Noah only had to take them two-by-two via an ark  

One of the struggles I had as a writer was in trying to keep abreast of the riches presented me in my wider world despite the upheavals of my professional life. Just as I would be getting centered into one landscape, I was yanked into another, as if being dropped into yet one more planet. The sources of inspiration kept changing faster than I could record them in any depth. It’s a wonder I didn’t drown.

Among the drafts I’ve uncovered in my journals review, the ones now available as free PDF downloads at my Thistle Finch digital bookstore, please consider these Chronicles: Buddha Notes, Endless Prairie, and Thunder Cloud.

Welcome to another Rabbit Hole on the Internet.

 

First, to wrap up the Bloomington sojourn

“If thee needs anything and cannot find it, just come to me and I’ll tell thee how to get along without it.” — Etta Macy, Owen County, Quaker, in “Indiana’s Self-reliant Uplanders,” National Geographic, March 1976.

It’s something I’ve heard from others later, across the country.

~*~

Oh, my, one of my favorite off-the-cuff poems of all time wasn’t by the poet I’ve long attributed it to but rather our dear colleague, Richard Pflum. To wit: “In the garden / the women are pacing to and fro / speaking of fellatio.”

I stand corrected.

Reacting to an attack on “just folks poets” by an Iowa staffer in Kayak, criticizing those he looked down on in circles of poets who didn’t aspire to greatness but rather preferred comradery and “goodness.”

“All American poetry today sounds the same,” to which Paul Solyn replied, “not if you listen to it.”

“There aren’t any memorable lines in today’s work,” was equally glib. What was he expecting, advertising slogans? By the way, as one poet told me, “The lines I in my work I find most memorable, other readers don’t.”

[Gee, I found nothing about packing up everything or loading the U-Haul or farewells. Guess I was just too busy.]

~*~

Gleanings from my spiralbound journals plus commentary from now. . 

Right under our feet or the hill

As my journals record, my return to southern Indiana took me well beyond the college campus. I’ve already mentioned my explorations of the wooded Leonard Springs and its cave system just beyond our house at what was then the fringe of the college town. Let me remind you that my Thistle Finch editions blog has free PDF downloads of the related chapbook of my resulting poems as well as a photo album I put together from online gleanings to refresh my memory.

Related photo lookbooks slash storyboards are Ghost Towns, Iconic Farmers, Mills by the Springs, and Wonders Under the Ground, assembled to assist in my revisions for what is now “Miller at the Springs” in my novel Secret Side of Jaya.

Poetry chapbooks originating in this period include Cornflower Eye, Blurring Into Smoke, and Green Wonder, all available as free PDF downloads,

I did encounter a lot in a short year-and-a-half, even beyond my paying employment. I do would how my writing would have evolved if I had been able to remain in place.

Welcome to another Rabbit Hole on the Internet.

 

Back to a personal refuge

A recent post here told you of my early encounters with the Leonard Springs. The then largely unknown wooded ravine soon served as a kind of personal refuge for me just beyond our house. It became a microcosm of something much larger in my emerging awareness.

For the chapbook of poems originating in those explorations as well as a supporting photo album, go to my Thistle Finch editions free digital bookstore. Do take a look.

Welcome to another Rabbit Hole on the Internet.

Plowing and planting what I could

While much of my Great Black Swamp residency has been distilled into my novels Nearly Canaan and Secret Side of Jaya, it also infused an outpouring of poetry. By the time I arrived, the land had long been drained and turned into some incredibly rich farmland. Something, apparently, had been drained from the people as well.

Among the free PDF poetry broadsides available at my Thistle Finch blog are Toward Tiffin, Farmer Disking His Fields, and Prairie Wind. Once again, I must confess to being quite fond of micropoems as well as “found” poems. Poetry can be a state of mind as well as craft, wherever you are.

In addition, you’ll also find a free poetry chapbook, Furrow, and two photo albums, Prairie Depot and Vast Plains. It is hard to envision such a landscape if you haven’t traveled across the American Midwest of Great Plains.

Do take a look.

Welcome to another Rabbit Hole on the Internet.

 

Regarding my Endless Prairie project

Prairie as a symbol of America [make that U.S. and Canada], the middle or bread basket or heartland. I kept trying to envision the openness, wonder, even terror when white pioneers found her, back before she was ripped apart for farming. Even the Interstate highways coast-to-coast. The middle land of Protestants without heritage, too blind to see clearly the potential of balance and healing before them.

Somehow, that poetry project never found root.

 

Dixie fiction friction

In the Southern literary tradition was a linkage with Scotland, a love of Walter Scott and, unsaid, its Presbyterian literal Bible, clans becoming klans, some of the same intonations and expressions, a shared rebellious nature, plus the repulsion of Quakers in general.

Yet many of its young writers in the ‘50s devoured Jewish influences (Mailer, Malamud, Bellow) and then the Calvinist Congregationalists of New England (Updike, in particular) and then their own Thomas Wolfe and Faulkner. So I’ve read.

Their own writers had been presenting the Dixie heritage as all happy and macho, which did not fit what they observed. The Jews and Congregationalists, on the other hand, were presenting something hard and ugly about themselves.

From that, I’ve wondered: where and how my Midwestern heritage was being addressed or examined. I saw escape but no reality being addressed. Things that ought to be said but weren’t, at least in the mainstream view.

The best I’ve come up with is Jeffrey Eugenides, Greek-American of Detroit. And, my, how he delivers.

What is it about fresh snow?

A snowy winter like the one we’re having reminds me of Upstate New York and the Poconos back then. The season’s longer and more intense than what I had growing up in southern Ohio and later in college in southern Indiana.

Here, though, I also have the Atlantic, as Passamaquoddy Bay, and Canada beyond it in the mix.

Welcome to my world, now and back then.

How about your winter?

Carpooling

Bob Stratton tells of driving home from work in Lordstown when a thunderstorm rolled up:

“One of the fellas in the car said, ‘Hey, the car behind us is sure coming comin’ up fast with its brights on.’

“It was no car. It was rolling lightnin’ that hit us.”

They drove on to a diner. “I smell something singed,” the waitress said.

“If that’s all it is, we’re lucky,” they laughed, and then told her what had happened.

Several weeks later, stopping there during another storm, the waitress was now telling them their story.

“You must not recognize us,” they laughed. “We’re the fellas it happened to.”