On "Jennifer K. Dick and Laura Mullen in Conversation"

What is this?

You tell me that influence is a disease that strengthens the very ground of poetry and writing; that teaches us to believe in the words, if stollen or borrowed or used in conjunction with influenza? And here I worry that words are lost because they've been stollen away from me!

Such a strange thought...

But your wisdoms and influence are so boundless in such short conversation, so profound in deep introspection, so continuous in jealous understanding. How can I dare to reiterate what you have just delivered with clarity and profundity? The harshest and most truthful is the influence, the disease, of teachers inspiring and molding and manipulating youthful, ambitious, creative writers to relinquish individuality in favor of understanding the 'Greats' of any era!

I shall say 'NO!' as you tell me. I will not change my letters to better help your comprehension of something I don't even understand properly (BECAUSE IT CAME IN FREE, doubtless as my fingers fly across the keyboard creating something my mind wants to reveal for myself). And then the critic appears jealously, attempting to find some semblance of flow in the very digital codes so clearly distinguished on the screen (YOU'RE READING THEM!) and tells us of what he doesn't understand. That's the danger, allowing him to sneer down his fingers at the texts of our minds.

But then the influence comes full circle. Can we ever escape it? And should we ever try? Influence is a barrage of symbols piercing the veil we hold over our minds like an iron chest-plate. It doesn't fit, and the holes show more brightly when continuously jilted by critics saying "Tolkien was his only influence, and he falls short of that brilliance."

And thus we let the influence in, because we can't avoid it. It is truth, and should be treated as treasures, however used!

Alone (Abstract Poetry)

Own alone
heaping-heaping cyclone
one bone   clack     fish
spite in cherished ire
One!
Gun Fun dumbing none
the Great on hill farther gone
wolfing air: babble brook beating bales -
hornblow like lady Bourgogne -
Alone own allure
airless candle flame
one -- breathless
coward only gurggle gasssp
shuddering howl harolding
loneliness - yellow.

Alone
it falls, rain; crackling dish
Define: all one own none --
sunflower eye surrounding bright
the pit of dusk
Alone.

'1'

Wrong. It feels wrong and unknown. The primary constant bleeding into every aspect of life: 1. Proof instantaneously shadowed with fallacy, contrary to the natural philosophy defining structure from a basis. It all starts from 1, not none.

We start from 1, alone, ourselves, and struggle to add another; however, wherever, whenever possible. We try to prove 1=1=2 in a system of emotional equations. We derive 2 from examples around us, viewing integrals without seeing the complex variables churning tired days. Suddenly we find it, the one equation to put 'x' and 'y' together - and somehow it works. The contours mesh beautifully, dividing 2 from the pool and calculating life at the speed of life, diving up, shooting down, spiraling in sinusoidal curves form 1 to 1 with the frequency of 2 heartbeats.

Light eventually penetrates the constants and reveals the imperfection; but it can work. To be as 2 when 1=1=2 creates life for others, blooms hope in the eyes, shatters mountain at the climax. Don't we want it? Don't we crave it? Don't we see imagination driving pictures down the spine to groins where that god walks ahead of us? Or when they spread their legs to access passion, to feel again, to scratch the humdrum and fire explosions into a starry night?

Wrong. What happens when the functions degrade? Hope tells us to work, to dig deeper, push harder, cry less; and then we'll find the top, screaming with victory for killing darkness. The speed of light equals the wavelength times the frequency. Love equals the brightness of truth times the extremes of sine. Truth is directly proportional to the limits, growing exponentially or diminishing with experience.

My world fell to the weight of that exponent. The dip fell, the high disappeared, the slope was too cracked. I was wrong, and now its 1 is truth in lonesome valleys where cries echo between the stark boulders of reality plummeting to a shaded river leading to infinity. The curves of my graph, explained on the dimensions of 1=1=2 has ceased on that plane and shifted to 1=1 without coordinates with the other. 1 feels wrong.

But 1 is properly illuminated as necessary in life. We start at 1, born to find an other somewhere with likeness. Uncertainty is bleak, but the river goes on to the ocean in the end, leading to white shores with magical reverie. Bounds breathe heavily, when opposing the norm, and embrace 1 as fact if ever fallacy were right. Singularity is enigma, and defines the inner beauty sought within duality.

We Wait in Patient Circumstance

we wait in patient circumstance
listen to clouds falling
white over brown     a masking
brushes overlaying imperfection
willingness to speak passes
voids accentuate delicate vibrations
wanting fearing needing to say more
the silence tears through snow
words churn deep into the woods
roots run backward     solutions obscure
what trees know over eons
patiently being unknown of continuums
without once speaking to ears
dig deep     reveal gold     audible truth
wretched doubts transform
footing weakens in the snow
while verity soddens eyes with time
the phone goes to sleep
wearing a lie of contentment
resolutions are known of the future
where impossible heaps will blow to peace
and we will know each other below
wet snow     muddy earth     hidden forests
into the heart of our world

Colors

Do colors change?
     shifting
          sliding
               insinuating something more?
My door seems more brown,
     as if honest
          validating
               seen for the first time.
Light pierces the bluish window.
     It pushes
          shoves
               clings to its yellow-whiteness.
Flames consume behind my eyelids
     flushing raindrops
          cascading
               fuming my gasps with iridescence.
And me... What color am I?
     burning
          shuttered
               clinging to something known.

Mora

I'm afraid to be
just me -- but I must remain
moratorium

Sound

Sub lime tarten moth
Fly Verse- a tale intra ski
Broke in art: freeing.

The Feeling

Fear is my driver
I'm trying to take Control.
Control drives my Fear.

Really?

"No Food.
"No Drink.
"No Smoking."

When did Food and Drink become as undesirable as smoking? Fortunately, no one agreed. Drink is bountiful.

Anniversary!

One year ago my life changed. My perspective about writing shifted so dramatically that, for a moment, I believed I would never accomplish my dreams and feared the inevitable rejections that are sure to come from many agents and publication houses. I am, perhaps, still afraid of the unknown responses I will receive from sending out my manuscript, but that's not what my focus has been over the past year.

Aside from the necessities of life (school, work, relationships, etc.), I have been primarily focused on A Writer's Landscape. A year ago today, I posted my first blog and began an interesting journey of self-realization. Looking back over these many posts, I've noticed several things:

~ I really do enjoy writing poetry (which is a good thing because I'm not in a poetry class!)
~ When life is strenuous, I lay off my writing. This is an unfortunate side effect of stressful schedules and hardships.
~ I dive into something so intensely for a while, and then abandon it quite abruptly. Examples are my Haiku and "The Changed Earth." I can't decide if this is a good thing or if I need to focus more. On one hand, I get to experience and work with many different genres. On the other hand, I might leave things unfinished.
~ I am writing more now than I ever have in my life.

Lets see... Shall we analyze the statistics of my blog? The easiest one to show is what I've actually written. I made a commitment (several times) to write a blog for every day of the year. This would accumulate to 365 blogs. Unfortunately I didn't quite make it to this beautiful number. However, I did write 249 blogs in 1 year, bringing my 'grade' to a 68.2%. Is this good or bad? I feel like it's an accomplishment for me! This year, perhaps, I can break 70% and hit at least 75% of my goal (which still stands at 1 a day for a year since I didn't really manage to complete this commitment).

On another front, my Facebook fan-page currently has 251 fans. This is about half of the number I want before I start courting an agent. Of these 251 fans, approximately 120 of them are 'active users' of my fan-page, which I believe means they at least read my posts and/or look at my fan-page. The only saddening thing about my fan-page is how little anyone uses the discussion boards. I think one of my new goals is to refocus the discussions and get my fans to be more active on them! I want to discuss my work. I want to dive into what I write (cause sometime's my words are very subconscious and I don't really know what's going on in the verse).

Finally, my statcounter, which is clever and creepy, informs me that the average time spent on my blog is approximately 2:31 minutes (given the last six months worth of data). I've watched this number rise and fall and stabilize. At one point, I was down to 1 minute. I felt tragically demoralized; but I figured there are a lot of look-i-loos who just happen to stumble upon my blog and aren't looking for literature. I hope the time starts to rise again. Six months ago the average was 8 minutes. That was a beautiful number! The longest stay on my blog, which I think I have to thank Chad for, was 45 minutes (according to my stat-websites). WOOHOO! I like the look of that. (LOVE YOU). And the spread of the viewers has diversified greatly. I don't think there's a region in the United States that doesn't have someone looking at my blog occasionally. Then there are the foreigners as well: Australia, Russia (oddly), Denmark, Canada, Japan, South Korea, and Brazil. I would say this is a good spread, though I'm not sure how they came upon my blog, or whether they stayed for any duration. C'est la vie.

I guess the question before me is: "Where do I want to go from here?"

The answer is a little more complex than I anticipated months ago (when contemplating my blog's big birthday). I want to interact more with you, my readers. I want to know what you want to see. I want to know what you enjoy, what you don't like, what could be improved. I want to talk with you all, and have those conversations be available for others who may stumble upon my creations here. I want to see more active users on my Fan-Page who have questions or want to have discussions about things. I want to write more, and I want to know what you want to read.

However, for myself: I will keep on writing. Seeing as I'm in a poetry class at the moment, I'll be putting up a vast array of poems that we'll be working on. There will also be a lot more critiques of what I'm reading for that class. And as I'm going through a major life change right now, there will be a lot of deep, symbolic things to come (which I know are harder to understand, but that's how I deal with things).

I'm honored and thankful that you're joined me on my journey over the past year! I hope you stick around and continue to find enjoyment in the words I'm writing.

With Much Love and Happiness,

J Hart F

Desire to Walk in the Sun

I wanted to take the bus today; to write and be alone with my music and walk in the sun.

The sun wasn't out. It's not cold, per-se, but the clouds make the air breathe ominously and chillingly. I wanted to take the bus. Winds blew down the mountain. Now I'm happy I didn't, but the emptiness remains.

I stayed in comfort, and drove as always. No music accompanied my way. The thrust of the air tickled my car to the right. Vibrations conjured music from my CD cases shuffling about in the door-wells. Though I knew the route, I still didn't want to take it. I wanted to take the bus, and feel differently along the road.

Now I'm home. The sun peaks between the clouds for a moment. The moon has risen. Writing drives my mind into itself, dancing leaves in whirls of structured vortexes. I see the structure, I predict its direction. Luster and Shadow ignite along the veins of the leaves laughing in the wind. Falling to the ground, they rest in final resolution. My thoughts lie with dune grasses, awaiting springtime innocence to flourish once more.

I wanted to take the bus, so my mind could relax with the sky.

The Idea of Immortality

I've always thought I'd like to live forever. Immortality, I was informed in a textbook years ago, is one of the irrational desires of being human. Recently, however, my mother told me of a short story wherein a guy was truly immortal. He lived past the implosion of the Universe and continued existing (in thought or spirit) in a vacuum of nothingness. He hated his life.

Initially I thought: "Well that's not very Buddhist of him," using my mother's practices as a filter to her story. However, it made me think.

What would I feel if I lived through the violent gravitational fluctuations of a collapsing universe?

What would I think if I were the only thing in known existence? Without any physical means of verification?

Would my very consciousness or spirit be able to create my own Universe in thought, thus introducing a new reality from fantasy and creating a Big Bang.

Could we not be doing this very thing now, given enough thought, focus, and belief? And then we wouldn't be alone, ever; even after the end of known existence. Which brings me to my writing. Logic dictates (ha!) that my imagination is not reality and therefore does not exist in the Universe beyond the impulses in my brain and the words written on paper. I accept that the laws of this Universe are finite given the expectations of existence within the sphere of acceptable standards; but I believe my characters are real whether in my head or the imagination of my readers, or in an alternate Universe spawned simply because I thought it.

This is my first step toward enlightenment, which the character in the aforementioned short story couldn't see: vacuums are defined only by our universe. He couldn't know about everything, lest he be God, and should not doubt his future. Change is a constant. A change would undoubtedly appear for him, and he'll be all the wiser for it.

As for immortality, I now have conditions:
     ~If I could choose to die at anytime,
     ~And if I could stay beautiful and fit!

"I was told"

I was told I get noticed whenever I enter a room.
I don't want to be in the room.
The auditorium stands perfectly symmetrical,
its windows transmitting yellow sunlight.
The shadows obscure the edges, making it beautiful.
It's not symmetrical.