Holy flash poetry, Batman, we're through.
I feel as if I'm been through a villanelle torture chamber. It was much harder than it looked (if it didn't look hard). It was tiring. It was tedious. It was a date with the page every single night even when I didn't want to write a poem.
BUT...I ended up with many more decent poems than I thought I would have. And I realized, if I push myself, they will come. Sometimes, I'll take the easy route (see poem about bowling ball), but other times (most of the time) I will suck it up and write the poem.
What was hard for me?
Posting drafts. That goes WAY beyond my comfort level. Drafts that were only so-so revised if that. Drafts that were just written then placed on my blog for everyone to see, that was a little strange and uncomfortable, I can even say vulnerable (like the say in that Eddie Murphy movie "I feel so vul-ner-able...") But a good vulnerable. And so many of you were so supportive and left notes and thank you for that.
Was it fun?
Sometimes. Mostly, it started to feel like a task. But a good task. Still though, it took me away from other things I'd rather be doing (or should be doing), but I learned so things about my writing life--like I CAN write in the morning. And how music helps me write. And I can pull a rabbit out of a hat when necessary.
Would I do it again?
Yes. And I wouldn't wait until National Poetry Month either. But it definitely will NOT be over the summer. Maybe in September or October. I did it in August last year, but I didn't push myself as much as I was in school.
I got this summary sheet from January's blog
Number of poems written in April.
30+ At least one day, a couple times I started a draft that didn't work out.
Number of poems you’ll keep and revise.
Maybe 16 - Maybe more, maybe less. ?? At this moment, there are 16 poems I like enough to revise
List the titles of your top three NaPoWriMo poems.
Absentee Landlord
Midnight DiseaseShe Adds a Dash of Cumin to Lucky Pea Soup
List your three least favorite NaPoWriMo poems.
To a Bowling Bowl
Study in Snow
Rituals
Favorite line from one of your NaPoWriMo poems.
Let me remind you, your grin is the only gun
you ever need, my favorite murder with teeth.
**though I stole much of this from a poet friend I email with- which is probably why it's my favorite.
Favorite poem by a NaPoWriMo participant.
January's poem: What My Kids Will Write About Me in Their Future Tell-All Book
What surprised you most about writing a poem a day?
That many more came out better than I thought and that they were stronger than when I did this in August. Also, they became stronger the more I wrote--here's a secret, I actually started writing a poem a day with some poets by email on St. Patty's day. So, that warm up really helped.
Also, it became less painful to post these drafts as I as just THANKFUL to have something done. I definitely lowered my expectations when it was 10 p.m and I hadn't written my poem for the day.
Now that you’ve started the momentum, what’s next?
***I'm going to clean the house! If anything falls to the backburner when I write, this is it.
Also, I'm submitting manuscript #2. And I'm ready for a vacation or some sunshine, or both.
Thanks for reading.
And I owe you a report on my Mary Oliver reading/talk. That will come next week, I promise. I mean, I'll have some time now!
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
LAST POEM OF NaPoWriMo!! Hello #30!
How To End National Poetry Month
(sing!)
Happy ever after in the coffee bar,
happy ever after in the blog.
Robert Pinsky, hey I like your face
Ob li di, ob la da
Life goes on right?
Life goes on.
In a couple of weeks they have written
a couple of dozen poems.
With a manuscript in the hands
of Desmond and Molly Jones.
*
(become!)
Buy a t-shirt that reads: What Would Elizabeth Bishop Do?
Speak in iambic pentameter all day long:
Thank you for the poem about the war.
Roll around in a sonnet.
Buy a bumpersticker that reads: Poets do it in couplets.
Roll around in someone else’s sestina.
Let the world know you love double-dactyls
President Kennedy
Joseph DiMaggio
by changing your name to a double-dactyl.
Say Hallelujah it’s over and give thanks
it only comes once a year.
(sing!)
Happy ever after in the coffee bar,
happy ever after in the blog.
Robert Pinsky, hey I like your face
Ob li di, ob la da
Life goes on right?
Life goes on.
In a couple of weeks they have written
a couple of dozen poems.
With a manuscript in the hands
of Desmond and Molly Jones.
*
(become!)
Buy a t-shirt that reads: What Would Elizabeth Bishop Do?
Speak in iambic pentameter all day long:
Thank you for the poem about the war.
Roll around in a sonnet.
Buy a bumpersticker that reads: Poets do it in couplets.
Roll around in someone else’s sestina.
Let the world know you love double-dactyls
President Kennedy
Joseph DiMaggio
by changing your name to a double-dactyl.
Say Hallelujah it’s over and give thanks
it only comes once a year.
NaPoWriMo #29
Perspective
My favorite cloud said
it wanted to take over the sky
and that’s why it was my favorite.
I like the disobedient, the overachievers.
I like how morning sometimes reminds me
of Easter and poppyseed muffins remind me
we can digest small portions of opium
and be absolutely fine.
My favorite cloud says the sun is a show-off,
but he is a cape to cover her
when she’s a little too hot.
Sometimes I want to be hot sun.
Sometimes I want to be the bossy cloud.
Sometimes I look at the sky and think
I could do better, then laugh at my stupidity.
There is nothing better than emptiness,
than a universe so full we can’t even imagine
what is out there, except when we can.
But all that space, what will we do with it?
I am the smallest of capes
on the smallest of lands.
My favorite cloud said
it wanted to take over the sky
and that’s why it was my favorite.
I like the disobedient, the overachievers.
I like how morning sometimes reminds me
of Easter and poppyseed muffins remind me
we can digest small portions of opium
and be absolutely fine.
My favorite cloud says the sun is a show-off,
but he is a cape to cover her
when she’s a little too hot.
Sometimes I want to be hot sun.
Sometimes I want to be the bossy cloud.
Sometimes I look at the sky and think
I could do better, then laugh at my stupidity.
There is nothing better than emptiness,
than a universe so full we can’t even imagine
what is out there, except when we can.
But all that space, what will we do with it?
I am the smallest of capes
on the smallest of lands.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Confession Tuesday
The Patron Saint of Dumb People* * *
Dear Springtime Reader, I confess Tuesdays come quicker than I like, but I have a few things for you, you and the anonymous stranger on the side of the screen, you and the friends who check up on my life here, you and you and you...
Let the confessions begin--
I confess I brush my teeth in the shower. If I could make daughter's lunch from the shower, or do my hair in the shower, or eat breakfast in the shower, I would. I take long hot showers and do not feel guilty for them. I think about my day, I think about poetry, I even thought about what I would write for today's confession in the shower.
I confess the gym's community hair dryer is nicer than my own hair dryer.
I confess that if I ever lived in the city again, all my stuff would be ripped offcause I've gotten used to a small town where you don't need a lock for your lockers and if you leave something somewhere, you can return a week later and still find it.
I confess I probably care less about pesticides than you do. I also have no problem eating a cookie that was just dropped on the floor and I only say "5 second rule" to make the people around me more comfortable.
I realize that when it comes down to it, the three things I hope to teach my daughter is "be kind," "use your manners," and "don't be the girl who smells like pee." In life, those things may take you farther than any good education.
I confess I have low tolerance for dumb girls and I'm not saying girls who have a learning disability or eat paste out of confusion, but girls who think it's cute to act like an airhead. I am probably less tolerant for this because I tried on this role after too many episodes of Three's Company (I was so tired of being the smart Janet character and wanted to be Chrissy.) No one had bothered to tell me that you could be both pretty AND smart. And had to learn that later.
I confess whenever I hear "pretty and smart" I think of the lines from a Linda McCarrison poem "Wrought Figure"--
"I'm hard on women, you said. It was
July and night, heavy and fragrant
all around the table set for the
short season out on the porch. Shells
of lobsters, broken, were heaped on plates,
each gruesome body part a woman scorned...
Ten days I took to trace the problem [saying]
...and I love men, pretty and smart, as you are,
land am not rare in this but, as you
confessed, successful, meaning bested by
fewer than 1 best. Let us dance, then, on
the lawn of what's left of summer. . ."
*
Dance on.
NaPoWriMo #28
A day behind but catching up...
And
It was morning and I left
my empire of featherbed
and cats. And the kitchen sink
said remember what you didn’t do
and the dishes squealed to be washed
and a dog appeared and wanted
to be fed, and the cats woke up
and followed the dog, and Neruda
appeared under lamp light,
and my neighbor saw me but didn’t
wave, and the weather looked
pretty good, and my shoes were misplaced,
and the milk was half-full, and someone
set up a game on the breakfast table,
and someone called on the phone
and I was trying to write a poem, and
the radio became someone’s song,
and rooms became disorderly, and
someone wanted to dress as a fairy,
and someone wanted to find her wings,
and the dishes still weren’t washed,
but the dog was fed, and the cats
were asleep and it began again
as it always does, it began.
And
It was morning and I left
my empire of featherbed
and cats. And the kitchen sink
said remember what you didn’t do
and the dishes squealed to be washed
and a dog appeared and wanted
to be fed, and the cats woke up
and followed the dog, and Neruda
appeared under lamp light,
and my neighbor saw me but didn’t
wave, and the weather looked
pretty good, and my shoes were misplaced,
and the milk was half-full, and someone
set up a game on the breakfast table,
and someone called on the phone
and I was trying to write a poem, and
the radio became someone’s song,
and rooms became disorderly, and
someone wanted to dress as a fairy,
and someone wanted to find her wings,
and the dishes still weren’t washed,
but the dog was fed, and the cats
were asleep and it began again
as it always does, it began.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
NaPoWriMo #27
Experienced Woman’s Song
It’s time I get a little more
blanket, banana, rest when the rest
of the house is stirring.
It’s time like lunchtime,
the stop watch clicking
at the finish line that I get a little more
whatever
dessert, darning, double pistachio
turn on the radio without requests
for stations, without wanting
to turn off the radio as the DJ
says, You’re gonna love this new song
but I’m not
a friend of his, not thirteen,
and I’m not gonna love the song
or poet because she’s beautiful and talks
about sex, because I’ve heard that story
at breakfast, in the locker room,
on the treadmill next to me the woman said
she cut out on her family for a rugged
barista and I thought only in Seattle
are baristas the new rockstars,
and rockstars the new husbands
and I’ve leaned against the Jimi Hendrix
statue and no one asked my age,
though a stranger asked me if I had money
and I said, Yes but it’s time I get a little more
and he understood that, said,
If I had a blanket I would give it to you,
and I leaned against Jimi and realized
how often I fail.
It’s time I get a little more
blanket, banana, rest when the rest
of the house is stirring.
It’s time like lunchtime,
the stop watch clicking
at the finish line that I get a little more
whatever
dessert, darning, double pistachio
turn on the radio without requests
for stations, without wanting
to turn off the radio as the DJ
says, You’re gonna love this new song
but I’m not
a friend of his, not thirteen,
and I’m not gonna love the song
or poet because she’s beautiful and talks
about sex, because I’ve heard that story
at breakfast, in the locker room,
on the treadmill next to me the woman said
she cut out on her family for a rugged
barista and I thought only in Seattle
are baristas the new rockstars,
and rockstars the new husbands
and I’ve leaned against the Jimi Hendrix
statue and no one asked my age,
though a stranger asked me if I had money
and I said, Yes but it’s time I get a little more
and he understood that, said,
If I had a blanket I would give it to you,
and I leaned against Jimi and realized
how often I fail.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
NaPoWriMo #26
Back to My Life Already in Progress
I.
If I am lucky, I will be at your funeral.
Or maybe we’ll be tasting the pâté
at someone else’s wake.
Sometimes I’m incapable of saying the right thing,
sometimes I forget to smile for the camera
and I’m remembered as cranky.
Or maybe I’m at the Self-Improvement Booth
saying,
I feel anxious when others try to control my time.
I love cappuccino more than chapels.
Sometimes the truth spoken on a saltine
is better than a lie force-fed.
Like that time I wandered into the church
only because I needed a clean bathroom.
And the priest said I was forgiven,
but I wasn't asking and I left gripping my rosary
with my teeth
wondering if I’d be forgiven.
II.
If I’m lucky, all the pills I’ve swallowed
over my lifetime will bloom into shield
against the disease around me
or maybe I will become a 5’7” pill
in sensible shoes and trendy haircut.
I’m here to tell you MRIs are not that bad,
a sort of spa day in a rock tumbler,
a hour long practice of savasana in a coffin.
And when they saw inside me,
I wondered how well I was made.
I’ll swear I was assembled by monkeys.
I’ll swear the God who carried me smoked cigarettes.
And she did.
When the world stops, I’ll be the first
to complain about motion sickness.
When the world stops, I’ll be the first
who asks to get off.
When the world stops, I’ll be the first
to run through the alleys
and try to make it spin.
But they said it didn’t. Stop. End.
They said, Read deeper into the story,
don’t just scan the beginning.
They said, Try not to be afraid
of loud noises.
They said, You were perfect.
Now go enjoy your day.
I.
If I am lucky, I will be at your funeral.
Or maybe we’ll be tasting the pâté
at someone else’s wake.
Sometimes I’m incapable of saying the right thing,
sometimes I forget to smile for the camera
and I’m remembered as cranky.
Or maybe I’m at the Self-Improvement Booth
saying,
I feel anxious when others try to control my time.
I love cappuccino more than chapels.
Sometimes the truth spoken on a saltine
is better than a lie force-fed.
Like that time I wandered into the church
only because I needed a clean bathroom.
And the priest said I was forgiven,
but I wasn't asking and I left gripping my rosary
with my teeth
wondering if I’d be forgiven.
II.
If I’m lucky, all the pills I’ve swallowed
over my lifetime will bloom into shield
against the disease around me
or maybe I will become a 5’7” pill
in sensible shoes and trendy haircut.
I’m here to tell you MRIs are not that bad,
a sort of spa day in a rock tumbler,
a hour long practice of savasana in a coffin.
And when they saw inside me,
I wondered how well I was made.
I’ll swear I was assembled by monkeys.
I’ll swear the God who carried me smoked cigarettes.
And she did.
When the world stops, I’ll be the first
to complain about motion sickness.
When the world stops, I’ll be the first
who asks to get off.
When the world stops, I’ll be the first
to run through the alleys
and try to make it spin.
But they said it didn’t. Stop. End.
They said, Read deeper into the story,
don’t just scan the beginning.
They said, Try not to be afraid
of loud noises.
They said, You were perfect.
Now go enjoy your day.
Friday, April 25, 2008
NaPoWriMo #25
Assignment (if you choose to take it...)-- Write a poem about a recent science article
Flirting with Extinction
Because we love to flip our hair
in the desert, drink up the drops that once were
a river, we give the earth our best opening line,
You’re hot. . .and getting hotter. Let’s go
and get something to eat. Who would have thought
that only 70,000 years ago, we almost vanished,
left her house early, without saying goodbye,
slid from the bedsheets and almost
died out in South Africa, almost became
the great-great-great-great-great-great
grandparent we never had. So it doesn’t seem odd
really, that we’re screwing around the climate,
that snow falls in April and New York heats up
to a balm 97 degrees. We love to wink
at disaster, at the “I’m breaking up with you”
attitude, the sorry it just didn’t work out,
yes Earth, I have your number, I just forgot
to call.
Flirting with Extinction
Because we love to flip our hair
in the desert, drink up the drops that once were
a river, we give the earth our best opening line,
You’re hot. . .and getting hotter. Let’s go
and get something to eat. Who would have thought
that only 70,000 years ago, we almost vanished,
left her house early, without saying goodbye,
slid from the bedsheets and almost
died out in South Africa, almost became
the great-great-great-great-great-great
grandparent we never had. So it doesn’t seem odd
really, that we’re screwing around the climate,
that snow falls in April and New York heats up
to a balm 97 degrees. We love to wink
at disaster, at the “I’m breaking up with you”
attitude, the sorry it just didn’t work out,
yes Earth, I have your number, I just forgot
to call.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
NaPoWriMo #24
Not a Love Poem
Those days I was in love
with what was broken,
with trains that didn’t leave
the station, but instead watched
TV from my couch, or perhaps
that wasn’t a train in the living room,
but I had purchased a ticket
to no place special, to it’s easier
to stay inside. The radio played
silk dresses and I kept putting on
my ratty shawl. The train
on the couch kept asking for beer.
Those days I was in the love
with the phone line, with calling
out the window to people
I didn’t know and asking,
How’s the weather out there?
If you listened between rainstorms,
what I was really saying was,
We settle, we settle.
Those days I was in love
with what was broken,
with trains that didn’t leave
the station, but instead watched
TV from my couch, or perhaps
that wasn’t a train in the living room,
but I had purchased a ticket
to no place special, to it’s easier
to stay inside. The radio played
silk dresses and I kept putting on
my ratty shawl. The train
on the couch kept asking for beer.
Those days I was in the love
with the phone line, with calling
out the window to people
I didn’t know and asking,
How’s the weather out there?
If you listened between rainstorms,
what I was really saying was,
We settle, we settle.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
NaPoWriMo #23
To the Bowling Bowl
Strikes are okay,
but let me be the gutter,
the warm hand at the end of a long roll
to guide you back home.
Strikes are okay,
but let me be the gutter,
the warm hand at the end of a long roll
to guide you back home.
NaPoWriMo #22
Ooops, got a day behind, but a good reason-- I saw Mary Oliver yesterday. More on that soon.
I've been wanting to do a gratitude list since I haven't done one lately, so here's one in the shape of a poem (wonder twin powers activate!)
Gratitude
Because I can
open my mouth and speak,
complain about the tag
on the back of my shirt,
I say thanks, thanks
for the shirt and the body
that breathes beneath it,
the stitches coming undone
in edge of its hem, thanks
for the string, for the vision
to notice how poorly made
my t-shirts are, leaving the wash
two sizes too small, how easy
it is to find the dot of cloud
on a blue sky, find the restaurants
that were closed instead of
the neighbors who said,
Come on in! Because I can
smell the eggs and ham
on the Viking Croissant sandwich,
and taste the chocolate from
the éclair left on the back
of my hand, I give thanks
to the itchy, the too small,
the cheaply made items, thanks
to a working brain cranky
enough to notice, and for
the heartbeats that keep coming
and allow me to step out
and enjoy the rain.
I've been wanting to do a gratitude list since I haven't done one lately, so here's one in the shape of a poem (wonder twin powers activate!)
Gratitude
Because I can
open my mouth and speak,
complain about the tag
on the back of my shirt,
I say thanks, thanks
for the shirt and the body
that breathes beneath it,
the stitches coming undone
in edge of its hem, thanks
for the string, for the vision
to notice how poorly made
my t-shirts are, leaving the wash
two sizes too small, how easy
it is to find the dot of cloud
on a blue sky, find the restaurants
that were closed instead of
the neighbors who said,
Come on in! Because I can
smell the eggs and ham
on the Viking Croissant sandwich,
and taste the chocolate from
the éclair left on the back
of my hand, I give thanks
to the itchy, the too small,
the cheaply made items, thanks
to a working brain cranky
enough to notice, and for
the heartbeats that keep coming
and allow me to step out
and enjoy the rain.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Confession Tuesday
Dear Reader,
It's been a week! I week since I told you how I almost buried Stanley Kunitz before his time and now, what have I done in a week? Not much reader. These are sins for the innocent. Confessions rated G.
Let's begin--
1) If you were to drive by my street last night at 8 pm, you would have seen my in my blue velour PJ bottoms, a long john top and red crocs carrying 2 blue recycle bins with a cat scratcher balanced on top. And you would have felt bad for me when the cat scracher house fell and began to roll away. You would have felt bad or you would have laughed.
2) My biggest disappointment this week was that I went to have lunch with two friends and the bakery we eat at was closed and I was heartbroken I didn't get to have my Milano sandwich and more so--Esther's Orange Cake and I was so disappointed and if this was my biggest disappointment of the week then I'm doing quite fine (perhaps a little spoiled, but quite fine.)
3) On Sunday I made dinner for my family. This is a confession because I do approx. 5 % of the cooking in the family. When I cook it's a big production (because I have little idea to what I'm doing). But I made halibut with avacado, tomato, corn, and basil relish.
After having a child, I felt quite guilty for not knowing how to cook, I was (and am) the mom who buys cupcakes or the birthday cake at the bakery instead of makes them herself. And I've grown to realize what a great lesson my daughter is getting-- men can cook (and cook well). And the roles that were decided for us long ago do not have stay if you don't want them to.
4) Oh the recipe I made? I got it from Live with Regis & Kelly. I figured if it could be made on tv in 10 minutes, I could make it in 60.
5) I got my haircut and I left the salon looking like Ellen Barkin. Now I look like an Ellen Barkin version of myself, but not as sexy.
6) I went to eye doctor on Friday and I have 20/20 vision (though still have the very very lowest prescription for reading/computer glasses if I need them.) But what he said that made me the happiest was, "If you hadn't told me you had optic neuritis, I wouldn't have known, all the scarring on your optic nerve is gone."
Backstory-- In Dec of 2006, I lost the vision (slowly and one eye at a time) in both my eyes. It started on December 6th in my left eye and by Christmas I could barely see out of either eye (though my vision was starting to improve slightly in my left eye). It was ridiculously scary, but also fascinating in knowing that my vision would get terrible and then correct itself (which it did). It turned out I had optic neuritis, which can be one of the symptoms of MS.
On the day I first lost my vision I had drank a motherload of diet soda, specifically diet coke. Drinking a motherload of diet soda was nothing new for me at the time, but I remember thinking I should go downstairs and get my water bottle, but instead, I opened a can of cheapo Albertson's brand orange soda (I could taste the artificial sweetener when I drank it) and soon after there was this terrible pain behind my left eye and then I completely lost vision in it and it slowly came back.
Only one doctor (my granola ob-gyn) considered it could be related to the aspartame in the diet soda, all the others said it was either a first symptom of MS or it was caused by a virus. It really could have been caused by a virus, but since that December, I haven't had anything to drink (or eat) with aspartame in it. I know drink sparkling water or just water with all my meals. And I drink a lot more coffee.
I have had 2 MRIs which have all come back perfect and I have one more scheduled for spring to check to see if I'm someone with MS. In the NW, we have a large population of women who have MS and though they don't know what causes MS, I hope that all my non-healthy behavior of spending months and months at Greenlake sunbathing throughout my youth, may have given me enough Vitamin D to not have it. I hope to be the freaky gal who lost her vision for no apparent reason except perhaps, punishment from the environment gods because on the night I got optic neuritis, I had 2 movie choices to watch--An Inconvenient Truth or The Break-Up (with Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn), I chose the latter. Do bad movies cause blindness? Maybe this was my mistake.
And with eyes wide open, I say Amen.
Monday, April 21, 2008
NaPoWriMo #Twenty-One
Information Desk
We’re standing at the information desk
and asking what is a hollaback girl, asking
why dogs like to stick their heads
out of car windows. We’re young
and running out of options, we’ve already
spent our lunch money on gum.
No one cares if we chew Altoids
or suck on Listerine strips, we talk
too much, ask too many questions,
like how are seedless watermelons grown,
is it true nothing can live in the Dead Sea?
You say the salt that kills fish saves swimmers
and I say the Irish are still debating
the difference between a shamrock
and a clover. We pop our gum,
make statements like: there’s nothing to fear
except clowns themselves, or no one likes
a lazy daisy except a bed of roses.
At the information desk, there are no dumb
questions only dumb people. Or something
like that. Something like most telephone poles
are made from chestnut trees and paper
toilet covers only protect your mind.
We’re standing at the information desk
and asking what is a hollaback girl, asking
why dogs like to stick their heads
out of car windows. We’re young
and running out of options, we’ve already
spent our lunch money on gum.
No one cares if we chew Altoids
or suck on Listerine strips, we talk
too much, ask too many questions,
like how are seedless watermelons grown,
is it true nothing can live in the Dead Sea?
You say the salt that kills fish saves swimmers
and I say the Irish are still debating
the difference between a shamrock
and a clover. We pop our gum,
make statements like: there’s nothing to fear
except clowns themselves, or no one likes
a lazy daisy except a bed of roses.
At the information desk, there are no dumb
questions only dumb people. Or something
like that. Something like most telephone poles
are made from chestnut trees and paper
toilet covers only protect your mind.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
NaPoWriMo #20
Wow, it's been a long month. Welcome Poem #20--
There are love letters I haven’t written yet,
notes that long to be sent.
When Dylan wrote to Cat, he misspelled
Indiana and we misspell when we’re in love,
misspell me for men, misspell room
for roam. Our letters tell another
story, they cry of a slow hang
and not a slow hand. We translate
sex as a string of firecrackers,
sometimes dot our i’s with an x,
sometimes we repeat ourselves
again
and again.
We are the handwriting of a car crash,
all bended metal, adrenalin-filled
and we walk away from the accident,
say:
We could have been
but stop speaking. There’s a buzzard
circling the freeway and his call
is similar to cat’s meow. The bird
writes love letters to the injured
driver in the other car.
I insist on walking home
and the letters I write are in my footprints,
in the fig leaf I rip from the tree.
And there’s an empty envelope
outside my home. And there’s a broken
pen on the doorstep. No one is in love
with the mail carrier, no one even cares
if he arrives.
Once I wrote a letter to my husband
in black widow bites: My love
I sometimes want to weaken you with words.
There are love letters I haven’t written yet,
notes that long to be sent.
When Dylan wrote to Cat, he misspelled
Indiana and we misspell when we’re in love,
misspell me for men, misspell room
for roam. Our letters tell another
story, they cry of a slow hang
and not a slow hand. We translate
sex as a string of firecrackers,
sometimes dot our i’s with an x,
sometimes we repeat ourselves
again
and again.
We are the handwriting of a car crash,
all bended metal, adrenalin-filled
and we walk away from the accident,
say:
We could have been
but stop speaking. There’s a buzzard
circling the freeway and his call
is similar to cat’s meow. The bird
writes love letters to the injured
driver in the other car.
I insist on walking home
and the letters I write are in my footprints,
in the fig leaf I rip from the tree.
And there’s an empty envelope
outside my home. And there’s a broken
pen on the doorstep. No one is in love
with the mail carrier, no one even cares
if he arrives.
Once I wrote a letter to my husband
in black widow bites: My love
I sometimes want to weaken you with words.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Photos from the Letters to the World Anthology Reading with Seattle Poets, April 17th 2008
Seattle Wom-pos LETTERS TO THE WORLD ANTHOLOGY book release reading at the University of Washington's Women Center, April 17th, 2008
* * * * *
We had a lovely reading Thursday night at the UW Women's Center celebrating the Wom-po Listserv's (Women Poets Listserv) new anthology Letters to the World.
We each read our own poem in the anthology and then a poem by another poet. Below are photos of Seattle area poets who are in the anthology. We missed Kathleen Flenniken, Jeannine Hall Gailey, and Neile Graham who couldn't attend, but their poems were read to the audience.
From left to right: Susan Rich, Julene Weaver, Martha Silano, Kelli Russell Agodon, Carol Levin, Shin Yu Pai, Lana Hechtman Ayers
Shin Yu Pai
*
Susan Rich
*
Carol Levin
*
Julene Weaver
*
Lana Hechtman Ayers
*
Martha Silano
*
Kelli Russell Agodon
* * * * *
We had a lovely reading Thursday night at the UW Women's Center celebrating the Wom-po Listserv's (Women Poets Listserv) new anthology Letters to the World.
We each read our own poem in the anthology and then a poem by another poet. Below are photos of Seattle area poets who are in the anthology. We missed Kathleen Flenniken, Jeannine Hall Gailey, and Neile Graham who couldn't attend, but their poems were read to the audience.
From left to right: Susan Rich, Julene Weaver, Martha Silano, Kelli Russell Agodon, Carol Levin, Shin Yu Pai, Lana Hechtman Ayers
Shin Yu Pai
*
Susan Rich
*
Carol Levin
*
Julene Weaver
*
Lana Hechtman Ayers
*
Martha Silano
*
Kelli Russell Agodon
NaPoWriMo #19
Study in Snow
The weather changed and snow
covered the arena, the horses
spooked by the snow sliding
down the roof were taken to the barns.
The weather changes and the tulips
froze, the cherry blossoms wilted
on the branches.
And we cursed the weatherman,
and we cursed a spring that forgot
to appear. And we wondered
if we were approaching our own
ice age, if these were the last days
of the rest of our lives. And the children
built snow rabbits, and the adults
made hot chocolate, and we wondered
if we should be afraid, but instead
we put on our boots and wandered outside.
The weather changed and snow
covered the arena, the horses
spooked by the snow sliding
down the roof were taken to the barns.
The weather changes and the tulips
froze, the cherry blossoms wilted
on the branches.
And we cursed the weatherman,
and we cursed a spring that forgot
to appear. And we wondered
if we were approaching our own
ice age, if these were the last days
of the rest of our lives. And the children
built snow rabbits, and the adults
made hot chocolate, and we wondered
if we should be afraid, but instead
we put on our boots and wandered outside.
Friday, April 18, 2008
NaPoWriMo #18
*
SHORTCUT
We were unpacking the groceries
when the storm made its opening
remarks. Maybe you were in jail
and missed it. Maybe you were hanging
with the crows and their sexy suits,
but I was gustblown, a khaki kite
arguing with the wind. And off
went the Yogos, and off went the box
of tampons and my husband
grabbed Toto and went running
to the house and I became Dorothy
with an attitude and maybe
it’s a girl thing but I loved the sting
of my skin, how my hair blew
long and upwards as if it knew
a shortcut to heaven and it’s not
as if I’m trying to get to heaven early,
I’m just always looking for detours,
for the paths no one has considered,
for all the things I’ve lost along the way.
*
SHORTCUT
We were unpacking the groceries
when the storm made its opening
remarks. Maybe you were in jail
and missed it. Maybe you were hanging
with the crows and their sexy suits,
but I was gustblown, a khaki kite
arguing with the wind. And off
went the Yogos, and off went the box
of tampons and my husband
grabbed Toto and went running
to the house and I became Dorothy
with an attitude and maybe
it’s a girl thing but I loved the sting
of my skin, how my hair blew
long and upwards as if it knew
a shortcut to heaven and it’s not
as if I’m trying to get to heaven early,
I’m just always looking for detours,
for the paths no one has considered,
for all the things I’ve lost along the way.
*
NaPoWriMo #18
*
SHORTCUT
We were unpacking the groceries
when the storm made its opening
remarks. Maybe you were in jail
and missed it. Maybe you were hanging
with the crows and their sexy suits,
but I was gustblown, a khaki kite
arguing with the wind. And off
went the Yogos, and off went the box
of tampons and my husband
grabbed Toto and went running
to the house and I became Dorothy
with an attitude and maybe
it’s a girl thing but I loved the sting
of my skin, how my hair blew
long and upwards as if it knew
a shortcut to heaven and it’s not
as if I’m trying to get to heaven early,
I’m just always looking for detours,
for the paths no one has considered,
for all the things I’ve lost along the way.
*
SHORTCUT
We were unpacking the groceries
when the storm made its opening
remarks. Maybe you were in jail
and missed it. Maybe you were hanging
with the crows and their sexy suits,
but I was gustblown, a khaki kite
arguing with the wind. And off
went the Yogos, and off went the box
of tampons and my husband
grabbed Toto and went running
to the house and I became Dorothy
with an attitude and maybe
it’s a girl thing but I loved the sting
of my skin, how my hair blew
long and upwards as if it knew
a shortcut to heaven and it’s not
as if I’m trying to get to heaven early,
I’m just always looking for detours,
for the paths no one has considered,
for all the things I’ve lost along the way.
*
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Letters to the World Anthology Reading in Seattle tonight
What a bad poet/reader I am not to mention this on my blog--
I'm giving a reading tonight with many other fab Seattle area poets at the UW Women Center.
Here are the details--
April 17, 2008 : Seattle, WA 7:30 p.m.
Kelli Russell Agodon, Shin Yu Pai, Martha Silano, Susan Rich, Carol Levin, Lana Hechtman Ayers and others will read at the University of Washington Women’s Center
Book for a book release party for Letters to the World, an anthology that collects poems by 258 members of the 11-year-old Women’s Poetry Listserv (WOMPO).
I'm forgetting a few poets, sorry, I'm typing quickly. Jeannine Gailey will not be there due to doctor's orders (bad doctor taking away my dinner date!) but I'll be reading her poem for her!
There will be food!
I'm giving a reading tonight with many other fab Seattle area poets at the UW Women Center.
Here are the details--
April 17, 2008 : Seattle, WA 7:30 p.m.
Kelli Russell Agodon, Shin Yu Pai, Martha Silano, Susan Rich, Carol Levin, Lana Hechtman Ayers and others will read at the University of Washington Women’s Center
Book for a book release party for Letters to the World, an anthology that collects poems by 258 members of the 11-year-old Women’s Poetry Listserv (WOMPO).
I'm forgetting a few poets, sorry, I'm typing quickly. Jeannine Gailey will not be there due to doctor's orders (bad doctor taking away my dinner date!) but I'll be reading her poem for her!
There will be food!
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
NaPoWriMo #17
AFTER THIRTY-NINE YEARS, GOD RESPONDS
Dear Daughter,
There is no need to explain
your bad behavior. We were all young
once and know temptation is the key
to an unlocked door.
You have no resistance to love,
but no understanding of it either.
Your foreign language is not of guns,
but of tenderness, the control you try
to have on how you feel.
There is compassion everywhere
and hairspray a few dollars more
that will do the trick.
There is no need to sleep
anywhere except the moment.
Your checkbook is important
but no one ever found happiness
in plus signs, no one ever invited
her bank account over for tea.
Dear Daughter,
There is no need to explain
your bad behavior. We were all young
once and know temptation is the key
to an unlocked door.
You have no resistance to love,
but no understanding of it either.
Your foreign language is not of guns,
but of tenderness, the control you try
to have on how you feel.
There is compassion everywhere
and hairspray a few dollars more
that will do the trick.
There is no need to sleep
anywhere except the moment.
Your checkbook is important
but no one ever found happiness
in plus signs, no one ever invited
her bank account over for tea.
NapoWriMo #16
Oh, we're halfway there! (oh, oh, livin' on a prayer...)
NEW YEAR
It’s the Year of the Prius, the Can You
Hear Now women who ride the ferry
celebrating the Year of the Xanax.
It’s the year of the transformation,
the Body By Brandy, I’m tired, but ready
to go. Tell me when will you ever be ready
to go. It’s the Year of the Underdog, the men
with gelled hair and how I want the rough
and tumble, the Bruce Springsteen of my dreams
to rip from that oxford, toss his penny loafers
to the side. Tell me, how did we end up
in the Year of the Bewildered Republican,
the Year We Jumped From the Plane
and the price of bread is rising. I’ve opened
my wallet too many times in the Year of
Lend Me Twenty Bucks, Year of Not Paying
Attention. There’s a phone ringing and it’s me
calling myself as I’ve lost
my cell phone again in the Year of Preservatives,
Year of the Brain Tumor. Joe Jackson told me
it was the Year of Is She Really Going Out
With Him? But I knew it was
The Year of Boy Who Certainly Ate Paste,
Year of Unwritten Twain Novel, Foly Huck
We’re Screwed. It’s the Year of the Bamboozle,
the Year of Will This Ever End?
It’s the Year to Save a Life, to save someone’s
life who’s going under. Please don’t give me
another year of Ralph Nader, of chads,
of an election not worth fighting for.
I’ll take a Day of Let’s Run Into the Streets
over a corporate meeting with Krispy Kremes.
I’ll bring the paint, you bring the signs.
We were desperately trying to impeach
someone, maybe the men who sell mattresses
at a discount, the Supersonics and their dream
of Oklahoma. We lined the streets in our hippie
clothes with the motto Hemp Saves Lives,
and some of us should have showered, some
of us should have combed our hair. Okay,
we didn’t have the best lighting. We didn’t know
who kept shouting Vote for Pedro, and this woman
who searched for Macy’s was pushed
into a window, and I kept thinking about her
grand-daughter crying, and the crowd was a swarm
of bees, of wasps, and we were stung, and we stung.
And I knew I was part of the problem.
I saw a man in an oxford shirt and I fell
in love with his clean-shavenness and God,
he looked like Bruce Springsteen and I fell
off the sidewalk—there were legs and shoes,
and the chute wouldn’t open. I knew then
even the rough and tumble boys couldn’t save me
until I reached the Year of Responsibility,
the Year of the Street Sweeper cleaned up
the bullets and confetti we sprayed in fear.
NEW YEAR
It’s the Year of the Prius, the Can You
Hear Now women who ride the ferry
celebrating the Year of the Xanax.
It’s the year of the transformation,
the Body By Brandy, I’m tired, but ready
to go. Tell me when will you ever be ready
to go. It’s the Year of the Underdog, the men
with gelled hair and how I want the rough
and tumble, the Bruce Springsteen of my dreams
to rip from that oxford, toss his penny loafers
to the side. Tell me, how did we end up
in the Year of the Bewildered Republican,
the Year We Jumped From the Plane
and the price of bread is rising. I’ve opened
my wallet too many times in the Year of
Lend Me Twenty Bucks, Year of Not Paying
Attention. There’s a phone ringing and it’s me
calling myself as I’ve lost
my cell phone again in the Year of Preservatives,
Year of the Brain Tumor. Joe Jackson told me
it was the Year of Is She Really Going Out
With Him? But I knew it was
The Year of Boy Who Certainly Ate Paste,
Year of Unwritten Twain Novel, Foly Huck
We’re Screwed. It’s the Year of the Bamboozle,
the Year of Will This Ever End?
It’s the Year to Save a Life, to save someone’s
life who’s going under. Please don’t give me
another year of Ralph Nader, of chads,
of an election not worth fighting for.
I’ll take a Day of Let’s Run Into the Streets
over a corporate meeting with Krispy Kremes.
I’ll bring the paint, you bring the signs.
We were desperately trying to impeach
someone, maybe the men who sell mattresses
at a discount, the Supersonics and their dream
of Oklahoma. We lined the streets in our hippie
clothes with the motto Hemp Saves Lives,
and some of us should have showered, some
of us should have combed our hair. Okay,
we didn’t have the best lighting. We didn’t know
who kept shouting Vote for Pedro, and this woman
who searched for Macy’s was pushed
into a window, and I kept thinking about her
grand-daughter crying, and the crowd was a swarm
of bees, of wasps, and we were stung, and we stung.
And I knew I was part of the problem.
I saw a man in an oxford shirt and I fell
in love with his clean-shavenness and God,
he looked like Bruce Springsteen and I fell
off the sidewalk—there were legs and shoes,
and the chute wouldn’t open. I knew then
even the rough and tumble boys couldn’t save me
until I reached the Year of Responsibility,
the Year of the Street Sweeper cleaned up
the bullets and confetti we sprayed in fear.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
NaPoWriMo # 15 on taxday
Assignment: Write a letter to God. Have Her/Him respond.
After Thirty-Nine Years, the Child Readdresses the Parent
Dear Father,
I’m writing to explain my bad behavior.
My unlikely resistance to love.
There’s a foreign language
of semi-automatic weapons I’ve tried
to understand, an unstoppable
reign, but I’m asking
where do I find compassion
and why does my hairspray clog after one use.
It may be necessary to sleep
against a tombstone to understand
the difference between now
and then, but I’m listening. While I balance
my checkbook, I’m listening to anything
you have to say.
After Thirty-Nine Years, the Child Readdresses the Parent
Dear Father,
I’m writing to explain my bad behavior.
My unlikely resistance to love.
There’s a foreign language
of semi-automatic weapons I’ve tried
to understand, an unstoppable
reign, but I’m asking
where do I find compassion
and why does my hairspray clog after one use.
It may be necessary to sleep
against a tombstone to understand
the difference between now
and then, but I’m listening. While I balance
my checkbook, I’m listening to anything
you have to say.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Confession Tuesday
Forgive me, Reader for my straightlaces, for my corset tied a little too tight. It's been one whole wide week since I last confessed and I've got a story to tell you. Reader, dim the light--
To the confessional:
1) I confess I am knocked out by Benadryl, (ahem, children's benadryl). I want to be the edgy poet in the trench coat and black boots kicking her legs off the cliff, but I'm the geeky girl behind the CAUTION tape with allergy eyes.
2) I confess I don't mind tax day because we pay someone to do our taxes (and we usually get a refund). I am truly amazed at people who do their own. I honestly think by paying someone to do our taxes we 1) save ourselves a huge argument 2) end up getting more back because we are definitely not tax experts 3) save ourselves A LOT of time 4) don't fret tax day.
3) I do consider my job as a poet/freelance writer and do report my income and expenses for it. Last year, I probably earned between $3500-$5000 in the poetry world after expenses. Thank God I don't base my self-esteem as a person/poet or I'd be in the self-help section right now looking for a book called "You Are Not Your Salary." This year, because of the Dorothy Rosenberg Poetry Prize, I've already topped that. To quote Forrest Gump, in the poetry world, money is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're going to get.
4) The Stanley Kunitz has died story (or Why I May Never Appear on Poetry Daily)--
A mentioned in an earlier confession that I helped keep a rumor going in 2000 that Stanley Kunitz had died. I said one day I'd share the whole story, so for National Poetry Month, here's the "Stanley Kunitz's Death was Greatly Exaggerated" story--
In 2000, I attended at the Skagit River Poetry Festival and somehow a rumor began that Stanley Kunitz had died.
As I went to readings, famous poet after famous poet would come up to the podium and talk about the late-Stanley Kunitz. There were many tears and much sadness. Stanley's poems were read, stories were told, yes, it was repeated over and over that Stanley Kunitz had died.
When I returned home from the festival, I went to my #1 place to find poetry news-- Poetry Daily, however when I went to read the written news of his death, there was nothing there. Being the good poetry citizen that I am, I immediately emailed Poetry Daily to tell them that Stanley Kunitz had died and I didn’t see anything about it on their website. I believe it was Roy who emailed me back saying what sad news that was and that he’d look into it.
I remember not asking in the email if Stanley Kunitz had died, but stating it. I was so sure I knew the correct info and in fact, I had not questioned it. Famous poets wouldn't lie about Stanley's death, I mean, this was a poetry festival, why would this information be wrong?
Poetry Daily later wrote back that he couldn’t find any info online about Kunitz’s death. I said I was pretty sure it happened because the poets kept talking about it and I was concerned it hadn't reported it. I became upset that Stanley's death wasn’t being reported about in the news. I was sure the news media was once again, disrespecting poets.
A few days later I learned that Stanley Kunitz had not died. In fact, Stanley Kunitz was fine and alive, probably in his garden. I have no idea what/who started the rumor at the festival, but I was the voice who kept it going. Writing this now it doesn't seem as embarrassing as it felt then, but I remember feeling horrified that I had killed off a poet before his time. I should have written back to Poetry Daily and explained why I was giving them false info, but I never did.
When my book was published in 2004, a copy was sent to Poetry Daily and they didn’t use a poem. I remember thinking, “This is because they see me as the crazylady who tried to convince them that Stanley Kunitz is dead.” (It could have easily been because they didn't like my poems, but it's much easy to think it's because they thought I was crazy, which I much prefer than to think they didn't like my work.)
Anyway, Stanley died quite a few years later *after* the rumor. His real death was twice as sad. And oddly enough, he died on my own father's (as well as my step-father's) birthday, May 14.
Here's part of Stanley's obit from the Washington Post--
Stanley Kunitz, 100, a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet of far-ranging style and influence and who twice was U.S. poet laureate, died May 14 at his home in New York City. The cause of death was reported to be pneumonia.
In about a dozen books, Mr. Kunitz's literary approach veered over the decades from metaphysical sonnets about love and loss to stark ruminations on his father's suicide. Gradually, he learned to "strip the water out of my poems" and acknowledge the benefits of a simpler, more intense approach....
If you're interested, you can read the full obituary here.
Anyway, now you know my life as the poetry gossip queen. Forgive me. I have not caused any other poets to die before their time...I think.
Some Learn from the Dalai Lama, Others from a Moose
Things that are kicking my arse this month--
NaPoWriMo
allergies
emails
housework
my cat who keeps putting my laptop into hibernation mode
*
Things I could use a little more of--
Sleep
compassion
sunny weather
protein
*
We have a sunny day here in the NW and Jeannine gets sunburned and I have an allergic reaction to sunscreen. How white is that? I swear, I'm the Darwin fish that falls off the car. I thank God my daughter has some genes from a warmer part of the world.
*
THE SAFE--
So, as I said, we had an incredible Saturday here in the Northwest, 78 degrees!~ Though while I'm celebrating this, there's this spooky little feeling that if the weather can fluctuate a full 35 degrees in a day, something is not right with the world. Record-breaking weather is no longer something I cheer about. But I was playing ostrich to climate change beast and just appreciating the fact that I sat watching a Mariner's game in the 300 level until after 9 o'clock at night in short sleeves.
I must tell you, I have hated Safeco Field (which I refer to Mariner Field as the idea of naming stadiums after corporations makes me ill) since it was built. The taxpayers of Seattle said no, but the M's had one fantastic season ( this is the Ken Griffey Jr., Alex Rodriguez, Edgar Martinez years) and they decided to build it anyway. Their motto: "if we build it, they will win." Well, if you follow the M's you know that's a dream unlived, but the stadium was built (and right next to it, another stadium for the Seahawks reiterating the same message I was taught as a UW Husky: Sports Matter!) I had wanted the money spent on the stadium to go to the Seattle schools and for a long time when I saw these stadiums I thought, "Those could have paid a lot of teachers."
Anyway, I've hated this stadium from the get-go. But I have to tell you, sitting there with my family on a Saturday night looking out to the city skyline, a warm breeze floating through, eating sunflower seeds, peanuts and pink cotton candy, I thought that the stadium was made for us at this moment. It was absolutely one of the best times I've had in a long while.
About the 7th inning, the Mariner Moose appeared at the end of our row. Now, when you're sitting in the cheap seats, you don't expect to see the mascot, I mean, you're thrilled if the pretzel man walks by and will have spontaneous applause for him. So seeing the moose was how I would have responded if say, Dave Matthews had walked in.
Now, as responsible, thoughtful American parents we did what other responsible, thoughtful American parents would do when seeing the moose-- we yelled MOOSE! then pushed our daughter in front of us yelling, "Run to the moose! Run to the moose!" WTF? This our first response?
Thinking about this later, it seems strange that when a stranger comes dressed up in a wacky costume, our first thought is to push our children toward them and photograph the encounter. Though, we were not the only one who felt this way. Children began appearing out of nowhere. The moose was some sort of sticky, fuzzy magnet drawing them in and in.
After our daughter shook the moose's hand, we yelled, "Dance with the moose!" And she did. And then did we. We were drunk on mooselove.
We looked up for a moment and we were all on the big screen dancing with the moose. Dogs were sleeping with cats, the Dalai Lama was in Seattle spreading compassion, the moose was giving high fives, drunk men losing their sunglasses and drunk women were finding them, gnats appeared in the lights like fireflies, and we were dancing with the moose to Louie Louie. I was wearing a soul patch, my husband was wearing a soul patch, strangers passed us their children who we gently placed near the moose, the moose shook and waved, kids who hemmed and hawed missed out, learned a lifelong lesson about "he who hesitates is lost," leaving sadly back to their seats without moose's blessing.
I don't know, it was a ridiculous baseball in-the-moment madness and the whole day was a reminder to me about not to take things so seriously, to be a little less judgmental on the world around me. For some reason (call it ego, or call it Capricorn), I tend believe I know what's best, I know the best candidate, the best things for education, the best ____________ fill in the blank. But I'm ancora imparando (still learning).
I'm still learning that it's not my way or the highway, but a reminder that my job in life is to be the observer on deck and not the captain steering the ship. For a long time, I believed the world didn't turn without me running the streets in the circular pattern. The sun wouldn't rise if I hadn't set the alarm. I guess I'm sort of alarmed out and I've been feeling more happy as the understudy than having the need to jump onto every stage.
I guess if we think happiness is a pursuit, we'll never catch it. But if we sit down and take a look at the view (even if it is in a place we insisted was wrong), we may find that all the seats aren't so bad and maybe we'll even like what happens next.
NaPoWriMo #14
Absentee Landlord
We write letters to God
and God doesn’t answer
in words, but in blue jays
and bullfrogs, in hummingbird
beaks. We are spinning
our wings and hungry.
What God doesn’t say is
Humvees attract the ladies,
Gimme gimme more, gimme more
and it’s not enough.
God says through the daffodils,
Allergy season is three weeks away.
Your father died and you still feel
that pain. We write our wills
so others can care for our cast-offs,
the burden of being
young and alive in small spaces.
No one wants the ceramic
Dalmatian. No one wants
years of the soap on a rope.
We donate to charities.
We don’t eat for weeks
after we lose our opening act,
the comedian in the wide tie
who liked to drink scotch
before his routine. Our bodies
grow up and out, we see
veins in our reflections.
We finger prayers, a steamy
bathroom mirror and they drip
into the sink. There’s no room
for new towel rack, our shelves
spill with pills, razors speak
in a whisper: Come here.
We fill storage units with linens,
an old headboard, but what we need
is sleep, what we need is the squawk
of a blue jay to wake us up.
We write letters to God
and God doesn’t answer
in words, but in blue jays
and bullfrogs, in hummingbird
beaks. We are spinning
our wings and hungry.
What God doesn’t say is
Humvees attract the ladies,
Gimme gimme more, gimme more
and it’s not enough.
God says through the daffodils,
Allergy season is three weeks away.
Your father died and you still feel
that pain. We write our wills
so others can care for our cast-offs,
the burden of being
young and alive in small spaces.
No one wants the ceramic
Dalmatian. No one wants
years of the soap on a rope.
We donate to charities.
We don’t eat for weeks
after we lose our opening act,
the comedian in the wide tie
who liked to drink scotch
before his routine. Our bodies
grow up and out, we see
veins in our reflections.
We finger prayers, a steamy
bathroom mirror and they drip
into the sink. There’s no room
for new towel rack, our shelves
spill with pills, razors speak
in a whisper: Come here.
We fill storage units with linens,
an old headboard, but what we need
is sleep, what we need is the squawk
of a blue jay to wake us up.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
NaPoWriMo Lucky 13
Writing Prompt for anyone interested--
Find a recipe with an interesting name and incorporate parts of the recipe into your poem.
She Adds a Dash of Cumin to Lucky Pea Soup
She dices the peppers. Thirty-nine
degrees and falling. Last night, her birthday
and the woman she was raised her pen
to the moon to crossed out another year,
wrote loss. She sees her body in the curve
of the letters and not the words.
She sees the letters she never wrote
in the chili powder. She places bacon
in the skillet and the pop of grease
surprises her, a celebration of heat.
She cannot tell you why she cried
in spice aisle of the grocery store,
why she turned away when she saw a friend
she knew. It’s easier to suffer alone,
with a cold night and diced tomatoes.
It’s easier to suffer when moonlight
is your best lighting, when the fine lines
only appear near the window.
She cannot imagine her lifespan
without black-eyed peas, without
someone to share them with.
She knows her husband will return soon.
She knows she cannot push away sadness.
She adds a dash of cumin because it keeps
the chickens and lovers from straying.
She stirs together what she’s mixed.
* * * * *
LUCKY PEA SOUP
INGREDIENTS
· 4 slices bacon
· 1 green bell pepper, chopped
· 1 small onion, chopped
· 2 (15 ounce) cans black-eyed peas, undrained
· 2 (14.5 ounce) cans diced tomatoes, undrained
· 1 cup water
· 1 1/2 teaspoons salt
· 1 1/4 teaspoons cumin
· 1 1/4 teaspoons dry mustard
· 1 teaspoon chili powder
· 1/2 teaspoon curry powder
· 1/2 teaspoon pepper
· 1/2 teaspoon sugar
DIRECTIONS
1. Place the bacon in a skillet and cook over medium-high heat until crisp and evenly brown. Drain on paper towels. When cool, crumble into small pieces.
2. Using the same skillet, add the peppers and onion; stir and cook over medium-high heat until transparent and tender, about 5 minutes.
3. Pour the black beans, tomatoes, and water into a large pot. Stir in the peppers, onion, salt, cumin, dry mustard, chili powder, curry powder, pepper, and sugar. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium, cover, and simmer 20 to 25 minutes. Serve hot sprinkled with bacon, and other toppings of your choice.
Find a recipe with an interesting name and incorporate parts of the recipe into your poem.
She Adds a Dash of Cumin to Lucky Pea Soup
She dices the peppers. Thirty-nine
degrees and falling. Last night, her birthday
and the woman she was raised her pen
to the moon to crossed out another year,
wrote loss. She sees her body in the curve
of the letters and not the words.
She sees the letters she never wrote
in the chili powder. She places bacon
in the skillet and the pop of grease
surprises her, a celebration of heat.
She cannot tell you why she cried
in spice aisle of the grocery store,
why she turned away when she saw a friend
she knew. It’s easier to suffer alone,
with a cold night and diced tomatoes.
It’s easier to suffer when moonlight
is your best lighting, when the fine lines
only appear near the window.
She cannot imagine her lifespan
without black-eyed peas, without
someone to share them with.
She knows her husband will return soon.
She knows she cannot push away sadness.
She adds a dash of cumin because it keeps
the chickens and lovers from straying.
She stirs together what she’s mixed.
* * * * *
LUCKY PEA SOUP
INGREDIENTS
· 4 slices bacon
· 1 green bell pepper, chopped
· 1 small onion, chopped
· 2 (15 ounce) cans black-eyed peas, undrained
· 2 (14.5 ounce) cans diced tomatoes, undrained
· 1 cup water
· 1 1/2 teaspoons salt
· 1 1/4 teaspoons cumin
· 1 1/4 teaspoons dry mustard
· 1 teaspoon chili powder
· 1/2 teaspoon curry powder
· 1/2 teaspoon pepper
· 1/2 teaspoon sugar
DIRECTIONS
1. Place the bacon in a skillet and cook over medium-high heat until crisp and evenly brown. Drain on paper towels. When cool, crumble into small pieces.
2. Using the same skillet, add the peppers and onion; stir and cook over medium-high heat until transparent and tender, about 5 minutes.
3. Pour the black beans, tomatoes, and water into a large pot. Stir in the peppers, onion, salt, cumin, dry mustard, chili powder, curry powder, pepper, and sugar. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium, cover, and simmer 20 to 25 minutes. Serve hot sprinkled with bacon, and other toppings of your choice.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
NapoWriMo#12
Into You
Because ruin is another way to say
new beginning and stallions always appear
at sundown, I let day end without applause,
without feeling as if the downward spiral
has become my walk-in closet and I am searching
for my stilettos, the pair I wore in college.
Occasionally, ruin reminds me that life
sometimes writes in sloppy handwriting
though I prefer neatly typed. F*O*R
*G*I*V*E. There are birds I will never know
the name of and mistakes whose anatomy I will sketch
on my skin until I can’t remember, can’t forget
the moment in Mexico, I jumped and strangers
caught me, silver bangles sliding off my wrists
as they set me down. Five miles later, I found
the man selling silver fish bracelets and he held
my hand until sunset. Because ruin spells out
R-U in? I speak in tongues and walk
the other direction. That downward spiral
makes a nice bracelet. I accessorize disaster
and that man who stood a little too close?
He left at midnight, a satellite behind a cloud,
though he typed me a note in the sand—
Are you ready to forgive me? And the waves
washed over it. And the waves washed me away.
Because ruin is another way to say
new beginning and stallions always appear
at sundown, I let day end without applause,
without feeling as if the downward spiral
has become my walk-in closet and I am searching
for my stilettos, the pair I wore in college.
Occasionally, ruin reminds me that life
sometimes writes in sloppy handwriting
though I prefer neatly typed. F*O*R
*G*I*V*E. There are birds I will never know
the name of and mistakes whose anatomy I will sketch
on my skin until I can’t remember, can’t forget
the moment in Mexico, I jumped and strangers
caught me, silver bangles sliding off my wrists
as they set me down. Five miles later, I found
the man selling silver fish bracelets and he held
my hand until sunset. Because ruin spells out
R-U in? I speak in tongues and walk
the other direction. That downward spiral
makes a nice bracelet. I accessorize disaster
and that man who stood a little too close?
He left at midnight, a satellite behind a cloud,
though he typed me a note in the sand—
Are you ready to forgive me? And the waves
washed over it. And the waves washed me away.
NaPoWriMo #11
Oops, wrote this, but forgot to post this.
The Day They Drank Sangria
I.
After Sangria the alphabet became a blanket
between us. We spoke in clinking, in constant
chatter of an hourglass, the language of gender
disrupting our meal. If we could stay simple, say—
eggplant and caramelized onions on flatbread,
finding the Dalai Lama blessing Seattle,
goldfinches on a gray day. We raised our glasses in
hope and compassion, wiped our table of fear.
II.
In a world where our questions are answered
just to keep us quiet, we slam our glasses on the table,
karma to the faithful, confusion to the rest, we
listen to the language of las sirenas, the thirsty fruit
meshed with drink. All day women appeared with
nothing on—not resentment, not fear—and we wondered
over again if we had wandered into a
parallel universe where everything equaled beauty. We
questioned and we questioned again.
III.
Remember when the waitress returned with nothing?
She asked if we loved the swollen fruit and we
thought she believed our tongues could no longer speak.
Understand, we are gods with large vocabularies,
vocal and ready to sing. Understand we are ready to
win back the words used against us—bitch, cunt—
X-out the politicians who let them slide from their mouths.
Yes we are angry, but we’re organized, and we’ll choose
zest over milquetoast. We’ll choose what we want to give away.
The Day They Drank Sangria
I.
After Sangria the alphabet became a blanket
between us. We spoke in clinking, in constant
chatter of an hourglass, the language of gender
disrupting our meal. If we could stay simple, say—
eggplant and caramelized onions on flatbread,
finding the Dalai Lama blessing Seattle,
goldfinches on a gray day. We raised our glasses in
hope and compassion, wiped our table of fear.
II.
In a world where our questions are answered
just to keep us quiet, we slam our glasses on the table,
karma to the faithful, confusion to the rest, we
listen to the language of las sirenas, the thirsty fruit
meshed with drink. All day women appeared with
nothing on—not resentment, not fear—and we wondered
over again if we had wandered into a
parallel universe where everything equaled beauty. We
questioned and we questioned again.
III.
Remember when the waitress returned with nothing?
She asked if we loved the swollen fruit and we
thought she believed our tongues could no longer speak.
Understand, we are gods with large vocabularies,
vocal and ready to sing. Understand we are ready to
win back the words used against us—bitch, cunt—
X-out the politicians who let them slide from their mouths.
Yes we are angry, but we’re organized, and we’ll choose
zest over milquetoast. We’ll choose what we want to give away.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
NaPoWriMo #10
Assignment:
Write a poem (or sonnet) for someone who is alive.
This one is a little on the sentimental side, but a poem for the day and a poem for my mum (who will think it's perfect).
Poem for My Mother Before She Dies
You ask me to write you a poem now and
not wait until you die and all day I’ve
tried to put you in a poem, sonnet
to sestina, find motherhood in strict
language, but what is motherhood except
the broken bricks a daughter walks across,
not words, but a stitch sewn into the chest.
How can I give thanks immense enough?
You’re the beaded purse holding everything
I need, the neighborhood I never left.
So here’s a poem to living, to Sunnyside,
to this afternoon you visited, said
Please don’t wait until I die. I waved
as you drove away, watchful as a child.
Write a poem (or sonnet) for someone who is alive.
This one is a little on the sentimental side, but a poem for the day and a poem for my mum (who will think it's perfect).
Poem for My Mother Before She Dies
You ask me to write you a poem now and
not wait until you die and all day I’ve
tried to put you in a poem, sonnet
to sestina, find motherhood in strict
language, but what is motherhood except
the broken bricks a daughter walks across,
not words, but a stitch sewn into the chest.
How can I give thanks immense enough?
You’re the beaded purse holding everything
I need, the neighborhood I never left.
So here’s a poem to living, to Sunnyside,
to this afternoon you visited, said
Please don’t wait until I die. I waved
as you drove away, watchful as a child.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
NaPoWriMo Number 9, Number 9, Number 9
Writing Assignment: - Choose one word and learn everything you can about it (song/movie/book references, its history, its origin, etc), then write a poem about it.
Some Better Place
When I say crazy is a bird spinning over my head,
you tell me it’s just peri-menopause, the war,
it’s living in a small town with so many trampolines.
I find crazy in the dictionary—
the act of obsession, brainsick, unsound,
bizarre or fantastic, extremely impractical.
You say there are better places to look for crazy.
You say: high school, post office, mirror.
I remind you, unbelievable things happen
because of crazy, like the man who followed me
through a downtown street saying he wanted to kill me
with kindness, handed me a fifty, and disappeared.
You call strangers with cash a miracle, but I believe
all humans are gods with different wallet sizes, gods who live
for funerals, for fury, for free meals at Sizzler.
When I say crazy is doing the same thing over and over
again and expecting a different outcome, you say, Repeat that.
Yes, I say, I’m going, I’m almost, destined for crazy.
You say, Would you like me to seduce you?
Is that what you’re trying to tell me?
We break bread with no crust, clink glasses of plastic.
I tell if you if I could choose my own last name it would be
Robinson or Springsteen. You say you’d just go by Seal.
We listen to Patsy Cline and I admit I’m the crazy bird
spinning in my own head and you say you’re thankful
for my breakdowns, it gives you some time to rest.
Note: Title from Shakespeare’s Henry VI, “…some better place, Fitter for sickness and for crazy age…”
Some Better Place
When I say crazy is a bird spinning over my head,
you tell me it’s just peri-menopause, the war,
it’s living in a small town with so many trampolines.
I find crazy in the dictionary—
the act of obsession, brainsick, unsound,
bizarre or fantastic, extremely impractical.
You say there are better places to look for crazy.
You say: high school, post office, mirror.
I remind you, unbelievable things happen
because of crazy, like the man who followed me
through a downtown street saying he wanted to kill me
with kindness, handed me a fifty, and disappeared.
You call strangers with cash a miracle, but I believe
all humans are gods with different wallet sizes, gods who live
for funerals, for fury, for free meals at Sizzler.
When I say crazy is doing the same thing over and over
again and expecting a different outcome, you say, Repeat that.
Yes, I say, I’m going, I’m almost, destined for crazy.
You say, Would you like me to seduce you?
Is that what you’re trying to tell me?
We break bread with no crust, clink glasses of plastic.
I tell if you if I could choose my own last name it would be
Robinson or Springsteen. You say you’d just go by Seal.
We listen to Patsy Cline and I admit I’m the crazy bird
spinning in my own head and you say you’re thankful
for my breakdowns, it gives you some time to rest.
Note: Title from Shakespeare’s Henry VI, “…some better place, Fitter for sickness and for crazy age…”
Coal Hill Review & Nancy Pagh
I have a poem featured here at COAL HILL REVIEW, an online journal published by Autumn House Press.
Autumn House Press is a fantastic press that recently published a great book of poems NO SWEETER FAT by a friend of mine, Nancy Pagh.
And while I was trying to google a poem by her, I found this interview with her where you can actually hear her reading her incredible work via internet. So listen for yourself, she's fantastic.
Autumn House Press is a fantastic press that recently published a great book of poems NO SWEETER FAT by a friend of mine, Nancy Pagh.
And while I was trying to google a poem by her, I found this interview with her where you can actually hear her reading her incredible work via internet. So listen for yourself, she's fantastic.
Tuesday Thoughts
Last night I dreamed I had found the perfect name for my manuscript. I was so excited I wrote it down in my red beaded notebook and I was going email a few friends knowing that they would love this more than anything. Now it's morning and I'm awake and I cannot recall the perfect title. I can recall the excitement, the notebook, the shadow of the words (I can *almost* read them in my mind), but it's lost.
* *
I did my Tuesday confessions last night and I realize I like my morning confessions better as they don't carry the weight of the day.
* *
The shoe thing-- Okay, it's been truly interesting to a nerd like me to hear where and when people take off their shoes and where they don't. I know some people don't like whatever germs are on someone's shoes wandering through their homes, others are more worried about the rug. All summer, we track in sand from the beach in the house and fall/wtr is all wet muddy stuff, I tend to take off my shoes just for the convenience of not wanting to sweep later.
A few years ago I ordered this from Pottery Barn (see photo below) to have right by the front door (because our shoes were always everywhere) and it's one of my very favorite things. When my family leaves their shoes, hats, iPods anywhere near the door, they magically disappear into these wicker bins. Oh, remember the world before we had bins for everything, before the Container Store? I don't.
We have hardwood floors, but I take off my shoes in preference of slippers.
Maybe I should be mapping this. Maybe instead of red and blue states we should have shoeless and shoe state. Maybe we all just own too many shoes. No, never too many shoes.
* *
I did my Tuesday confessions last night and I realize I like my morning confessions better as they don't carry the weight of the day.
* *
The shoe thing-- Okay, it's been truly interesting to a nerd like me to hear where and when people take off their shoes and where they don't. I know some people don't like whatever germs are on someone's shoes wandering through their homes, others are more worried about the rug. All summer, we track in sand from the beach in the house and fall/wtr is all wet muddy stuff, I tend to take off my shoes just for the convenience of not wanting to sweep later.
A few years ago I ordered this from Pottery Barn (see photo below) to have right by the front door (because our shoes were always everywhere) and it's one of my very favorite things. When my family leaves their shoes, hats, iPods anywhere near the door, they magically disappear into these wicker bins. Oh, remember the world before we had bins for everything, before the Container Store? I don't.
We have hardwood floors, but I take off my shoes in preference of slippers.
Maybe I should be mapping this. Maybe instead of red and blue states we should have shoeless and shoe state. Maybe we all just own too many shoes. No, never too many shoes.
Confession Tuesday
Forgive me Reader, blah blah sin, blah blah good girl, blah blah forgive, forget, forgotten, blah, blah, when you call my name it's a like a little prayer, I'm down on my knees, I want to take you there... Wait, where am I? Blah blah let's begin--
Today's confessions--
1) I have 7 unread Facebook messages. This is similar to me having 6 unlistened to cellphone messages, and 3 unread emails. Forgive me reader, I missed you and time is a slippery cat running from the bathtub. I will read them and listen to them, but I'm slothlike sometimes (but I am thinking of you). I am more slothlike in April as it seems all I do is trot around in my bedroom slippers from poem to unwritten poem.
2) My 7 year old boy sense of humor (as well as my gift to laugh at inappropriate times) kicked in yesterday at a poetry reading. The poet was reading something about an abstract painting and instead of saying, "I looked in and saw her beauty," he read, "I looked in and saw her booty," to which my mind immediately said, "Really?" And I burst inside with laughter. He tried to correct booty to beauty, but it had already been said (I laughed again as I typed this.) Since it was a casual gathering many others (who must also have a 7 year old boy sense of humor) giggled as well and the friend next to me said, "I like his Freudian slip better." Overall, it was one of my favorite moments of the reading.
3) The poetry reading I went to was a local annual event held at a favorite Mexican restaurant. They had made a DVD of some of the favorite moments over the last 20 some years and I learned that not only was I in the movie, but my daughter was as well at 7 months old. I had forgotten I had brought her to the reading and held her while I read. (How had I forgotten that?!)
Watching the clip of her at 7 months while I read poetry holding her both warms my heart, but also makes me ache for days that have passed. I feel that much of life these days is in a constant struggle with moving forward and wanting to swandive into the past eight years and soak it up. It made me slow down and look at what I have around me and say thanks. I confess I fall in love with moments that I know will never come again. I confess I fall hard, and fall often.
4) Last night I wore a football jersey from my high school to bed. It somehow got tucked into my armoire with my pjs and camisoles. It wasn't an old boyfriend's or even belonged to anyone I knew, it was just something I grabbed from a box of extras when I learned in my junior year that they were closing my high school. It's just something I never bothered to throw out.
I don't really know how 21 years have gone by since my HS graduation or how the fine lines have gradually become part of my eyes, or why lately the past has seemed to be dropping itself on my doorstep and ringing the bell. Maybe there are times when our minds may need to try to remember. Maybe there are times our minds just needs to try to forget.
5) I amaze myself with my mistakes (my favorite mistakes) and how with every day I continue to learn something new. I remember this line from (of all places) Pretty Woman-- Edward Lewis: It's just that, uh, very few people surprise me. Vivian: Yeah, well, you're lucky. Most of 'em shock the hell outta me. --
As a child, I always thought adults had it all figured out. Who would have thought everyone's as screwed up as everyone else? I think it's just that some hide it better. Who knew.
Monday, April 07, 2008
NaPoWriMo #8
Soft Spot
What if I told you I’m nostalgic
for five minutes ago, for the how it was,
not the how it is?
What if I said sometimes I miss the scent of clove
cigarettes, the cuff of your overcoat
heavy with smoke?
Truth be told
not so much anymore, but a slouch
of memory, the pages
of fresh orange juice on a beach I don’t know
the name of, the Grateful Dead tie you wore to the play.
I don’t remember the play, but the man
who sat in front of me, a redhead with moss green eyes.
What if I told you much of what I remember
is garbled and lost, my life
a cassette knotted and tied?
I’ve never been good at making speeches (I remember this)
but the name Lenny Salsa lives in my mind,
though I can’t remember what he did.
Let me remind you, your grin is the only gun
you ever need, my favorite murder with teeth.
Tell me something I won’t choke on.
Tell me with the lights cut out. With sesame oil
on your palms, with another moment I’ll probably,
hopelessly, forget.
What if I told you I’m nostalgic
for five minutes ago, for the how it was,
not the how it is?
What if I said sometimes I miss the scent of clove
cigarettes, the cuff of your overcoat
heavy with smoke?
Truth be told
not so much anymore, but a slouch
of memory, the pages
of fresh orange juice on a beach I don’t know
the name of, the Grateful Dead tie you wore to the play.
I don’t remember the play, but the man
who sat in front of me, a redhead with moss green eyes.
What if I told you much of what I remember
is garbled and lost, my life
a cassette knotted and tied?
I’ve never been good at making speeches (I remember this)
but the name Lenny Salsa lives in my mind,
though I can’t remember what he did.
Let me remind you, your grin is the only gun
you ever need, my favorite murder with teeth.
Tell me something I won’t choke on.
Tell me with the lights cut out. With sesame oil
on your palms, with another moment I’ll probably,
hopelessly, forget.
Is this just a Northwest thing?
I realized that people now take off their shoes whenever entering someone else's home. I hadn't realized how accustomed I've become to this practice, but I do it without even thinking now. (We always take our shoes off in our house as well.)
I never did this as a child, but now it seems to be common practice. So my question is -- Is this a NW thing or do you do this in your part of the world?
NaPoWriMo #7
Closet of Forgotten Birds
She says her therapist has become her
father, he wants so much for me.
She’s begun to speak to please him.
She says she’s leaving
her abusive boyfriend, finding a life
where her windows have lace curtains.
She says she’s afraid she’ll let down
her therapist. She knows his favorite ties
and that his shoes are double-knotted.
Sometimes when she is shopping for her
boyfriend, she finds a tie covered with birds.
She says her therapist sometimes gazes
out the window and she believes he’s watching
the robins drunk on summer stumble
from limb to limb. He told her memories
are gifts we can choose not to open.
He said, Take the gifts you don’t want
and place them in the back of your mind.
They will disappear as you allow the space
to disregard them. She says sometimes
when she awakes in the morning
the memories she’s tried to store
in the closet of disappearing come
tumbling out and unwrap themselves
to reveal all she’s tried to forget.
She says her therapist has become her
father, he wants so much for me.
She’s begun to speak to please him.
She says she’s leaving
her abusive boyfriend, finding a life
where her windows have lace curtains.
She says she’s afraid she’ll let down
her therapist. She knows his favorite ties
and that his shoes are double-knotted.
Sometimes when she is shopping for her
boyfriend, she finds a tie covered with birds.
She says her therapist sometimes gazes
out the window and she believes he’s watching
the robins drunk on summer stumble
from limb to limb. He told her memories
are gifts we can choose not to open.
He said, Take the gifts you don’t want
and place them in the back of your mind.
They will disappear as you allow the space
to disregard them. She says sometimes
when she awakes in the morning
the memories she’s tried to store
in the closet of disappearing come
tumbling out and unwrap themselves
to reveal all she’s tried to forget.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Nin Andrews and her Expensive Words
I just read this by Nin Andrews on the Best American Poetry blog and it's wonderful. Make sure to go over and check it out.
*
I find it fascinating how some words (aka "bad words") are worth more than other words. If you speak them, you pay.
Now, I could write some expensive poetry. We all could.
*
I find it fascinating how some words (aka "bad words") are worth more than other words. If you speak them, you pay.
Now, I could write some expensive poetry. We all could.
Some thoughts on NaPoWriMo
So, we're on day 6 of writing a poem a day for National Poetry Month.
Here are some thoughts on the process --
1) First, I have to be honest, I've been writing a poem a day since St. Patty's day with about 6 other poets, so by the time April 1st rolled around, I actually felt a little "warmed up" to the process. If I do this again next year (which I'm guessing I will), I will probably start on St. Patrick's day again as I like the extra time to get me moving (this is similar to me starting a New Year's Resolution a few days before New Year's just to get a head start. I know, I'm such a Capricorn).
2) It's not easy for me to post these poems on my blog. They are new and fresh and pretty much unrevised. In a way it's like posting my arteries on my blog and hoping no one points out the plaquey build-up.
3) The revision process-- I am a huge believer and fan of revision. I've never been from the Allen Ginsberg school of "First thought, best thought" (though those of you who are quite familiar with Ginsberg's work will know that he was always revising especially with "HOWL" (which he spent at least a year revising). However, there is a certain energy that first drafts of poems have the trick is to revise without losing that spark.
4) The poems I've posted on my blog have been revised slightly, but not enough for me to consider them ready to send out to the world. For that to happen, I need to sit with the poems awhile, continue revising them and make sure they are smart and pretty babies on their own because many times I just love them because I'm their mother.
5) What I've been learning-- Since it's baseball season again, let's talk poetry as a sport. I've learned the more I warm up and practice at writing, the better I am. I learn that the more I sit down dedicatedly (my word) to write a poem, the easier they come and the better prepared I am for the moment. Just as a baseball player practices and doesn't just show up on the field expecting a homerun, I've noticed that writing each day can produce a similar effect--there are more home runs and less strike outs when I show up. Of course, some of this comes back to quantity, if I write more, the more I have to choose from when I revise.
6) I've learned sometimes when I think there isn't a poem anywhere near me, there is. I've learned that poems sometimes come from thin air. Like The Midnight Disease, as I look back on that poem, I have no idea where it came from. Where was I pulling these images from? How did I move from line to line? I have no idea. It was written from the place of "flow," that timeless place where you're writing and clocks stop.
7) Of all the poems I've written (all 6), I like The Midnight Disease best.
8) I appreciate your notes and good words on my poems when I post them. It keeps me going. So thank you for the energy to write another one and keep posting.
NaPoWriMo #6
Goodbye Stranger
When I said there must be another way,
she said sunrise is sunrise is sunrise.
She said wait. She said stop.
When I said I’ve never understood the truth,
she said listen to starshine, listen to Supertramp.
She said there are a million of us all with the fear
of being average, all singing in the shower,
all making acceptance speeches with the hairbrush.
What she didn’t say was never. What she didn’t say
was melody. Thankful curbstone. Russian thistle
growing through the fence. There must be another
way to say the sunrise never equals itself,
that truth depends on a moment. I have waited
for people who never showed up, for old boyfriends
who promised to return. I have stopped believing
in doorbells, in the scent of homecoming. I stopped
believing there must be another way,
that technology = better. Each morning we read
each other our horoscopes. Hers said, Trust is not
a trivial manner & an invitation is coming your way.
What mine didn’t say: There’s a Grammy
with your name on it. There’s a curbstone that trusts
your butt. And the faces that never returned,
they’re quiet, but they think of you often.
When I said there must be another way,
she said sunrise is sunrise is sunrise.
She said wait. She said stop.
When I said I’ve never understood the truth,
she said listen to starshine, listen to Supertramp.
She said there are a million of us all with the fear
of being average, all singing in the shower,
all making acceptance speeches with the hairbrush.
What she didn’t say was never. What she didn’t say
was melody. Thankful curbstone. Russian thistle
growing through the fence. There must be another
way to say the sunrise never equals itself,
that truth depends on a moment. I have waited
for people who never showed up, for old boyfriends
who promised to return. I have stopped believing
in doorbells, in the scent of homecoming. I stopped
believing there must be another way,
that technology = better. Each morning we read
each other our horoscopes. Hers said, Trust is not
a trivial manner & an invitation is coming your way.
What mine didn’t say: There’s a Grammy
with your name on it. There’s a curbstone that trusts
your butt. And the faces that never returned,
they’re quiet, but they think of you often.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
New Kids on the Block / Middle Age Men on the Prowl
Okay, this is completely off topic with anything in your lives (I'm sure of this), but did you hear about this reunion? I just did. It made me laugh just on the idea the fact they were keeping their name. Maybe they'll go by NKOTB instead. The other funny thing was that I have all my boy bands confused--New Kids, 98 Degrees, Backstreet Boys--until these photos I really have no idea who was in what group. (Of course, my favorite boy band was Boys To Men...--Ronnie, Bobby, Ricky & Mike, if I like a girl, who cares who you like...)
Anyhoo, for some reason I thought I was much older than the New Kids on the Block when they came out with their songs (I think I was starting college), but apparently, I'm the same age of them. They now range in age from 35-39. But I was interested in their "before/after" photos. The first one is from the 80's (obviously. as if you couldn't tell by the big hair, bright colors, and the redhead trying to look "fierce" with a skull and crossbones on his arm--newsflash 2008: little girls in second grade wear skull and crossbones on their shirts now, but back then it was considered edgy...as must have been the pirate's sash across his head and Miley Cyrus pout.)
Now, here they are today in 2008. (see photo below)
Anyhoo, for some reason I thought I was much older than the New Kids on the Block when they came out with their songs (I think I was starting college), but apparently, I'm the same age of them. They now range in age from 35-39. But I was interested in their "before/after" photos. The first one is from the 80's (obviously. as if you couldn't tell by the big hair, bright colors, and the redhead trying to look "fierce" with a skull and crossbones on his arm--newsflash 2008: little girls in second grade wear skull and crossbones on their shirts now, but back then it was considered edgy...as must have been the pirate's sash across his head and Miley Cyrus pout.)
Now, here they are today in 2008. (see photo below)
Obviously, they can afford nicer clothes, but this could easily be an ad for mortgage lenders and the guy in the center looks so much like David Caruso I keep thinking this is a promo for CSI.
But here's the thing, I want them to do well. I had zero of their albums, have no idea of their names except I'm pretty sure one is a Wahlberg, but I hope this album turns out to be a good one. It's sort of strange them coming back after so many years, sort of like missing your 10 year high school reunion then showing up at your 20th reunion in nice suits ready to sing and well, I'm listening. Though I do hope they change their name, at least slightly...
NaPoWriMo #5
This poem comes with a warning for those who love lambs. If you love lambs, read no further.
April Rituals
Spring is the ache that won’t stop playing,
loopy tulips and yellow trumpets,
the sounds of birds speaking in a dozen languages.
My yard shouts in clematis, in pink
rhododendron leaning into the porch.
I’ve had eleven years of this mess we’ve named
springtime. Eleven years of buttercups
traveling under soil to appear and capture
the forget-me-knots. Eleven years of the fig tree
growing too large, for the hiss of a neighbor
trying to shoo branches out of his yard.
I trust the dormancy of winter, not the birth
of spring with its young lambs frolicking
behind the neighbor’s gate. They do not know
that soon two men will come for them,
It’s all very ritualistic, my neighbor says.
The men pray before they kill their food. I just wait
for rain to come, to wash what is left of the blood away.
April Rituals
Spring is the ache that won’t stop playing,
loopy tulips and yellow trumpets,
the sounds of birds speaking in a dozen languages.
My yard shouts in clematis, in pink
rhododendron leaning into the porch.
I’ve had eleven years of this mess we’ve named
springtime. Eleven years of buttercups
traveling under soil to appear and capture
the forget-me-knots. Eleven years of the fig tree
growing too large, for the hiss of a neighbor
trying to shoo branches out of his yard.
I trust the dormancy of winter, not the birth
of spring with its young lambs frolicking
behind the neighbor’s gate. They do not know
that soon two men will come for them,
It’s all very ritualistic, my neighbor says.
The men pray before they kill their food. I just wait
for rain to come, to wash what is left of the blood away.
Inside the Lake Quinault Lodge
This is the area where you can find guests reading, playing chess, doing jigsaw puzzles, or choosing a game from the game cabinet. There's a great fireplace here and a happy woodsman as well.
Lake Quinault Lodge Rain gauge
Record is 15 feet of rain in one year.
Us? It rained the day we left. Hooray!
Where I've Been...
I spent spring break in the rainforest of Washington state in the cozy Lake Quinault Lodge. It's become our annual tradition to stay here each spring. It reminds of going back into time, the sort of vacation that might happen in the 1950's, like that resort in Dirty Dancing, minus the sleezy dance instructors.
This year, I was surprised to see they've added wi-fi (a complete no-no for years in the lodge) and a few of the Fireplace rooms now have TV. We stay in the boathouse which is just to the left in the photo and closest to the lake, because it's dog friendly. Also, this year, we were shocked to find our cellphones worked. Again, for years, I've used the payphone if I've needed to get in touch with the rest of the world.
(Note: Rebecca Wells wrote The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood here, I'm sure the no phone, TV, internet, was a reason she was able to concentrate.)
I felt a little sad that my lodge without any sort of connections to the outside world was no connected a little more. And maybe this is what people want, they don't want to leave everything behind on vacation anymore. Maybe they can't. I'm not sure.
But the trip was wonderful. We hiked the rainforest--though a huge number of the trails we've hiked before were closed because of that terrible November storm. There was an incredible amount of downed trees!
Our weather was perfection and in the General Store there was a map where you mark where you are from with pins, so while we dined on pizza we added "The State of Confusion" with a red pin.
If you ever get a chance to visit the Northwest and can take some time to disappear, I highly recommend the Lake Quinault Lodge in Washington State's Olympic National Forest.
Friday, April 04, 2008
NaPoWriMo #4
The Midnight Disease
At first she wrote to keep sleep (the lover
she only met at daybreak)near. But soon
she learned she only wanted him when
she could have him least, a relationship
of inconvenience, a math problem of
early hours. At first the woman wrote
to make insomnia productive,
instead of a night of empty pillows,
a night of untucked sheets, she would have
a notebook where words were her shadow,
headlights moving across the page. And when
she realized her lover appeared
on the page in pencilmarks, she took off
her robe and fell clearly into a dream.
****BTW, if you can think of a better/stronger word than "clearly" in the last line, please leave me a note. I'd appreciate it. (Oh, and if it could be 2 syllables, it's better.)
At first she wrote to keep sleep (the lover
she only met at daybreak)near. But soon
she learned she only wanted him when
she could have him least, a relationship
of inconvenience, a math problem of
early hours. At first the woman wrote
to make insomnia productive,
instead of a night of empty pillows,
a night of untucked sheets, she would have
a notebook where words were her shadow,
headlights moving across the page. And when
she realized her lover appeared
on the page in pencilmarks, she took off
her robe and fell clearly into a dream.
****BTW, if you can think of a better/stronger word than "clearly" in the last line, please leave me a note. I'd appreciate it. (Oh, and if it could be 2 syllables, it's better.)
Thursday, April 03, 2008
When the Amazon Gets Too Big
Articles:
Amazon Bullying Raises Monopoly and Business Concerns
http://www.bloggingstocks.com/2008/04/02/amazon-bullying-raises-monopoly-and-business-concerns/
By now, I'm guessing you've all heard about bigboy Amazon saying BookSurge or Bust, saying we are a greedy company who wants you to have fewer choices. Jeff Bezos, if that is not what you are saying, then speak clearly and make sure all POD presses are represented on your website because this is what I hear when I hear you try to control the marketplace and the publishing world with your "This is better for the customer speech."
It's disappointing as I have always been fan of Amazon given that it's a local business, but I'm truly disappointed.
So, poets, authors, readers, and anyone who doesn't like a bully, here are a few things you can do--
1) Buy from independent bookstores and by your books from www.booksense.com
2) Complain directly to Amazon.
Phone numbers and addresses for Amazon.com
http://www.amazon.com/contact-us
US-- 1-866-216-1072.
International customers can reach us at 1-206-266-2992.
Snail mail to customer service
Amazon.com, Inc.
Customer Service
PO Box 81226
Seattle, WA 98108-1226
Amazon.com Headquarters
Address: 1200 12th Ave., Ste. 1200
Seattle, WA 98144
Phone: (206) 266-1000
Fax: (206) 622-2405
CEO: Jeff Bezos
3) Call, write, or email the FTC to complain--
a.. Phone: (202) 326-3300
b.. Mail: Write to:
Office of Policy and Coordination
Room 383
Bureau of Competition
Federal Trade Commission
600 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW
Washington, DC 20580
c.. Email: antitrust@ftc.gov (Note: Email is not secure. Mark confidential information "Confidential" and send it via postal mail.)/04/02/amazon-bullying-raises-monopoly-and-business-concerns/">
4) Boycott Amazon and shop elsewhere.
Vote with your pocketbook.
Amazon Bullying Raises Monopoly and Business Concerns
http://www.bloggingstocks.com/2008/04/02/amazon-bullying-raises-monopoly-and-business-concerns/
By now, I'm guessing you've all heard about bigboy Amazon saying BookSurge or Bust, saying we are a greedy company who wants you to have fewer choices. Jeff Bezos, if that is not what you are saying, then speak clearly and make sure all POD presses are represented on your website because this is what I hear when I hear you try to control the marketplace and the publishing world with your "This is better for the customer speech."
It's disappointing as I have always been fan of Amazon given that it's a local business, but I'm truly disappointed.
So, poets, authors, readers, and anyone who doesn't like a bully, here are a few things you can do--
1) Buy from independent bookstores and by your books from www.booksense.com
2) Complain directly to Amazon.
Phone numbers and addresses for Amazon.com
http://www.amazon.com/contact-us
US-- 1-866-216-1072.
International customers can reach us at 1-206-266-2992.
Snail mail to customer service
Amazon.com, Inc.
Customer Service
PO Box 81226
Seattle, WA 98108-1226
Amazon.com Headquarters
Address: 1200 12th Ave., Ste. 1200
Seattle, WA 98144
Phone: (206) 266-1000
Fax: (206) 622-2405
CEO: Jeff Bezos
3) Call, write, or email the FTC to complain--
a.. Phone: (202) 326-3300
b.. Mail: Write to:
Office of Policy and Coordination
Room 383
Bureau of Competition
Federal Trade Commission
600 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW
Washington, DC 20580
c.. Email: antitrust@ftc.gov (Note: Email is not secure. Mark confidential information "Confidential" and send it via postal mail.)/04/02/amazon-bullying-raises-monopoly-and-business-concerns/">
4) Boycott Amazon and shop elsewhere.
Vote with your pocketbook.
NaPoWriMo #3
Little Fly
Mosquitoes buzz and I am in love
with their orchestra of wings. Give me
West Nile for the price of a concerto.
Give me the bite and itch of summer
for the sound of humming in the evening sky.
Mosquitoes buzz and I am in love
with their orchestra of wings. Give me
West Nile for the price of a concerto.
Give me the bite and itch of summer
for the sound of humming in the evening sky.
NaPoWriMo #2
You
I am searching for you, the you
from love songs, the perfect you,
not the flawed him or her, the unlovable
me, but the exactly-what-I-want you,
the you floribunda, the you
of finely trimmed boxwoods.
I have listened to a deep echo sing
about you and who I want, the you
who makes love in a rainstorm,
not the you who refuses to take off
his socks. Give me the you dressed
as a sonneteer, arriving with an armful
of fresh roses, the jewel box you, the saint.
How often have I thought I’ve found you,
but who I’ve found is the burnt meringue,
the stale sourdough, the half-filled cup
of coffee left on the kitchen counter.
Who is this you? The you that never has song,
the you whose perfection lives in a coffin-
shaped bed, who is charming underwater,
who broke the faucet then walked away.
I am searching for you, the you
from love songs, the perfect you,
not the flawed him or her, the unlovable
me, but the exactly-what-I-want you,
the you floribunda, the you
of finely trimmed boxwoods.
I have listened to a deep echo sing
about you and who I want, the you
who makes love in a rainstorm,
not the you who refuses to take off
his socks. Give me the you dressed
as a sonneteer, arriving with an armful
of fresh roses, the jewel box you, the saint.
How often have I thought I’ve found you,
but who I’ve found is the burnt meringue,
the stale sourdough, the half-filled cup
of coffee left on the kitchen counter.
Who is this you? The you that never has song,
the you whose perfection lives in a coffin-
shaped bed, who is charming underwater,
who broke the faucet then walked away.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
True Confession Tuesday
Dear reader, it's been 7 hours since I last confessed and since I have a little time, I thought I'd give you real truth reader and not the gag reel version of confession. Though honestly, the gag reel version of my life is probably more interesting and a little more angry.
Since it is April's Fools day, I'll confess to the foolish things I do, think, say, and of course, laughter, which I can never have enough of.
To the confessional--
1) I laugh at inappropriate times. I am your worst guest at a funeral or church service, and don't get me started at weddings. I am the woman who first chuckles before I ask "Are you okay?" after you've fallen off a curb. It's been passed down generations. Even my 74 year old mother laughs when my 96 year old nana stumbles and even Nana can't resist saying "Hello Grace" when a relative trips into the room. I still laugh about the time at Easter Service when my mum sang two notes in front of everyone else, and we stood there in the service shaking because both of us could hardly keep our laughter contained.
And I'm passing on this trait to my daughter. I've seen her laugh hysterically when the boy in her preschool held the mop over her teacher's head during circle time. Or when another little boy knocked over the bookcase. I always wonder "Did I teach this?" or is just part of the evil French girl in us? The one who looks over her shoulder and smiles when the nun swears, the child drops her ice cream, or we are told to be quiet, very quiet. It is at these moments, we cannot stop laughing.
2) I no longer feel (as) guilty for laughing. In grad school, I did my critical paper on the use of humor in women's poetry and I read this feminist essay that said that people in power sometimes use laughter to control other people. For example, if a male boss says something stupid in a board meeting and a woman laughs, he might say, "That's not funny," to shame her and put her in her place. (A parent may do the same thing.) However, what many people were never told as kids is *it is funny and that is why you are laughing.* Now if anyone ever says that to you ("That's not funny"), you have a response, "Of course it is or I wouldn't be laughing."
3) I enjoy finding humor in my own inadequacies and faults. I also love it when I've criticized something (in my past or recently) only find myself doing it. For example, when I was in high school I used to call one of my friend's mom "the witch doctor" (in the most loving and respectful way) because she would dump out a purseload of vitamin supplements onto the table to start her day.
There were vitamins of all shapes and sizes. Horse pills and little ones. She was a walking medicine cabinet. Now at age 39, I have become the witch doctor (what I take? B-12, magnesium, ginkgo, fish oil, and vit d in the winter.) I even have a pill holder. I am my friend's mother except with a blue weekly pill holder. I'm the freaky mom in the natural store buying "Good Mood Tonic." Or lavender oil.
4) April Fool's Day in our home is almost as celebrated as 4th of July or Thanksgiving. Last year, I scotch-taped a giant spiderweb outside my daughter's bedroom door so when she opened her door she was trapped inside (um, she was 6 --she loved it though). Today, I've already had to make it down stairs through plastic snakes, frogs and spiders while she was served Cheerios with two drops of blue food dye. When she took her first bite, the milk, the cheerios all turned this wild blue. She's also had an icepack in her bed and numerous minor heart attacks from me jumping out from behind things.
This joke-fest will last the whole day. We already have pranks set up for my husband when he returns from work as well as for my mum (who is the easiest to trick). While I play the adult in real life, there is a part of me that still lives back as the eleven year old girl in 1980 who enjoyed putting saran wrap over toilet seat and pulling the breaker so our house was without lights.
5) And while I want to be the happy mom who lets everything roll off her back, sometimes I'm the mom that hears herself saying, "I just made that bed." And I want to cringe at that part of myself. I do cringe at that part of myself.
I try not to take myself so seriously, but sometimes I do. And I guess sometimes you have to.
But not today. No, today is a day of answering our phone, "Pizza Factory." Of kick me signs and strange things in strange places. And if I find myself feeling stressed or overwhelmed, I'll just kick up my magnesium, maybe take a little good mood tonic, because I'm freaky witch doctor mom who wears a crochet beret and doesn't consider it "her special hat" as my husband calls it. I've become every strange thing I saw in other moms-- scatterbrained, weird, frazzled, vitamin-happy, uncool, boring-- but I'm trying and happy, especially when people fall off chairs or lose control of their umbrellas in high winds. Just remember, I'm not laughing at you, but with you. Unless you're the president, then I'm laughing at you (or crying sadly in the corner), one or the other.
Happy April Fool's Day, poetrypeople.
NaPoWriMo #1
I have to tell you, it's sort of painful to post these so new. This is right out of the box and was written in a 20 minute spurt. But it counts as poem 1.
I won't be putting all my poems up for PoMo, but the occasional one will make its way in (then probably disappear later.)
Poem to Open National Poetry Month
This poem is bellbottoms and acid-wash denim.
It’s fat sideburns and long thin ties. This poem
shuffles its feet when I ask it to dance. Dumb poem
with its white picket fence, its eggplant trim.
This poem spoke loudly, coughed without covering
its mouth. I said “I need a poem for April, something
fantastic, in stilettos to start the month with a bang.”
The poem went into its closet and pulled out a wig
and a gun. This poem doesn’t work for peace,
it doesn’t pretend to know where it’s going. It’s the
path marked unknown, the stoner who plays pinochle,
the baby-back rib from Chili’s left on the plate.
No, this poem’s not a fairytale, or fable, or poem. Its
the moment of sleep when you turn out the lights.
I won't be putting all my poems up for PoMo, but the occasional one will make its way in (then probably disappear later.)
Poem to Open National Poetry Month
This poem is bellbottoms and acid-wash denim.
It’s fat sideburns and long thin ties. This poem
shuffles its feet when I ask it to dance. Dumb poem
with its white picket fence, its eggplant trim.
This poem spoke loudly, coughed without covering
its mouth. I said “I need a poem for April, something
fantastic, in stilettos to start the month with a bang.”
The poem went into its closet and pulled out a wig
and a gun. This poem doesn’t work for peace,
it doesn’t pretend to know where it’s going. It’s the
path marked unknown, the stoner who plays pinochle,
the baby-back rib from Chili’s left on the plate.
No, this poem’s not a fairytale, or fable, or poem. Its
the moment of sleep when you turn out the lights.
30 Writing Prompts for National Poetry Month
I listed these last year, they were from the Wompo Listserv but they are good prompts, so I thought I'd include them again this year.
NATIONAL POETRY MONTH: WRITE EVERY DAY!
1. Write a really ugly poem.
2. Quickly pick out 12 words from the titles of books on a nearby bookshelf. Use them in a poem.
3. Write a poem with an invented biography for yourself.
4. Take a 1-2 page poem from a book and re-type it backwards—from the very last word in the poem all the way to the very first, keeping the lines the same lengths as they are in the book. Use this as the starting point of a poem, picking out the word formations that are particularly interesting to you.
5. Write from the number six.
6. Write to your pain: "Dear Pad of My Thumb, Will you kindly stop hurting? It is very hard for me to stir a pot or write a poem when you hurt like this..."
7. Let your pain write back to you: "Dear Liesl, if you would lay off the text messaging and playing minesweeper it would help me a lot, then you can write your poem or stir pot...".
8. Write to your hurting country, city or community, as a variation on the theme. Take the dialogue as far as it goes, then distill the essence. See if you can arrive at a fresh insight about what ails you and yours.
9. Wow! You've been at this over a week straight! Let your hand draw an abstract shape. Write about it.
10. Speaking as a fortune teller, tell a fortune. The first line is: You will take a strange journey ...... Finish the prediction/forecast by describing the journey and giving instructions or advice or even warnings for the journey.
11. Write a poem of at least 40 lines that is a single sentence.
12. Take fairy tale and rewrite it from the viewpoint of another character. For example, use the wolf to tell the story of Little Red Riding Hood.
13. Write about a family secret.
14. Write an apostrophe to some abstraction (e.g., "To the End of the World" or "To My Birth").
15. Write about someone waiting for something.
16. Write about a color without naming the color—or its kin, e.g., no fair using "crimson" "scarlet" or "ruddy" instead of red.
17. Take any object out of your bag or pocket or purse. Speaking in first person AS THE OBJECT, answer the following questions (in any order): What is your favorite thing?
What are you scared of? What is your secret? What is your wish for the future?
18. Take someone else's poem and select one word per line, writing them out in a list.
Then write your own poem using these words in the same sequence, one per line.
19. Write 100 words (any kind of words) about your kitchen table.
20. Write a poem in which the form contradicts the content.
21. Write a piece at least 50 words long using only one-syllable words.
22. Take a common object, such as a flowerpot, boot or paperclip, and write about it as if you've never seen such a thing before (e.g., you're from the future and have just excavated it, or are from another planet).
23. Take the name of a favorite poet and anagram it. Use this to begin a poem.
24. Pick a word from today's headlines and write a definition poem for it.
25. Write the poem you cannot write.
26. What Work is For You: Write about a job you have had, whether you loathed it or loved it. Write from your own experience but go beyond the literal! Keep the poem in the present tense, and BE SURE THERE IS A PHYSICAL ACTION INVOLVED such as scrubbing floors, dissecting chickens, helping someone use the toilet. Keep your poem in couplets, tercets, quatrains, or sestets—your choice.
27. Write a poem in a received form in such a way that the form is concealed.
28. Imagine a drink or food dish that would bring you fully alive. Write the recipe.
29. Begin with, "This is not the last poem I will write…"
30. Elide (strike out) the Junk: Take a piece of junk mail and black out most of the words so that what remains is a poem.
NATIONAL POETRY MONTH: WRITE EVERY DAY!
1. Write a really ugly poem.
2. Quickly pick out 12 words from the titles of books on a nearby bookshelf. Use them in a poem.
3. Write a poem with an invented biography for yourself.
4. Take a 1-2 page poem from a book and re-type it backwards—from the very last word in the poem all the way to the very first, keeping the lines the same lengths as they are in the book. Use this as the starting point of a poem, picking out the word formations that are particularly interesting to you.
5. Write from the number six.
6. Write to your pain: "Dear Pad of My Thumb, Will you kindly stop hurting? It is very hard for me to stir a pot or write a poem when you hurt like this..."
7. Let your pain write back to you: "Dear Liesl, if you would lay off the text messaging and playing minesweeper it would help me a lot, then you can write your poem or stir pot...".
8. Write to your hurting country, city or community, as a variation on the theme. Take the dialogue as far as it goes, then distill the essence. See if you can arrive at a fresh insight about what ails you and yours.
9. Wow! You've been at this over a week straight! Let your hand draw an abstract shape. Write about it.
10. Speaking as a fortune teller, tell a fortune. The first line is: You will take a strange journey ...... Finish the prediction/forecast by describing the journey and giving instructions or advice or even warnings for the journey.
11. Write a poem of at least 40 lines that is a single sentence.
12. Take fairy tale and rewrite it from the viewpoint of another character. For example, use the wolf to tell the story of Little Red Riding Hood.
13. Write about a family secret.
14. Write an apostrophe to some abstraction (e.g., "To the End of the World" or "To My Birth").
15. Write about someone waiting for something.
16. Write about a color without naming the color—or its kin, e.g., no fair using "crimson" "scarlet" or "ruddy" instead of red.
17. Take any object out of your bag or pocket or purse. Speaking in first person AS THE OBJECT, answer the following questions (in any order): What is your favorite thing?
What are you scared of? What is your secret? What is your wish for the future?
18. Take someone else's poem and select one word per line, writing them out in a list.
Then write your own poem using these words in the same sequence, one per line.
19. Write 100 words (any kind of words) about your kitchen table.
20. Write a poem in which the form contradicts the content.
21. Write a piece at least 50 words long using only one-syllable words.
22. Take a common object, such as a flowerpot, boot or paperclip, and write about it as if you've never seen such a thing before (e.g., you're from the future and have just excavated it, or are from another planet).
23. Take the name of a favorite poet and anagram it. Use this to begin a poem.
24. Pick a word from today's headlines and write a definition poem for it.
25. Write the poem you cannot write.
26. What Work is For You: Write about a job you have had, whether you loathed it or loved it. Write from your own experience but go beyond the literal! Keep the poem in the present tense, and BE SURE THERE IS A PHYSICAL ACTION INVOLVED such as scrubbing floors, dissecting chickens, helping someone use the toilet. Keep your poem in couplets, tercets, quatrains, or sestets—your choice.
27. Write a poem in a received form in such a way that the form is concealed.
28. Imagine a drink or food dish that would bring you fully alive. Write the recipe.
29. Begin with, "This is not the last poem I will write…"
30. Elide (strike out) the Junk: Take a piece of junk mail and black out most of the words so that what remains is a poem.
Confession Tuesday - April Fool's Style
Dear reader, I have no idea how long it's been since my last confession but I've got a lot of sin to share so let's go, I've got a job to get to.
1) I really dislike poetry. Really. Sometimes I go nutso with all the images and that odd spacing. It's like trying to read a roadsign while I'm driving, I get some of it, but mostly, I'm just speeding along trying to get my destination. I find the whole process of "digesting" a poem irritating. And rather rude. Poems should not be eaten. It's just wrong.
2) I confess I slept through another poetry reading. Honestly, how can one not? The shuffling of papers, the hemming and hawing, it's worse than watching paint dry because paint is pretty and doesn't talk in that weird poetry voice.
Why the poetry voice? And at the end of a poem there's that audience sigh, I think it's a courtesy breath to show they are still alive and awake. I apologize for my snoring, for the way I twitched and fell off my chair. Poet, I was dreaming someone was feeding you a dictionary of better words, I swear it.
3) I confess I only go to poetry events to meet hot poet boys. You know the ones, with their black turtlenecks, with their unshowered bods. I love how they say "like" when they introduce their poems-- "Like, I wrote this after I fell in the shower and like I was really thinking about how like the blood from my forehead really sort of looked like one of those like really creepy scenes in a movie where the blood actually runs over the camera lens, but like, this time, it was really my eyeball. I like to call this poem "Father, May I Die."
4) I confess when a poet asks "Do you want me to read two more poems?" my usual response is "No, I want a snack." If you have to ask, then the answer is no. Either read two more without our permission or stop reading. I'm not your mom or your personal secretary here to organize your poems. If you want to read two more, read two more. But don't ask me, I'm mostly likely asleep anyway and your words disrupt my dream about poets in black turtlenecks falling in the shower.
Two poems is a commitment anyway. You'd be better asking "Do you want me to read two short poems?" I mean, what if poem #1 was The Waste Land?
5) Speaking of the Waste Land, I only memorized it so I would have something interesting to say at parties, my friends would think I'm smarter than them, and my parents wouldn't feel entirely robbed that I became an English major instead of majoring in Finance.
6) And if you have to know, my favorite poet is Homer (Simpson). Doh!