Drew Myron's Blog, page 10
June 30, 2023
Thankful Thursday (on Friday)
Revelation
If a matter of how
falls upon your rocky life,
sigh
Your sleep is arrested.
Your body swirls in tight circles across
a floodplain once parched.
Even so, take this day in a
two-hand grip and repeat after me:
ripples, wild, lovely mine
— Drew Myron
* * *
It's Thankful Thursday, on Friday. Let’s wrap up the week on a high note.
Joy expands and contracts in direct relation to our sense of gratitude. What are you thankful for today? A person, a place, a thing? A story, a song, a poem?
What makes your heart expand?
June 20, 2023
Collect Call
Collect Call, photo by Drew Myron
The dead are never far from us. They're in our hearts and on our minds and in the end all that separates us from them is a single breath, one final puff of air.
― William Kent Krueger, from the novel Ordinary Grace
1.
The dead, they call me.
Night after night they die again.
In earth wasted, they turn in graves.
I've tried to be a good survivor.
Still, the dead take stage to relive
last moments to an audience of one.
They lead me through dark streets and
wrecked cars, leaving me bleary and fogged
in the click click click of a flickering film.
2.
I admire their resilience.
I applaud a performance that
tethers me to a repeating past.
In this show, they carry sobs that
make no sound and I claw for words
that will shake us awake.
3.
I cannot find the beginning, just a string
of ends among the ragged sweetpea and
morning chill that glooms the day.
This place of rust and ash, waves and rain,
none of it calls me. Not dim whisper
or urgent whine.
I keep waiting for something to
matter more than a minute, this day,
these long years.
4.
In daylight, when uncertainty burns bright,
we call to you like a god for guidance.
We look for signs and make up meaning.
After a time, we stop waving, stop looking
for our loves, stop seeing you crossing
the street or driving away.
5.
In the dark theater of sleep
I stumble for a seat, look
for you in the life I knew.
Each night your voice
calls me back,
closer, still.
— Drew Myron
* * *
The world turns on words.
Please read & write.
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June 15, 2023
Thankful Thursday: Poems in Public
It’s always a delight to spot poetry in public. Like a whispered secret, I get a shiver of happy recognition.
On a walk through the neighborhood recently I noticed a fresh stretch of concrete, followed by an abrupt end. And then, just where the new sidewalk meets brush and bramble, this poems appears:
Where the Sidewalk Ends
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
and before the street begins,
and there the grass grows soft and white,
and there the sun burns crimson bright,
and there the moon-bird rests from his flight
to cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
and the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
we shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow
and watch where the chalk-white arrows go
to the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
and we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
for the children, they mark, and the children, they know,
the place where the sidewalk ends.
— Shel Silverstein
When I see ridiculous rules take precedence over common sense — like erecting an eyesore sign as a way to minimize liability — it’s refreshing to see a poem rise up in clever response.
In other ridiculousness, the work of Shel Silverstein — author of Where the Sidewalk Ends, The Giving Tree, and other beloved children’s books — is on the list of frequently banned books (source: American Library Association).
To me today, this poem-in-public is a gentle push against power, a reminder to keep reading, writing & walking.
* * *
It's Thankful Thursday. Joy expands and contracts in direct relation to our sense of gratitude. What are you thankful for today? A person, a place, a thing? A story, a song, a poem? What makes your world, and your heart, expand?
June 8, 2023
Thankful Thursday: 15
Please join me for Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to express appreciation for things large and small. Because attention attracts gratitude and gratitude expands joy, let’s share our appreciation.
On this Thankful Thursday, I am grateful for this blog — now running for 15 years — and for you, who gives the gift of your time, attention and care.
Thank you!
* * *
Fifteen is deeply, mostly, dare and dive.
Fifteen is gripping the wheel, learning to drive.
Fifteen is on edge, both fierce and afraid.
Fifteen is Noxzema nights and spaghetti-strap days.
Permed hair with Sun-In streaks.
Culture Club, Modern English, The Cure.
Fifteen is forced laughs and clammy hands.
At 15 I was a wedge of crazy, a basket of boastful and bashful in many quick turns.
Established in 2008, this blog is now 15. Happy birthday!
“And so, let’s go,” I wrote on that first day, “not with the thunder of the self-absorbed, but in the same way a single word, spoken softly, carries great weight.”
The more things change, the more they don’t. Like flip phones and facebook, blogs have lost their cool. In the quest for relevance, this format is a relic against substack, tiktok, and a rash of new creative outlets.
Still, I like quiet spaces and steady habits — and sharing the bits, pieces and pursuit of life’s “whispering voices.”
The world turns on words. I'm happy you're here.
15 — on a blog anniversary
Whispering voices call
soft as blossom
love and time
wave.
May 28, 2023
On Sunday: Empty Space
What curious terror
If fate pulls our will I could perhaps
imagine a beautiful freedom
but I tie up in storms
want to be safe, sure against
a terrible wind not yet behind us.
The waves keep coming and
rain wracks our steely calm.
Where does the the silence go?
Let the pause linger, you tell me.
Find power in the empty space.
— Drew Myron
* * *
The world turns on words.
Please read & write.
If you like this blog, please
subscribe here for delivery
to your email.
May 19, 2023
Five Finds
Hello Readers,
Life is full of dust and delights, and small things often make a mark.
Here are Five Finds I’ve savored lately. Maybe you will, too:
1.
Excellent Advice for Living: Wisdom I Wish I'd Known Earlier by Kevin Kelly
A small book packed with short, simple, good advice. Stuff you know but forget to live. Makes an excellent gift for grads, and a gentle reminder for, well, everyone.
2.
The Ground I Stand On by Alejandro Jimenez
Got 12 minutes to be moved?
Watch this short documentary from PBS’s American Masters: In the Making, showing the creative process of Alejandro Jimenez, a performance poet from Colima, Mexico who grew up in Hood River, Oregon as an immigrant farm worker, moved to Colorado and worked with young writers and incarcerated adults, and now lives in New Mexico.
3.
Love grows by what it remembers of love.
This is the last line from a 1959 poem, In the Thriving Season, by Lisel Mueller. Mueller is among my favorite poets (because of When I Am Asked) but I often forget my love. The other day I remembered again the beautiful way in which she gathers solitude and loneliness together.
4.
Margins by Tamara Grosso
This palm-sized book is an innovative delight. Small and smart, it’s a book of poems written in the margins of other works. Each poem is less than 12 lines, and includes the title and author of the original work that inspired the margin poem. And it’s in Spanish and English! And it’s only $5 to $10 on a sliding scale, or you can print your own copy.
The publisher is No Good Home, and this collective is making creative works in fresh & inventive ways.
5.
They’re Going to Love You, a novel by Meg Howrey
Here’s my measure of a good book:
• I can’t stop reading.
• I don’t want it to end, but also want to read as fast as I can.
• I copy especially good lines and then realize I’ve transcribed nearly every page.
• It’s a book I wish I could write.
I filled my journal with passages. Here’s one:
Having to struggle doesn’t necessarily make you interesting, it might just make you tired.
* * *
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The world turns on words, please read & write.
May 8, 2023
A story not yet told
West of Wasco — Oregon fields, farms, roads.
Photo by Drew Myron
1.
So much of my writing life is the drive to the story not yet told.
Backroads and hillsides, wide sky and shifting light. Across highway and gravel, through fields and farms, bends and turns, my mind winding with anticipation.
2.
I arrive and smile.
Tell me your story, I say without saying. I listen and nod, take too many notes. I will tuck your words in my ribs, a small cage of secrets, fears, and sometimes tears.
I see you, I say without saying.
3.
On the drive home, I’ll carry a weight. The landscape is immense, and in this largeness I am suddenly small.
How to contain this beauty and truth?
I will snap photo after photo. But I cannot capture the quiet, the wind through fields, the fresh crop, the collective sigh.
4.
The road is long and the mind races, spools, finally slows.
Everything is brightness and beauty. In the green field beneath the blue sky, I both live in, and stand outside, the moment.
I was always writing.
the poem is a dream telling you its time
is a field
as long as the butterflies say
it is a field
with their flight
it takes a long time
to see
like light or sound or language
to arrive
and keep
arriving
we have more
than six sense dialect
and i
am still
adjusting to time
the distance and its permanence
i have found my shortcuts
and landmarks
to place
where i first took form
in the field
— Marwa Helal
May 4, 2023
Thankful Thursday: Affection
Sometimes
when we've listened deeply
we fall into a hedge of
affection
tonight
what do we know of
what we don't say —
of a gaze
landing easy
across a distant sea?
we hover
in a history of
childhood hurts
what curious fate
this terror that pushes
our will against
a strong wind
now at our backs
nudging us on
— Drew Myron
Please join me for Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to express appreciation for things small and large, from the puny to the profound. Because attention attracts gratitude and gratitude expands joy, let us gather our thanksgivings.
* * *
If you like this blog, please subscribe here to get it delivered to your email.
The world turns on words, please read & write.
April 27, 2023
Poem In Your Pocket Day!
Is that a Poem in Your Pocket?
We’re in the last days of National Poetry Month, and I’m celebrating to the very end.
Here’s how:
1.
Share Poems
Poem In Your Pocket Day is on Thursday, April 27, 2023. Pick a poem (or write your own), carry it with you, and share it with others. I like to mail poems to friends & family, combining my favorite things: poetry and the personal letter.
Sometimes I place poems in random spots: the coffeeshop bulletin board, on a car windshield, beneath a dinner plate. At the library, I slip poems into books as a sort of secret between readers.
2.
Write About You
Almost everyone will say they can’t write — but of course they can! Because almost everyone likes to tell about themselves, the Six Word Memoir is an excellent gateway to poetry. It’s fun, easy, and sorta addictive. Once you start, your mind seems to sort everything into six word increments.
3.
Listen to Poems
Like playing a piano or singing a song, cadence and pace make a poem. Poetry shines with the music of language. When you listen, rather than read, the experience can shift you out of critical mind and into a playful, often more powerful, experience. I get a daily dose here.
4.
Start Now
Writing is free. No license, permit, or permission required. Write a line, read a poem, imagine a story. No rules or regulations, no excuses or explanations. Don’t think you can? Way back when, this book got me started (and keeps me going): Writing Down The Bones: Freeing the Writing Within.
Start now.
Make something.
Need a poem to share on Poem In Your Pocket Day?
Here’s one of my latest favorites: The Cities Inside Us
April 18, 2023
Thankful Tuesday: Signs of Hope
Because the days are a jumble.
Because the sun is hit and miss and I’m catching light when I can.
It's Thankful Thursday — on Tuesday.
Joy contracts and expands in direct relation to our sense of gratitude.
What are you thankful for today? A person, a place, a thing? A story, a song, a poem? What makes your world expand?
* * *
A friend asks for signs of hope.
Daffodils, I say, a quick answer. Too easy.
Emily Dickinson, of course, hope is the thing with feathers.
Pussy willows.
Pear blossom.
Smooth hills of fresh green.
A young girl hands me a paper, folded and folded and folded again. Inside, in her loopy scrawl, a poem.
A good sleep.
A light wine.
I write a poem, and another. I can, I can, I can.
His easy laugh.
Jeans that fit.
A clean kitchen.
A baby tugs my hand, my hair, my heart.
A friend dies hearing a poem.
It’s too easy, this hope. And too difficult, too.
When you look, you see. When you see, you feel.
The heart stretches to make room to grow.
Let me see, I plead, let me see more.
It is the season of fresh starts.
* * *
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The world turns on words, please read & write.
