clapping with joy by price
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Reading Part II
The Reading went well. I used up almost all of my time—I had two minutes to spare which is damn good for me. I talked a bit, tried the small talk thing. It helped a great deal to have the discussion here on the blog beforehand, it made me feel more comfortable.
I hated the space tonight and it was a full house like maybe 60 to 70 people. The best thing about the reading was the food afterwards. What is it about food after ten o’clock at night? It tastes so good. And I had good friends show up so we laughed and then oddly, someone came up to the table and asked me for my autograph which has NEVER happened before. I was so freaked out by it all I almost spelt my name wrong. My best friend said she had a vision tonight of me signing my book. I don’t know if I will ever feel that comfortable.
Oh and another funny thing was, the woman who wanted me to sign her chapbook said, oh and it would be nice if you wrote something and I thinking, what the hell. So not only did I almost write my name incorrectly I wrote something lame like nice to eat with you.
I hated the space tonight and it was a full house like maybe 60 to 70 people. The best thing about the reading was the food afterwards. What is it about food after ten o’clock at night? It tastes so good. And I had good friends show up so we laughed and then oddly, someone came up to the table and asked me for my autograph which has NEVER happened before. I was so freaked out by it all I almost spelt my name wrong. My best friend said she had a vision tonight of me signing my book. I don’t know if I will ever feel that comfortable.
Oh and another funny thing was, the woman who wanted me to sign her chapbook said, oh and it would be nice if you wrote something and I thinking, what the hell. So not only did I almost write my name incorrectly I wrote something lame like nice to eat with you.
Friday, February 25, 2005
Among Men by Jason Shinder
Even at the moment
of kissing a girl
because
I was a boy--
there was always
another boy
looking to see
how long
I could place
my lips
on her lips
without stopping
without ever knowing
I was kissing
And then
what to tell the guys
coming out
of their coats,
asking, How'd it go?
Meaning:
did I get any?
Why don't you
just get laid?
my father said.
of kissing a girl
because
I was a boy--
there was always
another boy
looking to see
how long
I could place
my lips
on her lips
without stopping
without ever knowing
I was kissing
And then
what to tell the guys
coming out
of their coats,
asking, How'd it go?
Meaning:
did I get any?
Why don't you
just get laid?
my father said.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
bad hair
Okay so my confession is I have never, ever watched American Idol until last night. It was only because all these all poets were making a fuss and I felt a bit left out that I turned it on in the first place. And now because my life travels in circles I had my hair cut today and I look like that young Italian guy with curly shoulder length hair, which would be okay EXCEPT I AM NOT A BOY!!!! This is not good. Now do I not only have 30 min. to fill at the reading but I have really bad boy hair.
Oh and the hairstylist was horrific, she cut herself three times and was bleeding on my head then she ended our time together by BLOWIN IN MY EAR which I just have say, if she was trying to pick me up, maybe making me look like the geek from American Idol who almost got kicked off last night was not the way to go.
Oh and the hairstylist was horrific, she cut herself three times and was bleeding on my head then she ended our time together by BLOWIN IN MY EAR which I just have say, if she was trying to pick me up, maybe making me look like the geek from American Idol who almost got kicked off last night was not the way to go.
Get Out
If you are in my blog get out and go read C.Dale Young’s post for the day. www.avoidmuse.blogspot.com He has brilliant advice about publishing and how to deal with rejection. Now if anyone would answer my question about the best time to send submissions. Does the time of year make a difference? It seems I get into more journals in Winter verses the Spring or Fall. What is up with that? It is possible that the gas fumes from being inside during a Minnesota Winter make me a better writer but I would like to hope it has something to do with the journals.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
weekend
This weekend will be the weekend from hell. A lot of good things are happening but they all seem to be happening at the same time. Saturday I am teaching two workshops on Creativity & Children for The Rainbow Family Conference (it is an amazing conference) and that night I have my reading and the next day my best friend gets married, now if you throw in a kids birthday party that Bella just has to go to, you have my weekend.
The really sucky thing about having a busy weekend is that you spend all week getting really stressed out about it and I can’t change any of the above things. Now to take a deep breath and figure out what I am wearing.
Today in the mail I received my copy of the Comstock Review with my poem “Speak” in it; I have been a finalist three years in a row for their poetry competition always a bridesmaid never a bride.
Anyway I got over it because the galleys for Pleiades came in and my poem is on page 31. It has been a year and two weeks from the time the poem was accepted till now and it will be in the next issue. I really like Pleiades and I plan to break out a good bottle of wine.
The really sucky thing about having a busy weekend is that you spend all week getting really stressed out about it and I can’t change any of the above things. Now to take a deep breath and figure out what I am wearing.
Today in the mail I received my copy of the Comstock Review with my poem “Speak” in it; I have been a finalist three years in a row for their poetry competition always a bridesmaid never a bride.
Anyway I got over it because the galleys for Pleiades came in and my poem is on page 31. It has been a year and two weeks from the time the poem was accepted till now and it will be in the next issue. I really like Pleiades and I plan to break out a good bottle of wine.
Essential Crap
When I was a little girl I would go into the Public Library of Sarah Orne Jewitt house and sit in that small room and feel overwhelmed by all the books there were to read. In my child’s mind it held all the books in the world and the first time I step inside a “real” library I was depressed for days because I knew I could never read all those books in my lifetime. I love knowledge; to me the mind is the sexiest part of the body.
Today I am feeling overwhelmed by all the things I need to read and not enough time to do it. It’s rather irritating how making a living cuts into my poetry life but I suppose that is the way of all artists.
There has been a bit of talk in blog land lately about what I call “essential crap” the poems we need to write to get to the other poems we need to write. Rebecca Loudon said Each poem insists, each poem carries the seeds of the next poem in its mouth. and I think that was the most brilliant comment I’ve read in a long time.
When I stop judging my work as good or bad I opened it up to another possibility. I know this about Art. I know that the artist who is afraid/ judgmental tends to never make great art and the one who throws himself/herself into this a place without judgment has no limitations.
Today I am feeling overwhelmed by all the things I need to read and not enough time to do it. It’s rather irritating how making a living cuts into my poetry life but I suppose that is the way of all artists.
There has been a bit of talk in blog land lately about what I call “essential crap” the poems we need to write to get to the other poems we need to write. Rebecca Loudon said Each poem insists, each poem carries the seeds of the next poem in its mouth. and I think that was the most brilliant comment I’ve read in a long time.
When I stop judging my work as good or bad I opened it up to another possibility. I know this about Art. I know that the artist who is afraid/ judgmental tends to never make great art and the one who throws himself/herself into this a place without judgment has no limitations.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Career Day
Today for career day my daughter gave a presentation on being a potter. She followed three nurses, a doctor, two mechanics and a vet. I really love my kids. She spoke about what a wonderful job it would be to have when you grow up because you can get really, really messy and no one tells you to wash your hands. And you get make anything you want out of mud, she then showed her mud balls to the class. It’s pretty safe to say she was a first grade hit. Sadly there were no poets....
Oh books, beautiful books
There’s not much I would not do for books. I am horribly addicted and honestly it is one of the few things my love and I fight about. I am an addict. I buy them secretly, hide them in my car and I have way too many I’ve not read. But I know what it is like to grow up not having “your own” books and living in Haiti where all you can find in English are Bibles, for a pagan I’ve spent way too much time in the Old Testament.
Anyway in my fight yesterday the word glutton was used and I can live with that. I think I have enough poetry now to read till the next ice age and it’s possible that once I start reviewing books I won’t love them as much. It could happen—that’s the statement that ended the fight so I am sticking to it:)
Anyway in my fight yesterday the word glutton was used and I can live with that. I think I have enough poetry now to read till the next ice age and it’s possible that once I start reviewing books I won’t love them as much. It could happen—that’s the statement that ended the fight so I am sticking to it:)
Monday, February 21, 2005
For The Birds at the Chinese Market Who Sing When the Lid is Open
I envy you the darkness
the four heads of your brothers
a quartet of voices silent with waiting
and I envy you the child’s hand
the way it flutters there
with indecision how he decides the lid
must go and I envy you the song
filling the boy with wonder
He calls to his friends to explore
and then the lids returns, each song
stops begins again and the boy
plays this game of rhythm
and there is no reason.
Yet you sing when the box
is open and I envy you
the dark.
I envy you the darkness
the four heads of your brothers
a quartet of voices silent with waiting
and I envy you the child’s hand
the way it flutters there
with indecision how he decides the lid
must go and I envy you the song
filling the boy with wonder
He calls to his friends to explore
and then the lids returns, each song
stops begins again and the boy
plays this game of rhythm
and there is no reason.
Yet you sing when the box
is open and I envy you
the dark.
Practice
I've been thinking a lot about what essential poems are for me in my life. The things I need to write, what I feel turns over and over in me. It isn’t always what turns out well, in fact it sometimes seems like those poems are the ones I never feel I do well. They are “too big” to tell. Dorrianne said to always try to put on paper the poems that are too much, those are words which challenge us to keep our work fresh.
Bella Waring said, when you write a poem for its own sake, this is a holy practice that, once you start to publish, you are in danger of losing.
I’ve been thinking too much about the book, my next steps in writing and I’ve forgotten the holy practice of poetry.
Bella Waring said, when you write a poem for its own sake, this is a holy practice that, once you start to publish, you are in danger of losing.
I’ve been thinking too much about the book, my next steps in writing and I’ve forgotten the holy practice of poetry.
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Isabel's First Grade Spelling Test
Am I the only one who likes her words better?:)
1. Sope =soap
2. Rore =roar
3. Bote =boat
4. Lofe =loaf
5. Gole =goal
6. Wode =road
7. Koste =coast
1. Sope =soap
2. Rore =roar
3. Bote =boat
4. Lofe =loaf
5. Gole =goal
6. Wode =road
7. Koste =coast
Thursday, February 17, 2005
Reading
The Reading went well except that now I’m tired and my voice hurts which hardly ever happens to me. It was nice to see Steve Mueske there—he is such a nice guy even though I forgot the book I’ve been promising him.
I get a bit wound up before I read and I am naturally dizzy so I tend to forget things. I didn’t read enough poems. I have a whole 30 minutes to read next week and my friend told me tonight I need to make small talk. I hate small talk. I want to go through the poems and not explain. I figure if you are explaining, the poem already doesn’t work. But of course, that is not what she means, she wants me to tell cute stories but I am DARK…I have no cute stories.
The ironic thing is I am funny in real life but not in my writing. It is like I store up all the deep things I think about and put them all down so maybe it's hard for her to see another side me. Whatever the case, there is still 30 minutes to burn next week and that is a hell of a lot of poem unless I talk in between. Maybe I will sing, I could always sing, that ought to clear the room.
I get a bit wound up before I read and I am naturally dizzy so I tend to forget things. I didn’t read enough poems. I have a whole 30 minutes to read next week and my friend told me tonight I need to make small talk. I hate small talk. I want to go through the poems and not explain. I figure if you are explaining, the poem already doesn’t work. But of course, that is not what she means, she wants me to tell cute stories but I am DARK…I have no cute stories.
The ironic thing is I am funny in real life but not in my writing. It is like I store up all the deep things I think about and put them all down so maybe it's hard for her to see another side me. Whatever the case, there is still 30 minutes to burn next week and that is a hell of a lot of poem unless I talk in between. Maybe I will sing, I could always sing, that ought to clear the room.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Dark Blonde by Belle Waring
IT WAS MY FIRST NURSING JOB
and I was stupid in it. I thought a doctor would not be unkind.
One wouldn’t wait for a laboring woman to dilate to ten cm.
He’d brace one hand up his patient’s vagina,
clamp the other on her pregnant belly, and force the fetus
through an eight centimeter cervix.
She tore, of course. Bled.
Stellate lacerations extend from the cervix
like an asterisk. The staff nurses stormed and hissed
but the head nurse shrugged, He doesn’t like to wait around.
No other doctor witnessed what he did. The man was an elder
in his church. He chattered and smiled broadly as he worked.
He wore the biggest gloves we could stock.
It was my first real job and I was scared in it.
One night a patient of his was admitted
bleeding. The charge nurse said, He won’t rip her.
You take this one.
So I took her.
She quickly delivered a dead baby boy.
Not long dead—you could tell by the skin, intact.
But long enough.
When I wrapped him a blanket, the doctor flipped open the cover
to let the mother view the body, according to the custom.
The baby lay beside her.
He lay stretched out and still.
What a pity, the doctor said.
He seized the baby’s penis between his own forefinger and thumb.
It was the first time I had ever seen a male not circumcised
and I was taken aback by the beauty of it.
Look, said the doctor, A little boy. Just what we wanted.
His hand, huge on the child, held the penis as if he’d found
a lovecharm hidden in his grandmother’s linen.
And then he dropped it.
The mother didn’t make a sound
When the doctor left, she said to me in a far flat voice.
I called and told him I was bleeding bad.
He told me not to worry.
I don’t remember what I said, Just that
When I escorted her husband from the lobby
The doctor had already gone home. The new father followed me
with a joyful strut. I thought Sweet Jesus Christ
—Did the doctor speak to you?
—No ma’am, the father said.
I said quick-as-I-could-so-I wouldn’t-have-to-think—
The baby didn’t make it.
The man doubled over. I told him all wrong.
I would do it all over again.
Say—
Please, sir. Sit down. I’m so very sorry to tell you—
No. It’s been sixteen years.
I would say, I am your witness.
No. I have never told the whole truth.
Forgive me.
It was my first job
And I was lost in it.
-Belle Waring
and I was stupid in it. I thought a doctor would not be unkind.
One wouldn’t wait for a laboring woman to dilate to ten cm.
He’d brace one hand up his patient’s vagina,
clamp the other on her pregnant belly, and force the fetus
through an eight centimeter cervix.
She tore, of course. Bled.
Stellate lacerations extend from the cervix
like an asterisk. The staff nurses stormed and hissed
but the head nurse shrugged, He doesn’t like to wait around.
No other doctor witnessed what he did. The man was an elder
in his church. He chattered and smiled broadly as he worked.
He wore the biggest gloves we could stock.
It was my first real job and I was scared in it.
One night a patient of his was admitted
bleeding. The charge nurse said, He won’t rip her.
You take this one.
So I took her.
She quickly delivered a dead baby boy.
Not long dead—you could tell by the skin, intact.
But long enough.
When I wrapped him a blanket, the doctor flipped open the cover
to let the mother view the body, according to the custom.
The baby lay beside her.
He lay stretched out and still.
What a pity, the doctor said.
He seized the baby’s penis between his own forefinger and thumb.
It was the first time I had ever seen a male not circumcised
and I was taken aback by the beauty of it.
Look, said the doctor, A little boy. Just what we wanted.
His hand, huge on the child, held the penis as if he’d found
a lovecharm hidden in his grandmother’s linen.
And then he dropped it.
The mother didn’t make a sound
When the doctor left, she said to me in a far flat voice.
I called and told him I was bleeding bad.
He told me not to worry.
I don’t remember what I said, Just that
When I escorted her husband from the lobby
The doctor had already gone home. The new father followed me
with a joyful strut. I thought Sweet Jesus Christ
—Did the doctor speak to you?
—No ma’am, the father said.
I said quick-as-I-could-so-I wouldn’t-have-to-think—
The baby didn’t make it.
The man doubled over. I told him all wrong.
I would do it all over again.
Say—
Please, sir. Sit down. I’m so very sorry to tell you—
No. It’s been sixteen years.
I would say, I am your witness.
No. I have never told the whole truth.
Forgive me.
It was my first job
And I was lost in it.
-Belle Waring
Yes I Accept
Today I felt horrid so I called in sick. I find the older I get the less I want to push my body or I find that when I do “push” my body it breaks. I began my official role as editor today and spent a few hours doing submissions. I am reading the stuff that already has been gone through so it has not been painful at all. It is teaches me a lot about my own submissions and lord love the people who know how to write a good cover letter, those ones that go on and on do not built you up for a good poem.
Today helped me understand those “near miss letters” which I bitched about a few weeks ago. The fact is, I am one of several people who need to accept a poem before it goes to print. I found one poem out of about 20 that I loved but the other have to love it too or at least like it a great deal. So okay, I am growing up a little, it was actually kind for those editors to write to me and tell me my poems were thrown around at the staff meeting because that means someone (god loved ‘em) wanted my work and was willing to fight for it.
Today helped me understand those “near miss letters” which I bitched about a few weeks ago. The fact is, I am one of several people who need to accept a poem before it goes to print. I found one poem out of about 20 that I loved but the other have to love it too or at least like it a great deal. So okay, I am growing up a little, it was actually kind for those editors to write to me and tell me my poems were thrown around at the staff meeting because that means someone (god loved ‘em) wanted my work and was willing to fight for it.
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