Scrivner

I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the
end;
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge, and urge, and urge;
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance—always substance and increase,
always sex;
Always a knit of identity—always distinction—always a breed of life.

To elaborate is no avail—learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is
so.

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well entreated, braced in
the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery, here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my Soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not my Soul.

Hey-o, Wordletting was kind enough to publish me again (second page this time, baby, movin’ up in the world…).  Check out “Venus Grapefruit” because breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

Lucky me, up at two journals this month.  Check out Zygote in My Coffee which kindly accepted “Circular Arguments” by yours truly.  Also, this issue they have made me their ‘poem of the week’ with another little ditty I wrote called “Mark John”.

You know, sometimes I don’t even understand the things I write.

Hey-o, another journal has decided to take me on!  Mastodon Dentist decided my piece “Summer Lake Sky” might be appropriate for a summer issue.  I can’t say I blame them.  Thanks Mastodon!

One neat thing about this journal is the free copyright art they use for their covers.  I used to be able to find the link, now it seems to elude me.

Another neat thing is that I’m in it.  Last page…which sems to suit me well nowadays.

I admit it.   I’m a published writer who’s not really published.  At least not according to many people.  Never mind that I was nominated into the shortlist for the top 50 short fiction writers worldwide, or that I’m in not one, not two, but three journals of the tangible paper variety, that I’ve been a semi-finalist for a contest to appear on a television show that features writers, not once but twice (see also ‘always a bridesmaid’), nevermind that I had to apply and be interviewed for my short story university class taught by one of Canad’as top playrights, or that this experience springboarded into a writer’s class with the Saskatchewan Writer’s Guild(this was my teacher).  Oh no.  I know not what I do.  I am not really published.

Here are the qualifications of being published (as far as I can tell):  To be really published you must:

• get paid for your work.  This is always the number one priority regardless of what people ask about.  Also, the more money you make for your work, the more published you are.
• have something that people can hold or buy, i.e. must be on paper.  This, for me, is most common question.  My answer usually makes point number one (above) irrevelant, but you know people still want to ask.  The majority of my work is published (yes, published) online journals, or E-zines (see Vanity bar to the right) without payment.  This is not easy!  I believe that the perception is that online material is junk, not one reads it, or that it’s just some computer geek’s version of a garage band – anyone can join.  Uh, no.  I’d explain more but if you don’t get it, you won’t get it.
• someone has heard of your name or knows of your work, i.e. if you might happen to be either John Grisham or Stephen King in disguise.  Yeah, Nora Roberts is my pen name and I go to work as a receptionist riding downtown on the stinky train everyday for kicks.  You know, staying in touch with the common people.  Whatever.  No really, you don’t believe my name is Danielle Steel?  It is!  Gaa.

There is one definition for being a writer.  You write. 

There is one definition for being published.  Your written work is available to the public.  See also graffiti artists.

Huh.  Who knew?  I’m really published after all.  Now, where’d I put my purple spraypaint?

I don’t have the feeling I have been here before but

I have been land before.  Cactus spine,

my seeing eyes,

a craggy of rock, my ear.

To hear that melancholy wind blow

as a ship yet unseen.  Oh water,

even you remember being here,

of being desert.  You mourn and wail

when the clouds are low

wanting to excavate the fish bones

that lime the soil with pernicious hope

of another salty Gomorrah.  Lines of nets

roam the shored banks of highway,

droning a lullaby of nothing and nothing then

shock-jumped into the metal end of mortality.

While travelling through Nevada

it is easy to forget my cactus spine,

my craggy rock, to be caught by the lighted lure,

 to ignore the lyre of a ship still unseen.

I have been you before.

…is in a place I’ve never seen before on my Google searches called Wordletting.  Nifty name!  I was struck by the current issue they had at the time because no one, I mean like no one, publishes what may be considered ‘you-based poetry’ anymore.  It had to have some kind of a tilt or be about a psychotic cat or something.

So I dredged up a little something I wrote when I first met my way-cool friend B. (met being the optional word since we’ve never met in person) called “Jave Mocha“…which tuned out to be pretty darn coincidental since my way-cool friend B. lives in birthplace of the over-priced coffee.  Also, a very nice surprise, another writer acquaintance Christian Ward appears on the first page with his piece, “The Sea”.  Good work, man!  (How do I get moved from the fourth page to the first?)

A small dilemma – the poem situated next to mine, “Memories”…okay, I’ll just say it.  It’s WAY better than mine.  The title needs a bit of refreshment but wow, good poem.  Okay, so how do I get off the fourth page and get posted next to someone less talented?

Wordletting is holding on to my other two options for the April issue possibly.  Do you think they take bribes?

Teenagers are nectarines

who think they are peaches

without the fuzz.

Love is a blackberry

that bursts before you taste it

and leaves a stain all the same.

Old people are kiwis,

donned in fuzzy sweaters

and sour in the middle.

Wisdom is a watermelon,

lovely to look at

but hard to carry home .

Hey, after a long absence… the Jai-ster is back in print.  Hello and hoorah!  Check out “little you” and a nifty journal called Toasted Cheese.  Thanks to them for taking me on because it’s almost like breaking into it all over again. 

Now, I have to get to putting more ‘out there’ – or simply, writing something, anything.  I can’t even write in this blog very often lately.  What’s wrong with this world anyway?  Why am I busier than all out all the time?  My life is an on ramp and I haven’t merged yet.  I don’t even SEE the merge.  Is there a merge?  Is life a highway or just an on ramp?  And, most importantly, how did I get stuck with a Gremlin?

It is too cold for frogs to jump in September,

                for pussy willows to show their fuzz.

This month is iron and steel

and giant winged lions standing guard on either side of the doors.

This month is caught between an open hand

and a sore throat.  Even the leaves run in a confused circle.

It is hard to remember this skin was once brown,

now a sallow yellow and nothing close to golden.

The sun agrees as she dons her veil of indifference.

She doesn’t celebrate mortals until April next year.

The gong resounds in the singing of our blood;

an adrenaline that carries us downstream

to the next ice flow.  Soon Thanksgiving gravy

will thicken our senses.  Until  then,

a haiku for light reading and an orange

for Buddha.