He came in the night. His arrival was marked by silence. The creatures of the darkness cease their somber serenading at his passing. The moon blankets herself behind the clouds to hide herself from his coming. A wind, chilly even for autumn, heralds his arrival with its low mournful song. My nostrils fill with the smell of sulphur, and I see him. His destrier is as black as coal. It's eyes are red and seem to glow like the embers of a dying fire. Its mane is ethereal, wisps of smoke writhing in death throes, rising from the beasts neck. The other worldy creature paws and stamps the ground with iron shod hooves, and the earth beneath it shudders and bleeds.
The thing borne upon the beasts back is more unworldy and terrifying than his mount. He is cloaked not in cloth, but in darkness and smoke. Around his waist sits a braided belt that writhes and wriggles as thought it were alive. Clutched in his bony right hand is a wicked scythe. From its haft hang wragged strips of parchment, yellowed with time. They wave silently in the unnatural breeze, trying futilely to escape their master. The scythes blade is as black as a starless midnight sky. The blade is etched in runes, somehow visible in the darkness. I try to focus on them, but they make my eyes ache and my head throb. From his back jut two wings, like an angels. Yet, unlike an angels, his wings are skeletal, as though the flesh and feathers have been flensed off, leaving behind two twisted looking things more aken to claws than wings.
More unsettling is the hourglass carried in his left hand. Unlike the hand that wields his scythe, his left hand is sheathed in an iron gauntlet. The hour glass is an angry bronze. I watch, transfixed, as the sand drains from the top to the bottom of the hourglass with an agonizing slowness.
The hood of his cloak turns slowly, I can feel his gaze upon me. My heart drops and I shiver. I pull my cloak tighter around me but it does nothing to block out the cold. I force my eyes away from his hour glass and with trepidation, attempt to return his scrutinous examination. I am met with more darkness. His face is hidden by the hood of his cloak, I can see no features, and to stare into his hood is to stare into oblivion, a vast nothingness filled with the cold wisdom of eternity and a disdain that only an ageless aberration amongst mortals may know. I feel like a lowly insect upon a crawling across a dinner table, spared not out of compassion or worthiness, but cold disinterest. Yet, even without seeing his eyes, I know he is looking at me. Rather, looking into me, into my heart and soul. Neither clothing nor armor can abate his gaze.
My knees begin to tremble and my lip begins to quiver. I want to turn and run, but that eyeless, sightless, all seeing gaze, transfixes me. I want to scream, but as I open my mouth, the air seems to be stolen from my lungs. I am helpless, like a spring pig, my ultimate fate is not my own. I will be weighed and deemed ready for the slaughter, or not. I would offer my wealth and the wealth of my family yet I know no riches will satisfy him, only my soul.
I squeeze my eyes shut and begin to pray for mercy, yet before I can form a word, my eyes shoot open seemingly of their own volition, and he addresses me. He speaks not with words but with a whisper that resonates within my mind, "God is not here child, and I know no mercy. And though you already know the answer, I shall tell you anyway. My name is Death, and the end is here."

Trust Yourself

     This reading was in a way profound to me. The author discusses what I think is the most daunting yet appealing thing about writing poetr; the intimacy of opening yourself up on paper. Goldberg is write, writing poetry often means opening yourself up and being intimate on paper. The intimacy of that alone is a daunting concept, and even more so because I believe that knowing someone may be critical of your work makes it all the worse. You feel scrutinized and in a way, vulnerable.
     As Goldberg said, you leave yourself naked, and forfeit a level of control. I believe to create something truly worth reading, it has to have truth to it. I dont necissarily mean truth in the sense of truth and lies, but truth in the sense of something being real. The truth is often a hard thing to see, especially within ourselves. Ego, self conciousness, and confidence or lack there of can often get in the way of that truth. To bring that truth out of ourselves and put it on paper, you have to be honest with yourself first, then be honest to anyone who might pick up what youve written. The truth is already almost always hard to get to anyway but it needs to be in what you do.
     I also believe Goldberg is saying to get ready for the fact that even once you leave yourself vulnerable, some people are still going to kick you. It makes me think of relationships and love. In love, ideally, one should be open, honest, and vulnerable. Even though you know theyre probably going to hurt you in the long run, you still have to do it becuase if you dont, you may shut out that one person thats right for you. In the same way, when you write something, dont expect everyone to appreciate it. Some things just dont resonate for some people. So, when you write, I think Goldberge is saying write for yourself, and know that even if almost everyone thinks your work is shit, just know that if you wrote with truth, it will mean something, maybe everything, to somebody.

Bird by Bird

     "...if your intuition says that your story sucks, make sure it really is your intuition and not your mother."

     This short quote from Lamotts "Bird by Bird," (found on page 113) really resonated with me. I am not comfortable or good at writing fiction, and this quote really helped me put the proverbial pen to paper. I am a self concious writer, and remembering what Lamott said helped me work through that. While I don't think anything I wrote was that good, I know it was better than it would have been if I had not read that line first. 
     Quotes like that make the value of this book to anyone who has to write anything. Whether it's fiction, poetry, or a report on the traffic situation in Denver, I think most people always feel at least a little like their work isn't good enough. Sometimes, this feeling is good. It forces you to produce better work, review, re reviewing, rewrite, and re-rewriting work to make it as good as possible. But, when something you have is good, its important to differentiate between self doubt and honest examination of your own work.