Some will tell you that a poem is supposed to rhyme.  It should not exceed twenty or so lines.  It should flow from the lips like a kiss that was never meant to be.  That it must be punctuated properly.

What these people fail to understand is that not everyone thinks this way.  Still, there is a very large portion of the reading public who do.  What they fail to realize is that certain writers do not flip through a dictionary in the midst of their creativity.  Sometimes they feel the need to write till their fingers ache, creating far more than the usual twenty or so lines (case in point, read Roger Laferriere’s The King and I).  Often, poetry finds power within darkness, without the need to flow gently.  And as for punctuation, well, who the hell cares about punctuation when confronted with a very real emotion conveyed with sincerity.

The front porch is the perfect place to watch life reinvent itself, as is always the case with each passing season.  Children run for their school buses, while parents wave (sometimes weep) from a distance.

Scout (my 8 year old German Shepherd gem) and I observe, this nurturing part of our lives long over.  Without a (human) female presence in our home, we’ve become silent in our emotions.  We’ve become complacent in this knowledge, both she and I… though something occasionally stirs.

That tear shed quietly by a young father, loading his little girl onto the bus for her first day of kindergarden.  These moments capture an old soul, and remind it of its humanity.

How long can one fall into this descent?

John came over last evening and we spoke for some time on the front porch.  The old wooden chairs creaked for hours as we rocked slowly and finished a bottle of Chianti.  Scout (my old German Shepherd) lay quietly at my feet, occasionally looking up.  She may have been curious about our conversation, though not enough to say anything.

John and I have known each other since primary school.  Having grown up and lived only several blocks apart our entire lives has created a kind of history which one cannot escape.  We know each other about as well as is humanly possible.  In fact, there are aspects of ourselves which we have never even shared with our spouses… but that we are able to speak of candidly with each other.

I would write, were it not for the novel in my hands… or shall I reverse the analogy?

I currently have three books open, waiting for my complete attention.  We’ll not discuss my computer which requires more repairs than did my ‘64 Dodge pickup, or my dog who most likely wishes it had opposable thumbs merely to make an adequate fist with which to strike me when I neglect her.

Time.

They have written songs about her.

They have written sonnets about her.

They have honored her with an entire magazine… full of… writing.

Why then do I find it so difficult to do the same?

I believe part of the problem is that I am a reader by nature.

We cannot confuse writing with reading.  One is a must.  One is a means of living… a means of breathing, lest that last breath echo from your lungs and draw with it everlasting words.

That is writing.  It is not a choice, but a birthright.

We are back from our holidays.  Some of you may have noticed that there were no new entries for several weeks, due to an agreed break (by our staff). 

Despite a desperate need to continually write (which I wrote about in my last editorial), it is equally important to take time off and explore the world.  What we bring back from these experiences enrich our writing beyond measure.

Writing, much like any creative art form, has the potential to become stagnant.  A writer is only as good as his knowledge and life experiences.  Certainly one’s imagination plays a large part in how we create, but despite ourselves, this imagination is still most often rooted in some form of reality.  The more we know and have seen, the more broad our pool of knowledge can be.  This allows us to draw far more from it, which translates into richer stories.

It comforts me that we are creatures of habit.  This is an interesting statement, and the pun is quite intentional.

There are those who crave all that they do not have, whether it be adventure, knowledge or experiences.  With might in hand, they pursue these relentlessly… however it could be said that this type of drive is also a habit.  And so, as previously stated, they too are creatures of habit.

For myself, it’s writing.  Just to sit comfortably and put pen to paper.  This reflects my analogy as well, as to this day, I feel most like myself with a pen and a sheet of paper.  I know that nearly everyone has moved into this century and uses a computer to create, however I only use mine as a last measure (to prepare my work for publishers, this site, etc).

I was speaking to Roger the other day and he was musing over how it feels whenever he misses a couple days of writing.  He explained how it bothered him so not to write anything in a day.  He said he’s prepared to settle for a poem, a line, something, so long as he can let some of the words out.

I laughed, understanding exactly what he meant. 

I was walking through the bookstore yesterday, something which I so love to do.  It’s interesting how literature changes people.  How it affects one’s mind and soul.  And I don’t mean in the act of reading either… but rather just being surrounded by books.  To walk through the aisles, fingers softly touching spines as if the mere touch of something interesting will feel differently… as though the book will resonate just so and your fingertips will feel that pulse of life.

I used to have an office in our living room many years ago.  Now this was when Anne and I had very little money.  We lived in a modest two bedroom home.  When Tristan was born, I had to give up my office so that he may have his own room (as Anne and I had agreed he would not sleep in our room as some newborns do).  This however, left me office’less, so to speak.

We decided on a corner of the living room which I could use as an office space.  My old desk was dragged out of Tristan’s bedroom, and setup in the corner.  I arranged my tools of the trade (an old typewriter and some pads and pencils) so that I was facing the wall.  I thought this would allow for the least distractions and Anne and Tristan could still be in the same room as me.

I realized quite quickly that though my dedication to writing was quite strong, my ability to concentrate in this setting was not.  Part of the allure of the family of course, was this beautiful new child whom I wanted to spend all of my time with.  Still, I was determined to write and so devised a means of creating an atmosphere that would promote it.

Serenity.  One can close one’s eyes and sway gently as a soft melody plays, memories of dancing close to someone whose heartbeat you can feel.  It’s that feeling when things seem to make sense… although I will admit that for me, this moment does not come around as often as it used to.  I lost a lot of confidence with the passing of my wife, and it is confidence which brings forth serenity.  When one is confident in the world, their skin, their purpose, their path, their relations and I could go on forever. 

Still, I am fortunate in that I can still find serenity in words.

Not just any words, however.  Rather words strung together with purpose and feeling.  Words which lead the mind to leap forward.  Words which massage an emotion, so gently at first, then with a passion that most reserve for lovers. 

I have found over the years that for me, serenity in words does not come from reading other people’s work, but rather from playing with the language myself.  It is always more fulfilling to get one’s fingers dirty than to admire someone else’s flowers.  The same can be said of creating with words.