How I Write
First thing, I wake up. At 76 not
being dead is essential. After
breakfast I read poetry, novels,
essays, everything. They’re all
a part of my writing process.
If luck finds me, something I’ve
read conjures a poem. I always
write in my leather notebook
with a fountain pen and only
in brown ink. Why I employ
such affectations is a mystery.
I might think I’ll write a poem
about the injustice of our present
political system, but as I drag
the nub of my pen over the page,
the poem has another idea. Turns
out, I’m writing about my mother’s
stormy sensibilities and my father’s
booze-addled terminalities. I might
decide to write a poem about my first
car—a ’55 Chevy panel truck with
a rusted-out hole in the chasse
where the unsuspecting might
plant a foot after releasing the clutch,
but the poem insists that I scribble
something about the perfumed wonder
of that first kiss—a misdemeanor
on my girlfriend’s front lawn after
a summer evening at the carnival
in ole’ Cheyenne.
Oh, I pay attention to assonance,
alliteration, maybe even metre—
avoid cliches and try to articulate
something sublime about nature,
sex, humor, death or eternity.
Then there’s the endings.
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