Friday, October 26, 2007

Just in Case

Note To My Publicist

The camera should be held
Quite low, I think,
To make me appear taller
and to hide baldness.
The lens should be of the type
Which makes one look slim and muscular.
Also, I believe,
A rather soft focus would be good.
I’ll need the kind of lighting
Which adds a great deal of dignity
and youthful vitality.
If I am to speak,
The microphone must be attached
To some sort of apparatus
That renders the voice lower and more mellow.

I will,
With proper planning and rehearsal,
Be very candid and spontaneous.

- Ralph Murre 2003

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Color Blue

not everything
will be explained completely
sky depth, color blue

- arem

Friday, October 19, 2007

Fair Trade Items

Barter With Bob

He brought fall mushrooms
- all kinds -
in exchange for construction advice
I'd offered in spring.
A fair trade, I think,
in equally dangerous commodities.
I ate the mushrooms
- hoping -
we were both experts,
or both lucky.

- Ralph Murre

Wednesday, October 17, 2007


We Are What?

Are we what we read, I wonder? Probably not - no more than we are what we eat, or what we drive, or what we wear. I suppose those of us who try to write may be a little more of what we read than your average bear or Bears fan, but I think we need to be careful to live it, rather than just read about it, if we're going to tell stories that anybody wants to hear.
I came across the term "vastly unread" lately, in an article by someone I respect immensely, who suggested that the term would apply to you if you have not read a particular author. I take his point, but also that of the Clean Old Man who tells Ringo to put down his "boook" and get out and live life. Parts of life are not found in the pages of books, no matter how well written, and the best of writers, I think, don't JUST read.
Don't misunderstand me - read all you can - but do it when the sky is dark, the stars aren't out, and the bars are closed.
Are our heads just lovely jugs to hold the words we've read until it comes time to pour them back out? Did Conrad just READ about going to sea?
Tell me a story - but don't tell me somebody else's.

- Ralph Murre

Friday, October 12, 2007

Black Holes

Vincent In The Mines

Black holes in space pull everything in,
like heaven with nobody guarding the gates.
It's hard to know if the streets are gold,
'cause nobody sends postcards.
It may be too dark for pictures,
but you can see stars, I guess.
Black holes in earth pull at miners,
like hell with no amusements.
Even the missionary Van Gogh
didn't send pictures from the mines,
but he got out and saw the starry night.
He got out and saw sunflowers
before the black holes in his spirit
pulled everything in.

- Ralph Murre

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

Saturday, October 06, 2007

good stuff

Worth Seeing

There are a few new connections over in the "links" area of the screen that I'd like to bring to your attention:

Norb Blei's Poetry Dispatch, which has long been available by email, is now being archived and brought to you by the mysterious Monsieur K., to whom we owe a debt of gratitude. Merci ! This site will be one of the best poetry resources available.

John Brzezinski - Photographer, is just that - and a damned good one. John also runs the blog "OKO".

Julie Eger, is just starting her web site, and it's looking very good. Julie is a friend, excellent writer and poet, great spirit - I congratulate her on this new effort.

And, not a new link, but if you care at all about what is happening in the world and/or good writing, please have a look at the September 6th entry at Baghdad Burning.

Monday, October 01, 2007

From Water

If you've slid
over frost-glazed strand
and rowed that shade of blue
past mapled crimson
in the cove she was moored,
if she rose and fell with a sigh
because the season
had grown thin as promises,
then you know, don't you,
something of life
and a little about death.
If she's cast rainbows
in the spray
and moaned with the lust
of wind and sea,
then you know something of dreams.
If you've taken her from water
and hid her away for the long winter,
you know something of sorrow.

- Ralph Murre