I now have one regular patron who sends a monthly contribution to keep this poet alive. Yes, per usual, I'm a poor poet...and for some reason I'm a poor poet in its many meanings...but someone like my patron loves my work. If you become a sustaining patron I can guarantee you'll see writing from me on a regular basis. I do edit my mad. But I don't always hit it out of the park. At least my patrons have a chance to select from all my work...and they become the editors rather than the small-minded who often edit magazines and journals. Poet James Wright,one of his last books, held by two editors for the longest time that his wife Anne took to another publisher who snapped it up and it became a huge success. Now I don't have people like Robert Bly, Don Hall, or their equals I can send my poems to for a review before I put them on the internet or send to any publisher. I believe in opening up my "horde" for the world to critique or love. And it's expensive to send out my work, getting only rejection, so it's money I don't have for food, or the electric bill. Please send what you can via my email: via Paypal. I thank those who support me one way or another.


Thank you to those who have contributed via Paypal to support my writing. My account at Paypal is the same as my email: rikwrybac(at)

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Saturday, July 14, 2012

The Composer, the Critic and a Saint

Johannes Brahms in his mind
at two pianos
playing variations
on a theme by Joseph Haydn
on a path in the forest
with Saint Anthony sneaking
about someplace.

Saint Anthony whispers to Brahms:
Being a composer is not as complicated
as being
who makes a tree and
then says, “i'LL have another,
only different,”
in a variation that only hE understands.
gODD hopes the second tree
will swing along with the original,
so, hE knows the trees
have to practice daily
in order to know
how their branches
will sway in the breezes together
to end on the same note;
the same beat.

Imagine the entire forest
as each tree grows and sways,
as each tree pulls water from the soil
to push out leaves:
an orchestra of trees
under one cOMPOSER
who also conducts
this green orchestra.

And then fire:
the critic in the first row,
wiping all the notes from the page:
dissing the cOMPOSER.
“yOU had a chance to make it rain.”
says the critic.

which is why gODD
refuses to read reviews
about the trees hE makes

“Stupid critic,”
grumbles gODD.
“I was in a mood to try
some dry humor
and you could not feel
mY creation:
absurd and funny.”

so the critic walks from the theater
with ashes on his coat
and fire for his words
printed in the daily
to admonish gODD
for destruction of a forest

with just two pianos
balanced between his ears
fully understood
the relationships
between fire and forest,
between critic and creator,
between ashes and empathy,
as he walked through the trees
hands clasped
behind his back
listening to the Saint
rustle the leaves
ever so gently.

Copyright 2012 by Barry G. Wick All rights reserved
Follow this link to the audio version of this poem read by the author.

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