Tag Archives: writer’s block

#296: The 11th Poem of April

feat-master-11

was difficult to write.
I didn’t like today’s suggestion.
I thought about witch hunts,
fist fights between teenagers,
and spring time rain.
I thought about my dogs
and how angry I was at
the one for waking me up
at 2 in the morning and at
the other because she took
a dump on my meditation
cushion. Not to mention the
vomit. It was a sock, I think,
wholly formed, covered in
dog stomach bile, I found
on the stairway landing.
I thought about drummers
and drumlines, drumsets
and rock and roll records.
None of it, on this 11th day
of April, floated my boat.
I introduced Romanticism
to 15 year olds today.
That was something.
I played them some Wagner
and some Beethoven and
some Led Zeppelin for good
measure and I think they
understood. But, you know,
during the discussion of the
opening letters by Robert
Walton to his sister, it was
clear that only a handful
of kids knew what the hell
we were talking about.
That could make a poem,
I suppose, a rant about how
young people don’t read.
In numerology, 11 is the
most intuitive of all numbers.
It is instinctual, charismatic,
dynamic and capable when its
sights are set on a concrete goal.
11 is the number associated
with faith and psychics, all of
which I stole verbatim from
numerology.com, which is an
actual thing, a thing for which
I am immensely grateful, because
it helped me to finish this poem.

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Radio Silence (An Interview)

radio-silence-L-M8qvlZ

It’s been quiet around here on the Michael Jarmer blog. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Don’t think I haven’t wondered what had become of that guy who was wont to be so prolific with his blogging. Don’t think I haven’t worried about him just a bit. Well, me and this Michael Jarmer guy happen to be friends–more than just Facebook friends, and we were able to catch up recently, face to face, so to speak, and he gave me the whole scoop about why the radio has been so silent of late. He asked me to fill you in. Don’t worry, it won’t take long. To make it easy, I’ll just record verbatim the interview that transpired when I sat down with Michael in his natural habitat down there in the suburbs of Portland, Oregon, in a house surrounded by a grove of oak.

Me: Even though you wrote about how you were endeavoring to beat the post writer’s camp blah blah blahs, we have not heard from you.  What’s up with that?

Michael: I talked a good talk, but I was, in actual practice, unable to beat the post writer’s camp blah blah blahs. I was, in fact, mired in the blah blah blahs, unable to write more in the new novel, uninspired for blog topics, even I found the poetry muse absent, out on some other business  junket, no doubt. Things went from blahzy to blahziest in short order.  I guess that this was just not a writing summer. But don’t worry. It’s not like I was sitting on my thumbs.  I had some stuff going on.

Me: What kind of stuff did you have going on?

Michael: I was mostly preparing for the release of my band’s new album.

Me: Tell us about that.

Michael: I play drums and sing in a band called Here Comes Everybody, and we’ve been working on this record for about six years now, a pop rock record that takes it’s lyrics from three plays by William Shakespeare.  The album is called “Play: Songs from Shakespeare.”

Me: That took up all your time this summer?

Michael: No, that wouldn’t be fair.  We were rehearsing once or twice a week, doing a promotional stunt here and there, trying to get a crowd for the cd release party on September 4, and now trying to get another crowd together for the vinyl release party on October 24.  But, you know, I’ve had this experience before.  I have found that the writing slows way down when I get busy with music–as the music slows way down when I’m busy with writing, and I tend to get busy with writing when musically I’m in between projects, or not gigging as much, or in between bass players–it’s kind of a teeter-totter effect.  There’s only so much creative fuel to go around, and when the teeter-totter falls on the music side, even if there’s plenty of time in the day, especially on a summer’s day, that doesn’t seem to make a difference.  I don’t get the writing done.  I feel bad about it.  But then I remind myself of all the good stuff that’s going on with my musical life, or in my family life, and then I don’t feel so bad.  But it’s a discipline.  Mostly I feel bad about not writing.  And then there was some teaching this summer, which is unusual, and now, of course, the school year proper has just kicked in and I’ve got two new courses I’ve not taught in a long time and that takes up some mental and creative energy.  This is all very boring stuff.  I’ve got lots of excuses (explanations) for not writing. Some of them are pretty good, as excuses go.  They don’t always help; tugging at a writer constantly while going through a dry spell is a fear that the well has run dry, that your best ideas are behind you.  All that’s stinking thinking, because the thing is, the new novel beckons, I want to write more poetry, and I want to write about teaching.  So, I’m not making any promises at this point, but I’m going to make a concerted effort to get back to the blog. I think it’s important for the health of the creature they call Michael Jarmer.

Me: Well, good luck with the return of the writing, and good luck with the new record.

Michael: Thanks.

Me: Hey Michael Jarmer, thanks for spending some time with me today.

Michael: Yeah, no problem; it was a pleasure.

 

 

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#115: Terza Rima (A Complaint Ending In Banana)

banana

I’m sorry about this one.  Written late in the day when the brain is mush, it’s a terza rima, a form invented or popularized by Dante and bastardized by the English:  3 line stanzas in iambic pentameter with a “chained” rhyme scheme that ends in a single line chained to the middle rhyme of the last stanza (ABA, BCB, CDC, D), and in this case, followed by a completely random and stupid second part (DDDDbanana).

I.
So I prefer a subject over form
because it’s one thing to plug in some words
but quite another thing to brave the storm

of idea or topic blank as a bird
who has forgotten how to sing a song
or a ghosty pale dude without a shirt.

This complaint in terza rima is wrong
and doesn’t at all feel much like a poem
but an exercise that’s gone on too long.

And besides, what English word rhymes with poem?

II.
Loam?
Foam?
Loan?
Gnome?
Orange you glad I didn’t say banana?

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