Ineluctable you
Grasp my hand
Hold on tight
Summer’s memories
Yet will return
If not in fact
For you and I
Are weightless
Iridescent
Free from notions
Bent on cruelty
Kiss my fevered lips.
Category Archives: first thought
“Ineluctable You”, flash poem, LHNBs, Vol23
Filed under best thought, first thought, flash poetry, works in progress
In the Stillness, poem from Left Handed Notebooks, Vol 23
In the stillness
The snow heart
Slipped off the roof
An angel’s missive
From the dead couple
Whose home yet remained
In a limbo of lawyers
While from on high
These suffering souls
Sent down to the living
A valentine of blizzards
All is well, it said,
Love is all
Stop:
We are happy again.
Filed under best thought, first thought, flash poetry, prose poetry
Infernal Regions Report: Scribe in Purgatorial Revision Spirals
Let us now praise the gods & goddesses of revision.
Long accepted is the law of writing, reading, rewriting…putting away…(after a period long enough for amnesia to set in, reopen the text)…read, rewrite, read again till sick of it again…repeat ad nauseam…[test the manuscript on poor “friend” victims, get feedback, please be patient with good readers]…and so on it goes, until the Author gives the creature a push out of the lab and good luck to that orphan…but always remember, authors in their heart of hearts love all their children, however suspect in terms of ideal standards of literary finesse.
By way of prologue, this is currently a period of revision, two novels in advanced revision yet not quite ready to release into the sink hole of despair & hope. Yes, Authors must dream too about their creatures of the imagination.
In brief, two novels in final prep…and a clamor from the Idea Pile…for new works to start. Meaning, the Author is in a betwixt & between (liminal) state. A most delicate transition between imaginary worlds. Steadying this uncertain phase to the next work in progress are those tortured texts under final tweaking. You get the point I’m sure, especially if you’re an obsessive compulsive writer who must scribble or type something everyday or else you start to suffer withdrawal nausea usually accompanied by rock emotional swings. Strange business. Don’t wish this scribe habit on anyone. Count your blessings if you can write and put it down for a few weeks, months or years. Please, I hear you, enough.
Oh, almost forgot, I’ve joined up with Author Central out of the Amazon Tribe of Scribblers. They’ve given me a very nice website with great links for the tentacles in a postmodern writer’s life. Check it out my twelve current works of fiction, hopefully a little something for everyone (what a nice man, the author is):
Follow us at Witts Inn Writers Retreat: Summer 2010
On foggy Monkfish Island somewhere off the Maine
Coast Near Portland (sometimes adrift it’s thought) is
Witts Inn Writers Summer Retreat (2010):
follow the fun goings on of a scribe tribe on a spooky island
& listen to the gossip as they learn how to battle their uncertain
writing & social skills.
Go to: http://twitter.com/StallingsJim
Begins May 27/Memorial Day weekend & ends after Labor Day
******More to come here on blog after Labor Day
a spontaneous Twitter novel by Jim Stallings
At Witt’s Inn: Twitter novel-in-progress
So just by accident I happened to start a narrative on Twitter from the phrase overhead “at wit’s end”. But I heard it also as “at Witt’s Inn.” And so, for a while at least, I’m having some fun improvising installments or dispatches from this island writer & artist retreat on mysteriously foggy Monkfish Island. It’s exact location off the coast of the U.S. is in question as it seems to move about along the various coastlines. The important thing is that we seem to overhear the meditations and concerns of resident writers & artists in Twitter’s 140 character frames.
The experimental dispatch novel is now only a week or two old but we’re hopeful our link to the island will remain viable and that we may learn a few things about the introvertive universe of writers in residence. Below are a sampling of recent communiques into the cyberspace void. Drop in at
http://twitter.com/StallingsJim
and read the latest.
Here on the Weblog we’ll continue to post other works-in-progress & literary commentary.
JS
Samples:
At Witt’s Inn Island Retreat, literary writers clean communal bathrm; news fr NYC: vampire novel earns 6-fig advance. Gnashing of eye teeth.
Male residents of Witt’s Inn artist retreat think Al Gore’s breakup aftr 40 yrs of marriage is only way to reclaim unsown oats. Go Al!
At Witt’s Inn female residents argue Peace Prize went to Al Gore’s head & drained his tiny bit of Jack Daniel charm & thus estranging Tipper
At Witt’s Inn Island Retreat when the fog lifted & the sun emerged, writers knew the island was all too real w/ absurd real estate prices.
At Witt’s Inn on foggy Monkfish Island, rumors started w/ resident writers that the “island” was really a boat & they were being shanghaied.
On Monkfish Island at Witt’s Inn for Writers & Artists, guests sit in small rooms & listen to rain tapping a hideous message fr the Gulf.
Poem: “My Old Friend”, fr. Notebooks 2003, Jim Stallings
My old friend
Lover playmate
Joy person
We skated
On the frozen canals
And drank libations
At parties on the shore
We hugged
We kissed
We united
Till your boat
Rock solid
In ice tied
We entered
The cozy warmth
Of naked embraces
Under your covers
Kept secure in arms
Loving smile
Tender laughter
Nights passed
In spring thaw
Freed from ice
We bade loving farewell
A kiss & a ring.
Poem: “The Zombies Pounded”, fr. flash poetry notebooks, Jim Stallings
The zombies pounded
At the doors
Pressed ugly faces
To double pane windows
They stripped naked
Humping rain spouts
Splashing in the bird bath
They ate the arbor vitae
Like tossed salad
Poked sticks up their asses
And raced about the lawn
The police fired
Rubber bullets
Canisters of tear-gas
Brown outs of stun guns
And still the zombies
Cavorted about our American Dream
Our lovely suburban bungalow
Flinging themselves insanely
Against plastic siding
And air conditioners
Chewing off chunks of
Of mid-size SUVs
Like just so much hard candy.
Poem: “So Cold Brains Cracked”, fr. notebooks, Jim Stallings
So cold brains cracked
Noses stuffed with cotton
Knees corroded with oxides
Backs frozen in Velcro
Feet stiff like brackets
An assurance hung like wires
Wrapped to nails in ceilings
The cluttering mess a puzzle
Of blocks & fragments of cloth
Awaiting an electric current
And a copper spark
Like fire from the Heavens
To activate this puppet
In its weird dance
Of simulated life
A shoe worn & sad
Flying toward the audience.
Filed under first thought, flash poetry, poetry, prose poetry, troubled people, works in progress
Poem: “As He Grew Frail”, notebooks, Jim Stallings
As he grew frail
She seemed to bloom
Not in spite of him
But in fulfillment
Of a unique journey
One of the heart & soul
Which in its flowering
Later than mid life
Gave proof to her theme
That patience and kindness
Were the basis of wisdom—
And the fount of joy,
Meanwhile her mate
In his exhaustion
Stood about and stared
As if there were nothing
Left to be seen.
Filed under erotica, first thought, flash poetry, prose poetry, works in progress
Poem: “Back Behind The Fort”, notebooks, Jim Stallings
Back behind the fort
High on the ridge
The sun set quickly
On snow rimed peninsula
Leaving the bay behind
A palette of pinks & blues
Softly sparkling the water
And snow turning colors
Even as we turned
To escape the bitter wind
Off Nantasket Sound.
We laughed at this view
Wondering how far below
Our destinies lay
With the sea heavy
Lying in wait for real estate.
Filed under first thought, flash poetry, poetry, prose poetry, works in progress
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