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Posts Tagged ‘writing’

One Odd Gift

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on March 15, 2016| 2 Comments »

 

 

 

calligraphy in the sand—

every time the wind blows

the chance to write more beautifully

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Free Writing Class for Women Tomorrow Night in Telluride

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on February 9, 2015| 2 Comments »

Heart in Hand
Tuesday, February 10
Going Out, Going In: Sneak Peak

Wilkinson Public Library, 6-8 p.m.
Telluride, CO

First, we play. That is the premise of the four-day art and writing retreat I will be teaching with artist Brucie Holler. So as a teaser for our retreat at Ah Haa, this sneak peak program is chance to be light with yourself, with your inner critic, and with other women who are interested in words. Nothing serious. Nothing intimidating. We’ll read fun and funny poems by other women, and write a few, too … it’s a great gift to give to yourself, and it’s free! For more information, go to http://www.telluridelibrary.org/ or contact Elissa at the library, 970-728-4519 x147 or edickson@telluridelibrary.org .

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Eight

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , on January 10, 2012| 6 Comments »

did it just start to
sing, that brown bird, or did I
just start to listen?

*

a night of fretting,
but the day comes in with a
cartwheel

*

that letter so much
more precious now that I
have lost it

*

once I took all the
books off the shelves, God arrived
with a blank page

*

today
the leaf just
a leaf

*

no pillow tonight!
the poem just grabbed a drum
and crooked its finger

*

but I don’t know how
to fly, I said, and God said,
start by falling

*

still cupped in my hands
this song hummed to me
seven years ago

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Note to Self

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on November 22, 2011| 1 Comment »



Even night is not night enough.
—Franz Kafka, in a letter to Felice, his fiancé, 1913.

When even the night
is not night enough
nor does salt seem
salt enough, and the hole
in the looming who am I
is enormous,
but not enormous enough
to gulp down the damn ego whole,
perhaps that is the time
to sit very still
and forget about writing.
There is nothing,
nothing the words
can do then except
not enough because
nothing is enough,
which is to say
only nothing
is enough, and perhaps
in that inadequate night
we are sufficiently vulnerable
to really know nothing.

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