writing is work

So, now that I have made the fire in the fireplace. added water to the heated bird fountain, fed the cats, cleaned up wrapping paper, and procrastinated as much as possible, I will sit down my butt and write the Christmas story that has been on my mind for three days.

As you may know, I had knee surgery recently, that and other life challenges knocked me out of both energy and motivation to write here. I like today's crossword puzzle clue, a quote from the French novelist, Albert Camus, "A work of art is a confession." I say yes, especially when the work of art springs from our deepest emotions, values, knowledge, etc. I had to stay in bed with my leg higher than my heart -- keep fluids from pooling in my leg and foot. So I had time to read magazines and clip out what I call "Power Prompts." For me a power prompt is any phrase, or memory, that prompts me to respond, either with words or actions. Most of these came from lines in advertisements in magazines: unmask yourself a second chance for in case you forget introducing anti-aging benefits (A the fearof growing old -- emotion based -- poetry) baffling behaviors (A good prompt for a short story) experience good clean sense I COULD GO ON AND ON ABOUT THESE, like, "What anti-aging benefits? to be able to hear the worm eating through the bark of the tree? like knowing how to rise to heaven and return in two seconds?" but you get the point, so take on and write, or open a magzine and find your own power prompts, their triggers for what lies within us.

Daily poems

Let me remind us all that if you go to www.poets.org and sign up you can get daily, poems. Here's a shorty by Blake: Eternity by William Blake He who binds to himself a joy Does the winged life destroy He who kisses the joy as it flies Lives in eternity's sunrise.

thanksgiving

Many thanks to all my friends, family and mentors. yesterday, a dear friend reminded me of that wonderful quote from Midsummer Night's Dream by Shakespeare, " The Poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven and as imagination bodies forth, the forms of thing unknown, the poet's pen turns them to shapes and give to airy nothing a local habitat and home." Today I am reading that wonderful pet from Kentucky, Wendell Berry, and since I am not permitted to quote him at length, I do encourage you to read him. Here's a cheerful song to wake up to: "When I rise up, let me rise up joyful like a bird. When I fall let me fall without regret like a leaf." You'll find this in Berry's "Collected Poems 1957 -- 1982."

Power Prompts

Nov. 16, my 68th journey around the sun begins today. Yesterday, Food and Wine magazine arrived and it sort of flopped open to a fold out that sent my imagination into overdrive. Look at the power prompts that stimulate sensual thinking and feeling for engaging the imagination for journal writing, even new poems. "Supercharge your senses." "Host a blind tasting" which I alter to, "Host a poetry tasting." "Value vs Splurge" I change to, Duty vs Dessert First. Quote from the Infiniti ad: "Performance measured as much in heart rate as it is in horsepower." I can alter to: Sensual poetry -- performance measured as much in heart rate as in mind power. AD reads: Pick scents for an aroma party ( to compare wine scents with the actual food scent they imitate. I alter it to: Pick scents for an aroma POETRY party. Ad audio ad: An audio experience crafted to reproduce the richness and clarity of a live performance. AND this ad lien prompts me to say: The live performance of the elm tree branches clattering in the autumn breeze; the song of the mother finch heard by the unborn chick inside the egg; the hum of mother to the child in the placenta, oh the music of the world, my toes talking to themselves, . . . see what I mean? open any magazine, or the newspaper, and you will see ad lines and head lines that if you alter a word, can stimulate writing that can be a fun exercise, or even lead to a poem. Exercise writing? yes, athletes lift weights all week long, but not out on the playing field. Poets lift up pens and perform exercise writing, so that when the poem arrives, we have the language skills to score with. Cheers. Oh, by the way, I made a poetry house call, with Mary, on Sunday, to a friend's home, as he was hosting a book reading group, and had a marvelous time sharing poems, and delicious food, and very stimulating conversations. You poets out there, try making a poetry house call, and you poetry aficionados, host a poet in your home with a poetry house party. Cheers. Ciletti

Joe Hutchison's Workshop

Today I salute Joe Hutchison for his splendid workshop and reading for Poetry West, here in Colorado Springs. Joe's workshop included a sharing of how the "turn" in a poem, to create a new direction in the poem, supports the structure of the content. His use of Frost's "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" provided numerous examples of how the "turn" kept the poem moving forward to richer and richer meaning. Most of all, I loved the authentic resonance of Joe's voice in the readings of his own poems. Cheers to you Joe, you are an excellent example and inspiration for us all. Joe Hutchison, living in Indian Hills, Colorado, is a veteran poet to the Colorado Poetry scene. His email is joe@jhwriter.com, and his wonderful blog is http://www.perpetualbird.blogspot.com/.

A Day In The Life Of A Poet

Yesterday, a wonderful audience of 6th thru 10th grade at MacLaren Charter School here in Colorado Srings. Afterwards, a 6th grade student asked me if I wanted to hear one of her poems and I said yes. She said, "First I was a seed, and then I sprouted, and then I became a flower, now I'm a seed again." I praised her for the lovely words and the idea within them, and then her mother arrived and she hurried away before I could get her name. And driving home Rumi's words came to mind, "For ten thousand years I was a mineral. The I was eaten by a plant and for ten thousand years I was a plant. Until I was eaten by an animal, and for ten thousand years I was an animal, until I was eaten by a man. Note, how Rumi's poem dead ends with death by man. But the girl's poem continues the life cycle.

October Poem

With this wind humming in the wires I'd like to know what was whispered in the ears of the leaves that made then screech to yellow then blush to red. What was said to the bear to traipse off and curl up into a black ball to ignore us all and snooze until spring? What was said to my hair to make it change from brown to white and who knows why the sky is blue? But I know this, the garlic I planted on Sunday will simmer in pasta sauce next summer. The basil I harvested this morning will dry from green to bluish-brown and tang our salads all winter. As for the wind, no one talks to the wind.

Emerson's affections quote

So many life duties, distractions, planting garlic, picking the last of the ripe tomatoes, laying floor tile to finish the entry-way, going to the junk yard for truck parts, left my hat there, under some rusting hulk -- excuses. But, I think of Emerson's quote, "The moment we indulge our affections, the earth is metamorphosed, there is no winter and no night, all tragedies, all ennui's, vanish -- all duties even."

Let me share with you a thought from Rumi, which I use to encourage myself to go out a write Plein Air and stay engaged in the world. "Don't run around this world looking for a place to hide in." Rumi. Let me share with you a few Poet Laureate experiences from this week. On Monday I gave a seven minute performance at the Chamber of Commerce/COPPeR arts awards luncheon. What a challenge and joy to share poetry with 300 business men and women and civic leaders. At luncheons, often, when speakers are talking, the audience keeps eating and talking and there is a lot of noise. When I read, there was absolute silence. Since then I have received numerous congratulations from men and women. I share this not to toot my own horn but to encourage all poets to practice oral presentations and to see themselves as having a gift that others do want to share in. Wanting to end on a humorous note I closed with my zucchini poem: Zucchinis flower Growing so many green fruits -- Tonight, lock your doors. This brought good laughter and long applause as I stepped off the podium. Exiting, a couple came up to me, "We loved the zucchini poem. We had a fund raiser and zucchini was in the silent auction -- whomever made the highest bid did not have to take home any zucchini." On Wednesday, at the bequest of English department chair Dave Reynolds, I gave a poetry performance/reading to the all school assembly at Fountain Valley School. A wonderful and appreciative audience of 300 students and staff. I selected poems about being a teenager but because of the season of autumn I also read the Julesberg, Fall Harvest poem. Later, in the workshop, a student told me how much she loved that poem. I thanked her and told her I wrote that poem 40 years ago and her eyes widened open -- and I said, "yes, 40 years ago -- good poems are timeless." Thank you for reading.

Fantastic Poets

At the end of this ramble is today's writing "sensating the poem" exercise, a brief one, from what I used in my workshop on Saturday. First: What a week of poetry this has been, performing at Blissfest in Manitou, then on Saturday giving a "sensating the poem" workshop for the Authorfest of the Manitou Springs Library -- a wonderful group of writers attended and then Saturday evening, hosted by Aaron Anstett, went to a performance by Colorado's western slope pre-eminent poets, Art Goodtimes and Rosemerry Trommer. They were fantastic -- best poetry performance I've been to in years. With poetry in other languages, poems sung by Rosemerry, chanted by Art, some performed together, they slapped my ears with wonderful word power, awakened new energy for writing, and stole my heart. I regret, not being able to video-tape them to use their performance as a teaching tool. Benefit: New resources and joy: Rosemerry has a website, http://www.wordwoman.com/ and Art, "aka, thunderbear" just google Art Goodtimes poet and you'll find him. Today, at lunch, I will perform three poems for the Business and the Arts awards luncheon, before 300 people, at the Antlers Hotel. Scared. I shiver. Cannot eat before performing. Remind myself, this is about the audience, not your ego. Give them accessible poems, celebrate life, share the magic of words. Exercise: Write down three experience that were or are important to you. Then pick one, then describe what: it looks like, feels like, smells like, tastes like, and sounds like. Write several images for each sense. Then write a sensate narrative description rich with these images. Third: add the reason what prompted you to write about this in the first place, that sixth sense, then re-write it one more time, start with a TITLE, and flow with your feeling words into a sensate poem. Creativity is in the doing. Write.

First House Call

Last night I made my first Poetry House Call. But first a note about Plein Air Poetry Writing. Yesterday, sitting at the patio table, observing honey bees gorging themselves on the split open juicy over-ripe peach in front of me, I was writing a still life of peaches, as would an impressionist painter, and the bees seduced me. I wrote a long description of their behavior, drilling proboscises into the nectar, their black bell boy caps, quivering stripped prisoner abdomens, and finally asked myself, why are you writing about these bees and I wrote, "I love these bees, nudging themselves into this peach." And wham, that's it, I can write the second draft, third draft, drill into the peach of the poem -- why -- because I know why I want to write about the bees. I know my passion and that will fuel the writing. LAST NIGHT, at seven last night, Mary and I went to a friend's home for my first Poetry House Call. Charlie and Robin had invited four couples and spread out appetizers and desserts. I started with a brief reading of my Words as Mirrors piece, about how poetry let's us look into our heart the way x-ray shows us our bones. Then guests shared some of their favorite poems, by of course, Frost, Poe, Stevenson, Mansfield, Sato, etc. I shared some of mine, shared my journal with notes, news clippings, power prompts (words or phrases cut from magazines and pasted to a page to use as a writing prompt) -- to encourage the guests to start journaling, putting down memoirs for their children and grandchildren, and perhaps, working at a poem or two. Everyone became engaged, telling stories about writing poems in high school and summer camp, the guest who had read Mansfield's "down to the sea again" had been a sailor -- the guest who had read Poe's "Bells" had had a thrilling experience of the poem with a high school teacher. The point, everyone had a significant connection with poetry. The evening was like a dream come true. A mini-salon with everyone invested in their experience and love for poetry. And, we all have new information about one another that enriches our friendships. WE CLOSED with me passing around a copy of my book of poems, SUNFIRE, for each guest to sign and annotate and we gave this book to our hosts, Charlie and Robin. Poetry House Calls: Fellow poets, try it, you'll like it. Readers: invite a poet for a poetry house call. You'll love it.

I am haunted by these words by Wallace Stevens, "After one had abandoned a belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life's redemption."

Sept. 28, 2010 Plein Air

Vacation is over -- well, wasn't really a vacation, building a digging and pouring concrete piers for the posts to hold up the headers for the new deck and then building the new deck, plus all the other work involved. And now, wine-making, etc. HOWEVER, no excuses, and I will be working my blog on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings. ALSO, when I started this blog I told myself that I was not going to force myself to write something everyday, and that I will not write for the sake of writing, no babbling. Last week I gave a three minute poetry presentation at the fund raising breakfast for the Justice and Peace commission -- and I encourage other poets to engage in community affairs. I firmly believe that if we are to re-birth alove of poetry that we must be out in the community and sharing poems that are accessible to our audiences. WRITING POETRY: When I feel like I am getting into a rut, or sitting at my desk and pulling hairbrained poems out of my cerebellum, whatever, I like to take my journal and pen and some crayons and go outside and do some plein air writing, and practice my ability to look, listen, smell, taste, and feel where I am and what the environment surrounding me is in its being. And once I find something that attracts me, I work at simple description, like I would if I were doing a sketch for a painting. If I really connect, than I write a second draft, fill in the colors so to speak, and if I feel like this could be a poem, I ask myself, "What captured me, what made me write about this in the first place?" And that "sixth sense of it all, whether it be a sense ofbeauty, a sense of fecudity of the harvest, simplicity, generosity of nature, etc. Once I lock onto that, I can move into the third draft and have that sixth sense weave in and out and breathe oxygen into the poem. 1. Simple observations plein air. (Get out of your head and be with a real world) golden slats of cedar pickets surrouding the deck maple tree branches shading the redwood planking cool air goose bumping my arms air as clear as pure water the empty green chair beside me 2. the lush green green leaves of the potted basil plant pinch a leaf, that aroma, as one friend said, almost a sexual experience; another potted plant and the purple trumpets of its flowers I dont't sit here often enough. 3. What is the pull: the deck enjoys itself much more than do I. So much green. Lorca's green, "verde, verde, te quierde verde." green green I want you green. And so, we'll see where that goes. Cheers. P.S. Wednesday evening I am making a "house call" -- going to a friends home to enjoy reciting poems to her friends, and having a glass of wine and dessert. Poets out there, make a house call, you'll love it, so will your friends.

more Sandburg

Sandburg is my retreat today. The opening of his poem, Alone and Not Alone. "There must be a place/ a room and a sanctuary/ set apart for silence."

Sandburg inspiration

Two days ago, when I went on a book buy for our bookstore, I snagged a paperback of Carl Sandburg's Honey and Salt. What could be better with my first cup of coffee, light turning Pikes Peak rosy, and a new day ahead of me. The second poem in the book, Pass, Friend, ends with these two lines, "I who have loved morning know its doors./ I who have loved night know its keys." How I wish I had written those two lines. BUT, given the themes they represent, I may crib his concept of knowing the doors of morning and keys of night and write from there. Sandburg, I consider him to be one of the most under-valued poets in the canon of American literature. The first poem in the book is the title poem, Honey and Salt, about the vagaries of love. A delicious poem, one I can read aloud and hold and savor on the tongue. One of my favorite lines from that poem, "or two wishes riding on the back of a/ morning wind in winter." And the lines for the title, "There are sanctuaries/ holding honey and salt." Look at The Wilderness by Sandburg. A wildly splendid poem that even young students today could read, and discuss, covering everything from evolution to man's inhumanity to man. I've had a wonderful morning with Sandburg and you can find his poems just with a simple Google or Yahoo search, like, Carl Sandburg, The Wilderness poem.

Relationships

As I was browsing an art instruction book this morning, I came across this, "Do not paint things, paint relationships." So true for poetry too. Relationships and then in my email pops up this poem by Dave Bonta, entitled Loggerhead. check it out on www.wordpress.com, Poets for Living Waters emails the poems to me. This particular writing is more of a description and behaviour poem, and what brings it to life for me is the relationships the turtle has in marine life. From my POV, this also is why "still lifes" should not be called still lifes. Because if they are "relationships" then they are dynamic. Do poets write "still lifes?" Are they dynamic, with energy and passion? Those are the poems that survive.

Answer to comments

I still have not figured out how to comment on comments and how to let everyone see the reader's comments but H is coming next week to teach me. Julie asked about dashes and commas and their use in poems. I consider the white page a canvas and may do whatever I want to "paint my picture" and either make it work for myself or my audience or both. My goal is for my audience to enjoy the "poem experience" the words and their meanings create. Look at e. e. cummings. Many of his poems are wonderful, some however, are too jumbled to immediately understand. Julie also asked, CAN ANYONE BE A POET? I cannot answer that. BUT, anyone who can speak can write, at least write down what they would speak. And with some work, anyone can write a loving "message," maybe not a "poem" to a loved one, but heartfelt. And once that communication begins, and diligent observation of the exterior world and the internal knowledge and feelings of that, persists in being expressed in words -- poems can arrive through that birth canal and burst into air and with a gulp and cry, a whisper and shudder, grow towards poetry.

write to your loved ones part 3

As I wrote on the first blog of this exercise you do not have to be a "poet" to writ something sensitive and special to your loved one(s). And "love poem" is not meant just for your spouse -- how about your children? Friends? Parents and grandparents? Favorite Aunt or Uncle? Cousin. Anyhow. Keep it simple. Observations that celebrate the recipient of the poem. Yes, the recipient. The twist is this, the love poem is not about you, not about your gushy feelings, no, it is about the recipient, written in such a way that it celebrates them, and your love. I decided to take one observation and only one to write from today. When we share morning coffee do you know' how delicately you cradle the cup up to your lips and blow off a stream of steam, then you open your eyes wider and look at me and we talk ourselves into that moment when, after refills of coffee and more talk of our day's agendas, we rise from the table and kiss and go into our day each to our own agendas, always, with the warmth of the coffee steam, and the lip touch of the kiss -- and that is when I know again, you are my best friend. OBSERVE OBSERVE OBSERVE and re-write from those observations, simple, straightforward. Jim

Write to your loved ones part 2

So, as I review what I wrote yesterday, I feel as though I need more specific observations and considerations, about my spouse's behavior that I can appreciate, even the foibles, like leaving the vacuum cleaner in the hallway when she cleans house and I invariably trip over it. And I ask myself, if this is going to be an intimate writing, between only myself and my spouse, do I dare get really intimate and mention what I love about her in loving? Serious consideration. And is it necessary to convey the love I feel for her? I think I will stay with daily activities, sensations and observations. Loving times can be a different poem. And even a lover's love poem can be sensuous and sexy without details, consider Neruda's line, "As I mark the atlas of your body --" you fill in the intimate details. So, think about your loved one -- and observe, get into the moment of sensuous delight, and we'll continue tomorrow. Cheers

Write to your loved one(s)

Dear Friends, This has been the busiest week of my year and as a result had neither time nor psychic energy o blog -- but now that I can be back on track, let me share with you ad special moment in last weeks many special events. On Thursday evening Mary and I cooked dinner for the 16 members of the faculty and staff of the Antiquarian Booksellers Seminar, held here every year at CC. After dinner, during dessert with tirimisu and limoncella, I presented a love poem I had written for Mary. A straightforward poem of describing what I loved about her femininity. Finished, I challenged the men at the table to think about writing a love poem to their spouse or significant partner. Of course, they all indicated they were not poets. My response: You do not have to be a poet to write a sensitive, enamoring, thoughtful, beautiful expression in words to celebrate your love and joyous affection for your partner, male or female. Observe, simply observe her or him. Be in the moment. What attracts you -- the sound of her voice? The way he takes out the trash without being asked? How she flirts her hair with bangs? How he always refills your coffee so you don't have to get up? Or brings in the paper and opens it on the table for you? Be in the moment: Sniff her skin, hear, feel, taste, and write simple straightforward observations. DO NOT attempt to wax poetic and DO NOT use comparisons or metaphors. When we have coffee in the morning I like the way you wrap your fingers around the coffee cup and I see your eyes light up as you sip the first taste your voice when you read a Peanuts cartoon to me and you impersonate Lucy freshly showered, your hair hangs loosely, touching the milky skin of your shoulder etc etc, until you become aware of what made you write all of this in the first place, that sixth sense, above and beyond the physical, the epiphany of that moment, such as James Wright had when he wrote the poem about the two horses in the pasture "If I step out of my body I would break into blossom." For this exercise, maybe I'd write "When I look at you at breakfast, I am praying with my eyes open." So, as the world spins in a daily revolution around itself and moves farther in its circle around the sun, be here and be here now, in front of your loved one, and observe, and share, and enoble and enrich both of your lives. TOMORROW: how would I re-write this?

I'll be back

Due to our involvement with the Rocky Mountain Book Fair and the Antiquarian Booksellers Seminar, my bookseller's hat is on top of my poet hat, but I will be back to blogging very soon, Thursday. WRITE ON!

Face to Face Poetry

What a joy. This afternoon I was "poet in residence" at the COPPER office in the Plaza of the Rockies As men and women from the offices upstairs toured the art gallery and came into the Copper office, they were treated to cupcakes and live poetry from yours truly. I read poems from the Poetry While You Wait book, and poems from my book, Sunfire. My audience was right in front of me, four fee away at the table. I could feel their presence, see their eyes, watch their skin twitch, head tilt, body language move closer to me, or sit back. This "intimacy" made me change my performance, be more personal, and with one or two people in front of me, it was scary in a way, because I either reached them or didn't. A joy, to have someone sitting right in front of me, open to poems. And the light in their faces. Smiles when they gave me feedback. Cheers to all.

Poetic Justice

This so bizarre that I must report it: The middle finger of Galileo's right hand is in the Museo di Storia della Scienza in Florence, Italy. Yes. You read that correctly. "The finger was detached from Galileo's body on March 12, 1737, when his remains were transferred to the main body of the church of Santa Croce, Florence." In the book, Galileo's Finger by Peter Atkins. Imagine that, the poet of the heavens, even after death, still giving the finger to those who sought to condemn him and the truths of the universe. Blessed be the Italians who liberated that finger. Everytime you want to write about the sun, moon, universe, see that divine middle finger, rising, in final tribute to truth.

Writing Poetry

The September issue of Writer's Digest, (received July 26), Robert Brewer list 10 essential rules of poetry, and I suggest you might look at them. Basically, we follow those guidelines. But he omitted an essential rule. His rule number one is: Keep the poetry coming, and then he skips to #2 Read Poetry By Others, and on to other rules and he fails to mention the all important rule: READ OUT LOUD TO YOURSELF. read for those words your tongue trips over, read for rhythm, read for balance in the line, read to feel the words coming up from your heart, and if they are not coming up from your heart, then look at what you have written and find that authentic voice that will make the poem shine in print and in performance. Then go read some Shakespeare and feel the beauty of that language in your mouth and throat, and then read Whitman and hear that authentic human voice, sometimes whispering, sometimes shouting, but always there, full force. Then read your own work again, tweak what needs polishing. Good writing.

Rainy Monday

Rain, thundering hooves, pounding the roof, Rushing out of the gutter, so much rain; then that scent, we will survive, then the chill in the air, the desire to snuggle against her warm flesh. Instead, we make grilled cheese sandwiches and stir warm milk into the tomato soup.

Cigar Box/Binder

(c) 2010 James Ciletti On my desk is a cigar box. Inside: word and picture treasures. Several times a week I take the cigar box to the dining room table and flip through the numerous magazines and mail order catalogues, and newspapers. I cut out words and phrases, even pictures that show a story. Anything that gives my mind or feelings a "buzz." These go into the cigar box. About once a week I glue one item at a time on individual sheets of paper. And then they go into a three ring binder, entitled, Power Prompts. WHY? I'll tell you in a minute. First, here are some of the sheets in my Power Prompts binder: "When heartburn turns to hope." Great line/theme for a song. "Verbatim" A small picture of a man in the foreground, his back to me and he is facing a woman in the bg and she has an extended hand to him and her mouth is open. (what's the story here?) "My artificial tears." Wow! a line for a theme of public faces/private lives. "Creation myths." "Start taking creative risks" "The boldest." These are, essentially, prompts for writing, each at the top of their own page. For an instant writing assignment when I give a workshop, I can hand these sheets out at random to participants and ask them to respond to the prompt and write free-style. The pages also are good for "morning pages" or "evening pages." Actually, for prompting a writing spurt at any time of day. Sometimes, in workshops, where I have a large stack of magazines, art mags, sport mags, etc etc, I have students cut out their own words and paste up a "found" poem with words and phrases along a theme they pick. Sometimes, with art catalogues, I cut out many pictures and lay them out and have students pick the picture they want to write a story to. I tell them to pick a picture that has "heat" for them. Thus, they start out with their writing geiger counter buzzing. Cigar box? Any contaner will do. Start cutting and pasteing

Postcard Poems

When I gave a workshop to the Marie Walsh Sharpe Art Foundation summer students at Colorado College, I handed out postcards with stamps on them and showed the art students how they can easily combine their visual art talent with words and send beautiful images and inspiring words to friends and family. The results of what they created were lovely and we mailed them out. One student mailed her postcard poem to me. She had visited an old Hispanic church in the San Luis Valley and wrote this on her card: "this church feels like soup, blurred, and engulfed in nostalgia, pious dust." This is an easy way to share your poems -- make your own postcard poems. Write out one of your short poems on a postcard, get crayons or colored pencils, or pen, (colored gel pens are great for this) and put a colored border on the card etc, small flowers in the corners, whatever, and mail it to a friend. Be as creative as you want, glue small images you can cut from magazines, even cut out words and paste them on. You can color the entire side of the card and them hand print your poem on it. Each postcard poem is a one-of-a-kind artwork and gift to your recipient. I buy cover stock at Office Depot and cut my own post cards to size so they are within the .28 cent postage size, 4.25 x 5.5. If you want to make a bigger postcard go to USPS.com for size limits and postage required, bigger ones cost .44 cents to mail. Use one whole side for your poem and artwork and one side for your address and stamp. If you want to send a message as well as the poem, draw a vertical line down the middle of one side and on the left, write to your recipient, and on the right, stamp and address just like a picture tourist post card. Be sure to send one to yourself too. Cheers.

Read To One Another

Sharing ideas with my wife Mary, she mentioned that sometimes she does not have enough to talk about on phone calls but wants to stay connected with her daughter or others. So I suggested that she have one of her favorite passages ready from one of her favorite authors, and to read something to the person on the other end of the phone call. We all love to be read to, so reading to someone, even on the phone, can be a deeper and meaningful connection. Read what? Thoreau? Or a Comic Strip from the newspaper, a quote from a hero -- artist, or go to the Internet or book of quotations and you'll find numerous inspiring quotes and messages to share and talk about. Texing? Try a rhyming couplet to someone you love.

Gulf Poems etc

Catching up on Blog comments, I encourage you to go to www.poetsgulfcoast.wordpress.com and read Joe Hutchinson's poem and others by poets who are exercising their talent to continue awareness of the Gulf tragedy. And, here is the introduction to my book of poems, Sunfire. Word Mirrors How easily, almost thoughtlessly, we arise at the crack of dawn, stretch open our sleepy eyes, massage our groggy face, rub a hand through our hair and brush our teeth. We dress, check the mirror to see if our tie is straight, or if our skirt's the right length. Do my shoes match? And what about shaving? Putting on Eyeliner? Without a mirror? Forget it. Faced with the face of ourselves, we know what to do, what to fix, or leave alone. Faced with the face of ourselves, we know how to make our private face public to enter the world. So too with thinking and writing. Without reflection, what a smear of red lipstick our thoughts will be; without verbal investigation the bleeding cuts in our ideas; and so too, the darkness in our hearts, without words to express and know our feelings. When we find and use words to express our core emotions and thoughts we are expressing our core identity. Want to know who you are? Walk into the garden of yourself? Then, look at the reflection of yourself in the mirror of your words. We need a mirror to see our spine, the back of our head, neck, etc. So too we need the mirror of our language to face the face of our thoughts. Our words show us where the tie of our opinion needs straightened; the lipstick of our politeness needs daubed; facing the face of our thoughts and fears and joys, values, dreams and prayers, we can see who we are, inside, within our spirit. Thus, our words, written in thoughtful reflection, can mirror back to us an emotional knowledge from the deepest vaults of our self, our core identity, and our spirit. Our words mirror our heart. For me, the ultimate joy of poetry, and all of the arts, occurs when our creativity reflects and celebrates the human heart. Then, we know who we are.

"Human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt stars." Gustave Flaubert in Madame Bovary.

Reading Neruda.

July 21, 2010: After the downpour last evening the wet air is rich, palpable, succulent. So todayI am reading the sensate and succulent poetry of Pablo Neruda, especially, I Have Gone Marking The Atlas of Your Body, and Ode to Olive Oil. You'll find lots of lovely poems by Neruda, all over Google sites. And at www.poets.org "The only time you look down on someone is when you offer a hand to help them up." Gabriel G. Marquez

Social Activist Poet

July 20 Yesterday I met with the Colorado Springs Justice and Peace Commission to begin discussions and to explore how we might integrate poets and poetry into the mission of the Commission. Some ideas include sharing poetry at Commission rallies, producing an organized event with artists and poets, and musicians, for creating awareness for peace, social justice, etc. YOUR IDEAS/SUGGESTIONS are most welcome -- pass them on to me at jimciletti@comcast.net. Thank you.

After reading in the paper that a young woman, under 18, in Saudi Arabia, was sentenced to 80 lashes, I have not been able to write about sweet experiences. The lashes, on her legs? Back? Enough to make her flesh look like what we grill on the barbeque? I did not want this, my poetry blog, to bring up political, sociological, moral issues as such, but this -- in 2010 -- well, I'm working on an 80 line rant.

The Sixth Sense

Good morning to all. This morning I shared with a young art student, a painter, thoughts about our senses, and how, while we have our five physical senses, sight sound taste touch and hearing, that are gateways to the outside world, that we also have a "sixth" sense. The "sixth" sense is meta-physical, internal, even philosophical. The sixth sense is what I reach for in a poem. The sixth sense is what I am writing about, in layers, in a poem. We have many "sixth" senses: A sense of joy, a sense of beauty, a sense of ugly, a sense of love, a sense of bravery, a sense of weakness, on and on. The sixth sense is what has made me sniff out the poem in the first place, what has made me write the poem. Like in my Haiku: Robin in the tree Reflected in the fountain. Black cat lunges. Splash! The sixth sense of "irony." How I can easily be fooled by my illusions, dive into them, and come up soaking wet. A sixth sense of foolishness. Etc etc. This morning, smelling the coffee percolating, a sense that as soon as I can sip a cup, all will be right with the world. So be it. Jim P.S. I have a few copies left of my latest book of poems, "SUNFIRE" and you can order a signed copy directly from me for $14 plus $2 postage. Send $16 to Jim Ciletti, 1215 N. Union Blvd. Colo Spgs CO 80909, or call Hooked on Books bookstore, 719-596-1621 and they can take your credit card info and mail the book to you.

Fish Oil

Dear Myles, Did you see the fish and birds, the turtle, in Time? Bejesus! Washed up on a black beach, this big fish -- face smeared with oil, eyes popping, mouth stuck open in a last breath, death-gasp? This bird's head and face dripping with oil, one eye glazed, tears of oil? That turtle, fossilized in a cement of oil? As if scorched by fire, the pelican is an icon of death. Do I have any idea what this is like? The final oxygen air bubbles raking though my feathery gills? My muscles twisting into cramping pain? I thrash and thump my tail on the black sand. I have to, want to, yes, die. I must die with this fish. Feel the oxygen deprivation and suffocation tighten around my throat. My eyes bulge out. Death forces itself into my body. Oh, the ache in my brain, a hot nail piercing behind my eyes. I gasp, shudder, twitch my gills. Thick oil skims through: clogging, choking oil. I thrash my head. My eyes sting. Oil chokes my throat. In weak, powerless spasms, my tail arches. Eyes glazed, I feel the waves wash me farther up the black shore. Even the hungry, shrieking gulls reject me. Dark, bubbly surf nudges me forward, forward, away from the great sea of my birth. I am dying. Exhausted. My tail flops down onto a funereal bedspread and coffin of black sand. Yes, I must die with this fish and with every oil soaked bird. Choke with every turtle. Stand, painted black with the pelican. Then, and only then will I change and demand real change from our leaders and money-power-brokers. Imagine: all those money-eyed brokers on the stock market floor, coated with oil; their dollar bills gasping for air; Our politicians in congress, mouths choking with oil, staring at one another, unable to blink their oil-glazed eyes. Tomorrow: I awaken in this gulf of ocean seas. I am the Great Mother. Rising up, I stand over all the waters and hold my swollen, pregnant belly. All the babies within me, all the sea turtles, algae, fish, shrimp, plankton, crab, the seahorses and seaweeds, even the wetlands, will be born lifeless, stillborn, black and blue with oil. So be it, Myles. Your friend James Ciletti

Recent Poetry Events

Hello and Happy Father's Day to all. On Friday evening I had the honor of sharing poetry with the students and faculty of the Marie Walsh Sharpe Art Foundation's closing banquet at Colorado College. And yesterday, Juneteenth, I delivered a brief, 10 minute rap of Black poetry by Black poets at the NAACP's Juneteenth celebration. I started with an African, Hottentot poem, The Ancestors, then to the Phillis Wheatley, the first African American poet to publish a book, Paul Laurence Dunbar, Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, and closed with Lucille Clifton, who recently passed away -- www.poets.org and other web sites provide bios and poems of all of these poets. When growing up, so we could have no accent and be able to get jobs and go to school without being made fun of, our parents did not teach us Italian. I am keenly aware of the great loss of cultural heritage that occurs when one's language, and culture, are denied. Thus, one of my projects as Poet Laureate, is to begin with workshops and readings and "teach-ins" at appropriate community cultural events, community centers, and libraries. Yesterday's performance at Juneteenth will now make it possible to develop writing workshops for young Black poets, workshops for Black elders to record and write their memoirs, and to hold events to celebrate Black literature, at Hillside Center. As we nurture and develop literary talent in our various ethnic and cultural communities, I look forward to the day when the Pikes Peak Poet Laureate may be from our Black Poets, or Latinos, or Asians or other cultural resource in our communities. Cheers to all. Jim

e.e.cummings

At this time of year I enjoy the many light-hearted poems of e.e. cummings -- and then this morning I read the Molly and Me poem which ends with, ''it is always ourselves we find in the sea." After hearing the President speak last night, and knowing that as I hit this keyboard that more oil is gushing forth to pollute and destroy part of our precious earth, I find cumming's poem has a new meaning for me. A painful meaning now. Because this is not only about oil and our demands for it. I too expect the gas pump to work when I want a fill-up. But because our city planners and urban designers have created a sprawling mess of roads and now I have to drive miles for a loaf of bread, work, even survival. We are forced into a consumption of oil that we cannot escape. That entrapment is painful. And makes me angry. And what does this have to do with "poetry." Can my poetry ever begin to express this anger and pain? Can yours? Yes, in poem that rants and raves. Do I dare unleash that storm? Or, perhaps, I should sing an ode to the sea. Neruda, where are you when I need you.

June 14. In a lovely book , The Poetic Landscape, by Elizabeth Mowry, I found this quote by John Burroughs: "You cannot find what the poets find in the woods, until you take the poet's heart to the woods." -- in Harvest of a Quiet Eye.

June 10: As I prepare to go to Fremont Correctional Facility, to give my writing workshop to men imprisoned there, I found a wonderful poem on www.poets.org, by the Sufi mystic, Rumi, and I share a morsel of it here and encourage you to go to poets.org, and type RUMI in the poet slot, and then click on the title of his poem. What was told, that by Jalalu'l-din Rumi Translated by Coleman Barks "What was said to the rose that made it open was said to me here in my chest." Now, please, go discover this beautiful poem by Rumi.

When journaling this morning, I heard someone ask, why morning pages? why journaling? and the words "the unexamined life is not worth living" came to mind, and Oscar Wilde's statement, "I never travel without my journal, one should always have something sensational to read." Sensational? Sensate? Embodied in the physical sense-filled world? Or does he mean, off-the-charts, wild, tingling -- well, journaling for me starts in the real, physical world at the moment I pick up my pen. If I were journaling at this moment I would capture three or four dominate sounds, the tickling wind chimes chiming, the cars zip-slishing up the street, the drone of an airplane, and the soft whisper of tree leaves in the blowing breathe of our cosmos. The sun is so bright this morning, the shadows of patio chairs appear to be carved and shaded with black pens. On and only, journaling is a journey through the senses first, and that usually leads to ideas percolating up to my imagination. Every day awareness-poetry attacks my body through the senses.

New Haiku

Robin in the tree Reflected in the fountain, Black cat lunges. Splash!

First Contact

Hello world and poetry lovers, I am now a blogger. Look out.