It seems as if I just posted yesterday, but it has been almost a week. Where does the time go? Life gets in the way of writing sometimes, and then something else raises it’s ugly little head, or a squirrel runs past, or a kitten, or a turtle (as fast as it can run) and I am off on another tangent, and more time passes: substantially more time than I had anticipated, or remember later. I sometimes like to take a gander at this to remind myself that there are more important things than our daily, mundane tasks, that make us human:

The World Is Too Much With Us

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.—Great God!  I’d rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

I “borrowed” this from Poets.org, the web site of the Academy of American Poets. (Please note: This poem is in the public domain.) I have been getting their Poem-A-Day since its inception, and I highly recommend it. I won’t pretend I like every poem I get, but there are far more I do like than don’t, and I appreciate the efforts of anyone who writes poetry. It ain’t as easy as it looks, folks. A couple of good stanzas of poetry can take ten times the work of five pages of at least legible English prose. Anyway…

I went to the Poets.org web site yesterday, and I was so pleased to see that a gentleman I hold in very high regard had a quote on there, and that he is, well poo, I’ll just stick the pic I made for my Twitter friends here:

And as I told my Twitter friends, this is David sitting on the lap of some old fool circa 1994 or ’95, and I do believe we had been partaking of a wee bit of alcohol that evening before we were talked into posing for this. We are both much grayer, and we show a lot more scalp these days. Dr. David St. John is a scholar and a gentleman, and I, for one, am tickled to death he has attained the recognition he so richly deserves. He, Stephen Dobyns, Larry Levis, Heather McHugh,  Andrew Hudgins and Ellen Bryant Voight are a few of my favorite modern poets, and I got to meet them, spend time with them, get to know them, along with prose authors Bob Shacochis, Michael Martone, Barry Hannah and Erin McGraw. There were others, too, wonderful people, but these people had the most impact on me, personally. I treasure the time I spent with them in New Harmony. They are all a joy to be around, and excellent teachers and mentors. I do still dabble on occasion. I will likely put up some of my favorites eventually, including the one about shooting snapping turtles (For sweet Ruby’s sake don’t tell Harold!), which I workshopped with David, that got published! He told me to go for it. Thank you David.

I also got to meet and spend time with one David Broza. This David likes to take poems, old classics and modern ones that catch his attention, and set them to music. He was a frequent “Visiting Artist” at Ropewalk Writers’ Retreat (aside from being a World Renowned Artist).

The particular example I am about to give you is an anomaly. David wrote the music first, and asked Matthew Graham, who was also once a friend and mentor of mine, to write the lyrics for his tune. It never fails to choke me up. I sort of knew my life back then was headed in this direction. It is one of the most touching and “complete” songs I have ever heard. I would not change one thing. So far as I know it is the only “lyric” Matthew has ever written. He should write more I think.

My stepson Zach (a fine guitarist himself) and David.

Ellen with one of her pre-reading G&Ts.  She required two. Or three. She said it made the words roll off of her tongue easier.

Ellen, Heather and Stephen enjoying someone else’s reading.

Bob, Barry, and the old fool getting his book signed.

Andrew, well, being Andrew, and Erin smiling none-the-less.

Ah well. Those days are gone. Remember, and cherish: that is all that is left to me now. I’ll be back later to tell you about how “the world was too much with me” the last few days. I think I need to go pull a few books out of my cupboard that I have not read in far too long. All are worth rereading, as are the things they said to me when they signed them. I need some encouragement, some proof of my own worth as a writer of sorts. I hope my lack of production these past few years does not indicate a lack of appreciation for what they taught me. The fact that I stopped writing, or stopped submitting might be more accurate, was entirely my own fault. Or was it the world’s fault? I choose option 3: All of the above. Life is complicated.