A Poem about You Bloggers, You Might Want to Read This, Fellow Toads

I bet Shakespeare was bad in bed.

I bet Henry Miller began with a cigarette

and ended leaving to write facts,

the vase empty of flowers.

Allen Ginsberg probably annihilated in

the fucking, chanting run-ons, then passed out in another

realm of the subconscious.

Steinbeck, meh, I feel nothing about that.

Hemingway? Far from ordinary but so many lovers

it cheapened his passion.


I think about these things. I fall in love

with writers. I do. I have a little black book

between my mattresses filled with

photographs of words. Just words.

Fonts say a lot unless the word hurts me

in the chest or, some, shocking my entire being.

Each memory, each dream and nightmare, every

conversation, all the prose, all the ideas,

all the distilled afternoons alone, all the writers I’ve read-

all have page numbers.


And some of you fellow writers -I see you in images and color;

I have a section divided just for you in my little book.


Like I see…

Bjorn Rudberg’s Writings in a blue-gray binding–a rhythm to the passion that peeks just over the binding stitch

I see

Manic Daily in neatly cut and strewn about thoughts that connect like molecular science

I see

Heartstring Eulogies in a warm bath of Sundays, stark white tiles, and candles within the dark

I see

MLewisRedford in a clear-cut mandala of impressions wedded to facts


Marcello’s Revenge in gray-scale photos of tall empty buildings that watch the lives in gardens and gutters, a blunt force that doesn’t forget the beauty


Marilyn Rauch Cavicchia in a kaleidoscope of objects coming to life in pixels of words–snippets that change the very color of what you thought you saw

and I see

Magaly Guerrero in a novel of fine juxtapositions; a mind behind the words that never stops-a speedy wisdom, sharp eye, and thought-out tongue


Verse Escape in, oddly, tulips. She is the color red that reaps open the yellow dandelions and blows the seeds not into wishes but into the afterglow of the everyday

I see

Whimsy Gizmo’s Blog in Bob Dylan’s reflexes, his spreadsheets to a history of poem

and lastly,

Oran’s Well I see in song, in an all-too familiar acoustic string that sharpens and hones lyrics that never quite sleep, that never stop figuring and connecting points, all on an album untitled and unreleased

9 thoughts on “A Poem about You Bloggers, You Might Want to Read This, Fellow Toads

  1. Ditto aww. First stanza is a great mediation on those names that stick so big in our poetry craw and yet are just the big masks of all of us who struggle to make words sing. And I too fall in love with writers, watching them dance with their tropes. And singing back to one’s community is such a generous way of refusing to stay under one’s own rock. Thanks. We all can use the encouragement.

    Hate to take up the comment space, but this poem by Denise Levertov, who died 20 years ago, so anticipates what I’ve found blogging poetry in a community of like voices — often I feel this way when I read your work. Publication seems such a distant star now, but that doesn’t say our singing earth isn’t rich — b


    Denise Levertov

    When a poem has come to me,
    almost complete as it makes its way
    into daylight, out through arm, hand, pen,
    onto page; or needing
    draft after draft, the increments
    of change toward itself, what’s missing
    brought to it, grafted
    into it, trammels of excess
    peeled away till it can breathe
    and leave me–

    then I feel awe at being
    chosen for the task
    again; and delight, and the strange and familiar
    sense of destiny.

    But when I read or hear
    a perfect poem, brought into being
    by someone else, someone perhaps
    I’ve never heard of before — a poem
    bringing me pristine visions, music
    beyond what I though I could hear,
    a stirring, a leaping
    of new anguish, of new hope, a poem
    trembling with its own
    vital power –

    then I’m caught up beyond
    that isolate awe, that narrow delight
    into what singers must feel in a great choir
    each with humility and zest partaking
    of harmonies they combine to make
    waves and ripples of music’s ocean,
    who hush to listen when the aria
    arches above them in halcyon stillness.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Brendan, that is such an amazing thing to say and share. Every writer I chose (and there are so many more I would like to add and wish I would have, but I didn’t want to go overboard) has arched into arias in certain poems I’ll never forget, or an all-around style and voice that leaves a big impression on me. I am delighted (and giddy, as a woman writer gets lol) that you feel this way about some of mine as well. Each poet here writes in ways I admire–we all do, obviously, as we keep returning to each other–and I think it’s so interesting how we are this choir of different voices and we hold our own too.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. I, too, fall in love with books and writers long since gone. This is a fine tribute to poets, and so interesting to see how you see them.

    Liked by 1 person


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