Jim Trainer

Posts Tagged ‘Poetry Ink’

Thank You for Joining Me for National Poetry Month

In Uncategorized on April 30, 2013 at 3:08 pm

Now this reminds me of my radio days
When I’d take the mic and leave rappers amazed
No matter how large, whether gold or platinum
I take my microphone and point the shit right at them
-Craig G, Going For The Throat

Aho.
I am featured in Apiary Magazine discussing one of my favorite poems in honor of National Poetry Month.  A poem of mine is featured in the 17th Annual Poetry Ink Anthology published by the Moonstone Arts Center.  Great writer Natalie Kelly is featuring My Beautiful Day, a poem of mine, on her awesome blog today.  I’ve submitted three poems to WragsInk for their next Anthology and we’re almost sold out of the second pressing of Farewell to Armor.  National Poetry Month has been good to me.

Aho.  30 days&nights drunk on Ale and screaming along with Randy Newman.  Feeling like I could live forever. A month spent scaling the highwire nights, burning down cigarillos and fortifying myself in a temple of smoke, polishing precious jewels of rage and humming haunted hymns onto the page.  I’ve still got a fucking brick of work to sort through before the Terrible Summer and I’ve got to come up with 3 poems to submit to the Philadelphia Poets Journal before days end.
I’ve manifested a life that serves the creation of Art.  I’ve staked this peak and now I can see the chain.  The slipshod condition of my inner Life and the mess of my heart were the price I paid.  Now that it ain’t all War anymore I turn my attention inward.  I look for peace within and I take the longview.

I don’t always take the time to tell you how much you mean to me.  How your support of me&my work is the blood and the road, the rope and the anchor.
May you know peace.  True&Lasting.  And if you’re called to fight I’ve always got your back.

Go forth and rebel.
-Blair Fox

See you on the streets motherfucker.
Jim Trainer

WORK!

The Pain Of Editing

In Uncategorized on March 12, 2013 at 10:30 am

Welcome to the terrordome. The writing desk is the blast site. Cigarette ash, empty matchbooks, Ibuprofen, sunglasses and ripped jeans, boots and amp cords on the floor, hash pipe and typewritten poems/handwritten poems strewn around a bouquet of empties.
Editing’s a real motherfucker.  Kind of like a nervous breakdown. Luckily (for me), I have an editor. Her talent lies in being able to simultaneously deflect my sexual advances and somehow convince me to turn the music DOWN so that we can get some work done. All while holding a red felt-tip pen in her hand and a stack of work in her lap. Friday night’s editing session was epic. There was no shortage of empty bottles or tears but we managed to come up with one (1) poem to submit to the Moonstone Arts Center’s 17th Annual PoetryInk Anthology.  She tells me it’s a great poem and I can’t tell.  I’ll have to take her word for it. All I know is that the piece we came up with is complete. It speaks its own language and answers its own questions.  It’s unto itself, which is all I can really hope for.  Whether it was good or bad was beyond me but we were on deadline&I was getting drunk. Editing never gets any easier.
What’s worse, having a book published and my work accepted has changed things. It’s been a game changer.  See, I’m of the odd ilk who prefer opposition.  We like struggling in obscurity and yelling at the mountain. It’s hard to accept that the work is good without having to bleed it, or myself, for a while. Basically it’s the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever heard.

The piece we came up with is a plain-spoken poem, written around Christmas time, the day after I got back from Philly. There’s no magic in it and perhaps that’s ok.   A poem doesn’t always have to contain an epiphany or chronicle some precious change. Sometimes moments are heavy as lead and there are no windows in the wall. A beat dog may hang his head long after the abuse. He’ll keep his tail between his legs for a while but, he’ll learn. He’ll get accustomed to it being easy. He’ll find himself comfortably nestled on a warm floor in the mansion with his belly full and he’ll learn. He’ll learn not to react to the sudden, loud protests of the writer yelling at his editor while trying to take her to bed&throwing empty bottles at her head.

WAR IS HELL BUT RECON IS A MOTHERFUCKER
-Military Saying

chaos puts me to sleep
Swift Ships

hst homage