“Seeds falling 
from an autumn meadow flower…”

Whilst one is busy seeding and reseeding, judiciously fertilizing their “poetry” as needed, there will be weeds that will grow. These tares are difficult to ignore; others, critics, appearing in the writer’s self-visualized pastoral meadow with their diverse and divergent ideas regarding the production and cultivation, how it should be “properly” addressed. Arrrggghhh!  It may be tempting, dismissing these intruders: the “poetry” writers, preachy-teachers, editors, mom, dad or your pushy little sister—but not to be too hasty.

Before placing too great a stock in unsolicited (even solicited and-or expected input) a writer primarily, needs to be aware of the particular “critic’s” qualifications. Your mother: heaven bless her, may know nothing of “poetry,” wanting only the best for you; remember, you’re the one who told her, you had a real job; a piano player in a bawdy house. And, Wolf, your H.A. biker brother-in-law has an entirely different set of warped expectations from that oddity he thinks he knows as, “poetry.”

In fact, you will discover, the majority of those who attempt an “understanding of poetry,” still believe, Cat in the Hat, is high poesies.

This ticky-dot-cat (deep inhale of my Crooks Bros. cigar—pause for emphasis) kids you not (satisfying exhale) Exclamation point

Knowing, a successful writer writes not only for themselves, but for a readership, an audience—any of these journeyers visiting your flower plot, may have that sought after, magic bean. Listen to the silence.

Be gracious.

In finality, only two who matter have any influence over your writing—you, and if you choose, the editor of a publication offering to print your work—

if so, congratulations on that…

Good gardening to you,  Max tdc

A difficult position to attain, Boss: reviewing one’s own work objectively— through the reader’s eyes as well as one’s own…

If one is honest with themselves in their goal of crafting exemplary writing, the Questing Beast situation (see April 23 a.m.) has already become self-evident. Which doesn’t mean one should be satisfied with shoveling slop onto the written page—that would be disingenuous to the reader as well as one’s personal pride and integrity.

Would it not?

No matter how many times a piece of “poetry” is self-read and reread, no matter how many changes are made, no matter how many times that “poem” is published, there will always be changes to be made. There is no cast-in-concrete here. Why not view this flow of creativity as growth, as an ever changing, ever available source for new ideas.

Many times, while correcting the questionable comma or the just-not-right, word—again—the arrangement or phrase, the change, even the process itself, may open an opportunity to create an entirely new “poem.” Seeds falling from an autumn meadow flower, just as it is being gathered for the vase…

Still, feeling philosophical (can this be a sickness?)     Max tdc

Unexpected spring snow storm: keeping
me in tonight with a blazing fire in the stove. When it blows and swirls cold
about, I retire into a good poem or short story. Tonight it is
the Ballad of Blasphemous Bill, one of Robert Service’s fine examples of
couplet and meter craftsmanship.
Few can make the reader see it, feel it,
like Service.

   A short excerpt:

        “…And I burst in the door, and there on the floor,

           frozen to death, lay Bill.

        Ice, white ice, like a winding-sheet, sheathing each smoke-grimed wall;

        Ice on the stove-pipe, ice on the bed, ice gleaming over all;
        Sparkling ice on the dead man's chest, glittering ice in his hair,
        Ice on his fingers, ice in his heart, ice in his glassy stare…”

                    Boss, my paws have gone cold
                    just reading this,         Max tdc