all this happened, more or less

ReadMorePoetry

Exhortation from the restroom of the Hungarian Pastry Shop. Who’s in?

(That title is from Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse Five; it may be off-tone to use a title from Slaughterhouse Five for a blog post. But.)

Hi.

I haven’t been here in so long I wasn’t sure of my password. Now the semester’s over and all this happened, more or less:

Over the last few years, I sent every poem in both of my (as yet unplaced) manuscripts‚—that’s seventy-four poems— to FIELD, a journal I’ve long loved. FIELD rejected all of them except three from the very last batch I sent, which are in the current issue. I’m really happy to see some poems from the new ms. finding homes in the world, and happy to be in good company at FIELD.

Over the last month, I’ve been to New York City and back to attend the Poetry Society of America awards ceremony. One-hundred years ago, I lived in Morningside Heights while I earned my first Master’s degree. During my visit, I stayed way, way uptown so I could bum around in the old neighborhood. I visited what I think of as my first coffee shop (where I grew up and where I went to college, there was no such thing)—i.e., the first place I ever went with my writing notebook to write: the Hungarian Pastry Shop. They still have the smallest tables and the best apple strudel ever.

HungarianPastryShop

at the Hungarian Pastry Shop, Amsterdam between 110th and 111th

I visited the MoMA, where I saw my favorite Jackson Pollock, Full Fathom Five. I saw my favorite Franz Kline: Painting Number 2.

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Franz Kline, Painting Number 2, 1954

I saw the water lilies… my favorite part of which is the right-most territory of the painting, where the beauty trails off into murk.

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Claude Monet, Water Lilies, 1914-1926

And I saw my all-time favorite Matisse, “View of Notre Dame,” which I love for its abstraction and its unfinishedness. Especially for its unfinishedness.

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Henri Matisse, View of Notre Dame, 1914.

I saw my dear, dear friend, one of four crucial Lauras in my life. Late in the last century, we found each other being highly introverted on the edges of a room at the Columbia University School of International and Public Affairs. These many years later we shared loves and losses and BLT’s at a diner at 103rd and Broadway. A gift.  Alas, we were too busy enjoying each other to take a photo.

Then, later, I took a cab way, way downtown and met, in person, poets whose poetry I’d admired from a distance for years. I dressed up and wore the bling-y-est earrings I’ve worn since the last century. I shared some Real Talk with other poet-moms about motherhood, and poethood, and mother-poethood. I talked with another Laura Jensen fan about Laura Jensen (another of the four crucial Lauras in my life). I listened to these poets read their poems. You should read them, too:

Victoria Chang, winner of the Alice Fay Di Castagnola Award, read one of her obit poems, which have been appearing here and there in journals recently. Here is the one she read at the awards ceremony.

Kevin Prufer read his poem, “The Newspapers,” winner of the PSA Lyric Poetry Award. Every time I read it, I lose my breath at the end and need a minute.

Jennifer Chang won the William Carlos Williams Award for her book, Some Say the Lark (Alice James). I adore this book, and have been waiting for it since I read Chang’s poem, “Dorothy Wordsworth,” years ago. Happily she read this poem at the ceremony, along with another of my favorites from the book, “We Found the Body of a Young Deer Once.” This one’s a poem about friendship, a subject I believe doesn’t get enough attention in contemporary poetry.

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Daffodil

Elizabeth Knapp, winner of the Robert H. Winner Memorial Award, read her very timely poem, “Fourth of July.”

I listened to Billy Collins award the PSA Frost Medal to Ron Padgett, whose acceptance speech was mainly a list poem comprised of the names of all those who have been a part of his poetry life. It was a reminder that we are all standing on each other’s shoulders.

 

And I read my own poem, “Interior with a Woman Peeling Oranges, Snapping Beans.”

MS-PSAAward

Me, reading.

That seems like at least a year ago now. It seems like it all happened to someone living in another body, not the one I inhabit. But the photos and the memories are proof.

I missed my kids (and they might’ve missed me?). I missed my cat and she definitely missed me. And I am glad I went, even though it’s always easier (at least for me) to stay home with one’s nose to the grindstone. Shout-out to my mom who made it all possible by coming down to stay with the kids and keep the wheels turning en la casa del poeta.

Over the last few weeks I’ve been doing all the mom stuff, applying for jobs, helping my students with their final essay of the semester, snuggling with my cat, looking side-eye at the news, reading Jorie Graham, looking side-eye at the laundry, reading Jenny Molberg, getting shook by an earthquake (wha–?), writing a panel proposal for AWP19, looking side-eye at The Winter That Will Not Loose Its Grip on the Midwest, reading Ghassan Zaqtan, Driving People Places (this always deserves its own category), soaking in the tub, looking side-eye at the (generally empty) refrigerator, reading more Jorie Graham (“I think I am in love with silence, that other world.”), editing book reviews, grading, grading, grading, grading, and grading. Submitting final grades. Collapsing.

Also, it was 84 the other day, so, BYE, winter.

All this happened, more or less, and I am tired, and a little dazed, and a lot grateful.

news

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Oh, did you actually want to sit in your own chair at your own desk? —Mrs. Brown

Hello, Reader. It’s been a while. Nearly every day I think of something I’d like to write here, but for now other areas of life—kids, teaching, editorial work—are keeping me mostly quiet in this space.

I’m here today to share a little news, most urgent of which is this: I am now an official poet because I have a cat. Mrs. Brown (named after Judi Dench’s Queen Victoria in the movie of the same name) came to town in December. She was very shy at first, but is getting comfortable in our busy house, and particularly so in my study where she’s taken to napping (or not) on my chair and climbing up onto my lap to “help” me with whatever I’m working on. I must admit: I am besotted.

In other news, I have poems in the current issues of Gettysburg Review, New England Review, and Ploughshares. Three of them are from my new manuscript, so it’s nice to see those poems getting some traction in the world.

Here is my review of Christian Anton Gerard’s Holdfast at Tupelo Quarterly.

Lastly, I’m delighted to have won the Lucile Medwick Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America with my poem “Interior With a Woman Peeling Oranges, Snapping Beans.” This poem began on an evening in December 2016, as I was listening to NPR’s live coverage of the fall of Aleppo. It began as as attempt to reconcile the lack of suffering in my life with the horrific suffering of others. It began because those two things are irreconcilable. You can read the poem here.

As always, I hope to be back here again sooner rather than later. Until then, write on!

shit goes wrong

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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).

social media anxiety, or, my big face on the Internet

^^For example^^

^^For example^^

Last week or the week before, a very nice thing happened for me: The Missouri Review, one of my dream journals, featured one of my poems on their website in their poem-of-the-week feature. I was and am beyond thrilled about this.

That morning, I woke up to the buzzing of my phone: TMR had tweeted a link to my poem.

Immediately the low-level anxiety began. Because while I am on Twitter (@mollypoet), I don’t really know how to Twitter. It’s 5:45 a.m.  Do I retweet, or does that seem overly self-promotional? Do I favorite it and/or reply with a ‘thanks’ and/or do nothing? If I do nothing is that rude? If I do something is that annoying?

Then on to Facebook. I love sharing other people’s poems on Facebook, but I feel shy about sharing my own. Is it required to share a link to one’s poem(s) on Facebook? I mean, is it considered bad manners if you don’t because you’re not publicizing the journal who’s supporting your work? Should I tag the journal in my post, or is that annoying?

And then, when you share it (as I did, despite my anxiety) and people like it and compliment it and share it again, what is the expected response? An individual “thanks” to each one? A general, “thanks everyone”? Liking the shares? Sharing the likes (okay, I realize you can’t really share likes, but you get the idea).

And then there’s the phenomenon which I now think of as My Big Face On the Internet. Because there was an author photo with the poem, and that photo was the “preview” Facebook chose to display (and I don’t know how to change the preview, do you?), and now Facebook has this algorithm where your last post comes up first on your news feed when you log in (so annoying in my opinion), and then: My Big Face On the Internet.

For the record, I rarely check Facebook during the work day, but (another source of low-level anxiety) that day I felt like I should because people were being very kind and generous commenting on my poem and sharing it, and I wanted to thank them.

And then there are the anxieties outside the small matter of sharing a link to one of my poems. To wit: If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? To put it another way: If I abhor something in real life but do not abhor it on the Internet, do I abhor it? If I support something in real life but do not say so on the Internet, do I support it?

In other words, I feel like an expectation has developed that one must comment on certain things on the Internet in order to “be part of the conversation” and abhor/support the appropriate issues.

In some ways this is good. Social media has helped shine a light on many issues that might not have gained as much traction without it: police brutality, white privilege, sexual misconduct, questionable publishing practices, diversity (or the lack thereof) in publishing, mansplaining, and others.

And it has become a mighty web of support as well. I feel like my morning Facebook check-ins are like going to the break room at the office and chatting with people as we pour our coffee before settling into the work day. But instead of “Did you hear the Dow is down 200 points already?” it’s “Have you seen this amazing poem by so-and-so poet?”

Also, a few of my now closest friends in real life I met online first. So yay, Internet!

But I still don’t know how Twitter really works and how many times do I announce the reading I’ll be participating in and do tag the journal that’s hosting the reading in my post and must I post a photo afterwards and thank the people-I-know-on-Facebook for coming (for I am truly grateful) and should I tag them or say I was “with” them or neither and is it really necessary to announce every acceptance and every publication online and what does “like” mean anyway and the phrase “manage your online presence” makes me want to crawl under my bed and what on earth have I done to suggest to Facebook that I should see ads for plus-size clothing on the right hand margin of my news feed?

To quote Mary Ruefle, “I think we should all be in our rooms writing.”

So here is my tortured relationship with social media laid bare (please note: I have not even mentioned blog anxiety; that is another post for another day, or perhaps an epic poem). My personal approach to social media is to be as human as possible, to give and enjoy camaraderie and support, and to let the annoyances and low-level anxiety float by me. Also, not to spend too terribly much time on it.

All that being said, here is a link to my poem and My Big Face On the Internet. And thanks for reading.

holed up

Hello, Reader.

To the extent that a mother of three whose writing desk is within reach of the kitchen counter (to the left) and the kitchen table (to the right) can be holed up, I have been holed up.

I’ve been reading — Roethke. Roethke is so good to hole up with, with all his muck and soil, his roots and clumps, stems and tendrils, loam and tamping. His “moonless black.” His “kingdom of stinks and sighs.”

And I’ve been revising my manuscript, trying to make every word in every line of every poem sing. Trying to make the order sing. Trying to make the book a poem in and of itself, and singing.

It sits now in a sturdy little pile on the corner of my desk. I can’t say there won’t be more revisions over time. But I can say that I believe in this sturdy little pile of poems.

And also that I am tired of them.

And that I may have forgotten how to write any more poems, but I’m not going to worry about that right now.

I’m going to leave the sturdy pile alone for a bit. I’m going to read more Roethke (“Love, love, a lily’s my care”). I’m going to send some poems off into the world and remember that there are many seasons of a writer’s life: the muck and the lily, the holing up and the letting go.

May all your seasons bear their fruit at one time or another.

 

wordless wednesday with words: grocery list with wee, small fantasy. and words.

Reader. Hello.

Here is the photo I would’ve posted if I had done a wordless wednesday post:

highlighted item added for laugh-value

highlighted item added for laugh-value

 
But today is a word-full wednesday, and this is just to say I am still here. And…

*

This is just to say

I have revised
the poems
that were in
my manuscript

to the exclusion
of all else —
laundry, blogs,
even plums

Forgive me
they were waiting
so needful
and so close

*

This morning I printed the poor darling out for the one zillionth time, binder-clipped it, and handed it to Husband who said, Why do you look like you’re going to puke?

All I could say was: #joyofpoetry. Le sigh.

It is now in the most send-out-able form it’s been in to date. I know the work of placing it will be long and hard, and that I’m likely not entirely done with revisions. But I stake a claim here, on this day: send-out-able.

 

And this is also just to say, here is why we keep wordbanks [or lexicon, or word hoards, or word caches, or word lists, or whatever you want to call them]: because when we are revising our [fill in the blank: poems, series of poems, new poems, old poems, not-sure-they’re-poems, manuscript of poems] and we cannot.think.of.one.more interesting word for [choose one: sky, gate, tea kettle, black bird, the greying at your lover’s temples], we pull out our word banks [or lexicon, or word hoards, or word caches, or word lists, or whatever you want to call them] and find words like: blindfold, shadowless, wheezing, sovereign, cinderthick.

 

And this is also just to say, here is why we keep on reading poetry no matter what else is going on: Because of poems like the ones in the current issue of One. Go read them. You will not be sorry.

 

#poetrymonthfail and other news

Studies of Water Passing Obstacles and Falling -- from Leonardo da Vinci's notebooks via wikimedia

Studies of Water Passing Obstacles and Falling — from Leonardo da Vinci’s notebooks via wikimedia

I am forever learning new ways of speaking from my kids. My middle-schooler has begun saying “hashtag (fill-in-the-blank)” as a way of commenting on something. A frequent example is when I forget something or otherwise goof: “hashtag mom fail.”

Thank you, middle-schooler.

If I were to say anything about my poetry month this year, it would be: “hashtag poetry month fail.” I won’t be surprised if on my gravestone my survivors decide to put: “She had good intentions, but…” (also in the running: “She always started tomorrow’s dinner today.”).

In this post I wrote about four things I was planning on doing for poetry month: submitting, revising, trying out Scrivener (a writerly software application), and creating and sending out a The Handout.

The ugly truth:

I am still reading the instructions for Scrivener. In my defense, there are a lot of instructions, and they lead me to believe this could be a very useful application for poets and writers. But I haven’t taken the leap to using it, mostly because I feel like I still don’t understand it well enough to use it well. What I’d like to do is go to a class or workshop where they teach you how to use it. A quick search on The Google tells me that such workshops exist, so I’ll be looking for one in my area.

I have not finished the The Handout. I have started it! I will finish it! It will be mailed before June 3rd! This is all I can say about The Handout. This and: sorry.

I did do some (revising and) submitting, but I was not a (revision and) submissions machine. As I have always aspired to be. As I have never been. And now, I’m seeing advice from editors on Facebook to just focus on next fall at this point — the academic journals are clearing the decks and some submissions probably won’t even be read before getting rejected. This is an argument in favor of submitting early in the reading period. I think this is probably good advice especially regarding academic journals, but I’m also keeping in mind that there are many journals that read during the summer. Diane Lockward usually publishes a list or two or three on her blog (the links I just used are from last year’s lists, so double check guidelines for this year if you plan to use them, or wait for Diane’s 2014 list if she posts it).

Really, though, for a poet every month is poetry month. I just keep doing the best I can with the time I have. And I keep reminding myself that the obstacle in the path becomes the path (credit: Genine Lentine — to whom I am trying to link and getting an error — I will update later). Amen.

(By the way, speaking of to do lists…. if you want to see Leonardo da Vinci’s to do list rendered beautifully by one of my favorite Bay Area artists, Wendy MacNaughton (to whom I am also trying to link and failing but find her on The Google) until I can update this, go here).

Oh yeah, I almost forgot the other news. Many thanks to Kathleen Kirk and Escape Into Life for featuring my poem “Argument for Staying” in their Mother’s Day feature (Ugh. Ugh. I cannot link to anything today. And the truth is I won’t really have time to update it until at least tomorrow. So the obstacle in the path becomes the path. The path is The Google. Go look! Try: escape into life mother’s day). I’m in good company there along with Martha Silano, Sarah J. Sloat, Sandy Longhorn, and others. I’m happy to see that this is a Mother’s Day feature that also looks at the choice not to be a mother.

 

the Mail Order Bride shops around

Don't you think this is the perfect dress for the MOB? I saw it at a local art show.

Don’t you think this is the perfect dress for the MOB? I saw it at a local art show.

Hello, Reader. I am still here, but have been a bit blog-silent lately. Today, just a quick note to share some news (that some of you have already seen on Facebook): I’m so excited to say that a group of the Mail Order Bride poems won the Writers @ Work fellowship contest judged by Ellen Bass. The poems are forthcoming from Quarterly West, and I get to travel to Utah in June to study with Ellen Bass and other poets and writers.

I also learned this week that the Mail Order Bride chapbook was a semi-finalist for the Frost Place chapbook contest. Alas, not a finalist or a winner — but these little nudges from the universe feel so encouraging and make me want to keep working hard, keep sending out, keep at this thing called poetry.

I hope you’re getting lots of little nudges from the universe in your life’s work as well. See you here tomorrow for the roundup.

in lieu of wordless wednesday: taking stock

pantry

Hello again, Reader. There was no Hermit Monday for me this week due to the holiday. Yesterday was a fairly nice substitute in that I spent almost four hours in my sunny corner at the library. Today will be more hermit-like yet as I plan to park at my desk and stay here until school gets out. I have an impulse to take stock of where I am with my writerly work, although the usual time for taking stock — at the very beginning of a new year — is past. The fact that soon it will be February is somewhat mind-blowing, no?

At any rate, here’s a look into the shelves of my poetry pantry just now…

applications  I spent much of September and October applying for things. One of the gigs I applied for was a residency at Hedgebrook, and I did not get that gig. Bummer, but no big surprise — I typically assume you don’t get anything the first time you try for it. I’ve also learned it can be good to try for things even if you’re not sure you’re 100% ready. There is value in the exercise of applying: you polish your best work, organizing into a manuscript, write an artist’s statement. These are all things that help you see where you are on your creative journey. I have to say their rejection note was one of the nicest rejections I’ve ever received — perhaps in keeping with their focus on being a nourishing global community of women writers.

submissions  As usual, I am not the lean mean submissions machine that I aspire to be. I continue with my habit of sitting down to submit, then revising. Revising is a good thing to do, though, and if I see something I think can be stronger I’d rather make it stronger than send it out. This contributes mightily to my tortoise-like pace, but I keep telling myself: slow but steady… you know the rest. Right now I have poems out with 10 journals and two batches of poems sent off to contests. I have received — ahem — several rejections from  wonderful journals — forgive me, I’ve lost track (technically, I could look it up but let’s not go there). Only two acceptances since September. Ouch. Despite it all, I have more confidence in my work than ever before. I have many poems that I believe in, that I believe will find a home at some point. Onward.

I do have a poem in the most recent issue of Spillway. It’s a small, quiet poem called “A Story About the Kitchen.” It has to do with family and inheritance (I probably don’t need to say: conceptual, not financial).

new work  Although I didn’t exactly keep with my usual one draft per week goal, I did end up with about 20 new drafts in the last half of 2013. Most of them are drafts with spark — things I want to work on. But…

old work  …I also have a reasonable stack of in-process poems that need attention. By which I mean re-visioning. It’s a good problem to have: too many poems. Remind me of this when I hit my next dry spell.

the Mail Order Bride  You knew this was coming, right? That b%$#@h (this is how I’ve come to refer to her — forgive me) drove me crazy all fall. A few times now I’ve thought she was done and then she reared her wacky head again. At this point, though, I have sent her west in a chapbook with a series of aubades and a series of poems with titles taken from the traditional Christian wedding vows. She had been in a full-length manuscript I’ve been working on, but after (many months of) further discernment, I came to feel that she was overpowering the rest of the poems, because she is so wacky (or as a friend put it, much more charitably: “richly imagined”). We will see how she does now that she’s out there in the world with some friends.

organization & process  Oy. One of the things that fell by the wayside as I hustled to meet contest deadlines is organization. Ideally, I’d spend a day putting the system back to rights. Whether I can tear myself away from more creative work to do so remains to be seen. My process remains the same: reading and free-writing in the early morning, crafting/drafting/polishing other times.

coming up  I’ll be working on two reviews, one of Donna Vorreyer’s a house of many windows which I’ll publish here, and one of the forthcoming Bone Map by Sara Eliza Johnson(Milkweed, summer 2014). I also have a hefty stack of poetry to read and learn from.

AWP  Suddenly, I’m going. And I’m already worrying about how I’m going to fit my bathrobe in my two-day suitcase #trueconfessions.

Well, all this should keep me busy and then some. Thanks for letting me take stock. I hope your pantry (figurative or literal or both) is well-stocked and ready to take you through what’s left of winter. Thanks for reading.

“in poverty and solitude, at night”

Gypsy Woman with Baby, wikimedia

Gypsy Woman with Baby, wikimedia

Happy December, Reader. I hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving and are now enjoying turkey soup, turkey tetrazzini, turkey tamales, turkey chili, turkey… turkey… turkey… .

Here at the Wee, Small House, we are through all the turkey and have turned back to the usuals: spahgetti, black beans and rice, white bean soup, pinto beans, red beans and rice, chili beans, beans… beans… beans… .

But let’s talk poetry. Today, I’m happy to share the December issue of Stirring, A Literary Collection, which includes one of my poems along with the work of several other poets and writers. It’s a great issue; stop on over and take a look.

My poem, “The Mother,” is here, and I thought I might write a little about where this poem came from.

Do you know of the journal Poetry East? It’s a great journal out of De Paul University, and every now and then they have a special issue called “Origins: Poets on the Composition Process.” The “Origins” issues publish poems accompanied by the poet’s notes about the writing of the poem. Because I’m fascinated by process, I absolutely love these issues.

So, about a year ago I cracked open the Origins from Fall 2005 (poetry — it has no expiration date), and the issue began with a poem by Jane Hirshfield called “The Poet,” which you can read here.

I then read the composition notes that accompanied the poems. This poem came out of an experience Jane Hirshfield had of writing in residence at the Bellagio Center for Scholars and Artists near Lake Como in Italy. Apparently, there are some pretty nice digs at the Bellagio Center — so nice that Hirshfield felt blocked: “What more expectable response than guilt at such largesse? What more normal result than silence?” she asks in her notes.

She went on to write about asking for a more humble room, after which “instead of being frozen by the sense of the of unearned — and unearnable — privilege, I could suddenly look at it directly, by the means I have always faced my perplexities, confusions, and sorrows: through the writing of a poem.”

To which I say, Yes.

Something broke open in me at reading her words, but viewing them through the lens of motherhood. I confess, there were some thoughts along the lines of Oh, Janey, cry me a river — because, yes, I am at times a small, small person, and because I might have just lounged in that luxury and slept. But there was also a sense of knowing that feeling of guilt at such largesse — the indescribable riches of having three children, and yet the burden of it as well.

Both the Muse and the mother often exist, in Hirshfield’s words, “in poverty and solitude, at night.” Um yes, sometimes the only solitude for the mother is at night if she’s lucky. And by poverty, I mean only that there is a certain asceticism of motherhood that I’ve never been able to deny — sometimes my two arms are really just not enough to hold the incredible blessings and the equally as incredible demands of motherhood.

Whatever dislodged in me at reading Hirshfield’s words produced my poem, which uses her syntactical map (one of the many ways I beg, borrow, and steal from other poets). And, like Hirshfield, “from that point on, I wrote fiercely… trying to make use what I could of the remaining gift of time and silence and paper I had been given.”

To which I again say, Yes.

Thanks to Donna Vorreyer, guest editor, and the other editors at Stirring for including my poem in this issue. May you always have the gifts of time, silence, and paper. Amen.