Reasons

I have been remiss. Already. And during National Poetry Month, of all months. But…there are reasons. Some positive reasons; some negative; some just…reasons. But I have been writing. I am 18/23 in an attempted 30/30 for April, I have finished two book reviews, and spurred on by a request from a journal I love, finally completed an essay that I have been thinking about writing for months. The poem drafts are stronger than I imagined they would be, assuaging some of my fears about having lost my poetry mojo.

Reading books of poetry has been a big part of my little sabbatical. In no particular order, digging in to these collections has brightened, enriched, and inspired my April.

I am reading aloud a wonderful YA novel in verse called House Arrest to my sixth grade students. They are completely engaged in the short, poetic journal entries that make up Timothy’s story, and it will be a good way to bring us to the end of the school year, which seems ever so near and yet so far away. (Unlike all of my college professor friends, I do NOT finish teaching at the end of the month – June 6 for me. Keep me in your thoughts…)

And this week has brought GPN – good poetry news, for those not in the know. A poem of which I am quite fond is featured in the newest issue of Juxtaprose here. And another poem is in the current issue of Poet Lore, one of the first journals I started to read and aspire to when I came back to writing seriously around 25 years ago. It has been a while since any new work has appeared in print or online for me, so it feels like coming home.

I do have to say it’s a little embarrassing to have other bloggers continuously link back to the post where the Revival Bloggers are listed when I hadn’t posted anything in two weeks. Some ringleader I am.  But this is about writing, right? And I HAVE been doing that.

Advertisements

First Reads: Like A Fat Gold Watch

I have a confession to make: I have not read much of Sylvia Plath. I remember reading The Bell Jar in high school, but as a poet, I have not spent much time with her work other than the “famous” poems. Not because I don’t  like what I do know – on the contrary. I have taught and treasured “The Mirror” for years, and the sounds in “Mushrooms” have been a textbook on sonics for me.

But in reading the new anthology Like a Fat Gold Watch: Meditations On Sylvia Plath and Living, I realized how much of Plath’s work and life I do NOT know. This new anthology, edited by Christine Hamm, is a digest of response to and literary conversation about Plath’s poems that both introduced me to Plath in a new way and also to new writers. As I did in my initial First Reads post, I will not seek here to intellectually dissect the anthology but to give my impressions upon first read: what jumped out at me, what I enjoyed, what I will want to return to again.

small-fin-cov21 2.jpg

The Big Picture: In her introduction editor Hamm writes, “Plath’s work is a rebellion against the rigid prison of femininity identity–she writes about ugly, impossible, unpleasant, threatening things. The ugly female body, its scars, its blood, its hunger.” This sets up the scope of the anthology as well as pushes against the vision of Plath as “the saint of emo teenage girls and self-harming woman,” preparing the reader for multiple contexts in which the contributors have experienced and responded to Plath’s work.

Structure: The anthology has each author’s bio and a brief statement about their included work as a preface to the work itself. I enjoyed this structure as it allowed me to know a little about the writers and how they had engaged with Plath before I read. I had never seen this before–author notes and bios usually are placed at the end of an anthology –but this structure was interesting to me, especially since I didn’t know some of the Plath references. Many of the contributors are Plath scholars, and this intense scrutiny of her work has inspired me to be a better student of poetry in general.

The Variety of Responses: I had imagined that the anthology would be all poems, but it is not. Poems are here, yes, and good ones (I’ll mention some favorites later), but there are also essays, short stories, visual art, & explications of Plath poems. The poems themselves take several different forms from free verse to a sonnet crown to complicated collage work. The variety made the anthology well-paced and engaging.

 

The Quality of the Work:  There is much to love here, and I cannot quote every piece, but I will highlight a few pieces to which I know I will return. Tasha R. Cotter’s essay “Explication of Three Ariel Poems” was both intelligent and interesting, something hard to find in critical essay. I will now attend to these three poems with Cotter’s essay as a guide and a touchstone for my own opinions. Lisa Cole’s poem “The Truth Pulled From Her Mouth” is lovely, ominous and hopeful all at once, ending with “To become that which hurts us/is to thrive, to conquer.”  J. Hope Stein’s poem “Ted & Sylvia” offers a glimpse both into the relationship between Plath and Hughes and into the speaker’s relationship and desire to be Sylvia: “When we first met,/you asked me to be Ted./& I said to myself, come on,/what would Sylvia do?/When I say SPRING I mean SPRING.” Angela Veronica Wong’s “In Spring” provides masterful line breaks and stunning lines like “My crabheart scuttles like a nightmare.” And Sarah Busse’s “Four Letters to Sylvia” are both homages to the poet and their own universes of words: “Dear genius, dead girl, what can I tell you of sea/or moon, more than you know?”

A good anthology not only draws a thread thematically but allows each individual piece its own space to create a world. Like a Fat Gold Watch does this quite well, giving each piece the opportunity to shine on its own merits as well as enter a larger conversation with a poet who most people know of, but now will want to know more deeply.  I recommend this anthology not only to anyone who already has a relationship with Plath’s work, but also to Plath “novices” like myself. I guarantee that you will enjoy this collection either way.

 

 

 

When the Writing Gets Tough…

the tough:

  1. get going
  2. do what they can
  3. give up

Honestly, I can relate to all three of these answers over the past couple of weeks.  Let’s begin with Answer C. I swear that everything I have tried to start over the past week has turned into a steaming page of trash. I came upon a John Dos Passos quote that seemed to speak to how I have been feeling when I try to draft new work:

“Trying to write –God! I have a brain like a peanut… Found a peanut, found a peanut echoes in my head, the insane song.”

Yep. That sounds about right. Peanut brain. Racing in 900 directions, none of them helping with what should be growing into a poem. Anxieties and daily frustrations creeping into every spare thought. So I gave up on trying new work & began focusing on other things.

Which leads us to Answer B. Doing what one can. Which for me were those other things mentioned above – revision, reading, and taking notes for a review. I revised some promising work from late last year, took notes on a new anthology I am hoping to review, and I read. I am teaching Twelfth Night to my 7th graders right now, so I found solace in Shakespeare, which I often do. I am also reading Colin Meloy’s delightful Wildwood aloud to my 6th graders, and his language is just as rich and clever in this YA fantasy as it is in his songwriting for The Decemberists. I read the new issue of Tinderbox Poetry, which is, well, go read it yourself, especially this beauty by Michael Schmeltzer.

Which leads us to Answer A. Get going. Feeling better, I began to prepare some older poems that, after revision, seem ready for submission. I kept to my writing plans for the week, even if the drafts are awful and my notes for the review are not making much sense at this point. I kept moving forward.

And I’m looking ahead – to using my newly-completed home office as a quiet writing space; to an upcoming poetry day scheduled with my good friend and fabulous poet Kristin LaTour; to taking my 7th graders to Chicago Shakespeare Theater for a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, for most of them their first live Shakespeare performance; to dinners and quiet nights with my husband; to the snow that is forecast for tomorrow.

I’m eager for whatever words may come in the next few weeks, even if I have to look for them. And I’ll have this Neruda quote (purchased at a visit to his home in Santiago)  over my desk to remember that I am not alone:
IMG_6341.jpg

The Ear as Portal

When the pen is stuck, my first inclination is always to read. To crack open a book or journal and roll around in someone else’s words and syntax for a while, let my vision guide me to a key that will unlock something new inside my own lexicon. Being a reader is an important practice for every writer, but I often forget how important it is to use the ear, to listen to the work of others to concentrate the mind and the ear on words that are NOT in front of me, to process them in a purer, more challenging way.  I have been doing this electronically through the wonderful Commonplace Podcast with Rachel Zucker, but I always learn something from hearing poets read live.

I was reminded of this last night at a wonderful reading sponsored by The Poetry Center of Chicago. Their Six Points reading series, at which I have had the pleasure of reading myself, hosted Tarfia Faizullah and Kaveh Akbar sharing their poems and then a conversation about Tarfia’s upcoming book and poetics in general. Having been enraptured by Seam when it debuted four years ago, I was not surprised to be enamored with every poem Tarfia Faizullah shared from her upcoming Graywolf Press book Registers of Illuminated Villages. 

Even in the small number of poems she shared, I could hear the multiple meanings of the word “register” – an official list or record, part of a range of voices or instruments, and the action of detection or recognition. These were poems of witness, of generations, the great melodies of all the small things that register in the heart. Faizullah’s reading style was engaging and strong with no hint of artifice or “poet voice.”  My reaction to Kaveh Akbar’s reading was similar – I was familiar with many of the poems from his chapbook Portrait of An Alcoholichaving reviewed it earlier this year, and those poems were lovely to hear in the air, along with newer poems. All were image-rich and full of turns, his reading style all sway and angle. Both poets held the audience with their voices, registers finely tuned to the instruments of their words.

I had a notebook with me, as I always do, but I took no notes. I was present in that moment, listening, as was the rest of the audience packed into the tiny art gallery, an audience that included many other celebrated young voices in the poetry world. During the conversation portion of the evening, I did write down one thing Tarfia said that I wanted to remember:

“We all write with a particular combination of vision & blindness.”

It is this dichotomy that draws me to poetry, the push/pull of initiating & then following the poem’s path, even if I’m not sure where it came from or where it is going. Tuning into the registers of language that are singing somewhere in the hollows of my brain.

I’m still here…

Summer, as usual, is flying by, and in trying to cram the most summer into my summer, my voice here has been pretty quiet. But that doesn’t mean I’m not working, folks. I redecorated my son’s bedroom into a guest room/writing room, so now I have my own quiet space in the house, a “room of my own,” so to speak. And I have been writing. And revising. And reading. And reviewing. And submitting. All of those writerly things I’m supposed to be doing.

But I have also been walking my dogs. Lifting weights. Doing yard work. Going to concerts. Getting my hair cut short. Visiting my parents. Watching movies with my husband. Getting ready to entertain friends. Prepping for the impending school year. (Only two weeks away. Yikes.)

And amidst all this, I have been thinking about the whole competitive aspect of the writing world: applying for residencies and grants, book competitions, etc. I wonder if I place too much emphasis on being “accepted” here or there, “winning” something rather than focusing on what those opportunities really bring me: time, community, and an audience. At 52, almost finished with a long public school teaching career, I am not trying to pad a resumé to advance my career. I have no delusions of ever being a “famous” poet, whatever that means. So I need to adjust my thinking.

I did apply for one residency next summer. That will be the only one I do apply for. If I don’t get it, I can spend less money and almost as much time to create my own retreat, perhaps invite a writerly friend along, and find a pretty place to escape from the duties of home and just work. I have two chapbooks that need homes, but rather than continue to spend money to send them to contests, I will be patient and wait for open submission periods from small presses I admire. Submissions to journals are different – I don’t mind “competing” in that market, since that is how our poems find an audience. But I need to be more focused on why I write in the first place – to tell stories, to communicate the world in a way that only I can see it. To be a member of a literary community. To put words together and make meaning.

Walking on the roof of hell, gazing at the flowers

It was haiku day, thus the paraphrasing of Issa. The poems workshopped today by our youngest class members (both still undergrads) astounded me with their originality and skill. If they are any indication of the future of poetry, then poetry is in very good hands.

I also had my conference today with Arda, and we worked on a new-ish draft of mine that is quite weird but has potential. She is an ardent teacher who gives passionate attention to every possibility in a poem, so although I usually feel like workshopping is not the best use of my time in a class, her insights this week (not just about my own poems) have been instructional and helpful in thinking about possible avenues for revision and about the ways that a poem works.

Tonight I’m feeling a little strange. Headache, which I think is brought on by the muscular discomfort of the horrible bed, has plagued me on and off all day – not debilitating, but annoying enough to necessitate breaks from screen or reading. I also have spent part of the evening packing as I need to check out tomorrow before heading to class, so tonight has been a bit of a wash as far as getting work done, although I have done some online reading and submission research, including following some of the responses to the big Triquarterly editorial faux pas that has left many writers angry. (Link is just one response…check Twitter or Facebook for more of the reaction.) I also dug deeper into Jessica Piazza’s Interrobang (still impressed with the language play and form) and read some of Arda’s book It is Daylight. (Very unique – on the surface, her poems seem simple, but there is a whole created universe in there…)

I do have homework to read which involves Berryman and Harryette Mullen – not exactly the poets to tackle with a tired, headachy brain – so I will keep this short. Oh, and I’m also supposed to write a “who am I” poem using one of the ideas of persona, perspective, or address we have discussed this week. Suffice it to say that I will be up for a while yet. It has been a fruitful week of ideas, but my back, my head, and my heart will be happy to be home tomorrow.

*

Today’s Soundtrack

  • Walking – The Hazards of Love – Decemberists and Codes and Keys – Death Cab for Cutie (go to comfort bands when I’m feeling out of sorts…)
  • Writing – Coffeeshop music (waiting for my conference) – wasn’t bad. All indie/alternative selections. No Radiohead.
  • Reading – Pandora Meditation Radio and silence.

 

 

I’m me, and what the hell can I do about it?

Today’s post title courtesy of “Introducing Álvaro de Campos” by Fernando Pessoa (translated by Edwin Honig) – also a reminder. In a week of reading LOTS of poets and poems, my usual despair kicked in. How did he/she do that? Why is that so incredible? Why can’t I write like that? And today, Pessoa gave me answer: because I’m not (insert other poet’s name here). Because I’m me. And there really isn’t anything I can do about it, and that’s okay.

Of course, reading and borrowing techniques/ideas from other writers has always happened. Hell, even Shakespeare did it. But there’s a difference between learning from other writers and comparing yourself to other writers. The first can be productive – the second is mostly demoralizing.

So, today I have been trying to focus on just writing, my writing, not writing to fill a prompt or to mimic another writer or to try and imitate someone else’s success. So far, so good.

Other highlights of the day:

Zucchini Walnut Bread from an Amish bakery at the Farmer’s Market. Enough said.

One of my Bishop/Lowell poems “The Running Away” is featured on the website of The Labletter. Four of these poems were featured in their 2014 print issue, and it is kind of them to give this poem another life online.

Extract(s): A Daily Dose of Lit has accepted a flash piece of mine that should appear some time this week (perhaps tomorrow).

Lowlight of the day:

Catching the trailer for The Giver. Another book I love that the movies will probably ruin. (See also The Time Traveler’s Wife, The Hours…I could go on…)

Hoping that tonight will be submissions night – I have 6 or 7 planned, but I’d be happy with 3 or 4. Because that’s me.

Today’s Soundtrack:

  • Walking (knees can’t take running three days in a row any more): Tape Deck Heart by Frank Turner
  • About Town: Future Islands – Singles and Manchester Orchestra – Cope
  • Writing – MaybeSheWill – I Was Here For a Moment and Then Was Gone
  • Reading  – Morning Parade – Morning Parade and Morrissey – The Best of Morrissey