Happy Holidays!

I'm writing from the coffee shop this morning. The train is warming up across the street, and after the huge rains we've had over the last few days it is turning into a cloudy and hazy day here in the mountains.

The tourists are gathering in the coffee shop, waiting for friends and having their coffee before boarding the train, or heading up to the shops, to find that last minute Christmas gift.

So here we are, heading toward the huge holiday and the end of the year. Did all your wishes come true through the year? I hope so. I hope you were able to experience your heart's desire, that you were loved, and that you loved in return.

I pray that if you were not able to start that poem or novel you have been dreaming about for so long, that you will be able to make the time to do it next year. Remember, it you don't tell the stories they will fade away and be lost.

My wish for you is that you will be blest during this holiday season, and that you will be a blessing to someone. That you will smile, and that you will share a smile with someone. My greatest gift his season is to be surrounded by friends and loved ones. I’m going to put down my pen, and go and hold babies, and take a moment to thank God for what he has done for me.

Have a wonderful holiday season dear friends, and I’ll see you back on the porch in a few weeks.
My poem for today is from the same assignment I gave out last month. Use a line from a song or poem for a prompt. No reading this time because I’m updating from the coffee shop. Louise Gluck used this first line in one of her poems.

Remember the Days
Acknowledgements to Louise Gluck

Remember the days of our first happiness
when I sailed home,
hitchhiked over Hawks Nest
sea bag full of gifts from far places?

No clothes but those soiled by African soil.

All of our furniture hand-me-downs.
A Christmas tree we had to cut in half to make it fit.

How you worried that I would be disappointed
by your baby bump after being gone for so long,
and all I wanted to do was to hold you both.

Remember how quickly the years passed
and we had more than we needed
our kids had kids, and everything changed.

And now when the silence overtakes me
the one truth that I still know for sure
is that if I were coming from far places,
I'd come home to you,
in these the days of our happiness.

**********

Memories of Rain

It’s been raining in the Blue Ridge. We haven’t been able to sit on the porch for a few days. Today the results of all that are plain, with the leaves so thick the cabin is once again surrounded by the forest.

On Saturday we took some visitors to the airport, and the drive through the Ocoee Gorge was slow and nerve racking with the fog on the road, and the water coming off the cliffs. On the way back the rain was intermittent, but the fog was still thick on the river. The kayakers who were coming in for the day were just gray shapes, there, then gone.

I don’t know why I’m sharing this with you. I guess, just to tell you that there are times that are brought to mind when the rain moves around me. Hiking in the woods as a boy, fishing the high mountains in a mist, almost unable to see the fly on the water in front of me, and special times with friends when I was a teenager in the city.

I wrote about one of those times a few years ago.

1964

The teachers called it the smoking lounge.
We knew it as the back of the gym,
open to the sky, gray brick to lean on.
You had to be pretty hard up to stand
in the rain for a Marlboro.
But we did.

Bad boys and girls and a few fools
that wanted to be, gathered in a ritual
of long draws, suck it up your nose,
run the gauntlet moments.
Acting like we didn’t care.
But we did.

It was the place where bad grades,
detention letters, and lost loves
could all be flipped away.
A burning butt containing hate and fear
crushed under a heel.
And we did.

All pretenders, frightened
that we would be the ones
to hold up the world.
Stories of your uncle, his brother and others
in a jungle bleeding so we could stand here
and cup our cigarettes from the rain,
just like they were doing, knowing
that next year we’d be there too.
Dying like they were.

And we did.


© Robert W. Kimsey
2005 Kentucky State Poetry Society

Writer's Day?

When writers are asked what they do on a daily basis, they usually say things that you’ve heard before. “I get up early and write until noon before I take a break.” Yes, I’m alone in my little corner and the words just flow onto the paper.”
RIGHT!

I’m lucky that I am able to write just about every day, but some days are better than others. Here’s how my week has gone so far.

I came home from a retreat in the mountains, just south of here, and I had filled pages with ideas, and really needed to get them onto paper for a first draft. Hold on a minute! There are just a few things to do first.

That oak tree needs to be removed before it falls on the cabin, and takes out the porch. Friends are coming next weekend, so that faucet in the shower needs fixing, and YOUR bathroom needs cleaning. When were those towels changed? Remember those shelves you promised to build? Better get the wood shop cleaned and ready. Oh, by the way, the tire is flat on the jeep.
Good Grief!

I managed to sail through most of the chores, and even sang along with the radio while traveling the 12 miles to the tire dealer. And now it’s Thursday, and I pulled out a poem I had fermenting in the folder marked first drafts, and realized it was writer’s group night, so I grabbed what I needed and headed to Blue Ridge. We meet in the old courthouse, and when I arrived one of our members was there with a visitor. With the fantastic weather we have been having in the southern mountains, I suspected we might be the only ones to attend. By six o’clock we had eight writers around the table, and I felt energized. We did introductions for the visitors, discussed some books and magazines that had good articles on writing, and an opportunity to read at the local theater. Then we went around the table for the critique session.

Julia started us off with a short piece from her book, and described a wonderful southern judge, and the children who were able to spend time in his library reading books on plants. He reminded me of Burl Ives.

One of the visitors read from her story about a piece of furniture that smelled like smoke, and I had better let it go there. I don’t want to give away the story. Another visitor introduced us to some characters, and we commented about each one, asking questions and giving gentle critique. A great start, we all thought. Kathy read her piece on local history, and Ed read a beautiful poem called, “Oh Really.”

Pete read a poem about drilling for water in Australia, and I pulled out my first draft. The comments on my poem helped me fix something that I didn’t even know was a problem, and reinforced the fact that every writer needs fresh eyes now and then.

Soon we had filled two hours and I handed out the assignment for the next meeting. Take seven random words and write a short piece or a poem using them. Just something to do if we get stuck for ideas.

What a great group, and this morning I was ready to put words on paper. There’s nothing like sharing with other writers. If you’re not a member of a group, or have a writer friend that will give you honest critique, what are you waiting for?

Have a great day.

Welcome to the Mountains

A few weeks ago I attended a writer’s conference not far from my home in the Blue Ridge Mountains. We had a good attendance, for a rainy Saturday, with writers from three states.

One of my duties that morning was to speak for a few minutes on writer’s groups, and to invite local writers to come and see what we are doing in the Blue Ridge Poets and Writers. We meet at the Blue Ridge Mountain Arts Association in Blue Ridge Georgia once a month. With a membership of 15 writers we are doing pretty good. It is always a treat to hear new poems or a new chapter to a growing novel. The critique is gentle, and the help is valuable to those that want to tell their stories in poetry or prose.

Back to the conference. If I believed everything I had read, or comments I had heard recently, my talk that morning would have been very different. I would have said something like, “everybody that is over 50, forget about writing, go home, and have a great day.”

But, I know better. Looking around the room I could have named thirty people that have been writing most of their lives, and are published on a regular basis. My small group is made up of mature writers that win contests, speak in the schools, and write quietly on poetry collections or their next novel.

So, this blog is for everybody that wants to write, no matter what the age. I hope you will join me in sharing your joys and secrets about what you did when it didn’t go so well, and the words just wouldn’t materialize. I will share those things about my writing struggles, and those wonderful times when it all came together. It’s not about age. It’s about wanting to tell the stories.