I do remember something similar when l was in my final year of high school in 1983. Thought l was smart and had cleaned up until, the following morning, my mother pointed out the handprint of vomit l had left on the cistern before putting down a meat pie for breakfast, with a glass of wine and cream puff. Glad my parents got a laugh out of 🤣🤣🤣🤣
I lived through a few similarly miserable mornings like this one--though I could not have written such a fine poem at that age! How old were you when you wrote your first poem, Jonathan?
Around the time I turned 16 I had a girlfriend who lived two hours away. I drove there whenever I could but we also wrote a lot of letters and that’s what got me started. Her assessment was, “You’re no Shakespeare, but you’re not bad.” The end of the relationship and the opportunity for letter writing may have been what prompted starting the journal. And that coincided with discovering e.e. cummings.
How lovely! I still have all the letters my husband and I exchanged way back when he was away at college and I was still in high school. They’re full of longing and innuendo. I better burn them before the kids find them.
OMG. After my mother died, I "rescued" her WWII correspondence with my father from the attic of our family home, since my family members over the years have been more than a bit careless about preserving photos, documents, and the like. I did this surreptitiously, and shipped the whole collection to myself from Ohio to the West Coast. And now I don't know what to do with these dozens and dozens of letters. Maybe my siblings would be angry if they knew what I've done, maybe they wouldn't care. Sometimes I think of asking one of my nieces if she would like to have the letters. Sometimes I think I should burn them ceremoniously. A self-created dilemma.
X.P. you've saved something valuable. In your careful hands, these letters could become a new conversation. I love your erasure poems. . . might these letters spark a new project for you? Especially now, as we're about to enter a time that's destined to be turbulent and harsh politically, civilly, inter-personally. . . There will be so much shouting--maybe we need something quieter. . ?
Your words are encouragement. Mix the ingredients for poetry that remains below sea level. I have been to the bottom and swam on top. Kindred kind that leap through the woods. Enough for now.
Love it 🤣
Thank you, Simone :)
I do remember something similar when l was in my final year of high school in 1983. Thought l was smart and had cleaned up until, the following morning, my mother pointed out the handprint of vomit l had left on the cistern before putting down a meat pie for breakfast, with a glass of wine and cream puff. Glad my parents got a laugh out of 🤣🤣🤣🤣
and at 16! the marvelous mysteries of the muse who inhabits each of us
Thanks Douglas
I love how you elevate the puking of poetry.
Amen, brother.
I lived through a few similarly miserable mornings like this one--though I could not have written such a fine poem at that age! How old were you when you wrote your first poem, Jonathan?
Around the time I turned 16 I had a girlfriend who lived two hours away. I drove there whenever I could but we also wrote a lot of letters and that’s what got me started. Her assessment was, “You’re no Shakespeare, but you’re not bad.” The end of the relationship and the opportunity for letter writing may have been what prompted starting the journal. And that coincided with discovering e.e. cummings.
How lovely! I still have all the letters my husband and I exchanged way back when he was away at college and I was still in high school. They’re full of longing and innuendo. I better burn them before the kids find them.
OMG. After my mother died, I "rescued" her WWII correspondence with my father from the attic of our family home, since my family members over the years have been more than a bit careless about preserving photos, documents, and the like. I did this surreptitiously, and shipped the whole collection to myself from Ohio to the West Coast. And now I don't know what to do with these dozens and dozens of letters. Maybe my siblings would be angry if they knew what I've done, maybe they wouldn't care. Sometimes I think of asking one of my nieces if she would like to have the letters. Sometimes I think I should burn them ceremoniously. A self-created dilemma.
X.P. you've saved something valuable. In your careful hands, these letters could become a new conversation. I love your erasure poems. . . might these letters spark a new project for you? Especially now, as we're about to enter a time that's destined to be turbulent and harsh politically, civilly, inter-personally. . . There will be so much shouting--maybe we need something quieter. . ?
Thank you, Ann. You’ve given me something to think about.
It's a quandary for sure. What to keep, what to toss, how to preserve what you decide to keep. I'm impressed by your sneakiness.
The days of wine and glory
The chug a lug club
And sloe gin
That speeds up as you drink
Yes , how to even spell hangover
The next day?
Fantastic lines, Richard -- thank you.
Your words are encouragement. Mix the ingredients for poetry that remains below sea level. I have been to the bottom and swam on top. Kindred kind that leap through the woods. Enough for now.
This is great
Thank you Bliss
Enjoying the young Jonathan too.
Thank you, Monica
not only cool writing but such neat cursive, wow...!
Indeed. Just this morning, in another context, I was praising Jonathan for his penmanship.
Thanks, Broo -- soon to be a lost art, I guess ... alas
Prodigy.
Nigh unto!
One to remember.
Thanks, Ron
“now then is done and when's again”
This line’s rhythm and sound alone is so powerful. (I’m so glad to have had a peak at the 16-year-old Jonathan Potter*•*)
Thank you, Mahdi, I appreciate your zeroing in on that