Poe-Query

Moving ->

2011-03-26T13:16:00.000-07:00

The Poe-query blog is moving to its new home: http://www.joanniestangeland.com.

I know, it's harder to spell. But I hope you'll join me over there.

Coming soon: Spring class at Hugo House

2011-03-23T06:39:00.000-07:00

What: Building the Long Poem: Writing in Sequences
When: May 1, 1:00 PM - 5:00 PM

Here are the full details from the Richard Hugo House site:

What's the difference between poetic sequences and series? How do you extend metaphor and imagery across long-poem sequences? How do you maintain compression and build tension, creating an arc without depending on narrative? What roles do form and structure play? In this class, we'll investigate poetic sequences and how they build the long poem. We'll look at examples from Charles Wright, Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge, Kate Fagan and others—and we”ll write, generating our own sequences. If you've wanted to dig deep into an idea and explore it, this class is for you—and you”ll leave with drafts you can build on.

To register: http://www.hugohouseservices.org/home/Class/DisplayClass.aspx?CatalogID=20#Group5

(Note: When I say, "we'll write," I mean a lot.)

Gratitude!

2011-03-21T20:35:00.000-07:00

I am always thankful for a Monday, because it's a kind of fresh start. That doesn't mean I love Monday's, per se--but I do love fresh starts.

I am thankful that we now have a rear windshield wiper for my car that I mostly don't drive but my daughter does drive basically daily. This took three trips to the auto parts store, and for one of those, it was closed and we ended up at the Blue Moon listening to Chele's Kitchen and sitting at the Walt Crowley memorial booth and I'm grateful for that but also glad that we now have the wiper ready for the rest of March.

I am thankful for writing and the hummingbirds and chicken dinner tonight. But mostly, I'm thankful for friends and my family.

Open the door. Open my heart.

Morning questions

2011-03-17T06:42:00.000-07:00

It's 6:45 on the East Coast. Often, in the morning, I finish my journaling, move my thouhts ahead three hours and back a few thousand miles, and I wonder, "What are the East Coast editors doing?"

Are they getting another cup of coffee? Are they sifting through poems? Are they grading papers, teaching classes, going to meetings? Are they, like me, holding down a day job and looking at submissions on the weekends? Are my poems still in one stack or another?

Will I hear from them today?

Then I remember to "be careful what you wish for"--but I know what I'm wishing for, among other things.

And if I sent poems to Hawaii, those editors would probably still be asleep.

One of those other wishes: A good Thursday for the world.

Wracking, see Nerves

2011-03-15T12:16:00.000-07:00

I have a project at work that's making me nervous. When I feel nervous about something, I want to avoid it, do something else. This is a good way for me to get other things done, but that elephant (could it be a giraffe?) is still in the room.

Most new things make me nervous--certainly anything new. It's the unknown.

If I avoided everything that induced anxiety, everything new, I would not even have this job. I would not be working on crazy long poems. I would not have made my daughter a triple-layer chocolate birthday cake filled with hazelnut buttercream and chocolate mousse.

Clearly, the rewards can outweigh the anxiety.

I've been trying to breathe through it--which is good, but it doesn't necessarily create any movement, any forward progress.

So I then I try to break it down, really take it one step at a time while trying to hold that end vision in my head. For the cake, I had to make one component at a time.

For the poems, I have to look at one section at a time, or look only at how the sequences string together, or examine just the verbs. Verbs are good.

And for other projects, like this one, I need to map the path that will get me to the X with the treasure, move past the anxiety by focusing on those steps, one at a time.

What makes you nervous? How do you move through it?

Gratitude, on a gray Sunday

2011-03-13T20:01:00.000-07:00

This Gratitude Journal comes with a confession.

I confess that I spent the weekend hoping to hear some poetry news (I did receive one rejection), and I felt guilty with all the tragedy in the world right now--the devastation and human loss in Japan, and the ongoing conflict in Libya. And the loss in Wisconsin. Closer to home, and who knows how large that will loom in our future?

So much sorrow, so much to mourn. Such long roads.

This is when it's hard to feel thankful. Maybe this is when it's most important.

I'm thankful our family could come together last night--both sides--to celebrate my daughter's 18th birthday. I'm thankful one son made it up from Olympia. We'll catch up with the other son later--although there won't be any cake left.

I'm thankful the cake I made turned out--and I'm thankful my husband did all the rest of the cooking so I could focus on that cake.

I'm thankful for the dance class I took this morning--first time in more than two years, and apparently I can still walk.

I'm thankful for some time to write today, to try to make the poem I want to make.

Open the door. Open my heart.

Poor Misha

2011-03-11T20:00:00.000-08:00

I confess that blogging about the sun hunters has started to feel like a chore. Is it because the days are longer now? Or is it because I'd rather be working on my long poems, happily immersed in sequences and pulling together threads and narrative and then breaking up that narrative.

But then, there's Misha, Sevario, Lydia. And there's Misha's family in South Bend, Washington--where you can eat a lot of oysters. I want to find out what will happen--and this is me, who is somehow missing the plot gene.

This could take a while.

Then I'll be back to poem-ing, free and clear.

Okay. Thanks for listening.

And while I'm feeling bad for my stranded character, I feel much more for the people in Japan and the people in Libya and the people in Saudi Arabia.

(I'm awaiting the U.S. State Department's statement on that last one.)

Two questions:

How do you make things happen in your writing?

How do you help things happen in the world?

Gratitude Journal, with movement (with feeling)

2011-03-06T21:24:00.000-08:00

Every morning, at the end of my little journaling session, I write at least one thing that I'm thankful for--a way to start the day with gratitude and with a positive step.

Here are some of the things I've been grateful for during the past week:

the cat calming down for a moment, my fluffy pink bathrobe, my job, poems, our poetry group, hope, optimism (hope's close cousin), opportunities, inspiration, and doors opening.

Which brings me to today, and I'm thankful I had some time to spend in the yard hacking away at the wild roses (think Sleeping Beauty), and I'm thankful I had some time to write, and I'm thankful for my chance tonight to see some friends perform a dance by Shirley Jenkins, choreographed to FADO, and then connecting with old friends--some from 20-25 years ago. What a day!

Now, it looks like I might even start going to dance class again. Open the door. Open my heart.

Gratitude, with snow and statuettes

2011-02-27T20:57:00.000-08:00

I'm thankful for Martha's reading on Thursday--quite the party and quite the poetry! And I'm thankful for dinner with Bonnie on Wednesday, a celebration complete with Champagne and snow.

Today, I am thankful for no small potatoes, but the fabulous hash browns my husband made because four-fifths of us were together and it was a good reason to cook breakfast.

I'm thankful for the time I spent with my son while driving him back to Olympia.

I'm thankful for the snow in Olympia, how beautifully it was falling.

I'm thankful for the Oscars and the red carpet and the dresses--also the costumes and sets in the movies.

Take... (I think it's a high number by now.)

Open the door. Open my heart.

O, wealth

2011-02-25T17:00:00.000-08:00

No one makes furniture for the money.

You make furniture because you love to make things, you love the materials, and you want a great place to sit.

No one makes wine for the money.

You make wine because you love to make things well and you enjoy drinking wine.

No one makes poems for the money.

I write poems because I love the music, and I'm not a musician. I love the images and the light in the images and the many shades blending, and I'm not a painter. I love a story, and I'm not a novelist. I love creating a new world, an egg with a creature inside it, and I'm not a god nor a chicken.

I am waiting for the mail. My ship is in the Hebrides, tides writing their own charts.

I am also ga-ga over Martha Silano's new book, The Little Office of the Immaculate Conception.

Gratitude, with a confession

2011-02-20T17:02:00.000-08:00

I'm thankful for the sunny days and blue skies we've been seeing.

I'm thankful for the season's first crocuses.

I'm thankful my kids (apparently) made it safely to their grandparents' house in Arizona. I haven't heard otherwise.

I've been doing a little art, and I'm thankful for the courage to try even though the results never come close to what I saw in my head before I started.

I'm thankful that I've been able to spend a lot of time writing lately. My husband has been cooking dinners--and he is a wonderful cook--so that I can have those extra bits of time to work on poems. Thank you!

And I confess that I'm a little nervous. For the past eight or nine months I've been exploring poetry in a different way--longer, more fragmented, or denser and metered. Or prose poems. Sometimes long and dense and metered. Big projects of aggregation, building up and taking away.

It's been really fun, but not one of those poems has been accepted. They are all out for consideration, but… So sometimes I, having always craved approval, wonder whether any of them will get published, ever. (Then I think, "That's negative energy. Be positive," and I practice being positive.)

But I know that these are the poems I want to be writing now, and on my good days, I think "Publish, shmublish." Would I want to change what I'm writing to fit some mold? Even if I thought it would work? No way.

That's where gratitude comes in again. I'm thankful for this confidence to explore what I want to explore, to write crazy new ways even if they don't make sense--or even if they aren't crazy enough.

I'm thankful for this journey.

Open the door. Open my heart.

Another deadline: The Smoking Poet

2011-02-19T08:18:00.000-08:00

I don't smoke, but I do help out as poetry editor for The Smoking Poet, an online journal that rolls up fiction, nonfiction, interviews, cigar reviews, good causes, and poetry.

The deadline for our Spring issue is February 28.

In brief:

Email a group of two to six unpublished poems in the body of your email—no attachments—to the attention of Poetry Editor, and include a bio statement of no more than 100 words (please resist being cute and keep it professional). Subject line should read: Poetry—Last Name.

Or check out the full guidelines.

Punctuation--it's what I'm sayin'

2011-02-16T17:26:00.000-08:00

A while ago, Kelli posted about her pet peeves as an editor--that she has none. She is a kind and generous person, and she says:

While I like people to use semi-colons correctly, I will not reject a poem or story because the writer got it completely wrong. We will accept the poem/story and write to the writer to let him/her know we have some punctuation issues we need to fix, but would still like to publish his/her work.

I admire that--and I'll admit right now that, while I hope to be a kind and generous person, I know I'm not when it comes to punctuation.

Sure, I make mistakes, too. I'm not perfect. Every once in a while, I've realized that in the process of revising I've introduced some error. And I'm mortified.

As an editor, I'm quickly distracted by inconsistent punctuation, inconsistent capitalization, inconsistent dashes, mix-ups between it's and its, and mixed-up homophones (there/their/they're, hear/here, heel/heal). Technically, those are spelling mistakes, and I look closely to make sure it is or isn't an intentional play on words--which would be fun.

But honestly, if a writer doesn't care enough to check his or her work before sending it, why should I care enough to read it?

Quick interjection: If a poem is pushing punctuation, using it unusually (but consistently that way), or not using it at all, that's great. Recently, I've been reading some poems by Mei Mei Berssenbrugge in which she uses punctuation only when a stop comes inside a line. If the stop coincides with the end of the line, she doesn't add punctuation. It's different, but she's meticulously consistent. And many fine poets, including W.S. Merwin, have decided not to use punctuation at all for very good reasons.

Before you think I'm only whining, I'm going to give you another good reason to attend to your punctuation: Chances are extremely good that an editor isn't going to have the time to do it for you. Your poem will be posted or printed as-is, warts, misplace apostrophes, and all.

What are your thoughts on this? If you've read this far, do you even care? Am I a dowager or a dinosaur (or just too damn nit-picky)?

What do you think?

Sunday, with sun and gratitude!

2011-02-13T17:24:00.000-08:00

Today, I am so grateful for the sun. We've had a mild winter, but sun and blue sky still makes all the difference. I felt my spirits lifting. Lovely!

I'm also grateful for the cat sleeping on my legs, my fluffy pink robe, writing time, and the delicious dinners Tom has been making.

And I'm grateful for the longer days. Now, it's light when we leave the house in the morning and when we return.

Open the door.

Open my heart.

Chapbook season--and the deadlines approach!

2011-02-08T17:55:00.000-08:00

Yes, it's time to send out your manuscripts.

If you reside in Washington State, the Floating Bridge Press deadline is February 16. Here are the details:

Washington State (USA) residents only.

Simultaneous submission OK. Individual poems may be previously published.

Maximum 24 pages of poetry (does not include title page or table of contents).

Title page and paginated table of contents. Please include page number and title of manuscript on every page. Standard three-hole punch on left side.

Author's name must not appear on the manuscript. Include a separate page containing title, author's name, address, telephone, email, and acknowledgements of previous publication, if any.

Manuscripts are judged anonymously and will not be returned. Winner receives $500, 15 copies, and a reading in the Seattle area.

For notification of manuscript receipt, include a SAS Postcard (optional).

For results notification, include a #10 SASE.

All entrants will receive a copy of the winning chapbook, and individual poems will be considered for inclusion in Floating Bridge Review, the annual Floating Bridge Press journal.

Reading Fee: $12.00 check or money order, payable to: Floating Bridge Press.

Deadline: Postmark between November 1, 2010 – February 16, 2011, inclusive.

Winner to be announced in May 2011. Reading in September 2011.

Mail To: Floating Bridge Press, P.O. Box 18814 Seattle, WA 98118.

Questions? Send email to floatingbridgepress@yahoo.com.
No electronic submissions at this time, please.

And if you live anywhere and are writing in English, the Tupelo Press Snowbound Series chapbook contest closes February 28.

Trying and trying again, plus gratitude

2011-02-06T19:55:00.000-08:00

Today, I am mostly and gladly grateful that my daughter starting to recover from her really bad cold (bad as in four days of school missed and counting).

I'm also grateful that I received a poem acceptance yesterday, especially glad because I wrote this poem for a friend--in 1995. That's a lot of years of revising and tweaking and sending and rejections and more revising and a title change and all of that over and over again. And now that poem has found a home.

Finally, I'm grateful for a week off in the sun and for another year and for time back at home with my family, even when I'm dispensing cough drops and soup.

Open the door. Open my heart.

Tharp habits

2011-02-05T18:41:00.000-08:00

During my vacation, I read The Creative Habit: Learn It and Use It for Life, by Twyla Tharp.

The book is meant to apply to all art forms, all creative endeavors, but I found Ms. Tharp's dance stories and movement examples especially invigorating. They brought back memories of standing in the studio, at ballet class or at rehearsal, choreographing, teaching phrases to the generous women who danced with me--and it reminded me of the time I auditioned for Twyla Tharp (longer story, there).

In the section on scratching for new ideas, Ms. Tharp advises to always scratch in new places for new ideas. At first, I thought that sometimes I like to revisit my tried-and-true sources. For example, I've learned that reading Lynda Hull's poems lights a creative fire for me. Then I realized that it's the difference between a new idea and a rejuvenation. One is the spark for new work, and the other is the inspiration that helps me start.

I liked Ms. Tharp's advice in "Accidents Will Happen" to pick a fight--to create your own accidents. This is an intentional way to keep you on your edges, an idea that is again explored in the chapter on skills. I'll admit that this chapter flummoxed me some--on the one hand, you need your skills at their peak, the very best, but you also need inexperience, so that you're forced in new directions. That all makes sense--you want skills, and you want new directions--but I found the juxtaposition unsettling. Maybe that's the point. (I liked the stories about standing behind the best dancers and copying their moves, and the general advice to copy the experts--but honestly, I don't know if I want to copy anyone right now. I'm 51, and I want to learn from the best, but I don't want to copy. Talk to me in a week or a month.)

In that same chapter, Ms. Tharp suggests that readers take an inventory of their skills. That sounds like a good plan (haven't done it yet--but I was on vacation). She also provides a 20-questions exercise that could also fit in the section on "spine."

Then I suffered a crisis of confidence. It was in the Waipio valley, and I thought, "Maybe I'm not a writer! I'm not looking at every plant and transcribing it into a poem. I'm not seeing so many shapes in the clouds." And if I'm not a writer, what? I've already ruled out visual artist, musician, and dancer and choreographer. Then I convinced myself that this is ridiculous, and I reminded myself that I've spent years learning to let go of the constant need to look at every experience as a poem and to live in that experience as completely as possible instead, to trust that the experience will return when I need it.

I'm still working through the idea of spine. On the one hand, it makes perfect sense: Pick a concept and make sure that all your efforts fit with it. On that other hand, I've heard that poems work best if you can not know what they're about for as long as possible--and I believe that. So although Ms. Tharp says, "Once you accept the power of spine in the creative act, you will become much more efficient in your creativity," I don't think that for me it's about efficiency. I do think that spine is a critical tool in revising and even more so in choosing poems for a manuscript.

I spent the rest of the week trying to figure out what the spine was for the poems I'm working on right now. Still working…

The book includes much more. I recommend it, and I'm confident that I'll return to it.

Not making this up

2011-01-20T17:57:00.000-08:00

Today, I received a rejection from Willow Springs and a rejection from Willow Review--one in email and one in postal mail.

I'm feeling mail-balanced and willowy.

Now, onward to the Lucia Perillo reading and inspiration!

Sunday gratitude served up

2011-01-16T18:18:00.000-08:00

This week, especially, I'm grateful for my husband's cooking. Not only does he make amazing food, he's been giving me more time for writing.

I'm grateful for writing, and for being able to follow new directions into crazy-long poems even if they lead nowhere. And I'm grateful for the acceptance I received today.

I'm grateful for a few minutes of sun today (I even needed my sunglasses), and I'm grateful for the little dusting of snow we had on Tuesday night.

I'm grateful for my colleagues at work and for my friends--and I'm grateful for the laughter in our family.

It's a good thing.

10 pages!

2011-01-15T16:09:00.000-08:00

No, I am not making this up.

From the submission guidelines for Seattle Review:

We are looking for exceptional, risk-taking, intellectual and imaginative (as if
these two could ever be separated) poems between ten and thirty pages in length.

Between 10 and 30 pages.

I've been working on longer poems--upwards of 50, 60, 70 lines--and thinking that I might not be able to get them published anywhere.

Now, maybe they aren't long enough.

The submissions page includes examples of what the editors consider acceptable, including "a unified sequence of series of poems."

Have any long poems ready to send? You have until May 31.

***

In other news, round 2 of the Paper Our Walls with Rejection Slips Competition started today. I have nothing to send yet.

But how about you?

And then, wealth

2011-01-13T22:28:00.000-08:00

I've been working on trying to let my poems explore more, to give them a wider range, to let them pull in images from my past--especially places.

Combing through these images reminds me what a rich life I've led. And these days, that's what wealth means to me--having a pond to stand by and reflect, and the time to stand by it in the afternoon, to walk by the pond or walk along the beach.

I think about the wealth I have and have had. The dead tree outside my window is a part of my wealth. The travels I've taken are part of my wealth--the drive up to Boulder, the drive from Albuquerque to Santa Fe, the swans on the beach at Lake Geneva, train stations, Venice, and that vague moment in the afternoon after we descended the Duomo to the hectic Florentine streets. My memory bank is my wealth, and each day I have a chance to add to it, even if I'm here on my sofa or walking to the bus.

Shelter and health for my family and me--that is wealth. Sure, there are the hard memories, the grief and anger, the bad slap that's also a part of living. But beyond that, to uncover, recover, and savor the good memories, even the fleeting ones, to pull them into my poems, to allow my poems to grow richer through the connections of instances that might seem disparate on the surface but are connected under the surface--that's a bliss.

Grief and gratitude

2011-01-09T17:18:00.000-08:00

Any moment I think of it, I feel wrenched by yesterday's shooting in Tucson. Just last Wednesday, I heard Gabrielle Giffords on NPR. Then yesterday, I heard she'd been shot, along with others.

It's so wrong it's hard to hold. I send her my best thoughts. I send them to her family, to the family of the girl who was shot, the judge who was shot, and all the others. It's so wrong.

But this is Sunday, and amid this insanity, I need to remember what I'm grateful for, so here is my gratitude journal.

I'm thankful we had a little snow this afternoon. We waited all weekend, and while the flurries were barely showers, the world looked a little healed for a little while.

I'm thankful for art and the people who make art, who add beauty and searing perspective to my day.

I'm thankful, as always, for my family, my job, and for writing--for a day of writing today.

I'm trying to hold some light and share it.

Open the door. Open my heart.

Self-disciplined or stubborn?

2011-01-05T06:35:00.000-08:00

'Tis the season of resolutions, and I'll admit right now that I'm not good at self-discipline. It feels virtuous and focused, but it also feels like deprivation. We have the gym, work, the bus, groceries, dinner--and then deprivation?

No thank you. I'm more likely to say, "What the heck, it doesn't matter anyway." I'll take the cookie. I'll take the cocktail.

But if my goal is to, say, lose fifteen pounds--and I already know that I fail at self-discipline--stubborn might work well for me. Stubborn doesn't say, "Oh, I'd better not eat that." Stubborn says, "What--you think I can't do it? Wanna bet? Watch me."

Stubborn isn't about doing without, it's about winning. While that isn't a good motivation for all situations, I'm becoming convinced it has its place.

And it's working for me, so far--one-tenth of a pound at a time. I haven't yet figured out how being stubborn fits with writing goals--in part because I'm trying not to have writing goals, other than to write more and to exact more, to spend more time exploring a poem and see what limits I can push and how far.

I recently saw someone on Facebook say his goal was to write 250 poems this year. I thought, "Really? Five a week? When can you revise and polish? Is quantity the goal?" And he might say, "Watch me."

Photograph by Claire Kervran.

Winter is cold, but the Poet is Smokin'

2011-01-04T18:15:00.000-08:00

Fallen Trees at Cape Kolka, photo by Andris Silis

The winter issue of The Smoking Poet is online, with poems by Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé, Amy MacLennan, Ruth Foley, and more--plus an interview with Dorianne Laux, A Good Cause, the Cigar Lounge, and more.

Enjoy!

Gratitude for the New Year

2011-01-02T21:14:00.000-08:00

Yes, I am thankful for the New Year--another beginning, a fresh start. My resolution list is short ("All the longer to accomplish them, my dear"). Okay, that was supposed to sound like the Big Bad Wolf.

I'm thankful we were able to spend New Year's eve at home--yes, I'm that kind of a gal--and cook for each other an abundance of fun (with wine).

I'm thankful for this cold snap--hell on the plants, but no rain.

I'm thankful that our oldest kid came over tonight to watch the Seahawks game.

I'm thankful that our youngest kid completed her first college application. I had the privilege of reading her essay today, and it made me feel all teary-eyed.

I'm thankful for verbs.

I'm thankful for resolution.

Open the door. Open my heart.

Start here, now

2010-12-31T12:50:00.000-08:00

I like beginnings--the new year, a new month, each solstice and equinox, even Mondays, the beginning of a new week, a fresh start. I like fresh starts.

And resolutions? Sure, for any of those beginnings. For me, to do better, live better, be better is a constant evolution. Do I break my resolutions or let them lapse? Yes, I do. But then Monday comes around.

As eager as I feel to greet the New Year, I'm also sad to see 2010 go. For me it was a milestone year (turning 50) and a year that brought both opportunities and hard loss. Leaving this year feels, in a way, like I'm leaving the people who left.

But the new year is coming, a chance to resolve and risk and write.

The Writer's Almanac today quoted Junot Diaz as saying, "What we do might be done in solitude and with great desperation, but it tends to produce exactly the opposite. It tends to produce community and in many people hope and joy."

I raise my glass and my pen to new hope and great joy.

Happy New Year!

Saturnalia crash and the cold truth

2010-12-28T14:14:00.000-08:00

I haven't been writing much--partly because I've been cooking and then because I've been tired, and also I've been noodling around with some poems--tinkering with the forms and the images. But I feel like I haven't been making any progress with them.

Do you every feel like you're barking up the wrong tree? Folding the wrong laundry? Writing around all the edges--and not in a good way?

Then, this morning, I realized that I don't like them. In fact, I vehemently don't like them, which is why I feel like they're going nowhere (and bringing me right along). Yet I've also felt compelled to write them. Or something that's hidden inside there--or at least in proximity--but I'm not even close yet.

And it feels cagily self-confessional and passively self-indulgent. Yuck.

Realizing that I didn't even like these poems was a relief. Now I feel ready to tear them apart all over again, to explore and excavate, try to find that it that's driving me. But there is that feeling of feeling lost.

What do I do when I start to feel lost? Apply any one of a number of various vices and/or read Lynda Hull. Tonight, I'm going for the Hull--and first, I'm going to the Picasso show.

If that doesn't cure what ails me...

Merry and grateful

2010-12-27T06:34:00.000-08:00

This week, I am especially and extraordinarily grateful for my families--all of them.

Thursday we gathered at my mom's house for dinner with her and my sister and sister-in-law and my dad. Always fun to get that whole family together.

Friday, we cooked all day long. I'm grateful we were able to do that. I'm grateful for Saturday morning and our little family of five, all the laughter and excitement opening gifts. Then on Saturday afternoon, Tom's family came over. I'm grateful for that family, too--and for all the fun we had. Boisterous, laughing-until-crying fun. And all through, a feeling of gratitude (it felt more like Thanksgiving, but without turkey).

Finally, I'm thankful that I had yesterday to rest and even do a little writing.

Under consideration, or at the bottom of the slush pile?

2010-12-22T09:24:00.001-08:00

When you haven't heard back for months and months...

Still here, still grateful

2010-12-21T11:05:00.000-08:00

and oh--so behind.

(Warning: Possible TMI post.)

I completely missed the gratitude journal this week, although I am grateful for many things, including a good shopping trip on Saturday and little bits of writing time and a really inspiring poetry reading on Saturday night and even some fun with the holiday season.

I'm not good at holidays, because I like my routines, and holidays jounce me right out of them. I know this is good for me, but I resist it anyway. And I don't want to resist it, because it's about being loving and generous, not resentful.

But really, I'd love to have some writing time. I've been wrestling with some 300-pound poems, and they are getting the better of me, but I think that with enough time, I might tame them enough to guide them and now this metaphor isn't quite working...

Over on Zen Habits, Leo Babuta talks about life without goals. Just do what you love. And I can tell you that if I just do what I love, a lot of things are not going to happen. Like dinner. And mowing the lawn. Like getting up and going to the gym and then riding the bus, which means I can read on the bus, and I like to read, so this becomes a good thing, but it starts by getting out of bed.

That's only one example of things that I don't want to start but might end up enjoying won't get started. Like dinner. Like Christmas cards. Hard to start them, but then I get going and I enjoy feeling that connection with friends and family members, even when (or especially when) it might be a once-a-year connection. If I don't (somewhat sternly) make myself start, I won't have that pleasure. Maybe what I don't love is starting... And I often fall short at finishing... Which leaves me where? Wanting to get back to those 300-pound poems, and who knows when they'll be finished.

To continue this thread of too much information, I like what Penelope Trunk says on her blog today about self-discipline, confidence and dialectic behavioral therapy. I admit that I don't really understand what's dialectic about it--and I also admit that I originally read it as "diabolical behavior therapy," which really interested me. When I clicked to the site and realized my mistake, I laughed out loud, which was therapeutic.

Poet cookies

2010-12-13T22:01:00.000-08:00

In anticipation of the neighborhood cookie exchange, I briefly fantasized about poet cookies. What would those be? Tastespotting.com returned no search results. FoodNetwork.com automatically changed my query to "pot cookies." Okaaay, no.

But I ended up making these cookies--filled with all the flavors I hankered for. And I'm declaring them the official poet cookie for Holiday Festivus Saturnalia 2010.

Warning: They're tempting

Poet Cookies

1 cup unsalted butter, softened
1 cup white sugar
2/3 cup honey (we were out of brown sugar, and this worked better)
2 eggs
grated rind of one orange
2 tsp. vanilla
3 1/4 cups unbleached flour
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. coriander
1/8 tsp. cardamom
1 1/2 cup dark chocolate chips
1/2 cup chopped almonds
1/2 cup chopped dried cherries

Drop by rounded teaspoonfuls and bake at 325 degrees for about 15 minutes (in my oven, 12-13 minutes).

And here's a picture:

Enjoy!

Sunday with cookies and a leaning tree

2010-12-12T21:42:00.000-08:00

I confess that I am not good at serial blogging. I started The Sun Hunters with the idea that I would write every day, keep inching that story along. So far, my track record is not brilliant.

But this isn't to confess. This is gratitude. This is a time for giving thanks.

I'm thankful for our neighborhood cookie exchange, and the chance to get together and talk for longer than it takes to say Hi on the way from the car to the house. I'm also thankful that my cookies turned out okay.

I'm thankful that the rain has stopped for an hour or two--and that the basement didn't flood (HUGE THANKS!).

And I'm hoping for a good night's sleep.

Open the door. Open my heart.

Another one bites the dust

2010-12-10T09:43:00.000-08:00

They're starting to come back.

I've been writing these long--and, for me, experimental--poems since June. I've loved doing it. I've had so much fun. I've sent them out. And, for the most part, they've stayed out.

But they're coming back. This is very good for my standings in the Facebook Paper our walls with rejection slips contest. But it's also, I admit, disappointing. I'll send them out again, at least once more--probably lots more. And I'll keep reminding myself that if they don't get published, they don't get published, but writing them has been its own reward.

I might need to tell myself that about 20 times a day.

And then I need to write. I used to ride horses. I've had plenty of experience hitting the dust. Get up. Brush off. Get back on. Breathe.

Gratitude

2010-12-06T19:33:00.000-08:00

I had plenty of gratitude yesterday, but not enough Internet connectivity.

I'm grateful that my daughter is on the mend after having oral surgery. It's been slow, and so hard for her, but she seems to be getting a little better.

I'm grateful for the chance to participate in Write-O-Rama last Saturday. I'm grateful for getting some writing in.

I'm grateful that the lights are up in the yard now. They help take the edge off the darkness.

And I'm grateful that my very persistent neighbors got the city to fix the streetlights. More light!

Sucking at studying

2010-11-30T06:34:00.000-08:00

I read a lot. But… I'm 50 years old and I still can't study—not effectively, not with efficient retention.

It's been an odd week.

I've been reading some energizing and inspiring anthologies, including Ecstatic Occasions, Expedient Forms, Lyric Postmodernisms, and now The Verse Book of Interviews.

But when I remember something I've read and try to find it, I'm lost.

I saw a really helpful quote, and now I can't find it anywhere. While I was searching for it online, I thought I saw it, but now I can't even find that. Could my brain have created this memory to fill a gap? (I've read that brains do this, and I might even be able to tell you where.)

And I thought I read an interview of a Very Famous Poet. I remember thinking, "Do I want to read this? Sure, might as well." I remember details of the biography (which, it turns out, is the biography used for this poet ubiquitously), and I remember details of the interview, but I can't find that either. And I don't think my brain could have fabricated all of that!

Which leaves me...where?

Write-O-Rama!

2010-11-29T06:05:00.000-08:00

It's coming this Saturday, December 4!

From the Hugo House website:

Write-O-Rama is a full day of more than 30 one-hour workshops offered by Hugo House's writing teachers. Sample Hugo classes, dabble in different forms and genres and share your fresh, new writing before the ink even dries at two open mics.

I'll be doing a fragment-inspired Break It Up: Short-Burst Writing workshop at 10:00 and at 2:00—and you can read about loads of other workshops on the Hugo House website.

Come, and come ready to write!

Gratitude Journal, and it's dark already

2010-11-28T19:27:00.000-08:00

I'm grateful that the roads are now clear.

I'm grateful that most of the family was able to get together for Thanksgiving on Thursday, and that we have such a wild, wacky, wonderful family.

I'm grateful for my children, and the chance to watch them grow.

I'm grateful for the cat who is sleeping on my legs.

I'm grateful for a bunch of writing time this weekend.

Tomorrow, it's back to work, but I have gratitude to take with me.

What kind of poetry do you write?

2010-11-27T08:45:00.000-08:00

How do you answer this question?

It came up again last week at a dinner party. I hem and haw, never sure what to say.

And it depends who's asking. If it's another poet, do I say lyrical or narrative? I'm still trying to wrap my head around those two, because at one end we have the Iliad and the Odyssey, and at the other hand we have postmodern lyrics (and probably post-postmodern lyrics), and I fall somewhere in the vast middle.

If it isn't a poet, I want to say "accessible," because that's true. Even my new, more fragmented poems are still pretty accessible. And I don't want to get into explaining how I'm exploring with more nonlinear poems, trying to break up the narrative in longer poems that are divided into sections. How dry. (Although I'm having a blast writing them.)

Often, I try to answer the question by saying what I write about. The stock answer: gardening and death. Except that my forthcoming manuscript is about illness and healing. And the poems I'm working on right now are mostly about middle age, set in the Pacific Northwest landscape. Except for a few more poems about death and grief. And then I'm toying around from time to time with the messy confessional poem.

Clearly, I need a succinct answer that is generous and--yes--accessible.

How do you answer this question?

Snowed-in--it takes just a dusting

2010-11-23T07:43:00.000-08:00

Yesterday began with that dusting. Then, snow mist and freezing fog.

The ride home from work was surreal, with the wind swirling clouds of that snow mist in the headlights. It looked like the smokey wraithes that rise off of dry ice. The roads were solid ice. The bus commute was two and a half hours--probably one of the shortest rides in the region--and I missed the Billy Collins reading.

The winds continued to drift the snow, so a few inches was sculpted into peaks and swoops, like a meringue.

This morning, I'll be staying put, working from home, with a cat on my legs.

Sunday Gratitude

2010-11-21T15:37:00.000-08:00

It's a slow Sunday. My one adventure outside was to Half-Price books--where I found a bunch of postcards but none of the books I was looking for--and the grocery store. Oh, and another quick dash to the alley to stand in the falling snow. Around here, you have to enjoy it while it lasts, because most of the time it doesn't. Now I am throwing the catnip mouse for Gilbert to chase.

Today I am thankful for those few flakes of snow, and I'm thankful that it didn't stick (especially because my daughter was out with the car).

I'm thankful that I finished a poem, and I'm thankful I had the time to finish a poem.

I'm thankful that my husband is making a big pot of red sauce.

I'm thankful for my here family and my wider family--aunt and uncle and cousins.

I'm thankful for "Homage to Paul Cezanne," by Charles Wright.

I'm thankful for the chance to ask questions.

I'm thankful for this day.

Open the door. Open my heart.

A question about prose poems

2010-11-17T18:58:00.000-08:00

From what I know, in a prose poem, the unit is the sentence, as opposed to the line.

But I read in an interview a poet saying following about the publication of a manuscript:

"...it was nothing but a series of disappointments and frustrations...a prose poem is lineated where the manuscript margins ended;"

And?

I thought that's how prose poems go. At the margins. Justified, even. Otherwise, isn't it a poem with page-long lines?

What do you think?

Sunday Gratitude

2010-11-14T21:34:00.000-08:00

Today, all five us joined for Sunday dinner. I'm thankful for that. It was so good to see Jamie, and it was Daniel's last night in town before moving into his new place in Olympia. And Tom cooked (always a good thing).

I'm also thankful for my sister and lunch together at Cafe Presse.

I'm grateful for the class on Saturday (writing poems in a series) and for writing, or working on writing, new poems today.

It's been a good day.

Thank you!

Open the door. Open my heart.

Ever eat a pound of butter?

2010-11-07T22:19:00.000-08:00

Tonight, we had pie night. And for this rare occasion, I made a leek pie (it was supposed to be leek tart, but I've misplaced my tart pan) and then a tarte tatin for the dessert.

And I forgot to take pictures.

All this after attending a wonderful poetry reading by Susan Rich, Kelli Russell Agodon, Oliver de la Paz, and Allen Braden. The reading was at the Frye Museum, and the focus waas on ekphrastic poems. I wanted to come home and write ekphrastic poems. Instead, I made pie.

But I was able to work on some map poems today, and so it's time for gratitude.

I'm thankful for writing.

I'm thankful for all the inspiring poetry that's out there to hear or to read.

I'm thankful for community.

I'm thankful for a night hanging out with two of my kids (the oldest already had plans) and feeding them and hearing their stories.

I'm thankful I can still make my daughter laugh (even if she's laughing at me, it's still laughter).

All in all, a good Sunday.

Open the door. Open my heart.

Writing poems in a series

2010-11-03T20:01:00.000-07:00

It's coming soon…

...and spaces are still available.

I'm teaching a class on Writing Poems in a Series at Richard Hugo House, November 13, 1:00-5:00 PM.

(It's my favorite way to write—a good way to avoid the blank page for as long as possible.)

Here is the official description:

Writing Poems in a Series

How do you follow that great idea—that fabulous first poem—for an entire book? Do you ever get an intriguing idea and then wonder how you'll keep it going? In this class, we'll discuss different ways to explore a theme and its variations through images, narrative and voice. We’ll read examples of how other poets—including Louise Gluck, Carolyn Forche and Oliver de la Paz—extend themes and weave multiple themes, and we'll write through some exercises to help unearth those extensions, to explore and expand our basic idea while maintaining a connecting thread through each of the poems.

Truth: I'm lazy, so I love already having a direction when I sit down to write. And that's why I love creating poems in a series.

I hope to see you then and there.

Was it a dream? A question of form...

2010-11-02T17:26:00.000-07:00

I could swear that I recently read about a poetic form that sailors used to compose poems to Saint Christopher. Or Saint Elmo. I don't remember which Saint.

I also don't remember which form, or where I read it.

Was it in Lyric Postmodernisms? Was it in Ecstatic Occasions, Expedient Forms? I looked (using Google books) in those and also in Handbook of Poetic Forms.

And now the cat is barfing.

Got to go...any ideas about a form used by sailors to write poems to a saint?

All help is appreciated.

Gratitude

2010-10-31T21:09:00.000-07:00

I haven't checked in often, partly because of traveling and cat recovery, and partly because I've been blogging (almost) daily at The Sun Hunters.

On to the gratitude...

I'm thankful for this gorgeous Sunday, and the way some unexpected sun lights up the trees that are still holding onto their leaves.

I'm grateful the cat is back in the family and that I've made progress on cat-proofing the house (in the case of Gilbert, harder than you'd think).

I'm thankful I had all three kids here for dinner tonight. Schedules aligned. It was wonderful, punctuated by running to the door to hand out candy.

I love the colors this time of year. And I can remember a time (in the '80s) when I looked at the trees turning and thought, "I wish I could just enjoy them, but I have so much to do and I have to finish it first."

I'm thankful that I now take the time to enjoy things--at least, some things, like little dots and leaves changing into their new colors. If I think of all the other chores, I remind myself that they are not more important than this now. They belong to a new now. I'll get there, after I'm here.

Best wishes for the week.

Open the door. Open my heart.

A problem with prose poems

2010-10-22T06:28:00.000-07:00

They look short.

Not in a book or a publication, but when I print one of my prose poems out on my 8 1/2 x 11-inch sheet of paper with 1-inch margins, it just looks short. So much of the page is left.

(I'm typing this with one hand while I sit on the basement bathroom floor and hold my cat. This makes him happy and provides plenty of time to ponder things.)

It's not that I want to write longer prose poems. I just feel a little sheepish about all that left-over space.

Do you write in more compressed forms? (Haiku and haibun come to mind.)

Do you ever feel that, visually, the page should look fuller?

After the basement bathroom flloor...

2010-10-18T20:48:00.000-07:00

That's where I've been hanging out since this afternoon.

Gilbert the cat found some more watch parts. He ate them. That's his bad habit: Eat everything.

I was in Pasadena when he began to show signs of being seriously ill.

Thus begins the gratitude journal:

I am extremely grateful to my Mom and to my daughter, who acted as point person with the emergency vets while I was down in Pasadena. (The cell phone got a workout.)

I'm also grateful to the emergency vet people. They don't like my cat, because when he's there, he's very unlikeable. Scary, even. But as soon as he gets home, he returns to the "I love you, cuddle with me now" side of his personality.

And that's where I've been--cuddling with Gilbert the cat, who will spend the next two weeks mostly living inside a renovated (especially for him) shower stall, so that he doesn't jump around.

Then, I might have to take the stitches out myself, because he's such a freak at the vet's.

But he's okay, and my daughter and mom are okay.

Yes, I'm grateful.

Gratitude on a blue gray Sunday

2010-10-10T12:34:00.000-07:00

It's one of those days, a little stressed and a little blue and feeling out of sorts. It's hard to feel grateful on these days, but it's also important.

Today, I feel grateful for a dry refuge from the fall showers.

I feel grateful for my cat, who just now decided that cuddling purring is in order.

I feel grateful that my daughter has become a good driver (and a good parallel parker).

I'm grateful for the Internet, so that I can do research while I'm cuddling with my cat.

I'm grateful for time.

I'm still a little stressed out (last-minute car-repair stuff, work stuff), but it helps to take a few moments for all the good things.

Open the door. Open my heart.

Dipping my toes into prose

2010-10-07T17:25:00.000-07:00

I've started a serial blogging project (I think that's what it is). Maybe I'm trying to nurture my inner novelist, but really because I want to follow this idea of sun hunters.

My own antidote to the gray months ahead.

The story starts here.

Poetry + technology, in video

2010-10-07T14:08:00.000-07:00

Recently, my colleagues at my Microsoft job asked me whether I'd be interested in talking, on camera, about how I use OneNote to write poetry.

Would I ever!

This was a real grown-up video, with a professional make-up artist (thank you so much) and a big heavy camera and a lot of planning and an interview (a little scary).

But what a great opportunity to bring poetry and writing center stage.

The Pleiades

2010-10-05T18:19:00.000-07:00

When the wine is fermenting, Tom leaves the house before the crack of early. I try to tag along when I can get up that early (we're talking out the door by 5:45 AM).

On the short way to the car, I've seen some amazing stars. I think I've even seen the Pleiades. I'm not sure. It's early. And it's lovely.

Then I hang out at the shop while Tom measures things and punches down the cap on the Merlot.

This morning, I managed to remember my camera.

Barrels of the Sauvingon Blanc we crushed and pressed the first weekend.

Barrels of Chardonnay that we crushed and pressed on Sunday.

Merlot from the first crush fermenting. The skins rise to the top and form a hard cap. That's what gets punched down.

The Merlot cap up close.

The smell is wonderful, too. But it's a long day. And Tom just called to say that he's pressing Merlot and won't be home for a while.

Now we await the Cabernet Sauvignon and Cabernet Franc.

Sunday Gratitude Journal: Pressed

2010-10-03T18:41:00.000-07:00

What? No pictures?

This morning, I was up and making homemade banh mi for today's crush. I remembered the bread, and the grilled chicken, and the tofu cooked in coconut milk, and the pickled vegetables, and the red pepper (I just wanted some), and the spicy mayonnaise, and the cilantro, and the sesame noodle salad, and the beer, and the potato chips--but I forgot my purse! And that's where my camera was.

Today, we crushed and pressed one and a half tons of Chardonnay grapes. And it went pretty quickly, but it was still a long day.

I am very grateful to the people who came to help. And for all their hard work. I am especially grateful to my daughter, who spent her Sunday loading grapes and cleaning and cleaning and cleaning. She also made the noodle salad.

I am grateful that it didn't rain.

I am grateful for inspiration.

I am grateful for the Internet, which makes research possible from the sofa.

I'm grateful for my friend Angela, who did bring her camera on Friday and took some author photos for me.

I'm grateful for poems and for the desire to write, the chance at unlocking something.

I'm grateful for the cat curling up on my legs.

I am grateful, and I am kind of tired. Open the door. Open my heart.

Crush and gratitude

2010-09-27T17:46:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, we crushed a ton of Sauvignon Blanc grapes and a ton and a half of Merlot grapes. This volume was made possible by a raft of friends helping out and by the Big Dog, which is what I'm calling our new destemmer-crusher.

Doesn't it look sleek? Wait until we turn it on!

The garden statue yard next door...

Many hands sorting Sauvignon Blanc grapes...

Pressing the Sauvignon Blanc...

See how it runs...

Merlot coming through...

Most of wine-making is cleaning. A lot of cleaning. And I'm really grateful for the help with that!

I'm grateful for all the help with crush. I'm grateful we have the opportunity to do this. I'm grateful that it didn't rain much. I'm really grateful for the Big Dog, which made the day run much more smoothly (and we got home before dark).

I'm grateful for the sunny day we had on Saturday, and a poem acceptance.

Back a bit, I'm grateful for the Day of Caring on Friday, and the people at Hope for Horses who rescue abused and neglected horses. I'm grateful for Josie, the one-eyed horse who, after everything she's been through, likes to have her belly scratched.

I'm grateful for a moment of quiet so I can share all this with you. Open the door. Open my heart.

Don't burn out--come to LitFuse

2010-09-22T19:20:00.000-07:00

This came to my inbox, and I want to share it, with high recommendations. I may be crushing; otherwise, I'll be at the heart of harvest and poetry in Tieton.

LiTFUSE Poets' Workshop

Dear Poet:

There are many reasons why we don't take the leap to embrace our authentic selves. Worries about money, the kids, job obligations; unwillingness to go over the mountains or to try something unknown.

All I can say is that every single person who has set those concerns aside and gone to LiTFUSE Poets' Workshop has been grateful they did so. They often come to me and say it was the best thing they did all year.

LiTFUSE is just over two weeks away, 10.8-10. Although there are plenty of fun Friday events, all the main workshops are on Saturday & Sunday. The cost is only $135, including the Poets' Banquet on Saturday night. Life's cares will still be there when you get back, but you'll have a refreshed spirit and new inspiration.

LiTFUSE only happens once a year. Please, won't you join us?

10.8-10.10, Mighty Tieton, near Yakima. A few free stays still available for those in need. Please CLICK HERE for the schedule or CLICK HERE to go directly to the registration page.

Northwest Writers UNiTE!

Michael Schein
LiTFUSE Director
michael@litfuse.us
www.litfuse.us

Gratitude Journal: Late but no less thankful!

2010-09-20T16:09:00.000-07:00

As I was sitting on the bus this morning, trying to make my way home as fast as possible to look for Gilbert the cat who ran outside when the wind blew the door open, I realized how important is to be thankful even when things are looking not optimal.

It reminds me of the movie My Life as a Dog, and the observation that "It all depends on how you look at it."

Right away, I am thankful that my cat came back. (Yes, I walked around the neighborhood for an hour shaking his carton of treats and calling him, and yes I sent out email to the neighborhood blockwatch, and yes, I was about to print out flyers when Gilbert appeared in the backyard, full of attitude, and slunk into the house, and I'm thankful for that.)

I'm thankful I work with people who understand the sudden nature of such events, and I'm thankful I still had time to do some work from home.

As I've said before, I'm thankful for my family and my friends and my family's friends. Friday and Saturday, we reveled and wandered with friends from Santa Fe. Last night was my brother-in-law's sixtieth birthday party. What a wonderful time!

I'm thankful for my four beans (yes, I'm up to four) and my one zucchini.

I'm thankful to see a little sun today.

And I'm thankful for a poem that needs some work and play. I'll get to that now.

Open the door. Open my heart.

Smokin'

2010-09-16T21:02:00.000-07:00

In a good way—

—the Fall 2010 issue of The Smoking Poet is online now, including the poems about Schrodinger's cat and stealing an ambulance, plus much more.

Sunday Gratitude Journal: Anti-anxiety

2010-09-12T12:48:00.000-07:00

I began the Sunday Gratitude Journal because I often hit a patch of melancholy on Sundays--as though I'm not doing enough, not good enough, not thin enough—that I don't have enough time, and I'm not using the time I have well enough. Insecurities heap up like old receipts in my purse.

Today is one of those days, and I'm grateful for the Gratitude Journal, which reminds me of all the good things.

My sleepy cat, for example.

My children.

Quiet.

I might be thankful for the same things every week. Every day. It's good for me to remember them.

I'm grateful for my friends who continually inspire me.

I'm grateful that I can take time out for this—that I am able to take for granted shelter and food and clothing and a job. But I don't take them for granted. I am grateful for them. Every day.

And I'm grateful for opportunities and whatever poems come my way—the ones I write and the ones written by others that I read and feel myself knocked off my feet. I'm very grateful for that.

Open the door. Open my heart.

A new book is in the works

2010-09-09T18:57:00.000-07:00

When I logged onto email Saturday morning, I found really good news: Ravenna Press would like to publish my book!

It was a euphoric weekend. It's still so exciting…

And the book will be coming out sometime in 2011.

I'm especially excited because I wrote these poems for a friend who, when I started, was undergoing breast cancer treatment and the long healing after. I've shared the manuscript with her (several versions over the past three years), but I've really wanted to be able to give her a book.

I went the query route and then the contest route. I was not always cheerful about this. A lot of rejection.

I returned to the query route, following some advice by Karen Finneyfrock , and I attended the Hugo House conference Finding Your Publisher in the 21st Century, which is where I first connected with Ravenna Press.

Now, I'm thinking about blurbs and cover art and an author photo.

But I want to take a moment to thank all my friends who have read through the manuscript and helped with the poems and cheered me up. I want to thank my friend who inspired these poems, for her persistent energy (she's also a fantastic wit). And I want to thank my daughter, who has believed in this project, and prodded me on it, from the beginning.

That's my news, my good news.

Gratitude Journal, Labor Day

2010-09-06T07:40:00.000-07:00

How quickly things can change! I posted my last post on Friday morning, and the next morning I opened my email and found good news!

On to the gratitude journal—a day late, and brimming with gratitude.

I am very grateful that my manuscript has been accepted.

I am very grateful for all the support I've received over the years from family and friends.

I am especially grateful for my daughter's support and her persistent belief in this project. That has meant so much to me.

I'm grateful for medical advances, increasing survival rates, the survival of my friends.

I'm grateful for having a family that enjoys each other and has fun together. And I'm grateful that my sons can kick my ass in Boggle.

I'm grateful for this day off, when I shall labor as little as possible, and I'm grateful for having a job that gives me this day off—for having a job.

And, really, I'm grateful for this life.

Whiplash!

2010-09-03T09:42:00.000-07:00

I just received a rejection in less than 12 hours.

(sigh)

Very efficient.

Sunday Gratitude Journal: Tieton!

2010-08-29T21:03:00.000-07:00

This past weekend was our family reunion in Tieton, Washington. Not only was it a chance to hang out with family from my mother's side, it was also Tieton Community days—including the Dancing Horses,

to Mariachi music.

This was my favorite.

We thought about how much time it must take to train these horses and to work with them every day. It made sense to get your son up there, just so you'd have some time to spend with him!

On the green in Tieton, my cousin's daughter makes a new friend.

Vistas... space...

Vineyards planted up in the hills. Very young. A look forward.

Son Daniel and sister Nancy walking the rows.

The farmer and the winemaker.

Cousin Jan in the vineyard.

Strand apple bins, ready for harvest.

Smudge post, a frost past memory—and ready.

A pile o' props.

This week I am grateful for family and for getting together.

I'm grateful for dry weather on the far side of the mountains.

I'm thankful for the wide spaces and the hills framing them, for the dramatic cloud shadows on the fields and the scrub brush.

I'm thankful for the way a valley changes over time, with new people and new crops and even new ideas.

I'm also grateful for the traditions that continue or are revitalized. I remember Tieton Community Days from the 1970s. It fell into hiatus, but now it's back and bigger than I ever remember. Did I mention the Dancing Horses?

That said, I'm grateful for the way communities can come together—the long-time families, the artists, and the horsemen—for the way Spanish and English can both fly through the heat.

Thank you.

Gratitude Journal

2010-08-23T06:26:00.001-07:00

A day late, but no less grateful.

I haven't been blogging, but I've been writing a lot. I'm very thankful for that.

I'm thankful for my bean. Other people grow beans, I grow a bean. My garden comes one victory at a time.

I'm thankful for the rain that watered that garden and then stopped. I'm thankful we had a little sun yesterday.

I'm thankful my daughter comes home on Wednesday!

Sunday Gratitude Journal: Family and sand

2010-08-15T19:47:00.001-07:00

We took a long weekend and went to Manzanita to spend time with Tom's family. I love the ocean. I love the pounding and the tides and the sky and the stretches of sand. I love spending time talking with these marvelous people and walking for long stretches and drinking in everything.

I'm grateful for solitary walks on the sand, when the mist is still rising. Or perhaps it doesn't rise all day.

I'm grateful for the sculpting of water and sand, water on sand.

...a jellyfish...

I'm grateful for family. Here, the three sisters-in-law. What you can't see: the herd of small dogs following the man who snapped our picture.

I'm grateful for a walk through old-growth forest

and starfish in the tidepools,

barnacles, creatures who survive in drastic circumstances,

the flowering sea anemones

and colonies of mussels,

those vast multitudes of nature that scale from an giant cedar to a small mussel on the wall of a cave,

the way the stones show time and water,

and a snake

but mostly, this time with family. I am thankful.

Things that come in the mail

2010-08-11T21:29:00.001-07:00

It's been a good week.

First, on Saturday, my contributor copy of 2011 Poet's Market.

On Tuesday, the Fall class catalog for Richard Hugo House, including my class on writing poems in a series.

Member registration starts August 17.

Sunday Gratitude Journal: Time

2010-08-08T21:14:00.000-07:00

Today, I am thankful for the several hours of quiet to work on poems.

I am thankful for friends at the Seattle Poets Gathering, and their good stories and forward momentum.

I am thankful for the two tomato plants that are still alive—diminutive and no tomatoes yet, but alive. I call this hope.

I am thankful for my sister—for many reasons, but especially for keeping track of things.

2010-08-06T20:52:00.000-07:00

I've been working on a poem that I've wanted to write for a couple of years. I got a little bit of it out and wrote that down. Later, pulling weeds in the garden, I thought of a bit more, a couple of images—and then I realized that I didn't need to rush in and save them. I could get them later.

Yeah, right, you're thinking. I've tried that before.

So have I—and it never works.

But this time, I had a feeling that the poem had become a place I could visit, like going to my friend Laurie's house in Queens. I could look in the poem's different rooms, hang out in the kitchen, listen and write. When I left, the poem would still be there.

Maybe I'm not explaining this well—but that thought reminded me of Mark Doty saying that a poem is like a house—you don't need to take the reader into all the rooms, but you need to know what's in them.

(I like to imagine Indonesian parasols or Victorian wash basins—and I guess it's different for each poem. This one has red dirt and scents of cumin in the hallway and worn bus seats and it's almost always dark outside.)

This was new for me, and I hope the feeling returns for other poems. Meanwhile, I have this one to explore.

"Hurricane Season," by Alexandra Teague

2010-08-05T21:40:00.001-07:00

I am in awe of this poem by Alexandra Teague, which appeared on Verse Daily the other day. I read it and was hooked immediately. I felt it unfold. I felt, I wish I'd written that. I wish I could write like that.

Now, any poem that talks about a hurricane invokes the memory of Katrina. But it also resonated with me because my first date with my first husband was the evening after Hurricane Gloria brushed by Manhattan, where I was living then.

I asked myself what I could learn from this poem.

It's a poignant story, but we all have poignant stories in our lives—or we're poets and we can make them up.

Ms. Teague begins by setting up tension—the tension in the foreshadowing and also the tension between the storm's violence, the hurricane's lashing on the ground, and its circular beauty when seen from far above.

Then, each image and each verb supports the storm image.

Powerful. Something to aspire to.

What poems do you learn from?

Better than a red dress

2010-08-03T21:35:00.000-07:00

The beans are blooming!

I didn't realize they would be so flashy--in a good way.

Reupholstering the sofa

2010-08-02T21:07:00.000-07:00

Finally, I've spruced up my website, poetryonthesofa.com.

New colors, a new look.

Next up, the two sofas in the family room.

Sunday Gratitude Journal: Lummi Island

2010-08-01T17:27:00.000-07:00

We took a long weekend and went up to Lummi Island to celebrate our thirteenth wedding anniversary.

I'm grateful for the time with Tom, grateful for the wide light and the water stretching to the other islands and beyond, grateful for the people we met over the years, and for plenty of rest and even a little bit of writing.

Here are some pictures:

Sunday Gratitude Journal, on Monday

2010-07-26T17:07:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Tom's birthday, and so we packed in much revelry and celebration, starting with lunch at Place Pigalle. This is what we saw through the windows.

I'm thankful for such a lovely, romantic place. I felt like I was in Europe, a good feeling.

I'm thankful for my husband and my children, and for the fun times we have together.

I'm thankful I was able to find a chocolate cake at the neighborhood bakery.

I'm thankful we have water for the garden. Some years, it's much more scarce, and I thought it would be this year, too.

I'm thankful for the poem acceptance I received on Saturday.

Now, it's time to write.

This is a good thing

2010-07-22T19:42:00.000-07:00

After an hour reading Little Bee, I think about my efforts to publish my manuscript and choke on perspective.

It's an important reminder for me.

Little Bee

2010-07-21T21:39:00.001-07:00

I love that feeling when I open a book and know before the end of the first page that I'm in good hands. The hands of a storyteller, with life lines and heart lines. The hands that shape the air. The hands that speak with confidence. The hands and voice of someone who knows how to pull the poetry out of the language—without it all falling in a heap on the ground.

I get that feeling when I begin to read a novel by Margaret Atwood. She might frighten me for decades, but she will write a good story well. I trust her.

This week, I've had that same feeling reading Little Bee, by Chris Cleave.

I know right away the story will have sharp edges and horror. Say Nigerian girl refugee and it's easy to know that dots will be connected. But Mr. Cleave opens the story with a narrator and a voice that tell me clearly I don't know how those dots will touch.

The voice—so important—sounds like a real person. I can hear her speaking. And when he changes the point of view (No! Don't change the point of view), this new narrator sounds just as authentic in her very different person.

Then we have the poetry—striking images that make the language bloom without turning purple, without suffocating either story or voice.

Here is one I can't get out of my head, in which the narrator describes an Indian woman trying to make a telephone call from a detention center outside of London:

"She was whispering into it some language that sounded like butterflies drowning in honey."

Like butterflies drowning in honey.

When I read that, I want to write like that. When I read prose like that, I want to write poetry.

It's such a gift to be able to write like that, and I feel lucky for the gift of reading it.

What books send you to writing?

What it could look like: Mr. Jules

2010-07-19T21:42:00.000-07:00

I just finished Jules Feiffer's memoir Backing into Forward, a gift from my sister (autographed copy!). It immediately brought back a lot of my memories from the mid-eighties, when I lived in New York and would buy my copy of the Village Voice. Among other things, I'd look for the Feiffer cartoon. Sometimes, it featured a dancer—a modern dancer, which is what I was trying to be.

Reading the book is like listening to an uncle ramble on, telling stories of his life and all the people he knew. Mr. Feiffer drops names in sixes and sevens—some of them I recognized and some of them I didn't. Comic strip artists and literati—Will Eisner and Philip Roth, for starters. (Starters!) It's a trip to NYC and a trip back in time.

Mr. Feiffer talks of the Great Depression, the Bronx, and escape through comic books, movies, and radio shows. He talks of having a dream—to be a comic book artist and to be famous. Mr. Feiffer will tell you that he achieved all of his success by backing up so far away from something dreaded that his position ultimately propelled him forward.

He talks about worrying and neuroses (so enduring to me! because I know those both so well), but he also made a couple of bold moves. Read the book to find out. (His reason for joining the Voice was especially brilliant—and it worked.)

Mr. Feiffer tells of living in the McCarthy era and the post-McCarthy era and the general 1950s (which I still see through the lens of "Leave it to Beaver," and the omnipresent repression of that era. He speaks of speaking out against the Vietnam War. He also speaks often of drinks and parties and dinner with any number of famous people you could name. Yaddo. Martha's Vineyard. The literati high life.

Oooh, my envy is showing. In some ways, it's hard.

Wait wasn't that supposed to be my life? He even finally—after many years of working for free—gets health insurance. But Mr. Feiffer's recount shows the possible. And he recounts a long, productive, agile life in which artistic creativity pairs with creative solutions for staying afloat and, um, creative.

And the photographs and cartoons are wonderful.

Sunday Gratitude Journal

2010-07-18T20:53:00.000-07:00

Over on the Book of Kells, Kelli confesses every Tuesday and sometimes posts a gratitude journal. I think gratitude is wonderful. And because I sometimes get stressed or morose on Sundays, I'd like to take a page from Kelli's book and start a Sunday Gratitude Journal.

Today I am grateful that the scarlet runner beans are growing. They are my sign of hope.

I'm grateful for my family, both here and far away. I'm grateful that my daughter has the opportunity to adventure in Arizona this summer, and I'm looking forward to her return. Two months is a long time!

I'm grateful for the support from my friends—with writing and with life. And I'm grateful that sometimes I'm able to support my friends.

I'm grateful for the poems that have been coming to me this spring and summer, especially the poems that I write for others and can share with them.

I'm grateful for a sunny afternoon and my patchwork, jumbled garden, and the lessons that my garden teaches me over and over again. Work is never done.

I'm grateful for quiet—just enough quiet.

Thanks for listening. I'm grateful.

Painted Bride Quarterly's new issue

2010-07-17T06:42:00.000-07:00

Painted Bride Quarterly's new issue is online, including one of my poems.

This is very exciting for me. And it's partly because the name "Painted Bride" always reminds me of Painted Bride Art Center, which helped fund Llory Wilson's amazing dance piece "This Chordate Carcass," based on the life and work of Frida Kahlo. I saw that piece in 1989. The dance, my introduction to Kahlo's work, and the name Painted Bride have stayed with me ever since.

Video is bad for my diet

2010-07-14T12:17:00.000-07:00

Penelope Trunk posted a piece about how people trying to do harder tasks--such as memorizing a long number--will, given the option, choose to snack on cake instead of fruit.

I don't know who these people are, but I have a feeling that I would always choose the cake.

Yesterday, I spent the morning working on this little video--recording sound, editing sound, trying to match it all up with the video. By noon, I needed sustenance.

"Salad? I don't think so."

I wanted some sort of physical ballast to provide me with some mental ballast, or agility, or at least a little more stamina. I went for the eggplant tofu with noodles--still pretty damn sweet.

Now, if we're to believe that sugar makes you more creative or is the new will-power or something like that, my reward was also my fuel.

But these small weekly videos may lead to a new and larger wardrobe. (I hope not.)

Or maybe I'll just get better at making them, so that videos become more like a shorter number.

Do you ever eat to create?

This is how it's done

2010-07-10T09:41:00.001-07:00

In the '80s, I moved to New York to be a modern dancer, and (almost) every morning, I took a ballet class from Jocelyn Lorenz. While I stood at the barre next to Gina Gibney or floundered across the floor, I was surrounded by people who danced for Twyla Tharp, Mark Morris, Merce Cunningham, Bill T. Jones/Arnie Zane, and others.

As much as Jocelyn taught me—and that was a lot—I realized that I could also learn a lot just by watching these other dancers. Translating what I saw into my body was rarely accomplished, but at least I could see, up close, how dance was done when it was done really well.

Last night, I went to the Floating Bridge Review gala launch reading—what a wonderful night! Many poets read--two poems each, one from the Review and one free choice. The result was an evening packed with powerful poetry—and a lot of humor. I was in awe—inspired, but also increasingly filled with doubt when surrounded by so much poetry prowess.

I walked out feeling—yes, still inspired—but also kind of like a hack, like I didn't even know where to start. Then I remembered watching Rob Besserer in Jocelyn's class. At the reading, I'd seen and heard how it's done. I can learn and grow from that. Now, to write.

Reading + inspiration

2010-07-09T12:09:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I'm attending and reading at the launch of Floating Bridge Review 3, over at Jack Straw Studios, 7:00 PM.

Hearing and reading poetry is always exciting, but tonight I'm going to read a poem or two inspired by work, my day job. Imagine Dilbert plus a prose poem in a Russian novel. Yes, my work inspired that.

What else is inspiring?

I'll admit that I'm an absolute sucker for this, the kind of marketing videos that tell someone's story. Yes, they're marketing, but I love the stories. (And in this case, I love the fact that Microsoft made a video that includes poetry!)

Check it out, and if you're in Seattle tonight, swing by Jack Straw and hear lots of poetry.

And let me know: What inspires you?

My kind of Italy

2010-07-07T11:04:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, after a hiatus of several years, we finally found a new outdoor table.

I've been steadfastly obssessed and in love with Italy. The food. The language. But most of all the romance of sitting at a table under the trees with some wine and bread and cheese and olives. Time to talk and sit and listen to the birds, watch the light move across the evening.

And now I can have that romantic bit right in my own backyard.

After we snapped this picture, we sat down and told each other about our day.

Little dreams coming true.

How do you bring your dreams into your life?

Word! (A new blog)

2010-07-06T12:35:00.000-07:00

Today, I launched the new Microsoft Word blog, for which I'm technically the curator, or the content strategist, or the...something like that.

Weighing in at one post, it's a bit of a baby, but it's packed with links to help you get started using Word 2010.

People often refer to passion, and that your work should reflect your passion, or be rooted in it. And I often scratch my head and wonder, "What's my passion?" or "My passion is poetry, but how can I get paid for it?"

But I also have a passion for helping people to do good work, and helping them to do the grunt work or administrative work (think page numbers and tables of contents) quickly and easily so that they can use their fabulous creative energy to create.

What do you think?

What's your passion? (And how do you live it in the world?)

Flags for you

2010-07-04T08:39:00.000-07:00

The front page of the Seattle Times today highlights the work of Ross Palmer Beecher, who is one of my favorite artists. She has put in decades of persistent work at her art, an inspiration! It's always good to see her get some recognition.

Here's a picture of one of her flags, from the Greg Kucera Gallery website.

What's another word for…

2010-07-04T08:27:00.001-07:00

Smoke?

I try really hard to avoid repeating words in a poem unless I'm purposely trying to make a point or set up a particular rhythm. I admit that I'm a little obsessive about it.

So I wanted another word for smoke, as in the noun, as in smoke rising from a campfire, as in follows beauty or gets in your eyes.

The online thesaurus associated with Microsoft Office offered only three paltry synonyms for the verb and not a noun anywhere.

I trundled downstairs and lugged up the big, swanky, hardcover Roget's. No smoke anywhere.

So far, online sites are yielding synonyms for pot and baseball pitches. I could work on this all day. I'd rather not, though.

Any ideas?

Where do you look for words? When do you give up and either keep the repetition or write something completely different?

And tonight, the air will thicken when fires color the sky.

Happy Fourth of July.

More [frag] ments

2010-07-02T06:51:00.000-07:00

I've been finding this approach helpful.

Taking old poems that weren't quite working,
deconstructing them,
using images,
writing in the margins

writing more
in the margins

over several days,

pulling it all together then,
looking at what fits,
paring and pruning

not just for fragment poems
but for regular poems, too
(I need a name for those…).

What works: I write over days.

I don't require a 20-minute continuous effort.
I don't require the zone.

But I keep looking at images,
looking at everything from the days before,
and images come,
images fly out of the darkness,
then quiet

another image, maybe
while I'm walking from the bus (maybe
in the middle of the night).

Also, because I know
I'll be gathering this poem
over time, I feel less pressure
to write something good

to choose whether it works now
or discard it.

I just keep writing
in the margins

and loving it.

Have you tried this?

What ways do you push
or stretch
your edges, your known?

Gushing

2010-06-23T21:41:00.000-07:00

In a good way…

In praise… in delight...

Today I opened up Susan Browne's Zephyr, from Steel Toe Books.

OH MY GOSH!

These poems are amazing.

These poems are conversational—chatty even.

…like pondering how twenty-five hundred
left-handed people are killed annually from using
right-handed products.

You think maybe you know these poems, maybe you worked with them at an ice cream parlor or a bar. You can imagine sitting in these poems' kitchen, at the blue Formica table, and drinking coffee, or lolling on the river bank with a bottle of red wine.

And then

a little gasp

Your sister talks to her husband's ashes
that are in a black enamel box on her dresser
between the Eternity perfume bottle and a dish of earrings.

but the conversation continues

You rode your bicycle up the hill behind your neighborhood,
stood in the mustard weed and listened to the eucalyptus leaves clapping...

and you're enjoying the way the images careen, as though you're on that bicycle, too, until suddenly the shoe drops, the axe falls, the bough breaks, and something in the world, something in you has changed.

Thank you, Ms. Susan Browne.

A bit more about fragments

2010-06-22T17:24:00.000-07:00

I've been having a wonderful time exploring this approach on another poem—and I've remembered a couple more things:

1.

white

space is

important

The white space emphasizes (or creates?) the more fractured experience, but it also allows the reader to make his or her own leaps from word to word, line to line, stanza to stanza. That happens in any poem, but with a lot of white space, the reader has more time, more room. Or that's my theory.

2.

One lusciously ethereal example that helped inform our work in Sarah Vap's class was Anne Carson's translations of Sappho. Because so much of Sappho's work was lost, it has become fragmented, and so it leaves the reader openings.

I confess that I sometimes I have trouble reading some of the more broken-up poems. I'm a narrative woman at heart, and I want it all to make sense. Buttoned-up and tied with a bow.

But I'm trying to let go of things, and maybe my old ideas about sense can loosen up a little. In the meantime, it's fun.

Locks of Love

2010-06-19T22:39:00.001-07:00

Today, my daughter and I went for haircuts together. The ponytails went to Locks of Love. The rest went for booms in the Gulf.

Before

During

After

New [fragment]

2010-06-18T20:51:00.000-07:00

How do you break

[

up

] the narrative?

How do you loosen into the nonlinear?

How do you let go?

In April, I took a class on short poems with Sarah Vap at Richard Hugo House—and last night, I took the poem I'd been working on from that afternoon to my poetry group.

They asked, "What was your process?"

The best answer is: "Take a class from Sarah."

I stand by that.

But in the interim, here's how I approached my poem.

(This is the reduced version. For the full experience, again, take a class from Sarah.)

Print out a copy of a poem that speaks to you. (In class, we looked at many examples of different shorter-form lyric poets.)

From a stack of images (old pictures or postcards, thoughts you've jotted down, anything that sticks—although I do think that the more visual and foreign, the better), choose a few and then write images in the margins of that printed poem. Short images. One or two words. Riff, but don't force anything.

Pick a number (x). From the poem you chose and the images you wrote, write a poem in x number of sections.

Choose the word that speaks to you. Circle it. (This word will become a theme that runs through your poem.)

Start a new page, and choose a different word (so many choices!). Write a new poem that uses the new word over and over and over again—as much as possible.

Start a new page, and write one line. Turn the page.

Whatever you want to do: short bursts, anything goes, turn the page each time. A lot of fresh pages.

Now, take a little rest.

The next day, in the margins of each page that you wrote, write more images that come to you. These are not whole poems or even whole poems. These are bursts.

Repeat as many times as you want.

This is fun. This is play.

Repeat this again over several days. The margins will be one Hell of a mess.

Pull everything together into one place—a page in OneNote, another file in your computer, more pages in your notebook.

Highlight the lines or images that still feel important to you.

Write or type those images onto a new page or file.

Take a good look, or wait. Take out anything you don't need.

Maybe, take out more.

This experience took me way outside of my comfort zone. I like narrative, I like all the blanks filled in, and I feel a little edgy around fragments. But learning to write, however uneasily, with the fragments was good. It was even fun.

Summer!

2010-06-14T15:47:00.000-07:00

Starland, by Sniedze Rungis

The solstice is still a few days away, but the summer edition of The Smoking Poet is here, packed with poems and stories, plus interviews and reviews, art (see the art?), a good cause, and a cigar lounge.

What do you think?

And what will you submit for the fall issue?

Two plus thanks

2010-06-11T20:46:00.000-07:00

Today, two rejection notices (one in email and one by post, so very balanced). But thanks to Diane Lockward's list of summer journals, I have plenty of new possible homes for these poems.

Thanks, Diane!

So much for that bright idea

2010-06-06T21:41:00.000-07:00

In sending publishers query letters for my manuscript The Body Makes a Plot, I thought I'd go through my poetry collection, identify poets whose work seemed similar to mine in style or subject matter, and then send queries to the publishers of those poets.

However, W. W. Norton, Henry Holt & Co., and Wesleyan are either not considering submissions (or queries) or read by invitation only. Dear Editors, how can you invite me if you don't know about me?

(At this point, you might be asking "Joannie, why are you trying to query Norton, Henry Holt, and Wesleyan?" Good question! Because they've published Sandra M. Gilbert and Roberta Spear. And because, at 50, I feel like I don't have time to be shy and shrinking.)

I'm trying to contact a couple of other publishers, based on the poets they've published in the past. But most of the list is out either because the press in question is regional (Wyoming or Central Valley in California) or you have to be someone to know someone to ...

Okay, enough of that already. It was a targeted approach. Perhaps, tomorrow night, I'll dig into the database at Poets & Writers. More random, but maybe with more luck.

Thanks for listening.

Earlier this morning (or "Dear June")

2010-06-03T13:34:00.000-07:00

When we forgot what the sun looked like we forgot that we forgot every year. In skips and bursts we recalled the word for this sky blue, the name of this light, yellow, or at the day's end, especially blessed, we said gold, as in precious, alchemical, our hearts in their bony cages lifting as the cedar boughs draped a new green and we could see the clouds making shapes, a child's puzzle billowing. We forgot that we forgot every year, the pall casting over, the galleries of gray, a flat stretch of time, and the lake abandoned.

Two minutes of real June lit candles in us and we were happy to say thank you, to smile until the weather blew in and we forgot.

Two for Dan

2010-05-30T16:21:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my friend Dan's memorial service, an afternoon of many stories, songs, and tears. A big gathering, with comfort and sorrow, with music and more stories into the night.

Here are two poems that I wrote during the couple of weeks.

Our Hard Watch

In my sorrow I plant beans.
Scarlet runners fall from the packet
marbled red and night, a handful of magic.

We hoped for a miracle, red cells blooming
through arteries, day after day waking
to a new wonder. Through the long

treatments, chemo rounds like a boxing match
pummeled you—and you still standing at each bell.
You learned a hook or two.

Wood sorrel clouds the ground.
The dock sends stalks skyward,
feathery flags waving.

I smooth the dirt over.
Teases of rain spit from the sky.
The crows may uncloak their mysteries.

This is better than waiting
where my words fall, fail
like old seeds in a field of stones.

Dusk grows in the garden.
Everything hovers—breath, hands.
Time balances like a boy on one foot.

To keep a vigil from the far side
of the water. To keep the fury out
when it wants to surge in as hard as the sea.

You move through a larger circle,
but it feels like an eddy,
a swirl, a suck out of time.

We must hold you,
love you, let you return.
We miss you before you go.

***

Walk With Us

Evening grows in the garden.
Walk with us in this hush
of light falling.

We must send you off into the lilac dusk,
into the darkening cedars and firs,
but you can walk with us.

Bang on the pots and pans.
Bring your guitar.
Walk with us.

Emptiness reaches up to the sky,
too early for stars.
We could be better at letting go.

You must move on and yet a part of you
lives in a cup under our ribs,
in the night's quiet valleys.

You are a clear note through the distance.
You are a ray through the world,
a sunlight we touch, and our hearts

are pierced by it, and we open
our hands to find maps we didn't know
we held, our possible hours etched

on our palms. Walk with us
through this shivering, into the garden
where birth sprawls green.

Walk with us.
Help us to live the rest of this life.

Poems online

2010-05-28T18:43:00.000-07:00

These poems on the Hektoen International website are from my manuscript The Body Makes a Plot.

When a slam isn't slammin'

2010-05-27T17:36:00.000-07:00

Recently, I've been invited to participate in two poetry slams—something I'd never done before.

And I still haven't.

I appreciate the invitations to read, but these are readings in the usual way, where each person gets up and has 10 minutes or so and then is done. That works for me, but it doesn't fit my understanding of how a poetry slam proceeds.

So I checked. From the Poetry Slam, Inc website:

A poetry slam is a competitive event in which poets perform their work and are judged by members of the audience. Typically, the host or another organizer selects the judges, who are instructed to give numerical scores (on a zero to 10 or one to 10 scale) based on the poets' content and performance.

(Which might explain why I haven't participated in a slam before.)

So what's with suddenly calling everything a "slam"? Is "reading" too boring? Will calling a reading a "slam" inject it with a sudden knock-down vigor?

Do readings need to change? See Martha's post on how to have a most excellent poetry reading for some ideas.

Or do we just need a new word? "Event" sounds too corporate.

Poetry party?

Poetry bash?

What would you call it?

A new look and a new outlook

2010-05-26T17:39:00.000-07:00

I've given my blog a little remodeling, like a coat of new paint.

Now, I'm trying to match those colors on my website, and maybe recode parts of it. That part of the project will take longer. (How can the same HTML color code show up differently on two different sites?)

Over the weekend, I went to the Finding Your Readers in the 21st Century conference at Richard Hugo House. The conference focused on getting your work published and then getting it into the hands of readers. (Okay, I'll say it: Marketing.)

I figured that if my goal was to get my manuscript published and into the hands of readers, I should show up and learn as much as possible.

During the sessions, I learned more about Espresso Book Machine and also about Publication Studio. These look like viable, and very different, self-publishing options, and I'm considering both of them (basically becoming my own gatekeeper).

I also heard some good strategies for researching presses without going the contest $25 check contest $25 check contest $25 check route.

Alice Acheson gave some dynamic hands-on sessions on pitching and promoting, and Wendy Call provided fantastic insights on writing query letters. And Kelli Russell Agodon provided some really helpful information on writing grants.

Much of the conference was geared toward the prose publishing landscape, but I think that knowing how to talk about a project, write a good letter, and promote a project will help with poetry, too.

Now, it's time to put some of that good information to use. And write!

In sorrow. In memory. In appreciation.

2010-05-22T20:26:00.001-07:00

Dan and Beth

Our dear friend Dan passed this past Wednesday, as the rains blew in over the Sound. I've been thinking a lot about our friendship, and the example he set out--how to live a good life. Our hearts are with him, and our hearts are with Beth and his family.

I feel like I should explain more, and it's hard. I met Dan in 1982, when I suddenly needed a home. A classmate recommended her shared household. It was an absolute dump--but Dan was the house manager, and he said that if I passed approval of all the other tenants, I could move in.

It was a glorious summer. My friends in this new house, Toad Hall in Seattle's University District, ran together, hiked together, and went out for breakfast. (Honestly, I'm better at breakfast than at running or hiking, but they were pretty patient.)

We shared plenty of pots of coffee, arguments about cleaning the dishes, and philosophical conversations on the porch. We played music in the kitchen and banged on what pots and pans we had. Dan introduced me to my husband. (I had no idea at the time.)

We moved to other addresses. We stayed in touch. Dan built communities and lasting friendships. In these past few days, we have come together. In sorrow. In memory. In appreciation.

Dan, cheers to you! And a Guiness for good measure.

Watch

2010-05-17T06:47:00.000-07:00

We've been in a no-time here. After months of successful treatments—grueling, yet successful—my friend Dan's leukemia resurged like a tsunami. Last Thursday, he came home to be with family and friends.

This morning, I was reminded of this poem by Stanley Kunitz.

The Long Boat

When his boat snapped loose
from its mooring, under
the screaking of the gulls,
he tried at first to wave
to his dear ones on shore,
but in the rolling fog
they had already lost their faces.
Too tired even to choose
between jumping and calling,
somehow he felt absolved and free
of his burdens, those mottoes
stamped on his name-tag:
conscience, ambition, and all
that caring.
He was content to lie down
with the family ghosts
in the slop of his cradle,
buffeted by the storm,
endlessly drifting.
Peace! Peace!
To be rocked by the Infinite!
As if it didn't matter
which way was home;
as if he didn't know
he loved the earth so much
he wanted to stay forever.

—Stanley Kunitz

If you have any good thoughts to spare, please send them to Dan and Beth and their family.

On the same day

2010-05-05T21:56:00.000-07:00

I read this article by David Biespiel about poets and civil discourse, and my daughter showed me this spoken word performance and this one, by a friend of hers at school.