Thursday, November 21, 2024
Another poem--Dreams Like Smoke-- from my collection Parables and Voices
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
Friday, November 15, 2024
My new poem--Friday afternoon
Friday afternoon
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
Thursday, April 11, 2024
Dreaming of the garden
My latest poem--Dreaming of the Garden, copyright 2024 by Paula Mary De Angelis. All rights reserved.
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
Monday, March 25, 2024
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.
Tuesday, July 25, 2023
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:
Monday, June 26, 2023
Update on my book: A Town and A Valley--Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley
Tuesday, April 25, 2023
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.
Sunday, March 26, 2023
ChatGPT's rewriting of two of my poems
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)
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)
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.
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
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.
Thursday, March 16, 2023
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.
Saturday, March 4, 2023
Friday, March 3, 2023
Generosity of spirit
Tuesday, February 21, 2023
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:
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
Appease the predators take them on
Make peace with treachery and move on
Thursday, January 12, 2023
Monday, October 17, 2022
And a poem, Out There Alone, from my upcoming collection
Out there alone
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.
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?
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.
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
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
To fend for yourself
Watching you commit a form of suicide.
Would you choose that, would you even know
That you were doing so?
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.
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.
Saturday, October 15, 2022
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 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.
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.
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 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).
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.
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…..a long long time ago.
Now is diminished, now is careful, now is remote,
So as not to awaken the sleeping beast inside him.
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.
Tuesday, September 20, 2022
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)
Sunday, July 24, 2022
My new book, A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley, is now published
This year has been a productive one for me so far. Since I retired last September, I've used my free time to garden and to write. I've published three books this year, all of which were years in the making. I finally finished and published my book about growing up in Tarrytown in New York State--A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley. It is available on Amazon as a Kindle e-book: Amazon.com: A Town and A Valley: Growing Up in Tarrytown and the Hudson Valley eBook : De Angelis , Paula Mary : Kindle Store
A paperback version is forthcoming.
The Spinners--It's a Shame
I saw the movie The Holiday again recently, and one of the main characters had this song as his cell phone ringtone. I grew up with this mu...