Watermark

Synchronicity?

Today, as I considered blogging again, I received a message from my old friend Anne Mathewson, telling me she'd had cause to revisit an old post of mine. And so, I consider it more seriously. I have, of course, lost most readers, due to long, unplanned absences, as well as the pull of so much else to see and read. 

Those who have followed at all will realize that much has changed in my life. It's not just blogging that I've abandoned, but largely writing as well, and no art journaling in over a year. A stranger might surmise that illness has taken me over, but that is not the case. The changes have been positive, if challenging. I have entered the frightening territory of coupledom. Serious, committed, in-love, coupledom. A country I thought never to inhabit. 

But here I am. Residency established, I begin to explore this new life. What do I want to bring with me? What should I leave behind? 

Some choices are not mine. Some losses are not chosen, and cannot be recovered. My dear friend Abigail died at Solstice. 

But others remain, and move closer. My life has become full. Nonetheless, I look back and decide to fill it up more. I am writing again. I plan to blog again, and dip into art journaling again, though perhaps less compulsively. So this is step one. Step one of reconnecting to this part of me, and to those I've missed since leaving this behind. 

I think I might have new things to say, discoveries to share, and – soon – new poems. 

I hope you'll come back.

 

Compost

   

Yes, indeed, writing takes practice. And practice is often tiresome. Even boring. Practice makes . . . more practice. Morning pages after morning pages. Day after day. Practice provides tons of material for That Inner Critic: "That all too familiar voice inside us that wants to shut the whole party down. Don’t do it! It’s not safe! You suck at this! Retreat!" (Andrea Scher in Brave Blogging)

The image above is from my Facebook page, and it's perfect for the discussion at Brave Blogging about the voice that stops us. Stops us from putting pen to paper; stops us from keeping the pen moving across the page. Andrea says, "The most important thing is to notice the voice when it’s there and name it." And I know this. Decades ago, I decided to see it as a tiny, ferocious kitten, hissing and spitting. Let's call her Spits. 

Spits tells me I've passed my peak; that I never did peak; that this is all a pointless exercise; that I'll never be in the ranks of the best so why bother; that poetry does not matter; that poems are meaningless in these critical, dangerous times; and that I should be doing something useful with my time.

And that this, whatever I'm writing at the moment, is shit. Which, of course, I remind myself, it is.

Compost. I learned about that, I think, from Peter Elbow. Or maybe Natalie Goldberg. I no longer remember. But I do remember: Compost. Without it, what grows will be weak and spindly. With it, what grows may be strong and robust, substantive. And I want to grow something. Something substantive. 

I want to grow poems. I want them. 

So I practice. 

   

Why Not to Write Poems

  

This is in response to a Brave Blogging prompt, to write a poem in less than ten minutes. The first draft was done in less than ten minutes, but there was some considerable revision. Another prompt was to write a "how to" piece, which, of course, elicited my contrary self. I ended up writing two; this is the second. The first is here: How Not to Write a Poem.

  

Why Not to Write Poems

 

“I’m a poet” makes for awkward social introductions.

No one reads poetry anymore. It’s old-fashioned,

irrelevant, and adolescent.

 

You don’t see the universe in the heart of a lily.

It just spits orange pollen all over your black turtleneck

and makes you sneeze.

 

Grammar is confusing. Poems are unnecessary.

They make nothing happen.* They don’t even

rhyme anymore.

 

You are insufficiently weird. Only goth teens,

hippies, queers, suicidal women, and old people

write poems.

 

Poets have to read poems. You read a poem once.

You hated it. The only famous poets are dead poets.

There are no rich poets.

 

You have no talent. You’re the wrong ethnicity.

You don’t know enough big words. You’ve got no

rhythm. And WTF are “line breaks”?

 

You’ve read that it takes years of study and practice

to write even one good poem. The only easy-to-write

poems are list poems. And they’re boring.

 

                                ~ sharon brogan / 18 september 02016

* “. . . poetry makes nothing happen . . .” W.H. Auden, In Memory of W. B. Yeats

  

How Not to Write a Poem

  

  

This is in response to a Brave Blogging prompt, to write a poem in less than ten minutes. The first draft was done in less than ten minutes, but there was some considerable revision. Another prompt was to write a "how to" piece, which, of course, elicited my contrary self. I ended up writing two; I will post the second tomorrow.

   

How Not to Write a Poem

 

Keep busy. Clean the house.

Empty the kitchen cabinets.

Scrub them out. Put it all back.

Organize the junk drawer.

 

No music. No dancing.

No long walks unless talking

and texting with friends

at the same time.

 

Read a light novel. Or two.

Or three. Do not read poems.

Watch the news. Get angry.

Go shopping. Drive fast.

 

Avoid introspection. Do not meditate.

Ignore your dreams. Always do two

or three things at once. Watch

television while on the internet.

 

Pay no attention to non-human

animals. Stay out of the woods.

Avoid gardens, lakes, strange

neighborhoods, and the sea.

 

At all costs avoid the sea.

Develop an active social life.

Resist solitude. Party hard.

Don’t wake up.

~ sharon brogan / 18 september 02016

I think of my poems as truthful – not factual – fiction. Have I ever scrubbed out the kitchen cabinets as a way to avoid writing? Absolutely not. I have, however, been known to organize a junk drawer. 

Have I missed some useful strategies? Please add them to the comments!

   
 

What I'm Afraid to Write About (Brave Blogging)

  

  

“There's no point going in the water if I'm not going to swim,” I say, firmly, in a dream

This was a few days after I began the Brave Blogging class. Swimming has long been a metaphor for me about diving down, going deep with my writing. It seems that, even asleep, I can’t escape this intention.  

One of our early assignments was to speed write on the topic what am I afraid to write about? I’ve done this for several days. It’s generated a lot of material, and the suspicion that I’m less afraid to write than I am to publish.

I’ve kept a journal, fairly regularly, for thirty years; so there’s not a great deal I haven’t written about in some way. But there are some subjects I’m hesitant to share. I think it’s a precarious balance, that narrow bridge between confessional and inconsequential.  

So I switched to asking what do I want to write about?  Where is the intersection of my talent, passion, and skill? If I were truly meant to write, would I need classes and prompts? Or would I just write?

I keep thinking that there are writers who are disciplined; who keep their homes tidy and their studios organized but inspiring. Who read only the best literature. Who follow a working schedule and know what they want to say. But maybe there aren’t such people?

Maybe they’re more like me, distracted and confused. Maybe they, too, waste paper and time. Maybe their domestic and personal lives are in chaos. Perhaps their dogs aren’t reliably house trained and their cats poop by the front door. Maybe their pens run out of ink and they frantically dig through drawers looking for another, not remembering where their new stash is hidden away.

Perhaps they, too, experience long periods of – not writer's’ block, but writer’s unwillingness. Maybe they feel they don’t know enough, aren’t skilled enough, aren’t good enough at being human.

When I began to write, years ago, I would know. Something would demand to be written. The poems would shout at me until I wrote them, and then speak and peck at my ear until I rewrote and revised and felt the rightness in my body. They would wake me in the night to move a line or a comma.

Perhaps that’s what I fear, or no longer have the energy to manage: that insistence, that preoccupation, that compulsion. Maybe it’s too much for a tired, not-well, old woman to carry? That was about needing to say something, needing to tell. Now do I have nothing to say? No love to spark it? No one who must hear?

Have I said it all, all that I have to say? Perhaps the swimming hole is dry.

 

Brave Blogging: 25 Random Things About Me

  

  

Some of you may have noticed that my blogging is bogged down, and has been for some time. Early in my illness, this blog is what got me up each day. It gave me purpose, and kept me writing. I miss it. 

So I've enrolled in a course: Brave Blogging, with Andrea Scher: 30 days of breathing life into your blog + feeling inspired and supported all the way through.  This is our first prompt:

 

25 Random Things About Me

1. I wear socks to bed. That’s it. Just socks.
2. I haven’t had television for several months, and I’ve not missed it. Now they’re tempting me with an offer of internet + cable for ½ what I pay for internet alone. I’m tempted.
3. I live with two cats and two tiny dogs. I speak to them in complete sentences.
4. For more than 20 years, I’ve struggled with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, now called Systemic Exertion Intolerance Disease, also called Myalgic Encephalomyelitis. It’s no fun, but it’s possible to have fun while having it.
5. I am not an impulsive person. But, a few weeks ago, I passed a sign that said Haircuts $4.99, and went in & had them cut off nearly all my long hair. There was enough to send to Locks of Love. I’m adapting to my very short hair, but still a bit unnerved by the impulsiveness.
6. I read while I eat.
7. When I had television, I read while I watched.
8. When energy allows, I love taking classes. Online or In Real Life, I love learning new things, and watching other people learn new things.
9. I have worked as a theater usher, ticket-taker, nurse aide, waitress, clerk, file clerk, transcriptionist, secretary, executive secretary, secretary to executives, administrative assistant, college instructor, clinical social worker, program manager, program director, agency director, grant writer, grants reviewer, and slave to cats.
10. I know I forgot some of my jobs.
11. I could tidy the kitchen, take out the trash, or read. I think I’ll read.
12. I smoke 5-6 home-rolled cigarettes a day. But they’re organic!
13. Some days I have a choice of taking a bath or doing one other thing. Usually I choose the other thing.
14. Twenty-five is a lot of things.
15. I am consoled, when my knee goes out, that I have a hand-carved cane with a handle in the shape of a cat, purchased years ago as a home decor element, that works as a cane when required.
16. I am subject to many consolations, several of them edible.
17. Am I allowed to call myself a poet when I’m not writing?
18. Shame is a thing.
19. Shame = Undeserving
20. I didn’t expect to be an old woman. I bet few girls do. It came too soon for me.
21. This is the most writing I’ve done in ages.
22. Most of us have something we take on faith. My belief-without-evidence is that we are not the only intelligent race in the universe. As a small child, I looked into the vast Montana sky at night and knew there were people out there. People we may not be able to recognize, or communicate with, but – people.
23. I suspect there may be intelligent beings right here on our own planet that we do not, perhaps cannot, see or recognize. They are too small, or too large, or too different from us. But they are here. #22 is a belief; this is a mere suspicion.
24. Almost there!
25. Though suffering some cognitive impairment, I still have a working brain.

  

#BraveBlogging #artjournal #digitalartjournaling #digitalart

Watermark 10th Highest-Rated Poetry Blog?

I just don't see how this is possible:

Since I've been blogging again, I took a look at my stats, and discovered several visitors from this site (images are linked.) How can this be? 

Watermark was neglected for a long time. I recieve fewer than 200 visitors a day, and most of those are looking for Friday Cat Blogging posts.

I rarely get comments, I suspect because I rarely comment myself. This is partly by choice, and partly not. That my energy is so limited is not by choice; that I spend what energy I have on writing poems and making collages rather than commenting on the work of others is by choice. 

(Though I would really love to get more comments.)

So how can Watermark be #10? 

I'm guessing that this site doesn't index a good number of us: if you have a poetry blog, get over there and add yours. Push Watermark down a bit. 

There is some reason for optimism in these numbers:

Clearly, there is an audience for poetry; it's just a bit limited in what sites it goes to. The big shots, Poets.org and Poem of the Day get most of the action. Which is fine, but where's trickle down when you need it?

Where is Poetry Daily? Where is Via Negativa? 

So, it's somewhat gratifying to see my own blog ranked so high, but it certainly would be more so if I could believe it, if I got lots of hits on my poems, if readers left comments, if the other blogs I read were on this list, and if I thought we blogging poets had more of an audience than each other.

 

 

Blogging Angst

 

It's frightening how much I've forgotten in one year of only sporadically blogging. I have to relearn simple coding. And so much has changed. The TypePad interface has changed. Facebook has taken over the internet world. I've added the Facebook like button to my posts; this is great, at least I know folks are stopping by, even if they (you) don't comment.

Blogrolling has closed down, and with it, most of my blogrolls. Those blogrolls took years to develop, and I don't know that I will take that on again. At least not immediately. For the moment, I'll be concentrating on just writing and posting more frequently.

I'm considering stopping the Networked Blogs posting to Facebook. None of these services are well designed for poets; they all strip the line breaks, so what shows up is a thick block of text. I'm working on a way to post links and a few lines to Facebook, hoping that readers will click through if they're interested.

I haven't even been taking photos, so must become reacquainted with my cameras. All these skills that used to seem so easy, almost natural, have become clumsy and awkward with disuse.

A year of not writing makes that a challenge as well. I feel rusty, creaky, and generally off-balance. But that's getting better. Already. I think.

And, of course, there is the deeper angst -- the does it matter angst, the am I good enough to be bothering with this angst. This helped:

 

Guide to Top Blogs for Writers

 

(Now, see -- damned if I can get that to center.)

My plan/hope is to resume blogging two or three times each week. I do not expect to go back to the nearly daily schedule I maintained early on.

To those who have kept me on their readers and links, and those who keep coming by to see if there's anything new to look at: Thank you!

(UPDATE 23 Sept. 2012: removed dead link)

 

 

Lost in the Social Media Landscape

No, sweet & silly Belle has nothing to do with the subject of this post -- except that I made that image for a Facebook friend, and haven't done Friday Cat Blogging here for ages.

Watermark used to be the center of my online life (which is much of my Real Life.) Now, there is Twitter and Facebook and Identi.ca. Also Friendfeed, which I have but rarely use. Also many others which I have but rarely use. Oh, and Open Salon, another neglected site.

Watermark posts show up in some of those places, and comments happen away from the original post. The conversation gets scattered and fractured. The center is spread thin. Too thin? Sometimes I think so.

But the spread also brings more people in. People who don't come here, notice a post on Facebook and respond there, and vice versa. More and more I use Watermark to post my poems, and other places to play and converse and post links. Lately my energy has allowed for one or two poems a week, a bit of play on Facebook, and that's about it.

I've been particularly frustrated about links that interest or amuse me. I've been posting them to Facebook, but not here, since I don't want to overwhelm Watermark readers with too-frequent or irrelevant posts. So -- I made a widget. It's there on the sidebar, for those who are interested, and those who aren't can ignore it.

I might even start throwing in some cat links there.

So one frustration is solved; I feel better about providing links to Watermark readers as well as Facebook friends. But I still don't have a center, one place where conversations are gathered together. Maybe this doesn't matter. Maybe it bothers only me?

How do you handle this? Is it a problem for you, or just how things work these days?

Watermark Page Rank

from SmartPageRank

My page rank hasn't changed, but because Google messed with the algorithm, Watermark now ranks higher than ProBlogger or CopyBlogger!

Ha ha ha ha ha!

Insane.