Thankful Thursday: Pen Pal

Dear You,

I can’t remember when I last wrote.

It’s been raining for weeks, day after oppressive day — gray.

My head is saturated, a sponge of moss, leaves and debris.

Walking from door to car seems a great effort. The days

run together, each punctuated with dinner, drink, dessert.

Sleep, really, is a form of dessert, except that the dreams

are mean and vivid. Mornings are coffee sweet, a swirl

of hope and cream.

What’s new? The world keeps dying, and reviving.

My eyes have swollen shut, in what may be a

symbol of “seeing” too much and not enough.

Some days — in light rain moments — I walk along

the river and see its end. When I blink, somewhere

to my left and in the distance, the river bends and

the water rolls on. Isn’t everything in some

anonymous distance?

Even the ducks, paired off and paddling,

look soaked and done in.

Yesterday at the grocery store, I ran into a woman

I know just a bit. We chatted briefly, easily, in that small

way that says nothing in words and everything in tone.

Her name is Joy and that sounds like an opening for

an easy life. But this time I saw in her eyes a wound

of some sort, and liked her more because of it. 

I’ve never been one of those ‘girls weekend’ kind of

women who gather in packs, boozy and cackling.

While I might like that kind of easy banter I

was never asked or found a way to want it.

Instead, I am the woman in a clutch of quiet and

many pauses. I’m looking for that wound, for proof

of a deeper hurt. But I’ve missed out, haven’t I?

In searching for shadow I’ve lost the chance for light.

Oh, maybe it’s just January.

The rain won’t stop. Gutters are rushing, and damp

seeps into every pore. Wet has worn my finish to expose

all the ugly gray sadness inside. It’s too much, this letter

that says things not yet fully formed.

You, faraway friend, are a dear pen pal

and a source of quiet, endearing joy.

Love,

Drew

* * *

It's Thankful Thursday.

I’ve been thinking of friendship and my gratitude for penpals, those trusty confidants with whom I share dreads and desires, longings and leaps. A faraway friend indulges and encourages, listens, nods, and responds. I am grateful for the steady presence, the willingness to open the envelope again and again.

And You, Dear Reader: What are you thankful for today?

* * *

Hello, and thanks for showing up.

• If you know someone who might enjoy this blog — please share.

• If you want to read more — subscribe for free.

• If you are here, reading this now — thank you!

Try This: Distilled

I’ve been feeling spare.

Maybe it’s winter’s long gray, the bare trees against a steady sky, or the static line of stillness.

Life is full, of course, humming along with errands, appointments, deadlines, and chores. But there is a quietude to winter that distills the days. The season demands we get to the essence. Less blather, more basics.

“Unremarkable lives should go unremarked upon,” Neil Genzlinger wrote years ago in The New York Times Book Review in a rail against memoir.

I, too, am sapped by oversharing. And yet, daily life is a writer’s essential tool. Our unremarkable lives are the small seeds of routine that grow into a story that softens, a poem that moves, a painting that shouts.

“Poetry is . . . that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that’s what the poet does,” explained Allen Ginsberg.

Lately, I’ve been documenting the days by writing in review. One good line, or two. A small gathering. I’m enjoying the low-pressure distillation, the way it clears and cleans. The exercise of language. The thrift of description.

In The Writing Life, Annie Dillard gave us both permission and push to be mindful of our time. “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives,” she wrote. “What we do with this hour, and that one, is what we are doing.”

Try This: Near the end of the day, loosen your mind and let a highlight roll in. Morning coffee? A good walk? Pressing project? Battle with the boss? Any small thing will do. In fact, the smaller the better. If you experienced a big thing — a heated exchange, an illness, a happy surprise — break it down from chunk, to nugget, to seed. Think it out. Distill it down. Write it out.

Distillation is a great way to exercise the writing muscle. With less words, greater impact. And in brevity, comes levity. A lightness of being. The mind is sorting, the hand is sifting. The days take shape.

today, time lapse

trust
oh dark sky
oh winter moon
on these silent nights
how you shine

resistance
in a basement gym
muscles burn
against time

storm
eat, sleep, read 
snow turns to rain
turns to sliding gloss 

conundrum 
a goodwill find brings 
unexpected pleasure, 
while an act of goodwill 
creates unexpected tension

traveling in the dark
driving east, the wolf moon howls us home

mourning
a long bend stretches the body worn from winter’s ache

listening
a door cracks open 
to let a friend begin

— drew myron

One Good Line

One good line — from The Glass Room, a murder mystery that takes place at a writing retreat.

It’s been a long week in the Pacific Northwest. After weeks of rain and gloom, winter arrived with a powerful storm of snow, sleet, snain and ice.

Yes, snain is a form of weather, as is graupel.

Power, pipes, peace of mind — all weighted with weather.

Life closed up: schools, shops, even postal delivery (the horror!), and the world seemed to shrink.

Maybe you’ve felt this too?

In a storm, life inches along quietly like a slow moving film that turns your focus narrow, intimate. Much like how a fever can clear the body and break open the mind, winter turns life crystalline. Snow gathers knowingly on a ledge. A muffled silence gives every sound meaning so that the furnace ticks, the refrigerator hums, and the turn of a page cracks through the room. Nothing is everything, is cocooned, is a secret sort of holy.

In this quietude, I burned through books. Mysteries, novels, essays, poems . . . tick tick tick. Finishing one, I reached quickly for another. A binge, a feast, I gobbled. Maybe it was the haze of storm that turned me greedy. But it was also a sort of rapture in that every book — even the mediocre ones — were full of delights. One good line after another.

From Fox and I: An Uncommon Friendship, by Catherine Raven:

It’s a safe assumption that any plant called ‘weed’ goes through life with low expectations.

From The Hurting Kind, a poem by Ada Limón:

I have always been too sensitive, a weeper
from a long line of weepers.
I am the hurting kind. I keep searching for proof.

From I Feel Bad About My Neck: And Other Thoughts on Being a Woman, by Nora Ephron:

Reading is everything. Reading makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something, learned something, become a better person. Reading makes me smarter . . . Reading is escape, and the opposite of escape; it’s a way to make contact with reality after a day of making things up, and it’s a way of making contact with someone else’s imagination after a day that’s all too real. Reading is grist. Reading is bliss.

Maybe this is the gift of stormy weather: to sit quietly, pleasantly absorbed, thankful for the companion of a good book. One good line is all it takes.

What are you reading? Send me a line!

This, too

This, too, was a gift

In the dream you

came to me as words

scrawled in a book

I read over again.

I see you in the space

between breath. And then

an echo of you arrives:

In thin light, pull

yourself tall.

Saying goodbye

your frail body draws

next to mine and

for a fraction I

feel you lean

to let me in.

— Drew Myron

* title from a line in The Uses of Sorrow by Mary Oliver

* * *

The world turns on words.

Thank you for reading & writing.

• If you know someone who might enjoy this blog — please share.

• If you want to read more — subscribe for free.

• If you are here, reading this now — thank you!

Good Books: Past, Present, Next!

Happy New Year to me! Behold, a fresh stack to start 2024.

Is there a better gift than a book? Santa & Friends were good to me, and I’m starting the new year with a fresh mix of literary delights.

But first, I’m looking back. It was a good year in books.

I don’t track the number of books read, though I typically complete at least one book a week, and two to three when I’m zipping along. Let’s say I read 100 books in 2023. Of those, here are my top picks (these are books read, not necessarily published, in 2023):

FICTION

They’re Going to Love You by Meg Howrey
Beautiful! Every page, in every way. Best book of 2023!

Trust by Hernan Diaz
With inventive storytelling and tricky maneuvers, this 2022 Pulitzer Prize-winning novel is both unexpected and engaging.

No Two Persons by Erica Bauermeister
A fresh take on my favorite topic: books! How does one action affect another? This weaving of lifelines is touching, tender, true. A feel-good book!

The Index of Self-Destructive Acts by Christopher Beha
An absorbing sprawl of a novel. This complex family tale enthralled me.

Mouth to Mouth by Antoine Wilson
A sly, suspenseful novel in which a man slowly unwinds his tale of his success. Intimate and engaging, this book is a slow burn.

NONFICTION

That Good Night: Life and Medicine in the Eleventh Hour by Sunati Puri
Best nonfiction of 2023! A compassionate and profound book that blends personal story with loving suggestions for end-of-life preparation.

The Art Thief: A True Story of Love, Crime, and a Dangerous Obsession by Michael Finkel
The true story of a young couple who stole over $2 billion dollars worth of artwork in less than 10 years. This astounding story is meticulously researched and written so smoothly that the true-crime tale reads like riveting fiction.

The People’s Hospital: Hope and Peril in American Medicine by Ricardo Nuila
With great empathy, Dr. Nuila reveals the roots of our broken healthcare system and introduces a working model that values people over payment.

Violation: Collected Essays by Sallie Tisdale
Oregon writer Sallie Tisdale is endlessly curious and has trained her insight on everything from nursing homes to elephants to reality television.

POETRY

Love and Other Poems by Alex Dimitrov
Dimitrov’s third book of poetry feels fresh and unfettered with language that is conversational and of-the-moment.

The Lord and the General Din of the World by Jane Mead
A beautiful, complicated, treasure of a book!

Concerning That Prayer I Cannot Make (an excerpt)

I am not equal to my longing.
Somewhere there should be a place
the exact shape of my emptiness—
there should be a place
responsible for taking one back.
The river, of course, has no mercy—
it just lifts the dead fish
toward the sea.

Listen—
all you bare trees
burrs
brambles
piles of twigs
red and green lights flashing
muddy bottle shards
shoe half buried—listen

listen, I am holy.

— Jane Mead

Tell me: What are your best books of 2023? And what’s next on your list?

I always enjoy hearing from you. Send light, write to me.

Just Do It? Did It!

Write more, earn more, do more.
Eat less, spend less, worry less.

Uggh. Years ago I gave up the grind of resolutions.
My inner critic is alive and kicking, why give her more material?

Instead, at the suggestion of writer Lisa Romeo, I practice the annual creation of an I Did It List.

This week — or maybe the next (I’m passively rebellious, after all) — I’ll take time to write a list of things accomplished in the past year. From the puny to the profound, everything is ripe for review.

Did I try something new? Make new friends? Did I stretch myself physically, mentally, emotionally? Did I help others? Was I moved by a poem, stirred by a movie, invigorated by a view?

To me, this process of reflection is more interesting and encouraging than the tired resolutions I used to churn out every year. Those plans and promises were usually short-lived and only set me up for a cycle of failure, disappointment and discouragement.

Some years are tough, though, and writing the list can seem a daunting task. But even in the dark times I almost always find nuggets I had forgotten: big, small, and unexpected, and feel buoyed by the accomplishment. Books read, stories written, friends made, leaps, lessons, victories — I did it!

One caveat, I keep my Did It list private. No one likes a braggart. (As evidence I refer you to the oft-mocked Christmas Letter from Overachieving Parents with Perfect Children).

Still, you may want to shout your list from rooftops or whisper in a phone. I understand. Your List might encourage another to recall their own success. These are difficult days, and a good list — like good news or a fresh poem — lifts with the air of sharing.

Again I resume the long

lesson: how small a thing

can be pleasing, how little

in this hard world it takes

to satisfy the mind

and bring it to rest.

— Wendell Berry
excerpt from Sabbaths, 1999, VII
as it appears in Given: Poems

* * *

The world turns on words.
Thank you for reading & writing.

• If you know someone who might enjoy this blog — please share.

• If you want to read more — subscribe for free.

• If you are here, reading this now — thank you!

In Darkness, In Light

Pearls on the Neckar River by Jakob Montrasio - courtesy of Creative Commons

TILT 

Winter solstice is the exact moment
when a hemisphere is tilted as far
away from the sun as possible.

— Old Farmer's Almanac

Let there be light

in the slats of dawn

in doors opening

on floors warm

Let there be light

on dreams cloaked in sleep

and the slow fogged return

Let there be light

on dark threaded earth

on early frost and graveled path

Let there be light

in the creak of a knee

in the space between ribs

in the lung's hungry cave

in the narrow passage

of breath and life

Let there be light

in our hands gripped

in hope, in cheer

in our tears.

Let the face shine

in love and loss.

Let there be light

in the letting go.

— Drew Myron

This Is Not A Holiday Message

Is this a holiday poem? — by drew myron

For weeks I’ve been trying to write a holiday poem.

Something short, not sweet, not too sappy but not too spare. A small poem tucked in a card. Heartwarming but not Hallmark.

This year I choked. It’s an impossible task.

And yet, I’ve completed this self-appointed “assignment” many times. Poem-on-demand was once my jam.* This year, I can barely produce a grocery list. My mind is dull while my inner critic is living her best life.

As usual, I turn to my “guides” for a spark. I scroll through horoscopes, feel the pull of magnetic poetry, mine my dreams, re-read Christmas classics, and more.

I even tried to think of this elusive poem as a work assignment from my (actual) editor. Every month I send her completed magazine features that are not nearly as difficult as this ridiculous poem assignment.

Give me words, I beg. Give me a message! Lift me, sift me, shower me with light.

I get a bunch of half-lines and thudding starts. So desperate I am that recipe instructions are starting to sound poetic and junk mail a bit inspired. My attempts at Christmas cheer are heavy coal nuggets with no jingle or jolly.

This pursuit for the poetic may be getting a bit obsessive, if not depressing. At this point, I’m running out of time and have surrendered to the seasonal shorthand of wishing everyone the same old blather: Happy Holidays, etc, etc, etc.

Hand me the Hallmark card, I’m happy to sign it.

On this Thankful Thursday, and I am grasping for gratitude. Because attention attracts gratitude and gratitude expands joy, each week I pause to express appreciation for people, places, things & more.

Today, I’m (a little bit) thankful for the struggle to write. I’m exercising the writing muscle, and practice and patience can only strengthen the process, right?

What are you thankful for today?

* * *

* Get the editor! who says jam anymore? I’ve never used the word jam, nor have I said: that’s how we roll. However, I am guilty of saying to my husband in a sarcastically peppy tone: teamwork makes the dream work.

Come to think of it, I’m a little bit thankful for these tired phrases that now give me a smile when used ironically.

* * *

Hello, and thanks for showing up.

Want to read more? Subscribe here to get each post delivered to your email — for free!

I always enjoy hearing from you. Send light, write to me.

On Sunday: Make Something

Winter arrived and the blues, too.

This week, I am eating, sleeping, slothing.

Make something is my usual prescription against gloom. In making something — soup, a cup of coffee, a to-do list, any small act — I’m engaging mind and shifting mood.

In my writing life, too.

I can usually find poetry in the everyday. But in my dreary state, creativity plummets. That’s when I know it’s time to turn to my trusty trick: Cut & Shuffle.

Searching for a spark, I hunt through newspapers, magazines, junk mail . . . I sort, shuffle, cut, collage, embellish and erase. Poetry is often the invention of reinvention. Somewhere between found poem and collage poem, I make something new.

Today’s poem is comprised of phrases and lines borrowed from Pheasants Forever, a magazine I found in the local library’s stack of free stuff. I’m not a hunter — except for words — but this publication’s beautiful photographs, coupled with writing by editor Tom Carpenter, could make me appreciate the beauty of the sport (well, aside from the killing). In art, the literal becomes the figurative.

Sometimes it takes just a small spark — and the art of rearrangement — to lift and shift.

How about you: What are you making?

* * *

• If you know someone who might enjoy this blog post — please share.

• If you want to read more — subscribe for free.

• If you are here, reading this now — thank you!

I’ve recently cut the cord to social media. While the departure has been good for my head it may be poor for readership. Many readers have found this blog on facebook and instagram. If you like what you are reading, please pass it on.

The world turns on words.
Thank you for reading & writing.

I don’t like poetry

I slip them into letters, post them in public, and sprinkle them into everything from congratulations to condolences. I'm always sharing poems.

But my enthusiasm is sometimes dimmed. It happened again last week.

I don't like poetry, a writer-friend told me.

I gathered my indignation and began my poetry pep talk.

And stopped.

She was right. I sometimes don't like poetry, too. I get frustrated by clever phrasing, put off by evasive “meaning,” and annoyed with ponderous puff. All that suffering. All that longing. So much inner gaze. Some days I want nothing to do with poets or poetry.

And then, I find a stellar poem. I climb into the poem like a kid in a tree, reaching higher and higher for the best view and the perfect perch. And then, because I've tasted how words can bend and sing, I clamber down to earth to write my own.

So I say to my friend, Yes, yes, I know. But poems aren't secrets or tests. You don't need to analyze. You just need to feel. 

She listens for a moment that is followed by standoff silence. I stop waving the poetry flag and we turn to fiction instead.

Still, I can’t shake her insistence against poetry and my mighty pull for it.

Everything is poem, I say in an argument I keep to myself.

Every song and psalm, every phrase and page. The world is full of words that tilt and spin, that clarify and calm. All the world is a poem!

Then I stop channeling Walt Whitman and sink back into myself.

The world is full of battles that I’m tired of fighting. Does poetry really warrant (another) dividing line?

* * *

Hello, and thanks for showing up.

I’ve recently cut the cord to social media. While the departure has been good for my head it may be poor for readership. Many readers have found this blog on facebook and instagram.

• If you are here, reading this now — thank you!

• If you know someone who might enjoy this blog post — please share.

• If you want to read more — subscribe for free.

The world turns on words. Thank you for reading & writing.

Thank Full

Hello Readers & Friends,

Here we are — the biggest Thankful Thursday of the year!

What appreciations gather in your mind?
What gifts do you hold dear?

This isn’t a test. I will not collect your papers. Instead, how about this — sometime between the feast of food and the late hungry heart, let us quiet the mind so our thankfulness may gather and multiply with time.

With appreciation for you,
Drew

small things

the world is full of glass

unpack slowly

shake petals

serve tea

give wide starts

live among psalms

pull thin light

stand tall

give thanks

— Drew Myron

Thankful Thursday: Light & Art

Sometimes it’s the light.

Always, it’s the light.

Outside my office window, the maple tree glows in late autumn sun. And along the riverbank, tall grasses bend to waning light. Even the asphalt street sparkles in the after-rain.

How eager we are to absorb, to shine.

The world is a weight and our hearts cannot bear it all. And so we have art and words, friends and light. This is what carries us on and through.

Yesterday, my writing group — a mix of ages and interests, voice and form — met at the local art center. Surrounded by creativity, the assignment was wide — write about mood — and we dived in, each finding a wave, swimming out far, then making our way back to listen and share.

Like light, writing is a mystery. How it comes quickly, or not at all. How it streams in steady or dims too soon.

“Art is a wound turned into light,” said painter Georges Braque.

In the quietude of powerful paintings, I was moved — sudden as sun. How quickly light can change a mood. How quickly mood can change the light.

Incantation

inspired by the art of Carmen R Sonnes
on display at the Columbia Center for the Arts

Take this cross, this sun, a dawning start.

Take this bread, for life. This water, for heart.

Because patience is a mirror with

paths to places you do not yet know

carry the tangled roots of your dream.  

This is a mark of hope for the lost.

Scatter stones, bead, seed, and sand.

Turn your want to turquoise, your wish to earth.

Whisper to night, bow to dawn,

to all the burials before you,

all the births ahead.

Safe travels, we say.

Safe crossings, we bid.  

In this migration, may you find home.

— Drew Myron

It's Thankful Thursday.

Because attention attracts gratitude and gratitude expands joy, it's time to slice through the ugly and get to the good.

What are you thankful for today?

* * *

Hello, and thanks for showing up. Want to read more?
Subscribe here to get each post delivered to your email.

I always enjoy hearing from you. Send light, write to me.

Three Good Things

want less, by drew myron

Hello Reader,

Thanks for showing up — and for reading, writing, and keeping on.

Some weeks shine, your energy bright and your hopes high. Others are rough and tumble, and you escape the shaker feeling tattered and small.

Let’s meet in the middle.

Here are a few things I’ve enjoyed lately, and think you might, too:

1.
No Answers

Last night I cried myself to sleep

again; I surrendered to the impossible

helplessness of having no good answers

for the problems of the world. No, not the world—

but not even my own. I don't know what the wind

is threading through the reeds, or what the river

might be thinking about territory. Across the stump

of an old oak hewn down five years ago, a screen

mixed of holly and ivy has begun to emerge.

Nothing is intimate or everything is intimate

and we are all climbing a trellis thin as spider

silk, more opaque than ordinary light. 

— Luisa A. Igloria

2.
That Good Night: Life and Medicine in the Eleventh Hour by Sunita Puri

This may be the best book of 2023!

Yes, I said the same thing earlier this year but, really, this is another best book. Because our health care system is broken and our actions toward life and death so warped, I want to give this book to everyone I know.

Published in 2019, this literary memoir explores a doctor’s practice of palliative medicine. Blending science with spirituality, Dr. Puri offers a thoughtful and compassionate perspective that helps patients and families redefine what it means to live and die in the face of serious illness.

This book stands strong among my other health-related favorites:

The People’s Hospital: Hope and Peril in American Medicine by Ricardo Nuila

Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End by Atul Gwande

God’s Hotel: A Doctor, A Hospital, and a Pilgrimage to the Heart of Medicine by Victoria Sweet

Knocking on Heaven’s Door: The Path to a Better Way to Death by Katy Butler

My Own Country: A Doctor’s Story by Abraham Verghese

Note: Yes, I keep pushing the value of these medically-themed books — not because I am a Sad Sally or a Gruesome Gus but because I continue to feel frustrated with our traditional medical system, with public perception toward end-of-life, and because of my personal conviction that living fully means to meet the end with awareness, honesty, and grace.

3.
The Billion Dollar Code, a four-part movie series that tells the story of two young German developers — an artist and a programmer nerd — who team up to create a groundbreaking way to see the world, and later sue Google for stealing their work.

Based on true events, this good-versus-evil story is both illuminating and heartbreaking, and will likely cause you to question Google’s “don’t be evil” practices.

You might also wonder, as I do, why this spectacular 2021 movie received little to no attention or promotion.

Currently showing on Netflix.

On Sunday: Alter Me

To Thrive, photo by Drew Myron

1.

Is this what

it means

to thrive —

when the eyes

are weary and

the heart heaves

when the light is

just right —

an ordinary green

against a concrete

end shines

with life?

2.

Study the sky, the slant of light.

Weigh the world, the words, the low laugh, the long sigh.

Look for signs of life. Measure, measure, proof.

Always the reach between said and unsaid, I am grasping for lasts.

3.

Words wander from me, looking for better, more receptive, homes.
I wear these ones instead:

I do not want us to be immortal or unlucky.
To listen for our own death in the distance.
Take my hand. Stand by the window.

I want to show you what is hidden in
this ordinary . . .

 — excerpt from Once, a poem by Eavan Boland

4.

This morning the blueberry bush is a glow of holy auburn.

It’s just light, I know, that aching autumn trick of

time that turns me inward, turns me in.

5.

In this season of letting go I can’t determine

despite prodding, pushing, pulling, willing, waiting:

Is this life or death, and what’s the difference?

6.

Walk toward the light.

Isn’t that a faithful saying, or at least a poem

(and again, what’s the difference)?

By miracle or chance I found this poem today.

And now I have a plan, a path:

The Light Continues

Every evening, an hour before 
the sun goes down, I walk toward
its light, wanting to be altered.
Always in quiet, the air still.
Walking up the straight empty road
and then back. When the sun
is gone, the light continues
high up in the sky for a while.
When I return, the moon is there. 
Like a changing of the guard.
I don’t expect the light 
to save me, but I do believe
in the ritual. I believe
I am being born a second time
in this very plain way.

— Linda Gregg

* * *

Hello, and thanks for showing up.
Please subscribe here to get each
post delivered to your email.

I always enjoy hearing from you.
Send light —write.

Good Books Lately

The world is full of books. The days are full of hours. There is never enough time to enjoy all the words but we read what we can, when we can.

Here are a few good books I’ve savored lately:

ESSAYS

Wandering Time: Western Notebooks by Luis Alberto Urrea

I considered it my duty to see what was going on. I wasn't after Art, really. I was generally praying. Every page of my notebook tried to say, Thank you . . . It seems to me that a good writer must excel at two things: poking around and paying attention.

This intimate journal — by an award-winning writer of novels, nonfiction, poetry and plays — is a poetic accounting of a yearlong roadtrip through the West: Colorado, Wyoming, Montana, New Mexico, and Arizona. Slow and watchful, this gem of a book pays close attention and invites introspection. As the writer peers inward, the reader does, too. I quickly raced through this slim beauty, then started again, savoring more slowly what I had already loved.

ESSAYS

My Trade Is Mystery: Seven Meditations from a Life in Writing by Carl Phillips

To make art is also, like handwriting, a form of insistence. A form, too, of resistance. To write is to resist invisibility. By having spoken, I’ve resisted silence before again returning to it.

Carl Phillips is the author of 16 books of poetry and was awarded the 2023 Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. Published in 2022, this collection of essays covers themes on the writing life: ambition, stamina, silence, politics, practice, audience, and community. At just 94 pages, it’s a slim book that is dense with ideas. Phillips is a thinker and he calls upon a rich variety of writers to convey a poetic perspective that is deep, wide, and accessible.

FICTION

We Came Here to Forget by Andrea Dunlop

The thing about tragedy is that it isn't about just getting through it, it's about getting on with your life when the dust has settled but the landscape is bombed out, smoke in the air, charred remains at your feet.

Published in 2019, this contemporary novel is an unusual mix of literary fiction and mysterious understory. Here’s my advice: Dive in. Don’t read the inside flap or the backside blurbs. The less you know, the sweeter the surprise. A great unexpected novel!

NON-FICTION

The Art Thief: A True Story of Passion, Obsession, and a Monumental Crime Spree by Michael Finkel

When you wear your heart on your sleeve, it's exposed to the elements.

An astounding true story that reads like fiction. Researched with great detail and written with smooth clarity, this is the compelling tale of a young man who completed over 200 heists — stealing $2 billion dollars worth of artwork— in less than 10 years.

Your Turn: What are you reading?
I’m always looking for a good book.
Please share your finds!

* * *

Please subscribe here to get each
post delivered to your email.

I always enjoy hearing from you.
Want to send light? Write to me.

On Sunday: Shadow Shift

Framed In Fog by Drew Myron

Sometimes I open the small chamber of wonder

Sometimes I take my place in the order of things but

there is already an altar for secrets with knots and teeth.

I used to make sure to include in my life

people desperate with wonder:

yes or no: are you singing to the dogwoods?

do your dandelions shimmer in the ocher afternoon?

Now I collect people with oozing wounds:

yes or no: is your skin clammy and grey,

your pulse thready, your voice now a nod?

We are a club with no name

and a password that fogs

through empty rooms

I am not on fire. This is not a crisis.

This is just the ordinary hazard

of a window, like a mind, open.

Now the shadows are shifting.

Sitting quietly has signaled the sparrows

trying to fly. In this opening, a wing

lifts with a leash of light and

we study the glistening

with envy and awe.

— Drew Myron

* * *

Hello, and thanks for showing up.
Please subscribe here to get each
post delivered to your email.

I always enjoy hearing from you.
Want to send light? Write to me.

Thankful Thursday: What You Missed

It's Thankful Thursday.

Because attention attracts gratitude and gratitude expands joy, it's time to slice through the ugly and get to the good. As the season changes to lessons and learning, I’m thankful for this poem.

What are you thankful for today?

* * *

Hello, and thanks for showing up. Want to read more?
Subscribe here to get each post delivered to your email.

I always enjoy hearing from you. Send light here.

Good Watching (for Word Nerds & Other Nuts)

Photo by charity shopper via Creative Commons

I’m on a wave on good watching.

Dramas, documentaries, and comics, too!
Power to readers & writers! thinkers & feelers!

As the Writers Guild of America continues to strike, I urge you to remember why writing matters, not just in books, but in movies, television, music & more. The world turns on words. Please read, write & acknowledge writers — with compensation, attribution & appreciation.

Here are six shows worth watching * (all written and produced prior to the strike):

1.
Turn Every Page: The Adventures of Robert Caro and Robert Gottlieb

A documentary about the 50-year relationship between two literary legends: writer Robert Caro and editor Robert Gottlieb.

Caro is the author of The Power Broker (a Pulitizer Prize-winning biography of Robert Moses, a city planner who dramatically transformed New York in the 1900s), along with numerous volumes on Lyndon B. Johnson. Gottlieb is the ever-patient editor of these massive tomes.

Now in their late 80s and 90s, the two still feud over semicolons and bicker about commas while also sharing deep respect and appreciation of the other.

2.
The Booksellers

This 2019 documentary is a loving celebration of book culture and a serious look at the future of books. It features a behind-the-scenes look at New York’s rare book business and the dedicated people who keep books alive.

The movie is produced by Parker Posey (a quirky actress I enjoy; even after all these years, Best in Show is my favorite comedy).

3.
Painkiller

This six-part drama series is the show you don’t want to watch but really need to see.

Focusing on the effects of the opioid crisis in America, the show examines the evil manipulations of Purdue Pharma, the pharmaceutical company (and Sackler family dynasty) that created OxyContin and strategically pushed it on the public.

The story is based on the New Yorker article by Patrick Radden Keefe, The Family That Built an Empire of Pain, as well as the book by Barry Meier, Pain Killer: An Empire of Deceit and the Origin of America's Opioid Epidemic.

4.
The Mustang

Based on a true story, this 2019 movie focuses on a prison inmate who participates in a rehabilitation program centered around the training of wild horses. Written by Laure de Clermont-Tonnerre, Mona Fastvold, and Brock Norman Brock.

5.
Living

Not much happens in this quiet movie about an ordinary man, and yet, so much transpires. Bill Nighy, the elegant Brit with a witty reserve, carries this thoughtful drama.

The movie has quite a lineage; it is based on a screenplay by Kazuo Ishiguro, adapted from the 1952 Japanese film Ikiru, which was partly inspired by the 1886 Russian novella The Death of Ivan Ilyich by Leo Tolstoy.

6.
Gabriel Rutledge

How did I not know of this wonderfully odd comedian? Gabriel Rutledge, who lives in Olympia, Washington, is just what I need right now: unusual, unexpected, funny.

* I watched these programs on Netflix, Amazon Prime, and YouTube. Please note that streaming availability is always changing.

* * *

Did you enjoy this material? You can subscribe here 
to get each post delivered to your email for free.

p.s. — I enjoy hearing from you. Send light here.

Fast Five with Alejandro Jimenez

“I believe writing, narratives, and stories can change the world.”

— Alejandro Jimenez

Welcome to Fast Five, in which I ask my favorite writers five questions as a way to open the door to know more.

Alejandro Jimenez is a formerly-undocumented immigrant, poet, writer, and educator from Colima, Mexico. As a writer, his work centers on the intersection of cultural identity, race/ethnicity, immigrant narratives, masculinity, and memory. He is the 2021 Mexican National Poetry Slam Champion, and a two-time National Poetry Slam Semi-Finalist in the U.S.

His work, and personal story, are the subject of the short documentary, American Masters: In The Making, a PBS series highlighting emerging cultural icons. 

Alejandro is author of Moreno Prieto Brown, a chapbook that explores growing up as an undocumented immigrant in the U.S. His first full-length poetry book, There will be days, Brown boy, was published in September 2023.

Alejandro grew up working with his family in the orchards of Oregon’s Hood River Valley, then moved to Denver, Colorado where he worked with youth. He now lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.

1. 
Why write?

I write because it helps me to process and name feelings, experiences, and injustices that I see or have experienced. I write to not forget and not be forgotten. I write to connect with myself and others. I write because I feel alone and maybe through this I can connect with someone or someone will connect with me. I believe writing, narratives, and stories can change the world. I write because I want to really, really, really believe the last sentence.

2.
What books, movies, songs, or people have influenced your writing life — and how? 

Eduardo Galeano and how he tackles memory and historical amnesia is a huge influence of mine!

The movie, Ya No Estoy Aqui, cracked me open and made me feel so validated in how I experience and feel about Mexico and the US.

Layli Long Soldier is amazing! Her readings should be a bucket list item for all of us! 

3. 
What’s the best writing advice you’ve received?

I cannot remember who said this but, I try to be okay with not writing. The amount of writing one produces does not determine our worth as writers. For example, answering these questions is the most I have written in a while! Do not feel guilty for taking extensive breaks from writing!

4.
I'm a word collector — what are your favorite words? 

Here are some of my favorites, all in Spanish: acurrucar, apapachar, moler, murmullar, suspirar, parparear, flujo, and encender. 

5.
What question do you wish I would ask?

Why didn't you ask me about my favorite corrido, Drew?! My favorite corrido, currently, is Catarino y Los Rurales. It is fun to sing and dance to it and the actual story behind the song is equally as amazing about a campesino who fought against greed, capitalism, state sanctioned violence against poor people, and really set the stage for the Mexican Revolution of the early 1900s.

There will be days, brown boy by Alejandro Jimenez is available now. Buy the book here.

In his debut full-length poetry collection, Alejandro Jimenez takes readers on a journey of self-discovery and introspection as he grapples with the profound concept of home.

Hanif Abdurraqib [ another of my favorite writers ] calls the book “a collection of enveloping tenderness.”

* * *

The world turns on words, please read & write. 

If you like this blog, please subscribe here 
to get each post delivered to your email.

Where are you?

First river, then field, now sky — by drew myron

Mapped

 
To be given a map or compass would prevent my getting lost —  what, for me, the making of poems requires from the start; the act of writing is a way of finding a way forward into the next clearing.    

— Carl Phillips

A poem is a gesture toward home.

 — Jericho Brown

1.

Somewhere is anywhere is everywhere is nowhere is here.

2.

You are silent. The current is coming.

A breeze breaks through / pushes us on.

Time moves between us, expands and breathes.

First river, then field, now sky.

3.

Inside your skeleton freedom passes / then glances back.  

Years ago you locked away but always left the key.

Now there is something new to see: everything waiting.

4.

Go among change.

Get lost, get hurt, get old.

Let go. Fray.

5.

Remember what once softened the world?

Lift your eyes to amber light, soft shoulders, a slow knowing.

Now turn around.

I’m still here.

* * *

The world turns on words, please read & write. 

If you like this blog, please subscribe here 
to get each post delivered to your email.

p.s. — I enjoy hearing from you. Send light here.