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dverselogoWell, hello there poets! Before I get into my intro, I wanna say happy birthday to my wonderful mom and thank you to D’team for continuing
to be such amazing and tireless
supporters of the poetry community.
I’ve known Brian, Claudia & Gay for years; they’ve done nothing but support me + my growth
and it is an honor to be a part of this.

Moving forward… My name is Anthony Desmond and I’ll be the dude behind the bar this evening.

       I’m writing this at 3am as I listen to Johnny Hates Jazz with Richard Dawkins’ ‘Sex, Death and The Meaning of Life’ on mute… Thinking about how the cold weather here in Michigan has given me a lot of time for self reflection. Instead of just setting goals (that never stick) for the year, I realized I have to put some energy into my central nervous system. Meditation and deep breathing have become a part of my daily life; seeing as how it acts as a medicine for my inner self and helps release neurotic holding patterns. I am no longer ignorant to the fact that change must come from the inside…

I’ve also decided to start free writing every single day; in my 5 years of writing, I would always take breaks for weeks or sometimes months because I wanted to wait for inspiration. Just about every time I’d start to write, if I thought it was gonna be crap, I would stop; it drove me mad! They say you have to take the good with the bad; now that I’m writing a lot more bad, the good is coming much more often than before. It’s become quite clear to me that I don’t have to wait for inspiration, it comes whenever the writer wants to put in the effort to find a new vein to bleed from… Now, enough of me sounding like the 2nd coming of Deepak Chopra for poets, lets get down to the nitty-gritty…

I feel it’s only right to end my 1st intro here at d’Verse with a poem from my hero, Frank Stanford,

In Another Room I Am Drinking Eggs from a Boot

Hans Richter

What if the moon was essence of quinine

And high heels were a time of day

When certain birds bled

The chauffeur is telling the cook

The antler would pry into ice floes

Swim with a lamp

And we’d be shivering in a ditch

Biting through a black wing

There would be boats

There would be a dream country

The great quiet humming of the soul at night

The only sound is a shovel

Clearing a place for a mailbox

*Estate of Frank Stanford © C.D. Wright

Source: Automatic Co-Pilot (Unpublished Collection,)

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