of mind
nothing that is gone is lost
everything renews, and in December’s frost
are memories of dews to which we woke
in May from dreams that presaged
the dawning of the day that only death can bring;
stars explode the night in fireworks
to light our way through time, and time
returns upon itself in every birth of mind;
that which was hid is evermore revealed
and what was sealed in lips or tombs
will speak again within the wombs of earth
there is no dearth of hope so long as soul
can clap its hands and sing, there is no end
of anything so long as there is spring