Happy Christmas, all! Hope everyone has a joyous and safe holiday. Every year, at least a few times, I find myself feeling abundantly content with the world, more or less optimistic about the state of humanity. Christmas is almost always one of those instances. A fine day. Hope yours was whatever you needed it to be. Thanks to Deedie for the very cool scarf. I don't usually wear scarves. Not really a scarf guy. But of any on the calendar: Christmas is a scarf day. Also: New Year's. Holiday scarf.
Lots of poems to get to (both my own and others', the latter will receive preference for the time being); need to pack for New Year's trip to Denver; residency applications to finish; fellowship applications to continue; but for now: a tuckered-out Redbone Coonhound and some great new books. Thanks everyone, for stopping by, for having an interest, for rocking and/or rolling at more or less appropriate times.
***********
Now Winter Nights Enlarge
Now winter nights enlarge
The number of their hours,
And clouds their storms discharge
Upon the airy towers.
Let now the chimneys blaze
And cups o'erflow with wine;
Let well-tuned words amaze
With harmony divine!
Now yellow waxen lights
Shall wait on honey love
While youthful revels, masques and Courtly slights,
Sleep's leaden spells remove.
This time doth well dispense
With lovers' long discourse;
Much speech hath some defence,
Though beauty no remorse.
All do not all things well;
Some measures comely tread,
Some knotted riddles tell,
Some poems smoothly read.
The summer hath his joys,
And winter his delights;
Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
They shorten tedious nights.
--Thomas Campion
(1567-1620)
************
I thought this movie was funny. Watched with Dad the other night. I laughed louder and more often than he.
Also received a copy of The Last Waltz. Big time awesome.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Sewanee Notebook
Does anyone else do this? Every Christmas I end up browsing through the Moleskine I keep in my back pocket and finding jottings of every stripe and shape: to-do lists, dates to remember, lines of poetry, quotes, restaurant names, and generally indecipherable fragments. I present a slice of the 'Sewanee' section of the notebook, with some strange and brilliant insights from some people much more talented than myself, presented in the form they were written:
***********
Galvin
when we say, what a shame, /
whose shame do we mean?
Wilbur- 'Crows Nest'
a poetry 'to make our
terrors bravely clear'
'Hamlin Brook'
-How can I drink
all this?
How should we dream
of this world w/o us
-Advice to a Prophet
***************
Ammons--This is only
a place, the reality
we agree with
that also agrees with us
'forays into the
known to go past the
known'--Bausch
'Passion is all, even
the sleaziest.'
-Robert Penn Warren
*************
DS [Dave Smith]
writing poetry is about
sex and death [big check mark next to this one]
07/17/09
-form is a window, beyond
which, half-seen, lies the poem
-past potential endings,
gaining momentum
****************
Sawyer
Saw dust edging
out from the hand.
DS-every poem must
have some threat
CE [Claudia Emerson]
Risk of asking questions
in poems is that we won't get
the answer we want
"Every once and awhile, say
exactly what you mean'
-Betty Adcock
*******************
-coital inexclusivety-
Hudgins
'beauty is beauty
because of its flaws'
-DS
'the distance between
what the language says
and what we want it
to say'
-DS
Golden spoons [underlined twice]
**************
That's all for now. Perhaps more if people enjoyed this one. If not, here's a picture of puppy Boone in the snow:
***********
Galvin
when we say, what a shame, /
whose shame do we mean?
Wilbur- 'Crows Nest'
a poetry 'to make our
terrors bravely clear'
'Hamlin Brook'
-How can I drink
all this?
How should we dream
of this world w/o us
-Advice to a Prophet
***************
Ammons--This is only
a place, the reality
we agree with
that also agrees with us
'forays into the
known to go past the
known'--Bausch
'Passion is all, even
the sleaziest.'
-Robert Penn Warren
*************
DS [Dave Smith]
writing poetry is about
sex and death [big check mark next to this one]
07/17/09
-form is a window, beyond
which, half-seen, lies the poem
-past potential endings,
gaining momentum
****************
Sawyer
Saw dust edging
out from the hand.
DS-every poem must
have some threat
CE [Claudia Emerson]
Risk of asking questions
in poems is that we won't get
the answer we want
"Every once and awhile, say
exactly what you mean'
-Betty Adcock
*******************
-coital inexclusivety-
Hudgins
'beauty is beauty
because of its flaws'
-DS
'the distance between
what the language says
and what we want it
to say'
-DS
Golden spoons [underlined twice]
**************
That's all for now. Perhaps more if people enjoyed this one. If not, here's a picture of puppy Boone in the snow:
Friday, December 18, 2009
Snowed In
There's a foot of snow on my porch. The dog's already curled himself into a wool blanket. I think this poem is beautiful:
Falling
Snow buries cars and yews and garbage cans
Beside the dirty beige garage sits so
Delicately on the unwavering maple limbs.
A girl of ten who cannot sleep for
The excitement and enchantment of it
Watches the great specks falling through the globe
Of yellow light that is the streetlight nearest
To her house, the house in which she lies in bed
Protected from the dreamy descent of endless sky,
Protected from the wet and cold. Safe.
She feels her heart beating and it seems loud,
Louder than it should be but then she thinks how
It's something she never truly listens to, she's never
That still or the world around her isn't that still.
It's scary, this heart inside her chest that lives
Its own life, that one day will stop and she,
As they say in the tales she reads, will be no more.
Come morning, it may still be snowing.
A friendly important man on the radio
Will announce there is no school today.
She will be free to sculpt the drifts
And prairies into igloos, tunnels and walls,
To place snow on her tongue and taste
The cool airness, to feel the sting
Of wind-sifted flakes on her face.
Now, though, she goes to the window
And stares and stares. The snow feels like the heart
Of the whole world, falling, falling and perfect.
--Baron Wormser
from Scattered Chapters (Sarabande Books, 2008)
Falling
Snow buries cars and yews and garbage cans
Beside the dirty beige garage sits so
Delicately on the unwavering maple limbs.
A girl of ten who cannot sleep for
The excitement and enchantment of it
Watches the great specks falling through the globe
Of yellow light that is the streetlight nearest
To her house, the house in which she lies in bed
Protected from the dreamy descent of endless sky,
Protected from the wet and cold. Safe.
She feels her heart beating and it seems loud,
Louder than it should be but then she thinks how
It's something she never truly listens to, she's never
That still or the world around her isn't that still.
It's scary, this heart inside her chest that lives
Its own life, that one day will stop and she,
As they say in the tales she reads, will be no more.
Come morning, it may still be snowing.
A friendly important man on the radio
Will announce there is no school today.
She will be free to sculpt the drifts
And prairies into igloos, tunnels and walls,
To place snow on her tongue and taste
The cool airness, to feel the sting
Of wind-sifted flakes on her face.
Now, though, she goes to the window
And stares and stares. The snow feels like the heart
Of the whole world, falling, falling and perfect.
--Baron Wormser
from Scattered Chapters (Sarabande Books, 2008)
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Ask and Ye Shall Receive
Per Traci's request, a new feature: puppy picture of the week. Boone's initial reaction to snow: not impressed.
Closer than You Think
I'm in the middle of giving my first batch of students their semester exam. We're in block scheduling until Saturday and I'm currently fretting over whether or not my exam is long enough. They're supposed to be 90 minutes long, but I wasn't sure if that was 90 minutes for the average student, or if I should make sure the slowest student could finish in 90 minutes. Anyway, not looking forward to grading these bad boys, but very much looking forward to Saturday afternoon, Christmas parties, and flurries of snow/shenanigans.
**************
I liked this poem. But the ending made me raise my cynic eyebrow...
(see profile picture)
**************
Received an early Christmas gift last week. Passages North accepted the title poem of my manuscript ('After the Ark') and Crab Orchard Review took three sonnets from a sequence. Jazzed on both counts. Both places I've been rejected before, for whatever that's worth...
**************
As far as titles go--I worry about mine. Mayhaps because a certain poet-blogger whose opinion I respect denounced it before even seeing the manuscript (which makes me think, perhaps the title is just that bad). But a question for those of y'all who've had longer relationships with manuscripts: at what point do you consider changing the title? Did you actively try and think of other titles or did it just occur to you after much wrestling? I've been thinking recently that perhaps After the Ark shouldn't be After the Ark, which, to me, is a bit of an existential crisis...
***************
Killer first line of the moment will have to be delayed this week. I'm at school and poetry-bookless. Though I have been reading Sandra Alcosser's Except by Nature, which surely has several killer first lines.
***************
Because for us academic types, it is this serious:
**************
I liked this poem. But the ending made me raise my cynic eyebrow...
(see profile picture)
**************
Received an early Christmas gift last week. Passages North accepted the title poem of my manuscript ('After the Ark') and Crab Orchard Review took three sonnets from a sequence. Jazzed on both counts. Both places I've been rejected before, for whatever that's worth...
**************
As far as titles go--I worry about mine. Mayhaps because a certain poet-blogger whose opinion I respect denounced it before even seeing the manuscript (which makes me think, perhaps the title is just that bad). But a question for those of y'all who've had longer relationships with manuscripts: at what point do you consider changing the title? Did you actively try and think of other titles or did it just occur to you after much wrestling? I've been thinking recently that perhaps After the Ark shouldn't be After the Ark, which, to me, is a bit of an existential crisis...
***************
Killer first line of the moment will have to be delayed this week. I'm at school and poetry-bookless. Though I have been reading Sandra Alcosser's Except by Nature, which surely has several killer first lines.
***************
Because for us academic types, it is this serious:
Sunday, December 6, 2009
A Good Book
Finished Oscar Wao last night. Ran through the gamut of emotions I experience when near the end any book I really enjoy: the exhilaration of being on the precipice, of following a thread to its frayed end; the sadness of letting characters (read: people) go; the inescapable satisfaction of setting aside the book-mark, closing the book and putting it on the nightstand, turning the light and laying there in the dark with those characters still thrumming in your head.
With this book there was something else, and it may just be where I am right now (here comes the self-indulgence, the self-centeredness I'm so prone to on this space), but I desperately wanted to weep for Oscar, for Lola, for Beli. You could argue there's some light in Diaz's ending, there's certainly beauty (!), but there's also (for me) a sense of overwhelming sadness. I could feel it--I was ready to burst, to have the dog tilt his head at me for crying at the plights of fictional characters, but then I'd really be crying for myself (again: me, me, me): the rollercoaster of losing a parent young, the way a love can end without resolution, can haunt: all this baggage tattooed with self-pity.
I've heard people say that good books bring us closer to ourselves. And they may. They can also draw us back, turn us into satellites orbitting our own clusterfuck of misplaced emotion and ill-spent angst. So I was ready to sob: pillow poised in hand, incense smoking through the room, the silence on blast, running back through mom's chemo, the end of my engagement last spring. And I waited. The dog got up, circled, resettled. The incense burned out. I picked up the book, re-read the last 10 pages. Nothing.
Talk about anti-climax.
So I turned on the TV, hoping to see the score of the Texas-Nebraska game. And the Blues Brothers was on. They were singing "Everybody Needs Somebody to Love." Just Dan Akroyd and John Belushi having some silly fun while John Candy nods his head. And god-dammit if I didn't cry like a baby. It took a confluence of Domincan tragedy and Chicago shenanigans, but hell if the world didn't reach out and wrench me around again. And after, the world has grown a little wider, and I'm reminded of what I already knew: everybody, you me and Oscar, needs somebody to love. (You, you, you.)
"So this is what everybody's always talking about! Diablo! If only I'd known. The beauty! The beauty!"
-from Junot Diaz's "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao"
***********
With this book there was something else, and it may just be where I am right now (here comes the self-indulgence, the self-centeredness I'm so prone to on this space), but I desperately wanted to weep for Oscar, for Lola, for Beli. You could argue there's some light in Diaz's ending, there's certainly beauty (!), but there's also (for me) a sense of overwhelming sadness. I could feel it--I was ready to burst, to have the dog tilt his head at me for crying at the plights of fictional characters, but then I'd really be crying for myself (again: me, me, me): the rollercoaster of losing a parent young, the way a love can end without resolution, can haunt: all this baggage tattooed with self-pity.
I've heard people say that good books bring us closer to ourselves. And they may. They can also draw us back, turn us into satellites orbitting our own clusterfuck of misplaced emotion and ill-spent angst. So I was ready to sob: pillow poised in hand, incense smoking through the room, the silence on blast, running back through mom's chemo, the end of my engagement last spring. And I waited. The dog got up, circled, resettled. The incense burned out. I picked up the book, re-read the last 10 pages. Nothing.
Talk about anti-climax.
So I turned on the TV, hoping to see the score of the Texas-Nebraska game. And the Blues Brothers was on. They were singing "Everybody Needs Somebody to Love." Just Dan Akroyd and John Belushi having some silly fun while John Candy nods his head. And god-dammit if I didn't cry like a baby. It took a confluence of Domincan tragedy and Chicago shenanigans, but hell if the world didn't reach out and wrench me around again. And after, the world has grown a little wider, and I'm reminded of what I already knew: everybody, you me and Oscar, needs somebody to love. (You, you, you.)
"So this is what everybody's always talking about! Diablo! If only I'd known. The beauty! The beauty!"
-from Junot Diaz's "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao"
***********
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Decemberly Morsels
Fantistic Mr. Fox may be the best movie I've seen all year. This may or may not have to do with the fact that I saw it while home on break after a solid day of wine drinking with the family, but nonetheless: I can't recommend it too highly.
**************
Carolina survived Michigan State--but let's be honest, they're not going to shoot 65% from the field every night. I'm bracing myself for a long winter as these young guards start to grow up. Another big game on Saturday: at Kentucky...
***************
The new issue of Blackbird is up and kicking. Some great work in there, from what I've perused thus far. Nice to see some good friends on there (Lisa Fay Coutley! Airin Miller!).
***************
Killer opening line of the moment:
"Let no air ever come between you. No clean sheet. No lamplight"
from Catie Rosemurgy's "God, As Quoted by Two Adulterers"
(My Favorite Apocalypse, Graywolf Press, 2001)
**************
Wow. Just, wow.
**************
Carolina survived Michigan State--but let's be honest, they're not going to shoot 65% from the field every night. I'm bracing myself for a long winter as these young guards start to grow up. Another big game on Saturday: at Kentucky...
***************
The new issue of Blackbird is up and kicking. Some great work in there, from what I've perused thus far. Nice to see some good friends on there (Lisa Fay Coutley! Airin Miller!).
***************
Killer opening line of the moment:
"Let no air ever come between you. No clean sheet. No lamplight"
from Catie Rosemurgy's "God, As Quoted by Two Adulterers"
(My Favorite Apocalypse, Graywolf Press, 2001)
**************
Wow. Just, wow.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Turkey Words
Giblets. Wattle. Snood. Gobble. Pin Feathers. Poult. Sandwich.
*******************
This is way late, but I won the caption contest over at Avoiding the Muse! Thanks to all who cast votes, and to C.Dale for holding such a cool contest. Thanks to Eduardo, too, for kicking ass throughout. Now, on to the next level of captioning...
*******************
Back-alley crossword dust-up. I never knew. (Only follow if you, like me, are a crossword junkie).
(via Slate)
*****************
Finally reading The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. I know I'm way late to the party, but good God, I dig. A question on the footnotes: I read them, enjoy them, but did anyone read the book and skip them? Not quite sure how much weight I should put on them... Anyway, a glimpse:
"Life was not always pleasant. Plenty of acts of violence, plenty of beatdowns and knifings. He himself survived any number of gank-attempts, and after each shoot-out, after each drive-by, he always combed his hair and straightened his tie, a dandy's reflex. He was a true gangster, gully to the bone, lived the life all those phony rap acts can only rhyme about"
********************
Killer first line of the moment:
"And this, then, is the wonder of evolution:"
*******************
Because there's never a bad time...
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Retching on Sideroads
Boone is less of a puppy and more of a dog these days. Have started bringing him along on my 3-5 mile runs (don't think he's yet ready for the long stuff). He does alright, though he bristles at the short leash and occasionally throws up half-chewed pencaps on the road shoulder...
***********
I found out that the Brooklyn Review is nominating my poem from their latest edition for a Pushcart Prize. A very cool honor to be nominated, especially considering all the other rockin' poems in that issue (which you can read online). This is my first nomination.
Have poems in the latest issues of Tar River Poetry, Third Coast, and RATTLE (links to TOCs). From what I've read so far, I'm lucky to be in all of them. There are some really great poems all around. Humbling, it is. Also--have two new poems appearing at La Fovea. Many thanks to Lisa Fay Coutley for inviting me to send. Yet another poetry bad-ass I met at Sewanee.
************
But enough about me, how are you? Submitting to magazines? (I've been slacking) Applying to fellowships? (I am) Writing and reading poems? (just the latter for me right now) Ready for Thanksgiving? (Good God, Yes. Bring on the sweet potatoes with mini-marshmallows).
************
Killer opening line of the moment:
"He carved the bowl for her, a hull so small"
from Jehanne Dubrow's "Bowl, in the Shape of a Bristol Boat"
(Third Coast, Fall 2009)
************
College basketball has officially started. UNC rants and raving to recommence immediately. Glad to see we signed Harrison Barnes, even if he does seem like a cornball.
*************
Caption Contest is getting hot and heavy. Home-stretch. Peruse! Evaluate! Vote!
*************
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Good Ole' Wrench-Face
I need to buy batteries for my camera so I can post some current pictures of Boone. He's becoming a monster (albeit, of the very cute and pleadingly-eyed variety). Up to almost 40 lbs. at around 5 months.
************
This inexplicable run of acceptances has continued. Potomac Review took a poem from my manuscript, and Sou'wester took three. That makes 8 poems taken by five journals in the span of a month. I've never experienced anything like this and would hazard to guess I won't again. I'm so used to rejection slips that I'm not quite sure how to take this...but doing my best to enjoy the ride. Looking forward to Spring and seeing all of these poems appear. Random question, how do you decide which previous pubs to include in your bio? Is there any proven rationale to this? (a relatively worthless query, I admit)
*************
Caption Contest round 3 has gone live! The judges seem to pick up what I'm putting down, though the voters are not with me as of yet. View and vote for your fave!
*************
Killer first line of the moment:
"I didn't know I WAS until the next day's news"
from Kevin Boyle's "Masturbating on Ash Wednesday"
(A Home for Wayward Girls, New Issues, 2005)
************
Wrenches. Faces. Homes.
************
This inexplicable run of acceptances has continued. Potomac Review took a poem from my manuscript, and Sou'wester took three. That makes 8 poems taken by five journals in the span of a month. I've never experienced anything like this and would hazard to guess I won't again. I'm so used to rejection slips that I'm not quite sure how to take this...but doing my best to enjoy the ride. Looking forward to Spring and seeing all of these poems appear. Random question, how do you decide which previous pubs to include in your bio? Is there any proven rationale to this? (a relatively worthless query, I admit)
*************
Caption Contest round 3 has gone live! The judges seem to pick up what I'm putting down, though the voters are not with me as of yet. View and vote for your fave!
*************
Killer first line of the moment:
"I didn't know I WAS until the next day's news"
from Kevin Boyle's "Masturbating on Ash Wednesday"
(A Home for Wayward Girls, New Issues, 2005)
************
Wrenches. Faces. Homes.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Looks like Somebody's Got a Case of the S'postas
I'm sort of supposed to be running a half-marathon in Raleigh this weekend. I'm ready for the mileage in the sense that I shouldn't have a problem running 13.1 miles. Though, I'm exhausted. The idea of driving 3 hours two days in a row and sacrificing sleeping-in both Saturday and Sunday really pains my heart. Who knows what will happen? I do love free t-shirts.
**************
Wrote my first new poem in over a month yesterday. Not even sure if I like it, but I was just stoked to get something down on paper (err...on screen). More sonnets (sonnets you say?) seem to be the direction I'm headed, if only for the brevity of them. So I share my joy with you, dear reader. Hope it doesn't suck (I'm always wary of poems in which any sort of crying is mentioned...). To disappear shortly....
*plish*
***************
Killer first line of the moment:
"Call him Granite, Argonaut, Thievery-Slick. Tusk"
from Rhett Iseman Trull's "Naming the Baby for Mark and Terra"
(The Real Warnings, Anhinga Press, 2009)
*************
Caption Contest has gone live over at Avoiding the Muse! Vote!
*************
Oh Gawd.
**************
Wrote my first new poem in over a month yesterday. Not even sure if I like it, but I was just stoked to get something down on paper (err...on screen). More sonnets (sonnets you say?) seem to be the direction I'm headed, if only for the brevity of them. So I share my joy with you, dear reader. Hope it doesn't suck (I'm always wary of poems in which any sort of crying is mentioned...). To disappear shortly....
*plish*
***************
Killer first line of the moment:
"Call him Granite, Argonaut, Thievery-Slick. Tusk"
from Rhett Iseman Trull's "Naming the Baby for Mark and Terra"
(The Real Warnings, Anhinga Press, 2009)
*************
Caption Contest has gone live over at Avoiding the Muse! Vote!
*************
Oh Gawd.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Being a Menace and Drinking My Juice Box
Very happy to report that The Greensboro Review took a sonnet the other day. It's my third try with them, so I'm excited they finally took one. It was the first literary magazine I ever held in my hands, the first place I ever saw my mentor, Kevin Boyle, have a poem show up. Needless to say, I'm very stoked to be appearing in the Spring 2010 issue. Happy, too, that some of these sonnets are getting taken. Another sonnet from the same sequence will be in the Fall 2009 issue of Tar River Poetry which should be hitting the shelf soon. I saw that Third Coast has come out with their Fall 2009 issue, too, which has my poem "Remembering the Old Testament While Walking the Dog" in there. Looking forward to getting my hands on the thing.
***********
The first round of the Caption Contest Throwdown has gone live. You could vote for the best caption. Or you could vote for me. It appears as though the judges are not fans of my caption...
************
Killer first line of the moment:
"Black and yellow lichen-spotted limestone"
from Aaron Baker's "Above Kerowagi"
(Mission Work, Houghton-Mifflin, 2008)
************
***********
The first round of the Caption Contest Throwdown has gone live. You could vote for the best caption. Or you could vote for me. It appears as though the judges are not fans of my caption...
************
Killer first line of the moment:
"Black and yellow lichen-spotted limestone"
from Aaron Baker's "Above Kerowagi"
(Mission Work, Houghton-Mifflin, 2008)
************
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Blogging While Students Take a Test
This is a new experience for me. I'm feel as though my key-strokes are exceedingly loud, disruptive even. Let's hope the kids do better on this test than their first--in which I had 5 students score below a 50. I think they're ready. We just finished a unit on Modern Africa and are gearing up to watch Hotel Rwanda (a surprisingly PG-13 movie...) to close out the first quarter.
Hard to believe we're 1/4th of the way through the school year. This comes as half-encouraging, half-overwhelming....
************
Speaking of the school year, our basketball team starts out the year ranked third in the nation. Looking forward to seeing these guys play.
************
Looks like I'm a finalist in the caption contest over at Avoiding the Muse. Wish I could say I'm happy just to be included, but I'll be honest: I want to win. Look at those prizes! Stay tuned for the soon-to-come picture captioning extravaganza....
*************
Killer first line of the moment:
"The most beautiful order is still"
from Martine Bellen's "Cucina"
(This Art: Poems About Poetry, Copper Canyon Press, 2003)
*************
Starting to get antsy about still lingering submissions, hoping to hear back sometime soon from those I sent last Spring. Even queried at a few places, something I've never done before (and likely won't do again). It doesn't seem to do much other than annoy the editors. Anyway, I'll post should anything happen on that front.
The Hollins Critic did take a poem the other day. It's a place where my reviews have shown up before and I'm stoked to be appearing there as a poet, especially considering the other poets who have been featured in the past 6 months (R.T. Smith, George Garrett, Charlotte Matthews, Richard Dillard, etc.). I felt a little guilty sending there as I just finished an MFA at Hollins, but I knew I'd want to show up there eventually so I figured I might as well try straight off.
**************
My students have never heard of Gang Starr. They immediately lost any and all street cred I thought they had.
Hard to believe we're 1/4th of the way through the school year. This comes as half-encouraging, half-overwhelming....
************
Speaking of the school year, our basketball team starts out the year ranked third in the nation. Looking forward to seeing these guys play.
************
Looks like I'm a finalist in the caption contest over at Avoiding the Muse. Wish I could say I'm happy just to be included, but I'll be honest: I want to win. Look at those prizes! Stay tuned for the soon-to-come picture captioning extravaganza....
*************
Killer first line of the moment:
"The most beautiful order is still"
from Martine Bellen's "Cucina"
(This Art: Poems About Poetry, Copper Canyon Press, 2003)
*************
Starting to get antsy about still lingering submissions, hoping to hear back sometime soon from those I sent last Spring. Even queried at a few places, something I've never done before (and likely won't do again). It doesn't seem to do much other than annoy the editors. Anyway, I'll post should anything happen on that front.
The Hollins Critic did take a poem the other day. It's a place where my reviews have shown up before and I'm stoked to be appearing there as a poet, especially considering the other poets who have been featured in the past 6 months (R.T. Smith, George Garrett, Charlotte Matthews, Richard Dillard, etc.). I felt a little guilty sending there as I just finished an MFA at Hollins, but I knew I'd want to show up there eventually so I figured I might as well try straight off.
**************
My students have never heard of Gang Starr. They immediately lost any and all street cred I thought they had.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Poems
A new-ish poem, one of two that has been written since school started. This makes me very nervous. Anyway, the writing group peeps will recognize this, and it's to disappear shortly:
*plish*
*****************
I miss having people around who care about poetry. Maybe it's just people in general. Yeah.
******************
Happy where I am, but just for kicks, and very likely because of the above statement, I plan on throwing my hat in a few rings this Winter. The fellowships: Stegner, Wisconsin, Provincetown, Colgate, and the Philip Roth residency at Bucknell. And, for now, the creative writing PhDs: Florida State, Wisconsin-Milwaukee, Texas Tech, Southern Miss, Illinois-Chicago, and Utah. One or two off of that last list will likely drop based on my willingness to take the GRE Subject Test (a terrible reason, I admit).
******************
Killer first line of the moment:
"Pretty face, pretty girl,"
from Ellen Bryant-Voigt's "Variations: Two Trees"
(Messenger: New and Selected Poems 1976-2006, W.W. Norton, 2007)
******************
Growing up in Ithaca, there wasn't much in the way of professional sports. But we had Cornell hockey. If you didn't know, Cornell's Lynah Rink is the equivalent of Duke's Cameron Indoor when it comes to rowdiness. What can I say, smart kids know how to coordinate clever chants. So with that in mind and college hockey getting underway...
*plish*
*****************
I miss having people around who care about poetry. Maybe it's just people in general. Yeah.
******************
Happy where I am, but just for kicks, and very likely because of the above statement, I plan on throwing my hat in a few rings this Winter. The fellowships: Stegner, Wisconsin, Provincetown, Colgate, and the Philip Roth residency at Bucknell. And, for now, the creative writing PhDs: Florida State, Wisconsin-Milwaukee, Texas Tech, Southern Miss, Illinois-Chicago, and Utah. One or two off of that last list will likely drop based on my willingness to take the GRE Subject Test (a terrible reason, I admit).
******************
Killer first line of the moment:
"Pretty face, pretty girl,"
from Ellen Bryant-Voigt's "Variations: Two Trees"
(Messenger: New and Selected Poems 1976-2006, W.W. Norton, 2007)
******************
Growing up in Ithaca, there wasn't much in the way of professional sports. But we had Cornell hockey. If you didn't know, Cornell's Lynah Rink is the equivalent of Duke's Cameron Indoor when it comes to rowdiness. What can I say, smart kids know how to coordinate clever chants. So with that in mind and college hockey getting underway...
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Jolly Green Grunge
Cleaned the whole of the apartment today. We're talking kitchen countertops to toilet bowls. There were scrubbing bubbles everywhere. Mildew, soap scum, and grease stains ran in horror. I'm cleaning mainly because my Dad is visiting tomorrow to watch the foliage (pronounced foll-idge) change all sorts of freaky colors. I don't clean because I want to impress him (I do, but I could care less about my general cleanliness), but because I know he would clean if I gave him the chance. I'd much rather him hang on the couch while Boone does his worst. So I cleaned and listened to the entirety of Nirvana Unplugged (twice).
There was a stain on my oven-top shaped like Africa. I wiped it away with Mr. Clean and felt like a racist. Seriously, if any of the 50s advertising icons are members of the Klan, it's definitely Mr. Clean. Lord knows the Jolly Green Giant wasn't. You know what they say about green people...
*************
Had a poem, a sestina, taken to appear in the upcoming Fall issue of Waccamaw. It's a web-zine I dig, even though it's still way young. Looking forward to reading the issue when it debuts late October/early November. Do people know Waccamaw or am I a victim of my Southerly bias here? Is it piss-small?
*************
David Roderick has an awesome poem in the new issue of Memorious. So does Frank Giampietro. So does Jennifer Chang. You should probably just go read the dang thing.
**************
Killer first line of the moment:
"I want to write about God and suffering and how the trees endure what we"
from Marie Howe's "Wanting a Child"
(What the Living Do, W.W. Norton, 1998)
***************
Snow in the forecast for this weekend. This makes me smile, I'm eager to see the puppy tilt his head in confusion at the sky, the ground. The heater in my apartment has kicked on. I wore wool socks with dress shoes yesterday.
****************
There was a stain on my oven-top shaped like Africa. I wiped it away with Mr. Clean and felt like a racist. Seriously, if any of the 50s advertising icons are members of the Klan, it's definitely Mr. Clean. Lord knows the Jolly Green Giant wasn't. You know what they say about green people...
*************
Had a poem, a sestina, taken to appear in the upcoming Fall issue of Waccamaw. It's a web-zine I dig, even though it's still way young. Looking forward to reading the issue when it debuts late October/early November. Do people know Waccamaw or am I a victim of my Southerly bias here? Is it piss-small?
*************
David Roderick has an awesome poem in the new issue of Memorious. So does Frank Giampietro. So does Jennifer Chang. You should probably just go read the dang thing.
**************
Killer first line of the moment:
"I want to write about God and suffering and how the trees endure what we"
from Marie Howe's "Wanting a Child"
(What the Living Do, W.W. Norton, 1998)
***************
Snow in the forecast for this weekend. This makes me smile, I'm eager to see the puppy tilt his head in confusion at the sky, the ground. The heater in my apartment has kicked on. I wore wool socks with dress shoes yesterday.
****************
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Lusting After Names
Your name is better than mine: more memorable, more unique, more mellifluous.
This bothers me.
My name has been a passing concern of mine for quite some time. If you haven't noticed, I have a very boring, very Anglo-Saxon-y white guy name. Nothing against Anglo-Saxons and white guys, I happen to be happy inhabiting both of those roles, but when I see a poet name like Baron Wormser--I feel an intense jealousy. Sure, I've coveted other names: Hadley Higginson, W.D. Snodgrass, Major Jackson; but something about Baron Wormser is different. It's good to the point where I suspect foul play. Did his mother know he would write gorgeous poems about working in the woods? Did he stealthily change his name from something boring like Ron Smith? Is he a real person at all or just a name sitting on a mountain-top laughing and pointing at our inferior names?
It makes me wonder: have you ever read a poem (I'm thinking in a journal rather than a whole collection) simply because of the poet's name? I know I have--though usually it's the poem title that will draw more hits. I actually thought about going by Luke T. Johnson for awhile, that is, until I saw I'd been beaten to the punch. But enough harping, I've learned to accept my inferior name. On the plus side, it is very rarely mispronounced.
Am I alone in this? Any other names folks out there lust after?
*************
This headline made me laugh.
**************
Killer first line of the moment:
"Rabinowitz tries to crawl"
from Baron Wormser's "Calendar (1956)"
(Scattered Chapters, Sarabande Books, 2008)
***************
I've always been a Levi's guy, but now I know why. I'm digging the new commercial, complete with Walt Whitman's scratchy scratchy voice.
This bothers me.
My name has been a passing concern of mine for quite some time. If you haven't noticed, I have a very boring, very Anglo-Saxon-y white guy name. Nothing against Anglo-Saxons and white guys, I happen to be happy inhabiting both of those roles, but when I see a poet name like Baron Wormser--I feel an intense jealousy. Sure, I've coveted other names: Hadley Higginson, W.D. Snodgrass, Major Jackson; but something about Baron Wormser is different. It's good to the point where I suspect foul play. Did his mother know he would write gorgeous poems about working in the woods? Did he stealthily change his name from something boring like Ron Smith? Is he a real person at all or just a name sitting on a mountain-top laughing and pointing at our inferior names?
It makes me wonder: have you ever read a poem (I'm thinking in a journal rather than a whole collection) simply because of the poet's name? I know I have--though usually it's the poem title that will draw more hits. I actually thought about going by Luke T. Johnson for awhile, that is, until I saw I'd been beaten to the punch. But enough harping, I've learned to accept my inferior name. On the plus side, it is very rarely mispronounced.
Am I alone in this? Any other names folks out there lust after?
*************
This headline made me laugh.
**************
Killer first line of the moment:
"Rabinowitz tries to crawl"
from Baron Wormser's "Calendar (1956)"
(Scattered Chapters, Sarabande Books, 2008)
***************
I've always been a Levi's guy, but now I know why. I'm digging the new commercial, complete with Walt Whitman's scratchy scratchy voice.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Equinox as Harbinger of Doom
No need to panic. Though my title may be hyperbolizing the situation, I do think Fall is upon us. While I'm thrilled to be wearing a fleece during my short walk from house to school-building, I'm less-than-thrilled by the mountains of work. We just finished our first interim which means grades are due, which means mountains of journals and quizzes on my coffee table. Real mountains good. Figurative mountains bad.
Fortunately, this first fall weekend brings with it my first real weekend since school started. We've had classes on Saturday morning for the past three weeks, so needless to say I'm excited about the prospect of two consecutive days sleeping past 5 a.m. (though not much later as Boone starts getting restless around 8). Parent-teacher conferences on Friday--I'm hoping these will be interesting: how much more you understand about the way a child behaves after meeting their parents.
*****************
Lots of new string-oriented music in my life. Bought the Monsters of Folk record, after hearing all the hype--haven't yet given it the time it deserves. Also picked up the new Yonder, the new Avetts, and the Grizzly Bear CD. With road-trips in my future, I'm happy to have some new tunes. Also have a stack of music from Lisa Fay--so the road-trips are necessary to make sure I get to listen to it all.
******************
More rejections. Though, I did get a strange bit of inside information that has me grinning. More on that front once I get the official word. Can hardly believe how quickly some of these magazines move.
In other publication news: check out the newest RATTLE e-issue. It's humbling to see the other folks who will be included in the upcoming issue. Nice to see that helladocious cover, too. There's also an interesting first book interview in there with Bruce Cohen. Makes me that much more excited to get my hands on the damn thing.
********************
Killer opening line of the moment:
"A shilling life will give you all the facts:"
from W.H. Auden's "Who's Who"
(Penguin Book of the Sonnet, 2001)
*********************
Usually spoken-word/SLAM poetry is extremely hit-or-miss for me, which is odd as I have such an interest in poetry and rap both (those 2 rap albums I recorded in undergrad serve as evidence of the latter). But I stumbled across this video and was heartened, moved even:
Fortunately, this first fall weekend brings with it my first real weekend since school started. We've had classes on Saturday morning for the past three weeks, so needless to say I'm excited about the prospect of two consecutive days sleeping past 5 a.m. (though not much later as Boone starts getting restless around 8). Parent-teacher conferences on Friday--I'm hoping these will be interesting: how much more you understand about the way a child behaves after meeting their parents.
*****************
Lots of new string-oriented music in my life. Bought the Monsters of Folk record, after hearing all the hype--haven't yet given it the time it deserves. Also picked up the new Yonder, the new Avetts, and the Grizzly Bear CD. With road-trips in my future, I'm happy to have some new tunes. Also have a stack of music from Lisa Fay--so the road-trips are necessary to make sure I get to listen to it all.
******************
More rejections. Though, I did get a strange bit of inside information that has me grinning. More on that front once I get the official word. Can hardly believe how quickly some of these magazines move.
In other publication news: check out the newest RATTLE e-issue. It's humbling to see the other folks who will be included in the upcoming issue. Nice to see that helladocious cover, too. There's also an interesting first book interview in there with Bruce Cohen. Makes me that much more excited to get my hands on the damn thing.
********************
Killer opening line of the moment:
"A shilling life will give you all the facts:"
from W.H. Auden's "Who's Who"
(Penguin Book of the Sonnet, 2001)
*********************
Usually spoken-word/SLAM poetry is extremely hit-or-miss for me, which is odd as I have such an interest in poetry and rap both (those 2 rap albums I recorded in undergrad serve as evidence of the latter). But I stumbled across this video and was heartened, moved even:
Monday, September 21, 2009
Spontaneous Awesome
The rain is creeping in. Every so often you feel a chill crawl down the collar of your shirt and you wish you had a sweater on, sitcoms are reappearing on network television, the equinox is tomorrow and from tree-top to tree-top leaves are contemplating a change of wardrobe, but most importantly, most essentially and obviously heralding an encroaching autumn, flag-football has started here in the mountains of Southwest Virginia. I'm proud to announce our faculty team trounced a team of tenth graders 40-20. Yeah, that's right. We're those guys.
***********
Yonder Mountain has a new album. For me, the jury is still out, though I'm happy to have some new tunes to rock to while I grade.
***********
Killer first line of the now:
"Like battered old millhands, they stand in the orchard—"
from the W.D. Snodgrass poem "Old Apple Trees"
(Not for Specialists: New and Selected Poems, BOA Editions, 2006)
I love this poem. There's so much to be learned from the way Snodgrass turns the poem. I tried to find the full-text so I could post a link, but it turns out the only one that seems to exist is to the New Yorker, where the poem was originally published, but access requires a subscription, which I have, though I bristle at having to prove this. Regardless--a great poem that closes with these lines, made all the more powerful after the giant leaps the poem manages to navigate (from orchards to dive bars to ancient Thebes):
Soon, each one of us will be taken
By dark powers under the ground
That drove us here, that warped us.
Not one of us got it his own way.
Nothing like any one of us
Will be seen again, forever.
Each of us held some noble shape in mind.
It seemed better that we kept alive.
Please. Find this poem. Read it. Eat an apple. Stir.
***********
This. Video. Rules. Make sure you hang in there until a little after a minute...
***********
Yonder Mountain has a new album. For me, the jury is still out, though I'm happy to have some new tunes to rock to while I grade.
***********
Killer first line of the now:
"Like battered old millhands, they stand in the orchard—"
from the W.D. Snodgrass poem "Old Apple Trees"
(Not for Specialists: New and Selected Poems, BOA Editions, 2006)
I love this poem. There's so much to be learned from the way Snodgrass turns the poem. I tried to find the full-text so I could post a link, but it turns out the only one that seems to exist is to the New Yorker, where the poem was originally published, but access requires a subscription, which I have, though I bristle at having to prove this. Regardless--a great poem that closes with these lines, made all the more powerful after the giant leaps the poem manages to navigate (from orchards to dive bars to ancient Thebes):
Soon, each one of us will be taken
By dark powers under the ground
That drove us here, that warped us.
Not one of us got it his own way.
Nothing like any one of us
Will be seen again, forever.
Each of us held some noble shape in mind.
It seemed better that we kept alive.
Please. Find this poem. Read it. Eat an apple. Stir.
***********
This. Video. Rules. Make sure you hang in there until a little after a minute...
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Teeth and Nostalgia
"For, though he did not know it, and despite the Hoover tube that lay on the passenger seat pumping from the exhaust pipe into his lungs, luck was with him that morning. the thinnest covering of luck was on him like fresh dew. While he slipped in and out of consciousness, the position of the planets, the music of the spheres, the flap of a tiger moth's diaphanous wings in Central Africa, and a whole bunch of other stuff that Makes Shit Happen had decided it was second chance time for Archie. Somewhere, somehow, by somebody, it had been decided that he would live."
From "White Teeth" by Zadie Smith
I'm teaching this book to my 12th graders this year. Reading it for the first time just now, and feeling silly for not having read it before...
***************
This may be the finest craft talk I've ever seen...
***************
Boone has sharp teeth. He made my father's hands bleed last weekend. Despite all of the toys scattered around the living room, Boone's favorite things to chew on seem to be empty Gatorade bottles, the hem of my khakis, and geriatric hands endeavoring to pet him.
***************
J-E-L-L-O--responsible for the presidency?
****************
Back on the rejection train (not that I was ever off of it) as the first of my most recent batch of submissions came back with an unmarked form slip. 13 days. Those poems must have been stinking up the office...
****************
I need to see John Legend in concert...
From "White Teeth" by Zadie Smith
I'm teaching this book to my 12th graders this year. Reading it for the first time just now, and feeling silly for not having read it before...
***************
This may be the finest craft talk I've ever seen...
***************
Boone has sharp teeth. He made my father's hands bleed last weekend. Despite all of the toys scattered around the living room, Boone's favorite things to chew on seem to be empty Gatorade bottles, the hem of my khakis, and geriatric hands endeavoring to pet him.
***************
J-E-L-L-O--responsible for the presidency?
****************
Back on the rejection train (not that I was ever off of it) as the first of my most recent batch of submissions came back with an unmarked form slip. 13 days. Those poems must have been stinking up the office...
****************
I need to see John Legend in concert...
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Sunday Funday
Well, I survived my first week of teaching, including Saturday morning classes. Needless to say, one day was not nearly enough to recover and do the whole thing again, but let's hope that I start to fall into the rhythm of this schedule. I had big plans of sleeping-in this morning, though Boone decided he needed to go to the bathroom at 6. He pawed the back of my neck until I complied. The good news: I got my long-run in early (in preparation for a half-marathon in Raleigh). The bad news: until Boone outgrows puppydom, there will be no languishing beneath the covers until the afternoon.
**************
I've always thought I was a pretty good blogger, maybe it's time I go pro...
**************
Killer opening line of the moment:
"It came with the osprey, the cormorants, the air"
from Eavan Boland's "How the Dance Came to the City"
(A Fine Statement: An Irish Poets' Anthology; John McDonagh, Ed.; Poolbeg Press, 2008)
***************
Boone's new favorite hobby is dragging my underwear from the laundry pile to the living room rug. This is problematic when I have guests.
****************
In honor of MJ's induction into the Hall of Fame (apologies for the gratuitous shots of Eminem):
**************
I've always thought I was a pretty good blogger, maybe it's time I go pro...
**************
Killer opening line of the moment:
"It came with the osprey, the cormorants, the air"
from Eavan Boland's "How the Dance Came to the City"
(A Fine Statement: An Irish Poets' Anthology; John McDonagh, Ed.; Poolbeg Press, 2008)
***************
Boone's new favorite hobby is dragging my underwear from the laundry pile to the living room rug. This is problematic when I have guests.
****************
In honor of MJ's induction into the Hall of Fame (apologies for the gratuitous shots of Eminem):
Friday, September 4, 2009
Lessons in Maintaining
School starts on Monday, and I can't help but feel dreadfully unprepared. The super-sweet posters I ordered for my classroom won't arrive until the second week of school. My teaching load did get slimmed down to six sections of four different classes (2 sections of English 12, 2 of English 10, 1 of Creative Writing, 1 of College-Credit English). So that's a good thing, I'd say. Any suggestions for a good novel for the English 12 class (it's British Lit.). Last year's class read 1984, but that doesn't feel meaty enough for the modern novel portion of the class. Any suggestions would be much appreciated...
***********
Made an emergency trip to the vet two nights ago. At the faculty/staff picnic, Boone somehow got himself some meat which conveniently lodged itself in his esophogus. After a terrifying 40 minute ride to the vet, we got everything taken care of and he's back to his wagging, chewing, barking-self. Much trouble as he's been, I wouldn't trade this dog for anything. He sleeps in the bed these days, watches television on the couch, and will sit if you give him a treat.
************
I'm not the biggest fan of twitter, but I have found one that I think is pretty funny...
*************
Congrats to Keith for all his recent poem-publishing ass-kicking. Though, I have to say, it does make me anxious about all the poems I currently have out in the wind. Ever notice how hearing about others' acceptances makes you remember how long it's been since your last one? But it doesn't make me any less happy to hear about good people (and good poets) getting their work out there...
**************
My latest obsession: Sarah Jarosz. In this video, she's 17. Since, she's turned 18 and released a CD that has yet to leave my stereo...
******************
Killer opening line of the now:
"The knives are calling"
from Aaron Baker's "Spirits of the Low Ground"
(Mission Work, Houghton Mifflin, 2008)
***********
Made an emergency trip to the vet two nights ago. At the faculty/staff picnic, Boone somehow got himself some meat which conveniently lodged itself in his esophogus. After a terrifying 40 minute ride to the vet, we got everything taken care of and he's back to his wagging, chewing, barking-self. Much trouble as he's been, I wouldn't trade this dog for anything. He sleeps in the bed these days, watches television on the couch, and will sit if you give him a treat.
************
I'm not the biggest fan of twitter, but I have found one that I think is pretty funny...
*************
Congrats to Keith for all his recent poem-publishing ass-kicking. Though, I have to say, it does make me anxious about all the poems I currently have out in the wind. Ever notice how hearing about others' acceptances makes you remember how long it's been since your last one? But it doesn't make me any less happy to hear about good people (and good poets) getting their work out there...
**************
My latest obsession: Sarah Jarosz. In this video, she's 17. Since, she's turned 18 and released a CD that has yet to leave my stereo...
******************
Killer opening line of the now:
"The knives are calling"
from Aaron Baker's "Spirits of the Low Ground"
(Mission Work, Houghton Mifflin, 2008)
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Thinking in Poems
I watched The Way of the Gun at 6 this morning. Why was I up that early on a Saturday, you ask? Well because Boone was--we're still struggling with the crate thing. But I forgot how much I enjoyed that movie. As far as action flicks go, it's up there. Truth be told, Boone and I fell asleep together on the couch soon after the movie started, but I did get to see that great opening scene (Sarah Silverman!). I really love when the Carrot Top guy says "man dance."
******************
I've been lucky lately to trade some poems with great people. It's been nice to put that hat back on, after spending much of the Summer (aside from Sewanee) not thinking too much about poems and how they work. But many thanks to good pal Will for his lighted comments on some of my newer poems and for indulging me by listening to what I have to say regarding his work. Thanks, too, to Keith for agreeing to looking at my manuscript and sharing his newest with me. I've also got Lisa Fay and my online writing group. And the list of generous souls goes on.
All of this as a long-winded way of saying: Thank God for generous, intelligent people, folks who care about poetry. It's often such a slog to get the work out there, to find someone who cares enough about the work to read it, let alone to try and say something worthwhile about it. I'm thankful for the many happy accidents that crossed my path with all you good-for-nothing poets.
*******************
September 1st is right around the corner: where are you sending your first batch of Fall submissions?
*******************
Have you read this poem? It pains me that I've taken so long to discover Alan Shapiro's work...
********************
Killer opening line of the now:
"The pilfered nest rests easily on the palm,"
from Cathryn Hankla's "Not Having Read The Poetics of Space"
(Last Exposures, LSU Press, 2001)
*********************
I have a house phone for the first time since I lived with my parents. I feel so...domestic.
******************
I've been lucky lately to trade some poems with great people. It's been nice to put that hat back on, after spending much of the Summer (aside from Sewanee) not thinking too much about poems and how they work. But many thanks to good pal Will for his lighted comments on some of my newer poems and for indulging me by listening to what I have to say regarding his work. Thanks, too, to Keith for agreeing to looking at my manuscript and sharing his newest with me. I've also got Lisa Fay and my online writing group. And the list of generous souls goes on.
All of this as a long-winded way of saying: Thank God for generous, intelligent people, folks who care about poetry. It's often such a slog to get the work out there, to find someone who cares enough about the work to read it, let alone to try and say something worthwhile about it. I'm thankful for the many happy accidents that crossed my path with all you good-for-nothing poets.
*******************
September 1st is right around the corner: where are you sending your first batch of Fall submissions?
*******************
Have you read this poem? It pains me that I've taken so long to discover Alan Shapiro's work...
********************
Killer opening line of the now:
"The pilfered nest rests easily on the palm,"
from Cathryn Hankla's "Not Having Read The Poetics of Space"
(Last Exposures, LSU Press, 2001)
*********************
I have a house phone for the first time since I lived with my parents. I feel so...domestic.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
New Places, New Faces
Firstly, most importantly, most life changingly, meet Boone:
Half-Redbone Coonhound, half Lab (we think), Boone came from a shelter and a litter of 11 pups. He loves: his Babar blanket, his bear, endeavoring to trip unsuspecting walkers by darting through their legs, and, pooping. He does not love: sleeping in his crate, learning to sit, ponies. More to come on this front as we go. Needless to say, he's awesome and I'm excited to have a new member of the family. I've been poking around Robert Morgan's biography of Daniel Boone, aptly titled "Boone" to make sure I've chosen the right name. Instinct tells me I have. Sorry for the false leads with the previous name poll, but none of them seemed to fit...
*************
I've moved into the house in Mouth of Wilson. It's gorgeous here. See pictures below. But it's nice to finally be out of boxes, out of my car. Lots to do as I prep to teach five (count em') classes this Fall. Trying to write, failing. Trying to make up for not submitting all Summer, succeeding. Got a nice rejection note from the new poetry editor of the New Republic, Rachel Wetzsteon. Lots of poems in the mail to lots of places that are likely out of my league. Cross your fingers, I'll cross my toes.
*************
The Little League World Series are heating up. Me, I'm rooting for the kids from Georgia. Just so long as California doesn't win, what with their Goliath that stole my name.
*************
I have to drive 20 minutes and cross a state line to get to a grocery store.
**************
More poetry stuff later. Otherways, it's good to be back on the interwebs. For now, some views from my backyard:
Half-Redbone Coonhound, half Lab (we think), Boone came from a shelter and a litter of 11 pups. He loves: his Babar blanket, his bear, endeavoring to trip unsuspecting walkers by darting through their legs, and, pooping. He does not love: sleeping in his crate, learning to sit, ponies. More to come on this front as we go. Needless to say, he's awesome and I'm excited to have a new member of the family. I've been poking around Robert Morgan's biography of Daniel Boone, aptly titled "Boone" to make sure I've chosen the right name. Instinct tells me I have. Sorry for the false leads with the previous name poll, but none of them seemed to fit...
*************
I've moved into the house in Mouth of Wilson. It's gorgeous here. See pictures below. But it's nice to finally be out of boxes, out of my car. Lots to do as I prep to teach five (count em') classes this Fall. Trying to write, failing. Trying to make up for not submitting all Summer, succeeding. Got a nice rejection note from the new poetry editor of the New Republic, Rachel Wetzsteon. Lots of poems in the mail to lots of places that are likely out of my league. Cross your fingers, I'll cross my toes.
*************
The Little League World Series are heating up. Me, I'm rooting for the kids from Georgia. Just so long as California doesn't win, what with their Goliath that stole my name.
*************
I have to drive 20 minutes and cross a state line to get to a grocery store.
**************
More poetry stuff later. Otherways, it's good to be back on the interwebs. For now, some views from my backyard:
Thursday, August 13, 2009
After the Meteor Shower
Watched the Perseids last night from the Guide Deck at NARR. My liver was having Sewanee flashbacks and we didn't see many meteors. But we did see a few spectacular ones with bright, persistent trails (a term I just learned this morning). I will miss West Virginia nights, people bouncing from cabin to cabin, living in a place where it's possible for 8 raft guides to find themselves drinking bourbon, stretched out across the deck watching the sky for moving light.
*******************
Reading Wendell Berry's Selected Poems. This excerpt, from his sequence "Window Poems," struck me as relevant, artful, and true:
Rising, the river
is wild. There is no end
to what one may imagine
whose lands and buildings
lie in its reach. To one
who has felt his little boat
taken this way and that
in the braided currents
it is beyond speech.
"What's the river doing?"
"Coming up."
*******************
I may be the only person who finds this funny, because I recognize some of the places/people. But yeah, if you've got some free time...
******************
Sent out some poems yesterday, likely to places I have no business submitting to, but I'm trying to get back in that frame of mind. I'll try for a few more today.
******************
Tonight's my last night in the tent, at NARR. Heading to DC on Friday Night to join some friends for a Phish show on Saturday. Not a huge Phish phan, but I've been told the concerts themselves are an experience, between the lights, the party, and the people. So here we go. Then on Sunday/Monday it's moving-in. Lots to do, little time to think. Let's rock.
*******************
Reading Wendell Berry's Selected Poems. This excerpt, from his sequence "Window Poems," struck me as relevant, artful, and true:
Rising, the river
is wild. There is no end
to what one may imagine
whose lands and buildings
lie in its reach. To one
who has felt his little boat
taken this way and that
in the braided currents
it is beyond speech.
"What's the river doing?"
"Coming up."
*******************
I may be the only person who finds this funny, because I recognize some of the places/people. But yeah, if you've got some free time...
******************
Sent out some poems yesterday, likely to places I have no business submitting to, but I'm trying to get back in that frame of mind. I'll try for a few more today.
******************
Tonight's my last night in the tent, at NARR. Heading to DC on Friday Night to join some friends for a Phish show on Saturday. Not a huge Phish phan, but I've been told the concerts themselves are an experience, between the lights, the party, and the people. So here we go. Then on Sunday/Monday it's moving-in. Lots to do, little time to think. Let's rock.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Things Written While Playing with a Rubberband Ball
I missed this at the time, but kick-ass harmonica player (poet, too) and friend Stephen Kampa had a killer poem up on verse daily the other day. Stephen showed me a new way to appreciate Robert Penn Warren while we were at Sewanee. Try imagining every Penn Warren poem you love vocalized through the voice of Shrek. It will blow your mind.
*************
Have a lead on some puppies (Golden Retriever/Husky mix). Still trying to make sure I get the right puppy for my situation. Not sure if I'm ready for husky, though if they're more Golden Retriever-y, I may be interested. Potential names (feel free to weigh in, blogosphere, to make suggestions): Elroy, Jasper, Elvis, Banjo, Rocket, Roger, Saint (the last name suggestion comes courtesy of the aforementioned Kampa). As you might guess from the names, it's going to be a boy dog...
**************
Read Alan Shapiro's Tantalus in Love the other night. I couldn't help but read it in one go. Such a gorgeous and honest book. I wish I had more intelligent things to say, but I don't. Read, appreciate, discuss.
**************
Does everyone remember this video? I remember watching it when it came out and being supremely confused. Why I'm thinking about this today? No one knows...
*************
Have a lead on some puppies (Golden Retriever/Husky mix). Still trying to make sure I get the right puppy for my situation. Not sure if I'm ready for husky, though if they're more Golden Retriever-y, I may be interested. Potential names (feel free to weigh in, blogosphere, to make suggestions): Elroy, Jasper, Elvis, Banjo, Rocket, Roger, Saint (the last name suggestion comes courtesy of the aforementioned Kampa). As you might guess from the names, it's going to be a boy dog...
**************
Read Alan Shapiro's Tantalus in Love the other night. I couldn't help but read it in one go. Such a gorgeous and honest book. I wish I had more intelligent things to say, but I don't. Read, appreciate, discuss.
**************
Does everyone remember this video? I remember watching it when it came out and being supremely confused. Why I'm thinking about this today? No one knows...
Friday, August 7, 2009
Dispatches from Nearly 2,000 Feet
Here in Hico, WV (Elevation: 1,818 ft.) thinking about moving to Mouth of Wilson, Virginia (Elevation: 3,400 ft.) in just about a week. Excited to be moving up in the world, or at least in the mountains. Things I will miss about living in a tent: the sound of rain on the tarp, writing poems longhand by the light of my headlamp, wildlife. Things I will not miss about living in my tent: the dampness (book covers curl, t-shirts absorb, sleeping bags dampen), the very ferocious looking spider living between my tent and my rain fly, the limited and equally depressing bathroom options.
*******************
Save Pete the Moose!
*******************
On one of the things I will miss: out in my tent, I've been writing more routinely than usual. Here's what last night turned up, a very early draft, to disappear shortly...
*plish*
****************
Killer opening line of the moment:
"Days pass and years vanish, and we sleep-"
from Alan Shapiro's "Invocation"
(Tantalus in Love, Mariner Books, 2005)
****************
T-minus 13 days until Puppy.
*******************
Save Pete the Moose!
*******************
On one of the things I will miss: out in my tent, I've been writing more routinely than usual. Here's what last night turned up, a very early draft, to disappear shortly...
*plish*
****************
Killer opening line of the moment:
"Days pass and years vanish, and we sleep-"
from Alan Shapiro's "Invocation"
(Tantalus in Love, Mariner Books, 2005)
****************
T-minus 13 days until Puppy.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
On Why I'm Not a Businessman
Since it's out there, I might as well throw a penny in the fountain. The whole Seth Abramson thing: I'd like to drop a big, steaming pile of I don't care on this. Would I have considered using such a consulting service when I was applying to grad school? Absolutely not. Do I think others should? Absolutely not. Do I care if some people do choose to use this service? Absolutely not. As far as larger comments on the nature of the MFA go, I think anyone who has done any amount of reserach on the degree knows what they are and are not good for (are not good for: guaranteeing jobs, "turning you into a writer"; are good for: conversation starters at parties, time to read and write, meeting agreeable and not-so-agreeable folks, coasters).
***************
I don't think I've ever said it on here, but I really dig reading lit mag reviews. Especially now that I'm removed from the treasure trove of back issues we had in the Hollins grad lounge. There, I could page through pretty much any journal I wanted to get my hands on, though it may have been outdated, at least it was something. Now I'm left to peruse websites for research, read the litmag reviews, and (*gasp*) subscribe to journals. The above link has reviews of 2 lit mags that I had poems in (BPJ and NYQ). It's interesting to read these. I can't help but think: I know you read my poem, so why didn't you say anything about it? Do you think it was a mistake it was in there? Was it just so bland that it didn't bear mentioning? Simply my egomaniac-neurosis on the loose...
***************
A tangentially related question: how do people feel about sending work to places where you've already published in the past? I haven't done this yet, but with a new submission season almost upon us, I've been thinking about sending some work to places I've enjoyed showing up in. Are there any rules I don't know about in this respect? A certain amount of time one should wait from last appearance to re-submission? Educate me, blogosphere.
***************
Killer opening-line of the moment:
"The woman who taught me to curse first gave me She-Ra dolls."
--from "In Praise of Lies" by James Allen Hall
(Now You're the Enemy, University of Arkansas Press, 2008)
****************
Anna Sutton reads poems!
***************
I don't think I've ever said it on here, but I really dig reading lit mag reviews. Especially now that I'm removed from the treasure trove of back issues we had in the Hollins grad lounge. There, I could page through pretty much any journal I wanted to get my hands on, though it may have been outdated, at least it was something. Now I'm left to peruse websites for research, read the litmag reviews, and (*gasp*) subscribe to journals. The above link has reviews of 2 lit mags that I had poems in (BPJ and NYQ). It's interesting to read these. I can't help but think: I know you read my poem, so why didn't you say anything about it? Do you think it was a mistake it was in there? Was it just so bland that it didn't bear mentioning? Simply my egomaniac-neurosis on the loose...
***************
A tangentially related question: how do people feel about sending work to places where you've already published in the past? I haven't done this yet, but with a new submission season almost upon us, I've been thinking about sending some work to places I've enjoyed showing up in. Are there any rules I don't know about in this respect? A certain amount of time one should wait from last appearance to re-submission? Educate me, blogosphere.
***************
Killer opening-line of the moment:
"The woman who taught me to curse first gave me She-Ra dolls."
--from "In Praise of Lies" by James Allen Hall
(Now You're the Enemy, University of Arkansas Press, 2008)
****************
Anna Sutton reads poems!
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Things of Varying Degrees of Thingitude
Results for Best New Poets 2009 have been announced. Congrats to Sewanee pal, Adam, and to online writing group friend Sally! I had such a great experience with BNP last year, so I'm excited to see what this year's edition will hold. Write on, writers.
**************
Really digging the first of my Sewanee books, July 7th by Jill McCorkle. A death scene from early in the book, a convenience store is being robbed and they wrapped cellophane around the cashier's head:
"He is gasping, face down, the specks on the tile floor jumping and leaping toward his face. He doesn't have the strength to move his wrists. How many nights has he stared at these specks of color in the tiles? He would trace the specks into patterns and shapes just like Maggie always did with clouds. There's a rabbit pattern beneath the stool, a sea gull in front of the Slurpee machine. Now he sees black spots mingling with the specks, the plastic creases over his eyes. The gurgling is getting further and further away. He thinks of Maggie, spooning with Maggie in that warm bed, he thinks swinging, justa swinging, the gurgling gurgle of the Slurpee machine, gurgle, the sea gull in the tile, that damp cool sea gull, gurgle, just like little Barbara all those years ago, gurgle, swinging, gurgle, justa swinging."
-from Jill McCorkle's July 7th
(Algonquin Books, 1992)
Gorgeous stuff. I keep reading.
****************
Have you heard me recite Fred Chappell? How about Claudia Emerson reciting Emily Dickinson? David Roderick doing his best Robert Hayden? Check out Frank's new website!
****************
Killer first line of the moment:
"Window. Window"
from Wendell Berry's "The Window Poems"
(Selected Poems of Wendell Berry, Counterpoint, 1998)
***************
Trying to prepare myself to send out work to journals again. I haven't really sent out any poems since April/May. I'm reenergized about some of these older (and newer) poems after sitting down with them again. I want to find them homes, good homes. So I'm getting started on my list compiling, deciding what journals are realistic, might be good places, etc. Hard to believe we're only a month away from September....
**************
Really digging the first of my Sewanee books, July 7th by Jill McCorkle. A death scene from early in the book, a convenience store is being robbed and they wrapped cellophane around the cashier's head:
"He is gasping, face down, the specks on the tile floor jumping and leaping toward his face. He doesn't have the strength to move his wrists. How many nights has he stared at these specks of color in the tiles? He would trace the specks into patterns and shapes just like Maggie always did with clouds. There's a rabbit pattern beneath the stool, a sea gull in front of the Slurpee machine. Now he sees black spots mingling with the specks, the plastic creases over his eyes. The gurgling is getting further and further away. He thinks of Maggie, spooning with Maggie in that warm bed, he thinks swinging, justa swinging, the gurgling gurgle of the Slurpee machine, gurgle, the sea gull in the tile, that damp cool sea gull, gurgle, just like little Barbara all those years ago, gurgle, swinging, gurgle, justa swinging."
-from Jill McCorkle's July 7th
(Algonquin Books, 1992)
Gorgeous stuff. I keep reading.
****************
Have you heard me recite Fred Chappell? How about Claudia Emerson reciting Emily Dickinson? David Roderick doing his best Robert Hayden? Check out Frank's new website!
****************
Killer first line of the moment:
"Window. Window"
from Wendell Berry's "The Window Poems"
(Selected Poems of Wendell Berry, Counterpoint, 1998)
***************
Trying to prepare myself to send out work to journals again. I haven't really sent out any poems since April/May. I'm reenergized about some of these older (and newer) poems after sitting down with them again. I want to find them homes, good homes. So I'm getting started on my list compiling, deciding what journals are realistic, might be good places, etc. Hard to believe we're only a month away from September....
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Poems By Heart
This one is a quickie. But a way to shout-out new Sewanee friend and amazing poet Frank Giampietro's brand-spanking-new website: Poems By Heart (http://www.poemsbyheart.org/). It's really a great idea (I think) and I'm thrilled to be a part of the first wave of poem memorizers, among such august company as Claudia Emerson and Alan Shapiro. It made me want to memorize more poems, and no, not just so I can reappear on Frank's kick-ass website (though that certainly factors in), but I do think it changes the way I think about a poem, how I try to understand its inner-workings. For this first round, I recite Fred Chappell's "A Prayer for Slowness," a poem I love, but still manage to botch just a bit. Check out the site! I promise it'll be worth your while...
Monday, July 27, 2009
Home, Of Sorts
So I'm back from Sewanee, physically at least. I imagine my mind is still gallivanting about with my liver in those Tennessee hills. It was an amazing 12 days. Totally surpassed any expectations I may have had. I had the chance to sit down and talk about my manuscript with Dave Smith, David Roderick, and Claudia Emerson. Still chewing on a lot of the things we discussed. But ultimately, I'm excited to sit down and write some new poems, as well as to revise/send out some of the older ones.
***************
Check the new blogs on the blogroll. Met lots of amazing people at Sewanee, including poet bloggers Lisa Fay Coutley and Anna Evans. Kick-ass writers, yes, but also great people who may or may not have defeated me at late-night/early-morning ping-pong. Any other Sewanee bloggers lurking out there?
****************
A very early draft of a poem, to disappear shortly:
*plish*
******************
Bought lots of books: Deborah Ager's "Midnight Voices", James Allen Hall's "Now You're the Enemy", David Roderick's "Blue Colonial", Jill McCorkle's "July 7th", Skip Horack's "The Southern Cross", Frank Giampietro's "Begin Anywhere", " Charles Sweetman's "Enterprise, Inc.", and Alan Shapiro's "Tantalus in Love". All cases in which I loved the words, but the fact they're all incredible people certainly didn't hurt...
******************
Killer opening line of the moment:
"The city is closing for the night."
from Deborah Ager's "Santa Fe in Winter"
(Midnight Voices, Cherry Grove Collections, 2009)
******************
Slept 13 hours last night. Still tired. Lots of people I need to email. Hoping to be somewhere near full functionality by the end of the week...
***************
Check the new blogs on the blogroll. Met lots of amazing people at Sewanee, including poet bloggers Lisa Fay Coutley and Anna Evans. Kick-ass writers, yes, but also great people who may or may not have defeated me at late-night/early-morning ping-pong. Any other Sewanee bloggers lurking out there?
****************
A very early draft of a poem, to disappear shortly:
*plish*
******************
Bought lots of books: Deborah Ager's "Midnight Voices", James Allen Hall's "Now You're the Enemy", David Roderick's "Blue Colonial", Jill McCorkle's "July 7th", Skip Horack's "The Southern Cross", Frank Giampietro's "Begin Anywhere", " Charles Sweetman's "Enterprise, Inc.", and Alan Shapiro's "Tantalus in Love". All cases in which I loved the words, but the fact they're all incredible people certainly didn't hurt...
******************
Killer opening line of the moment:
"The city is closing for the night."
from Deborah Ager's "Santa Fe in Winter"
(Midnight Voices, Cherry Grove Collections, 2009)
******************
Slept 13 hours last night. Still tired. Lots of people I need to email. Hoping to be somewhere near full functionality by the end of the week...
Friday, July 17, 2009
New Mountains
Here we are at Sewanee. Before I came, I had hopes of blogging on a near-daily basis. Now, I realize that there's no way that's going to happen. So this will be quick and disconnected as I'm a mere 20 minutes away from my 1-on-1 conference with Dave Smith. Fragments follow.
*************
Wildlife abounds. In late-night gallivants across the campus, I've seen herds (packs? flocks? tribes?) of deer, a family of racoons crawling into a sewage drain, and rabbits big and small, among other things.
*************
Richard Wilbur read the other night. It was, needless to say, amazing. He read one my favorites. I bumped his chair at the French house last night. He smiled in my vicinity.
Other striking readings, to name a few of all the great ones we've had so far: David Roderick, Wyatt Pruny, and Claudia Emerson (complete with a murder ballad sing-a-long at the end).
**************
My liver will have a hard time forgiving me for these two weeks.
**************
I'm overwhelmed by the number of talented people around me.
*************
Wildlife abounds. In late-night gallivants across the campus, I've seen herds (packs? flocks? tribes?) of deer, a family of racoons crawling into a sewage drain, and rabbits big and small, among other things.
*************
Richard Wilbur read the other night. It was, needless to say, amazing. He read one my favorites. I bumped his chair at the French house last night. He smiled in my vicinity.
Other striking readings, to name a few of all the great ones we've had so far: David Roderick, Wyatt Pruny, and Claudia Emerson (complete with a murder ballad sing-a-long at the end).
**************
My liver will have a hard time forgiving me for these two weeks.
**************
I'm overwhelmed by the number of talented people around me.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Anthemic
Stuck working in the office on the 4th of July. But that's the nature of the beast as far as working in the vacation industry. It's not all bad, last night I experienced my first West Virginia Independence Day celebration. It was everything I dreamed it would be: firefighters in sumo suits, young children riding around on novelty over-sized tricycles, funnel cake. I sat in a truck-bed and watched explosions in the sky (no, not them). There were cans of beer, roman candles, and national anthems (oh yes, we sang both the star spangled banner and America, The Beautiful). It was, indeed, anthemic.
************
Never got a chance to comment on my reading at Joaquin Miller Cabin in DC. It was certainly a night to be remembered. My host for the weekend and I started things off by getting stuck in traffic on Connecticut St., then getting lost in Rock Creek Park trying to find the reading site. I ended up arriving about 15 minutes after the reading was supposed to start, feeling very frazzled and embarassed (I hate being late, I hate, hate, hate it). The first reader, Melanie Henderson, really blew me away with the tautness of her poems. It was great to read alongside her as it seems as though we're both doing very different things with our work, but that's one of the things I love most about poetry readings/get-togethers/conferences: how aesthetic takes a backseat to passion for craft. It's really heartening to see a group of people, any group of people, come together and talk about poetry, or listen to poetry, or even acknowledge poetry's existence (something I'm more aware of living in a tent in the West Virginia woods). So then I read. About 4 poems in, I heard the branches above us start to rustle. It sounded like someone was tearing apart reams of paper one sheet at a time. We had about 3 seconds of recognition before the rain came down. Typhoon rain. Monsoon rain. Big, big rain. At that point, we ran for it. I grabbed the podium (A poor umbrella, a great lightning rod, as Deborah Ager pointed out) and made a bee-line for a nearby pavilion. Long story short: we finished up the reading at the reception site, all of us more or less drenched. Certainly the most exciting reading I've ever been a part of; many thanks to Kathi, Deborah, Rosemary, and Karren for organizing such a great series. And thanks, too, to everyone who came out.
**************
Killer opening line of the now:
"The room is dark and is all your body."
from "The Dream of Food" by Reynolds Price
(Vital Provisions, Atheneum, 1982)
***************
They've released the list of scholars and fellows for Sewanee. I'm starting to get excited/nervous for the Conference as it's only a little over a week away and I'm not completely sure what I'm getting myself into, but I was happy to meet Deborah Ager at the DC reading as it means there will be at least one familiar face in the crowd. Still haven't found out what workshop I'm in, who else is in it, etc., but I'm looking forward to meeting/reading some new folks. There are a lot of names there I've heard in the wind, so it will be nice to attach actual people to those names.
****************
I met a firefighter yesterday. He told me that ever since he's buzzed his hair short, sweat beads on the top of his head. He said that when he's in a fire the boiling sweat feels like a swarm of bees stinging him. This is compelling, I think.
************
Never got a chance to comment on my reading at Joaquin Miller Cabin in DC. It was certainly a night to be remembered. My host for the weekend and I started things off by getting stuck in traffic on Connecticut St., then getting lost in Rock Creek Park trying to find the reading site. I ended up arriving about 15 minutes after the reading was supposed to start, feeling very frazzled and embarassed (I hate being late, I hate, hate, hate it). The first reader, Melanie Henderson, really blew me away with the tautness of her poems. It was great to read alongside her as it seems as though we're both doing very different things with our work, but that's one of the things I love most about poetry readings/get-togethers/conferences: how aesthetic takes a backseat to passion for craft. It's really heartening to see a group of people, any group of people, come together and talk about poetry, or listen to poetry, or even acknowledge poetry's existence (something I'm more aware of living in a tent in the West Virginia woods). So then I read. About 4 poems in, I heard the branches above us start to rustle. It sounded like someone was tearing apart reams of paper one sheet at a time. We had about 3 seconds of recognition before the rain came down. Typhoon rain. Monsoon rain. Big, big rain. At that point, we ran for it. I grabbed the podium (A poor umbrella, a great lightning rod, as Deborah Ager pointed out) and made a bee-line for a nearby pavilion. Long story short: we finished up the reading at the reception site, all of us more or less drenched. Certainly the most exciting reading I've ever been a part of; many thanks to Kathi, Deborah, Rosemary, and Karren for organizing such a great series. And thanks, too, to everyone who came out.
**************
Killer opening line of the now:
"The room is dark and is all your body."
from "The Dream of Food" by Reynolds Price
(Vital Provisions, Atheneum, 1982)
***************
They've released the list of scholars and fellows for Sewanee. I'm starting to get excited/nervous for the Conference as it's only a little over a week away and I'm not completely sure what I'm getting myself into, but I was happy to meet Deborah Ager at the DC reading as it means there will be at least one familiar face in the crowd. Still haven't found out what workshop I'm in, who else is in it, etc., but I'm looking forward to meeting/reading some new folks. There are a lot of names there I've heard in the wind, so it will be nice to attach actual people to those names.
****************
I met a firefighter yesterday. He told me that ever since he's buzzed his hair short, sweat beads on the top of his head. He said that when he's in a fire the boiling sweat feels like a swarm of bees stinging him. This is compelling, I think.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Throw Down Your Heart
Have you heard about Bela Fleck's new cd? The above video offers explanation, but barely touches the surface of the music itself. I can't listen to this stuff without grinning. Seriously uplifting tunes, should you be in need of some lifting up. Makes me want to get sick nasty at the banjo.
******************
Had a poem accepted yesterday to appear in the upcoming Sonnet issue of RATTLE. I'm thrilled as it's one of the magazines I've been sending to since I first started submitting. More details to come once I have them...
******************
Brown chicken brown cow.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Moving
There are two things my father, former chaplain at Cornell, describes as "sheer living hell." These two things are: driving through Pennsylvania during the summer, and, moving. Fortunately, I need only do one of those things this year. But man, is it lame.
Too many books.
I call this Wardrobe Mtn.
****************
On a sunnier note, I'll be reading tomorrow (06/30) in Washington DC as part of the Joaquin Miller Cabin Poetry Series. The reading is at 7:30 PM, Rock Creek Park, Picnic Area #6. Not quite sure what I'll be reading yet, that's one of the last items of business before I disconnect the computer...speaking of which...back to business.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Summer, Full On
More later. But I'm currently in the process of moving out of my apartment and was packing my books away and stumbled across Michael Parker's If You Want Me To Stay (excerpt, scroll down a bit). For me, it's a Summer book with the syntax of a soul song along with gorgeous glimpses of place, all from the perspective of a 12 year old. Also, it's got me listening to soul music while I move...
"I heard it in their very voices as they spilled out of our boxy console stereo, drifted from the busted and staticky speakers of the pickup. Heartache, shame, regret, devil telling you turn this way, whiskey, everybody's woman but your own, poverty, betrayal, belt-wielding, scripture-quoting daddys, people telling you over and over how you're nothing but sorry, or maybe even worse, telling you you're the greatest thing who ever walked, I heard all that and I knew where it would take you. I knew that their pain was somehow setting me free. I knew their hard lives were allowing me to live with my daddy and not blame my run-off mama and even better than just living with them it was letting me love them in all their sorriness, waste, and neglect."
"Some would maybe say he'd ruined us or at least me by depriving us of television and video games and all the latest high-tech toys and instead spinning records that were a good, some of them, thirty or forty years old if they were a day, black-washing us into believing that white boys from England might could master a twelve-bar blues (though mostly they just turned their amplifiers up real loud) but the true sound track of our lives rose out of the very land we tread upon, the fields we passed on our way to school each day, swarming now with kindly Mexicans but once tended entirely by the forebears of the singers we treasured, and the churches, half-finished or unadorned, heated with nothing but sheet-metal trash burners, you'd see back in the pine groves, and of course the county jail and the low-ceilinged, no-windowed cinder-block jukes that fed that jailhouse, sprinkled throughout the county and down the side streets of town, two to three for every church."
-from If You Want Me to Stay by Michael Parker
(Algonquin Books, 2005)
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Chest Thumping
Have a new poem showing up at 42opus today. A very cool e-zine I'd been knocking on the door of for a few years, nice to finally make it in the house.
***************
For more self-promotion, I'll be reading in Washington DC at Rock Creek Park on June 30th at 7:30. It's part of the Joaquin Miller Cabin Poetry Series and presents an amazing opportunity to read outside. I'm super-stoked. If you're in the area, come on out!
***************
I've been reading James Galvin's The Meadow in my tent at night. It's gorgeous. There's so much weather. It makes me more aware of the rain, how it sounds on the tarp, like lips puckering. The more I think about it, the more the poems I'm currently writing seem like they belong in the manuscript. This means I'm going to have to let go of the current framework I have in place and find places for them. I imagine this will not be the first time this happens. Nevertheless, I'll post some of my favorite Galvin excerpts sometime soon when I have the book in hand.
****************
Killer first line of the moment:
"Deer, lightning, bluebird, toad--"
from R.T. Smith's "Beneath the Mound"
(Southern Appalachian Poetry: An Anthology, McFarland & Co., Inc., 2008)
*****************
***************
For more self-promotion, I'll be reading in Washington DC at Rock Creek Park on June 30th at 7:30. It's part of the Joaquin Miller Cabin Poetry Series and presents an amazing opportunity to read outside. I'm super-stoked. If you're in the area, come on out!
***************
I've been reading James Galvin's The Meadow in my tent at night. It's gorgeous. There's so much weather. It makes me more aware of the rain, how it sounds on the tarp, like lips puckering. The more I think about it, the more the poems I'm currently writing seem like they belong in the manuscript. This means I'm going to have to let go of the current framework I have in place and find places for them. I imagine this will not be the first time this happens. Nevertheless, I'll post some of my favorite Galvin excerpts sometime soon when I have the book in hand.
****************
Killer first line of the moment:
"Deer, lightning, bluebird, toad--"
from R.T. Smith's "Beneath the Mound"
(Southern Appalachian Poetry: An Anthology, McFarland & Co., Inc., 2008)
*****************
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Motoring On
In Roanoke, I'm deep in the thick of moving out of my apartment of the past two years. Needless to say, it's a pain. I've been doing my best to purge the things I'll no longer need as well as the things I'd rather not have around as reminders. It brings me back to the Tom Beller quote I put up here the other day ("Again and again as he prowled around the house now, he was struck by the evidence of lives lived. It lay on the shelves, along the walls, stacked in piles on the floor."from A Different Kind of Imperfection). So much paper.
******************
Another new long-hand poem, disappearing shortly. As you can see if you've been reading these, I'm stuck on a theme:
*plish*
***********************
Killer first line of the moment:
"It's true. Mountain acres are bigger."
from John Casteen's "Cold on the Shoulder"
(Free Union, University of Georgia Press, 2009)
************************
Back to West Virginia, the tent, tonight. Though I love it out there, it's definitely been nice to sleep in a bed the past two nights.
******************
Another new long-hand poem, disappearing shortly. As you can see if you've been reading these, I'm stuck on a theme:
*plish*
***********************
Killer first line of the moment:
"It's true. Mountain acres are bigger."
from John Casteen's "Cold on the Shoulder"
(Free Union, University of Georgia Press, 2009)
************************
Back to West Virginia, the tent, tonight. Though I love it out there, it's definitely been nice to sleep in a bed the past two nights.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Tid-bits
The new issue of Brooklyn Review, featuring one of my poems as well as two by former classmate and bad-ass poet Sarah Cox, has just been released. If you're in the NYC area, check out the release party complete with live music and readings by some of the contributors. For the complete details, check the link.
*****************
*****************
Today, I formally accepted a teaching position at Oak Hill Academy in Mouth-of-Wilson, Virginia. I'll be teaching Creative Writing, a community college English course, and a few sections of 10th grade English, as well as running the school literary magazine and perhaps starting a cross country team. All of this is very new, very exciting. My shoulders feel much lighter. I'll be able to get a puppy, to stay in the mountains, to stay near the New River.
******************
A new-ish poem. To disappear shortly.
*plish*
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Slowness
Today was the day I was planning on getting married, not but 3 months ago. It's strange how quickly things can change. I went from being all set to head to Cleveland, start a househould, and adjunct at an area CC to spending the summer living in a tent in West Virginia, single, and getting ready to start a new job at a Boarding School in Southwest Virginia (yes, they offered me the job; yes, I'm 99% sure I'm going to accept it on Monday). Very exciting, very intimidating. It will definitely be a change for me, a challenge, but I think it will be good. Details to come. I'll get to teach CW, run the school literary mag, and perhaps coach XC.
***********
No first line today, but as promised, a poem that feels very close right now, living in these mountains.
A Prayer for Slowness
Let the deep valley take me over
with its sundown shadow a little at a time,
by little and little, as if the hourglass
lay on its side and the grains leaked through
one by one into the cloud of infinite seperate
moments. I shall enter that cloud
when once I am become as slow as the brindle
cow who walks the molded path along the hill
to shadow of the barn darker than hill shadow,
not lifting her broad head to watch the climb of
spade-edge shadow on the other mountain, but
steadily imprinting the dust with her divided name,
going into the barn where her rich welcome
is taken from her, to lie down grateful and eased.
--Fred Chappell
from Southern Appalachian Poetry: An Anthology of Works by 37 Poets
(Edited by Marita Garin, McFarland & Co., Inc., 2008)--(a great anthology)
*****************
Wrote two new poems longhand in the tent last night. Maybe I'll post them up here in the next few days after some word processor line-tinkering. New things: writing by hand, not having a workshop in the immediate future to share with. I like writing by hand, the way it allows the line to move a bit more organically, how it slows me down and asks a bit more from each bit of language. I've decided I could benefit from moving a bit slower, maybe we all could.
*****************
***********
No first line today, but as promised, a poem that feels very close right now, living in these mountains.
A Prayer for Slowness
Let the deep valley take me over
with its sundown shadow a little at a time,
by little and little, as if the hourglass
lay on its side and the grains leaked through
one by one into the cloud of infinite seperate
moments. I shall enter that cloud
when once I am become as slow as the brindle
cow who walks the molded path along the hill
to shadow of the barn darker than hill shadow,
not lifting her broad head to watch the climb of
spade-edge shadow on the other mountain, but
steadily imprinting the dust with her divided name,
going into the barn where her rich welcome
is taken from her, to lie down grateful and eased.
--Fred Chappell
from Southern Appalachian Poetry: An Anthology of Works by 37 Poets
(Edited by Marita Garin, McFarland & Co., Inc., 2008)--(a great anthology)
*****************
Wrote two new poems longhand in the tent last night. Maybe I'll post them up here in the next few days after some word processor line-tinkering. New things: writing by hand, not having a workshop in the immediate future to share with. I like writing by hand, the way it allows the line to move a bit more organically, how it slows me down and asks a bit more from each bit of language. I've decided I could benefit from moving a bit slower, maybe we all could.
*****************
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Hiatus
So I've been a bit absent lately. New developments in the past two weeks, a rundown: I came to West Virginia to visit a friend from college. He works for North American River Runners, and now, so do I, at least for the summer. I'm here in West Virginia, residing in a tent under a series of tarps (pictures to come) and taking free rafting trips on my days off (I work in an office, doing office-type things). But I'm getting to read and write a lot of poetry, playing disc golf, running, making good use of my car, and meeting lots of amazing folks. Also, I've had some progress in the search for a teaching position. More to come on that front once it becomes more real. Only hint: if it works out, I'd get to stay in the mountains.
**************
Killer opening line of the moment:
"This is the obligatory Southern poem."
from James Applewhite's Southland Drive -In
(I left my books in the tent before I wrote this, so I had to resort to searching online. The first poem I had in mind was Fred Chappell's "A Prayer for Slowness" which I'll post in full once I get my hands on it again.)
***************
Needless to say, I'll be posting with less frequency. Hopefully with more substance than this particular post. But wishing everyone a happy June!
****************
I really want a puppy.
**************
Killer opening line of the moment:
"This is the obligatory Southern poem."
from James Applewhite's Southland Drive -In
(I left my books in the tent before I wrote this, so I had to resort to searching online. The first poem I had in mind was Fred Chappell's "A Prayer for Slowness" which I'll post in full once I get my hands on it again.)
***************
Needless to say, I'll be posting with less frequency. Hopefully with more substance than this particular post. But wishing everyone a happy June!
****************
I really want a puppy.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Church and Mate
“If we say our God is an all-loving god,” he said, “how do you explain that at any given time probably 400 million living on the planet at one time would be gay? Are the religions of the world, as does Catholicism, saying to those hundreds of millions of people, you have to pass your whole life without any physical, genital expression of that love?”
from the New York Times
*********************
"Deirdre Finney and I were wed in 1988 at the National Cathedral in Washington. In 2000, I started the long and complex process of changing from male to female. Deedie stood by me, deciding that her life was better with me than without me. Maybe she was crazy for doing so; lots of people have generously offered her this unsolicited opinion over the years. But what she would tell you, were you to ask, is that the things that she loved in me have mostly remained the same, and that our marriage, in the end, is about a lot more than what genders we are, or were."
Jennifer Finney-Boylan's Op-Ed in the New York Times
*********************
I bring the above articles to light for a few reasons, none of them being that I have any grand political or ideological statement to make, but they both strike very personal chords for me. The first, because I'm the son of two ministers. My father was the chaplain at Cornell University for 20 years, and my mother was the chaplain at a nearby all-women's college. She left him for a woman around 1998, which the church largely turned a blind eye to, as my mother and this woman didn't live together. They kept their relationship clandestine (despite the fact that we all ate virtually every meal together, took trips as a family) and "respectable." Years later, my mother left this woman for another. They moved in together. At this point the church let her contract expire and forced us to leave the pastor's manse in which we were living. They said her relationship had nothing to do with it. My mother lost her home and her health insurance about 2 months after being diagnosed with terminal ovarian cancer. The church knew this. All of this as a long-winded way of saying that despite my reverence for what I believe to be the ideals of Christianity, for the beauty of so much of the Bible, I'm very familiar with the Church as an institution, with as much capacity for callousness and ignorance as any institution. A lot of this explains why I still love to read passages from the Bible, but rarely attend service.
The second article is a bit easier to explain. It was written by my Aunt Jenny. Well, I guess she's my aunt-in-law. Deedie is my mother's youngest sister. I just think everyone should read this one as it presents yet another tilt on marriage, how silly so much of this debate is.
from the New York Times
*********************
"Deirdre Finney and I were wed in 1988 at the National Cathedral in Washington. In 2000, I started the long and complex process of changing from male to female. Deedie stood by me, deciding that her life was better with me than without me. Maybe she was crazy for doing so; lots of people have generously offered her this unsolicited opinion over the years. But what she would tell you, were you to ask, is that the things that she loved in me have mostly remained the same, and that our marriage, in the end, is about a lot more than what genders we are, or were."
Jennifer Finney-Boylan's Op-Ed in the New York Times
*********************
I bring the above articles to light for a few reasons, none of them being that I have any grand political or ideological statement to make, but they both strike very personal chords for me. The first, because I'm the son of two ministers. My father was the chaplain at Cornell University for 20 years, and my mother was the chaplain at a nearby all-women's college. She left him for a woman around 1998, which the church largely turned a blind eye to, as my mother and this woman didn't live together. They kept their relationship clandestine (despite the fact that we all ate virtually every meal together, took trips as a family) and "respectable." Years later, my mother left this woman for another. They moved in together. At this point the church let her contract expire and forced us to leave the pastor's manse in which we were living. They said her relationship had nothing to do with it. My mother lost her home and her health insurance about 2 months after being diagnosed with terminal ovarian cancer. The church knew this. All of this as a long-winded way of saying that despite my reverence for what I believe to be the ideals of Christianity, for the beauty of so much of the Bible, I'm very familiar with the Church as an institution, with as much capacity for callousness and ignorance as any institution. A lot of this explains why I still love to read passages from the Bible, but rarely attend service.
The second article is a bit easier to explain. It was written by my Aunt Jenny. Well, I guess she's my aunt-in-law. Deedie is my mother's youngest sister. I just think everyone should read this one as it presents yet another tilt on marriage, how silly so much of this debate is.
Like I said, I have no grand statement to make. I grew up in a house in which sexuality was always an issue, but an easily resolved issue. It was never very complicated. It's actually simple, cheesy even. We love the people we love, not because they fit a certain template of human behavior, but because they make us happy. Because we would be lost without them.
And here I am, straight-as-an-arrow, white-bread eating, banjo-playing, American boy, raised by lesbians, ministers, and transgenders. Somehow I came out okay, despite all this corruption of the American ideal. But then again, I do write poems...
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Always the Contributor, Never the Contribution
It's been a fun two days of checking the mail. I received my contributor copies of Beloit Poetry Journal, New York Quarterly, and Hollins Critic. For the Critic, I reviewed a first book by Mike Smith. It's titled "How to Make a Mummy" and I heartily recommend it (the book, not the review) to everyone. NYQ is a feast, featuring poems by Bob Hicock, Marge Piercy, and Dorianne Laux (among others), a craft interview with David Shapiro, and a memorial to W.D. Snodgrass. I've only just started browsing, but the range of aesthetics is remarkable. BPJ is, as always, amazing. With all three of these, I'm humbled by the company I'm in.
********************
So Contributors' Notes are rough. They doom impermanent things. I had forgotten what I put in NYQ only to discover that the last line of my bio said "He lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains where he spends his days thinking about a girl." Though this may still be true in some respects, the sentiment of this thinking has shifted drastically since I originally wrote the note. I did a similar thing with Best New Poets, in which my bio read "He lives in Roanoke, Virginia with a thirteen-year-old sheepdog that growls at sweet old ladies." Two months after the book is released, the dog has been put down and the sweet old ladies roam free. I've always been a fan of putting something other than just publication credits and other c.v. type info, but maybe those things persist simply because they're safer. Luke Johnson writes contributor notes that make him cringe. He does not learn his lesson.
*********************
So I've been struggling with how to tell casual acquaintances about this whole not getting married thing. I wish I could just hand them a slip of paper and tell them "everything you need to know is right there." I'm just done with having that same conversation over and over again. Doesn't anyone want to talk about hockey (Go Caps)? The possibility of LeBron vs. Kobe (Witness King James)? The possibility of LeBron vs. Carmelo (push)? Minor league baseball (Salem Red Sox)?
*********************
At the prodding of friend C.I. Shelton, I'm currently reading Tom Beller's story collection Seduction Theory. Here, two quotes from different stories that struck me as maybe pertinent, maybe true, certainly interesting and well-wrought.
"Women were like campfires to Walter: warm and comforting in the midst of the wilderness, but if you didn't keep an eye on them you might end up engulfed in flames. He generally played the role of cynic when his friends confided details of their own women-related problems. His own relationships tended to be groping and short-lived. He had had his fair share of sexual experiences, but he had come to think of sex as a form of roulette; once something was set in motion it was nearly impossible to control. Even these encounters had trailed off in the months since he graduated from college, and in their absence he was almost able to forget the completely nauseating terror of having a crush."
(from The Hot Dog War)
"Again and again as he prowled around the house now, he was struck by the evidence of lives lived. It lay on the shelves, along the walls, stacked in piles on the floor."
(from A Different Kind of Imperfection)
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I'm learning a new song on the banjo, it makes me feel good about my calloused fingers.
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