Tag Archives: the writing life

Impossible You Say?

Posted on November 10, 2020 by John Biscello

“Literature is an exaggeration, a dramatization, and those who are nourished on it (as I was) are in great danger of trying to approximate an impossible rhythm.”—Anais Nin Leave the impossible to the fishes and the stars, to packed suitcases … Continue reading →

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Hunger

Posted on November 10, 2020 by John Biscello

“Writers do not live one life, they live two. There is the living and then there is the writing. There is the second tasting, the delayed reaction.” How many, committed to their record of days upon the earth, crusade with … Continue reading →

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Naming Desire

Posted on October 29, 2020 by John Biscello

Whoever I am, I have always depended on the kindness of words– such strange company, these solitary verses.

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Moonstruck

Posted on October 29, 2020 by John Biscello

I never learned the secret delicious recipe of making a poem from moon, or the bluest glacial moon-cheese from any of my teachers. It wasn’t their fault. They might have regarded the moon as something distant, something belonging to astronauts, … Continue reading →

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Inspiration’s Track

Posted on October 26, 2020 by John Biscello

Inspiration is not a matter of chance, or waiting, or a magic spell that demands bated breath and fretted suspension— it is the fact that you pick up a pen, your fingers growing warm and intimate with its weight and … Continue reading →

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The Writing Life

Posted on September 25, 2020 by John Biscello

These are the tools of my trade. I have written in spiral-bound notebooks, college-ruled, for a long time. They are always of varying colors. Red, yellow, blue, purple, black. Never green. I write with a Zebra F-402 ballpoint pen, black … Continue reading →

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In Search of Lost Time

Posted on September 18, 2020 by John Biscello

A meditation on memory, longing, storytelling and spiritual homesickness.

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Coils

Posted on September 8, 2020 by John Biscello

To caper at the edge, where the seething lyric happens, poetry with slits and fast teeth, where the hours of phenomena are boiled and reduced to a single quivering instant, an umbilical knot of light upon tenderest scraps and coils.

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Ravels

Posted on September 7, 2020 by John Biscello

At the wound’s core, dark luscious ravels of text, courting, inviolate measures, the fathomless brood of Beauty’s End.

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Craft

Posted on September 7, 2020 by John Biscello

How a writer, cave-timing dark and solitude, annoints an ember by crafting the small hours into a flagrant torch.

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