Thoughts From the Middle of a Stream

When I was an artist I learned quickly what more experienced artists had learned early in their careers.

If you’re away from your art for a week or so you realize that the edge has gone. The lines no longer echo the confidence they did before. Even if others don’t see it, you do. If you stay away for much longer it becomes harder to find the path back, and after a year, well, chances are you won’t go back at all. The duties of life fill the void you’ve opened, and all you’re left with is the craving for something lost.

I’ve seen writers take that same road to oblivion. Always hoping to get back, but just never finding the time.

I’ve seen it happen in the writers group. A person will visit, full of enthusiasm, and when they read the group is in admiration of the story line, or the powerful words coming out of the poems. Three or so months later they may have added a few lines, or fallen into what Natalie Goldberg calls “Monkey Mind,” and are reshaping the idea until it is watered down and dying. A month later they may have nothing to share, and then they are gone.

There are others who are on fire at the meeting, and they disappear also, but when you see them in the coffee shop they speak of the book being at the publishers, and it is always a time for celebration. They have been home writing.

I know life gets in the way of writing, but that’s not what I’m talking about. For the last few days I’ve been in the woods cutting down trees and clearing the brush so I can at least see the bears before they arrive on the porch for a picnic. I've also been in the mountains discovering new paths. That’s just the way it is, but the poem, the story, the rhythm of words is always with me, and even when I’m tired they call to me. I hope they call to you also.

We live in a woulda, shoulda, coulda world. I have friends who are fighting to get their first chapbook out at the ages of 70 and 80. Don’t keep your poems and stories a secret. Send something to a friend today, and share your heart with them. I pray you’ll find the time. I have seen only a few of my mother’s poems. I am told as her Alzheimer’s progressed she would read them, then tear them up as he sat and wept. They are lost forever. Don’t let that happen.

PS I apologize for the misspellings in a few of my blogs. That’s what I get for posting them from Starbucks and not doing any editing, or letting the computer do it for me. I’ll try and do better. That’s why I have a college professor friend who edits my poems before I submit them. Nobody ever claimed this Kentucky boy was a good spuller!

PSS I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that tomorrow is my anniversary. My wife and I have been friends since we were 7 years old. I have always loved her, and she continues to love me even though I can be a real turd sometimes. She is my conscience, and if I haven’t done any writing for awhile, she steers me back, or reminds me of who I wanted to be when I grew up.


White Passion, Black Joy


I remember a green Volkswagen
white passion steaming windows
on a dark October night.

Your angora sweater
turning my uniform into
a horse hair rug.

After all these years
I see your Father’s face,
smile fading in the light.

Black joy on
a cold October
night.


It Must Be Hard

It must be hard to give me the love I demand.
That yearning to catch up for an empty past.

You must be exhausted fighting off demons I resurrect,
and holding my hand to calm the winds of panic.

I hope my love is enough to give you strength.
It’s all I have.

Robert W. Kimsey

Days With Family

My family, from the north, visited last week. It was a wonderful week, and the little girls enjoyed our outings to the river where they collected rocks. Well, at least one did, the other little girl just liked her feet in the cool water.

The time was good for me because I was able to get all the baby kisses I needed, and I was also able to spend some time with my son. He is a chef in the city, has a pretty hectic life, and wanted to slow down and be on some high trails while they were here.

One of the days we were able to get out we packed a day pack and headed for Springer Mountain. My son wants to hike some on the Appalachian Trail, and I thought it would be a good place where he could get a taste of what it would be like. What better place to start than a climb to the plaque at the southern terminus of the 2167 mile trail. It was a good hike, making me wish I was in better shape, but I didn’t die, and that’s a good thing. It was a gorgeous day, and I could see the beautiful North Georgia Mountains curving toward the horizon.

We wanted to test out some meals, so we went to the Springer Shelter and set up our stoves for lunch, and then it was back down the rocky path to the car and home.

Every father dreams dreams of what his children will be when they grow up. I don’t remember what mine were. I guess I just prayed I wouldn’t screw up my part of the story. As I watched my Son ahead of me on the trail, I realized that he was much more than I prayed for. He is a good man, a wonderful father, provider and a faithful Christian. He has written a much better story than I could have written for him. The way it should be.

Tributary

I skim the stone bowl,
Scoop the dregs away.
Watch the spring clear itself.
Remembering a time when
I could drink freely
Taste the coolness after the climb.

I watch the downhill seep
Knowing that days from now
It will join with darker waters
Down there in the world.

And so will I.

Robert W. Kimsey

It's Been a Long Month

Maybe I’m different from most bloggers, but when I started this adventure into the electronic world I was hoping for a large community to care about what I wrote and the poems I shared. I know that is true about most of you who come and sit on the porch with me, you do care, and I thank you for being my friends and readers.
It is a real shame that one of the things that has grown out of this type of sharing is that we must always be thinking about security, as we write. That’s just the way of the world I’m afraid.

For example, I can’t share with you in “real time” the events of the day. I couldn’t tell you that I am in the hospital only that I was. I couldn’t tell you that I was in Pennsylvania only that I was. If we are responsible to our families and friends we must always be reporters of what was.

Betty C. Stamper 1927-2010

My Mother passed away a week or so ago. She had been fighting Alzheimer’s and diabetes for seven years, and finally she couldn’t hold on any longer. I didn’t get to see her much, and when I went there last year and she didn’t know me I had gone through a period of mourning at that time. The creative parts of me are from her. She was a very accomplished artist, working mainly in oil. Her paintings of flowers were a major part of the service last week. Her landscapes were beautiful and full of light. In later years she had a stroke, and holding a brush was harder for her than holding a pencil, so she switched to colored pencil, and drew some remarkable portraits. She was always encouraging and proud when we talked about my time in art school and my membership in the Cincinnati Art Club.

My Mother was also a very good poet and writer, and I hope to share some of her poems with you in the future. She had lived in a number of other countries, and told colorful stories about her times there. She is survived by 3 brothers and a sister, and the other day in a local restaurant the brothers started telling stories, about the 37 flood, swimming the river in happier times, and what a tom boy my Mother was, and I knew that she was there sharing in the laughter.
I loved her, and will miss her.

Heaven’s Door

I wonder how long it is
before the dead forget
what they have left.

Cut off from us,
can they look through the keyhole,
a limited view down the corridor
they just walked that last time?

And do they crowd around,
some pushing and shoving for a look back
that’s always the same?
Dark hall, doors on each side,
the single bulb that guided them here,

while others that remember
the stories of elders
the dreams of parents,
writings in holy books
turn around,

and see their families
waving from the top of the hill.

Robert W. Kimsey

Snowed In

Last Friday we headed out 60 for the town of Dahlonega Georgia. That’s where the eastern gold rush took place, and is a delightful tourist town in the mountains. A great place to walk through the shops, get lunch, and when friends come to visit, to take them to the Gold Museum.
On the way I wanted to see where the Benton Mackaye trail crosses the road, and I wanted to visit Woody Gap where my son and I would get on the Appalachian Trail for our hike to Springer Mountain.
So we’re in this little deli on the square across from the museum eating some delicious chicken noodle soup, and the sky started to get very dark. Then on the way to the car it started to rain, and by the time we get to our shortcut home, it was sleet on the windshield. When we crossed Bushy Head Gap and dropped into Cashes Valley there was an inch of snow on the ground, and for the next 4 hours it piled 5 inches on us. So we were snowed in for the next few days. I really did come south to get away from that, but moved to the Blue Ridge, so no use to whine about it.
We spent the weekend quilting (not me) and writing. Of course the dog loved it. She got pure joy trying to find a tennis ball under the white stuff.
There were also sinister forces in the cabin with us. One of the days I was writing, transferring my notes from yellow pad to computer, all kinds of error messages started appearing, and weird things jumped about on the screen. I freaked! Quickly I backed up all my data. So a few days later I made it in to town, and visited the computer wizard. Shortly he called and told me my computer had the "click of death." YIKES! I kind of felt like I had it also after hearing his diagnosis.
Well, Linda and I headed to the computer store 80 miles away after stopping at the Ellijay Starbucks, and I am trying to get my writing programs loaded on a new laptop. I had the old laptop for 7 years, and it was a good and faithful friend…sniff. But it’s my tool, just like a horse to a cowboy I guess, so had to do the deed and find the cash. Good news is that I had backed up all of my poems and stories, so let that be a warning to you.
The poem I’m going to share with you today is one I worked on for two years, and finally a chemistry professor named Sam gave me the one word I couldn’t find for myself. That’s why I love to share with others. It makes me a better poet.
See you soon.

Lies

Lies flow through a family like mercury
poured out in droplets, each converging
into the other, a creeping, rolling capsule.

They pour into the soul of a child,
there to condense on the tongue.
Then the man sees the eyes of the child
flashing mercury pools,
and recognizes himself.

Writing Lists

In Ray Bradbury’s book Zen in the Art of Writing he makes this statement.
“But along through those years I began to make lists of titles, to put down long lines of nouns. These lists were the provocations, finally, that caused my better stuff to surface.”

I make lists. Lists of words I hear or read, words I hear spoken in the mountains, first lines of songs and poems, and names of towns I travel through. It’s just a natural thing with me. Over the years I’ve made lists for camping trips, bird lists, flower lists and lists of books I’ve read. Filled notebooks with ideas and prompts for writing. The words obsessive, compulsive come to mind, but lists have kept me going as a writer, and have pulled me from times when I thought I couldn’t put another word on paper.

The reason I mention this subject is to introduce the poem I’m going to share and read for you today. It started from a list of scientific terms and branched out from there. What do magnets do? Why do we use mathematics and what is theory? Are any of these metaphors for relationships? How far can one person be from another? All questions that produced a list that walked me into the poem. The last two italic words can be changed to mother/daughter, brother/brother, or may speak of a religious relationship. All would fit, and can make the poem universal.

If you’re a writer, keep lists. They will help when you need inspiration.
Have a wonderful day.

Point of Return

There is a point on the face of the earth
where a person can’t get farther away
without being closer.

Out there, seas and mountains of our
own creation are positioned between
loved ones, and when each moves,
the magnets of indifference
push the other away.

It’s all science, formula,
quotient, similar poles,
until love refuses twisted logic
and in forgiveness
whispers

Father,

and whispers,

Son.

Birthday Ramblings

So, it’s my birthday. I’m doing those exciting things that us ancient ones do on that special day of the year. I went to an appointment to get the car lubed and checked out, so the time in the waiting room was pretty special. It was quiet and the others waiting didn’t know it was my birthday until my friends called and sang to me, then it was very funny to the whole dealership.

My wife gave me a card, and as usual it was one that was special and tender. She bought me a new pair of waders for fly fishing a month or so ago. She always knows exactly what I want if I beg long enough.

Looking back over all those years I can only say that these years are all icing on the cake. God has been good to me in all ways. Others had predicted my demise many times, and I agreed with them, but here I am.

I have only been troubled by one birthday. That was the one that I knew I was too old to return to life on the sea as a military man. I had not planned on going back, but it was just the fact that I couldn’t. I was no longer the warrior, and had to move into another phase of life.

I’ve had friends that have stayed in contact all these years, and have made friends that will be special for years to come. I’ve seen wonderful miracles. Seen friends healed and prayers answered. Seen high mountains and flat seas. Loved and been loved.

I’ve been given poems that I am proud of, and have seen people that I have helped go on to be writers and artists.

I have children and grand children, and for my age I am in good health. I have family who care where I am, and what I'm doing.

Soon I will go on my yearly walkabout, because my wife knows that no matter how old I get there is still an adventure to be realized. That is something pretty special.

So today is outstanding for all that and more. Thank you for sharing it with me here in North Georgia, on my porch, on a sunny August day.

I Don’t See

I don’t see as far as I used to.
I remember being able to see past the horizon,
steel ships crossing from one ocean to another,
a young man on the bridge tanned by a southern sun.

Farther still seeing the river of Eden and north to the
great desert, always looking ahead for an adventure.
Seeing dreams coming true.

A wife and children just as I saw them walking out of time,
just as I saw them, and the years passing like a movie
in fast forward up to this day.

Now while I strain to see out past the mountains
it all has become a mystery to me, and I take my glasses,
picking them up with my grandfather’s hands, as the young
man stands in the shadows, and smiles.

Finding Water

I remember when my Grandfather and Uncles decided to dig a well up the hill from ours. We had a wonderful spring that not only gave us clear, clean water, but also supplied a number of other families. Our house was on a road that had been the warrior and hunting path from the Ohio River camps and lead south to the Cherokee Lands. The spring had always been there, and when my family built the house it gave us cool water and gave me my first bath when I was born in the upper bedroom.

On the day they were going to work, the spot was found, and they started to dig. It was hard work, and they struggled, handing out buckets of clay and rock, until the water started to seep in.

Years later I was reading my diary, and started a poem about that day, but mostly about the gift of finding water. I’ve seen men that were able to cut a willow fork, hold it in two hands and walk along until it pointed to the earth. That’s where the water was to be found. I’ve also seen men that were able to take two steel rods and bend them into the shape of an “L.” They held them in their hands and walked, until the rods crossed, and indicated the spot. This was used in place of metal detectors to find iron pipes in the ground.

Anyway, I started a poem about a Water Witch. After 20 stanzas it was so long that I couldn’t take it anymore. I put it away, and decided it was a lost cause. Later, some other poets and I were talking and it was suggested that sometimes a poem chooses the form it should take. I recovered the notes, started cutting the poem, and getting rid of useless words and information. Then, I put the phrases down that really mattered, and decided that it was a Pantoum. I love the way the repeated lines set up their own rhythm. It worked!

You can see the pattern, and the repeated lines in this 12 line Pantoum. Remember, each line in a Pantoum must be able to stand alone, but also must be pertinent to all the other lines. Go ahead, get out one of those poems you are struggling with, and look at it in the light of a different form. See what happens.



Water Witch

A gift passed down by blood.
Hands born to hold a willow fork.
Seeking water hidden under dry sand.
Finding the life giver that cools the soul.

Hands born to hold a willow fork.
Quivering over the earth as he walks.
Finding the life giver that cools the soul.
Giving and giving after he is gone.

Quivering over the earth as he walks.
Seeking water hidden under dry sand.
Giving and giving after he is gone.
A gift passed down by blood.

Robert W. Kimsey

Poems About Home

It’s still raining in the mountains. My dirt road is a stream, and it’s chilly on the porch, so we’ll need to sit by the fire for our session today. All this is just not favorable for writing. Well, maybe it is, but I’ve written enough “dark and dreary” poems for now. Why don’t we just have a cup of tea and talk for a bit?

Have you noticed how many poems and stories there are about where we (writers) came from? I was born in Kellen Hollow in Eastern Kentucky, and when I was around seven we moved to the city. I spent the summers and holidays back roaming the Kentucky hills, and I have dear friends from that time still. I think about those times often, and most of my poems in Paths From the Shawnee Spring are from that era, and about the people I knew.

A friend of mine passed a week or so ago. He was one of those men who became your pal after you met him. I worked in his blacksmith shop in the summer with his son. Well, work is pushing it. I really just manned the broom and ran errands for him, and he fed me. It was a wonderful time, and what a treat to be there when the old men came and gathered around, and told stories about the river, town, and the old ways. Their stories still come to me as poems and prompts.

When the blacksmith shop closed he taught in an industrial arts setting, and did welding jobs to keep his family. He was a special person, and I will miss him.

You’ve known men and women just like him. They will feed your writings if you let them. They have so many stories to whisper to you. I was thinking about him this morning, and I have a poem to share that is about my friend Ellis, and others who went away to make a living, but always had a special love for home.

Kentuckians
for Ellis

How many of us crossed the Ohio for jobs and education,
ate in diners and beer joints while searching for our
own people; making little Kentucky communities
wherever we could? Always living in
South something,
West End something,
Lower something.

How many of us sat and told stories about home after
working double shifts at the shoe factories, or sweated
on assembly lines; used our last dollars for gas so we
could spend a few hours smelling honeysuckle and
visiting around the Sunday table,
before heading back north?

How many of us died in coal mines or driving
gravel trucks down snake-back roads so we could
hang onto a small piece of sacred mountain land
that our kin had fought to keep, after riding flat boats
down a river into the unknown?

How many of us would push the dirt off our faces,
stand up out of our graves, put on our boots and
do it all over again?

All of us who call ourselves Kentuckians would.


Robert W. Kimsey 2008