I don't usually, but what with a move happening at the beginning of the year and all, I've decided to make a conscious effort to get out of the house and make friends, with real people, instead of feeling like a social moron.
(I guess it makes more sense if you know my last name is Wells.)
Anyway, I've got the plan mapped out, I just have to use a little restraint to keep it simple. However, if it gets out of hand the way I predict in my post...
No resolutions. Instead, your horoscope. You had to be a Pices? (sigh) I knew there was a reason for my crush on you a while back.
Happy new year, Paul. And thanks for the crush. It was fun. I hadn't felt that giddy, that light-hearted in years.
And now, your horoscope, sir:
A study at McGill University concluded that moms and dads who launch screaming fights in front of their kids may actually be helping them. Listening to their parents yelling often makes children more imaginative because it forces them into a fantasy world to escape. Can you think of similar reversals in your own life, Pisces--difficult events that have ultimately served you? The coming year will be an ideal time to redeem these gifts from the past. Be constantly on the lookout for ways you can use old traumas and setbacks as sources of inspirational power.
I feared I'd worn out my welcome here so I did retreat into the ether, guilty as charged of cluttering your blog with my poems. (smile)
You're obviously not in Times Square to watch the ball drop, and I'm guessing you're not swinging from a chandelier while guzzling from a bottle of Dom, so how are you ringing in the new year, Paul?
You really don't make any resolutions? Not even secretly? I stopped making resolutions years ago when it became obvious that I just wasn't ever going to keep them. They were always the same: Exercise more, eat less, lose 10 lbs, blah blah blah. The year I stopped making resolutions was the year I lost those 10 lbs and kept them off, started exercising and eating right. This year, I'm not making any resolutions, but I would like to at least try to be a bit less selfish and attempt to give something back, even if it's a small gesture, something as simple, as easy as donating blood on a regular basis.
She drifts; not like snow in wind, not a piling up, an accumulation of what will never last— roll down your window and breathe in the scent of green, still pale. She drifts on the curb, back and forth, a ghost- girl. There is no substance to her; she is not connected to the flesh. Her slow yet restless movement catches your eye—how best to modify that organ? Lazy, weary, lack-lust?—as you drive past, trying your best to control the vehicle, swerving so as not to splash her with slush. She drifts, the motion more like a seed puff riding a warm air current that alights like a sparrow in your hair. If you neglect to brush it out, a milkweed will spring from your head and monarchs will flit there and lay their eggs. She drifts, and you drift too, letting the disappearing road pull you toward the yellow. Don’t say it will never last. Don’t speak of the sky’s limitations; that blue is vast. If it ends, it’s only because you say so. Besides, she’s not listening. So, drift. And drift and drift. Lick your lips. You know the taste of her sweat because you created it. When she begins to sing, you sing along to the sad love song you wrote long ago.
Paul Guest is the author of four volumes of poetry and a memoir. His debut, The Resurrection of the Body and the Ruin of the World, was awarded the 2002 New Issues Poetry Prize. His second collection, Notes for My Body Double, was awarded the 2006 Prairie Schooner Book Prize. His third collection, My Index of Slightly Horrifying Knowledge, was published by Ecco Press/HarperCollins in 2008. His fourth collection, Because Everything Is Terrible, was published by Diode Editions. His poems have appeared in Harper's, The Paris Review, Poetry, Tin House, The Kenyon Review, and elsewhere. His memoir, One More Theory About Happiness, was published by Ecco in May 2010 and selected for the Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers Program. The recipient of a 2011 Guggenheim Fellowship and a 2007 Whiting Writers' Award, Guest lives in Charlottesville, Virginia.
15 comments:
don't make any either - cuz I hate to fail
Happy New Year from across the sea (where it is raining like hell - but at least it is warm rain)
Sherry
I don't usually, but what with a move happening at the beginning of the year and all, I've decided to make a conscious effort to get out of the house and make friends, with real people, instead of feeling like a social moron.
I have only one resolution this year: I will learn to play poker.
It's funny: I want to learn to play poker, too.
I WILL visit High Lonesome Wells this year.
(I guess it makes more sense if you know my last name is Wells.)
Anyway, I've got the plan mapped out, I just have to use a little restraint to keep it simple. However, if it gets out of hand the way I predict in my post...
I'll send you a post card.
Wish me luck.
Happy Almost New Year to you Paul!
My resolutions--
Drink 8 glasses of water a day
Go for more walks
Make decisions out of compassion
My dad's resolution was always "I will not throw rocks at whales." That's always a good one too.
All the best in 2005!
No resolutions. Instead, your horoscope. You had to be a Pices? (sigh) I knew there was a reason for my crush on you a while back.
Happy new year, Paul. And thanks for the crush. It was fun. I hadn't felt that giddy, that light-hearted in years.
And now, your horoscope, sir:
A study at McGill University concluded that moms and dads who launch screaming fights in front of their kids may actually be helping them. Listening to their parents yelling often makes children more imaginative because it forces them into a fantasy world to escape. Can you think of similar reversals in your own life, Pisces--difficult events that have ultimately served you? The coming year will be an ideal time to redeem these gifts from the past. Be constantly on the lookout for ways you can use old traumas and setbacks as sources of inspirational power.
You! Where've you been, stranger? I've missed you. It's been frightfully dull ever since you retreated back into the ether.
So what's new, pussycat?
;)
I feared I'd worn out my welcome here so I did retreat into the ether, guilty as charged of cluttering your blog with my poems. (smile)
You're obviously not in Times Square to watch the ball drop, and I'm guessing you're not swinging from a chandelier while guzzling from a bottle of Dom, so how are you ringing in the new year, Paul?
You really don't make any resolutions? Not even secretly? I stopped making resolutions years ago when it became obvious that I just wasn't ever going to keep them. They were always the same: Exercise more, eat less, lose 10 lbs, blah blah blah. The year I stopped making resolutions was the year I lost those 10 lbs and kept them off, started exercising and eating right. This year, I'm not making any resolutions, but I would like to at least try to be a bit less selfish and attempt to give something back, even if it's a small gesture, something as simple, as easy as donating blood on a regular basis.
No worn welcome at all. Good to see you back.
I'm hardly ringing at all. Quiet night with a book, the sound of illegal intermittent fireworks in the distance.
Nope, no resolutions. Maybe I should? ;)
What book kept you company this evening?
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
;)
One new years several years ago, we wrote down our resolutions and threw them into a hat. I was so glad when I drew out the blank one.
Here's a poem for the new year, crush.
To the Man Who Drives Past
She drifts;
not like snow in wind,
not a piling up, an accumulation
of what will never last—
roll down your window and breathe
in the scent of green, still pale. She drifts
on the curb, back and forth, a ghost-
girl. There is no substance to her; she is not connected
to the flesh. Her slow yet restless movement
catches your eye—how best to modify that organ? Lazy,
weary, lack-lust?—as you drive past,
trying your best to control the vehicle, swerving
so as not to splash her with slush. She drifts,
the motion more like a seed puff riding a warm air current
that alights like a sparrow in your hair.
If you neglect to brush it out, a milkweed
will spring from your head and monarchs will flit
there and lay their eggs. She drifts,
and you drift too, letting the disappearing road pull
you toward the yellow. Don’t say it will never
last. Don’t speak of the sky’s limitations;
that blue is vast. If it ends, it’s only because you say so.
Besides, she’s not listening. So, drift.
And drift and drift. Lick your lips. You know
the taste of her sweat because you created it.
When she begins to sing, you sing along
to the sad love song you wrote long ago.
Ah, this is nice. Call and response.
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