Opening Your Life to Purple-Bottled Dreams
“I am not a poet,” I said to the room.
L.L. Barkat is the author of Stone Crossings: Finding Grace in Hard and Hidden Places, a spiritual memoir/Christian living book (InterVarsity Press), God in the Yard (T.S. Poetry Press 2010), and Inside Out, a book of poetry. Says author Don Everts, “[Her] courageous, unblinking honesty is a gift...” And theologian Scot McKnight has said, “The only writer I know quite like Barkat is Eugene Peterson.” Barkat has an M.A. in English and American Literature from New York University, is Managing Editor and culture columnist for a blog network sponsored by The Foundations for Laity Renewal, and is currently engaged in an art pilgrimage of sorts. She blogs at Seedlings in Stone (so named thanks to an essay she read long ago, by Makoto Fujimura).
Why devote a year to a stunt? Wasn’t there something inherently suspect about that? Might it not be a waste of time?
Why try to master these things called words? Isn’t writing an art? Doesn’t that mean we can just let things pour out as they will?
I am thinking of buying a pistol. Because, today, my stove unilaterally changed its clock to military time. (Just what, I ask, must a stove be planning, to take such measures?)
On a day when I am overwhelmed and cannot think of a single thing to write about, the cabbage presents a challenge to tell the world that the writer is never at a loss.
Snow has fallen on Penn Avenue/ as golden morning, fallen, melting/ and I walk past Heinz dead sign/ pouring wishes red by ruffled bird
A long time ago, my mother gave me the ritual of tea. It was a comfort, like the poetry she read to me each day before the school bus came.
I close my eyes, / blot out one hundred / and fifty shale driveways