James Richardson

My Poetry professor introduced me to him today in the book Vectors: Aphorisms and Ten-Second Essays. It’s lovely. I didn’t realize all of those scribblings of nothing I have could actually become something. And I love the idea that I’m writing ten-second essays. It just makes me happy inside. Here’s an excerpt from his book:

Pessimists live in fear of their hope, optimists in fear of their fear.

Music is the highest art, no question. But literature is a friendlier one. It depends on us more, bores us more quickly, can’t go on if we don’t, can’t stop saying what it means, can’t stop giving us something to forgive.

I imagine the best thing to call them would be prose poetry, though I’m not sure anyone is positive what they actually are, not even the author himself.

I love my poetry class, I usually do. It somehow gives me more creative outlet than a fiction course, even though I am exponentially better at story telling than necessarily evoking emotion. We had to do an exercise today, I wrote the following…

Scent of Home 

The lights shine on the dredges
in the fountain: red, green,
gold, flashing.
The door of the coffee
shop swings, emitting puffs
of steam and people. Wind
is bitter,
cold. Wrap
a scarf around your neck, listening
to the carolers drone:
“Peace on Earth, Goodwill” —
around every corner.
It’s a royal
occasion in the Queen City.

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