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Hello Friends,

I've moved my poetry over to "Miner/Poet," a new account that will hopefully see many more works in the future.

Thank you so much for reading!

- Ross

21 August 2016

Bethesda, MD

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The feeling I have when I know there's something I ought to remember.

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My friend, Marshall, sent me an article about "ultraconserved" words – twenty-three words that have remained unchanged, resisting "linguistic weathering," for nearly fifteen thousand years.  This poem, "Unweathered," uses fifteen of them.

You can read the article below.

http://m.washingtonpost.com/national/health-science/linguists-identify-15000-year-old-ultraconserved-words/2013/05/06/a02e3a14-b427-11e2-9a98-4be1688d7d84_story.html

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Poetry like the belligerent drunk at the end of the bar, breaking his line of thought at surprising places.  Hinting at former glory.

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A villanelle. 

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Grace under pressure

Ernest Hemmingway

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A short poem about a short phenomenon.

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Dear Tumblr Family and Friends,

As some of you may know, November is Movember: a month to raise awareness and funds to combat men’s health issues such as testicular cancer, prostate cancer, and mental illness. It’s kind of like breast cancer awareness month in October, except instead of...

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A Little Doggerel

I’ve only been in Love but once: in Lust were all the rest, though Lust itself has clever ways to move a young man’s chest.

It makes him say, “Yes! She’s the one to whom I do belong.” Happily in Lust is he, ‘til another comes along.

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Day Two of my apprenticeship under Robert Pinsky's Singing School.  Today's poem is a response to the assignment accompanying Marianne Moore's "Silence."

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I've started reading Robert Pinsky's Singing School, which is an anthology that doubles as a self-directed course in writing poetry.  This poem is an exercise based off of Pinsky's introduction to Frank O'Hara's "Why I Am Not a Painter."

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Sati is the now-banned tradition of Hindu widows throwing themselves upon their husbands’ funeral pyres. The act is difficult to comprehend, yet while thinking of it in reverse, I was reminded of the Ramayana, wherein Rama’s wife Sita emerges from the flames unscathed.

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Like many other poets, I often worry my work won't measure up to "The Greats;" and so, for the longest time, I cringed at the appellation "Minor Poet."  Now, I've realized the freedom that comes with being a minor poet: since no one is expecting great, earth-shattering works from us, we can write what we want.  

And isn't it often the case that great, earth-shattering things come from the places and people we least expect?   

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"Mine is, after"

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