Forgive me if I sound like I’m repeating myself along all of these poems, but I think they represent a progression of letting go of emotions that have been hanging around me since autumn.
Forgive me if I sound like I’m repeating myself along all of these poems, but I think they represent a progression of letting go of emotions that have been hanging around me since autumn.
I wrote a lot of poetry in January. In Melbourne, in Brisbane. Amid town squares and fire circles. And deep within LED jams that took place not quite in the bush, but close enough. All of the poems I have decided to share this month are in various stages of rawness, but raw nevertheless.
JaJas is back and I have taken the opportunity to push myself out of the comfort zone and write some poems. Last Night at JaJas is the fruit of that labor.
Welcome to a new era of the Casual Camera! Enjoy my first short film, “A Prayer Roll” as I share three of my favorite poems from the past six months.
This poem is dedicated to a friend who agreed to accompany me on a journey to Crater Lake at the last minute. It would not have been the same without them.
So last weekend I went camping with friends. We settled in a little campground near Mount Adams. We were without cell service and without agenda, relaxing under the regard of the peak, known to the native Yakama as Pahto. This is the poem I wrote about it all.
I wrote the original version of this poem pretty quickly after Oregon Country Fair, inspired by showering after the festival. There are showers offered on the Fairgrounds, but those always ultimately have the impact of the rock of Sisyphus falling back down to the base of the mountain.
I am trying to write a poem a day now, and it’s going well, despite my issues with routine. And confidence. And a crippling fear that if I bear my soul I will be judged for it. And that’s why I did not publish anything for a fortnight. But that fast ends now.
Birthdays are weird. I’ve always been of two minds about them.
Well, I nearly though this wouldn’t happen. I looked over all of my poems and thought to myself: “god damn, these are all crap.”