My author page on Amazon

As many of you know, I've been writing for many years. If you'd like to check out my Author page on Amazon, here is the link: 

Amazon.com: Paula M. De Angelis: books, biography, latest update

Another poem--Dreams Like Smoke-- from my collection Parables and Voices

Dreams like Smoke 

The many misconceptions 

That love would somehow 

Answer many unanswered questions, 

Fill the void-- 

Free them from unwanted deception. 

But deception in man is eternal 

And unyielding, they fool themselves first, 

Not each other. 

For they brought to love themselves, 

And the expectations of a lifetime. 

But dreams drift silently onward-- 

Dissipating upward like the rings of cigarette smoke 

In one of the many rooms they inhabit. 

They don’t stop dreaming, they just navigate 

The aimless drifting with another kind of care, 

Or lack thereof.

copyright Paula Mary De Angelis 

All rights reserved 

My poem--Train from Michigan

This is a poem from my first published collection of poems entitled Parables and Voices. You'll find it on Amazon if you'd like to read more of my poetry (Parables and Voices: A Collection of Poems 1973-2009: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9781452838762: Amazon.com: Books). 

Train from Michigan

I dreamed then of my father, I was 

On the train; outside a yellow moon 

Full-light circle against the blue-black sky. 

His face came into memory 

As I drifted in the sleep of transit, 

That is uneasy and unsettled. 

We crossed, from Michigan into Ohio, 

The train's whistle blowing lonely 

As though miles ahead of us-- 

Yet ever with us through the night. 

I thought the thoughts of transit-- 

My father, dead these three years, 

Perhaps traveled this same train 

Bound from Michigan to New York. 

He knew people in the north of Michigan, 

Farmers and ultimately life-long friends. 

I see his face, with me always. 

My head rests lightly against the train window-- 

When I awake it is because my head has banged  

And fallen against the window, jarring me. 

I visit friends, they live in Michigan now 

Having moved there from New York; hence my trip's purpose. 

I meet new people on the way to visit old friends, 

And think about old friendships as I make my way home. 

New people I am always letting in; they find me or 

We find each other--one in particular spoke of kindred spirits 

On our way out to Michigan; his words surprised me. 

Do they, these spirits, find each other? 

Are we all in search of one? 

About trains, I know they draw me so, 

Luring me with the call to adventure, 

Like a call to arms. 

I boarded one, bound for Michigan, 

And then one back, to New York. 

Time spread out over hours of track-- 

Moving me, my life, along, 

From one point to another. 

Spreading me out, thin, fluid, 

Over time which is suddenly the merger 

Of past, present, future. 

Like liquid spreading I see my life 

Moving over these tracks, out and beyond, 

Expanding to assimilate Michigan 

As I have before incorporated other states 

And other countries, American and European. 

A fear that I can never belong to someone-- 

How could one keep me from flooding 

Past the walls and out into the open spaces? 

It is an abstract love of world I feel, 

A pull to know what is unknown, but knowable. 

To care for it, about it, accept it for itself,  

The planet, the globe, its rivers and its land, 

The farms and their greenness in the summer-- 

The land you pass through while travelling on a train. 

Small towns and the people in them, suburbs and large cities, 

Unknown, but knowable. 

I look out, I know this river-- 

I grew up along it, knowing it stretched 

For miles, out of my reach--I see it now 

In places I never knew before 

And feel the vastness of its beauty. 

Back in New York, I grew up here, 

But I have grown beyond it.

copyright Paula Mary De Angelis

All rights reserved 

My new poem--Friday afternoon

Friday afternoon

Friday afternoon

Sitting on a park bench
On a hill overlooking the river
Watching the autumn sky
The shifting colors of the clouds
From gray to blue to white and back to gray
The world looks inviting on a Friday afternoon
People hustling and bustling here and there
Voices of schoolchildren in the background
Playing happily
Crows and magpies hopping about on the wet leaves
Looking for an insect or two 
In the mild autumn weather

I think, isn’t life a beautiful gift
To hold in one’s hands
A fragile one to be sure but beautiful just the same
Being this age, knowing that most of life is behind one
Not a care in the world, really
I can sit on a park bench 
On a Friday afternoon
After a long walk
Free these past three years
From the stresses of a worklife
That I do not miss
That I grieved the loss of years ago
The loss of something that made it work 
Until it no longer did

I think, this is the way to live life
To be able to be outdoors, to walk
To appreciate the ability to be able to
To have gratitude
Is it such that we must age
In order to be grateful
Or can we learn gratitude 
At any age
It would behoove the world
To learn gratitude
To get on its collective knees
And thank the divine for all that it’s been given

The world is not very good at that 

Copyright 2024 Paula Mary De Angelis 

All rights reserved 

Dreaming of the garden

My latest poem--Dreaming of the Garden, copyright 2024 by Paula Mary De Angelis. All rights reserved.  

Last night
I dreamed of the garden
of its simple beauty 
that greets me 
when I arrive there 
early in the morning
when no one is there
except me

Crocuses and snowdrops
await me
along with honeybees
that have discovered both
buzzing from flower to flower
in the sun that warms them 
and me for a few afternoon hours

Yesterday I happened upon
a little robin 
singing his heart out
loud and clear and unafraid
to anyone who would listen
I listened 
because he had something of importance to tell me
it’s spring and he wants a mate

I dream of my garden
a sanctuary, a place of worship
one with the divine 
perhaps by design
miracles happening before 
my eyes, wondrous
watching the ground for signs of life
feeling my soul align
with the miracles before me

I sleep and then I dream
of a garden that I create
anew each year 
in line with a kind of
divine design
my hands guided by a light
that has been there for centuries 
serenity

Book promotion

It's time again for some book promotion. It's a necessary part of being a writer, whether you've published via a publishing house or gone the self-publishing route. From what I understand, many writers who have published their books via large publishing houses find themselves in the same predicament as me--having to promote their books themselves. Publishing houses require it. So even though some of the downsides of self-publishing are that you have to wear all of the job hats yourself, it heartens me to know that had I published in a traditional fashion, I'd still be expected to promote my books. I've learned quite a bit by publishing my books myself, being responsible for, with some few exceptions--writing, editing, designing a book cover (I've gotten excellent help with that), publishing on a digital platform (the excellent Kindle Direct Publishing platform), book marketing and promotion. I've run ads for my books using Amazon and Facebook; I also have a Books by Paula M De Angelis Facebook page. I've also exhibited one of my books at the international annual Frankfurt Book Fair held in Germany. I have a website as well as this blog, and I use both to give updates about my books. 

The first book that I ever published has been the one that has sold the most of all of the books that I've published. The subject matter--passive aggressive leaders--clearly struck a nerve with many readers. It sold very well for a first-time author, from all of the articles I've read about what one can expect to earn from a first book. So that was and still is encouraging. 

My Amazon Author Page: Amazon.com: Paula M. De Angelis: books, biography, latest update

My blog: A New Yorker in Oslo (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com)

My website: PM De Angelis - Updates (paulamdeangelis.com)

To my many readers who read this blog each day, thank you for your support. Please check out my books; you won't be disappointed. 

Updates on my blog--A New Yorker in Oslo and on my book--A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley

Last month this blog had almost 41,000 visitors, most of them Americans. That is the highest number of visitors ever; I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of visitors. Thank you to everyone who has checked out the blog, read a few posts, and enjoyed what they've read. I've been told by several people that it's not possible to leave a comment on the individual posts; that's not true. If you'd like to leave a comment, you can. Please do, I enjoy hearing from readers. 

My book, A Town and A Valley--Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley, was purchased by the Warner Library in Tarrytown and can be found in the Local History section. It has also been purchased by the Historical Society in Tarrytown. For those readers who would like to know more about the area of New York State where I was born and where I grew up, the book might be of interest to you. It can be purchased on Amazon: 

A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9798842022946: Amazon.com: Books

and also on Barnes & Noble: 

A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley by Paula Mary De Angelis, Paperback | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)

Update on my book: A Town and A Valley--Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley

My book, A Town and A Valley--Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley, was purchased by the Warner Library in Tarrytown and can be found in the Local History section. I visited the library recently and was pleased to find out that my book had been loaned out, according to the desk librarian who told me where it was to be found. It has also been purchased by the Historical Society in Tarrytown, which makes me quite happy. I know that my parents and my brother are rooting for its success, as are a number of people from my past who have contacted me to tell me that they love the book. 

For those readers who would like to know more about the area of New York State where I was born and where I grew up, the book might be of interest to you. It can be purchased on Amazon: 

A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9798842022946: Amazon.com: Books

and also on Barnes & Noble: 

A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley by Paula Mary De Angelis, Paperback | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)

Goodreads Book Giveaway: The Gifts of a Garden

 The giveaway starts on April 28th!

Goodreads Book Giveaway

The Gifts of a Garden

by Paula Mary De Angelis

Giveaway ends May 05, 2023.

See the giveaway details at Goodreads.

Enter Giveaway

ChatGPT's rewriting of two of my poems

ChatGPT actually rewrote my poems when asked to; it didn't just make grammatical and/or vocabulary revisions like Bing. But I have the feeling that Bing would do more extensive rewrites if asked in a more specific way. I'll test it. Dealing with ChatGPT was a more impersonal experience than that with Bing, which I also found interesting. Here are ChatGPT's poetic attempts for my poems Transience and Entropy from Parables & Voices.  

I couldn't test Google's Bard, because it is currently not supported in Norway. Stay tuned. 

1. Transient Visions    (ChatGPT's poem, a rewriting of my poem Transience)

I glimpse with clarity,
the fleetingness of life.
Aware that every breath,
brings us closer to our demise.

Each season, every sunset,
a reminder of time's flight.
Even the moments we cherish,
eventually fade from sight.

Sorting through the moments,
like wheat from chaff we sift.
Holding onto wisdom,
while memories fade and drift.

I see with clarity,
yet darkness lurks behind.
For even visions transient,
will vanish from the mind.

------------------------

Transience  (my poem) 

I see with vision clearer,
The transience of life.
I am aware of life ending,
In every season and every evening.
Even the moments of the day
Fade to dusk and then into oblivion.
One separates the wheat from the chaff
And stores away those memories and thoughts
That are to be used in the making of wisdom;
Not all can be retained, possessed or hoarded.

I see with vision clearer, and then with vision darkened, 
For not even the vision remains
For more than just a moment. 

---------------------------------------------------------------

2. The Pull Towards Disorder    (ChatGPT's rewriting of my poem Entropy) 

All things seem to move
Towards chaos and disorder,
Without great effort and care
To resist the pull towards disorder.

In life, in love, we find
Our choices are like crossroads,
One path leads towards order,
While the other descends into chaos.

Love, at its best, brings order
Elevating our spirits and nature.
But when love is lost, entropy reigns
Disorder triumphs, and limits vanish.

Truth is a beacon of order,
Guiding us towards holy life.
Evil, on the other hand, leads to entropy
The road paved with choices that defy order.

---------------------------

Entropy   (my poem) 

All things, it seems
Tend to disorder
Without massive efforts
To prevent this.

In life, in love
The tendencies, the choices, 
All are crossroads, forked paths--
One to order, one to entropy.

Love, it will be said, promotes order, 
Elevates man's nature and his spirit.
But love destroyed is entropy defined--
Where limits cease existence; disorder thrives.

Truth is order, and a life defined thereby
Is holy and promotes the same in others.
Evil is the path to entropy, the road
Paved with choices that defy order.

-------------------------------------

Asking an AI chatbot to rewrite two of my poems

I've been reading a lot about the different AI chatbots that exist, and if you want to read a good article about comparisons among them, try this one: AI chatbots compared: Bard vs. Bing vs. ChatGPT - The Verge. I was curious as to how Bing would answer me when I asked it to rewrite two of my poems from my previously-published collection Parables & Voices. I started with Bing's AI chatbot. It was interesting to deal with it; firstly, it is very polite and nice, so if your questions are civil and reasonably intelligent, you will get civil and reasonably intelligent answers. I was not interested in challenging it in any way, nor in being rude in my interactions with it. I asked it to rewrite two of my poems and it did so. In both cases it made one or two grammatical and vocabulary revisions, nothing more, which I found interesting. 

I then asked it to write poems that dealt with the same themes, which it did. I'm posting the poems here. It then wrote the following: "I hope you like it! Is there anything else I can help you with?" It's clear to me that the responses it provides are very much dependent on how in-depth or superficial the questions are. I have to admit that it felt a bit strange to deal with the chatbot, but it did not scare me off. This is the new frontier, after all, and I am curious by nature. I can definitely see how these chatbots might be a useful tool, as long as one does not rely on them for creativity purposes. Regardless, as a writer, I think that the poems I wrote are subtler and better-written than the ones written by Bing, so I don't fear for the future in that regard. But of course I am being subjective. Being creative is an inner and quite personal process, as individual as the billions of people inhabiting the earth. Perhaps there will come a day when AI will be as or more creative as humans are. When that day comes, who owns the copyright to what the chatbots have written? 

1. Transience

I see with vision clearer,

The transience of life.

I am aware of life ending,

In every season and every evening.

Even the moments of the day

Fade to dusk and then into oblivion.

One separates the wheat from the chaff

And stores away those memories and thoughts

That are to be used in the making of wisdom;

Not all can be retained, possessed or hoarded.

I see with vision clearer, and then with vision darkened, 

For not even the vision remains

For more than just a moment. 

----------------------------------------

Bing's response when I asked it to write a poem based on the same themes--"Sure! Here's a poem I came up with":

Transience (Bing AI's poem) 

The fleeting moments of life,
Like sand slipping through our fingers,
Remind us of our mortality,
And how we're just mere mortals.
The memories we hold dear,
Are like precious gems in our hearts,
That we cherish and hold onto,
As we journey through life's paths.
But even these memories fade,
As time marches on relentlessly,
And we're left with nothing but echoes,
Of what once was and what could be.
So let us live in the present moment,
And make the most of every day,
For life is but a fleeting moment,
That can slip away in the blink of an eye.

----------------------------------------------------------------

2. Entropy   (my poem) 

All things, it seems

Tend to disorder

Without massive efforts

To prevent this.

In life, in love

The tendencies, the choices,

All are crossroads, forked paths--

One to order, one to entropy.

Love, it will be said, promotes order,

Elevates man's nature and his spirit.

But love destroyed is entropy defined--

Where limits cease existence; disorder thrives.

Truth is order, and a life defined thereby

Is holy and promotes the same in others.

Evil is the path to entropy, the road

Paved with choices that defy order.

```

Bing's poem based on the same themes:

The Path of Life    (Bing AI's poem) 

Life is a journey full of choices,

A path that's winding and full of voices,

That whisper in our ears and guide us along,

As we journey through life's paths.

Some paths lead to order and truth,

While others lead to chaos and ruthlessness,

And it's up to us to choose the right path,

That leads to a life of purpose and meaning.

Love is a force that can guide us along,

A beacon of light in the darkness of life,

That can help us find our way back home,

When we're lost and alone in the night.

But love can also be a force for destruction,

A raging fire that consumes everything in its path,

Leaving nothing but ashes and ruins behind,

And a heart that's broken and shattered.

So let us choose the path of life with care,

And walk with purpose and meaning every day,

For life is but a fleeting moment in time,

That can slip away in the blink of an eye.

```

An update--more generosity of spirit

I wrote a post on March 3 about generosity of spirit (A New Yorker in Oslo: Generosity of spirit (paulamdeangelis.blogspot.com). I had experienced that in connection with my book about growing up in Tarrytown New York--A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley. The administrator of the Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow: We've Lived and Loved There Facebook page where a notice had been posted about my book praised the book as great and meant that I was a fabulous author. It's nice to hear that as I wrote in my post from March 3rd, because if you think a writer hears that a lot, you'd be wrong. His generosity of spirit gave me a real boost in spirit (self-confidence, motivation, perseverance). Writers need that from time to time. Heck, everyone needs a mental boost from others from time to time. We're human after all. It keeps us going.

Since that time, I've heard from other people who've bought the book; one man wrote that he 'devoured it' and that the book contained wonderful memories. I've heard from a man who works at the Warner Library in Tarrytown that the library has purchased a copy and will make it available for loan to library users. And someone associated with The Tarrytown Historical Society told me that they will buy a copy of the book. All of this is wonderful news and makes me quite happy! I've also contacted several local bookstores in Tarrytown and Sleepy Hollow to hear if they will carry the book. We'll see what happens.

There is much to be grateful for in this life. I am grateful for this attention at present. I know it's likely to be my fifteen minutes of fame. I know it won't last. But it's a nice fifteen minutes. Writers don't get rich from writing books; very few do. That's not why most of them write. At least it's not why I write. But it's nice to know that something I wrote hit a nerve among folk who lived and grew up in the same town as I did. I thank them for the verbal support and for buying my book. I will pay it forward, that's for sure. 

The Gifts of a Garden

A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley

Generosity of spirit

I recently published the paperback version of my book, A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley, and have been trying to promote it, along with another book that I published last May (The Gifts of A Garden). Both books are available for purchase on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Bookshop.org, among other online booksellers. 

Publishing a book is only the start of the huge job that looms ahead--marketing a book. Writing a book pales by comparison, although it is the most important job that the writer can do. But getting your book out there, getting it seen and read by others, that's important too. After all, writers write books that they hope people will read, even if the number of people who read them is small. What matters is that you've shared something you wanted to share, with others. There isn't always a huge audience for all books, nor should there be necessarily. But if no one sees your book at all, that can be frustrating and ultimately creates feelings of futility concerning writing. 

I've often written about the challenge of being creative and the internal tug-of-war between wanting to share the results and being afraid to do so. Sharing means exposing yourself not only to normal criticism (which is fine), but to destructive criticism on the part on internet trolls. There are so many of the latter whose sole aim is to tear down, not build up. But ultimately wanting to share wins out over the fear. Don't hide your light under a bushel basket, to paraphrase the biblical saying. I've interpreted this saying to mean that one should not hide one's creativity from others, if you truly have something to share. But goodness, kindness, and generosity can be substituted for creativity. If we are good people, we are asked to step up to the plate. And so it goes with talent as well. If God has given you a particular talent, make the most of it and share the results.

However, even if you haven't hidden your talent, even if you've spent a lot of time marketing your book on social media and personal websites, etc. it still isn't enough. You can't do the job completely alone. Authors need help from readers who liked an author's book and who post a positive comment about it on Amazon or Goodreads or social media. That happened to me recently--a rare and treasured experience of generosity of spirit on the part of a man I don't know who had read my book and who happens to be the moderator of a Facebook page about Tarrytown & Sleepy Hollow. I messaged him to ask if I could post a little notice on the page that I had published my book about Tarrytown, and he wrote back to say yes. So I posted it, and he followed up with a photo of the book's front cover and some amazing words about the book and about me. He wrote that 'Paula is too modest. She is a fabulous author and this book is great'. He also wrote 'Such great memories in your book'.

His generosity of spirit and his words made me happy. If only people truly understood how words can influence your feelings and thoughts, about yourself and others. I have some wonderful friends and loved ones who read my books; Jean, Trond, and Brendan (who passed away a few years ago) are/were my most faithful supporters and have read everything I've written. Knowing that they like my books has given me the motivation to keep writing over the past years. The praise from the Facebook moderator likewise gives me needed motivation to continue writing. 

I've often written about the world of academia and its lack of generosity of spirit. Very few people wish their colleagues well; that has been my experience at least. The competition for grant funding is fierce and those who 'win' are often ignored by those who 'lose'. I used to congratulate those who had gotten funding; after all, they did a good job and were recognized for it. In all my forty-odd years of research work, I've been congratulated perhaps twice when I got funding, once by someone who didn't think I was good enough to get funding, the other by a former boss. Among peers, almost never, and I have no idea why. I stopped caring after a while. It costs nothing to open your mouth to praise someone else and to wish him or her well. But that type of generosity of spirit is rare, at least in my experience.

More generally, how many times have you experienced wanting to share a small success or happiness, e.g. a particularly nice photo that you have taken, only to hear from the other person you showed it to that they have taken photos that are just as nice. They veer the conversation over to themselves or to something that they have done and for which they want praise. They don't want any attention focused on you. It's a spirit-crushing feeling when you realize that you are the recipient of envious and petty behavior. So I am grateful to those people in my life who have shown me that generosity of spirit when I have shared my creative pursuits with them. I am grateful for those who wish me well and who can celebrate the small successes that I occasionally experience without their feeling envious or resentful. I pay it forward and for the most part always have. I can say this much about myself; I am not afraid to let other people know that they've done a great job. So it's nice to hear from others when I've done a great job as well. 

On writing and why I write

I've been writing this blog since 2010, and every once in a while I stop to reflect on writing it and on why I continue to write it. Those thoughts lead me down the path toward writing in general--why do I write poetry, short stories, and novels (both fictional and non-fictional)? 

I've been writing since I was fourteen years old, inspired by my high school teacher Brendan who encouraged each of us in my sophomore year class to keep a creative writing journal. We did, and he was interested in reading what we wrote and critiquing it. That started the process for me, because prior to his class, the activity I hated the most was having to write short creative essays on exams, which was not uncommon practice in grammar school. Perhaps because we only had one hour to get it done. For the life of me I couldn't be creative on demand, nor could I write anything of interest in the space of one hour. Luckily the latter is no longer true; however, I find it impossible to be creative on demand, one of the reasons I have always hated brainstorming meetings of any kind together with colleagues. They became very popular during the last fifteen or so years. I'm simply not a team player in that respect, nor did I ever aspire to becoming one. I'd say one of the main reasons I enjoyed being a scientist was because I could retire to my office and think for myself. I could come up with experimental designs and plans on my own. At that point I could share them with others if I wanted to, but I had no desire to hash out experimental designs and plans at meetings. My brain simply could not tolerate the chaos associated with trying to take into account everyone's opinions. Some scientists enjoy that; I'm not one of them. That may have been detrimental to my scientific progression. No matter. 

Writing is a solitary activity, and I enjoy it for exactly that reason. Now that I'm retired, I awake each day and look forward to my writing time in solitude. It may be one or two hours each day, but whatever time I manage, I'm grateful for it. It's time well-spent for the most part, especially when I complete a blog post or a poem and am happy with the result. Writing novels is more difficult, but when the words 'flow', the process is rewarding. I love reading about the creative process as described by other writers; I like knowing that they struggled with many of the same thoughts and feelings as I do when it comes to being creative. 

Writing is a 'private room' that I choose to enter each day. There can be noise around me, people talking, or the tv, but I don't hear them in the same way when I am inside my room. It's about having a focus and staying focused. Do I get distracted? Yes, at times, especially if I end up on the internet for one thing and then lose track of time while I meander the internet universe. But as I write my blog posts, I'm grateful for what the internet has given me--information at my fingertips. If you use the internet wisely, you won't lose your focus. 

I write because I feel that I have something to say and writing is the best way I know how to express it. I've never been very good at verbally commanding attention from others in a roomful of people. I'm not an extrovert; I feel more comfortable away from the crowd. I find that creativity manifests itself best when I am alone, unencumbered by the demands of daily life. The latter will always be there, but they can be put on hold for a few hours. I write in order to learn about the world but mostly about myself. The unconscious is a large part of our brain, but mostly unreachable/untapped. I believe that writing allows me to access my unconscious mind, which houses forgotten memories and repressed feelings, among other things. Or perhaps better put, my unconscious mind sometimes provides my conscious mind with a thought or feeling that I end up writing about. The unconscious mind tosses up tidbits of interest that I can write about if I so choose. 

Interestingly, the existence of a  'collective unconscious' has also been postulated. The term was coined by Carl Gustav Jung, who theorized that the unconscious mind consists of two layers--the personal unconscious and the collective unconscious. The latter according to Jung is 'the deepest level of our psyche', and is 'the whole spiritual heritage of mankind's evolution, born anew in the brain structure of every individual'. In other words, it is inherited through the generations (see Wikipedia for more complete information). I find this idea very appealing; it means that the collective unconscious can also influence us creatively. When I was younger I used to envision the collective unconscious as a 'ring' (not unlike the ring(s) around Saturn) swirling about above my head, containing the knowledge, thoughts and feelings of all of humanity. Sometimes I saw the faces of poets and literary figures swirling above me. I thought that if I reached my hand upward, I could pluck some of the knowledge from that ring. I knew the ring would go on forever and that it would grow ever larger the longer mankind lived. 

I've kept a dream journal for years. Some of my dreams have been quite startling and have become poems. I'd never really had what one could call nightmares until recently. I cannot shake some of the images from those dreams, so perhaps they will find their way into new poems or short stories. The following poem started life as a dream; when I remember writing this poem, I can see the images in the dream very clearly:

Confrontation            

Seated at a table on a grassy knoll
Odd people milling about me 
Talking frenetically the clocks toll

Standing then upon the table
Large coyotes all around me
Marvel at the deception they enable

He loves you he loves you she whispers in my ear
But he does not oh this I know
She may be sure of it but no

How many times I’ve wandered
From this battered table to the door
Of this old house abandoned

Once inside, light all around me, glass doors
Between the rooms, large windows
Unencumbered views of crocodile-infested shores

Turn to face the crocodiles and coyotes
Tracking me at all turns
Turn away unsure of what they want from me

Uncover what it is that must be faced
Appease the predators take them on
Make peace with treachery and move on

(from Quantum Bloom, published in 2014--Quantum Bloom: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9781505211160: Amazon.com: Books) 

-----------------------------------

Perhaps it isn't possible to fully know why a writer writes; the writer may not know either. That is part of the mystery of creativity. The results, when they are good, remain in the minds of the people who read the words that make up the fiction, non-fiction, dramas, and poetry collections that are cherished, often for generations. 

A Town and A Valley, now in paperback

And a poem, Out There Alone, from my upcoming collection

Out there alone

 

There you were, little baby gull
Early evening, in the middle of the busy street
Lit by street lamps
Standing alone
Watching the cars pass you by
Buses too
We stopped to watch you
Hoping that no car would hit you.
 
A predicament
I wonder what you thought
Out there alone
Without your mother.
Did you lose her
Or she you?
You were stunned, disoriented
Had you already been grazed
By a car or scooter?
You bent down to peck at something on the pavement
And let it drop. Were you hungry?
 
I couldn’t let you
Stand alone, unsure
Of where to go, where to step
Every move fraught with peril
You would have been crushed
By a car, by a bus
Even though they tried
To steer clear of you.
It was dark.
 
I ask, what we are doing to nature,
To the wildlife that more and more
Seeks refuge in towns and cities
Gulls fly into the city now
Circling overhead, I watch you all
From my kitchen window
You learn our ways
But they are not your ways
 
You eat our food
But it is not your food.
Your food belongs to the sea and its bounty
You belong there too
Had it not been for your being a wild bird
I would have scooped you up in my arms
And taken you home and cared for you
In case you were sick
 
As it was, I could not leave you
To fend for yourself
Watching you commit a form of suicide.
Would you choose that, would you even know
That you were doing so?
 
I walked into the lamp-lit street
To meet you, no oncoming cars to stop me
I thought I might have to gather you in my arms
But no, it was enough that I talked to you
And told you to leave the street
You walked in front of me to the curb
And then hopped up onto the sidewalk
And walked away up along the hilly side street.
 
But you did not fly away
You were not afraid of cars, nor of me
As I clapped my hands and talked to you
So that you would choose life
And not death
On a dark city street.
You should have been afraid.
I would not have hurt you for the world
But cars and buses behave otherwise
You trust, but trust will be your downfall.

Copyright 2022 Paula Mary De Angelis 

All rights reserved 

One of Many--my poem from Parables & Voices

Apropos my last post about doubt--I wrote this poem many years ago. The italicized paragraph describes a woman who has 'chosen' not to pursue her dreams because the man she is with cannot keep pace with her and is angry about that. My guess is that there are many women who do this to keep the men in their lives placated.  

One of Many (Portrait of a Lady) (apologies to Henry James)

 

In some future time she knew
In that way that only women can know
That regret would exact its pound of flesh
For all the choices cast aside, for all the roads not taken.
 
For there were so many roads down which
If she had gone, that life may have been brighter.
Not tinged by so many shadows, not clouded
By the sufferings of others that she took upon herself.
 
In some future time she knew
That she would look back at life
As an old woman and wonder why it was
She chose a man ahead of most everything else.
 
Was it love or perhaps hate that tightened the bond?
Was it fear that made it impossible to live a life unfettered?
Fear of loss, fear of the other, fear of aloneness.
But what is fear if not lack of trust (in oneself and in others).
 
The fierce desire to prove independence from others,
Has led to only this, that she cannot any longer
Act without him, cannot think, cannot be who it is she once was,
For better or for worse, without him looming there before her.
 
A kind of prison, forged by fear and lack of trust,
By uncertainty and a self-image which is negligible at best,
His and in the end it will be hers, chosen by her because it seemed
That if he could not advance then it was her duty to demote herself.
 
Once was pretty, once was lively, once was open.
Once was…..a long long time ago.
Now is diminished, now is careful, now is remote,
So as not to awaken the sleeping beast inside him.
 
For he smiles on the outside, but the inside
Is filled with hate for others and a desire
To be above them since he cannot control them.
He cannot be them, and she cannot be them, by extension.

(From Parables & Voices, copyright 2011, by Paula Mary De Angelis)

The Gifts of a Garden is available on Amazon

My latest book, available on Amazon in three formats: e-book, hardcover, and paperback. 

The Gifts of a Garden: De Angelis, Paula Mary: 9798435180572: Amazon.com: Books

(front and back covers shown; design by Paloma Ayala)