Posts by Fleda

My Wobbly Bicycle, 177

Posted by on Sep 4, 2019 in Featured | 4 comments

My Wobbly Bicycle, 177

One more post on creative writing programs. Probably I’m speaking to a very limited audience.  I just wanted to answer a recent question.   So, you ask—someone asks—someone asked me recently—what happens in a so-called creative writing program? How can you teach someone to write a poem, for instance, considering that you have to have talent? Of course, I might reply, you can’t teach someone to write a poem. But you can, given the right conditions, help a person with some intrinsic sense of a poem get better faster.   If we have to argue about “better,” probably...

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My Wobbly Bicycle, 175

Posted by on Aug 11, 2019 in Featured | 9 comments

My Wobbly Bicycle, 175

When Stan Rubin emailed me 14 years ago and asked if I’d like to join the faculty of  Rainier Writing Workshop in Tacoma, WA, I must have somehow missed the point of the message. Days went by, and he called me. So, would you like to join the faculty? I doubt it, I said. I was still in my last few years teaching at the University of Delaware and summers were precious. Did I want to disrupt our time with family at the lake in Michigan to travel all the way across the country for ten days? But of course I really, really wanted to do it. Jerry said, in his characteristically generous way,...

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My Wobbly Bicycle, 174

Posted by on Jun 26, 2019 in Archive | 7 comments

My Wobbly Bicycle, 174

I do not understand anything. I do not understand how the mechanics of the body decide at some point to just stop. How what’s left is overwhelming emptiness. The spirit, the soul has flown out of it! I do not understand consciousness. I do not understand what happened on Sunday when Wally came out from under the bed at lunchtime, as he does, stretching and looking for companionship, when he lay down on the floor, gasped a few times, and died. I am so ignorant that I live without understanding what it means to live. Where is he? Oh, here is his extravagantly furry body, wrapped in a...

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My Wobbly Bicycle, 173

Posted by on Jun 5, 2019 in Archive | 9 comments

My Wobbly Bicycle, 173

I’ve been having a good time going through a file on my computer called “old poems.” The date on this one—thank you to my Mac for this—is 2004. We would have still been in Delaware, close to the Atlantic and the Maryland blue crab, which I miss as much as I miss anything about the east coast. Those lovely shells, steamed in something called “crab bake” that leaves them salty and pinkish. They have to be twisted and pounded and sucked. Even the tiny legs have a touch of meat if you’re willing to fight for it. They spread butcher paper on the table, give you a roll of paper...

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My Wobbly Bicycle, 172

Posted by on May 22, 2019 in Archive | 4 comments

My Wobbly Bicycle, 172

The day our little paradise on the Elk River in Maryland was ruined, I sat on our deck, turned my face to the wall and cried. The strip of land behind us, the viney, drapey, wooded path to the Elk River that we thought of as our own, was obliterated by buyers of the house behind and to the right of us. Soon there were ATVs roaring just beyond our back yard.   Which reminds me of what’s just happened locally behind the airport. First Costco ripped out a forest of trees, home to countless creatures, then the airport took almost all the rest. What’s going, what’s gone. It’s hard to...

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