Monday, April 14, 2014

Excerpt From the Memoir Corpses Rarely Wander


*Excerpt from the memoir, Corpses Rarely Wander: How I Became a Loveless, Trailer Park Nomadabout growing up in a trailer park, leaving home early, then wandering around, navigating the many faces of the American dream. 







It was 1993, I was nineteen, and I wanted to be Jack Kerouac. At the time, I was just a girl stuck in a trailer in West Virginia, but I wanted to take over the hobo cars on every train. I wanted to do yoga headstands in the hobo car and then mix together water and powdered milk before I fell asleep on the shaking platform, the ground spiraling away from the edge. I’d just read On the Road for the first time, the whole book in one night. I sat on my mattress on the floor, playing the same Counting Crows tape until dawn when I closed the book. The window was open, my mouth hung open, and I didn’t know who I was anymore.
The next night, as soon as I got home, I walked to my room and picked up the book. I pulled out my red sleeping bag and spent some time rifling through the living room closet to find a flashlight. I walked back out to the front porch of the trailer and sat down with the red sleeping bag wrapped around me, picked up the book, and started again from the first page.
The flashlight was dim. I was a hobo on my porch. I was alive, which meant I wasn’t yet dead. These ideas of aliveness and deadness had consumed me since my father and grandfather had died three years before. Since my mother had become bed-ridden with illness, and I’d broken my back in a car accident. I propped the book on my legs. My legs full of flowing blood and not yet rotting. This obsession had taken an active turn in my brain lately, and that night, even though I was just a girl living in a corrugated tin box, I was another Kerouac. The full knowledge of my mortality that I was sitting with gave me the yearning grew to leave, to travel, to overthrow my past with a continual present. (The moon. The moon. The road. The road. Other states. Other countries. Other afterlives.) I ate the idea of perpetual movement and perpetual leaving and meeting and letting go. Letting go of past offenses, of a divine punisher, of propriety.
I could see my grandmother’s bedroom light shining past the trees and past the creek. I imagined her sitting on her bed with her floral housedress bunched around her heavily veined legs. Blue interstate roads connecting with each other, carrying her insulin deficient blood all around the globe of her round body.  I wondered if she was perched in front of the window facing toward our trailer holding a set of binoculars that she kept beside her bed. As far as I knew, this was a new habit. For weeks, I wondered how she knew to call the house the minute I came home from wherever I had been. It started after I moved back to our town of 1,000 inhabitants from college 3 ½ hours away, where I had, in fact, been “sinning” by way of beers drunk and boys lasciviously kissed.
The shift in me over the previous year was obvious. I looked different. I probably talked differently. And most of all, I stopped going to church. I stopped bowing my head for prayer at the lunch Nanny made after church every Sunday. She and the rest of my family wanted to know what was going on, and I couldn’t blame them. When I was present, I was met with uncomfortable silence. When I wasn’t present, I would find out I had been the topic of conversation. Later, I understood that they felt I was abandoning them by abandoning our old, shared values. My deep love for them made my hurt deeper. Their deep love for me made their hurt deeper, even though it didn’t seem that way then. And, oh, there’s so much more for me to explain about these delicate family matters that isn’t for me to speak here. Suffice it to say that for many years, a dark veil dropped between us that our love couldn’t get around, and they went on living together as they had before I’d arrived, and I went out on my own. All of us feeling disowned. Deep wounds were created that didn’t even begin to find voice for another twelve years. Until then, we more or less lost touch.
In the meantime, I was getting more and more upset about the notion of being watched. Isn’t that part of the reason I gave up the idea of religion? To get rid of the idea of a remote figure watching and judging my every move? The haphazard freedom Kerouac described was giving me itchy feet and an itchy soul.
I fingered through the old edition of On the Road that I found at a used bookstore. I couldn’t stop reading even though the light of the flashlight was dimming as the battery lost juice. I was getting so into it, jazzing right along that soon I found myself all wired up with nowhere to put the energy. I hopped up and paced the porch like the slats were the streets of New York, and I prowled the porch like my body was a 1940’s car and the slats were the yellow lines of the cross-country interstate. I was yass yassing. I was talking to myself. I was feeling madly in love with the night and with the possibility of freedom. For the first time, I had something of a choice about my level of misery. I thought I might try for not miserable this time.
I couldn’t remove this vision that was in the back of my mind of my wonderful grandmother who took me in when I left home sitting across the old junkyard/ trees/ creek with her binoculars. I loved her floral housedresses and round body. I loved this woman and wanted her to love me. No, I thought.  I love her, but I won’t sacrifice myself. Instinctively, I stood up, grasped the bottom edge of my shirt and faced her house. I lifted the bottom of the fabric and yanked it over my head, my chest bare underneath. I raised my arms out to the side forming a cross and threw my head back. I hoped she was looking. I wanted her to see that I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t guilty. That she could look as hard as she wanted, but she would never again look at me and see a body polluted with the notion of sin. My pure naked breasts lifted and fell. I loved my grandmother, and I wanted her to accept the naked truth of who I was becoming.
When I calmed down, I settled back into my sleeping bag and kept reading. Soon my flashlight went out, but I wasn’t done with my adventure. I put on my shirt, grabbed the book and walked around the front of the trailer to the car Lena and I briefly shared. I needed to move, and I drove out of the trailer park and onto the road. I had just gotten my license a year before that and driving was, all by itself, an exhilarating act.
I drove fast through the corkscrew roads. Crickets and frogs attacked the damp air with chirps. The good ole momma old timey hills of West Virginny were kind hills. They snuggled into the dark. I felt deeply alone. Not only was I estranged from my family, but I didn’t know if I believed in true love anymore. Was destined to be alone, I felt. What I wanted was something mythical. I wanted something like a plump fruit that I could eat off the vine, full of sun and rich juices. I wanted a person like a fruit. Alive. With the heart like a second fruit and even more succulent than the fruit body. That’s all. Was that too much to ask? A fruit within a fruit? I wanted a love that could be tasted. Savored. Made love to with my mouth, or my mind, or the ocean of my body. But I had no faith in such things. I’d never seen anything in the world like what I wanted. I was alone. I wanted to be alone. The idea of hoping for such things was like jumping to my death. And it was a long windy fall with a messy ending.
The air was thick as sap. After about fifteen minutes, I pulled into a little patch of gravel off the road where the railroad tracks followed the river. First, I sat with the car light on reading, but then I had to go go go, and I hopped out of the car to make my way to the train tracks. My feet stomped through wet grass and twigs. I had no idea what I would do if a train came. My chest was all jumping and fluttering around at the thought of hopping one of those great steel cars. I wanted to ride through Memphis. I wanted to yell a hallo to the Mississippi River. I wanted to sleep in the great rocking cradle as mother clicked and clacked me safely past butterflies and smoke stacks. I wanted every part of me to be different than it had been. And I wanted everything else to change, too. I wanted a wheel to be more than a wheel. I wanted a gas
I was nineteen, and I wanted to be Jack Kerouac. At the time, I was just a girl stuck in a trailer in West Virginia, but I wanted to take over the hobo cars on every train. I wanted to do yoga headstands in the hobo car and then mix together water and powdered milk before I fell asleep on the shaking platform, the ground spiraling away from the edge. I’d just read On the Road for the first time, the whole book in one night. I sat on my mattress on the floor, playing the same Counting Crows tape until dawn when I closed the book. The window was open, my mouth hung open, and I didn’t know who I was anymore.
The next night, as soon as I got home, I walked to my room and picked up the book. I pulled out my red sleeping bag and spent some time rifling through the living room closet to find a flashlight. I walked back out to the front porch of the trailer and sat down with the red sleeping bag wrapped around me, picked up the book, and started again from the first page.
The flashlight was dim. I was a hobo on my porch. I was alive, which meant I wasn’t yet dead. These ideas of aliveness and deadness had consumed me since my father and grandfather had died three years before. Since my mother had become bed-ridden with illness, and I’d broken my back in a car accident. I propped the book on my legs. My legs full of flowing blood and not yet rotting. This obsession had taken an active turn in my brain lately, and that night, even though I was just a girl living in a corrugated tin box, I was another Kerouac. The full knowledge of my mortality that I was sitting with gave me the yearning grew to leave, to travel, to overthrow my past with a continual present. (The moon. The moon. The road. The road. Other states. Other countries. Other afterlives.) I ate the idea of perpetual movement and perpetual leaving and meeting and letting go. Letting go of past offenses, of a divine punisher, of propriety.
I could see my grandmother’s bedroom light shining past the trees and past the creek. I imagined her sitting on her bed with her floral housedress bunched around her heavily veined legs. Blue interstate roads connecting with each other, carrying her insulin deficient blood all around the globe of her round body.  I wondered if she was perched in front of the window facing toward our trailer holding a set of binoculars that she kept beside her bed. As far as I knew, this was a new habit. For weeks, I wondered how she knew to call the house the minute I came home from wherever I had been. It started after I moved back to our town of 1,000 inhabitants from college 3 ½ hours away, where I had, in fact, been “sinning” by way of beers drunk and boys lasciviously kissed.
The shift in me over the previous year was obvious. I looked different. I probably talked differently. And most of all, I stopped going to church. I stopped bowing my head for prayer at the lunch Nanny made after church every Sunday. She and the rest of my family wanted to know what was going on, and I couldn’t blame them. When I was present, I was met with uncomfortable silence. When I wasn’t present, I would find out I had been the topic of conversation. Later, I understood that they felt I was abandoning them by abandoning our old, shared values. My deep love for them made my hurt deeper. Their deep love for me made their hurt deeper, even though it didn’t seem that way then. And, oh, there’s so much more for me to explain about these delicate family matters that isn’t for me to speak here. Suffice it to say that for many years, a dark veil dropped between us that our love couldn’t get around, and they went on living together as they had before I’d arrived, and I went out on my own. All of us feeling disowned. Deep wounds were created that didn’t even begin to find voice for another twelve years. Until then, we more or less lost touch.
In the meantime, I was getting more and more upset about the notion of being watched. Isn’t that part of the reason I gave up the idea of organized religion to discover my own kind of god or not god? To get rid of the idea of a remote figure watching and judging my every move? The haphazard freedom Kerouac described was giving me itchy feet and an itchy soul.
I fingered through the old edition of On the Road that I found at a used bookstore. I couldn’t stop reading even though the light of the flashlight was dimming as the battery lost juice. I was getting so into it, jazzing right along that soon I found myself all wired up with nowhere to put the energy. I hopped up and paced the porch like the slats were the streets of New York, and I prowled the porch like my body was a 1940’s car and the slats were the yellow lines of the cross-country interstate. I was yass yassing. I was talking to myself. I was feeling madly in love with the night and with the possibility of freedom. For the first time, I had something of a choice about my level of misery. I thought I might try for not miserable this time.
I couldn’t remove this vision that was in the back of my mind of my wonderful grandmother who took me in when I left home sitting across the old junkyard/ trees/ creek with her binoculars. I loved her floral housedresses and round body. I loved this woman and wanted her to love me. No, I thought.  I love her, but I won’t sacrifice myself. Instinctively, I stood up, grasped the bottom edge of my shirt and faced her house. I lifted the bottom of the fabric and yanked it over my head, my chest bare underneath. I raised my arms out to the side forming a cross and threw my head back. I hoped she was looking. I wanted her to see that I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t guilty. That she could look as hard as she wanted, but she would never again look at me and see a body polluted with the notion of sin. My pure naked breasts lifted and fell. I loved my grandmother, and I wanted her to accept the naked truth of who I was becoming.
When I calmed down, I settled back into my sleeping bag and kept reading. Soon my flashlight went out, but I wasn’t done with my adventure. I put on my shirt, grabbed the book and walked around the front of the trailer to the car Lena and I briefly shared. I needed to move, and I drove out of the trailer park and onto the road. I had just gotten my license a year before that and driving was, all by itself, an exhilarating act.
I drove fast through the corkscrew roads. Crickets and frogs attacked the damp air with chirps. The good ole momma old timey hills of West Virginny were kind hills. They snuggled into the dark. I felt deeply alone. Not only was I estranged from my family, but I didn’t know if I believed in true love anymore. Was destined to be alone, I felt. What I wanted was something mythical. I wanted something like a plump fruit that I could eat off the vine, full of sun and rich juices. I wanted a person like a fruit. Alive. With the heart like a second fruit and even more succulent than the fruit body. That’s all. Was that too much to ask? A fruit within a fruit? I wanted a love that could be tasted. Savored. Made love to with my mouth, or my mind, or the ocean of my body. But I had no faith in such things. I’d never seen anything in the world like what I wanted. I was alone. I wanted to be alone. The idea of hoping for such things was like jumping to my death. And it was a long windy fall with a messy ending.
The air was thick as sap. After about fifteen minutes, I pulled into a little patch of gravel off the road where the railroad tracks followed the river. First, I sat with the car light on reading, but then I had to go go go, and I hopped out of the car to make my way to the train tracks. My feet stomped through wet grass and twigs. I had no idea what I would do if a train came. My chest was all jumping and fluttering around at the thought of hopping one of those great steel cars. I wanted to ride through Memphis. I wanted to yell a hallo to the Mississippi River. I wanted to sleep in the great rocking cradle as mother clicked and clacked me safely past butterflies and smoke stacks. I wanted every part of me to be different than it had been. And I wanted everything else to change, too. I wanted a wheel to be more than a wheel. I wanted a gas pump to be more than it ever had been.
No train came. I walked for a while and then walked back. I went home and didn’t even sleep on the porch because the mist was too clammy cold. Fifteen minutes away from home was as far as I got with all that energy. But by god I’d gotten somewheres in my head, I had. As Jack would say. Yass. Yass, by god I had.pump to be more than it ever had been.
No train came. I walked for a while and then walked back. I went home and didn’t even sleep on the porch because the mist was too clammy cold. Fifteen minutes away from home was as far as I got with all that energy. But by god I’d gotten somewheres in my head, I had. As Jack would say. Yass. Yass, by god I had. 


………………..


* You may want to read my memoir from which this excerpt is taken. I highly recommend it! :) You have two options. You may participate in my revolutionary new #PayWhatYouWant option here: http://selz.co/1m4DuAp 

* Or, if you, for some reason prefer to order from Amazon, you have that option. Corpses Rarely Wander: How I Became a Loveless, Trailer Park Nomad, on Kindle here: http://amzn.to/M2eix0
Or in paperback here: https://www.createspace.com/4418318

Why I now offer the Pay What You Want option 

Because, hey, call me a dreamer (no, seriously, call me that), but I'm envisioning a time when the arts involve less commerce and coercion and more support, free will, and inspiration. Simple as that.

Monday, January 20, 2014

NEVER GIVE UP PART I


Sometimes I want to give up. Give up on what, you ask? Well, on ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING, for starters. But more specifically, I'm always cycling through periods where I want to give up on my aspirations and dreams. What are my dreams? My dreams are to make a living on my writing (memoir, plays, poetry, articles, reviews, blogs, a little short fiction) while traveling around as an art and literature loving nomad. Oh, and to do this in a way that's not leaving me living penny to penny as I have done, oh, let's see, yes, that's right, since birth.

But lately, as happens every so often, I want to give up. I find myself curled up in bed, in an alarming state of un-showeredness, watching Netflix rather than doing work. I find myself making lists of things to get done and then aimlessly wandering on Facebook instead, when normally I am an absolute slave to my To Do Lists. I find myself bullying myself and beating myself about the head and shoulders with words such as "Failure." I find myself water boarding myself with my own frustrated tears, which is technically impossible to do, but you get the picture. And, I find myself giving in to all the messages of the outside world that tell me I should just stick to the status quo where it's safe and secure – where one is far less likely to end up dying in the gutter clutching a sack of notebooks and leaking pens.

Everyone's got hopes, aspirations, and dreams – whether that is to travel the world, write a book, become a singer, get a real estate license, put your kids through college, put yourself through college, or just to be able to feed your family three healthy meals a day. OR just to somehow find a sweet piece of happiness in this crazy ole world. 

Everyone hopes, and everyone gives up hope. 

The trick is not that we must require ourselves to stay positive every second of every day and never consider giving up, because that's really, as far as I can tell, an unobtainable goal. The trick is, as soon as is possible, to then turn back around and Give Up On Giving Up. To pull up those boot straps and climb back in that blazing, golden saddle of dreams and possibilities. Now, please note that I'm allowed to spout annoyingly inspirational things such as this because I'm not some millionaire with a $300 hair cut. I'm down here in the trenches wearing long johns and sporting a head of hair that I've been cutting myself for the past 20 years.  

So on to more inspiration spouts.

I've just barely begun my boot straps operation as of yesterday, so I thought I'd share a couple thoughts below to encourage anyone else who is currently languishing in the icy grips of discouragement.

1) Sometimes, the most satisfying way to encourage ourselves is to give encouragement to someone else who needs it, so look around and scout out a person who could use a kind word. They're everywhere.

2) Right now, write down in your day planner one thing that you could do to start moving again toward your goals. What's the one thing that first comes to you as being one strong step you could take today? Now, write that down and set to doing it as soon as possible. Yesterday, I wrote down that I could revise a pitch letter for an article that I was working on. I revised the pitch and then sent it today.

3) If your step is a big step, take a moment and write directly under it all the micro-steps you would need to take to accomplish the big step. Now write one micro-step on each day of the week in the planner. Begin doing the first one now. Today. See, now we're cookin with heat!

4) Here are a few quotes about not giving up to get you stoked:

"When you get into a tight place and everything goes against you, til it seems as though you could not hang on a minute longer, never give up then, for that is just the place and time the tides will turn."

"If you really believe in what you're doing, work hard, take nothing personally, and if something blocks one route, find another. Never give up."
Laurie Notaro

"Never give up. And never, under any circumstances, face the facts." Ruth Gordon

"Never give up. Never give up. Never give up!" Winston Churchill


Finally, I have some vision of people leaving their stories of not giving up in the comments, so please feel free to share that or anything else! Now go forth and prosper, friends, and, you guessed it: Never Give Up!

If you like this post, you may also like:

Never Give Up II (Inspired Version):
http://corpsewander.blogspot.com/2014/02/never-give-up-part-ii-inspired-version.html

Excerpt #1 From my Memoir:

The State of My Union

Why I Decided to Self-Publish and Other Tales of Doom and Angelic Hope






SO YOU WANNA DO THE JIVE TURKEY WITH THE NOMADIC WRITER:



* You may wanna read my memoir about growing up in a trailer park and leaving home early, then wandering around – Corpses Rarely Wander: How I Became a Loveless, Trailer Park Nomad, on Kindle here: http://amzn.to/M2eix0

Or in paperback here: https://www.createspace.com/4418318

Or my Book of Poems about wandering and love – Two Birds and a Wolf, 
on Kindle here: http://amzn.to/1dsMfN8
Or in paperback here: https://www.createspace.com/4409014


* I invite you to follow my blog. Look to the right for options. I've just joined "Networked Blogs," so you can now like me on there to make it easier to follow me. You can also follow by RSS or by email.


* I invite you to join me on FB and Twitter: https://www.facebook.com/CynthiaPolutanWriter


* I LOVE any "Likes"/ FB shares/ Retweets/Google + one's, so I thank you in advance! 






Tuesday, November 5, 2013

NaNoWriMo & 5 Things I've learned While Researching my Medieval Vampire Romance






As many of you know, I write memoir (Impermanent: How I Became a Loveless, Trailer Park Nomad), and poetry (please see the link below for a sample poem), short fiction and plays. I also write blogs, essays, and reviews. I have both a B.A. and M.F.A. in writing. I love to write all manner of things. But I have never in my life written genre fiction of any sort. That's where NaNoWriMo comes in. I'd never heard of National Novel Writing Month before this year. For those of you who are also of an ill-informed nature, NaNoWriMo is a collective that anyone can join where you make a pact with each other to write an entire novel in 30 days. That's minimum of 50,000 words in 30 days, to be exact. But, in any case, as I said, I'd never heard of it. In fact, I continued to never hear of it right up until October 30th, 2013, two days before the writing was supposed to begin, at which point, with nary a hesitation, I signed myself up. Also with nary a hesitation, after asking myself what I would write, I thought, I'll write something I've never written before: a Vampire Romance. After all, I did read a lot of Anne Rice as a teen and last year I became unexpectedly obsessed with The Vampire Diaries. I thought, well, Henry Miller and Anais Nin and countless others made extra money by writing erotica, so why can't I write a Vampire Romance? Staying in one's literary place is so boring! And so, two days later, with some minimum brainstorming (I like to write plot as I go when it comes to fiction), I began.

That is until the next day when I came down with food poisoning. And, on top of that, because of my nomadic house-sitting-in-Northern-New-Mexico ways, I had to clean and pack and drive four hours and unpack and care for animals while sick. Twice. Plus do my other work. All the while, my stomach was performing unspeakable acts of treason against its owner. And, thusly, I am currently 4,500 words behind on my word count. This is troubling. Today, I have a goal of 2,500 words at minimum. 

The one thing about this book is that, about ten minutes after I began writing it, I realized that it was begging to be set in the Middle Ages. So, now I find myself going into research mode two or three times a paragraph. I mean, believe me, it's fun. I have long been a bit obsessed with Medieval history, so I could do nothing but research and never write another word, given the chance. However, that's what's good about NaNoWriMo. I've joined a thing. Other people are rooting me on. I don't want to disappoint these other people. So, I leave the page detailing various Medieval May Day celebrations and write some more words. In any case, here are just a few details that I've ended up looking up after writing only the first five pages:

Q: When were priests first required to be celibate?

Q: What sort of prayer books were used in the Middle Ages?

Q: What were the clothing styles for various classes of people?

Q: How did people celebrate May Day in the Middle Ages as opposed to other time periods?

Q: What are some good basic facts on the witch hunts of that period?


And so I've come to realize that, though I've watched more Medieval History documentaries than I care to admit (never mind how many of them I've owned), alas, I am still a dilettante in need of much specific research. 

In any case, for those of you who aren't doing NaNoWriMo this year, maybe you'll consider it next year. And, whether you ever do or don't, get ready for quite an interesting little Vampire Romance to appear in the coming months. Will update you on my progress ever so soon!


IF YOU ENJOYED THIS POST, YOU MAY ENJOY:

The State of My Union (News on My Wanderings):

Book Launch of My Poetry Book, Two Birds and a Wolf:







SO YOU WANNA DO THE JIVE TURKEY WITH THE TRAILER PARK NOMAD:



* You may wanna read my memoir about growing up in a trailer park and leaving home early, then wandering around – Corpses Rarely Wander: How I Became a Loveless, Trailer Park Nomad, on Kindle here: http://amzn.to/M2eix0

Or in paperback here: https://www.createspace.com/4418318

Or my Book of Poems about wandering and love – Two Birds and a Wolf, 
on Kindle here: http://amzn.to/1dsMfN8
Or in paperback here: https://www.createspace.com/4409014


* I invite you to follow my blog. Look to the right for options. I've just joined "Networked Blogs," so you can now like me on there to make it easier to follow me. You can also follow by RSS or by email.


* I invite you to join me on FB and Twitter: https://www.facebook.com/CynthiaPolutanWriter

* I LOVE any "Likes"/ FB shares/ Retweets/Google + one's, so I thank you in advance! 

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

Great Writers Who Self-Published: ee cummings




                                                            

i first found ee cummings (as I did many artists) as a teenager watching a woody allen film. in one of my favorite allen films, hannah and her sisters, a man gives a woman he's been quietly in love with an ee cummings poem. in college, i studied him in literature and writing classes. but one thing i didn't learn was that this great writer self-published most of his works for the first 25 years of his career, as no publisher was willing to take on his unconventional poems. 

edward estlin cummings was born in 1894 in cambridge, massachusetts, later earning both a b.a. and m.a. in literature from harvard. during wwii, he worked as an ambulance driver in france before american involvement and was then drafted once the u.s. joined the battle. he continued to write all during his time overseas. in 1923, at age 29, he self-published his first book of poems, Tulips and Chimneys, after which he published many more volumes. cummings immediately became known for his use of all lower-case letters (ahem), as well as his unconventional punctuation and experimental grammar. 

like most innovative writers, cummings was susceptible to mixed reviews. reviewer stanley edgar hyman wrote, "cummings has written at least a dozen poems that seem to me matchless. three are among the great love poems of our time or any time." on the other hand, cummings also bore up under some harsh criticism, such as a critique by james g. southworth who said that cummings was "too much out of the stream of life for his poems to have significance." he went on to warn readers not "to mistake mr. cummings for an intellectual poet." 

regardless of his detractors, ee cummings became and remains today one of the great master poets of poetic history. for 25 years, he struggled financially, willfully printing his own books, until in the 40's and 50's, he was recognized by publishers and began doing lectures at colleges and universities. now, you can't take a course on poetry without studying him. and that is one of the glorious things about his work: it demands study. in fact, when i taught creative writing at hunter college in manhattan, i taught that poem that i first heard as a teenager in that woody allen film. 

as it turned out, that poem had another significance for me, when as a 21-year-old i left my artist boyfriend at the time to ramble around with a friend for the summer at beaches and camping, and that dear boyfriend wrote me letters while i was away. in one of those letters was that same poem, written in his fine hand with a sketch of a pair hands holding a rose. for a minute, reading those words, the whole world was magic. such is the power of true poetry (no matter who has or hasn't published it).

we thought we would stay together forever in those moments. we didn't. but that's another story...


somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
 any experience,your eyes have their silence...


you can view the rest of the poem here


IF YOU ENJOYED THIS POST, YOU MAY ALSO ENJOY:

"Why I Decided to Self-Publish and Other Tales of Doom and Angelic Hope"
http://corpsewander.blogspot.com/2013/06/why-i-decided-to-self-publish-and-other.html

"Review of Woody Allen's Bananas"
http://corpsewander.blogspot.com/2013/08/review-of-woody-allens-bananas.html

"Lineage of Self-Publishers: Virginia Woolf"
http://corpsewander.blogspot.com/2013/10/our-lineage-of-self-publishers-virginia.html



SO YOU WANNA DO THE JIVE TURKEY WITH THE TRAILER PARK NOMAD:



* You may wanna read my memoir about growing up in a trailer park and leaving home early, then wandering around – Corpses Rarely Wander: How I Became a Loveless, Trailer Park Nomad, on Kindle here: http://amzn.to/M2eix0

Or in paperback here: https://www.createspace.com/4418318

Or my Book of Poems about wandering and love – Two Birds and a Wolf, 
on Kindle here: http://amzn.to/1dsMfN8
Or in paperback here: https://www.createspace.com/4409014


* I invite you to follow my blog. Look to the right for options. I've just joined "Networked Blogs," so you can now like me on there to make it easier to follow me. You can also follow by RSS or by email.


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