Morton Marcus, my first professor of literature
As a young adult my introduction to the American short story and literature in general came through respected American Poet, Morton Marcus. Discussing fiction and poetry became a daily part of my life due to the spark Marcus shared in his courses and his introductions of American poets at Cabrillo College readings.
Morton Marcus ran lively, up-to-the-minute modern poetry readings. I remember many of the guest poets and writers, which included Robert Bly, Gary Snyder, James D. Houston, and Al Young. Morton Marcus had many ideas on poetry. To read some of them visit Morton Marcus Website page Ideas On Poetry.
Poetry feeds the soul
I love this poem by Charles Bukowski, Writing, which The Daily Post on WordPress reprinted on June 13, 2014. Please read it below at the end of this post, which grows longer with each edit.
Writing friends please read, and share this poetry and post with friends who face the blank page each day…either half empty or half full.
Garden fountain writer’s retreat
Lately, music and lyrics bring me closer to the core of my being that needs to sing, to write new stories, and sit by the fountain in our garden. As I sit, and feel the empty spaces in me, all manner of birds visit the flowers and fountain. Hummingbirds, green-tailed towhees, robins, house sparrows, wild canaries, red-winged blackbirds, California blue scrub jays, mourning doves, plus an assortment of finches.
When all else lies quietly sending out roots, I run fingers over the keyboard or reflect in old journals, filled with favorite fragments of poetry like the lines below.
- It is pure and
- intense play,
so it is like pure and intense life,
so it is like pure and intense fire.
You’ll see the coal burning.”
Antonio Machado from Times Alone
In Segovia, I took a photograph honoring Machado outside a theatre where his plays appeared. I still keep copies of his Times Alone and other translations of his work from Spanish into English.
Stay tuned. Coming up more Machado poetry and a few of my photographs of Segovia.
often it is the only
between you and
no woman’s love,
nothing can save
it keeps the walls
the hordes from
it blasts the
writing is the
god of all the
it knows no
it is the last
Charles Bukowski, “Writing.”