[stylist] {Disarmed} FW: Dream of Heaven by Chard deNiord

Thu Aug 27 21:26:36 UTC 2015

Jackie, I had reread that line so many times, I lost count. I just kept
thinking, "I didn't know Christ wrote Homer." hahaha
I liked the poem you included also. It reminded me of a friend of mine, a
large Heathen man who enjoys smoking cigars and communing with the
ancestors.
To be honest, I think I got more joy out of your typo though.
Eve

 President, National Federation of the Blind Northern Arizona
President, National Federation of the Blind Writers' Division
Member, Slate & Style Editing Team
Editor, Tapestry, a TAWN publication
"You do not need to have vision to see the stars."

On Thu, Aug 27, 2015 at 8:02 AM, Jackie Williams via stylist <
stylist at nfbnet.org> wrote:

> Hi all again,
> I made two huge typos that I did not catch. The piece of humor by Chris. I
> think it says, "Homer by Christ. Forgive.
>
> Jackie Lee
>
> Time is the school in which we learn.
> Time is the fire in which we burn.
> Delmore Schwartz
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Jackie
> Williams via stylist
> Sent: Thursday, August 27, 2015 7:54 AM
> To: 'Writers' Division Mailing List'
> Cc: Jackie Williams
> Subject: [stylist] {Disarmed} FW: Dream of Heaven by Chard deNiord
>
> Hi all,
> This “Poem a Day” that I get every day seemed very appropriate to the
> thread we are on, both obituaries, and “Why I Write”, the excellent piece
> of homor by Christ, and perhaps even an answer to Vejas who attempts any
> prompt in search of elusive good writing.
> Enjoy.
>
> Jackie Lee
>
> Time is the school in which we learn.
> Time is the fire in which we burn.
> Delmore Schwartz
>
> From: Poem-a-Day | Poets.org [mailto:poem-a-day at poets.org]
> Sent: Thursday, August 27, 2015 3:30 AM
> To: jackieleepoet at cox.net
> Subject: Dream of Heaven by Chard deNiord
>
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> August 27, 2015
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>  <http://academyofamericanpoets.cmail20.com/t/y-l-drddljd-jrjuhriylk-o/>
> Dream of Heaven
>
>
>
>  <http://academyofamericanpoets.cmail20.com/t/y-l-drddljd-jrjuhriylk-b/>
> Chard deNiord
>
>
>
>
>
> I’d smoke cigars all day and into the night
> while I wrote and wrote without
> any hope or slightest assurance
> that anything I’d written actually mattered
> or rose to a standard of literary merit.
> I’d languish in the smoke that did me in
> and call it the cloud of my unknowing,
> so sweet in its taste, such as it was,
> of Cuban soil. That would be paradise
> in heaven that’s so overrated as endless
> bliss it kills to imagine as a place for living
> forever, no less, with nothing to do
> or lips to kiss. I’d curse, therefore,
> with the best of them—the legion
> of Saved—as I sharpened my pencils
> and smoked my Punches in the simple room
> that I’d be given with a desk for writing
> and bed for remembering the things
> I’d forgotten. And reading too, I almost
> forgot. I’d read and read since I’d be done
> with sleeping, but dreaming, no, still dreaming
> a lot. I’d live to live again with moments
> of dying to see how “lucky” I was. I’d use
> my body as an eidolon with invisible wings
> that fluttered in the void as if it were air
> and hummed in the dark in which I could see.
>
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> Copyright © 2015 by Chard deNiord. Used with permission of the author.
>
>
>
>
>
>
> About This Poem
>
>
> “This poem was inspired by a friend who writes every day without any
> overriding ambition to publish his superb stories. He occasionally checks
> in to cheap motels by the ocean just to write. His love of writing for the
> sake of writing reminded me of John Berryman’s advice to the young W. S.
> Merwin when he was a student at Princeton—advice that Merwin recounts in
> his poem ‘Berryman’: “I had hardly begun to read / I asked how can you ever
> be sure / that what you write is really / any good at all and he said you
> can’t // you can’t you can never be sure / you die without knowing /
> whether anything you wrote was any good / if you have to be sure don’t
> write.” I found these lines disturbing at first, then strangely consoling,
> almost in the religious sense. But how to write about writing as its own
> ultimate reward and capture its never-ending process at the same time? In
> the conceit of a dream, I thought. I almost called this poem ‘Motel Seven.’”
> —Chard deNiord
>
>
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> Chard deNiord is the author of Interstate (University of Pittsburgh Press,
> 2015). He teaches at Providence College in Providence, Rhode Island and is
> the Vermont Poet Laureate.
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> Interstate
> (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2015)
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