In reply to someone’s “hot take” about how major media doesn’t give a shit about poetry (whatever)…. I replied:
Do any poets give a shit about major media?
Roll your own chap books, build your own culture, wander widely to find your audience, make *things* every day, stick poems to message boards in grocery stores & telephone poles next to lost cat flyers, mail 500 poetic postcards a year, find the renegade youth to mentor, transcribe stories from grandmothers, but every used great copy of poetry you come across for $3 and abandon them on buses with a note, go *everywhere* just to find coffee shops with a good table in the back corner and write so fast you’re inky pens run out.
Then paint poems on post boxes, make a painting of the poem on the post box and do an exhibit with other paintings of post boxes with poems (preferably at a goat farm in the country)…
Strangely, people show up, people ask questions, people want to be part of whatever it is that they’re doing even if you or them don’t understand it.
Doing these things, I find very little time for erstwhile mass media or even submissions to *highbrow* literary journals (plus rejection letters need a return address and well, I don’t always have one).
Poetry is for you to create and share with those who seek the goods. Carry on accordingly.
Sometimes life’s circumstances create conundrums – a fork in the spoons, (he says, mixing metaphors)￼. So when I need to sort the spork out, I come here, talk to the ancestors, do some walking meditation, light incense, wash graves and see if *the* path presents itself or, *a* path anyway, a *middle* path perhaps.￼
Note: I like to think about the stories behind the stones. And here in Japan, pour water on top of the graves, light incense – clap & bow. PS in this case, this is grandpa Ichiro (died at 49 yrs old many years ago) and grandma Tomiko who died just after our Ichiro was born. We’ve had a lot of wind storms recently so I like to tidy up their little area though I neglected to take some fresh flowers this time.
Our house is just behind the cemetery so you can kind of see the hills and green space behind us
I think I’ve spent more Christmases or whatever either working jobs, in hospitals, lost alone, holed up in hotels, hiding in cabin or movie theatre, Chinease restaurants, on the road hitching, or with strangers etc. than have with family or whatever. Best stories. Fortunately none in jail (so far).
Making and finishing and doing *so much* so can’t stay up with sharing… limiting screentime and can’t pause to organize… but so much things (along with baby) coming… you can always catch stuff which doesn’t make it to this channel (and/or sequestered by the machines) at “creative life archive” (note: you are here).
Note: This snap is me at Lafcadio Hearn’s writing desk (international writer who came to Japan and settled in deep countryside… Married a Japanese lady and took Japanese name, wrote in Japanese, had bad eyes so made this desk to help).
Dude is remarkably interesting. Ergo: when the most/only foreigners in Japan were missionaries, diplomats, traders all trying to change Japan, he showed and let Japan change him. His home in Matsue (home of the holy Izumo Taisha) is near (relatively) to where i was first at the mushroom farm (same San-in coast). Ryoko and I visited his house and museum summer of 2018 on our first adventure together.
PS i saw his white linen suit, battered leather suitcase, hat, cane, pipe and glasses and realized that “yes, I might be him reincarnated”
Related, from Trevor:
Down the hall Logan house Mom’s bedroom was on the left Morning routine sit on bedside and check-in At the end of the hall was the computer Window behind Dave sat keying in his word flow Friend watched Inspired