Welcome!

David Hedges

(Photo copyrighted by Scottie Sterrett)

Of all the sites on the World Wide Web, you had to stumble into mine. Unless you're here by design. Either way, I hope you'll stick around long enough to see what I'm all about. If you like what you see, drop back. There's plenty more where this came from.

I started my writing career as a sophomore at Oregon State College (now University) when the editor of the off-campus humor magazine, Beaver dam, flipped me the keys to the office and said, "It's all yours." Six months shy of a degree and a Navy commission, I dropped out and headed for Greenwich Village, in hot pursuit of my Muse. The only two jobs I was offered, this being the Recession of 1958, were as a printer's devil in a small stationery store in the third basement beneath Grand Central Station, and as a writer for The Wall Street Journal . . . in San Francisco.

[My fifth chapbook, A Funny Thing Happened on My Way to a Geology Degree, about my New York adventures, has been published by Finishing Line Press. If so inclined, click on Finishing Line Press and place your order. The cover features a beautiful painting of The White Horse Tavern, my main hangout in Greenwich Village, by New York artist Stephen Gardner, sketch-of-the-day. Noted poet X.J. Kennedy calls the book "heartening, hilarious, and hugely enjoyable . . . Imagine!ópoems that keep you fastened to your chair, expectantly turning the pages!." And now we return to our regularly scheduled introduction.]

After graduating from Portland State College (now University) in 1959, I was offered a job as a "copy boy" at The Oregonian, a stepping-stone to rewriting obituaries. Being young and restless, and thriving on adventure, I hired on as a reporter, photographer and humor columnist for the Oregon City Enterprise-Courier, a small-town daily. Instead of running errands, I covered seven beats, shot two-thirds of the paper's photos, and wrote a daily humor column, "One Man's Poison," on my own time, for no extra pay. When a reader dubbed me "The bilious boy with the poison pen," I felt as if I'd hit the big time, right up there with H.L. Mencken. The job lasted a year ~ but what a year!

Lacking practical skills, I kept on writing, first in public relations, then in advertising, then in politics. I free-lanced for 11 of my 33 years as a hired gun, dropping into full-time employment when free-lance work was scarce or I got an offer I couldn't refuse. I was awarded an Oregon State coffee mug at my 30th class reunion for having switched jobs the most times (16).

In my off hours, I churned out poems, short stories, novels, screenplays, essays, humor, children's books, letters to the editor, op-ed articles, whatever tickled my fancy. That's mostly what I've been doing, other than tilting at social, political and environmental windmills, since January 1, 1993, when I dropped out for the last time . . . that and rescuing the Oregon Poetry Association from oblivion, saving Canemah Bluff from development, running for state representative, showing Scottish Deerhounds, and collecting antique trade beads and old poster stamps.

My work has appeared in Poetry, Measure: A Review of Formal Poetry, Poet Lore, Able Muse, The Christian Science Monitor, Hellas, Light Quarterly, Lighten Up Online (UK), et al., and, closer to home, Left Bank, Calapooya Collage, Northwest Magazine, The Oregonian, and Windfall: A Journal of Poetry of Place. Poems are anthologized in Stafford's Road, Portland Lights, et al.

Books include Petty Frogs on the Potomac, a political burlesque in verse (see Satire), and five small collections of poems: The Wild Bunch, Brother Joe, Steens Mountain Sunrise: Poems of the Northern Great Basin, Selected Sonnets, and, lastly, A Funny Thing Happened on My Way to a Geology Degree.

In Poems, try "On Stirring the Pot," "Spencer's Rock" or "Meeting Aunt Ovidia at Union Station, 1944." In Fiction, try "The Hero of Hawthorne Place," "Blind Justice" or "Dinner Party." In Life, try "The Art of Instability," "Sailor Jim and the World's Most Fantastic Hobo Shack," or "Saying Good-bye."

If you're an arch-conservative with high blood pressure, either avoid Commentary and Satire or keep your pills handy.

Last updated on May 04, 2005 at 8:09 pm

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