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Politics & Poetics - a repost

Sometimes when I experience a crisis of confidence, as I have lately (what am I doing? is it any good? what does it matter? & so on) I scroll back through this blog, just to see what I have been doing.

Late last night I came across this post, from January 2008, which I had completely forgotten about. I sound so ... confident.

Click through to the original and outside links to see the comment threads, which are of interest in themselves:

~

Politics & Poetics

[UPDATED 8:00 PM 16 January: Wow. Andrew Sullivan just linked to the poem. My stats are booming!]

My poems seldom incite controversy, but I Have This To Say About That, regarding why the New Hampshire pollsters got it wrong, has done exactly that, here and elsewhere. Comments and emails on this poem have reminded me of questions regarding the role and responsibility of art, of poetry, in our contentious times; and of my own responsibilities, as a poet, a woman, a feminist, and a citizen.

First, let me mention that (like many, if not most poets) I often write in a voice not my own; that neither the speaker nor the subject of my poem is necessarily me. Like a novelist, I am attempting to say truth with fiction, true fiction, as it were. I have found, through the years, that adherence to fact can actually impede the expression of truth.

In writing workshops, when some aspect of a piece is critiqued, the novice writer will often protest: but that's what actually happened! and resist the suggestion that something that didn't really happen might express the mood or the point of the piece with more power and, paradoxically, authenticity.

I am not a reporter. I am a poet. I attempt to tell the truth, and sometimes to enlighten, to entertain, even to amuse while doing so. I am attempting to enlighten, entertain, and amuse myself as well as the reader. The truth is, I often don't know what my poem is about until years later, if ever.

But this time I did.

I chose to speak in a voice not my own, a cadence as true as I could make it to the twang of my western youth. My uncles' voices, perhaps; a certain Missouri syrup in there with a little Montana cowboy. But is this cowboy lying when he says:

... women
lie ...

They lie mostly about
money and politics.
And sex. That, too.

... to which several have taken offense?

No, he is telling the truth. People lie when they must, or when they believe they must. In this country, many women have little power in these arenas, which are considered the territory of the husband -- so they lie. They lie to get along, or to get what they need or want, or -- in more cases than we want to acknowledge -- to avoid a beating.

But they tell the truth when they can:

when they pull that poll booth curtain
closed, who's to know?

One response to this poem was that it presents an ugly stereotype of men and women. This is true.

catnapping says: ... one of the things that kinda bothers me about absentee ballots is that so many women have abusive husbands watching over their shoulders as they fill them out ...

It has been suggested that merely writing -- or posting -- this poem is a betrayal of women. My first (gut) response to this was, gosh, women are betrayed in so many ways, this doesn't even register on the meter -- even if it were a betrayal, which I don't believe it is.

But the suggestion does raise the question -- are there things that must not be said? Isn't that how we got here to begin with, by being told that there are questions which must not be asked, things which must not be said? Isn't this, at least in part, what art is for: to say what is not allowed, to uncover what is buried?

gautami tripathy says: ... categorising as Woman or Black man is demeaning. We vote for a person, not to any gender or colour.

To which I say, this is the dream. But the dream has not been reached. In this country, it is unprecedented to have viable candidates for president who are women, who are black. As long as there are (many) citizens who will vote against a candidate on that basis, we must not pretend otherwise. To pretend otherwise is to accept things as they are, without hope or expectation of change.

And I do not.

And white women, well,
they'll vote for a woman
or a black man without flinching.

... which is, of course, the dream, that one might vote for someone like or unlike ourselves, without flinching. Or the nightmare, I suppose, depending on your point of view. If you think that only white men should be in positions of power, this is, truly, the nightmare.

Don't those pollsters know
that married women
lie ...

Is this really why the pollsters got it wrong? I don't know; it was just an thought, that grew into a voice, that grew into a poem, that became a question.

That became several questions: Are there thoughts, ideas, concepts, that a responsible artist must not share? Is poetry a political act? Do you restrict what you say in public, because of these concerns?

Is that lying?

[There is a piece in response to this one at Poetics Vs. Politics: I Just Have This To Say About That.]

 

[UPDATED 8:00 PM 16 January: Wow. Andrew Sullivan just linked to the poem. My stats are booming!]

My poems seldom incite controversy, but I Have This To Say About That, regarding why the New Hampshire pollsters got it wrong, has done exactly that, here and elsewhere. Comments and emails on this poem have reminded me of questions regarding the role and responsibility of art, of poetry, in our contentious times; and of my own responsibilities, as a poet, a woman, a feminist, and a citizen.

First, let me mention that (like many, if not most poets) I often write in a voice not my own; that neither the speaker nor the subject of my poem is necessarily me. Like a novelist, I am attempting to say truth with fiction, true fiction, as it were. I have found, through the years, that adherence to fact can actually impede the expression of truth.

In writing workshops, when some aspect of a piece is critiqued, the novice writer will often protest: but that's what actually happened! and resist the suggestion that something that didn't really happen might express the mood or the point of the piece with more power and, paradoxically, authenticity.

I am not a reporter. I am a poet. I attempt to tell the truth, and sometimes to enlighten, to entertain, even to amuse while doing so. I am attempting to enlighten, entertain, and amuse myself as well as the reader. The truth is, I often don't know what my poem is about until years later, if ever.

But this time I did.

I chose to speak in a voice not my own, a cadence as true as I could make it to the twang of my western youth. My uncles' voices, perhaps; a certain Missouri syrup in there with a little Montana cowboy. But is this cowboy lying when he says:

... women
lie ...

They lie mostly about
money and politics.
And sex. That, too.

... to which several have taken offense?

No, he is telling the truth. People lie when they must, or when they believe they must. In this country, many women have little power in these arenas, which are considered the territory of the husband -- so they lie. They lie to get along, or to get what they need or want, or -- in more cases than we want to acknowledge -- to avoid a beating.

But they tell the truth when they can:

when they pull that poll booth curtain
closed, who's to know?

One response to this poem was that it presents an ugly stereotype of men and women. This is true.

catnapping says: ... one of the things that kinda bothers me about absentee ballots is that so many women have abusive husbands watching over their shoulders as they fill them out ...

It has been suggested that merely writing -- or posting -- this poem is a betrayal of women. My first (gut) response to this was, gosh, women are betrayed in so many ways, this doesn't even register on the meter -- even if it were a betrayal, which I don't believe it is.

But the suggestion does raise the question -- are there things that must not be said? Isn't that how we got here to begin with, by being told that there are questions which must not be asked, things which must not be said? Isn't this, at least in part, what art is for: to say what is not allowed, to uncover what is buried?

gautami tripathy says: ... categorising as Woman or Black man is demeaning. We vote for a person, not to any gender or colour.

To which I say, this is the dream. But the dream has not been reached. In this country, it is unprecedented to have viable candidates for president who are women, who are black. As long as there are (many) citizens who will vote against a candidate on that basis, we must not pretend otherwise. To pretend otherwise is to accept things as they are, without hope or expectation of change.

And I do not.

And white women, well,
they'll vote for a woman
or a black man without flinching.

... which is, of course, the dream, that one might vote for someone like or unlike ourselves, without flinching. Or the nightmare, I suppose, depending on your point of view. If you think that only white men should be in positions of power, this is, truly, the nightmare.

Don't those pollsters know
that married women
lie ...

Is this really why the pollsters got it wrong? I don't know; it was just an thought, that grew into a voice, that grew into a poem, that became a question.

That became several questions: Are there thoughts, ideas, concepts, that a responsible artist must not share? Is poetry a political act? Do you restrict what you say in public, because of these concerns?

Is that lying?

[There is a piece in response to this one at Poetics Vs. Politics: I Just Have This To Say About That.]

 

Inaugural Poem * by Elizabeth Alexander

UPDATE: Here, courtesy of RCH, is the poet's version of the poem, with line breaks: Praise Song for the Day. This version, though, is copywrighted, so I don't feel comfortable posting it here -- even though it seems to me that this poem, of any, should belong to any of us.

So below is the transcript from the New York Times:

* ~ *

Praise Song for the Day

Each day we go about our business, walking past each other, catching each others' eyes or not, about to speak or speaking. All about us is noise. All about us is noise and bramble, thorn and din, each one of our ancestors on our tongues. Someone is stitching up a hem, darning a hole in a uniform, patching a tire, repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.

A farmer considers the changing sky; A teacher says, "Take out your pencils. Begin."

We encounter each other in words, words spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed; words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark the will of someone and then others who said, "I need to see what's on the other side; I know there's something better down the road."

We need to find a place where we are safe; We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle; praise song for the day. Praise song for every hand-lettered sign; The figuring it out at kitchen tables.

Some live by "Love thy neighbor as thy self."

Others by first do no harm, or take no more than you need.

What if the mightiest word is love, love beyond marital, filial, national. Love that casts a widening pool of light. Love with no need to preempt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air, anything can be made, any sentence begun.

On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp -- praise song for walking forward in that light.

* ~ *

This is from the NYT transcript; I don't know whether the poet's own version has more line breaks. It may.

Already I've seen that some find it too prosaic; they wanted something with more grandeur. I quite like it.

What do you think?

Kay Ryan

National Poetry Prompt Appreciation Day

Today is that day, according to an event announcement at facebook (I think you probably have to be a member to see this):

On the eve of National Poetry Prompt Appreciation Day, which Jay Robinson and I have just now declared, we are offering you a cornucopia of poetry exercises to jump start your writing.

I know that some people don't like prompts, and think you should rely on your own bad self for inspiration. But for those of us who need an assignment, or some kind of push, prompts are invaluable.

Would you like to join the celebration? If so, try your hand at a poetry prompt tomorrow, or share one with a friend, or the entire blogosphere / facebookosphere.

-- Mary Biddinger and Jay Robinson, Co-Editors-in-Chief of Barn Owl Review.

I like prompts. I use them, and, on occasion, I make some up. I made some up last night, when I should have been sleeping, but instead was listening to the thunderstorm.

If you write from any of these, leave a comment telling me which, and a link, and I'll bring the link up under the prompts so that we can all go visit the results.  I may use one or two of these myself.

1. Write a poem that includes three words beginning with O -- and no, those little two-letter words don't count. No names or abstractions (opportunity, only); they must be real things, like: octopus, orange, orangutan. Include one word beginning with Q, and -- oh yes -- twenty lines, please.
2. Write a rhymed sonnet, but put the rhymes at the beginning or middle, instead of the end, of lines. (I've no idea how this will work.)
3. Write a prose poem. What makes it a poem?
4. Image: the head of a daisy, just the head, on a green lawn.
5. Write a love poem without using the word love or any of its substitutes.
6. Write a poem about making something: a quilt, a building, a table, a cake. But not a poem.
7. Image: lightning and thunder from a clear sky.
8. Write a green poem.
9. If it's hot where you are, write a cold poem; if it's cold, write a hot poem.
10. Take the last ten poems you wrote. Beginning with the most recent, write the first line; from the next, the second line, and so on. If the next poem in order doesn't have enough lines, go back to the beginning and move forward until you reach one that does. When you're done, you have ten lines. Keeping them as much in order as possible, make a new poem.

You'll find lots of links to prompt sites here:      POETRY LINKS, and over the weekend I'll links here to participants in this 'event' as I find them, as well as links to poems that respond to the above prompts.

Poetry, Personality & Design

 

We've been having some interesting discussions about poems, poetry, and poetics on the PoetryEtc list -- some of it focused around my own recent work. Frederick Pollack offered some thorough and pointed criticism of my poems -- and my 'kind' of poetry. 

What is my kind of poetry? Mainstream, I gather. Lyrical, perhaps. Not, certainly, his favorite sort.

While I'm unlikely to change the kind of poetry I write, Frederick's critiques and perspective are being very helpful. I find myself thinking, for the first time in too long, about what I'm doing, and why; how I do it, and to what end. I've been lazy lately. The poems have come too easily, and I've posted them too quickly.

I read poems, and I read books about writing poems; but I don't often read, or think much about, criticism or theory. Perhaps, twenty years in, it's past time.

Frederick's advice:

Two tips: 1. Distinguish between your genuinely subjective experience and your narrowly autobiographical experience.  The former is what counts.  As I said before, neither "I" nor "you" (nor parents, siblings, Aunt Tilly etc.) are at all important in themselves; only as functions of a poem and how it engineers its reader's experience. 2: Realize that a narrative, a story, is a metaphor.  In a narrative poem, the guiding incident is the poem's metaphor.  (Stylistically, therefore, there should be as few other metaphors as possible.)

While the first point is familiar to me, the second brought me up short. Not regarding narrative poetry, which I seldom attempt, but regarding what I do write. I thought about how image-heavy my poems tend to be. Then I looked around the room.

My house is just the same. Every wall is covered with art. Every room, even the bathrooms, the kitchen, the closet/ dressing room. Tables and shelves are covered with books, magazines, artifacts. There are goldfish in the garden, parakeets in the sunroom, a small aquarium in the living room, and cats and dogs wherever they please. Everywhere, memories, totems, collections. Also dust, dishes, and pet hair.

I conclude that my house, and my poems, reflect my mind: cluttered, personal, eclectic. Dusty. And I wonder -- have you noticed such correlations in your own writing? Do your poems look like your house, minimal and modern, or traditional, or Bohemian, or . . . ?  Would an attempt to change the style of your writing be like an attempt to change the style of your rooms? And would that be easily done, or not?

I love my house, and don't plan to change it. But you might expect to see some experimentation here.

How to Critique a Poem

 

First, I do not expect every comment on my poems to be a critique -- please don't feel required to become a critic! Please, please don't! I love getting comments on my poems; just that tells me it meant something for you. Critiques are, however, welcome if you feel so inclined.

This post is an effort to remind myself how to best go about this, which I sometimes do. I hope it might be useful for others who offer feedback on poems, as well.

As I've recommitted myself to poetry, and increased my participation in online poetry communities, I've discovered that I seem to have lost the knack of offering concise and helpful feedback on a poem, while being supportive and encouraging.

I have participated in several real-life workshops, with excellent teachers, and seemed to manage it in those settings. But online is different. (Some communities, of course, like Read Write Poem, specifically discourage critique unless the poet requests it.)

Each comment seems, somehow, too blunt, too narrow. I mean this about the comments I make, not those I receive. I am practiced at receiving critiques, and have many years of writing behind me to hold me up against unexpected pushes. I also have rules for myself about receiving C&C (Comments & Critique) developed in face- to- face workshops, that help keep my balance:

• Be receptive; do not speak.
• Write down everything, including responses you don't like or don't think will be useful.
• Do not respond to anything other than direct questions; and delay responding to those, if possible, until the critique is done.

This is easily done online. Less easily done is to  communicate nuance and feeling in responding to someone else's work. Usually this is accomplished with gesture, expression, and voice -- none of which are available at the keyboard. (Emoticons just don't do it for me.)

I realize I've developed the habit, unless I'm working -- that is, trying to learn something from this specific poem or poet -- of reading poems more quickly than I ought to. I read a poem, sit with the feeling or ideas it evokes for a moment, and then move on. Unless, that is, the poem raises some question for me: why does the poet break the line here? how did this poem evoke such a powerful feeling in me? what does that word mean?

poem| a virtual poetry group has especially made me aware of how careless I've become, as I see the attention and depth with which others approach the poems up for discussion. I would like to bring at least some of that kind of attention to the poems offered up in the other communities I belong to. 

I've done a quick review online, and pulled out aging notes from my file cabinet, to pull together this list, much of which came from a very useful thread at How to critique a poem (aka Best Critiques on Poets.org):

• Critique the poem, not the poet.
• Don't assume that the speaker of the poem is the poet; poets often write in fictional voices.
• Offer suggestions for the poem from the point of view of a reader: point out the places that you don’t understand or sections that you find inconsistent with other parts of the poem. Give advice on the poem that is as concrete as possible. Tell the poet that you didn’t understand this line, or that word, or ask why each stanza begins with a capital letter.
  
• Say what you like about the poem; be specific.
• Tell the poet if you were confused by something; again, be specific.
• Say what you think does, and does not, work in the poem.
• Pay attention to what you felt as you read the poem, and share that.
• A small amount of encouragement goes a long way to making any critique more palatable to the poet, and thus is more likely to be taken seriously because the poet knows you’ve read and thought about his/her poem.
• There's a fine line between offering specific revision suggestions, and rewriting someone else's poem. Take care with this.
  

One of the guidelines often suggested is to not address the content of the poem, with the assumption that workshop poets are interested primarily, or only, in feedback on craft. That's not the case with me; I'm also interested in what you think and feel about the content, even if it offends, or confuses, or bewilders you.

I've begun adding to my critique tag in my del.icio.us bookmarks, and I'm putting that tagroll on this post, so it will update automatically and serve as a resource for further thought.

Please comment with any further ideas, thoughts, or resources on this topic. I'm going to link this post to the Critiques Welcome button on the sidebar, so it will continue to be easily available.

Politics & Poetics

[UPDATED 8:00 PM 16 January: Wow. Andrew Sullivan just linked to the poem. My stats are booming!]

My poems seldom incite controversy, but I Have This To Say About That, regarding why the New Hampshire pollsters got it wrong, has done exactly that, here and elsewhere. Comments and emails on this poem have reminded me of questions regarding the role and responsibility of art, of poetry, in our contentious times; and of my own responsibilities, as a poet, a woman, a feminist, and a citizen.

First, let me mention that (like many, if not most poets) I often write in a voice not my own; that neither the speaker nor the subject of my poem is necessarily me. Like a novelist, I am attempting to say truth with fiction, true fiction, as it were. I have found, through the years, that adherence to fact can actually impede the expression of truth.

In writing workshops, when some aspect of a piece is critiqued, the novice writer will often protest: but that's what actually happened! and resist the suggestion that something that didn't really happen might express the mood or the point of the piece with more power and, paradoxically, authenticity.

I am not a reporter. I am a poet. I attempt to tell the truth, and sometimes to enlighten, to entertain, even to amuse while doing so. I am attempting to enlighten, entertain, and amuse myself as well as the reader. The truth is, I often don't know what my poem is about until years later, if ever.

But this time I did.

I chose to speak in a voice not my own, a cadence as true as I could make it to the twang of my western youth. My uncles' voices, perhaps; a certain Missouri syrup in there with a little Montana cowboy. But is this cowboy lying when he says:

... women
lie ...

They lie mostly about
money and politics.
And sex. That, too.

... to which several have taken offense?

No, he is telling the truth. People lie when they must, or when they believe they must. In this country, many women have little power in these arenas, which are considered the territory of the husband -- so they lie. They lie to get along, or to get what they need or want, or -- in more cases than we want to acknowledge -- to avoid a beating.

But they tell the truth when they can:

when they pull that poll booth curtain
closed, who's to know?

One response to this poem was that it presents an ugly stereotype of men and women. This is true.

catnapping says: ... one of the things that kinda bothers me about absentee ballots is that so many women have abusive husbands watching over their shoulders as they fill them out ...

It has been suggested that merely writing -- or posting -- this poem is a betrayal of women. My first (gut) response to this was, gosh, women are betrayed in so many ways, this doesn't even register on the meter -- even if it were a betrayal, which I don't believe it is.

But the suggestion does raise the question -- are there things that must not be said? Isn't that how we got here to begin with, by being told that there are questions which must not be asked, things which must not be said? Isn't this, at least in part, what art is for: to say what is not allowed, to uncover what is buried?

gautami tripathy says: ... categorising as Woman or Black man is demeaning. We vote for a person, not to any gender or colour.

To which I say, this is the dream. But the dream has not been reached. In this country, it is unprecedented to have viable candidates for president who are women, who are black. As long as there are (many) citizens who will vote against a candidate on that basis, we must not pretend otherwise. To pretend otherwise is to accept things as they are, without hope or expectation of change.

And I do not.

And white women, well,
they'll vote for a woman
or a black man without flinching.

... which is, of course, the dream, that one might vote for someone like or unlike ourselves, without flinching. Or the nightmare, I suppose, depending on your point of view. If you think that only white men should be in positions of power, this is, truly, the nightmare.

Don't those pollsters know
that married women
lie ...

Is this really why the pollsters got it wrong? I don't know; it was just an thought, that grew into a voice, that grew into a poem, that became a question.

That became several questions: Are there thoughts, ideas, concepts, that a responsible artist must not share? Is poetry a political act? Do you restrict what you say in public, because of these concerns?

Is that lying?

[There is a piece in response to this one at Poetics Vs. Politics: I Just Have This To Say About That.]

Poetry Thursday|Cam's Poetry Meme

  This week's prompt was Cam's poetry meme:

1. The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was ...

"Jabberwocky" is a poem (of nonsense verse) written by Lewis Carroll, and found as a part of his novel Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There (1871). It is generally considered to be one of the greatest nonsense poems written in the English language.

Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe ...

'Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!'

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought--
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought ...

2. I was forced to memorize (name of poem) in school and …

I don't remember being forced to memorize any poems.

I do remember being encouraged to memorize Bible verses, which no doubt contributed to my love for the rythms of language. It would have been the King James Version of the Bible.

I did memorize Jabberwocky, above, and didn't have to look that up before I typed it.

3. I read/don’t read poetry because …

I read poetry because it keeps me alive, awake, paying attention. It reminds me who I am; who I am not; who I want to be.

4. A poem I’m likely to think about when asked about a favorite poem is …

I have a lot of favorite poems, I think; too many to list here. That one up there is certainly still one of them. I tend to respond to questions like this by thinking about a poet the questioners might like, and directing them there.

I have too many favorite poets, too.

My favorite just now is Jack Gilbert, because that's who I am reading.

5. I write/don’t write poetry, but …

I write poems, but don't actually expect anyone to read them. I'm surprised when they do, and even more surprised when they like them.

6. My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature …

... in that poems seem much more personal to me; they elicit my own emotion in a more sudden, intense way; seemingly bypassing my rational, thinking self.

7. I find poetry …

... in surprising places. Under stones and pepples. In the river. On my dinner plate. In the newspaper; on a neighbor's roof. On the side of a bus. In the trucks changing gears on the bridge.

8. The last time I heard poetry …

I listen to poetry a fair amount, online and on the radio (Garrison Keillor) -- but the last time (InRealLife) I heard a good poet, who is a good reader, do a reading was several years ago, when Pattiann Rogers was here. Now, there's a poet who brings you out of your chair. She's also a great teacher.

I've noticed that many poets are not the best readers of their work. Perhaps it's because so many of us are actually introverts. We're meant to be sitting alone by some deeply seductive body of water. Reading someone else's poems.

9. I think poetry is like …

Nothing else. It's closest to music, perhaps; or stories told to children, generation after generation, until they acquire the depth and wisdom and patina of great age, and become something new again.

I feel that I want to say something more about this. I've been involved in several discussions elsewhere about poetry as craft; poetry as talent; poetry as personal expression; poetry as spiritual practice. I think, for the practicioner, it can be any or all of these things.

But to make a poem, a good poem, that is a skillful thing. Just as making a table, or a house, or a concerto, is a skillful thing. Anyone can take some boards and a hammer and some nails and make a doghouse -- but if they haven't learned, if they haven't studied doghouses, or wood, or carpentry, or tools -- then that doghouse is likely to fall down. Now matter how 'talented' they may be with spatial imagination.

I am often surprised to meet people who want to write poetry --  but never read poems.  Or people who want to be a writer -- but never write -- or read -- anything other than tabloids. They are eager to talk about tools -- which computer, which software, which expensive fountain pen, which leather-bound journal (and I can talk about all this, myself, quite happily) --  but ...

If you want to write (not be a writer; not be a poet) -- this is what you need:  paper; a pen or pencil; the determination to make time and pay attention; and lots of  books. Library books are fine. Second-hand books are fine. Just be sure they are good books, of the sort you would like to write -- and then read them. Read some more of them. Read them again.

Read some books about writing by writers you admire. Try out their suggestions. Write, write, write some more. Remember that growth requires compost: write shit. Write some more shit. Let it ferment awhile, while you write some more.

Do that for a long time. Find out who you are. Write some more.

Now you have begun.

Have I forgotten anything?

[Please come by and Introduce Yourself!]

 

Poetry Thursday

  This week's prompt was to attend a reading, which I planned to do (of sorts) but the car wouldn't start. Water in the gas line.

So instead, let's deconstruct yesterday's Snapshot Poem, shall we?

It seemed fine when I first posted it, but then ... a little help from PoetryEtc and others, and a reconsideration. Here's the text:

i wish i could hold
your heart in my hands

open it
like a chrysanthemum

Hmmm.

• the speaker wishes to be a heart surgeon?
• the person the speaker is addressing has a heart that appears to be sharp & spiky, but is actually made of soft flower petals?
• the poet meant to say:

i wish i could hold
your heart in my hands

open it
as a chrysanthemum opens

?

• the speaker is confused
• the poet is confused

Just a reminder to myself: the poem must have some internal, and even real-world, logic to it. Metaphor is fine, but it needs to make sense.

Poetry Thursday

  Poetry Thursday had a really great prompt this week, but I don't have the time or energy it deserves just now. I did do my usual snapshot poem yesterday, and I'm going to send you to a current, ongoing conversation at The Well with poet and novelist Mary Mackey:

Mary Mackey is the author of four previous collections of poetry and eleven novels. Some of her works have been published by small literary presses; some have made The New York Times bestseller list. The poems in her new collection, "Breaking the Fever" (Marsh Hawk Press; www.marshhawkpress.org) have been praised by poets Wendell Berry, Jane Hirshfield, Dennis Nurkse, Marge Piercy, and Al Young for their beauty, precision, originality, and extraordinary range. Sometimes lyrical and mystical, sometimes autobiographical, sometimes fierce, and at times even shocking, Mackey's crisp-edged perceptions are, as Hirshfield has noted: "set down with a sensuous, compassionate, utterly unflinching eye."

Non-members are welcome: Join us, or email questions and conversational contributions to the Inkwell.vue hosts. This is a great discussion so far, which is the standard at The Well. If, after hanging out there a bit, you would like to explore The Well further, drop me a note.

[Today - including the middle of last night: 2274 words. So far: 39,506 words.]

Montana Festival of the Book ~ Poetry

Saturday morning, tired but inspired from Friday's adventures, I headed out to our newly renovated Missoula Art Museum for Montana Poetry: A Conversation, with Sandra Alcosser, Tami Haaland, Kim Anderson, Rick Newby, Beth Ferris, Arlynn Fishbaugh, Lowell Jaeger, Megan McNamer, Mandy Smoker, and Corby Skinner.

I was especially looking forward to seeing Beth, a poet and person I greatly admire. A bonus was a conversation with B.J. Buckley, another poet I've crossed paths with over the years, and whose work I like.

What a great setting this was -- a line of poets sitting at a long table in front of several works by Rudy Autio -- facing a room full of poets. Introvert though I am, I felt at home.

I did take some notes, and will offer a list of websites to visit at the end of this post, but NewWest offers audio of this conversation -- you can go listen to it yourself. There are so many projects and books in process; now including a Missoula poetry critique group, the organization of which has been delegated to me. Those who signed up at the conference will hear from me in the next few days; if any of you are interested, email me.

Some links from the poetry panel, and a brief wander amidst the tables:

• Drumlummon Views, the Online Journal of Montana Arts & Culture
• Drumlummon Institute:  ... to promote and publish art and literatures created in Montana and the broader American West; to encourage, promote, and commission critical writing about cultural productions—including film/ video, visual arts, literature, performing arts, food, scientific discoveries, architecture, and design—created in Montana and the broader American West; to research and publish scholarship about the natural and cultural landscapes of the region; and to produce and promote audio recordings and film/video documentaries on a variety of cultural subjects.
• Camas: The Nature of the West, the online journal of the Environmental Studies Graduate Program of the University   of Montana.
• MontanaPoetry.org, currently under construction, but added here for future reference.
• Here's another that's under construction: Missoula Writing Collaborative
• Montana Center for the Book ... a program of the Montana Committee for the Humanities, the Montana Center for the Book conducts a variety of programs and activities. Foremost among these are the Montana Festival of the Book and the state's Letters About Literature program. Its principal mission is celebrating and promoting Montana literature, literacy, and libraries...

I was surprised at the late entry onto the web of many of these organizations -- and that there weren't more offerings at the conference for web-based writers. Perhaps because it's the Montana Festival of the Book. Still, lots of us are online, and I expect that future conferences will offer more on web-based writing and publishing.

Next time, let's arrange a bloggers' lunch. Yes?

National Poetry Day| Identity

  This week's prompt is: The Body.

And, coincidentally, or not, today in the UK is:

This year's National Poetry Day theme, 'Identity', invites us to explore through poetry one of the crucial issues and talking points in today's culture. What is identity? How do we develop it? How do we define it? And how are we defined by it?

Identity is a big issue for me, since illness peeled mine away over the past decade, and I've been forced to find, or build, another.

Is identity how others see us, or how we see ourselves? Is it neither? Both?

"Identity is perceived externally but we can only exist within it. There are many meanings of identity and many ways of presenting/ representing identity. Identity as image. Identity as biological. Identity as fantasy. Identity as labels. Identity as concept. Identity as spiritual. Identity as non-identity. Identity as breathing. Identity as voice. Identity as creativity. With the advances in technology, it is easy to shift and change identities; create the person we really want to be without a witness to confirm or contest the creation...".

Frieda Hughes says:

... I believe that poetry, more than any other form of writing, exposes us - even if we hide ourselves in allegory - because real poetry is sourced from our inner core, which is where I believe we also find our true identity.

So, I would be found in my poems, if this is so, and if they are real. As I hope they -- at least some -- are.

I did make an attempt to respond to this prompt, by gathering together the 'self-portrait' efforts I've made for various projects in the past few years:

See my Tabblo>

You will notice that there is very little body there, and even face is somewhat camouflaged. I noticed.

I made another try, focused on the identity I've been developing since I began blogging in 2004:

See my Tabblo>

Both of these are much more concerned with the head than the body; no surprise, I suppose, from someone whose body hurts most of the time. Nor from someone whose body has morphed from desirable to despicable, by cultural standards, several times in a yet unfinished lifetime.

I find that I don't have a body or identity poem in me today (perhaps later) but for poems by Poetry Society members on the theme of Identity, click here, and for poems by Poetry Thursday members on the theme of The Body, click here.

Even poetry insufficient? Then, in another fine British tradition, try TEA.

...in the garden

[I'm on vacation. This was originally posted Sunday, 02 May 2004]

Blue clematis bells; their white tongues.

Woke early, slept, woke, slept -- finally up at 11:00. The angelique tulips are open; lilacs are showing their color. Just now, at mid-day, there's a soft breeze in the garden. I am living in realms of sleep, half-conscious, beneath rustling leaves.

While sitting in the garden with K., a kestral flew in, landed in the dogwood, flew out. After recovering from her shock, K. said, "I suddenly felt like a rodent."

I cut my nails in the garden, L. having told me that ants have some use for the clippings, calcium, perhaps?  I wait and I wait, but the ants don't come.

Alice Notley in The American Poetry Review, May/June 2004: 

I think the poet becomes more and more of a shaman, getting older, in the sense that so much happens to one, and there's nothing left but the poetry function, which is a healing, ecstatic function, as much as it is anything else.

The LifeFlight helicopter flies over, very low, very fast; there is no time to waste.

Poetry Thursday

 

Quick Muse, via dumbfoundry:

Two poets write a poem in 15 minutes. You can see the letters as they type them in, and if they decide to delete them or change something, you see that too. You can read the 'finished' poem or watch it appear over 15 minutes bit by bit.

This week's suggestion was to read poetry aloud -- which I often do, and here is a link to my audio posts, in case any of you would like to hear my poems.

So two diversions today.

Enjoy.

Poetry Thursday

This idea has grown a blog, complete with a FAQ:

What is Poetry Thursday?
Poetry Thursday is an online project that encourages bloggers to read and enjoy poetry, as well as sharing it with others.

Do I need to get permission before sharing copyrighted work?
It depends on the work you are using. See our post, Using Copyrighted Work, for more information. This post includes links that explain the ins and outs of sharing copyrighted material.

How do I participate?
If you want to participate in Poetry Thursday, share a poem on your blog. (If you don't have a blog, leave a poem here in the comments.) The poem can be one of your own or one written by someone else (just be sure to take a look at our post, Using Copyrighted Work).

The blog is lovely, visually, and well-designed. It includes some nice linkage, some of which is new to me. This week, in addition to -- or instead of -- posting a poem, we are asked to:

. . . talk about your relationship with poetry. What has it meant to you throughout your life? Have your feelings about poetry changed over the years? Has reading or writing poetry changed you?

I began writing during a very difficult time, as many of us do. Writing helped me move through the pain, as reading often does. I've discovered that poems which left me unmoved in my twenties can bring me to tears today, and vice versa -- like all else, my response to different poems and poets changes.

Poetry, writing and reading, deepens me; it deepens my life. It helps me to identify, and cherish, what is important, what is significant; and to step past what is not.

It can also be fun. Via Big Window we have Erasures:

Erasure is a process by which you can take any text and from it, create a poem.

. . . you will find a number of source texts.  Choose one by clicking on the title.  You will be sent to a new page where you can click on any word or punctuation mark to make it disappear.  Clicking where it was will make it return. By removing much of the text a newly sculpted text (poem) appears.

And here is my Erasure poem.

NaPoWriMo ~ #26

In its origin, a poem is something completely unequivocal. It is a discharge, a call, a cry, a sigh, a gesture, a reaction by which the living soul seeks to defend itself from or to become aware of an emotion, an experience. In this first spontaneous most important function no poem can be judged.  -- Hermann Hesse

By making us stop for a moment, poetry gives us an opportunity to think about ourselves as human beings on this planet and what we mean to each other.  -- Rita Dove

Poetic language honors polarities. We use the language of poetry to provide the many levels of feeling, facets of knowing, simultaneously, so we can examine them and move forward.  -- Peggy Osna Heller

As a tool of cognition, poetry beats any existing form of analysis (a) because it pares down our reality to its linguistic essentials, whose interplay, be it clash or fusion, yields epiphany or revelation, and (b) because it exploits the rhythmic and euphonic properties of the language that in themselves are revelatory.  -- Joseph Brodsky

Appreciating poetry is probably like appreciating anything else. It means having the generosity to let a thing be what it is, the patience to know it, a sense of the mystery in all living things, and a joy in new experience.  -- M.C. Richards

All quotes from Poetic Medicine, by John Fox

To write, or not to write...

Whimsy points us to a conversation at Book of Kells on writing, quantity & quality, and dogs. Kells tells a story about potters that suggests quantity leads to quality; Lyle tells a Zen story that suggests the opposite. It's a timely discussion, in this month of NaPoWriMo -- and always an issue for bloggers, who feel a constant pressure to produce . . . something.

Still in the midst of trying to produce a poem-a-day, it's too soon for me to assess the quantity/ quality issue in my own work, but it's certainly true that I've explored areas (sometimes in desperation) that I otherwise might not have ventured into. A bit closer to the edge, perhaps. Easing the expectation of  (at least minimal) quality can be freeing, no question.

Whether one ought to inflict the results on others is another issue, also discussed in the comments to the above post.

And my dogs may not be beautiful, but they are, I am told by strangers in the park, adorable.

Poetry & Meditation

"Meditation is when you sit down, let's say that, and don't do anything.

Poetry is when you get up and do something.

Somewhere we've developed the misconception that poetry is self-expression, and that meditation is going inward. Actually, poetry has nothing to do with self-expression, it is the way to be free, finally, of self-expression, to go much deeper than that. And meditation is not a form of thought or reflection, it is a looking at or an awareness of what is there, equally inside and outside, and then it doesn't make sense anymore to mention inside or outside."

- Norman Fischer
Beneath a Single Moon: Buddhism in Contemporary American Poetry

From Whiskey River, and already vanished...

Poetry Links

Ever at the cutting edge, poetry may have finally found its ideal medium, one in which money, at least, is hardly a factor: the Internet.  Poetry Off the Books |The Internet is where poetry proliferates at Publishers Weekly |by Craig Morgan Teicher -- 4/10/2006.  Via Big Window, via Cahiers de Corey

Poetry Tool.  Via Ample Sanity

My girl poet name is Amanda Blatherfroth. My boy poet name is Sir Francis De La Smarme. What's yours? Hers. His.  Also via Ample Sanity, of course.

Street Sign Generator via Revolving Duck.

Cats & Poetry; Poetry & Cats

Tomorrow is the beginning of National Poetry Month:

National Poetry Month was established by the Academy of American Poets as a month-long, national celebration of poetry. The concept was to increase the attention paid-by individuals and the media—to the art of poetry, to living poets, to our poetic heritage, and to poetry books and magazines. In the end, we hoped to achieve an increase in the visibility, presence, and accessibility of poetry in our culture. National Poetry Month has been successful beyond all anticipation and has grown over the years into the largest literary celebration in the world.

This event is also celebrated by the League of Canadian Poets, and famously disdained by Charles Bernstein and others. You can participate in the activites in a variety of ways:

• get a Poem-a-Day in your email from poets.org
• get a Poem a Day for April from the Knopf Poetry Center [via Hi Spirits]
• get a Poem a Day  from writers in the schools: send a blank email to mail@writersintheschools.org [via Big Window ]
  
• WRITE a poem a day, or two. Reen challenges: Test your poetic mettle against the horrible regularity of the turn of time. Let me know if you'll be participating, and your name will live in glory in the "NaPoWriMo" section of my sidebar . . .  Drop me a line at reenhead-at-gmail-dot-com to join the merry crew . . . [via Dumbfoundry]

So what has this to do with cats, you ask? Well, as Aloysius tells us in Great Feline Authors: the indigestible furball of the poem:

In the annals of feline literature, few members of my species have actually gotten credit for their own work. Henry Beard, who put together this anthology [Poetry for Cats] recognizes that felines' literary accomplishments stretch back for centuries; the poems are not just for cats, but by cats.

Just a quick search for poetry + cats at Powell's results in 43 matches. Try Google and:

• Cat Poetry at CatQuotes.com
• Cat Poetry at www.cindydrew.com
• Cat Poems at moggies
• Cat Poet's Corner at flippyscatpage
• Cat Poetry at pawsonline

[Several were omitted from this list due to popups and/or obnoxious ads.]

Then we have the individual poems and poets:

• The story of Schroedinger's cat (an epic poem), Cecil Adams
  
• Poem to Mindy, David Jackson
  
• Stray Cat, Francis Witham
• Douglas Clark's Cat Poems
• Explaining Relativity to the Cat, Jennifer Gresham, on The Writer's Almanac site [someone sent me this, who, oh who? was it??] John B. at Blog Meridian sent me this link -- thank you, John!
• my own God Is Watching Us
  
• An Unusual Cat-Poem, Wendy Cope

Cats just are poetic, don't you think?

Enough poetry; more critters:

Friday Ark
I and the Bird
Carnival of the Cats
Carnival of the Dogs
Circus of the Spineless
Weekend Cat Blogging

Have a poetic weekend!

Poetry

what is poetry for?
this              silence

A reminder: Jane Hirshfield is engaged in a conversation about poems, poetry, and other matters at The Well. This conversation is open to the public, and you are invited.

I've been reading Ted Kooser's The Poetry Home Repair Manual: Practical Advice for Beginning Poets. Yes, I've been doing this for nearly twenty years, and I'm still a beginner.

I do recommend it for beginning poets; he offers lots of technical reminders they will find useful. He also offers some observations and opinions that I think apply to almost any creative endeavor -- and since I like what he says, I'm going to share some of it with you:

Good News

The Internet fosters social contact

A Pew report issued Wednesday, supports the idea the use of the Internet expands social contact:

The Pew Internet and American Life Project also finds that U.S. Internet users are more apt to get help on health care, financial and other decisions because they have a larger set of people to which to turn.

Further rebuking early studies suggesting that the Internet promotes isolation, Pew found that it “was actually helping people maintain their communities,” said Barry Wellman, a University of Toronto sociology professor and co-author of the Pew report. 

The study found that e-mail is supplementing, not replacing, other means of contact. For example, people who e-mail most of their closest friends and relatives at least once a week are about 25 percent more likely to have weekly landline phone contact as well. The increase is even greater for cell phones.

“There’s a certain seamlessness of how people maintain their social networks,” said John Horrigan, Pew’s associate director. “They shift between face-to-face, phone and Internet quite easily.”

Meanwhile, Internet users tend to have a larger network of close and significant contacts — a median of 37 compared with 30 for nonusers — and they are more likely to receive help from someone within that social network.

It does worry me just a little that even the nonusers network of close and significant contacts is quite a bit larger than my own. Introversion has its downsides.

Via The Power of Many

We don't have to remember everything

According to an Editor's Summary at Nature:

A study of brain activity in subjects performing a task in which they were asked to 'hold in mind' some of the objects and to ignore other objects has revealed significant variation between individuals in their ability to keep the irrelevant items out of awareness. This shows that our awareness is not determined only by what we can keep 'in mind' but also by how good we are at keeping irrelevant things 'out of mind'. This also implies that an individual's effective memory capacity may not simply reflect storage space, as it does with a hard disk. It may also reflect how efficiently irrelevant information is excluded from using up vital storage capacity.

Well, that explains it.

Via wake up!

And most importantly:

Poetry is good for your health

That, at least, is the premise of studies currently under way for the Arts Council and the Department of Health. One study, published a couple of years ago in the journal Psychological Reports, suggested that writing poetry boosted levels of secretory immunoglobin A. Another, undertaken by a consultant at Bristol Royal Infirmary, concluded that poetry enabled seven per cent of mental health patients to be weaned off their anti-depressants. Poetry, it seems, is not the new rock'n'roll, but the new Prozac. [...]

OK, so the rest of the article isn't quite so promising. Still, I'm practicing belief in the unlikely, remember?

Via Dumbfoundry

Misc. Blog Stuff

Shelley recently pointed to 3 Quarks Daily, which aims to:

. . . present interesting items from around the web on a daily basis, in the areas of science, design, literature, current affairs, art, and anything else we deem inherently fascinating. We want to provide you with a one-stop intellectual surfing experience by culling good stuff from all over and putting it in one place.

The Irresistible Beauty of All Things

From Harpers Magazine, September 2004:

Poetry is like faith -- it isn't meant to be understood but to be received in a state of grace. No one should say "this is clear," because poetry is obscure. And no one should say "this is obscure," because poetry is clear. What we must do is search out poetry energetically and virtuously so that it will surrender to us. But we need to have forgotten poetry completely before it can fall naked into our arms. What poetry cannot bear is indifference. Indifference is the devil's armchair. Bu it is indifference we hear babbling in the streets, dressed grotesquely in self-satisfaction and culture.

. . .

Visible reality, the facts of the world and of the human body, are much more full of subtle nuances, and are much more poetic than what imagination discovers. One notices this often in the struggle between scientific reality and imaginative myth, in which -- thank God -- science wins. For science is a thousand times more lyrical than any theogony.

The human imagination invented giants in order to attribute to them the construction of great grottoes or enchanted cities. Later, reality taught us that those great caves are made by the drop of water. The pure, patient, eternal drop of water. In this case, as in many others, reality wins. After all, it is much more beautiful that a cave be a mysterious caprice of water -- chained and ordered by eternal laws -- than the whim of giants who have no other meaning than that of an explanation.

. . .

The mission of the poet is just that -- to give life (animar), in the exact sense of the word: to give soul . . .  The light of any poet is contradiction . . . Poetry doesn't need skilled practitioners, she needs lovers, and she lays down brambles and shards of glass for the hands that search for her with love.

Frederico Garcia Lorca

Poetry Is Not A Commercial Art

From a comment on Naming:

I read one of your
pieces I don't remember
the name but it was
good.

But to me it seems
like I'd never need
to read
another.

Poetry surely
is not a
commercial
art.

~ B

OK, so I messed with it; put in line breaks and corrected typos. I get such a kick out of this, and I'm not sure I can say why. I think that, later today, I'll send him a note (since he's unlikely to return here.)

I'll send him to Poetry Daily, where he can read one poem a day, and need never see another by the same poet again. I'll tell him he has the poetic knack of density, of saying a lot in a few words, and leaving much for the reader to chew on.

Late Night Thinking

I look and look for my notes on a lecture (years ago) by Pattiann Rogers; then realize that even if I find them, there is no certainty that my notes accurately reflect what she said. What I remember is:

• Science is the new religion. It is what we believe in, even when we do not understand it. Do we understand, in our minds, in our bodies, why the airplane does not fall from the sky? Still, we step onto it.
• It is the poet's responsibility to -- explain? elucidate? give voice to? -- the religion of the time. We are failing.

Karen Armstrong's point, in The Battle for God, that:

• The fundamentalist error is to treat mythos ["a mode of knowledge rooted in silence and intuitive insight which gives meaning to life but which cannot be explained in rational terms"] as logos ["rational, logical, or scientific discourse"]
• The secularist error is to think that logos is all there is

Is mythos not the poet's role? So we are to, somehow, imbue logos/science with spirit? But science is spirit -- no? -- attention to the real, passion -- and sometimes, too often, cruelty without cause.

Can we study, learn, attend, without dissecting?

Who can look at the Hubble photographs, and not feel awe? not see spirit?

Oh, the same person who looks at a chickadee, or a grasshopper, or a stone, and does not see it.

So the poet must say:  look!  see!  -- a greater poet than I am.  An Emily.

I have wanted a non-gendered pronoun, so that I could speak of a creature (rampaging raccoon) whose gender I do not know, without denying its personhood, without making it an it -- but instead, I should be infusing the it pronoun with personhood, with spirit. For the teaching- stone is an it -- the mountain, the river, the garden --

-- & I will break the stone, weed the garden, dam the river, eat the raccoon (the cow, the chicken, the salmon) -- even though -- while -- acknowledging it is a person -- it is in-spirited --

because I am not consistent
because I am not logical
because I am not moral?
because I am an animal?

[is "it" a pronoun?]

Poems, Poetry, Poetics, Cats

My regular readers will know that I rarely talk about my poems, or poetics --  I just post the poems and move on. Last night, in my usual waiting- for- sleep place, I began to prepare a post about The Ledge, and my surprise at its reception; I woke this morning to find that an anonymous and (I think) deliberately illiterate troll had found that very poem (and that spammers had found my GMail address.) So, lots to talk about. But first things first:

• the basement tapes is a new audio blog, an open-mic space for poets, set up by ray sweatman. I've posted one poem there, and will be posting more; if you would like to participate (and please do!) email ray. Go have a listen.

Now, about The Ledge:

New Year Haiku

Andrew tells us there is a tradition of writing a 'positive' haiku on the first day of the year.  His is here, and Jill has joined in here.  Mine is below; if you would like to add yours to the comments, I'll bring it up for a New Year's poem dance.

frozen garden --
     scattered on snow
          seed for the birds

from  Sarpy Sam:

Seasons turn around
  Sun,snow streaks the air abound
    Friends, like grass arise

from  mjones:

Voice flutes from below,
shutting out the wind. I think:
He'll be four this year.

from  whiskey:

Resolutions? No.
I have promises to keep
and miles, miles to go.

from   Alice:

the past is written
clean new page, fresh ink to write
what comes after this

from  Ken:

Cymbals bright and pure
Bounce off players singing horns
Musicians' New Year

from   Dave:

this one; and

To what shall I liken
this New Year's, warm and brown?
It happens, that's all.

 

from   Cathy:

New day-
leave the paper

white

from  Cindy:

Nearly flash-frozen
on the beach: north wind gusts down
Gastineau Channel.

from   jenett:

Come in from the rain
Reinvent and try again
New without the pain

   

RELATED POSTS:

• New Year Haiku 2008
• Almost time for the New Year Haiku
• New Year Haiku 2007

SEE ALSO:

• small poems
• small poems @ Watermark
• Poem Dancing @ Watermark

Goodbye

On New Year's morning, 1992,
it snowed. You shivered, touched me, kissed me, said
you loved me. I waved goodbye to you

and went into the winter. Wind cut through
your bones like knives, your skin, it was so cold
on New Year's morning, 1992

you died and I did not. I dreamed I knew
that high above the snow you were not dead,
you loved me. I waved goodbye to you

and climbed up on the garden wall at noon,
breathed the roses, touched them, bled.
On New Year's morning, 1992

you walked away from winter, went into
some secret bloodless season. I told
you that I loved you, said goodbye to you.

Equinox. Today the crocus bloomed.
Snow is melting. Once we touched and said,
on New Year's morning, 1992,
I love you. I love you.

Winnings

Jilly and I both won the Orange Challenge! And I must confess that the prize did incite me to try. Second Place went to Birdie, and Pris and Jack earned Honorable Mentions.  Jenni and Jack selected the winners, and Didi will be posting reviews of the poems on Friday. I expect the review to mention the brilliance of rhyming mustache and heartache.

And, Watermark was reviewed last week by The Weblog Review. Unexpectedly, one of these reviewers, Arthur, provided what is basically my first poetry review:

When I first read the title I thought to myself, “Well, that’s just great. I think I’d rather be stabbed in the eye with a fork than read somebody else’s poetry.”

With such a terrific beginning, I hope I would have liked the review no matter what he said. This is what he said:

Oranges

Didi is having a poem contest:  Write a poem using all of these 12 words/ phrases.  I don't usually do this -- it's my experience that when I write poems like this, they are rarely worth reading -- but this list of words is so alien to my style that I thought it would be a useful stretch. So here it is: 

Oranges

When one wakes in the night
despite sleeping pills, white
noise machines, orthopedic
pillows, and thinks of oranges

-- such sweetness -- there it is,
that orange, floating brilliantly
in this dim room -- and all
the things one must make sense

of -- Nehru jackets, bouffant
hairdos, threatening french
nails -- your attachment to top-
less bars, those artificial orbs,

that tooty fruity booze -- all
this demanding explication
in the swoony night with its
train whistles and sock-it-to-me

buzz, love, American style, the ed-
ification of this planet's turn to
darkness, the rebellious suicide
of the sun, the sweetness of

oranges -- where is Lawrence
of Arabia when you need him
to peel this open, to hand you,
one-by-one, these white-veined

crescents, dripping with light?

Santa Lucia Day

I meet this winter without celebration,
as the man who was dying, but now lives,
greets the ants that pass through his kitchen
in narrow, undisturbed rows.

When the child with her crown of candles
comes to my door in her white dress, singing,
I watch the delicate notes disperse in pale
cold light, like snow.

Santa Lucia Day
More Santa Lucia Day, via Chris Murray
And this, from Via Negativa

Hopscotch

Found at Via Negativa, a challenge from Elck to tell a story in one sentence, without commas. Some of my favorites have participated in this so far:  frizzylogic, Laughing ~ Knees,  Nomen est Numen, Velveteen Rabbi, and Natalie of Blaugustine. 

I have a poem that is all one sentence, but has line and stanza breaks -- is this cheating, I wonder?  This is one of my earliest poems, and is not very 'sophisticated.'  I'm putting it below the fold, as it is stretches out long.

Medicinal Poetry

In case you feel guilty about frittering your time away here at Watermark, let me reassure you -- poetry is good for you.  From Scientific American, via dumbfoundry:

For this study [in Germany], healthy subjects practiced three activities: hexameter reading, controlled breathing at six breaths per minute and spontaneous breathing. They recited while walking, breathing and lifting their arms. The researchers found increased synchronization between heart rate and breathing during the poetry readings but not during the spontaneous breathing. Controlled breathing also boosted synchronization, though not to the extent of recitation. Also, subjects found poetry reading stimulating but controlled breathing boring.

Unfortunately:

Whether this recitation translates linguistically is another question. Rafael Campo, a poet and physician at Harvard Medical School, notes that hexameter in English is not one of the most appealing forms of poetry.

Still, one never knows . . . even free verse might be helpful.  So read, read, read. 

Poem From A Friend

This Garden
      Cindy Smith

you cannot know
what you have planted
buttercup, bramble, or choking thorn
they are all here before you
in their most secret form,     root threads
or seeds closed like fists in the sun

and you must pick, and plant
unknowing,  and never knowing
if the mud in your hands
will bring you any living thing let alone
what you want  what you want     water  is

everywhere it is flowing
through your veins it is rolling
in the delicate limbs of the plants
remember to water
life is so thirsty some days it needs
more than you can carry

it all takes faith,
that mute and stubborn stranger
who always waits for what has not happened
and time while the sun etches lines in your face
and luck, who only taps some shoulders
some times
and may never tap yours.

Linked Haibun III

moonlight
the garden rug
blossoms
               Erin Noteboom

Carpet roses climb the slope along the steps up to the river path.  These are not the full, blowsy, cabbage roses that make one think of England, nor tight, symmetrical buds like those at a flower shop.  These are flat-open roses, deep-pink with pale centers; relaxed, abundant in blossoms rather than petals. 

The neighbor who planted them has moved, but these sturdy, hardy plants bloom on without care.  Though these crawl rather than climb, they are reminiscent of the wild roses that engulf old shacks on abandoned farms.

These roses are my neighbors now.  They greet me every morning as I go up to walk along the ever-changing river.  Sometimes busy with bees, sometimes drifted in snow, they are perpetual residents in a neighborhood of people passing through. 

                                                                                  this sky
                                                                                  these roses
                                                                                  another summer

 

crows

in the park
four crows eating
at the picnic table

UPDATE:  This has become a collaborative poem dance!  I am pulling these up from the comments; anyone who would like to participate, please do, and I'll bring yours up, too.

outside the window
of my third-floor office
crows shriek and gurgle

       Patia at montana mUsIngs


Crows screech, "We're all that!"
The Magpies beg to differ,
"Are you shiny blue?"

      Wulfgar at A Chicken Is Not Pillage


four eggs, separated -
even before breakfast
eating crow

      Deborah at AuthorsDen


field ridges frozen -
a crow scrapes sound
from a crack in the sky

      Sara


hard wind
the shadow of a crow
still beside mine

      Norman at Xaiku


on the snowbank by the road
a calligraphy of crows
poem to the coming night

      Cindy


flat grey sky
calligraphy
of crows

      SB


clever and dark winged
trickster with much
within to crow about

      Morgan at Norsehorse's Home Turf


A murder of crows.
Guilty as charged.
A crime of passion...
that they could not foresee.
But now it is done,
and the crows know.
Their time will come.

      Big Sky Dave at Big Sky Dave


Two crows eating at the picnic table
One named Cain and one named Able
This table's mine said Cain
No it's not said Able
I can kill you said Cain
But you won't said Able
Oh yes I will said Cain,
Remember the Bible fable
You mean when Cain killed Abel?
Haha but my name is Able
said Able.

      Natalie at BLAUGUSTINE


In the last moment,
as the final breath was drawing nearer
I saw an angel flying with a crow
Looking for those who are near
To beckon them with the release of death
to take their souls back home.

      Jen at [para]Bellum.[net]

   

on the hillside
over the coulee
an ancient snag of a tree.

wizened branches dotted
with a flock of starlings --
tiny, black.

on the highest branches
two giant elders
not crows -- ravens.

       Patia at montana mUsIngs


mist haze-
a crow cleans its beak
on a rooftop aerial

a hooded crow
pecks just outside
the penalty area

rooftop verandah -
a crow's drawn out cry
above the pizzaria

powdered snow -
a crow's eyes above
the no parking sign

floating snowflakes -
the triple caw of a crow
within the tree

      Alan Summers at FRONT ROOM


The crow extends it wings too fair
But misses the currents that maintains its air
Knowing that lifes a fragile thing
Meets with others to deaden the pain.

      Sarpy Sam at Thoughts from the Middle of Nowhere


she waits
for her lover
a crow alights
on her shoulder
to pick at the carcass
of what was once her
bleeding heart
and still
she waits

      Pandora at Terrestrial Ball


winter poplar
buds crawk open
into crows

*****

a knotted line,
knuckled black leather legs
-- silhouetted twigs
regular Mr. Crow and his
crow knees gathered,
edging the sky

       Pearl at Page Half-Full


playful dogs -
the strident caw
of a nesting crow

       Laryalee at Soft Strokes


Black crow rest against
the maple’s red buds,
resting against the white sky.

The plane’s white exhaust
twists into clouds of many.

A foot is shifted,
falling snow turns
into a white waterfall.

Widening, the blue sky
adds more sun for the day’s light.

All this in five minutes.

       Cathy at The Quiet One


         *Reconnaissance*

The ravens come to feast upon the deer.
Their talons are too dull to tear like claws.
They smartly team with wolves, as hunting peers
And point the way to road kill with their caws.

These creatures love to play, nurse others' chicks,
Do barrel-rolls and bathe collectively,
Use rocks for self-defense and play with sticks
And flying upside down proclaim they're free.

But still, to man, an animal can't feel --
We daren't believe they love or hurt or think.
We cage them all in labs and farms concealed:
The human 'masters' cannot face the stink.

Our bankrupt, separate culture's madness reigns.
We think. Ergo we end the world, /with brains/.

       Dave at how to save the world


Raven

       SB


a sparrow
chases a crow away --
paternity

       David


Work

The mind bunches its black shoulders
and flaps free of the body.
How serious the mind is!
Tilting its glossed head.
Marching stiff-legged in ditches.

       Erin Noteboom at Vivid
       Work is from Book of Hours


he was not
interested
in crows
family corvidae
he had never been
would not
write a poem
about them ever
and sat
in his lounger
in his garden
and woke up
to find himself
surrounded by
an ever thickening
hungrily closing in
ring of black crows
sharp beaked crows
nasty ravens, carrions,rooks
and smelly tacky jackdaws
he suddenly frantically
changed his mind
and then inspired
grabbing paper
seizing pen wrote
to a satisfied cawing
and wing flapping.

       Patrick McManus


Blacks cats
turn into crows,
who scamper into
the morning sky.

       Cathy at The Quiet One

CROWS.

Awakened to the sound of crows
Caparisoned in feathers,
Iridescent, black and sleek,
Rapping at their reflections in my window,
With their insolent beaks.
Each crow it seems a strutting villain,
Straight from Shakespeare,in their
black stockinged leg,
A Richard King, on little princes feasting,
Mere babes too young,
  to fall from the nest, or beg
For Mercy!  For Merccyyy!!

Yeah each crow becomes Macbeth
when he clears his throat to speak,
Or nonchalantly cleans on bloodied wing
the daggered beak.
Or holds in the arrogant, tilted head held dreaming,
The dark sardonic eye, that dreaming seems to say,
  that schemeing seems to say,
"Oh How I Wish the Human Race
  Had but single face,
So that I might spit in it,
Once and for all,
  To show my complete,
    and utter disgust,
       with the whole,
                  damn,
                     show.."
and screaming they fly flapping,away.
Crows! How they Crow!

-Guy FreeMarijuana. [Copyright2003]

I Dream

I dream I am an eagle
A symbol of
Power, strength and beauty
Envied by all

I dream I am a parrot
A clown
In vibrant colours
Loved by all

I dream I am an owl
A silent night hunter
With bright yellow eyes
Unseen by all

I dream I am a snake
A symbol of
The devil
Feared by all

Awake now
I am but a Crow
A symbol of
Witchcraft and spells
Condemned by all

Open your mind
Condemn me not
Because my feathers black
My body sleek
My eyes white, piercing
My cry, a sound you do not like

Open your mind
And understand what I am
I am your garbage truck
You leave such a mess
Rubbish in the parks, roads
Almost everywhere

Open your mind
You may yet respect me
For if I were not here
Your diseases spread everywhere
So next time you see me in the Park
Ask, is that my rubbish
I left behind

Open your mind
When you condemn me
You condemn yourself

Trixie Benbrook [Copyright 2002]

 

black shape on white snow

fathomless as a deep hole

until the crow caws

Jacquie at wild ink

 

The crow
hopping with hunger
three fingers wrapped around
another's
as he leads to the nest.

Arkava Das at sciowithbrio

 

...we do not see
what we do not eat
can I have a bite then
of your tatoo

         my own ravens love for me

Dale
   

 

Cool flying crow from How To Save The World, who found it at Boomer Cafe.

More about crows.

Linked Haibun I

illness sharpens --
in arctic summer every stone
is shawled with fire
               Erin Noteboom

The cats woke me a bit after 3:00 a.m., and the house began shaking about a minute later. I waited for it to end, but it kept on, so after awhile I got up and climbed the stairs (without thought, without effort, without pain) the cats swirling around me. Out the living room window, the channel and the mountains were glowing. I don’t remember the moon, but it must have been there – the water rippling and gleaming with its light.  I stood, caught by that gold water, until the world stilled again. 

                                                                                  dust on the stairs
                                                                                  the cat’s
                                                                                  pawprint

 

Fathers' Day

Today is Fathers' Day.  A Google search for "origins" and "proclamations" doesn't serve up much -- the basics are here:

 

Father's Day was first celebrated in Spokane, Washington on June 19, 1910. Sonora Smart Dodd originally thought of the idea while listening to a Mother's Day sermon the previous year. Dodd and her five siblings were raised single handedly by their father, William Jackson Smart, after their mother died during childbirth in 1898. Her petition advocating a national father's day was supported by the local ministerial association and the Young Men's Christian Association. . .

Compare this to the Mothers' Day Proclamation, which I posted here, and which begins with "Arise then, women of this day!"

I have been blessed with a loving stepfather, Joseph Serr, who came into our lives when I was nearly grown, and has stayed steady ever since, through dramas and traumas that would have dissuaded a lesser man.   

Those interested in the ambivalences and ambiguities of the father-child relationship might want to explore the Father Poems in Poets' Corner at Fieralingue.

Collaborative Poem Dancing

On Thursday, I posted this small poem both here and on the PoetryEtc Listserve:

at the altar
an old woman
counting breaths

      

Now look at what the PoetryEtc poets did with it!

at the altar
an old woman
counting breaths

inspiration, expiration -
one purl, one plain

one pearl, one pain

one puff one flap
one left or to attain
one here or there
as it is everywhere

one pearl
one lost
since the markers of elegance moved on
since breaths at the altar are counted in black beads

one plain
decrease
here where the knee bends
where drawing breath might count for something

a pearl
of great price

telling beads
expiation, expectation
for decades
the varieties of precipitation
joyful
sorrowful
glorious

black pearl, lucrescent seed,
one joy, one pain, bittersweets the eye

falling from the needle
a curtain of white tears
pears at the point of ripeness

her slack mouth tells
forms the oh of them
black germ in pale flesh

nascent, oystered
many smiles, many sighs,
breaking open one

mortal shell,
come, o come, divinest shell
in my heart all thy secrets tell

      

Dancers:  Anny Ballardini; Joanna Boulter; Andrew Burke; Deborah L. Humphreys; Liz Kirby; and Rebecca Seiferle.

Questions

I consciously decided to not write about politics on this weblog; there are so many who can think and write about it better than I.  I know, I read them.

But I find it more and more difficult to think about anything but the war, and to write about anything at all. In some ways I am more shaken by Abu Ghraib than I was by 9-11, when the city my brother loved was so devastated. Again I am preoccupied with the problem of -- not so much why bad things happen to good people -- as how good people can do, and endorse, evil. And the reminder that righteous conviction is no safeguard.

The Next Story

Today is         and also         and also


                         FRIDAY CAT BLOGGING DAY

So I have chosen a favorite poem by a favorite poet and a favorite teacher,  Pattiann Rogers; in which a cat makes a brief, but critical, appearance: 

Poem on Your Blog Day

!   Remember, tomorrow is         and also         !

          Have you chosen your poem?    (Via Feminste, among others.)

Ghost Maps

Erin Noteboom's wonderful book:

has been short-listed for the League of Canadian Poets' Pat Lowther Memorial Award, given for a book of poems written by a woman and published in the preceding year.

The judges' citation reads:

In Erin Noteboom’s Ghost Maps: Poems For Carl Hruska, the life of a WWII veteran is movingly rendered in a sequence of spare, vivid poems. Crossing boundaries between genres, Noteboom employs dialogue and smooth shifts in perspective to create a fictionalized biography in verse. With echoing imagery and endings both understated and reaching, Ghost Maps unfolds with unerring grace.

This is one of my favorite books. To see some of Erin's work, go here.

fiera Lingue

I have been invited to place some of my work at Poet's Corner on the fiera Lingue website, an invitation I am honored to receive. They want a photo, a bio, and a few "poems which can represent the Poet best."  One of my poems is already there, amidst other and better Father poems.

I can manage the photo, and the bio, but am at a loss to choose the poems.  It seems to me that I don't have a "representative" style. Any nominations?

This site, by the way, is a world to explore. I have been cruising the web so far like a tour-bus tourist: It's Tuesday, this must be The Drunken Boat; hurry! the bus for Low Probability of Racoons leaves in an hour. 

I think it may be time to slow down, spend enough time to develop a true appreciation of the landscape, and fiera Lingue is a good place to begin. Rent a villa, stay awhile.

Pain

From Erin:

I think maybe pain is not something that happens to you, like a lightning strike, but something you are, like a dream.

And this.  Go.  Now. 

Sunday Morning

Erin has posted a very nice little erotic poem at Vivid, which reminded me of one of mine.

I will follow her lead, and put mine behind a cut-away tag, so you can "skip it if that kind of thing bothers you."

journals, notebooks, diaries, poems

 

      laying the mind out
      on a white sheet
      sometimes in modest bedclothes

      sometimes naked
      flabby and flatulent
      sometimes in a dark shroud

      look at it there
      pennies on the eyes
      breasts nuzzling the armpits

      waiting to be washed

 

Three Comforts

I have received much welcome encouragement lately, just as my energy began to fizzle. First, Erin, whose work often consoles me, found my poem Secrets "a comfort": Vivid - Erin Noteboom: Two comforts.

Then I received an email from a man whose writings on haiku have kept me constant company over the years.   He had discovered my Small Poems, and wrote to tell me:

I find the web site delightful . . . I did explore some of the other pages, which seem to have some fine writing, though not directly related to haiku. . . I like the work very much . . . your pages are elegant.

He gave me permission to quote him here, and said "sign me wordfield."

Then, yesterday, the most surprising of all: Fried Man: The littlest microbe:

Just for the heck of it I've decided to link each day to a low ranking interesting microbe in the N. Z. Bear's blogosphere ecosystem.

These people are the lowest of the low and I figure they need all the help they can get.

Today was slim pickings - I actually had to go back past some of the blogs I rejected yesterday. But I found two. Normally I only do one per day but I like both of these and I make the rules so I can break them. Here's the second.

Please welcome, Watermark. Right now you are blog #7,779 but one link from here should jump you up a few thousand places. Hopefully I won't be the last person who links to you.

Watermark is something a little different - a poetry blog.

    There is light now
    in the mornings. . .
. . .

Good stuff, no?

Also consider some super-short poems, "The moonlit field is haunted by the brush of hunting shadow wings...", and a short meditation on ducks.

Check it out - it's good stuff!

I am astonished by all this good attention, so pleased I'm pink. 

 

Erin's Kind Words

Erin's kind wordsof January 14:

sb, whose comments turn up here from time to time, has a brand new website -- I'm excited. I know her from Zeugma, where we don't see enough of her fine, sensitive work. She's one of the best of us. Good to get another dose.

Later: everyone *must* go read her solstice letter.

(& I have finally figured out how to TrackBack!)