Author: L.E. Hansen

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January 20, 2017

And here we are. This is, the way things are.

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Because I Can’t Forget

I’ve used memory
to prod something lose
to give a sharp instrument
for the forced breath
of the frauds and creeps
that swell into the night
from what we cannot see
with your eyes or mine
gouged bloody from a face
when laughter echoed
mirror’s diamond glass then
cut him free, away from me
the ravished boy
once golden in the sun
then laid unmoving on the floor

 

I’d look forward to death if I thought that there I’d find him in some heaven of myth or religion.

Some place of golden beauty and loves of time and gifts of animals that we have loved and that have loved unbidden.

But lacking heaven I’ll seek out death to end in peace where I’ll not have to think or remember or dream.

And it won’t matter that he’s not there.

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Rules for Writing

Everywhere we turn these days there are rules, lists, and _______ easy steps. Not to be outdone, here’s more: Nietzsche is a magnificent read in its entirety. For more advice on writing, see Kurt Vonnegut’s 8 rules for writing with style, Henry Miller’s 11 commandments, Susan Sontag’s synthesized wisdom, Chinua Achebe on the writer’s responsibility and the collected advice of great writers.

BUT. While fun to read, not necessarily helpful. I have found that writers write and write about writing later, usually about what works for them, as with all philosophy. And I have found that my all time favorite is from Maugham. And that’s the truth.fullsizeoutput_777

 

 

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The Longhorn

Another from Mark Berkery. A must go-to place for nature.

*Click on pictures for bigger version – and click 1st one again. Long-horn … after their long antennae, a sense organ they use to detect their world. It stopped long enough for a few shots, maneuverable for different backgrounds. A kind of beetle rarely seen in the garden, with its unusual colour. Then, without warning, […]

via Longhorn … — Nature’s Place

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Silence

He walked into the Silence
and I followed him there
that winter alone
so sharp, cold, and
punched hard then bent
by thought in that carved
cave where nothing stands
where wolves creep in
to devour the thing that
isn’t there, that lives then dies
in that cold white silence