Since I have a lot of new followers since I last did this...
I run a little tumblr by the name of FuckYeahPoetry and think all of you should follow it, mostly because I like getting new followers and also I enjoy spreading new poetry. Feel free to submit poems (by established poetry) and just generally enjoy. Do it, i’ll love you forever.
I am currently coughing up a lung and drinking tea. The pain in my stomach refuses to go away and since I had no plans I sat at home and watched Paul Blart: Mall Cop. its one of the worst movies I’ve ever sat through. I live such an exciting and fulfilling life.
I know there are things going on tonight, but I don’t bother
Only ten minutes across town that’s right, but I don’t bother
I could put on a tight black shirt, but I don’t bother
I could hit the gym so it looks real nice, but I don’t bother
I could tell a joke and make the whole room laugh, but I don’t bother
I could show up with the coldest six pack, but I don’t bother
No to everything
I could match you drink for drink, but I don’t bother
I know I could make her boyfriend mad, but I don’t bother
I could captivate with a story of mine, but I don’t bother
I could go on and start a conga line, but I don’t bother
Until I was twenty-three I lived mostly in a few square miles in Manhattan. In 1972 I set out with a friend for Amarillo, Texas. I didn’t drive, so my first view of America was framed by the passenger’s window.
It was a shock. I would be in a flat nowhere place of the earth, and every now and then I would walk outside or be driving down a road and the light would hit something and for a few minutes the place would be transformed.
Color film is wonderful because it shows not only the intensity but the color of light. There is so much variation in light between noon one day and the next, between ten in the morning and two in the afternoon. A picture happens when something inside connects, an experience that changes as the photographer does. When the picture is there, I set out the 8x10 camera, walk around it, get behind it, put the hood over my head, perhaps move it over a foot, walk in front, fiddle with the lens, the aperture, the shutter speed. I enjoy the camera. Beyond that it is difficult to explain the process of photographing except by analogy:
The trout streams where I flyfish are cold and clear and rich in the minerals that promote the growth of stream life. As I wade a stream I think wordlessly of where to cast the fly. Sometimes a difference of inches is the difference between catching a fish and not. When the fly I’ve cast is on the water my attention is riveted to it. I’ve found through experience that whenever—or so it seems—my attention wanders or I look away then surely a fish will rise to the fly and I will be too late setting the hook. I watch the fly calmly and attentively so that when the fish strikes—I strike. Then the line tightens, the playing of the fish begins, and time stands still. Fishing, like photography, is an art that calls forth intelligence, concentration, and delicacy.
Okkervil River - Listening to Otis Redding at Home During Christmas
And I hear that song sometimes and imagine us much more than friends - like if we stayed in this town, bought the first house that went up on sale, and how each Christmastime would bring inlaws and snowdays and holiday mail. Your dad says you’re living in Georgia since last September. Well, “I’ve got dreams to remember.” I’ve got dreams to remember. Oh Sara, come back to New Hampshire. We’ll stay here forever