Some days I feel stupider than I can ever remember feeling, frustrated with my lack of knowledge, my lack of language, my inability to join the conversation. Sometimes I question what I'm doing here, and what I will do next. Do I want the PhD? Do I believe, at any level, that I'm capable of it? Is it taking the easy way out by not even trying to apply? Do I really want it? Or do I just want to write and teach? Is teaching my calling, even more than writing?
The questions only breed more questions.
But I don't have to know right now.
---
Sometimes I don't know how I got so lucky, to be where I am right now, to have found what I've found, against my will, against all my expectations. Some moments are too beautiful to experience with my eyes open; the only way to keep from crying is to close my eyes and rest my face against your neck. Sometimes I want to say it too.
Showing posts with label about writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label about writing. Show all posts
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
Creation, etc.
Thinking about what art is, what power(s) we invest into the objects we create, how they become independent entities, about the ability of narration to create meaning, how experiences become real. About Nietzsche and Rushdie, significance and identity and language, about poetry, about the physical world, my physical body, the triumph of mind and community over physical weakness. About love, what it is, what it isn't, what it has been, what it should be. About gender, its irrelevance, its social construction, about the way life surprises me. About time, the sublime, and drinking wine.....
(Just threw that last one in because it rhymes, but it's also true.)
Let this suffice for an update: this is week 9, we got snow last Thursday in PA, I ran my half-marathon in Columbus on Sunday, I am busy, and I am happy in ways I never expected.
(Just threw that last one in because it rhymes, but it's also true.)
Let this suffice for an update: this is week 9, we got snow last Thursday in PA, I ran my half-marathon in Columbus on Sunday, I am busy, and I am happy in ways I never expected.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
An exercise in procrastination
Things I love (or strongly like) right now:
1) coffee
2) walking to McKinnon’s from Burrowes to get coffee (far enough that I feel like I’m getting a break, but close enough that it’s not too much of one)
3) a glass of red wine while writing
4) a neighbor and friend who always tells me when she’s going to buy wine so I can tag along and replenish my supply
5) Salman Rushdie’s essay “Imaginary Homelands”
6) my chapbook proposal
7) that my bedroom smells like flowers
8) that someone bought me flowers
9) the prospect of a weekend in Columbus
10) the prospect of a haircut in Columbus
11) the super warm sweater I’m wearing tonight
12) the super comfy boots I bought last weekend
1) coffee
2) walking to McKinnon’s from Burrowes to get coffee (far enough that I feel like I’m getting a break, but close enough that it’s not too much of one)
3) a glass of red wine while writing
4) a neighbor and friend who always tells me when she’s going to buy wine so I can tag along and replenish my supply
5) Salman Rushdie’s essay “Imaginary Homelands”
6) my chapbook proposal
7) that my bedroom smells like flowers
8) that someone bought me flowers
9) the prospect of a weekend in Columbus
10) the prospect of a haircut in Columbus
11) the super warm sweater I’m wearing tonight
12) the super comfy boots I bought last weekend
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Make it new
Attended a really great open mic event tonight (at Urban Spirit coffeeshop, on Long Street, for any Columbus people reading - it's absolutely worth checking out! More slam-oriented than the Poetry Forum, but very supportive of all different voices, and filled with talent!) And I was noticing that a lot of poems dealt with similar themes and/or sounded similar to other poems I've heard or read before, so I was just thinking about how to make things new, and how hard that is. The easiest things to say are the ones that have already been said, but are they the only ones?
Is there an end of newness, a limit to the number of new things a poet can say, a finite number of new ways to say them? Is it like a relationship, where it loses the excitement after awhile? Or is there a way to keep the spark going, to make a commitment, to marry the work. I, Emily Anderson, take you, poetry, to be my partner….. I feel a bit like that’s the commitment I’m making by going into an MFA program; I’m saying “yes, this is what I want to do for the rest of my life. This is the career I want to have. For richer and for poorer…” (mostly poorer – poets, even with university jobs, aren’t known to be wealthy). That’s scary, that commitment. And we all know I don’t do well with commitment. But maybe I can change. Maybe I'm ready.
Is there an end of newness, a limit to the number of new things a poet can say, a finite number of new ways to say them? Is it like a relationship, where it loses the excitement after awhile? Or is there a way to keep the spark going, to make a commitment, to marry the work. I, Emily Anderson, take you, poetry, to be my partner….. I feel a bit like that’s the commitment I’m making by going into an MFA program; I’m saying “yes, this is what I want to do for the rest of my life. This is the career I want to have. For richer and for poorer…” (mostly poorer – poets, even with university jobs, aren’t known to be wealthy). That’s scary, that commitment. And we all know I don’t do well with commitment. But maybe I can change. Maybe I'm ready.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Summer Reading Part 3
Yesterday was a deliciously book-filled day. After work, I walked up to the library. I returned Autobiography of Red; I'd meant to re-read it carefully, but after re-reading a few sections, I decided not to. While I appreciate that it's a very smart, very unique book, and while the story did stick with me, the poetry of it, the language of it, didn't really connect with me. So I returned one book and picked up four more, including Czeslaw Milosz's Selected Poems which I absolutely love, then I took the bus up to Clintonville to spend my gift certificate at Areopagitica Book Store. Oh, I love that place! It's a used bookstore, in all the best ways: it smells of old books, it's usually empty, you can stumble across all kinds of hidden gems, and the proprietors lurk quietly and can tell you where anything in the store is. I got there right around 6:00, only to see on the sign that they are supposed to close at 6:00 on Mondays. The door was still open and the shelf of clearance books still on the sidewalk, so I walked in and asked if they closed at 6:00 and the man behind the desk said he'd decided to stay open that evening. So I wandered a bit, picked up Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet (which I've read before but need to own) and The Delicacy and Strength of Lace, letters between James Wright and Leslie Marmon Silko, and I ordered a copy of A Wild Perfection (the collection of James Wright's letter that I have from the library right now). I've always enjoyed James Wright's poetry, but reading the letters is just so interesting; I'm maybe a third of the way through the book and there are so many things I'd like to go back to read again and think about.
Then I had a nice coffee break with Sam, then went home, had a veggie chili dog and a spinach salad for dinner, then read and read some more. I am so in love with Milosz! If there is one critique I could make of my assigned reading in college, it is the almost complete lack of poetry in translation. I never read Neruda or Paz or Akhmatova in college; I've discovered all of them later, through friends or my own reading. I did read and fall in love with Rilke (thank you, John Wylam, for including one of the Elegies in the English 205 course packet), but his is the only translated poetry I remember reading in college. Anyway, Milosz is wonderful: poignant and smart and visual and just altogether lovely. So I read a bit of that, then I finished the novel I started last week: The Shadow Lines, by Amitav Ghosh. The second half was better than the first. The whole novel jumps around frequently in time, all through the childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood of the narrator; it can be confusing, especially early on until the reader gets a handle on the basics of what happened when and where. By the second section, one plot point has been resolved and the reader has a decent grasp on the overall arc of the story, so the second half reads easier than the first. I enjoyed the book, and it's a worthwhile read, but not super-outstanding.
I need to write. I want to write. I get ideas for poems, but I am embroiled in some strange sort of conflict with myself over actually sitting down to write them. I think on one hand, I want to save my writing for once I get to grad school, as though I'm afraid if I write a lot this summer, I won't have anything to say in the fall. On the other, I feel like I really should get into the habit of writing, but I'm dragging my feet against that obligation; I don't respond well to pressure or obligations, and telling me I "should" or "have to" do something is one of the best ways to keep me from doing it.
Then I had a nice coffee break with Sam, then went home, had a veggie chili dog and a spinach salad for dinner, then read and read some more. I am so in love with Milosz! If there is one critique I could make of my assigned reading in college, it is the almost complete lack of poetry in translation. I never read Neruda or Paz or Akhmatova in college; I've discovered all of them later, through friends or my own reading. I did read and fall in love with Rilke (thank you, John Wylam, for including one of the Elegies in the English 205 course packet), but his is the only translated poetry I remember reading in college. Anyway, Milosz is wonderful: poignant and smart and visual and just altogether lovely. So I read a bit of that, then I finished the novel I started last week: The Shadow Lines, by Amitav Ghosh. The second half was better than the first. The whole novel jumps around frequently in time, all through the childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood of the narrator; it can be confusing, especially early on until the reader gets a handle on the basics of what happened when and where. By the second section, one plot point has been resolved and the reader has a decent grasp on the overall arc of the story, so the second half reads easier than the first. I enjoyed the book, and it's a worthwhile read, but not super-outstanding.
I need to write. I want to write. I get ideas for poems, but I am embroiled in some strange sort of conflict with myself over actually sitting down to write them. I think on one hand, I want to save my writing for once I get to grad school, as though I'm afraid if I write a lot this summer, I won't have anything to say in the fall. On the other, I feel like I really should get into the habit of writing, but I'm dragging my feet against that obligation; I don't respond well to pressure or obligations, and telling me I "should" or "have to" do something is one of the best ways to keep me from doing it.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Interesting article
An interesting article by Louis Menand about teaching creative writing - whether it is possible, what workshops accomplish (or don't), the ramifications of an "anti-system" like writing being part of a system like the university, etc. It's a pretty interesting read, although it focuses much more on fiction than on poetry, and I agree completely with his assessment of the value of CW workshops at the end of the article:
"Did I engage in self-observation and other acts of modernist reflexivity? Not much. Was I concerned about belonging to an outside contained on the inside? I don’t think it ever occurred to me. I just thought that this stuff mattered more than anything else, and being around other people who felt the same way, in a setting where all we were required to do was to talk about each other’s poems, seemed like a great place to be. I don’t think the workshops taught me too much about craft, but they did teach me about the importance of making things, not just reading things. You care about things that you make, and that makes it easier to care about things that other people make.
And if students, however inexperienced and ignorant they may be, care about the same things, they do learn from each other."
Those are my italics, but that is very much how I remember my undergraduate workshops.
"Did I engage in self-observation and other acts of modernist reflexivity? Not much. Was I concerned about belonging to an outside contained on the inside? I don’t think it ever occurred to me. I just thought that this stuff mattered more than anything else, and being around other people who felt the same way, in a setting where all we were required to do was to talk about each other’s poems, seemed like a great place to be. I don’t think the workshops taught me too much about craft, but they did teach me about the importance of making things, not just reading things. You care about things that you make, and that makes it easier to care about things that other people make.
And if students, however inexperienced and ignorant they may be, care about the same things, they do learn from each other."
Those are my italics, but that is very much how I remember my undergraduate workshops.
Friday, June 5, 2009
The Letter Project
I discovered The Letter Project today. I too have always loved writing and receiving letters, and reading what is posted so far on the site has been inspiring. I just requested from the library the book of James Wright's letters that Theresa mentions. This is exciting.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Just a couplet
You are the smell of lighter fluid and charcoal and charring beef.
You are nostalgia, not desire: I have been a vegetarian for ten years.
I have not posted anything in weeks.... I had a good visit to PA, but then things fell through with the apartment I thought I had, and I was very annoyed about that. It feels like one has to be heterosexual and without pets in order to find a roommate and apartment in that damn town. I think I've found another roommate, but we're still hunting for a pet-friendly place. So, yeah, it's an ongoing process....
I've not done much writing recently. I'm trying. I keep coming up with ideas when I'm out running, or walking, or driving, or in some other way unable to write them down, and then failing to remember them or lacking the motivation to sit down and write them when I am able to do so. I've been reading a bit - mostly fiction but some poetry. Thinking about brain chemistry, concepts of self and identity, society and individuality, ingroups and outgroups. Typical stuff ;)
You are nostalgia, not desire: I have been a vegetarian for ten years.
I have not posted anything in weeks.... I had a good visit to PA, but then things fell through with the apartment I thought I had, and I was very annoyed about that. It feels like one has to be heterosexual and without pets in order to find a roommate and apartment in that damn town. I think I've found another roommate, but we're still hunting for a pet-friendly place. So, yeah, it's an ongoing process....
I've not done much writing recently. I'm trying. I keep coming up with ideas when I'm out running, or walking, or driving, or in some other way unable to write them down, and then failing to remember them or lacking the motivation to sit down and write them when I am able to do so. I've been reading a bit - mostly fiction but some poetry. Thinking about brain chemistry, concepts of self and identity, society and individuality, ingroups and outgroups. Typical stuff ;)
Monday, April 27, 2009
A promised, a bit of backstory
So, here is the story about that poem I posted last week....
I have been wanting to write a ghazal for a long time, but never really made myself try one. A pretty good explanation of the form is here if you want to read up, but the basic rules, as I understand them, are that a ghazal is composed of 5-15 couplets, and it utilizes a repeated word called a radif which appears at the end of both lines of the first couplet and then at the end of the last line of each succeeding couplet. Each couplet should stand alone, although a loose theme or feeling is generally developed throughout the poem. Traditional ghazals often evoke themes of the romantic, erotic, and/or spiritual, and have a melancholy tone. It is also tradition for the poet to "sign" the poem by including his or herself in the final couplet, often in 3rd person, though I chose to use 1st person.
The ghazal was popularized in English in the U.S. by a Kashmiri-American poet named Agha Shahid Ali. I met him in the fall of 1999; he read at Bowling Green as part of an Asian-American Writers' Conference. I also got to hang out and drink with him afterward, and he was a wonderful man. He died two years later. Before he died, he put together a book of ghazals which are absolutely beautiful and heartbreaking and amazing, especially knowing that he wrote many of them when he knew that he was dying.
The PAD prompt was to write a poem about regret, and for some reason the word just struck me as the perfect word to use in a ghazal. I wrote the 5 couplets posted here that day and then another three over the weekend that I think I will add in.
Shahid's book is called Call Me Ishmael Tonight: A Book of Ghazals. He also edited a book called Ravishing DisUnities: Real Ghazals in English which includes work by Maxine Kumin, William S. Merwin, Ann Townsend, and many others.
I have been wanting to write a ghazal for a long time, but never really made myself try one. A pretty good explanation of the form is here if you want to read up, but the basic rules, as I understand them, are that a ghazal is composed of 5-15 couplets, and it utilizes a repeated word called a radif which appears at the end of both lines of the first couplet and then at the end of the last line of each succeeding couplet. Each couplet should stand alone, although a loose theme or feeling is generally developed throughout the poem. Traditional ghazals often evoke themes of the romantic, erotic, and/or spiritual, and have a melancholy tone. It is also tradition for the poet to "sign" the poem by including his or herself in the final couplet, often in 3rd person, though I chose to use 1st person.
The ghazal was popularized in English in the U.S. by a Kashmiri-American poet named Agha Shahid Ali. I met him in the fall of 1999; he read at Bowling Green as part of an Asian-American Writers' Conference. I also got to hang out and drink with him afterward, and he was a wonderful man. He died two years later. Before he died, he put together a book of ghazals which are absolutely beautiful and heartbreaking and amazing, especially knowing that he wrote many of them when he knew that he was dying.
The PAD prompt was to write a poem about regret, and for some reason the word just struck me as the perfect word to use in a ghazal. I wrote the 5 couplets posted here that day and then another three over the weekend that I think I will add in.
Shahid's book is called Call Me Ishmael Tonight: A Book of Ghazals. He also edited a book called Ravishing DisUnities: Real Ghazals in English which includes work by Maxine Kumin, William S. Merwin, Ann Townsend, and many others.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
The Art of Work (and some news)
Still keeping up with the PAD challenge, though I haven't written anything super exciting the past few days. This whole experience has been very good for me though. Not only have I really gotten into the habit of writing every day, but it's been good for me to write on some different subjects and to write without feeling like the end result has to be perfect or even good. Going into the Poem a Day challenge, I gave myself permission to write some really bad poems. As long as I wrote something every day, that was okay; I've been trying not to overthink the prompts and just go with whatever comes to mind. Some of the poems have come easily, others I've struggled with. Some I've known were complete crap, but others have surprised me in good ways.
I read two more of these newbies on Monday at the Poetry Forum: "Easter Morning" (the prose poem I referenced but didn't post in its entirety last week) and "White, Through Four Seasons" which I linked to. Got good responses, but they could both use some edits I think.
But here's the big news: I found out on Monday that I won 3rd place in the William Redding Memorial Poetry Competition! It's an annual contest sponsored by the Poetry Forum and Pudding House Publishing. My friend Nathan actually won first place - go Nathan!!! He gets a featured reading at the Poetry Forum in 2 weeks. The 2nd and 3rd place winners also get to read that night in shorter spots, so that'll be exciting!
Anyway, here's today's PAD poem. The prompt was to write a work-related poem.
The Art of Work
When I was young, to be called lazy
was the greatest insult. Like robots
my parents valued efficiency and hard work
at the expense of anything else.
Creativity was unnecessary unless it meant
a new way of cooking dinner or a faster method
of clearing brush or harvesting corn. The arts
were luxuries we could hardly afford.
A working writer is an oxymoron
in my father's eyes. There is no sweat
involved, no dirt, he sees no danger.
I can not explain that art is a blade
turned inward, two-edged and shining,
an artificial intelligence that cuts to the truth
leaving the artist in tatters, sweating
and exhausted after a hard day's work.
I read two more of these newbies on Monday at the Poetry Forum: "Easter Morning" (the prose poem I referenced but didn't post in its entirety last week) and "White, Through Four Seasons" which I linked to. Got good responses, but they could both use some edits I think.
But here's the big news: I found out on Monday that I won 3rd place in the William Redding Memorial Poetry Competition! It's an annual contest sponsored by the Poetry Forum and Pudding House Publishing. My friend Nathan actually won first place - go Nathan!!! He gets a featured reading at the Poetry Forum in 2 weeks. The 2nd and 3rd place winners also get to read that night in shorter spots, so that'll be exciting!
Anyway, here's today's PAD poem. The prompt was to write a work-related poem.
The Art of Work
When I was young, to be called lazy
was the greatest insult. Like robots
my parents valued efficiency and hard work
at the expense of anything else.
Creativity was unnecessary unless it meant
a new way of cooking dinner or a faster method
of clearing brush or harvesting corn. The arts
were luxuries we could hardly afford.
A working writer is an oxymoron
in my father's eyes. There is no sweat
involved, no dirt, he sees no danger.
I can not explain that art is a blade
turned inward, two-edged and shining,
an artificial intelligence that cuts to the truth
leaving the artist in tatters, sweating
and exhausted after a hard day's work.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
April is National Poetry Month
I'm not sure I'll do this, but I like the idea of writing a poem a day during the month of April. Anyone interested, check out the link below!
Read Write Poem - NaPoWriMo
Read Write Poem - NaPoWriMo
Thursday, March 5, 2009
I stole this quote
from Mutating the Signature, a wonderful collaborative blog that belongs to two of my poet friends.
Inside my empty bottle I was constructing a lighthouse while all the others were making ships. — Charles Simic
just a great quote about writing poetry! love it!
Inside my empty bottle I was constructing a lighthouse while all the others were making ships. — Charles Simic
just a great quote about writing poetry! love it!
After winter must come spring
Let's see... Monday was Poetry Forum. No comment on the featured reader, but the open mic was interesting. One new person, I think, and some of the regulars, and some peripheral drama from another reading series. I read "Polygon" and "A February Lament". Both read okay though not outstanding. Came home fully intending to do some writing, but couldn't come up with anything.
Also on Monday, I got my rejection letter from Michigan. I actually came home to three envelopes from schools in my mailbox. The Michigan one I'd expected, but then I also had a form letter from the Financial Aid office at Alabama, saying they had received my FAFSA information, but that I was "not yet admitted". Thanks for the slap in the face; I already got rejected once, and didn't need the reminder. And I had a little envelope from Cleveland State that caused my heart to pound and my brain to think in disbelief "They can't have rejected me already, can they?" When I opened it, it was just an updated notification that they had received the transcripts and letters of recommendation that were outstanding. Phew, heart attack averted! Since then, no news.
I'm starting to have doubts about a couple of the programs I've yet to hear from, and starting to think Penn State is just where I'm meant to be, but I'm holding on to possibility and am determined to wait and see all my options before making a decision.
I haven't done any real writing this week - a smidge in my journal, but nothing complete. It's okay though. I'm in more of a reading mode at the moment, and that is okay. The weather is warming up today, and I had a healthy lunch, so I am looking forward to running tonight. I feel pretty even-keeled today, and hoping to keep that for awhile.
Also on Monday, I got my rejection letter from Michigan. I actually came home to three envelopes from schools in my mailbox. The Michigan one I'd expected, but then I also had a form letter from the Financial Aid office at Alabama, saying they had received my FAFSA information, but that I was "not yet admitted". Thanks for the slap in the face; I already got rejected once, and didn't need the reminder. And I had a little envelope from Cleveland State that caused my heart to pound and my brain to think in disbelief "They can't have rejected me already, can they?" When I opened it, it was just an updated notification that they had received the transcripts and letters of recommendation that were outstanding. Phew, heart attack averted! Since then, no news.
I'm starting to have doubts about a couple of the programs I've yet to hear from, and starting to think Penn State is just where I'm meant to be, but I'm holding on to possibility and am determined to wait and see all my options before making a decision.
I haven't done any real writing this week - a smidge in my journal, but nothing complete. It's okay though. I'm in more of a reading mode at the moment, and that is okay. The weather is warming up today, and I had a healthy lunch, so I am looking forward to running tonight. I feel pretty even-keeled today, and hoping to keep that for awhile.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
As if heaven is just a dim and smoky room.....
I had a wonderful, intellectually stimulating, weekend in Cleveland with some old college friends. I didn't realize how stimulating until I started driving home Sunday afternoon and couldn't stop coming up with poem ideas and lines. I wrote a few down when I stopped to get a cup of coffee halfway home. My brain is still buzzing now, and it was so nice to be surrounded by smart people, and to see the way that it helped my creativity; it makes me that much more excited for grad school, and that much more sure that I made the right decision in applying.
However, I am completely saddened that I don't think I got into Wisconsin! They sent a bunch of acceptances out via email yesterday, and I didn't get one, and I am crushed. It just seemed so "meant to be", the way I wrote it on my list before I'd even researched it, and the way I kept seeing that car with the Wisconsin license plates outside my apartment, and the way one of my friends in Cleveland was telling me she knows people out there who'd help me out.... I guess I can't fully count it out until I get the rejection in the mail, but I am quite sad that I don't think I made their cut. I'm starting to wonder if fate is just telling me to go to Penn State, and making the decision easier by not giving me any other acceptances.... I KNOW that I'll be happy at Penn if I go there, and I KNOW it's a good program, and I don't want to downplay either of those facts at all, BUT it's a blow to my ego not to get in anywhere else. I admit that, okay? I have an ego, and it will be really hurt if I only make into one of the nine schools I applied to. Even though it's a good one, and even though they only chose two poets, and even though there are plenty of people who applied to more schools and didn't get in anywhere. I still have that ego, and I still want to feel like I am wanted and valued, and I still want to feel like I have a choice of where to go....
Sigh.....
I'll post a little bit of something that popped into my head on the drive home Sunday:
Ohio
This state
is shaped
vaguely
like a heart
and my life
has flowed
like blood
through all
four chambers.
The title of this post is also a line that occurred to me on that drive, but one which is being worked into a poem.
However, I am completely saddened that I don't think I got into Wisconsin! They sent a bunch of acceptances out via email yesterday, and I didn't get one, and I am crushed. It just seemed so "meant to be", the way I wrote it on my list before I'd even researched it, and the way I kept seeing that car with the Wisconsin license plates outside my apartment, and the way one of my friends in Cleveland was telling me she knows people out there who'd help me out.... I guess I can't fully count it out until I get the rejection in the mail, but I am quite sad that I don't think I made their cut. I'm starting to wonder if fate is just telling me to go to Penn State, and making the decision easier by not giving me any other acceptances.... I KNOW that I'll be happy at Penn if I go there, and I KNOW it's a good program, and I don't want to downplay either of those facts at all, BUT it's a blow to my ego not to get in anywhere else. I admit that, okay? I have an ego, and it will be really hurt if I only make into one of the nine schools I applied to. Even though it's a good one, and even though they only chose two poets, and even though there are plenty of people who applied to more schools and didn't get in anywhere. I still have that ego, and I still want to feel like I am wanted and valued, and I still want to feel like I have a choice of where to go....
Sigh.....
I'll post a little bit of something that popped into my head on the drive home Sunday:
Ohio
This state
is shaped
vaguely
like a heart
and my life
has flowed
like blood
through all
four chambers.
The title of this post is also a line that occurred to me on that drive, but one which is being worked into a poem.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Poetry is not a warm and fuzzy thing
That's a misquote from a student of Richard Hague's. He read at the Poetry Forum Monday night, and passed out a little broadside of poems inspired by his high school students afterward. One of them used a quote from a student, which was to that same effect, but I don't remember the exact words.
He was a good reader, and he read a few uncomfortable poems, which liberated me to read an uncomfortable poem. I posted a draft here awhile back. It's called Playing Dead and is inspired by something that really happened in my hometown shortly after I had gone away to college. The story has haunted me for years. I'd never read it aloud before, and wasn't too sure about reading it then, but I got a great response, and it read really well. It still makes me cringe a little, the story of it, but as a poem, it seems to have value.
I'm not sure how I feel about the value of making art from horror and violence, except as a way of encompassing it within our minds. But is that art, or is it therapy? Can it start as therapy and become art through revision and a certain distance?
He was a good reader, and he read a few uncomfortable poems, which liberated me to read an uncomfortable poem. I posted a draft here awhile back. It's called Playing Dead and is inspired by something that really happened in my hometown shortly after I had gone away to college. The story has haunted me for years. I'd never read it aloud before, and wasn't too sure about reading it then, but I got a great response, and it read really well. It still makes me cringe a little, the story of it, but as a poem, it seems to have value.
I'm not sure how I feel about the value of making art from horror and violence, except as a way of encompassing it within our minds. But is that art, or is it therapy? Can it start as therapy and become art through revision and a certain distance?
Thursday, February 12, 2009
How poets celebrate
After posting that slightly delirious update yesterday about getting accepted to Penn State, I had a glass of wine, calmed down, had some dinner, then baked brownies from scratch and walked up to the grocery store to buy ice cream to go with them. I half-heartedly tried to recruit a few friends for a celebratory drink, but as it was 9pm on a very windy and rainy Wednesday, no one was biting. So, I settled myself on the couch, with brownies and ice cream and wine, and I opened the new Moleskine journal I got for my birthday last month, and I wrote a poem for my new cat.
That's how poets celebrate.
That's how poets celebrate.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Another Monday night
passes with red wine and poems. David Baker read at the Poetry Forum; Ann Townsend was our scheduled reader but wasn't feeling well, so he filled in. As he put it good-naturedly: proof that ex-husbands are good for something. He read a couple of the same poems I heard him read last year, but mostly different ones, and I enjoyed his reading a lot, even though I'd been curious to hear her. Open Mic was good, almost without exception. I read a second draft of that "Miracle" poem I mentioned the other day. I think it's going to be a poem I end up liking a lot. Was also going to read something out of The Best of Best American Poetry 1988-1997 - Anthony Hecht's fantastic villanelle Prospects but hadn't had a chance to read it aloud and felt like I would mess it up, so just read my own poem. Came home, wrote a partial first draft of something I'd thought of last week, and tried to write the poem I threatened to write on Friday (making fun, a bit, of the lead singer of a band we were watching).
Waiting, sometimes patiently, for any answers from grad schools. I heard that Penn State has notified nonfiction and fiction people, but so far no poetry acceptances.... And, as of yesterday, the English department at Cleveland State hadn't received the material I mailed the end of January. That's a bit worrisome, as it included my recommendation letters, which I can't just print off another copy of, but the woman I spoke with didn't seem too concerned; she seemed to think that it was on campus somewhere but hadn't made its way into her hands yet. Quite possible, I suppose, and I can't worry too much about it right now.
Waiting, sometimes patiently, for any answers from grad schools. I heard that Penn State has notified nonfiction and fiction people, but so far no poetry acceptances.... And, as of yesterday, the English department at Cleveland State hadn't received the material I mailed the end of January. That's a bit worrisome, as it included my recommendation letters, which I can't just print off another copy of, but the woman I spoke with didn't seem too concerned; she seemed to think that it was on campus somewhere but hadn't made its way into her hands yet. Quite possible, I suppose, and I can't worry too much about it right now.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Let's Rumba
If I haven't mentioned before, the Poetry Forum moved to the Rumba Cafe from its previous home at Larry's. I miss Larry's, but I think the new venue will work out fine. Monday's reading was interesting, in that the scheduled featured reader couldn't make it, so we just had a really long Open Mic. It was cool though, because everyone signed up, and we ran through the list once and everyone read two poems. I read an old (very sad) one from my senior year of college called "There Are No Bad Fridays" and then a short, fluffy one I wrote at Larry's which doesn't have a title yet. Then we went through the list a second time and everyone got to read one more piece. I didn't have anything else of my own that I wanted to read, so I read Stephen Dunn's "Desire" which is one of my favorites.
I've started writing three different poems this week. One is based off my misreading of a title of something Stacey posted recently. Her title was "Lament for a Modern Danae" which I read as "Lament for a Modern Dance" so that is the poem I am writing. I also did a list poem called "This Heart" which was more of an exercise in catharsis than poetics. And I wrote a draft of a poem I'm calling "Miracle". It starts something like....
Not every step breaks through.
I can walk for yards on water
albeit frozen.
I've started writing three different poems this week. One is based off my misreading of a title of something Stacey posted recently. Her title was "Lament for a Modern Danae" which I read as "Lament for a Modern Dance" so that is the poem I am writing. I also did a list poem called "This Heart" which was more of an exercise in catharsis than poetics. And I wrote a draft of a poem I'm calling "Miracle". It starts something like....
Not every step breaks through.
I can walk for yards on water
albeit frozen.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Oh, precious, precious, silver and gold
I am obsessed with Jeff Buckley's CD "Grace" right now. That's a line from the first track. I heard "Hallelujah" in the car back around Christmas time, and remembered how much I loved it, then requested the CD from the library, and have listening to it almost daily since it came in. Obsessed. Absolutely. And, uhm, making out in the kitchen with this in the background....very, very nice!
Speaking of kitchens, this is so not poetry-related, but I made the most amazing feta dip tonight. Really. I've made feta dip three or four times so far, and it's always different; I made up the recipe the first time, and I'm not really one to measure everything, so it's more of a "flexipe" than a recipe. I looked for some "real" recipes online tonight, and got the idea of adding some cream cheese to the mixture, and, wow, the results might actually qualify as poetic. Here is the basic formula I used, taken from my own brain, and a couple of different places online:
1 6 oz. block of feta cheese, crumbled
1 8 oz. package of lowfat cream cheese, softened
a good 1/4 cup of fresh parsley, minced
an equal amount of fresh cilantro, minced
a slightly smaller amount of kalamata olives, minced
about a Tablespoon of minced garlic
Combine all those ingredients with an electric mixture, then add maybe 1/2 cup of fat free plain yogurt, just to get the right texture. It is truly fantastic!
And, in actual poetry news: I got a super nice email from the editors of Qarrtsiluni today about the collaborative poem S and I submitted. They suggested a change to one line at the end, and asked us to record it. Changing the line should be no problem, but recording might be, as I have no microphone. Hmmm. Apparently there are ways to do it via phone. We'll see.
And, I also got a super nice email from the folks at Penn State today saying that they've got all of my application materials and thanking me for getting everything in on time (odd? I didn't know that was an option) and saying that they'll start the reading process next week, and will notify their first round by the end of February, which is a full month earlier than I had been led to believe anyone did notifications. So that was excellent.
So, with that poetry stuff buzzing around my brain I opted to skip going to the gym and just came home, walked the dog through 3 degree weather on permafrost-like sidewalks, then sat down at the computer and fired off one of my two remaining applications. I am so close to having them all out of my hands. It's terrifying but liberating at the same time.
Speaking of kitchens, this is so not poetry-related, but I made the most amazing feta dip tonight. Really. I've made feta dip three or four times so far, and it's always different; I made up the recipe the first time, and I'm not really one to measure everything, so it's more of a "flexipe" than a recipe. I looked for some "real" recipes online tonight, and got the idea of adding some cream cheese to the mixture, and, wow, the results might actually qualify as poetic. Here is the basic formula I used, taken from my own brain, and a couple of different places online:
1 6 oz. block of feta cheese, crumbled
1 8 oz. package of lowfat cream cheese, softened
a good 1/4 cup of fresh parsley, minced
an equal amount of fresh cilantro, minced
a slightly smaller amount of kalamata olives, minced
about a Tablespoon of minced garlic
Combine all those ingredients with an electric mixture, then add maybe 1/2 cup of fat free plain yogurt, just to get the right texture. It is truly fantastic!
And, in actual poetry news: I got a super nice email from the editors of Qarrtsiluni today about the collaborative poem S and I submitted. They suggested a change to one line at the end, and asked us to record it. Changing the line should be no problem, but recording might be, as I have no microphone. Hmmm. Apparently there are ways to do it via phone. We'll see.
And, I also got a super nice email from the folks at Penn State today saying that they've got all of my application materials and thanking me for getting everything in on time (odd? I didn't know that was an option) and saying that they'll start the reading process next week, and will notify their first round by the end of February, which is a full month earlier than I had been led to believe anyone did notifications. So that was excellent.
So, with that poetry stuff buzzing around my brain I opted to skip going to the gym and just came home, walked the dog through 3 degree weather on permafrost-like sidewalks, then sat down at the computer and fired off one of my two remaining applications. I am so close to having them all out of my hands. It's terrifying but liberating at the same time.
Monday, January 12, 2009
And an update....
I have been absolutely SWAMPED for the past month. Between working mad hours, all the holiday stuff, and getting four more grad school applications out, I have neglected my blog shamefully.
I made a small attempt to remedy that today but posting that little debris poem. Will post more soon.
Finished the collaborative poem with Sam tonight. At MoJoe. In front of the fireplace. Yay for fireplaces and girlfriends who write poems. We were discussing how we miss Larry's. Columbus is getting too f***ing clean these days; all the anarchy is becoming memory, all the holes in the wall are being patched, leaving a smooth white surface I just want to scribble on.....
Send good thoughts after my applications at Alabama, Penn State, West Virginia, and Colorado State, if you would.
Poem on :)
I made a small attempt to remedy that today but posting that little debris poem. Will post more soon.
Finished the collaborative poem with Sam tonight. At MoJoe. In front of the fireplace. Yay for fireplaces and girlfriends who write poems. We were discussing how we miss Larry's. Columbus is getting too f***ing clean these days; all the anarchy is becoming memory, all the holes in the wall are being patched, leaving a smooth white surface I just want to scribble on.....
Send good thoughts after my applications at Alabama, Penn State, West Virginia, and Colorado State, if you would.
Poem on :)
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