Carved in Stone

As the writer of Ecclesiastes observed centuries ago: "for everything there is a season." Indeed . . . and when it comes to the flow of writing, there are high tides and eddies.  This week was an interesting one in that I had six poems accepted for publication--all to see the light of page at some future date, but I don't know when.

Oscillating between so many different forms--short story, essay, poetry, non-fiction and novel--I've been on an eclectic and hasty journey of late, setting aside one chapter for another, or returning to half-completed work while brushing the finishing coat of lacquer on the old.  As soon as I complete one book, two more rear their ugly heads.

I'm not sure why so much of my poetry received the nod this week . . . but luck has as much to do with it as anything, and I'm grateful to the gods of chance.

I'm beginning to feel like Raymond Carver--the guy who wrote in so many forms and genres--his work not easily defined.  Carver become principally known as a short story writer after his untimely death, but he wrote much, much more.

I've been working on dozens of poems about American writers, and here's one on Carver himself.  Having read the bulk of Carver's short story collections, he is certainly one of the short form masters.  Short . . . just like his life.

Raymond Carver

Reading your words, precise as they are,
I taste each syllable on the tip of my tongue.
You arrived too old to have travelled so far
And departed too late to be so young.