shit goes wrong


I have mostly been writing my thesis nonstop for the last two weeks. A draft is due tomorrow. I should be working on it now (and will soon), but I’m stopping by here to share a link to two of my poems in this month’s THRUSH poetry journal.

They are poems from my first full-length manuscript which is currently making the rounds.

At first glance, they might appear to be poems about love gone wrong—Persephone and Hades, you know the story. But when I wrote them they were attempts to reckon with the reality of serious, chronic illness. Illness that was never going away.

More broadly, I was attempting to reckon with the problem of suffering. Suffering, which—as long as there are sentient beings in existence—is never going away.

Shit goes wrong.

Sometimes something dark kidnaps you and takes you underground through a rend in the earth. You’re down there, you’re hungry, you miss your mother.

But after a while it becomes your life. YOUR life. And so, while you wouldn’t choose it, you can’t exactly wish it away either.

Here are the poems, and make sure to read the rest of the issue, too. Thanks for reading.


(Note: The first poem is also an ekphrasis of the painting above, View of the Campagna, 1832 by Friedrich Wasmann; oil on paper mounted on cardboard, Hamburger Kunsthalle. You can find a larger image of it here).

I attack the ruse.


(art from wikimedia)


Nobody is attached
by Tomaž Šalamun

Nobody is attached. You too are not. You too
are undressed and warm, breathing like a

hare. We breathe slowly. I’m the thorn.
The thorn. I go into the goblet. I toss

the string. There’s a bucket on the string. It
splashes in the fountain. At the bottom of the fountain

there are does with big eyes. I limp, I eat kohlrabi,
point with a finger, and ask too much. Calm

yourself. It will come and vanish. You’ll be mute
and black and you will fall asleep on the shelf.

Combines will halve you. The shy ones
the rag opened the eyes to the timid ones.

No one loaded the duffle. The lamps along the path
were made of white plastic. I attack the ruse. I love.


I love this poem for its strange unconnectedness. Richard Hugo: “Connections are not stated, yet we know the statements are connected. They are connected because the same poet wrote all (of them). That is, they are products of one vision that, along with style, becomes the adhesive force. This adhesive force will be your way of writing. Assume the next thing belongs because you put it there.” From Hugo’s “Nuts and Bolts.”

I am almost mad when it ends up the lamps along the path are made of plastic. But then I see how it fits perfectly, waking us from the dream of the poem.

I’m not sure who translated this poem, but Šalamun translated his own work at least some of the time. I found this poem via the poet Gretchen Marquette, whose book May Day is fantastic. You should read it.

Happy New Year!

friday roundup: you do not need to leave your room edition


Here is what the walls of my study look like these days. Thank you, critical thesis.

Dear Reader, I keep starting blog posts like this: I had not intended to be away quite so long. It is still true. I’m just trying to keep all the balls up in the air: my thesis work, my editorial work, motherhood, keeping people (reasonably) well-fed and the bathrooms (reasonably) clean. Laundry (insert deer-in-the-headlights look here). And lest we forget: the poems.

[Confession: I am really good about not forgetting the poems. They are always my first priority, and I work on them every day before doing anything else. This may be a character flaw, but it’s the character flaw that has saved my life.]

At any rate, I’m here to share a few things this cold, snowy Friday.

“to let the words write the words”  One thing I want to share is this amazing essay, “Bewilderment,” by Fanny Howe. I’d printed it off a few weeks ago and finally sat down to read it. First a little background: up until several months ago, my process for writing  a poem was to free-write whatever came into my head, often something off a line by another poet, and often, amidst writing, returning to that line, and then to shave the free-write down or  mix it up or do whatever I needed to do to it to make it a poem. Lately, though, my process has undergone a big (and often, for me, bewildering) shift: Words and lines arrive from I know not where. I write them down. More words and lines arrive. I write them down. And so on until (sometimes) a poem is made. I’ve been thinking of it as the LISTEN & DICTATE process of writing poetry, a phrase which I came across in this interview.

But in this essay, Howe writes a description of her writing process which better describes my own. I never would have been able to articulate it—which is why we need the rock star poets of the world: so they can tell us what we’re doing—but it is exactly how my poems have been arriving and making themselves. Howe writes:

First I receive the impression of a time period as an experience of pure language, glimpses of actions, emotions and weathers. I jot down whatever comes through—in a rush of words. Then I begin to see what is being said and to see it as it unfolds, as if from afar and sometimes I actually stand at a distance from the words that are there. Spotting word-associations and what their sounds suggest and prove about the “point” of this emergent poem forces me to remove my body from the action; to let the words write the words. Letting the lines cohere on their own volition is crucial. Literally it is like watching someone else take form in the dark and I am weirdly disassociated from the action, an observer, a voyeur, though all the objects in the room, and the body, are familiar, are even “mine.”

An experience of pure language. To let the words write the words. Yes, please.

the poem wanders away from the demonstration  Since the election, there have been many calls to many different kinds of action. On social media, in articles, and elsewhere, I’ve read several outright imperatives and a few gentle suggestions that our poems must now be political. That poetry that does not engage in the public sphere and advocate for change is a useless endeavor.

I disagree. I think the act of making art is, itself, political. Roethke: “Art is the means we have of undoing the damage of haste. It’s what everything else isn’t.” Lyn Hejinian: the poet must “undertake the preservation of otherness.”

I also think that poems are the very opposite of tools. Which is not to say that a poem can’t be political and can’t become a rallying cry for a movement—we know poems can do this—but it is the poems themselves that decide what they will be. It is the poem’s will, not our own.

This essay at Lithub by Matthew Zapruder expresses and explores these ideas better than I have here. In it Zapruder argues that poems are an unreliable vehicle for advocacy; that:

The poem is by its nature and design easily distracted. It wanders away from the demonstration, the committee meeting, the courtroom, toward the lake or that intriguing, mysterious light over there. What is that light? It looks like something, I’m not sure what, I’m sorry to leave this very important conversation but I have to know.

He also argues:

The role of poetry in our time of crisis is the same as always: to preserve our minds and language, so we may be strong for whatever is to come. And also, to preserve the possibility of mutual understanding, not by arguing for it, but by demonstrating it.

I guess what I’m saying here, to myself as much as to any of you, is: keep writing your poems. If they are political, so be it. If they are about a pair of socks a friend knit for you, so be it. If they are about the moss growing on the garden bench despite the snow, so be it.

and in a departure from our usual Friday programming  I am not going to share a poem today. Not because there aren’t one thousand poems I could share, but because these words from Franz Kafka seem to belong with the other words I’ve written here today. And because, in a way, they are a little poem in and of themselves:

You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet, still, and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.

I’m planning to try a little something new here moving forward. Which is: smaller, more frequent posts. We’ll see how that goes. Meanwhile, I’m wishing you warmth, comfort, and poems, yours and others’.

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):


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:


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


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.


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.

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


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: the lies we tell ourselves version


Scary Clown

Reader, I am back from my writing residency. Which was wonderful (more on that soon). And I’m thinking about the lies we tell ourselves.

lie #1: clowns are not scary  I’ve been telling myself this as long as I can remember. Perhaps it all started with Bozo the Clown (that hair, those shoes!); the deal was sealed by reading It in eighth grade. But “clowns are not scary” is a lie. I just now walked out into my garage and was unexpectedly greeted by Scary Clown.

Clowns are scary. That is all.

lie #2: one does not need a room of one’s own  This one’s a little more complicated than “clowns are not scary.”

Many are the times (and blog posts) in which I remind myself that one does not need a room of one’s own in order to write. By and large, I believe this to be true.

But when one goes away on a writing residency and actually has a room of one’s own to write in for ten days, one must then confess that there are benefits to having a room of one’s own.

For example, one can write the titles of all the poems one has written or plans to write on index cards. One can then fasten those index cards to the walls in thematic groupings. To wit:

IMG_6508 3

This….. multiplied by 3 walls

One is then able to see the pathways along which one has been writing, even though one had thought oneself to be writing “just a bunch of random poems” for months.

One can also hang one’s manuscript on the wall. To wit:


The ms. – partial view

One might then realize  a couple poems need to come out, one needs reformatting to shine, and a few need reordering. One may be putting lipstick on a pig, but at least one is doing it with an eye to the entire pig.

So, for me the bottom line is: One probably cannot have a room of one’s own all the time unless one is very, very lucky indeed. But one must endeavor to have a room of one’s own from time to time. Amen.

(As for the other benefits of a literal and figurative room of one’s own—the quiet, the time to think, the creative flow, the other-people-cooking-one’s-meals effect, these I will address soon in another post. Meanwhile, let these benefits not be underestimated.)

lie #3: this has *got* to be the last of the snow It is snowing again in the Old Country (also known as Michigan). Although there is no snow fatigue going on here in the Peninsula Town, I remember well the snow fatigue that accompanies March in winter climates. Luckily, we have poems for this. Here is Heid E. Erdrich‘s poem, “Last Snow.”

Happy weekend and thanks for reading!

friday roundup: silences and hands edition

Hello, reader. This week I’ve been thinking a lot about silence.

silence n. 1. complete absence of sound. 2. the fact or state of abstaining from speech > the avoidance of mentioning or discussing something. v. 1. make silent. 2. fit with a silencer.

From the from Latin silentium “a being silent,” from silens, present participle of silere “be quiet or still,” of unknown origin.

I’ve been thinking about two different forms of silence:

silence the first The first is that silence that sometimes descends upon a writer. I’m in the midst of one of these silences now—nothing’s flowing and the stillborn lines are piling up in my notebook.

How fitting, in this case,  that at its deepest root silence is “of unknown origin.”

These silence are always excruciating, and when I’m in the midst of one I always make sure to remind myself that I’m not the only one who has hit quiet patches. Here’s Louise Glück in her essay “Education of the Poet”:

“I have wished, since I was in my early teens, to be a poet; over a period of more than thirty years, I have had to get through extended silences. By silences I mean periods, sometimes two years in duration, during which I have written nothing. Not written badly, written nothing. Nor do such periods feel like fruitful dormancy.”

I also remind myself of the things I do to keep moving forward amidst the silence and stillborn lines:

  • read, and while I’m reading,
  • write down lines grab my attention
  • work in my lexicon
  • copy poems I love into my notebook by hand
  • keep adding to my lists
  • look back in my notebooks (often I will find a line or a fragment that shakes something loose in me)
  • accept the obstacle in the path as the path: rather than write, revise, send out poems, do other writerly things that are not writing
  • write anyway (I have been this time)
  • read a lot of craft essays…

…which brings me to:

silence the second  The other silence I’ve been thinking about is the silence of the unsaid in a poem. My favorite poems are so often those that don’t hand over everything, that use silence as a tool, that suggest rather than declare. Wallace Stevens’ poem “The Snowman” ends with this stanza:

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

The kind of silence I’m thinking about is “the nothing that is.” A silence that makes itself felt in the poem, a bodied silence. Conveniently, Louise Glück also writes about this kind of silence in her essay “Disruption, Hesitation, Silence”:

“The unsaid for me exerts great power: often I wish an entire poem could be made from this vocabulary. It is analogous to the unseen; for example, to the power of ruins, to works of art either damaged or incomplete. Such works inevitably allude to larger contexts; they haunt because they are not whole, though wholeness is implied: another time, a world in which they were whole, or were to have been whole, is implied.”

Yes, this is what I want to do with silence in my poems. Not that I know how. Glück also writes:

“All earthly experience is partial.”

If you have favorite poems that employ a felt silence, I hope you’ll share them in comments.

P.S.  Both of the Glück essays referred to are in her book Proofs & Theories.

hands  O, hands. Having a certain, long-standing relationship with inflammatory arthritis (thank you, Lupus), I have a very fraught relationship with hands. Especially my own hands. I will never forget this exchange with one of my doctors years ago:

Him: Do you drop things?
Me: Yes.
Him: Hopefully not the baby!

But recently I read Aracelis Girmay‘s book Kingdom Animalia. This poet has taken hold of hands, and her hands, and all hands. There are so many hands in her poems, that I began to love hands in a whole new way. I love it when a poet takes possession of something like this. Also: read this book. It is so good. Anyway, one of my favorite poems in the book is called “Portrait of the Woman as a Skein.” It’s a long poem in sections, and sadly I’ve not been able to find a version that’s link-to-able online. So I’m going to give you one section of it, and I think you will see why I love this book:



Last night, the dream of you standing
in the doorway like a lighthouse
calling for your hands to come back
home, & from a great distance, them
running towards you, two
children or two dogs. What scared you then,
you also called it beautiful—
the way their breath flew out of them like clouds,
the way they reached the dark yard panting & stood
deciding between the body & the woods.


Between the body and the woods. Oh my goodness.

Have a wonderful weekend, reader, and may all your silences have the power of ruins. Thanks for reading!

friday roundup: “or none, or few” edition


view from my window, through blinds: “where yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang”

Hello Reader. I’ve thrown the calendar to the wind lately… or perhaps it has thrown me to the wind. Either way, I’m just showing up here when I feel like I can. So, happy Friday and here’s what I have for a roundup this week:

book flood  I’ve heard a lot of people say this year that they’re having a hard time getting into the holiday spirit. I am one of them. Indeed, all I’ve done holiday-wise is 1. book our flights back to the Old Country, and 2. receive, gratefully, the holly boughs my neighbor brought over (still sitting in their paper grocery bag) and the poinsettia my other neighbor brought over (still wrapped in its plastic). But a few things have lifted my spirits:

A friend reminded me this week to sing, so I’ve been singing.

And people are lighting candles in the dark for Hanukkah.

And in Iceland there is this thing called the Christmas Book Flood. Apparently, a book (an actual, physical book) is the best holiday gift to give/get in Iceland. Also, according to NPR, Iceland publishes more books per capita than any other country in the world. I don’t know about you, but I’m packing now. Here’s more on the Christmas Book Flood if you need something to lift your boat.

a personal sheaf of riches  Somewhere this week (I wish I could remember where—some other writerly type probably shared it on Facebook) I came across this article describing William Stafford‘s daily writing practice. According to the article, his daily writing always included four things:

  1. The date
  2. A few lines of prose on a recent experience, encounter, dream, etc.
  3. An aphorism
  4. “something like a poem… or notes toward a poem… or just an exploratory set of lines that never became a poem”

If you’re looking for a framework for your daily (or, if you’re like me, almost-daily) writing practice, you could do worse.

I’ve been using this framework for the last several days and I have to say that it’s gotten me out of my mind and memory and into the actual, physical world more than I might otherwise be. I credit numbers 2 and 3 for this.

I’ve also noticed (and this has nothing to do directly with William Stafford’s framework) that, if you have a daily or nearly-daily writing practice, even when it feels like you haven’t been writing very many poems lately (who, me?), you end up with, as the article says, “a personal sheaf of riches” from which to write poems.

“or none, or few”  I try to be always memorizing a poem, or sometimes a poetic block of prose. Sometimes I fall down on the job, but mostly I stick to it, although I am slow about it. I’ve found that memorization helps me notice things I hadn’t noticed before about a poem (also, reciting a poem is a great way to soothe anxiety for me). Example: Until I memorized it, I never really noticed that in Jack Gilbert’s “Poem for Laura,” all the lines end with one of the following words: life, pain, heart, sorrow, love, night. Once I noticed, I could not believe I hadn’t noticed before. I hereby rest my case for memorization.

At any rate, last week and this, I’ve been memorizing Sonnet 73 (Shakespeare). Because it’s that time of year “When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang.” (At least, it is here in the Peninsula Town; I know it’s more wintry other places).

What I’ve noticed is that Shakespeare so often reverses our expectations. In that phrase—”When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang”—the expected progression would be to go from few to none, not none to few.

He also uses syntax that allows slips of meaning. Look at this bit of the poem, which comes right after the line I quoted above:

Upon the boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

I love that “bare ruined choirs” might be an appositive to describe the boughs which shake against the (noun) cold, or the choirs might be their own thing altogether against which the boughs shake, with cold, bare, and ruined modifying choirs.

Also, note what he does with rhythm in the second line above. After a line of perfect iambic pentameter (da-DAH, da-DAH, da-DAH, da-DAH, da-DAH), he begins the second line with five stressed syllables in a row, then an unstressed syllable, then three more stressed syllables.

Oh, Bill, you still amaze us.

Anyway, I’ll stop talking now and let the poem speak for itself: here is the whole of Sonnet 73.

I wish for everyone at least a few yellow leaves still hanging against the graying landscape—literally and figuratively. Thanks for reading.


roundup, not on friday, after quiet

Hello, Reader. I am still here, but have been feeling quiet lately (not to mention busy: kids, deadlines, holidays, etc.). Today is the sixth day of a six-day weekend for the kids. Rumor has it there is school tomorrow. I’ll believe it when I see it.

For now everyone has found their own little corner of the house (or, in one case, yard) and writing a little something seems possible. So here I am.

And here’s what’s been on my mind:

sources  I’m always interested in what poets say about where their poems come from. I’m interested whether they’re talking about it literally or figuratively; whether they seem certain or uncertain; whether their sources strike me as replicable (that is, worth trying) or not.

Earlier today, I ran across a lovely essay by my friend and fellow poet Sarah Pape, who wrote about poem-making in a Hayden’s Ferry Review contributor spotlight.

I’ve been reading and re-reading it all day, thinking about how poems come to me, most often out of the strange alchemy of other people’s poems and silence.

My favorite line from the essay, the entirety of which you must read for yourself: Tell me the places you’ve come from. Help me see.

Here’s the whole thing (and don’t be warned off by the “we’ve moved to a new port” message at the top of the page; scroll down, the essay’s there).

nuts and bolts  I’ve been re-reading Richard Hugo‘s The Triggering Town. I needed a bit of the title essay for a paper I was writing, and then of course had to re-read the whole book. Because it’s that good—so much solid craft advice alongside his deeply felt convictions about what a poet is, what the writing life is all about.

Here are a few of my favorite Hugoisms:

“It is impossible to write meaningless sequences.” (from “Writing Off the Subject)

“(W)hen you are writing you must assume that the next thing you put down belongs not for reasons of logic, good sense, or narrative development, but because you put it there. You, the same person who said that, also said this. The adhesive force is your way of writing, not sensible connection.” (also from “Writing Off the Subject”)

“(O)nce language exists only to convey information, it is dying.” (from “The Triggering Town”)

“So you are after those words you can own and ways of putting them in phrases and lines that are yours by right of obsessive musical deed.” (also from “The Triggering Town”)

I had all but forgotten about his essay “Nuts and Bolts” which is full of very practical tips (“Maximum sentence length: seventeen words. Minimum: one.” “No semi-colons.” “When the poem starts, things should already have happened.”) and things to try when you’re stuck. Thanks to the Interwebs, it is available to all of us for free at this link.

the last poem I loved  And now, as usual, a poem. Here is the last one I loved; it’s by Kevin Goodan, from his book In the Ghost-House Acquainted, which is worth its cover price just so you can study his amazing titles (but the poems are excellent, too):


SNOW ANGELS by Kevin Goodan

The barn is a story we’ve taken refuge in,
the one where the ghosts never arrive.

We wait anyway
since the weather demands it.

Strike a match and nothing disappears,
nothing leaps out, either.

Snow is a verb with certain ideas in mind,
it settles on the fringe of your coat.

Give me your hands.
The wind has a way of saying things

no longer self-evident.
Since the barn does not repeat itself

I will. Your hands,
they are remote and necessary.

With the temperature this close to zero
everything is at risk.

This is not a story
we can leave untouched.


May all the stories you can’t leave untouched find a home in your poems. Thanks for reading.