HTML Language = How To Make Lousy:
Today I tried to add a search bar to my website and I realize how much I know and don't know when it comes to creating websites. I wanted it to the right (I even found in the code where it said "left" and typed in "right" and it didn’t move. I expected a two step to the right, an electric slide, but no, it just sat there right in the middle of everything looking odd. I'm just glad I have a nice background color for it as it kind of blends in (kind of, like a traffic accident blends in with a freeway).
Poet's Websites:
I did create my own poetry website through Geocities, though they had a "Page Wizard" and I think if I try to change any of the code manually, I no longer can access the Page Wizard, which is really the only way I'm comfortable with that website. I’d like to be able to do more. I’m sure there are large books on this, but I’d much rather wander my way through it changing this hocus pocusly, making blue appear where there once was red.
If you’re a poet reading this and do not have a website, I think you need one. Really. I know I get crazy (okay, not exactly "crazy," just wishful, when I find a poem by a poet I really like and I try to find more of his/her work on the web and I can only find a handful of this and that. And then I have to go to each site/ezine and check it out. Even if you have a blog, you need a central website where readers can find you and a sampling of your work and books. Yes, even if you don’t have a book. Imagine that you will have a book some day.
I started with a free website through Geocities. It made me have this as my webpage: www.geocities.com/agodon but I was fine with that. It was free. It wasn’t until a friend of mine said he saw a naked man on my site when I got a little nervous to what exactly I had set up on my website. You see, I have “Ad Blocker” on my computer so I never saw the ads. I assumed they were just sunsets or pictures of kittens. Apparently, my ad was selling protein pills or some special thing to give men big muscles. The man was actually not nekkid, but in a speedo. Wonderful. As my family checked into to see my new site, they were greeted Thor the Studmuffin saying hello first. It was then I decided that $8 a month (what Geocities changes to take the ad off your site) was worth it so people could go to my site without a picture of eye-candy to go with it. So, now I’m just www.agodon.com. It’s better without Thor. Well, maybe a few people miss him.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Bad Mickey, Worst Words/Best Words
My Mice Like to Party All the Time--Well, that strange smell of death or sauerkraut seems to be almost gone. I wonder if something bigger ate the smaller dead thing. I know, not a nice thought, but an honest rural thought. Though the idea that I have a forest of animals in my cellar doesn't please me. I know there are a couple mice (and one newt), but that is all I know. Who knows what is going on down there, our house is 75 years old this year (well, *that* part of it, the living room and bedrooms were a remodel), maybe it was a celebration gone bad and one of the mice passed out in the furnace. It happens.
PO-ET-RY:My recent attempts at poems leave me wondering what I was thinking when I began them. The have interesting lines, but go nowhere. They are similar to the well-dressed people at a party who when you try to converse with them, have nothing interesting to say. Pretty to look at, annoying to take. Still, I'm writing, which wasn't happening due to my critical paper.
Worst Words--I was thinking about how there are certain words that make me cringe (similar to how I have to change the station if I hear "Mr. Bo Jangles" or "Send in the Clowns." ) Here are my least favorite words in no particular order:
meme, filibuster, my bad, irregardless (not a word), midwifery (pronounced "mid-wiffery"), ointment, panties (esp. when said by a man), potty (same thing), spatula, schedule (pronounced with an English accent), whew.
(though I don't always cringe at the UK version of "schedule," it depends who is saying it and how many times.)
Favorite Words--Of course, if I'm revealing my worst words, I should even it out with some of my favorites (again in no particular order)--
discombobulated, lollygagging, topography, lumpia, dishrag, whiplash, mascara, numbskull, Zanzibar, penumbra, edgy, hipsway, fishhook, undulate.
PO-ET-RY:My recent attempts at poems leave me wondering what I was thinking when I began them. The have interesting lines, but go nowhere. They are similar to the well-dressed people at a party who when you try to converse with them, have nothing interesting to say. Pretty to look at, annoying to take. Still, I'm writing, which wasn't happening due to my critical paper.
Worst Words--I was thinking about how there are certain words that make me cringe (similar to how I have to change the station if I hear "Mr. Bo Jangles" or "Send in the Clowns." ) Here are my least favorite words in no particular order:
meme, filibuster, my bad, irregardless (not a word), midwifery (pronounced "mid-wiffery"), ointment, panties (esp. when said by a man), potty (same thing), spatula, schedule (pronounced with an English accent), whew.
(though I don't always cringe at the UK version of "schedule," it depends who is saying it and how many times.)
Favorite Words--Of course, if I'm revealing my worst words, I should even it out with some of my favorites (again in no particular order)--
discombobulated, lollygagging, topography, lumpia, dishrag, whiplash, mascara, numbskull, Zanzibar, penumbra, edgy, hipsway, fishhook, undulate.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Something Dead, Something White, Something to Worry About
Country Life, Part Deux--
R. and I fear something has died in the cold air return of our furnace. There is a funky smell looming. I've burned incense, R. sprayed some awful "violet field" spray, which I think is actually worse than the scent of death. We have each named the smell. I call it sauerkraut. D. calls it feet. R. calls it dead mouse. We hope it passes soon. I'm running out of incense.
Snow is what happens when you're making other plans--
If you haven't figured it out, no one in the NW knows how to deal with snow or cold weather. Tomorrow our local schools have already been closed for fear of ice. Can I tell you it's not raining (nor is there any prediction of rain) and our roads are bare. I think the person making the call just wants a day off, which is fair. We all want to disappear into the couch once in a while.
I have spent the last two days sledding across my neighbor's yard. I have rode over the sprigs of blackberry bushes and the petals of clover. I watched an island become covered in a white cape while I played superhero soaring over an icy field. I have walked up that hill until my legs hurt and realized I am much older than the age I keep in my mind, in my heart. Still, there's nothing better than flying. I almost went back into the house to get my camera, but I knew nothing would ever compare to how I felt. Again, like trying to capture the sunset, like trying to capture the moments when you feel most alive.
Poets Writing From a Box--
I guess that is what I'm trying to do in my poetry. I want to capture the moments when everything seems to be breathless, the times when it feels as if your life comes with its own soundtrack and that scene was once in movie that you starred in. I'm failing miserably at this. Sometimes I wish poetry books came with a CD you could listen to while you read the poems, maybe the music that was in the background when the poet was writing.
I think Curious George (the movie) was better because Jack Johnson was singing in the background. Otherwise, it's just that silly monkey. How to make poetry breathless. There's that not-so-great movie with Richard Gere where he is left with that blinking heart. I can tell you nothing about that movie except I remember his standing there with that blinking heart around his neck and turning. What do I remember of poems?
There was a summer I couldn't stop reading the same book over and over. Now sometimes I find myself skimming, searching for that one poem that will change me. Sometimes the book feels so much like an advertisement, "The poetry book has a zippered center for interior storage. The poetry book is without handles so that it may be carried as a clutch. The fancy cover (opposite view) keeps the reader believing she is interested. Comes in tan, black, or beige. Gift box available." There is an interior worry in me that I am only offering a place for bookmarks.
R. and I fear something has died in the cold air return of our furnace. There is a funky smell looming. I've burned incense, R. sprayed some awful "violet field" spray, which I think is actually worse than the scent of death. We have each named the smell. I call it sauerkraut. D. calls it feet. R. calls it dead mouse. We hope it passes soon. I'm running out of incense.
Snow is what happens when you're making other plans--
If you haven't figured it out, no one in the NW knows how to deal with snow or cold weather. Tomorrow our local schools have already been closed for fear of ice. Can I tell you it's not raining (nor is there any prediction of rain) and our roads are bare. I think the person making the call just wants a day off, which is fair. We all want to disappear into the couch once in a while.
I have spent the last two days sledding across my neighbor's yard. I have rode over the sprigs of blackberry bushes and the petals of clover. I watched an island become covered in a white cape while I played superhero soaring over an icy field. I have walked up that hill until my legs hurt and realized I am much older than the age I keep in my mind, in my heart. Still, there's nothing better than flying. I almost went back into the house to get my camera, but I knew nothing would ever compare to how I felt. Again, like trying to capture the sunset, like trying to capture the moments when you feel most alive.
Poets Writing From a Box--
I guess that is what I'm trying to do in my poetry. I want to capture the moments when everything seems to be breathless, the times when it feels as if your life comes with its own soundtrack and that scene was once in movie that you starred in. I'm failing miserably at this. Sometimes I wish poetry books came with a CD you could listen to while you read the poems, maybe the music that was in the background when the poet was writing.
I think Curious George (the movie) was better because Jack Johnson was singing in the background. Otherwise, it's just that silly monkey. How to make poetry breathless. There's that not-so-great movie with Richard Gere where he is left with that blinking heart. I can tell you nothing about that movie except I remember his standing there with that blinking heart around his neck and turning. What do I remember of poems?
There was a summer I couldn't stop reading the same book over and over. Now sometimes I find myself skimming, searching for that one poem that will change me. Sometimes the book feels so much like an advertisement, "The poetry book has a zippered center for interior storage. The poetry book is without handles so that it may be carried as a clutch. The fancy cover (opposite view) keeps the reader believing she is interested. Comes in tan, black, or beige. Gift box available." There is an interior worry in me that I am only offering a place for bookmarks.
A Thousand Places To Go
I’m reading ORDERING THE STORM, HOW TO PUT TOGETHER A BOOK OF POEMS. In the section by Liz Rosenberg she writes: Like most young writers, I spent years asking other for their opinions, and learning how little is to be gained by it. No one else can teach you how to be yourself.
I love this thought. As poets we need to trust our instincts on such things. We need to (from the deepest of our centers) know that we know more about our poems than anyone else. It’s the idea that when you are putting together a book of poems, you need to create it from within. It’s funny, in life when we have the most difficult troubles or concerns, we find ourselves asking others for advice. What should I do? How would you do it?
Still, I believe others can help when ordering a manuscript or working with poems, but not in the job of the poet, but in the job of the reader. A reader can tell you where you are missing information, where they are getting lost, or where there seems to be a break in the flow. As poets, we know the back-story to every poem. The problem occurs when we create a poem and it makes sense to us because we have this background info; another reader, unaware of all that we keep in our head, reads the poem and is either lost or uninterested in our genius thoughts.
I rely on others to help me find confusion in my poem. It sounds odd to go looking for confusion, but clarity is important to me. Not Windex-clean clarity, but I want the heart of the poem to come across the reader because I want that connection for them as well. I want to know where I became sloppy in my writing, where I became too poetic. Some of my best suggestions have been from my poets friends who have merely said, “Do you need this?” I take three words away and the poem is thousand times better. It’s the magic of being someone else. Of not being emotionally tied to a poem, not being in love with a word choice.
I think the best people to help with a poem are people who don’t want to make your poem theirs, but to make your poem a better yours. If your style is tennis shoes and jeans, they aren’t throwing a feather boa around your neck because that’s what they like to wear. They may suggest a better-soled shoe or a pair of jeans with smaller pockets, but they aren’t trying to change your poem into something it’s not.
I think that is always the concern with workshops. If you find yourself involved in community poetry, it’s time to slip out the door before the hoedown. A mentor once told me, “Poetry is not a Tupperware party,” and I think about that whenever I try to seal a lid on a poem or win the free orange peeler at my poetry group. What I mean is, I don’t write poems so my friends will approve them, but I continue to write poems that challenge myself as a poet. I want all my poetry friends to keep their original voices and so far, we have. That is the challenge of such things. From the moment we’re born, society tries to make us conform in so many ways. We need to avoid that in our writing, even while we’re wearing the trendiest jeans or the shirt from Old Navy that everyone has. We may let ourselves blend in other ways, but our writing is too important to follow the current trends. As Liz R. said above, No one can teach you how to be yourself. We each need to follow our obsessions and disasters, our gut feelings even when it feels as if the whole country is made of 2.5 kids and driving around in SUVs or minivans, we need to feel good in our Vega, our Beetle, on our bicycles circling the neighborhood as if we’ve a thousand places to go.
I love this thought. As poets we need to trust our instincts on such things. We need to (from the deepest of our centers) know that we know more about our poems than anyone else. It’s the idea that when you are putting together a book of poems, you need to create it from within. It’s funny, in life when we have the most difficult troubles or concerns, we find ourselves asking others for advice. What should I do? How would you do it?
Still, I believe others can help when ordering a manuscript or working with poems, but not in the job of the poet, but in the job of the reader. A reader can tell you where you are missing information, where they are getting lost, or where there seems to be a break in the flow. As poets, we know the back-story to every poem. The problem occurs when we create a poem and it makes sense to us because we have this background info; another reader, unaware of all that we keep in our head, reads the poem and is either lost or uninterested in our genius thoughts.
I rely on others to help me find confusion in my poem. It sounds odd to go looking for confusion, but clarity is important to me. Not Windex-clean clarity, but I want the heart of the poem to come across the reader because I want that connection for them as well. I want to know where I became sloppy in my writing, where I became too poetic. Some of my best suggestions have been from my poets friends who have merely said, “Do you need this?” I take three words away and the poem is thousand times better. It’s the magic of being someone else. Of not being emotionally tied to a poem, not being in love with a word choice.
I think the best people to help with a poem are people who don’t want to make your poem theirs, but to make your poem a better yours. If your style is tennis shoes and jeans, they aren’t throwing a feather boa around your neck because that’s what they like to wear. They may suggest a better-soled shoe or a pair of jeans with smaller pockets, but they aren’t trying to change your poem into something it’s not.
I think that is always the concern with workshops. If you find yourself involved in community poetry, it’s time to slip out the door before the hoedown. A mentor once told me, “Poetry is not a Tupperware party,” and I think about that whenever I try to seal a lid on a poem or win the free orange peeler at my poetry group. What I mean is, I don’t write poems so my friends will approve them, but I continue to write poems that challenge myself as a poet. I want all my poetry friends to keep their original voices and so far, we have. That is the challenge of such things. From the moment we’re born, society tries to make us conform in so many ways. We need to avoid that in our writing, even while we’re wearing the trendiest jeans or the shirt from Old Navy that everyone has. We may let ourselves blend in other ways, but our writing is too important to follow the current trends. As Liz R. said above, No one can teach you how to be yourself. We each need to follow our obsessions and disasters, our gut feelings even when it feels as if the whole country is made of 2.5 kids and driving around in SUVs or minivans, we need to feel good in our Vega, our Beetle, on our bicycles circling the neighborhood as if we’ve a thousand places to go.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Poetry Book Gift List ~ Give the Gift of Poetry this Holiday Season
This list is from a Women's Poetry Listserv that I belong to. I created it as I've been thinking about how I want to spend my money this holiday season, I realize I want to support artists and writers when I do my Christmas shopping. If we could each support each other in our creative lives, what a wonderful world...
Maybe you'll find something on here for a friend, a relative, or for yourself. Maybe you'll recognize a few of these names and maybe you'll be excited for what you find in the pages of their books. Maybe give a book of poems this year, or two, or three.
Poetry makes lovely hostess gifts too.
Feel free to share this list. Thank you for supporting your community of poets...
For All of You Who Fell in Love with Horses, or Dreamed of Doing So; and for the Lover of Rights-Both Animal and Human:
Horses and the Human Soul by Judith Barrington (Story Line Press,, 2004) $15
Available from Powells.com, Amazon.com, or direct via http://www.judithbarrington.com
For Anyone Who's Visited Alaska or Wants To:
Blaze, sensual Alaskan poems by Peggy Shumaker and paintings by Kesler E. Woodward (Red Hen Press, 2005) Hardcover $39.95, paperback $29.95
Available at http://www.redhen.org/. More titles available at http://www.peggyshumaker.com/
For your favorite Art Lover:
Femme au chapeau, Rachel Dacus, David Robert Books, 2005 - $17.00
Available David Roberts Books or Amazon
For your favorite Bad Girl--
Becoming the Villainess by Jeannine Hall Gailey (Steel Toe Books, 2006) $12
Available through Steel Toe Books, Amazon, or the author's website
For your favorite Bird Lover--
White Summer by Joelle Biele (Southern Illinois Univ. Press 2002) $15
Available at Southern Illinois Univ Press or Amazon
For your favorite Chameleon
Shapeshifting by Celia Lisset Alvarez (Spire Press, 2006) $10
Available at http://spirepress.org/book.html.
For your favorite Cook
Eat Our Words: The Montana Writers Cookbook featuring poems, excerpts and recipes from 92 Montana authors (Far Country Press, 2005).
Available at Amazon.com
For Creative Writing Teachers with an Experimental Bent, Collectors of Old Mimeos, or Lovers of Prose Poetry:
To Delite and Instruct (blue lion books, 2006), $19.26
Available only through cafe press. Be sure to search online for a cafe press coupon code before buying!
For your favorite Divorcee (or Sonneteer):
The Paragon by Kathrine Varnes (WordTech Editions 2005), $17available through WordTech, Barnes & Noble or Amazon
For your favorite Domestic Goddess:
Famous by Kathleen Flenniken
Available through Univ of Nebraska Press, Amazon or your local bookstore
For your favorite DJ or any Midwesterner:
Diane Kendig's Greatest Hits_ by Diane Kendig (Pudding House 2001). Chapbook, $8.95.
Available through the publisher at http://www.puddinghouse.com/ or phone 614 986-1881.
For a signed copy at no extra cost, contact the poet at diane@dianekendig.com
For your favorite 8-12 year old or K-8 teacher, or lover of poetry for children:
Spinning Through the Universe, by Helen Frost (FSG, 2004)
Available through your local bookstore or Amazon (If you would like a signed bookplate, email me.)
For more information: http://www.helenfrost.net/
An elegy to the things we think will make us happy / but don't.
Letter from the Lawn, by Bobbi Lurie (CustomWords, November 2006) $17.00Available at CustomWords or Amazon.com
For your favorite Feminist and Pop Culture Critic:
Unbound & Bounded by Christine Stewart-Nunez (chapbook based on a series of artists responding to icon Kate Moss). Published by Finishing Line Press, 2006. Available at http://www.finishinglinepress.com/
For your Favorite Friend Who Has Been Challenged by Loss, Love, or Illness (specifically breast cancer):
Small Knots by Kelli Russell Agodon (Cherry Grove, 2004) $17
Available through Cherry Grove Press, Booksense, Amazon or signed/ inscribed copies available at the author's website
For your favorite Insect lover:
Breath in Every Room by Tami Haaland (Story Line Press, 2001). $13.95.Availble at Amazon.com
For your favorite lover of vistas: Montana Women Writers:
Geography of the Heart (Far Country Press, 2006). $18.95. Edited by Caroline Patterson and containing 39 contemporary and historic writers.
Available on Amazon.com
For your favorite Food Lover or Regular Lover:
What Feeds Us, by Diane Lockward (Wind Publications, October 2006) $15.00
Available at http://windpub.com/order.htm or Amazon.com
For your favorite Friend Obsessed with Hardness and Vulnerability
Armor and Flesh, by Mendi Lewis Obadike (Lotus Press, 2004) $12.00
Available at Amazon.com and lotuspress.org
For your Friend Who Maybe Likes a Sestina Now and Then:
Passing, by Eloise Klein Healy (Red Hen Books, 2002) $11.95 Available at http://www.redhen.org/catalog.asp or Amazon
For your favorite Friend with SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder):
Radiance by Barbara Crooker (Word Press, August, 2005) $17.00,
available at http://www.word-press.com/crooker.html or Amazon or Barnes&Noble.com
For your Favorite Funny Foodie--
Miracle Fruit by Aimee Nezhukumatathil (Tupelo Press, 2003) $14
Available at Tupelo Press, your local bookseller and Amazon
For your favorite Global Traveler, or for your Favorite Armchair Traveler,
Cures Include Travel by Susan Rich (White Pine Press, 2006) $14
Available from http://www.susanrich.org/. Susan will inscribe the book as you would like and also sign it. Also available from http://www.amazon.com/ or http://www.elliottbaybook.com/ or by calling Susan (206) 930-1276.
For your favorite Grown-Up
Five Terraces by Ann Fisher-Wirth (Wind Publications, 2005), $14.
Available at Wind Publications and Amazon
For your favorite Healer, or Older Woman, or Anyone Grieving and For all Who Need Consolations in the Face of the Terror:
Duties of the Spirit, Patricia Fargnoli (Tupelo Press, 2005) $16.95
Available through Tupelo Press, your local independent bookseller, or Amazon.
For your favourite historian, feminist, or person interested in the unwritten stories of women's lives:
Neile Graham's _Blood Memory_ (Bushek Books, 2000), $14.95,
Available from http://www.sff.net/people/neile or amazon.com, amazon.ca, powells.com or The League of Canadian Poets
For your favorite Homebody with a Checkered Past:
Laura Cherry's chapbook, What We Planted (Providence Athenaeum), $5.
Available through the Providence Athenaeum
For Anyone Who's Interested in How Poems Come into Being:
Encore: More of Parallel Press Poets (Parallel Press, 2006). $15 (Each of the 40 poets contributed a poem and a statement commenting on their experience writing the poem.)
Available through Parallel Press, $15 includes shipping and handling.
For your favorite Latina in Crisis
The Stones by Celia Lisset Alvarez (Finishing Line Press, 2006) $14
Available at Finishing Line Press
For your favorite Literate Healthcare Provider:
A Form of Optimism by Roy Jacobstein (University Press of New England, October 2006) $15.95, available at 1-800-421-1561 or http://www.upne.com/, or Amazon
For your favorite Lovelorn friend or relative:
Love is a Weed by Lana Hechtman Ayers (Finishing Line Press, October 2006, 29 pages) $12,
Available from Finishing Line Press or for a signed, personally inscribed copy with free shipping via PayPal, email author at moonlit.cloud@yahoo.com.
For Anyone who Loves Language and Sees Life's Lessons as a Journey Toward Wholeness :
Light Made from Nothing, Susan Elbe (Parallel Press, 2003). $10
Available through Parallel Press, $10 includes shipping and handling.
For Magpies in Love with Shiny Gold Items and Love Poetry:
Locket, (Tupelo Press, 2005), $16.95
Available through Tupelo Press, your local independent bookseller, or Amazon.
For your favorite Mathematicians and Pattern-seekers:
Rare Momentum by Athena Kildegaard (Red Dragonfly Press, 2006) $15. Available through http://www.reddragonflypress.org/, your favorite independent bookstore, or Amazon.
For your favorite nature-worshipper--
Calendars by Annie Finch (Tupelo Press, 2003) $14.95, available at 802-366-8185 or www.tupelopress.org, www.barnesandnoble.com/, or http://www.amazon.com/
For your favorite Neophyte Cosmic Gazer Obsessed with the Rhythm of Death, Sex, & Recklessness
South of Here by Lydia Melvin (New Issues Press, 2005), $14.http://www.wmich.edu/~newissue/
For your favorite New Mom--
Blue Positive by Martha Silano (Steel Toe Books, 2006) $12
Available at Steel Toe Books, your local bookstore or at Amazon.
For your favorite New Mother, Old Southerner, or Feminist Biblical Revisionist (and lover of heavy rains):
Garnet Lanterns, a chapbook by Sally Rosen Kindred (Anabiosis Press, 2006) $6.50 Available at: http://garnetlanterns.quietmoon.com/
For your favorite (Overworked) Woman with Mate and Children
Kitchen Heat by Ava Leavell Haymon (LSU Press, Aug, 2006) $17.95Available through LSU Press and Amazon
For your favorite Peace Activist:
Homefront, Patricia Monaghan (WordTech Communications, 2005) $17.00
Available From WordTech Communications or Amazon.
For your favorite Person Who Cares About Others and the Life of Our Planet --
Sight Lines, poems by Charlotte Mandel (Midmarch Arts Press, 1998) $12.50.With photographs by artist Judy Siegel.
Available from Midmarch Arts Press, 300 Riverside Drive, New York, NY 10025.
For Your favorite Person Obsessed with Death but Looking for Comfort Anyway,
Mortal by Ivy Alvarez (Red Morning Press, 2006) $12
Available at Red Morning Press: http://redmorningpress.com/
For your favorite Philhellene:
On the Altar of Greece, winner of the 2005 Gival Press Poetry Award, Donna J. Gelagotis Lee (Gival Press, 2006) $15.00
Available through Gival Press (1.866.203.8926 + 7444; http://www.givalpress.com/) or Amazon.com (On the Altar of Greece)
For your favorite Poetry Lover: childhood/mother/marriage poems--
Keep and Give Away (Winner of the SC Poetry Book Prize) by Susan Meyers (University of South Carolina Press, 2006), $14.95
Available through the University South Carolina Press, your local independent bookseller, or Amazon.
Press info for Susan Meyers: 800-768-2500
For the restless adventurer, maternal explorer, or political activist,
Notes on Arrival and Departure by Rachel Rose (McClelland & Stewart)
Available at http://www.mcclelland.com/)
For your favorite Sister, Teenager, High School English teacher, Genealogist, Scots-Canadian, lover of historical (1850's) novels-in-poems:
The Braid, by Helen Frost (FSG, 2006)
Available through your local bookstore or Amazon (If you would like a signed bookplate, email me.)
For more information: http://www.helenfrost.net/
For your favorite Teenager, High school English teacher, or Lover of novels-in-poems (sestinas and sonnets):
Keesha's House, by Helen Frost (FSG, 2003)
Available through your local bookstore or Amazon (If you would like a signed bookplate, email me.)
For more information: http://www.helenfrost.net/
For your favorite Urban Contemplative:
Here from Away by Kate Bernadette Benedict (CustomWords, 2003) $16,
available from the publisher or Amazon.
For People You Don't Want To Give a Book of Poetry, But Do:
Whimsy Daybook, 2007 Maryrose Larkin (flash + card press, 2006)
[it is an actual day book, spiro bound, heavy stock, full color painting repros, calendar] with "poetic" (they were published as poetry) entries for everyday (ex., "Diffuse Radiance Week"), illustrated with paintings by Nita Hill
$12 directly from Maryrose Larkin, maryrose at gmail dot com.
For your favorite Person Grieving the Loss of a Parent
Night In The Shape Of A Mirror, Lynne Knight (David Robert Books, 2006) - $17.00
Available at David Robert Books or Amazon
For the scientific explorer or health care worker,
Giving My Body To Science by Rachel Rose (McGill/Queen's University Press)
Available at http://www.mqup.mcgill.ca/
For your favorite Visual Artist or Ekphrasis Enthusiast:
Nude in Winter by Francine Sterle (Tupelo Press, 2006) $16.95
Available through Tupelo Press, your local independent bookseller, or amazon.com.
For Those Who Dare To Hope
NorthSight by Lois Roma-Deeley (Singularity Press, 2006, cloth) $25.00Available at http://www.singularitypress.biz/northsight.html or Amazon.com
For a Poetry Reader Who Knows Motherhood Is Way More Complex Than Greeting Cards Ever Suggest:
What if your mother by Judith Arcana (Chicory Blue Press, 2005) $15.00
Order from your local independent bookseller, Amazon.com, or direct from http://www.chicorybluepress.com/.
For your favorite Wilderness Backpacker/Adventurous Woman/ or Buddhist:
The Strict Economy of Fire by Ava Leavell Haymon (LSU Press, Aug, 2004) $16
Available through LSU Press and Amazon
For your favorite Women’s History Buff, Medievalist, or Lover of Saints:
The Love of Unreal Things by Christine Stewart-Nunez (chapbook based on the life of Catherine of Siena). Published by Finishing Line Press, 2005. Available on amazon.com.
For women of a certain age looking for hope and a few laughs:"Hanging Out With Loose Words," by M.R. Betten, Foothills Publishing, 2005, $8.00 36 pages hand-sewn chapbook, available at http://www.foothillspublishing.com/
Maybe you'll find something on here for a friend, a relative, or for yourself. Maybe you'll recognize a few of these names and maybe you'll be excited for what you find in the pages of their books. Maybe give a book of poems this year, or two, or three.
Poetry makes lovely hostess gifts too.
Feel free to share this list. Thank you for supporting your community of poets...
For All of You Who Fell in Love with Horses, or Dreamed of Doing So; and for the Lover of Rights-Both Animal and Human:
Horses and the Human Soul by Judith Barrington (Story Line Press,, 2004) $15
Available from Powells.com, Amazon.com, or direct via http://www.judithbarrington.com
For Anyone Who's Visited Alaska or Wants To:
Blaze, sensual Alaskan poems by Peggy Shumaker and paintings by Kesler E. Woodward (Red Hen Press, 2005) Hardcover $39.95, paperback $29.95
Available at http://www.redhen.org/. More titles available at http://www.peggyshumaker.com/
For your favorite Art Lover:
Femme au chapeau, Rachel Dacus, David Robert Books, 2005 - $17.00
Available David Roberts Books or Amazon
For your favorite Bad Girl--
Becoming the Villainess by Jeannine Hall Gailey (Steel Toe Books, 2006) $12
Available through Steel Toe Books, Amazon, or the author's website
For your favorite Bird Lover--
White Summer by Joelle Biele (Southern Illinois Univ. Press 2002) $15
Available at Southern Illinois Univ Press or Amazon
For your favorite Chameleon
Shapeshifting by Celia Lisset Alvarez (Spire Press, 2006) $10
Available at http://spirepress.org/book.html.
For your favorite Cook
Eat Our Words: The Montana Writers Cookbook featuring poems, excerpts and recipes from 92 Montana authors (Far Country Press, 2005).
Available at Amazon.com
For Creative Writing Teachers with an Experimental Bent, Collectors of Old Mimeos, or Lovers of Prose Poetry:
To Delite and Instruct (blue lion books, 2006), $19.26
Available only through cafe press. Be sure to search online for a cafe press coupon code before buying!
For your favorite Divorcee (or Sonneteer):
The Paragon by Kathrine Varnes (WordTech Editions 2005), $17available through WordTech, Barnes & Noble or Amazon
For your favorite Domestic Goddess:
Famous by Kathleen Flenniken
Available through Univ of Nebraska Press, Amazon or your local bookstore
For your favorite DJ or any Midwesterner:
Diane Kendig's Greatest Hits_ by Diane Kendig (Pudding House 2001). Chapbook, $8.95.
Available through the publisher at http://www.puddinghouse.com/ or phone 614 986-1881.
For a signed copy at no extra cost, contact the poet at diane@dianekendig.com
For your favorite 8-12 year old or K-8 teacher, or lover of poetry for children:
Spinning Through the Universe, by Helen Frost (FSG, 2004)
Available through your local bookstore or Amazon (If you would like a signed bookplate, email me.)
For more information: http://www.helenfrost.net/
An elegy to the things we think will make us happy / but don't.
Letter from the Lawn, by Bobbi Lurie (CustomWords, November 2006) $17.00Available at CustomWords or Amazon.com
For your favorite Feminist and Pop Culture Critic:
Unbound & Bounded by Christine Stewart-Nunez (chapbook based on a series of artists responding to icon Kate Moss). Published by Finishing Line Press, 2006. Available at http://www.finishinglinepress.com/
For your Favorite Friend Who Has Been Challenged by Loss, Love, or Illness (specifically breast cancer):
Small Knots by Kelli Russell Agodon (Cherry Grove, 2004) $17
Available through Cherry Grove Press, Booksense, Amazon or signed/ inscribed copies available at the author's website
For your favorite Insect lover:
Breath in Every Room by Tami Haaland (Story Line Press, 2001). $13.95.Availble at Amazon.com
For your favorite lover of vistas: Montana Women Writers:
Geography of the Heart (Far Country Press, 2006). $18.95. Edited by Caroline Patterson and containing 39 contemporary and historic writers.
Available on Amazon.com
For your favorite Food Lover or Regular Lover:
What Feeds Us, by Diane Lockward (Wind Publications, October 2006) $15.00
Available at http://windpub.com/order.htm or Amazon.com
For your favorite Friend Obsessed with Hardness and Vulnerability
Armor and Flesh, by Mendi Lewis Obadike (Lotus Press, 2004) $12.00
Available at Amazon.com and lotuspress.org
For your Friend Who Maybe Likes a Sestina Now and Then:
Passing, by Eloise Klein Healy (Red Hen Books, 2002) $11.95 Available at http://www.redhen.org/catalog.asp or Amazon
For your favorite Friend with SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder):
Radiance by Barbara Crooker (Word Press, August, 2005) $17.00,
available at http://www.word-press.com/crooker.html or Amazon or Barnes&Noble.com
For your Favorite Funny Foodie--
Miracle Fruit by Aimee Nezhukumatathil (Tupelo Press, 2003) $14
Available at Tupelo Press, your local bookseller and Amazon
For your favorite Global Traveler, or for your Favorite Armchair Traveler,
Cures Include Travel by Susan Rich (White Pine Press, 2006) $14
Available from http://www.susanrich.org/. Susan will inscribe the book as you would like and also sign it. Also available from http://www.amazon.com/ or http://www.elliottbaybook.com/ or by calling Susan (206) 930-1276.
For your favorite Grown-Up
Five Terraces by Ann Fisher-Wirth (Wind Publications, 2005), $14.
Available at Wind Publications and Amazon
For your favorite Healer, or Older Woman, or Anyone Grieving and For all Who Need Consolations in the Face of the Terror:
Duties of the Spirit, Patricia Fargnoli (Tupelo Press, 2005) $16.95
Available through Tupelo Press, your local independent bookseller, or Amazon.
For your favourite historian, feminist, or person interested in the unwritten stories of women's lives:
Neile Graham's _Blood Memory_ (Bushek Books, 2000), $14.95,
Available from http://www.sff.net/people/neile or amazon.com, amazon.ca, powells.com or The League of Canadian Poets
For your favorite Homebody with a Checkered Past:
Laura Cherry's chapbook, What We Planted (Providence Athenaeum), $5.
Available through the Providence Athenaeum
For Anyone Who's Interested in How Poems Come into Being:
Encore: More of Parallel Press Poets (Parallel Press, 2006). $15 (Each of the 40 poets contributed a poem and a statement commenting on their experience writing the poem.)
Available through Parallel Press, $15 includes shipping and handling.
For your favorite Latina in Crisis
The Stones by Celia Lisset Alvarez (Finishing Line Press, 2006) $14
Available at Finishing Line Press
For your favorite Literate Healthcare Provider:
A Form of Optimism by Roy Jacobstein (University Press of New England, October 2006) $15.95, available at 1-800-421-1561 or http://www.upne.com/, or Amazon
For your favorite Lovelorn friend or relative:
Love is a Weed by Lana Hechtman Ayers (Finishing Line Press, October 2006, 29 pages) $12,
Available from Finishing Line Press or for a signed, personally inscribed copy with free shipping via PayPal, email author at moonlit.cloud@yahoo.com.
For Anyone who Loves Language and Sees Life's Lessons as a Journey Toward Wholeness :
Light Made from Nothing, Susan Elbe (Parallel Press, 2003). $10
Available through Parallel Press, $10 includes shipping and handling.
For Magpies in Love with Shiny Gold Items and Love Poetry:
Locket, (Tupelo Press, 2005), $16.95
Available through Tupelo Press, your local independent bookseller, or Amazon.
For your favorite Mathematicians and Pattern-seekers:
Rare Momentum by Athena Kildegaard (Red Dragonfly Press, 2006) $15. Available through http://www.reddragonflypress.org/, your favorite independent bookstore, or Amazon.
For your favorite nature-worshipper--
Calendars by Annie Finch (Tupelo Press, 2003) $14.95, available at 802-366-8185 or www.tupelopress.org, www.barnesandnoble.com/, or http://www.amazon.com/
For your favorite Neophyte Cosmic Gazer Obsessed with the Rhythm of Death, Sex, & Recklessness
South of Here by Lydia Melvin (New Issues Press, 2005), $14.http://www.wmich.edu/~newissue/
For your favorite New Mom--
Blue Positive by Martha Silano (Steel Toe Books, 2006) $12
Available at Steel Toe Books, your local bookstore or at Amazon.
For your favorite New Mother, Old Southerner, or Feminist Biblical Revisionist (and lover of heavy rains):
Garnet Lanterns, a chapbook by Sally Rosen Kindred (Anabiosis Press, 2006) $6.50 Available at: http://garnetlanterns.quietmoon.com/
For your favorite (Overworked) Woman with Mate and Children
Kitchen Heat by Ava Leavell Haymon (LSU Press, Aug, 2006) $17.95Available through LSU Press and Amazon
For your favorite Peace Activist:
Homefront, Patricia Monaghan (WordTech Communications, 2005) $17.00
Available From WordTech Communications or Amazon.
For your favorite Person Who Cares About Others and the Life of Our Planet --
Sight Lines, poems by Charlotte Mandel (Midmarch Arts Press, 1998) $12.50.With photographs by artist Judy Siegel.
Available from Midmarch Arts Press, 300 Riverside Drive, New York, NY 10025.
For Your favorite Person Obsessed with Death but Looking for Comfort Anyway,
Mortal by Ivy Alvarez (Red Morning Press, 2006) $12
Available at Red Morning Press: http://redmorningpress.com/
For your favorite Philhellene:
On the Altar of Greece, winner of the 2005 Gival Press Poetry Award, Donna J. Gelagotis Lee (Gival Press, 2006) $15.00
Available through Gival Press (1.866.203.8926 + 7444; http://www.givalpress.com/) or Amazon.com (On the Altar of Greece)
For your favorite Poetry Lover: childhood/mother/marriage poems--
Keep and Give Away (Winner of the SC Poetry Book Prize) by Susan Meyers (University of South Carolina Press, 2006), $14.95
Available through the University South Carolina Press, your local independent bookseller, or Amazon.
Press info for Susan Meyers: 800-768-2500
For the restless adventurer, maternal explorer, or political activist,
Notes on Arrival and Departure by Rachel Rose (McClelland & Stewart)
Available at http://www.mcclelland.com/)
For your favorite Sister, Teenager, High School English teacher, Genealogist, Scots-Canadian, lover of historical (1850's) novels-in-poems:
The Braid, by Helen Frost (FSG, 2006)
Available through your local bookstore or Amazon (If you would like a signed bookplate, email me.)
For more information: http://www.helenfrost.net/
For your favorite Teenager, High school English teacher, or Lover of novels-in-poems (sestinas and sonnets):
Keesha's House, by Helen Frost (FSG, 2003)
Available through your local bookstore or Amazon (If you would like a signed bookplate, email me.)
For more information: http://www.helenfrost.net/
For your favorite Urban Contemplative:
Here from Away by Kate Bernadette Benedict (CustomWords, 2003) $16,
available from the publisher or Amazon.
For People You Don't Want To Give a Book of Poetry, But Do:
Whimsy Daybook, 2007 Maryrose Larkin (flash + card press, 2006)
[it is an actual day book, spiro bound, heavy stock, full color painting repros, calendar] with "poetic" (they were published as poetry) entries for everyday (ex., "Diffuse Radiance Week"), illustrated with paintings by Nita Hill
$12 directly from Maryrose Larkin, maryrose at gmail dot com.
For your favorite Person Grieving the Loss of a Parent
Night In The Shape Of A Mirror, Lynne Knight (David Robert Books, 2006) - $17.00
Available at David Robert Books or Amazon
For the scientific explorer or health care worker,
Giving My Body To Science by Rachel Rose (McGill/Queen's University Press)
Available at http://www.mqup.mcgill.ca/
For your favorite Visual Artist or Ekphrasis Enthusiast:
Nude in Winter by Francine Sterle (Tupelo Press, 2006) $16.95
Available through Tupelo Press, your local independent bookseller, or amazon.com.
For Those Who Dare To Hope
NorthSight by Lois Roma-Deeley (Singularity Press, 2006, cloth) $25.00Available at http://www.singularitypress.biz/northsight.html or Amazon.com
For a Poetry Reader Who Knows Motherhood Is Way More Complex Than Greeting Cards Ever Suggest:
What if your mother by Judith Arcana (Chicory Blue Press, 2005) $15.00
Order from your local independent bookseller, Amazon.com, or direct from http://www.chicorybluepress.com/.
For your favorite Wilderness Backpacker/Adventurous Woman/ or Buddhist:
The Strict Economy of Fire by Ava Leavell Haymon (LSU Press, Aug, 2004) $16
Available through LSU Press and Amazon
For your favorite Women’s History Buff, Medievalist, or Lover of Saints:
The Love of Unreal Things by Christine Stewart-Nunez (chapbook based on the life of Catherine of Siena). Published by Finishing Line Press, 2005. Available on amazon.com.
For women of a certain age looking for hope and a few laughs:"Hanging Out With Loose Words," by M.R. Betten, Foothills Publishing, 2005, $8.00 36 pages hand-sewn chapbook, available at http://www.foothillspublishing.com/
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Warning: No Poetry, Only Drunk Trees, Convertibles, and Lessons Only a Dinosaur Can Teach
Dreamweaver--After writing that post last night about trading (or not trading in) my VW for a VW convertible, I had a dream that Susan Sarandon bought me one. And it was blue. Thanks, Susan. That was quite thoughtful.
Snow and a falling tree--When you live in the NW and the weatherpeople predict snow, you go on with your business as if they haven't said anything. Why? Because they usually make a big production about snow, freak everyone out, and then nothing. Of course, I should have known because they didn't make a big production out of this, that we'd be hit with snow.
At one o'clock we went out for eggs. Not because we were preparing for any sort of storm, but because we were all craving French toast. It did not feel like snow. It did not look like snow. There were no snow clouds across the water. There were no signs, no pre-flakes. We weren't even thinking about snow; we were thinking about French toast.
At about 2 p.m, we looked outside and realized it was snowing and snowing hard. By 2:20, we were in our snow clothes and skidding around the deck. My golden retriever was eating the snow as if fell as if it came in flavors. It was wet heavy snow, but nonetheless, snow.
While outside, we made a small snowman, wandered around the neighborhood to see how what others were up to, then returned home and made snow angels on our deck. There is something magical about making snow angels. It's actually pretty amazing lying on your back looking up at a white/grey sky full of snowflakes all traveling down down down around you. It's an image I'd like to see someone paint, but I know it's like taking a photo of a sunset--what you are experiencing is the moment, not the image.
Anyway, once we were soaked, cold, and happy for our snow encounter, we went back inside to have hot chocolate with real whipped cream and sprinkles. While having this treat, there was a crash behind us. Hello falling Christmas tree. Yes, the tree we just decorated yesterday had become the drunk family member at the Christmas party and passed out into the stockings. I ran to grab the tree only to realize how heavy it was. Ornaments skidded across the floor, tree tried to flatten me. D. (who watched with hot chocolate in hand) did not try to help me, but instead said, "It looks like you're dancing with the tree." Yes, I'm sure it did.
It's funny, yesterday when we decorated the tree, it was a treat. A gift. Christmas music, reliving each memory of each ornament we carefully placed on the tree, everyone wanted to help. Today, when the drunk tree needs someone to straighten his tie and sew the buttons back onto his shirt, it's not so much fun. So, the tree is not as cute as he was when he arrived for the party, but he's back in shape and standing straight again. I will stop watering the tree with vodka. I will stop pouring bottles of champagne around its trunk.
Christmas Past--
Every year when decorating our tree, my husband and I look for the three ornaments we hung on the tree during our first Christmas together. I was just out of college and we had just purchased our first house. A tiny home with a sunken living room (the house's only "luxury"). We were pretty much young and broke, but insanely happy. Since we couldn't really afford Christmas ornaments we made due with what we had along with one or two things from a gumball machine.
Every year, we look forward to opening the box of ornaments and finding the fire truck, the plastic mermaid, and the roaring dinosaur because it reminds us both of how much we don't need. It reminds me that happiness doesn't come with French doors or a convertible roof. Happiness is what you find when your house is so small there's nowhere to hide.
Our dinosaur taught me this--
Saturday, November 25, 2006
A. G. (after graduation)
I've forgotten what it's like to live without a deadline. I recently wrote this in an email and realized that this is the cause to my anxiety dreams and the feeling as if I'm forgetting something, something important.
It's funny, when I was out of school, I looked back at it with such a "you had it so good then" attitude. Yet, college is a lot like giving birth, you forget the bad stuff. I remember when I was an undergrad at the UW. I would say, "I can't wait to get a real job, no more homework." Of course, I found that real job only to find out that well, yes, it more-than-occasionally came with homework.
Yet, I can't complain right now and in fact, I am feel so thankful to this world of school and life that has somehow managed to come together for me. But I do think about what it will be like not to have a group of books on my nightstand that I must read by a certain date (and not because I need to return them to the library). Or not to have a week blocked off in my daytimer with the word "DEADLINE" in black pen.
But I'm promising myself that when I finish school, there will be one year to play and to be serious about my writing. One year to write daily on schedule, my job--to arrive to my desk and write. There will be different deadlines, ones I control. Will it feel as if this weight I carry around will be gone? Will I wake up and not have that "I must do something" feeling. I'm not sure.
These three years went by quickly and they dragged along. They opened doors and shut them in my face. They made me question everything. And still, I'm not done. Almost. But not quite. I'm thinking about it tonight as we've been discussing graduation and sending in our applications for graduation. I had planned to trade in my VW beetle for a *convertible* VW Beetle (aquarius blue). Right now, that plan is hold, especially if I decide to freestyle for a year. I've thought about waitressing (though I've never done it), I've thought about working in a bookstore (though I dislike retail). I know, I get my masters degree to work in a job where I don't need one. But it was never the reason. I didn't go back to school so I could get a job, I went back to school so I could become a better writer. It may go against why others get MFAs. But for me, I'm a writer first.
And I needed the schedule, the book lists, the one-on-one, the take-yourself-seriously-girl, the (yes, say it) deadlines, and yes, the time to write. No one could question my writing time if I was paying for it. No one can take away your education. I haven't decided against teaching at a later time, but I haven't decided against becoming a barista either. I'm undecided. I'm the voter nine months before the election reading the pamphlet, considering my options, my opportunities, my operation graduation, my open book surgery.
I guess we'll have to stay up late to see how this works out, to the end of the movie where I ride off into the sunset, if there is a sunset, a horse, or a cowgirl with a map.
Friday, November 24, 2006
The Joy of Being "Lucky"
Thought of the Day—
I was browsing my bookshelf recently and found a book a friend bought me a couple years back. It’s called TAKE JOY: A BOOK FOR WRITERS by Jane Yolen. I opened to a page and this is what it said:
Be Prepared for Serendipity.
The word serendipity, which means “a happy accident,” was actually coined by Horace Walpole in his take about “The Princes of Serendip” who made more of their luck than most of us.
How does a writer organize luck? In a variety of ways. Perhaps a file of articles or quotations. Perhaps a stack of book s from a second-hand shop on a variety of fascinating subjects. I keep photos and pictures around that seem to say, “Find my story.
______
I started thinking about the way I find “luck” in my writing. I think showing up is part of it. I tend to write more poems when I (get this) sit down and start writing. Imagine! When I spend less time wandering the words of emails or weaving through the internet, I tend to write more. When I write every day, my mind is much more open to writing, it wants to try and play. It’s not worried about making mistakes. However, when I don’t write for a while and I sit down to write, I put more pressure on the words, on the poem. I think: This one has to work out; it’s been so long! When I’m writing daily, the pressure is off because I know if I don’t get a poem today, I’ll get one tomorrow or the next day. I know they will appear, my fingers, my mind, my paper is open to them.
I also keep a notebook, orange with a pocket in the back for interesting items I find. Sometimes genius is written in that notebook, though most times I’m trying to figure what I meant by something, a random phrase about salmon thrown in with the words “woodchuck, woodstock.” Where was I that day? What was I thinking? I usually don’t know.
I think “luck” is really persistence though. If you really want to write better, you will. If you really want to publish a book, you will. If you really want to write every day, you will. You will find time in busy day. There will a few moments on a bus or before bed. You make time for what’s important. Luck in the writing world is showing up and persisting, even after the 70th rejection. Even after doors have closed. Luck is what happens when you don’t take no for an answer.
I was browsing my bookshelf recently and found a book a friend bought me a couple years back. It’s called TAKE JOY: A BOOK FOR WRITERS by Jane Yolen. I opened to a page and this is what it said:
Be Prepared for Serendipity.
The word serendipity, which means “a happy accident,” was actually coined by Horace Walpole in his take about “The Princes of Serendip” who made more of their luck than most of us.
How does a writer organize luck? In a variety of ways. Perhaps a file of articles or quotations. Perhaps a stack of book s from a second-hand shop on a variety of fascinating subjects. I keep photos and pictures around that seem to say, “Find my story.
______
I started thinking about the way I find “luck” in my writing. I think showing up is part of it. I tend to write more poems when I (get this) sit down and start writing. Imagine! When I spend less time wandering the words of emails or weaving through the internet, I tend to write more. When I write every day, my mind is much more open to writing, it wants to try and play. It’s not worried about making mistakes. However, when I don’t write for a while and I sit down to write, I put more pressure on the words, on the poem. I think: This one has to work out; it’s been so long! When I’m writing daily, the pressure is off because I know if I don’t get a poem today, I’ll get one tomorrow or the next day. I know they will appear, my fingers, my mind, my paper is open to them.
I also keep a notebook, orange with a pocket in the back for interesting items I find. Sometimes genius is written in that notebook, though most times I’m trying to figure what I meant by something, a random phrase about salmon thrown in with the words “woodchuck, woodstock.” Where was I that day? What was I thinking? I usually don’t know.
I think “luck” is really persistence though. If you really want to write better, you will. If you really want to publish a book, you will. If you really want to write every day, you will. You will find time in busy day. There will a few moments on a bus or before bed. You make time for what’s important. Luck in the writing world is showing up and persisting, even after the 70th rejection. Even after doors have closed. Luck is what happens when you don’t take no for an answer.
A Day of Turkey Sandwiches or Meateaters or Don't Read This Post If You're Having Lunch
Until about 4 years ago, I was a strict vegetarian. I had been one for about 11 years when one Mardi Gras I started to crave protein. What started with shrimp cocktail turned into plate of bbq pork and led me back into the world of meat. People used to ask me what I didn't eat and I'd say, "Anything with a face." When I was a vegetarian, I didn't want me, didn't crave it, didn't care. The other night I devoured a baked chicken. This is not my bean and rice ways in my old tofu life.
I have tried to figure out if I've changed because I have become physically stronger since than the weakling I was in my 20's, or if I'm just busier now and don't have time or care to eat such a well-balanced, higher protein veggie diet as I did in my earlier life. Now, I have a chicken panini and don't worry if I'm getting enough protein.
I think the lack of meat products for 11 years was beneficial just in that for 11 years I didn't have stray bovine hormones running through my system, something I think about if we have sloppy joe's or Joe's Special(basically, the only meals with hamburger in them that I like) as recently I just read an article that women who consume more than 2 servings a day of red meat have a higher incident of breast cancer.
I think if I saw what I did to the inside of my body with some of the things I eat that probably aren't so great for me-- thick slices of cheese, diet coke, sugar, sugar, sugar--I might eat better. I've always thought this was true with smoking. Imagine if instead of the tar sticking to your lungs, it oozed out your skin. I bet less people would smoke.
Anyway, this is turning into a gruesome post when what I wanted to say was I'm glad to have a refrigerator of leftovers. I'm glad there were mashed potatoes for me to take home and eat today. I'm thankful for the white meat, the peas, and the stuffing.
I have tried to figure out if I've changed because I have become physically stronger since than the weakling I was in my 20's, or if I'm just busier now and don't have time or care to eat such a well-balanced, higher protein veggie diet as I did in my earlier life. Now, I have a chicken panini and don't worry if I'm getting enough protein.
I think the lack of meat products for 11 years was beneficial just in that for 11 years I didn't have stray bovine hormones running through my system, something I think about if we have sloppy joe's or Joe's Special(basically, the only meals with hamburger in them that I like) as recently I just read an article that women who consume more than 2 servings a day of red meat have a higher incident of breast cancer.
I think if I saw what I did to the inside of my body with some of the things I eat that probably aren't so great for me-- thick slices of cheese, diet coke, sugar, sugar, sugar--I might eat better. I've always thought this was true with smoking. Imagine if instead of the tar sticking to your lungs, it oozed out your skin. I bet less people would smoke.
Anyway, this is turning into a gruesome post when what I wanted to say was I'm glad to have a refrigerator of leftovers. I'm glad there were mashed potatoes for me to take home and eat today. I'm thankful for the white meat, the peas, and the stuffing.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
There is always reason for thanks
If the only prayer you ever say in your entire
life is 'thank you,' it will be enough.
--Meister Eckhart
* * * * *
Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridge to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out in different directions
back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you
over the telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on the stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you
with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is
-- W. S. Merwin
_________________
Happy Thanksgiving
life is 'thank you,' it will be enough.
--Meister Eckhart
* * * * *
Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridge to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water looking out in different directions
back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you
in a culture up to its chin in shame
living in the stench it has chosen we are saying thank you
over the telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the back door
and the beatings on the stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks that use us we are saying thank you
with the crooks in office with the rich and fashionable
unchanged we go on saying thank you thank you
with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us like the earth
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is
-- W. S. Merwin
_________________
Happy Thanksgiving
Thankful List
Family, Friends, & Pets
Other thankful people
Drivers Who Let Me Into Their Lane
Drivers Who Wave Back
Letter writers
Blogging Poets
Happy Emails
People Who Try Their Best
Garage Door fixers
Betta fish
Leopard frogs/tadpoles
Poets I Haven't Discovered Yet
*
Simplicity
Not having a Blackberry, PalmPilot, Automatic Car Windows, Ipod, Xbox, Camcorder, Mixer, or Coffeepot
Being able to walk to the beach
Hearing the sea lions in the middle of the night
Killdeer
Small town life
A market where I can still leave with groceries even if I've forgotten my wallet (they just write a note and stick it in the register so I can pay when I come back.)
Strangers who call you when you lose your checkbook and return it to you along with fresh herbs from their garden
Neighbors with llamas, lambs, horses, goats, chickens, and cows
Northern Flickers
*
The Ferry
Funfetti Christmas Cake
Not knowing anything about My Space
Unsalted Peanuts in their Shells
"Whatever you say, Sunshine."
The Curious George Movie
Jack Johnson
A 4-day weekend
Cranberry Sauce From the Can
Stuffing & Mashed Potatoes
Pumpkin Pie with Real Whipped Cream
Macy's Day Parade
A Lazy Morning
A Long Afternoon
Happy Dance with Me
Dance Dance Revolution--
This is me with my imaginary tiger doing the happy dance as I've finished a very strong and solid draft of my critical page weighing in at 27 pages. I know it's not done, but it's closer, much closer. I've back-up the file, printed out copies--I'm not losing this.
So far the title is Different Ways to Laugh: The Use of Humor in Poems by Contemporary Women Poets. It focuses intensely on these poets: Denise Duhamel, Nin Andrews, Dorothy Barresi, and Lucille Clifton. One night at around midnight it was titled "Beautiful Tragedies," which didn't make any sense, but I was tired and feeling extremely creative.
Thanks to The Fray--
And last night, for the first time in who-knows-how-long, I wrote (say it): a poem. Yes, not the best poem or one that's even close to being finished but I started writing. It seems the song "Over My Head" by The Fray is very inspiring to me as I put it on replay track and by the end of the fourth time hearing the song, I had a first draft I can work with. I have a few songs or CDs I slip into my computer if I'm having trouble writing. The Fray is one of my newer muses.
Giving Thanks--
I'll be posting my thankful list later tonight. I'm feeling thankful for a lot lately. Nothing major, just the simple things.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Weather, Paper, Sofa
Yes, it's true, it rains a lot in Washington--
Another wet Tuesday. The Northwest is Noah's stomping grounds this month. Rivers overflow, salmon escape to the roadways. I hardly recognize my neighbors under their hats. Occasionally, we find ourselves running from falling trees, the soil to wet to hold their roots. Ah, it must November! We just need one more good windstorm so I can pick up evergreen swags for my front door and the mantel.
Paper paper--
I'm finishing up a good first draft of my critical paper on contemporary women poets who use humor in their work. It feels good to be so far along. I want to finish it for one reason only-- it seems the left and right sides of brain don't work so well together. Yes, I haven't been writing poems. I haven't been revising poems. Poetry is my second cousin I don't see very much.
And I've tried. I wrote a few odd lines in a bookstore coffeeshop, but if you asked me how to begin a poem, I wouldn't be able to tell you. I'm not even sure I know where they live, they are a mysterious tribe somewhere in the mountains of Bhutan. They are nowhere near my desk and I will call for them soon. After the MLA guide has been tossed into the sea and my "work cited" list has become a paper airplane for fruitflies.
My Own Version of the Late Wife--
But I am thinking about poetry. I have the book LATE WIFE on my desk begging for me to open it. No. I'm holding out. My poetry books are my Sunday morning ritual--a fire, chai tea, my delicious toasty afghan wrapped around me. The white and green art glass lamp turned on. The light from the window on the pages of my book. Family members is various states of disarray. Golden retriever chasing the cat. Windstorm. Rainstorm. The world falling apart outside this neighborhood, but for the morning, it's quiet in my book. There could be thunder in the kitchen, shattering glass, an earthquake of drama, but it has better be good, a major catastrophe, a meteor aimed for our backyard, otherwise, you know where to find me. Book in hand. Warm fire. Cozy afghan. Favorite sofa.
Another wet Tuesday. The Northwest is Noah's stomping grounds this month. Rivers overflow, salmon escape to the roadways. I hardly recognize my neighbors under their hats. Occasionally, we find ourselves running from falling trees, the soil to wet to hold their roots. Ah, it must November! We just need one more good windstorm so I can pick up evergreen swags for my front door and the mantel.
Paper paper--
I'm finishing up a good first draft of my critical paper on contemporary women poets who use humor in their work. It feels good to be so far along. I want to finish it for one reason only-- it seems the left and right sides of brain don't work so well together. Yes, I haven't been writing poems. I haven't been revising poems. Poetry is my second cousin I don't see very much.
And I've tried. I wrote a few odd lines in a bookstore coffeeshop, but if you asked me how to begin a poem, I wouldn't be able to tell you. I'm not even sure I know where they live, they are a mysterious tribe somewhere in the mountains of Bhutan. They are nowhere near my desk and I will call for them soon. After the MLA guide has been tossed into the sea and my "work cited" list has become a paper airplane for fruitflies.
My Own Version of the Late Wife--
But I am thinking about poetry. I have the book LATE WIFE on my desk begging for me to open it. No. I'm holding out. My poetry books are my Sunday morning ritual--a fire, chai tea, my delicious toasty afghan wrapped around me. The white and green art glass lamp turned on. The light from the window on the pages of my book. Family members is various states of disarray. Golden retriever chasing the cat. Windstorm. Rainstorm. The world falling apart outside this neighborhood, but for the morning, it's quiet in my book. There could be thunder in the kitchen, shattering glass, an earthquake of drama, but it has better be good, a major catastrophe, a meteor aimed for our backyard, otherwise, you know where to find me. Book in hand. Warm fire. Cozy afghan. Favorite sofa.
Monday, November 20, 2006
What's So Funny About Peace, Love, & Understanding?
I'm a sick girl. I've started listening to Christmas music already. There is a local station that plays it 24 hours a day starting yesterday. I can't help it. I love the Christmas season. We buy our tree the first Saturday after Thanksgiving and decorate. I already have tickets to the Nutcracker, reservations to make a gingerbread house at a local farm/bakery, an ornament for the ornament party, plans for an Island Country Christmas complete with free pony rides for the kids, a cookie exchange party, a holiday poets/writers party, and a mammogram scheduled. Okay, that last one doesn't fit, but it's on my December calendar.
What's interesting is that all this happens in the first two weeks of December, but from 17-31st, I have absolutely nothing planned except for our traditional Christmas eve & of course, Christmas with the fam.
What I want for Christmas? Snow. Or peace. Sadly, I think we have a better chance of getting snow.
But enough of this holiday talk as I know some of you still have pumpkins (and rotting pumpkins) on your doorstep.
Let's talk about something in the news that made my stomach twist this morning. Kramer from Seinfeld (aka Michael Richards) went off on some hecklers at the comedy club with a series of racial slurs and as the article called it "angry outbursts." Someone remind me what year it is. I don't know why I'm always so shocked about these types of things, but I am. It makes me crazy when people resort to slamming someone based on race. Honestly, we're all born into our own skin, deal with it.
I made the mistake of going to TMZ to see the video myself and it was actually worse than the article suggested. If I were in the audience I would have left. Even the so-called hecklers were saying "That's uncalled for." And it completely was. It was as if he'd forgotten his words and once he went down that racist road, he couldn't turn back. I think everyone knows when something isn't funny or right. I haven't seen that Borat movie, but what I'm believing more and more is that Americans have been taught to be too polite and need to speak up when something isn't right. Instead of not wanting to make someone feel uncomfortable, sometimes people don't say anything and I think that can ultimately been seen as "acceptance" or "approval."
As poets and writers I think we need to be the response. Not all the time, or in every poem, but we need to respond to whatever we feel isn't right. In our own gut, we know the issues that bother us and issues we want to change. Maybe this week, choose your favorite cause, passion, issue, and write about it...deeply. Marvin Bell said that anyone can write a poem that says "war is wrong," he looks at a poem as says, "Tell me something I don't know." Basically, change the reader.
I'm teaching a class in April called Not a Vacation Planet: Writing Poems that Matter. Do that this week, write a poem that matters. And if you get a good one, email it to me with a paragraph of why this poem matters to you, why it's important to the reader and I'll include it in the packet I'm handing out ot the class.
Until then, love your neighbor and your neighbor's neighbor, and the country or countries you think you hate.
What's interesting is that all this happens in the first two weeks of December, but from 17-31st, I have absolutely nothing planned except for our traditional Christmas eve & of course, Christmas with the fam.
What I want for Christmas? Snow. Or peace. Sadly, I think we have a better chance of getting snow.
But enough of this holiday talk as I know some of you still have pumpkins (and rotting pumpkins) on your doorstep.
Let's talk about something in the news that made my stomach twist this morning. Kramer from Seinfeld (aka Michael Richards) went off on some hecklers at the comedy club with a series of racial slurs and as the article called it "angry outbursts." Someone remind me what year it is. I don't know why I'm always so shocked about these types of things, but I am. It makes me crazy when people resort to slamming someone based on race. Honestly, we're all born into our own skin, deal with it.
I made the mistake of going to TMZ to see the video myself and it was actually worse than the article suggested. If I were in the audience I would have left. Even the so-called hecklers were saying "That's uncalled for." And it completely was. It was as if he'd forgotten his words and once he went down that racist road, he couldn't turn back. I think everyone knows when something isn't funny or right. I haven't seen that Borat movie, but what I'm believing more and more is that Americans have been taught to be too polite and need to speak up when something isn't right. Instead of not wanting to make someone feel uncomfortable, sometimes people don't say anything and I think that can ultimately been seen as "acceptance" or "approval."
As poets and writers I think we need to be the response. Not all the time, or in every poem, but we need to respond to whatever we feel isn't right. In our own gut, we know the issues that bother us and issues we want to change. Maybe this week, choose your favorite cause, passion, issue, and write about it...deeply. Marvin Bell said that anyone can write a poem that says "war is wrong," he looks at a poem as says, "Tell me something I don't know." Basically, change the reader.
I'm teaching a class in April called Not a Vacation Planet: Writing Poems that Matter. Do that this week, write a poem that matters. And if you get a good one, email it to me with a paragraph of why this poem matters to you, why it's important to the reader and I'll include it in the packet I'm handing out ot the class.
Until then, love your neighbor and your neighbor's neighbor, and the country or countries you think you hate.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Jeannine Hall Gailey & Ronda Broatch at the Jewel Box
I'm just back from an incredible poetry reading by Jeannine Hall Gailey and Ronda Broatch. When I hear these two read, I always believe I'm participating in part of history. I know, it sounds odd, but it truly feels as if Ronda is the next Jane Hirshfield while Jeannine is a more-fun Louise Gluck. They are two of my favorite poets writing today.
Ronda read first. She chose poems from her chapbook Some Other Eden as well as some newer work. A few of her newer poems were written from writing exercises that explored part of her childhood. Her chapbook is lovely, the second page is paper with rose petals pressed into it.
Here's one of the last poems she read. Her work is quite spiritual without slipping into cliche'. She has an amazing way of taking what we know in nature and making it new.
Three Before the Fall
I.
Tree Frogs
The tree frogs dim
their evensong. Mornings
in summer, asters
outside the kitchen window—
the radiant of each
bears a small green jewel,
vanished when the sun repairs
to a southerly room of sky.
Fix each one with the eye
of a Nikon, find the odd
bloom shared by two.
Imagine
waking to find the day
shedding its velvet cloak, and you
centered in petals.
II.
Because Even the Crows Know
You shut the book,
wait for the voices to die.
There is only space,
crows filling it, the wind
blowing dust from the maple’s many hands.
Dry August. In the grass
you espy something shiny.
But the sun keeps walking
and it seems you were wrong.
Because the shade plays
tricks on the afternoon light
you are not convinced.
The crows know,
and they’ve stopped talking.
III.
Last Frog
He winds the clock
work of his croak
until taut
Audible only
the applause of alders
before the fall
And one more bird
he cannot name
breaks
against the granite sky
by Ronda Broatch
**Note: the original poem has much nice spacer and can be seen here at DMQ Review
__________________
After a brief intermission with plates of pumpkin pie and sky-high whipped cream (okay, that was just my plate) Jeannine Hall Gailey read from her book Becoming the Villainess.
Jeannine said to us later at dinner, "Aren't you all becoming bored of my poems? You've heard me read them so many times..." The answer is an overwhelming no. Jeannine is one of those readers whose voice adds so much to her work. It is a treat to hear her read. She is right in the moment, quite prepared, and smooth flowing with no mistakes as she reads to us about Wonder Woman, Cinderella, the Evil Stepmother.
She ended the reading with newer poems. I appreciated how Ronda and Jeannine did this. As an audience member, I always love to learn what other poets are working on and where their poems are going.
I have lost count how many times I have heard Jeannine read and I have never been bored or distracted at one of her readings. Here's a link where you can hear Jeannine read.
Here's one of my favorites that she read--
Stepmother, at the Wedding
I did the best that I could
and she turned out okay, didn't she?
It could have been a lot worse.
These shoes are killing me.
You don't understand how ard it was,
those greasy children
with their lentils, their field mice,
always playing with fire,
their clinging fingers wrapped
around locks of their mother's hair,
how many apples I feed them,
how many times I send them into the woods.
They never blame their father
who brought me here, to a house
full of strangers, where even the servants
worship images of the dead.
I say, make room for the new.
Jeannine Hall Gailey
from Becoming the Villainess
___________
When she read that line about the field mice, I laughed out loud.
Afterwards, seven of us went out to a bistro for dinner and conversation. What we talked about? Poetry (who's writing what, who's not writing), childhood, what one of us thought would magic happen if you stuck a cube of butter to the wall, a neighborhood boy with an axe and a running younger brother, Raggedy Ann and the legend of candy under her heart, big hair, and the amount of enriched flour we must have eaten as children.
Ronda read first. She chose poems from her chapbook Some Other Eden as well as some newer work. A few of her newer poems were written from writing exercises that explored part of her childhood. Her chapbook is lovely, the second page is paper with rose petals pressed into it.
Here's one of the last poems she read. Her work is quite spiritual without slipping into cliche'. She has an amazing way of taking what we know in nature and making it new.
Three Before the Fall
I.
Tree Frogs
The tree frogs dim
their evensong. Mornings
in summer, asters
outside the kitchen window—
the radiant of each
bears a small green jewel,
vanished when the sun repairs
to a southerly room of sky.
Fix each one with the eye
of a Nikon, find the odd
bloom shared by two.
Imagine
waking to find the day
shedding its velvet cloak, and you
centered in petals.
II.
Because Even the Crows Know
You shut the book,
wait for the voices to die.
There is only space,
crows filling it, the wind
blowing dust from the maple’s many hands.
Dry August. In the grass
you espy something shiny.
But the sun keeps walking
and it seems you were wrong.
Because the shade plays
tricks on the afternoon light
you are not convinced.
The crows know,
and they’ve stopped talking.
III.
Last Frog
He winds the clock
work of his croak
until taut
Audible only
the applause of alders
before the fall
And one more bird
he cannot name
breaks
against the granite sky
by Ronda Broatch
**Note: the original poem has much nice spacer and can be seen here at DMQ Review
__________________
After a brief intermission with plates of pumpkin pie and sky-high whipped cream (okay, that was just my plate) Jeannine Hall Gailey read from her book Becoming the Villainess.
Jeannine said to us later at dinner, "Aren't you all becoming bored of my poems? You've heard me read them so many times..." The answer is an overwhelming no. Jeannine is one of those readers whose voice adds so much to her work. It is a treat to hear her read. She is right in the moment, quite prepared, and smooth flowing with no mistakes as she reads to us about Wonder Woman, Cinderella, the Evil Stepmother.
She ended the reading with newer poems. I appreciated how Ronda and Jeannine did this. As an audience member, I always love to learn what other poets are working on and where their poems are going.
I have lost count how many times I have heard Jeannine read and I have never been bored or distracted at one of her readings. Here's a link where you can hear Jeannine read.
Here's one of my favorites that she read--
Stepmother, at the Wedding
I did the best that I could
and she turned out okay, didn't she?
It could have been a lot worse.
These shoes are killing me.
You don't understand how ard it was,
those greasy children
with their lentils, their field mice,
always playing with fire,
their clinging fingers wrapped
around locks of their mother's hair,
how many apples I feed them,
how many times I send them into the woods.
They never blame their father
who brought me here, to a house
full of strangers, where even the servants
worship images of the dead.
I say, make room for the new.
Jeannine Hall Gailey
from Becoming the Villainess
___________
When she read that line about the field mice, I laughed out loud.
Afterwards, seven of us went out to a bistro for dinner and conversation. What we talked about? Poetry (who's writing what, who's not writing), childhood, what one of us thought would magic happen if you stuck a cube of butter to the wall, a neighborhood boy with an axe and a running younger brother, Raggedy Ann and the legend of candy under her heart, big hair, and the amount of enriched flour we must have eaten as children.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Work in Progress
What's in the Mail Today--
I received my rejection for an NEA grant today, a day later than all my friends--thank you small town mail. I am interested in learning who the 50 (I think it's 50) poets who received one were. In the letter it said 1050 poets applied. When I tell this number to people they say, "Is that all?" which I find to be an interesting response. I thought it was a pretty good amount given the amount of time and effort that goes into the application. If you don't have a book, you have to photocopy documentation (Title page, Table of contents) from 20 journals.
I tend not to be depressed about such a rejection because it's some tough odds and nothing truly I was expecting. However, that said, two of my friends received the $20K NEA Fellowship for poetry last time and neither had books, so it *feels* possible. For me, these grants are like the lottery-- you can't win, if you don't play. So you submit and hope the judges are the ones who are moved by your type of poetry. You hope there is some sort of connection, some sort of "I get what you are trying to do here."
The Trouble With Self-Doubt
On the ferry ride home today I read this in one of those higher spiritual mind, body, & soul free magazines and it reminded me that as my mum will say, “It’s just as easy to think positively as it to think negatively”--
"Self-doubt feeds on the mistrust of our vision, understanding and progress. When we disbelieve our knowing, we project doubt--unwilling to trust others. Then we start to doubt the Divine Plan—‘There's no such thing.’ We discredit the Masters—‘There're not really out there helping us... The doubting grows like a cancer..."
"Whenever I doubt myself, I'm sending a message to the Universe that my hopes and dreams won't be fulfilled. I can only imagine how many opportunities have been blocked by this attitude. Disfaith postpones happiness. The doubt that good things can really happen energizes that reality. Doubt says NO to greater possibilities. Why not just conclude with ‘I don't know’ or ‘maybe,’ than 'I doubt it.'"
Being someone who believes that our thoughts shape our reality, I realized that yes, it is easier just to say “maybe” and not fall into Glum-speak “We’re doomed, we’ll never make it…” (If you ever watched the cartoon Gulliver’s Travels as a child, you’ll know what I’m talking about here.)
Even the graffiti I noticed today reflected this thought: “If you find yourself asking ‘Is this all there is?’ Shouldn’t you be asking yourself, ‘Is this all I created?’ –such mindful graffiti artists in the Northwest.
So, I guess my thought here is to remember that we don't know the outcomes. And we don't know the outcome of whatever we try (well, unless we don't try it-- quote Wayne Gretsky "You miss 100% of the shots you never take").
So if we can’t think yes, think maybe. Think "I don’t know what the outcome will be."
(Notice how I've said "we." Notice how you've been chosen to sail this happy ship of positive thinking...) Oh, but it's good for you. Like a daily vitamin of possibility. Or a glass of red wine bottled with success.
So often self-doubt wanders around the living room or sits on our desks suggesting the world is a scary place, so we better sit still and not try anything. We better not submit to that book contests or grant because we won't get it and rejections hurt. And we believe this stranger. We believe "no" before we believe "maybe."
And this woman who wrote the article, she’s so trusting of this she capitalized Universe and Divine Plan, and Masters. If you’re lacking in faith this week, why don’t you capitalize the things you have trust in. Here’s my list tonight: Family, Friends, Poetry, Autumn, Words, Goodness, Mornings, Intuition, Second Chances, Universe.
I tend not to believe in a master plan, but more in the idea that there are no wrong choices. I believe more in the pen that says we are the reality we create and the plan is a work in progress. Like we all are.
I received my rejection for an NEA grant today, a day later than all my friends--thank you small town mail. I am interested in learning who the 50 (I think it's 50) poets who received one were. In the letter it said 1050 poets applied. When I tell this number to people they say, "Is that all?" which I find to be an interesting response. I thought it was a pretty good amount given the amount of time and effort that goes into the application. If you don't have a book, you have to photocopy documentation (Title page, Table of contents) from 20 journals.
I tend not to be depressed about such a rejection because it's some tough odds and nothing truly I was expecting. However, that said, two of my friends received the $20K NEA Fellowship for poetry last time and neither had books, so it *feels* possible. For me, these grants are like the lottery-- you can't win, if you don't play. So you submit and hope the judges are the ones who are moved by your type of poetry. You hope there is some sort of connection, some sort of "I get what you are trying to do here."
The Trouble With Self-Doubt
On the ferry ride home today I read this in one of those higher spiritual mind, body, & soul free magazines and it reminded me that as my mum will say, “It’s just as easy to think positively as it to think negatively”--
"Self-doubt feeds on the mistrust of our vision, understanding and progress. When we disbelieve our knowing, we project doubt--unwilling to trust others. Then we start to doubt the Divine Plan—‘There's no such thing.’ We discredit the Masters—‘There're not really out there helping us... The doubting grows like a cancer..."
"Whenever I doubt myself, I'm sending a message to the Universe that my hopes and dreams won't be fulfilled. I can only imagine how many opportunities have been blocked by this attitude. Disfaith postpones happiness. The doubt that good things can really happen energizes that reality. Doubt says NO to greater possibilities. Why not just conclude with ‘I don't know’ or ‘maybe,’ than 'I doubt it.'"
Being someone who believes that our thoughts shape our reality, I realized that yes, it is easier just to say “maybe” and not fall into Glum-speak “We’re doomed, we’ll never make it…” (If you ever watched the cartoon Gulliver’s Travels as a child, you’ll know what I’m talking about here.)
Even the graffiti I noticed today reflected this thought: “If you find yourself asking ‘Is this all there is?’ Shouldn’t you be asking yourself, ‘Is this all I created?’ –such mindful graffiti artists in the Northwest.
So, I guess my thought here is to remember that we don't know the outcomes. And we don't know the outcome of whatever we try (well, unless we don't try it-- quote Wayne Gretsky "You miss 100% of the shots you never take").
So if we can’t think yes, think maybe. Think "I don’t know what the outcome will be."
(Notice how I've said "we." Notice how you've been chosen to sail this happy ship of positive thinking...) Oh, but it's good for you. Like a daily vitamin of possibility. Or a glass of red wine bottled with success.
So often self-doubt wanders around the living room or sits on our desks suggesting the world is a scary place, so we better sit still and not try anything. We better not submit to that book contests or grant because we won't get it and rejections hurt. And we believe this stranger. We believe "no" before we believe "maybe."
And this woman who wrote the article, she’s so trusting of this she capitalized Universe and Divine Plan, and Masters. If you’re lacking in faith this week, why don’t you capitalize the things you have trust in. Here’s my list tonight: Family, Friends, Poetry, Autumn, Words, Goodness, Mornings, Intuition, Second Chances, Universe.
I tend not to believe in a master plan, but more in the idea that there are no wrong choices. I believe more in the pen that says we are the reality we create and the plan is a work in progress. Like we all are.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Things look a little different around here...
Don't Blog at Night--
Last night, I went into my blogger template to make some changes and accidentally deleted all my information by choosing a new template. Oops. I was thankful to see my posts were still here, but all my links...gone. I think may have saved the template in a word file. It may be a little outdated, but so's my wardrobe and I get along just fine.
What I had been doing was making a blog to link up to my main webpage. I like going to an author's website and having something up-to-date on it. It's always odd to arrive at a website and see a different year, the cobwebs of the internet in the corners of the screen. However, instead of linking this blog up, I decided to create a new blog that only has to do with poetry. Basically, the content from that blog will come from this blog (but it will only be poetry topics). So, if you just want poetry only information, go there. If you want to hear more the personal stuff, the "this is what I saw on my walk today" stuff, gratitude lists, the whole shebang, read this one.
Poetry--
Who's on my mind today? Heather McHugh.
I was just rereading HINGE & SIGN by Heather and I was amazed at the main levels each poem works on. She is a master at wordplay and double and triple meanings on a line.
One of my favorite openings is to her poem, "Mind." (page 128)
A man looks at his watch to see
if he's hungry. Yes, it's eight,
***Just two lines, no fancy words, but her ability to see--no, to remember, the multiple meanings of words is wonderful. As in the first line, the word "watch" is both a noun and a verb. In this case, it's a noun, but look how in her first line of eight words, three of them have to do with vision: looks, watch, see.
The line reminded me of the strange (and not quite PC) sayings I heard around my house growing up-- I see, said the blind man. (The full Wellerism is: "I see, said the blind man, to his deaf dog, and he picked up his hammer and saw.") McHugh is one of those poets who returns the magic to language that we lose as we get older. As children, we are so aware of words as we are trying to decipher the world around us that we actually listen to what is being said and are quite aware of the literal meanings of each word.
Another sentence from that same poem is:
At school/his days are numbered. He makes a felt /calendar.
__________
A favorite poem of mine by Heather McHugh
The Size of Spokane
The baby isn't cute. In fact he's
a homely little pale and headlong
stumbler. Still, he's one
of us-the human beings
stuck on flight 295 (Chicago to Spokane);
and when he passes my seat twice
at full tilt this then that direction,
I look down from Lethal Weapon 3 to see
just why. He's
running back and forth
across a sunblazed circle on
the carpet-something brilliant, fallen
from a porthole. So! it's light
amazing him, it's only light, despite
some three and one
half hundred
people, propped in rows
for him to wonder at; it's light
he can't get over, light he can't
investigate enough, however many
zones he runs across it,
flickering himself.
The umpteenth time
I see him coming, I've had
just about enough; but then
he notices me noticing and stops-
one fat hand on my armrest-to
inspect the oddities of me.
Some people cannot hear.
Some people cannot walk.
But everyone was
sunstruck once, and set adrift.
Have we forgotten how
astonishing this is? so practiced all our senses
we cannot imagine them? foreseen instead of seeing
all the all there is? Each spectral port,
each human eye
is shot through with a hole, and everything we know
goes in there, where it feeds a blaze. In a flash
the baby's old; Mel Gibson's hundredth comeback seems
less clever; all his chases and embraces
narrow down, while we
fly on (in our
plain radiance of vehicle)
toward what cannot stay small forever.
-Heather McHugh, from Hinge and Sign (Wesleyan University Press).
Last night, I went into my blogger template to make some changes and accidentally deleted all my information by choosing a new template. Oops. I was thankful to see my posts were still here, but all my links...gone. I think may have saved the template in a word file. It may be a little outdated, but so's my wardrobe and I get along just fine.
What I had been doing was making a blog to link up to my main webpage. I like going to an author's website and having something up-to-date on it. It's always odd to arrive at a website and see a different year, the cobwebs of the internet in the corners of the screen. However, instead of linking this blog up, I decided to create a new blog that only has to do with poetry. Basically, the content from that blog will come from this blog (but it will only be poetry topics). So, if you just want poetry only information, go there. If you want to hear more the personal stuff, the "this is what I saw on my walk today" stuff, gratitude lists, the whole shebang, read this one.
Poetry--
Who's on my mind today? Heather McHugh.
I was just rereading HINGE & SIGN by Heather and I was amazed at the main levels each poem works on. She is a master at wordplay and double and triple meanings on a line.
One of my favorite openings is to her poem, "Mind." (page 128)
A man looks at his watch to see
if he's hungry. Yes, it's eight,
***Just two lines, no fancy words, but her ability to see--no, to remember, the multiple meanings of words is wonderful. As in the first line, the word "watch" is both a noun and a verb. In this case, it's a noun, but look how in her first line of eight words, three of them have to do with vision: looks, watch, see.
The line reminded me of the strange (and not quite PC) sayings I heard around my house growing up-- I see, said the blind man. (The full Wellerism is: "I see, said the blind man, to his deaf dog, and he picked up his hammer and saw.") McHugh is one of those poets who returns the magic to language that we lose as we get older. As children, we are so aware of words as we are trying to decipher the world around us that we actually listen to what is being said and are quite aware of the literal meanings of each word.
Another sentence from that same poem is:
At school/his days are numbered. He makes a felt /calendar.
__________
A favorite poem of mine by Heather McHugh
The Size of Spokane
The baby isn't cute. In fact he's
a homely little pale and headlong
stumbler. Still, he's one
of us-the human beings
stuck on flight 295 (Chicago to Spokane);
and when he passes my seat twice
at full tilt this then that direction,
I look down from Lethal Weapon 3 to see
just why. He's
running back and forth
across a sunblazed circle on
the carpet-something brilliant, fallen
from a porthole. So! it's light
amazing him, it's only light, despite
some three and one
half hundred
people, propped in rows
for him to wonder at; it's light
he can't get over, light he can't
investigate enough, however many
zones he runs across it,
flickering himself.
The umpteenth time
I see him coming, I've had
just about enough; but then
he notices me noticing and stops-
one fat hand on my armrest-to
inspect the oddities of me.
Some people cannot hear.
Some people cannot walk.
But everyone was
sunstruck once, and set adrift.
Have we forgotten how
astonishing this is? so practiced all our senses
we cannot imagine them? foreseen instead of seeing
all the all there is? Each spectral port,
each human eye
is shot through with a hole, and everything we know
goes in there, where it feeds a blaze. In a flash
the baby's old; Mel Gibson's hundredth comeback seems
less clever; all his chases and embraces
narrow down, while we
fly on (in our
plain radiance of vehicle)
toward what cannot stay small forever.
-Heather McHugh, from Hinge and Sign (Wesleyan University Press).
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Something You Should Read--
Cloaked Silences in Reetika Vazirani's Poetry
And a poem by her--
The Lover
by Reetika Vazirani
New Delhi, 1965I took the train from Patiala,
left the girls with Ayah, and lied,
I'm with Faye and Daisy.
Had to say what he'd approve of.
Go then, Kiran said, crushing large rupees in my hand.
Have I been here a week?
I've slept so long I can't remember
who was with me last night in bed,
that figure leaning against the door?
Did he leave me this gold bangle?
I can feel its heft around my wrist,
knobs and crests, a design
from the high Mogul period of Aurangazeb.
I have come to Delhi
to remember our ancient past -- so little, a bangle,
what else?
When it slid over my hand,
I opened myself like a book and you hear its private pulsing.
In the quiet he said, Put your hand here
to save your place.
I put my hand there, and he pressed it.
He sat with me a minute, and he went away,
left something to hinge me in the wind of myself,
to calm my legs.
Empire is large land and I can't touch it.
A smile is a root my mother said don't bother.
I am small. I married a dark talent
from a small world.
Until he asked me to drop my shawl
and slid his finger on my shoulder,
let me taste our leisure.
I read him. I peeled back lies.
I had harped on grandeur,
but the Taj Mahal and Rome are a fantasy.
What's left is my darkness. He spoke to me
of skin and I touched it.
Until he asked me to drop my shawl
and slid his finger on my shoulder,
let me taste our leisure.
It required my defiance of the small world.
He asked would you, and I said I would.
I read him. I drank up my history and peeled back the glossy lies.
I had harped on former grandeur,
but the Taj Mahal and Rome are a fantasy.
What's left is my darkness. He spoke to me simply of skin and I touched it.
For so many years I kept my mantra:
they are great and I am small.
I've slept. I've tasted my own milk.
I'll raise my girls, then I'll be back to taste the morning.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
The Company You Keep
From an interview with Billy Collins.
When asked: What's your response to William Logan's assertion that you humiliate the art?
Billy Collins answered this:
Many poems make fun of the pretensions of formal poetry. The ridiculousness arises from the gulf between poets who take themselves too seriously and the rest of the world that doesn't give a fig about them. So everything is up for grabs. I like mischief in my poems ... satire, fun. (Logan's assertion) is typical of taking the high road. Readers don't want to take the high road. If you do, then the company you keep will be other poets.
____________
If you do, then the company you keep will be other poets.
**I thought this last line was very telling. Poets who write poems for other poets (to approve?) . I know a few of my poems ("Kindergarten for Poets" comes to mind) lean on the belief that the reader knows who/what I am talking about. I refer to other poets in the poem. However, I don't write poems to confuse or be tricky. I believe more in the complex poem and less in the "difficult" poem.
I'm annoyed by writers and poets who try to remind me how smart they are in their work. I already believe them to be smart, they don't have to convince me of that--however, I do expect them to try to connect with me. I don't just read a poem to watch a writer flex his/her brain cells, I can get that from any college textbook. ButI do read a poem, novel, or memoir to be *changed.* That's all I ask from art.
You don't need a list of degrees or publications, you just need to write to move someone. There is a poet I've heard before who receives all sorts of academic praise, but his poems leave me flat. They seem like photographs of him looking in the mirror at him looking in the mirror. Yes, we know, you're beautiful, now tell us something we don't know.
And in no way does this mean dumbing-down a poem. Readers are smart. They don't need their hand held, but they also don't need to be deceived with smoke and mirrors. What I need is a little truth in life (notice I didn't say "honesty"), some feeling brought about by words and lines on the page. I need less to be impressed and more to be inspired. If you can offer me that, I will buy your book and mention to all my friends. If you can offer me that.
When asked: What's your response to William Logan's assertion that you humiliate the art?
Billy Collins answered this:
Many poems make fun of the pretensions of formal poetry. The ridiculousness arises from the gulf between poets who take themselves too seriously and the rest of the world that doesn't give a fig about them. So everything is up for grabs. I like mischief in my poems ... satire, fun. (Logan's assertion) is typical of taking the high road. Readers don't want to take the high road. If you do, then the company you keep will be other poets.
____________
If you do, then the company you keep will be other poets.
**I thought this last line was very telling. Poets who write poems for other poets (to approve?) . I know a few of my poems ("Kindergarten for Poets" comes to mind) lean on the belief that the reader knows who/what I am talking about. I refer to other poets in the poem. However, I don't write poems to confuse or be tricky. I believe more in the complex poem and less in the "difficult" poem.
I'm annoyed by writers and poets who try to remind me how smart they are in their work. I already believe them to be smart, they don't have to convince me of that--however, I do expect them to try to connect with me. I don't just read a poem to watch a writer flex his/her brain cells, I can get that from any college textbook. ButI do read a poem, novel, or memoir to be *changed.* That's all I ask from art.
You don't need a list of degrees or publications, you just need to write to move someone. There is a poet I've heard before who receives all sorts of academic praise, but his poems leave me flat. They seem like photographs of him looking in the mirror at him looking in the mirror. Yes, we know, you're beautiful, now tell us something we don't know.
And in no way does this mean dumbing-down a poem. Readers are smart. They don't need their hand held, but they also don't need to be deceived with smoke and mirrors. What I need is a little truth in life (notice I didn't say "honesty"), some feeling brought about by words and lines on the page. I need less to be impressed and more to be inspired. If you can offer me that, I will buy your book and mention to all my friends. If you can offer me that.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Check in
Sicko--
I'm feeling terrible today, I'm not sure what I was hit with, but I'm down for the count. My breakfast and lunch are lemon-lime soda and Saltines. However, a hummingbird visited me at my bedroom window as did a Northern Flicker; I felt like Snow White.
Crit Paper--
Page 19, thank you very much. Though my conclusion is just me rambling. I was just happy to see 19 on my computer screen.
Happy Land--
I'm still in happy land because the Democrats did so well. And Rumsfeld, oh that was the whipped cream on this blue blueberry pie!
I'm feeling terrible today, I'm not sure what I was hit with, but I'm down for the count. My breakfast and lunch are lemon-lime soda and Saltines. However, a hummingbird visited me at my bedroom window as did a Northern Flicker; I felt like Snow White.
Crit Paper--
Page 19, thank you very much. Though my conclusion is just me rambling. I was just happy to see 19 on my computer screen.
Happy Land--
I'm still in happy land because the Democrats did so well. And Rumsfeld, oh that was the whipped cream on this blue blueberry pie!
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Medical Records
I wandered upon this today. Another reason why everyone should pay attention during English class...
A collection of documentation statements actually found on patient's charts during a recent review of medical records. These statements were written by various health care professionals including (we are afraid) a doctor or two at several major hospitals:
The baby was delivered, the cord clamped and cut and handed to the pediatrician, who breathed and cried immediately.
Exam of genitalia reveals that he is circus sized.
The skin was moist and dry.
She stated that she had been constipated for most of her life until 1989 when she got a divorce.
The patient was in his usual state of good health until his airplane ran out of gas and crashed.
The patient lives at home with his mother, father, and pet turtle, who is presently enrolled in day care three times a week.
Bleeding started in the rectal area and continued all the way to Los Angeles.
She is numb from her toes down.
The patient had waffles for breakfast and anorexia for lunch.
While in the emergency room, she was examined, X-rated and sent home.
The patient was to have a bowel resection. However he took a job as a stockbroker instead.
Occasional, constant, infrequent headaches.
Coming from Detroit, this man has no children.
Examination reveals a well-developed male lying in bed with his family in no distress.
Patient was alert and unresponsive.
When she fainted, her eyes rolled around the room.
She has no rigors or shaking chills, but her husband states she was very hot in bed last night.
On the second day the knee was better, and on the third day it disappeared.
The patient has been depressed since she began seeing me in 1993.
Discharge status: Alive but without my permission.
The patient refused autopsy.
The patient has no previous history of suicides.
The pelvic exam will be done later on the floor.
Patient was seen in consultation by Dr. Blank, who felt we should sit on the abdomen and I agree.
Large brown stool ambulating in the hall.
Patient has two teenage children, but no other abnormalities.
A collection of documentation statements actually found on patient's charts during a recent review of medical records. These statements were written by various health care professionals including (we are afraid) a doctor or two at several major hospitals:
The baby was delivered, the cord clamped and cut and handed to the pediatrician, who breathed and cried immediately.
Exam of genitalia reveals that he is circus sized.
The skin was moist and dry.
She stated that she had been constipated for most of her life until 1989 when she got a divorce.
The patient was in his usual state of good health until his airplane ran out of gas and crashed.
The patient lives at home with his mother, father, and pet turtle, who is presently enrolled in day care three times a week.
Bleeding started in the rectal area and continued all the way to Los Angeles.
She is numb from her toes down.
The patient had waffles for breakfast and anorexia for lunch.
While in the emergency room, she was examined, X-rated and sent home.
The patient was to have a bowel resection. However he took a job as a stockbroker instead.
Occasional, constant, infrequent headaches.
Coming from Detroit, this man has no children.
Examination reveals a well-developed male lying in bed with his family in no distress.
Patient was alert and unresponsive.
When she fainted, her eyes rolled around the room.
She has no rigors or shaking chills, but her husband states she was very hot in bed last night.
On the second day the knee was better, and on the third day it disappeared.
The patient has been depressed since she began seeing me in 1993.
Discharge status: Alive but without my permission.
The patient refused autopsy.
The patient has no previous history of suicides.
The pelvic exam will be done later on the floor.
Patient was seen in consultation by Dr. Blank, who felt we should sit on the abdomen and I agree.
Large brown stool ambulating in the hall.
Patient has two teenage children, but no other abnormalities.
Karma & the Clean House
Listening to" Keane "Everybody's Changing."
Weather: Rain with wind, not too cold though
Mood: Considerate
Intuition at Work--
I'm finishing up my book on intuition and trying to be more aware of the thoughts that just "pop" into my mind. This morning in the middle of get-ready-routine, in that sort of meditative wash-your-face, brush-your-teeth world I thought of someone I hadn't seen in awhile. So, I guess if my intuition is becoming stronger, I shouldn't be surprised to run into this person a half hour later at the gym.
I'm trying to note these little "successes" and also trying not to look at intuition as a competitive sport. I really just think intuition is partially following your bliss and partially just trusting that things will work out. If you find yourself fighting the world around you, I think there needs to be change.
This is how I ended up in a small town. I kept feeling inside of me that I needed to escape the corporate world, but that big check kept arriving every other Friday and those dollar signs were like little chains around my ankles. There is a point that no amount of money can stop you from staying. It's about that point where I realized my life was almost the exact opposite of what I wanted. I wanted to work in the arts, I was writing copy for coupons. I wanted to be in the country, I spent an hour in traffic every day. I wanted to be writing, I spent evenings going over budget reports. I wanted to get out of there, I was afraid to leave hell.
There are times when you wil jump even when there is no net. I think this time was my greatest use of intuition. I knew there would be something more for me if I just packed up and moved away. I read this sentence this morning in the Yoga Journal : "You are always simultaneously at tea beginning, the middle , and the end of many sequences; while you are at this moment experiencing the karmic results of choices made in the past, you are also making karmic choices that will help create moments in the future." Like the Talking Heads song, "you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile and you may ask yourself 'Well, how did I get here?'"
Last Night, I Dreamed My Whole House was Clean--
In my reading for my critical paper, I came across this interesting paragraph from Never Done: A History of American Housework and A Very Serious Thing: Women's Humor and the American Culture-- "...one of the ironies of the women's movement of the 1970's, coinciding as is did with an economy that almost mandated the two-paycheck family, was that women's work simply increased. "
Now, I can't complain too much about the chores of the domestic goddess as I do about 5% of the cooking in the household and I actually enjoy cleaning, but I thought that was interesting as I had never considered it that way. I do know that if someone comes into my house and it's messy, they don't think, "Man, K's husband should clean up around here." No, that falls onto my shoulders. We still equate the clean home to the wife.
Everyone's quite aware that I can't cook and don't like too. I'm happy with a bowl of cereal or French toast for dinner. Give me a bowl of Muesli and some raspberry yogurt and I'm content, though I couldn't serve that at a dinner party unless we were camping on Vancouver Island and watching orcas from the cove where we set up our tents. Then we'd be okay.
Weather: Rain with wind, not too cold though
Mood: Considerate
Intuition at Work--
I'm finishing up my book on intuition and trying to be more aware of the thoughts that just "pop" into my mind. This morning in the middle of get-ready-routine, in that sort of meditative wash-your-face, brush-your-teeth world I thought of someone I hadn't seen in awhile. So, I guess if my intuition is becoming stronger, I shouldn't be surprised to run into this person a half hour later at the gym.
I'm trying to note these little "successes" and also trying not to look at intuition as a competitive sport. I really just think intuition is partially following your bliss and partially just trusting that things will work out. If you find yourself fighting the world around you, I think there needs to be change.
This is how I ended up in a small town. I kept feeling inside of me that I needed to escape the corporate world, but that big check kept arriving every other Friday and those dollar signs were like little chains around my ankles. There is a point that no amount of money can stop you from staying. It's about that point where I realized my life was almost the exact opposite of what I wanted. I wanted to work in the arts, I was writing copy for coupons. I wanted to be in the country, I spent an hour in traffic every day. I wanted to be writing, I spent evenings going over budget reports. I wanted to get out of there, I was afraid to leave hell.
There are times when you wil jump even when there is no net. I think this time was my greatest use of intuition. I knew there would be something more for me if I just packed up and moved away. I read this sentence this morning in the Yoga Journal : "You are always simultaneously at tea beginning, the middle , and the end of many sequences; while you are at this moment experiencing the karmic results of choices made in the past, you are also making karmic choices that will help create moments in the future." Like the Talking Heads song, "you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile and you may ask yourself 'Well, how did I get here?'"
Last Night, I Dreamed My Whole House was Clean--
In my reading for my critical paper, I came across this interesting paragraph from Never Done: A History of American Housework and A Very Serious Thing: Women's Humor and the American Culture-- "...one of the ironies of the women's movement of the 1970's, coinciding as is did with an economy that almost mandated the two-paycheck family, was that women's work simply increased. "
Now, I can't complain too much about the chores of the domestic goddess as I do about 5% of the cooking in the household and I actually enjoy cleaning, but I thought that was interesting as I had never considered it that way. I do know that if someone comes into my house and it's messy, they don't think, "Man, K's husband should clean up around here." No, that falls onto my shoulders. We still equate the clean home to the wife.
Everyone's quite aware that I can't cook and don't like too. I'm happy with a bowl of cereal or French toast for dinner. Give me a bowl of Muesli and some raspberry yogurt and I'm content, though I couldn't serve that at a dinner party unless we were camping on Vancouver Island and watching orcas from the cove where we set up our tents. Then we'd be okay.
Monday, November 06, 2006
If you don't vote, you can't complain...
VOTE--
I'm mailing in my ballot today. It amazes me that people don't vote. My feeling is truly, if you don't vote, you can't complain about taxes, what America's doing in Iraq, healthcare, you name it. You have opted out and if you opt out of the conversation, don't try to start one with me. It's one of the things I have little patience for. I don't want to hear that you couldn't find the polls, didn't know the issues, had a sick dog, were really tired, were late for work, or just forgot. If you care (even just a little bit), you vote. If you don't care, that's fine...just don't complain about the state of our country or your life to me; I'm not listening.
But for those of you who did vote or who are going to--
Congratulations on trying to make things better. Feel feel to leave any complaints about the government here. I feel your pain.
Sunday--
Yesterday I went to a holiday arts fair and though it was too early for me to see Santa and white light snowmen, I did buy my first Christmas present of the year. Still, I'm enjoying the golden leaves of November--which we lost a lot of last night in the storm--but there are still many holding on, holding on, holding on. Don't let that holiday season in too early!
HS--
The festival was at our local high school, which looked like it could use a BIG remodel. Yikes. But it had the classic high school features--mascot painted on the wall, trophies in the trophy case, strange signs made by students. It made me remember that for homecoming the different grades in our high school (freshmen, sophomores, etc.) would compete for the "Spirit Keg." Which was basically an empty keg painted blue and gold and filled with "spirit." This was in the 80's and given all the emphasis NOT to promote teenage drinking now, I don't think the spirit keg would be celebrated in 2006.
Poetry--
I haven't been writing many poems lately, I think because my head has been clouded with my critical paper. Also, I think there are times when we just need to refuel as poets. The weather for writing is perfect. It is so wet and windy that even my golden retriever doesn't want to be outside. He seems to have issues with the wet leaves touching his paws and has created this sort of balancing act around the garden, stepping on border stones so not to let his delicate paws touch the dirty wet leaves.
I'm mailing in my ballot today. It amazes me that people don't vote. My feeling is truly, if you don't vote, you can't complain about taxes, what America's doing in Iraq, healthcare, you name it. You have opted out and if you opt out of the conversation, don't try to start one with me. It's one of the things I have little patience for. I don't want to hear that you couldn't find the polls, didn't know the issues, had a sick dog, were really tired, were late for work, or just forgot. If you care (even just a little bit), you vote. If you don't care, that's fine...just don't complain about the state of our country or your life to me; I'm not listening.
But for those of you who did vote or who are going to--
Congratulations on trying to make things better. Feel feel to leave any complaints about the government here. I feel your pain.
Sunday--
Yesterday I went to a holiday arts fair and though it was too early for me to see Santa and white light snowmen, I did buy my first Christmas present of the year. Still, I'm enjoying the golden leaves of November--which we lost a lot of last night in the storm--but there are still many holding on, holding on, holding on. Don't let that holiday season in too early!
HS--
The festival was at our local high school, which looked like it could use a BIG remodel. Yikes. But it had the classic high school features--mascot painted on the wall, trophies in the trophy case, strange signs made by students. It made me remember that for homecoming the different grades in our high school (freshmen, sophomores, etc.) would compete for the "Spirit Keg." Which was basically an empty keg painted blue and gold and filled with "spirit." This was in the 80's and given all the emphasis NOT to promote teenage drinking now, I don't think the spirit keg would be celebrated in 2006.
Poetry--
I haven't been writing many poems lately, I think because my head has been clouded with my critical paper. Also, I think there are times when we just need to refuel as poets. The weather for writing is perfect. It is so wet and windy that even my golden retriever doesn't want to be outside. He seems to have issues with the wet leaves touching his paws and has created this sort of balancing act around the garden, stepping on border stones so not to let his delicate paws touch the dirty wet leaves.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Writers in the Woods in the Rain in the Wind Under the Clouds
Last night I met with four of my writer friends for appetizers and good conversation. Getting there was its own challenge as there were a series of events from vomitting child to ghost by the pickup truck to lost directions to broken printer to lost on a dark island to VW door not opening to Blakely and Blakely Street to to to...
I've been reading a book on intuition and following that feeling inside you. However, this was not instinct or intuition, it was a series of events that made traveling to dinner party difficult. There was a part of me that wondered if this would be the last drive I ever took--I had visions of falling trees crashing through my beetle, head on collisions--but in the end, we arrived there (an hour late) and returned home safely. In the end, I think J. explained it best when she said, "Sometimes I think there are dark forces at work to try to stop me from doing good." Spoken like a true superhero.
I must say, I am incredibly thankful to where I live given the great number of writerly friends who surround me. As they say about the NW: Throw a stick, hit a poet. And it's true. At any given time, I can be within 5-15 minutes of being at another poet/writer's house (on either side of water). In my writing group, six of us have published books or chapbooks in the last two years. It is a luxury to live around so many creative people and to have them as friends. I realize this. There's this creative energy happening here.
T., who is doing the NaNoWriMo said the only other place that has more words than the Seattle area in the Novel Writing Contest is England. I sometimes wonder if the weather here has to do with so many creative people. We're indoors a lot. We love the rain because it gives us an excuse to curl up with a good book or to spend the days at our desks writing. I just know there is good energy here and I'm thankful for it.
I've been reading a book on intuition and following that feeling inside you. However, this was not instinct or intuition, it was a series of events that made traveling to dinner party difficult. There was a part of me that wondered if this would be the last drive I ever took--I had visions of falling trees crashing through my beetle, head on collisions--but in the end, we arrived there (an hour late) and returned home safely. In the end, I think J. explained it best when she said, "Sometimes I think there are dark forces at work to try to stop me from doing good." Spoken like a true superhero.
I must say, I am incredibly thankful to where I live given the great number of writerly friends who surround me. As they say about the NW: Throw a stick, hit a poet. And it's true. At any given time, I can be within 5-15 minutes of being at another poet/writer's house (on either side of water). In my writing group, six of us have published books or chapbooks in the last two years. It is a luxury to live around so many creative people and to have them as friends. I realize this. There's this creative energy happening here.
T., who is doing the NaNoWriMo said the only other place that has more words than the Seattle area in the Novel Writing Contest is England. I sometimes wonder if the weather here has to do with so many creative people. We're indoors a lot. We love the rain because it gives us an excuse to curl up with a good book or to spend the days at our desks writing. I just know there is good energy here and I'm thankful for it.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Washington Post yearly neologism contest
Once again, The Washington Post has published the winning submissions toits yearly neologism contest, in which readers are asked to supply alternatemeanings for common words. The winners are:
1. Coffee (n.), the person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted (adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.
3. Abdicate (v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
4. Esplanade (v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly (adj.), impotent.
6. Negligent (adj.) describes a condition in which you absentmindedly answer the door in your nightgown.
7. Lymph (v.), to walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle (n.), olive-flavored mouthwash.
9. Flatulence (n.) emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are run over by a steamroller.
10. Balderdash (n.), a rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle (n.), a humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude (n.), the formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokemon (n), a Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster (n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.
15. Frisbeetarianism (n.), (back by popular demand): The belief that, when you die, your Soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.
16. Circumvent (n.), an opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men .
The Washington Post's Style Invitational also asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition.
Here are this year's winners:
1. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.
2. Foreploy (v): Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.
3. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.
4. Giraffiti (n): Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.
5. Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
6. Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
7. Hipatitis (n): Terminal coolness.
8. Osteopornosis (n): A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
9. Karmageddon (n): its like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
10. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you. 1
1. Glibido (v): All talk and no action.
12. Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
13. Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
14. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
15. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a grub in the fruit you're eating.
And the pick of the literature:
16. Ignoranus (n): A person who's both stupid and an asshole.
1. Coffee (n.), the person upon whom one coughs.
2. Flabbergasted (adj.), appalled over how much weight you have gained.
3. Abdicate (v.), to give up all hope of ever having a flat stomach.
4. Esplanade (v.), to attempt an explanation while drunk.
5. Willy-nilly (adj.), impotent.
6. Negligent (adj.) describes a condition in which you absentmindedly answer the door in your nightgown.
7. Lymph (v.), to walk with a lisp.
8. Gargoyle (n.), olive-flavored mouthwash.
9. Flatulence (n.) emergency vehicle that picks you up after you are run over by a steamroller.
10. Balderdash (n.), a rapidly receding hairline.
11. Testicle (n.), a humorous question on an exam.
12. Rectitude (n.), the formal, dignified bearing adopted by proctologists.
13. Pokemon (n), a Rastafarian proctologist.
14. Oyster (n.), a person who sprinkles his conversation with Yiddishisms.
15. Frisbeetarianism (n.), (back by popular demand): The belief that, when you die, your Soul flies up onto the roof and gets stuck there.
16. Circumvent (n.), an opening in the front of boxer shorts worn by Jewish men .
The Washington Post's Style Invitational also asked readers to take any word from the dictionary, alter it by adding, subtracting, or changing one letter, and supply a new definition.
Here are this year's winners:
1. Bozone (n.): The substance surrounding stupid people that stops bright ideas from penetrating. The bozone layer, unfortunately, shows little sign of breaking down in the near future.
2. Foreploy (v): Any misrepresentation about yourself for the purpose of getting laid.
3. Cashtration (n.): The act of buying a house, which renders the subject financially impotent for an indefinite period.
4. Giraffiti (n): Vandalism spray-painted very, very high.
5. Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.
6. Inoculatte (v): To take coffee intravenously when you are running late.
7. Hipatitis (n): Terminal coolness.
8. Osteopornosis (n): A degenerate disease. (This one got extra credit.)
9. Karmageddon (n): its like, when everybody is sending off all these really bad vibes, right? And then, like, the Earth explodes and it's like, a serious bummer.
10. Decafalon (n.): The grueling event of getting through the day consuming only things that are good for you. 1
1. Glibido (v): All talk and no action.
12. Dopeler effect (n): The tendency of stupid ideas to seem smarter when they come at you rapidly.
13. Arachnoleptic fit (n.): The frantic dance performed just after you've accidentally walked through a spider web.
14. Beelzebug (n.): Satan in the form of a mosquito that gets into your bedroom at three in the morning and cannot be cast out.
15. Caterpallor (n.): The color you turn after finding half a grub in the fruit you're eating.
And the pick of the literature:
16. Ignoranus (n): A person who's both stupid and an asshole.
Thursday Afternoon in the Clouds
New Month--
Welcome November. Welcome wet leaves sticking to my shoes. Welcome hoods and gortex, boots and umbrellas left at home. Welcome the remaining the leaves, we've saved a place for you on the wet wet soil.
Spooky Little Girl Like You--
Halloween was incredible this year-- an clear icy black night covered in stars, a black cat Halloween cake, bags of candy tossed on the kitchen table, a boy dressed as autumn, a pizza party, fresh tortilla chips with green chili salsa, shadows of trick or treaters moving in and out of the streets, three boys, three costumes, and a grocery cart flying past us down the street.
The only thing that bothers me about Halloween where I live is the pampass grass. Since we live by the water, its expected in this seaside community, but it looks to beachy in my autumn world of yellow and orange leaves. But I could hear the waves as I trick or treated, could see the ferry going back and forth. I kicked my feet through streets of maple leaves, alder leaves, and listened to the rattle of pampass grass, tried to imagine something spooky in the pampass grass, but no, pampass grass is just not spooky.
Writing Life Returns--
So now with the end of my favorite holiday, I return back to my poetry and writing. My critical paper still haunts me though, making Halloween last a little longer. And my unwritten poems are the ghosts that sleep in my office.
I find if I don't write every day when I start a poem, I feel a breeze in the hallway...emptiness. But when I write daily, the poems are gathered around my desk waiting to begin. Someone said writing has to do with training like an athlete, and each day you need to train your mind towards creativity. If you don't, you become stiff, you've lost your swing when you finally do sit down and write.
I believe that and yet I know, sometimes the best thing for writing is not writing. To make yourself not write for a week until you feel as if you're going to burst because you just want to sit down and write a poem. I don't think there's a right/write way to be a writer, but for me, my work is stronger if I write each day. Each poem moves me to a different place and maybe I clear away the junk, opening up the window each morning and having a look outside. What do I see? What do I want to remember?
Welcome November. Welcome wet leaves sticking to my shoes. Welcome hoods and gortex, boots and umbrellas left at home. Welcome the remaining the leaves, we've saved a place for you on the wet wet soil.
Spooky Little Girl Like You--
Halloween was incredible this year-- an clear icy black night covered in stars, a black cat Halloween cake, bags of candy tossed on the kitchen table, a boy dressed as autumn, a pizza party, fresh tortilla chips with green chili salsa, shadows of trick or treaters moving in and out of the streets, three boys, three costumes, and a grocery cart flying past us down the street.
The only thing that bothers me about Halloween where I live is the pampass grass. Since we live by the water, its expected in this seaside community, but it looks to beachy in my autumn world of yellow and orange leaves. But I could hear the waves as I trick or treated, could see the ferry going back and forth. I kicked my feet through streets of maple leaves, alder leaves, and listened to the rattle of pampass grass, tried to imagine something spooky in the pampass grass, but no, pampass grass is just not spooky.
Writing Life Returns--
So now with the end of my favorite holiday, I return back to my poetry and writing. My critical paper still haunts me though, making Halloween last a little longer. And my unwritten poems are the ghosts that sleep in my office.
I find if I don't write every day when I start a poem, I feel a breeze in the hallway...emptiness. But when I write daily, the poems are gathered around my desk waiting to begin. Someone said writing has to do with training like an athlete, and each day you need to train your mind towards creativity. If you don't, you become stiff, you've lost your swing when you finally do sit down and write.
I believe that and yet I know, sometimes the best thing for writing is not writing. To make yourself not write for a week until you feel as if you're going to burst because you just want to sit down and write a poem. I don't think there's a right/write way to be a writer, but for me, my work is stronger if I write each day. Each poem moves me to a different place and maybe I clear away the junk, opening up the window each morning and having a look outside. What do I see? What do I want to remember?
