Thursday, November 16, 1995

My Thoughts Aren't Birds


My thoughts aren't birds learning flight, they are the feathers on the wings of time, drifting downward into the darkness of the soul. My past always threatens to abscond with memory, as if it were long buried pirate treasure, the moon's fish seeking the pocket of the sky.

My life always snakes forth like runnels of erratic water in the dry acrid dust of Alice Springs, Ayers Rock, a solid thought holding up the blueness of sky. 

And when I wake, dreams take on the flight of words, seeking the stillness of the pond in late afternoon light—not a reflection, but real words frosting the cake.

Whose fear finds me fighting for words in the stillness of the afternoon. Why all this preoccupation with waning light, why not the cover of darkness, or the last thoughts of the waning moon? 

I want to find the or origins of rivers between the corners of my eyes that hunger for the thirsty land, a mirage oases, so I can appreciate the sundance at the bottom of the well. 

November 16, 1995 
Higham Family School

Wednesday, November 8, 1995

Letter to Carol Cullar, Editor, Maverick Press/Terrapin


Maverick Press/Terrapin
Carol Cullar, Editor,
Rt. 2, Box 4915
Eagle Pass, TX 78852
Nov. 8, 1995

Dear Carol,

I’m deeply honored to be included in another issue of Maverick/Terrapin. On the latest flyer, a stamped note, “need bio for upcoming issue”   had me scrambling through my notes as to what poem, “Feeding the Minotaur”; during the interim, I’ve made some small word changes which I’ve highlighted, but I suspect you’ve already gone to press, since it’s already November. No matter. !No te preocupes!

I’m slowly crawling out of the morass of two year’s worth of significant deaths—my parents & an uncle—all within a year’s span (not to mention a bad relationship), has left me virtually speechless/wordless. . . so this publication means more to me than you can imagine. It reminds me of my duty: I am still  writer despite all my stripped down illusions.

The Mother Earth Journal Latin American issue came out in a slightly different format—I was too busy grieving to do layout, so Herman Berlandt finished it (to the best of his abilities). I’m very attached to good layout, etc., so I’m not happy with it visually. He used several of your woodcarvings. They look great. Did he send you a copy?

I loved the poems you sent me, I’d love to see more. . . are you a sister voice in the dark? I often feel my personal obsession as materia prima isn’t currently popular or acceptable in the publishing world, but it’s the angst/grist for my mill/who I am. If I’d a listened tae my teachers, my vision/voice wouldn’t exist. If only I could get a book published. . . I keep sending my MS out to contests, often placing as a runner up, to no avail. Still no book in sight. It makes me doubt my work. Your continued support of my writing (and a “Pushcart” nomination!) gives me reason/courage to submit/publish.


Sincerely,

Maureen Hurley

BIO:

Maureen Hurley lives in Forestville, near the redwoods along the Russian River, in northern California. Her poems have appeared in Maverick Press’s Paisano, Culebra! and numerous journals and anthologies including Atomic Ghost, & Hermit Kingdom. Poetry awards include Negative Capability, Chester H. Jones, Kalliopea, National Writers’ Union, National Federation of State Poetry Societies, and two regional NEA fellowships. “Feeding the Minotaur” grapples with the unconscious dendritic history buried within her personal mythopoetics.



Saturday, November 4, 1995

AMOR AMARGO


Inside the microwave oven, 
my note, with "I'm sorry" 
scrawled in large purple letters,
the color of forgiveness, 
returned as if to say, shove it.
And take your oven back too.
These words were seeking forgiveness, 
they were seeking the heart line,
the calmness of gray skies.
Instead, I find them returned, 
unspent words. Still trying to apologize,
how to soothe the raging heart of anger.
A song that haunted me in Holland,
I never knew the name, says it all: 
the Gypsy Kings sing Amor Amargo. 
Bitter love, just my luck.


11 November 1995
rev. 11/4/2015