I've been writing poetry lately

I've been writing poetry again lately, a return to my youngest writing self, some of it better than others -- and this, below, not my best. But, it's a clear and accessible poem which I'm finding I personally love lately -- something I've grown to appreciate more and more in poetry: clearness and accessibility.

Those who didn't know me when I was young, who know me from my books, may be surprised by this seeming veer toward poetry, but it's not a veer so much as a circle, and, of course, if you're paying attention, my spare prose in my published books is often more poem than dense writing (plus there is the "bird girl" from The Memory of Things who presents herself in free verse; and the whole novel in verse I just completed and was recently given a nod of approval by my agent).

So for example, this moment in my forthcoming JACK KEROUAC IS DEAD TO ME, the words in this moment, most definitely arising like a bit of poetry in my brain (and this being one of my favorite moments):

What if, instead, it had been simply arranged like this...

I liked how it felt,
to be
out of control,
a moth on a carnival ride
ready to be swept off by
the wind

At any rate, here is a poem I wrote this morning, first rough draft, totally raw and unedited* (which would need to be done after a period of walking away to truly glean what I want from it), but I am going to attempt, as I cut and paste it, to leave it that way, as I am also finding at this point in my poetry life -- coming from years of manuscript writing -- there's a big danger in overwriting. Also, you might note that this poem is part of a daily practice/writing exercise I am doing with my dear friend, and extraordinary artist/poet/photographer Lori Landau, where we each draw a line or more of inspiration from the other's prior poem. The line from her poem was "... We will find a way to dance through this darkness. . . "

Dancing Through Darkness (David Byrne, Tell Me How)

Last week, I watched you

singing and dancing through darkness,

your wild and iconic limbs alternating between

flailing and chopping 

your essence both

robotic and 

infinitely 

fluid,
your presence, electric

and electrifying.

And

I

believed.

I believed we can be

both broken 

and

hopeful,

both bleeding and

staunched,

both parched and 

bloated with artandsonganddance and the

incessantcontagiousrhythmof

per cus sion. 

I believed that light and movement and balance 

and unfiltered abandon

could both ignite

and set us (me)

free.

And, yet

(and, yet) now,

for five whole days, I have stood

paralyzed,

rhythmless,

and 

hurting,

newsfeed open,

blank “page”

impenetrable,

impenetrable,

impenetrable,

words 

absent, 

(goddamned absent)

glare of white screen

worse

than

all the

darkness.


*yep, I did make a few small edits after pasting. Mostly spacing/form edits.

To Dream, Quiet or Extreme: Inspiration is Contagious, a Thank You

I've spent the past two days obsessively following Diana Nyad as she made her fourth attempt to be the first person to swim without a shark tank the 103 miles from Havana to Key West.

You heard me: 103 miles.

She didn't make it.

I know she cares, but I don't.

She swam in shark and jellyfish infested waters for over 51 hrs, no wetsuit.

Oh, and did I mention tomorrow is her 63rd birthday?

Diana, swimming through her second night in shark and jelly-filled waters.

Me, a few summers ago,
trying out my new wetsuit

This Saturday, I attempt my first five-mile swim. And, yes, it seems piddly next to such an accomplishment.

I have to remind myself that it is an accomplishment. That merely two summers ago, I was fearful of the unknown -- of even stepping in.

And that I barely finished my first 5K.

Honestly, a 5K is easy for me now. A no-brainer. I do them -- or close -- on my own (with Pod friends) recreationally now, all the time.

But there's a big difference between a 5K and 5 miles (er, 2 miles, to be almost exact).

Still, absent some unforseen circumstance (weather, cramps, bites (um)) I have no doubt I will make it.

In fact, I'm both excited and already feeling like it's not enough.



And, yes, I know that last sentence might be a bit skewed, but it is me. It is how I feel.



Me, this summer in mynon-wetsuit longsuit

Maybe it's not always the best way to be, but it also keeps me striving.

It's the voice that pushes me to try new things and do more.

Do I want (need) to swim 103 miles? No, of course not (well, not yet ;)), but I do want to keep pushing myself. I don't want to become complacent.

And I do want to be brave.

And bravery hasn't always been my strongsuit.

So, thank god for Diana.

She's a personal hero.

She's a constant source of inspiration.

She's proof that age is just a number; that you can always
dream big and do more.

- gae

*not sure of exact mileage. Will amend when I find out. It's over 50... I think close to 55.

Obsessed!

Me, underwater.

This is me. In the water. Like you know I like it.

Over the past three years, I've become a fairly obsessive swimmer. I've done some things I'm pretty proud of, like became an open water swimmer at age 45, swam a 5K (against current), and made a second 3.2 mile swim with a friend. Like plunged into waters not much more than 53 degrees, swam with jellyfish and bunkerfish and other such unmentionables that got stuck down my bathingsuit and stung up my back. I'm not the bravest girl in the world (check out my first few open water swim posts, here if you want to see how far I've come:  http://gpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/05/do-something-new.html,  http://gpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/06/conquer-and-fail-but-more-conquer-than.html, http://gpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/06/to-fresh-water-or-salt-water.html,    http://gpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/06/lure-of-body-parts-and-kissing-baby.html), but I've pushed myself in ways I never thought I could. I was never much of an athlete, now I sort of am.

Me, center, coming out of the water
with the girls.

My goal this summer is still to swim 5 miles. It may be this summer, it may be next, depending on who I can get to go with me (and finding a boat-safe route).

I've been relatively proud of myself. I mean, after all, these are pretty cool things. 

But, man oh man, how we push ourselves is all relative. A few weeks ago, a fellow POD member sent us an email about Diana Nyad. If you don't know who she is, you should. I've become pretty obsessed with her, if you must know. Especially if you're over the age of 40, you should spend a minute checking her out, because I'm telling you right now, she can change how you view middle age.

At 61, Diana is poised to swim 103 miles from Cuba to Florida through shark and poisonous jellyfish infested waters. Without a wetsuit, without a shark cage and without rest. At least, she's poised to try. That's 60+ hours in the ocean. Not the little harbor off the cozy Long Island Sound where I swim, people! That's a whole different roiling ball of water.

I swim for an hour or two,
then have a nice little shower.

By the end of the swim, her tongue will be swollen, her skin will be salted and stung raw, and she will be suffering pretty badly from hypothermia. And, of course, that doesn't factor the sharks. . .

To "warm up" for the swim (which is about to start any day -- she's waiting for water temperatures to settle at 86 degrees) she did a 24-hr ocean swim. She's set records before. All her life. She doesn't need to do this again. But she wants to keep pushing herself to try.

For her sake, I hope she makes it all the way; for my sake, it doesn't matter at all. Finish or not, she's already inspired me. With every stroke I take, with every mostly-innocuous jellyfish that slips through my fingers as I swim.

Cheering you on, Diana! Thank you.

- gae

inspiration and small signs

I blogged about them here: http://ghpolisner.blogspot.com/2010/10/inspiration-and-signs.html.

-gae

To Fresh Water or Salt Water . . .?

. . . that is the new question.


Why, you ask? (yes, you did, come on...).

Well, as some of you know, I have embarked on a new activity, doing "open water" swims with a great group of water-loving crazies from my area. It has been an exhilarating, if at times frustrating, challenge.

Though personally satisfying to me to see I can bring myself (not exactly your hardy-Survivor-type soul) to brave the elements -- cold (COLD!) water, mating horseshoe crabs one must trip over to get to the deep water, and the recent appearance of jellyfish, not to mention all the "things" I cannot see beneath the brackish water (though my fisherman-friend tells me there are any number of biting, 10-pound+ things that are likely swimming along with me just waiting for me to unwittingly happen into what he lovingly (?) refers to as a feeding frenzy) and, yes, those pesky swans -- I have, to date, been the slowest, most-pantingly-breathless member of the group. Still, I've done it. And most people wouldn't, even if those that do are way more kick-ass than I am.

So, here's the problem.

As most of you also know, much of my writing ideas -- plot, character development, those gems of ideas that come to me through what those of us who write often call our mystical, magical, and deeply-desired Muse -- often come to me under water.

And my Muse is pool-water powered. She simply has not acclimated to the harbor.

It's not my Muse's fault.

Because, try as I might, while I'm open-water swimming, there's so much panting and breathing and pushing and kicking and timing and lurking-creature avoiding going on, not to mention the constant spotting of the other swimmers so I don't unwittingly drift off toward Connecticut nor lose sight of the nearly-elusive (but-fuck-you-I-made-it!) yellow buoy, there's no way my poor Muse can come. She's sitting on a blanket in the corner of the beach with a Mai Tai and a story idea just waiting for me to come the fuck in.

Meanwhile, my agent gave me "notes" on my new manuscript and I need to rise to the occasion. And since my option period is running, I pretty much need to do that now. Not to mention the open-water group is doing "causeway" swims this week, which are at least a quarter mile further than the damned nearly-elusive yellow buoy.

So for today, at least, I'm headed toward the chlorine at the Y in search of my pool-loving muse. Let's hope she's waiting for me there.

On acknowledgements

Boy, I wonder if Hillary Clinton knew what a buzz phrase she'd create when she first commented, "It takes a village?"

Of course, the original saying comes from the title of her book, which itself came from an African proverb.
But, IMHO, the statement also fits the act of writing a good book. Or, at least, a good book that sells.

As I find myself getting closer to the time I'll have to write acknowledgements for The Pull of Gravity, I find myself faced with an ever-growing list of the people who have helped me over the years. From early readers of OTHER manuscripts who encouraged me to keep writing, to early readers of this manuscript who helped me hone this particular story; from family members who believed in me, to my husband who went out every day to earn our main living so that I could sit home and write a majority of the time; from my kids who inspire me every day, to other people's kids who helped me with bits of information to make the voice more authentic or the title sing; from my first agent who may have ultimately failed me in some regards, and did not sell the book for me, but in other regards succeeded in ways that can never be forgotten, like believing in me enough to want to take me on and try to sell my writing (putting in endless hours without up-front pay trying her best to help me to make my stories more marketable); to my current agent, who takes late night phone calls, weekend emails, and who, in a short time, has taught me so much about how to write a better, more satisfying book. And, to my editor, who will be an integral part of making my book whatever good it is.

So, back to those pesky acknowledgements. Do you list everyone and pray you don't leave somebody out, or do you make a blanket statement and hope that those who you appreciate know it; and that you know it takes a village?