For most poets there is no real market for poetry. Around the edges of where the market should be are how-to books, contests, critiquing services, and vanity presses. All of these seem to be a little more than hustles to separate the author from his money and not buy poetry - or even promote it. The foundations, organizations and colleges that do publish poetry all seem to be pretty much closed shops that evolved downstream of the "publish or perish" teaching requirement.
The digital revolution is also sucking the life out of traditional print media. Magazines and newspapers are migrating to the Internet where they are trying to reinvent themselves online. Needless to say publishing poetry is not high on their online agenda. The Internet, it also needs to be said, lends itself more to wide, superficial reading than the contemplative mindset most poetry needs.
On the other hand, the Internet does let me “publish” poems, stories, and essays myself. I may get fewer readers than Dickinson and while I may not end up as destitute as Poe who boiled wallpaper to make soup out of the glue, I’m surely not going to get rich. Publishing online, however, is reason enough to keep me writing, to keep trying to get to the center of things.Most of what you’ll see here has been written in and about rural Thailand. Thailand may not be “the damn good universe next door” that e e cummings wrote about, but it’s a lot closer to that universe than many of the places I’ve lived.
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I reserve the copyright to all works on this blog. You may download any poem for your personal use.
You can see pictures of Chonchai were I live at Chonchai.blogspot.com. My profile isn't showing up so you'll have to go to http://www.Peelok.blogspot.com to see the novel.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Friday, May 1, 2009
In the Mall of our Discontent
Are we just the sum of our
Likes and dislikes refined year on year
With the help of others?
And are likes and dislikes
The same as the phrase
All things seen and unseen
Which seems to slope up
In my mind like an
Escalator which we ride
Up and down without effort?
No, likes and dislikes
Is just another floor
Where shoppers carry
Away a raft of things
That aren’t quite true.
I stop in front of a bank of TVs
Where a glib man talks
About things too big to fail.
I sigh and think
We need a special sale
That discounts those other things
. . . That fill our need for more.
Likes and dislikes refined year on year
With the help of others?
And are likes and dislikes
The same as the phrase
All things seen and unseen
Which seems to slope up
In my mind like an
Escalator which we ride
Up and down without effort?
No, likes and dislikes
Is just another floor
Where shoppers carry
Away a raft of things
That aren’t quite true.
I stop in front of a bank of TVs
Where a glib man talks
About things too big to fail.
I sigh and think
We need a special sale
That discounts those other things
. . . That fill our need for more.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Poem: When our homes had value
The houses of my youth had musical names
Like bungalow and saltbox or
Garrison, cottage, and cape.
They weren’t mass-produced by
Crews of framers with pneumatic nailers,
But stick-built by men in bib overalls
Who smelled of sweat, smoked Lucky Strikes
And muttered cut once but measure twice
Whenever they knew I was around.
These houses were never flipped and
Only changed hands when the old man died.
When I hear now they’re losing value day-by-day,
I’m saddened but know there’s a point in my memory
Beyond which, and for my money, they cannot fall.
FG 2009
Notebook
Novels grow at the rate of house plants and equire attention every day.
3-23
Writing poetry:
Is deep diving. You don’t belong, but it’s magical
Writing fiction
Is like breaking the surface. You’re going to live; you still have a job.
3-18 Poetry is:
a stone wall that runs in a more or less true line through the heart of a NH forest
When I pick up a New Yorker, I always look at the cartoons first and then the poems. I think most people do the same thing. Poems should be short and self-contained the same way cartoons are.
A poem should be like Java, Sun Microsystems’ little software engine. It’s self-contained and toy-like.
Life is nothing but a mixed metaphor: We have a little black dog that has, what looks to me, to be a pair of donkey ears. Could this be the evolution between species those who believe in the Great Designer’s hands are looking for?
The iridescent green pound (₤) sign I see painted on the road turns out to be a foot long snake flattened by a car.
A young yellow cat comes around the corner of the house carrying in its mouth a chick he has just killed from next door. I only see him for a second, but the chick is almost as big as the cat so the cat has to hold its head back as if it were swimming. The dead bird’s body is black, but its head is white, all beak and eyes and I think it is a miniature ostrich with cartoon like eyelashes. The cat has the bird by a wing and as he runs and the bird’s feathers hang down like an inverted hand of cards.
I can’t imagine what America will be without newspapers. Even the NY Times is skirting receivership. We certainly will become a more polarized society because when you hold a newspaper your hands you have a small universe of opinions, interests and ads in your hands. When you go online, you are choosing your friends from the first click.
Like bungalow and saltbox or
Garrison, cottage, and cape.
They weren’t mass-produced by
Crews of framers with pneumatic nailers,
But stick-built by men in bib overalls
Who smelled of sweat, smoked Lucky Strikes
And muttered cut once but measure twice
Whenever they knew I was around.
These houses were never flipped and
Only changed hands when the old man died.
When I hear now they’re losing value day-by-day,
I’m saddened but know there’s a point in my memory
Beyond which, and for my money, they cannot fall.
FG 2009
Notebook
Novels grow at the rate of house plants and equire attention every day.
3-23
Writing poetry:
Is deep diving. You don’t belong, but it’s magical
Writing fiction
Is like breaking the surface. You’re going to live; you still have a job.
3-18 Poetry is:
a stone wall that runs in a more or less true line through the heart of a NH forest
When I pick up a New Yorker, I always look at the cartoons first and then the poems. I think most people do the same thing. Poems should be short and self-contained the same way cartoons are.
A poem should be like Java, Sun Microsystems’ little software engine. It’s self-contained and toy-like.
Life is nothing but a mixed metaphor: We have a little black dog that has, what looks to me, to be a pair of donkey ears. Could this be the evolution between species those who believe in the Great Designer’s hands are looking for?
The iridescent green pound (₤) sign I see painted on the road turns out to be a foot long snake flattened by a car.
A young yellow cat comes around the corner of the house carrying in its mouth a chick he has just killed from next door. I only see him for a second, but the chick is almost as big as the cat so the cat has to hold its head back as if it were swimming. The dead bird’s body is black, but its head is white, all beak and eyes and I think it is a miniature ostrich with cartoon like eyelashes. The cat has the bird by a wing and as he runs and the bird’s feathers hang down like an inverted hand of cards.
I can’t imagine what America will be without newspapers. Even the NY Times is skirting receivership. We certainly will become a more polarized society because when you hold a newspaper your hands you have a small universe of opinions, interests and ads in your hands. When you go online, you are choosing your friends from the first click.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Poem: Two Graces
Make Me The Mystery
Drop me Lord
As I drop Thee,
And in the down of
Gentle swallow
Make me the mystery
Of your tomorrow.
May, Again
May
Witness like
April’s sun
Melt the silent snows
Of all our Thanksgivings
And lead lost children
To play in summery fields,
Again.
Forrest Greenwood
Drop me Lord
As I drop Thee,
And in the down of
Gentle swallow
Make me the mystery
Of your tomorrow.
May, Again
May
Witness like
April’s sun
Melt the silent snows
Of all our Thanksgivings
And lead lost children
To play in summery fields,
Again.
Forrest Greenwood
Poem: Apple trees
Apple Trees
In fall they leave our lives
Like aged parents given over the
Care of others.
In winter they stand back
Like dormant dreams and
Let us pass.
In spring they reach
Like giant nerves to touch
A rising sun.
In summer they flourish
Like families and yield
The most exquisite truth
Of hardwood and seed.
In fall they leave our lives
Like aged parents given over the
Care of others.
In winter they stand back
Like dormant dreams and
Let us pass.
In spring they reach
Like giant nerves to touch
A rising sun.
In summer they flourish
Like families and yield
The most exquisite truth
Of hardwood and seed.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Poem: The Persistence of Poverty
The irrigation canal,
As big as a New England river, slides by
Across the street from the clutch of houses
Where ours stands in a sad jungle
Worn thread bare by generations
Of impoverished cousins who live
In corrugated sheds that build heat
During the day which only a Puritan or
A Swede might relish or survive.
Man made, it looks to be a river
A child might draw: green grassy
Banks and tame water whose surface
Level is unnervingly close to the road’s
Gray tar. White cows with cocker spaniel
Ears graze the banks while birds with
Paper-white wings perch bareback upon them
In a symbiotic relationship which must have started
Close to the first cymbal clash of time.
But at night, women start unimaginative
Trash fires that smolder and smoke
On the banks but never become a blaze,
For this is not a child’s drawing
But a persistent land of poverty that
Water can neither erode nor fire burn.
FG 2008
As big as a New England river, slides by
Across the street from the clutch of houses
Where ours stands in a sad jungle
Worn thread bare by generations
Of impoverished cousins who live
In corrugated sheds that build heat
During the day which only a Puritan or
A Swede might relish or survive.
Man made, it looks to be a river
A child might draw: green grassy
Banks and tame water whose surface
Level is unnervingly close to the road’s
Gray tar. White cows with cocker spaniel
Ears graze the banks while birds with
Paper-white wings perch bareback upon them
In a symbiotic relationship which must have started
Close to the first cymbal clash of time.
But at night, women start unimaginative
Trash fires that smolder and smoke
On the banks but never become a blaze,
For this is not a child’s drawing
But a persistent land of poverty that
Water can neither erode nor fire burn.
FG 2008
Poem: In a Countryside of Half-burnt Things
Christmas 2008
In a countryside of half-burnt things
Where even the Thai god of fire
Stays his place rather than consuming
The log whole, she was born too poor
For school and spent her days in dirt
Yards and on the four-foot high wood
Floor that was all she knew of home.
In her seven years all she heard
From men were words soaked in drink
That rose and fell or those intoned
Chants on high days that only monks
Themselves could ever understand,
So when I said Merry Christmas
And held the red-ribbon wrapped
Coloring book and boxed crayons,
Meaning ran past her and up the
Outside wall. “From Santa,” I said.
Still nothing until she saw OK in
Her mother’s eyes then hugged the gift
Twisting to her chest in pure joy
As if something alive had been
Given to her alone for keeping.
No words, but what purpose could words
Ever hold for a small unlearned girl
In a countryside of half-burnt things?
Still, you could live a lifetime and
Never see anything more.
FG 2008
In a countryside of half-burnt things
Where even the Thai god of fire
Stays his place rather than consuming
The log whole, she was born too poor
For school and spent her days in dirt
Yards and on the four-foot high wood
Floor that was all she knew of home.
In her seven years all she heard
From men were words soaked in drink
That rose and fell or those intoned
Chants on high days that only monks
Themselves could ever understand,
So when I said Merry Christmas
And held the red-ribbon wrapped
Coloring book and boxed crayons,
Meaning ran past her and up the
Outside wall. “From Santa,” I said.
Still nothing until she saw OK in
Her mother’s eyes then hugged the gift
Twisting to her chest in pure joy
As if something alive had been
Given to her alone for keeping.
No words, but what purpose could words
Ever hold for a small unlearned girl
In a countryside of half-burnt things?
Still, you could live a lifetime and
Never see anything more.
FG 2008
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