New Year's Poems

New Year's Poems by The Editors of Poetry Foundation

Collective-Evolution – Just A Thought On The Ego

Collective-Evolution – Just A Thought On The Ego

Christmas Poem by Robert Frost

Christmas Trees
by Robert Frost
A Christmas Circular Letter The city had withdrawn into itself And left at last the country to the country; When between whirls of snow not come to lie And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove A stranger to our yard, who looked the city, Yet did in country fashion in that there He sat and waited till he drew us out A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was. He proved to be the city come again To look for something it had left behind And could not do without and keep its Christmas. He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees; My woods—the young fir balsams like a place Where houses all are churches and have spires. I hadn't thought of them as Christmas Trees. I doubt if I was tempted for a moment To sell them off their feet to go in cars And leave the slope behind the house all bare, Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon. I'd hate to have them know it if I was. Yet more I'd hate to hold my trees except As others hold theirs or refuse for them, Beyond the time of profitable growth, The trial by market everything must come to. I dallied so much with the thought of selling. Then whether from mistaken courtesy And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether From hope of hearing good of what was mine, I said, "There aren't enough to be worth while." "I could soon tell how many they would cut, You let me look them over."                                     "You could look. But don't expect I'm going to let you have them." Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close That lop each other of boughs, but not a few Quite solitary and having equal boughs All round and round. The latter he nodded "Yes" to, Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one, With a buyer's moderation, "That would do." I thought so too, but wasn't there to say so. We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over, And came down on the north.                                     He said, "A thousand." "A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?" He felt some need of softening that to me: "A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars." Then I was certain I had never meant To let him have them. Never show surprise! But thirty dollars seemed so small beside The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents (For that was all they figured out apiece), Three cents so small beside the dollar friends I should be writing to within the hour Would pay in cities for good trees like those, Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools Could hang enough on to pick off enough. A thousand Christmas trees I didn't know I had! Worth three cents more to give away than sell, As may be shown by a simple calculation. Too bad I couldn't lay one in a letter. I can't help wishing I could send you one, In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.

So Many Ideas, Too Little Time!

One thing I have figured out about myself as a writer is that instead of not having enough ideas I have too many! I maintain an idea file and I am always adding to it. But the problem is that I have so many ideas that I procrastinate about writing, so what good does it do me to have all these ideas for poems and stories if none of them are getting written?

Do you have this problem? I am trying to figure out how to tackle it. Do I write one story or poem a week, a month? Do I submit as soon as their written? Should I trash the whole idea file and just write something?

Too Many Choices

As I stub out the same cigarette I've been smoking for the last half hour, my head filled with dreams and plans until after one am and here it is not even 7 and I'm up already, I realize that my problem is that I have too many choices.

Ok, yeah, that's something to bitch about, huh? Most people don't have many choices about what they want to do everyday, many people have none, so I'm blessed, right? Wrong! I have so much shit spinning around in my head that I can't make a decision about where to start. I have put this writing thing off for so long now, my first excuse being the death of my son, well, that's a pretty damn good one, you have to admit, but it's been eight frigging years, ladies!

It's Monday morning, and I spent the weekend researching and making a nice list of poetry chapbook publishers and also found a couple of young adult publishers, making big plans about getting both of mine published. So what am I doing this morning, now that I have these great lists? I want to write a short story!

It's fear I guess, beginning again. Eight years ago, when I wrote my young adult novel, I was totally consumed by it, so much in fact that even before my son died I had lost my husband due to my obsession with writing and didn't even know it. I think that's part of the hesitation, but the deal is, I have nothing to lose now. I have rid myself of the three year distraction of a bad relationship, have a nice place, bills are paid, money is not a big issue, the closest thing I have to a relationship is the cat rubbing against my bare legs, good health, food in the fridge, and still, here I am, waffling about what to write, or procrastinating about reaching out to these publishers, or finding things I 'need' to take care of besides writing. Maybe I don't think I deserve success, hell I don't know. I am tired of analyzing, for the danger in that is that I can convince myself of just about anything and make it totally valid. I'm flaky, ok, I'm flighty, I change my mind like I change my underwear.

In the wee hours of morning, or wee for me anyway, I decided to hold off on contacting publishers and get up this morning and write a short story. I have so many stories to tell! My life reads like American Horror Story, or a juicy romance novel at times. But here I am, sitting at the computer, bitching to you on this blog about having too many choices. Which story should I tell first? Am I really a writer, or just a wanna be? Can I just put the shit down and quit worrying about whether some literary journal is going to accept it, or how much they pay?

My whole life I have been a business woman and I can't seem to get rid of that accountant in my head. I want to just write for the pure pleasure, for release, to tell stories I know people would want to read. Dammit all to hell, I get frustrated like this and then I find something totally different to do, like selling stuff on Ebay.