friday roundup, half-heartedly

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Dear Reader, it’s Friday. The world we live in and life in general have me feeling quiet and half-hearted, but here I am.

[Editing to say that this image ===========> which I can’t get WordPress to let me label today is called “The Spider” by Nikolas Gysis, via wikimedia.]

I’ve been reading My Poets by Maureen McLane, a really lovely, super smart volume of what I’d call meditative criticism. In a variety of styles and from a variety of vantage points, McLane writes about the poets “who, in possessing her, made her” (quote is from jacket text). She does this, many times, through close reading of poems, but—unlike a lot of literary criticism—her close readings take into account the way these poems and poets have moved through her life as scholar, poet, and human being. It has become a VIB for me (Very Important Book). I recommend it wholeheartedly.

I’ve also been reading Fanny Howe:

Come, tinkers, among droves of acorn trees
Be only one third needful, O
Name things whereby we hope
Before the story scatters. A cardinal
Is red for fever where you passed

!

(from Introduction to the World ; sorry for linking to the Death Star, but could not find it anywhere else)

I’ve been remembering Buson’s poem (short enough to memorize, therefore no need to read), one of my all-time favorites, on this second day of autumn:

I go,
you stay;
two autumns.
(Robert Hass, trans.)

I’ve been writing, early mornings, earlier than ever, actually, since high school starts at 7:10 (!) and I now have a high-schooler (!). The world’s on fire, and there are some amazing world’s-on-fire poems circulating out there, and I would like to write some amazing world’s-on-fire poems. But I’ve been writing poems of the interior: mindscapes, emotional landscapes, questions of how to live. Sometimes I wish there existed a switch I could flip—turn off poems of the interior, turn on poems of public life. Alas, no switch. Still, yesterday I was comforted reading this interview with MacArthur Fellow, Maggie Nelson. In it she says,

“At the end of the day, maybe I’m old-fashioned in thinking that you just don’t get to choose what you’ve got in you to give. You’ve just got to do what each book demands.”

Or what each poem demands.

She also says:

“(T)he work eventually tells you what needs to be in it for it to work, and it has to have what it has to have.”

We know this already, right? But it’s nice to have a reminder. And from a MacArthur Genius at that.

Here’s a poem, a masterful conceit, a world’s-on-fire poem, a necessary poem, a heart-breaking poem, by Nikki Giovanni:

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Happy weekend & thanks for reading.

today

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my “desk” (once again, it’s a kitchen table)

I am at my “desk.” The kids are at school all day. This miracle last occurred on June 3rd.

I am so happy that three out of three kids came home from school yesterday with smiles on their faces (it was the first day, a half-day).

We are still not living in a house. The duffle bags and their contents, which I thought would need to get us through until mid-July, are going to have to limp along until mid-October. At least.

(Do you know of this book?

I love the book. I do not love not living in a house.)

I have bought duplicates of:

  • More books than I want to think about (sometimes you just need Zbigneiw Herbert, …and… some other books)
  • A chef’s knife
  • MANY OFFICE SUPPLIES. Many.
  • A printer
  • A broom, a rake, a bucket, sponges, scrubbers, rubber gloves

I am *this* close to buying a duplicate Swiffer. I am even tempted by the crock pots of the world, but I refuse. I refuse.

The peaches are ripe. The plums are ripe. The tomatoes are at their peak. You can often find me holding my head over the sink, eating some drippy, delectable fruit of the earth. Bliss.

I hope no one ever looks through  my books and reads my marginalia. “Bzzzt” means: I disagree. Entirely. “Bwhahahaha!” means: I can’t even believe he said that. “ZOMG!” means: Utterly incredible. In a good way.

There are two flies—one big, one small—buzzing around my head. I am, of course, thinking of Emily Dickinson. And wondering why there is no fly emoticon.

I keep reading this poem*:

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[*Please note how he borrows from Emily Dickinson: From her letters, “This world is just a little place, just the red in the sky, before the sun rises, so let us keep fast hold of hands, that when the birds begin, none of us be missing.”]

And I keep reading this poem.

And I keep reading this poem.

And Joanna Klink’s poem “On Diminishment” from the current issue of Tin House. Go get you some. The poem worth the cover price.

And this poem, mainly because my eldest is playing football. I am surprised by this. He has football homework every night. I am also surprised by this. I am formulating a theory about high school athletics and the roots of male privilege (I am not surprised by this, and I am complicit). There’s a game at 4:30. Weather forecast: 88 degrees and stormy. I now own ponchos. I am, you might guess, surprised by this.

I’ve been writing, mornings. I’ve been sending poems out. I’ve been doing both things slowly, as usual.

I’ve been typing up notes from my MFA residency. It’s like learning everything all over again.

I have nearly killed the geraniums I bought a month ago. I am not yet ready to commit to mums. I abhor everything pumpkin spice.

I am glad to be here at this blog, writing something, anything.

I am trying to do this thing called “today,” every day, the best I can.

 

on dormancy

 

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dormant adj.

(of an animal) having normal physical functions suspended or slowed down for a period of time; in or as if in a deep sleep.

• (of a plant or bud) alive but not actively growing.

• (of a volcano) temporarily inactive.

• (of a disease) causing no symptoms but not cured and liable to recur.

[ usu. postpositive ] Heraldry (of an animal) depicted lying with its head on its paws.

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I had not intended to let this site go quite so dormant this summer. I suppose I use here the “of a volcano” type of dormancy: temporarily inactive.

The good news is that my writing life has not been dormant. I’ve spent many mornings at my not-desk, thanks to my mom who set up a cozy little writing space in her basement for me while we were at her house, and thanks to sheer determination in other locations—at my aunt’s and uncle’s dining room table while Eldest Son slept on the floor a few feet away; at my MFA residency; at the kitchen table in the crappy (if I do say so myself) corporate apartment we’re now living in while we wait for our house to be move-in-able.

I’m hoping to get back to a more regular posting pattern soon, but until then, here’s a favorite poem about dormancy:

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THE WILD IRIS by Louise Glück

At the end of my suffering
there was a door.

Hear me out: that which you call death
I remember.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting.
Then nothing. The weak sun
flickered over the dry surface.

It is terrible to survive
as consciousness
buried in the dark earth.

Then it was over: that which you fear, being
a soul and unable
to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth
bending a little. And what I took to be
birds darting in low shrubs.

You who do not remember
passage from the other world
I tell you I could speak again: whatever
returns from oblivion returns
to find a voice:

from the center of my life came
a great fountain, deep blue
shadows on azure seawater.

*

just this:

We are as forlorn as children lost in the woods. When you stand in front of me and look at me, what do you know of the griefs that are in me and what do I know of yours. And if I were to cast myself down before you and weep and tell you, what more would you know about me than you know about Hell when someone tells you it is hot and dreadful? For that reason alone we human beings ought to stand before one another as reverently, as reflectively, as lovingly, as we would before the entrance to Hell.
—Franz Kafka

With thanks to the poet Francesca Bell.

one of my favorite love poems

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“let us all be from somewhere”

It’s Friday. Even though the world has made me feel so quiet lately, has made words seem so powerless, extraneous even. It’s Friday, and we made it safely to Michigan, to the arms of our extended family, to the place on the map where my body feels safest, my heart most at peace. It’s Friday, and though I’ve missed a few and may yet miss a few more, Friday is for posting poems. So I’m going to post a little love poem that I love.

It’s a love poem for a place. A true love poem—one that knows its lover’s faults and foibles. One that loves anyway. It’s funny. It’s poignant. It’s powerful and powerless, extraneous even. I’ve probably posted it before. It’s “A Primer” by Bob Hicok.

 Let us all be from somewhere.
Let us tell each other everything we can.

last missive from the wee, small house

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Dear reader, I am up with the birds stealing a few moments at my desk. My desk which I will likely not see again until August. It will be a summer of transience—some time at my parents’, some at my aunt’s and uncle’s, maybe some camping(?)—as we wait to get into our new house, do a bit of necessary work, then finally move in.

The thought of this for a homebody such as myself is a bit overwhelming. But books and blank notebooks have a way of saving us (me), so I have sent some ahead to be kept out of the moving van and storage. Let’s not think now about how I will have to haul them hither and yon all summer as we make our wanderings from place to place.

The books that have been saving me this week are these:

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I have always loved early C. D. Wright (Translations..).  The Poet, the Lion &c. is brand new, and I feel it should be required reading for all human beings. You could say it’s a poetic poetics. You could say it’s one, long ars poetica. You could say it’s a road map for how to live.

Here are some lines that have kept me going this week, from “Concerning Why Poetry Offers a Better Deal Than the World’s Biggest Retailer”:

*

That the poems we snatch from the language must bear the habit of our thinking.

That their arrangement strengthens the authority on which each separate line is laid.

That they extend the line into perpetuity.

That they enlarge the circle.

That they awaken the dreamer. That they awaken the schemer.

That they rectify the names.

That they draw not conclusions but further qualify doubt.

That they avail themselves of the shrapnel of everything: the disappearance of cork trees and coral, the destroyed center of Ramadi, the shape of buildings to come, the pearness of pears.

That they clear the air.

That they keep a big-box sense of humor at the ready (like an ax in a glass case).

That they bring the ship nearer to its longing.

That they resensitize the surface of things.

That they will not stand alone.

This is our mind. Our language. Our light. Our word. Our bond.

In the world.

–from The Poet, the Lion, Talking Pictures, El Farolito, a Wedding in St. Roch, the Big Box Store, the Warp in the mirror, Spring, Midnights, Fire & All. 

 

*

And now I’m off to gather bed linens and take them to the laundromat for washing (because I cannot even with the thought of used bedsheets of teenaged boys sitting in an un-air-conditioned storage unit all summer).

I don’t know when I’ll be back here, but I’ll check in when I can. Meanwhile, read on, write on. Meanwhile, let’s remember: You can quit anytime. Why quit now?

friday roundup: precious little edition

 

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Precious little reading, precious little writing, precious little time for anything but mothering and moving. But words are precious little things, small enough to fit in here and there, and a few have lodged in me this week. Here they are:

 

what kind of silence?

“The impulse to create begins — often terribly and fearfully — in a tunnel of silence. Every real poem is the breaking of an existing silence, and the first question we might ask any poem is, What kind of voice is breaking silence, and what kind of silence is being broken?” —Adrienne Rich

what poems ask of us

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From Jame’s Longenbach’s The Resistance to Poetry. Callimachus was an ancient Greek poet who resisted the then-current fashion of writing long epics; “(K)eep your muse slender,” he wrote.

tracings

This poem, by Risa Denenberg, which I admire for it’s spoken-ness, for the way it treads the line between the personal and the universal, for the way the poem resists itself.

Happy Friday, thanks for reading, dashing off to wake my precious littles…

Photo credit here.

 

 

looking for a summer writing conference?

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Are you in the  market for a summer writing conference? The good people at Writers@Work have told me they still have some space.

I attended this conference two years ago and had a wonderful time–met fellow poets, learned a lot, watched the moon rise over the Wasatch. It’s a small conference where you actually have a chance to talk to the faculty and writers in residence.

This year’s generative workshop faculty are Tarfia Faizullah (poetry), Peter Ho Davies (fiction), and Kerry Howley (non-fiction).

If you’re interested, you’ll find more information here.

 

 

what the bulletin board actually says

Last week, I published this photo of my bulletin board, which is packed away somewhere. O, how I miss it.

It occurs to me that you can’t actually read many of the notes or quotes on the board from the photo, so here is what they are / say:

“no matter what
regardless of what others think
until you learn it better
every day
until you die” –Hope Clark

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Cheat sheet for considering a poem (blue index card):
narrative (if any)
diction
syntax / line
sound / rhythm
figurative language
form
rhetorical integrity
tradition
emotion –> what’s at stake? tension / complexity
what does this poem value?
what version of paradise does it reveal?
what are its thresholds and how does it cross them?

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Random sticker of a buffalo courtesy of my youngest (“Mom, do you want this sticker of a buffalo for your bulletin board?” “Errrr…, yes, of course! Thank you!”)

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“How much better is silence; the the coffee cup, the table. How much better to sit by myself like the solitary sea-bird that opens its wings on the stake. Let me sit here forever with bare things, this coffee cup, this knife, this fork, things in themselves, myself being myself.” –Virginia Woolf, The Waves

*

“I don’t know what’s meant by Know thyself, which seems to ask a window to look at a window. I aspire to know when best to walk, or eat, which music I need, and how to keep myself sitting as I am now, stubbornly enraptured with doing practically nothing.” –James Richardson

*

When you are fooled by something else, the damage will not be so big. But when you are fooled by yourself, it is fatal.” –Shunkyu Suzuki

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Cheat sheet on TONES (my list of tones a poem might take, short and partial)
detached (Emily D., Louise G.)
skepticism, self-skepticism
reverence (Plumly)
frat boy (Bob H.) (with my apologies)
intellectual (Stevens)
rebellious (Sexton)
dramatic (Plath)
tender

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“Every line should be a station of the cross.” –Charles Wright

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“Protect your inner life…” etc. –Jane Kenyon

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“Art undoes the damage of haste. It’s what everything else isn’t.” –Theodore Roethke

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“Life, by definition, is not an intrusion.” –Sarah Ruhl

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Each day comes with 86,400 seconds. Tick tock.

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[Emily staring at me]

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“The bad news is that you’re falling through air, nothing to hang on to, no parachute. The good news is there’s no ground.” –Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche

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Cheat sheet on METAPHOR — Steven Dobyns
metaphor consists of — object, image
object: “Quiet
——————-
image: “like a house where the witch has just stopped dancing.” (Asian Figures, W.S. Merwin, trans.)
The best metaphors have images that are open-ended, that could have additional meaning each time it’s considered.

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[Postcard of Bonnard’s “The Almond Tree in Blossom”]

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[(most recent) Rejection from The Southern Review]

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“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” –Anaïs Nin

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“I find myself longing for one living word
To last among a thousand dead ones—
Home—” –David Biespiel

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[Notes from my faculty mentor on things to look for in Frances Levinston’s work–things he thinks I’m working on: capaciousness and simplicity; highlighting a major metaphor]

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“I will not give up and neither will you.” –poet Gabrielle Calvocoressi, possibly the most inspiring voice on Facebook

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“One learns to play the harp by playing.” –Aristotle

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Quote from a Good Earth tea bag: “You were once wild here. Don’t let them tame you.” –Isadora Duncan

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“Walk on air against your better judgement.” –Seamus Heaney’s epitaph (and a line from one of his poems, I believe, but most of my books are packed away so I can’t confirm).

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“For there are the moments when something new has entered into us, something unknown; our feelings grow mute in shy perplexity, everything in us withdraws, a stillness comes, and the new, which no one knows, stands in the midst of it and is silent.” –Rilke

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[Self-Portrait on a Small Blue Square by Middle Child. Or Eldest Child. I can’t remember. That’s the kind of mom I am.]