Chained to the Process

Finleys Says.....

"A poet shouldn't be needy, they shouldn't always be taking. a poet should be a teacher."

I think he's got a point, I know he does.

So why is it that I don't follow this advice?

Why is it that I permit myself to honestly believe I have the ability to grab beautiful concepts from the air, in a random fashion and the outcome will come out striking?

I don't hate the fact that I end up in traps, but I do hate that I continue to fall into them, even when I am the guy who set them.

Sometimes it takes non poetic instances for me to expose my weakness.

Several days ago, 2 young bakers took a tour of my bakery.

While I showed them around, they bounced a million ideas off the walls as we circled the plant.

It was fun to be plugged into youth, into enthusiasm.

But to make a long story short, these young ladies didn't have a clue as to what they were talking about.

Their motives were pure, but their methods were wrong.

So after I gave them Ghandi like instruction, I finished my shift, went to the gym and ran on the "Dreadmill"

For 30 minutes I looked like George Jetson...just before he looses his balance and Astro has to come out and help him.

The treadmill (or lifting weights) is where I cast my "poetic seeds" into the ground. During my work outs I decide what I want to write, and how I am going to attack it.

Recently I have taken on a new project, and like most new projects, I am treating this one as it will be my Legacy work.

For months, I have been stammering and stubbing toes trying to just get a handle on how to get this idea off the ground.

If I want to write about red, I find myself surrounded by blue.

In some ways I feel I have moved further away from my objective.

I guess it would be easy to shrug my shoulders and blow the whole thing off.....but did I mention?

It's a legacy piece LOL.

But as I stood on that treadmill, it was like I had an epiphany from God.

I had stepped away from my process and didn't even realize it.

Whenever I have written poems that I have fallen in love with, I've always started off numerically.

How many paragraphs?

How many lines in each paragrach?

Am I going to stay within my 14-18 line comfort zone?

will this be a poem for reading, or reciiting?

As of late, I haven't asked myself those questions, and I guess I'm not saying it would be impossible to succeed following these self imposed rules.

In the bread world, I can take a loaf of sourdough and turn it into a Miso-Sushi Loaf, a Black Forest Rye, or a Wild Rice / Multi grain.

Every one of these masterpieces comes from the same recipe.

Nobody knows this, or even cares if they do because each loaf turns out so unique and has their own vibe.

Anyways, I just curious as to how you people deal with getting your work out of the garage and onto the street.

Feel free to share any thoughts.

Todd Boss

I think I was at Wilde's Roast in Saint Anthony, down along the river. I was meeting some poet friends who were kind enough to let me horn into their poetry discussion.

This was a couple weeks ago, and the weather was just bright enough where you felt compelled to sit on the patio, but it was kinda cold, so since I was the first to arrive, I chose the inside.

Inside is safe.

So everybody gets there, takes their seat, and somebody point's to a huge tapestry of Oscar Wilde and says......

Look, it's a Todd Boss tapestry.

The entire table laughed.

I'm guessing most of you won't get the humor here, so let me bring you up to speed.

Todd Boss is a successful poet in the Twin Cities.

He has had books published, been awarded grants, stuff like that.

He is also big into making short videos and layering poems over them.

Don't quote me, but I think it's called Poetry in Motion.

I don't know Todd personally, we have been attached by proximity several times, but that's about it.

So now that my table of friends is noting the physical similarities between Oscar Wilde and Todd Boss, a member of the group wonders if Todd might be intentionally trying to bite on Wilde's vibe.

After all.....nobody has sported that hair style since Prince Valiant - LOL.

But that's what makes poets interesting I think.

Who wants to hear observations from cogs within the machine?

The server brings our table drinks, and before the group decided to discuss their own affairs, Todd Boss stayed on the discussion platform.

I can't recall who threw this into the mix, but somebody stated that Todd once claimed the best way to become an author is to write 10 000 poems before becoming serious.

For the record now.....I am not saying Todd Boss said this, I'm just stating that somebody attached this wisdom to him.

I pondered this for a moment, and then I had to be the Pollack in the room.

I had to disagree.

I do believe repetition is good, but I have heard other poets swear by writing a poem every-single-day.

I think when you focus on numbers or deadlines, how can you throw fireballs?

Your content will become deluded.

On numerous occasions I've meant to ask Finley his thoughts on this, but each time I see him, this trivial matter usually gets upstaged by a Poodle puppy named Lucy, or conversations regarding his wifes Opera try outs.

Anyways...I'll throw it out to the cosmos, and who knows?

Maybe Finley can respond to whether a poet needs to write a certain amount of poems to become "Serious".

Hula Girls & Parking Lots

I am sorry to report, I don't even remember the venue, however I do remember Finley reading from his book entitled...."PRICK.....JEST POEMS."

Sometimes, often times Mike will start off a set (and I wonder if its intentional or not), but he'll start off a set with a quick-quick look.

The glance rushes by in an instant, but in that briefest of moments his stare assures you that you are going to learn some truth that he has been dying to reveal.

Finley gives such a look and begins.....

PARKING LOT

The attendant at the parking lot
Was angry this morning
His shovel was missing
And in the crack of the blacktop
Near the corner of 8th & LaSalle
Five weeds were sticking their heads up
Looking for trouble

The End


I remember that after I heard this, my first reaction was....

"Hmmm, cute poem. Poem about a parking lot huh?"

But then I started to think about it longer, and then I asked myself....

How is it that Finley can take moments or situations in life that are not epic, but when he describes them, they become so powerful.

I mean, I'm sure the actual experience was uneventful, but none the less....I wanted to be there.

A parking lot huh?

So then I sat in silence for awhile and tried to think of a moment I had in a parking lot that would rival Finley's in boredom, and if I could think of such a time, would I be able to troll it in front of him to the point that he might become curious?

In some ways I viewed this as a challenge, in other ways...a homework assignment.

The following is what I came up with.

LIQUOR STORE PARKING LOT

Hula Girl - Hula Girl
Dance beneath the raindrops
I'm pretty sure my windshield will keep you dry

Left/Right - Left/Right
Your hips gyrate with fluidity
As if your balance were determined on a spring

Tick - Tock - Tick - Tock
The clouds eclipse the moon
But its still engaging when you dance in the neon

Hula Girl - Hula Girl
I am fearful our tryst must end
My girlfriend is headed toward the car
And she has some Tanqueray

The End

Turning the Spotlight Off

Finley says....

"Remove yourself from the poem....if you are going to be a poet."

I hate when he tells me this.

I am Irish, Pollack too, all we know is story telling.

But stories are not poems Finley will remind you...over and over again.

Get out of the poem, he repeats. You're ruining it.

Last night, I went over to Dara's Syrkin's house.

We looked over some of her work, but by looking at her work, she tried to express what she was trying to convey by showing me poems from books long forgotten.

One poem in particular caught our attention.

It was about a shy man and women dancing, but the poems author kept throwing themselves into this piece, breaking the cadence of intamacy.

This 3rd person vantage point killed the perfection that was already there.

When I saw this....I felt shame.

It was just like that moment when you are 17 and some girl you are trying to impress finds your 7th grade school pictures. You look like such a loser, the girl laughs...you laugh along with her, but deep down....you know for a fact that you thought you were "it" back then.

Often times when I toss time, and reflection into a Yahtzee Cup and dump the contents onto the table...

I am scared at how ignorant I was, and then my next reaction is....

"How ignorant am I now?"

Anyways....this whole course of events made me think of a selfless poem that Finley wrote. A poem that Finley has managed to stay out of.....


Revolving Door


Seeing the old man
Step tentatively
Into the glass cylinder,
The girl slowed down,
The two tiptoed around
One another, palms high.
He smiled at his partner,
And she, who had never before
Danced the minuet, stepping
Out with the old, stepping
In with the new, did
likewise.

(1983)

THE END


Sigh.....I get it Mike....I really do.

Making Love, and Stalking Poets

Tonight I am going over to Dara Syrkin's house.

She is preparing to debut a set of work at THE May 15TH University Club reading.

Dara is nervous.

My job, I'm guessing will be to nod along...pretty much with whatever poems give her the most comfort.

For years Dara and I have sat next to each other at poetry events.

We are both "Cancers" and therefore sensitive, but opinionated.

One of the things that the 2 of us have noticed over the last year is so many poets mention of "Love Making" during their poems.

I hate to come off uptight, but we simply don't want to hear what goes on in your bedroom.

Even more recently, some of my cities top poets have presented work where they have felt it was important to share their observations of......

*WHALES "COPULATING'

*CHICKENS "DOING IT"

*WOLVES "GOING AT IT"

I think its safe to say, few people my age are more immature than me, but when people try to act all "coy and comfortable" with sexuality...it freaks me out.

With that said, and this is kinda a weird segue, leaving the topic of "animal sex", and then moving on to my mentor....

But sometimes when I get an extra minute. I Google certain searches to see what poems of his will arise.

Moments ago, when I submitted "Mike Finley Poet" a piece from December 8th 2008 popped up.

It was from a column written by the Duluth Poet Laureate Jim Johnson and it was called the "Whats Light Poem"

Can you imagine the horror when my eyes did that quick scan down the columns of words and I saw Finley speaking about hamsters and love making in the same paragraph?

It seemed like some kind of build up to a bad Richard Gere joke, anyways.......I always value knowing what goes on in a poets head, not just at the moment, but from where they were in the past as well.

But if it takes place in your bedroom, bathroom or a hospital, just count me out.

Sit back and enjoy.......

HAMSTERS

Several times I have opened an eye at night
certain someone was moving in the house,
but it was only the chrome wheel turning


Or we would be making love and hear the sound
of metal on metal from the children's room —
the ball in the drip bottle pushed and released.


The crunch of seed between pointed pearls,
the scurry and blink of prisoners.
In the cane, in the damp, in the moldy dark, they spin.



Poetics

I try to think of a poem as a gift. This means it needs to be something someone would want to get. I also take pains, as I get older, not to lay claim to things that aren't mine—not to steal stories, or pretend I have felt or experienced things I have not. I like humor, even in very serious writing—the willingness to look at things in a surprising way. Finally, I try to write for folks who do not read too many poems. Because a world that is all poem is like a hothouse, when what we need is fresh air and light.

Biography

Mike Finley is author of over forty three books of poems, downloadable versions of which are free on his website. He has won a Pushcart Prize and a Wisconsin State Arts Fellowship. His nonfiction book Why Teams Don't Work was named "Best Management Book, 1995" by The Global Business Book Awards. Mike is currently finishing a memoir titled Fixing the Christians. He lives with his family in Saint Paul.

Deep Thought #1

Finley Says....

All the wrong people are poets.

A poet shouldn't want to sit under a tree, and describe the clouds overhead.

Instead, they should just keep walking.

Poets VS Chess Players...Geek City?

So here's a topic for the ages.....

Which culture is more socially retarded?

Poets or Chess enthusiasts?

I am currently drinking the Kool Aid from both cults, so maybe it is hard for me to see the forest through the trees.

Most of you reading this are coming to this site from the poets angle,so you know how "special" your camp can be.

But if you have never entered the world of competitive chess....oh my, how does one go about informing people about this unique brood?

I will quote my dear friend "Kansas City Bob", a Food Service worker.

Bob lived in the Twin Cites for a decade, and during his time here, he took me to my first chess tournament.

I had never played in such a structured setting, and as we walked into the foyer of the Hyatt Hotel, and stared at the castle sized doors that would lead us into the "battle room", Kansas City Bob offered me the following advice.

"OK Dan, the second you walk into that room, you are going to see things you won't believe. You will see hair that hasn't been washed in weeks, bodies that haven't been excersized in years.

Some of these guys will be wearing clothes that your friends older brothers were wearing back when you were in high school.

In your first game, you might sit across from some guy wearing a white "Members Only" jacket.

The following game, your opponent will be dressed in "Zuba's" or a striped rugby shirt.

Most of these guys are twerps and 1/2 your size, but they won't let that intimidate them. Instead they will stare you down and slam their pieces on the board.

Trust me, chess tournament players can smell "regular guys" a mile away, and they love nothing more than playing with these opponents like cats play with mice.

But if these guys start getting too cocky, don't be afraid to slam your fist on the board and then point out that you realize that you may be a weaker player, but at least you're not living in your mothers basement, and you have experienced sex...with a real person."

The scary thing about KC Bobs description...it turned out to be accurate.

With that said, last night I spoke to Finley on the phone and discussed with him my plans for my next poetry book. The theme is Russia, and at one point in the conversation Mike reminissed how years ago his brother played chess against Bobby Fischer.

Fischer VS the Russians is one of my favorite moments in life. I followed the The Fischer / Spassky match in the news paper as a kid.

So when I hung up the phone, I wondered if it was even possibe to write a decent Fischer poem, but i didn't dare ask Finley....I already knew the response.....


"Why not write one about Kennedy while you are at it?" ----(Eyes Rolling Sarcastically).

Just for the fun of it, I went online and Googled Bobby Fischer poems, and there were more than I imagined. Most dealt with his death...imagine that.

Submitted for your enjoyment is the Fischer poem that received the most hits.


“Someone great… has passed…”


Today, today only 64
He made his last move
- the most important -
to the square of “death”

no more breath
or even check!
no more castling
only en passant’ing!

His sword has swung
after years of struggle
ruined by politicians
he moved like a knight

Threatened and powerless
he moved quite swiftly
across the board of
64 squares!

Each square a knightmare
Till he found his “piece”
Iceland, oh Iceland!
Where he rests in peace!

©Nikita~~

BTW....when your friend tells you that their brother played chess against the former world champion, do you even need to ask who won?