Ancient Language
If you stand at the edge of the forest
and stare into it
every tree at the edge will blow a little extra
oxygen toward you
It has been proven
Leaves have admitted it
The pines I have known
have been especially candid
One said
that all breath in this world
is roped together
that breathing is
the most ancient language
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Monday, December 30, 2013
Mudpie Bouquet
Mudpie Bouquet
These are the flowers
wait where are those flowers
This pile of snow will become flowers
When you see the fleets of birds leaving
imagine that they are just now returning
I tried it The gladness ran through me
We all know what the flowers are capable of
coaxing out in us
Pretend the snow is flowers
See my gesture as a flower
Where does the dirt end
and the flower begin
Oops we started to adore the dirt
It’s a good problem to have
These are the flowers
wait where are those flowers
This pile of snow will become flowers
When you see the fleets of birds leaving
imagine that they are just now returning
I tried it The gladness ran through me
We all know what the flowers are capable of
coaxing out in us
Pretend the snow is flowers
See my gesture as a flower
Where does the dirt end
and the flower begin
Oops we started to adore the dirt
It’s a good problem to have
Friday, December 27, 2013
Bookmarks List//Bedside Table
Currently reading and enjoying...
This beautiful essay, “Teaching My Daughter to Walk,” by Heather Kirn Lanier in The Sun.
This profile on Bryce Dessner (of The National) about knowing, as a creative person, when to ignore advice.
This terrific article, “Temple of Gloom,” by Bryan Curtis in Grantland, on the psychological darkness in Indiana Jones: Temple of Doom. Big thanks to Marcus for sharing this article with me--Temple of Doom is my favorite of the Indiana Jones movies!
This stunning poem, “The Silence Teacher,” by Robert Peake.
Tomorrowland by Joseph Bates and We Over Here Now by Scott Woods. Here’s my write-up on both books.
And you, friends? What books/articles/essays are you sneaking in before the end of the 2013?
This beautiful essay, “Teaching My Daughter to Walk,” by Heather Kirn Lanier in The Sun.
This profile on Bryce Dessner (of The National) about knowing, as a creative person, when to ignore advice.
This terrific article, “Temple of Gloom,” by Bryan Curtis in Grantland, on the psychological darkness in Indiana Jones: Temple of Doom. Big thanks to Marcus for sharing this article with me--Temple of Doom is my favorite of the Indiana Jones movies!
This stunning poem, “The Silence Teacher,” by Robert Peake.
Tomorrowland by Joseph Bates and We Over Here Now by Scott Woods. Here’s my write-up on both books.
And you, friends? What books/articles/essays are you sneaking in before the end of the 2013?
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Begin Tonight
Begin Tonight
Maybe just start by talking casually
about the stars
Choose one to notice and explain
its light to anyone,
yourself, even
You could say, that one is tinted blue
or, well, starlight is real light
As an amateur stargazer
there is so much you can do to know more
of the sky that I am
jealous of you
of all that you will come to feel
Who cares about a telescope
or a camera
You can begin by walking out into the night
tonight
Maybe just start by talking casually
about the stars
Choose one to notice and explain
its light to anyone,
yourself, even
You could say, that one is tinted blue
or, well, starlight is real light
As an amateur stargazer
there is so much you can do to know more
of the sky that I am
jealous of you
of all that you will come to feel
Who cares about a telescope
or a camera
You can begin by walking out into the night
tonight
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
Sap Season
Sap Season
All the love you will ever feel
you have always carried within you
The pellet you think love is
blooms into stone,
into flame, into glass
You fed it when you cried in public
You fed it when you bit down on what you wanted
You fed it when you rattled around and shifted
as a desert shifts
You fed it when you stirred the granulated honey
The tree knows
how to feed every part of itself
When you tap the tree
to drink it
it speaks to you
There is sweetness in you
All the self can do
is melt
All the love you will ever feel
you have always carried within you
The pellet you think love is
blooms into stone,
into flame, into glass
You fed it when you cried in public
You fed it when you bit down on what you wanted
You fed it when you rattled around and shifted
as a desert shifts
You fed it when you stirred the granulated honey
The tree knows
how to feed every part of itself
When you tap the tree
to drink it
it speaks to you
There is sweetness in you
All the self can do
is melt
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Greetings
Greetings
How numerous the mechanics
and work required
to send the voice
into the world.
We need the greeting
to hold the ear in place.
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today,
hello,
is this thing on,
I said GOOD MORNING everyone.
Before I tell you the message,
first,
I have to say,
I see you there.
How numerous the mechanics
and work required
to send the voice
into the world.
We need the greeting
to hold the ear in place.
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today,
hello,
is this thing on,
I said GOOD MORNING everyone.
Before I tell you the message,
first,
I have to say,
I see you there.
Monday, December 23, 2013
Keeps Me Young
Keeps Me Young
The future is where our eyesight trails off.
We can never see it.
We will never feel the future.
We keep chasing it into the street.
The future doesn’t want to be didactic.
If it let us in, all we’d do is send back
messages. Dear Mom and Dad of my youth,
you did it, you had two daughters
and we are adults. It’s great here, none
of the animals we had are alive, but new cats
come to you, don’t worry. Nothing extra
will prepare you except for everything
you are doing already or you already
did. The future inches away, but only because
it is protective. This is how it taught us
to walk.
That’s it, that’s it, a little farther, it will
catch us even as we
plummet. Dear me of my youth,
you are young every day
before this one, each alive day
you are full of not having lived it all yet.
The future is where our eyesight trails off.
We can never see it.
We will never feel the future.
We keep chasing it into the street.
The future doesn’t want to be didactic.
If it let us in, all we’d do is send back
messages. Dear Mom and Dad of my youth,
you did it, you had two daughters
and we are adults. It’s great here, none
of the animals we had are alive, but new cats
come to you, don’t worry. Nothing extra
will prepare you except for everything
you are doing already or you already
did. The future inches away, but only because
it is protective. This is how it taught us
to walk.
That’s it, that’s it, a little farther, it will
catch us even as we
plummet. Dear me of my youth,
you are young every day
before this one, each alive day
you are full of not having lived it all yet.
Friday, December 20, 2013
In Which the Internet Helps Us to Become Better Humans (Potentially)
This week, I was inspired by author and illustrator MariNaomi’s article “It Happened to Me: I Was Sexually Harassed Onstage at a Comic Convention Panel.” This article will have you cringing as she describes her experience. She’s articulate and very honest in this article (as readers, we can’t help but feel frustrated and horrified that she was treated this way, with the added weirdness of being onstage in front of an audience). What I found most inspiring in her article is the way that she ends with questions pointing toward change:
Right now, there are over 200 comments on the article. Many of them are simply showing sympathy and support. Some are sharing similar situations, or giving suggestions (some of them are really good!).
What’s also interesting is that in her article, MariNaomi does not name the harasser (she mentions that this is not an isolated problem, but an issue for many women in comics [and many industries]). However, after reading the article, the harasser wrote a public apology about his behavior here. MariNaomi accepted the apology (she called it “a nice apology” on Twitter).
This is heartening to me. What seems key is that while this whole thing is happening IN PUBLIC, it prompted private change. This guy’s behavior was obnoxious and unacceptable, and after reading her article, he realized this (apparently) and apologized. He listened to her. I imagine/hope that he must have felt mortified, and that he learned something!
I sometimes worry that the internet is diminishing our ability to empathize. More than ever, we see and hear people voicing ignorance (it’s not that people are more ignorant, just that we have access to more voices, both anonymous and accountable). I have seen people treat people as if they were YouTube videos of themselves. What bothers me is any quick, thoughtless response to another person’s pain or discomfort--dismissing it or laughing at it. We are quick to invalidate the experience of another human, especially when it makes us uncomfortable.
But what we say and do in any facet of our lives--it matters. Our internet life should support our human, in-the-world life. Anytime we say or do anything on the internet, we are, of course, in public. And when we are open about what it feels like inside the weird machines of our minds and bodies, when we are accountable for our words and actions---we can grow. What if our interactions online could help facilitate this? (They can.)
“I feel so ashamed, sad and powerless, but I’m still not sure what I should have done in that situation. Should I have told him to stop? It would have halted the levity of the panel, but would it have halted his misbehavior? If this has happened to me twice, I’m positive that this must happen to others. Why haven’t I heard their stories?”
Right now, there are over 200 comments on the article. Many of them are simply showing sympathy and support. Some are sharing similar situations, or giving suggestions (some of them are really good!).
What’s also interesting is that in her article, MariNaomi does not name the harasser (she mentions that this is not an isolated problem, but an issue for many women in comics [and many industries]). However, after reading the article, the harasser wrote a public apology about his behavior here. MariNaomi accepted the apology (she called it “a nice apology” on Twitter).
This is heartening to me. What seems key is that while this whole thing is happening IN PUBLIC, it prompted private change. This guy’s behavior was obnoxious and unacceptable, and after reading her article, he realized this (apparently) and apologized. He listened to her. I imagine/hope that he must have felt mortified, and that he learned something!
I sometimes worry that the internet is diminishing our ability to empathize. More than ever, we see and hear people voicing ignorance (it’s not that people are more ignorant, just that we have access to more voices, both anonymous and accountable). I have seen people treat people as if they were YouTube videos of themselves. What bothers me is any quick, thoughtless response to another person’s pain or discomfort--dismissing it or laughing at it. We are quick to invalidate the experience of another human, especially when it makes us uncomfortable.
But what we say and do in any facet of our lives--it matters. Our internet life should support our human, in-the-world life. Anytime we say or do anything on the internet, we are, of course, in public. And when we are open about what it feels like inside the weird machines of our minds and bodies, when we are accountable for our words and actions---we can grow. What if our interactions online could help facilitate this? (They can.)
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Good Night
Good Night
What is the part of us
that insists
It happened that way
And then reads to us from that book
at the shore of sleep
saying, before I let you go
here is a tiny pail and shovel
Find the piece
that could have been altered
Start digging
What is the part of us
that insists
It happened that way
And then reads to us from that book
at the shore of sleep
saying, before I let you go
here is a tiny pail and shovel
Find the piece
that could have been altered
Start digging
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
We Look at the Land with Patience
We Look at the Land with Patience
We regard the mountain as we encounter it
This is a lake here
Over there, houses were never built
so there are no houses
This is the only way the land could look
There has been rain
There have been blizzards
If we had binoculars
where would we train them
We have eyes
and those bring this place into you
flour swept from a tabletop with the edge
of a palm
We regard the mountain as we encounter it
This is a lake here
Over there, houses were never built
so there are no houses
This is the only way the land could look
There has been rain
There have been blizzards
If we had binoculars
where would we train them
We have eyes
and those bring this place into you
flour swept from a tabletop with the edge
of a palm
Monday, December 16, 2013
Every Cake a Cobbler
Every Cake a Cobbler
Oh the very strong magic
of what has come together
not effortlessly
A recipe tells you, calmly,
Cream the butter and sugar
In other words, cram these two
substances into one another
and then maybe
you can start to think about
making cake
This is what I mean, beloved
The suites of mismatched furniture
that we wrangle into a home
The dissonance of
grocery story produce displays
in winter
Oh the jigsaw haystack
of thoughts
others will have of you
when you are gone
Here is how you are bound to your home
Here is how you are bound
to your ice floe
Your work is to hold it all
and float
Oh the very strong magic
of what has come together
not effortlessly
A recipe tells you, calmly,
Cream the butter and sugar
In other words, cram these two
substances into one another
and then maybe
you can start to think about
making cake
This is what I mean, beloved
The suites of mismatched furniture
that we wrangle into a home
The dissonance of
grocery story produce displays
in winter
Oh the jigsaw haystack
of thoughts
others will have of you
when you are gone
Here is how you are bound to your home
Here is how you are bound
to your ice floe
Your work is to hold it all
and float
Friday, December 13, 2013
On Creativity: Terry Hermsen
Last week, I interviewed poet, professor (and friend!) Terry Hermsen for the Columbus Alive (you can read that profile here). I first met Terry in 1999, when he was a visiting poet at my high school. As the literary magazine editor and an all-around poetry nerd, I assisted him during the workshops that he led. He gave us such fun exercises (one involved making near-rhymes of multi-syllabic words), and was kind enough to give me feedback on a poem or two.
Now, over a decade later, I’ve so enjoyed re-meeting him. We both teach at Otterbein University, have read together at multiple poetry readings around Columbus, and exchange and discuss poems when we get the chance.
Terry has just returned from Chile, where he was gathering material and inspiration for projects about translation, travel, identity, culture, and poetry. Since the profile I wrote of him is rather brief (although I am pleased with it!), here’s a more extended version of our conversation. He has such fascinating thoughts about what it means to translate, and how place/poetry/history intersect.
Watch Terry's 2012 reading at Paging Columbus (crank the volume!)
***
My trip was a continuation of a trip I took four years ago, which was at that time, focused on Neruda. He’s sort of the doorway into world poetry for many people...for me, he was my first introduction to a poet I really liked from another culture.
It’s hard to avoid Neruda in Chile. That’s where it all started--in 2007 when I was there for a week. I had his book there with me and I wanted to talk to people, so I asked them what they thought of Neruda.
Last time I went to Chile, in 2009, I tried to teach myself Spanish. I translated a book last time simply to teach myself Spanish. I thought, if I can go through it line by line, and try to see what I can do, that will help me, and then I found I really liked translating. That book is almost finished, but that got me excited to do more translation.
I’ve been taking Spanish classes now...that’s better. I’m only interested in it for the words. Of course I want to talk with people, but it’s more a poetry project to hear how poetry works in another language.
I had college students helping me [on this trip]. We went around the streets of Santiago and interviewed 70 people, and I have 30 more recordings coming in.
[I learned that] you can talk to people about poetry in the streets of Chile...the people we spoke to were really thoughtful about it. We asked them:
That’s my big question. I mean, I’m a stranger...but it’s thought of as a country of poets. But Chile is becoming a bit like the US...it’s economically-savvy, stuffed to the gills with advertising, very Western. It’s car-oriented, mall-oriented...It’s none of my business, but I’m a little worried that a country of poets is becoming less and less so.
Now, over a decade later, I’ve so enjoyed re-meeting him. We both teach at Otterbein University, have read together at multiple poetry readings around Columbus, and exchange and discuss poems when we get the chance.
Terry has just returned from Chile, where he was gathering material and inspiration for projects about translation, travel, identity, culture, and poetry. Since the profile I wrote of him is rather brief (although I am pleased with it!), here’s a more extended version of our conversation. He has such fascinating thoughts about what it means to translate, and how place/poetry/history intersect.
Watch Terry's 2012 reading at Paging Columbus (crank the volume!)
***
My trip was a continuation of a trip I took four years ago, which was at that time, focused on Neruda. He’s sort of the doorway into world poetry for many people...for me, he was my first introduction to a poet I really liked from another culture.
It’s hard to avoid Neruda in Chile. That’s where it all started--in 2007 when I was there for a week. I had his book there with me and I wanted to talk to people, so I asked them what they thought of Neruda.
Last time I went to Chile, in 2009, I tried to teach myself Spanish. I translated a book last time simply to teach myself Spanish. I thought, if I can go through it line by line, and try to see what I can do, that will help me, and then I found I really liked translating. That book is almost finished, but that got me excited to do more translation.
I’ve been taking Spanish classes now...that’s better. I’m only interested in it for the words. Of course I want to talk with people, but it’s more a poetry project to hear how poetry works in another language.
I had college students helping me [on this trip]. We went around the streets of Santiago and interviewed 70 people, and I have 30 more recordings coming in.
[I learned that] you can talk to people about poetry in the streets of Chile...the people we spoke to were really thoughtful about it. We asked them:
- What do you think of poetry (on a scale of 1-10) and why?
- What poets do you know and like?
- What do you think of Neruda (on a scale of 1-10) and why?
- Has Chile changed as a country?
That’s my big question. I mean, I’m a stranger...but it’s thought of as a country of poets. But Chile is becoming a bit like the US...it’s economically-savvy, stuffed to the gills with advertising, very Western. It’s car-oriented, mall-oriented...It’s none of my business, but I’m a little worried that a country of poets is becoming less and less so.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
All That Is Uphill Bows to What Is Below It
All That Is Uphill Bows to What Is Below It
In particular
this road and its ferocious curve
bows to the ravine
The guardrail
following the turn
has pried itself away from the road
in the middle of the curve
The metal remembers the car
that collided with it
This morning, in that same spot
another broken car
held in the rail’s broken arm
In particular
this road and its ferocious curve
bows to the ravine
The guardrail
following the turn
has pried itself away from the road
in the middle of the curve
The metal remembers the car
that collided with it
This morning, in that same spot
another broken car
held in the rail’s broken arm
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Very Few Things Are a Mattress
Very Few Things Are a Mattress
Oh you think you found an edge
what
with a toe
of a world that has an end
of a time that has an end
No Very few things are a mattress
knuckles of the fitted sheet
hugging its corners
Here is a box I am handing to you
the name of a place
you lived in is written on the side
Even before I picked it up
the bottom flap was open
The ground is strewn with
bricks and parks and an ocean
mountain-crumbs
At least you’ll always have the box
Oh you think you found an edge
what
with a toe
of a world that has an end
of a time that has an end
No Very few things are a mattress
knuckles of the fitted sheet
hugging its corners
Here is a box I am handing to you
the name of a place
you lived in is written on the side
Even before I picked it up
the bottom flap was open
The ground is strewn with
bricks and parks and an ocean
mountain-crumbs
At least you’ll always have the box
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Ear, Nose, and Throat
Ear, Nose, and Throat
Your body is full of flowers
actually the inside of your body is just
one flower
Every thought you have wriggles
along your brain like a worm
Sometimes you tell yourself thoughts
you don’t think
as an experiment
Running feels wonderful
I dread the rain ending
Radishes not chocolate
It’s not an angel and a devil topping each shoulder
but a baby and a parent
Your body is full of flowers
actually the inside of your body is just
one flower
Every thought you have wriggles
along your brain like a worm
Sometimes you tell yourself thoughts
you don’t think
as an experiment
Running feels wonderful
I dread the rain ending
Radishes not chocolate
It’s not an angel and a devil topping each shoulder
but a baby and a parent
Monday, December 9, 2013
Friday, December 6, 2013
Bookmarks List/Bedside Table
Currently reading/enjoying:
“Temple Dogs,” by Ira Sukrungruang in Pithead Chapel. A touching essay (it does a lot in few words).
Hibernaculum by Sarah E. Colona. More on this later.
Gregory Orr’s How Beautiful the Beloved. A book I am grateful for! Full of wisdom and little happy-making poems. You can find some of these poems over at VQR Online. Here’s one gem:
Human heart
Human heart —
That tender engine.
Love revs it;
Loss stalls it.
What can make it
Go again?
The poem, the poem.
***
Happy weekend to you, friends!
“Temple Dogs,” by Ira Sukrungruang in Pithead Chapel. A touching essay (it does a lot in few words).
Hibernaculum by Sarah E. Colona. More on this later.
Gregory Orr’s How Beautiful the Beloved. A book I am grateful for! Full of wisdom and little happy-making poems. You can find some of these poems over at VQR Online. Here’s one gem:
Human heart
Human heart —
That tender engine.
Love revs it;
Loss stalls it.
What can make it
Go again?
The poem, the poem.
***
Happy weekend to you, friends!
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Wintering Over
Wintering Over
To change direction as a bird
changes direction
to love the branch as the air
to devote oneself
to steering through mostly-invisible places
To change direction as a bird
changes direction
to love the branch as the air
to devote oneself
to steering through mostly-invisible places
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Is That the Museum
Is That the Museum
A child’s hood
will help them to learn
just a little of the world
at a time
The little girl in the blue snowsuit
being led from the bus
by her grandmother
Is that the museum
the little girl keeps asking
of every white building
A child’s hood
will help them to learn
just a little of the world
at a time
The little girl in the blue snowsuit
being led from the bus
by her grandmother
Is that the museum
the little girl keeps asking
of every white building
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
It Is Marvelous
It Is Marvelous
There are still fires
within the galaxy
How lovely the light is at dusk
We can say that
There is a shoulder
in the place on your body you have
been told is a shoulder
It is a real bone
You, beloved,
are a former child
For each year you continue living
something is cast off behind you
There are still fires
within the galaxy
How lovely the light is at dusk
We can say that
There is a shoulder
in the place on your body you have
been told is a shoulder
It is a real bone
You, beloved,
are a former child
For each year you continue living
something is cast off behind you
Monday, December 2, 2013
Northbound
Northbound
What we know, we know
because we are pointing south.
An accident on the northbound side
is not yet an accident
for those heading north.
The one unmoving lane of cars we pass
becomes two, three, a whole half
of the freeway not moving
or knowing as we do
of the side-sleeping truck, the ambulance.
We drive so far that we reach
where cars have only started to slow.
We drive so far that we see
what things were like before the accident.
It gets earlier and earlier.
Cars are driving past us as we drive.
Inside the cars, everyone is singing.
What we know, we know
because we are pointing south.
An accident on the northbound side
is not yet an accident
for those heading north.
The one unmoving lane of cars we pass
becomes two, three, a whole half
of the freeway not moving
or knowing as we do
of the side-sleeping truck, the ambulance.
We drive so far that we reach
where cars have only started to slow.
We drive so far that we see
what things were like before the accident.
It gets earlier and earlier.
Cars are driving past us as we drive.
Inside the cars, everyone is singing.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Reading Notes
If you can read my terrible handwriting (it's just not good--I've definitely come to terms with this!), you can see that I've started reading A Lover's Discourse: Fragments (by Barthes). It is pretty magical so far.
I love writing down lines that strike me (as do most writers, I think!). This one says, "I perform, discreetly, lunatic chores; I am the sole witness of my lunacy. What love lays bare in me is energy."
Grateful this week for writers, readers, artists, friends, family, and you!
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Once
Once
That time a part of the local woods
was stricken invisible
That time the weeping willow became
a harp
Once a man cast himself down onto the ground
between two trees
sobbing
The time a woodsman walked up to a tree
and could not raise his axe
When the river rose
and rushed through the pines
long hair through a comb
That acorn you slid on
bringing you to the cliff’s edge
That night it snowed and snowed
and you stood in the dim snowlight
where the woods felt warm
When, in the darkness, you felt
yourself being watched
by the beloved
The time you learned how to
participate in stillness
That time a part of the local woods
was stricken invisible
That time the weeping willow became
a harp
Once a man cast himself down onto the ground
between two trees
sobbing
The time a woodsman walked up to a tree
and could not raise his axe
When the river rose
and rushed through the pines
long hair through a comb
That acorn you slid on
bringing you to the cliff’s edge
That night it snowed and snowed
and you stood in the dim snowlight
where the woods felt warm
When, in the darkness, you felt
yourself being watched
by the beloved
The time you learned how to
participate in stillness
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Good Job You Now Know the World’s Secrets
Good Job You Now Know the World’s Secrets
If snow were a message
and it is
it would mean
falling
is the source
of all repair
If snow were a message
and it is
it would mean
falling
is the source
of all repair
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
There Is Only Mystery
There Is Only Mystery
The flowers are singing to you
There is only mystery
The next day they are sprawled
headfirst in the dirt
under the weight of the frost
The manhole covers take up the song
a million mouths in the road
There is no end to all you will never know
This is one kind of wealth
The flowers are singing to you
There is only mystery
The next day they are sprawled
headfirst in the dirt
under the weight of the frost
The manhole covers take up the song
a million mouths in the road
There is no end to all you will never know
This is one kind of wealth
Monday, November 25, 2013
Seconds
Seconds
All of those places
traveling within you
release one at a time
a magician’s dove
you encourage into the air
So this town square
becomes another place
because of how you see it
The brick streets
rebricking themselves according
to your memory and desire
The eggshell sky
Whatever feeling fills you now
it rushes over
the rocks of your years ago bliss
or longing
You have built up a shore
called your heart
You can cast your wide waters
when you need to see
a familiar place You get used
to the clack of plastic
block on plastic block You
can make them fit
almost and hold it all together
for entire seconds
All of those places
traveling within you
release one at a time
a magician’s dove
you encourage into the air
So this town square
becomes another place
because of how you see it
The brick streets
rebricking themselves according
to your memory and desire
The eggshell sky
Whatever feeling fills you now
it rushes over
the rocks of your years ago bliss
or longing
You have built up a shore
called your heart
You can cast your wide waters
when you need to see
a familiar place You get used
to the clack of plastic
block on plastic block You
can make them fit
almost and hold it all together
for entire seconds
Friday, November 22, 2013
Waiting on My Bookshelf
It’s hard to believe that the semester is almost over, and with it, this term of teaching! I get rather sentimental about it.
But what I’m very excited about is READING BOOKS over break. I’m sure other English and writing teachers feel this way, right? I have started requesting some fun books from the library. So far, waiting for me are:
What else should I read over break? Any recommendations? What are you looking forward to reading?
But what I’m very excited about is READING BOOKS over break. I’m sure other English and writing teachers feel this way, right? I have started requesting some fun books from the library. So far, waiting for me are:
- The Attentive Heart: Conversations with Trees by Stephanie Kaza
- Species of Spaces and Other Pieces by Georges Perec
- A Lover’s Discourse by Roland Barthes
What else should I read over break? Any recommendations? What are you looking forward to reading?
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Magic Markers
Magic Markers
Make a thing
a snow globe
a chart with names of humans
who didn’t know
they would be related to you
a quiche
a drawing with Magic Markers
magical because of how each stem
keeps its own color
a bud vase in bloom
a bad birdhouse
that birds won’t touch
a plain birdhouse
that is dry inside
well-visited by every bird
Each thing a vision
a doll-sized sarcophagus
a wooden box
clay pinch pot
a way to make the world small
a way to ask
isn’t this what we both know
Make a thing
a snow globe
a chart with names of humans
who didn’t know
they would be related to you
a quiche
a drawing with Magic Markers
magical because of how each stem
keeps its own color
a bud vase in bloom
a bad birdhouse
that birds won’t touch
a plain birdhouse
that is dry inside
well-visited by every bird
Each thing a vision
a doll-sized sarcophagus
a wooden box
clay pinch pot
a way to make the world small
a way to ask
isn’t this what we both know
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
A Recipe
A Recipe
A leaf rises
from the street
to slap me across the face
with its palm.
The wind is so strong
we have to lean into it.
The wind makes us
into friends when we walk past
one another. We say,
Sheesh,
and I know, right.
This is not a tornado.
All day, not one dangerous thing.
Tonight, as I prepare dinner
while the red-leaved tree thrashes
against the bricks,
I find a recipe comprised of only one word:
eat.
A leaf rises
from the street
to slap me across the face
with its palm.
The wind is so strong
we have to lean into it.
The wind makes us
into friends when we walk past
one another. We say,
Sheesh,
and I know, right.
This is not a tornado.
All day, not one dangerous thing.
Tonight, as I prepare dinner
while the red-leaved tree thrashes
against the bricks,
I find a recipe comprised of only one word:
eat.
Monday, November 18, 2013
Soap and Hot Water
Soap and Hot Water
Behold: the bitterness of the left-in-the-glass lemon.
Behold it.
Do not drink, beloved.
Why would I want such bitterness
along your tongue.
Tell me.
Today I sliced a jalapeno.
Hours later, rubbing my closed eye,
a gritty sting.
I had used soap and hot water.
Why does the body insist
on hanging on.
Why is contact
a door.
Behold: the bitterness of the left-in-the-glass lemon.
Behold it.
Do not drink, beloved.
Why would I want such bitterness
along your tongue.
Tell me.
Today I sliced a jalapeno.
Hours later, rubbing my closed eye,
a gritty sting.
I had used soap and hot water.
Why does the body insist
on hanging on.
Why is contact
a door.
Friday, November 15, 2013
Bookmarks List/Bedside Table
This week, reading and enjoying:
This essay at Salon, “What a Tragic Death Taught Me About Organized Religion,” by Deborah Jackson Taffa. Extremely powerful and beautiful.
Another stunner of an essay, “Boy Next Door,” by Stacey May Fowles, in The Walrus. Intense and complex and emotional.
Jody Bates’s Tomorrowland (more on this later).
This post on The Reel Foto about sports photographer Neil Leifer’s incredible photo of a Muhammed Ali Victory. It’s an amazing image. Leifer says, “Ali, Williams, the referee, the reporters, the symmetry, the drama--it’s the one photograph I’ve taken where, looking back, I’d change nothing.” Fascinating.
This essay at Salon, “What a Tragic Death Taught Me About Organized Religion,” by Deborah Jackson Taffa. Extremely powerful and beautiful.
Another stunner of an essay, “Boy Next Door,” by Stacey May Fowles, in The Walrus. Intense and complex and emotional.
Jody Bates’s Tomorrowland (more on this later).
This post on The Reel Foto about sports photographer Neil Leifer’s incredible photo of a Muhammed Ali Victory. It’s an amazing image. Leifer says, “Ali, Williams, the referee, the reporters, the symmetry, the drama--it’s the one photograph I’ve taken where, looking back, I’d change nothing.” Fascinating.
 |
| Photo by Neil Leifer, via The Reel Foto |
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Surf and Turf
Surf and Turf
The moss is out of control.
The rocks under the moss are out of control.
The ocean is also out of control.
Come to think of it
there is not one thing
growing based on your preferences.
Lob a rock at the water.
It plops in somewhere,
you assume.
You weren’t trying to skip it.
It can be calming to picture
the stone falling
down through the water, eventually
stopping on a surface
no one will ever touch.
It can also be calming
just to hold a rock
at the edge of some big-bodied water.
The moss is out of control.
The rocks under the moss are out of control.
The ocean is also out of control.
Come to think of it
there is not one thing
growing based on your preferences.
Lob a rock at the water.
It plops in somewhere,
you assume.
You weren’t trying to skip it.
It can be calming to picture
the stone falling
down through the water, eventually
stopping on a surface
no one will ever touch.
It can also be calming
just to hold a rock
at the edge of some big-bodied water.
Friday, November 8, 2013
On Creativity: Tessa Mellas
The profile is a short one (you can read it here), but there were so many great thoughts she shared during our conversation. Here are some that didn’t make it in the piece!
NOTE: Read Tessa’s stories, “So Much Rain,” (click here) and “Mariposa Girls” (click here) online.
****
[The title of the book] is from a line in the story “Beanstalk,” where the main character is remembering how a beanstalk grew outside her window....she imagines birds circling her, their “lungs full of noise.” I’ve got a lot of imagery of birds and winged things throughout the collection, which, for me, is a metaphor for women who are fragile, but also strong. They can support themselves. But like birds with their hollow bones, they can be knocked around.
“Quiet Camp” is about a group of noisy girls who are sent to a camp to be silenced. And this represents a huge struggle of women....the girls in school who are obedient and quiet get rewarded, and are seen as good and feminine. And the girls who are noisy, and speak without thinking and are opinionated get criticized and attacked. I feel like there’s a lot of pressure on girls to be quiet and silent, and yet there’s all this noise going on inside of them.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
Cave-Dark
Cave-Dark
I’ve always been responsible
for that darkness.
It’s the Sylvester to my Tweety bird,
only harmless.
You know what’s in there.
Nope, not spiders.
Not teeth. You can hide in it.
All the hider’s
got to do is trust it. It’s an if-you-
build-it-they-
will-come. It’s an all-things-changed-
after-that-day.
I’ve always been responsible
for that darkness.
It’s the Sylvester to my Tweety bird,
only harmless.
You know what’s in there.
Nope, not spiders.
Not teeth. You can hide in it.
All the hider’s
got to do is trust it. It’s an if-you-
build-it-they-
will-come. It’s an all-things-changed-
after-that-day.
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Fever
Fever
I have set myself adrift on a river.
I have built the river.
Because I have not slept
I think it is raining
from the upper sky to the middle sky
but never reaching me.
If the self were
symptom,
an inner tube inflated,
where is the mouth
that let the rubber nozzle
drink from its breath.
I wrench something from the ground
but say
look what the world is bringing to me.
I have set myself adrift on a river.
I have built the river.
Because I have not slept
I think it is raining
from the upper sky to the middle sky
but never reaching me.
If the self were
symptom,
an inner tube inflated,
where is the mouth
that let the rubber nozzle
drink from its breath.
I wrench something from the ground
but say
look what the world is bringing to me.
Monday, November 4, 2013
There’s Always a Stump
There’s Always a Stump
Cut away a tree,
saw at its torso
and haul it off.
But it is still not gone.
There’s a stump
to deal with.
Underneath, roots reaching
down and away.
All this time
the tree was always
walking away from us
secretly.
There are birds that remember
the bark of the tree
under their toes.
There are descendants
of the birds.
There is the repositioned earth
that never lays quite right.
Cut away a tree,
saw at its torso
and haul it off.
But it is still not gone.
There’s a stump
to deal with.
Underneath, roots reaching
down and away.
All this time
the tree was always
walking away from us
secretly.
There are birds that remember
the bark of the tree
under their toes.
There are descendants
of the birds.
There is the repositioned earth
that never lays quite right.
Friday, November 1, 2013
Fruitful and Multiplying
(a fragment from an essay-in-progress)
“Strange fruit.” A teenage boy looked out the window of the full bus, and announced this, as you might point out landmarks that we pass (“My sister took a guitar lesson there once,” or “Best pancakes in the city”). A few of the bus passengers looked over, and then noticed the earbuds trailing out from under his hood, leading into his pocket. Plugged in.
In this order, I thought:
***
Fun to share something completely unfinished with you today--happy Friday! What projects are you starting/working on (or abandoning for the weekend)?
“Strange fruit.” A teenage boy looked out the window of the full bus, and announced this, as you might point out landmarks that we pass (“My sister took a guitar lesson there once,” or “Best pancakes in the city”). A few of the bus passengers looked over, and then noticed the earbuds trailing out from under his hood, leading into his pocket. Plugged in.
In this order, I thought:
- He is listening to Kanye West’s “Blood on the Leaves,” which samples Billie Holiday’s song.
- He is singing along with Kanye West but really he is singing along with Billie Holiday,
- Billie Holliday’s song borrows its lyrics from a poem.
- In the bus it is 1930 and 2013.
***
Fun to share something completely unfinished with you today--happy Friday! What projects are you starting/working on (or abandoning for the weekend)?
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Gnomon
Gnomon
These fake ladybugs eat the real ladybugs.
The trees go up in flame unequally.
On this side of the street, by the river, they are red.
The other half are still green.
The slender trees get slenderer.
The branches stand there in memory of leaves taken away.
What does the beloved smell like.
Smell the air to see if they are in the world.
The sheriff’s black school bus rattles back toward the courthouse, empty.
Outside the courthouse, on the sidewalk: tiny booklet reading
DON’T COME BACK TO JAIL.
The trees are plunged into their circular grates,
gnomons in sun dials.
Today, the plants must feel stoned.
These fake ladybugs eat the real ladybugs.
The trees go up in flame unequally.
On this side of the street, by the river, they are red.
The other half are still green.
The slender trees get slenderer.
The branches stand there in memory of leaves taken away.
What does the beloved smell like.
Smell the air to see if they are in the world.
The sheriff’s black school bus rattles back toward the courthouse, empty.
Outside the courthouse, on the sidewalk: tiny booklet reading
DON’T COME BACK TO JAIL.
The trees are plunged into their circular grates,
gnomons in sun dials.
Today, the plants must feel stoned.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Bookmarks List/Bedside Table
Currently reading and enjoying:
• This short essay, “Through the Closed Door,” by Lee Martin in Post Road Magazine.
• David Sedaris’s “Now We Are Five,” a reflection on his family and his youngest sister’s death. I read stuff like this and think, “Oh, that’s what good writing looks like.”
• This haunting, poignant essay, “Face,” by Tara FitzGerald in Vela Mag. So many overlapping pieces here…it will stay with you long after you read it.
• Scott Woods’s poetry collection, We Over Here Now (more on this later).
I’m also excited that a new little column of mine, featuring books by Ohio authors and publishers, will be appearing in Columbus Alive (an arts newspaper here in town). It’s called (as if there were any other choice for me) “Bibliohio: Recommended Reading from the Heart-Shaped State,” and here’s my first write-up. I have a theory that something special is happening amongst writers and readers in Ohio.
Thanks for reading this week. And you, friends? What else are you thumbing through?
• This short essay, “Through the Closed Door,” by Lee Martin in Post Road Magazine.
• David Sedaris’s “Now We Are Five,” a reflection on his family and his youngest sister’s death. I read stuff like this and think, “Oh, that’s what good writing looks like.”
• This haunting, poignant essay, “Face,” by Tara FitzGerald in Vela Mag. So many overlapping pieces here…it will stay with you long after you read it.
• Scott Woods’s poetry collection, We Over Here Now (more on this later).
I’m also excited that a new little column of mine, featuring books by Ohio authors and publishers, will be appearing in Columbus Alive (an arts newspaper here in town). It’s called (as if there were any other choice for me) “Bibliohio: Recommended Reading from the Heart-Shaped State,” and here’s my first write-up. I have a theory that something special is happening amongst writers and readers in Ohio.
Thanks for reading this week. And you, friends? What else are you thumbing through?
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Oh Boy
Oh Boy
Oh boy, oh dear, oh
Tetris-y tumbling
of joy into removal
of joy, into anxiety,
oh me, oh my, oh
how do I respond
to the undone world,
the gradual unhinging
not set in any jamb
Observe: a resurgence
of interest in canning,
uncanny devotion to
mason jars, Peter Pan
collars and plaid, if
you don the garb
of wonder and work
very hard maybe they
will let you keep this
Oh boy, oh dear, oh
Tetris-y tumbling
of joy into removal
of joy, into anxiety,
oh me, oh my, oh
how do I respond
to the undone world,
the gradual unhinging
not set in any jamb
Observe: a resurgence
of interest in canning,
uncanny devotion to
mason jars, Peter Pan
collars and plaid, if
you don the garb
of wonder and work
very hard maybe they
will let you keep this
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Toward a More Elegant Attention
Toward a More Elegant Attention
I.
Oh big branch in the river
who will get you out
who will fetch you
II.
When a dog holds a stick
in his mouth
moves it across the park
and leaves
the memory lives in the dog’s jaw
and in the fallen stick
But when someone burns that stick
and years later, the dog is gone
where can the truth survive
III.
Where did all of these sticks come from
you would think a whole forest
has been released
a passel of arrows
IV.
The remembered pets
how a human calls a human
who was a child alongside them
just to say
remember what a good dog she was
V.
The light
doesn’t want to say
anything to anybody
I.
Oh big branch in the river
who will get you out
who will fetch you
II.
When a dog holds a stick
in his mouth
moves it across the park
and leaves
the memory lives in the dog’s jaw
and in the fallen stick
But when someone burns that stick
and years later, the dog is gone
where can the truth survive
III.
Where did all of these sticks come from
you would think a whole forest
has been released
a passel of arrows
IV.
The remembered pets
how a human calls a human
who was a child alongside them
just to say
remember what a good dog she was
V.
The light
doesn’t want to say
anything to anybody
Monday, October 21, 2013
On the First Cold Day, Everyone Makes Chili
On the First Cold Day, Everyone Makes Chili
As you tug a produce bag,
thinner than skin, from the roll
for the red bell pepper,
and pluck a twist tie
from the stand, you see it:
your future, you
in the kitchen tonight,
opening cans of black beans
and kidney beans to empty into the pot,
the chili finished two hours later.
The grocery store sees it, too.
Chili ingredients are stacked near the beer:
tomatoes, beans, round crackers.
Fewer choices than we think,
you know, and this is a gift.
Let the ingredients suggest
the meal, and the season
will suggest the ingredients,
and in this way
we can observe the benevolence
of the universe, the can
of diced tomatoes
that had been grown
last year in soil
you will never stand on,
the pain in the farmer’s
grandfather’s heart prodding him
to buy some peaceful land.
As you tug a produce bag,
thinner than skin, from the roll
for the red bell pepper,
and pluck a twist tie
from the stand, you see it:
your future, you
in the kitchen tonight,
opening cans of black beans
and kidney beans to empty into the pot,
the chili finished two hours later.
The grocery store sees it, too.
Chili ingredients are stacked near the beer:
tomatoes, beans, round crackers.
Fewer choices than we think,
you know, and this is a gift.
Let the ingredients suggest
the meal, and the season
will suggest the ingredients,
and in this way
we can observe the benevolence
of the universe, the can
of diced tomatoes
that had been grown
last year in soil
you will never stand on,
the pain in the farmer’s
grandfather’s heart prodding him
to buy some peaceful land.
Friday, October 18, 2013
Bookmarks List/Bedside Table
Currently reading and enjoying...
-Tessa Mellas’s just-released Lungs Full of Noise. What a beautiful and weird book--just what I love. More on this later.
-This article/collection of images on io9 showing what the world looks like through a cat’s eyes.
-Tina, such a bizarre and awesome book of poems by Peter Davis (who was just in town for Paging Columbus!). Here’s a video of one of my favorite poems in the book, “Emily Dickinson,” and here’s another poem from the book at Verse Daily, “The Egyptian Revolution of 2011.”
Happy weekend, y’all. Who’s doing some pleasure reading this weekend?
-Tessa Mellas’s just-released Lungs Full of Noise. What a beautiful and weird book--just what I love. More on this later.
-This article/collection of images on io9 showing what the world looks like through a cat’s eyes.
-Tina, such a bizarre and awesome book of poems by Peter Davis (who was just in town for Paging Columbus!). Here’s a video of one of my favorite poems in the book, “Emily Dickinson,” and here’s another poem from the book at Verse Daily, “The Egyptian Revolution of 2011.”
Happy weekend, y’all. Who’s doing some pleasure reading this weekend?
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Hot Mess
Hot Mess
If you want to set a woman’s mind at ease
and you are a woman
tell her you like her shoes
or her jacket.
She will bat it back at you.
Then you can say
you like the way her hair is cut
especially around her facebones
and then she will say
thank you for not saying
I look like a mess
and by the way
I love your arm.
I was born with it,
my parents made it for me,
thank you! Your aorta, if I could see it,
would be lovely, I feel sure.
But not as lovely as your tonsils
she will say,
and this is where you should be worried.
But I have no tonsils,
you will say, laughing, nervously,
both of you,
as you back away
careful not to startle her.
If you want to set a woman’s mind at ease
and you are a woman
tell her you like her shoes
or her jacket.
She will bat it back at you.
Then you can say
you like the way her hair is cut
especially around her facebones
and then she will say
thank you for not saying
I look like a mess
and by the way
I love your arm.
I was born with it,
my parents made it for me,
thank you! Your aorta, if I could see it,
would be lovely, I feel sure.
But not as lovely as your tonsils
she will say,
and this is where you should be worried.
But I have no tonsils,
you will say, laughing, nervously,
both of you,
as you back away
careful not to startle her.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Cumulus, Gone But Not Forgotten
Cumulus, Gone But Not Forgotten
The cumulus had been shedding
for half an hour
when it finally exhales its last bit of self.
The cloud rememberer
lowers her binoculars,
also sighing.
This isn’t easy. But she is a professional.
She pencils the date and time
in her notebook.
The cumulus had been shedding
for half an hour
when it finally exhales its last bit of self.
The cloud rememberer
lowers her binoculars,
also sighing.
This isn’t easy. But she is a professional.
She pencils the date and time
in her notebook.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Garden Logic
Garden Logic
In the garden you think there are no disgusting things.
These worms squiggling into the mud below
squiggle cleanly.
A spider lives to eat the other bugs.
The other bugs look handsome next to the petals
and bark, dark legs like eyelashes.
The mind you wear into the garden
possesses wisdom not your own.
Shit is great flower food.
The desiccated bird corpse,
tiny cracked cage of bones
in a handful of flung feathers,
the earth will take it.
In the garden you think there are no disgusting things.
These worms squiggling into the mud below
squiggle cleanly.
A spider lives to eat the other bugs.
The other bugs look handsome next to the petals
and bark, dark legs like eyelashes.
The mind you wear into the garden
possesses wisdom not your own.
Shit is great flower food.
The desiccated bird corpse,
tiny cracked cage of bones
in a handful of flung feathers,
the earth will take it.
Monday, October 14, 2013
Three Sheep
Three Sheep
There were three sheep.
Well, there were also other sheep. But these three,
they had found themselves
alone before a large pond.
They were scared.
Should we go through it, one asked the others.
No, we have no idea how deep it is!
And there could be LEECHES!
Let’s rest and get some good sleep tonight, that first one said,
have a better idea about things in the morning.
It was unanimous.
In the morning, they found themselves on the edge of that big pond.
Huh, still here, still a pond.
Still deep. Still leeches.
The next months played out in this way,
every morning, one pointing to the pond,
the other two murmuring: deep, leeches.
The air began to get colder.
Fall wandered in and set up camp.
Talk of leeches went up into the red leaves
like sparks from a fire. Mmmhmm, deep.
One day, it was winter.
Two deer stood on the pond, and shouted over,
Morning! It’s frozen now! Clamber over!
Deep, they said, and shrank closer together. Leeches.
What gives, one deer said. The other shrugged.
Instead of good morning, the sheep would talk about the pond.
Pond today! It’s deep and full of leeches, isn’t it?
Sure is. Absolutely leech-ridden.
They lived there for the rest of their lives.
They called themselves a flock.
One day, nine years since they came to live there,
their original flock walked around the other edge of the pond.
Hey! Look who it is, the old flock called across.
How do you like our new spot, they asked their old friends and family.
We are so proud of how it’s turned out.
Just the right amount of leeches.
There were three sheep.
Well, there were also other sheep. But these three,
they had found themselves
alone before a large pond.
They were scared.
Should we go through it, one asked the others.
No, we have no idea how deep it is!
And there could be LEECHES!
Let’s rest and get some good sleep tonight, that first one said,
have a better idea about things in the morning.
It was unanimous.
In the morning, they found themselves on the edge of that big pond.
Huh, still here, still a pond.
Still deep. Still leeches.
The next months played out in this way,
every morning, one pointing to the pond,
the other two murmuring: deep, leeches.
The air began to get colder.
Fall wandered in and set up camp.
Talk of leeches went up into the red leaves
like sparks from a fire. Mmmhmm, deep.
One day, it was winter.
Two deer stood on the pond, and shouted over,
Morning! It’s frozen now! Clamber over!
Deep, they said, and shrank closer together. Leeches.
What gives, one deer said. The other shrugged.
Instead of good morning, the sheep would talk about the pond.
Pond today! It’s deep and full of leeches, isn’t it?
Sure is. Absolutely leech-ridden.
They lived there for the rest of their lives.
They called themselves a flock.
One day, nine years since they came to live there,
their original flock walked around the other edge of the pond.
Hey! Look who it is, the old flock called across.
How do you like our new spot, they asked their old friends and family.
We are so proud of how it’s turned out.
Just the right amount of leeches.
Friday, October 11, 2013
On Creativity: Muse-ic
This week, I wrote a post over at Spoonful revisiting music and creative ritual. While writing poems in the last couple of weeks, I’ve been obsessed with Volcano Choir’s Repave and Moby’s Innocents.
I was delighted (read: jumping up and down and yelling “EEEEK!”) to see that Damien Jurado is featured on one of Moby’s tracks. “Almost Home” has been helping me with my poems--it is exactly what I want from music that I write to.
What songs/albums/artists have helped you to create?
I was delighted (read: jumping up and down and yelling “EEEEK!”) to see that Damien Jurado is featured on one of Moby’s tracks. “Almost Home” has been helping me with my poems--it is exactly what I want from music that I write to.
What songs/albums/artists have helped you to create?
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Pillowcase
Pillowcase
Your head is delicate,
your thoughts are delicate,
here is a bag of bird feathers
to lift you into sleep,
never mind about where
the birds are now,
you are in their branches,
blossoms and leaves
between your toes, you will
wake up in the morning
when you wanted to, the self
tonight will be supplanted
by the self of the next day,
you have to know it will all be
there as you left it, you have to
stop thinking about those birds.
Your head is delicate,
your thoughts are delicate,
here is a bag of bird feathers
to lift you into sleep,
never mind about where
the birds are now,
you are in their branches,
blossoms and leaves
between your toes, you will
wake up in the morning
when you wanted to, the self
tonight will be supplanted
by the self of the next day,
you have to know it will all be
there as you left it, you have to
stop thinking about those birds.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
All Ships Struggle
All Ships Struggle
All ships
struggle
All ships
will have been mistaken
for icebergs
All icebergs turn
into the water
they are clenching
within their bodies
All preparations
do not include
the actual future
All the stars
that the passengers
of the Titanic saw
All the stars
whose formations
we find
familiar
All of the time
that waits
like the next wave
All waves
the breath of water
All waves
the water
they return to
All waves
not even waves
not even
for a hundred years
All ships
struggle
All ships
will have been mistaken
for icebergs
All icebergs turn
into the water
they are clenching
within their bodies
All preparations
do not include
the actual future
All the stars
that the passengers
of the Titanic saw
All the stars
whose formations
we find
familiar
All of the time
that waits
like the next wave
All waves
the breath of water
All waves
the water
they return to
All waves
not even waves
not even
for a hundred years
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Every Day, Less of a Cactus
Every Day, Less of a Cactus
I think I might be going somewhere
I am less flamingo planted in water
less stemmy-bodied cactus
All lightest leaf
the self suggestible
to air
The air
The mist in the air
Others have noticed
You are certainly less and less of a cactus
It’s a compliment
It takes so much work
to be us
I think I might be going somewhere
I am less flamingo planted in water
less stemmy-bodied cactus
All lightest leaf
the self suggestible
to air
The air
The mist in the air
Others have noticed
You are certainly less and less of a cactus
It’s a compliment
It takes so much work
to be us
Monday, October 7, 2013
Kitty, Don’t Eat Tape
Kitty, Don’t Eat Tape
When lacking a calm place
I have been known to curl
up into a box. I am a cat
person, it is easy for me
to understand the compulsion
to stuff one’s body into
small spaces, to seek what
will let me chew it by
chewing cautiously. The cat’s
love of anything sticky is
understandable but troubling.
I catch her licking the filmy
glue on an envelope’s flap,
teeth puncturing the corner
of the cardboard box, trying
to scrape free the mailing tape
and get it down her throat.
Kitty, don’t eat tape, I say
it at least once a week.
How does this turn into what
she really hears, Eat faster,
do it now. I worry that the lives
of pets provide no fulfillment.
Take her for a long hike
in the woods, the dog person
says. The cat behaviorist knows
better. Install a ledge near
the ceiling, so that she can
watch the birds through the
window, feeling the flicker
of power that comes from
knowing that the bird could
be hers, how easily she could
take something from the world.
When lacking a calm place
I have been known to curl
up into a box. I am a cat
person, it is easy for me
to understand the compulsion
to stuff one’s body into
small spaces, to seek what
will let me chew it by
chewing cautiously. The cat’s
love of anything sticky is
understandable but troubling.
I catch her licking the filmy
glue on an envelope’s flap,
teeth puncturing the corner
of the cardboard box, trying
to scrape free the mailing tape
and get it down her throat.
Kitty, don’t eat tape, I say
it at least once a week.
How does this turn into what
she really hears, Eat faster,
do it now. I worry that the lives
of pets provide no fulfillment.
Take her for a long hike
in the woods, the dog person
says. The cat behaviorist knows
better. Install a ledge near
the ceiling, so that she can
watch the birds through the
window, feeling the flicker
of power that comes from
knowing that the bird could
be hers, how easily she could
take something from the world.
Friday, October 4, 2013
Bookmarks List/Bedside Table
Currently reading and enjoying:
And you? I'd love your recommendations.
Have a wonderful weekend, friends!
- Luisa Igloria’s book of poems, The Saints of Streets (University of Santo Tomas Publishing House).
- James Fallows’s article, “Magical Roundabouts and the Language of Signs,” in The Atlantic. Fun and fascinating...I also love thinking about what the messages/diction in signs suggest. One of my favorites that I saw over the summer said "Please Respect the Growing Grass."
- “If He Hollers, Let Him Go,” by Rachel Kaadzi Ghansah, an in-depth discussion of Dave Chappelle, comedy, race, culture, and Yellow Springs (less than an hour from Columbus! A wonderful little town--my husband and I call it “The Shire”).
And you? I'd love your recommendations.
Have a wonderful weekend, friends!
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Everything Talks to Everything Else When We’re Not Looking
Everything Talks to Everything Else When We’re Not Looking
Tree holding up its yellow leaves.
The next week, circle of yellow
on the grass, tree trunk plunged into
the center. Rolled hay standing in
spools in a half-emptied field,
grasses high behind it, ready to
be gathered. Light that returns
when the wind wakes up, and tiny
spider with orange and black striped
legs that crawls out from beneath
the handle of my car door just as
I’m about to get back inside.
Tree holding up its yellow leaves.
The next week, circle of yellow
on the grass, tree trunk plunged into
the center. Rolled hay standing in
spools in a half-emptied field,
grasses high behind it, ready to
be gathered. Light that returns
when the wind wakes up, and tiny
spider with orange and black striped
legs that crawls out from beneath
the handle of my car door just as
I’m about to get back inside.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Small Fries
Small Fries
Oh the irresponsible decisions made
The tasty carbohydrates
The ungreen gutters
where rainwater gardens could have flourished
The heavy golden frame
around a picture better served by slim nails
The times you do not say
the thing you think
Also oh the irresponsible decisions tempered
with responsibility
Dessert after the dessert
first fruit then chocolate
The evil words
with an apology after
The cruel deed
with an apology after
The times during the day
your brain does not remind you how everyone
is going to be gone
how what we consume just disappears
Oh the irresponsible decisions made
The tasty carbohydrates
The ungreen gutters
where rainwater gardens could have flourished
The heavy golden frame
around a picture better served by slim nails
The times you do not say
the thing you think
Also oh the irresponsible decisions tempered
with responsibility
Dessert after the dessert
first fruit then chocolate
The evil words
with an apology after
The cruel deed
with an apology after
The times during the day
your brain does not remind you how everyone
is going to be gone
how what we consume just disappears
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
We Have Not Yet Learned
We Have Not Yet Learned
Somewhere a man is shocked
when another person loves the way he looks,
says it.
He had been privately calling himself haggard
and weak for the last year.
The art student draws the dimpled thigh
of the nude model
without looking at the paper.
The more she looks
at the body on the platform,
the better the line.
Our bodies, forgive us.
We have not yet learned
that one year the bone shows more,
and another, the fat.
Somewhere a man is shocked
when another person loves the way he looks,
says it.
He had been privately calling himself haggard
and weak for the last year.
The art student draws the dimpled thigh
of the nude model
without looking at the paper.
The more she looks
at the body on the platform,
the better the line.
Our bodies, forgive us.
We have not yet learned
that one year the bone shows more,
and another, the fat.
Friday, September 27, 2013
The Art of Overhearing
Recently, I’ve been thinking about the value of overhearing. On this week’s episode of Boardwalk Empire, Buscemi’s Nucky Thompson gained insight into a city he was unfamiliar with (Tampa) by listening in on a slick salesman delivering a pitch.
And today, I was chatting with a librarian friend at the art school library. She was telling me about her ideas for upcoming quilting projects, and showing me beautiful images of fabric and masterfully-crafted quilts.
On the way out, a woman sitting behind the desk stopped me, and asked me if I was in the fashion design department (she’d overheard our conversation). I told her I wasn’t, but we spoke for a minute, and I learned she is a jewelry designer (she had a gorgeous silver pendant on that she’d made).
If we’re open to them, these chance moments can lead to such fascinating conversations and thoughts (even if, or maybe especially because they are brief). In grad school, I was once riding the bus (where the eavesdropping is glorious, friends) with two other students. We were talking about how much we loved Atonement, and my buddy Paul said, “Ah, the prose just sparkles!” A man sitting behind us asked us whether we were students or writers, and he told us he was so delighted to hear people speaking about literature in this way.
In my Introduction to Professional Writing class yesterday, we were discussing the value of Twitter--I absolutely believe that it is a place to have private conversations in public. The internet lets us people-watch and overhear in abundance, doesn’t it?
It makes me happy to think that technology might be increasing the ways for us to be receptive and attentive to the world around us (although it certainly doesn’t always feel like this--maybe we’re breaking even in terms of attention). In these small, wonderfully-meaningless moments of connection, for a few minutes it feels like we’re living in that provincial town in Beauty and the Beast (“Bonjour! Bonjour!”). The musical just under the surface peeks through, then recedes.
And today, I was chatting with a librarian friend at the art school library. She was telling me about her ideas for upcoming quilting projects, and showing me beautiful images of fabric and masterfully-crafted quilts.
On the way out, a woman sitting behind the desk stopped me, and asked me if I was in the fashion design department (she’d overheard our conversation). I told her I wasn’t, but we spoke for a minute, and I learned she is a jewelry designer (she had a gorgeous silver pendant on that she’d made).
If we’re open to them, these chance moments can lead to such fascinating conversations and thoughts (even if, or maybe especially because they are brief). In grad school, I was once riding the bus (where the eavesdropping is glorious, friends) with two other students. We were talking about how much we loved Atonement, and my buddy Paul said, “Ah, the prose just sparkles!” A man sitting behind us asked us whether we were students or writers, and he told us he was so delighted to hear people speaking about literature in this way.
In my Introduction to Professional Writing class yesterday, we were discussing the value of Twitter--I absolutely believe that it is a place to have private conversations in public. The internet lets us people-watch and overhear in abundance, doesn’t it?
It makes me happy to think that technology might be increasing the ways for us to be receptive and attentive to the world around us (although it certainly doesn’t always feel like this--maybe we’re breaking even in terms of attention). In these small, wonderfully-meaningless moments of connection, for a few minutes it feels like we’re living in that provincial town in Beauty and the Beast (“Bonjour! Bonjour!”). The musical just under the surface peeks through, then recedes.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
The Box Is the Toy
The Box Is the Toy
The river is moving
but the meadow is still.
That is what we think
which is why we forget about
how big of a box the planet is in
and how big of a box
with no sides
that box is in.
The river is moving
but the meadow is still.
That is what we think
which is why we forget about
how big of a box the planet is in
and how big of a box
with no sides
that box is in.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
The Magic Words
The Magic Words
What one thing are you hoping
someone will tell you
to get every event to canter off
into labeled shelves,
miniature gumball machines and
thimbles into the right
compartments of a gridded shadow
box. The desert won’t
be cured because it isn’t ailing.
The cacti won’t die,
in fact, three new cacti have sprung
up just now in your
footprints. You know what you
are waiting to hear,
trapped in you like the light within
a closed refrigerator.
What one thing are you hoping
someone will tell you
to get every event to canter off
into labeled shelves,
miniature gumball machines and
thimbles into the right
compartments of a gridded shadow
box. The desert won’t
be cured because it isn’t ailing.
The cacti won’t die,
in fact, three new cacti have sprung
up just now in your
footprints. You know what you
are waiting to hear,
trapped in you like the light within
a closed refrigerator.
Monday, September 23, 2013
A New Kind of Sangria
A New Kind of Sangria
The pink hibiscus petal floats to the surface
of the pitcher, then lifts from it, shaking
the wine from its edges, wet dog trying
to rid itself of the heavy fur. Petal floats,
seeks and finds stem on the counter, reattaches
itself, and in come the other petals, a whole
flower again, a swarm of petals, sliced fruit
flying toward you, darts waking to their own
will. There are consequences for trying to drink
the garden.
The pink hibiscus petal floats to the surface
of the pitcher, then lifts from it, shaking
the wine from its edges, wet dog trying
to rid itself of the heavy fur. Petal floats,
seeks and finds stem on the counter, reattaches
itself, and in come the other petals, a whole
flower again, a swarm of petals, sliced fruit
flying toward you, darts waking to their own
will. There are consequences for trying to drink
the garden.
Friday, September 20, 2013
This Week, Feeling Inspired by...
- This song, “Calling Cards,” by Neko Case (I have a memorized calling card number from 14 years ago that I occasionally use):
- Radio Crackling, Radio Gone, by Lisa Olstein (Copper Canyon Press, 2006). Here’s a great poem from the collection called “That Magnificent Part the Chorus Does about Tragedy”.
- Eric Valli’s photography. I am in awe of these gorgeous photos. They do tell stories, but by immersing viewers into one fragment/scene of a story. There is something to learn here, I think.
 | |
| Photo by Eric Valli, from High Himalaya |
 |
| Photo by Eric Valli, from Caravans |
- A bunch of readings that I’ll be doing throughout fall! It’s a good opportunity to read new work, and experiment with what pieces I group together. And it’s always fun to read one or two poems not by me!
And you, friends?