Now on Substack!

Dear friends, followers and casual poetry lovers,

I want to firstly thank those of you who remain as followers on this blog. You are the best!

Life goes on and none of us ever stay in the same place, right? For awhile, I’ve had this as my casual blog for poems. First intended as a travel blog, then a place for oddball poems the literary journals didn’t seem to like. Then it became the number one place for my poems, and for a good year or so before the lockdowns this was my sole outlet.

Beyond Norcal has certainly been a lovely accoutrement to being away from where I’m from, and brings back lots of hungry poet memories. I certainly don’t wish to do away with it just yet, for sentimental reasons. This year I plan on thinking deeply about how I can continue using it. I even have a new logo planned for it!

But right now I am centering my literary output on Substack. While there is little many of us can say about the world that is nice, I gotta hand it to them: they really make it possible for an independent writer to thrive. Substack gives me hope that independent writing can flourish in this corporate, anti-art technocracy we’ve found ourselves in.

To all of you still interested in reading my poems, I would like to invite you to go to timelessfelixpurat.substack.com and subscribe. Not only will you get a lot more writing on a regular basis: you’ll get updates about my self-publication plans, which will most certainly include poetry collections. My first self-published novel, Calm Before an Earthquake, will be out in June so definitely subscribe to keep abreast of that development!

There will be, among other things, a weekly poem every Saturday. (first one published tomorrow!) I will aim for the longer form, since I think my strengths lie there in a looser, yet mildly structured format. The poems will be available to paid subscribers – while this might annoy some, I don’t feel I can truly devote myself to writing anymore of any kind unless I can make a living from it somehow. Writers do not just write: they live the writers life. They are not meant to be the pets of university creative writing programs, but to be out there in the world soaking up what they come across.

My poems will, however, be just one of several goodies that come with a paid subscription. And those who can’t afford a paid subscription will be content for the moment with the goodies that come with a free subscription; I am conscious that this is an economically trying time. You will see for yourself today, when my first publication comes out! (NOTE: wait a week before trying the free trial! As I am just starting, I want a few more publications up first so that you can maximally benefit from full access and see what you can get. Wednesday the 22nd is a good first day)

And I should mention that while the phrase ‘making a living’ might connote certain things to certain people, it will not involve any kind of surrendering of artistry, or honest expression. On the contrary! I would say that the biggest hampering of artistry has been letting myself be intimidated by what the publishing industry wants, while lamenting the narrow-mindedness of independent publishers. At some point, one has to take a hint when 75% of rejections say “this is not what we’re looking for right now.” But I am right here, right now all the same!

That period is now over. The short period of unadulterated poetry you guys saw a couple years ago and supported here will now be taken to the 2.0 level. It would mean a lot to me to have you guys join me.

The poems here on Beyond Norcal will, naturally, remain out there for people to enjoy. But they are the poems of another age. A lot has changed since the covid lockdowns.

I hope to see you on Substack! And thanks again for following.

Cheers,

  • Felix, The Tired Knight

The Tired Knight

If they cast me in one of those cheap

Medieval action flicks with cardboard swords and armor

The director’s eyebrow rises: he dubs me the tired knight –

Noble perchance, but I do not want to fight

If his once Star-Spangled friends sink

knee-deep into the outhouse of politics

They strive in vain to requisition the tired knight

They say he is noble, but in this spat does not want to fight

If the umpteenth family breaks apart into

Vitriol shards sharp enough to puncture the dragon’s scale

No doubt they will try to drag in the tired knight

To shed blood in a war he does not want to fight

Do not hire knights anymore to do a mercenary’s work

Leave your talking points at home: only coffee is Excalibur

If I’m noble in truth, do not sully what remains to this sleepy, tired knight

Who, yawning at the banners, doesn’t give a rat’s ass about your fight.

Update

Dear followers, friends, fans and other random browsers,

I hope 2022 has been a great year and that wherever you live, the shackles of the pandemic have been thrown off in your lives, be they from the disease itself, the State or whichever societal actor likes to do the shackling in your respective homeland. And that following the unshackling, the serenity of life as you all define it has been restored.

My pandemic-induced poet’s bloc is sadly still unresolved, and last year’s poetry binge didn’t ultimately help – but I am working on it! Reading ancient epics and sagas in particular – i.e. the Song of the Cid, (from Spain)The Tale of the Campaign of Igor (from the Kievan Rus) and The Gaucho Martin Fierro (from Argentina) – have, however, been helpful. As have poets who explore the darkest underbelly of our existence – basically, anybody similar to the mighty Leopoldo Maria Panero in chaotic darkness, or Jan Kochanowski in grief-stricken sadness. (the Baranczak-Heaney translation of Laments is amazing!) I am looking forward to seeing how my craft changes once this is all over.

I believe the poet’s bloc will be overcome soon since life is calmer now. Perhaps revisiting my early influences – Whitman and Ferlinghetti – will also help. But for those wanting to read more writing of a different type, I am now writing articles and essays on Arcadia, where I and others write academic yet accessible articles for those of us who cherish the artsiness of existence. I only recently discovered places that believe in shared values like this, and it’s great! Where have they been all this time?

Not only is it great to write about topics of which I can contribute something: the attention drawn towards these articles should also draw in more poetry readers. I am currently writing about literary translation, but plan to start a series on a different indeterminate topic in history or literature.

For those interested in reading those articles, click this link every Monday or Tuesday to read the latest article: https://www.byarcadia.org/profile/fpurat/profile

In other news:

  • I now work as a writer (hooray!)
  • Novel writing is going well: got several projects nearing completion, and a self-publication project that is ongoing; you guys will be the first to hear about it!
  • Academic career is ongoing, and going well
  • Will publish a short story here soon

That’s it for now. As it’s been a year, thanks to all of you who are still following this blog! You all are awesome, and I look forward to rewarding your continued subscription with some awesome future poems!

All the best,

  • Felix

PS: happy Svaty Vaclav Day (or St. Wenceslas Day) to all you beautiful Czechs who follow this blog.

The Muses’ Days Are Numbered

If I keep writing poems on the train, the forces of literature will judge me as Grabinskiana

At least when America falls, it will be harder for the purgers to liken what I write as Americana

The muse prepares to say goodbye: not even she is immune to today’s unending dysfunction

Is it an AFI-style affliction, or has somebody tampered with the telegraph line of our psychic conjunction?

Was she a Californian with flowers in her hair that, upon my absence, started to wilt?

The drought started around the time I left: on top of a recipe for hate we now have a recipe for guilt

Art can no longer save my state from its imminent demise, but neither now will it save me

Once the Muse casts me loose, it’s only a matter of time before a force of darkness slays me.

Euphoria Is A Funny Thing

Windows are dark in Prague at this hour as post-election hangovers commence

Euphoria is a funny thing in this weird time when nothing, not even my poems, make any sense

More temporary than infatuation, with a dash of whimsy mixed into the goulash pot

But once the goulash is eaten – and it will be eaten fast – what is there left in Mala Strana lacking any rot

A crossroads lies before the Czechs; both paths into the forests have their shadows

I hope their hearts are their lanterns: too much outside the army is shrouded in cameo.

When One Needs A Griffin (or Poetry On The Move)

When penning poems on the train a poet turns mobile like Papusza, our much loved Gypsy bardess in Poland

Now, like her end destination of Gorzów, I am stationary; instead of flowing poems, I orate a command

Is a poem truly stationary, or must we be Romanian word gymnasts training nonstop in the sweaty gym of the world?

If that’s so true, then where are all the great epics now that we are exercising nonstop, flexible and unfurled

Poetry doesn’t come from muscle, say the creative indoctrinators, it is a muscle; where then, does the difference lie in its big, oak coffin?

I should take a walk now and see the results: even so, what’s the point of a horse when one needs a griffin?

Fit Only For The Junker

Here I sit with a 12° ležák, hapless without a Trezor wallet as my fiat currency needs Tony to fix it again

No matter how much crypto I purchase, I can buy more beer but it won’t fix a broken Big Ben

And I sure don’t trust Tony; from hustlers to housewives, who trusts a fixer to fix things a second time?

Illusions flickers at my eyelids, but not the one suggesting that inabilities to fix things don’t lead to crime

Love renders me romantic; drinks squeeze the holy spirit out of my spirit until I can get no drunker

That way I need not pretend I can fix anything, as souls and romantics are unfixable, fit only for the junker

Worldwide Calcification

Pink rays of light are called the girly color in school, but nothing about the pink sky is girly today

The farms seem fertile enough from the window, but not once have I heard a donkey bray

A sunrise of WiFi rays dispel all mysteries: now there will be none left to dissect even from a frog

Distressed by this, we ready our civilization to find the way back into the tremulous bog

Where mosquitoes bite us day in and day out, and we aren’t burdened with the weight of knowing why

The misty veils of the morning dissipate: the calcification of the world will soon be laid to dry.

Poet, Writer