"dazzle gradually"

"Dazzle Gradually" 2017 poems, paintings, new art & photography--a diary, a discipline, a delight. Read over my shoulder as I post my unedited poetry ---you can see it in the raw or get my first book and see how the work evolves with new books rolling out next year.

Polly Alice

Sunday, December 28, 2014


I figured I'm a bird because I have feathers
I thought I was a bird, I mean, I have a beak.
I thought I could fly because I hovered
in a sky colored robin's egg blue.
My wings never even got tired.
Life was easy until. . . crack
When I saw my world lay broken, and
in this new one-- I can't fly,
I mean, not even a little bit--I cried.
So maybe I'm not a bird after all.
Maybe I'm an alligator. Maybe
I just dreamt I was a bird.
All I know is that freedom is cold
and big and hungry. But it's worth it,
because I found you here in
this place. What do you call it?
Yeah, a nest . . . a nest.

Wednesday, December 17, 2014


I found this poem in my notes of a nonfiction biography project about Thomas Hart Benton, American painter. I often write a poem from the perspective of my main character to help me start a book, fiction or non fiction. I also wrote a tall tale about this character because he was so larger than life. 


I get up with the sun, but
it’s not to catch the light.
I pack my bag and beg
for a fight.  Out on the bluff
I brawl with the sun, with
shadows, barns, and everyone.
I stare at the sky
and the colors of the world
as the wheat crackles and spins,
curves and whirls.
I traipse down an old country
road, find some folks and watch
what they’re doin’.
Then I join ‘em
in a drink and a song.
Play my harmonica

all night long.

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Invisible Lines

The black birds-- starlings most likely
because there are so many, and they sing
instead of call-- move in such a way, swirls
of flight, landing, and re-landing, the tip
of the conductor's wand carves a blind path
their wings so many sharp quills of invisible ink
Their traceless flight proves that if I could
see the wind, it would swirl and coil
like a snake in water. What is that place
in-between feathers, a kingdom
I, wingless, will never visit this side of
dreaming? No I will dig in the dirt and
cheer shoots of winter strawberries racing
towards the porch, hens 'n chicks with stead-
fast succulent hearts waiting out winter's breath,
a hollyhock leaf peeping out into the rare
December sun. I will tend my winter garden
and leave the winter sky for the birds
to dig up. We each have somewhere to

Saturday, December 6, 2014

Favorites 2014

the snore of my dog
the exclamation point on the welcome mat
the sunbeam refracted every morning by the front door
the abalone shell in my ring, mother of pearl
the red damask lampshade with beads
the priceless Japanese doll--waiting
the photograph of a perfect dandelion puff
the letters from two little boys
the sand dollars, three of them
which I will unpack, marked 2003,
when I finally settle down,
and the cinnamon freckles on your faces

Thursday, December 4, 2014

Psalm 23 or The Lord is my Mommy

Okay, so not many people know about shepherds anymore. But most people still know about mommies.  I think the 23d psalm works just as well as if the metaphor was God as our Mommy.  I mean the guy who wrote the 23d Psalm probably had a great mom because he did turn out so well enough to write most of the Psalms. I think maybe He would have thought it a little sissy to write a psalm this way, so he chose the more manly metaphor of shepherd.  His is a great poem, and I salute the writer with this other version I write just for myself. Even if only mothers get this one, maybe it will make you chuckle.

The Lord is my Mommy
I never have a need
before she tucks me in
or passes me my sippy--
My binky is never lost
because she finds it.
She always prepares
a big plate for me
she never lets the wolf
knock at the door. She just
stamps her foot and tells
him to go away. She makes
something out of nothing.
He looks in the window,
but he can't get in. That makes
 me laugh. My Mommy,
she makes everything sweet.
I have a feast, my bottle
is never empty there is always
milk and when it overflows
she helps me wipe it off the
floor. Her hand and voice
are my guide to
keep me from falling
to teach me to walk.
Surely, goodness
and sweetness
will follow me all the days
of my life both now and forever
and blankies without end.

Saturday, November 29, 2014


     I only need four poems this month to beat my personal record for 2011. So I need to somehow write four poems. Maybe you're like me and you think of ideas for poems every once in a while, or you think something and say, "That would make a good poem." Then you forget.
     To me writing poetry is mostly the act of remembering and noticing with enough rhythm and muscle to build a picture out of. The picture is built with words. And the result should clang, like a cymbal.
    I keep journals and notes, but poems are slippery like tadpoles.  They run away even as you sit down to write one. I have a note from a few weeks ago that reads, "poetry sneaks up on your like leaves collecting under a tree." I think that is true. I've never written many poems this time of the year. And I find that really it's a great time for it.  In the winter I'll revise them into book submissions. In this blog you find my first drafts, lucky you.


Today at eleven
in the morning
it looked as though
the sun were setting
the shadows ran
home for dinner
while we hadn't
a thought toward
Dunch was all
the shadows
said, a hard word,
just like them
to whip in
early to spoil
what narrow
light leaked from
the sun--
we ignored them
and walked like
it were summer
down the horse
trail, the dirt
soft under my boots.
How is that possible?
Through inches
of sole, something
home, home
The white air
chittered with
horse musk
sweet with alfalfa
and a black
ribbon of smoke.
Off the trail,
the bits of leaves
had little crunch
left in them--
like so many
poems blown
against the barn,
or stuck
in the fur
of curled up

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Buying Wine

Okay, so you need red wine
to cook purple cabbage. Red wine
plus red onions plus red cabbage
sautéed in butter, yes butter--
Yum, better than candy, it warms
up your cold winter heart from blue
 to red with it's purple splendor.
So you go to the store to buy
the wine and then you have
to decide which one. You think,
"It's a special occasion, so
let's buy a special wine.
Something magnificent,
something red, something
from a good year, a year when
something good happened.
So you don't even
try to for last year's wine,
and the year before that
wasn't that great either.
What about 2011
or 2010? No, no, and no.
And that's the oldest
wine they have at the
tiny grocery store
that offers cupcakes
and succulents at the
front entrance and frigid
flowers dyed blue and orange.
As though flowers didn't
already come in orange
naturally out of the earth
that way. And so then you
realize that even without
going back to a good year
you are out a huge chunk
of change. How much would
it cost to go back to a good
year?And so you buy the wine
anyway, the manger wondering
aloud why you bought the
"pricey" stuff, and you

saying it's for friends.
"You must like them a lot,"
he says. "I do." you say,
and you mean it.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

Purple Cabbage

So Pablo Neruda, of course, has probably written the best poem ever written about a cabbage. In one of his odes, Ode to an Artichoke, he talks about the cabbage: "The cabbage/ Dedicated itself/  To trying on skirts."  So true. But I can't help writing one too.

Purple Cabbage

Purple cabbage planted
into the flower bed
knowing you'd outlive
the deadly frost
I hate to see flowers die
And it was true they faded
to shadows after last
night's arctic breath.
Almost invisible.
But you, purple cabbage
your opened wide to kiss
the frosty stars--
your dress magenta
like the milky way
won wondrous surprise,
the praise of small
children who found
your rings of lusty laughter
a miracle and forgot
to cry over the others'

Music Man

When the trees are bare
you can see what's left
everything you took
for granted--
the nest from spring,
the squirrels accidental lair,
that leaf, or is it a bird?
Small black notes
left on the sheet music
of a chalked over sky.
What will the winter birds
eat when acrid berries
are gone? They don't
seem worried. And here
is the woodpecker. Has
he been here all summer?
Now I see him in his little
red cap and his zebra
striped jacket. What
a man for fashion!
He won't run out of food
when the ice forms herself
over the hallowed out hulls
of empty seeds. Why?
You know he eats
little mites who sleep
inside the tree. He hammers
notes on a scale up and down
the paper white bark.
I'd like to be like him. Face
winter with my new red hat
knowing that my pantry
will never run out,
with my back to the sun
and a coat of feathers.
No, I am him. I am. I am.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014


leave the earth
I wanna be ...  like a leaf
I'll fall to the ground
and lay there dying
Everyone will know 
I spent my life reaching 
for the light
toward the only Sun 
then I'll burst into a little
flame of my own 
my red heart 
will match his fiery

Tuesday, November 4, 2014


In the center of the circle
are the slip tied tails
of a single undulating
ribbon. Knot, are you theory--
strings who never meet,
one or many?
Dream ribbon rain-bowed
glow you push the greyed
dusk with a swords edge,
who else sees you--
who has ever seen your
gilded secrets?
Your beauty unfolds,
blooms as the rose-
en-bridge to the destination
of dreams? No, not the source,
you are the servant, the door
we perceive to a star dance
too thick for four dimensions.
Our serpentine path through
time amuses you. Timeless
bridge to soul source, you
make me wonder who tied
you up into a bow.
You make me certain
love is fifth dimensional.
You sift me, grow in me,
show me that the
loves in color.

Saturday, October 25, 2014

The Writing Process or Why I Love Being a Failure

Check out my guest blog this week at The Storyteller's Inkpot. As part of their Alumni Voices series: The Writing Process, or Why I Love Being a Failure:

On the highest shelf of a storage closet, in the furthest part of my basement, behind a room someone painted purple — for reasons known only to them-- are three boxes . . . .

Monday, October 20, 2014

Whose got the button?

Back cradled in the nook of the chair,
cheered by half light from a high window--
a glow which filters into the low, violet 
colored room squished with art supplies, 
books, and lost things-- like a jelly sandwich 
made by small sticky fingers and a
distracted mother-- a kaleidoscope of jars
and brushes to make color, a kite, a quilting
hoop, unfinished children's mobiles,
paper sandals, a doll holding a miniature
bag marked "cookies," a round cardboard
box with a round lid covered
with pictures of roosters or eggs maybe--
Inside the box, though it smells like
stiff potpourri, there are only buttons.
Buttons which sound like sea shells being
sifted by searching fingers, buttons which
glide over each other like piano keys
tinkling their own shirtless tune. Yes,
I'm looking for a button to replace
the one on this olive drab blouse, an olive
colored button not too big and not too small--
no pretty small then. One is too yellow,
one is too large. Another just right, but the 
metal shines too bright. I'll find one
here in a minute- I always do. But wait.
What do other people do when they lose
a button. Do they have a button box?
A box passed from mother to daughter
for generations uncounted? A box
with buttons from kitchens, weddings
and wars? Babies buttons, glass buttons,
buttons for generals and jeans?
Do they have buttons at all. Or am I 
a lost button kind of person,
while the rest of the world are
lost shirts?

Friday, October 17, 2014

Tea with Alice

This weekend I'm going to the Kansas City Ballet's performance of Alice in Wonderland. Alice is a family name, and as a writer Alice in Wonderland is pretty much the Bible for how to enter into that subconscious landscape that connects to every reader; how to create that archetypal character that people in another country two hundred years hence are parading around for a cosplay and everyone knows who they are. 

Tea with Alice happens to be the name of my first complete book of poetry--biographical and generational poems about my family. It's named after the last poem I wrote for the book right after my grandmother, Alice, passed away. In the poem I talk about the time we went to the ballet together and how one day I would like to take my little girl to the ballet just as she took me. 

So when this opportunity came up to see this particular ballet, I felt it was destiny to attend. I'm sure this happens to other poets. We write about what we love, what we hope, what we intend, and then when those things present themselves we have to jump in. Poets are the kind of people who drive five hours to a lavender festival because they just had this feeling it was important. Poets are the kind of people who name their daughters Dorothy, plan to call her dot, and then wear read shoes and polk a dots to the baby's Christening. Poets like tho think about unconnected words are connected and mention it at parties so that everyone laughs at them. So if these things have ever happened to you, you  might be a poet too. You connect actions, words, and images as if they were really all the same thing. Butterfly's might look like two pieces of toast flying around looking for strawberry jam-- that kind of thing.

Well here is one of the last revisions of my poem called Tea with Alice in honor of the ballet. This spring again, I will send my poetry book out to be published. You never know. What might happen.

Tea with Alice

It's pretty easy, GG to believe you’re gone.
You went just like you wanted--
You arrived early and stayed late.
Grandpa has been parked out front,
in the station wagon with wings,
honking the horn for you to hurry

I’m glad you are going home--
You told everyone you were going
to New York  of all places, but
I figure, you wanted your big apple
pie in the sky.

Eat me.

I buy cheese cake for your wake.
There’s only me here, but the cheese
cake label reads, Father’s Table.
Someone else thinks there's
cheesecake in heaven besides me.

When you said you saw children playing,
heard dogs barking when there were none,
I knew you were getting ready to go.
But why sneak out the back?

You went back to your father and mother,
your sisters in Kansas--most I'd never met.
You kept nothing, you ran all the way home.

Next to you is the headstone for your baby sister,
Was she seven when she died right in front of you
struck by a car near the rail road tracks—
Something you never stopped seeing.

Shrink me.

Why did you dash away without goodbye?
Why did you fear death at 99, laugh it off at 100?
Why were your buried alone?
Your soldier’s grave, his white linen
headstone empty where a wife would be?

Or did your fatal mistake make you
a hundred years careful,
a hundred years resistant,
a hundred years sorry not to have
taken your sister’s place?

 It’s like you were forever frozen
standing on the edge of the tracks
in that small Kansas town. Forever
staring at your small lost charge.


If only I’d had held her hand tighter
If only I’d left the school house later
If I’d stayed after to ask a question
If only they had stayed after
if she had stayed . . .

And for a hundred years you stayed longer
Didn’t you, GG? 100 years of questions.
But no answer ever brought back the girl
who insisted, absolutely insisted—
you each name the cat two names,
and the baby could pick one too-

Tiger Ray Furry Paws Love

She was the one who made you laugh
when she tucked a glass bottle in her shoes
to make them fit better.

Drink me.

But there was nothing left of that bottle
for Alice to drink. Nothing that would shrink
the pain down to size to make a heart mend.
Coffee—Black, no sugar.

A silly girl,
who ran in traffic
on the way home from school.
I told her not to run.

And oh, how you ran away
to your mother. A mother, who whether
she ever forgave you, in your mind,
could never love you the same
Who could forgive the loss of her daughter
the one you were responsible for.
I was responsible.

Why did you forbid a funeral?
Did you feel her funeral counted for yours?
Were you Humpty Dumpty
who no one could put together again?
Were you half alive forever after?

And now I know how you felt.
I am halved at your secret parting.
You left your seat at this mad tea party.
You stole away before breakfast
and left your tea here, still hot.
And my heart shrieks like the tea kettle
who has been forgotten on the stove
until I am out of water, and my throat
runs dry.

*  *  *

I have your coat here. It is hot outside--
July hot enough to bend the stalks
of sunflowers. Here is your heavy coat
without your shoulders to hold it up.
This coat took me everywhere I ever went—
dance class, art class, the theatre, the ballet
It bows empty now you are gone.

So I will keep this heavy woolen mantle.
And when I am old and small, I will put it on.
I will hold another dear girl’s
hand in my paper one. I will lead her
to the ballet, we will sit on red velvet,

our faces lit by the light of shell colored satin.
We will hum with the music of an orchestra,
every part in tune. The music will tie the chords
of our hearts back together, mend
the fibers of our being.

I, in your heavy coat, will share
all the threads of my life with her—
I’ll spin out all this old coat’s yarns
to make her a new one until my back
carries only a shawl-full of threads,
until I am spun out . . .

I will grow still smaller,
while she will grow ever larger,
he will stand on legs more powerful
than a ballerina’s, and she will repeat
this pattern, adding her own part,

until all the velvet cushions of the theatres
are worn thin, until there is no one left
to dance—

Until all hatters close their shops,
and there are no more left to buy.
‘til all the tea is drunk,

and all the seas run dry.

Sunday, October 12, 2014

Downward barking dog

The dog has pulled me face down
in the mud and grass. I'm okay,
and now he seems kind of sorry.
I want to tell him that just because
some man with white hair and a hat
beat him long ago, before he was rescued,
by the heartland hound people--that
Not All white haired men are bad,
and just because some boy on a bicycle threw
rocks at him once, not all people on bicycles
are bad. But somehow he is certain
everyone in a hat or with white hair
or with a bicycle must be his enemy.
I have no idea how to change his mind.
I mean whenever I see a reasonably middle
aged, middle sized man with medium colored
hair, I want to run him over, key his car,
let the air out of his tires.
But I don't do it. I just tell myself that
not all men are bad just because one was.
Not all people with a certain eye color are
bad just because two eyes once were.
Not all people with chins are bad, just
because someone with a serious chin
had a lot of cheek--
Not all people of a certain religion are bad
just because someone who claimed
to have one, didn't--
You see the pattern, and no matter
how many Venn diagrams I draw,
I will still be lying face down
in the mud with my dog,
barking at strangers
until we mend. The only problem,
dogs don't understand Venn diagrams
and I'm not so great at them

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Saturday, October 4, 2014

Two Kinds of Blue

I've never been so shocked
her face in two kinds of blue
her eyes darkly set to mine--
Apparition, grandmother,
you know better than I
why I am two kinds of blue,
and your color proves
like some kind of Shiva
goddess who with one hand
palm down
and the other regenerates
palm up
that I am only a seed
a seed born in fire
who when the husk appears to die
when it's wrinkled skin hangs on
the shadowed shell tips
back to the earth
slips and falls
then the secret germ
bursts forth!
How can it be?
How can it be
on the inside
roots down deep
until you don't remember
what it looked like before,
roots down deep
until you can only see
blossoms for miles
stalk to the sky?
Then blue will be memory
fire will meet fire
and then, grandmother
we'll see a face
of a different color.
Then, grandmother
we two, yes
we too
will smile.

Monday, September 29, 2014

Teaching the dog how to walk

Every day I take the dog out
I teach him how to walk
how to resist following a scent
not to pull on the leash
never bark at strangers.

Every day I take the dog out
I teach him how to walk
how to resist chasing a bird
not to pull on the leash
never bark, no never bark
at neighbors.

Every day I take the dog out
I teach him how to walk,
but you know he is teaching
me-- how to follow a scent
how to pull against what binds me
and to always shout, always
shout out to my neighbors.

Every day we go out for a walk
my rescued hound-- with the buck shot
in his foreleg, and me with all the
scars I carry. Both abandoned,
both rescued.  My dog,
he teaches me what it looks like
to be faithful, I teach him
how to forgive.

Monday, September 22, 2014

ADD and Me

So my most viewed poems from 2010 were all about ADD.  My favorite, and the one with the most clicks, is the one where I typed absolutely nothing.  A poem about ADD was the title, but there were no words in the actual poem.  So, yes, that does mean that the most popular poem of all time on this blog has no words. hmmm. I'll have to think about that one.  In my high school, I remember someone turned in a blank paper for the essay on 'why the whiteness factor of the whale was so frightening' in the novel Moby Dick.  I remember they got an A grade on that one.

Well after several years of getting treated for ADD and reading everything I could find on it (see my goodreads shelf on the subject) it turns out I don't have ADD. Well maybe a little. But I passed a 21 minute focus test that cost quite a bit of money.  Turns out my memory loss and inability to focus were simply "from stress." Go figure. I guess I was first diagnosed when I was recovering from a house fire, getting my M.A. in writing and also pregnant. That might do something to one's brain.

So now I'm off ADD meds and only take fish oil and my gluten free diet-- and I'm pretty much focused.  Enough anyway for a poet. If poets never lost their focus there would never be any poems. So...enough out of focus to wonder what a rose would be called if it had another name, or to notice a shooting star might not really be a star--that's a good thing. We all can't just polish our ovens all day. And on that thought, here is a tiny poem on the subject.

Add and Me

Fish oil for my memory
works magic no one can see
my thoughts swim like little koi
in fantasy's red currant stream
under plans-- high Dragon Gate!
My past plays the scale, Le Fin
My future flies with wings and eyes
--with a little fire thrown in

Thursday, September 18, 2014

Lost Dogs

I found this Folk Song that I rewrote based on an old favorite.  I know some of my friends have lost their dog this year and I noticed that this song, which I blogged years ago has one of the most all time hits of any of the pages in my blog.  So I thought I'd repost this again. It really is a fun song to sing, based on the tune "Streets of Loredo" -- you can find in on youtube if you don't know the tune.

As I was a walking one morning for pleasure
I spied a young cowboy a-walking along. 
His dog were a with him an' the leash it were hanging.
And as they approached, he was singing this song.

Hey, Hey! Get along little doggie.
We've taken our turn; we're all on our own.
Hey, Hey!Get along little doggie.
You know that it's time to get along home.

"Early each morning I take out the doggie:
he barks, he jumps, he wags his fair tail.
But then when I leave him to go on my journey,
he circles the yard and wears in the trail.

As I was a walking one morning for pleasure,
I spied the young cowboy a-walking alone.
His eyes were a red, like he had been crying,
"My dog he did die, and now he is gone."

Hey, Hey! Get along little doggie.
We've taken our turn.  I'm all on my own.
Hey, Hey!Get along little doggie.
I know it's your time to get along home.

"Let's take him together and lay the sod o'er him,
and then, I told him, we'll have a good cry.
You'll sit down beside me and tell your sad story,
of how that sweet pup so sadly did die."

Hey, Hey! Get along little doggie.
You've taken your turn. We're all on our own.
Hey, Hey!Get along little doggie.
Now it's your time to get along home.

I spied the young cowboy early next morning.
He looked a sight sorrowful and he couldn't sing his song.
"Your dog, I told him, runs in a green valley, 
so let's walk together even tho' he is gone."

Hey, Hey! Get along little doggie.
You've taken your turn. We're all on our own.
Hey, Hey!Get along little doggie.
Now it's our time to get along home.

Four Quartets by T.S. Eliot or How Poetry Gets Around & Acorns

Four Quartets has the acclamation T.S. Eliot's most famous work.  I went in search of this poetry after reading one line of it:

And all shall be well and 
All manner of thing shall be well 
When the tongues of flame are in-folded 
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

Now "All shall be well" is a classic quote from Julian of Norwich, unless it goes back further. However, I went looking for quotes about "the rose" after I read Neil Gaiman's book, "The Ocean at the End of the Lane." In it, he made this fabulous mind stopping statement:

“The second thing I thought was that I knew everything.  Lettie Hempstock’s ocean flowed inside me, and it filled the entire universe, from Egg to Rose.  I knew that.  I knew what Egg was—where the universe began, to the sound of uncreated voices singing in the void—and I knew where Rose was—the peculiar crinkling of space on space into dimensions that fold like origami and blossom like strange orchids, and which would mark the last good time before the eventual end of everything and the next Big Bang, which would be , I knew now, nothing of the kind….I saw that there were patterns and gates and paths beyond the real.  I saw all these things and understood them and they filled me, just as the waters of the ocean filled me.”

Now I had read Gaiman's book because I was researching fantastical ocean stories for a novel I wanted to write. And I wanted my novel to have something about this rose concept because, yes, I was researching an image from a dream.

So as you can see, if you try to chase an image down, you will find poetry gets around.  I mean this to say reading an image in a poem, a story, a dream, or a piece of sculpture, or art.  It's all the same.  Images have intrinsic meaning whether we attribute that to some collective unconscious passed down in the subfolders of our genetic mind, or just by chance. A symbol is a symbol is a symbol is a symbol.

And as this gets rather convoluted, it's best to keep images in poetry and art and not try to talk about them too much or you begin to sound crazy. Possibly why this beautiful rose image is placed at the end of T.S. Eliot's "best work ever," and at the climactic point of one of Gaiman's smaller, simpler books of fantastical fantasy and not the topic of some essay or random blog, such as I am doing here.

The four quartets are supposed to be four longer poems about mankind's relationship to time and the divine-- or so I was told.  At first I was disappointed in the poems.  I found them hard to read. They looked like unedited poems written in free form. I couldn't find order of any kind-- that I could decipher at first glance. I knew there must many essays on the subject, so I put them aside to read again later.

Since then, I've come across dozens of minor adjectives, metaphors, even nouns in all sorts of texts: novels, text books, poems, biographies. And each time I am quite sure they are borrowing from T.S. Eliot's work.  Something about his writing seems to bleed into the work of everyone else. Something about the words he chooses words or images seem to fill the holes just where people felt they needed to borrow a phrase. Upon a little more research, I see that while some of his work may seem opaque, he definitely has purposeful meaning even if it his hidden in the subtext of the fourth or fifth read.

One other unexpected affect of reading these poems: after reading them, I feel much more free to write my own poetry. I don't feel worried about hiding meaning in my poems-- especially in ones that don't have much of it. I don't feel worried about writing poems that don't have any meaning at all. So I'd have to say this work is very freeing, and I'm sure that further study would reveal many wonderful layers of meaning yet to be discovered even meaning that makes this blog rather pointless.

What I truly admire, on the whole, the fact that so many people are still thinking about the words of these poems and letting them germinate in their own work, so that these particular poems seem to seed so much written word.

Poetry gets around. Poetry is full of nothing, everything, regular things, and things that we love. If what my favorite poetry teacher said once, that writing poetry “is what makes words into a material thing, hard and solid as a table” then I’d say T.S. Eliot does one better, he pretty much throws acorns all across the literary world.