[Poem a Day] “City Rain”

Check out today’s post on Instagram.

Places have a very particular way of existing within memory.

Sure, we have particular memories that exist within places – these act more like photographs, with their own specific lighting, setting, time, weather. But these aren’t the place, not in essence, anyway. If memories in places are like scenes, then places themselves are just what’s left over after the actors and the window dressing have left – a place on its own, almost static in the very thought of it. It’s like they float in stasis in your mind, with a very particular time of day, a type of weather, even if – like anywhere – in reality that’ll change from day to day.

It’s almost as if we process places as feelings – or maybe places are so completely entwined with specific feelings in our heads that the distinct projected image is rendered absolutely unchangeable.

Until we feel a bit differently, and then it does, anyway.

[Poem a Day] “No Contingencies”

This one’s actually got a few more parts. Check out the full piece over on Instagram.

It’s amazing how little we’re actually prepared for.

We do our jobs and we do what we need to in order to get by on a daily basis, but all of that is for expected expense – you need to make rent, you need to feed yourself, you need to be out in the world, doing things, making things, being someone. But there are always things that make rips in the routine all of a sudden, things that aren’t part of the script that just happen and leave you scrambling to adjust.

And sure, it’s easy to make a poem out of it. But some days, I’m still just sort of trying to right myself.

[Poem a Day] “Bottom Shelf”

Check out today’s post on Instagram.

I feel home in a weird way when I’m taking a walk down the rusty old rail line in the woods, or staring up at one of the foliage-riddled buildings that nature’s starting to take back around here.

It’s peaceful – for the most part, those places are silent save for the noise you bring, and walking around there is like watching a slow and solemn death – defiantly graceful despite you.

You feel as though something’s slipping around here, and you take that with you once you leave, and it stirs a little whenever you come back. I used to think it was a heightened awareness of our own limitation and finality, but nowadays I’m not so sure.

It’s nostalgia in a much less warm light, I think. Something that’s much harder to wrap into words.

[Poem a Day] “Decaffeinated”

Check out today’s post on Instagram.

Diners have always been sort of there, no matter where I am in life. I find myself coming back to them a lot in my writing, sometimes more than the bar scene I’m clearly so fond of painting in my head.

Maybe it’s because diners, like bars, are places where people just sort of tend to linger. There’s a tendancy to hang in space – a lack of urgency. You’ll find someone lazily staring into the folds of a newspaper with their coffee getting cold there much in the same way you’ll find someone staring off into space while the ice waters their cocktail down. I suppose that’s why, in my head, these places have always been strikingly intermediary spaces – little purgatories that exist as minute stopping points in between everything else. People have stories here – or at least they do everywhere, at all times, but it’s more evident.

Maybe because it feels especially like they’re on their way to something else.

[Poem a Day] “Cloudy Groundhog Day”

Check out today’s post on Instagram.

Being in a rut doesn’t necessarily have to be the inability to write anything at all. Writer’s block isn’t as catastrophic as some people might have you think – it’s just a momentary inability to translate what drives your writing onto the page, and that passes eventually. Sit with anything long enough and you’ll grow familiar with it – familiar enough to be able to describe its edges, its shape, and then its whole.

But repetition is also a huge bane for writers, people like me who push themselves to make something every single day – and I suppose the same might apply to anyone who creates anything daily. Sometimes you feel like you’ve done the same thing over and over and over again, and you feel sort of trapped in the same photograph, reliving the same lines. It’s especially rough if that feeling carries over into things that exist outside your craft, bleeding into your personal life a little bit.

Personally, I try not to view it in a bad way. If I feel as though I’m writing an old poem again in a different body, then screw it, I will. I’ll just take that as an exersize in compressing that feeling that’s resurfaced in my head enough to write a poem about it, and wrap it up in a different form, give it a different flavor. The same feeling on a different day never feels quite the same, so I translate that into my writing the best I can.

[Poem a Day] “Slow Drive Home”

Check out today’s post on Instagram.

Just a heads up – I’ll be doing weekly features on Instagram from here on in. At the start of every week, I’ll be posting a writing prompt. Feel free to use it just as something to fuel a bit of writing for the week, but if you’d like to be featured, post it to your Instagram page with the hashtag #writeblue so I’ll be able to find it.

You’ll be able to find the prompt for the week either in post form or in my Story over at my Instagram page. Features will probably be restricted to Instagram posts only, but I’ll be posting the features themselves on here as well.