Wednesday, August 11, 2010
When we arrived we stayed overnight with some of Meryl's old friends, off the grid, in a sense, and I found myself in love with wild blackberries and wanting to hear an owl.
This afternoon, we checked in--we are room mates, my good MFA friend and I, and are staying in the Annex this year, a room in the corner right above the bookstore, which is always dangerous for someone like me.
We had dinner, learned to navigate the system with as a vegan (Meryl will now go into the kitchen every day to see what the chefs have prepared), and after, the opening welcome, followed by a reading by Linda Gregerson (love, love, love) and Jim Shepard, who came to campus last September. You can see how beautifully Gregerson speaks:
She read from a series of poems about Dido, which really was gorgeous ("Dido Refuses to Speak," forthcoming in The Kenyon Review), and I was reminded as she read more and more, how deeply I love her images and her verbs. I devoured all the books of hers I owned just before the conference and am certain I will return to them again not long after returning.
** I will add photographs from each day on my return, I think, as I have tragically lost my camera battery charger and want to get through the ten days with a full string of photographs.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
There are two anthologies I want to call your attention to:
1. From Orchards, Fields, and Gardens, edited by Kerstin Svendsen, which will be available in mid-August and is $4 off pre-orders. Of course, I'm extra-excited about this project because I have three poems inside: the title poem to my chapbook (which is still making rounds, but I promise an update, even when it's a bridesmaid again) "The Recent History of Middle Sand Lake," as well as "Kitchen" and "Palming Earth."
2. The other is a collection being published by Harper Perennial, and my tattoo, done by the lovely and talented Shawn Hebrank, will make an appearance in its pages. You can read more about my specific tattoo in this post, and you can check out the book's webpage here. It will be released October 12th.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
- The New York Times made a little page called Hot Type: Poems for Summer, featuring Tony Hoagland, Edward Hirsch, Carl Phillips, Sarah Lindsay, Robert Pinsky, and Claudia Emerson. (Emerson's Late Wife is one of my favorite books of poetry.)
- The recent issue of The New Yorker has a review of Anne Carson's Nox and a poem by Stanley Plumly. Not long ago, I wrote a review of Stanley Plumly, and a few days ago, I finally was able to see Nox in person and was inspired for my own thesis, which promises to tango with the fragment, the repurposed document, etc.
- I could gaze all day: bookshelf porn.
- New York Times article on WS Merwin becoming poet laureate.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
I often read with a pen, a habit I've had to instill in myself, much like one develops that first taste for beer or coffee. I resisted for so long, mostly because I loved to keep my books pristine, care for the bindings and smudge-free pages, and even as an instructor--five years now--I would use little flags or jot notes in a separate notebook, neither of which were very helpful as I'd forget what I meant with the flags and lose the notes in last week's essays or next year's plans.
Just now, my friend Meryl and I are finishing a shared reading experience, where we promised to write notes in the margins to Ellen Bryant Voigt's The Art of Syntax, little thoughts and doodles and agreements or disagreements. I've carried mine with me to doctor's appointments, so Meryl will also get the progress report of each visit.
And the there are the books with typos and mistakes. I keep thinking to myself, a job as a proofreader might not be so awful, though what pressure to catch every little slip. In the case above, though, the writer was referring to experiences without technology, and when people call the big green goon "Frankenstein," I simply want to cringe and rattle a cage and ask them what they are doing writing a book if they can't recognize a classic such as this. I remember listening to a book-on-CD in one of my commutes where the reader continually mispronounced "Kerouac," and I wondered how no one could catch it, correct her.
I realize my small complaints here are ridiculous, given my fifth-grade spelling capabilities and my shaking-fist struggle to pronounce words such as capuchin (thanks, Gerald, for making me enjoy this poem and stumble through it in poetry seminar--thanks, me, for not figuring out how to pronounce beforehand):
by Gerald Stern
The road the road just south of Frenchtown the poem
the one by Mordecai the river the river the
one on my left if I am travelling north the
car a box with wires loose on top of my
left leg the radio fine the light behind
behind the clock not working the rose so dead
I am ashamed the crows too shiny their feathers
too wet the cliff on my right too red the blood
the blood of an animal, a skunk, they bleed
and stink, they stink and bleed, the monkey on top
of me, a New World monkey, not a howler,
an organ-grinder monkey, a capuchin,
his small red hat is on my head and he’s
on my back, he’s dropping orange peels down my neck
March 22nd on the Delaware River.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
A few moments, comparisons, etc. that will help drive crucial points home to the students, or at least given them something wider to ponder:
Often if the triggering subject is big (love, death, faith) rather than localized and finite, the mind tends to shrink. Sir Alexander Fleming observed some mold, and a few years later we had a cure for gonorrhea. But what if the British government had told him to find a cure for gonorrhea? He might have worried so much he would not have noticed the mold. (7)
One way of getting into the world of the imagination is to focus on the play rather than the value of words-- (16)
Make your first line interesting and immediate. Start, as some smarty once said, in the middle of things. When the poem starts, things should already have happened. (Note: White unlined paper gives you the feeling nothing has happened.) If Yeats had begun "Leda and the Swan" with Zeus spotting Leda and getting an erection, Yeats would have been writing a report. (38)
When rewriting, write the entire poem again. If something has gone wrong deep in the poem, you have taken a wrong turn earlier. The next time through the poem you may spot the wrong path you took. If you take another, when you reach the source of your dissatisfaction it may no longer be there. To change what's there is difficult because it is boring. To find the right other is exciting. (38)
Use any noun that is yours, even if it has only local use. "Salal" is the name of a bush that grows wild in the Pacific Northwest. It is often not found in dictionaries, but I've known that word long as I can remember. I had to check with the University of Washington Botany Department on the spelling when I first used it in a poem. It is a word, and it is my word. That's arrogant, isn't it? But necessary. Don't be afraid to take emotional possession of words. If you don't love a few words enough to own them, you will have to be very clever to write a good poem. (40)
Behind several theories of what happens to a poet during the writing of a poem--Eliot's escape from personality, Keats's idea of informing and filling another body, Yeats's notion of the mask, Auden's concept of the poet becoming someone else for the duration of the poem, Valery's idea of a self superior to the self--lies the implied assumption that the self as given is inadequate and will not do. // How you feel about yourself is probably the most important feeling you have. It colors all other feelings, and if you are a poet, it colors your writing. It may account for your writing. (67)
... the imagination's impulse to create unknowns of knowns... (73)
...memory and the imagination modify and transform experience... (75)
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Right now I am reading-with-a-pen Richard Hugo's Triggering Town, and though I probably will not opt to assign it (I'm not in love with it), I know I will pull a few moments from it to bring into the classroom. One is the struggle to practice daily writing, something a good friend of mine and I have been trying to do this summer, with limited success. Here is the paragraph that proves others use this analogy too:
Once a spectator said, after Jack Nicklaus had chipped a shot in from a sand trap, "That's pretty lucky." Nicklaus is suppose to have replied, "Right. But I notice the more I practice, the luckier I get." If you write often, perhaps every day, you will stay in shape and will be better able to receive those good poems, which are finally a matter of luck, and get them down. Lucky accidents seldom happen to writers who don't work. You will find that you may rewrite and rewrite a poem and it never seems quite right. Then a much better poem may come rather fast and you wonder why you bothered with all that work on the earlier poem. Actually, the hard work you do on one poem is put in on all poems. The hard work on the first poem is responsible for the sudden ease of the second. If you just sit around waiting for the easy ones, nothing will come. Get to work.pg. 27