a banker’s box

I’ve heard a writer should never apologize for his work. If I didn’t feel the compulsion to put a poem up here, I would work on this more. As may be: like a little boy who’s never quite clean enough for company, “it’ll do.”


for fifty years plus five or six
he carried words he wrote. they
traveled in one banker's box:
to everywhere he'd stay.
they seldom saw much light.

he carried dreams for less than that—
they died in his mid-life. he feared
his will, lost hope, discerned no path.
life handed him ways he found weird,
brought a future bright.

throughout bright hopeless times he wrote
to capture what he felt. his
prose earned bread but poems' notes
sustained his soul—it is
what kept dull paths away.

electrons now contain his thoughts,
self-published at his whim.
without his dreams he found he'd bought
release from what trapped him.
dreams died but words found day.

17/100

How many poets?

with apologies…

How many poets does it take
to cook a dinner?

One to conceptualize it,
Three to interpret it (in
three different ways),
Five to be too busy composing, and
One food-poet to cook the meal.

How many poets does it take
to screw in a lightbulb?

Two to perform scansion of each
turn of the bulb (and argue about it),
One to comment on bringing light
to the darkness,
One to rail against Man's innate
desire to alter reality,
Five to demonstrate ignorance of
basic threaded objects, and
One mechanical-poet to screw it in.

How many cooks and janitors does it take
to describe grief as relayed
in the robin's song at dawn which
promises another empty day? How
many paint their pain with words,
plain for all persons to see?
How many read to the last line
of a silly poem about cooking
dinners and changing lightbulbs?

16/100

Today I discovered I had numbered two poems #9. Yay! This so-called 15th poem is the 16th!

I had thought the poems I dragged out of notebooks and polished would garner more comments and better ‘reviews’ than those dashed out on the fly, but this isn’t the case. For the record, poems 1 and 2 were openly declared as poems written in June while traveling in Scotland, Wales, and England. I just hadn’t got around to posting before I started this 100-day challenge. Poem #3, “Business Poetry 101,” was written approximately 2004 or 2005, edited moderately and posted. Poem #7, “Between the Boards,” also received moderate editing; the biggest change occurred when I moved the final lines down one to signify they occurred at the same spacing as the boldfaced ones above them, and eventually they became boldfaced as they composed a new set of boundaries. The haiku written as #9 but in reality was #10 sprang from an opening line to a haiku which I then re-wrote for lines two and three. The most recent recycle job was #11,”Dova,” which had a final, three-line stanza added to it. I’m pretty sure I’ve run out of poems worthy of being recycled, 16% of the way into this challenge, the training wheels come off, the water wings disappear, and I need to keep the plates spinning by myself now. After that my next biggest challenge will be in two weeks when I need to write a poem each day while on a two-week vacation. (I might just stockpile them.)

Candids as portraiture

Recently I’ve been discussing with a friend of mine posed photographs in the context of a ‘photo shoot’. I am deeply prejudiced—wait, I should stop right there and not finish this sentence—to the candid. Just as the “live album” gives us a more raw, more honest performance of a musician’s music, the candid gives us a more honest visual glimpse into the soul of a subject. But—I cannot argue that a studio performance of a song might be better from a musical standpoint, and might offer more insight into the true meaning of a song. Similarly, a posed shot can, with expert crafting by the photographer, offer a deeper insight into the subject than a quickly, randomly shot photo of them. People have many reasons to want a posed shot: weddings, family gifts, graduation, proms, amid others. (A former colleague of mine spent weekends creating boudoir portfolios for wives and girlfriends who wanted to surprise their lover!)

For many decades I’ve been a firm believer in the candid that looks as if it is posed. To get a shot like this, the photographer must insinuate himself/herself into the situation to the point where snapping photos is no more unnatural than the sun shining through the window. Here is my first argument:

Louise Pilcher. Early 1981.

The above photo of my mother is unretouched, unedited—and unposed. She had drifted mentally from the family conversation in the living room. She is sitting on the hearth of the fireplace, likely because there were only so many chairs and a sofa, or maybe because in a few minutes she need to be in the kitchen again. From the angle, I can tell I was sitting on the floor. I believe it was taken in the summer of 1981, but I’m not totally sure. I would have been 27 that year. To my point, my mother knew I was snapping photos, but previous to this shot, I likely was pretending to snap in a different direction. I had/have a habit of just pointing and pretending to shoot because it puts my subject in a relaxed state. Example: I would note that my subject is about 15 feet away, then pick something that is about the same distance and focus on it. Swing around and snap! Subject usually isn’t even paying attention to me because my interest is elsewhere.

Sadly, one of the best portraits I ever took this way appears to have vanished. In 1981, just a few months after I started working for the Newport Miner and Gem State Miner publishing company, my editor sent me to ‘cover’ the story of a Native American woman whose relatives had informed us was celebrating her 100th birthday. I dutifully drove up to the Kalispel Reservation north of Newport, WA, to report the event. She had a beautifully craggy and lined face with a bandana tied around her head. Being less than pushy, I stood about ten feet away, chatting and taking notes, with a camera slung around my neck. Given a breather by the relatives, I swung my attention and my camera to the ‘birthday girl’ as she smoked a cigarette. A tiny bit of zoom on the telephoto and click: I took a head-and-shoulders shot which captured her hand with a cigarette. When it was processed, my editor exclaimed, “Damn, Pilcher, you sure can take a photograph!” It graced the cover of their quarterly features tabloid.

Here’s another one of my mother. My wife and my parents were visiting the Hancock Shaker Village on the western edge of Massachusetts in 2004. Mom stopped for a physical respite, and I said, “Hey, Mom!” before snapping this shot. We used it at her funeral fifteen years later.

My mother in 2004.

Does she look a bit startled. Yes. But does she also look as if someone just said, “Hey, Louise?” Yes, again, and I would argue that’s the impact of the photo. She looks like an 18-year-old who just turned to her boyfriend, except she’s 75 in this photo which adds to the depth of meaning.

I’m still having difficulty describing what I feel is a gray area between “posed” and “candid” where I think a lot of portrait photographers would like to live. The best examples I can think of are those photographers who take photos to accompany interviews, sometimes while the interview unfolds. I don’t know most of their names, but one famous one would be Annie Leibovitz who I know primarily because she photographed musicians for Rolling Stone. She photographed John and Yoko Lennon hours before John was gunned down. She photographed Demi Moore naked and pregnant. Bruce Springsteen had her photograph the covers for Born in the U.S.A. and Tunnel of Love. And on and on. There’s a good list on Wikipedia.

Maybe I’m just fooling myself. I’m never sure on this topic. Maybe I’m confusing the stray candid that looks posed for those that actually are. My point, if I have one: people are better known when shot candidly, when they have relaxed into who they are. As photographers we need to work toward putting our subjects into that state, even if the photos will be taken at a formal shoot. What if you click, click, clicked every few seconds? And you carried on a conversation while doing it? Wouldn’t your subject just get used to the snapping shutter? Do you have the ability to shoot someone without putting the camera up to your eye? (Oh, how I miss the two-and-a-quarter Hasselblads! A glance down there and you’ve got a shot they don’t even know you’re taking.) Can you use the “hey, I’m not recording these shots right now” ruse (presuming you’re shooting digital—it was so much easier in the film days)? You of course are lying. Can you carry on innocuous conversation while you shoot? Ask provocative questions? Or will it be the mundane, “Okay, Shirley, now let’s get some with you looking to your left”?

How to write a poem

Nighttime scribbles. Wish I could remember what that great title goes with.
One: did words just
pop into your head?
Dressed for success?
Silently shouting,
"Look. At. Me."
Well? What will you
write in response?

Two: did last night's
"Tah-dah!" moment,
captured scribblingly,
profess any worth when
illuminated by morning sun?
Or did beer think itself
scholarly? Well?

Three: has this image
squatted in your mind,
vagrantly occupying
your attention, its
presence exciting but
annoying? Evict it by
describing it?

Four: if Image
brings her friend,
Emotion, accompanying
your nighttime scribbles,
party troika promising
trouble plus fun—
you've got poetry.

Good luck, sucker,
hanging on to your
sense of control. See
ya after your eyeballs
roll back, you forget
your agenda, you
forget your promises.

15/100

Ghosts

Bodnant Garden. June 2026.

I think a poem/day will be all I can muster.


Ghosts, slipping
treelike through forests
populated by people
looking just like they
once did. Slowly
dissolving, windborne
gossamer, 'til people
look through them.
Haunting not others,
but themselves with
each mirror-ward glance.
Remembering when
they treated ghosts
similarly, in
youthful vibrancy.

14/100

So angry

December 2010.
Angry 
Drunk
Driving my pickup,
Six-pack beside me.
Timing my throws to
Hit empties into the
Truck bed. Blind, thinking
Endless thought loops.

Years later.
Angry drunk.
Driving miles while still
Sitting in my chair.
Still timing my throws
Of empty thoughts to
Capture blind thinking:
Endless thought loops.

More years
Still angry.
Still drunk.
Tired of driving
Mental miles worn
Deeply in my mind.
Emptied soul tiring
Of postured thinking:
Break my thought loops.

13/100

Failing, with photos

Front path, with goldenrod. July 2026.

I’m just not going to make a poem today. My brain feels so scattered, I think the only thing holding it together is my skull. Heat? Maybe. More likely the increasing difficulty with being older and watching the world change into something we envisioned only not like this. (non sequitur? no.) Life now resembles a city’s marathon, only you’re not in the race anymore, in fact, you’re not even on the sidewalk watching. You’re up in your apartment looking down and saying, “I wonder what they’re doing down there?”

In lieu of posting nothing, I took a walk around the yard.

Lovely, ubiquitous goldenrod. Prime suspect in my investigation into the dermatitis which has cropped up again. July 2026.
One of the few remaining non-natives. Couldn’t bring myself to rip out what amounts to a mailbox decoration. July 2026.
Our purple coneflowers typically droop starting this time of year, but pounding rain a week ago didn’t help. Good thing these guys were tied up beforehand. That’s mountain mint in the background. July 2026.
Our yard now represents a pollinator’s dream. Here an eastern bumblebee (I think) heads off for the next blooming sprig of anise hyssop. July 2026.
One of the strangest plants: rattlesnake master. Is it called that because of the thorned, sword-like leaves? Or the spiky flower-balls? It didn’t flower last year, nor did it come close to growing over six feet tall as it has this year. July 2026.

There you have it. Perhaps my melancholy intro will produce a poem later tonight. Time to get down to the pub.

The oyster

A meditation on what makes a couple

Oyster
sits and spits.
Mollusk-as-grass,
rooted, muted,
colored in
good enough,
in sedentary.

Snail
glides by:
mollusk-movement.
Purposefulness
imbues her,
stubbornness, her
going-ness.

Can these opposites
attract? Or,...

What if Crab
tiptoes past
them both?
What then?
Who pines for
legs? Who clings
stubbornly to
Life As It Is?

12/100

Dova

2018
Every day 
I want 24 hours between today and tomorrow:
Breathe
I want to quit feeling this tightness across my chest:
Breathe
I want my stomach to desire food as much as my mouth
Breathe
I want to enjoy beer as food not medicine
Breathe
I want to feel as if I know what I'm doing
Breathe
I want to feel less as if we're doing something wrong
Breathe
I want to get out of here
Breathe

Full of breath
I ran screaming; mere hellish jobs looked great
Compared to my hell-hole.

11/100