But… about me

I am a writer.

Those words always feel foreign.

Yet, since one week after my 15th birthday, I have had this compulsion to write poetry, mostly. Rilke told his young poet friend to look inside and decide if you must write, and if you must, write.

I must.

Not sure I know how not to.

Yet, I also love in no particular order… three cool children, music, art, wine, peanut butter, swimming, nature, The National, them kids, gin, Milan Kundera, Robert Frost, steak and frites, meeting in the Japanese section of bookstores, french onion soup, Kamasi Washington, tiramisu, lemon flavored things, the Red Sox, Tom Robbins, fiddling around on the guitar, William Wordsworth, those kids, Amelie, dogs, Chvrches, otters, Rilke, dolphins, Toni Morrison, Korean fried chicken, Rush, bodysurfing, philosophy, books, solitude, stillness, buddhism, skipping stones, talking spiritual stuff, Kurt Vonnegut, encouraging people, Miles Davis, my mom, Doctor Who, my siblings, Christopher Moore, my friends, and all those people who kept faith in the good parts that fell out of the broken bits for me to pick up and put back together, Pablo Neruda, Thomas Merton, W. B. Yeats, Dylan Thomas, Paterson, Rocky, the Field of Dreams… and… being the silliest man with them kids.

A couple of key poems:

Dylan Thomas, Being But Men

Being but men, we walked into the trees
Afraid, letting our syllables be soft
For fear of waking the rooks,
For fear of coming
Noiselessly into a world of wings and cries.

If we were children we might climb,
Catch the rooks sleeping, and break no twig,
And, after the soft ascent,
Thrust out our heads above the branches
To wonder at the unfailing stars.

Out of confusion, as the way is,
And the wonder, that man knows,
Out of the chaos would come bliss.

That, then, is loveliness, we said,
Children in wonder watching the stars,
Is the aim and the end.

Being but men, we walked into the trees.

Robert Frost, Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.