The Collector

May 10, 2018

The Collector

In memory of Ivan P.

In the stillness of the cemetery,
I wonder how it is a man will live
for only books, but rarely read them,
books to pile in towers
on counter tops,
tables, floor, towers that could be seen as
art, if we focused on texture, colour,
could be taken as virtuous, if we
accepted his belief, that rescuing books
from yard sales, trash bins was a calling.
He planned to build a bookcase,
solid oak, floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall,
was constantly filling a notepad
with sketches, plans. When he died
we buried the notepad with him,
added books, but unable to decide,
chose them randomly.

Louisa Howerow

Somewhere between the sunken dark,
and the moon’s overbearing glow, a shadow
opening his pants. Artistic some would say.
Others might spin the scene: intruder, malice.
Those are beautiful words, too. Like a ruined
church can sometimes become artefact; broken
wall—abandoned—a legion of dust. The language
used will be that of history. I don’t mind.
If a deer is still a deer after the coyote
releases it from its mouth, is it the chase
that excites the hound? If the coyote
still hungers, does the deer hold all the power?
By now, I am eager to be taken, though
as darkness enters, it is he who belongs to me.

Luther Hughes

Sometime after my first drafts are completed, months or even years, I come back to the material to look for the poems hidden in the handwritten scrawl. I turn to the typewriter when I begin experimenting with forms, usually stanzas employing syllabic or accentual count lines. I never use a computer in working on poems – I want to slow the process down, not speed it up.

Laurence Lieberman
Writing Advice from Poets
Writer’s Digest 11th March 2008

all sorts of cats

May 10, 2018

cat

Dear –

Do you like cats? I never asked you. There are all sorts of cats: elegant, sinuous cats, clunky, heavybreathing cats, skinny, desperate cats, meatloafshaped cats, waddling, dumb cats, big slobs of cats who step heavily and groan whenever they try to fit themselves (and they never do fit) under something or in between something or past something. I’m allergic to all of them. You’d think they’d know it.

Joanna Russ
The Dirty Little Girl

cthulhu_rises_by_silberius-d7mlm8d

Well, it’s pretty generally known in the States that I got into writing because of Lovecraft. He’s taken a lot of blame for a lot of things that he’s not really responsible for. But I did send my first fan letter to him because I read about his previous stories in the letter column of Weird Tales. There was nowhere to get them. They weren’t reprinted; they weren’t available. So I wrote to him and asked whether he knew where I could find some of this stuff and he offered to let me borrow all of his published work. And then at about the fourth letter on he suggested I try my own hand at writing — he’d be glad to read it and comment on it. And he also gave me a list of correspondents that formed what would later become known as the ‘Lovecraft Circle’. The result of that I got in touch with August Derleth, who lived out at Sauk City about 125 miles from where I was, and Clark Ashton Smith, Eddie Hoffman Price, and J. Vernon Shea, who was not a professional writer, but certainly one of the most avid fans and one of the most knowledgeable. And this increased my area of operations considerably, and some of the people I remained in correspondence with for many, many years to come. It was a very rewarding experience.

Bear in mind I’m talking about times when I was 16, 17, 18 years old, and it was quite a thrill to associate with such people even through correspondence, or know people like Weinbaum and Farley and work with them in the Fictioneers group, where we didn’t read stories or anything but helped each other with plot problems. That was very, very interesting.

Robert Bloch
Fandom Panel: Cinecon 20th April 1981

little, obscure places

May 10, 2018

a resaurant

I have been thinking of places we ought to go together – little, obscure places, here and there in Paris. Just to say – here I went with Anais – here we ate, or danced, or got drunk together. Ah, to see you really drunk sometime – that would be a treat! I am almost afraid to suggest it – but, Anais, when I think of how you press against me, how eagerly you open your legs and how wet you are, God, it drives me mad to think what you would be like when everything falls away.

Henry Miller
Letter to Anais Nin, March 11, 1932