Nº. 1 of  1113

A Poet Reflects

If I knew that today would be the last time I’d see you, I would hug you tight and pray the Lord be the keeper of your soul. If I knew that this would be the last time you pass through this door, I’d embrace you, kiss you, and call you back for one more. If I knew that this would be the last time I would hear your voice, I’d take hold of each word to be able to hear it over and over again. If I knew this is the last time I see you, I’d tell you I love you, and would not just assume foolishly you know it already.

Gabriel García Márquez

(Source: apoetreflects)

Goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes.
Because for those who love with heart and soul,
There is no such thing as separation.


(Source: fables-of-the-reconstruction, via salonduthe)

I am taking a lengthy hiatus and may return after Labor Day—if even then.  I want to spend the spring and summer focused entirely on my writing and two of my other passions—baseball and fishing. 

Feel free to go through the archive and take whatever your heart desires to keep.  I plan to do the same, reblogging what I want to include in a future private writing journal.

I will continue to post occasionally at my other two tumblr blogs. Here are the links if you would like to follow:

fishing tumblr: zaraspook.tumblr.com

river tumblr: riverlust.tumblr.com

I wish y’all the best with your future endeavors, whatever that might be … and poets remember: “Let the line lead the way.”

*        *        *        *       *

I leave y’all with one of my poems (see following post) that was published in a baseball edition of New Letters literary journal a few years back.  It’s a goodbye poem of sorts, and since Monday is the official opening day for Major League Baseball, I want to honor the occasion with the poem. 

One tidbit about the poem “Postseason.” it begins with a reference to Lou Gehrig’s farewell speech given on July 4, 1939.  The poem, coincidentally, was also completed on July 4, the poet unaware at the time of the date of Gehrig’s speech.

Like Gehrig’s farewell these few words
echo with an emptiness that I could become.

Now that our talk has turned
hopelessly to euphemism and summers

of dead metaphors, I try to keep
the bottom of the ninth alive,

even humor myself with a painfully
awful pun, the count now to and to.

To her, death’s my incurable disease,
to me—a quiet release. On the way home

I listened to her voice
soft as dove-sorrow, wondering how

it was going to be not to think, thinking
how I could really answer her one question,

trite as it sounded: Why did it have to be
like this? But all I could do was ride

silently along, watching the world glide by
in all its cloud-drift temporality,

grateful that it hadn’t always been
pinstripes, sunshine, and a wind blowing out.

And now that memory will get the nod,
I wait and pray for October to show

what else I have to look forward to,
more thankful than ever to have seen

Agee’s sure glove, that smudged ball
off Cleon’s polished shoe. There’s hope,

still pulling for another Amazing year,
a white blur disappearing into blue.

Greg Sellers, “Postseason,” from New Letters: A Magazine of Writing & Art (Vol. 68, Nos. 3 & 4)

It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops. Today, October 2, a Sunday of rain and broken branches and leaf-clogged drains and slick streets, it stopped and summer was gone.

A. Bartlett Giamatti, from “The Green Fields of the Mind,” in A Great and Glorious Game: Baseball Writings of A. Bartlett Giamatti (Algonquin Books, 1998)

(Source: fables-of-the-reconstruction)

Through the darkling purple air of spring, so when it comes
Time to depart our good-byes will read automatically true or false
According to what has gone before.
And that loneliness will accompany us
On the far side of parting, when what we dream, we read.

John Ashbery, from “Wet are the Boards,” from April Galleons: Poems (Farrar, Straux, and Giroux, 1999)

Sometimes a wind comes before the rain and sends birds sailing past the window, spirit birds that ride the night, stranger than dreams.

Don DeLillo, from Point Omega (Scribner, 2010)

(Source: the-final-sentence, via ringtales)

I went outside mournful, and I hit pure air.

Ali Smith, from Girl Meets Boy (Canongate, 2007)

(Source: dodicesimo)

Painting: John Marin,  Grey Ledges, Blue Breaking Sea—Region Cape Split, Maine, 1937

Painting: John Marin, Grey Ledges, Blue Breaking Sea—Region Cape Split, Maine, 1937

(Source: bofransson, via alongtimealone)

Once, traveling the edge of coastal cliffs,
I heard in meter the theme of the earth
and ocean wars I saw waging below.

Although we allow our musical and motoring
creations to carry us, we can rarely distinguish
within their cycles which destination
is a beginning, which beginning a finale.

Pattiann Rogers, closing lines to “Musical and Motoring Cycles,” from Terrain.org: A Journal of the Built + Natural Environment (March 12, 2014)

Nº. 1 of  1113