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

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“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

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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.]

friday roundup: listen and dictate, you can quit anytime, and the most beautiful thing

Dear Reader, today I don’t have to go anywhere or do anything until lunchtime. After a few weeks of nearly constant running, this feels luxurious and I plan to enjoy every minute of it. Let me assure you that there will be Poems, and there will be Tea (and later, if I am honest, there will be Cleaning Out the Refrigerator). But first, let there be a roundup:

listen and dictate  Several weeks ago, I read this interview at Oxford American with Rebecca Gayle Howell, whose poetry collection Render / An Apocolypse recently came out from Cleveland State University Press.

I always enjoy hearing about other poets’ writing processes, and Howell says this about hers:

“An early teacher of mine, James Baker Hall, advised me to “listen and dictate.” If I have a method I return to, it’s that one. I catch a line being uttered somewhere in the inscape, and I write it down. Then I repeat it to myself until I hear something new; I follow its lead.”

Of her book, she says:

“In the case of Render, my process led to an agrarian myth, an almanac for climate change, but I didn’t set out to write such an almanac. I set out to write an honest line.”

These bits have been echoing in my mind since I read the interview: “listen and dictate” and “I set out to write an honest line.”

Their appeal, for me, is in their simplicity. And perhaps in their speed, or lack thereof. If what it takes to write a poem is to listen for a line, write it down, and then wait for what comes next, that seems eminently doable even in the busiest of times. If the goal is not a book, or a Pushcart, or even a poem; if the goal is to write an honest line, well that seems doable, too. And both approaches strike me as slow. Slow in the best possible way. Slow, no rush. Slow, until the time is ripe. Which is not to rule out the words all coming in a rush, but if they don’t, okay, keep going.

you can quit anytime  Here is some encouragement for keeping at it with submissions: The Missouri Review says it plain: Stubbornly Submitting to a Literary Magazine is Good. I’m glad to hear this, and particularly glad to hear it from TMR, because I plan to submit poems to them until the day I die. Also, Blackbird, Alaska Quarterly Review, Poetry Northwest, Southern Review, I’m looking at you.

Here’s the takeaway: “You can quit anytime. Why quit now?”

the most beautiful thing  As usual, I’ve strayed from the path of my assigned readings and into the pages of a book I just happened to bump into. This time, I bumped into May Day by Gretchen Marquette. These poems are about grief and loss and fear and also survival. They’re about keeping on, even if there is no “happy” ending. I fell for the poem “Figure Drawing” in particular. You can read it here on the TriQuarterly website. You can buy May Day here.

Let us listen and dictate. Let us keep on. Let us not quit now.

friday not-a-roundup: SYLLABUS and Rumi

IMG_6761Dear Reader, I am here with not-a-roundup, or not quite a roundup.

During these transitional days, I’ve had a hard time finding the stretches of time that encourage deep listening and thinking that are so vital to creative work, and have even found it difficult to read straight narratives.

Enter Syllabus: Notes from an Accidental Professor, by Lynda Barry.

I was tipped off to this book by a Q&A with my friend and fellow poet, Sarah Pape.

The book is a collection of notes, questions, sketches, and syllabi created by Lynda Barry during her time teaching interdisciplinary classes on creativity at the University of Wisconsin. Amongst many other things, it introduces a way of keeping a notebook that helps its keeper (1). notice things, and (2). enter into her sources of creativity: the subconscious mind, memories, obsessions, etc.

The basic gist is to keep a daily notebook, in which each page looks something like this (except with your own content, of course):

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Some names have been changed to protect the innocent

One thing I like about the method is that it’s quick–takes about 5 minutes. Another thing is that it’s easy, by which I think I mean: not emotionally freighted, not in the service of any particular outcome. I’ve been at it only a few days, and already I find myself NOTICING more: the curl of an extension cord on the floor (hello, makeshifting), the sign my mom left on my desk in order to preserve its’ fragile legs: “Do not slide this desk—only lift it.” The practice has helped me not only to notice things, but to notice which things I notice. Why does the wording on the sign keep coming back to me? Why do I keep seeing the curl of the extension cord in my mind’s eye?

Anyway, there’s a lot more to Syllabus than this, but if you’re looking for something to jump start or re-energize your creative practice, you could do worse than to get your hands on a copy and try it.

Here’s a little something from its’ pages, a quote from Rumi, which reminds me (again) of why I write so many poems even if most of them go nowhere:

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And here is a Rumi poem that Barry uses throughout her classes. She recites it while her students draw:

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THE DIVERS CLOTHES LYING EMPTY ON THE BEACH
by Rumi; Coleman Barks, trans.

You are sitting here with us
but you are also walking in a field at dawn.

You are yourself the animal we hunt
when you come with us on the hunt.

You are in your body
like a plant is solid in the ground,
yet you are wind.

You are the diver’s clothes
lying empty on the beach.
You are the fish.

In the ocean are many bright strands
and many dark strands like veins that are seen
when a wing is lifted up.

Your hidden self is blood in those,
those veins that are lute strings
that make ocean music,
not the sad edge of surf
but the sound of no shore.

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I am happy to be alive in a world where someone is a professor of interdisciplinary creativity, and where I can learn from her learning. And where moms leave notes to protect the fragile legs of desks, and extension cords loop on the floors of  mostly-bare rooms, looking like the thread of giants or some impossible sea creature forgotten on land.

makeshifting

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I have begun to believe that the word makeshift should be a verb.

makeshift: serving as a temporary substitute; sufficient for the time being. Syn.: temporary, provisional, interim, stopgap, make-do, standby, rough and ready, improvised, ad hoc, extempore, jury-rigged, jerry-built, thrown together, cobbled together. Ant.: permanent.

I am makeshifting a writing desk here, as we prepare to move. Again. This time, it’s a happy move, home to The Mitten. Mostly happy. It’s always hard to leave people you love, and I love some very amazing people here.

For the record, I’m aware that winters will be longer and colder in Michigan (people in and around the Peninsula Town are fond of mentioning this). I have faith in my ability to endure, and expert knowledge of winter clothing strategies, sometimes makeshift in nature, but effective (bread bags in your boots, anyone?).

In the last few weeks we’ve: moved out of our house into a rental apartment, sold the house and rented it back, moved out of the rental apartment and back into the house, traveled to Michigan to look at houses, and traveled back again. In the next few weeks, the kids will finish the school year, the movers will come, we will say our ‘until-we-meet-agains,’ and then make our way north and east.

Which is to say: Life: 5,472; Poetry: 3 1/2.

Most of everything is packed away, so there’s a lot of makeshifting going on: borrowing clothes, hunting for eye drops in the oddest places, wishing I’d set a few more books aside to remain unpacked, making do, shifting expectations, even doing without my afternoon cup of tea from time to time (I know: it’s sad, but true). I’ve been thinking a lot about connections to objects (it’s the books I miss most, and my flannel shirts), about comfort; thinking a lot about refugees, their rooflessness, all the makeshifting they are made to do a thousand times a day. My makeshifting is nothing in comparison, of course.

I’m going to try not to disappear here, checking in when I can, maybe posting things in shorter bursts. Making, shifting, &c.

friday in lieu of a roundup (again)

2016: the year the artists died. Or that’s how it feels. Or maybe I am just old enough now that the artists that coursed through my life are old enough to die (though some have died too young, to be sure).

I am tied up most of today–no time for the usual roundup. But this here is a poem I turn to when the world feels much too dark. Which is often.

I’ve probably posted it here before, but it keeps. I give you W. S. Merwin:

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THANKS by W. S. Merwin

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water thanking it
smiling by the windows looking out
in our directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks we are saying thank you
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is

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friday in lieu of a roundup: on keeping the channel open

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From Moby Dick

Reader, one of my friends on Facebook wrote that there are negative amounts of poetry in her life this month.

Here I raise my hand.

And yet, the Universe (well, okay, social media) keeps reminding me that making art is not about production or results.

So in lieu of a roundup, I’m going to share a few things that have kept me relatively calm amidst the negative amounts of poetry in my life so far this month.

#1 the pitch drop experiment  My genius, biochemist older brother told me about this years ago, and I can’t stop thinking about it. In the pitch drop experiment, a scientist set up an experiment to see how long it would take for pitch—which seems quite brittle in some ways, and indeed can be chipped off itself at room temperature, but is in fact viscous—to form a drop, and for that drop to fall. That process takes about a decade. I haven’t verified this independently, but my brother told me that when the first drop of pitch finally did fall, the scientist who set up the experiment was not there to witness it.

#2 the paint that is still drying  My genius, poet-artist friend Kelly Cressio-Moeller does this cool thing on Facebook: Every Friday she posts a piece of art and a little something about it. This week she posted a still life by the artist Dick Ket. From wikipedia:

“As a result of his technical experimentation with different formulations and additives to the glaze medium, some of his paintings are not completely dry after six decades.”

#3 the open channel  Yet another friend posted an inspiring quote from Martha Graham about the role of the artist vis-a-vis her work (and specifically vis-a-vis evaluating her work):

“There is a vitality, a life force, an energy, a quickening that is translated through you into action, and because there is only one of you in all of time, this expression is unique. And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and it will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open. You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep yourself open and aware to the urges that motivate you. Keep the channel open. … No artist is pleased. [There is] no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive than the others.”

I think all three of these things speak for themselves. I wish you blessed unrest.

 

friday roundup: poetry is, the poet is, & “and so there came to me sorrow”

Reader, this is my desk right now:

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How often do I start these posts by saying everything’s chaotic? Well, this time I mean it. We’ve (mostly) moved out of the house to have some work done on it and everything’s chaotic. Poetry has not been the first thing on my mind, but I think I can scrape together a roundup. Here we go:

sometimes I think I should avoid all social media now and forever amen But then I read something like Ange Mlinko‘s reflection at FSG’s Work in Progress today, which I never would’ve seen if not for social media, and I think I have to stay on social media now and forever amen.

Mlinko writes, amongst other things, about her own discovery of what a poem is. She writes a little argument against poets needing beautiful places: “Learning another language is a thousand times more useful to poetry than a room with a view” (though, again… I would not look down my nose at a room with a view. I would not.). She reminds us that a poet’s task is not to gush over things. Here are a couple of her definitions of what poetry is, what a poem is:

“Poetry is articulation: conversation and history and the fate of persons.”

and

“I would no longer think of a poem as an aesthetic object, but as a fragment of an abiding conversation.”

I love this last idea especially. Every poem a fragment. Every poem in a continuum. Read the whole (short and entirely readable) reflection here.

a poet is … or is not. I’m reading Denise Levertov’s translation of Guillevic. I have another, bigger translation of his work, but so far I’m enjoying Levertov’s more, primarily because of her translations, but also because it’s much smaller and more mangeable. I am that kind of reader, I guess: Give me a tome and I’m overwhelmed before I open it; give me smaller and more manageable and I will go in, and deeply.

Anyway, the book is prefaced with remarks by Guillevic about what a poet is and is not. This was written in a time when all was written in the masculine and I’m going to let those references stand without the [sic] [sic] [sic], but feel free to imagine other pronouns, whichever fit your life. Here’s what he says:

“For the poet is he who has the power to make with the language of his country certain combinations which other men need in order to find themselves, to find the world—to live.”

and

“For poets, there is a road that must be travelled in order to arrive at living on the true side of life, that side of it one can finally affirm… .”

and

“(W)hen I say here, poet, I do not mean versifier, but that man who writes a tortured language in which other men—and the language itself—can recognize themselves as true.”

I can sign up for that.

and so there came to me sorrow  Here is a beautifully sad little poem of Guillevic’s that I keep returning to (it is untitled, but bears the dedication: a Colomba (to Colomba; and that a should have a little left-leaning tag above it in the French).

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I had married a wand of willow
and so there came to me sorrow.

We never took those long voyages
through clouds towards
a depth of sky.

But I was poised
for moments or for eternity
like water in water.

—And now the time comes when he must know
who, on the riverbank, has touched
his bride,
the willowbranch:

whether it is again he who suffers
so much, and in so many landscapes.

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It’s interesting… in a note, Levertov admits to departing from the literal meaning of the second line of the poem, which literally translated would read “and of course the worst one that came along.” For me, her translation loses the humor of Guillevic’s words, but is ever more poignant. I don’t translate, and don’t have a well-formed opinion of whether translators ought to depart from meaning this radically, but in this instance I’m pretty much loving the Levertov translation.

I’m interested in, and frankly a little puzzled by, the shift from first-person (“I”) to third-person (“he”) in the fourth stanza. A little distancing happens in that shift, but you don’t often see this… . What I’m saying is that shift would get nailed in workshop!:). But I guess if you’re Guillevic you can get away with it. And I like the quirkiness of it.

Thanks for reading, happy weekend!