Tagged: Poetry

Heavy Weather (poetry)

Severe Weather Advisory

A system of fast-moving clouds
high altitude winds speeding
them toward their destination

If it storms, will it rain?
If it rains, will it pour?
If it pours, will we drown?
If we drown, will you mourn?
 
When the heavens finally open
a torrential shedding of tears
overflows every ocean and sea

If it storms, will it rain?
If it rains, will it pour?
If it pours, will we drown?
If we drown, will you mourn?

Find yourself an Ararat
from the highest precipice
watch for a flicker of wings

If it storms, will it rain?
If it rains, will it pour?
If it pours, will we drown?
If we drown, will you mourn?

 

 

August, 2017: Update & Coming Attractions

You knew I had to be up to something and you were right.

A month between posts? C’mon, you know me better than that.

This summer has been my most productive, writing-wise, in several years. It’s like the taps were turned on again and I’ve been writing with all my focus and concentration, feeling the juices flowing again.

Two, count ’em, two long stories since June, quite a few poems, a short prose piece that’s one of the best things I’ve written in quite awhile…

And everything registering strongly on the aesthetic Richter Scale—nothing slight or inconsequential. Intelligent, literate efforts, not pandering to any school or taste.

I haven’t lost a fucking step.

Oh, and I’ve started work on a new novel. Well, not quite a new novel—I’m completely overhauling a 250-page manuscript I originally conceived around 2002. If I had to guess, I’d say I’m looking at 12-15 months worth of revisions, so you shouldn’t expect to see that one in print until, ballparking it, mid-2019. No teasers, except that it references a classic Victorian thriller and will be darker and more horror-related than some of my recent work.

But fear not, impatient readers, I shall be releasing not one but two full-length efforts in 2018: first, The Algebra of Inequality and Other Poems, a selection of verse culled from the past five years. The title is nicked from a line in a Don Barthelme short story that caught my eye. Ol’ Don had some zingers.

I know poetry is a hard sell to some folks but I believe it gives me the opportunity to address profound philosophical and spiritual and existential questions in the most spare, personal, unforgiving literary format. Poetry permits no artistic missteps—it really is like walking a tightrope.

And there will be (drumroll please) a new short story collection next year, Electric Castles: A Book of Urban Legends. Original tales, all centered around everything magical and terrifying about cities, near and far, real and imagined. Killer stories, spanning just about every genre, guaranteed to amaze, disturb and warp your puny perceptions and sensibilities. Consensual reality? What the hell is that?

Both books will feature, as per the custom here at Black Dog Press, gorgeous cover art and will be professionally formatted and bound. There will be an e-book version of Electric Castles, still mulling it over re: the poetry. Poetry is so unique and personal and analog…does it really belong on a tablet or phone screen?

Lots of writing and revisions in the months ahead, some highs and lows, good days and days when, as they say, “the bear gets you”. All part of the creative process: painful and terrifying, but also exhilarating and inspiring. No doubt you’ll be reading something of my triumphs and travails here…and I hope it will serve to remind you that the writing life is not easy and requires a great deal of courage and fortitude. Perseverance and sheer guts get you a lot further in any profession than mere talent. Surely you know that by now.

Some mornings I can’t imagine facing that page again.

And yet I do.

That’s the difference between an author and a poser.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: for real writers, girls and boys, every fucking month is “National Novel Writing Month”.

You heard it here…

Photos by Sherron Burns

Komatsu

Komatsu, the Destroyer

The monsters are tearing up 105th Street
devouring it in powerful maws;
the monsters are swallowing our street
rending it with their jaws.

Sherron, mind your flower beds
count your perennials one, two, three;
the monsters are eating 105th Street
heedless of leaf, root or tree.

 

Copyright, 2017 (All Rights Reserved)

Komatsu

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God, the concept

SophiaGolgotha

If there is a God, that
Supreme Being would
have to endure every
unkindness, every injury,
the abuse and mistreatment
of innocents, the unspeakable
acts we inflict on each
other, pain and torment from
time immemorial.

God would bleed and die
and scream and whimper
and plead for one more
breath of life, while expert
torturers worked their wiles,
wringing false confessions,
betrayals, a crown of thorns
carefully arranged just prior
to execution.

 

(All Rights Reserved)

Cypress Hills (An Idyll)

Just returned from a weekend at Cypress Hills, a park in the southern region of the province.

Accompanied by my pal Laird, I attended a “stag party” for our mutual friend Tom. Ten guys in the semi-wilderness, celebrating the betrothal of one of their own. And a good time was had by all.

While I was there, I wrote three short pieces, inspired by the environment or conversations around the fire.

* * * *

Meteorology

The weather is strange these days
overcast with a chance of melancholy;
on the weekend, the sun never shines
and the grass smells of tears.

The Elements (An Introduction)

There is a tendency to
envy fire for its clear conscience
or over-praise the transparent,
placid gaze of water.

Yet no one spoils the
earth with lavish gifts
and we frequently embarrass
the air with our coughing.

Religion, summarized

Might as well fear the clouds
or prostrate yourself
before a 1000-year old
yew tree

Jesus, put away your cross
Buddha, no thanks

I’m investing my faith
in some special place
worshipping where there
are no altars

 

 

July, 2017  (All Rights Reserved)