Is anyone familiar with him? He is teaching my creative writing class.

[www.fourwaybooks.com]

I am not, but anyone who owns a cat AND a dog deserves my respect ...
the beard is gone now ?
...
here is some of his poems :

The Black Bass

My hand became my father's hand that day,
for a second or two, as I lifted the fish, and I could feel his loneliness,
my father's, like mine,

a horse in a stall spooked by guttering candles,
the popping and black smoke, the quivering flanks.

And if a horse, in its loneliness, couldn't manage
to speak, what difference did it make?
What could he say? Tell a flickering candle Burn true?

Then I thought of my mother, standing in a field with flames
in her hair. She was surrounded by deer, statues
in a circle around her.

...................
Poem About Bluegills

There are poems about bluegills. There are poems
about trout. The bluegill doesn’t give a ****.
It’ll eat a bare hook but would rather not hear
about your childhood. The bluegill’s thick headed.
It hunkers down in the weeds, thinking. The trout’s like a young girl
in a wedding gown. Touch it and it dies.
You can pull a bluegill out a pike’s ass, it might
still swim away. I’m not talking about pumpkinseeds,
those little flecks of tinsel. The bluegill’s
the stud of all panfish. People catch pumpkinseeds
thinking they’re bluegills. A pumpkinseed shivers;
it thinks it’s going to convince you it’s cold.
Bluegills are fatalists. A slab in your hand may jerk its head
twice. Once hooked it goes for the mud. By the time
it’s resting on a flotation device it’s willing to die.
It doesn’t grope like a rock bass, swallowing air,
the bluegill’s a realist. It knows it’s just a wedge of painted flesh,
heavy enough to pull you half out of the boat.
If you’ve got a big white bucket of panfish
sitting on top of the ice, the bluegill’s the one still living,
thinking, its head like a stapler, mulling things over.

>Then I thought of my mother, standing in a field with flames
>in her hair. She was surrounded by deer, statues
>in a circle around her.

Is this a literary reference I should know (but don't)?

The asterisks above are for the 's' word, not the 'f' word, for those who care about such things.

Is the bluegill thingie a poem? A bit prosey for my tastes, but I know the world has sped off and left me with dust swirling around my buskins, so I'll not make an issue of it.

>The trout’s like a young girl
>in a wedding gown. Touch it and it dies.

Lost me with this simile, I gotta confess.

The trout’s like a young girl
>in a wedding gown. Touch it and it dies.

This is great, Hugh. Surely you get it.

As much as I shun the thought of one of my professors and that subject that is mentioned in this one, I think this one isn't too bad.



Affliction" by David Dodd Lee was published in Issue 11 of the Marlboro Review



Affliction


I'd love to disgorge it,
the way my cat simply coughs out its hairball
then slinks away, no problem.
When my friend (fearing dentists) had a toothache
he tried to dislodge the offender
with a squared off splinter of wood
inserted into a nail gun. It doesn't surprise me

how far we go.
Like sex, the tension mounts.
I'm usually too grateful, or relieved, afterwards,
to do much of anything,
nothing at all
passing before the plane of my vision
unless it's the sky
littered with various birds and a dry diurnal moon.

The wood, size of a matchstick,
was too soft to do much good.
Still, tears ran out of his eyes afterwards,
making him tremble
with the pleasure of even a failed effort.
I knew things would get worse before they got better.
It was the best I'd felt in months.

Ilza, we have 7 cats and 3 dogs and those dogs are Great Danes !

A fish with a "head like a stapler." That's a new one. I like it!

----------------

Hugh wondered if these lines:

    Then I thought of my mother, standing in a field with flames
    in her hair. She was surrounded by deer, statues
    in a circle around her.

contain a literary reference. If there's is a reference, it's lost on me. Perhaps the image is meant as a complement to the one above, as:

FATHER is a real horse surrounded by sputtering candles.
MOTHER is a flaming candle surrounded by fake horses.

That's my only guess.

What, thinking of professors with toothaches?

I've got at least one of his books, and remember enjoying it. (Couldn't tell you which one, I think it's still in a box from my last move. Or maybe the move before that!)

pam.

Johnny,

I can top you on the cats- I have eight, but my three dogs are two Cairn Terriers and one shepherd-sized mixed breed. You've got me there!

pam

Pam Adams, you ought
never to move again, and
spend time unpacking.



Stephen

The never moving again part is definitely part of the plan. It's hard to spend time unpacking with books to read and critters to pat.

pam

I have added you to my "people I admire" list !

you have always been in my people-I-admire list,
you moved to people-I- admire-and-who-own-cats! list
( I am a virgo, I like lists ... )
.
Cats no less liquid than their shadows
Offer no angles to the wind.
They slip, diminished, neat through loopholes
Less than themselves; will not be pinned

To rules or routes for journeys; counter
Attack with non-resistance; twist
Enticing through the curving fingers
And leave an angered empty fist.

They wait obsequious as darkness
Quick to retire, quick to return;
Admit no aim or ethics; flatter
With reservations; will not learn

To answer to their names; are seldom
Truly owned till shot or skinned.
Cats no less liquid than their shadows
Offer no angles to the wind.

-- A. S. J. Tessimond

.

always a good time to post the pic of James Pup and Admiral Schmoopie

I find the critters usually make themselves at home ON TOP of the unpacked boxes. And also on top of whatever book you were determined to read.

I haven't moved for a while. I'm running out of bookshelf room. I need a child to leave home.

I saw a T-shirt at a science fiction convention. It said "I don't need a speed-reading course. I need a speed-bookcase-building course!"

pam

Never-Never seems pretty good so far- I've gotten to Chapter 3.

I mentioned to my boss one time that I had two rooms with walls completely filled with books, and he said "yes, paper is a good insulator" and I said " I know, I have a mortgage that will keep me sweating for years" !

Yes, we do seem to have remarkably similar tastes.

hi. yes, I've heard him read. where is he teaching your class?

"My hand became my father's hand that day"

Nice line. I've had the experience of noticing myself (usually, but not always, in a mirror) and seeing part of one of my parents, or one of my sisters.

I worked with David for a while as he stole money from me.
I never had a clue what any of his arcane poems meant. HIs human experience was disguised and kept ony for himself. as far as I 'm concerned---David as a teacher is like the blind leading the blind. From wonderful, poet profs, I've learned that alienating one's audience is caused by severe insecurity. Write and write some more and tell the world what you know and don't know, but don't keep your words in shadows where no one can see what's going on. To DDL's work, all I can usually say is HUH???

Linda, you said you needed a child to leave home....I perhaps could spare one or two, where should I send them?

>I worked with David for a while as he stole money from me.

[www.onelook.com]

candid picture!

And on top of the newspaper spread out before you that you are reading.

Indiana University at South Bend

I agree with you that he has a different style, but really that is what all sucessful writers have had. And yes, his stuff requires an "aqcuired taste". I do however, think he turned out to be a great teacher. Because of his assignments I came up with some great poems and his revision suggestions were always excellent. He also did me a great favor in writing a great letter of recommendation for me to the board when I interviewed for editor of the school's literary magazine. Where did he work for you?

>I've had the experience of noticing myself (usually, but not always, in a mirror) and seeing part of one of my parents

The amazing thing to me is that we (my deceased parents and myself) seem to share thought patterns. I find myself THINKING the way that they did about many things.


Les

Libel requires that the statement is false.

David cut a deal with me that for 3 grand a year he'd tutor me. My husband told me to be careful, and to pay him quarterly. I did for two periods after which I quit. I had to ask him for assignments and he never edited any of my work once this arrangement was made (he did prior when I paid him 10 bucks per poem but even then, he lost poems and never returned many that I paid to have critiqued). Finally disgusted, I entered an MFA program which pretty much negated any concepts he tried to portray as correct ones. Working with him was a bad and unfortunate experience that I hope never happens to anyone else. The VC MFA program was amazing---I'd recommend it to every writer.

Doesn't sound like quite the same thing as 'stealing', but let that go. Clearly a dissatisfied customer in any case. I infer from the above that you consider yourself a writer now, so I would enjoy seeing one of your current works, if you are so inclined to post it. What's VC MFA? I get the master of fine arts, but the VC eludes me.

"but the VC eludes me."

Isn't that what they used to say in VietNam?

VC= Vassar College, perhaps?


Les

Where the women are women and the men are too !

no wait, that's NYU

Of course I wouldn't pick on Poughkeepsie, but some snobby girls near Phillie would.


Les

David Dodd Lee
tried to catch L in the Rye
first by losing, not critiquing,
and then eating all the pie

Mr Lee Mr Lee
Won't you please tutor me ?
for a dollar or two or maybe three?

What do girls near Philly have to be snobby about?

>What do girls near Philly have to be snobby about?

BMC, I guess.

[www.brynmawr.edu]


Les

VC is Vermont College in Montpelier VT---the first two poems won some awards, one judged by Bob Hicok in The Poet Hunt and the third is about the culmination, the biopsy day, of last year, trying to find out what was wrong with my son. My first book is titled BLOODSISTERS and deals with women coming of age, and all that happens to women, the new book I'm working on deals with disease and will be titled MY SON'S HANDS. Where talking occurs, imagine italics.


GRAVITY ENHANCES MY FACE IN BED

Some say missionary sex is best. But I wonder
for whom, as I watch his slack jowls hang above me

and I flashback to the girl
clinging to a dock ladder, feet hooked

over the top rung high above blue ripples.
As I let go and fall head first

he dives down. My black bikini top
comes loose and swims like a bass

between us. I watch him watch my nipples harden,
my thighs flex, my dark crotch open and close

like the mouth of a feeding fish.
He wants to be the worm, that boy. Just

as our lungs are about to burst we break
the surface. He touches my breast, so smooth—

and tonight, on my back, my face is too.
I am still that slippery fish, swallowing the bait.




FOR THE SAKE OF SUCH BEAUTY

Once in October, distracted by beautiful leaves
blowing past the basement window,
my mother caught her arm in the laundry roller.
Afterward, I stood there staring at that old machine,

feeling safer, believing someone so strong
who could calmly unplug the cord
and pry open those rollers one handed
to release herself, would never grow old.

I fantasized I could see her before I was born,
whipping sheets dry, the Finnish farm girl
who rose at dawn taught me to brew coffee with egg yolk
and that vinegar had many uses.

I was happy at eighteen, she and her don’ts
were out of my life. Now, as I watch her fingers feel
for a cup’s rim before she pours,
seeing that touch can make up for eyesight,

I hug her, realizing what I’d lost sight of.
You would think through evolution, not aging and loss
we’d learn what’s really important.
After she goes, I’ll ignore vinegar in warm water

burning cuts on my hand as I wipe the kitchen counter
and look out the window, past my gold rings set on the sill,
hear the sound of her feet sweeping
through her gems, blurred jewel-toned leaves.




STONE NEEDLES

I saw a woman throwing rocks at a lake
while my son tossed questions like, Are we done
with the things that hurt?,

before I told the nurse choosing one of his veins,
Check his inner-elbow, the last softness
on either of his arms. I knew

what pain would result from an IV needle
poked into his hardened tissue. Please,
not again, he said,

please, through gritted teeth when her first attempt failed
and she pierced yet another fleshy bump,
then threaded the needle up until it was snug.

Knowing that his pain is like anyone’s
under the same circumstances, multiplied by three,
you’ll understand why that’s when I saw her

—that crazy woman of the lake—
but I kept it together while the nurse taped things down
and the surgeon stopped by to label

where he’d slice an inch-deep, biopsy wedge.
As the valium IV dripped and my son relaxed his knees,
the blanket pulled taut revealed

his stiff feet like pup-tent stakes.
When he asked, Will you massage my ankles? and then,
press harder, I realized he couldn't feel his legs

and was probably petrified. Trying for calm
when a resident peeking in to view the site branded X asked,
Why is his skin so tan and taut?, I glared back,

screaming inside, It's part of the disease,
don’t you know?
After they wheeled him away and some time past,

while the surgeon struggled stitching him up,
I sat bent over my legal pad with another coffee
and spoke to myself again, Woman,

I know why
sometimes you skip your fears across that lake,
and why sometimes you pitch them to make an angry splash,

then I scrawled,
Some poems shouldn’t have to be written,
and set down my pen.

Very nice, thanks. Some grammar quibbles, but interesting reading. I think I like FOR THE SAKE OF SUCH BEAUTY best of the bunch.

I agree with Hugh, For the Sake of Such Beauty is a gem.

Les

Thank you Hugh and Les. I am always open to learning so I don't mind hearing suggestions as you mention---grammatical changes and anything else for that matter---I think it's strange how so many poets don't want suggestions. For me, learning is a lifelong passion. Workshops, although barbaric, are even beneficial. I have found that an established group is wonderful where each member brings a different specialty to the pool of talents. Likewise---can I see some pieces of yours?

LRye, go over to the User Submitted portion of this website to see works by many writers including me.

Les

as E Scrooge said, "Are there no Workshops?"

Which ones are yours Les?

Any with -Les-, Les, or lg as a tag line.

Les

I am afraid mine are scattered hither and yon, mostly off-topic light verse such as limericks and double dactyls. Here is one inspired by NYCMarian and James Thurber's Golux rhymes:

There once was a churian man
Who danced such a dango with fan
That his bago was lum
With a buggery hum,
Like only the tankerous can.

The form is called a 'beheaded' limerick.

Dear Hugh: You might wish to submit your work to HUNGER MOUNTAIN real soon. Roger Weingarten is the guest editor for the next issue and is seeking poems that "batardize" form---I know I'm not expressing that correctly but it's snowing out and thus, my mind is adrift---or snowed in, snowed under---well that's most of the time actually. Thanks for sharing your work. It's great!! I'd love to see / read more. Lisa

Thanks, I will look into it.