Reservoir Raccoon

Just who is this raccoon?

Just who is this raccoon?

The raccoon has been stuffed,
been set on the edge of the reservoir
behind the chain link fence,
is an artistic statement.

The raccoon is dying,
is just now being reborn,
is practicing tai chi so slowly
I can’t see him move

on the crumbling balustrade
by the city’s central reservoir.
The raccoon moves no one;
everyone is responsible.

The raccoon is dancing the dance
of stillness, is frozen in time,
his nose to a crack,
and the earth is moving.

The raccoon has a sexually transmitted disease,
is about to drop into the reservoir,
is about to commit suicide
in the city’s water supply.

The raccoon is withholding
key information, is straining
to communicate, is meditating
on the crack, is stuck to the rail.

The raccoon is the enemy, a friend,
reason to get alarmed, to call the authorities,
reason to move on, to think about my day,
to listen to and tell his story.

The raccoon has had a rough night,
has had too much to drink,
has found hell here
escaping the night’s howling dogs.

The raccoon is a monument to survival,
stands taller than an eighty-five story building,
is the dot missing from an i in a love letter
burning in a rusted-out incinerator.

The raccoon is dangerous, will explode
if tampered with, is a toy, a game, the second coming,
a saint, a martyr, the sacrificial lamb, the Sphinx
rising from the ashes of a cigarette.

The raccoon doesn’t exist,
is the center of the universe,
is a satellite orbiting a distant planet,
is a grandfather, a father, a son.

The raccoon is the reservoir.

The raccoon knows nothing, knows everything—
my name, yours, the earth’s true name—
and spits it out with a hiss
before I call the National Guard.

Who's feet are these?

Just whose are these feet?

Note: Poem by Rick Clark previously published in Washington Community College Humanities Association Arts Journal.

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Overcoming Writer’s Anxiety

Many aspiring writers feel insecure about what they view as their ability to write. In other words, they often let their concern with matters of style and mechanics dominate the issues that hold them back. But what wannabe writers often have, instead, is motivation issues that they interpret as an inability to write fabulous sentences, paragraphs, images, and dialogue. The fact that these aspirants to the craft want to write, say they want to write, and say they have fabulous projects to pursue makes it clear that at bottom they’re motivated to write, but they get caught in a vicious circle that cripples their taking the necessary action to overcome their anxieties.

There is no better antidote to fear of the bear than to face the bear.

There is no better antidote to fear of the bear than to face the bear.

It’s important that novice writers come to honestly understand what their motivations for writing are. Many claim they write for themselves, as if the act were strictly private and not public. These writers often say they don’t read other writers because they don’t want to be influenced by them. They tend to think they exist in an isolated vacuum, as if they make up the language, the forms known as sentences and paragraphs—even the literary forms: story, poem, essay, reflection, etc. As if they’d never heard a story till they wrote one themselves!

Writing, sleeping.

Writing, sleeping.

Other writers seek fame. Some want to strike it rich. Others feel they have a story they just have to tell. Others, still, want to change the world. Yet others simply love the language, the possibilities of words. Some want to write to understand themselves, to use writing to explore the psyche. For them, writing is therapeutic. In other words, there are a number of reasons writers write or want to write. Beginning writers, writers setting our on their first journey undertaking a big project, a full length book, should have a clear sense of why they want to write and how important it is in the context of their lives. It can be as simple as this: “I just love to write.”

Loves taking on the bear!

Loves taking on the bear!

Some writing aspirants are actually good writers of sentences and paragraphs, descriptions and dialogue, because they already write routinely in their work or in diaries or journals. They’ve written decent sentences and paragraphs all their lives and described places and replicated dialogue without a second thought, either aloud or in emails to friends and family. More than likely, they’ve gotten good grades on papers they’ve written in school. In other words, they’re probably readier to take on their big dream project than they know.

Professional experience taking on the bear.

Professional experience taking on the bear.

Probably the greatest stumbling block to pumping out material for a full-length collection of short stories, novel, or memoir is time management. Translate as “life” management. Working parents who have children, non-parents who work overtime or give their all to their careers, students who have tests to study for and papers to write—all put these important areas of their life first, of course. But they often use their life commitments as excuses not to take on a pursuit they view as not only valuable and attractive but also as difficult and time-consuming. They pit the day job against the dream work rather than find a way to do both. Kids become an excuse not to write.

Too young!

Too young!

What these writer dreamers have to do, then, is make a slot of time available every day during which they write assiduously and relentlessly—without exception. If they produce 50 words in one hour a day, they can finish a full-length book every two or three years, a good output for any writer.

Another stumbling block for neophyte novelists and memoirists is the concern with perfection. No writer spills out perfect prose on the first stab with a pencil. Shaping and smoothing sentences is an ongoing process, both within the context of a growing book but also in the context of one’s whole writing life. Prose writers, some would say even poets, should write stream of consciousness first then return to fixing and improving sentences (and lines) later. Best to get a body of material down on paper or in a document file to trifle with when the mood for tinkering strikes. Best to return to raw material when the eyes are fresh. There’s a time to create, a time to revise, and a time to proof.

And a time to pull the scalpel!

And a time to pull the scalpel!

Another major hang-up for writers is a most persistent anxiety: whether what the writer has to write is really worth reading. Is there a story here? Is this life really worth writing about? Is it interesting? Is the verbiage compelling enough to draw a reader in and keep the reader reading? What these writers don’t realize is that the average successful writer doesn’t lead any more interesting a life than anyone else. They can’t: They’re too busy writing. They simply have an eye (or ear), the drive, the follow-through, and the ultimate concern with detail to write fascinating or at least engaging books. They believe in the possibility, they discipline themselves to the act, and then they make the necessary contacts to see a project through.

Such writers, when they fear the bear, face the bear.

Such writers, when they fear the bear, face the bear.

On top of setting aside an hour a day to write, to do nothing else but write, to write no matter what, inspired new writers need to establish short-range, attainable goals they can reach in a single writing session or in no longer than a week. Such daily or weekly goals might include writing an opening, a descriptive paragraph or section, or an important piece of dialogue, working up transitions, catching up on any necessary research, reworking the outline, researching and contacting agents, designers, and publishers, or doing general organization of files and folders.

But the real key to writing full-length pieces, in this fragmented rush that is our world today, is producing a carefully thought-out, frequently reworked chapter, section, scene, or paragraph outline. Once a writer has a relatively tight plan or program for working from day to day, the book begins to write itself. No more staring blankly at a white (or yellow) piece of paper or new document staring back—for not knowing what to write. Hang the to-do list from a shelf or lay it to one side on the desk. By making each task small enough, a writer can finish one task in a single day’s session—in a couple days at most. It’s also a good idea to make separate documents and files for each paragraph, section, or chapter for the sake of organization and efficiency.

Thus, it makes sense to structure a first book using short chapters or using longer chapters that break down into short, clearly delineated sections or scenes. Some non-fiction books can be broken down into categories with bold subheadings or by chronological occurrence and date. Once a writer gets going and finds a fluid voice, the book begins to spill out like milk from a carton, weighted at the pouring end by the pouring itself.

Jesting the bear.

Jesting the bear.

The best way to think about the drafting, revising, and proofing stages is to think big first and small last. Pump out too much material, if necessary, then whittle back to the best content and sentences. Revising means adding, subtracting, and rewriting whole chunks of language, making drastic changes, and making them with fearless sagacity. Proofing involves tinkering and playing with details that can enhance the reading experience. But proofing—spelling, for example—isn’t what makes a writer. Producing abundances of material first is what first makes a writer.

Once a writer faces the bear, he or she can usually wrestle it to the ground and pin it. If it takes pinning a bear to the ground to survive as a writer, then the writer must pin the bear to the ground.

Remember, the mind, the brain, isn’t all that writes. The whole being of the self writes. Write with the body. The body holds the whole story, the whole song—not just a few brain cells. The hands become the givers of the language, the verbal pictures, and the voices to the paper or screen. The hands know everything. Even the pen contains thoughts and moments of the world within. Trust to the body and the pen. Make the hand, the pen—the very ink—assiduous, relentless, effusive. Leave it to the mind to keep the hand moving, the ink flowing, the words appearing as if by magic.

The bear has much to teach.

The bear has much to teach.

Leave Enough Deadwood

View of Seattle's Green Lake

View of Seattle’s Green Lake

with respect to Seattle’s Green Lake
Habitat Restoration

Leave enough deadwood
to feed the bugs,
enough bugs
to feed the birds,
enough small birds
to feed the big.

Leave snags and stumps
to rot and die, to silhouette
the Northwest sky
before the ants and termites
carry it all away
in the beak of a wren.

Lay in a few old logs.
Plant cottonwood, willow,
aspen, and birch. Spread ferns,
salal, and huckleberry.
Lay moss on soggy wood.
Skirt the lake with yellow irises.

Don’t rake up the leaves
in these hidden paradises.
Add the leaves from the lawn.
Let the cedars, redwoods,
pines, and cypresses slough
their glistening duff!

Hire a poet or two
to write what they see
in prose or straight haiku
to publish on a public site—
What old species return,
what new ones arrive?

What eagle, egret, or heron,
what wood duck, night hawk,
junco, sparrow, or vireo appear?
What red-winged blackbird,
what darting hummingbird,
what kestrel, owl, or jay?

Make the crazy world
a masterpiece, if possible.
Make way for all of life to live.
Leave us all the ground
upon which to sleep,
to eat, to play.

The Future of Poetry

The day is coming when great words
will matter more than money.
Ears will pivot like a cat’s
at syllables that pierce
the soul’s hard enamel.
Words of magic will be as
commonplace as leaves on trees,
as riveting as a fist,
as tuneful as Schubert
playing on the violin.
We’ll fly through the thick air
of longing for simple truth
on carnival rides of raucous lines
written on the tongue
at the sight of a silly cloud.
We’ll slash primal ululations
on thousand dollar bills
and tack them on our alley walls.
There’ll be the trumpet
of poetry, the mural of poetry,
and lovers making love
on printed sheets of poetry .
We’ll break up over poetry,
and we’ll make up with poetry.
We’ll drive to work reciting poetry,
we’ll write frivolous poetry
even when the boss is watching.
We’ll sell poetry only when we’re broke,
we’ll pawn it only after we dicker
long and hard with the broker.
And we’ll buy it back later
for millions along with the
Picassos and the Stradivariuses,
then sell it again for millions more.
Poetry will drive inflation
mad with love. Secrets
will be kept, revealed,
and stolen in cryptic poetry.
Great books of poetry
will serve as constitutions,
will turn the tides of history
and be sent deep into space
in capsules made of titanium
for other civilizations to read
and be moved by, to be
enlightened and changed forever.
The whole fabric of reality
will be found to consist of poetry
and we will certainly rejoice.

Note: Previously published in Washington Community College Humanities Association Arts Journal and The Wheel.

Why Poetry Matters

Poetry and writing poetry is only as difficult as we make it. There are so many myths and stereotypes associated with poetry that we can hardly see it for what it is. Poetry is little more than the singing of a story, moment, or subject. Poetry has been around for as long as there have been people sitting around fires singing, chanting, and telling stories of heroism, loss, and love. Poetry matters and is alive and well in our contemporary lives, even more than we may realize.

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.—Percy Bysshe Shelley

Poetry’s close cousin is music. In fact, many song lyrics fall under the category of poetry. Poetry and song have much in common: rhythm, elevated or condensed speech, images and metaphors, and often stories. There are ballads in both poetry and folk music alike, and now rap is a clear crossover between the two arts. Rap music and poetry slams have helped bring poetry further into the mainstream.

Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.—Edgar Allan Poe

Yet many if not most Americans say they don’t get poetry—what it is, what it does, why people read and write it, and what function it serves in society. A huge reason they don’t get it is because there are so many other means and modes of entertainment and self-fulfillment out there. Another big reason is that we’ve inherited myths and stereotypes that we cling to about poetry and poetry writing. Schools have perpetuated the idea that poetry contains a meaning that needs to be extracted, so it becomes a substitute for the poem itself, as if it were merely a matter of solving a problem and, now that the problem has been solved, we can forget about it. Another issue is that analyzing poetic elements becomes more important than experiencing the poem itself. Other views include the idea that reading and writing poetry is a waste of time, doesn’t make money, is self-indulgent, or is a flowery feminine art.

If my poetry aims to achieve anything, it’s to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel.—Jim Morrison

Poetry, first and foremost, is meant to be experienced. How does it make us feel? What images does it evoke? How are we swept up by the language, sounds, and rhythms? How do our own lives relate to a poem or poet? In what way does a poem stir us to express ourselves? Poetry is a more bodily experienced art than we know. Not only does it make our imaginations flare, it makes our senses jump, the way music does.

If I read a book and it makes my whole body so cold no fire can ever warm me, I know that is poetry.—Emily Dickinson

What we also forget is that almost all religious and spiritual scriptures were composed as poems, as verse. Advertising and speechwriters use many of the same techniques that poets use. Snippets of poetry accidentally tumble out of our mouths. We can’t help it. There are countless words and expressions that poets have created. Shakespeare gave us hundreds of new expressions that we still use today and generally don’t know it.

Poetry is not only dream and vision; it is the skeleton architecture of our lives. It lays the foundations for a future of change, a bridge across our fears of what has never been before.—Audre Lorde

Poetry writing is, at best, a spiritual act, one in which the poet seeks to discover and express meaning using our richest, most beautiful, most universal medium: language. Poets strive to explore the possibilities of language just as painters explore line, shape, and color and just as architects explore utility, grace, and strength in building. The added beauty is that reading and writing poetry is virtually free. We can check out poetry from the library and scratch poems on recycled napkins and, in so doing, make profound discoveries about our selves, life, love, the world, language, relationships, or nature.

To read a poem is to hear it with our eyes; to hear it is to see it with our ears.—Octavio Paz

Without the art known as poetry, our world would be infinitely poorer, just as it would be if we didn’t have painting or music. Poetry and writing poetry matters because it involves our finest breaths of language—phrases, lines, images, rhythms, and subjects by which we can sing the truths of our heart.

Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion collected in tranquility.—William Wordsworth

Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.—T. S. Eliot

Poetry: the best words in the best order.—Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Poetry is the one place where people can speak their original mind. It is the outlet for people to say in public what is known in private.—Allen Ginsberg

Wrenzai Attends the Great Haiku Getaway

When my old friend the barred owl hooted her message to me from the crabapple tree, I was surprised and pleased to discover that I’d been invited to attend the Great Haiku Getaway in the woods beside the Great Water. I hadn’t ventured out to such an event for years and in fact had begun to grow moss between my toes. I tossed and turned that night over the decision, but as morning grew blue, as the sun rolled up into the sky and the robin chirruped pure as cherries, I donned my bamboo hat, coat, and sandals and set out East.

Bard (Barred) Owl Messenger

Bard (Barred) Owl Messenger

The journey was long. I wandered cross-country around the south end of the Great Mountains and then beyond, up the east side of the Great Water to a tiny hamlet in the woods known as Seabeck, in ancient times an elven timber station. The Main Hall stood wide and welcoming on the side of a hill beyond a silvery lagoon. The journey had taken me days and left me both exhausted and invigorated. I remembered how good it is to get out of my myrtle hut now and then. My fall crop of mushrooms could wait this time. As I crossed the lagoon these words came to me:

the old car bridge

Seabeck Conference Center

Seabeck Conference Center

What magic I sensed in the air as I arrived! I found many other hermits, mountain poets, and hut-dwellers in the Great Wooden Dining Hall at the midday meal, chattering about the tantalizing words and incantations known as haiku that the Great Party was to celebrate. Ah to mingle with others like me again! For so long it was just me and the chickadees, me and the old antlered bucks who stared up at me through the windows, me and the crows consoling each other as the world heats up near to burning—only the rare human visitor—for years.

Old Buddy Buck

My old buddy Buck

My counterparts wore rice-planting or wizards’ hats, had companions of ravens or crows, even a starling, perching upon their shoulders. Some wore coats of moss or woven cedar bark. Others smoked long thin pipes of incense or gesticulated in meaningful runes, reciting ancient haiku—or fresh ones, composed on the tongue, winging their way out of their mouths like hummingbirds or dragonflies. They’d arrived from all over the world. I was overwhelmed!

introductions

Soon we were off to what for me was my first haiku gathering, held in a Hall whose walls resounded with the profound but simple verses of the great and ancient haiku poets, of masters and disciples both. The chatter and gesticulations were hard to follow, so much was happening at once. Then four Masters gathered before us to discuss “haiku as poetry.” What delight I took in how seriously these great minds considered such tiny poems in the context of poetry and culture at large. I was mesmerized!

After a short break, I joined a large and enthusiastic group in the lower quarters to construct a book—to actually make a book in an hour! What fun it was to create a quality piece of workmanship in a matter of minutes wherein we were encouraged to inscribe our haiku. What fun measuring, cutting, and gluing as if we were Gutenberg’s apprentices—or the Beowulf monk himself! What pretty, useful, tiny tomes we conjured for later inspiration!

Then there were haiku quilts, thinking like an editor, a history of our venerable venue, each presentation more interesting, informative, and mind-dazzling than the last—which is to say a lot, because the first presentation was so intriguing and inspiring!

What energy and thoughts we took to dinner. Our haiku diners were a veritable galaxy of stars glinting with glee and reminiscences. And the food was delectable, not to mention endless, for those of us who’d worked up bottomless pits of haiku hunger.

Back in the hall, we celebrated a wonderful poet who’d recently left our world of haiku-ing (unless there’s a world where everything is haiku). Sad but all the more beautiful were her haiku in the aftermath of her existence. To be touched like that is to be touched deeply. Everyone sat up straight, with respect, interest riveted.

Soon we were deeply immersed in Chiyo-ni—of ancient times in a strange and wonderful country—and given a lesson in greeting with haiku in the ancient way. My lovely partner wrote this in greeting me (thank you, Ruth):

rainy night haiku

I was moved—to say the least. Then up we stood to receive Japanese candle lanterns so as to set out on a night ginko. We walked silently through the night and rain, listening to sounds we might ordinarily miss. With what strange, beautiful, and solemn attention we stepped through the pristine water, grass, and forest, bearing our long line of blue glowing lanterns, like fireflies in search of deeper experience. We were stilled to silence by the plash of rain and clothing rustling. I wrote

forest patter

Mushroom umbrella

Mushroom umbrella

I was so at home in the dark dripping forest, standing at length in silence, it was as if I’d brought a little of this from home, from the Myrtle Forest at the Edge of the Universe—though the singing of rain there differs.

Soon a few of us returned to workshop haiku. What gentle souls we were, making suggestions anonymously with a sincere desire to improve the magic of each others’ verse, then revealing ourselves as the conjurer of the workshopped haiku out of immediately-felt trust. The Haiku Poet is a sensitive creature, indeed.

Then off to bed this tired old hermit wandered through the cozy dark, to sleep without stirring through the night, till the next morning when we would re-enter the transcendent world of haiku—haiku-ists haiku-ing haiku (achoo)!

late night rain walk

And though some stayed up to the wee hours the night before, no one looked the worse for wear the following morning as we gathered in the Great Haiku Hall. There we played a Haiku Game, getting to know each other—or better. The Grand Haiku Poobah led us though his Haiku on Steroids, sharing his thousand years of albeit humble haiku experience—a generous soul that man! Then for one of the Featured Events of the Getaway: Ancient Masters (though they look so young) guided us on an extensive journey through the Cyber World of the Haiku Chronicles—its history, distribution, technology, and the teamwork involved in this enormous venue for the Ever Evolving World of Haiku. I was dazzled—speechless—swept away by the great symphony of this enthusiastic and dedicated duet. I saw what is possible. Paths broke open before me. Ideas bounced around like hacky sacks in my usually meditative mind. Great thanks to these Giants of Haiku for wandering much further, much farther, than I, to bring us this explosion of information and inspiration!

Al Pizzarelli and Donna Beaver presenting Haiku Chronicles

Al Pizzarelli and Donna Beaver presenting Haiku Chronicles

Then contest winners announced, a group photograph, a nature walk, sound in haiku—an endless stream of haiku delicacies to enrich and mull over. The day was ceaseless—seemed to stretch to eternity to accommodate an impossible lineup of ten-course haiku meals. I experienced my first kukai, a contest (or ranking) of haiku. That was nerve-racking, but fun. So good to see how it all works, in spirit so unlike the poetry slam. I began to feel dizzy for all the wonder I felt at what so many poets had to offer in readings before and after dinner. And if all the haiku were too much to appreciate, there was a talent show that evening, mostly for comic relief (or so I hoped). Afterward, I could take no more (had groomed a meaningful headache) and excused myself to bed as the party raged into the night.

Ruth Yarrow leading the Nature Walk

Ruth Yarrow leading the Nature Walk

distantly creaking

Terry Ann Carter leading off the Talent Show

Terry Ann Carter leading off the Talent Show

Michelle Schaefer and Jim Rodriguez (on Native American flute) with weightier subject matter

Michelle Schaefer and Jim Rodriguez (on Native American flute) present a weightier subject

And still, the following day, there was another full morning of festivities, entertainment, and haiku evolution. First, Haiku Comics: Master Frog and Disciple Frog, like Basho and Sora. Then, believe it or not, Monkeys Invaded My Sacred Palace and Chased Out My Tiger! If ever I was confused by the difference between haiku and senryu, or ignorantly conflated them, the difference was untwisted and unscrewed by our Grand Wizard of Haiku.

Al Pizzarelli with Monkeys Invading the Sacred Palace and Chasing Out the Tiger

Al Pizzarelli with Monkeys Invading the Sacred Palace Chasing Out the Tiger

John Stevenson chasing out a tiger or two

John Stevenson chasing out a tiger or two

Michael Dylan Welch presenting the book haiku from all of us at the Getaway

Michael Dylan Welch presenting a book of haiku from all of us to Al

By this time, I knew I’d had enough inspiration, information, insight, and ever-increasing interest to hold me till the next Great Haiku Party in the Woods by the Great Water, scheduled for next fall. I set out for my hut so nourished by the Getaway that I hardly noticed the week-long trek back to my little Myrtle Woods by the Edge of the Universe. Haiku fluttered about my head like butterflies around honeysuckle as I skirted the toes of the mountains on my return. I came away with enough gifts to hold me for many months till I grow antsy for the next Great Round of Haiku. I was relieved to find that my secret chanterelles, under the nurturing arms of their spruces, were just popping open their ocher umbrellas.

Golden chanterelles!

Golden chanterelles!

Note: Please visit these links and sources:

https://sites.google.com/site/haikunorthwest/seabeck-haiku-getaway-2014

http://www.seabeck.org/

http://www.haikuchronicles.com/