Watermark

I am a Real Writer & I can prove it

 

Many thanks to Janni Lee Simner, via Erin Noteboom

But really important people have more than one certificate on their wall, and who is more important than the poet? So I worked this one up, too:

 

This idea was stolen from:

J. B. Handelsman, New Yorker, March 10, 1973

Via Ron Sipherd at The Well

Oh, you want one, too? Just in case, I made up a gender-inclusive blank one. Just add your name and the date, and there you are.*

*It has been brought to my attention that more detailed instructions might be useful. If you are not a member of flickr, you can't download photos, so first, join flickr -- it's free, and you can always unjoin if you want. Then click here; above the image you'll see ALL SIZES -- click that; then click and download the size you want.

You can then use any photo editing program to add your name and date -- now that you have a flickr account, you could upload it into your own account and use Picnik to do this; or print out a copy and do it by hand.

If all this is too much for you, just email me and I'll send you the image.

Pens & Meaning

An excerpt:

When I was about twelve, I went through a period of stealing pens from my classmates. Later I realized that the Freudians would see this as some phallic reference. Later still, as I began to understand how my own mind works, and how I, as a poet, work with metaphors and symbols, I came to believe this was less subtle, less (or perhaps more) primal than that.

What, after all, are pens for? What do they do?

They are instruments of speech. The pen is mightier than the sword.

It is also mightier than the penis.

We pick up the pen, we set the point to paper, and we write. We speak. It is possible to believe that a bold and beautiful pen might speak bold and beautiful thoughts.

Today, tinywords sent me this haiku:

moonless sky
so much darkness
from my pen

--Josh Wikoff

Did I believe, at some deep level, that if I could only find the right pen, appropriate the right instrument, I would be able to speak the darkness I carried?

Make it beautiful?

NEW POST!

Cathy wants a NEW POST!, and she's not alone.

So I sit here, looking at the blank New Post screen, wondering why it's been blank for so long. At the same time, I'm watching the news, and it occurs to me that the difficulty is that reality has become too amorphous for me to write about. The world has become, if not unreal, surreal.

How does a poet tell the truth, when truth becomes so elusive; so apparently insignificant?

I know this is not new. I've seen a lot of politics in my life. I remember watching, with my Grandad, the McCarthy hearings, and the Democratic convention that nominated John F. Kennedy.  A tiny television; a technological marvel bringing us the (North American) world in black & white.

My Grandma, near the end of her life, told me that one of her greatest regrets in life was the vote she cast for Richard Nixon. A life-long Democrat, she was frightened; she was afraid; she believed the lies.

So it's not that the obfuscation of politics is new to me. I've even noted the current version here, and here.

Perhaps my tolerance has diminished.

But this era of sanctimonious prevarication seems so much worse. Our tolerance of it, as citizens, seems so much higher. Our Fourth Estate, now seemingly recovered from its post-Katrina outrage, has once again retreated into referee mode.

Well, not entirely.  But I still see "reporters" "interviewing"  this side, then that side, as if totally conflicting -- and clearly verifiable, or not -- facts have equal weight.  Fact-checking, alas, continues to be rare.

This is the scary part. The unnamed White House aide (could it have been Scooter Libby?) told  Ron Suskind of The New York Times:

"...when we act, we create our own reality. And while you're studying that reality -- judiciously, as you will -- we'll act again, creating other new realities, which you can study too, and that's how things will sort out. We're history's actors . . . and you, all of you, will be left to just study what we do.''

And he (I'm assuming a he) was right. They have created their own reality. They can do what they like, and they do.

I can study what they do. I can try to discern the actual reality beneath the created one.

But I cannot write.

MFK FISHER on not writing

"I think that many people want to write, but of them few have the will to. I write more than half the things I do or say or think. I can see the words on the sheet of paper and see the pen writing them. And in my head a voice, a kind of silent reading voice, reads them not from but to the paper. Often what is read is good. There is a quick sureness about some phrases. At times they come too patly, with a smart-aleck tone. But I don't write. I write a few letters, which grow less interesting as I age. But that is all. It is because I am lazy, and that is true of most of the people who think in prose. Laziness and a vague fear."

    MFK Fisher    Stay Me, Oh Comfort Me: journals and stories 1933-1941

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!]

 

Writing

That blue & white bowl is for -- get this -- organic lollipops. Yep, I actually bought such a thing, on my pre-Halloween Good Food Store NaNoWriMo preparation shopping trip. I kept reading about all the food one consumes during this marathon, what makes the best snacks, on and on -- so, among several other things, I got these.

As it turns out, I don't actually eat while I write. How does one do that, anyway? Both hands are busy on the keyboard. But lollipops -- those work. One or two fruity lollipops per day.

If I'd thought about it, I would have realized that I never have eaten while I write -- even when writing by hand. Though occasionally I write while I eat. A different thing entirely.

Niki asked in a comment: Will we see results of your writing here at the end of the month?

And the answer is . . .

Um, no.

Because. Because I am writing without expectation. Because it is an exercise. Because I've no idea if there will be anything worth sharing -- and if there is, it will take several months, at a guess, to get it into shape.

Just now I am confronting the necessity to kill off a character I love. The necessity is as organic as those lollipops, and as unintended. I didn't resist the lollipops, but I am resisting this ... murder.

Story writing is so different from poem writing. More different than I had anticipated. One difference, for me, is that I'm avoiding reading fiction. In fact, I'm hardly reading anything. When I am writing poems, I am reading poems, with no fear that some other voice will intrude on my own; quite the contrary, nothing inspires a poem for me like reading other people's work. But now I am cautious, wary.

It will be interesting to see how -- if -- this experience changes the way I read novels, once I do so again. I've never read with a critic's eye; I tend to fall into a book, and then fall out of it at the end. It has to be pretty bad for me to watch it while I read it. But I suspect I am going to be more attentive to things like structure and plot and character development from now on.

Just don't take the magic away...

[Today: 1550 words. So far: 43,694 words.]

Made for Watermark

  This week's prompt was: take a snapshot of poetry. I did my usual snapshot poem yesterday, but I also found this:

This is just what I pictured, when I named this blog: the ephemeral nature of poetry, of writing -- of everything, actually. We work, and write, and post -- and no matter how long it lasts, that lasting is brief. We catch a moment, and it's gone in a moment.

I didn't  check the dictionary defintions before choosing, but it works even better than I had imagined:

1. a mark which is made on some types of paper during its production which can only be seen if it is held against the light;
2. a mark showing the highest or lowest level that a river or the sea reaches

Of course, I've been thinking about writing a lot lately, with NaNoWriMo pushing me to my expository limits. Yesterday, facing a blank wall, I realized I could read the next chapter of the book:

If you still don't know what your characters are doing in your book, Week Two is the point when you should panic.

Hee hee.

Just kidding.

Having a shaky, hazy, or problematic plot heading into Week Two is absolutely fine, and is a predicament common to many month-long novelists. . .

So, I feel better. Still lost, but better.

[Tuesday:  1371 words. Yesterday: 781 words. So far: 22854 words.] I know you folks must be getting bored with this, but I kept losing track -- so this is for me, not you.

Wave via The Generator Blog.

Happy Samhain

From Wikipedia:

Samhain (IPA: [ˈsawənʲ]) is the word for November in the Irish language. The Scottish Gaelic spelling is Samhuinn. The same word was used for a month in the Celtic calendar, and in particular the first three nights of this month, the festival marking the ending of the summer season, and the end of the harvest. A modernized version of the festival continues today in some of the traditions of the Christian All Souls' DayHalloween. The name is also used for one of the sabbat feasts in the Wiccan wheel of the year.

Here's a little seasonal entertainment for you, though you will need flash to play. Click on the beast to wake it, then click MORE to feed this little purple creature, and it will follow your cursor around its cave.  [If you click into the BunnyHero Labs, BEWARE: POPUPS!]:

adopt your own virtual pet!

What, you don't think that's scary? Consider its name.

See that blue box on the sidebar? Well, you probably don't, as most of you read me elsewhere -- that blue box is my NaNoWriMo wordcounter. Yes, I'm serious.

How do I know I'm serious?

I've spent the last two weeks preparing. Not preparing what I'm going to write -- I still don't have a clue -- but preparing to write. I even pushed past my natural introversion, and attended the local NaNoWriMo kick-off get-together. Strangers. Mostly young, energetic strangers. And I plan to attend the weekly writing meetings, too.

So, I am clearly very serious, even though I don't know what I'm doing.

NaNoWriMo too scary for ya? Maybe this is more your line:

NaBloPoMo is an alternative to November's NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month, the program wherein you crank out a novel in thirty days.

Some of us lack the imagination, stamina, and self-destructive impulses required to write a novel that quickly, but, by Grabthar's Hammer, we can update our blogs every day for a month!

[I wish I could remember where I saw this -- if you think it might have been you, let me know, and I'll add your link to this post.]

Now, if trying NaNoWriMo is scary, how frightening would it be to try both?

Well, let's find out, shall we?

The deadline for getting your url on the participants list below is, oh, let's say November 1 at 11:59 p.m . . . No cheating and backdating posts, either. You're on your honor. Prizes!

When I moved to Alaska, a friend saw me off at the ferry. As I was sitting in my car, waiting to board, I -- without warning to either of us -- shouted at her: What the hell am I doing? Why didn't you try to stop me?

She said she had tried to stop me, but I ignored her.

Now, why did I suddenly think of that?

Calling All Writers

The Masthead is "where the writers are" in the Missoula area. This publication is designed to offer a much-needed resource, haven, and stage for the writers of our great mountain town. Missoulians always seem to be saying, "There sure are a lot of writers in this town,"—and they're not wrong—but being one of the thousands of English program graduates who stayed in my college town, I often find myself asking, "Where are they? How do I find all these writers in Missoula? How do I get in touch with my people: worshippers of Shakespeare, torch- bearers of Ginsberg, brooding Bloomsday sojourners?" Read more...

. . . and The Masthead is seeking submissions for its fall issue. From The Masthead staff:

Due to a low volume of submissions for the fall issue, The Masthead, Missoula's Writers' Magazine, is accepting submissions until November 11. We need poetry, fiction, creative non-fiction, rants, writing tips, photographs and artwork to print in our fourth (already!) issue, due out in late November.

To submit, either email us at mastheadmsla AT hotmail DOT com, or mail to The Masthead, P.O. Box, 17883, Missoula, MT, 59808.

No submissions over 6,000 words, please. Email submissions are preferred, but paper is accepted. In either format, please supply a mailing address for receiving your contributor's copy, should your work be accepted. If sending attachments or paper, please include your name on every page. Visual art will be rendered in black and white.

They tell me that they do accept reprints, with no restrictions on what medium it was published in before. As long as you have the rights to have the piece published again, that's fine. Humor is always good, because so many people only write things that are serious. But really, we just want good writing.

They also do not give preference to local or Montana writers. This means that those of us who publish on our own websites, wherever we live, are welcome to submit. And I'm not very funny, but many of you are -- so go for it.

NaNoWriMo

Yes, folks, it's approaching that time of year again. Don't take that PARTICIPANT icon too seriously; I haven't signed up.

Yet.

I did sign up two years ago, to no discernible effect, except a sudden and severe attack of writer's block. Last year I didn't even consider it.

But this year I find myself thinking about it. Again.

I'm thinking, maybe if I just decide right off the block (so to speak) that I won't try to win -- that is, make it to 50,000 words -- but set some goal that is more realistic for me, given my unreliable energy -- it might be a fun and useful project. I did manage -- nearly -- a poem a day in April. Fewer words, but more editing.

Do I have some pressing idea for a novel? No, I don't. Maybe I would write something else altogether. I did splurge, and send for the book. I also sent for The Wounded Storyteller: Body, Illness and Ethics, which was recommended by Beth Ferris. Perhaps the two together might give me a direction.

Or perhaps I don't need a direction. Maybe it would be useful to just sit at the keyboard and spew.

You never know.

Have any of you done this?

Thinking about doing it?
 

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?

Montana Festival of the Book

My encounter with Camille, the Clark City Press baby, was unquestionably the most delightful of this particular conference . . .

. . . but she did have competition.

Well, not precisely.  Other encounters were pleasant, thought-provoking, informative, and fun -- but Camille would be pretty much unmatched in the delight category.

On Friday morning I attended the panel titled: Who Tells the Tale? Cultural Issues in Writing about Native Americans, with Dorothy Patent, Curly Bear Wagner, and our own Montana blogger, Mary Scriver. The panel was moderated by poet Vic Charlo. I took notes (as I did at the other two events I attended) but I keep putting off this post in order to include them -- and decided I need to just post.

Briefly, this panel had a lot to offer, but little on the subject I was anticipating -- who owns what stories; who can tell or write these stories; what are the implications of white writers telling stories from cultures not their own? Are the implications any different than they are for any writer tackling stories/ subjects/ cultures/ characters that are not their own?

This was a polite group, with some history among them, I believe -- and Mary was the one most willing to tackle the politically loaded issues. No surprise to those of us who read her blog.

Then she and I went to lunch, to get acquainted -- two cranky past the midlife divide white women, are we. She gave me a copy of her book, Twelve Blackfeet Stories, which I am embarrassed to say I have not yet even opened.

But I will.

Later that day I went to Kiss Tomorrow Hello: Women Writing from the Other Side of the Midlife Divide, with Claire Davis, Annick Smith, and Mary Clearman Blew. I stayed for the reading, only, then staggered home to sleep. This would be a good book to own, by the way. Lovely, powerful writing.

Confession: For many years I have wanted to be Annick Smith when I grow up. A slight case of heroine worship.

I think I'll save the poetry panel for another post -- but let me bring this one back to the beginning. Click the image below to go to Clark City Press. A wonderful list. A skilled and prolific artist. My hometown. A beautiful child. How can you lose?

I almost forgot -- one more thing I wanted to share. As Mary and I were hugging goodbye, she noticed a woman trying to squeeze past us. Mary said "We must move or hug this woman" and we stepped apart to let her pass, which she did. Then she paused, turned, opened her arms and said "What a good idea!"

And so we three strangers blocked the passageway with our pleased Montana hug.

UPDATE: Mary responds, on her blog, to the question Who Tells the Tale?

My Summer Vacation [Journal Excerpts]

How difficult it is, sometimes, moving this body from one place to another, heavily, though thick hot air. How many decisions are made to accomodate its needs.

There is clover in the ivy. I see those small round leaves, hiding --

small dogs
in the summer garden
    smelling everything

how they fall
    the rose petals

speaking into the emptiness, as if there were someone to hear

I've not been writing, I've not been doing morning pages, I'm dry. I'm not sure what is blocking me -- the heat -- the presence of another person in my house -- things I don't want to write about -- or just the natural cycle of rest & growth, rest & growth --

this day, then another, and another --

A dead squirrel on the path, and I am stricken, and angry. I saw J the other night, with a slingshot -- why kill things? What harm?

Bombs in Mumbai, and I struggle to understand how people are brought to this, the slaughter of innocents, in the name of some divinity -- to be the cause of grief also too vast for me to comprehend. A world full of wonders, and this, I suppose, is one of them -- that we do such things to one another.

D. interested in our/ her past, which seems so far to me, so vague. Are we born, or made? It seems to me that I was just beginning then [in my teens] -- that most of who/ what I am, has come since. Are we to think we are the products of a father's abuse; a mother's indifference; a grandmother's care -- and nothing since? Perhaps we are -- at least in part -- a product of our own artistry?

No?

Perhaps those who keep hold of the thread of their lives feel otherwise; they can follow it back, see its source. But for me, long hidden trails and turns into darkness, or brilliance. In places, the thread is broken, or lost, or seems to belong to someone else, some other life --

So that I begin again, and again.

I think of sitting on the floor, yarn stretched between my hands, pulled by my grandmother, rolled into a fat ball.

I've been tired, very solitary, very leave-me-alone. I feel that snap-back, that release, that let-down that happens when there's no more demand to be present, to be chipper, to respond.

It's heating up again. Two or three days, then some relief, then heat again. I suspect this is what the future will be like: heat, extemes, and surprising storms. I am filled with -- weighted with -- lethargy. Even eating requires management, so I make do with pretzels and yogurt. The rubber band has snapped; I'm limp, broken, useless.

I dream I am in a large, decrepit house. A bomb is ticking down; the world is ending. I am on the phone with X, we want to be together at the last moment  -- his brusque, abrupt goodbye.

Thursday Walk|Poetry Thursday

   

Andrew, in reference to yesterday's snapshot poem, asks what is my process?

It varies some, but lately I begin to think about the snapshot poem on Tuesday, just paying attention and considering what I might write about. This week, I was blocked by my despair about politics, so had to write that out first; and of course I had the special occasion of Mariah's birthday. I wandered about for awhile, thinking about Mariah and taking note of what was in front of me, writing without thinking or editing.

It's rather like this, really -- I begin with lots of words and ideas, and then a rain comes and strips the stems down -- fewer leaves and flowers, more shape -- if I'm lucky. Sometimes I go back through my notebook for images or thoughts, dreams or fragments that feel like they might fit into what I'm doing.

For quite awhile it's mostly about feeling my way -- then I put it on the computer and begin to work it into shape -- shape being exactly what I mean, here. How does it look on the screen? Where are the rhythms, the natural line-breaks?

Rarely, I get something complete and dramatic. More often it's like what I intended to do today, to try the suggestion at Poetry Thursday to weave together a piece from fragments of overheard conversations. But then it was a day to stay home, where there were no conversations on which to eavesdrop.

So I offer this visual collage instead, and hope it will do -- especially for you, Cathy, instead of a poem.

[The Hockney'd honeysuckle was made with fd's Flickr Toys]

Goals, Intentions, Disappointments

9rules announced the sites they've accepted into their network this morning, and Watermark is not on the list -- but two sites that I read are: Real Live Preacher and John Baker. Oddly, the sites on the list are not clickable -- so I'll probably wait until they are before exploring.

I've been thinking lately about goals and intentions, given my impulsive try at inclusion in this network, some recent reading, and a friend's transitional struggles. I think it's natural, if one wants to be good at whatever one does, to want recognition for it -- but it seems a common error to confuse that recognition with the goal of doing it, or doing it well.

Some folks probably do have the recognition itself as the goal -- to be famous, or published, or to win some particular award, or make (some specific) lots of money. At least then you know when you've done it, unlike some more amorphous, moving targets. But I do think that doing something well, and being recognized for doing something well, are different goals that require differing -- not necessarily, but sometimes, anithetical strategies; so it's important to know for which one is aiming.

It's sometimes frustrating when you choose a vocation, or an avocation, that is difficult to measure -- as I have tended to do. How do you know if you are a good activist, or therapist; or a good poet, or a good blogger? There are, of course, some measures -- and even more excuses -- none of them certain. I sometimes wish I had chosen accounting, or mathematics, or engineering. Something where I could say, there, that's done. Where I could assure myself, with confidence, I have made a contribution.

Do I want to be a poet, a good poet, a published poet, a famous poet? One can be a bad, published, famous poet. Truly. Don't ask me to name names.

One can be a good, unpublished poet; unknown until after death -- Emily comes to mind. No doubt one can be a good, unpublished and unknown poet -- we would not, by definition, know who s/he is.

I want to write poems. I want to write good poems. I want my poems to be available (which they are, here and at Oratory.) I would like to have them in book form, and do intend to do a Lulu book (or something similar) when energy allows. But I don't want to be famous, and I don't want to compete.

I took a break from writing, and came across this great post by Elizabeth West at Utata:

I take photographs for several reasons. First, I think, is the desire to stop time—to capture a moment that will never return. . . The taking of such pictures is what matters more than the viewing. . .

The second reason I shoot is to share. . .  

Both types of photography are totally engrossing. They engage my mind, my hands, my spirit, and my emotions. Taking such pictures puts me into a flow state, where everything is working as it should and time ceases to exist. . .  

However, getting ready for a show requires something else: thought and effort. Pictures must be selected, printed, matted, framed, and hung. Decisions must be made. Are the pictures for sale? What price should I put on each? The entire process sounds more like work than play. . .  

Photography . . . is pure joy for me. I do not want to turn it into work, and I do not want to worry about the marketplace. Those reasons helped me make a decision—the photography show will go on without me.

She puts this so well, this distinction between work|creativity; recognition|joy. For some few lucky ones among us, they merge. For me, energy spent on sending poems out for publication, and bemoaning their rejection, would be energy not spent writing or reading poems.

Just as energy spent checking my blog stats and regretting not making it into elite networks is energy not spent blogging.

Habits of Effective Bloggers - Roundup

problogger's challenge to write about the Habits of Highly Effective Bloggers has resulted in a great many thoughtful posts; mostly, of course, about professional blogging, rather than the personal and idiosyncratic blogging in which I indulge.

I was hoping for some truly eccentric suggestions. You know, like turn three times clockwise, then bow to the west twice; or put on your FEAR THE POET T-shirt, burn sage incense, chant "I am creative" thirteen times. Something.

But no, pretty much the expected good advice, with a few not-so-typical good ideas; and some of the usual, unusually well-expressed. To the extent there is a common theme, it is: Passion. Persistence. Patience. To which I would add: Play! . . .

I did a very quick look-through, and offer below some brief excerpts . . .

To read the rest of this post, go to Blogging Blog.

Thursday Walk|Poetry Thursday

   

b. asks [in response to The Blue Bed]:

how do you keep this up? do you wear poet's glasses all the time, or simply put them on like mr peabody from bullwinkle when you want to do this thing you do?

Ah, yes -- those poet's glasses. So attractive.

Good question, though. What is this thing I do? I don't just sit down and write a poem; it requires an ongoing practice of attention; a willingness to be boring, to be trivial, to be mundane.

It's like prayer, or my understanding of prayer -- not a solicitation, but an acknowledgement of how it is: this hurts, this is beautiful, I am afraid.

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.

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

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:

Journals & Notebooks

Blue Dog asks: What do you write in? And many, many reply, with photos and thoughts on journaling and writing that are worth sharing outside the Blogging the Artist's Way list, I think. So I have many links below the cut, and will add more as I find them. This gives me an excuse for another cute dog photo, the doglets tempting me from my writing in the morning:

Here is this poet's notebook, from a post last year on just that: Poets' Notebooks.  Sitting on the cover is the stick I was trying to draw:

   

You can see the poem that came out of these jottings here. My notebooks are Circa notebooks, from Levenger. I love this system -- I have a punch so I can add computer-printed pages (or anything else) to the current notebook; and file folders specifically designed for Circa pages for all my old notebooks.  Levenger's paper is great -- wonderful to the pen, and heavy enough that even wide fountain pens don't show through on the other side. It comes in graph and lined paper, as well as the plain you see here. When funds are tight, regular paper works just fine.

I prefer them because they fold completely open to provide their own hard backing, like a spiral notebook, but can look very spiffy and professional with the leather covers or folios (which are optional, and spendy.) The covers have pen loops and pockets. There are tons of accessories to tailor it to your needs and design preferences.

These notebooks come in different sizes; I have a smaller one I can carry with me when [if] I go out, and the pages can then be moved to the larger, main notebook. Pages go in and out of this system with ease. I do suspect these are better suited to writers than to artists.

Though the materials are nice, my notebooks are not 'beautiful' -- they are not artist's notebooks. They are 'compost' -- seeds and nurturance for future work. The handwriting is variable, from neat to illegible. Thoughts range, without clear boundaries, from dreams to description to fiction to long internal monologues that are some mixture of it all. The one consistent thing that I do is  try to write my dreams in green ink, so that they are easily found.

The pen you see with the dogs is a Sensa fountain pen -- these are lovely for sore hands, especially the gel pens. Beautiful balance, not heavy -- they float across the page. Of course, I discovered all these treasures when I was working, and had an income -- but I'm well-supplied. Also, I do believe that the things one uses every day should bring pleasure. Abundance, remember?

I want to mention that one thing about doing the Artist's way for which I am grateful, is that it has brought me back to my notebook. Since I started blogging, two years ago, my time with paper and pen has diminished, and I am glad to have it back again. There is a kind of physicality that is very different with the pen than with the keyboard.

One more thing, before I move on to the words and photos of others. In case some of you are nearly house-bound, as I have been; or even just like to carry your writing and reading supplies from room to room -- this idea may be of use -- my basket:

   

Click the photos to go to Flickr and see larger ones. These photos have notes, too.

Now, on to links, links, links (and one more cute dog photo):

Christmas Presents

Why is Sharon not writing?

Oh.

[Danny Gregory's website]

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

Blocked

It's snapshot poem day. Am I writing? Am I brilliant and inspired?

No.

[This charming little gif, known as Deadline, is circulating through various newsrooms in the Bay Area. Reporter Janis Mara sent it to me, in a timely fashion.]

Create

Rollo May, The Courage to Create

. . . the creative act arises out of the struggle of human beings with and against that which limits them.

. . . transcending can occur only to those who accept the fact of their limitation . . .

Form is not a mere lopping off of meaning that you don't have room to put in your poem; it is an aid to finding new meaning, a stimulus to condensing, to discovering on a more universal dimension the essence you wish to express.

As imagination gives vitality to form, form keeps imagination from driving us into psychosis. This is the ultimate necessity of limits.

Artists are the ones who have the capacity to see original visions . . . We can surely tolerate their special dependencies and harmless idiosyncracies. For we will be better prepared for the future if we can listen seriously to them.

Poets' Notebooks

I found this meme at chanticleer and Big Window -- Eduardo says:

Every poet I know carries around a notebook to jot down ideas, images, bits of interesting data. I've always wanted to take a peek inside another poet's notebook. So I'm asking other bloggers to post a page from their notebooks on their blogs.

Here is this poet's notebook, the most recent pages and a shot of the cover, with the stick I was trying to draw:

   

You can see the poem that came out of these jottings here.

Eduardo has a long list of poets who have posted either pictures or out- takes of their notebooks -- he is overwhelmed with the html to link them all, and I've nothing better to do and an easy interface, so I shall do it here:

Therapist With A Dream Inside
Avoiding the Muse
Sea-Camel
Barbara Jane's New Blog
the world a letter
Almost I rushed from home to tell you this
beautiful monsters
JewishyIrishy
Ivy  [Hi Ivy!]
Box of Birds
Radish King  [Hi Rebecca!]
*~gila monster~*
Ironic points of light
the wendy house
Pugnacious Pinoy
litwindowpane
The World According to Ess
Whimsy Speaks
Quoi?
Book of Kells
Kutibeng
early hours of sky
vowel movements
Small Branches Poetry
Awake at Dawn on Someone's Couch
one good bumblebee
écritures bleues

If I have missed anyone, and as there are additions, please let me know and I'll add them to the list. This was a great idea!

Monday, 10 January:  I am adding Bookworm -- a nice meditation on paper writing and notebooks, independent of the meme.  And another addition below -- keep telling me, and I'll keep adding:

Humanyms
Scoplaw

Read your signature on the scattered ashes

An exercise in perspective, thinking, and writing, from Notional Slurry, via apophenia:

Think particularly about how these items came to you. The paths they have taken through previous owners . . .

What items there in the room with you could be used to reconstruct or rediscover a lost aspect of your life, when they pass along their eventual paths into the future and come to the attention (out of context) of other people who do not know you? What of your possessions might be used to differentiate your life from those of others in your demographic? To glean insight about you, when you’re gone?

The out of context instruction makes this difficult, since in context an observer knows immediately that I am an accumulator, a collector.  This room, the living room, like every other room in my house, is filled with art, artifacts, books, magazines, candles in crystal holders, and interesting (to me) furniture, rugs, and light fixtures.  Many of the things in this room were gifts, and/ or inheritances.  My connections to Alaska, Montana, and New Mexico are apparent in paintings and pottery. 

Also apparent is my lack of attention to housekeeping, and, possibly, the fatigue that keeps me in one place, surrounded by necessities:  laptop, pens, paper, books, telephone, and so on.  Draped luxuriously in various cushioned spots: cats, dogs, and the fur and toys that are evidence of their residence even when they are not present.

On a two-tiered half-moon table made for me by a poet-friend (who now makes very high-end custom furniture) is a collection of Buddhas, given to me by a carpenter's assistant who worked on remodeling the kitchen years ago.  He was re-committing to a childhood Mormon girlfriend, and compelled to release non-Christian tokens of his past.  How he chose me as the recipient, I do not know -- but he appeared one evening at my door with a dusty cardboard box filled with these  treasures.  He said they belonged here.

And so do I.

[To be continued]

Sustainable Creativity?

Regular readers may have noticed that I am feeling absolutely not creative.  Old poems, bits and pieces from other sites -- that's all I've had to offer.  Michael has been writing about sustainable creativity,  a concept I want/ need to grasp.  I am not sustaining.

I am, however, reading.  Several months ago my glasses were irreparably broken, and I have been wearing a 20-year-old pair that works well enough for the computer, where I can enlarge the fonts, but not so well for books.  A generous friend took me to the eye doctor and bought me new glasses, complete with bifocals.  I have spent days now with real, paper, books.   

I go to sleep with Lee Ann Roripaugh's poems in my head, in my body.  I've been dreaming wonderfully.  Somewhere around here I have two chapbooks, one from Chris Murray, another from Eileen Tabios; soon I will live with those poems, too -- although I suspect that they will still require a magnifying glass.  I realize that smaller print means more words at less cost, but it is awkward to read poems with a magnifier. 

As I wait for these sources to sink down and bring up my own words, I've been doing a bit of detail work on this site, a little winter decor.  And noticing that the "Why Blog" discussion has begun again at ITKitchen and Sandhill Trek. 

And writing this, to be writing, anything.

A Few Things

A reminder that Carnival of the Cats will be here at Watermark this week; get your entries in by 5:00 PM mountain time on Sunday.  Last time it was here we had a great turnout; let's do that again!

Andrew, Patia, Cindy, Roger, Liz, Cathy, Dave, and Patrick, and Kalamity have all joined the dance.  Have you danced yet?

Have I gone mad?  I'm considering doing this:

National Novel Writing Month is a fun, seat-of-your-pants approach to novel writing. Participants begin writing November 1. The goal is to write a 175-page (50,000-word) novel by midnight, November 30.

That's about six pages, or 1700 words, per day.  They say It's all about quantity, not quality, which could be good practice for a perfectionist.  On the other hand, it sometimes takes me nearly a day to do one Watermark post (especially on Fridays.)

I've never considered writing a novel, and have no idea what my novel might be about. I don't know that my energy would support such an endeavor. Most starters don't finish, though, so there would be no shame in that. 

What do you think?  Are any of my readers doing this?

Midnight Ramblings

Well, I’ve had nothing new, nothing real, to offer here in some time – two weeks with no “snapshot” – so I am going to take the leap and post these raw, midnight ramblings. Perhaps one day some of it will become a poem. Perhaps not.

I have been moving Oratory to TypePad, another of those tedious, detail tasks that seem to occupy me lately. I sit at the computer, in front of the television, thinking deeply of nothing. Is this focus on minutiae giving me some sense of control ~ in this life where there is so little?

Easier to think of designing websites and making pretties than to think down, where feeling and terror reside. Politics now make me feel particularly powerless, as lies win battle after battle.

Things break and I cannot fix them, nor afford to get them fixed. And there seem to be no poems in me.

If there were a poem in me, what words would it have?

rain, and thunder
heavy darkness across the moon
dogs scolding me sadly for neglect
abrasive male voices arguing with each other
sheets unchanged in weeks

words like campaign, and fear, and nice wives and daughters
valiantly attempting to humanize their husbands, their fathers

cruelty, and greed –

& my own greed for my own comforts

friends lost to wounds and lovers

how one can indulge and deprive oneself simultaneously

the terrible reproach of wood and glass

a phone ringing in a far room

the large absence of human touch; the body’s rebellion

how the night insistently reclaims the heart
and parades it, naked, through streets of dreams

how recording old poems opens the vault, empty of new ones

how women who keep or invent their own names
give to their children the names of their fathers

seeing a father weep at his daughter’s leaving

how daughters must leave
sooner or later
to become themselves

how so many don’t
the need to be claimed
the terrible seduction
of surrender and pink hats

how nudity and dancing become shocking protest,
“art”, as in “artifact”, as in “artificial”

how we forget we are animals

how we wander away from home
how this tree does not miss us

Kiss the Sky

From grapez:

. . . damn, these are the moments when you realize you’re not delighted to be alive—you’re alive to be delighted! Excuse me while I kiss the sky.

From whiskeyriver:

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
     - Mark Strand
     from Eating Poetry

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.

Poetry

From Overlap via lime tree:

Poetry has the capacity to deal with the nonevents of life in a way that other art forms couldn't possibly manage.

Recluse

From Daily Zen:

Written at the dwelling of a recluse

Even though you have a brushwood door,
It hasn’t been shut for a long time;
A few clouds, a few trees
Have been your only companions.
Still I suspect if you stay longer,
People will learn of this spot;
We’ll see you moving
Higher on the mountain.

- Chia Tao (779-843)

A Writer Is . . .

"A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people."  Thomas Mann

. . . as quoted in The SUN

privacy & exposure

This process of building websites, and doing an online notebook, raises for me issues of privacy and exposure – how much to reveal? What really is the interest of the (unknown) audience? & when may I name names, and when may I not?

Is the reader knowledgeable enough to realize that poetry is fiction, that the poet is only sometimes the speaker, and sometimes not?