Tomah, Wisconsin

The sun rose unexpectedly early this morning, out here on the road. A big and bright yellow light woke me up from my slump only ticks away from six a.m. The Greyhound kept pushing through Ohio and Indiana all night long through the dark roads. And now this sunlight which is a welcome relief to my sleepy eyes. Crossing the Illinois/Wisconsin border the landscape is fast becoming the picture perfect image of farmland America. Cows grazing in the green pastures, cornfields rising to the blue cloudless skies it seems, red barns, old tractors and big combines rusting under this imperceptible early morning mist.

It’s a shock when we finally stop for breakfast just off I-94 outside of Tomah. I’m disappointed that we had to stop at all and even more so when I find that the impromptu rest stop is nothing more than a McDonald’s. In the parking lot across from it there’s a few semis lined next to each other. A truck driver brushes his teeth outside his rig and another one emerges from his truck and lights a cigarette. In the McDonald’s parking lot most of the cars have out of state license plates from far away as Oregon or West Virginia. Most of the Greyhound travelers rush to the fast food joint, surely lured by the greasy smell hanging in the air of frying processed meat and salty fries and the promise of free refills in their favorite sugary sodas. A few stand outside the door finishing their cigarettes in a hurry so they can go straight from one addiction to another one without losing a beat. I prefer to stand outside in the parking lot and take in this refreshing morning breeze. The traffic on I-94 oozes by leaving a scent of gasoline in the air. A family steps out of McDonald’s and head to their compact car. The young kid, probably eight or ten years old sports a hat that resembles a block of cheese. His parents, in their late thirties, both wear big Green Bay Packers jerseys and caps. I can see from  their license plate that they’re from Pennsylvania. A few of my fellow Greyhound travelers emerge from McDonald’s, their breakfast fix inside a brown paper bag, drops of fat staining the bags, and take to the bus. I hear in the distance the low roar of a two-engine plane approaching. I look up to try to locate it but as soon as I do, the sun forces my eyes shut and I can only hear it disappearing into the crop fields to the north.

I head to McDonald’s intent on using the bathroom and getting a coffee to go. The place is still packed with college students from the bus using their laptops, taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi the restaurant so proudly advertises on its billboard. In the restrooms, John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads” is playing on the speakers. I remember growing up in the country hearing that song ad nauseam on the radio as I was doing my homework. I step out of the restrooms and the restaurant has suddenly cleared. I decide to take my coffee right here and sit by the window. Outside, my fellow travelers stand by the bus, smoking or taking big gulps from their big soda jugs. A Harley Davidson gets off the I-94 ramp and heads to the McDonald’s parking lot. I follow the couple who ride it as they step out of the bike and take their helmets. They’re both in their early thirties. They take their helmets by their arms and head to the McDonald’s. They seem to me to be bickering about something. The man has long hair and beard and wears several tattoos of Harleys and Southern Rock band names in his arms and neck. He is dressed all in black and leather and conceals just enough of his contempt behind his shades. The woman has at least three visible rings, in her navel, tongue and nose. She wears denim jeans and cowboy boots and a faded Jewel On Tour T-Shirt from 2001. I’m about finished with my coffee and my bus seems to be ready to leave, so I make my way to the counter again to get another coffee to go and stand behind the biker couple. I overhear the woman whisper in the man’s ear “You know I love you no matter what right?” to which the man responds “I just wish sometimes you’d showed it a little bit more that’s all”. They take their order and head out. I get my coffee to go and head out behind them and catch a glimpse of a few words tattooed in the man’s neck that reads “Live, travel, adventure, bless, and don’t be sorry”. I stand by the bus sipping from my coffee cup and overhear the bike couple. “I don’t know why you never liked my family. They always supported us” the woman says. “I don’t think I’m ready to give up the dream juts yet” the man responds. “Just give it a shot, will you? We’re at the end of our rope as it is. Give it six months. We’ll get settled in and find a way out, I promise you” the woman seems to beg. “I don’t think I’m cut up to be living in a farm. I’m a city boy, always was, always will be” the man insists. “This is an opportunity to start again. You can work with my dad on the farm. You can settle up shop in town, there’s a lot of need for a mechanic in that part of the country. I can take a part time job in town, maybe take a workshop or something. We will be together, that’s what’s important. And you know, my parents aren’t getting any younger either. They’re both turning seventy next year. They’re at the end of their rope. This will mean the world to them”.

The bus driver calls up to board the bus and the biker couple kiss passionately as I board the bus and take my seat. The bus drives away as the biker couple are still locked in an endless embrace. The bus begins its slow uphill drive north towards the Minnesota border and the landscape begins to shift drastically again. An early October snow starts falling on the empty and desolate prairieland and my heart starts yearning for home like never before. As we go through the town of Black River Falls the forest starts to get thicker and thicker and the sunlight can barely get through. Still I keep my sleepy eyes open in the lookout for a place I know I will recognize. As we approach Eau Claire the biker couple race pass the bus. The woman clinging to the man’s waist as hard as she can. We take on speed pass Eau Claire on I-94 and the biker couple get off and merge into Highway 53 that will take them straight up north into rural Wisconsin. John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads” starts echoing in my mind as I watch the Harley Davidson disappearing fast on the horizon, the lines of the song “And drivin’ down the road I get a feelin’ that I should have been home yesterday” suddenly taking on a whole new meaning.

Mount Eaton, Ohio

The wheat fields to my right seem like burning with this intense yellow light reflecting back from the rising sun. A couple of combines sit rusting next to a red barn, the paint beginning to fade. Rusty tractors in this early morning dew look like abandoned puppies outside the door wanting to come in. Crows circle the farms, yapping on the prowl. There’s no sign of a human anywhere around. Either it is too early in the day or everyone has gone to church already on this Sunday morning. The corn fields to my left keep whistling a sad old country song to the tune of the waltzing wind. Smoke begins rising from a couple of chimneys in the distance but there’s no lights turned on inside the houses. I stop on my tracks and look back to find out I’ve wandered too far off the parked bus. I walk back to Main Street in the direction of the bus and the “Hilltop Market” cafe where we’ve stopped for breakfast. A cold breeze rushes down Main Street and makes me yearn for some hot comfort food. I decide to keep walking and skip the “Hilltop Market” who is filling up with the noisy and rowdy passengers from the bus and finally come upon “The Olde Mountain Top Family Restaurant” on the outskirts of town. The neon sign keeps blinking intermittently like it’s about to go off. On the billboard outside they boast about serving the best omelets in the County. The lack of any artificial lights inside is a huge contrast to all the other places we’ve been stopping at in this journey and that is what makes me go in.

Inside, the café is furnished with big black exposed wooden beams on its high ceiling that cross the length of the roof. A big rusty wood counter stretches the entirety of the brick wall facing the entrance door. It has more the appearance of a saloon than the family restaurant they advertise to be. The place is dead silent and empty of costumers and if it weren’t for the smell of freshly brewed coffee coming from beyond the counter, I would have assumed the place was closed. I sit at the counter near the coffee pot who’s about finished brewing a new pot and try to look pass the half open kitchen door but don’t see anyone. I look around the place and it’s plain to see that I’m probably the first costumer of the day as every single Formica table is cleaned up and untouched. I look at the big clock on the wall beyond the counter and notice it’s still seven in the morning which explains why the place is empty. I settle in on my seat as I still got another twenty minutes before my bus leaves.

A couple of stools from me there’s a local newspaper spread open on the counter on the crosswords puzzle page. I pick it up and start reading the front page but I’m interrupted by the sound of someone coming in from the kitchen. When he comes in carrying a tray full of fresh vegetables he is so startled by my presence that he fumbles the tray and almost drops it to the floor. I apologize and find myself jumping from my stool trying to help him carry the load which he immediately dismisses. He’s an older gentleman, maybe well in his eighties and as soon as he places the tray securely on the counter he says that they’re not open yet. I apologize again saying that I only came in because I found the door half open and I thought I would finally find some peace and quiet to go with my breakfast this morning. He says usually they would be open for breakfast by now but on Sunday they open a little later. He finally looks me over as I’m about to leave and as he’s clearing the final vegetable from the tray and into the working table behind the counter he asks me if I want some coffee to go. I say I don’t want to put him off his chores and he counters saying he can’t serve me breakfast if that’s what I was looking for cause the eggs haven’t been delivered yet but he’s about to have some coffee himself so there’s no disruption for him. I accept his offer and he proceeds to pour a cup of coffee for himself on a ceramic mug and one for me in a Styrofoam cup. He stops short of pouring coffee for me and turns to ask if I prefer to have it here in a ceramic mug. I say that would be lovely and thank him.

“I heard you were looking for some peace and quiet this morning so I thought you’d appreciate it” he says as he hands me the mug.

“So, you’ve been on a Greyhound for how long now?” he asks me as he turns on the radio next to the coffee pot.

“Oh” I pause. “Since nine a.m. yesterday” He nods as he takes his mug and comes from behind the counter and sits two stools from me. “And I still got another eight hours to go before I get to my destination”.

He blows on his coffee and looks over at me and more precisely at the newspaper and I immediately apologize again and hand it over to him. He opens up the newspaper on the crosswords puzzle page and proceeds to do them like I’m not sitting there. I sip my coffee while Hank Thompson is playing on the radio. I observe the old man as he drinks his coffee one slow sip at a time while doing the crossword puzzle. His eyes focused on the newspaper while his hard-working wrinkled hands keep moving about. His right hand firmly holding the pen who’s dancing between his fingers while his left hand keep tapping on the counter lightly to the rhythm of the old time country music coming out of the radio. When he finishes the crosswords his eyes glare up as he closes the newspaper and finishes his coffee. He does it so matter-of-factly that I believe this has been his daily routine for the better part of his life.

He looks at me and finally asks “Where you headed then?” like he’s just picking up from our previous conversation.

“Oh, Cleveland today, to catch a connecting bus to Chicago”.

“You sure move around a lot don’t you?” and doesn’t wait for a proper response from me. “So where do you call home then?”

“I don’t have a particular place I can call home at the moment”

“What are you looking for then?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why you keep moving about… What’s out there that you want to find?” He grins at me as I stay silent and he goes behind the counter and pours himself another cup of coffee.

“You want me to top that off for you?” I nod my head in agreement as he pours the coffee. He comes from behind the counter and sits in the stool next to mine and blows on his coffee before taking a sip. “You know what you’re looking for out there?” and doesn’t wait for an answer. “You’re only looking for what you already are!...” I’m looking down at the steam coming out of my coffee mug and grin to myself at the old man’s precise assertion even though he’s known me for only a few minutes. We both sip from our coffee cups as we keep silent for awhile and listen to the radio as it’s playing another Hank Thompson song. When the song finishes and the DJ announces a commercial break to the Hank Thompson all-day festival, the old man ventures one last time, “Don’t go looking for validation to your life elsewhere. Just settle for who you are and let life catch up to you.”

The front door opens wide and a man comes in carrying a basket of fresh eggs. He puts them on the counter and shakes hands with the old man. I look at the clock above the counter and find it’s still stuck on 7 a.m. I take a sip of my coffee as the DJ on the radio announces Hank Thompson’s “Smoky the Bar” coming up next. I listen to the song for a few seconds while the old man is pouring a cup of coffee to the egg farmer and get lost in overlapping song and conversation happening. When the song ends the DJ announces the time and that’s when I realize that the clock above the counter is stuck on 7 a.m. and I’m out of time to catch my bus.

I panic and ask the old man how long I’ve been here. He shrugs his shoulders and apologizes for the clock saying he never did fixed it when it stopped running cause he never did serve any purpose to him anyway. I fumble my pockets for change to pay for the coffee but the old man says the coffee is on him. I thank him and rush to the door and he calls out to me.

“And slow down for chrissakes. You don’t want to rush to the end of your life, do you? You’ll miss the whole point of it…”

I stop before opening the door and smile as Hank Thompson finishes playing on the radio. I tip my baseball cap to the old man and step out of the café. Outside the day has fully bloomed. The sun is hidden behind a few clouds but it doesn’t stop it from shining on the fields. Roosters everywhere keep crowing out of synch. The tree leaves keep rustling in the wind. And further down the road a couple of horse carriages are making their way into town and for a minute or two I’m lost in their slow journey.

Milesburg, Pennsylvania

I awake from a restless two-hour sleep to find the bus has stopped in a rest stop somewhere along I-80 in the middle of the night. The Greyhound engine is turned off so I know this is more than a cigarette break. The driver announces on the speaker that this is a thirty minute meal stop. Most of my fellow travelers go back to sleep as soon as the driver turns off the overhead dim lights. I step off along with a couple of others who stand just outside the bus smoking their cigarettes. The darkened parking lot gives only a feeble idea of the amount of semi trucks parked for the night. Dim lights make a just a few visible and a billboard just off the exit of the interstate advertises that this is one of the biggest truck stops along I-80. I walk in the direction of the billboard more to avoid the second hand smoke than to read the billboard in full, and find dozens of semis, their cabin lights turned off and a few old and rusty trailers abandoned at the edge of the parking lot. I take a closer look at the billboard and notice that the diner boasts that they serve the best chicken gumbo soup this side of the Mississippi. A sudden piercing cold wind coming from the north is enough to convince me to cozy it up with a hot bowl of soup.

The Bestway Diner is nothing more than a highway restaurant passing as a Diner. At first sight there’s nothing to distinguish itself from all the other places like it along these interstates that I’m traveling through. There’s a notice board by the entrance full of notes and post-its, left no doubt by travelers and truckers who passed through this place. Somebody is looking for their lost puppy who run away from their R.V. A picture of the dog, named Oscar, doesn’t make for easy recognition. An ample reward awaits whoever finds it. I start shivering at the thought that the puppy probably had no chance of surviving trying to cross this busy stretch of I-80. Next to it, I notice someone has left a love note to an unknown. The handwriting is not as easy to read but I gather that whoever wrote it fell in love at first sight for a girl in the Diner who was also passing through. He’s making his intentions clear and if she ever comes back and reads the note he’s begging her to call him on his mobile phone. I wonder how many prank calls he got and if she ever came this way again. And what are the slim chances of that happening and she will stop by the entrance and look at the dozens of notes posted on the notice board, to find his.

I sit in the counter and look at the menu plastered on big bulk letters on the wall, more out of curiosity than anything else. I notice the big clock on the wall next to. It’s past four in the morning but a bowl of hot chicken gumbo soup is just what I’m craving. At the end of the counter sits and old style stoneware black steel pot, with the gumbo soup steaming and fuming from the edges of the lid. The waitress approaches me, gives me a big aide smile. She’s in her early fifties with crooked front teeth and heavy makeup on but what catches my eyes is the glare coming off her bright red lipstick. It seems to be out of character with the rest of the Diner and its baseless brownish color of the chairs and tables and the faded white of the walls. She is as sympathetic as she is tired and sometimes I can’t really distinguish between both. What she asks me what I’m having, I finally make sense of the fact that the Diner boasts having the best chicken gumbo soup this side of the Mississippi. Her southern accent is so intense that for a second or two I forget that I’m somewhere in the middle of Pennsylvania.

I order my soup and look around the Diner with its Western style chandeliers and low wattage lights almost inducing sleep. I sit alone at the counter while a few Greyhound travelers sit on the tables sipping coffee from Styrofoam cups. Outside it’s still pitch black and if it wasn’t for a sole lamp post on the parking lot, the Greyhound would be hardly visible.  A few reading lights are turned on in the bus and all of a sudden a young woman in her early thirties emerges from the bus with a young kid, maybe five or six years old by her hand, and head to the Diner. The kid is holding a teddy bear close to his chest and as sleepy as he is, his eyes automatically it seems, light up as they come in the Diner and he sees a small key chain teddy bear on the small gift shop. His mother rushes him to the bathroom as the waitress serves me my steamy soup which I eat slowly while blowing at it to cool it down a bit.

When the kid emerges from the bathroom with his mother he comes by the counter and looks at the pastry display case and asks his mother for a chocolate chip cookie. The mother fumbles her pockets for change and gives in to the constant pleads of her son. The waitress gives him a giant chocolate chip cookie almost as big as his face and that puts a smile on his face as big as the cookie. A trucker comes in the Diner, cleans the rheum in his eyes and ticks in his shirt. The kid and his mother head to the exit as the trucker is caught up in reading some of the notes up on the notice board. As they pass the gift shop, the kid asks his mother to buy him the teddy bear key chain for his collection to which the mother says maybe next time. The kid is on the verge of crying when the trucker takes his own similar key chain from his pockets, removes his keys and hands the key chain to the kid. The mother says that’s not necessary but the trucker insists and the kid seems so happy that the mother gives in and thanks the trucker.

The trucker sits on the counter and the waitress gives him a big smile. They stand talking for a few minutes while I finish my soup and talk in such a low pitch that I can’t, even if I wanted, understand what they’re talking about. But as I stand, watching them by the corner of my eyes, there’s no denying that these two have something special going on, just by the way he keeps looking at her with loving eyes and how she keeps touching his hands gently, stroking them softly. Not wanting to disturb them I just leave a $5 bill on the counter and head to the bathroom. When I come back in, the waitress is handing the trucker a Styrofoam food container and a coffee thermos. They kiss each other gently on the cheeks. The trucker heads to the exit and stops at the notice board and writes a little note on it. The waitress calls out to me as I’m  making my way out and hands me my change with the same big, warm and welcoming smile she gave me when I came in. The diner is now empty. I stop by the exit to look at the notice board, curious to see what the trucker has written: “I love you honey. See you next month.” I look back at the waitress who is now clearing the tables and still carrying that contagious smile.

Back on the bus, pretty much everyone is asleep as the driver starts the engine. A few wake up with the roar of the engine running and look out the window, but noticing we’re still not moving, quickly shut their eyes and go back to sleep. I look outside as the overhead presence lights on the bus are turned off and see the trucker in his cabin, ready to drive off. He drinks from the coffee thermos and opens the food container to find a note inside. He reads it and smiles in the direction of the diner.

It’s still dark as we roll pass the I-80 overpass. I take my jacket and roll it into a pillow shape and press it against the window to rest my head. There’s nothing to see out the window, as the night seems to drag on and the dark seems to be getting darker still and silence takes over my thoughts. Two seats in front of me sit the young woman and his son. I can see by the reflection in the window that she’s asleep, but the kid is wide awake and playing with his teddy bear and key chain. He seems to be making movies in his head, voicing them with his imaginative mind, the teddy bear and the key chain locked in a deadly battle for supremacy it seems and for the love of a fair princess who is being kept captive far and away. I’m so taken in by this impromptu fairy tale happening in front of me that I don’t even notice that the night has finally been replaced by the first light of day coming from the far off horizon to the east. 

Three Prose Poems by David Shumate

Passing Through a Small Town

Here the highways cross. One heads north. One heads east and west. On the corner of the square adjacent to the courthouse a bronze plaque marks the place where two Civil War generals faced one another and the weaker surrendered. A few pedestrians pass. A beauty parlor sign blinks. As I turn to head west, I become the schoolteacher living above the  barber shop. Polishing my shoes each evening. Gazing at the square below. In time I befriend the waitress at the cafe and she winks as she pours my coffee. Soon people begin to talk. And for good reason. I become so distracted I teach my students that Cleopatra lost her head during the French Revolution and that Leonardo perfected the railroad at the height of the Rennaissance. One day her former lover returns from the army and creates a scene at the school. That evening she confesses she cannot decide between us. But still we spend  one last night together. By the time I pass the grain elevators on the edge of town I am myself again. The deep scars of love already beginning to heal.

The Long Road

It’s one of those highways you come across late at night. No signs. No arrows. Just a road running north and south. You pause. You look one  way. Then the other. Nothing. Only the hum of the engine, the chirping of crickets confirm you are here. You can’t remember where you’ve been. Where you are going. If it weren’t for the lines drawn through the middle, you’d think you were drifting down a river. Or stumbling upon a path through the sky. Remember, it is a moonless night. You are tired.  Hungry. No one to talk to. Afraid that what you were thinking might have come true. You look to your left again. Perhaps you see a mountain. An ocean. A lover you wish you hadn’t lost. Spirits that seem so familiar, drifting in from the dark. You wait in that silence. It may be years before it is safe to proceed.

Trains

I am seduced by trains. When one moans in the night like some dragon gone lame, I rise and put on my grandfather's suit. I pack a small bag, step out onto the porch, and wait in the darkness. I rest my broad-brimmed hat on my knee. To a passerby I'm a curious sight—a solitary man sitting in the night. There's something unsettling about a traveler who doesn't know where he's headed. You can't predict his next move. In a week you may receive a postcard from Haiti. Madagascar. You might turn on your answering machine and hear his voice amid the tumult of a Bangkok avenue. All afternoon you feel the weight of the things you've never done. Don't think about it too much. Everything starts to sound like a train. 

David Shumate is the author of High Water Mark (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2004), winner of the 2003 Agnes Lynch Starrett Prize and the 2004 Best Books of Indiana, poetry category. His second collection of prose poems, The Floating Bridge, was published by the University of Pittsburgh Press in 2008. His poetry has appeared widely in literary journals and has been anthologized in The Writer's Almanac, Good Poems for Hard Times, and The Best American Poetry 2007. He teaches at Marian College in Indianapolis and lives in Zionsville, Indiana.

Jim Harrison & Ted Kooser-Braided Creek

How one old tire leans up against
another, the breath gone out of both.

Old friend,
perhaps we work too hard
at being remembered.

Which way will the creek
run when time ends?
Don’t ask me until
this wine bottle is empty.

While my bowl is still half full,
you can eat out of it too,
and when it is empty,
just bury it out in the flowers.

All those years
I had in my pocket.
I spent them,
nickel-and-dime.

Each clock tick falls
like a raindrop,
right through the floor
as if it were nothing.

In the morning light,
the doorknob, cold with dew.

The Pilot razor-point pen is my
compass, watch, and soul chaser.
Thousands of miles of black squiggles.

Under the storyteller’s hat

are many heads, all troubled.

At dawn, a rabbit stretches tall

to eat the red asparagus berries.

The big fat garter snake

emerged from the gas-stove burner

where she had coiled around the pilot light

for warmth on a cold night.

Straining on the toilet

we learn how

the lightning bug feels.

For sixty-three years I’ve ground myself

within this karmic mortar. Yesterday I washed

it out and put it high on the pantry shelf.

All I want to be

is a thousand blackberries

bursting from a tree,

seeding the sky.

Republicans think that all over the world

darker-skinned people are having more fun

than they are. It’s largely true.

Faucet dripping into a pan,

dog lapping water,

the same sweet music.

The nuthatch is in business

on the tree trunk,

fortunes up and down.

Oh what dew

these mortals be.

Dawn to dark.

One long breath.

The wit of the corpse

is lost on the lid of the coffin.

A book on the arm of my chair

and the morning before me.

from "Braided Creek: A Conversation in Poetry", published in 2003 by Copper Canyon Press

Friends and fellow poets Harrison and Kooser decided to have a correspondence entirely in short poems after Kooser was diagnosed with cancer and, Harrison says, "Ted's poetry became overwhelmingly vivid." The results of that decision are gathered in this book, and none of the two- to five-line writings is individually signed. Telling whose poem is whose is virtually impossible, and, not to gainsay Harrison, vividness, visual or tactile, takes second place to wit and wisdom in their colloquy.

Report from the West by Tom Hennen

Snow is falling west of here. The mountains have more than a foot of it. I see the early morning sky dark as night. I won't listen to the weather report. I'll let the question of snow hang. Answers only dull the senses. Even answers that are right often make what they explain uninteresting. In nature the answers are always changing. Rain to snow, for instance. Nature can let the mysterious things alone—wet leaves plastered to tree trunks, the intricate design of fish guts. The way we don't fall off the earth at night when we look up at the North Star. The way we know this may not always be so. The way our dizziness makes us grab the long grass, hanging by our fingertips on the edge of infinity.

 from Darkness Sticks to Everything. © Copper Canyon Press, 2013

Richard Hugo On Writing

It can be argued that all writing is creative writing, since if one is writing the way one should, one does not know what will be on the page until it is there. Discovery remains the ideal.

A poem can be said to have two subjects, the initiating or triggering subject, which starts the poem or “causes” the poem to be written, and the real or generated subject, which the poem comes to say or mean, and which is generated or discovered in the poem during the writing. That’s not quite right because it suggests that the poet recognizes the real subject. The poet may not be aware of what the real subject is but only [has] some instinctive feeling that the poem is done.

When you start to write, you carry to the page one of two attitudes, though you may not be aware of it. One is that all music must conform to truth. The other, that all truth must conform to music.

One mark of the beginner is his impulse to push language around to make it accommodate what he has already conceived to be the truth....

It is impossible to write meaningless sequences. In a sense, the next thing always belongs. In the world of imagination, all things belong. If you take that on faith, you may be foolish, but foolish like a trout.

Never worry about the reader, what the reader can understand. When you are writing, glance over your shoulder, and you’ll find there is no reader. Just you and the page. Feel lonely? Good. Assuming you can write clear English sentences, give up all worry about communication. If you want to communicate, use the telephone

Once you have the information, the words seem unimportant.

The poet’s relation to the triggering subject should never be as strong as (must be weaker than) his relation to his words. The words should not serve the subject. The subject should serve the words.

You are trying to find and develop a way of writing that will be yours and will, as Stafford puts it, generate things to say. Your triggering subjects are those that ignite your need for words.

When I read some academic writing I marvel that as common and everyday as language is, it would have the effrontery to get in the way of all that thinking. I’ve seen sentences that defy comprehension written by people with doctorates in English from our best universities. So have you. And I doubt that academic writing will improve until academics believe Valéry, who said he couldn’t think of anything worse than being right. In much academic writing, clarity runs a poor second to invulnerability.

We creative writers are privileged because we can write declarative sentences, and we can write declarative sentences because we are less interested in being irrefutably right than we are in the dignity of language itself.

Scholars seem to assume that if you can read you can write. It’s sad to see someone with a fresh PhD coast for a few years, understandably after such a grueling period of work, then embark on a book. It is a struggle because the scholar doesn’t realize one simple thing about writing: it is like shooting a basketball. You’ve got to stay in shape and practice to do it well. It is not a natural reward of study, and having an education does not mean you can write well whenever you want.

Once a spectator said, after Jack Nicklaus had chipped a shot in from the sand trap, “That’s pretty lucky.” Nicklaus is [supposed] to have replied, “Right. But I notice the more I practice, the luckier I get.” If you write often, perhaps every day, you will stay in shape and will be better able to receive those good poems, which are finally a matter of luck, and get them down. Lucky accidents seldom happen to writers who don’t work. You will find that you may rewrite and rewrite a poem and it never seems quite right, Then a much better poem may come rather fast and you wonder why you bothered with all that work in the earlier poem. Actually, the hard work you do on one poem is put in on all poems. The hard work on the first poem is responsible for the sudden ease of the second. If you just sit around waiting for the easy ones, nothing will come. Get to work.

From “The Triggering Town: Lectures and Essays on Poetry and Writing”