tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21763871860887065902024-03-13T02:02:38.380-06:00The Widening SpellA weblog of poetry's capacious connections.Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.comBlogger149125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-63808135745434657562024-03-03T06:19:00.001-07:002024-03-03T06:20:30.009-07:00STRANGERS & PILGRIMS by Fred LaMotte<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7TQtTQTvNN6B20Pnv9SF4CtAaqCfYIUafij8FVgRzUUGUVQhnvp1wMY4xCxA8lssbT_o5WuNBJTNXiVRsL_-aPxP5ovLdkZgxYsHKdbDOKTeTL3SI2WsMqHK6g7GbPP8PzDmxDXxXcXkYKssX7drlO-iTAQi6PS6EVZwpNFx3WWpoRVt2CcUgpGvZMjEB/s1360/Strangers&Pilgrims%20Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1360" data-original-width="952" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7TQtTQTvNN6B20Pnv9SF4CtAaqCfYIUafij8FVgRzUUGUVQhnvp1wMY4xCxA8lssbT_o5WuNBJTNXiVRsL_-aPxP5ovLdkZgxYsHKdbDOKTeTL3SI2WsMqHK6g7GbPP8PzDmxDXxXcXkYKssX7drlO-iTAQi6PS6EVZwpNFx3WWpoRVt2CcUgpGvZMjEB/s320/Strangers&Pilgrims%20Cover.jpg" width="224" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>STRANGERS & PILGRIMS, Fred LaMotte. </i>Saint Julian
Press, 2053 Cortlandt, Suite 200, Houston, Texas 77008, 2023, 75 pages, $18
paperback, <a href="http://www.saintjulianpress.com/">http://www.saintjulianpress.com</a><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
college poetry professor, Keith Wilson, attempted to jar us sophomores and
juniors—most of us enrolled in his World Poetry class in order to fulfill our
English requirements for graduation—by announcing to us during our first
meeting, “Poetry is more dangerous than a loaded Colt .45.” I doubt that any of
us knew what Keith, a Korean War veteran who did three tours of duty aboard
battleships and kept a loaded pistol in his hand under the covers as he sweated
out PTSD in his dreams years later, fully meant. But, reading LaMotte’s first
poem in <i>Strangers & Pilgrims—</i>“Scary” (“The world is in chaos / and I
refuse to pretend / that I know what to do.”), and even more so in the
remainder of this collection, knowing how these poems can change the intention,
the direction, and <i>vocation</i> of a life, with all attendant criticisms,
isolations, and abandonments from bosses, colleagues, friends, and even
family—I believe that LaMotte has understood for a long time, the power of
poetry. It is a courageous thing to write poetry. Ultimately, we poets believe
it is a good thing, but “[tell[ing] / the Truth, a sacred / white buffalo /
wander[ing] into [one’s] heart / and feel[ing] a peace / the world cannot give
/ or take away” does not always mean that poetry brings that peace to its
readers—particularly if change is not something one is seeking. <i>Strangers
& Pilgrims </i>should come with a warning: “Beware, reader! Do not proceed
unless you are ready for a change of perspective.” Emily Dickinson said, “I
know it's poetry if it takes my head off.” LaMotte’s latest collection will not
only take off your head, but it will pierce your entire body, because “The
portals to heaven are in the body.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>LaMotte’s
poems use imagery that is convincing on a concrete, sensory level, instantly
appealing to the five senses, and at the same time (and often in the same poem,
the same line) uses necessary abstraction with strong intention—necessary
abstraction because it approaches the unsayable as closely as poetry can, and
strong intention because this poet is not writing for the purpose of linguistic
gymnastics, but as a form of deep spiritual practice, seeking truth and
reveling when he is as surprised at catching a glimpse of it as is the reader.
The following passage is from the second poem in the collection, “On Certain
Afternoons.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Most of my
DNA<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I share with a mouse,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>infinitude with a gnat.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Endangered
herds stampede<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>through the wounded valleys<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>of my marrow,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I protect
vast swaths<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>of rain forest<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with a single exhalation.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m certain
that the merest weed<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in its stillness is awake,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a blossoming black-eyed-Susan.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rooted in listening, I also flower<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with no seed of thought.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The soil is my Being.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wonder is
the musk of my heart.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>May my fragrance expand<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>beyond all gardens.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Come, you
lovers of late Spring,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the gates are never closed.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
rain-disheveled azalea<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>will not begrudge your insouciance,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>nor the rose your burning fingers.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Let each
dare to whisper<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in your own tongue,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Smell me, I am wild!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Sprinkled throughout this
collection are poems of Mary Magdalene, LaMotte’s inspiration for these poems.
The first such poem appears as “How Will You Know Her?”—a reverse
personification, where Mary Magdalene is transformed into an abstraction for
which she is the personification of spirit. The first three stanzas employ
anaphora, setting an incantatory tone:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Between
your heartbeats is a garden,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>the place
where Magdalene and Jesus touch.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She thinks
he is the gardener. He thinks she is<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>God’s
breath, caressing his chest. She is.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Between
your heartbeats is a garden,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>the
wilderness where Israel meets Wisdom,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>the Sabbath
Queen who sings of loss.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How could
they make love in the desert?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They pitch
a tent of animal skins, and it becomes<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>a holy
pavilion of gathered silences.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Between
your heartbeats is a garden<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>where
village girls dance with the Prince of Herdsmen.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Each maiden
is his flute, but only one can be his Song.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She who
wears your inhalation as we wedding gown<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>has come to
wound you in the pulse of your throat.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How will
you know her? By what signs<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>will you
prove that she is your Betrothed?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Although
LaMotte is interested in uniting with the ineffable, his path to that union is
in the body—both the human one and the granular, concrete body of the Earth and
all that is within it. That truth is shown, not merely told (as in “Never
Again”—“never again let it be said, ‘I am not / this body’”), in several poems,
e.g. “Wings” (“Thou shalt notice the toadstool, / the forget-me-not, a web / of
dew, a pebble”); (“The arc of healing does not shower / down from the sky, it
gushes / upward from the dust”); “Hum” (“…Hum stars / through your belly. So
Hum sap through your cervix”); “Mollusk” (“In a mollusk of prayer, yearning
chafes the sandy grit of “I” into a pearl”); “The Choice” (“The portal to the
kingdom / of contentment has never been closed. / Find it in your body…”); “Latte”
(“Even the pilgrim snail / on a hosta leaf feels starlight / that hasn’t yet
arrived”); “Swan” (“Surely, you’ve been told / a Goddess flows / through your
darkness,…Her wings are your inbreath / and exhalation. / That is why you have
a body”); “Vocation” (When I discovered / the emerald in my chest / I gave up
every calling…just to follow this menial/ vocation: I became / a Jewel Polisher”
and “Let me be ever quenched / by my own thirst”); “Secret” (“Everything is
spiritual. / A toadstool made of God. / If you look close up, / the wing of a
fly is scripture”); “Smudge” (“In the birth canal / you were anointed / with
the mighty host / of earth’s bacteria, / smeared and smudged / with the
microbiome”); and a poem that is emblematic of this “messy” book of poems,
“Solstice”:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Today is
slightly longer<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>than
yesterday or tomorrow.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So what?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The earth
is wobbly.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Somewhere a
stray kitten<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>is
shivering in summer rain.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Somewhere a
neglected boy is<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>loading his
father’s gun.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And a
mother flees across the river<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>ever
Northward in search<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>of a home
for her child.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
inhalation could be a summer solstice,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>this
exhalation a winter one.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So what if
Mercury’s in retrograde?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You are not
your horoscope,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>you are the
sky.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So what if
the Lion and Bull,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>the Ram and
Scorpion cross horns,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>their fangs
and stingers<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>in outrageous
combat?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They’ll
come down at dawn to drink<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>from the
silent oasis<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>of your
waking.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You are not
that riot<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>of ancient
fires and distant sparks.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You are the
largesse of immemorial darkness<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>through
which they glitter, rear, and clash,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>stagger
back, and wander on.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If there is
a God, she doesn’t care<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>so much
about your stars<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>as she
cares about the smile you could have<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>shared with
a friend last night,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The grace
you might say to a stranger<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>this
evening, the breath you could savor<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>this very
moment,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>like a
sunrise in your chest.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Miles Davis, the legendary jazz
trumpet player, was once asked about playing the wrong note or making a
mistake. His answer was “It’s not the note you play that’s the wrong note—it’s
the note you play afterwards that makes it right or wrong.” I’m betting that
Davis would like <i>Strangers & Pilgrims. </i>I know that he’d like “Broken,”
which echoes his own musical and personal philosophy, seeming to this reader a
poem that “all the law and the prophets” can hang on. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Broken<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">A broken commandment <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">is the open gate <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">to a wilder meadow.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">It may be your sacred duty <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">to violate the rules. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I smoked an Arturo Fuentes Robusto <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">with the Bodhisattva. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Asked him if he had any precepts. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">He said, just one: be healed by
your tears. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Then he opened up to me about <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">his sadness, admitted <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">he had to come back <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">because he was lonely. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I said maybe Anthony Bourdain <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">or Sylvia Plath. He said, <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">maybe Jack Kerouac. I said, <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">all of them wounded one-eyed
Buddhas. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">My belly was thirsty for repentance
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">so, I made a bourbon smoothie <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">and shared it with Jesus. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Asked him if he had any rules. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">He said, just one: call me brother,
not Lord. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Cucumber, mint, and kale <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">with a shot of Wild Turkey. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Forgive me, it was delicious. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">A broken commandment is the open
gate <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">to a deeper rule, unwritten, <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">harder to disobey. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The laws of the body lead <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">to the precepts of the soul. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Like the one that says, love
anyway. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The one that says, make friends <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">with the brokenhearted. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The one that says, forgive yourself
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">again and again…. So I discover <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">the rules I cannot break <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">by breaking the ones <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I can.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_6wxfL6ByXGMmPPM8TTA3wcmXdJTDjveGyy_pn-9u7awr1pTyPj3w8noJhcI8MGc1F_-EurND1_-bKMhN_lYGA-K3CyC80FadcRFmW_FN6PlAxz-2bmp-V0xtJWx8as1K_SRHikmpvsD4rb1ALwEfqpGDLgWTt_1h1DHXxdWag5NCxqNGvFUOsf7WsQqE/s1600/Fred%20La%20Motte%20headshot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_6wxfL6ByXGMmPPM8TTA3wcmXdJTDjveGyy_pn-9u7awr1pTyPj3w8noJhcI8MGc1F_-EurND1_-bKMhN_lYGA-K3CyC80FadcRFmW_FN6PlAxz-2bmp-V0xtJWx8as1K_SRHikmpvsD4rb1ALwEfqpGDLgWTt_1h1DHXxdWag5NCxqNGvFUOsf7WsQqE/s320/Fred%20La%20Motte%20headshot.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">ALFRED
LaMOTTE has authored four volumes of poetry with Saint Julian Press, including <i>Strangers
& Pilgrims</i>, and co-authored three coffee-table art books with artist
and earth-centered activist, Rashani Réa. With degrees from Yale University and
Princeton Theological Seminary, Fred has been an interfaith college chaplain,
instructor in World Religion, and a meditation guide who loves to explore the
liminal space between word and silence, poetry and meditation. He lives on the
shore of the Salish Sea near Seattle WA with his wife Anna.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">His
web page is: </span><a href="http://yourradiance.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif;">http://yourradiance.blogspot.com</span></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><br /><p></p>Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-13628891773596120892024-02-25T12:10:00.003-07:002024-02-26T05:53:22.049-07:00FAME by Kevin McGrath<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHPSoCwol283hAfwwSfbYtDaDG81BfKgjvgKZ7CN7IwY0fmyML3onEfKuMre5Wen39LAOsNmQ7Mya-gLh8VL-5a5wcRBVc8S7OulmLMQqXdah4GiILzvOTTVxssf2f3actmlGKSFp8KTWSCznsj97gU-hJbrcjVrijf_wWVeOj6BkfxEhGxGBHQfguJ9yS/s500/FAME%20Cover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="333" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHPSoCwol283hAfwwSfbYtDaDG81BfKgjvgKZ7CN7IwY0fmyML3onEfKuMre5Wen39LAOsNmQ7Mya-gLh8VL-5a5wcRBVc8S7OulmLMQqXdah4GiILzvOTTVxssf2f3actmlGKSFp8KTWSCznsj97gU-hJbrcjVrijf_wWVeOj6BkfxEhGxGBHQfguJ9yS/s320/FAME%20Cover.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>FAME, Kevin McGrath. Saint Julian Press, 2053 Cortlandt,
Suite 200, Houston, Texas 77008, 2023, 253 pages, $25.00 paperback, <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Unlike
most contemporary poetry being written in the English language—particularly contemporary
American poetry—the poetics and structure of <i>FAME</i> are not what Megan Fernandes,
author of <i>I Do Everything I’m Told </i>(Tin House, 2023) calls an “artifice
of mess.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Kevin McGrath describes poetry in
the Afterword, and enacts on every one of its 252 pages of tight, what he calls
regulated verse, as not existing “except in a formal and harmonious state… that
forceful coherence suppl[ying] us with our necessity and location….” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Written
primarily in iambic tetrameter, fitting almost always seven stanzas (centered) per
page, dividing this long poem (it cannot really be called a collection) into
four parts that McGrath lays out for the reader on page two (“I - 2”) as “four
winds.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There are
four winds about the world<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That move within the human soul<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First – the strange attraction going<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Between
a girl and boy<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The second takes us on in time<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So that we might look back<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the residence and procession<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of what is lost upon our way<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The third is the emptiness that<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fills up our breathing days<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As we go toward our source<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its quietness makes us more still<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The final air is that of beauty<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quick ephemeral always true<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The breeze that makes substantial<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything we do not know<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Song of what we cannot say<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The <i>center </i>or subject matter
or tension in <i>Fame </i>is a recreation of the hero’s journey of Achilles as
emblematic of the “one narrative in this world,” this work reflecting that
pattern in each of its four sections of 1) the Attraction between male and
female; 2) Time’s arrow; 3) Emptiness; and 4) Beauty. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Reminiscent
of the adoration passages spoken by the writer of <i>The Song of Songs </i>from
the Biblical canon (e.g. “Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art
fair; thou hast doves’ eyes within thy locks…thy lips are like a thread of
scarlet, and thy speech is comely: thy temples are like a piece of a
pomegranate within thy locks”—from Chapter 4, vs 1-3), are the one-hundred
pages of section I, of which stanzas from I-21 and I-22 follow:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>I-21<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They come
and go and trespass<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Freighted
with desire<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Young women of the spring<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In their summer dresses<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crocus yellow hyacinth<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their golden shoulders bare<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>A
green text burning<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Sweet
upon their lips <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>I-22<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The nature
of my love is this<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I witness you as no other<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you are mine to hold<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Refining our warm volume<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I love your
bones and your smell<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A scent of leaves and rain<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the hollows of your joints<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My hands confess their love<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">And in section I-67, a long piece
defining the essence of love, we seem to have an answer to the above passages,
at least in part:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Love
gives us tongues and insight<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It fills us with concupiscence<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Without
love we are empty creatures<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Phantoms who
cannot speak nor touch<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His voice
removed my loneliness<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just as his
strength took my lust<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In his person I find a home<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And in his sleep I find rest<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Many references to
“Time” in section II are told “slant” as Dickinson suggested and exemplified: (“Being
drawn by the not-having / And then in the satisfaction / We still miss the
conclusion / To this long endless call” from II-2; “There is only one day ever
/ In our live and one occasion / For vision to be complete” from II-4; and “These
slow hours are insufficient / For you [to] sleep far away content / Unaware of
how life could rest” from II-7 are examples.) However, in II-23 McGrath speaks
more directly to “Time” from a subjective perspective:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On my
sixty-sixth year on earth<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walked out for distraction<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Loving the
sand loving the dust<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The unmasking of the air<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A firm wind
from off the lake<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was bevel on the hot light<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As if
desperate for release<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For destiny to be complete<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
distance were hazy and<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The low brown hills at rest<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As my years
gathered close<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Awaiting their dismissal<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So much
time so little place<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So little achieved in living<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yes this is
where my heart stays<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where I wish to sleep<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Section
III brings us to “…the emptiness that / Fills up our breathing days.” Examples
of images that haunt these lines are “…a field / Surrounded by speechless
stones” (III-1); a “perfect sphere” that “appears when we close / Our eyes and
there is no sound” (III-2); “…life is a mirror…/ …no one is truly present”
(III-3); “light becomes quiet // / The river empty of boats / No one works the
ridged fields” and “…an infinite sea” where we “ Submerge and leave no trace”
(III-5); “…a river made of shadow / Flowing deep into the earth” (III-8); a
“universe…made of night / Of coldness…/ …no shadows moving / Among silent
minerals” (III-9); “A glass of water…consumed / … / …life becomes invisible”
(III-12); and again, “…a mirror / …. / Called solitude when we / Become absent
from ourselves” (III-18). And yet, McGrath never falls into despair, holding
onto a belief in love—"When love calls from a distance // …no one sleeps
nor deceases” (III-13)—and a belief in beauty, which is the focus of Section
IV.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There are
three causes here<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Driving us among the days<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drawing us through time<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Where <i>beauty
</i>is unspeakable [italics mine]<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
section four, the first three sections (attraction between lovers; time’s
arrow; emptiness; and beauty) are re-capitulated and emerge from McGrath’s pen
as birds and other winged creatures (swallows, fireflies, dragonflies, kestrels,
and falcons, e.g.) to carry love aloft, epitomized by the love of Achilles
(IV-15):<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Achilles you loved too much<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You went beyond this world<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Only your
horses knew your way<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there was no zero at all<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">This first stanza re-introduces
Achilles and the reader understands that McGrath has been writing about him all
along:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Your song
became beautiful<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Perfectly
light and sonorous<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>You went so
far out of time<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unbound by
the breath of words<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">In III-14, McGrath opens with a
passage that captures, for this reader, perhaps the most insistent of the many
themes in this dense, yet musically lyrical tome:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The choirs
that compose our lives<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Birds cicadas wind rainfall<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Someone call out our name<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When there is no one present<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So we lightly part the air<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With words or with footsteps<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>A
vast immortal order we<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do not observe yet inhabit<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">In <i>Fame, </i>Kevin McGrath parts
the air with music that rivals the best of classical poetry, drawing from all
three genres: the dramatic, the narrative, and the lyrical. Readers will be
elevated to musical and ideational heights for generations to come, reading
this epic poem, so unusual these days for its beauty of language and coherence of
thought. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoHyperlink"><span style="text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></span><span style="color: #0563c1; mso-themecolor: hyperlink;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-16039762637696028512024-02-11T09:31:00.004-07:002024-02-12T03:26:46.452-07:00IT BEGAN, by Michael Jemal<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>IT BEGAN, Michael Jemal. </i>Blue Light Press, 2024, 15
pages, paperback, <a href="mailto:BlueLightPress@aol.com">BlueLightPress@aol.com</a><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Poetry chapbooks
are intended to be small jewels, each poem a facet of material cut from the
same slab of language, reflecting light from a slightly different perspective. At
times, poems find their way into the manuscript because they are favorites of
the poet or because the poet doesn’t have enough material on the main theme to
flesh out the book. Not so with <i>It Began</i> by Michael Jemal. Each poem not
only begins with the anaphora “It began…” but the “it” that is introduced at
the beginning of each poem becomes a Rorschach test, interpreted by each reader
according their background—in their living, their reading, and—if a
writer—their own work. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">As a poet, as well
as a reader, I find that each poem can be an <i>ars poetica</i>—a poem about
poetry itself—as well as a poem about love—love for writing or any other
life-changing endeavor, or love for a person. Thus, in the Prologue, the first
line can become “[writing poetry] began when I accidentally / stepped on your
left foot / and you broke / into a million excuses.” It can just as easily
become [Our relationship began] when I accidentally / stepped on your left
foot…” This first stanza develops themes of both love and writing so that the
final stanza yields a conclusion to either one: “I have so many stories in my
pocket / I need to unwind. / Have you ever seen / inside the body / of a
meaningful thought. / There are so many shades of despair, / I’m almost ready
to shout.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
tight focus of “It began” that begins each poem also allows for a capaciousness
of subject matter, but the poems themselves provide cues for what each “it”
may be without intruding into the reader’s private interpretations and by never
closing a poem in a neat, tidy bow, but rather always leaving room for mystery.
“It Began 1,” for example, ends with “There was no way to know / when I opened
the door to the bathroom / and stood in front of [a] mirror / I would wonder /
who was looking at me.” “It Began 9,” beginning with “It began after the
divorce,” ends with “Different people do different things. / Take anything you
want, take it all I say. / We are what we don’t throw away,” once again leaving
the poem open at the end. And in “Epilogue” (“It began when I went to the
mailbox”) the poem ends with “Inside the envelope sheets of blank copy paper /
stapled together / as if it were a novella I needed / to meditate on, / rethink
the characters / and keep track of their frailties. / Characters who needed to
find /their own way to the epilogue / despite how lost they were. / That much I
am certain,” leaves a wide bandwidth on the dial of what the narrator is not
certain. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
power of these poems lies, in part, with the reader’s expectations being
subverted by their enjambments and unlikely pairings of words—in the case of
“Prologue,” adjectives with nouns, and verbs with objects of prepositions.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
began when I accidentally<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>stepped
on your left foot<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>and
you broke<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>into
a million excuses.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Breaking
(pun intended) line three after “broke” is a gesture that changes everything in
the poem and puts the reader off-guard for the remainder of the poem after
reading the line “into a million excuses.” The next couplet does not disappoint
with “What good is love without a few / hazard lights flashing.” Later, the
lover morphs into the writer with: <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’ve
been patching myself together<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>for
years.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
brand new.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If
I put on my best pants<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>will
you dance with me tonight.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
have so many stories in my pocket<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
need to unwind.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Have
you ever seen<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>inside
the body<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>of
a meaningful thought.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There
are so many shades of despair,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
almost ready to shout.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
entire book’s structure can be said to alternate between language either more
conducive to love or to writing, without squeezing out the possibility of the
other—both in poem order and in the order of stanzas within the poem. Poems 4
through 9, e.g., are ostensibly about love, beginning with the opening lines
“It began as a nightmare / When every time I tried to whisper / into the ear of
the woman beside me / wisteria leaves flew out my mouth” and concluding with
these final lines from “It Began 9” about divorce:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What’s
worse than being told<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>you
are not loved.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
like falling to the ground<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>after
you’re already on the ground<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>or
giving up your wants<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>to
hold onto everything you’ve ever wanted.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Different
people do different things.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Take
anything you want, take it all I say.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
are what we don’t throw away.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">After this series of poems about
love, we have the following opening lines to “It Began 10”:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
began when I received<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>a
postcard from myself<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There
are no miracles” it read,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“without
strings attached.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Poems 11, 12, and
13 (Epilogue) continue this theme of writing after the divorce with lines such
as “It began when I accidentally / walked into a room full of strangers / who
used bandaids for hatchet wounds” (from “It Began 11”); “…I’ve promised myself
I’d change, / become a better man. / Someone who will consider / experiences as
an irreplaceable / puzzle piece to his life. / A man with a dependable door /
on the back of his head / that won’t easily open…;” and finally in the
epilogue, a return to interpretation that can easily hold both writing and love
and any other thing that one might be passionate about:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Epilogue<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
began when I went to the mailbox<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>and
found a manila envelope from you.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How
did you find me, I gave up<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>my
name years ago<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>when
it was still possible to become yourself,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>despite
the many disappointments.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Inside
the envelope<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>sheets
of blank copy paper<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>stapled
together<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>as
if it were a novella I needed<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>to
meditate on,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>rethink
the characters<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>and
keep track of their frailties.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Characters
who needed to find<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>their
own way to the epilogue<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>despite
how lost they were.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
much I am certain.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It
Began </i>is indeed a tiny jewel box of glimmering poems that not only please but make us want more. We can only hope that this chapbook is true sample of
what is to come from this poet whose poems are rendered with perfect timing and
a voice we can immediately trust—that future readers will write about Michael
Jemal’s work <i>— “It began” with a small chapbook that was the beginning of a poet’s
significant contribution to the canon of 21<sup>st</sup> century poetry. <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-76116629007010517712024-01-16T10:42:00.001-07:002024-01-16T10:42:58.849-07:00CATALOGUE OF SURPRISES by Dorothy Wall<p class="MsoNormal"><i>Blue Light Press,
2023, 81 pages, $20.00 paperback, </i><a href="mailto:BlueLightPress@aol.com"><i>BlueLightPress@aol.com</i></a><i><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimAxWBLq1UtOAvO0-W9pzEMOFJT6eGZrUXvLFxysdMoxSOd55-RMqofLwKkCByehoqWTo4x7mW7SKqEiZBb9JrVXY9wt-9_aSEMZA1bos6s__WMsvx7i1kKFj3aBg-9OukHSZruJVtxPZS9EcNoDTgdaL0xb8iAJP6uW5u6IsE-Cbf3iYoAX6AYrUso77y/s526/Dorothy%20Wall%20Catalogue%20of%20Surprises%20front%20cover%202023%20(002).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="526" data-original-width="350" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimAxWBLq1UtOAvO0-W9pzEMOFJT6eGZrUXvLFxysdMoxSOd55-RMqofLwKkCByehoqWTo4x7mW7SKqEiZBb9JrVXY9wt-9_aSEMZA1bos6s__WMsvx7i1kKFj3aBg-9OukHSZruJVtxPZS9EcNoDTgdaL0xb8iAJP6uW5u6IsE-Cbf3iYoAX6AYrUso77y/s320/Dorothy%20Wall%20Catalogue%20of%20Surprises%20front%20cover%202023%20(002).jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">Throughout her
newly released poetry collection, Dorothy Wall demonstrates the ability to fuse
language both concrete (e.g., “refrigerator on the freeway” and a “baby born in
[a] bomb shelter,”) as well as abstract (e.g. “hope,” “absurdity” and, as in
the title poem, “surprises,” “plans,” “accidents,” and “acquisitions.”) This
range from nominalism to idealism, where many times along the continuum words
intersect both worlds (as in “shelter”), is an earmark of Wall’s work in this
collection, making it appealing to both die-hard students of post-modern poetry
and the occasional reader who needs tone and conversational language in order
to stay with it.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> On
the concrete end of the spectrum is a poem like “Not Today,” where practically
all of the abstractions appear in the title, early lines and final lines, the
remaining narrative being comprised of imagery appealing directly to the
senses.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> While
damage unmoors and upends,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> we go to
the pool. I don’t swim,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I watch, a glaring water-light my
granddaughter<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> dives
under, hair streaming and sleek.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> It’s easy
here. Water chlorine-clean,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> untouched
by brown torrents gushing,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> waterfall
heavy, through Kentucky streets,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">tearing into basements, taking down
houses,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> power
lines, SUVs like the house of cards they are.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> The truth,
the wet truth. In Pakistan a deluge<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> devours
hillsides, houses, lives. Maldives’ beaches<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> disappear,
gigantic bites. Here a shimmer<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> of blue popsicle
puddles on cement.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> Child
voices in splashy play.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> A
reckoning hovers<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> above the
gleaming water like an Old Testament<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> prophet
scolding and hurricane huge, ready to<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> bind us in
his furious arms.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Eventually. Not today.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">At the other pole is a poem like “Where
to Find Hope”:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> “The
phrenologists already knew that hope was situated<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> in
the prefrontal cortex: ‘in front of conscientiousness,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> and
behind marvelousness, being elongated in the direction<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> of
the ears.’”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> “Electrified,”
by Elif Batuman, <i>The New Yorker,<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i> </i>April
6, 2015<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> Clearly
I’ve been searching all the wrong places<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> trekking
through uncertainty, lost<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> in
absurdity. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> My
fingertips wander to the precise spot, massaging scalp<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> like a
clairvoyant her crystal or a mother her baby’s<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> fontanelle,
still open<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> Skeptical
self, please believe in the possible<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> against
evidence<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> Everyone’s
tired of the news, fill my head<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> with
something else<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> a map clear
as a phrenologist’s staked claim<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> giving
us not only discovery<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> but
faith. I don’t need<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> answers,
just beginnings, like that infant<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> newly
swum up from its bath<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> of
stem cells that can be anything<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> heal
anything<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> that swarm
to where they belong<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> doing what
they’re meant to<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> unbewildered<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> their
orchestrated flood, like hope<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> changing<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> what
they touch<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> in the
beginning.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> What we do
next is what matters.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Even
though “Where to Find Hope” is filled with as many abstractions as appear in any
poem of the book, (e.g. “uncertainty, absurdity, skeptical, discovery, faith,”<i>
</i>and “hope”), they<i> </i>are counter-balanced with “fingertips, scalp,
crystal, stem cells”<i> </i>and other palpable language, allowing the poem to
serve as a conduit between the right brain and the left—utilizing language to
bridge the gap between this world and another.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Many
poems are structured in couplets, a fitting form for the lyrical narratives
that populate the book. In “Hemingway Puts Down His Gun,” Wall lays down a prosody
against which to measure her poems—and her poems do not disappoint. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> I
read the story somewhere, how each day<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> he
tried to stop writing when he knew<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> what
came next<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> As
long as words, strong as a rope<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> hauled
him into another day<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> he
knew he’d keep going<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> If
you ever thought words can’t save us<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> think
again: a string of words<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> a
suspension bridge<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> a
rope we’ve tied ourselves to<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> above
the chasm<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> You’d
think I’d understand this rope-pulled<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> undertaking,
this aerial act, but I don’t<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> this
trusting at the edge that requires<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> trusting
yourself, now that’s<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> scary.
Below the river flits from green<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> to
blue, darker at the bend<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> where
words end<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"> until<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">In terms of
length, poems vary from the nine-line “All the Ghosts” to the three-page “How
to Survive” dedicated to the poet’s great-grandfather Frank Thomas Wall, “who
twice lost his mind, the second time after the Great Mississippi Flood of 1927”—from
the epigraph. The title poem, “Catalogue of Surprises” is emblematic of the
longer poems. It deals with viral illness and provides a four-fold structure
with its divisions of “Catalogue of Surprises,” “Catalogue of Plans,”
“Catalogue of Accidents,” and “Catalogue of Acquisitions.” There is a
metaphorical sensibility to this poem that parallels the tone of the entire
collection. “What happens in a house / doesn’t stay in a house” are the poem’s
opening lines. The enjambment works perfectly to both look backwards as a
question and forwards as one answer:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">…It’s the
wanderings<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">within I didn’t
expect,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">cellular shifting,
these guests<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">that stay,
altering the body<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">like a birthmark
or your<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">children. What happened?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">A virus flew into
my mouth,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">burrowing,
roaming,<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">remaking my world.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">“Catalogue of Surprises” is an <i>ars
poetica</i> in disguise, with its Richard Hugo-like wisdom for writing as “…everything
accidental… / everything. No plan. Who could / plan what we end up with? /Haphazard
as a virus that takes / any portal as invitation to settle / …to root,
survive.” In the final section, “Catalogue of Acquisitions,” the poet continues
her imagery layered between illness and the compulsion to write, reminding one
of an interview question posed to Robert Creeley about the meaning of his poems
which he answered by pointing to how he didn’t understand his children, and why
would one presume to understand one’s poems: “…I haven’t figured out wholeness
/ or these visitors that stay,” answers Wall to the question of “What
happened?” “Perhaps that viral virility / puffers down with time / dulled and
senescent / its mark fading. Perhaps / we’ll grow used to / each other, until
our needs / coincide and I can’t discern / the stranger inside.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> In
this collection, Dorothy Wall gives us a glimpse of her “stranger inside” and
we learn that hers is no different from the strangers inside us that surprise
in spite of all our plans. In the end, they help Wall acquire “…a string of
words / a suspension bridge // a rope we’ve tied ourselves to / above the chasm.”
If we pay attention to these poems, they can instruct us how to do the
same—both in our lives and in our writing lives. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> <i>Catalogue
of Surprises </i>is capacious in scope of themes, and yet never seems to depart
from core issues dealt with in the canon over the centuries. I am certain that newcomers
to poetry, as well as informed readers and writers of poetry, will enjoy this
book’s fresh diction, unexpected syntax, and substantive material for many
years to come. <i> </i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj8_z9OEFF69TT1j-swNMx49sWfCewB37NW0-PMHTxqwjURIc3QZLGzLjlc0ZVtMkp4p0j7dGG_Z9h009oI3hEwb4cCsiMPzcyU-B9Fnmr3hVWNb1hIOy9PoqI0Bi4Nw2BV3oImfVWS7oeybH2_FijZdGggBWE_AmZ8WIRuau8Nb4Nq6HI7NiqxU6Df02U/s3426/D.%20Wall%202023%20author%20photo%20color.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3426" data-original-width="2912" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj8_z9OEFF69TT1j-swNMx49sWfCewB37NW0-PMHTxqwjURIc3QZLGzLjlc0ZVtMkp4p0j7dGG_Z9h009oI3hEwb4cCsiMPzcyU-B9Fnmr3hVWNb1hIOy9PoqI0Bi4Nw2BV3oImfVWS7oeybH2_FijZdGggBWE_AmZ8WIRuau8Nb4Nq6HI7NiqxU6Df02U/w272-h310/D.%20Wall%202023%20author%20photo%20color.jpg" width="272" /></a></div><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Dorothy Wall is author of Identity Theory: New and Selected Poems (Blue Light Press)
and Encounters with the Invisible: Unseen Illness, Controversy, and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome
(Southern Methodist University Press), and coauthor of Finding Your Writer’s Voice: A Guide to
Creative Fiction (St. Martin’s Press). Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net, and her
poems and essays have appeared in magazines and anthologies, including Prairie Schooner,
Witness, Bellevue Literary Review, Sonora Review, Cimarron Review, Eastern Iowa Review and
others. She has taught poetry and fiction writing at San Francisco State University and U.C.
Berkeley Extension. Visit her at www.dorothywall.com.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-73201825873769446202023-11-25T12:46:00.001-07:002023-12-03T11:14:17.871-07:00A Pilgrimage of Churches by Ron Starbuck<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRNCAUS_mmQOBpj9DPf0U59LLykjKxNv4mBmlH9r6zX7djESCULupvK3Kq0mjjsp9e_26jYVVLmic7lsOMLwlCkUhNoIvXWn5yn0vI5wpoAIG1RsBaLs5OQgxau8WLrKZjbD82VUeEi6xJ1_iPKWVxeVcRy5fWiXz9IZ6AwnFhei4ZDuUuApCSQCkjhLtG/s630/Ron's%20Book%20Cover%20Churches-Front-Cover.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="630" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRNCAUS_mmQOBpj9DPf0U59LLykjKxNv4mBmlH9r6zX7djESCULupvK3Kq0mjjsp9e_26jYVVLmic7lsOMLwlCkUhNoIvXWn5yn0vI5wpoAIG1RsBaLs5OQgxau8WLrKZjbD82VUeEi6xJ1_iPKWVxeVcRy5fWiXz9IZ6AwnFhei4ZDuUuApCSQCkjhLtG/s320/Ron's%20Book%20Cover%20Churches-Front-Cover.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>A PILGRIMAGE OF CHURCHES, Ron Starbuck. </i>Saint Julian
Press, 2053 Cortlandt, Suite 200, Houston, Texas 77008, 2023, 60 pages, $18
paperback, <a href="http://www.saintjulianpress.com/">http://www.saintjulianpress.com</a><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>A Pilgrimage of
Churches </i>is a collection of Ron Starbuck’s black and white photographs of primarily
church buildings, with some schoolhouses, farms, and landscapes, counterpointed
with meditative verse in liturgical style, commemorating the heritage of people
and place in and around Easton Township, Leavenworth County, Kansas, and in his
current residence of Houston, Texas. In his own words, the project is “one
person’s answer to the landscape of the Great Plains, flowing from Canada to
the Coastal Plains of Texas, and the people who live there, who work the land,
and who worship together in community on the Sabbath” (the Sabbath being a
common euphemism for Sunday in the religious tradition of many rural church
denominations). <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Actually, the book
devotes three-fourths of its footprint to the “Great Plains”—The Smokey Hills,
The Glacial Hills of Kansas, The Flint Hills of Kansas, and one-fourth to The
Coastal Plains of Texas (Houston). In those terms and in other ways, this
collection is a soaring success. The striking photos document a life that was
common after the Civil War until the latter half of the 20<sup>th</sup> century—every
town and municipality not only in the Great Plains, but in, dare I say, in most
rural places where people worked the land and lived in community with a common
heritage, mythos, and practice about and at home, school, and church. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">The author makes
it clear from his introduction that the point of view of his photographs and
written verse, although open to other traditions (particularly Buddhism), view
the world from inside the walls of liturgical Christianity. And yet, this work
is much more than its title, <i>A Pilgrimage of Churches, </i>might suggest.
Once art is created, it no longer belongs to the creator. Viewers and readers
will see and hear narratives other than the ones intended by words such as
these in answer to the Olsburg Bell Tower with an epigraph from Psalm 118 that
ends with <i>Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good; his mercy endures
forever.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><i><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></i>H<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">onoring those who conceived<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A church laid with
shingles<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And a sapling once
planted<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Grown taller now
brushes softly<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Against aged wood to
cast shadows<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Where peeling paint
and light<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Reflecting from russet
autumn<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Leaves catch and enter
our eyes<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So that our mind turns
gently<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Towards the light
where waiting<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In thoughtful
simplicity of heart<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The pure stillness and
silence<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of our modest mortal
flesh<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Signals an imminent
prophet<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Envisioning our
healing<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Beyond the ruined
places<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of our human hearts<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Where voices raised in
reverence<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Welcome this holy
mystery<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Cherished long since
childhood<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Although “open to [all] voices raised in
reverence [that] welcome this holy mystery,” this work of image and text, like
the builders and congregants of the churches and other edifices photographed,
is expressed in ritual—a ritual meaningful to the people of its era and a
ritual that held—and still holds—them together, the cultural glue that has
loosened in modern and postmodern times. Between photographs, each page begins
with a title the author has given the preceding photograph, then a Biblical reference
of book and chapter, the liturgical name for the Psalm or passage of scripture,
and the key, selected verses. The writer then transmogrifies the scripture to
verses that act as an ekphrastic expression of not only the images
photographed, but truths that well up from the land and its people. The opening
photograph is of the United Methodist Church of Beverly, Kansas. What follows
is example of the form of the entire book:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">IN THIS HOLY HOUSE –
SHEKHINAH<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">PSALM 51<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Miserere mei, Deus </i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">[Have mercy on me, O God]<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">11 Create in me a
clean heart, O God;<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>and renew a right spirit within me.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">12 Cast me not away
from thy presence;<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>and take not thy holy spirit from
me.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">We must imagine, beyond<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>A divine presence
dwelling<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All our visions—in every<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Within all flesh – as humanity’s<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Holy House of God<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>Sons
and daughters prophesy<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>An indwelling, a
settling<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>In
a reconciliation and<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of the Holy Spirit – shekinah<span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>redemption within the world<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>An abundance of light<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>In a name
given and exalted<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>That rises up<span style="mso-tab-count: 5;"> </span>Above
every name in heaven<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the last darkness<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Upon and under the earth<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Passes over humankind<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>Confessed on
every tongue<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>And transforms all
things<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>So
that we might too<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pouring out a radiance<span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Become servants emptied<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>A great reverence<span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>Of
all presumptions and desires<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">This page opens up not only the book, but the first of four sections:
The Great Plains, </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Smoky Hills of
Kansas. </i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">The next two sections
begin with the same title, The Great Plains, with subtitles of </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Glacial Hills of Kansas</i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> and </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Flint Hills of Kansas. </i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Section
Two, </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Glacial Hills, </i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">is noteworthy because it not only contains
photos from Easton Township, Kansas, where Starbuck’s ancestors settled, but it
also contains, in addition to photos the county’s churches, an intimate look
into his heritage with photographs of possibly a distant relatives’ marriage
ceremony, the “Family Homestead,” and automobiles of the era, similar to the
silver blue 1940s model with whitewall tires where Starbuck rode shotgun while
his grandfather drove in the poem, “Marvelous Remembrance”—<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>…smell[ing] of aftershave<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lotion and fresh cigar smoke<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The hood and fenders shimmer[ing]<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And polished with light<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>From freshly applied car wax<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Brightly buffed to shine and glow<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As we glowed inside whenever<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We kept company together<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This is the wonderous thing<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>About all grandparents<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And aunts and uncles too<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We spoil children in their earliest<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Years—showing them in flashes<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The marvelous wonders<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of a world without end<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Creating a wonder inside them<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lasting a lifetime and beyond<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To share with the next<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Generations to be born.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Section IV ends this
collection with photos and text commemorating the author’s current location in
Houston, Texas: The Great Plains: </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Houston—Coastal
Plains. </i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">The first image is of a massive,
vaulted archway in the Trinity Episcopal Church, with its cruciform
architectural plan, common in Roman Catholic churches in medieval times. The
text that follows it is appropriately one of thanksgiving: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“THANKSGIVING
PRAISES / PSALM 95<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Venite, exultemus </i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">(Come let us praise): </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Come, let us sing to the Lord; / let us
shout for joy to the Rock of our salvation. // Let us come before his presence
with thanksgiving / and raise a loud shout to him with psalms.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">The center of this mixed-media work, is not
merely the visual narrative supplied by the photographs and the lyrical
responses of the author, following the liturgical rubrics from The Bible, but
it is also tied up with the very structure of the edifice of the book itself—a
study in darkness and in light, both in the subject of the photos and in the
text of mostly lines with three accents, mostly in two columns over two pages,
a massive amount of white surrounding them—an analogue of the aspirational and
memetic nature of the portrayal of the spiritual milieu of times when these
churches were built.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">There are no stronger images and text than
the ones found on pages 104-107, closing this collection. The image of the
interior of Live Oak Friends Meeting [Place], a study in light and shadow of
empty pews turned at ninety degrees, facing four windows and doors with light
bled out to a brilliant white, showing only faint images outside left to the
imagination, opens this series. What I consider to be one of the strongest passages
written by Starbuck follows this image. Placed after this, is an image of the same
interior of the Live Oak Friends, but from a different angle, followed by the
exterior of the building, with clouds, trees, and ground all flowing together to
form one organic whole, one body with many parts that all work together—“all
work[ing] together for good, to them who love God…” (Romans 8:28), an apt text
to describe the structure of this unique work. Here are words taken from the
center of Starbuck’s final text:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">We do not always know<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Until we embrace this calm<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the absence of dogma and doctrine<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When we step away from ancient<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Creeds and councils cluttering the
mind<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The ritual of such reticence becomes<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A sacrament of faith and mercy<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We cannot and may never name<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And yet something unexpected<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Arises from the tranquility resting<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Between and within us now<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On the razor’s edge of light<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We hold with a gentle hope<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Waiting in suspense<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Balanced delicately between <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our binary observations<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And timid choices<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So often obscure[d] now<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In dichotomies of false choices<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: 279.0pt;"><i>A Pilgrimage of Churches </i>is more than a tour of church buildings of
the great plains with text added, it is a catalyst for making sure that we as
individuals, communities, and nations, renew our vows, to make the right
choices for the sake of our present lives and our future heritage. And it is a
gesture of reconciliation between two worlds, the present world with its disintegrating
common mythos and values, and the world that Starbuck records in vivid images
and stunning diction—a world that not only deserves re-examining, but a world
that still offers a mythos and values that this post-modern culture would do
well to incorporate into its life. Thus, <i>A Pilgrimage of Churches </i>becomes
a necessary book to view and read again and again.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxaBXb8FJ7K-aaZ8ZyQfWeHwV40KZqljYZucvDU53dLVauLXG_9SMRhGamH54uO9JH2JdTYBbMyj-F8r4TXSTKFNONpZ4sXE-nd0qRZKg_krEhiANmRH6EcOyACZFemE1jAxWwnVOH2kcqWYThLfBQPSPWEVbq0S47LYn9B-abd4prXPPVwk0f9-UtmH2B/s640/Ron%20Starbuck%20Headshot.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="425" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxaBXb8FJ7K-aaZ8ZyQfWeHwV40KZqljYZucvDU53dLVauLXG_9SMRhGamH54uO9JH2JdTYBbMyj-F8r4TXSTKFNONpZ4sXE-nd0qRZKg_krEhiANmRH6EcOyACZFemE1jAxWwnVOH2kcqWYThLfBQPSPWEVbq0S47LYn9B-abd4prXPPVwk0f9-UtmH2B/s320/Ron%20Starbuck%20Headshot.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><b>RON STARBUCK</b> is a poet, writer, and the
Publisher/CEO/Executive Editor of Saint Julian Press, Inc., in Houston, Texas. Ron’s
four poetry collections are <i>There Is Something About Being An Episcopalian,
When Angels Are Born, Wheels Turning Inward </i>and, most recently,<i> A
Pilgrimage of Churches, </i>a mythic, spiritual journey in verse and photos
that crosses onto the paths of many contemplative traditions. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p>His work has appeared in numerous national and
international publications, including <i>Parabola Magazine, Tiferet: A Journal
of Spiritual Literature,</i> The <i>Criterion: An Online International Journal
in English, The Enchanting Verses Literary Review, ONE</i>, <i>Pirene's Fountain,
Glass Lyre Press, Levure Littéraire, La Piccioletta Barca,</i> and <i>The
Tulane Review. </i> A collection of essays, poems, short stories, and
audio recordings are available on the Saint Julian Press, Inc., website under
Interconnections.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Forming an independent literary press to work with emerging
and established writers and poets, and tendering new introductions to the world
at large in the framework of an interfaith and cross-cultural literary dialogue
has been a long-time dream. Ron is a former Vice President with JP Morgan Chase
and public sector Information Technology — Executive Program Manager with
Harris County, Texas. </p>Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-40154382076624537782023-11-25T12:37:00.004-07:002023-11-25T12:45:43.750-07:00Shards of Time by Maryam Hiradfar<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6hvVMRUvwUcIXxsbqM-1vhkJDO4RtkdsHoZvQhF__-u8UID2WMqwtRWykwLEVpMgxZOco-iKdZJ_UvCGbNpl7sBi5m4OAQSjELQdEtHknX1Sz6XjEh-JguXJQSqTrPMlqhyrkJzFddSB7OCtFceF79vhxivtXrrqD_D1dFs9BrB4IyJf5EAatjyKcrqoE/s640/Maryam's%20book%20cover%20978-1955194204-Front-Cover%20V2.0.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="423" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6hvVMRUvwUcIXxsbqM-1vhkJDO4RtkdsHoZvQhF__-u8UID2WMqwtRWykwLEVpMgxZOco-iKdZJ_UvCGbNpl7sBi5m4OAQSjELQdEtHknX1Sz6XjEh-JguXJQSqTrPMlqhyrkJzFddSB7OCtFceF79vhxivtXrrqD_D1dFs9BrB4IyJf5EAatjyKcrqoE/w213-h320/Maryam's%20book%20cover%20978-1955194204-Front-Cover%20V2.0.jpeg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>SHARDS OF TIME, Maryam Hiradfar. </i>Saint Julian Press,
2053 Cortlandt, Suite 200, Houston, Texas 77008, 2023, 52 pages, $18 paperback,
<a href="http://www.saintjulianpress.com/">http://www.saintjulianpress.com</a><span class="MsoHyperlink"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="MsoHyperlink"><o:p><span style="text-decoration: none;"> </span></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Every once in a
while, a poet comes along whose poetry teaches one how to read it. I find
Maryam Hiradfar’s “Shards of Time” to be in that category. Language that
appears on the surface as familiar and with too healthy a dose of abstraction
for contemporary American poetry, in reality becomes devotional, contemplative,
dare I say liturgical when given a close reading—preferably aloud. “Dawn is
loved forever,” from section I (“Torrents at Dawn”), in which the title is
repeated as the final line to each of the four stanzas, is emblematic of this
description. “Dawn is loved forever”—the line—is composed of three trochaic
feet with each of the three stressed syllables an open “ah” or “eh” vowel,
giving an acapella, choral effect to its reading. This “ah” vowel sound is echoed
throughout the first stanza:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Day is offering<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">lighthearted as a dove<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">and plain as the blanket<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">of morning mist<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Dawn is loved forever. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The language in stanza two enacts
its theme of “never-ending” / “forever” with the “eh” vowel providing ample
assonance of the middle vowel of “forever” in words scattered throughout: “Quenching,”
“moments,” “engulf,” “ever-stretching,” and “ends”: <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Quenching
our thirst<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>as we revolve<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>in the
never-ending cycles<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>and moments
that engulf us<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>in their
ever-stretching fabric<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>pinned
between the two ends<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>of the
revolving horizon<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dawn is
loved forever.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">The third stanza begins with a line
of layered meaning, due to the multiple uses of “passage” as “trip,”
“passageway,” and a section of (sacred) “text,” to name a few. The stanza
incorporates a blending of the vowel sounds found in the first two stanzas,
offering a change of tone, juxtaposed against the stable final line:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Yet the passage<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>of this
beloved orb<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>against the
infinite landscape<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>decorate
with time<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>prefers <i>now
</i>[italics mine] over all history<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>and gently
puts to rest<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>all hopes
of juxtaposed dance<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>of now and
infinity<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dawn is
loved forever.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Heavy use is made once again of
assonance in the final stanza, along with the half-rhymes or chimes, both at
the ends and in the middle of lines (“eclipsed” / “wished,” “stars” /
“darkness, “reveal / secrets,” “cold” / “stone,” “falls” / “longs,” “light” / “dives”
/ “silence,” and “awe” / “Dawn”:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And in its
embracing warmth<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>moments are
eclipsed<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>washed out
like sand<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>the stars
wish<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>for daytime
darkness<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>to
momentarily reveal<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>their
long-held secrets<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>when the
shadow<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>of a cold
stone falls<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>on all that
ever longs for light<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>and the
world dives into silence<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>in awe<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dawn is
loved forever. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">A second poem in section I, (“Fragments
of a Breath”) moves the repetition from lines to words and has even more
musicality, particularly in its long lyrical passage that makes up the middle two-thirds
of the poem, ending in an anaphoric passage enacting our being “…dispersed /
through the river currents / ….”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After the
edges of papers<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>have turned
yellow<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>yellow
corners curled up<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>cover
covered with dust<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>sheets
wrinkled like our skin<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>skin turned
into dust<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>when the
ink is dissolved<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>and so is
our blood<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>when the
soft flesh is gone<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>crows’
sunset feast adjourned<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>when we are
dispersed<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>through the
river currents<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>on the
wings of the wind<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>on yellow
pollens a bee carries<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>in the body
of a flower vase<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>in the warm
blood<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>of an
albatross flying free<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>in the deep
blue of a heron’s wings<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>in the
azure of eyes born anew<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>in the
breath of a singing robin<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">Even though these lines have no
more than 3 accents each, they find room for anaphora, assonance, consonance, simile,
imagery, narrative and lyricism. But Hiradfar’s diction does not get stuck in
one syntactical mode. In the next poem, “Shards,” we find lines enacting the
title with short lyrical narrative thrusts of two strong beats each (“Shards
pierce / the flesh of reason / and the mind bleeds”).<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If
the reader tires of lyricism and music in Hiradfar’s poems, she only has to
keep turning pages and imagistic, narrative poems will appear. “Lunulata” (a
venomous, blue-ringed octopus), “The Silent Saxaul Tree,” “Arrow of Time,”
“Neowise,” “Violet Night,” Red-Tailed Hawk,” “The Fourteenth,” and “Coyotes”
all focus their energy on a narrative that does not compromise their lyrical,
musicality—a balance that enacts the center message of this book: a balance
between inner / outer; things cosmological / things human; the supernatural /
the quotidian; and the abstract / the concrete. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Lunulata<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Light as a
leaf<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>stretched
as a new canvas<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>her body
rests on the water<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>that has
made an offer<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>to bear it
all<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The weight<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>and the
compression<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>the dust
and the old scars<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>all that
there ever was<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What
remains is a clear frame<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>for
unfinished brushstrokes<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>and
half-written words<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>buoyant and
asleep it floats<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>bridging
the dark ocean rocks<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>and the
exploding hearts<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>of ancient
stars<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">In this compact
(52 page) yet capacious first full-length collection, a reader can find a broad
range of poems: free-verse, formal, organic, even nonce-forms—those invented
forms that convince the reader they have been around forever. “The Quiet
Corner” (with an ABAC rhyme scheme) evokes Dickinson (“Come to the quiet corner
/ where meaning lies bare at rest / come to the center of disguise / to the
kingdom of essence, undressed); “The Eternal Companion” personifies <i>doubt</i>
(“Walking down below the shadows / looking far across the mind / voice of doubt
kneeled and whispered: ‘say it clearly, say it loud’”); and “The Pilgrim” is an
incantatory meditation that, after four lines of anaphora resolves into an echo
of the early poem of repetition, “Dawn is Loved Forever,” coming full circle
like a snake swallowing its tail:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The Pilgrim<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Streams may
flow<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>ice may
grow<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>but when
let free<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>a stone
gently<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>sinks to
the bedrock<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>where Peace
is still<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>where Peace
is sane<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>where Peace
belongs<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>where Peace
came from<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“All seek
the Origin”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All return
to Tranquility<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Through
torrents at dawn.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Shards
of Time</i> defies precise classification in the world of contemporary American
poetry. It declares itself out of time and must be read on its own
terms—written from a Rumi-esque perspective about life, death, time, eternity,
and writing as spiritual practice rather than a memetic art. At the center of <i>Shards
of Time</i> is the moment, the continual now, now, now that is meant to be
lived, not analyzed, enjoyed, not explained, celebrated, not regretted or
anxious about. And yet, a critical analysis of Hiradfar’s work through the lens
of Richard Hugo’s maxim about two kinds of poets, leans toward placing her in
the category favored by Hugo. In chapter one of <i>The Triggering Town, </i>he
states:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When you
start to write, you carry to the page one of two<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>attitudes,
though you may not be aware of it. One is that all<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>music must
conform to truth. The other, that all truth must<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>conform to
music. If you believe the first, you are making your<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>job very
difficult, and you are not only limiting the writing of<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>poems to
something done only by the very witty and clever,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>such as
Auden…so you can take that attitude if you want…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>but you are
jeopardizing your chances of writing a good poem.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">With many of these
poems obviously leaning into their music, rather than into pre-determined truths
arrived at independently of the actual writing of the poems, I believe that
Hugo would say that Hiradfar has made the correct choice. And her poems are a
testimony to that. As readers enjoy the musicality and lyricism of this
collection, they will not be able to refrain from looking forward to the
evolution of this young poet, to see where the shards of time will lead her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt30mjzwhXBC0GAeTy-JOiLTJNmVqWdXlx_XTqU4qoAqc7Ej8sgaxs-IWJVIdCSlO_gVC7ahq1PR-7Tq6U-VG5NZfQ7xAF_D2Z_AtyI21OalXFefw0m_f3OMPCwlBp-SfS9OpVKKEr0NsnHzPT4qOiR0KXu4jPeiIbx2KQBBIDAfK0ShVRK8iNlKzMz5fw/s524/Maryam%20Hiradfar%20headshot.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="524" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt30mjzwhXBC0GAeTy-JOiLTJNmVqWdXlx_XTqU4qoAqc7Ej8sgaxs-IWJVIdCSlO_gVC7ahq1PR-7Tq6U-VG5NZfQ7xAF_D2Z_AtyI21OalXFefw0m_f3OMPCwlBp-SfS9OpVKKEr0NsnHzPT4qOiR0KXu4jPeiIbx2KQBBIDAfK0ShVRK8iNlKzMz5fw/s320/Maryam%20Hiradfar%20headshot.jpeg" width="293" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Maryam Hiradfar is a
poet and writer whose roots can be traced back to the literary landscapes of
classical Persian literature. Growing up encircled by the rhythmic verses of
classic Persian poets like Rumi and Hafez, plus modern luminaries such as Sohrab
Sepehri and Ahmad Shamlou, Maryam became infused with the essence of Persian
poetry from an early age.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #222222; text-indent: 0.5in;">Amidst her academic
pursuits at Harvard, Maryam found a nurturing haven within the Lowell House
Poemical Society, where her passion for poetry flourished. This creative
sanctuary became the birthplace of her original works and a space to refine her
unique voice. Her poetry, which bears the visual imprints of her love for
illustration and photography, offers a fusion of imagery and language that
resonates deeply.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;"><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #222222; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning: 0pt; mso-ligatures: none;">Roadside, </span></i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="color: #222222; text-indent: 0.5in;">Maryam's
first poetry collection, marked a milestone in her artistic journey. She
invites readers into her world through her verses and camera lens, offering an
intimate glimpse of her perspective. Maryam embarks on a new chapter with her
latest creation, <i>Shards of Time </i>(Saint Julian Press, 2023). This
collection marries minimalistic graphics with poetic narratives, crafting a
mosaic of feelings and moments that transcend the boundaries of traditional
expression.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><p></p>Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-20390883627783270762023-11-21T08:01:00.004-07:002023-11-25T12:27:21.545-07:00The Watching Sky by Judy Brackett Crowe<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYVXGlEkYH-SEiBtMGkVXxaPKRFGx-Am26xdkuj2webwjU3TvGkHrAQr8ke2eozfIAZsvOUygjn47j-Bg6uOnSwZBHpnjnTleiGLDlyJ8i4BvIQU5Q8BchQndTbsGN6la6tRmPbMDLnz_JAhoP_Mlz-NoEslesRMIINQGiT1iMQitqdyMzti9Agfq4ag87/s1313/The%20Watching%20Sky%20Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1313" data-original-width="863" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYVXGlEkYH-SEiBtMGkVXxaPKRFGx-Am26xdkuj2webwjU3TvGkHrAQr8ke2eozfIAZsvOUygjn47j-Bg6uOnSwZBHpnjnTleiGLDlyJ8i4BvIQU5Q8BchQndTbsGN6la6tRmPbMDLnz_JAhoP_Mlz-NoEslesRMIINQGiT1iMQitqdyMzti9Agfq4ag87/w131-h200/The%20Watching%20Sky%20Cover.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><br /><i>THE WATCHING SKY, Judy Brackett Crowe. Cornerstone Press,
Room 486 CCC, 1801 Fourth Avenue, Stevens Point, WI 54481, 2024, 107 pages,
paperback, </i><a href="http://www.uwsp.edu/English/cornerstone"><span class="Hyperlink0"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";">www.uwsp.edu/English/cornerstone</span></span></a><p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><i><o:p> </o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Judy Crowe</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s forthcoming The Watching
Sky is a capacious collection, touching on a wide range of subjects with
striking lyrical narrative poems. Mathematics, ornithology, multiple species of
oak trees (including </span><span class="None"><span color="windowtext">Quercus
lobata </span>and </span><span class="None"><span color="windowtext">Quercus
suber</span>), Eudora Welty, visual art, Kyiv, syzygy, and scores more arcane
objects and esoteric ideas make their way into a variety of forms. Free-verse,
prose poems, sonnets, contrapuntals, and various </span><span class="None"><span color="windowtext">nonce forms </span>populate this collection. Writing
within this wide of a bandwidth, lesser poets might fly off into abstractions,
begin repeating themselves or making predictable gestures for lack of </span><span class="None"><span color="windowtext">diction, but Crowe </span>remains
fresh and challenging in each poem by habituating the concrete, sensorial level
of language, even when pointing toward the ineffable. </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>Inside the Pearl” is an example that creates multiple
levels of meaning, providing abstract truths within a metaphorical sensibility:
</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
swallows the pearl<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>uncultured it
is</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>so
is she<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>inside the pearl</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>sleeps
mustard seed or</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a babe</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s clipped nail or</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>a
kitten</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s
eyelash or</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>something else alive and</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>spinning
warm</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she walks toward</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>the
far distant middleness</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>with
a pebble in</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>her
shoe<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>she put it there</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>to
remember<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>always</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>that
she</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s
of this earth</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 5;"> </span>not
of the air</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>she
cannot fly<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>doesn</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>t want</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>to
fly<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>all that air swishing</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>as
she swings ever higher</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>toward
the moon</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>tonight
barely one night</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>past
full</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span style="color: #113bfe;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span color="windowtext">she
swallows the moon</span><span style="color: #113bfe;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: #1734ff;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="None"><span color="windowtext">The remaining lines of this </span></span><span class="None"><span color="windowtext" lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;"><i>ars
poetica</i></span></span><span class="None"><span color="windowtext" lang="NL"> </span></span><span class="None"><span color="windowtext">are as emblematic of every poem in The
Watching Sky as is this opening for remaining </span></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span color="windowtext" dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span></span><span class="None"><span color="windowtext">of this earth” </span>while pointing </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>towards the moon,” the poet’s
language having </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>swallowed”
</span><span class="None"><span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">poetry</span></span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span></span><span class="None"><span lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">s familiar images [</span></span><span class="None"><span color="windowtext" lang="PT" style="mso-ansi-language: PT;">i.e. the
</span></span><span class="None"><span color="windowtext" lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">moon</span>], allowing in the end, </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>the pebble, / the spinning night / to save her.” And in
some poems, the poet states this mission outright as in </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>The Dirt”—“You</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>ll find the truth in the
dirt / damp black honest dirt / Yes the truth and the lies and the silences /
The orchid begins in green hush needing / no soil and giving up fragrance / for
improbable beauty.” Even when using some abstractions as in this passage, Crowe
gestures toward the lyricism that permeates this collection, always balancing
the abstract with the concrete.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Poems are organized into eight </span><span class="None"><span color="windowtext">sections</span></span><span class="None"><span style="color: #0922ff;"> </span>that remind this reviewer of
Gustav Freytag</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s
narrative progression from introduction (</span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>She” and </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>Words
and Pictures, Song”); to rising action (</span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>What </span><span class="None"><span color="windowtext">Matters,”
</span></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>The Doing and the
Having Done,” “The Girl,” and </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>Some
Others”); to the climax (</span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>What
Happens</span><span class="None"><span style="color: #1941ff;">”</span></span><span class="None"><span color="windowtext">);</span></span><span class="None"><span style="color: #1941ff;"> a</span>nd finally, denouement (</span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>This Day Again”). </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Most poems from section one (</span><span class="None"><span color="windowtext">SHE) contain </span></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>she” in the first line—“She
swallows the pearl…” “Is she dreaming this life or some other?” “Once on a
long-ago winter</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s
day she drew” “The year she had the breakdown” “She can</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>t hear them falling,” and </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>She wakes up dreaming, goes through
the day somewhere”—so that by the end of this introductory section, we have
come to know quite a bit about her, as well as the direction this book may
take. </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>Dreaming Awake” begins
with these lines:</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She
wakes up dreaming, goes through the day somewhere</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>else,
traipses through sleet and wind, cold sun now</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>and
then, climbs up scree slopes,</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>over
and around lichen-painted boulders</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>skyward
to the saint</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span></span><span class="None"><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">s aerie,</span></span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>sheep
and dogs musical notes</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>in
the fields far below</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None">After a circuitous route that structurally
alternates between narratives including </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>spread[ing] </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None">cardboard, leaves, woodchips / between berry
rows” and a foreshadow of </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>berry
scent in the </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">breeze,</span>”
a walk to Mary Arden</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s
farm, a wade through high grasslands, where </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>a black-haired </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="None">boy on
horseback…pleads, / </span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">‘</span>Come
along, I can show you a cavern,” and on and on, interspersed </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="None">with stanzas about </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>turn[ing] pages eyes skimming word </span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">‘</span>through
memory</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s
fog / can</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>t
remember what she</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s
read / reads page nine / nine times”—all creating tension both structurally and
ideationally—the poem culminates in this final stanza:</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Some
days are like this, forth and back,</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>neither
there nor here, al confusion, fatigue,</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>and
desultory verve. What else to do by brew</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>passionfruit
tea, sigh, pick up the book,</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>turn
to page ten.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None">As
within this poem, it is language that drives the organization of the
collection, making for delicious </span><span class="None"><span color="windowtext">side trips </span>and delightful messiness along the
way. The poet</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s
truth often conforms to </span><span class="None"><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">music, </span>as in the gorgeous poems, among others </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>Black and Red and Blue on White, 2022,” “</span><span class="None"><span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">Eudora Welty Writes a
Story,</span>” “Listening,” and </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>Art
& Mathematics” with its concision, repetition, and crafted syntax that
minimizes prepositions, particularly in the latter half of the poem, and in the
title poem, </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>Watching the Sky” that
effectively utilizes prepositions as repeated anaphora, enacting the first two
lines and lines later in the poem that articulate a </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span></span><span class="None"><span color="windowtext">both
/ and” </span>ideation, rather than an </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>either / or” in a kind of negative capability of
simultaneously holding diametrically opposed ideas<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Watching
the Sky</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All at once he is no longer young / with his
handful of flowers…<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 4;"> </span>—</span><span class="None"><span lang="NL" style="mso-ansi-language: NL;">W.S. Merwin, </span></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>Young Man Picking Flowers”</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>All
at once he is no longer</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>and
yet he will be always</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None">in
the beginning and in the forgetting</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>in
the young man picking flowers</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>frangipani
perhaps whose scent calls up</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>what</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s been
forgotten but not forgotten</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>and
in his dreams of wood thrushes</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>of
swallows blackbirds</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>of
morning sparrows</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>of
the garden at dawn and the watching sky</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>he
sees his grandmother watching the sky</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>and
his mother always looking back wondering</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>and
he wanders down the small roads</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>following
the dog following the sounds</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>hymns
for his father</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>bells
and bleating dying sheep</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>the
old voices and the new</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>wandering
always in wonder</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>at
the trees without names</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>at
these green hills</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>these
sun-hit fields</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>these
dark mountains on these blessed days</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>at
the vespers hush in the gloaming</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>at
the imperfect that remains perfectly imperfect</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>at
the unfinished that now is finished</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None">In
the </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>midmorning” of the
book (in section three—</span><span class="None"><span lang="DE" style="mso-ansi-language: DE;">WHAT MATTERS</span>—with action rising and tension increasing between the
fulsome present and a future with certain death, a poem appears that is as
musical as any poem in the collection. Read aloud, </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>One Early-Summer Day, Looking Back” becomes a tutorial
for sound work from the opening to the final stanza, and an analysis of its
images teaches readers how to read Crowe</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s work and poets how to </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>show” rather than </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span></span><span class="None"><span lang="IT" style="mso-ansi-language: IT;">tell.</span>” </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None">What
begins in this first stanza with the opening phrase </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>Lying on my cot…” reminds one of the famous poem by
James Wright, </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>Lying
in a Hammock at William Duffy</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota.” However,
instead of ending with a chicken hawk flying over the farm and the poet</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s
reminiscing ending with the realization that his life has been wasted, Crowe</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s poem
ends with an awakening to a </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>red-shouldered
hawk</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s
keening…as he gyres up / above the pines and swoops down, his early morning
survey complete,” and the poet</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s assessment that </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>It will be a good day.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None">In
this poem, as well as in the entire collection, there is a virtuosic handling
of images that demonstrates a progression and recapitulation of life</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s truths
through its various stages from the perspective of early mid-life (</span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>Early-Summer Day”) looking
backwards from the end </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>After
dinner” to the beginning. These images both celebrate life and give
encouragement to move forward as in this first stanza (</span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>plenty of stars / to follow, and planes and satellites
criss-crossing”), as well as foreshadowing life</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s end (</span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>dwindling patch of sky…blotted out
more and more…”). In the remainder of the poem, these images of both life and
death de-intensify as is appropriate for the reversal of the day. In stanza
two, “…an October Glory, her leaves / shimmery-green now, but… / come October,
will wear her glorious red coat.” In stanza three, a cat </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>yowling when she runs / out of steps, out of sunlight”).
In stanza four, gray squirrels that </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>strip
/ dead branches from the lindens,” and in the penultimate stanza, tomato plants
with </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>a few yellowing
leaves.” </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
Early-Summer Day, Looking Back</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lying on my cot on the deck, I scan
my dwindling patch of sky.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s shrunk over the years as
the oaks and cedars and pines</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>have blotted out more and more blue.
Still, there are plenty of stars</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>to follow, and planes and satellites
criss-crossing. A hawk screeches</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>from across the creek. A few bats
scurry-fly under the eaves and one</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>by one settle upside down.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The day quiets and shrivels to
shadows and soft light.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After dinner—arugula and watermelon
salad, balsamic-glazed grilled</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>chicken breasts, bread and wine—we
hear the usual two deer curl up</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>on the Shasta daisy bed under the
maple, an October Glory, her leaves</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>shimmery-green now, but she is
already pulling back sugars and,</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>come October, will wear her glorious
red coat.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None">Mid-afternoon,
inside, ceiling fans try to move the air. Alice the old cat</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>creeps up the stairs with the sun,
one at a time, stretches, and climbs</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>again, cat-napping her way up the
thirteen steps, yowling when she runs</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>out of steps, out of sunlight. I
think about where we</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>ll
plant her, near Fritz,</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>near Flynn, when she dies. It won</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>t be
long.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Noontime, the jays and crows—they
are cousins—fluster and chase and</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>carry on their endless raucous
conversations. Three gray squirrels strip</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>dead branches from the lindens,
filling their mouths with bark, ends</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>sticking out every which way looking
like handlebar mustaches</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>gone wild (nest materials, I
assume), and they scramble and chatter</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>their way up into the branches of
the tallest linden.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Midmorning, I tidy the tomato plants
that are trying to escape their cages,</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>tie tendrils to wire, pinch off a
few yellowing leaves, pull weeds</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>along the berry rows, check the few
hard small nectarines for bird pecks.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This year I swear I</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>ll get
the fruit before the birds do.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wake to the red-shouldered hawk</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s keening
and watch as he gyres up</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>above the pines and swoops down, his
early morning survey complete,</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>to perch atop the bar of the swing
or on a fencepost or on a low branch</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>of a particular ponderosa. The hawk
has been here every day for a week</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>or so. He will soon move on. It will
be hot. It will be a good day.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None">And
then Crowe moves on into the remainder of this collection that feels like a </span><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span><span class="None"><span dir="RTL" lang="AR-SA" style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif; mso-ansi-language: AR-SA;"><span dir="RTL"></span><span dir="RTL"></span>“</span>new and selected,” each section
seeming like a gathering of best poems from another prize-winning collection,
all tied together by craft and voice and tension and resolution and form that
enhances and embellishes necessary content. Whether you are a poet or merely a
reader of poetry, any day you dip anywhere into Judy Brackett Crowe</span><span class="None"><span style="font-family: "Arial Unicode MS",serif;">’</span>s The
Watching Sky “…will be a good day.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p><p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span class="None"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="None"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB-Rc1g3scypGYg0CN-oW4l-iz5Tg0m4tkYs46AfeHibf4rEEG9PkB8jo1aCo5ahZyvrsteihrNgQ5CpYq3yAvoiGXRl_LQS-Kzx58M3Mpl92MiC7e5PJK-z6_hIKfOgwZ_pXKX6O9LdRbhMWK9BjZIgJ-TS9xaW2MllxgwD25nRoeC-HvYzCYccMgVBwv/s768/Judy%20Crowe%20Headshot.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="768" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB-Rc1g3scypGYg0CN-oW4l-iz5Tg0m4tkYs46AfeHibf4rEEG9PkB8jo1aCo5ahZyvrsteihrNgQ5CpYq3yAvoiGXRl_LQS-Kzx58M3Mpl92MiC7e5PJK-z6_hIKfOgwZ_pXKX6O9LdRbhMWK9BjZIgJ-TS9xaW2MllxgwD25nRoeC-HvYzCYccMgVBwv/w200-h200/Judy%20Crowe%20Headshot.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><p></p><p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Judy Brackett Crowe</b><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">'s stories and poems have appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies. She has taught Creative Writing, English Literature, and Composition at </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><b><u>Sierra College</u></b></i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">, in Grass Valley, California. She is a member of the </span><i style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><u><b>Community of Writers at Squaw Valley</b></u></i><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">.</span></p><p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">She believes that the right words in the right places are worth a thousand pictures, and, as other writers have said, she writes to discover what she thinks.</span></p><p class="BodyA" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Born in Nebraska, she has lived in the small town of <b><i><u>Nevada City</u></i></b>, in California's northern Sierra Nevada foothills for many years. She is married to photographer Gene Crowe, and they have 3 children and 4 grandchildren. </span></p>Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-23705729620169180122023-11-03T12:50:00.001-06:002023-11-03T14:28:49.780-06:00Katy Bridge by David Watts<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxwAokqkccOqkZ6D4mIZ5CdUiJAyRszJWSx03EC4Vh9G7jBMk89N_VgYeoaVBRFHK7qDSjfWWpopPiP8c59Qr8LdNeGsCAPJ31kbBvubK_2Gny1cGyb9GRtuz6wMngb7ZSUz7YjwXPmQwdwcIKrdgPYqiLT6pz9zLk_6EngqMK_Jv0n4Av2cAPvGfwexUE/s688/Katy%20Bridge%20Front%20Cover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="688" data-original-width="481" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxwAokqkccOqkZ6D4mIZ5CdUiJAyRszJWSx03EC4Vh9G7jBMk89N_VgYeoaVBRFHK7qDSjfWWpopPiP8c59Qr8LdNeGsCAPJ31kbBvubK_2Gny1cGyb9GRtuz6wMngb7ZSUz7YjwXPmQwdwcIKrdgPYqiLT6pz9zLk_6EngqMK_Jv0n4Av2cAPvGfwexUE/s320/Katy%20Bridge%20Front%20Cover.jpg" width="224" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>KATY BRIDGE, David Watts.</i> Saint Julian Press, 2053
Cortlandt, Suite 200, Houston, Texas 77008, 2023, 56 pages, $18 paperback, <a href="http://www.saintjulianpress.com/">http://www.saintjulianpress.com</a><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">Memory is at the
center of <i>Katy Bridge, </i>a physical place as well as this collection of
poems that records narratives from childhood such as “standing next to
girders…pressed flat by the bellow of a passing train.” But Katy Bridge also, perhaps,
distorts and embellishes memories that “splatter like oil on the rails” (a
gorgeous and apt description of the poem-making process)—swimming with
girlfriends, details from the funeral of a childhood friend who fell from a
tower, Marilyn Monroe’s seductive gaze from the image on the wall of a bar, and
death’s stare from the shadows residing in almost every poem in the collection.
<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">“Afterprint,” five
poems into the book, introduces an important theme of dualities with a lover that
is not only a lover, but a figure that exists simultaneously in two worlds,
“ris[ing] from the bed / leaving a swirl in the sheets / the shape of her
leaving / … / …The air disturbed in layers. // Everything tender / about this
moment gone. / And still here.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">In “Two Deer in
Early Morning,” the observer gestures more deeply away from the fashioned world
to the organic one that is not ruled by mechanisms we can fully explain: <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">If I stand very still they
will go back to chewing a tuft of summer grass. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> If I move, <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">
the fawn will turn her fire-streaked eyes on me<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> asking to know
me<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">
for who I am. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> Conversation just a heartbeat,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">
not spoken.
<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">
Then, <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> the moment changes. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> For something
has been watching<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> from the forest<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">
and reaches now <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> to draw
them back <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">
as if their world had waited too long <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">
to call them home,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> as if they were
never here.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: 9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> But Watts never abandons the sensorial for the abstract
or mystical. These poems negotiate a pact between these two poles, as in the poem
titled “This Poem is Curious,” wherein the poet declares “Delicious was the
tension between our world and the other world. How it / brushed our bones with
silver. How there was no other world,” and the poem, “Five Stones” that begins
in the sensorial (Five stones sit between the coffee maker / and faucet, tokens
I picked up / on Wreck Beach off the straight of water, / north of Puget
Sound…”) and progresses, as so many of these explorations do, into a portal
between two worlds:<a name="OLE_LINK1"><o:p></o:p></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: -9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in -9pt 0in 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">…these
stones know something <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: -9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in -9pt 0in 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">about
me as they glisten quietly <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: -9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in -9pt 0in 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">on
the counter: one, the countenance of <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: -9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in -9pt 0in 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">a
gibbous moon, the second, the unstill arc <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: -9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in -9pt 0in 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">of
Jupiter’s stripes, <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: -9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in -9pt 0in 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">third,
the creamy mildness of a spirit in repose, <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: -9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in -9pt 0in 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">then
the rose pink of salmon flesh,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: -9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in -9pt 0in 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">and
last, a darkness that never speaks. <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: -9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in -9pt 0in 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">We walked together on that beach, <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: -9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in -9pt 0in 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">you and I, speaking<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: -9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in -9pt 0in 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">as lovers do when they remind themselves <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: -9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in -9pt 0in 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">their pasts, saying those things<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: -9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in -9pt 0in 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">we’d not found time to say, not saying<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: -9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in -9pt 0in 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">what no one will ever hear, <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: -9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in -9pt 0in 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">cradled in the chambers of two hearts <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: -9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in -9pt 0in 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">swelling. Something changed<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: -9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in -9pt 0in 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">in that moment, as if no person or thing <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: -9.0pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in -9pt 0in 0.5in; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">could ever be alone in the universe, <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">the moment opening,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">the waves at our feet, <o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">the stones in our hands,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">these collected treasures,
colorations<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">of the elements that made
us.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">Watt’s poems
call and answer to one another, inform one another and, appropriately, are
organized in this collection without sections. No poems illustrate this
dialogue between poems more than the previous “Five Stones” and “Jenner Stones”
(“I press them between my thumb / and forefinger. It may not be so bad / to go
on for years with nothing // happening, nothing / but the downward heft of
sediment—and then / this blossoming!”). This truth, drawn from geology, of
pressure producing beauty is also applicable to other realms, enacted in “Returning
Home” (“the wind… / / pushing cottonwood tufts / out to the horizon”); “At
Night” (“These images are unruly. / They change even as I hold them tightly”); “This
Poem is Curious” (“Delicious was the tension between our world and the other world…”);
“Love by its Own Plan” (“I gave a girl a buffalo nickel. / / …She spent it. /
Made a worry nickel out of me…”); and “Conversations” (“Did you know that if
you sit real still you can feel the earth move? / It’s like sitting on a
spring-mounted platform waiting for it to push you up. / Only slower.”). In “Abundance,”
about changes brought about in the midst of illness and sorrow that bring their
own treasure, we find these lines:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> <i>You say you’ve changed.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> It’s true.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> We both are different,<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> but also not<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> different: we still say<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> “It may be cold
out.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> You should take along<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> a pull-over, or<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> Can you remember where<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> I put those blue
pillowcases?<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> Love is not love that cannot be deepened<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><i><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> by sorrow—<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">Convincing
imagery, sparing use of abstraction—used only when necessary and with strong
intention—tension-filled language that is concise and rarely familiar enough to
even border on cliché, are all earmarks of Watts’s poems. The title poem is
emblematic of these elements. In addition, the structure of these poems
supports their content, often using couplets, reminding readers of those two
worlds, two people, two rails of that railroad track that passes over Katy Bridge.
<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> KATY BRIDGE<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> Rumored
to be a Lover’s Leap over shallow water. Home of ghosts.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> River
running low in summer.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> Thought
I remembered standing next to the girders one time,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> pressed
flat by the bellow of a passing train.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> Turned
sideways to the eyes of an awkward death that lured me there,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> foolishly
there. I ignored his stare and didn’t die.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">Never sure I really did that.
The bridge probably made it up where memories<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> splatter
like oil on the rails. Mostly,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> it
was a place to take your girlfriend for a scare, a kiss and a dare<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> and
beat it when the rails start to shake.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> Rare
seasons I had one. Girlfriends, that is. Scary thought: trains and girlfriends.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> What
I can say is that walking rails gets a tad different<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> with
trestles on either side of you. Always a train somewhere up the tracks<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> headed
your way, the rails alive like snakes slithering,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> the
4 o’clock hissing its way down from Waco.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond",serif;">The couplets foreshadow both
the dualities throughout this collection and the final, single line foreshadows
inevitable loss, as this opening poem freights its compelling narrative on
powerful poetic machinery that doesn’t lose any steam as it echoes through
every poem in <i>Katy Bridge.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW75hpmN2JUE-x0T2tcbx9GGAfC3jHWth-lPgYkOhPGsfx-rWU1FNcywWs13-IcqW0uHh0WGL59Gz1KwRWhjL64pjaJmvYPOCeCuSeO38MESjdj4hVQeBDoSeksQVsIbqJPmxYH92S8NNp9BzleVTa1jwcvVfh7SrzSE8MJEVHkxJnDcxG54KTVv9dbX-E/s317/David%20Watts%20headshot.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="317" data-original-width="310" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW75hpmN2JUE-x0T2tcbx9GGAfC3jHWth-lPgYkOhPGsfx-rWU1FNcywWs13-IcqW0uHh0WGL59Gz1KwRWhjL64pjaJmvYPOCeCuSeO38MESjdj4hVQeBDoSeksQVsIbqJPmxYH92S8NNp9BzleVTa1jwcvVfh7SrzSE8MJEVHkxJnDcxG54KTVv9dbX-E/s1600/David%20Watts%20headshot.jpg" width="310" /></a></div><b>ABOUT THE AUTHOR</b> <div><br /></div><div>Thirty-four books from the pen of <b>David Watts</b> have been published: short stories, mysteries,
westerns, Christmas memoirs, NPR commentaries, haiku, small books of aphoristic wisdoms,
translation, and at the heart of it all, poetry. Trained as a physician and classical musician, he
turned to poetry mid-life and has never turned back. He has led workshops nationally and
teaches poetry at the Fromm Institute of San Francisco. His interest in the contribution of
the unconscious to the process of creation has led to a body of imaginative work under the
pen name, Harvey Ellis, a leaping, associative voice that is to be found as a quiet influence in
parts of the current work. His new project is a collection of essays and reflections.<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-right: -9pt; mso-add-space: auto;"><br /></p><p>
<span style="mso-bookmark: OLE_LINK1;"></span>
</p></div>Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-69950066755698491132023-10-03T12:10:00.022-06:002023-10-04T12:06:22.099-06:00The Telling, The Listening, by Catharine Clark-Sayles<p class="MsoNormal"><i></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVToAfdIYo5WzcSnZhGWnyFv3DJQSEI6XnrY1XRaXo-zotq-QfAYE_4fun6-3MC5sDH6gpiYytKRI1vq9o1w2A7KKOSafiUvCuq9zD1Y3nBmH-b-Mqvj9DpBMcXujX-zwfEtwCcsF4MQ-CBpFdvz2QMNZoJU6aAsu0DXNW3yLmCXTr79ROQ1in2l9P7Pq2/s640/Catharine%20Clark-Sayles%20Book%20Cover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="411" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVToAfdIYo5WzcSnZhGWnyFv3DJQSEI6XnrY1XRaXo-zotq-QfAYE_4fun6-3MC5sDH6gpiYytKRI1vq9o1w2A7KKOSafiUvCuq9zD1Y3nBmH-b-Mqvj9DpBMcXujX-zwfEtwCcsF4MQ-CBpFdvz2QMNZoJU6aAsu0DXNW3yLmCXTr79ROQ1in2l9P7Pq2/w205-h307/Catharine%20Clark-Sayles%20Book%20Cover.jpg" width="205" /></a></i></div><i><br />THE TELLING, THE LISTENING, Catharine Clark-Sayles. </i>Saint
Julian Press, 2053 Cortlandt, Suite 200, Houston, Texas 77008, 2023, 52 pages,
$18 paperback, <a href="http://www.saintjulianpress.com/">http://www.saintjulianpress.com</a><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> In
<i>The Telling, The Listening, </i>physician poet Catharine Clark-Sayles bleeds
out lyrical narrative after lyrical narrative about delivering difficult news
to patients, searching for what to say and what to do in a world with no final
answers—only stories carried away from countless encounters at the intersection
of entropy, medical science, a doctor’s art of being present, and a poet’s art
of being present. But those stories—delivered in gripping, musical language—confront
readers with a child’s “bloodied rags of flesh…seen through the sniper scope,”
a “young man completely healthy until purple blotches / on his face doubled in
a week, lungs whited out,” “…the woman dying / in her eighty-ninth year—…there
was a boy— / I let him kiss me once, but then he hit me / and held me down….”
and doctors that collect patients’ pain and add it to their own, exposing
readers to both what Adrienne Rich calls the catastrophe found and the treasure
uncovered when one <i>dives into the wreck. </i>And in these waters, there are
no shallows. All dives expose deep wounds, whether in patients of war, AIDs, or
other malignancies, or in the doctors who treat them.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Poet
Clark-Sayles, unlike John in “Swimming with Sharks” has no trouble “writing
poems about <i>I don’t know.</i>” The poet tells of morning rounds where
doctors must never show weakness:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> We are
taught that when you swim with sharks,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> you must
never bleed, that enticing sweat of fear<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> will bring
an attack. Do not roll to show any soft<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> underbelly
of uncertainty if you want<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> advancement
in your field, stay silent and shift<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> to one
side, if pinned give an unrelated fact.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> It will
take years to learn I don’t know.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Decades for
<i>I</i> <i>am sorry.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i> </i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><i> </i>The
book is organized into a sonata form, holding true to the first section as an
introduction of themes: telling real people’s stories of illness, death, and
dying (e.g. “What We Carry,” “Naming the Monster,” and “She Says <i>Pneumonia,
But Not Too Bad</i>”), the physician
learning to listen to patients in the midst of their difficulties, not able to
offer ultimate answers to life’s most difficult questions (e.g. “Naming the
Monster,” “What to Say” and “Reconstruction”), and nature as a solace (e.g.
“Hummingbird Feeder in October”):<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> The nectar
in my feeder may encourage<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> some to
stay when they should fly<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> to southern
climates where abundant<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> blooms will
feed them and no freeze will stop<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> the rapid
flutters of a tiny heart.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Put away
the bottle or agree to vigilance:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> keep the
nectar filled and fresh no matter<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> darkness in
the morning, fatigue when it’s late,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> rain and
cold that keeps me near the fire<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> when I’m
home after too many hours of clinic<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> caring for
infinite needs: the woman alone<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> as cancer
closes in, a mother locked in grief,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> a man who
struggles to keep sober, the suicidal girl—<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> no way to
cut away pain, no cure in pills;<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> just
nectar-drops of hope, a sweetness of belief,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> as I make
my hummingbird bargain.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">A lesser poet would simply drop
some nature poems in-between the heavy ones, thinking only to write “off the
subject” as a distraction for both reader and poet. But Clark-Sayles not only
brings the narrative back to the business of illness and grief in the final two
stanzas, but she selects visceral, fresh images in the early lines of this poem
(as she does throughout the collection) that create both a clear perception of
the sensorial elements they convey (e.g. “nectar in my feeder [encouraging] /
some to stay when they should fly” and “the rapid flutters of a tiny heart”), but
that also apply to the bigger picture of what the human patients and their
families and their care-givers are going through. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">The second
movement, titled “Red Silk,” develops themes introduced in section I into an
autobiographical collage centered around being physician and soldier at the
same time, enacting the tension between those roles with four pages of epithets
and stand-alone stanzas that utilize <i>irony</i> (“Even as we die, life calls
us to be a child again…”), story (Have you heard the old Irish tale that says
that bards / are made by killing a red bull, taking its skin / and sewing a man
inside? Left in darkness for three days / he emerges with the gift of poetry.
Or he goes mad.”), <i>reportage</i> (“In the Army, a silk camisole under / the
camouflage fatigues saved my life”), <i>medical definition</i> (“<i>Persistent
allodynia, which is pain resulting from a non-painful / stimulus such as a
light touch, is a common characteristic of neuropathic pain…persists long after
the initiating even has resolved.</i>), <i>allegory </i>(“I walked back to the
fork where Mystic and Scientist parted, / where Good Girl screamed ‘Fuck it’
and Poet sat down to wait.”), <i>quotes</i> (<i>Sometimes too much of a good
thing / is wonderful. </i>Mae West”), <i>figure and figurative language</i> (“The
masseuse sweeps her hands down my neck to the tender / muscles of my scapula,
says ‘You’ve been flying / hard, your wings are tired”’), and even <i>cartoon reference</i>
(“I love Road Runner with his sassy ‘beep-beep’ running / off cliffs, moving so
fast and with conviction that he keeps going / through air. And Wile E.,
following just fine until he looks down and believes in the fall so that he
does.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;">This section ends
with the couplet: “It is hard to be depressed when you wear / red silk against
your skin.” The physician soldier uses the red silk to fight depression and
PTSD, and the poet uses it to provided much-needed relief from, without
glossing over, the seemingly endless case-history poems about injury, disease, grief
and death. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Section
III recapitulates the horrors of Section I, stressing matters even closer at
hand: the interiority of stress upon the physician who also can suffer from
PTSD and treating people close to the poet or who have gotten close, many times
written in formal or in nonce forms with craft elements borrowed from formal
poems. Here is the opening sonnet to the section, spoken to the poet’s husband:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"> Aubade<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> I
remember Sunday mornings when hospital rounds<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> started
late and I could awaken to the clock of sun<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> striped
across the bedroom wall—early light of May<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> a
rosy stain of color to your face, asleep,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> worry
lines unfurled into a younger you<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> for
all the early silver to your hair, your lower lip<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> gentled,
waiting for my wake-up kiss.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> But
I loved to watch you sleeping curled<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> against
my hip, sleepy murmured protest,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> blanket-burrowed
resistance to the mirrored<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> dawn-light
blinkered in your eyes, pulling you<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> from
sleep to fractious day, I watched the return<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> of
creased discontent as you tucked away<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> the
boy so kissable and I took up my own armor for the day.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Clark-Sayles
has become a master of the lyrical narrative poem with this collection, and
“Aubade” is a fine example of the poet’s chops in writing narrative and lyric
in form. The volta that begins in line 9 with the resistance to waking turns,
in line 11, to the return of “discontent” in the patient and the taking up of
defenses by the physician. Other notable poems in this final section include,
among others, “The Drug Salesman Leaves a Bag of Fortune Cookies in the Break
Room,” (first lines of each stanza are fortunes and the remainder of the
stanzas are drug statistics and trivia), and “I Deliver Bad News.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">I Deliver Bad
News<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> from
the starch of my white armor<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> across
a moat of polished oak.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> You
balance between an indrawn gasp<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> and
grunt of pain. Myself, I’d as soon<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> not
be here. I could drown<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> in
the terror on your face as you look<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> into
places I don’t want to go.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> I’d
like to drop the news fast and cold,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> close
this play on opening night and run.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> We
might try this out as comedy—<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"> <i>The
good news: you are going to die,<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i> </i>but neither of us could wear the baggy pants.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">My nervous actor
pleads <i>Come on, kids<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i>put on a show, things will work out swell.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">Supporting hope against the odds is hard,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">harder still to hold the silence,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">the pleading of your need.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p><p><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">In </span><i style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">The Telling, The Listening</i><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Catharine Clark-Sayles does not hold onto her silence, and her telling is a
gift to both readers and writers of poetry—a model for clear and transparent
narrative, filled with lyricism, mystery, and pathos. </span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNVKfCxfeRr9PfUhwWf98_RYW45G98ABI1TQezXekb9kJfVeEc-CMhZ5rdUPwpFjA-GbTABrrmfKG3-xIUUnVwlC5wd2H6xWNUcgmjPEAYgLpJ5gHbpamsWSMfCfIDnu6k0SLq35m2HhJgdRe4-59WrawT7T_z5DGosjHPOwHz17c1Ctuc12XwSYu-rrgE/s2848/Catharine%20Clark-Sayles%20headshot2.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2848" data-original-width="2248" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNVKfCxfeRr9PfUhwWf98_RYW45G98ABI1TQezXekb9kJfVeEc-CMhZ5rdUPwpFjA-GbTABrrmfKG3-xIUUnVwlC5wd2H6xWNUcgmjPEAYgLpJ5gHbpamsWSMfCfIDnu6k0SLq35m2HhJgdRe4-59WrawT7T_z5DGosjHPOwHz17c1Ctuc12XwSYu-rrgE/s320/Catharine%20Clark-Sayles%20headshot2.jpeg" width="253" /></a></span></div><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /> </span><span style="text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span> <p></p><p><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt;">Catharine Clark-Sayles</span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"><b> is a physician
who recently retired after forty years in practice. She completed her MFA in
poetry and narrative medicine at Dominican University of California in 2019.
Her first two books of poetry, <i>One Breath</i> and <i>Lifeboat</i> were
published by <i>Tebot Bach Press</i>. A chapbook, <i>Brats</i>, was published by
Finishing Line Press. She has had work published in many journals and
anthologies and has been nominated for a Pushcart. Her fourth book, <i>The
Telling, The Listening </i>will be available in October 2023 from Saint Julian
Press.</b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><b>Catharine Clark-Sayles will be a featured reader for the upcoming Sturgeon Moon Poetry Reading. Click <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/157588450749142/?acontext=%7B%22event_action_history%22%3A[%7B%22extra_data%22%3A%22%22%2C%22mechanism%22%3A%22left_rail%22%2C%22surface%22%3A%22bookmark%22%7D%2C%7B%22extra_data%22%3A%22%22%2C%22mechanism%22%3A%22calendar_tab_event%22%2C%22surface%22%3A%22bookmark_calendar%22%7D]%2C%22ref_notif_type%22%3Anull%7D" target="_blank">HERE</a> for the Facebook reading invitation.</b></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-37216165898569100702021-11-15T11:12:00.003-07:002021-11-15T15:50:02.081-07:00Elizabeth Oxley's Review of Marjorie Power's Sufficient Emptiness<p><i>Sufficient Emptiness, Marjorie Power, Deerbrook Editions, Cumberland, ME, 100 pp., $18.25 paperback.</i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif;">Ezra Pound said
literature does not exist in a vacuum. Neither does our consumption of it,
though on this June morning it would be more accurate to say my reading occurs <i>near</i>
a vacuum—specifically a Bissell, which stands in the kitchen corner like a
child consigned to timeout while I sink into the sofa, a copy of Marjorie
Power’s latest poetry collection, <i>Sufficient Emptiness</i>, in hand. The
Bissell is emblematic of my efforts to prepare for an impending move. Necessary
to that transition is the making of room—a winnowing of my physical and
emotional baggage. So advises my inner voice, and so convey Power’s elegant poems
as they cohere—exuding clean insight and amiable grace—around the notion of <i>home</i>
and the consideration of what we carry as we move forward in time.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Divided into
five parts, Power’s collection bears section epigraphs—derived from Frederick
Zydek’s </span><i style="font-family: "Calisto MT", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;">Stumbling Through the Stars</i><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT", serif; text-indent: 0.5in;"> (Holmes House Publications, 2004)—that
map the collection’s trajectory from ancestral roots, through loss and regeneration,
into the realm of myth and fable where “imitation flames still spark real hope.”
Each poem serves as a room inside the book’s larger house of memory, built from
such sustainable materials as wind running its fingers through wheat, an online
search for an unknown father, and the poet’s notice of a blue spruce luxuriating
in sunlight. The collection’s opening poem, “Season Tickets,” sets a tone of
alert observation that honors the hoarding impulse of human memory while avoiding
sentimental nostalgia. Stuck at a musical theater performance that’s “like a
bad dream” from which her husband refuses to leave “until the house lights go
on,” the poet bides her time:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In such darkness I sit quietly<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">on the lookout for lost things.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">White aprons embroidered with roses,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">pieces of straw from cold barns,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">kettles hurled from their fires<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">toward the end of time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">These I gather for the old, old woman who<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">restores each to its rightful use. In such darkness<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">as my husband abides, she works.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">From
this starting point of limited visibility, Power works her way outward into
moments of increased illumination, traveling from Vermeer’s oils (“a sunbeam /
falling just-so across a young woman’s brow, / her gaze wide-eyed, beatific”)
to the “bright orange quality / that frightened me as a child” the poet assigns
to her own mother. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT", serif;">Power’s
poems themselves are vessels of light, each line broken to reflect maximally on
the linguistic or narrative event preceding it and that which waits on the next
line’s shelf. This quality is the “sufficient emptiness” of which Power speaks
in the collection’s title poem, in which the poet—in a coffee shop packed with
“a throng of poets plus / two young children”—reads a poem aloud to the
accompaniment of a man on flute:</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I stand not overly close,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">pace each phrase with care<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">to allow him sufficient emptiness.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">His response holds<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">both issue and ancestor.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It holds love lost until now.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Look at these café children, sitting still<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">in a peculiar calm. This hour reveals<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">an entrance to the trail of crumbs. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Indeed,
this seems to be the secret to Power’s striking poems as she takes stock of the
relationships and landscapes that have textured a well-traveled life: her
ability to forge opulence not through an over-crowding of language but by the
thoughtful selection of each word based on its sonic or ideational merits. The
result is a roominess that feels hospitable rather than sparse, as in the
poet’s recollection of time spent along the Oregon coast in “It’s Pronounced
Yah-hots”:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I came and went too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But I’ve kept two friends<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">one beach north in a slightly longer town.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Like Yachats, it holds routine tsunami drills.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My friends are very old. Each lives alone. These two remain<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">pledged to the soft salty mist that caresses their cheeks<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">the way nuns persist through the loss of many sisters.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Part
scrapbook and part hope chest, Power’s poems are spacious enough to position loss
and renewal not as polar opposites but as distinct filters through which one
may find the bold gem or scrap of color worth carrying forward (“Trees reduced
to gray bones / have their own / beauty”). If I am pulled from this contemplation
at any point, it is in section three, <i>The Eyes: An Ekphrastic Sequence</i>,
and only because I wished to linger in the sweetly delusional state conjured by
Power in “The New Chickens,” the final poem of the book’s second section:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I was a child, my neighbor<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">kept chickens. He let me stand<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">in their dim, shabby, stinking coop<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">throwing handfuls of dried corn.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Chaos! Cacophony!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Not one missed out, ever,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">on the cluck-flutter rush.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Oh, I was a powerful child.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Sensitive
observation is key to this collection’s impact, however, and Power’s ekphrastic
sequence—inspired by Russian-born artist Ludmila Pawlowska’s collection <i>Icons
in Transformation—</i>furthers her exploration of emptiness, as when the poet
craves space away from “apocalyptic headlines,” exhorting: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Angel of the spheres<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">of yellow and red,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">let me join you<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">in your blue window.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Art
may also bestow divine-style consolation for the emptiness we experience as
grief. In Power’s poetic translations of Pawlowska’s physical works, the reader
therefore receives a double blessing, as when Power describes the assembling of
a suburban crowd in “Midwinter Night’s Dream”:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The congregants are mostly male.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But in this oh-so-soft golden glow<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">the coats on these old, strong, wiry frames<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">turn the same perfect blue used by Old Masters<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">when painting the cloak<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">they imagined<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">for the Madonna.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Perhaps
it is the cardboard boxes shoved willy-nilly against the far wall of my living
room or my clothes heaped everywhere they should not be, but I am grounded in
Power’s collection by her poems’ gritty, everyday moments, the daily ash most
of us sift and from which—if we are lucky—insight later arises. For Power, such
dust takes the shape of letter-writing and delayed deliveries (“The Post
Office, / understaffed, cannot be held responsible / for anything”); the surfacing
of a memory of a long-ago boyfriend (“Fifty years later I realize it was his
music and / vast eucalyptus trees whose scent suggested / a future of doors
that would open as I approached”); or the small favor asked of an acquaintance:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He’d be happy to, he said.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I hadn’t known him long so I was glad.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Came a silence I can’t diagnose.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">There’d been a time frame. An outermost.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now he clicks <i>like</i> on my Facebook posts.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Each
of us is a patchwork house of memory, illustrates <i>Sufficient Emptiness</i>, the
light playing differently across our walls depending on the hour or how widely
we’ve opened our doors to truth as we “Try for any reminder / of Eden before
the / snake slithered in.” Granted enough space, conscious moments of self-reflection—like
Power’s philodendron in sunshine that “comes on like a lamp”—send out roots that
anchor us through our changing seasons. And if emptiness ever lands less like welcome
breathing room and more like suffocating darkness, we can call upon the <i>hope</i>
of Power’s acquaintance, which “circles a basement / with a Mason jar full of
fireflies, / releasing one for each upstairs light that fails.”</span><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: Calisto MT, serif;"><b>Elizabeth Oxley's poetry collection, <i>After April Rain</i>, was published by Longship Press in 2021. Her poetry has also appeared in <i>The Banyan Review, The Poetry Review, Crosswinds, Frontier Poetry, Peregrine, </i>and other journals. She was the winner of the 2019 <i>Frontier Poetry </i>Industry Prize for her poem "After April Rain," second-place winner of the 2018 <i>Frontier Poetry </i>OPEN competition for "Expelling Venus," and third-place winner of the 2015 National Poetry Competition for "Biracial." Elizabeth attended Franklin University Switzerland, Brown University, and Georgetown University during her undergraduate years and is pursuing her M. Phil. in Creative Writing from Trinity College in Dublin, Ireland. More about her work can be found at <a href="http://www.elizabethoxley.com" target="_blank">ElizabethOxley.com. </a></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; text-autospace: none;"><span style="font-family: "Calisto MT",serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><a href="http://www.elizabethoxley.com" target="_blank"><br /></a></span></p><br /><p></p>Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-69582030468670204132020-12-31T15:44:00.001-07:002021-01-01T12:31:55.178-07:00Jeanne Wagner: Everything Turns Into Something Else<p> <i>Everything Turns Into Something Else, Jeanne Wagner, Grayson Books, West Hartford, CT, 72 pages, $15.95 paperback, www.GraysonBooks.com</i></p><p>Although the poems in Wagner's seventh poetry collection do fulfill its title's promise of wrestling with transformation, they are so much more. In a voice with tones both clear and mysterious, Wagner gives us lyrical narratives of longing, disappointment, and fulfillment. Her proem is emblematic of this diversity.</p><p>Dog's That Look Like Wolves</p><div style="text-align: left;">When my dog hears the neighbor's baby cry, he begins</div><div style="text-align: left;">to howl, his head thrown back. He's all heartbreak and</div><div style="text-align: left;">hollow throat, tenderness rising in each ululation. He's</div><div style="text-align: left;">a saxophone of sadness, a shepherd calling for his stray.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I've read that baying is both a sign of territory and</div><div style="text-align: left;">a reaching out for whatever lies beyond: home and loss,</div><div style="text-align: left;">how can they be understood without each other?</div><div style="text-align: left;">Once I had an outdoor dog who sang every day at noon</div><div style="text-align: left;">when the Angelus belled from the corner church.</div><div style="text-align: left;">She was a plain dog but I could prove, contrary to all</div><div style="text-align: left;">the theologians, that at least once a day she had a soul.</div><div style="text-align: left;">I've always loved dogs that look like wolves, loved</div><div style="text-align: left;">stories of wolves: the alphas, the bullies, the bachelors.</div><div style="text-align: left;">We have to forgive them when they break into our</div><div style="text-align: left;">fenced-off pastures, lured by the lull of a grazing herd,</div><div style="text-align: left;">or a complacent flock, heads bent down. Prey, it's called.</div><div style="text-align: left;">At night wolves chorus into the trackless air, the range</div><div style="text-align: left;">of their song riding far from their bodies till they think</div><div style="text-align: left;">the stars will hear it and be moved, almost to breaking,</div><div style="text-align: left;">while my poor dog stands alone on the deck, howling</div><div style="text-align: left;">into the canyon's breadth, as if he's like me, looking</div><div style="text-align: left;">for a place where his song will carry. Dogs know,</div><div style="text-align: left;">if there is solace to be had, their voice will find it.</div><div style="text-align: left;">This air is made for lamentation.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Similar dark notes are sounded throughout all three sections, unifying the collection as one long cry into the night sky. In "Stomping on the Threshold," the two-page title prose poem to section I, we glimpse:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> ...late autumn now; the gathering darkness feels expectant, like the voyeuristic </div><div style="text-align: left;"> excitement of sitting in a theater as the lights go dim.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">With an epigraph acknowledging Larry Levis's "Childhood Ideogram"--"<i>It's the past tense that turns a sentence dark," </i>Wagner opens her poem, "Turning a Sentence Dark," with</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> It's the action words that darken first.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> <i>Tense</i> we say,</div><div style="text-align: left;"> savoring the tension as a single synapse</div><div style="text-align: left;"> feels its neurons lunge</div><div style="text-align: left;"> then recoil,</div><div style="text-align: left;"> recording in a binary code of joy or pain.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And in "The Ocularist Talks About His Craft," Wagner has chosen to write about the making of artificial eyes, a veiled <i>ars poetica </i>that encapsulates the mimetic task of poetry:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> ...I know I make</div><div style="text-align: left;"> a simulacrum, not a window of the soul,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> but I keep trying to get it right. For the final touch,</div><div style="text-align: left;"> I'll draw red veins the width of a whisker,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> like a forger adding crackle lines to his copy</div><div style="text-align: left;"> of an old master's work.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But Wagner does get the poetry right. And if there is a flaw in the book, it is a reflection of poetry's own limitation, it's own attempt to say the unsayable, the longing and striving permeating tight, musical diction:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We Were Sirens</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Like all hybrids, we were liminal; we were</div><div style="text-align: left;">child-women, bird-women, nobody's daughters.</div><div style="text-align: left;">We were birds of prey, we prayed to be beautiful,</div><div style="text-align: left;">we believed in seduction as a victimless crime.</div><div style="text-align: left;">We hung out on beaches and boardwalks, on</div><div style="text-align: left;">piers and sidewalks, on porch-swings and perch</div><div style="text-align: left;">swings. We milled through the parks, the malls.</div><div style="text-align: left;">At home we wrapped our new bodies in fables,</div><div style="text-align: left;">in pious cages of silk, in soft libidinous songs.</div><div style="text-align: left;">In spring we envied the swallows who whirled</div><div style="text-align: left;">like lariats over freshly sown fields. In summer</div><div style="text-align: left;">we dreamed of sailors, of sinners; we listened</div><div style="text-align: left;">for the sound of speedboats skimming the bay,</div><div style="text-align: left;">our ears tuned to the thrum of escape. We</div><div style="text-align: left;">were bird-made, were bridesmaids, we dived</div><div style="text-align: left;">down so fast our hearts became weightless,</div><div style="text-align: left;">our throats made shrieks like Stukas splitting</div><div style="text-align: left;">the air. Some heard this as a warning, some</div><div style="text-align: left;">as a wail. Still, others knew it was song.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Other poems in this collection where I find need and desire and longing turned into memorable imagery include "Everything Turns Into Something Else" ("Because soup needs the savor of cabbage, / the way we need the raw, / the heady, a bit of gaminess to sharpen / our lives."); "After Losing Her" ("Lately, he finds himself looking for seams, soft clefts / where an embryo's mirrored sides weren't sealed. // He scans the palates of orphans in magazines, / the silent palaver of their tongues, their unhealed // mouths laid open like a flower."); and "Voyeurs" ("I step out on the deck, see my dog's rapt stare, his tail pointer-stiff-- / a pose that's almost reverence.").</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Just before the final section of the book, I sense a shift toward action driven by the feelings of earlier poems. In "Defense of Goldilocks," the penultimate poem of Section II, we are told in the final line that "...all life can be seen as one great cycle of breaking and entering." </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Although the following lines stand in stark contrast to previous lines in their content, their tone is still one of wonder: "Remember how they set the marginalia on fire: / blades singed // from their slender stalks, nights with the smell / of cane burning in the fields, // mornings of stubble. The dead odors of smoke / and stillness filling the air" (from "Controlled Burning); "Years later, I need rain, need cool water to ' stay in touch with my skin. Need waves // to hug my flesh till it's raw, swimming / to slake my body's hunger for buoyancy, // its lechery for salt" (from "Scalded"); and from "Walls:" "Walls can't stop night-blooming jasmine / from breaking and entering..."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So successful is Wagner in utilizing memory to hold both lamentation and celebration, we are likely to forget they are separate. Examples can be found in "The Perseids": "...I listened to my mother / scream in her sleep, / as if darkness were a cage. / Glad now we slept too far away to hear, / glad these nights were braver, / stars transgressing, a sickle moon, bird asleep in the trees," or from the following passage in "The Understory"--"...the name / for the sheltered greenery that flourishes / on the floor of a jungle or forest, / like the place where she was standing / under the redwoods, / tending the maidenhair and baby tears, / the kind of growth / that thrives in filtered light, fed by rain and / strained through branch and limb / till it's as thin and shadowy-blue as breast milk." </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The final poem contains the fullness of poetry's "upper canopy," its understory, and all things in-between:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The Vanishing Point</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Even this tree outside my window</div><div style="text-align: left;">feels complete,</div><div style="text-align: left;">as if each branch in its fractal halving</div><div style="text-align: left;">is paying homage to the past,</div><div style="text-align: left;">like the dwarf in the Velazquez painting,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Las Meninas,</i></div><div style="text-align: left;">who stands at only half our height,</div><div style="text-align: left;">dressed in the soft luster of silver and black</div><div style="text-align: left;">ruffled satin.</div><div style="text-align: left;">She spreads her arms expansively</div><div style="text-align: left;">outward,</div><div style="text-align: left;">as if she's too irreverent to curtsy.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Her size alone deferential,</div><div style="text-align: left;">like a memory, resilient in its diminution,</div><div style="text-align: left;">and with that same stubbornness--</div><div style="text-align: left;">because tonight, like every night, I'm thinking,</div><div style="text-align: left;">what if you could come back</div><div style="text-align: left;">to me again,</div><div style="text-align: left;">framed by door light,</div><div style="text-align: left;">like those times you were about to leave</div><div style="text-align: left;">but then turned back,</div><div style="text-align: left;">because you'd thought of one more thing to say.</div><div style="text-align: left;">You, who were my single vanishing point,</div><div style="text-align: left;">like the courtier in the painting</div><div style="text-align: left;">who stands in the doorway holding the curtain</div><div style="text-align: left;">open--or closing it--</div><div style="text-align: left;">and there's so much light behind him,</div><div style="text-align: left;">beckoning to me, the way</div><div style="text-align: left;">it beckons only to Valazquez and to the dwarf,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Maria Barbola,</div><div style="text-align: left;">though they both have their back to it,</div><div style="text-align: left;">and the room is full of people.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">In <i>Everything Turns Into Something Else </i>each line and each poem is followed by one that we couldn't have predicted, but after reading it, could not have been anything else.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Jeanne Wagner is a native of San Francisco. A retired tax accountant, she graduated from University of California, Berkeley with a degree in German and has an M.A. in Humanities from San Francisco State University. She is the author of four chapbooks and two full-length collections: <i>The Zen Piano-Mover </i>from NFSPS Press, 2004 winner of the Stevens Manuscript Award, and <i>In the Body of Our Lives, </i>Sixteen Rivers Press 2010. She is the recipient of several awards, including the <i>Inkwell </i>Prize, <i>The Saranac Review </i>Prize, The Thomas Merton Poetry of the Spiritual Award, <i>Arts & Letters </i>Rumi Prize, and <i>Sow's Ear </i>awards for both an individual poem and a chapbook. Her work has appeared in <i>Alaska Review, Cincinnati Review, Hayden's Ferry, Shenandoah, Verse Daily, Poetry Daily </i>and <i>American Life in Poetry.</i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-75797694425332683312020-07-03T14:28:00.000-06:002020-07-03T20:34:35.665-06:00KEN HAAS: BORROWED LIGHT<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
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<i><i>Borrowed Light</i>, Ken Haas, Red Mountain Press, Seattle, Washington, 74 pages, $21.95 paperback, <a href="http://www.redmountainpress.us/">www.redmountainpress.us</a></i></div>
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In <i>Borrowed Light, </i>Ken Haas’s poems are ordered with a sensibility I wish more poets would employ. The groundwork of his aesthetic is laid for the remainder of the collection in its first poem, “Birdsong.” It reads as an <i>ars poetica</i>, placed at the beginning of <i>Borrowed Light </i>to underscore his debt to other poets, and to establish themes of gratitude and connection.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Birdsong<o:p></o:p></div>
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Regarding the question of nature or nurture,<o:p></o:p></div>
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we quarantined some birds at birth,<o:p></o:p></div>
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finches mostly, to see what songs<o:p></o:p></div>
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they might come to know,<o:p></o:p></div>
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whether they would sing at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Their brethren in the wild meanwhile<o:p></o:p></div>
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were learning many tribal hymns<o:p></o:p></div>
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for waking and working, loving and mourning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When the culled were returned to the fold<o:p></o:p></div>
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they did have songs, only a few<o:p></o:p></div>
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of kettle and clock,<o:p></o:p></div>
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cloistered heart and challenged soul.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They were welcomed nonetheless<o:p></o:p></div>
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and taught the standards by and by<o:p></o:p></div>
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as their own songs vanished<o:p></o:p></div>
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in the mallow and cottonwood trees.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But at the moments of return<o:p></o:p></div>
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when the whole flock was gathered<o:p></o:p></div>
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frightened and still:<o:p></o:p></div>
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what strangeness, what stories!<o:p></o:p></div>
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The smart choices of diction and direction that Haas makes in “Birdsong” are emblematic of those he makes throughout this, his inaugural collection. The music in this poem anticipates poems whose sound work of rhythms and tones enact the narrative and images found therein: “Regarding / quarantined,” “birds / birth,” and “all / meanwhile / tribal / culled / fold / mallow / whole / still” are all examples of the chime of related tones. And mixing iambic and dactylic lines provides an element of gravitas that does not harden into dry diction. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Even the title, <i>Borrowed Light, </i>takes on new meaning with this introductory poem, positioning the poet in a place of humility. Haven’t many poems begun in “quarantine” (Dorianne Laux’s point that all poetry begins in secret), and only later did they become part of the body of “tribal hymns?” And isn’t a poet’s work transformed upon encountering the work of other members of the wider poetry community? And don’t their voices retain something of their own birth cries throughout the process? “Birdsong” is a wise choice for a first poem of a collection born and raised in a nest with mentors such as Dorianne Laux, Joseph Millar, Ellen Bass and others. “What strangeness, what stories!” is an apt description of Haas’s own work.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The remaining poems know where they came from and show appreciation for their prosodic sources—the light borrowed from both the canon and from Haas’s own mentors—that helped to shape the poet’s narrative material. They are aptly placed with primarily lyrical connections of familial or romantic relationships, interests spanning childhood to adulthood (music, baseball, science), or his family’s immigrant history. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Almost without exception, Haas demonstrates his ability to tell a story well, to engage his readers emotionally, while avoiding sentimentality. He uses images and language familiar (although not commonplace) to his readers, and risks some obscure (although never opaque) terms. When he speaks of things that matter most—the arts, love, death—he does not fall into abstraction, but rather shows us a saxophonist “Two hours straight, One song. / End[ing] on his knees,” or an aging father’s “soft brown leather loose-leaf binder” containing lists of where everything is and who gets what. Even if you’re not a fan of jazz or baseball, the following two poems cannot be denied because their true subjects are the same: love of an art form, and love for the players of that art, with no energy left over for spectators who watch from afar.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Trane<o:p></o:p></div>
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None of us in 1966 wanted to be a white kid<o:p></o:p></div>
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from the Bronx. So I rode the subway down<o:p></o:p></div>
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to hear the man who might make me cool.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The gasbags claimed he played higher math.<o:p></o:p></div>
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His friends said he practiced like a guy with no talent.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This cat who told Miles that once he got started<o:p></o:p></div>
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he didn’t know how to stop. Yet could start<o:p></o:p></div>
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anywhere, like with raindrops on roses,<o:p></o:p></div>
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drive past the ghost town of pride,<o:p></o:p></div>
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then bring you back safe,<o:p></o:p></div>
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to some other home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Such a sweet tooth that his horn was often<o:p></o:p></div>
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clogged with sugar; such a soft touch<o:p></o:p></div>
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that he packed binoculars to look for stars<o:p></o:p></div>
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where you couldn’t even find the moon.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A navy man, like my dad.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Saint of a church in the city where I moved to live.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That night at the Vanguard he blew in tongues.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Two hours straight. One song.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ended on his knees. Dropped a stitch<o:p></o:p></div>
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I can still pick up or use for grip<o:p></o:p></div>
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in any ditch, on any ledge.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He emptied his arms in a wave that even now<o:p></o:p></div>
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speaks to the kind of man I could become,<o:p></o:p></div>
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teaches what a gift is,<o:p></o:p></div>
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warns there’s little sing-along,<o:p></o:p></div>
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what just happened<o:p></o:p></div>
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just happened<o:p></o:p></div>
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and what comes next doesn’t follow,<o:p></o:p></div>
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asks if I’m in this<o:p></o:p></div>
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or just listening.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Catch<o:p></o:p></div>
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Night game at Candlestick toward the end of its days.<o:p></o:p></div>
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June Rockwell, season ticket-holder of the so-so Giants,<o:p></o:p></div>
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has lured me out to see the wretched Cubs. First date.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I pick her up, she asks if I’ve brought my glove<o:p></o:p></div>
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and I tell her I’m from the Bronx where we do everything<o:p></o:p></div>
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with our bare hands.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Thin crowd, uneventful innings, until two out in the seventh,<o:p></o:p></div>
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when Chicago’s lumbering, chaw-spitting right fielder<o:p></o:p></div>
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nicks a rising heater that sails backward several sections<o:p></o:p></div>
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from our box seats into a circular gale like the twister<o:p></o:p></div>
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in <i>Wizard of Oz</i>, the ball at its apex still no real concern<o:p></o:p></div>
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Twenty rows away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And yet, in its final moments, the object of common regard<o:p></o:p></div>
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begins to beam intently, inevitably, for my patron’s unarmed lap.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I? Bud Light in one hand, fully adorned bratwurst in the other,<o:p></o:p></div>
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no kidding, I refuse to panic, so the hot dog becomes at last<o:p></o:p></div>
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the missing glove, explodes like a grenade as the seamed orb<o:p></o:p></div>
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makes exceptional contact.<o:p></o:p></div>
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When, after a decent interval, I look up, June, standing now,<o:p></o:p></div>
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a Jackson Pollock of ballpark cuisine—tinsels of pork rind and<o:p></o:p></div>
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sauerkraut in her startled hair, glitter of mustard and relish from<o:p></o:p></div>
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brow to chin—says not a word, does not go to wash up, just<o:p></o:p></div>
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lowers her quivering body. The wind dies. The home team fails.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We do not speak on the drive back.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ah, what might have been. But not for me. I’m romantic in that<o:p></o:p></div>
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other way. This way. For this night, no if-only will ever rival what<o:p></o:p></div>
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happened. Watch as we reach June’s flat, she turns, caked still<o:p></o:p></div>
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with the spectacle I have made of gallantry and kisses me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Softly, briefly, decisively. Watch the fog rise to claim her<o:p></o:p></div>
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for the perfect past.<o:p></o:p></div>
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More than the obvious common love for jazz and baseball, evidenced in the lines from “Trane” (“That night at the Vanguard he blew in tongues / … /Ended on his knees. Dropped a stitch / I can still pick up…”) that mirror lines in “The Catch” (“Night game at Candlestick toward the end of its days / … /[where] the hot dog… / …explodes like a grenade as the seamed orb / makes exceptional contact”), these two poems are emblematic of the kind of connection I feel is best—discovery of connection and metaphor in the texture of reality, rather than in the making of them. And there is a lot of material in these poems that a lesser poet might have thinned out into abstraction or opined into commentary. But Haas mostly avoids both. Keeping with Pound’s advice that the natural object without abstraction is always the adequate symbol, Haas writes about the messy catch: “Ah, what might have been. But not for me. I’m romantic in that / other way. This way. For this night, no if-only will ever rival what / happened.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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There are additional delightful instances of poems that lend their light to others and then reflect that light, calling and answering across the pages of this collection in clusters. “Lottery Day, 1970,” about draft-age boys diverting their attention from the draft lottery by “taking infield practice and shagging flies,” exchanges lyrical DNA not only with “The Catch” but with “Sleeping in the Crack” about actions and objects to help distract and comfort a boy amidst real childhood dangers— “Simo’s pizza, / A Moose Skowron glove, / “Janie Siegel next door,” and “Unidentified Objects,” a poem about adult buddies playing golf as an escape from a UFO Expo. <o:p></o:p></div>
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At other times Haas lays two poems before us in the spread that illuminate one another like binary stars. This is true of the penultimate title poem, “Borrowed Light,” and the final poem, “Speaking in Tongues.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Speaking of the moon’s indirect light from the sun that is offered up to us, the poet concludes: <o:p></o:p></div>
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Since all the pocked rock has<o:p></o:p></div>
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is offered up,<o:p></o:p></div>
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your heart tells you to say<o:p></o:p></div>
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this is everything you need,<o:p></o:p></div>
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though it is not warmth, not bread, not love.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So you borrow what has been borrowed<o:p></o:p></div>
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to disquiet the hours and ways<o:p></o:p></div>
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that go out darkly from here,<o:p></o:p></div>
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and you stitch a quilt of strange comfort<o:p></o:p></div>
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from the debt of this light,<o:p></o:p></div>
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where Washoe ghosts<o:p></o:p></div>
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truck with Donner bones<o:p></o:p></div>
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and the stricken tongues of wolves.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But, like all things in Haas’s work, each poem is carefully placed to resonate lyrically, and thus no poem can be fully appreciated alone. The title poem’s facing poem, “Speaking in Tongues” is as necessary to “Borrowed Light” as the theme of borrowed light is to the entire collection. <o:p></o:p></div>
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After the poem begins with a lover sitting up in the middle of the night “like a jackknife and says something like, <i>I put the couch in the microwave,</i>” the poet digresses to a college classroom where a woman stands and speaks in tongues for three minutes. This prompts a desire to sleep with her “not because I wanted the translation,” says the poet, but “because I wanted the transport— / to be that possessed, that called. The lines that follow speak to the “stricken tongues of wolves” from “Borrowed Light:”<o:p></o:p></div>
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At the dawn of my seduction by language,<o:p></o:p></div>
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I knew that its mind was not enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I needed someone to speak for its body,<o:p></o:p></div>
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its suet and thew, its love affair with the tongue<o:p></o:p></div>
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unvexed by meaning or context.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I need the vocables<o:p></o:p></div>
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our hirsute ancestors used before knowing<o:p></o:p></div>
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to what or whom they might wake,<o:p></o:p></div>
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the words whose work is not to tell us<o:p></o:p></div>
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but to reach us, dream to dream<o:p></o:p></div>
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in the middle of the night.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Almost all of the time, Haas’s language fulfills our most ambitious of dreams about what this collection can be. The times it fails are so few that we are startled awake to the reality that poetry is a human endeavor and, thus, imperfect.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In “Chemo and Late Love” the poet continues writing after the poem has ended with “Hilda, there was so little love in our line / that all I heard you say was suffering.” The next nine lines seem to be afterthought to this reviewer. And occasionally the diction is not as polished as we come to expect from a collection this tightly-crafted. In “Truxel Road,” for example, an otherwise fine poem, “where we quit <i>just </i>not to kill something” is followed three lines later with “though Pam <i>just </i>took cider from the shack girl.” These instances do not spoil the experience of reading “Borrowed Light.” They simply allow me to sleep at night knowing that a new poetry god has not descended to earth to humiliate the rest of us mortals.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One final criticism—the cover. That a collection of uncommonly mature poems for a first book, voiced with tight, jazzy sound work, should be represented with an unimaginative front cover is, for this reviewer, disappointing. What is inside <i>Borrowed Light </i>is not to be judged by what appears on the outside, except for the glowing blurbs by Ellen Bass and Joseph Millar, along with Haas’s own credentials on the back cover. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In the poem “Perfection,” Haas, in the context of a fortieth high school reunion, argues for the value of all of us—as we once were and as we have become—whether we were “the pouty ingénue,” “the over-developed blonde,” “the kid from the projects,” “the hairy one,” “the sweaty one,” or “the frail, nervous one / who rode the D train early / with the night nurses and winos, / dubbed “Hércules.” A woman rushes up calling out to the narrator of the poem “Hércules, Hércules….” She was devastated to learn that he had not become “the U.S. Ambassador to Spain,” because of his mastery of Spanish. The poem ends with <o:p></o:p></div>
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I was about to tell her she had the wrong guy—<o:p></o:p></div>
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that was another boy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then I remembered who we all were once. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Ken Haas has written a book of poems that helps us remember who we all were once, and in his own words from “Trane,” a book “that even now speaks to the kind of [people we] could become.” And the poet asks us all: are we in this? “Or just listening?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Either way, <i>Borrowed Light </i>is essential reading.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Ken Haas has been published in more than fifty journals, including <i>Clare, Cottonwood, </i></b><span style="font-family: "times new roman";"><b><i>Existed, Forge, The Helix, Natural Bridge, Poet Lore, Quiddity, </i>and <i>Spoon River. </i>He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, has won the Betsy Colquitt Poetry Award, and serves on the Board of Directors of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers. He received a BA in History and Literature from Harvard College, and an MA in English for the University of Sussex, U.K., where he wrote his dissertation on Wallace Stevens. The son of European immigrants, Ken grew up in New York City and now lives in San Francisco where he works in healthcare and sponsors a weekly poetry writing program at UCSF Children's Hospital. <a href="http://www.kenhaas.org./">www.kenhaas.org.</a></b></span></div>
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Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-62420487111660307602020-05-03T00:13:00.000-06:002020-05-03T00:13:00.590-06:00Marin Poetry Center Online Covid Confinement Writing Retreat: Titles & Epigraphs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Day 7: Titles & Epigraphs</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Introduction</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Today is the final day of our time together, examining some of the major anatomical features of the lyrical-narrative free verse poem. I've saved the title and possible epigraph(s) for last because my experience is that the better ones emerge from the poem, rather than from dictating to the poem what it's about.<br />
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<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>POEM:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Ice, Ice</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
When I woke up this morning I knew there was horror, I<br />
remembered the rain last night and I knew the ice had<br />
come. I knew the doves would be dragging their stiff tails and<br />
I knew the years would be filled with broken branches. I sing<br />
this for Hubert Humphrey, dead last night, and I sing it<br />
for the frozen trees and the bouquet of frozen buds,<br />
and the tiny puffs of smoke now rising from our chimneys<br />
like the smoke of cave men rising from their fissures,<br />
their faces red with wisdom, their dirty hands scraping<br />
grease from the stones and shaking ashes from their beds,<br />
their black eyes weeping over the chunks of fire,<br />
their tears turning to ice as they leave the circle.<br />
<br />
By Gerald Stern. From <i>The Red Coal </i>(Houghton Mifflin, 1981)<br />
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<b>CRAFT:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><i>Titles</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
If you have been with me from the beginning of this online retreat, you will likely remember the hypothetical young poet from Richard Wilbur's essay, "Writing Off the Subject" who wrote down the title "Autumn Rain" and then attempted to write a poem about autumn rain, running out of what to say about the subject in 2 or 3 lines (Day 2, <a href="https://thewideningspell.blogspot.com/2020/04/online-writing-retreat-narrative-day-2.html" target="_blank">HERE</a>). Part of the problem is the poet began with the title before he knew what the poem was going to be about. I turn again to Verlyn Klinkenborg to elaborate:<br />
<br />
<i>Imagine this:</i><br />
<i>The piece you're writing is about what you find in the piece you're writing. </i>[Re-read that sentence!]<br />
<i>Nothing else. </i><br />
<i>No matter how factual, how nonfictional, how purposeful a piece it is.</i><br />
<i>Sooner or later, you'll become more interested in what you're able to say on the page and less interested in your intentions. </i>[!]<br />
<br />
<i>You'll rely less on the priority of your intentions and more on the immediacy of writing.</i><br />
<i>It may sound as if I'm describing a formless sort of writing.</i><br />
<i>Not at all.</i><br />
<i>Form is discovery too.</i><br />
<i>It's perfectly possible to write this way even when constricted by</i><br />
<i>A narrow subject, a small space, and a tight deadline. </i>[Line breaks and capitalization the author's.]<br />
<br />
If you accept Hugo's and Klinkenborg's assertion that you don't know what you're writing about UNTIL you discover it IN what you're writing, then waiting to title your poem (or to select an epigraph--if it even needs one--see Heather Bowlan's essay below), until after the poem is written makes a lot of sense.<br />
<br />
It may be possible that Stern wrote down the title "Ice, Ice" before he wrote any lines in the above poem, but I doubt it. I doubt that he knew prior to writing the poem that he would include ice twice, and its first use (line 2) would be in the present and its second use (last line) would be in prehistory. That correspondence is what makes the title so perfect. And I believe more perfect titles can be discovered after writing the poem. <br />
<br />
<b><i>Epigraphs</i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>"Almost every poem could<i> </i>have an epigraph if inspiration and interest were the criteria," begins Heather Bowlan in her essay "Against Epigraphs" published online <a href="http://blog.pshares.org/index.php/against-epigraphs/" style="font-weight: bold;" target="_blank">HERE.</a> "But I'd like to propose the opposite," she continues. "Let's put a moratorium on epigraphs until we know why we have them in the first place." Bowlan's main criticism is one many of us have experienced firsthand: epigraphs often contain stronger language than the poem that follows it. "[The epigraph] raises the stakes before the poem even begins," says Bowlan. Yet, she later asserts that there are ways an epigraph can work.<br />
<br />
"Epigraphs can act as a lens for our poems, focusing our thoughts and language in response to an idea, helping us find our way into a subject." But this is not easy, Bowlan acknowledges: "This is difficult, patient work; to find an epigraph that can have a subtle or quiet power, and to write and wait to find out if the epigraph and poem resonate."<br />
<br />
This last statement seems to assume that the epigraph is selected prior to writing the poem. I would assert that a better way is to write the poem first and then discover whether an epigraph is needed and, if so, what it should be. In other words, the default setting most poems should have in regard to both titles and epigraphs is "wait and see." Wait and see what turns up in the poem.<br />
<br />
A personal pet peeve is taking the first line of the poem as the title. How many poetry readings have I attended where a reader says: "The title of my next poem is "The Sun is Going Down." Pause. Then they read the title: "The Sun is Going Down." Pause. Then the first line of the poem: "The Sun..."--well you get it. I do like titles that appear in the poem, but later, and not always <i>exactly</i> the way they appear. Like "Ice, Ice." Nice.<br />
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<b>PROMPT:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>For a poem you have yet to write:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
1. Write down the following as a provisional title to a poem: "Poem About What I'm Going to Find in the Poem As I Write it."<br />
<br />
2. Write the poem.<br />
<br />
3. Find what it is you wrote about that sounds like a good title.<br />
<br />
4. Repeat #3 three more times.<br />
<br />
5. Provisionally substitute each of the four title candidates for the original title.<br />
<br />
6. Choose whichever title causes you to gasp (even a little) when you get to the part in your poem that prompted the title.<br />
<br />
<b>For a poem you've already written this week:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
1. If the poem has a title, cross it out or delete it.<br />
<br />
2. Look more carefully to see what the poem might really be about.<br />
<br />
3. Select 3-4 possible candidates that might be more what the poem is really about.<br />
<br />
4. Provisionally substitute each of these title candidates for the original title.<br />
<br />
5. Choose whichever title causes you to gasp (even a little) when you get to the part in your poem that prompted the new title.<br />
<br />
<b>Final closing thoughts from Verlyn Klinkenborg (that can be applied to titles or any other lines of poetry):</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<i>You're holding an audition.</i><br />
<i>Many sentences </i>[words, lines, titles] <i>will try out.</i><br />
<i>One gets the part.</i><br />
<b><br /></b>
<i>This will get easier with practice.</i><br />
<i>Don't be alarmed if it takes a day or two of trying out </i>[lines]<br />
<i>Before you find the promising one.</i><br />
<i>It may only be promising enough to lead you to the</i><br />
<i>real </i>[words, lines, title].<br />
<br />
..........................<br />
<br />
<i>How do you decide what works?</i><br />
<i>Your emerging skill as a <b>reader</b> will help.</i><br />
<i>You'll read your lines against the backdrop of all the rest of your reading.</i><br />
<i>You'll get better at examine your own choices--the ones you've already made</i><br />
<i>And the ones you see waiting to be made as you reread</i><br />
<i>what you've written. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>...........................</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
In closing, I'd like to thank Marin Poetry Center for sponsoring this online writing retreat, and Rebecca Foust for inviting me to host it this week. As I'm sure many of you have experienced, I have learned a lot preparing for these posts. I took to heart the advice that I didn't really know what I was writing about until I set out writing. I did have a few ideas, but I allowed the poems I selected to dictate much of what I said. Thank you to all of these wonderful poets whose work I've shared. And thank you to you wonderful poets who have dropped by and tried some of the prompts. I've received multiple emails with copies of poems written this week from those prompts, and been encouraged by some of you telling me these posts have broken you out of a writing slump. I would love to have you post poems written from these posts or any comments you may have in the comments section.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<b>JOURNAL:</b><br />
<b><br /></b><i style="font-weight: bold;">Naugatuck River Review (<a href="https://naugatuckriverreview.com/" target="_blank">website here</a>) </i>is a journal of "Narrative poetry that sings." They are not open for submission at this time, but they publish two journals a year and one of them is comprised of finalists and semifinalists to their annual poetry contest.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>RECIPE:</b><br />
<b><br /></b><b>Nine After Dinner Drinks to Make Your Stomach Feel Good: <a href="https://www.bonappetit.com/story/after-dinner-drinks-to-save-your-stomach" target="_blank">HERE.</a></b><br />
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<br />Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-20428981472706633022020-05-02T01:32:00.001-06:002020-05-08T11:34:27.757-06:00Marin Poetry Center Online Covid Confinement Writing Retreat: Last Lines<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b>Day 6: Last Lines</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Introduction</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Today we will explore last lines in a lyrical-narrative poem.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>POEM:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>What My Father Told Me</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Always I have done what was asked.<br />
Melmac dishes stacked on rag towels.<br />
The slack of a vacuum cleaner cord<br />
wound around my hand. Laundry<br />
hung on a line.<br />
There is always much to do and I do it.<br />
The iron resting in its frame, hot<br />
in the shallow pan of summer<br />
as the basins of his hands push<br />
aside the book I am reading.<br />
I do as I am told, hold his penis<br />
like the garden hose, in the bedroom,<br />
in that bathroom, over the toilet<br />
or my bare stomach.<br />
I do the chores, pull weeds out back,<br />
finger stinkbug husks, snail carcasses,<br />
pile dead grass in black bags. At night<br />
his feet are safe on their pads, light<br />
on the wall-to-wall as he takes<br />
the hallway to my room.<br />
His voice, the hiss of lawn sprinklers,<br />
the wet hush of sweat in his hollows,<br />
the mucus still damp<br />
in the corners of my eyes as I wake.<br />
<br />
Summer ends. Schoolwork doesn't suit me.<br />
My fingers unaccustomed to the slimness<br />
of a pen, the delicate touch it takes<br />
to uncoil the mind.<br />
History. A dateline pinned to the wall.<br />
Beneath each president's face, a quotation.<br />
Pictures of buffalo and wheat fields,<br />
a wagon train circled for the night,<br />
my hand raised to ask a question,<br />
Where did the children sleep?<br />
<br />
By Dorianne Laux. From <i>Awake </i>(Carnegie Mellon, 1990)<br />
<br />
<b>CRAFT:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I could have easily used this poem yesterday when we were discussing emotional connection. I saved it for today because, although she is a master at writing poems that connect with her readers emotionally, Laux is so intentional about building the intensity right up to her ultimate line that is often the strongest line in the poem. In her words, "In poetry there is no such thing as denoue-<i>effing</i>-ment. In other words, the final line(s) should be the knock-out punch--every time. This, according to Laux, is one of the features that distinguishes poetry from other literary genres. <br />
<br />
On day 1 of this series, we looked at what Suzanne Buffam had to say about opening lines in her short poem that not only told us, but also enacted what opening lines should do: engage the reader's senses and make an emotional connection. Her poem about closing lines is also spot-on and echoes Laux's belief.<br />
<br />
On Last Lines<br />
<br />
The last line should strike like a lover's complaint.<br />
You should never see it coming.<br />
And you should never hear the end of it.<br />
<br />
From <i>The Irrationalist </i>(Canarium Books, 2010)<br />
<br />
Buffam's three-lined poem is a good description of Laux's final line "Where did the children sleep?" Notice how it would not be as strong if we could see it coming, if somehow the poet gave it away with a title "Where the Children Slept," or earlier in the poem, without the distance from the father that the back-to-school narrative provides. Buffam refers to this kind of surprise as "subverting the reader's expectations," which is precisely what Laux's last line does. And that subversion is married to the strong emotions we feel for a child asking an innocent-sounding question that is, in reality, a question informed by horrific experience.<br />
<br />
Buffam's description also applies to Michael Ryan's final line in "Not The End Of The World" from <a href="https://thewideningspell.blogspot.com/2020/04/marin-poetry-center-online-covid.html" target="_blank">Day 5</a>. (If you're dropping in without having read yesterday's post, click back to it and read the poem.) The power of the line, of course, lies in the fact that the lines right before the final lines appear to be winding down to a "happy ending" with the wounded "bird gone. All the birds were gone." And we think yay! our little guy survived. But then the poet shows us a desolate space in the circle where they were--"a space so desolate / that for one moment I saw / the dead planet." Boom! We never saw it coming. And we will continue to hear the line ringing for a long time.<br />
<br />
Li-Young Lee's poem, "Persimmon" (see <a href="https://thewideningspell.blogspot.com/2020/04/online-writing-retreat-lyricism-day-3.html" target="_blank">Day 3 </a>in this series), builds more and more lyricism between and among his narrative-driven stanzas, until in the final stanza his diction sings in a register higher than any other time in the poem. <br />
<br />
The only time Waters (see <a href="https://thewideningspell.blogspot.com/2020/04/online-writing-retreat-day-4.html" target="_blank">Day 4</a> in this series) lets go of his tight reign on concrete imagery is in his final line that relaxes its hold and allows abstraction to help convey a universal truth: "while the power gathered in his thigh / surged like language into my thumb."<br />
<br />
Saving the best line(s) for last is an effective way to end a poem. But that doesn't mean that the final lines tie everything up in a bow. Leaving some mystery is usually far stronger than resolving every conflict and solving every problem in a neat, tidy manner. That is why Dorianne Laux repeats several times during her workshops: "In poetry, there is no deneou-<i>effing</i>-ment."<br />
<br />
Sometimes that means that in revising a poem the poet must cut their way back to the strongest line because the poet kept writing after the poem was finished. When workshopping a poem, some poets will resist changing a poem in this manner. "But that's not the way it happened," they may say. I love Dorianne Laux's response to those poets: "We love you, but we really don't care. This is not about what did or did not happen, it's about making a better poem."<br />
<br />
<b>PROMPT:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>New Work Prompt:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Write a narrative-lyrical poem about a difficult experience (can be 100% from your imagination or part experience / part imagination). When you feel the poem has come to an end, look to see whether the final line(s) are the strongest in the poem. If they are not, cut your way back to what feels like the strongest lines and see what you have. If you cut so far that you don't have much of a poem left, then think about how you can strengthen the final lines with stronger imagery, metaphor, or some other poetic device.<br />
<br />
<b>Revision Prompt:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Look at one of your poems whose ending doesn't seem to be working. Put a + beside the strongest lines in the poem; an = beside the acceptable lines in the poem, and a - beside the weak lines in the poem. 1) Cut all of the weak lines; 2) distribute your strong lines so that the first 3 lines are all strong lines and the final 3 lines are the strongest lines. If the strong lines don't work in that role, rework them until they do.<br />
<br />
<b>JOURNAL:</b><br />
<b><br /></b><b>Star 82 Review:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Always open for submissions <a href="http://star82review.com/submissions.html" target="_blank">HERE.</a><span id="goog_163846153"></span><span id="goog_163846154"></span><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>RECIPE:</b><br />
<b><br />Easy-to-Make, Healthy Pecan Pie</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrz4Z1tEOZn-pvc2FPE7wqJz-9W8yjIl8BLhi5TDWF0iTNazagn-trxUAInHMJ7rKRgPpvXfpfDb3CNhRyByToVQaJy1JPGvnf9nH3HDVr6N4kh10y_AuEgHeKs8ibjp5Y2sjLwMNrotOT/s1600/Day+6+recipe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1109" data-original-width="1600" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrz4Z1tEOZn-pvc2FPE7wqJz-9W8yjIl8BLhi5TDWF0iTNazagn-trxUAInHMJ7rKRgPpvXfpfDb3CNhRyByToVQaJy1JPGvnf9nH3HDVr6N4kh10y_AuEgHeKs8ibjp5Y2sjLwMNrotOT/s320/Day+6+recipe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b><b>Prep Time: </b>10 min<br />
<b>Cook Time: </b>35 min<br />
<b>Total Time: </b>45 min<br />
<br />
<b>Servings: </b>8 slices<br />
<b>Calories: </b>410 / slice<br />
<b>Author: </b>Lacey Baier<br />
<br />
<b>INGREDIENTS</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
1/2 cup raw honey<br />
2 tbsp coconut oil, melted<br />
3 eggs<br />
1/2 tsp fresh orange zest<br />
1/8 tsp sea salt<br />
1 tbsp unsweetened almond milk<br />
1 tsp ground ground cinnamon<br />
1 tsp pure vanilla extract<br />
3 tbsp whole wheat pastry flour<br />
2 cups raw pecans<br />
1 bottom pie crust<br />
<br />
<b>INSTRUCTIONS</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>1. </b>Preheat oven to 400 degrees F.<br />
<br />
<b>2.</b> In a large bowl, combine raw honey, coconut oil, eggs, fresh orange zest, sea salt, unsweetened almond milk, ground cinnamon, pure vanilla extract, and whole wheat pastry flour. Stir to combine.<br />
<br />
<b>3.</b> Arrange the raw pecans into the prepared 9-inch pie crust.<br />
<br />
<b>4.</b> Pour the liquid filling mixture over the pecans, spreading some with a spoon if necessary.<br />
<br />
<b>5.</b> Place into the oven and bake for 10 minutes at 400 degrees, then reduce the temperature to 350 degrees and bake for 20-25 minutes.<br />
<br />
<b>6.</b> The pie will rise in the oven. You'll know it's done then it has small cracks in the top and is no longer giggly.<br />
<br />
<b>7.</b> Remove from oven and allow to cool, preferably overnight.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-77581812656552692162020-05-01T00:54:00.002-06:002020-05-01T01:06:12.288-06:00Marin Poetry Center Online Covid Confinement Writing Retreat: Emotional Connection<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-oCdtTKRI_6kghHBwA_SmCOA7OI1ECtyAwaBC6UIFBNy3HWXD6ea903kOBNztYw1ipaWJmPVnLWWXJ07gMGwJhm5retdratnFsMhwsn2Gfxr0L8y78HhWNrLxBXJYnZHC7bGQBjW5Irjk/s1600/MPC+Logo.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1257" data-original-width="1256" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-oCdtTKRI_6kghHBwA_SmCOA7OI1ECtyAwaBC6UIFBNy3HWXD6ea903kOBNztYw1ipaWJmPVnLWWXJ07gMGwJhm5retdratnFsMhwsn2Gfxr0L8y78HhWNrLxBXJYnZHC7bGQBjW5Irjk/s200/MPC+Logo.png" width="199" /></a></div>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Day 5: Emotional Connection</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Introduction</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Today we examine ways of building an emotional connection with the reader in a lyrical-narrative poem.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>POEM:</b><br />
<b><br />Not The End Of The World</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
What flew down the chimney<br />
into the cold wood stove<br />
in my study? Wings<br />
alive inside cast iron<br />
gave the cold stove a soul<br />
wilder than fire, in trouble.<br />
I knocked the window-screen out<br />
with a hand-heel's thunk,<br />
and dropped the shade over<br />
the top half of the window,<br />
and shut the study door,<br />
and wadded the keyhole,<br />
hoping whatever it was<br />
would fly for the light,<br />
the full, clean stream of light<br />
like the sliding board from heaven<br />
our guardian angels slid to earth on<br />
in <i>The Little Catholic Messenger</i><br />
weekly magazine. I genuflected once,<br />
but only to flick the stove-latch<br />
and spring behind a bookcase<br />
through a memory-flash<br />
of church-darkness, incense-smoke<br />
mushrooming as the censer<br />
clanks and swings back<br />
toward the Living Host<br />
in His golden cabinet.<br />
A dull brown bird no bigger<br />
than my fist hopped modestly<br />
out, twisting its neck like a boxer<br />
trying to shake off a flush punch.<br />
And there on my rug, dazed,<br />
heedless of the spotlight, it stayed,<br />
and stayed, then settled down<br />
as if to hatch an egg it was hallucinating.<br />
So I scooped it into my two hands,<br />
crazed heart in a feathered ounce,<br />
and sat it outside on the dirt.<br />
<br />
And there I left it.<br />
It didn't even try its wings,<br />
not one perfunctory flap,<br />
but staggered a few rickety steps<br />
before collapsing, puffing its tiny bulk.<br />
I watched behind a window<br />
other identical little dull birds<br />
land within inches and chart<br />
circles around it. Five of them,<br />
cheeping, chased an inquiring cat.<br />
Then all of them one by one--<br />
by this time a dozen--mounted its back<br />
and fluttered jerkily like helicopters<br />
trying to unbog a truck,<br />
and, when that didn't work,<br />
pecked it and pecked it,<br />
a gust of flicks, to kill it<br />
or rouse it I couldn't tell<br />
until they all stepped back to wait.<br />
It flapped once and fell forward<br />
and rested its forehead on the ground.<br />
<br />
I've never seen such weakness.<br />
I thought to bring it back in<br />
or call someone, but heard my voice<br />
saying, "Birds die, we all die,"<br />
the shock of being picked up again<br />
would probably finish it,<br />
so with this pronouncement<br />
I tried to clear it from my mind<br />
and return to the work I had waiting<br />
that is most of what I can do<br />
even if it changes nothing.<br />
<br />
Do I need to say I was away<br />
for all of a minute<br />
before I went back to it?<br />
But the bird was gone.<br />
All the birds were gone,<br />
and the circle they had made<br />
now made a space so desolate<br />
that for one moment I saw<br />
the dead planet.<br />
<br />
By Michael Ryan. From <i>God Hunger</i> (Viking, 1989).<br />
<br />
<b>CRAFT:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Ellen Brock posts YouTube Videos covering several aspects of writing. She is a novelist, so not all of what she says applies to writing poems. But a lot applies to lyrical-narrative poems, particularly what she says about how to establish an emotional connection with readers. Below, I've listed her "Seven Reasons Readers Don't Care About Your Characters" and applied them to Ryan's poem to suggest how he did (or didn't) make an emotional connection with his readers. I encourage you to re-read the poem and come to your own conclusions, as well. The video can be accessed <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nTUXlvOzgfg" target="_blank">here</a> in case you'd like to listen to it.<br />
<br />
1. "The personality of the character is in your head, not on the page."<br />
<br />
There are three main characters in the poem: the narrator, the injured bird, and the flock. I immediately have a liking for the narrator because his actions indicate he has an empathetic personality that values the life of whatever flew down his chimney more than personal property: "I knocked the window-screen out / with a hand-heel's thunk / ... / hoping whatever it was / would fly for the light," (lines 7-14).<br />
<br />
2. "Telling about the character's personality traits instead of showing."<br />
<br />
Instead of telling about his connection with the bird or going off on an abstract rant about we are all connected to nature, he shows readers he is connected to this bird (and implies we all are) with simple actions such as: "Do I need to say I was away / for all of a minute / before I went back to it?"<br />
<br />
3. "Sharing mostly negative traits but not showing why. It doesn't have to be a lot. Sometimes just give the reader even a little hint about why the negative trait exists in the character."<br />
<br />
The narrator indicates that the little flock of birds could be trying to save the bird or kill it:<br />
<br />
Then all of them one by one--<br />
by this time a dozen--mounted its back<br />
and fluttered jerkily like helicopters<br />
trying to unbar a truck,<br />
and, when that didn't work,<br />
pecked it and paced it,<br />
a gust of flicks, <b>to kill it</b><br />
<b>or rouse it I couldn't tell... [my bold]</b><br />
<br />
4. "You're not indicating what the character wants."<br />
<br />
The narrator definitely indicated by directly saying and by showing with actions that he wanted the bird to be set free and to live.<br />
<br />
5. "You're not introducing a problem--what's in the way of what the character wants?"<br />
<br />
Again, the problem was introduced in the first lines: "What flew down the chimney / into the cold wood stove / in my study?"<br />
<br />
6. "Your character is a stereotype or trope."<br />
<br />
The narrator does not sound to me to be stereotypical, but is quite relatable, and yet shows uniqueness of perception, particularly in the final line.<br />
<br />
7. "You're not putting the reader in the character's shoes--sensory information please!"<br />
<br />
The poet places the reader in his shoes all throughout the poem. Examples: "I watched behind a window [and we watched with him] / other identical little dull birds / land within inches and chart / circles around it." "I thought to bring it back in / or call someone, but heard my voice / saying, 'Birds die, we all die,' / the shock of being picked up again / would probably finish it...."<br />
<br />
<b>PROMPT:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Write a narrative-lyrical poem using the above seven guidelines in order to build connection with your readers.<br />
<b><br /></b><b>JOURNAL:</b><br />
<b><br />Free State Review </b>(<a href="https://freestatereview.com/submissions/" target="_blank">Submissions HERE</a>) is always open for submissions. Barrett Warner is a quirky guy (I know him personally, and he would say that), but also a genius of a writer and editor (he would say that as well). If you read his "Hot Tips" for submissions you'll see that he's a wild and crazy guy. But his points are well taken about what constitutes strong poetry.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>PRESS:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Trio House Press </b>has extended its deadline for its full-length poetry manuscript contest until May 15th. Submit <a href="https://www.triohousepress.org/submissions.html" target="_blank">HERE.</a><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>RECIPE:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Comforting Beef Stew</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT8BjcsRlRirs5bbAIzeiOIBsmvFoLdL5fUf1FEV3Madfr2YL_MPTy67suwV5U6YjdABDJNLYq_l0_s9rc9A5SaF-RUOMYWFw0yxIJTyCz_wdYkm7x2Hy-LBLXfqapLlbm1tVVaUVvn97l/s1600/Day+5+Recipe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1549" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT8BjcsRlRirs5bbAIzeiOIBsmvFoLdL5fUf1FEV3Madfr2YL_MPTy67suwV5U6YjdABDJNLYq_l0_s9rc9A5SaF-RUOMYWFw0yxIJTyCz_wdYkm7x2Hy-LBLXfqapLlbm1tVVaUVvn97l/s320/Day+5+Recipe.jpg" width="309" /></a></div>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br />Prep time: </b>20 minutes<br />
<br />
<b>Cook time: </b>2 hours 30 minutes<br />
<br />
<b>Total time: </b>2 hours 50 minutes<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>INGREDIENTS:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
2 lbs beef stew meat (preferably chuck), cut into 1" cubes<br />
<br />
3 large carrots, peeled and diced<br />
<br />
4 large Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and diced<br />
<br />
1 large onion, chopped<br />
<br />
3 cloves of garlic, minced<br />
<br />
1/3 cup flour<br />
<br />
1 tsp paprika (optional)<br />
<br />
1 Tbsp Worcestershire sauce<br />
<br />
1/2 cup red wine<br />
<br />
1 1/2 cup beef broth<br />
<br />
1 sprig of fresh thyme<br />
<br />
1 sprig of fresh rosemary<br />
<br />
2 bay leave (dry or fresh)<br />
<br />
3 Tbsp olive oil<br />
<br />
Salt and pepper to taste<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>INSTRUCTIONS:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>1. </b>In a large bowl, combine the flour and the salt and mix well.<br />
<br />
<b>2. </b>Add the beef cubes and mix until all the pieces are coated in flour. Reserve.<br />
<br />
<b>3. </b>In a large heavy-bottomed pot, heat the olive oil until almost smoking. Add the beef and cook until browned. That should take about 5 minutes. Reserve.<br />
<br />
<b>4. </b>In the same pot, add the veggies and cook for 5 more minutes or until they develop some color.<br />
<br />
<b>5. </b>Add the paprika and season with salt and pepper.<br />
<br />
<b>6. </b>Add the wine and scrape the bottom to release all the delicious, browned bits.<br />
<br />
<b>7. </b>Add the Worcestershire sauce and the beef broth and give it a good stir.<br />
<br />
<b>8. </b>Add the beef cubes back to the pot.<br />
<br />
<b>9. </b>Make a bouquet garni with your herbs by tying them all together with twine. Add the bouquet garni to the stew.<br />
<br />
<b>10. </b>Once the broth is boiling, lower the heat to its lowest setting, cover and cook for 2 1/2 hours, checking now and then, or until the sauce has thickened and the meat is fork tender / falling apart.<br />
<br />
<b>11. </b>Remove the bouquet garni and serve!<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-55213800024177994622020-04-30T05:28:00.002-06:002020-05-11T11:31:25.355-06:00Marin Poetry Center Online Covid Confinement Writing Retreat: Imagery<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKeqFh9gg20SI_1QwL7rygrPC2FJhPMO20zkoGXD8tiexuZVObZIEuM403zibQuc3K8V-5GAcu_w2ykpIGk2LalgspFlf6YBJZe5krqMcU6YnzWV6SsuXLk-M6EGJf5zzuogT5VmfyJiQC/s1600/MPC+Logo.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1257" data-original-width="1256" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKeqFh9gg20SI_1QwL7rygrPC2FJhPMO20zkoGXD8tiexuZVObZIEuM403zibQuc3K8V-5GAcu_w2ykpIGk2LalgspFlf6YBJZe5krqMcU6YnzWV6SsuXLk-M6EGJf5zzuogT5VmfyJiQC/s200/MPC+Logo.png" width="199" /></a></div>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Day 4: Imagery</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Introduction</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Today we examine the importance of the lyrical-narrative poem's imagery that allows the reader to see the action and characters in the mind's eye, rather than simply hear the poet talk about them.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>POEM:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Horse</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
The first horse I ever saw<br />
was hauling a wagon stacked with furniture<br />
past storefronts along Knickerbocker Avenue.<br />
He was taller than a car, blue-black with flies,<br />
<br />
and bits of green ribbon tied to his mane<br />
bounced near his caked and rheumy eyes.<br />
I had seen horses in books before, but<br />
this horse shimmered in the Brooklyn noon.<br />
<br />
I could hear his hooves strike the tar,<br />
the colossal nostrils snort back the heat,<br />
and breathe his inexorable, dung-tinged fume.<br />
Under the enormous belly, his ------<br />
<br />
swung like the policeman's nightstick,<br />
a dowsing rod, longer than my arm--<br />
even the Catholic girls could see it<br />
hung there like a rubber spigot.<br />
<br />
When he let loose, the steaming street<br />
flowed with frothy, spattering urine.<br />
And when he stopped to let the junkman<br />
toss a tabletop onto the wagon bed,<br />
<br />
I worked behind his triangular head<br />
to touch his foreleg above the knee,<br />
the muscle jerking the mat of hair.<br />
<i>Horse</i>, I remember thinking,<br />
<br />
four years old and standing there,<br />
struck momentarily dumb,<br />
while the power gathered in his thigh<br />
surged like language into my thumb.<br />
<br />
By Michael Waters. From <i>Parthenopi: New and Selected Poems </i>(BOA, 2001)<br />
<br />
<b>CRAFT:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Sight, sound, touch, hearing--there is not a line in "Horses" that does not utilize one or more of those senses. This poem lives in the world of sensate experience through its vivid images composed of concrete language. And yet, by the poem's end the reader is exposed to an abstract truth about poetry itself--something to do with the power of image and language and how they affected a little boy to become a poet because they are the basis of poetry itself. But if the poem had stated that truth using those or other abstract terms, the poem would be <i>telling</i> us in a way that countless weaker poems do. Instead, Waters <i>shows</i> us how the experience of a horse was the basis of his becoming a poet in those final lines (still grounded in the concrete): "while the power gathered in his thigh / surged like language into my thumb." The only abstract word in these lines (and one of the few in the poem) is "language," and yet even it lives in two worlds at once, evidenced by the words you're reading on this screen that can be printed on paper.<br />
<br />
In addition, notice how many of Waters' lines accomplish their purpose with few or no adjectives or other modifiers--instead, lot of nouns and verbs, the bones and muscles of language. Very little connective tissue is present. This enables readers to "see" pictures in their minds. You can't really see anything except nouns and verbs--people, places, and things, doing something, acting on something, or being acted upon.<br />
<br />
I happen to know Michael Waters. And I know that he underwent a major shift early on in his understanding of how to approach writing a poem. In his early twenties, he thought the best way to create a poem was to begin with an idea for a poem, and then to let that idea guide where the poem went. After his first book, he discovered that a better way was to begin with language itself--a word, a line, a few lines--and then to allow that language to go where it seemed it wanted to go. To give language its head--pun intended. Ever since, Waters' poetry has lived in the concrete, but in so doing has discovered timeless truths--a prosody that has produced, in my opinion, some of the best poetry of the second half of the twentieth and first two decades of the twenty-first century. An interview with John Hoppenthaller in which Waters speaks about that change is no longer available online. However, I share portions of it in another blog post while reviewing Waters' book, <i>The Dean of Discipline</i>, <a href="http://thewideningspell.blogspot.com/2019/01/michael-waters-dean-of-discipline.html" target="_blank">HERE.</a><br />
<br />
<b>PROMPT:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>Write a poem about an animal or object using concrete images in every line. Be sure to remain in the concrete until the very end. Refrain from overtly telling how the object of your affection made you feel or stating some abstract truth. If there is a greater truth in the poem, give yourself permission to use only one abstract word in the final line to point to it. Consult a thesaurus to find concrete words that shape your images so they lean toward that truth, but never state it outright. And remember to use more nouns and verbs and fewer modifiers. Have fun!<br />
<br />
<b>JOURNAL: </b><br />
<b><br /></b><b>Boulevard: </b>Submissions are open until May 1st and include a year's subscription<b> <a href="https://boulevard.submittable.com/submit" target="_blank">HERE.</a></b><br />
<br />
<b>2020 Passager Poetry Contest: </b>Deadline is May 10th for this press that only accepts submissions from writers over age 50. Submit <a href="https://passagerbooks.submittable.com/submit" target="_blank">HERE.</a><br />
<br />
<b>RECIPE:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Sicilian-Inspired Blood Orange Salad</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC2zyKQtDrS6pOGtCsPUxo6sWc8mnWJNIhyByUha2hneG7dtt_mPBdppnT9fwoynlc46fD1IAiH5VsmAG_j6TlaTLyJXnBwu80N-9m_ePG4l63GDtxufvAWx9dJB1i1g-1qD5x-UHEP26S/s1600/Day+5+Reciple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1279" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC2zyKQtDrS6pOGtCsPUxo6sWc8mnWJNIhyByUha2hneG7dtt_mPBdppnT9fwoynlc46fD1IAiH5VsmAG_j6TlaTLyJXnBwu80N-9m_ePG4l63GDtxufvAWx9dJB1i1g-1qD5x-UHEP26S/s320/Day+5+Reciple.jpg" width="255" /></a></div>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b><b>Serves: </b>4<br />
<br />
<b>INGREDIENTS</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<i>For the salad:</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
3 Cara Cara oranges, cut into segments<br />
<br />
6 blood oranges, cut into segments<br />
<br />
1/4 large red onion, cut as thinly as possible<br />
<br />
1 bunch of mint, julienned and a few leaves torn<br />
<br />
1/4 cup sheep's milk feta<br />
<br />
<i>For the dressing:</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
1/4 cup red wine vinegar<br />
<br />
1/4 cup olive oil<br />
<br />
1 tablespoon cumin seeds<br />
<br />
1/3 cup pistachios, lightly crushed<br />
<br />
Salt and pepper to taste<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>INSTRUCTIONS</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>1. </b>Assemble all the citrus segments in a large bowl and mix in onions. Set aside.<br />
<br />
<b>2. </b>In a small skillet, heat the olive oil on medium-high. Add the cumin seeds and cook until the seeds pop slightly and a lovely fragrance emits from the pan. Add vinegar to the pan and swirl to mix. Season with salt and pepper and toss all over the citrus. Mix in pistachios. When plating, add mint and pistachios to the tops of each portion.<br />
<br />
<br />Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-89813858849321450982020-04-29T02:45:00.001-06:002020-04-30T12:55:36.794-06:00Marin Poetry Center Online Covid Confinement Writing Retreat: Lyricism<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijlnG1aF96FgKfNp5j5ImA61sSxFUUVpp6jy8_D-Tieks8IqftU7VkT8gWHbPboXcbhyYsEuef2F1B90CJv5rlfUx6pD5LioGAzIQ_bfWjkvSgJ3y2l4hwcxqAzAwqthMvBkm65-cRBFyd/s1600/MPC+Logo.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1257" data-original-width="1256" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijlnG1aF96FgKfNp5j5ImA61sSxFUUVpp6jy8_D-Tieks8IqftU7VkT8gWHbPboXcbhyYsEuef2F1B90CJv5rlfUx6pD5LioGAzIQ_bfWjkvSgJ3y2l4hwcxqAzAwqthMvBkm65-cRBFyd/s200/MPC+Logo.png" width="199" /></a></div>
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Day 3: Lyricism</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Introduction</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Today we look at how lyricism slows down or halts the narrative flow in a poem in order to allow the poem to sing.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b><br />
<b>POEM:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Persimmons</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
In sixth grade Mrs. Walker<br />
slapped the back of my head<br />
and made me stand in the corner<br />
for not knowing the difference<br />
between <i>persimmon</i> and <i>precision.</i><br />
How to choose<br />
<br />
persimmons. This is precision.<br />
Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted.<br />
Sniff the bottoms. The sweet one<br />
will be fragrant. How to eat:<br />
put the knife away, lay down newspaper.<br />
Peel the skin tenderly, not to tear the meat.<br />
Chew the skin, suck it,<br />
and swallow. Now, eat<br />
the meat of the fruit,<br />
so sweet,<br />
all of it, to the heart.<br />
<br />
Donna undresses, her stomach is white.<br />
In the years, dewy and shivering<br />
with crickets, we lie naked,<br />
face-up, face-down.<br />
I teach her Chinese.<br />
Crickets: <i>chip chip. </i>Dew: I've forgotten.<br />
Naked: I've forgotten.<br />
<i>Ni, wo</i>: you and me.<br />
I part her legs,<br />
remember to tell her<br />
she is beautiful as the moon.<br />
<br />
Other words<br />
that got me into trouble were<br />
<i>fight </i>and<i> fright, wren </i>and<i> yarn.</i><br />
Fight was what I did when I was frightened,<br />
fright was what I felt when I was fighting.<br />
Wrens are small, plain birds,<br />
yarn is what one knits with.<br />
Wrens are soft as yarn.<br />
My mother made birds out of yarn.<br />
I loved to watch her tie the stuff;<br />
a bird, a rabbit, a wee man.<br />
<br />
Mrs. Walker brought a persimmon to class<br />
and cut it up<br />
so everyone could taste<br />
a <i>Chinese apple. </i>Knowing<br />
it wasn't ripe or sweet, I didn't eat<br />
but watched the other faces.<br />
<br />
My mother said every persimmon has a sun<br />
inside, something golden, glowing,<br />
warm as my face.<br />
<br />
Once, in the cellar, I found two wrapped in newspaper,<br />
forgotten and not yet ripe.<br />
I took them and set both on my bedroom windowsill,<br />
where each morning a cardinal<br />
sang, <i>The sun, the sun.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Finally understanding<br />
he was going blind,<br />
my father sat up all one night<br />
waiting for a song, a ghost.<br />
I gave him the persimmons,<br />
swelled, heavy as sadness,<br />
and sweet as love.<br />
<br />
This year, in the muddy lighting<br />
of my parents' cellar, I rummage, looking<br />
for something I lost.<br />
My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs,<br />
black cane between his knees,<br />
hand over hand, gripping the handle.<br />
He's so happy that I've come home.<br />
I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question.<br />
<i>All gone</i>, he answers.<br />
<br />
Under some blankets, I find a box.<br />
Inside the box I find three scrolls.<br />
I sit beside him and untie<br />
three paintings by my father:<br />
Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.<br />
Two cats preening.<br />
Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth.<br />
<br />
He raises both hands to touch the cloths,<br />
asks, <i>Which is this?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>This is persimmons, Father.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,</i><br />
<i>the strength, the tense</i><br />
<i>precision in the wrist.</i><br />
<i>I painted them hundreds of times</i><br />
<i>eyes closed. These I painted blind.</i><br />
<i>Some things never leave a person:</i><br />
<i>scent of the hair of one you love,</i><br />
<i>the texture of persimmons,</i><br />
<i>in your palm, the ripe weight.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
By Li-Young Lee. From <i>Rose </i>(BOA, 1986)<br />
<i><br /></i>
<b>CRAFT:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Being one of the 3 classical divisions of poetry (lyrical, dramatic, and epic or narrative), much has been written about lyrical poetry. A helpful, easy-to-read article on "thoughtco.com" summarizes the following:<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>A lyric poem is a private expression of emotion by an individual speaker.</li>
<li>Lyric poetry is highly musical and can feature poetic devices like rhyme and meter</li>
<li>Some scholars categorize lyric poetry in three subtypes: Lyric of Vision, Lyric of Thought, and Lyric of Emotion.</li>
</ul>
<div>
For our purposes, we are not so much concerned with what constitutes a "lyric poem," but rather what lyricism in a lyrical-narrative poem entails. That is much easier to describe. My definition would be a break or slow down in the flow of the narrative that focuses more on the language than on forwarding the story, usually by describing (through all kinds of prosodic devices such as simile, metaphor, repetition, meter, rhyme, half-rhyme, chiming, etc.) things from external or internal landscapes. In our eating metaphor, lyricism is slowing down the chewing and swallowing of the story in order to savor each bite through all of the senses. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And, appropriately, "Persimmons" is not a purely lyrical poem, but rather a poem that tells a story (or several stories) with markedly different stanzas--some almost purely narrative, and others almost purely lyrical. I say almost, because Lee's language is so powerful that even when it is forwarding the story it has delicious lyrical overtones, and whenever he halts it completely to dwell on a single flavor, it still contributes to the story. Look at the following breakdown and see if you agree:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Stanza One is primarily narrative. (By the way, notice how the opening lines grabs our attention by jumping right into the action of "...Mrs. Walker / slapped the back of my head.")</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Stanza Two is primarily lyrical. The action is slowed down by naming and describing each step of peeling, sucking, chewing, and finally swallowing the sweet persimmon meat with gorgeous language.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Stanza Three resumes a narrative pace, although the scene has changed (see yesterday's comments on writing off subject), and there is a healthy dose of lyrical imagery and a metaphorical description of two lovers.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Stanza Four slows the narrative pace again with rumination, explanation, and description using metaphor. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Stanza Five picks up the pace with the story of Mrs. Walker bringing a persimmon to class, cutting it up, and passing it around for everyone to eat a bite. More action, less description.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Stanza Six is only three lines long and stands in contrast to the previous stanza by providing the metaphor: "...every persimmon has a sun / inside, something golden, glowing / warm as my face."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Read the remaining stanzas and decide which is more dominant, narrative or lyricism. Or are any stanzas pretty much evenly balanced? What about the gorgeous final stanza? Lyrical? Certainly. Does it have any narrative element(s) at all?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am aware that I have overly-simplified the kinds of lines in a poem. Certainly not all lines of every poem can be categorized as narrative or lyrical. Some lines are mere conversation--either actual conversation between characters or, more commonly, a conversation between the poet and the reader, such as the early lines in stanza two: "...This is precision. / Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted." Pretty much just information. However, by the end of the stanza: "...Now eat / the meat of the fruit, so sweet, / all of it, to the heart," the language is definitely lyrical--those "e" and "t" sounds really cause the lines to sing. Where does the transition occur? It's difficult to tell. And that brings up another category of language in a poem: transitional language. So, we have now discussed at least four different categories of poetic lines in a lyrical-narrative poem: 1) narrative; 2) lyrical; 3) conversational; and 4) transitional. My point in all of this has been to distinguish between the language that "tells the story" and the language that "stops or slows down the action and sings about the props and scenery and actors.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>PROMPT:</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
Prompt 1:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Write a lyrical-narrative poem that alternates one stanza of furthering the story with the next stanza slowing down or stopping the story and using language to provide description that uses repetition of sounds. Try to stay in the concrete rather than using abstract words such as "love" or "beauty." Play with making a strong distinction between stanzas, occasionally throwing in a stanza balanced with both narrative and lyricism.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Prompt 2:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For those of you who already write lyrical-narrative poems, go back to some of your completed poems or drafts in-progress and identity each line as either narrative, lyrical, conversational, or transitional. Then ask yourself whether you have enough narrative and lyrical lines and if they are in the right balance. How do you know? One way is to have other poets read your poem and tell you. But you can also play a game with your poem. Pretend you are reading it to an audience. When you think the audience (or you) might be possibly bored with "just the story," add some lyrical language. When you feel that the poem has lost its way and is wandering, get back to the story. Then have someone else read your poem for their reaction. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>JOURNAL:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Great River Review is Minnesota's oldest literary journal. Deadline for submissions for issue #67 is May 1st. Submit <a href="https://grr.submittable.com/submit" target="_blank">HERE.</a></b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>RECIPE:</b></div>
<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<b>Persimmon risotto with pancetta and goat cheese:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqoPmRyQrZRiVvxPtBJqFO_kSUpPgzx71eCvXxx9H0HG2eMvz_ZDn5RS1XouKzUSP2Q8wNhqSwz753ZezEnPqy_VZsfQCW4tCNAAS7QQHRPxPU9zOOcnHdwaBGpubbN9d_dGAndAil6eS-/s1600/Day+3+recipe-Persimmon+rosotto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqoPmRyQrZRiVvxPtBJqFO_kSUpPgzx71eCvXxx9H0HG2eMvz_ZDn5RS1XouKzUSP2Q8wNhqSwz753ZezEnPqy_VZsfQCW4tCNAAS7QQHRPxPU9zOOcnHdwaBGpubbN9d_dGAndAil6eS-/s320/Day+3+recipe-Persimmon+rosotto.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<br />
<b>Course: </b>Main<br />
<b>Cuisine: </b>Italian<br />
<br />
<b>Prep Time: </b>5 minutes<br />
<b>Cook Time: </b>20 minutes<br />
<b>Total Time: </b>25 minutes<br />
<br />
<b>Servings: </b>2<br />
<b>Author: </b>Giulia on <a href="https://en.julskitchen.com/seasonal/winter/recipes-with-persimmons" target="_blank">Jul's Kitchen</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Ingredients</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
1 shallot<br />
200 g of rice for risotto, such as Arborio, Carnaroli or Vialone Nano<br />
1/2 glass of white wine<br />
50 ml of lightly salted hot water or hot vegetable stock<br />
1 Fuyu persimmon, diced<br />
100g fresh goat's cheese<br />
2 tablespoons of grated Parmigiano Reggiano<br />
50 g of pancetta<br />
Freshly ground black pepper<br />
Salt<br />
<br />
<b>Instructions</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>1. </b>Cover the bottom of a casserole with extra virgin olive oil, then add the finely minced shallot. Add a pinch of salt, too, so the shallots will stew without burning, as the salt will extract their moisture.<br />
<br />
<b>2. </b>When the shallots are wilted and golden, add the rice and toast it over medium heat for a few minutes, then pour in the white wine.<br />
<br />
<b>3.</b> When the wine has been absorbed, gradually add the hot stock or hot water, stirring often and cooking the rice over medium-low heat. The cooking time will vary depending on the type of rice you have chosen. Usually 15 minutes should be enough.<br />
<br />
<b>4. </b>Halfway through the cooking, add the chopped persimmon, then keep on cooking, adding more stock.<br />
<br />
<b>5. </b>While the risotto is cooking, slice the pancetta and brown it on medium fire in a pan, then turn off the heat and set aside.<br />
<br />
<b>6. </b>When the rice is al dente, remove it from the heat and stir in the grated Parmigiano Reggiano and fresh goat's cheese. Stir to cream the cheese, then add the browned pancetta with its rendered fat. Add some freshly ground black pepper and serve immediately.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<i><br /></i>
Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-47897556743563746252020-04-28T01:01:00.000-06:002020-04-30T12:55:18.952-06:00Marin Poetry Center Online Covid Confinement Writing Retreat: Narrative<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijlnG1aF96FgKfNp5j5ImA61sSxFUUVpp6jy8_D-Tieks8IqftU7VkT8gWHbPboXcbhyYsEuef2F1B90CJv5rlfUx6pD5LioGAzIQ_bfWjkvSgJ3y2l4hwcxqAzAwqthMvBkm65-cRBFyd/s1600/MPC+Logo.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1257" data-original-width="1256" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijlnG1aF96FgKfNp5j5ImA61sSxFUUVpp6jy8_D-Tieks8IqftU7VkT8gWHbPboXcbhyYsEuef2F1B90CJv5rlfUx6pD5LioGAzIQ_bfWjkvSgJ3y2l4hwcxqAzAwqthMvBkm65-cRBFyd/s200/MPC+Logo.png" width="199" /></a></div>
<b>Day 2: Direct & Indirect Narrative</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Introduction</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Today we will look at two narrative strategies for the lyrical-narrative poem. Direct narrative utilizes the traditional narrative arc of introduction, rising action, climax, falling action, and denouement or resolution. Indirect narrative also tells a story, but is not bound to those categories or that progression. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>POEMS:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The Miracle</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
A man staring into the fire </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
sees his dead brother sleeping.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
The falling flames go yellow and red<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
but it is him, unmistakable.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
He goes to the phone and calls <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
his mother. Howard is asleep,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
he tells her. Yes, she says,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Howard is asleep. She does not cry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
In her Los Angeles apartment<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
with its small color tv <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
humming now unobserved,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
she sees Howard rocking<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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alone beneath the waves<o:p></o:p></div>
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of an ocean she cannot name.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Howard is asleep, she says <o:p></o:p></div>
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to the drapes drawn on the night.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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That night she dreams<o:p></o:p></div>
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a house alive with flames, their<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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old house, and her son sleeping<o:p></o:p></div>
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peacefully in the kingdom of agony. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She wakens near morning,<o:p></o:p></div>
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the dream more real<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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than the clock luminous beside her<o:p></o:p></div>
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or the gray light rising slowly<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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above the huddled town, more real <o:p></o:p></div>
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than the groan of the first car.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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She calls her son who has risen<o:p></o:p></div>
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for work and tells him,<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Howard is warm and at peace.<o:p></o:p></div>
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He sees the crusted snows of March <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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draining the cold light of a day<o:p></o:p></div>
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already old, he sees himself<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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unlocking the front door of his shop,<o:p></o:p></div>
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letting the office help in, letting<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Eugene and Andy, the grease men <o:p></o:p></div>
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step before him out of the snow.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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When she hangs up he looks out<o:p></o:p></div>
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on the back yard, the garbage cans<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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collapsing like sacks of air, the fence<o:p></o:p></div>
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holding a few gray sparrows, <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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he looks out on the world he always sees<o:p></o:p></div>
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and thinks, it’s a miracle.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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By Philip Levine. From <i>Selected Poems </i>(Atheneum, 1984)</div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<b>Dysrhythmia</b></div>
<b><br /></b>
Old people spit with absolutely no finesse<br />
and bicycles bully traffic on the sidewalk.<br />
The unknown poet waits for criticism<br />
and reads his verses three times a day<br />
like a monk with his book of hours.<br />
The brush got old and no longer brushes.<br />
Right now what's important<br />
is to untangle the hair.<br />
We give birth to life between our legs<br />
and go on talking about it till the end,<br />
few of us understanding:<br />
it's the soul that's erotic.<br />
If I want, I put on a Bach suite<br />
so I can feel forgiving and calm.<br />
What I understand of God is His wrath;<br />
there's no other way to say it.<br />
The ball thumping against the wall annoys me,<br />
but the kids laugh, contented.<br />
I've seen hundreds of afternoons like today.<br />
No agony, just an anxious impatience:<br />
something is going to happen.<br />
Destiny doesn't exist.<br />
It's God we need, and fast.<br />
<br />
By Adelia Prado (translated by Ellen Watson). From <i>The Alphabet in the Park </i>(Wesleyan University Press, 1990).<br />
<br />
<b>CRAFT:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>The two poems above are emblematic of two ways of maintaining and building the energy in the body of a poem after the first lines. Both engage the senses and the emotions of the reader. However, Levine builds the energy to a climax through sequential actions and then allows the energy to fall away to a resolution. Prado uses a more meandering, almost anti-narrative strategy with a series of what seem to be non-sequiturs. And yet, a story is told. Both techniques attempt to turn up the energy introduced in the first lines through increased engagement with the reader's senses and emotions.<br />
<br />
Levine is a great story teller. In "The Miracle," the classic five-step outline of 1) Introduction of a problem or conflict; 2) Rising Action; 3) Climax; 4) Falling Action; and 5) Resolution can be traced. After the opening four lines that get our attention with the image of a dead brother sleeping in a fire of red and yellow flames, the poet maintains and even turns up the heat in the ensuing rising action, and then lets it cool down after the climax. An examination of each sense would see this increase in energy. But observe, for example, what Levine does with color. The rising action spreads those yellow and red flames of the opening lines to the mother's apartment with its "color TV" that spill into her dream of a house "alive with flames." She awakens the next morning with the "clock luminous" carrying that energy through the night into the "gray light" of morning "rising slowly above the huddled town." And as those images of hot and cool colors rise, peak, and fall throughout the poem, the intensity of the story rises and falls as well.<br />
<br />
The climax (re-read the poem to see if you agree) occurs when the mother "calls her son who has risen / for work and tells him, // Howard is warm and at peace." After those lines the action seems to fall and the imagery cools off appropriately: "He [her son] sees the cold light of a day / already old..." And in the next eight lines we have the cooler, colder images of "the grease men / step[ping] before him out of the snow," "the garbage cans //collapsing..." and "...the fence / holding a few gray sparrows." The final couplet provides the resolution of "look[ing] out on the world he always sees / and thinks, it's a miracle."<br />
<br />
Notice how Prado in her opening lines engages our senses with images of "old people spit[ting]" and "bicycle...traffic on the sidewalk" and appeals to our emotions by showing us how the old people spit ("with no finesse") and how the bicycles navigate the sidewalks (they "bully" there way along). Many poets would continue writing about the old people or the bicyclists, describing them more or talking about old people in general, what it means to be old and why they spit. Or some would select a particular bicyclist and tells us what he had for breakfast, where he was going, and what he was going to do when he got there--.or attempt to stay on the subject in other ways. But Prado doesn't do that. Instead of the standard step-by-step way of building a story, she writes "off subject."<br />
<br />
"The unknown poet waits for criticism / and reads his verses three times a day / like a monk with his book of hours." What? I asked myself the first time I read this poem over a decade ago. And then I discovered that the remainder of the poem contained similar seismic shifts in subject matter every two or three lines. Richard Wilbur speaks to this kind of writing in the first chapter ("Writing Off the Subject") of his classic <i>The Triggering Town: Lectures and Essays on Poetry and Writing </i>(W.W. Norton, 1979):<br />
<br />
<i>Young poets find it difficult to free themselves from the initiating subject. The poet puts down the title: "Autumn Rain." He finds two or three good lines about Autumn Rain. Then things start to break down. He cannot find anything more to say about Autumn Rain so he starts making up things, he strains, he goes abstract, he starts telling us the meaning of what he has already said. The mistake he is making, of course, is that </i><b><i>he feels obligated to go on talking about Autumn Rain, because that, he feels, is the subject. Well, it isn't the subject. You don't know what the subject is, and the moment you run out of things to say about Autumn Rain start talking about something else. In fact, it's a good idea to talk about something else before you run out of things to say about Autumn Rain....It is impossible to write meaningless sequences. In a sense the next thing always belongs. In the world of imagination, all things belong. If you take that on faith, you may be foolish, but foolish like a trout.</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>I believe that Prado didn't change the subject from old people and bicycles on the sidewalk to a poet waiting for criticism because she ran out of things to say, but rather because she believed what Hugo said, that it was important to keep the energy going in the poem by changing topics <i>before </i>things got boring and because the remaining lines all did have something to do with one another, just not in a linear way.<br />
<br />
Notice the leap from one subject to another:<br />
<br />
1. Old people, bicycles, and bullying on the sidewalk. (Lines 1-2)<br />
2. Poet and his poems. (Lines 3-5)<br />
3. Brush and hair. (Lines 6-8)<br />
4. Giving birth. (Lines 9-12)<br />
5. Music. (Lines 13-14)<br />
6. God's wrath. (Lines 15-16)<br />
7. Kids playing. (Lines 17-18)<br />
8. Today. (Lines 19-21)<br />
9. Destiny and God. (Lines 22-23)<br />
<br />
Who would have thought the poem could traverse these subjects on its way from "Old people" to "God." But did Prado really change the topic with each shift? After reading the poem a few times, a logic emerges from the sound of the language itself--its music, its rhythms, its tones. I know it's a translation, but the translator chose words intentionally, so its sound work is not by chance. Notice the tonal connections down the page ("finesse / verses" and "erotic / Bach / wrath / caught / agony / anxious / happen / fast"). And notice how elements of each new subject can apply to the previous or other subjects. The criticism that the poet is waiting for could be directed toward the bullying in the previous lines. The mysteries of giving birth, the soul, God's wrath, and destiny vs. God's interaction with people need to be untangled the way the hair needs to be in the previous lines, but the tools (belief in "Destiny" and a "God" that acts in history) are old and no longer work the way they once did.<br />
<br />
This is a narrative that has faith in the reader by demanding collaboration, in the same way the poet has faith that "something is going to happen" and demands more from language about ultimate reality than than her religious tradition has provided. To confirm that statement, I invite you to read the entire collection, with poems containing lines such as: "Poetry will save me. / I feel uneasy saying this, since only Jesus / is Savior..." ("Guide"), and "God looks at me and I am terrified. / ... / Before He knows it, there I am in His lap. / I pull on His white beard. / He throws me the ball of the world, / I throw it back" ("Two Ways").<br />
<br />
On a personal note, when I first read this poem in 2006, it gave me, for the first time, permission to write any line beneath any other line without worrying whether it "followed it" in some way that I intended or already perceived. It opened up an entirely new way of creating poetry drafts for me.<br />
<br />
And on a final note, if you go back to yesterday's poem, "If There Is Another World," you will notice that Morling periodically changes what seems to be the subject quite abruptly throughout her poem. Each time it re-charges the energy present in the poem in a way that is a blending of Levine's and Prado's strategies. Tomorrow we will examine another way of interrupting the narrative flow in a poem--with lyricism.<br />
<br />
<b>PROMPT(S):</b><br />
<b><br />Straight Narrative Poem</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Write a poem that tells a story. Pick one sense (sight, sound, touch, etc,) and one attribute of that sense (size, color, shape, etc. for sight; volume, pitch, etc. for sound; texture, temperature, etc. for touch) and increase or decrease that attribute throughout the poem to correspond to rising or falling action in your narrative. There's no right or wrong--have fun with it!<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Writing off the subject.</b><br />
<br />
Select a draft of a poem you have already written or the first lines you wrote for yesterday's prompt. After the first two or three lines (maximum) and before the subject or idea seems finished or complete, begin writing about another subject that doesn't seem to have anything to do with the first subject. After two or three more lines, do it again. Again. Again. For extra credit, when you think the poem might be finished, go back and see if there is any connection between the subjects. Rearrange the lines or manipulate the language to tease out those connections with sound or some other way, like every other line being the next step in the story.<br />
<br />
<b>JOURNAL:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
For those of you without a published collection, <i>Best New Poets</i> is open for submissions until May 15th. Link is <a href="http://bestnewpoets.org/#submit" target="_blank">HERE.</a><br />
<br />
For all of you, consider submitting to the Montreal International Poetry Contest. The prize is an astonishing $20K for one poem, 40 lines or less. And lest you think it impossible, Marin Poetry Center's own Erin Rodoni won the award in 2017. Why not give it a try. Even you you don't win, you might end up in the anthology. Early entry (save money) deadline is May 1. Final judge is Yusef Komunyakaa. Link is <a href="https://www.montrealpoetryprize.com/2020-competition" target="_blank">HERE.</a><br />
<b><br /></b><b>RECIPE: </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
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<b><br /></b>
For improved mood and quick energy to write a poem, try this carb-laden quick pasta carbonara recipe <a href="https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/tyler-florence/spaghetti-alla-carbonara-recipe-1914140" target="_blank">HERE. </a>In case you have trouble with the link, I've copied and pasted the recipe below:<br />
<br />
<b>Recipe courtesy of Tyler Florence </b>(Food 911; Episode "Mangia! Mangia")<br />
<br />
Level: Intermediate<br />
<br />
Total: 25 min<br />
Prep: 15 min<br />
Cook: 10 min<br />
Yield: 4-6 servings<br />
<br />
<b>Ingredients:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
1 pound dry spaghetti<br />
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil<br />
4 ounces pancetta or slab bacon, cubed or sliced into small strips<br />
4 garlic cloves, finely chopped<br />
2 large eggs<br />
1 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano, plus more for serving<br />
Freshly ground black pepper<br />
1 handful fresh flat-leaf parsley, chopped<br />
<br />
<b>Directions:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>1. </b>Prepare the sauce while the pasta is cooking to ensure that the spaghetti will be hot and ready when the sauce is finished; it is very important that the pasta is hot when adding the egg mixture, so that the heat of the pasta cooks the raw eggs in the sauce.<br />
<br />
<b>2. </b>Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil, add the pasta and cook for 8 to 10 minutes or until tender yet firm (as they say in Italian "al dente"). Drain the pasta well, reserving 1/2 cup of the starchy cooking water to use in the sauce if you wish.<br />
<br />
<b>3. </b>Meanwhile, heat the olive oil in a deep skillet over medium flame. Ad the pancetta and sauce for about 3 minutes, until the bacon is crisp and the fat is rendered. Toss the garlic into the fat and sauce for less than 1 minute to soften.<br />
<br />
<b>4. </b>Add the hot, drained spaghetti to the pan and toss for 2 minutes to coat the strands in the bacon fat. Beat the eggs and Parmesan together in a mixing bowl, stirring well to prevent lumps. Remove the pan from the heat and pour the egg/cheese mixture into the pasta, whisking quickly until the eggs thicken, but do not scramble (this is done off the heat to ensure this does not happen). Thin out the sauce with a bit of the reserved pasta water, until it reaches desired consistency. Season the carbonara with several turns of freshly ground black pepper and taste for salt. Mound the spaghetti carbonara into warm serving bowls and garnish with chopped parsley. Pass more cheese around the table.<br />
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<br />Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-20184111933563681452020-04-26T23:01:00.000-06:002020-04-30T12:55:00.789-06:00Marin Poetry Center Online Covid Confinement Writing Retreat: Opening Lines<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
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<b style="font-family: arial;">Introduction</b><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "arial";">This week (April 27th-May 3rd) I will be hosting a series that will examine the lyrical-narrative free verse poem. Each day a poem, craft essay, and prompt will center on various parts of the poem: opening lines, body of the poem (4 aspects in 4 days--narrative arc, lyricism, imagery, and emotional connection), closing lines, and on the final day title and epigraphs. In addition, a submission suggestion and recipe will conclude each day's entry. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">For fun, the recipes match up with the various parts of the poem--appetizers (opening lines), body of the poem (main course), closing lines (dessert), and title / epigraphs (after-dinner drinks). </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "arial";"><b>Day 1: Opening Lines</b></span><br />
<b style="font-family: arial;"><br /></b>
<b style="font-family: arial;">POEM:</b></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b>If There Is Another World</b></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">If there is another world,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">I think you can take a cab there--</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">or ride your old bicycle</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">down Junction Blvd.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">past the Paris Suites Hotel</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">with the Eiffel Tower on the roof</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">and past the blooming Magnolia and on--</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">to the corner of 168th Street.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">And if you're inclined to,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">you can turn left there</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">and yield to the blind</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">as the sign urges us--</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">especially since it is a state law.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Especially since there is a kind of moth</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">here on the earth</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">that feeds only on the tears of horses.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Sooner or later we will all cry</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">from inside our hearts.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Sooner or later even the concrete</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">will crumble and cry in silence</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">along with all the lost road signs.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Two days ago 300 televisions</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">washed up on a beach in Shiomachi, Japan,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">after having fallen off a ship in a storm.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">They looked like so many</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">oversized horseshoe crabs</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">with their screens turned down to the sand.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">And if you're inclined to, you can continue</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">in the weightless seesaw of the light</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">through a few more intersections</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">where people inside their cars</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">pass you by in space</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">and where you pass by them,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";">each car another thought--only heavier.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">By Malena Morning. From <i>Astoria</i> (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2006)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b>CRAFT:</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b><br /></b></span><span style="font-family: "arial";">"How do you begin a poem?" This question can be unpacked into many questions. "How do you transform the blank page into a first line or lines?" "Do you begin with a title or just start writing? "How do you evaluate the opening lines to a poem?" The list could go on. I'd like to briefly discuss how I determine the strength of opening lines. For me, all poetry--no matter whether it conforms to formal rules or whether its more organic (free verse)--should pay attention to two things: craft and emotional connection with the reader. The earlier those two elements appear in a poem the better. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<i style="font-family: arial;">What makes the first sentence interesting?</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><i>Its exact shape and what it says<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><i>And the possibility it creates for another sentence.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial";"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "arial";">—Verlyn Klinkenborg, <i>Several short sentences about writing </i>(Vintage Books, 2012)<i> </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Although Klinkenborg is not writing about poetry per se--hence he's discussing "the first sentence"--we can substitute "line" or "first lines" for "sentence." What makes first lines of poetry interesting for me are: 1) vivid, fresh images that I can easily access (my interpretation of "exact shape and what it says"); and 2) the possibilities the lines create for future lines.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Why do I want images in first lines? Jack Gilbert points out in an interview by Chard deNiord (<i>Sad Friends, Drowned Lovers, Stapled Songs: Conversations and Reflections on Twentieth Century American Poets</i>, Marick Press, 2012) that "Seeing is infinitely older [than speaking]," and engages the reader much more than abstractions. And early engagement with the reader is what I'm after in first lines.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><i>I think one of the main things </i>[about great poetry] <i>is simply concrete detail. After all, speaking is one of the newer arts of human beings. Seeing is infinitely older. We react from seeing something much more than we react from hearing it said. We are designed to respond to physicality. Like in a basketball game, the man who is going to shoot the ball to win the game is standing there doing nothing at the line. Now, what he is doing often is visualizing himself taking the ball, making it bounce in his hand, lifting the muscle, shooting, watching it go up and up, and down and down and in the basket. When he does that, then his body can sense. Oh, I can do that! And I can imitate that! If you tell me an abstraction then, it's not good. It may or not get through. Draw me a picture, make a movie, and let me see. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Morling's lines engage me physically because I can easily see myself getting into that yellow cab in NYC or Chicago or anywhere else and setting out on a journey. But that image alone does not necessarily engage me emotionally. <i> <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><i>The first line should pry up<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><i>A little corner of the soul<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><i>As the first ray of daylight<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><i>Pries open the sleeper’s lids.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"> —Suzanne Buffam, “ On First Lines,” <i>The Irrationalist </i>(Canarium Books, 2010)<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "times new roman";">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">In the same way, Buffam says, that my body awakens to the sunlight streaming in the window, something in the first line(s) should engage me on deeper levels. And that's what Morling's twice repeated "If there is another world" does for me--it draws out my desire for discovery, for a quest. "Another world" sounds enticing and draws me into possible new realms both beyond this one and within me. Thus in two lines (not counting the title), the poet has engaged my senses and my emotions. In addition, she has opened up the poem to allow for any direction that she may choose to go. How those choices are made will be the topic of our craft talk for tomorrow.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b>PROMPT(S)</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b>Easy Prompt:</b></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "times new roman";">
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "times new roman";">
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Take Morling's first two lines as the first two lines of your poem titled "Poem Beginning with Lines By Malena Morning" and take a different direction from the one she took. Remember to stay in the concrete, sensate world, and try to use that imagery to "show" any deeper meaning, rather than "tell" about it. (More about this tomorrow when we discuss the middle of a poem.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b>Medium Prompt:</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Take only the first line and half of the second line ("If there is another world, I think ...") and complete the line in a different way entirely. Remember to remain primarily in the world of sensate experience and complete the line with interesting images that engage your readers, as well as open possibilities for future lines. Examples: "If there is another world, I think the wind lifts fallen leaves back to trees." "If there is another world, I think Elizabeth Warren is president there."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b>Advanced Prompt:</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Take only half of the first line "If there is..." and fill in the line with something else. Example: "If there is grass that lives forever, my mother would never plant it in her yard."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b>JOURNAL:</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Most journals and contests do not accept previously published poems. The <i>Aesthetica Magazine </i>Writing Contest (anthology for finalists) is currently accepting submissions <a href="https://aestheticamagazine.com/creative-writing-award/" target="_blank">HERE</a>. Previously published and simultaneously submitted work is allowed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b>RECIPE:</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b>Creamy Goat Cheese, Bacon, and Date Dip (From Ali Slagle on newyorktimes.com)</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgegZPcykhvDfYpOODmNFu3DVmTzmY76R3k3O-in0t8A20wDxl-8vgMSRgw5Ew9bwPewbhxnuI43u3iyZgQH1e5Ul1_ndypsuGh3veUz4nZWOWaspY_S05PXHA-dSGH7Zkj7AEJT9hyMbYy/s1600/Online+reatreat+day+1+appetizer+photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1161" data-original-width="1600" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgegZPcykhvDfYpOODmNFu3DVmTzmY76R3k3O-in0t8A20wDxl-8vgMSRgw5Ew9bwPewbhxnuI43u3iyZgQH1e5Ul1_ndypsuGh3veUz4nZWOWaspY_S05PXHA-dSGH7Zkj7AEJT9hyMbYy/s320/Online+reatreat+day+1+appetizer+photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">To begin the poem or the meal, pleasing the senses and preparing them to experience more is a must. </span><a href="https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1019796-creamy-goat-cheese-bacon-and-date-dip?action=click&module=Collection%20Page%20Recipe%20Card&region=Our%20Best%20Summer%20Cookout%20Appetizers&pgType=collection&rank=36" style="font-family: arial;" target="_blank">This Creamy Goat Cheese, Bacon, and Date Dip</a><span style="font-family: "arial";"> meets both requirements, and can be seasoned to be as spicy as your palate can handle. (If you have a NYT account, just click on the link above. If not, I've reproduced the recipe below for your convenience.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">YIELD: 6-8 servings</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">TIME: 30 minutes</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">This appetizer is like a bacon-wrapped date in dip form--and every bit as luxe, sweet and simultaneously smoky as that sounds. Here, as you swipe crusty bread through the smooth cheese, you'll gather chunks of bacon and a bit of date, toffee-like from a quick fry in the meaty fat. You could embellish further with nuts, chile or honey [one reader recommends cartelized onions], or you could sip Champagne and dig into the dip prepared with only the ingredients below.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b>INGREDIENTS</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">10 ounces goat cheese at room temperature</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">4 ounces cream cheese at room temperature</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">2 tablespoons freshly squeezed lemon juice</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Salt and pepper</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">5 ounces thick-cut bacon cut in 1/2-inch chunks</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">10 Medjool dates, pitted and cut into quarters lengthwise, or roughly chopped</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Honey, red-pepper flakes, black pepper, flaky salt, toasted sliced almonds or chopped pistachios for garnish (optional)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Crusty bread, grainy crackers, endive or fennel for serving</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b>PREPARATION</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b>Step 1</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Heat oven to 400 degrees. In a medium bowl, stir together the goat cheese, cream cheese, lemon juice and a pinch each of salt and pepper. Transfer to a 1-quart baking dish or ovenproof skillet, and spread into an even layer. Bake until warmed through and bubbling--about 20-25 minutes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b>Step 2</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Meanwhile, cook the bacon in a medium skillet over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until golden and crisp--about 10 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the bacon to a paper towel-lined plate, then add the dates to the bacon fat in the skillet, and cook, stirring occasionally, until the insides are warm and the outsides blister--about 1 minute.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b>Step 3</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial";">Top the baked cheese with the dates and bacon, and garnish as you wish. Serve at once.</span><br />
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</div>
Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-70155720767339361832020-04-17T11:11:00.001-06:002020-04-18T07:05:25.788-06:00The Sum of Us, Poems by Women Who Write: Ella Eytan, Melanie Maier, Angelika Quirk, Laurel Feigenbaum, Gabrielle RilleauIn <i>The Sum of Us</i>, five women write with authoritative voices about love and loss, natural orders, and interior landscapes--past, present, and future. This quintet sings with individually recognizable voices, but blends in a harmonious chorus to underscore how powerful mature women's voices can be. The poems are well crafted and emotionally accessible, the goal of the kind of lyrical narrative poetry I enjoy. I include below a representative sample of each poet's work.<br />
<br />
<b>Ella Eytan</b><br />
<br />
Among poems with lines such as "I can never / love you enough" ("Love Poem"), "Ah, love, / when I lift / your hand like this / and kiss each finger / that loves me so well, / I want to tell / them with my tongue / and teeth / how I love their feel" ("Your Hands"), and "...like the inside of all women--the flesh exposed, an / offering. I see how men love us, we are so open and real" ("Tomato"), lies this striking poem exposing multiple interior layers of selfhood available for discovery through spot-on metaphors:<br />
<br />
Possession<br />
<br />
I am fresh-tossed hay,<br />
steam rising<br />
from the flanks of cows<br />
on a cold day.<br />
I'm the salt lick<br />
at the pastures edge,<br />
the tongue that hollows it.<br />
<br />
I am translucent<br />
as the snail,<br />
belly muscles rippling<br />
as I row across a lit window.<br />
<br />
I am many chambered--<br />
a nautilus. Your hand<br />
could span my sensuous curve.<br />
Lift me to your ear,<br />
there is the sea in me.<br />
Can you hear?<br />
<br />
Vast, that ocean--<br />
sudden winds, storms.<br />
It is inevitable--<br />
the night's first hint of light,<br />
then that pencil line<br />
of trouble<br />
before the dawn.<br />
<br />
<b>Laurel Feigenbaum</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
In addition to compelling poems about family and the natural world, Feigenbaum writes about musicians and composers from "Ol' Blue Eyes" to "Tommy Dorsey," as well as Hollywood stars like Ava Gardner. "Words and Music" is my favorite and seems emblematic of both Feigenbaum's interests and poetic style:<br />
<br />
Words and Music<br />
<br />
If this were a practice life--<br />
<br />
In the next<br />
I'd croon and scat like Ella<br />
Get down and dirty with Etta<br />
Glide across the floor with Fred or Gene<br />
Improvise with Basie<br />
Score like Sondheim or Hammerstein.<br />
<br />
In my spare time<br />
I'd cultivate a garden<br />
Be fluent in Spanish<br />
Make souffles like Julia<br />
Lounge, putter, fritter,<br />
Bask.<br />
<br />
Like peanut butter<br />
Have a big brother<br />
Add a lover.<br />
<br />
<b>Melanie Maier </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Maier's poems are highly imagistic and the short lines that populate most of them accentuate those images by leaving very little connective tissue between them. This concision makes for poems of high concentration. My favorite is "Birding." It works well on the page and read aloud, the intensity of its language enacting the brilliance of the birds that inhabit the poem, leading up to a terrific closing image.<br />
<br />
Birding<br />
<br />
Desert heat rises.<br />
A binoculared couple<br />
sights the roadrunner,<br />
lizard dangling from its beak.<br />
A copper-colored hawk<br />
puffs its feathers<br />
and looks down at them<br />
from the telephone pole.<br />
<br />
They walk . . . stop . . . walk . . .<br />
pause to rest under sycamore.<br />
A vermillion flycatcher<br />
flashes its brilliant chest<br />
at his drab mate.<br />
On the fence white-winged doves<br />
from Mexico: they stop<br />
in Tucson to breed.<br />
<br />
One egg lies broken on the path.<br />
Ants swarm the spilled yolk.<br />
<br />
<b>Angelika Quirk</b><br />
<b><br /></b>In contrast to Maier's short lines, Quirk's longer lines are appropriate for her poems containing a more narrative element. They still retain, however, moments of lyricism and musicality as evidenced in my favorite, "To Die, to Live"<br />
<br />
To Die, to Live<br />
<br />
Along white corridors, the smell of disinfectant, iodine,<br />
I push his wheelchair down the ramp for the last time,<br />
away form tubal attachments and ticking monitors,<br />
and nurses in scrubs like floating ghosts with stethoscopes<br />
checking his pulse, his breath, his heart. No machines,<br />
no monitors could measure his will to die, to live.<br />
When Father Murphy came to anoint the sick, he gave<br />
my husband not the last rites, but the Holy Eucharist.<br />
<br />
My father chose to live, to survive seven years in Lager 4736<br />
somewhere in Russia. He listened to ravens pecking<br />
on white birch: Morse code from his home in Hamburg.<br />
And we lit candles on windowsills.<br />
<br />
After a bout of cancer Tante Helga gave away her possessions:<br />
her clothes to the Salvation Army, her memories to her cousin,<br />
her songs to nobody but the wind. She refused to eat,<br />
praying for her soul to leave the body. She believed<br />
in the Karmic cycle, in cause and effect after the wishing bone<br />
no longer split. At the very end she handed me her ruby ring,<br />
red as the blood drop from her mouth when she died.<br />
<br />
He says he wants an orange. I pick the largest from our tree,<br />
carry it into the house like the sun after a dreary day.<br />
He sucks on it, inhales the scent, the light:<br />
the promise of another day, another night.<br />
<br />
<b>Gabrielle Rilleau</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Rilleau not only adds her voice to the many love poems, nature poems, and poems about family already estabished in this volume, she finds a distinctive voice when she writes about retail. This is my favorite for its familiar yet interesting names of places, as well as its music. I'm also a sucker for retail poems, as I was in retail for half my life.<br />
<br />
First Jobs<br />
<br />
When I find myself<br />
in Walgreen's, CVS, or Longs,<br />
the smell of stale popcorn and cheap cosmetics<br />
instantly throws me back half a century<br />
to age twenty, Boston, Boyston Street, to J.J. Newberry's<br />
serving vanilla cokes<br />
and to St. Johnsbury, VT, to Ames Discount Department Store<br />
ringing up $3.00 ladies' shoes and men's $4.57 pants.<br />
<br />
In those days I walked a tightrope in fear<br />
of being pulled down a road<br />
where polyester slacks and plastic flowers were my destiny,<br />
a road my parents had done their best to steer us from,<br />
<i>The New Yorker </i> and <i>Harper's Bazaar </i>always about,<br />
my father, a tailor's son, pointing out the importance<br />
of the French seam on a well-stitched shirt.<br />
<br />
Somehow I escaped.<br />
<br />
But those earlier years--one tentative step at a time,<br />
balancing that taut line along aisles<br />
of Whitman's Chocolates, bundles of packaged socks,<br />
cans of off-brand peanuts, and bottles of blue perfume--<br />
left their mark.<br />
<br />
Each of these poems have left their delightful mark on me. And each of these poets have left their vibrant mark on the state of poetry in Marin County, California.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
<b>Ella Eytan </b>began to keep a notebook of poems at the University of Chicago while she was earning her BA. She wrote a few poems in high school, but didn't become serious about her writing until 1980. Since then, Eytan has published two books of poetry--<i>Haying the Far Fields: Poems on a Minnesota Childhood </i>and <i>After a Certain Age. </i>She has been published in a number of journals including <i>Seattle Review, California Quarterly, Barnabe Mountain Review</i>, and <i>Poet Lore.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<b>Laurel Feigenbaum </b>was born and raised in San Francisco and later lived in Beverly Hills. She holds a BA in English Literature from UC Berkeley and an MA in Educational Research and Psychology from San Francisco State University. Her work has appeared in numerous journals including <i>Nimrod, Highland Park Poetry Challenge, Les Femmes Folles Anthology of Women Poets, December, The Marin Poetry Center Anthology, </i>and<i> Voices Israel. </i>Her first book is <i>The Daily Absurd.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Melanie Maier </b>was born and raised in San Francisco. She earned a BS from UC Berkeley and a JD from UC Hastings. Melanie's poetry has been published in numerous reviews including <i>The Fourth River, phoebe, Southern California Review, </i>and <i>Gazette Wyborcza </i>(Warsaw, Poland). Her three chapbooks are <i>The Land of Us</i> (Pudding House Press), <i>Scattering Wind, </i>and <i>Night Boats. </i>Her two full length collections (both from Conflux Press) are <i>sticking to earth </i>and <i>Invention of the Moon.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<b>Angelika Quirk </b>was born and raised in Hamburg, Germany. At eighteen she immigrated to the United States. A dancer, a teacher, an artist, a lover of music, a collector of words in German and in English, she has written poems about people and experiences going back to her German roots. Two of her books, <i>After Sirens </i>and <i>Of Ruins and Rumors, </i>are on display at the library of the German American Heritage Museum in Washington, DC.<br />
<br />
<b>Gabrielle Rilleau </b>has lived in Marin County for over fifty years. She joined the Marin Poetry Center in 1996 which she credits with awakening the sleeping poet within her. Rilleau was raised on the tip of Cape Cod, where she returns twice annually for inspiration. She has a collection of Provincetown poems close to "being born," though she says it may be a cesarean. For decades she has studied under the masterful tutelage of Tom Centolella and David St. John, as well as other bay area poets.<br />
<br />
<br />Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-61071629272009631412020-04-14T11:53:00.000-06:002020-04-14T18:12:50.501-06:00Judy Brackett Crowe: Flat WaterReaders learn on the title page that "Nebraska," derived from Native American sources, means "Flat Water," this collection's title. Furthermore, "The first Europeans to see the Platte and to give it its name were French explorers and trappers, who referred to the river as <i>La Riviere Plate</i> ("flat river").<br />
<br />
The Platte is the main character in this collection of ruminations about days gone by in the midwestern United States. "Migration: The Gathering" describes in precise language the landscapes emblematic of the region with its opening lines: "In the cold twilight, sandhill cranes gather in cornfields along the river, / the beautiful, the beautiful river, countless flocks of ten or twenty or more, / gleaning snacks from crop stubble before lifting off and settling on sandbars / in the frigid waters of the Platte."<br />
<br />
Some of the most striking lines in the collection end this poem:<br />
<br />
If sandhills had four legs, they'd be horses, Pegasi.<br />
Their lightning--silver shooting through blue, their thunder--echoes of nine<br />
million years of wingbeat and song across the plains.<br />
Earthbound, the watchers<br />
are left to wait another year, admiring their beautiful, flat photographs. And<br />
the shallow Platte abides, still and shining.<br />
<br />
As in the above poem, whether it's with unforgettable images or open-ended abstractions, Brackett knows how to end a poem, either by clicking it shut with a strong image, or by expanding it into the infinite. In "Flight Plan," a girl on horseback is "...wonder[ing] / if she can swing high enough, fast enough, / far enough, swim/fly out the door and dive // into the pond or the house-high haystack. / No, not the haystack--needles, errant pitchforks." In "How to Make Ice Cream," the ending invites the reader into the space of the poem with "Now, notice the fireflies, the meadow smell in the air, the cars chugging / away down the south lane, hands waving out windows, toward Monday / and work, toward forever." In "Pony Girl," notice how the poet develops and maintains the conceit of girl as pony into the final lines, and incorporates iconic imagery of the midwest.<br />
<br />
Pony Girl<br />
<br />
Never a pony on the porch on Christmas morning or on her birthday. Just<br />
a palm-slapping-hip gallop down the mean streets across the tracks, the early<br />
Burlington just past, on its track-tethered way to the mountains, the far valleys.<br />
<br />
Pony girl circles the outskirts of town, swishing through tall grasses<br />
and milkweed, past corrals, pastures, fields, past hemmed-in horses and sad-eyed<br />
cows to the turnaround tree, wondering if one day she'll not turn around,<br />
<br />
if she'll follow the Burlington echo, cantering west toward the far valleys,<br />
toward the setting sun, her green eyes shining, milkweed floss in her mane.<br />
<br />
In spite of the inherent space limitations of a chapbook, its two sections ("Becoming" and "Migration") provide a definite narrative arc. Section I sets the stage by introducing us to all of those midwestern images, plopping us down "in the middle" of the midwest, e.g., in "A River Runs Under It" with opening lines: "Under this flat plain land / great plains grasslands sandhills / middle of nowhere middle of everywhere...." Later in the poem all of our senses come alive as "the great shallow Platte / wends its indifferent way / to the Missouri:"<br />
<br />
through cottonwoods<br />
coneflower<br />
goldenrod<br />
milkweed<br />
prairie grass--<br />
bluestem<br />
grama<br />
needle-and-thread<br />
<br />
Shocking rocks otherworldly<br />
the shape of horses and ships<br />
tipis and tables pierce the low sky<br />
send their rock roots deep<br />
into the underground river<br />
<br />
Creatures of rare and homely<br />
delight call these plains home--<br />
June bug and firefly<br />
fritillary and swallowtail<br />
prairie chicken<br />
bobcat and red fox<br />
eagle and owl<br />
hawk and hare<br />
gray-plumed redheaded Sandhill Crane<br />
gangly graceful part-time Nebraskan<br />
Prairie dog that dog of a squirrel<br />
tunnels deeper these August dog days<br />
Wild ox and wold horse are gone<br />
Creeks vanish streams trickle<br />
The flat river shrinks<br />
its shores puckering<br />
<br />
Lest you think this poem is simply a list, read these lines aloud and you will discover the musicality possible with short, crisp, imagistic lines, capturing the midwestern speech and sensibility, as much as its values of remaining close to the land and close to family. Here are the poem's closing lines:<br />
<br />
[The girl] feels its pull like water in her body<br />
like blood in her veins<br />
She knows it is there as she knows<br />
this place is her home and<br />
that raspberries and lilacs<br />
need sun<br />
need water<br />
need her<br />
<br />
Even though these poems are accessible, grounded in both history and geography of place, and steer clear of prosodic calisthenics, they do not presume to think or feel for their readers. There is an open-endedness in both form and content, and a longing for something not quite attained that carries through to the final poem.<br />
<br />
remembering is what<br />
<br />
sandhill cranes do,<br />
have done--<br />
thousands millions flying<br />
from cold north<br />
through middlemost latitudes<br />
southward & back again<br />
for millennia<br />
<br />
is what<br />
western monarchs do--<br />
their autumn-colored rabble winging<br />
to eucalyptus groves<br />
to a kind of hanging-in-air<br />
hibernation<br />
some inner lodestar telling them<br />
where & when<br />
<br />
is what<br />
the river does or tries to do--<br />
eddies crags vortexes<br />
& dams be damned<br />
<br />
is what I want to do--<br />
remember my way from & to<br />
necessary latitudes longitudes<br />
outer & inner landscapes<br />
not sure-winged like sandhill or monarch<br />
but meandering<br />
sashaying<br />
remembering<br />
like the river<br />
<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Judy Brackett Crowe's stories and poems have appeared in many literary journals and anthologies. She has taught creative writing and English literature and composition at Sierra College. She is a member of the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley. Born in Nebraska, she's lived in a small town in the northern Sierra Nevada foothills for many years. She is married to photographer Gene Crowe, and they have 3 children and 4 grandchildren. She believes that the right words in the right places are worth a thousand pictures, and, as other writers have said, she writes to discover what she thinks.</b><br />
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<b><i>Flat Water </i>(Finishing Line Press, 2019) is available for purchase at <a href="https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/flat-water-nebraska-poems-by-judy-brackett-crowe/" target="_blank">www.finishinglinepress.com</a></b><b><br /></b>
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<br />Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-3080325116310428102020-04-06T17:45:00.001-06:002020-04-07T07:59:48.949-06:00Susanne West: Subterranean LightIn <i>Subterranean Light</i>, Susanne West's first poetry collection, poems search for the light in all of life--from the brilliant joy of grandchildren, through the grayness of the daily mundane, to the darkness of illness and death of loved ones. I like West's poems best that go straight for the focused gleam off concrete images.<br />
<br />
How We Are Helped<br />
<br />
I cut out tiny shapes<br />
from Japanese papers:<br />
fans<br />
cranes<br />
temples<br />
butterflies<br />
chrysanthemums,<br />
glue them<br />
in harmonious relationships<br />
to the paper<br />
to each other<br />
to my eyes, hand and heart.<br />
<br />
I draw anything and everything:<br />
small, detailed<br />
fish<br />
stones<br />
leaves<br />
landscapes<br />
houses<br />
doors<br />
gates<br />
shoes<br />
umbrellas<br />
in pen and ink,<br />
then brighten them<br />
with color.<br />
<br />
A memory.<br />
Young me<br />
settled in a corner of my room<br />
cutting out paper dresses<br />
for paper dolls,<br />
stringing together tiny glass beads,<br />
painting miniature ceramic pieces:<br />
tea cups<br />
hearts<br />
horses<br />
angels.<br />
Feeling safe<br />
with glimmers of joy.<br />
<br />
Being found me,<br />
gave me ways<br />
to stay steady<br />
in this uncertain world<br />
and helped me<br />
trust beauty<br />
as a compass.<br />
<br />
Whenever West trusts these concrete images without adding too much abstraction, as she executes in "How We Are Helped," the compass of language leads her to that beauty, causing me as a reader to trust her voice as well. Additionally, I am usually not a fan of single word lines, but the technique serves this poem as well as the next, "Sarah Kisses," in which she effectively utilizes them to enact the kisses themselves before circling back to the opening image for a solid ending.<br />
<br />
<br />
Sarah kisses often,<br />
and always<br />
as if it's a butterfly wing<br />
she cherishes<br />
and must touch.<br />
<br />
At the age of four<br />
she still kisses<br />
chairs<br />
tables<br />
the air<br />
the plate of rice, beans and salsa<br />
lady bugs<br />
tree trunks<br />
leaves<br />
my hand<br />
her mama everywhere<br />
books<br />
and her blankie.<br />
<br />
Yesterday,<br />
she gently bunched up<br />
the loose skin<br />
on my elbow<br />
and her eyes seemed to say,<br />
"I understand, Grandma."<br />
Then she kissed<br />
my elbow<br />
as if it was a butterfly wing.<br />
<br />
Adding personification, direct address, hyperbole, and metaphor as she blends images into narrative, West expands her range and leans into the wisdom motif that permeates the collection in "Angel of Sadness,"<br />
<br />
She extends her hand.<br />
Stone, I am.<br />
Stone.<br />
<br />
Sadness says,<br />
"You will fall.<br />
I will be with you.<br />
You will break.<br />
I will take the pieces<br />
and turn them into gold.<br />
You will wail an ocean.<br />
I will teach you to swim.<br />
You won't know who you are.<br />
I will walk beside you<br />
as you shed the skins<br />
you never were.<br />
<br />
In "Phoenix," the poet opens with these simple, gorgeous lines: "Dusk. / The day and I / quiet / as snow. After morning's stillness, the poet's attention is drawn to "My daughter's Facebook post. / A few words and emojis / about pain / and prayers." After three stanzas of rumination, and declaration that "My daughter, though, / is a phoenix," she returns to "Dusk. / The day and I / quiet / as snow," appropriately enacting the title and content of the poem with its form.<br />
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In the section titled "The Hand of Death," the poem "Ending" contains at its core perhaps the strongest lines in this collection, lines that allow me to visualize the "small world" of an eighty-eight-year-old loved one whose "body [is] / folding in / on itself," filled with the light from a "blaring TV" in gorgeous, musical language.<br />
<br />
The bathroom, the kitchen, the front hall table,<br />
where you gather your precious coupons.<br />
<br />
Pill bottles<br />
carefully arranged,<br />
the way you tried<br />
with your life.<br />
The Temazepam<br />
that the doctor finally conceded to<br />
after you wore him down,<br />
that you count and count<br />
and guard with your fear.<br />
<br />
Blaring TV.<br />
Law and Order, Criminal Minds, British mysteries.<br />
A world to figure out.<br />
The Honeymooners, I Love Lucy, Seinfeld.<br />
A world to make you laugh.<br />
Rachel Maddow, Anderson Cooper,<br />
Andrea Mitchell.<br />
A world to worry about.<br />
<br />
Altar items on the bed.<br />
Pictures of us.<br />
A 45-year-old love note from Dad.<br />
A 3 x 5 card--<br />
"Do what you fear. Watch it disappear."<br />
A large magnifying glass for TV weekly.<br />
Candy for your unhappiness.<br />
A glass bell to signal need.<br />
<br />
At times you are content<br />
in the cocoon<br />
awaiting your flight.<br />
<br />
Carefully arranged, like pill bottles, West's poems are medicine for the soul as they assure us that there is "subterranean light" in everything. These poems find it and show us how to appropriate it for our living and our writing.<br />
<br />
<b>Susanne West is a writer, poet, professor of psychology and non dual coach. She was on the faculty of John F. Kennedy University for thirty years and taught classes in the Consciousness and Transformative Studies and BA Psychology Programs. Susanne received the Harry L. Morrison Distinguished Teaching Award at JFKU. She also served as Chair of the Department of Liberal Arts and Director of the BA Psychology Program. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Susanne has worked in community organizations and private settings with individuals and groups since 1984, specializing in psychospiritual growth and transformation, writing and creative expression. She is the founder of two writing programs--Words with Wings and Deep Writing.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>She is the author of <i>Soul Care for Caregivers: How to Help Yourself While Helping Others. Subterranean Light, </i>available in April of 2020, is her first poetry collection.</b><br />
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<b><a href="http://www.susannewest.com/" target="_blank">www.susannewest.com</a></b><br />
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<br />Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-80751827403083510212020-04-03T10:41:00.000-06:002020-04-03T13:44:07.931-06:00Patricia Nelson: Out of the Underworld<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Patricia Nelson’s opening poem in <i>Out of the Underworld </i>contains the epigraph “—<i>after Nazim Hikmet</i>.” I confess that on first reading I did not know Hikmet or why “Another Massacre and Driving Home” might owe a debt to him. But then I found his poem “Things I Didn’t Know I Loved” with lines such as “I never knew I liked / night descending like a tired bird on a smoky wet plain / I don’t like / comparing nightfall to a tired bird // I didn’t know I loved the earth” establishing the basis for the anaphora spread throughout the remainder of the poem. Reading Nelson’s poem again, I realized that like a good wine needing to breathe in order reveal its depth of structure and shades of flavor, I was in for something special reading the remainder of this collection.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Another Massacre and Driving Home<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> —after Nazim Hikmet<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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There is lifting and lulling, circle after circle,<o:p></o:p></div>
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dark birds, a flying eddy<o:p></o:p></div>
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of loud, inch-wide mouths.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The sky undulates and slips past,<o:p></o:p></div>
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its darkening alive, a gliding-by of eels.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I never knew I loved the repetition,<o:p></o:p></div>
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the road, curve upon curve,<o:p></o:p></div>
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joint of stillness and motion.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The world is windmill, turning and oblique.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It rattled many panes of grey.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The small, live things are thick<o:p></o:p></div>
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that fall around the through the sun and stone,<o:p></o:p></div>
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nudging the momentum and the rolling.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The traveling edge inhabits us. It almost calms<o:p></o:p></div>
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with its indifference, its hum of rods and wheels.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I never knew I loved the weight,<o:p></o:p></div>
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graze of black stones at the roadside,<o:p></o:p></div>
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revolving sun that stains with light and heat,<o:p></o:p></div>
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passes and passes again, laying the dark glaze,<o:p></o:p></div>
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the years, heavy upon heavy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I never knew I loved so many,<o:p></o:p></div>
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their unseen falling, light upon lost light.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The white sum held up without hands.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A storm to be read later, with dreams and heat<o:p></o:p></div>
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and the memory of many palms.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I never knew I loved the work of Patricia Nelson and, by extension, of Nazim Hikmet, but now I do.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The range of these poems is capacious, giving voice to subterranean figures such as Amelia Earhart (“I bare my love of dials, tools, / ring upon silver, upward ring / aimed high in the aisle where no one passes. // Its whiteness revolves slowly / in my hand like starlight, / like water, like faith.”), Oedipus (“Everything I ran from now twists open like a flower / in an ordinary place that suddenly bares / its steepness, the blank odor in which it hid.”) and even a variety of tarot cards.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>High Priestess<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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—<i>a tarot card<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Narrow by narrow she rides.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Woman with a tall blue ball on her head<o:p></o:p></div>
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and a horn and another horn<o:p></o:p></div>
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and a no eye and a why eye<o:p></o:p></div>
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and a new moon through her dress.<o:p></o:p></div>
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To see her you must live in a jar<o:p></o:p></div>
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or a rock or an alphabet<o:p></o:p></div>
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or a planet balanced on a dark,<o:p></o:p></div>
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On a “why” of seed and stem and under<o:p></o:p></div>
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And made of wide by wide.<o:p></o:p></div>
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You must see white to white,<o:p></o:p></div>
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your heart stem paling at the leaf.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Face of chalk and torso hard as tooth.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In the high-low, pile moonlight silent as sand.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Release the cold and falling salt of judgment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Nelson’s language choices in “High Priestess” would bring criticism in some poetry workshops—her anaphoric use of “and” and “or” flying in the face of compression—containing too much connective tissue of conjunctions, articles, and adjectives. But it is precisely by giving these often poetically unnecessary words priority, gathering them at the beginning of lines and piling them up to stretch the language, pointing beyond itself to enact itself: “… a ‘why’ of seed and stem and under / And made of wide by wide” that is noteworthy. And still this poet’s diction is full of horns and eyes, rocks and dresses, “Face of chalk and torso hard as tooth.” Nelson successfully negotiates the balance between the abstractions that emerge from the underworld and the concrete imagery that expresses it never more adeptly than in the title poem, the final in this collection.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Out of the Underworld<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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From a place of hands and blindness<o:p></o:p></div>
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the seekers come,<o:p></o:p></div>
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small and crouching like furniture.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They touch the little beaded lights<o:p></o:p></div>
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clustered in minor roundnesses<o:p></o:p></div>
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and leaning like cobs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They call for a body unimpeded in a white, clean sky.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But their bones still hurt in the maze of sight<o:p></o:p></div>
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as if the gods of dark are heavy and are here.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There is nothing to mark, with a sharp light,<o:p></o:p></div>
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the edge of what they lost to dark<o:p></o:p></div>
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and what is simple and can be gathered.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They have reached a dimension of number, rolling,<o:p></o:p></div>
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gears and axles loud, unspeakable, repeating—<o:p></o:p></div>
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An arrival not, after all, a place to see<o:p></o:p></div>
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but a bowl of wild music, swerves of sound and meaning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Wall and angle do not mar their seeking.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s the melody, the lovely, strange gradation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Patricia Nelson is a retired attorney and environmentalist. She has worked with the “Activist” group of poets in California for many years. The group rose to prominence in the 1940s and 50s and is now undergoing a resurgence of publication by a different generation of poets. The Activist credo is that every word in a poem should be poetically “active,” employing some kind of focused poetic technique—a principle not as self-evident as it might sound. The group often works with metaphoric imagery.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b><i>Out of the Underworld </i>may be ordered directly from the publisher <a href="https://www.poeticmatrix.com/titles.aspx" target="_blank">HERE,</a> or from other online sources and bookstores, including Books by the Bay in Sausalito, CA. Their website is <a href="https://www.sausalitobooksbythebay.com/" target="_blank">HERE. </a><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-70687943740732569532020-03-28T14:38:00.001-06:002020-03-28T15:11:55.803-06:00Jack Gilbert: More of Chard deNiord's Interview in Sad Friends, Drowned Lovers, Stapled SongsAfter reposting today my original post about Chard deNiord's interview with Jack Gilbert, I went back to the original source in <i>Sad Friends, Drowned Lovers, Stapled Songs</i> and felt remiss that I hadn't shared Gilbert's spot-on response about concrete detail in poetry. It occurs near the beginning of the interview, so I include the latter part of his response to deNiord's first question as well. Gilbert's interests in poetry, although they didn't shape mine and I depart from his view that "all the technicalities [are] a waste of time," line up almost precisely with my interests in concrete detail and emotional connection with the reader. He eloquently renders their importance in his response to deNiord's second question.<br />
<br />
CD: Jack, your poems have so much human presence and pressure<br />
in them. Do you achieve this by working on the poems or by living<br />
your life? Or both?<br />
<br />
JG: I don't write poems as a way of writing a poem. I think I'm more<br />
prone to writing a poem on something I think I see or know or un-<br />
derstand that is new. It's like what I've said about having an illicit<br />
relationship. [Gilbert goes on to explain that it's not about cheating<br />
or getting laid or physical pleasure, but about the "emotional quality"<br />
in that apartment, and that it can't last. He continues...]<br />
<br />
...I want to confront death in my poetry. Like in<br />
the lines I read last night from my poem "A Brief for the Defense."<br />
"Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies / aren't starv-<br />
ing someplace, they are starving / someplace else. With flies in their<br />
nostrils. / But we enjoy our lives because that's what God wants." We<br />
must not let misery take away our happiness. It's a crazy thing to<br />
say because life can be horrifying. We live in a world that has death<br />
in it, and injustice and all these things. But it's important to go on<br />
being capable of happiness or delight in the world, not to ignore<br />
these other things, but to recognize that we have to build our poems<br />
with a bad terrain. It's just how life is.<br />
<br />
CD: Yes, but what I'm amazed by is how you bring that reality, that<br />
life, into a poem, and also how you wed your lyrical craft to what<br />
Matthew Arnold called "high seriousness." [This first question was<br />
suggested to me by Li-Young Lee.]<br />
<br />
JG: To get the technicalities straight, so the form is done right, sim-<br />
ple, all the technicalities, I think that's a waste of time. It's nice.<br />
But that's not what great poetry is. I think one of the main things<br />
is simply <b>concrete detail</b> [My bold]. After all, speaking is one of<br />
the newer arts of human beings. Seeing is infinitely older. We react<br />
from seeing something much more than we react from hearing it said.<br />
We are designed to respond to physicality. Like in a basketball game,<br />
the man is going [to] shoot the ball to win the game, is standing there<br />
doing nothing at the line. Now, what he is doing often is visualizing him-<br />
self taking the ball, making it bounce in his hand, lifting the muscle,<br />
shooting, watching it go up and up, and down and down and in<br />
the basket. When he does that, then his body can sense, Oh, I can<br />
do that! And I can imitate that! <b>If you tell me an abstraction then,</b><br />
<b> it's no good. [</b>My bold.] It may or not get through. Draw me a picture,<br />
make a movie, and let me see. Then I think that's what the large thing<br />
with poetry is. It's not all of it. It's one of the big parts. The concreteness.<br />
<br />
Gilbert then discusses how the abstraction of the modern experimentalists and post-modern theorists doesn't work for him because...<br />
<br />
It's not human and therefore it can't have an emotional impact on the human<br />
reading the book, and therefore the person reading does not experience<br />
the things we talked about. At least that's how I see it. <b>And if it's not going</b><br />
<b> to have an emotional impact on the reader, that's ok, but I'm not interested.</b><br />
<b> </b>[Once again, my bold.]<br />
<br />
This interview is an excerpt of one of seven interviews deNiord does with significant 20th century poets. Others are Maxine Kumin, Ruth Stone, Donald Hall, Galway Kinnell, Robert Bly, and Lucille Clifton. The remainder of the book is a series of essays about James Wright, Philip Levine, and Robert Lowell.<br />
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<b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Chard deNiord</span></b><span class="apple-converted-space"><b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></b></span><b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt;">is an American author, Poet Laureate of Vermont (2015–2019), poet, and teacher. He lives in<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Westminster_(town),_Vermont" style="color: purple;" title="Westminster (town), Vermont"><span style="color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none;">Westminster West</span></a>,<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vermont" style="color: purple;" title="Vermont"><span style="color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none;">Vermont</span></a><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>with his wife Liz. He is the author of five poetry collections: <i>Asleep in the Fire </i>(1990), <i>Sharp Golden Thorn </i>(2003), <i>Night Mowing</i>(2005), <i>The Double Truth</i>(2011), and <i>Interstate </i>(2015). His new second book of interviews from The University of Pittsburgh Press titled <i>I Would Lie To You If I Could: Interviews with Ten American Poets</i>, was published in the spring of 2018.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><i>Sad Friends, Drowned Lovers, Stapled Songs</i>: Conversations and Reflections on 20th Century American Poets, </b>is available from Marick Press <a href="https://marickpress.com/online-catalog/books/265-sad-friends" target="_blank">HERE</a>, or from other online distributors and fine bookstores everywhere.<br />
Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2176387186088706590.post-85398343938743968622020-03-27T16:16:00.000-06:002020-03-27T19:59:35.714-06:00Judy Halebsky: Spring and a Thousand Years [Unabridged]<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
If one knew nothing of the Tang Dynasty poets or of Sei Shonagon’s <i>A Pillow Book, </i>or literary history or pop culture or a dozen other fields of study that inform Judy Halebsky’s <i>Spring and a Thousand Years, </i>one could still relish these poems for their fresh language, delightful juxtapositions, vivid imagery, and humor. In this regard, Halebsky’s grasp has at least attained her reach described midway through the book in her poem “Days Idle, Cumulative.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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(1) I want all new language, I want the words hosed off and scrubbed <o:p></o:p></div>
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clean. I want to come back tomorrow and see them gleaming and<o:p></o:p></div>
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single and unattached, willing to hook up with any word that has at<o:p></o:p></div>
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least two vowels. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Later in the same poem she further illuminates her aesthetic sensibilities with an enactment of her own similes and metaphors:<o:p></o:p></div>
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(3) Don’t confuse me with a haiku poet. I am firmly here in free verse. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I want it big like a cherry Slurpee, a boob job in an anime film, the<o:p></o:p></div>
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biceps of a trainer at Gold’s gym. Bursting, pushing on prose, veering <o:p></o:p></div>
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toward a movie script with popcorn and hair-salon updos and all the <o:p></o:p></div>
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hours until dawn.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But armed with even a cursory knowledge of Li Bai and Du Fu or Shonagon, <i>Spring and a Thousand Years</i>—a master class in observing the collision of poetic galaxies centuries apart—creates completely new constellations among the more familiar stars of Ilya Kaminsky, Robert Hass, and Charles Wright, e.g. And Halebsky’s expert commentary not only points out what we’re seeing, but as commentator-poet-teacher-referee holds these worlds together with her own linguistic gravity. Listen to her subtle yet dominant presence in “The Sky of Wu,” a poem set in a hotel room the night before a poetry workshop. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s 4 a.m., the bar is closed, and Starbucks isn’t open yet, so they keep<o:p></o:p></div>
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talking, Li Bai at least. Du Fu is shuffling a deck of cards that is missing<o:p></o:p></div>
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the ace of spades. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Play anyway, </i>Li Bai says<o:p></o:p></div>
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Du Fu hesitates<o:p></o:p></div>
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Li Bai wants to meet Robert Hass, but I don’t know his room number.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And he’s got a poem due tomorrow. <i>How about hot chocolate? </i>No dice.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Li Bai wants the party to start<o:p></o:p></div>
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(I have not been displaced by the war, discomforted maybe)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Du Fu is smoking an e-cigarette. Li Bai is laughing at him. They want to<o:p></o:p></div>
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meet Charles Wright but I don’t have his number.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The night is already over. There’s nothing that’s going to start, except<o:p></o:p></div>
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the nature walk and then workshop.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>We don’t write the poems together, </i>I explain, <i>we just talk about them<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> </i>Li Bai rolls his eyes<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>America, </i>he says, <i>it’s worse than I thought<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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And yet it is the collaborative effort that Halebsky brings to the page that adds the thousand-year depth to her bright-as-spring poems. Her knowledge of Tang dynasty and 10<sup>th </sup>century Japanese poetry—particularly <i>The Pillow Book</i>—infuses her poems as they transport thousand-year-old plus poets into the 21<sup>st</sup>century. And she makes the most of the resulting juxtapositions, notable in “Between Jenner and a Pay Phone,” by adapting Tang dynasty formal poetic elements and customs of Japanese Court Society to 21<sup>st </sup>century free verse prosody.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Between Jenner and a Pay Phone<o:p></o:p></div>
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on the longest day of June<o:p></o:p></div>
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dusk finally falls<o:p></o:p></div>
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I cut my hair flat across my forehead<o:p></o:p></div>
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Li Bai, the shadows tonight are from street lights<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’m in the middle of a parking lot<o:p></o:p></div>
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wondering where the locals drink beer<o:p></o:p></div>
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from now on:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"> only practical clothing</span></div>
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only blank pages<o:p></o:p></div>
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The tone, as in <i>The Pillow Book</i>, is light-hearted, almost gossipy. The style is appropriately rambling (as is the assemblage of poems within sections and the arrangement of sections in the book). But instead of recounting events of the day, as was the custom of the time in the Imperial Court in Kyoto where Shonagon lived, Halebsky flips the switch in the second line and concerns herself with what’s happening tonight, a much more American gesture. The ensuing lines hearken back to Li Bai in ways deeper than the mere mention of his name. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Those familiar with Li’s work will remember his poem, “Drinking Alone by Moonlight” containing the following lines, which inform Halebsky’s “shadows” formed “from street lights,” and the reference to finding a place to drink beer:<o:p></o:p></div>
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A cup of wine, under the flowering trees;<o:p></o:p></div>
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I drink alone, for no friend is near.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Raising my cup I beckon the bright moon,<o:p></o:p></div>
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For he, with my shadow, will make three men.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Li Bai, of course, was part of the “Eight Immortals” who drank wine to an unusual degree and wrote about it. And Li Bai, in particular, wrote much about shadows formed by the moon. Halebsky not only brings this information to bear thematically, but also changes the wine to beer, and the moon to streetlights in order to thoroughly Americanize the ancient poet’s influence. It is noteworthy that, like Li Bai, Halebsky escapes formal meter and rhyme, but still retains his type of musicality (“wine” / “alone” / “moon” / “men”) with lines like “Li Bai, the shadows tonight are from street lights.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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The final three lines of “Between Jenner and a Pay Phone,” as do additional lines and, no doubt, as do most of the poems in this collection, combine an homage to both Chinese Tang Dynasty and Japanese court poets. Hyperbolic statements, such as “from now on: / <i>only </i>practical clothing / <i>only </i>blank pages” are typical from poets of the “Golden Age of Chinese Poetry.” Additionally, these two indented lines are a short, personal list, a preview of several lists in poems throughout the collection, echoing the 164 lists found in <i>The Pillow Book</i>. And their content may be seen as references to the clothing requirements of the court and the minimalistic style (blank pages) of ink brush arts such as painting and calligraphy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Five sections in all, the first has poems like “Dear Li Bai” a prose poem answering an imagined letter from the poet who in his lifetime traveled extensively, now visiting Melbourne and the Galapagos, with lines like “…I’m glad you liked / Melbourne and I’m sure the Galapagos were amazing. I’ll look up / the pictures on the Internet (that’s a new kind of library, more on / that later)…, and “Lai Bai Considers Online Dating,” closing the section out with “About Last Night,” hearkening back to the Japanese Heian court practice of writing a poem to the beloved the morning after. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Section two is entitled “Glossary.” The first entry, “Ambient,” let’s us know this is more than merely a tool for understanding unfamiliar or technical words, and unfamiliar customs or times. Here are examples of Halebsky’s ability to “hose off and scrub clean” language, making them “gleaming and single and unattached, willing to hook up” with words she chooses to significant points about her poetic, political, and personal lineage, the state of affairs in America and the world. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Ambient—</b>What you hear right now, wherever you are—this requires <o:p></o:p></div>
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switching from hearing to listening and waiting a minute for your<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b> a</b>ttention to adjust like your eyes in the dark.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b> American</b>—Permeable to water, sunlight, radio waves, river runoff,<o:p></o:p></div>
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mass media, mania, conspiracy theories, thunder storms.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Fossil Fuels</b>—Coal, sulfur, seamen, rigs, wells, oil, comfort, ease,<o:p></o:p></div>
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quality of life.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Geographic Distribution</b>—Range, wingspan, shade cast by tree<o:p></o:p></div>
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branches, how to count whales, bird habitat, air temperature, ice floe,<o:p></o:p></div>
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polar, panda, grizzly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Note: </b>This is a record of what is living now. In the future, it will<o:p></o:p></div>
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serve as a historical record.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>January</b>—This year I will trace my lineage, a female line, starting with<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sei Shonagon and moving on to Jane Austen, Virginia Woolf, Adrienne <o:p></o:p></div>
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Rich (search extant texts for years lost in between). I will remember<o:p></o:p></div>
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that these pages have been passed down to me, some at great risk, that<o:p></o:p></div>
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value is assigned, that my mother has asked me to be brave.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b> Z.cookie</b>—Writing the cookie with a Z before it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b> Note:</b> Li Bai: <i>It’s too much. This whole freeway art murmur,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> airplane, avocado toast thing. </i>Du Fu: <i>I can’t sleep one more night<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> with central heat.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i> </i><b>Zule, Zuppa, Zuz, Zythum</b>—I knew it would be a hard ending.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b> Note: </b>No more vegan donuts, no more craft beer. Now, I will<o:p></o:p></div>
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become the girl poet packing tuna fish sandwich in wax paper<o:p></o:p></div>
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and waving from the Amtrak platform.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Li Bai: <i>I’m used to traveling alone.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Me: <i>I know.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Section three poems weave back and forth between lyrical narratives about life like “River Merchant in Blue" with gorgeous lines like “blue plum—a kind of apricot / in the damp heat of this summer night, wherever you are // blue for pale / blue for livid and leaden and bruised // know that I chose you as my spouse / you were never my king or my lord”—and poems that continue to articulate, albeit sometimes in a slant fashion, the poet’s task. In “Ikebana Instructions” the poet says “what shall I say? // the work of my life has been to arrange flowers / cut at the stem." And the delightfully brief, one-line poem with instructions:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Poem<o:p></o:p></div>
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to live as bright as wild as close to the fire as possible<o:p></o:p></div>
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[repeat for 14 lines]<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Field Exam” comprises the entirety of section four. Poets must ostensibly pass this test in order to become a licensed poet with the “State Board of Poets.” The five-page piece is humorous and sometimes frighteningly similar to reality in the context of Li Bai’s comment “<i>America…it’s worse than I thought.</i>” Section A is titled “Self-Identification” and asks test takers to select all that apply under categories such as “Hoarder,” “Drifter,” “Romantic,” “Deal Maker,” and “Failure.” In Section B, “The Elevated Heart,” Halebsky imagines reactions to the exam from ancient and contemporary poets, including Li Bai (“…furious that this is even on the exam”), Du Fu (“…suggests that applicants write an ode to loneliness every day and then we average the results”), Grace Paley (…wants us to give a license to anyone who applies), and others. Halebsky inserts an editorial note prior to additional responses from Grace Paley and Donald Hall. <o:p></o:p></div>
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[I would go on but I kind of hate poems about poems] [since this isn’t <o:p></o:p></div>
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a poem, it’s an exam, and I hope you pass, I hope I pass, I hope we can<o:p></o:p></div>
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all be healed, and my father, for a moment, from the haze, would nod,<o:p></o:p></div>
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would glow, because we are trying to write a poem which will mend<o:p></o:p></div>
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the wreckage he lived through]<o:p></o:p></div>
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At the close of Section C: Craft, the following statement appears:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Applicants who score 80 or above receive certification. Remember, we<o:p></o:p></div>
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are writing with the living and the dead (see rubric). With my father<o:p></o:p></div>
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and Grace Paley and all the workers who believed things would get<o:p></o:p></div>
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better but didn’t see it in their lifetimes. What is hidden floats, what is<o:p></o:p></div>
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buried rises.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Lists, ramblings, letters, and a prose poem entitled “Li Bai Interviews for a Job at Green Gulch Zen Center” rounds out the final section. It is my favorite for its advice to Li on how to get the job—something I have personal experience with as a retail executive for decades. Here is the first paragraph in section I. with the accompanying footnote.<o:p></o:p></div>
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No ragged beard. No wild gray hair. No ink-stained pants. In that<o:p></o:p></div>
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Macy’s suit you don’t look anything like the poet I know. It’s just that<o:p></o:p></div>
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we need to find some way to trade part of ourselves. (I’m trying<o:p></o:p></div>
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to not believe this) (unless you have a rich uncle or can claim a family<o:p></o:p></div>
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connection to the Kardashians, which might have worked for you in<o:p></o:p></div>
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Changgan but at Market and Geary, it’s doubtful.)*<o:p></o:p></div>
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*Instructions on how to dress for a job interview, for a position that might<o:p></o:p></div>
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ruin your life, are included, because I have tried this and failed 1(to get a job) 2(to escape ruin). <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i>Spring and a Thousand Years </i>will expand one’s understand and appreciation for what poetry can do and how far it can range even with only the investment of one afternoon for a quick read. But given the time to go down all of the rabbit holes that Halebsky provides, one can tunnel back and forth between 20<sup>th</sup>and 21<sup>st</sup>century American poetry and its 7th-10th century Asian roots, making connections both clear-cut and nuanced. In “Appendix: Lost Sections of the Pillow Book*” Halebsky even points the way with seven more pages of addendums and notes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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[these sections were found at the Bureau of Song by an appropriately<o:p></o:p></div>
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depressed graduate student looking for her stash of pretzel sticks and<o:p></o:p></div>
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chocolate-covered almonds**]<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Judy Halebsky is the author of the poetry collections <i>Tree Line </i>and <i>Sky = Empty. </i></b><br />
<b>Originally <i></i>from Halifax, Nova Scotia, she spent five years studying in Japan on fellowships from the Japanese Ministry of Culture. She now lives in Oakland and teaches English and Creative Writing at Dominican University of California. More about Judy and her work can be found <a href="http://judyhalebsky.com/" target="_blank">HERE</a>.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<b><i>Spring and a Thousand Years (Unabridged), </i></b><b>(The University of Arkansas Press, 2020) <i></i>selected by Billy Collins as a finalist for the 2020 Miller Williams Poetry Prize <i></i>is available for purchase directly from the press <a href="https://www.uapress.com/product/spring-thousand/" target="_blank">HERE</a>, as well as from several bookstores and online sources.</b><b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
Terry Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09344475079916141270noreply@blogger.com2