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Follow me, please, on my new Twitter pagehttps://twitter.com/adamtritt, for info on all my books, events, reviews and give-aways. See you there!

 
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Posted by on June 11, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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Why I write? In part, for reviews like this one.

It is quite gratifying, as an artist, as a writer, when one finds one’s work has hit the mark, has had an effect, has reached the heart. This review reminds me why I write.

Please read the new review on The Phoenix and the Dragon, on Goodreads, here.

This was absolutely gorgeous.

I really enjoyed reading it, and I have already gone back to read single poems again while waiting for the bus and playing around on my iphone. It was a fabulous find, and I am really lucky to have been able to read it.I have already started another work by the author, and I would definitely recommend this to anyone looking for a good “poem in your pocket” kind of book.

The poet does a wonderful job of showing rather than telling (telling is bad for novelists, but wrecks poets).
His clear intelligence shines through as he weaves a narrative with a minimal amount of words – what is gained and what is lost and what is being felt and thought are always at the forefront of the pieces, but rarely need to be “spelled out”. The illustrations and quotations that marked the shifts in content/theme/category really helped to give the reader a sense of the journey that the work represented.

It’s difficult, without just copying my favorite lines, to tell people what specifically I liked. I can say that the poetry resonated – I didn’t like all of the poems deeply, some of them really “spoke” to me. And that’s the beauty of poetry. You might like different aspects. But regardless, there is something to like. A subjective universal (yes I know that’s a contradiction) awaits you. Read it.

Thank you so much “Making Connections” and Adam Byrn Tritt for providing me with a copy.

Alyssia

 
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Posted by on June 11, 2013 in Books, Poetry, Writing

 

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If I Could Show You Your Heart

If I could show you
Your own heart
You would fall
In love with you.

You would see what I see:
The Universe flaming into being
And newborn light
Leaping from star to star.

You would see
The birth of suns
Comets spinning into space
And planets coming to life,
Life upon life.

You would see
Celestial bodies in love
Drowning in each other
And their children
Populating the skies.

If I could show you
Your own heart
You could see mine
Deep inside, smiling.

 
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Posted by on March 2, 2013 in Poetry

 

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When I held You

The moment I held you,
nested with your body,
wed thigh to thigh,
belly to back,
breath to your neck.
The moment I held you
The sigh, the sleep
my hand rising and falling
with each of your breaths,
you, my inspiration.
The moment I held you
when your body let go,
when your soul, let loose,
held to mine, soul to soul,
and I could no longer tell
whose soul belonged to who.
The moment I held you
when the distance disappeared,
when separation ceased,
when all became you and me
became we and naught else existed
but us and still you are all with which
I am filled.

 
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Posted by on February 22, 2013 in philosophy, Poetry, Uncategorized

 

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Recognizing Kali in a Young Girl

This is the first poem of mine I had ever heard read aloud. I had wondered about my poetry, whether it was any good or not. Whether it was worthy of publication in any way.  I had been reading the works of my favorite poets, Piercy and Ciardi and Millay, wondering if I would ever like my own work as much. No, I was sure. No.

One late night, after a campfire and dinner with friends, driving from Jonesville back home to Gainesville, Florida, the radio on a local station, we listened to a show with a variety of music and poetry and prose. A poem came on, introduced not at all, without a title, and I listened, mind fixed solidly on the words and rhythm. This, this, I said to Lee, this is what I wish my work sounded like. I wish I could write like this.

A stanza or two in, I said this. Lee elbowed me, said, “but,” and I asked her to let me finish listening to it first. She elbowed me again and said, “That IS your poem.” I believe this was followed by an eye-roll.  And, yes, indeed, it was.

And it was as I wanted it to sound. Said what I wanted a poem to say. I had written something I would want to listen to.

And there went my excuses.

Recognizing Kali in a Young Girl

Sitting here by the side of a two-lane
watching no cars go by
and steam rise in plumes
from the gaping hood of my automobile,
my daughter and I on this lonely shoulder
sitting, waiting for help.
Waiting for assistance.

Standing to stare into the engine
in a testosterone ritual predating cars
and trucks and carriages,
carts and wheels,
I imagine an early progenitor of my gender
staring intently into the mouth of a horse
checking teeth, gums, breath,
looking at the legs and feeling he wanted to kick something
but having no tires available
grabbed the beast’s cannon bone with a sturdy hand,
checking for splints.

Bubbling and boiling,
maybe this car will never move again
and I’ll have no reason to sit within its space
confined with hope of forced conversation with the little girl
too old to want to talk with her father
and too innocent to know why.

Turning away from the beast
I look to the field:
wildflowers blooming
tall, short, colored like air and sun,
water and earth, dancing in the wind
with my daughter, swaying and swirling
with my daughter.

The old rabbis have said,
or so the Hassidic recount,
not a blade of grass grows,
not a leaf falls
that an angel does not make it so.
Classes of angels,
Cherubim, Seraphim,
cloud angels and insect angels,
grass angels and tree angels.
Angels, then, for sunlight and rain
and for home cooking and pizza joints.
Angels for taxes and funerals and sex.
Angels for car engines.
Angels for little girls.

And there she is,
crouching among the blooms,
picking iris and narcissus.
Harvesting angels.

(This poem, along with many others, can be found in various anthologies as well as my own book, The Phoenix and the Dragon: Poems from the Alchemical Transformation (Smithcraft Press), available, along with my other books, Tellstones: Runic Divination in the Welsh Tradition, and Bud the Spud, at your local bookstore, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo and elsewhere, for you reading needs, whether you like to hold books in your hands or read them on tablets or phones of Kindles or Nooks or, goodness gracious – so many options.  You can find my author profile on Amazon and please find me as well at GoodReads.)

 
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Posted by on February 7, 2013 in Culture, Family, Poetry, Religion, Social

 

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Shells

She walks along the weaving foam,
waves bright under the full moon,
picking up shells,
perfect shells,
white shells,
bright shells,
leaving footprints to
fill with glistening sea.

She wants them all.
Each shell, every shell.

Then, when her hand, her arm, are full,
returns them,
one by one,
in splendid moonlit arcs,
again to the sea,
walking away with one,
only one,
the first one.

 
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Posted by on January 28, 2013 in Nature, Poetry

 

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I Met Yoko Ono

I met
Yoko Ono today
at an exhibit
of the artwork of John Lennon.

It was difficult
to see your past
through the line of patrons waving
credit cards, signing for thousands of dollars
for lithographs of song lyrics,
A Small Pig, Collieflower,
Erotic 1 through 3,
Drawings for Sean,
What’s Wrong With This Picture?

But there you were

Standing, small and quiet
unassumed and undisturbed.
Fame and Exile..

Once John imagined walking
you through the field of life
helping you
Watch the Holes, Yoko,
guiding you, yet
you were older, richer,
already an artist.
Where is your art now?
What do you say Yes to?

Opposite your images
surrounding you, his drawings
all you,
all naked, white, bright and plump,
you stand black, still, vacant, posthumous,
drawn and so thoroughly part of his creation
as though you were but sculpture,
but one more exhibit.

I expected to see a plaque next to you,
detailing the materials of your composition,
date of production, intention of creation
and a name. Artwork is so often titled
for that essence the form enfolds.
Lennon’s Tomb, perhaps.

We did not exchange a word.

 
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Posted by on November 28, 2012 in Culture, Poetry

 

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