I'll dip my arrow in ink
send it soaring
to write against the sky
©E. Howe Nov 1, 2003

On writing my NaNoWriMo:

I'll let it flow from my fingers
trailing clouds of glory
and smog
let the wind
carry words
like a fragrance
or a stench

But in either case
I'll spill the electronic ink
and put it to good
and, if not,
at least immediate use.
©E. Howe Oct 31, 2003

Bon Hiver

snow falling outside
fat flakes falling to the earth
catching in the leaves

my lawn mower still
at the repair shop waiting
to resurrect yet

so the long grass bends
crystal bridges for the fey
beneath the snowfall

©E. Howe Oct 23, 2003

What I tell myself when I think I'm writing too much crappy poetry

It's ok
to be copious.
I remind myself that
I've held back,
been dry
and uninspired
for a long time.

it's only right
that I should gush
just to get it all out.

It's ok
to be just
politely ignored.
this isn't about them.
this is about
the sheer joy
of words written
when they need to be said.

It's ok
to suck for much of it.
practice
makes
perfect.

It's ok
not to know
what's good
and what's rotten
this isn't about
product
this is about
process

Once the river stops
and the flood plain
dries
and the alluvium
remains
Then watch for
the first shoots
from the silt

mud baths are very soothing.
E. Howe Oct 23, 2003

Poetic process

There is a process to poetry,
they say.
I've never really thought
about it,
Only felt the spark
and the upward leap
of flame
as a poem ignites
in my head.


'Who sets the smoking head
aflame?'
asked Amergin

Who indeed?

©E. Howe Oct 25, 2003

Requiem for a spider web

I've watched over the last few weeks
the large and lovely spiders
a pair of them
build perfect webs on my porch
suspended above the firewood.

I've seen sunlight glinting off them
and watched the fat-bodied builders sit off center,
waiting for dinner.

But in the night,
it can't be seen
and so when I lean
to gather wood
from the rack
I feel its silken brush
against my face

and think
'Oh no, I've ruined it!'
And in the morning
look to see
it perfect once again.

©E. Howe Oct 26 2003

Dylan and Sylvia:
Conversation overheard in Hell

Dylan Thomas:
If it weren't for the blueness of your lips
you'd look a treat, Syl.

Sylvia Plath:
You think so, do you?
You're all alike
you men.

DT:
Now wait a minute, sister
I didn't mean..

SP:
You didn't mean? Neither did he
when he knocked her up
and I with our two kids
in a flat
with no money

DT:
At least I'm not
tragically hip
killing myself
by sticking
my head in the oven.

SP:
Oh, yes you are.
You just
took the liquid route
instead of gas
Lose a few pounds,
and the yellow of your eyes
will look good
beside my blue lips.

DT:
That
was an accident!
I wasn't trying
to kill
myself!

SP:
Ye gods, man, 18 whiskeys
and you think
you weren't
trying to off
yourself.

Who do you
think
you're kidding?

You just didn't
have the guts
to decide
to do it
consciously

but rather
let it happen
over the years
©E. Howe Oct 27, 2003


According to "The Writer's Almanac", today is the birthday of Dylan Thomas and Sylvia Plath.