Any migration is forced

Poetry by Sara Fitzpatrick Comito

Category: Wondering

Small poetry

red-snooker-ballWhat’s your smallest poem? I mean in terms of square footage. If you were to go to work at Neidecker’s “condensary (from which there is no layoff),” what flavor would be your pulpy concentrate? Orange, persimmon, rage, wonder?

Short, Fast, and Deadly has long been a contemporary standard-bearer of micro-mini prose and poetry, and following is one of two poems editor Joseph A. Quintela was kind enough to include in that vibrant channel for the mighty small. Read the rest of this entry »


Mommy, am I a fantasy writer?

Check off this box under things I never thought would happen: being published in a fantasy/science fiction magazine. As usual, I didn’t arrive at this particular milestone via the most direct manner. I had to address some deeply ingrained prejudices first. Everyone has them and that’s ok. It’s how you acknowledge them and proceed to live a healthy, well rounded life that counts. It’s a lot of work.

When I think about fantasy or scifi, an image such as this comes to mind: Read the rest of this entry »

Fascination station

I don’t sit at my laptop and demand inspiration. I’m not a structured writer. I guess that means I’m no Virginia Woolf. I certainly don’t have a room of my own. I don’t write in my car, like Raymond Carver. I can’t write while lying down like Truman Capote. Most of the time, I can’t … write. Honestly, I lack discipline when it comes to anything other than working out how to satisfy the most pressing of financial obligations.

But I cast a net far and wide when I’m fishing for fascination. I don’t remember how I arrived at medlars. But I got to them, eventually, via Wikipedia. The tangential quality of the internet is remedial to my scattered attention span. Call it the model if you like. Customers who bought The Essential Neruda (Bilinqual Edition) also bought American Power Pull 144 1 Ton Cable Puller (I’d like to shake their hands).

But at medlars I did arrive. And from there I learned about bletting. And from there sprang forth an orgiastic rite that somehow implicated Cervantes. SeƱor, I do beg your pardon.
Read the rest of this entry »

The poetry clause

Ain’t no money in poetry / That’s what sets the poet free / I’ve had all the freedom I can stand.

That’s the opening refrain of the chorus of Cold Dog Soup by singer Guy Clarke. Yes, all my poet friends can speak to the veracity of the sentiment. So the fortunate of us wordsmiths have a day job. Freedom isn’t free after all. And I wonder: if you’re one of them, do you let your poet flag fly? How many of your co-workers know of your literary proclivities?

I have a pretty easy-going existence as a freelance writer, ghost writing for business coaches, reporting on cultural events and business issues for newspapers, profiling folks in the local law community.

And I also write poetry. Some of it’s dark, weird, and off-color.

And as I think is wise to do, I keep my ear to the ground for potential full-time employment that might suit my skills and (with any luck) passion. People use the Internet to check out potential employees. I wonder what a prospective HR director would think of poetry that parses out dreams of eating one’s laundry, or a less-than-charitable break-up poem?

I would like to know from those who manage to maintain a business existence along with a poetic one: do they necessarily have to be separate? Is there a poetry clause in the shareholder’s agreement?