I want to share this poem I read in a Substack post by Maya C. Popa. It’s entitled “The Thing Is” from Mules of Love by Ellen Bass (published by BOA Editions in 2002). I love the language, clarity and gut-punching delivery. Some snippets that jumped out at me: “the silt of it,” “grief sits with you,” “obesity of grief” and “a plain face.”
“The Thing Is” by Ellen Bass from the book Mules of Love (BOA Editions, 2002)
New Year’s Eve 2023. Time to rewind and then hit reset.
I’m grateful for getting another 365 tokens to drop into the slot machine. Another 365 scratch-off lottery tickets to play. Another 365 chances to be better than the day before.
Card from David’s Refuge.
I’m closing out the year filled with both anxiety and excitement.
By all accounts, 2023 was a pretty good year for me. I made some strides as a writer and filmmaker.
I earned an Emmy (my second) as part of a production team at Syracuse University.
Photo by Shane Johnson.
I published a full-length poetry collection, The Truth I Must Invent. I published a couple of short stories and a short play in some literary magazines.
The Truth I Must Invent book cover.
I completed two short documentary films, Ralph Rotella: The Sole of Syracuse, which premiered at the Syracuse International Film Festival and was an official entry at the Culver City Film Festival, and The World Series of Bocce: A Celebration of Sport, Family and Community, which is awaiting festival decisions.
World Series of Bocce title screenshot.
I completed a feature screenplay and a full-length coming-of-age memoir (a ten-year project!). But despite numerous revisions, I still don’t know if the words on the page are memorable or whether either project will come to fruition (e.g., production or publication).
So those are my accomplishments in 2023. Big whoop, right? Yada-yada-yada. Blah-blah-blah.
Here are the standout moments during the last calendar year.
In June, my Aunt Teresa, a.k.a. Sister Carmella DeCosty, visited Central New York to attend the funeral of her brother, my Uncle Fee, in Rome, New York. She stayed with us in Syracuse, and we had a lot of fun catching up.
Pam and Aunt T.
A flashback of Aunt T. during a holiday at my maternal grandparents’ house. I think that’s me on her lap, with my mom in red and my Aunt Pat in black.
My seven-year-old son, Colin, who is autistic, enjoyed trick-or-treating for the first time this Halloween. I think he actually “got it” this year.
Colin getting ready to trick-or-treat.
I spent Thanksgiving with my brother Dirk and his family in Rome and my sister Lisa and her family from Ohio. The best part—no snow!
For the holiday season, my wife Pam hung a stocking for Colin in mid-December and gave him little presents every day—stuff like Kinder Joy eggs and Play-Doh. He seemed to understand the concept of Santa Claus, and he was excited to open presents on Christmas morning.
Pam and Colin.
Pam went back to school this fall, enrolling in an occupational therapy assistant program at Bryant & Stratton College. The workload was arduous, but Pam scored high grades during her first semester.
But the most significant event of 2023—I survived my sixth brain surgery with my brain function and memory intact. In July, a team of neurosurgeons and ENT surgeons at Upstate performed a transsphenoidal (through the nose) surgery to remove parts of a craniopharyngioma that had been growing near the pituitary region, affecting my vision. I had a cerebral spinal fluid leak during surgery, but the ENT surgeon repaired it, and the patch is holding nearly six months later.
I wish all good things for you in 2024. A partial list includes: Love, family, faith (whatever you choose that to be), employment, health, health insurance, kind co-workers, transportation, clean drinking water, food, a home, a roof, four walls, a furnace, indoor plumbing, electricity, clean air, and trees. Lots of trees. I am supremely thankful for all of the above.
I leave you with a couple of New Year’s-themed poems. It’s amazing what you can find when you do a word search on the Poetry Foundation website.
January by Weldon Kees
Morning: blue, cold, and still.
Eyes that have stared too long
Stare at the wedge of light
At the end of the frozen room
Where snow on the windowsill,
Packed and cold as a life,
Winters the sense of wrong.
Poetry magazine, March 1951.
New Year’s Eve by Maurice Lesemann
The towers give tongue, the wailing horns grow loud;
And this odd planet where we wake and are
Has once again, amid a tumult of cloud,
Swung safely and serenely round its star.
Poetry magazine, April 1932.
I hate writing book promotion posts. But this is just a reminder that books make nice holiday gifts and they’re easy to wrap. My latest poetry collection, The Truth I Must Invent, can be purchased in numerous places. You can find it on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Bookshop. It’s also available from the publisher, Poets’ Choice. And a new author profile has been posted on the Poets’ Choice website. Happy holidays everyone.
The Truth I Must Invent book cover.
I want to wish everyone a Happy Thanksgiving. I have much to be grateful for this year, as Black Friday marks four months since my transsphenoidal (through the nose) brain surgery on July 24.
I have rebounded. I’m back to running and lifting light weights, and I can sneeze and blow my nose without any concern about bleeding or cerebral spinal fluid leaks. I am so thankful my recovery has been steady and unremarkable, with no complications (fingers still crossed).
Interpreting the medical jargon in my latest MRI report—it seems residual tumor matter is still pressing against the optic chiasm and affecting the optic nerve. And my vision has not been fully restored since the tumor grew back a few years ago (and likely never will be). I still have double vision when looking to the far right in my peripheral field, and I need a prism on my reading glasses, which I use when working on the computer. But I can drive because I have no double vision straight on.
I want to share a few Thanksgiving-themed poems. I am currently reading Poems 1962-2012 by the late poet Louise Glück.
Here are two poems that struck me and are relevant for the season. I must admit I don’t understand the meaning of many of Louise’s poems, but I thoroughly respect and admire her artistry with language. And the works remain open to interpretation by the reader.
Autumnal by Louise Glück
Public sorrow, the acquired
gold of the leaf, the falling off,
the prefigured burning of the yield:
which is accomplished. At the lake’s edge,
the metal pails are full vats of fire.
So waste is elevated
into beauty. And the scattered dead
unite in one consuming vision of order.
In the end, everything is bare.
Above the cold, receptive earth
the trees bend. Beyond,
the lake shines, placid, giving back
the established blue of heaven.
The word
is bear: you give and give, you empty yourself
into a child. And you survive
the automatic loss. Against inhuman landscape,
the tree remains a figure for grief; its form
is forced accommodation. At the grave,
it is the woman, isn’t it, who bends,
the spear useless beside her.
Thanksgiving by Louise Glück
They have come again to graze the orchard,
knowing they will be denied.
The leaves have fallen; on the dry ground
the wind makes piles of them, sorting
all it destroys.
What doesn’t move, the snow will cover.
It will give them away; their hooves
make patterns which the snow remembers.
In the cleared field, they linger
as the summoned prey whose part
is not to forgive. They can afford to die.
They have their place in the dying order.
And in doing some research, I found another “Thanksgiving” poem, this one by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850-1919)
Thanksgiving by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
We walk on starry fields of white
And do not see the daisies;
For blessings common in our sight
We rarely offer praises.
We sigh for some supreme delight
To crown our lives with splendor,
And quite ignore our daily store
Of pleasures sweet and tender.
Our cares are bold and push their way
Upon our thought and feeling.
They hand about us all the day,
Our time from pleasure stealing.
So unobtrusive many a joy
We pass by and forget it,
But worry strives to own our lives,
And conquers if we let it.
There’s not a day in all the year
But holds some hidden pleasure,
And looking back, joys oft appear
To brim the past’s wide measure.
But blessings are like friends, I hold,
Who love and labor near us.
We ought to raise our notes of praise
While living hearts can hear us.
Full many a blessing wears the guise
Of worry or of trouble;
Far-seeing is the soul, and wise,
Who knows the mask is double.
But he who has the faith and strength
To thank his God for sorrow
Has found a joy without alloy
To gladden every morrow.
We ought to make the moments notes
Of happy, glad Thanksgiving;
The hours and days a silent phrase
Of music we are living.
And so the theme should swell and grow
As weeks and months pass o’er us,
And rise sublime at this good time,
A grand Thanksgiving chorus.
Lastly, at a recent appointment at my primary care doctor’s office, I noticed a framed picture of a prose poem entitled “Desiderata” hanging on the wall in an exam room.
The line at the bottom of the page reads, “Found in Old St. Paul’s Church, Baltimore, Dated 1692.” But the piece was actually written in 1927 by Max Ehrman, an Indiana attorney and poet. Some information on the website of Old St. Paul’s Church recounts the story.
And here is the full text. I highlighted some parts that stood out to me.
Desiderata by Max Ehrmann
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
I had a morning eye doctor’s appointment earlier this week. And I had some time to kill before the dilation drops rendered my eyes useless for the rest of the day. After getting off the bus at Washington Street near City Hall, I cut across Montgomery Street while making my way to Presidential Plaza.
St. Paul’s Church. Photo by Francis DiClemente.
Brick wall with ivy. Photo by Francis DiClemente.
Along the way, I snapped a few photos with my antiquated, battery-challenged iPhone 8, jotted down a quick poem about some feathered denizens of the Salt City, and captured a moment of tranquility on a sunny morning downtown.
I felt grateful for the opportunity to capture a myriad of sights and sounds the universe sent my way. It was another reminder to always pay attention to my surroundings and be on the lookout for creative inspiration. Here’s the poem I wrote. It required significant revision as it made the transition from my pocket notebook to my computer.
Three pigeons
perched on a wire.
What are they
talking about
on this bright,
sunny morning?
But their conversation
is restricted—not for
human interpretation.
And the chatter ends
when the birds
lift from the wire,
taking off in formation,
flapping their wings,
and sending feathers
twirling to the ground.
I was flipping through one of my older poetry books—Dreaming of Lemon Trees: Selected Poems (Finishing Line Press, 2019)—and I came upon “Jumpcuts of Thought.” I like the stupid absurdity of it, and I thought I would share the poem, since many people have not read it in book form. It’s also one of the only poems I’ve written that employs the use of rhyme.
Jumpcuts of Thought
Clorox shine
and Rust Belt mine.
Ruddy hue
and Spade gumshoe.
Tootsie Pop
and soiled mop.
J.S. Bach
and Shakur, Tupac.
Codeine high
and ham on rye.
Minnie Mouse
and adobe house.
Petrie dish
and sardine fish.
Rockwell print
and strand of lint.
Ruby Dee
and Wounded Knee.
Swollen lip
and radar blip.
Clark Gable
and Aesop fable.
Toilet seat
and sirloin meat.
Shower stall
and Camus’s The Fall.
Mustard green
and college dean.
Lowell, Mass.
and Namath pass.
The odd pairings
go on and on,
in this celebration of incongruity—
a verbal exercise
to stimulate the mind.
Today marks one month since my brain surgery. My recovery is going well, but I’m still not back to full strength.
I’ve been walking in my neighborhood to build up my stamina. I’m still using the cane I received when I was discharged from the hospital, but I hope to ditch it soon.
When I walk, I don’t listen to music or podcasts. For safety reasons, I need to hear cars approaching, and I also keep my ears open for stimulating sounds—birds, wind chimes, children playing, etc.
A lot of times, I get ideas for poems while out on my walks. Often, one line will pop into my head and start me down the path of writing a poem. Recently, I was walking and thinking about the end of August, and this line came to me: It’s always sad when summer ends. I jotted the line down in the small notebook I carry with me. After some work, this is the poem I produced:
It’s always sad when summer ends.
But avoidance of the inevitable is impossible.
And in this season of life, a little winter must come.
So I tell myself to stop being disgruntled
by summer’s death and autumn’s arrival,
and instead get to work—starting with
descending the cellar steps and bringing up
the long johns, flannel shirts, and heavy wool socks.
It’s not the greatest poem in the world. But I like that I followed the trajectory the poem wanted to take—starting with one line, then others scribbled in my notebook, followed by revisions on the computer.
So I recognize the importance of awareness and paying attention to both external and internal stimuli to use as raw material for poetry (and stories, etc.).
And this reminds me of a line from the Grateful Dead song “Scarlet Begonias” (thank you, Robert Hunter):
Once in a while, you get shown the light
In the strangest of places if you look at it right …
I celebrated my birthday yesterday by relaxing at home with my family. As kids are wont to do, my son, Colin, blew out the candle on the cake, so we had to light it twice.
Colin Joe getting reading to blow out the candle.
I snuck in a couple of wishes, but mostly I felt enormous gratitude for still being here for another day and another year.
The night before I reflected on my recovery from surgery and my birthday, journaling for a few minutes while standing near my bedroom dresser. I am not a habitual journal writer, but I have notebooks scattered throughout the house to be available when the urge strikes me. Often my journal entries—which I always convert to a long-running Word document—contain mundane facts and banal thoughts with no potential to become raw material for a poem, story, or essay. However, sometimes the act of moving my pen on paper will lead me to a line that initiates energy.
And this is what I came up with the other night. It’s not a great poem, but I was happy I wrote it in a spontaneous burst and finished it in one draft.
On the Eve of My Fifty-Fourth Birthday
There has to be more
to this life than
just what we see.
Or else there isn’t—
in which case
death won’t be
so scary.
It’ll just be a
harmless place
devoid of life.
And you and I
can handle that, right?
I just wanted to share the recording of the podcast Quintessential Listening: Poetry Online Radio, hosted by Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram. I was the guest on the show on Thursday, July 6. You can find the link here.
I just wanted to share that I’ve been featured in a short interview on AwesomeGang.com. You can find it here.
Also, I will be the guest on a poetry podcast at 8 p.m. Eastern Time on Thursday, July 6. I will be reading selections from my latest collection, The Truth I Must Invent.
The show is Quintessential Listening: Poetry Online Radio, hosted by Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram. Here’s the link to connect on Thursday.
Have a safe and happy Fourth of July weekend.
Francis DiClemente 