photo by Jamie Lantzy, public domain from wikimedia

infinite corn I’m reading Sandra Beasley‘s book, I Was the Jukebox, this week, and, Wow. It won the Barnard Women Poets Prize in 2009. These poems are not afraid. Joy Harjo, in the prize citation, calls them “fresh, crisp, and muscular,” and I can’t improve on that description. One thing I love about this collection is that many of the poems are both laugh-out-loud funny and cut-like-a-knife piercing– a combination I truly love because isn’t that life? I also love that these poems give voice to all sorts of worldly objects and elements: sand, the world war, a piano, an eggplant, and even a platypus.

I’m about half-way through the collection now, and I want to share this fabulous poem with you:

*

I Don’t Fear Death

But what I’m really picturing
is Omaha: field after field

of sorghum crisp to my touch
and one house high on a hill,

sheets on the line. You tell me
everything ceases, that even

our fingernails give up, but
what I really believe is that

we keep growing: infinite corn,
husk yielding to green husk.

I look back on the miles
connecting me to Earth, think

I’d never have worn those shoes.
I slip them off like anything

borrowed. The clouds are thin
and yellow, smelling of

fireworks and salt. In Omaha,
the town votes me Queen of

Everything. You are the slow
dance, the last ring of smoke:

to be held tight, and then only
this colder air between us.

*

I never would have worn those shoes, either. Reader, go get this book today!

AWP envy  I confess, I wish I were going to AWP (non-poets in the readership: this is the annual conference sponsored by the Association of Writers and Writing Programs, and it is the mecca of the writing world). I fantasize about the book fair, acres and acres of books to read. I long to crouch in a corner of one of the panels, furiously scribbling notes. I want nothing more than to stop by the Crab Orchard Series table and have my copies of Threshold and Rookery signed by the amazing poets that authored them (Jennifer Richter and Traci Brimhall, respectively). Alas, this is not the year for me….. but to all my writerly friends who are going, I wish you a fantastic time. May you return home exhausted and brimming with poetry.

the worst thing that ever happened to poetry  I love this quote from an interview with poet Richard Tillinghast in the latest issue of The Pinch:

“The worst thing that ever happened to poetry was the idea that a poem was something to be understood. A saner approach to poetry would be that, instead of being understood, a poem wants and needs to be enjoyed. A lot of the things we enjoy, we don’t fully understand. Maybe we enjoy them more because we don’t fully understand them. When you meet a new person, do you understand him immediately?  People aren’t that simple and life isn’t that simple.  Reading poetry is good training for understanding life and other people.  Poems are as multilayered and as complex as people are.”

Let the people say, Amen! And here’s another thought, this time from the poet Gregory Orr:

“It is heartbreaking the way we teach poetry is an elite art form. (Poetry) is a natural expression, an impulse. Song and poetry is the only thing that lets us process our emotional life. Poetry says ‘tell me what you’re feeling.’” (from this article)

Reader, may your Friday be touched by song and poetry.

you are what you sound like

Rodeo Beach at Marin Headlands State Park; the photos never do it justice

One of the first things that struck me about California when we moved here last summer was how big everything is. I’m not talking about the expressways and the bridges (although those are big, yes), and I’m certainly not talking about the houses (hello, shoebox, nice to meet you). I’m talking about elements of nature: the trees, the hills, and yes, the ocean.

But let’s begin with the geraniums. In my stunned state of mind, fresh off the plane last July, and driving toward our hotel in the college town, I texted my dear friend, Mrs. Kwood, back in South-of-the-River: “freakishly large geraniums.”

From there, it just kept going: the fucshia growing taller than I am; the arborvitae (well, I think they’re arborvitae) that in the midwest may have stood sentry to either side of a front door — well, here they grow as tall as a 3 or 4 storey building. At first it freaked me out a little. When the evergreen grove at your neighborhood park just happens to be made up of redwoods, it kinda grabs your attention. Everything here seemed to be taken to its extreme, from the line at the DMV to the size of the oak trees. The hills weren’t just hills; they were soaring hills with roads barely carved into them, and surprisingly meager guardrails, don’t look now. The ocean, while appearing calm (as in pacific), crashed into a beach wider than the town I grew up in. Well, almost wider, anyway. And the trees, again; big enough to drive a car through, some of them. I think of Piglet’s house with its endearing sign: “TRESPASSERS WILL,” and how wee and small Piglet looks next to it.

At first, I found this large scale unsettling. Like Piglet would. It’s a constant reminder: you, my friend, are a speck of dust in the universe. Lately, though, I’ve been trying to find comfort in it. And if not comfort then at least inspiration. Living as we do amidst these grand sights reminds me: Every day is a gift. All this will outlast me. Any mistake I make can’t be that bad in the scheme of things. Any good I can do will add to this incredible beauty. Oh, and, you might as well get cracking, girl — who knows where the high water mark will be tomorrow.

I hope someday to be able to write about this landscape, but first I have to give it time to graft itself onto me. Only in the year or so before we moved from South-of-the-River did I begin to feel enough a part of that landscape to invite it into a poem. Someday, California, I will take your soaring hills with me through a few stanzas. The ocean will crash, then spill into a gentle, foamy lace, in a poem. Someday, a final image: the bridges crisscrossing the bay like sloppy sutures. For now, I am taking it all in and letting it remind me not to waste my precious time on this beautiful blue ball, this earth.

drafting in prose  The prose poem form has always mystified me, not because I don’t like it but because I don’t know how to use it. The first time I fell in love with a prose poem was in Fleda Brown‘s collection Reunion. She has a series of prose poems called “Knife” on the topic of a loved one’s brain tumor, treatment, and the aftermath. Shortly after I read that collection, I e-mailed Fleda asking her about the use of the prose poem form — whether she had drafted in that form, or had revised into it; how she knew the prose form was what the series required, etc. Amongst other things, I remember her saying that she felt the subject required a poem/form that was “barely poetry.” Right now, I’m taking a class through Stanford’s online writer’s studio and we are looking at the prose form this week. The professor has talked about using the prose form to write about difficult subjects and/or subjects that are new to you as writer. She also talks about the prose form as a way to take the poet out of the poem, as a way to take artifice out of the poem, and to give everything in the poem equal weight. With these tidbits in mind, I’ve been drafting in prose lately. I feel quite out of my comfort zone, but I have found that I’ve been able to write more successfully about tricky subjects (in my case, my experience with chronic illness). I haven’t been doing much in the way of process notes lately, but here’s a sample of my latest draft:

This morning in the half-lit lab, you ate a radioactive egg. Then spread yourself out on a steel table. On their screens they watched the egg make its tunneled, wet descent into your inmost rooms, the body’s dark drain.

(btw, the radioactive egg thing is true — strange but true)

If you are a poet, I’d love to hear how you have used the prose form — what you’ve learned about using it, how it fits into your work. Share in comments if you like.

*

the chapbook rookie  My excellent po-friend and editor of Weave Magazine,  Laura E. Davis, has a chapbook coming out this year from Finishing Line Press. She wrote a great post on promoting a chapbook; read it here. It seems that the bottom line is this: readings sell chapbooks.

The Bay Area has a very reading-centric (new word) approach to literary life. Seriously: throw a stick, hit a poetry reading. This is a bit different from the po-scene in Minnesota, where it seemed to me that readings were fewer and farther between, and mostly reserved for people whose names you already recognized. I am more that ready to blame that on the long, cold, dark winters there — but still, it’s interesting to see the differences in poetry scenes across the country. I’m looking forward to throwing my hat into the reading ring here.

*

Linebreak does it again  Reader, do yourself a favor and go read this poem by Nathan McClain over at Linebreak. Do you not love that this poem is set at The Home Depot? I do, too, and I also love its looping, repeating lines and phrases — almost pantoum-y (new word).

Meanwhile, Linebreak, I get that you’re an online journal and that’s cool with me. And I’ve already downloaded your awesome e-book, Two Weeks. But sometimes, Linebreak, I just want to put my hands on you. What do you say to a print anthology sometime? Maybe? Someday?

And now, Reader, let me show you something:

The frig is almost always empty. I don't know how it happens.

I really must go round up some food for my family. Have a wonderful weekend!

I have a notification on my computer that tells me how many days it has been since it was last backed up to my external hard drive. The last time that happened, we were just leaving South-of-the-River for the west coast. My computer tells me it’s been 212 days since my last back up (No worries — the back up notification is a holdover from my previous setup. Thanks to Husband, I now have a cloud and don’t need to fuss with external physical drives).

Two-hundred twelve days ago, our house was sold, cleared out, and locked. We woke up in the dark in a steaming hot hotel room. It had been 100 degrees for a week and the hotel’s AC was broken. With us, we had our three cubs and all of our most important possessions and paperwork, and five tickets to SFO. Dear friends came to see us off. One drove us to the airport. We got out of her car at departures and went inside the airport, inside the next chapter of our lives.

Sometimes it seems like a lifetime ago that we walked off the plane at SFO. Sometimes it seems like last week.

Meanwhile, I’m learning California’s hills and low places, the ripped seam at her western edge, then the Pacific. The lush foothills and the barren edge of the bay. I’m learning her pinball-style roads, u-turns, parking in a space the size of a shoebox. I’m learning to dress in layers — cold in the morning, warm afternoons, then chilly in the evening again. I’m learning the slight California accent, the vowels a little softer than our clipped midwestern speech, everything more laid back here, even words. I’m devouring many, delicious, handmade corn tortillas and fresh seasonal fruits and veggies.

I’m learning to be unfazed by signs like this:

from the archives

And store displays like these:

western kitsch at the peninsula's oldest electronics store -- move over best buy

I remember when we visited last May — a weeklong trip to “look around” — everybody looked so happy here. I was decidedly not happy at the time, so it made quite an impression on me. Now, I kinda get why: it’s a really lovely place to live in terms of topography, weather, and a million cultural attractions to fit every interest. I have a theory that one reason people are happy here is because, unlike in the midwest, they don’t have the psychologically-ingrained worry about surviving the winter (I say that to be funny, kind of — but really, it wasn’t that long ago in human history that you really did have to worry about surviving the winter in colder climates).

There are some things I’m not used to yet: spending 40 minutes driving around the College Town for a parking place; dentists booked out for six months to a year; a line for everything, everywhere; the hyper-focused achievement culture of many Silicon Valley schools and parents (don’t worry, we’ve already hit the opt-out button on that one).

But slowly, I am learning California. What do I know? Not much yet, probably. I’m a long way from claiming this place as my own. But I wish I could show you the 280 — wide open space and soaring hills, livestock grazing. I wish I could really describe the way a thick, grey cloud bank coming in from the ocean curls over the foothills. I wish I could show you the sky at night, sans light pollution, the stars and planets close enough to touch. And I wish I could show you the tumbledown strips of El Camino, shop after mom-and-pop shop: The Happy Donut (those two words belong together), The Glass Slipper Inn (I want to stay there!), Barbecues Galore (need a grill anyone?).

What a long, strange trip it’s been….. but I’m enjoying the ride, looking around thinking, okay, okay, I think I could sink some roots down here…. wait, wait…. was that an earthquake!?

these clouds are asking for some hot soup

Happy Monday, Reader. Today we have what Californians call a “cold” rain — 50-ish degrees. Truthfully, 50-ish and rainy has begun to feel a bit chilly to me as well, until I remember (faintly) what 20-below feels like.

I woke up today sensing that I will be much more Mom than Writer this week. The school Valentine’s Day parties, the search for long-term housing, the care and feeding of the young. Over the years, I am learning to listen to each day — to get a sense of what it asks of me. This is a little different than going with the flow, which, if I’m not careful, can turn a bit defeatist: “There’s nothing I can do about it, so I’ll go long to get along.” If, instead, I think about what the day asks of me in a posture of listening and intuition, I feel less pulled and tugged by the crazy to-do lists and the encroachment of regular life upon writing life.

Today, aside from the musts (must punch holes and tie ribbons in 30 Valentine crafts for second grade party tomorrow; must do my reading for the class I’m taking; must make dinner ahead), I feel the day asking for a pot of chicken soup. I think it’s considering also asking for a batch of butterscotch oatmeal cookies, but I have my limits.

Now that I think of it, “What Today Asks” is kind of a cool working title for a poem. Maybe today is asking for a poem after all.

Reader, what does today ask of you? Whatever it is, may it bless you (bless, meaning, amongst other things: “to confer prosperity or happiness upon”).

photo by Mike White; public domain at wikimedia commons

These words come to us from the 13th century.  They are from the sacred writings of Hadewijch of Antwerp.

Love’s Maturity

In the beginning Love satisfies us.
When Love first spoke to me of love –
How I laughed at her in return!
But then she made me like the hazel trees,
Which blossom early in the season of darkness,
And bear fruit slowly.

–trans. by Oliver Davies

public domain from wikimedia commons: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:USMailbox1909.jpg

Happy Friday, reader. Time for another roundup.

real mail Earlier this week, my fellow poet-blogger Drew posted about A Month of Letters. There is a movement circulating the internet that invites people to write one letter a day for each mail day of February (Sundays don’t count because there’s no mail that day). I, for one, love real mail. Coincidentally, I have mailed a real letter every day this month so far. However, I’m not going to join the challenge — anything beyond committing to brushing my teeth, drinking coffee, and feeding my young is too much for me right now — but I thought I’d post the link here for those of you who might want to join up. Visit Mary Robinette Kowal’s website, A Month of Letters, to find out more.

And if you’re not the letter-writing type but you want to receive some real mail in your mailbox, have I got a deal for you! Some of you know that I put together an occasional handout full of poems I love, or that make me think, or that make me want to write another poem (you can read more about The Handout at this post on my old blog). I’m working on the next installment of The Handout and it should go in the mail next week. If you’d like to have some poems show up in your mailbox, send your name and address to me at mollycspencer (at) gmail (dot) com. This is my way of spreading poetry — I love to do it and the stamp’s on me. As the post card above says: for you my darling.

more mud and glass  We had a great discussion earlier this week about clarity in poetry — too much, too little, or just right. Thank you to everyone who joined the discussion in the comments and via e-mail. I was especially thrilled to hear from my friend, Ms. W-K’s, high-school creative writing class! If you haven’t already, check back in the comments to read their thoughtful responses to the issue of clarity in poetry. And, for Ms. W-K’s class (and everyone else), here’s an example of a poem that I think strikes a lovely balance between mystery and clarity. It’s called The Good Wife by Alison Elrod. Go on ahead and read it; I’ll wait.

Okay? So, here’s what I love about this poem: We know enough to grab onto: there’s a wife; she might be trying to be a “good” wife; she’s in a domestic setting that she finds pleasing (“she walked through her quiet house / admiring its lovely bones. / She loved the light / that filled the place, / the view from every window.”  ) and yet, perhaps overwhelming or at least repetitive (“…she  made herself / small — watched the paper dragon / hanging by a thread above her, watched / it turn and turn in endless circles.”); she has made a decision, an important decision; there seems to be both resignation and comfort in its aftermath (“Later, / she folded shirts / and started dinner.”).

And here’s what we don’t know: We don’t know what decision she made. To file for divorce? To stay married? To end a pregnancy? To keep the baby? To confront her husband about cheating? We don’t know, and that gives us some room to imagine, and to remember those big decisions from our own lives, how breathtaking they can be. We don’t know what the house feels like when the rest of the family is present. We don’t know if it’s a decision to be shared with them or not (kind of feels like not to me, though). We don’t know what this decision will cost her or gain for her; we just know she made it. So, for me, all that we don’t know gives me room to get inside the poem and consider a wide range of possibilities, and to see the poem through the lens of 100 lives instead of just one.

Ms. W-K’s class, let us know: does the balance of clarity and mystery in this poem please you or confound you? What’s your poem for the day you knew for sure?

And by the way, “The Good Wife” appeared in Cave Wall Winter/Spring 2011, Number 9. You can learn more about the poet Alison Elrod here.

your brain on metaphors  Did you know that when you hear a metaphor your brain lights up? I didn’t either until I read this article which explains recent research on how the brain processes metaphor. In part, the article says: “investigators discovered a region of the brain important for sensing texture through touch, the parietal operculum, is activated when someone listens to a sentence with a textural metaphor. The same region is not activated when a similar sentence expressing the meaning of the metaphor is heard.” Poets take heed: The scientists involved in the study found that “On average, response to a sentence containing a metaphor took slightly longer (0.84 vs 0.63 seconds).” Still, pretty cool that language can trigger not just the auditory but the sensory for us. I was also interested to read that “complex processes involving symbols, such as appreciating a painting or understanding a metaphor, do not depend just on evolutionarily new parts of the brain, but also on adaptations of older parts of the brain.” We humans have been poets and artists for eons, I guess.

Ok, Reader, this is the longest post ever! Forgive me, I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time. Happy Friday, happy weekend, happy reading, writing, and whatever else you love to do.

Chartwell House, home to Sir Winston Churchill. Public domain from wikimedia.

Reader, I’ve been house hunting. I confess, I hate house hunting, mainly because I’ve had to do it way too many times. Also because it takes time away from what I’d rather be doing like writing poems and taking naps. Alas, the lease won’t last forever and the time has come to dip our toes in the churning water of the Silicon Valley housing market.

One thing I hate about house hunting is that the houses are always trying to trick you. Yes, you’re sure that if you buy the low-slung modernist house you’ll soon be wearing thigh-high boots and a funky haircut. Or over there, in the cottage that’s practically swallowed by a jumble of a garden, you just know you’ll become a green thumb overnight and tame that beast of a garden so that it’s lovely again. And the house with all the fruit trees and the huge (by California standards) kitchen? For sure you’re going to whip out your apron and canning jars and put up a bunch of marmalade and lemon curd.

Or not.

At least I’ve done this enough to know that, in our price range anyway, no house is perfect, and no house will make me into someone I’m not. Those thigh-high boots?  Never gonna happen.

But is it wrong to have my top priority be a writing nook, corner, room, shed, or other set-aside space for writing? Yeah, probably.

Winston Churchill said something along the lines of: We shape our dwellings and thereafter our dwellings shape us. I think that’s probably true if you live in a place like Chartwell House (photo above), or if you live on a patch of land that has been in your family for three generations, or somesuch. In my life here’s how it has worked: We buy our dwelling, then something drastic changes and we sell our dwelling.

I’m not complaining. It’s a pretty lucky position to be in: to be thinking about buying a house. And my past home-buying and home-selling experiences have taught me to be a critical and detached viewer of potential homes. I know that any house will have things we like and things we don’t. Something will always need fixing. It won’t feel like home at first. We will sometimes wish we’d never bought it. Then one day, after enough living has taken place there, we’ll realize we’d be sad to leave it. This time, I hope that day is way off in the future.

And I’m still hoping for a writing spot wherever we end up (something tells me Sir Winston Churchill had plenty of those). Reader, do you have a spot where you go to do something you love — write, read, create, sew? Do you have a room of your own (literal or figurative)? I always like to hear about other people’s sanctuaries. If you like, tell us about yours in comments. Right now mine looks like this, pretty cozy, no complaints: