In praise of the small literary magazine THE SUN, published out of Chapel Hill, North Carolina by Sy Syfransky

In college, and then again in graduate school, I used to write--like a demon. Reams of intellectual clap-trap, of no interest to anyone except other claptrappers--not even to me. Much ado.

I have only just begun the attempt to write again, to say something to a circle of listeners beyond the carry of my voice. I began on the heels of my 32nd birthday, within days even, caressing pen across paper for the first time in nearly six years (caressing, perhaps, for the first time ever).

The attempt matters to me, is precious even. And my inspiration is an unsure and wilting vine, bursting forth in fits, and retreating in starts, uncertain of the goodness of the earth and distrustful even of myself and my motives--distrustful especially of myself and my motives. How important then to find a source like THE SUN, which reminds me of why I am moved to write, which renews my wilting faith in the goodness of the earth.

I have begun to write again. And to read. And to forget. No sooner do I begin, than I start whoring around in my greedy way for all the right books, all the big time writers, the important poets. Trying to devour in a few months all the literary sophistication necessary to guarantee my status as a well-read writer. Clap-trap revisited.

I picked up one such today; an anthology of all the right poets (contemporary and important, the editor promised). Berryman and Ashberry, Logan and Lowell, Creeley and Merwin, Sexton and Plath, et. al., et. al., et. al. Big kids every one. God, what sophisticated despair. How deadening it must be to be important.

I am undone. My spirit blunted and all my hopes beginning to crumble--slip-sliding away. I have lost the thread again, only my forgetting renewed. I hate that I write. I hate that I read. I hate. . .

I am sick of spirit, scrambling among my books and papers and thoughts, searching for the antidote. And then I remember--THE SUN. I leap across the bed for the nearest copy and open to Sys notes, where I always start and always come back to to end. Ah, yes, here it is, that quiet light. The mood begins to lift; and now to Elizabeth Rose Campbell's thoughts on the topic of leaving, as fine a piece of writing as I have ever read, so simple and honest and artful. My heart waters. The job is done. I don't even have to return to Sy's notes. Now I know again why I write, why we all write, why even the big kids write, thought they seem to have forgotten. It is to enliven our spirits, to set a shine upon our hearts, to heal.

The earth announces its goodness.