tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86416382024-03-07T19:55:01.576-05:00Living Poetry<center>for passionate readers of poetry</center>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.comBlogger133125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-54038324889163800722011-05-26T16:46:00.012-04:002011-09-06T10:34:22.953-04:00Poets: Read Small Press Poetry<div style="text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjroWQbD-h3aX1R8jIwE0UntsFtTnd0Kp0UanG3cWuXhoqAOWG_dn3mqNWHFJS3g2EILwkmDNQdhida9Y0NB19nvfVMijlbqbDdU_DQclb5XtNA1sg7i0SsvtzXGZxAndnbex3goQ/s1600/small+press.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjroWQbD-h3aX1R8jIwE0UntsFtTnd0Kp0UanG3cWuXhoqAOWG_dn3mqNWHFJS3g2EILwkmDNQdhida9Y0NB19nvfVMijlbqbDdU_DQclb5XtNA1sg7i0SsvtzXGZxAndnbex3goQ/s200/small+press.jpg" width="148" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You could be reading<br />
one of these!</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: left;">I love small press poetry.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">You will find me continuing to feature poems that I like from the small presses. I do this because I really enjoy the challenge of investigating a poem, and because I want you to know that poems are worth reading and should be read. I want to spread the love. Subscribe to a small press journal; if you can't, check them out in your local library. They're passionate about what they do and they're certainly not in it for the money.</div><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHL0Y0i4qmBSSB4Z5F0yITc1K1u0jVzYqTkqpAEAQRNHetR-KX3wspT9dltqQwUVE344bPNlDO0t01zu9Z5k7ek-N2BY_nASR1WGV4-uHXxdbwpveYBYXEoFFti3XPoIk9eu4IsA/s1600/woman+reading.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHL0Y0i4qmBSSB4Z5F0yITc1K1u0jVzYqTkqpAEAQRNHetR-KX3wspT9dltqQwUVE344bPNlDO0t01zu9Z5k7ek-N2BY_nASR1WGV4-uHXxdbwpveYBYXEoFFti3XPoIk9eu4IsA/s200/woman+reading.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not me, but I like her style.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>If you are are an aspiring poet, the number one thing you should do regularly from this point on is read poetry. There are a striking number of poets who want to be good at their craft who don't read poems. What is up with that? Can you imagine trying to write a novel and not reading novels? Believe me, there is something for everyone out there in the world of poetry. Just breeze through the archives of this blog and you'll figure that out pretty quickly.<br />
<br />
If you want to write poetry, go to your bookstore and browse through the poetry section. Choose two or three poets who resonate with you and buy them. Take them home, skim the books, and put post-its on the poems that get your attention. It doesn't matter if you "get" the poem or not--it could be just a fantastic image that got your attention. Now choose three of those marked poems and study them. Read them; discover if there is a recognizable meter or rhyme scheme; notice where the poet places the line breaks; take note of how verbs and nouns are used, and how effective or necessary the adjectives are. Mark the spot where the poem turns and comes full circle, and think about why this is. Why do you connect with it? Why is it true? Why does it work?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM6glKgRTNnRGMQDikPRqCOudWcOM8m459yf8a0GoB4-00SNXjVE2xLxt8EknqVcPs8TJlNEzL6yRcSjEVSvuT1CI4zwOvp5FF6xZey3WXHYq9CnS3KU0fEkC1DvbJMdnjMEyWLA/s1600/cocktail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM6glKgRTNnRGMQDikPRqCOudWcOM8m459yf8a0GoB4-00SNXjVE2xLxt8EknqVcPs8TJlNEzL6yRcSjEVSvuT1CI4zwOvp5FF6xZey3WXHYq9CnS3KU0fEkC1DvbJMdnjMEyWLA/s200/cocktail.jpg" width="132" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This + poetry =<br />
literary bliss</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Something else to do, which works for anyone who wants to read poetry, is get a copy of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Czes%C5%82aw_Mi%C5%82osz">Czeslaw Milosz's</a> <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Book-Luminous-Things-International-Anthology/dp/0156005743">A Book of Luminous Things</a></i>. At the end of the day, turn off your computer and TV, make yourself a nice cocktail or cup of tea, sitdown with this book, and read a few poems at random. This is my favorite collection and the choices are stunning. If you're looking for a starting point, this just might do it.</div><br />
Discover what turns you on, then find a small press that does that for you. Then write something awesome and submit it. Become a part of this awesome and wondrous community of poetry.<br />
<br />
Amy<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Photos by <a href="http://www.sxc.hu/profile/Lucretious">Lucretious</a>, <a href="http://www.sxc.hu/profile/arinas74">arinas74</a>, and <a href="http://www.sxc.hu/profile/turbidity">turbidity</a></i>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-10308777066880356292011-04-25T11:16:00.000-04:002011-04-25T11:16:33.738-04:00Interview with Bryce Ellicott, Part 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcRXm1ESyVgHgCciIEQcNKeb2suHoyd1yRJXdGxsrJnD8JBXkKX2q-5pdHNfFvVdJ4Cm_EWVSTGw0qL5ICy4SSxlHf_KzVto-srFdvJ95brRqJZ9f6KKEKhzSl45kyLHRibQ4zVg/s1600/imagination.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcRXm1ESyVgHgCciIEQcNKeb2suHoyd1yRJXdGxsrJnD8JBXkKX2q-5pdHNfFvVdJ4Cm_EWVSTGw0qL5ICy4SSxlHf_KzVto-srFdvJ95brRqJZ9f6KKEKhzSl45kyLHRibQ4zVg/s200/imagination.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Hello poetry lovers,<br />
<br />
Today I'm featuring Part 2 of my interview with Bryce Ellicott. In <a href="http://livingpoetry.blogspot.com/2011/04/interview-with-bryce-ellicott-part-1.html">Part 1</a> we talked about the relationship between art and science and and how each serves to help us frame and define our experience as human beings. In Part 2 we discuss poetry: how important is authorial intent, and how attached should a poet be to the reader's experience of a poem.<br />
<br />
-------------<br />
<br />
<b>Amy:</b> <a href="http://livingpoetry.blogspot.com/2011/04/tell-me-story-by-robert-penn-warren.html">Recently I posted</a> about the difference between reading a poem with the most common method used today--New Criticism--and by considering an author's biography or other factors that New Criticism tends to ignore. How do you feel about these differences? Do you like to know an author's history before you read his or her work? Do you think it should affect the reader's experience of a poem?<br />
<br />
<b>Bryce:</b> I very much hope that any poem I write can stand utterly on its own, whether the reader knows something of me or not. The speakers in my poems are not usually 'me'. If I am writing something autobiographical, it is almost always seen through a fictional lens that changes some of the details.<br />
<br />
Poetry is made art, performance art, in the moment of the reading. It isn't static, it is an experience. That experience is a combination of what the author has written, and what the reader brings to the piece. If the author has left room for the reader to come 'in', to find something in the piece that resonates for them, then the author's background isn't important at all. A reader might find something in a poem completely different from what the author was thinking. I like that idea. In fact, it is the hallmark of some of my favorite poetry, that it seems to read my mind. I am of course supplying that, but it is the feeling I love.<br />
<br />
I think getting too caught up in a historical view of a poet might actually limit what a reader brings, because they would be subconsciously biasing themselves against anything they think wasn't originally intended. Yet even the poet, when asked, might not know the answer to that, since so much of what happens inside of poetry happens in the inner mind.<br />
<br />
<b>Amy:</b> I'm very curious about the word <a href="http://livingpoetry.blogspot.com/2011/04/officemate-by-bryce-ellicott-from.html">"sari-woven" in your poem "Officemate."</a> It brings to mind something exotic in relation to the speaker, but also something bound or tied up. What does it mean to you?<br />
<br />
<b>Bryce:</b> Sari-woven was chosen because it seemed to express several ideas at once. First, that the person in question was of Indian decent - but I wanted to say that in a way that made it clear how much that attracted the speaker of the poem. He finds her exotic and beautiful. I also wanted a feeling of connection - that she was 'woven' to her ethnicity in a way. Or woven to expectations, perhaps. We might get the idea that the speaker is at odds with these expectations, but we do not know if the 'officemate' in question holds resentment, or respect for them.<br />
<br />
<b>Amy:</b> Considering an author's intent--if you believe the word "sari-woven" to mean something in particular, do you hope that a reader will perceive that too? Does it matter to you that a reader gain from a poem what you are trying to convey, in addition to their own experience of the poem?<br />
<br />
<div><b>Bryce:</b> As above, no, the reader can feel free to feel or experience what comes naturally. If sari-woven makes them feel like the officemate is bound in some way then that is a valid interpretation. It allows the reader's own imagination to work for them, to create meaning for them from black lines on a screen. And if we look at the meanings we create we learn about ourselves and the world, and our relationship to it. That seems like very effective poetry to me.<br />
<br />
-------------------<br />
<br />
A big thank you to Bryce Ellicott for taking the time to talk to Living Poetry! Visit Bryce's excellent blog, <a href="http://onewritersmind.blogspot.com/">One Writer's Mind.</a></div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><a href="http://efffective.com/"><i>Photo by svilen001</i></a></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-36101331481665578982011-04-19T09:52:00.000-04:002011-04-19T09:52:11.691-04:00Interview with Bryce Ellicott, Part 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEillsTEIAvc8ZzLlytYEhA0_YthcitKoaMt9YEGbiHuEofVLFujeOnxwiHzN5Afxoxrsqp_yNpX1s8so9viBOxvDjw5TJDmvPWwjOLKwkl-mlOXDM85AMT8SQpOddt2tyMtrIuEuA/s1600/rocket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEillsTEIAvc8ZzLlytYEhA0_YthcitKoaMt9YEGbiHuEofVLFujeOnxwiHzN5Afxoxrsqp_yNpX1s8so9viBOxvDjw5TJDmvPWwjOLKwkl-mlOXDM85AMT8SQpOddt2tyMtrIuEuA/s200/rocket.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Recently I featured a <a href="http://livingpoetry.blogspot.com/2011/04/officemate-by-bryce-ellicott-from.html">poem</a> written by scientist and writer Bryce Ellicott, whose work was included in the anthology <i><a href="http://www.marylandwriters.org/publications.html">Life in Me Like Grass on Fire</a>.</i> Bryce kindly agreed to answer a few questions, and in Part 1 I've included Bryce's comments on the relationship between science and art.<div><br />
</div><div>-------------<br />
<br />
<b>Amy</b>: You have a Ph.D. in Planetary Science and have spent many years studying lunar crater formation. How does your formal education and work affect your writing? How do you feel about the relationship between science and art?<br />
<br />
<b>Bryce</b>: Art and science have some aspects that are the same and some that are very different. "Doing" science and "appreciating" art require some of the same skills--observation, consideration, analysis, etc. They have to be approached with an open mind, limiting any preconceptions, in order to let as much of what there is come in unfettered by any of our filters.<br />
<br />
Science is a process. The goal of that process is to be able to explain the workings of the cosmos as clearly and completely as possible. Let's take gravity. In studying gravity you might conduct experiments where you watch items fall, and time how fast they speed up. You learn that the acceleration of gravity on the earth's surface is about 9.8 m/s2. This is powerful. Knowing this is part of how we have learned to launch rockets to other worlds.<br />
<br />
But science can't tell you how gravity <i>feels</i>. It can't tell you what it means to experience gravity as a human being. It <i>can</i> tell you how much bone loss you experience without it, but not what that might feel like, the truth of the phenomenon as a part of the human condition. That's what art does.<br />
<br />
Here's an unpublished poem with a lot of science, humor, and just a peak at the idea of what it would mean to change the rules ... always an unsettling idea for a scientist.<br />
<br />
Laboratory Philosophy<br />
<br />
<div>We have to clean<br />
under the mass spectrometer<br />
with liquid nitrogen.<br />
The instrument<br />
has been bolted to the floor<br />
for years,<br />
and besides, the magnet is<br />
much too heavy to move<br />
and would need to be retuned<br />
if you did.<br />
So whenever we get bored,<br />
which is often,<br />
we fill up tall dewars<br />
with LN2<br />
and sheet the boiling liquid<br />
out beneath the equipment.<br />
Then we run to the other side<br />
to watch each bubbling,<br />
dancing bead roll out<br />
dust bunnies in front of it.<br />
I say<br />
“It’ll never work in zero G.”<br />
You reply<br />
“No gravity, no dust bunnies.”<br />
<br />
<i>Bryce Ellicott</i></div><div><i><br />
</i>I really did this - this is totally autobiographical, and shows you what scientists do for fun, and what their humor is like. I was trying to express here that idea of what we take for granted. Gravity. My comment was flip, and so was his. And funny. But it made me think. Something as mundane as a dust bunny requires gravity. Dust filters down through the air and lands on floors, it is then moved by air currents across the surface and into areas where it can collect. There is no 'down' in space. Dust would remain suspended, and would be circulated easily by the ventilation system, through the air and to vents, there<br />
caught in the filter. Items might remain untouched for years, and no dust would ever build up on their surfaces. A minor but strangely unsettling twist. Dust means age. What if that simple and predictable marker were gone?<br />
<br />
I could provide a number of other examples, since science has really sparked my interest in the strange and beautiful of the universe (or perhaps it was the other way around). Science and art inform one another, and work together. The only tension comes from people who want to use the process of science<br />
to prove the unprovable - which by definition cannot be done. That is the realm of art and spirituality. Science can tell you how to build a clock. It can't help you if you set it wrong and miss a hot date. That's where poetry comes in.</div><div><br />
</div><div>-----------</div><div><br />
</div><div>For more on poetry, science, and writing sci-fi, check out Bryce's excellent blog <a href="http://onewritersmind.blogspot.com/">One Writer's Mind</a>. </div></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-25507876658589603382011-04-14T11:17:00.002-04:002011-04-14T11:21:39.377-04:00Matsuo Basho's "Spring Rain" Haiku<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw7-3sAkh6gyTIcD5d2-DoIFoGWzMgubyIR3nj0LchCSojND9uFSbeMIfYxCM4Kq9sOcdMp0yhN-cRBcDYiEMNau0U6GVRgr3FWBpc9jbxaafDy79pQTQp0veUO1nDe_igk1PU_A/s1600/wasp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw7-3sAkh6gyTIcD5d2-DoIFoGWzMgubyIR3nj0LchCSojND9uFSbeMIfYxCM4Kq9sOcdMp0yhN-cRBcDYiEMNau0U6GVRgr3FWBpc9jbxaafDy79pQTQp0veUO1nDe_igk1PU_A/s200/wasp.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Today in Boston it almost looks as if spring might be on its way--sunshine, buds, and calm breezes. One must be careful about making such a claim, because in Boston it can be 65 and sunny today and 30 and snowing tomorrow. We call it April.<br />
<br />
Regardless of the fickle New England weather, it is time to bring in some seasonal poetry. There is no better poetry for this than <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haiku">haiku,</a> one of the hallmarks of which is to include a seasonal reference.<br />
<br />
If you are familiar with haiku, then you probably know something of the work of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Matsuo_Bash%C5%8D">Matsuo Basho</a>, the most famous poet in this form. Let's look at his poem "Spring Rain:"<br />
<br />
Spring rain<br />
leaking through the roof<br />
dripping from the wasps' nest<br />
<br />
<i>Matsuo Basho</i><br />
1644-1694<br />
<br />
I've searched for the original Japanese for this poem, but haven't found it (let me know in the comments it you do). So we'll look at it in English, which is easy enough with a good translation.<br />
<br />
Like any good haiku, this one contains a<i> kigo</i>, or seasonal reference ("spring rain" and "wasp's nest"). It can be a word or phrase, and it doesn't have to be direct; it can be something like green leaves for summer or footprints in the snow for winter. It also alludes to a moment of <i>satori</i>, which is a transient and powerful experience of the unity or "oneness" of all things, especially a oneness with nature.<br />
<br />
The rain "dripping from the wasps' nest" is what makes this a fantastic haiku. This form of poem shouldn't just communicate pretty moments in time, though that's difficult enough for a poet to capture well. It should be complicated and pull our minds deeply into exploring the world of the poem. It should beautifully haunt us.<br />
<br />
The rain leaks through the roof, from which hangs a wasps' nest. The rain runs through or around the husk of the nest, then is pulled by gravity to the ground. Or on the speaker's head. Maybe a drop of spring-wasp-nest-rain splashes on the speaker's head, who then looks up to find the nest. Perhaps the speaker was just thinking how wonderful it is that spring is here, and the rain will bring blooms and color and life, but--oh yeah--also wasps. Beauty is not without it's ugliness, just as the proverbial rose is not without its thorns, or the most beautiful people have their one physical "flaw" that enhances their beauty.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the speaker recognizes the wasps not only as a nusiance, but as a part of the life that is being revealed by the fresh season. Here may be our moment of <i>satori--</i>the speaker is thinking of spring; then, with a single drop on the ground or on the head (like Newton?) the speaker is oh-so-transiently brought into unity with all surrounding life, facilitated with the presence of the springtime wasps. What separates, in this moment, the speaker from the rain, from the wasps, from the season, from the world?<br />
<br />
And there is more, much more to do with this poem. Please add your reading of this poem in the comments-I would love to hear how others experience this haiku!<br />
<br />
<i>Sayonara,</i><br />
AmyAmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-61402836661429332292011-04-11T13:49:00.001-04:002011-04-11T13:54:12.639-04:00Tell Me a Story by Robert Penn Warren<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLfPVHjEy_DxUkeLPHfVqpgKFj_cZsxk3pAVs0_yJDVNGrFQEQICL6rxOor-BMoLEPgHzCF_kIjV6m7Bh2ge0kA7unfpmgzrQLETh18xqZKWUcSROs3CgcS-Ur095JSB1BduxQSw/s1600/flying+geese.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="88" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLfPVHjEy_DxUkeLPHfVqpgKFj_cZsxk3pAVs0_yJDVNGrFQEQICL6rxOor-BMoLEPgHzCF_kIjV6m7Bh2ge0kA7unfpmgzrQLETh18xqZKWUcSROs3CgcS-Ur095JSB1BduxQSw/s200/flying+geese.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>April is National Poetry Month, and it is also the month in which the first Poet Laureate of the United States, <a href="http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/17">Robert Penn Warren</a>, was born. Warren was a novelist and poet and an early proponent of New Criticism--the method of close reading of text with emphasis on literary devices such as simile and metaphor. (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Criticism">If you don't know what New Criticism is, read about it</a>. It's the way most of us read poetry now.)<br />
<br />
<div>Here is one of his most well-known poems, "Tell Me a Story." I chose it because it provides great discussion about the New Criticism, or objectivist, method of reading a poem (ignoring author biography, etc. and keeping strictly to the text) and other methods of analysis.<br />
<br />
Tell Me a Story<br />
<br />
[A]<br />
<br />
Long ago, in Kentucky, I a boy, stood<br />
By a dirt road, in first dark, and heard<br />
The great geese hoot northward.<br />
<br />
I could not see them, there being no moon<br />
And the stars sparse. I heard them.<br />
<br />
I did not know what was happening in my heart.<br />
<br />
It was the season before the elderberry blooms,<br />
Therefore they were going north.<br />
<br />
The sound was passing northward.<br />
<br />
[B]<br />
<br />
Tell me a story.<br />
<br />
In this century, and moment, of mania,</div><div>Tell me a story.<br />
<br />
Make it a story of great distances, and starlight.<br />
<br />
The name of the story will be Time,<br />
But you must not pronounce its name.<br />
<br />
Tell me a story of deep delight.<br />
<br />
<i>Robert Penn Warren</i></div><div><i></i>1905-1989<br />
<br />
In a close reading of this text--using New Criticism--it's difficult not to notice the emphasis the speaker places on "north" and "northward." The speaker hears, rather than sees, the geese noisily making their way across the sky, and knows they are flying north, but needs to confirm this fact by stating that it was "the season before the elderberry blooms." Then the speaker repeats the direction twice, not wanting to admit or not quite believing that they are leaving.<br />
<br />
In this context I would read this as a poem about time and longing for the past. The flying geese symbolize time passing; the direction of their flight is away from the speaker, which to me is a poignant representation of loss of something past--childhood? Loved ones? Home? All of these? The second section is a longing for an escape from the present "moment" and "mania." The speaker desires a story, like a child would, something "of deep delight." Here, the speaker puts the subject right out there--"Time"--but asks the storyteller not to "pronounce its name." Perhaps what the speaker wishes to escape from is change.<br />
<br />
But what about author biography? Although I am the first to suggest that poetry can be fully read and and enjoyed without knowledge of the author, it can nonetheless be fascinating to consider how a poet's history affects his work. In this case, Warren was from Kentucky and felt deeply rooted in his southern heritage. He grew up hearing stories about the Civil War from his grandfather, and he did not like the way the South changed in the early twentieth century. This adds a more literal layer of understanding to the speaker's sadness at the geese flying north and away from him. Now, the passing of time symbolized by the geese can be read as the passing away of the old southern culture, the past flying "northward" as the south is "northernized." The story for which the speaker longs may harken to the stories Warren heard as a child about the Civil War, when the South believed it was indomitable and would last forever.<br />
<br />
How does Warren's biography change your perception of this poem? Do you prefer to know or not to know about an author's history when you read a poem? What about authorial intent? If an author says, "My poem means this," must the reader agree?</div><div><br />
</div><div>P.S. Just remembered--Warren was blind in one eye since his childhood. How does that affect the speaker's insistence on "hearing" the geese?</div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-53986553684414979292011-04-06T10:13:00.011-04:002011-04-06T14:53:49.900-04:00"Officemate" by Bryce Ellicott, from the anthology Life in Me Like Grass on Fire<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsBwd3p1IQBiqQHbnb5uoYPfCMr340TmF5Esll0B78oD3S3cAcACW03ZNo-P8pQpVtUbqeoekOIME0qeow5CYRVJ3Ffuds8W1a0g1euuaUzRgkWsFz60xqDFGHfGTSEpNrg953ug/s1600/office+chair.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; border:1px solid black; cursor:hand;width: 74px; height: 100px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsBwd3p1IQBiqQHbnb5uoYPfCMr340TmF5Esll0B78oD3S3cAcACW03ZNo-P8pQpVtUbqeoekOIME0qeow5CYRVJ3Ffuds8W1a0g1euuaUzRgkWsFz60xqDFGHfGTSEpNrg953ug/s400/office+chair.jpg" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592511423598249314" /></a><br />As promised, here is Bryce Ellicott's poem from the Maryland Writers' Association's latest publication.<br /><br /><br /><br />Officemate<br /><br />She was brown and sari-woven. Her chair<br />and mine rubbed backs and spoke in whispers.<br />The day came she pranced, ring flashing<br />in the halls. They moved to Norway faster<br />than you can drain a filing cabinet, inhale<br />a roomful of cake and goodbyes, and forget<br />to leave a forwarding address. Forlorn<br />in the way of office furniture left behind,<br />my chair is wounded to the very wheels.<br />It refuses even a squeak against the silence<br />once filled with vinyl-stroked confessions.<br /><br />Bryce Ellicott<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><a href="http://www.marylandwriters.org/publications.html">Life in Me Like Grass on Fire</a></span>, p. 21<br />Used with permission of the author<br /><br /><br />We have a simple image of a woman, "brown and sari-woven," but all of the very sensual action between the speaker and her is portrayed through their chairs. They "rubbed backs and spoke in whispers"--already past tense, setting us up for something to break up this closeness. After the "sari-woven" subject departs, leaving no "forwarding address" and no chance of more communication with the speaker, we have common office imagery standing in for the inner life of the speaker: inhaled cake and goodbyes, a drained filing cabinet, forlorn furniture, a chair "wounded to the very wheels." <br /><br />It's sad! This sad, sad chair! The poor chair is so devastated that it will not even squeak, where once it happily whispered. The brilliance of this metaphor is it allows the reader a depth of empathy for the speaker that I'm not sure we'd have if we actually saw the speaker. We get the lonely chair, the silence, the emptiness, and the wound. A metaphor shouldn't be just interesting or arresting imagery; it should facilitate an emotional connection between the reader and the experience of the poem. This does it for me.<br /><br />I have a few other thoughts but I thought I'd throw them out as questions and see what you think. Why Norway, for example? What is the significance of the woman being "sari-woven?" What does this poem tell us about the experience of loss?<br /><br />BTW--Check out Bryce Ellicott's <a href="http://onewritersmind.blogspot.com/">fascinating blog</a> about writing, sci-fi, astronomy, and other kinds of coolnessAmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-10771138760004132242011-04-04T17:57:00.005-04:002011-04-04T18:20:29.408-04:00Maryland Writers Conference and a Great New Anthology<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcNGr8PyHyPvNL-8pqpbUgKxCo4RABBDw2mkjByCEm3F2_D6K6wueqsPFlIgHAYVZeAWKgvdJo6f45b1LA41ZpmWTm2anhRz0CbVkifKwFNPhJMKd2chuP7CGKsRPiHmeJeLn1bg/s1600/lifefire.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 181px; height: 279px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcNGr8PyHyPvNL-8pqpbUgKxCo4RABBDw2mkjByCEm3F2_D6K6wueqsPFlIgHAYVZeAWKgvdJo6f45b1LA41ZpmWTm2anhRz0CbVkifKwFNPhJMKd2chuP7CGKsRPiHmeJeLn1bg/s400/lifefire.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591853713386811634" /></a>Hello poetry lovers!<br /><br />I just returned from the Maryland Writers' Conference in Baltimore. I don't live in Maryland, but my sister was attending and pitching a fiction manuscript to a publisher there, so I agreed to go and lend moral support. Three great things happened: 1) the publisher is interested in my sister's book and wants to read more. (Yay!) 2) I attended a few excellent lectures/panels, including a wonderful discussion of autobiographical poetry by the poet Sue Ellen Thompson 3) I was introduced to a fabulous new anthology of poetry published and just released by the Maryland Writers' Association: <span style="font-style:italic;"><a href="http://www.marylandwriters.org/publications.html">Life in Me Like Grass on Fire.</a></span><br /><br />This is called a collection of "love poems," and that is true, but love is considered broadly and deeply by the poets, and sometimes in ways we might not expect--consider the section "Love as We Age." I love a good anthology, and I enjoy the results of a good editor's discerning choices. <br /><br />In my next post, I'll include and discuss one of the poems in this book, and in a future post I'll interview the author Bryce Ellicott. Check out some great discussion on writing on Bryce's excellent blog, <a href="http://onewritersmind.blogspot.com/">One Writer's Mind,</a> and not just because it currently features an interview with me!Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-37543174503077884012009-03-18T11:53:00.007-04:002009-03-24T13:41:46.966-04:00Nance Van Winckel in Agni<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWoixL-6oC8fb22TYJoun7pwNTggDJm_9Gg23U2Tehyda_Kay7HdWD2a8K0WnZd9a2UdGJVJdPQLH06kNPZp3AAU2pbTXprIsdhC1tsGGNOKgD3QDEJUqSe15Bv1saXrmablnbPw/s1600-h/thin+ice_psd"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWoixL-6oC8fb22TYJoun7pwNTggDJm_9Gg23U2Tehyda_Kay7HdWD2a8K0WnZd9a2UdGJVJdPQLH06kNPZp3AAU2pbTXprIsdhC1tsGGNOKgD3QDEJUqSe15Bv1saXrmablnbPw/s400/thin+ice_psd" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316810577025278962" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/psd/">psd</a> via flickr/CC</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Thin Ice<br /><br />I was walking on it,<br />the it I gave no thought to<br />and which my father got the gist of<br />and had to scold me about. It<br />was creaking. Newly hatched,<br />the jewel-toned fish swam<br />beneath: cold vault of readied<br />kisses. I went slowly on it--<font style="font-style: italic;">young</font> <font style="font-style: italic;">lady</font>--trying to be leaf-like,<br />to be zip, zero, zilch,<br />while the old man's voice<br />lifted--<font style="font-style: italic;">Who?!</font>--from a shore<br />forty years off--<font style="font-style: italic;">just who</font> <font style="font-style: italic;">do you think you are?</font><br /><br /><font style="font-style: italic;">Agni</font> 68 p. 189<br /><br />The speaker in this poem seems to be a young girl--a young lady--on the verge of growing up. Puberty and the whole process of discovering one's sexuality can feel risky and even out of control. the speaker "was walking on it," the "thin ice" that she doesn't even notice, but her father--the adult who can see what's coming and is scared by it--reprimands her.<br /><br />The "jewel-toned fish" swam in a "cold vault of readied kisses," illustrating the sensual adventures that await her but as yet remain cold and out-of-reach. That ice is thin, though, and creaking. It's ready to break, and the frightened "old man" father, unwilling yet to give up the child to puberty, asks "just who do you think you are?" It's as if he doesn't recognize her, as he begins to see the woman she will become. Even forty years later, his voice--the sound of his fear and anger and questioning--still rings in her mind.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-69837908203908514272009-03-12T09:38:00.001-04:002009-03-12T09:39:49.558-04:00David Lee Garrison in Rattle<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbAhIuOqrRdEf4cceZrdX3vkMQx7sucwi0x9uxJDYMcsE-eG2blPK1D-XoCDZDq0ERNeTVxHml1MG4K0jKw8qXdgbouUcSHGk7hIDT-rMo6X9W6_lo_lkrEIfCNwn9GKV3XnGGIQ/s1600-h/childrenviolin_Aidan+Jones.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbAhIuOqrRdEf4cceZrdX3vkMQx7sucwi0x9uxJDYMcsE-eG2blPK1D-XoCDZDq0ERNeTVxHml1MG4K0jKw8qXdgbouUcSHGk7hIDT-rMo6X9W6_lo_lkrEIfCNwn9GKV3XnGGIQ/s400/childrenviolin_Aidan+Jones.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312295396936843138" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Bach in the D.C. Subway<br /><br />As an experiment,<br />the <span style="font-style: italic;">Washington Post</span><br />asked a concert violinist--<br />wearing jeans, tennis shoes,<br />and a baseball cap--<br />to stand near a trash can<br />at rush hour in the subway<br />and play Bach<br />on a Stradivarius.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Partita No. 2 in D Minor</span><br />called out to commuters<br />like an ocean to waves,<br />sung to the station<br />about why we should bother<br />to live.<br /><br />A thousand people<br />streamed by. Seven of them<br />paused for a minute or so<br />and thirty-two dollars floated<br />into the open violin case.<br />A café hostess who drifted<br />over to the open door<br />each time she was free<br />said later that Bach<br />gave her peace,<br />and all the children,<br />all of them,<br />waded into the music<br />as if it were water,<br />listening until they had to be<br />rescued by parents<br />who had somewhere else to go.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.thewritegallery.com/writing/poetryby_dlg.html">David Lee Garrison</a><br /><a href="http://www.rattle.com/blog/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Rattle</span></a> 14:2 p. 40<br /><br />Consider reading this poem again while listening to the <span style="font-style: italic;">Partita</span>. You can listen to Itzhak Perlman playing the Allemande <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dkipsBpOkYI&feature=related">here</a>, and find videos of the other movements.<br /><br />The poem uses the metaphor of an ocean to express the flow of Bach's music. The <span style="font-style: italic;">Partita</span> "called out to commuters / like an ocean to waves." Waves move toward shore in an apparent attempt to escape, but are always pulled back toward the sea, their origin and home. The music is the ocean, and the commuters, as waves, are being called to that which is their origin.<br /><br />Human beings are viewed in the poem as a part of the music, almost as if they are created by it and being called back home. A few commuters recognize this instinctively: the seven who stop to listen, the café hostess, and especially the children. I'm listening to the <span style="font-style: italic;">Partita</span> as I write this, and I can tell you it is difficult not to stop and just be lulled into the music. Like the children, I could easily lose all sense of time and place and be tranced into a beautiful Bach state.<br /><br /><br />P<span style="font-style: italic;">hoto by </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/aidan_jones/">Aidan Jones</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> via flickr/CC<br /><br /><br /></span>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-23235715127198580492009-03-10T11:14:00.008-04:002009-03-10T11:54:27.795-04:00Stephen Dunn in Vallum<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj61qXydhDNQyTlCw_Rcrhla-Dm4NOhJhn7-plL3pQEeQ_f78dD6AwvgqKQ3bOMhN1v6bqesjd_B-hQCBeje7CfClpK2QqWWQwR3LLaMqxsywwY1Lqo37BhyphenhyphenjatYTjPiHss1o-bVg/s1600-h/busgraffiti_eschipul.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 159px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj61qXydhDNQyTlCw_Rcrhla-Dm4NOhJhn7-plL3pQEeQ_f78dD6AwvgqKQ3bOMhN1v6bqesjd_B-hQCBeje7CfClpK2QqWWQwR3LLaMqxsywwY1Lqo37BhyphenhyphenjatYTjPiHss1o-bVg/s400/busgraffiti_eschipul.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311586190795024690" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Waiting for the Bus<br /><br />Just let the world happen to you,<br />a Buddhist friend once advised.<br />I told him it was not my style.<br /><br />Now here comes a punky boy<br />with spiked hair<br />amping his music into my life<br /><br />and the newspaper I'm trying<br />to hide behind tells us the man<br />who can't read the iffy world<br /><br />has once again rolled the dice.<br />"I'm so tired of being starved,"<br />a woman says to another woman,<br /><br />loud enough to be overheard.<br />Some of us wait for the bus.<br />Others turn to her and nod.<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><a href="http://www.stephendunnpoet.com/">Stephen Dunn</a><br /><a href="http://www.vallummag.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Vallum</span></a> 6:1 p. 16<br /></div><br /><br />The speaker in this poem lives in a contradiction. "It was not my style," the speaker says, to "let the world happen," yet the speaker hides behind a newspaper, not engaged with the world. In fact, the speaker seems to be purposely disengaged with it, attempting to place a barrier between self and the world. Perhaps this prevents the world from happening to him or her, but it also prevents the speaker from affecting the world.<br /><br />The newspaper/barrier is an illusion, however, and the speaker can't escape the "punky" boy's music, the woman's lament of being "starved," or the bad news in the paper itself. The woman's statement--"I'm so tired of being starved"--expresses both her lack of connection with the world and her desire for it. She says this "loud enough to be overheard," wanting to be known and understood. In the crowd, some continue to "wait for the bus" while some "turn to her and nod."<br /><br />The world is happening to these people whether they acknowledge it or not. The speaker attempts to hide; the woman reaches out for connection; some ignore what is happening and wait for something better. There is a palpable sense of alienation that comes through the poem, and it strikes me that the answer is not how the world does or doesn't happen--it will no matter how we respond--but how we connect with others and maintian the quality of our relationships. Hiding doesn't work. Waiting doesn't work. I find myself hoping this woman finds sustenance in the company of others.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Photo by </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://flickr.com/photos/eschipul/">eschipul</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> via flickr/CC</span>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-31426384715472450782009-01-18T11:18:00.006-05:002009-02-10T11:04:40.313-05:00Archive of Poetry, Poetry Analysis, and Insightful Commentary<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI7pzIlg3eZhkiklb9x53ycbIW0TlRwFfAUYHxu9mOCf75d3HTKokeKKfMoLSH9cl2JxPVePFOQuqEI4n9_9MOunrKJV046cFEV2RF0-mtViqEMglH-4gZ9mW6a_llfIDmqytxpQ/s1600-h/teacup.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 115px; height: 76px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI7pzIlg3eZhkiklb9x53ycbIW0TlRwFfAUYHxu9mOCf75d3HTKokeKKfMoLSH9cl2JxPVePFOQuqEI4n9_9MOunrKJV046cFEV2RF0-mtViqEMglH-4gZ9mW6a_llfIDmqytxpQ/s320/teacup.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292670680670059906" border="0" /></a>Hello! This blog is on hiatus, but feel free to peruse the many poetry critiques I wrote over a two-year period. If you are looking for good poems and some intelligent, thoughtful analysis--both in the essays and in the comments--this is a good place to be. I still use the blog myself as a reference for current essay writing. <div><br /></div><div>You can find me now in the world of The Tenacious Writer: <a href="http://thetenaciouswriter.blogspot.com/">http://thetenaciouswriter.blogspot.com</a><br /><div><br /></div><div>Thanks for visiting, and enjoy!</div><div><br /></div><div>Amy</div></div>Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-1153769856668067852006-07-24T15:15:00.000-04:002006-07-24T15:51:13.303-04:00Martha Rhodes<img src="http://www.grierwhite.com/hose.jpg" align=left style="margin-right:7px; border:solid 1px black">This week at the <a href="http://www.fawc.org">Fine Arts Work Center</a> in Provincetown, I am in a workshop with the poet <a href="http://www.pshares.org/authors/authordetails.cfm?prmauthorid=1268">Martha Rhodes</a>, who is the author of <a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&isbn=1932023186&itm=1"><i>Mother Quiet</i></a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0932826997/sr=1-3/qid=1153769994/ref=sr_1_3/102-3707483-3931325?ie=UTF8&s=books"><i>Perfect Disappearance</i></a>, and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0944854184/sr=1-2/qid=1153769994/ref=sr_1_2/102-3707483-3931325?ie=UTF8&s=books"><i>At the Gate</i></a>. She is encouraging us to experiment with the way we revise our poetry by playing with tenses, structure, line breaks, and sequencing.<br /><br />According to Rhodes, there are four aspects that feed into the creation of a poem: music, imagination, narrative, and structure. They are not mutually exclusive, but it is helpful to know which, as a poet, is one's dominant way into a poem, or way of reading a poem. It is clear to me, after working with <a href="http://www.pw.org/mag/dq_seshadri.htm">Vijay Seshadri</a> and now with Rhodes, how much my poetry is informed by my musical ear. <br /><br />This poem by Rhodes is posted online at <a href="http://www.bu.edu/agni/poetry/online/2003/rhodes-hose.html">AGNI Magazine:</a><br /><br /><br />The Hose<br /><br />A hose ran through our house, used<br />to wash our windows down; to keep<br />us teenagers in line; to dilute Father’s<br /><i>martoonis;</i> “to make life a little more<br />exciting,” Mother said.<br /><br />When Mother turned 70 and renamed us<br />“Enormous One,” and<br />“One Who Walks Bare on Rug,”<br />and “One Who Hideously Shares My Bed,”<br />and “Which One”<br /><br />we hosed her into the corner of her dressing room—<br />Strong Medicine.<br />Clean out the cobwebs.<br />Cold showers are a cure-all.<br />Shock therapy.<br /><br />Mother would giggle herself silly when we’d towel her dry,<br />dust her with powder, pull the bedrails up.<br /><br /><i>Martha Rhodes</i><br /><br />The mother in this poem, although claiming that the hose makes life "a little more / exciting," actually uses the hose to control her family: it keeps the windows clean, monitors the kids' behavior, and prevents the father from getting drunk. Her family has learned this; so when illness leaves their mother in a frenetic, uncontrolled state, they hose her "into the corner of her dressing room" to regain order. Even then, she "giggles" when washed with cold water, and rails are needed to pen her in.<br /><br />This is a very sad and powerful poem, and what I admire about it is how an extensive, emotional story is compacted into 17 lines. We get a sense of the entire family dynamic very quickly (nobody says <i>martoonis</i> unless they drink a lot of them), and the inevitable fall of the mother into an uncontrolled state, despite her attempts to always control her environment. Maybe that is the unltimate conflict here: that she could gain control over her environment, but not over her internal self.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-1153510786276041432006-07-21T15:10:00.000-04:002006-07-21T15:39:47.093-04:00Jean Valentine<img src="http://www.grierwhite.com/oranges.jpg" align=left style="margin-right:7px; border:solid 1px black">The artist <a href"http://www.anatomyofdespair.blogspot.com/">Danny Sillada</a> and I have been discussing short poems and what is uniquely challenging about writing a poem that is complete in its language and emotional arc, but brief in its number of lines. Yesterday, the poet <a href="http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbnInquiry.asp?z=y&isbn=1555974244&itm=2">Vijay Seshadri</a> suggested I look up the poet <a href="http://www.jeanvalentine.com/bio06.html">Jean Valentine</a>, who is a writer of short poems. I found this poem on her <a href="http://www.jeanvalentine.com/poems/once.html">site:</a><br /><br /><br />Once<br /><br />Once there was a woodcutter,<br />when he asked me to marry him<br />the woman in the grocery store said<br />You look like you lost your last friend.<br />First love!<br />When we broke up<br />it was as if the last egg in the house<br />got dropped on the broken floor.<br /> This world is everywhere! The woman said,<br /> You won’t go unsampled!<br /><br /><i>Jean Valentine</i><br /><br />This poem is replete with the energy of love and despair and, finally, hope. The interaction between the two women--one young and dealing with the loss of her first love, and one older and wiser and knowledgable in the world--is sweet and totally believable. My favorite lines are the last two: "This world is everywhere! The woman said, / You won't go unsampled!" She assures the young woman, in the most joyful, encouraging, way, that "there are more fish in the sea," and that, like the morsels of food in her grcoery store, the young women will surely be "tasted" by others.<br /><br />I cannot escape, however, the older woman's characterization of the younger woman as object in the sentence, that she will "be sampled" by others rather than "sample" others herself. It is a complicated ending to me, as I'm not sure that the young woman has gained any power through her experience. I would prefer that she go out and discover the "everywhere-ness" of the world and taste it through her own will; but perhaps that ending would be too easy. Perhaps there is a prescience in the grocer's words about the younger woman's fate.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-1153342800641478352006-07-19T16:38:00.000-04:002006-07-19T17:00:00.773-04:00Kay Ryan<img src="http://www.grierwhite.com/atlas.jpg" align=left style="margin-right:7px; border:solid 1px black">In my workshop this week, there are a few of us who tend to fashion shorter, more compact poems. Someone brought up the poet <a href="http://www.csmonitor.com/2004/0825/p25s01-bogn.html">Kay Ryan</a> as a wonderful model to study for short, powerful poems, so I took some time to look her up. I found this poem by her on the site for <a href="http://www.blueflowerarts.com/kryan.html">Blue Flower Arts</a>:<br /><br /><br />Atlas<br /><br />Extreme exertion<br />isolates a person<br />from help,<br />discovered Atlas.<br />Once a certain<br />shoulder-to-burden<br />ratio collapses,<br />there is so little<br />others can do:<br />they can't<br />lend a hand<br />with Brazil<br />and not stand<br />on Peru.<br /><br /><i>Kay Ryan</i><br /><br /><br />Ryan catches our attention with what appears to be a simple assertion; but the "discovered Atlas" grounds this found knowledge in a particular character. Atlas supporting the earth is an effective image here, because we can all identify with the feeling of burden; how cares can pile up on us until we reach a breaking point. The speaker implies that taking all of our burdens on ourselves actually alienates us from those who might offer relief; to wait too long is to risk collapsing into a crisis, when it may be too late for help.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-1153248951473952812006-07-18T14:27:00.000-04:002006-07-18T14:56:48.103-04:00P-town: Day 3<img src="http://www.grierwhite.com/firefly.jpg" align=left style="margin-right:7px; border:solid 1px black">Last night I attended a reading with the poets <a href="http://www.pw.org/mag/dq_seshadri.htm">Vijay Seshadri</a> and <a href="http://www.thedrunkenboat.com/seiferle.htm">Rebecca Seiferle</a>. I recommend the work of both of these poets, because of their mastery of language coupled with their unflinching observations of self and environment. Both of them produce work that is accessible yet complex. The following poem is one Rebecca Seiferle read, and can also be found on the <a href="http://www.pshares.org/issues/article.cfm?prmarticleID=8119"><i>Ploughshares</i></a> site:<br /><br /><br />Fire in a Jar<br /><br />Some plucked from flight by sweep of net<br />or grasp of hand, immediately darken<br />and flicker out. A drift of stars becomes<br />mere green beetles scraping the glass bottom<br />of a jar. Other kinds go on flashing, ardent<br />no matter how captive they are, lighting<br />up even the smallest heaven. And still<br />others make a haze of their own longing,<br />dispersing themselves into a diffuse haze,<br />becoming a drop of sexual sunlight falling<br />upon the transparent world. Glass eye,<br />glass heart, glass jar, in which we try and keep<br />our flickering selves, all the light in us is sexual,<br />a luminous persistence—a heaven or a hell.<br /><br /><i>Rebecca Seiferle</i><br /><br /><br />Remember catching fireflies as a kid? Do kids still do that? They were magic to me when I was a little girl. I didn't know how they created that light, and I never thought to ask. I loved it.<br /><br />The narrator in this poem observes the various ways caught fireflies respond. Some become "mere green beetles," others "go on flashing," and others "make a haze of their own longing." She compares the variations of this captive energy to human sexual energy, and observes that "we try and keep / our flickering selves" inside glass--to contain it, perhaps, to control it, to have it be seen and recognized but still protected. How we respond to our "caught" sexuality can create in us either "a heaven or a hell." Either way, this sexuality is an energy of light, an energy that insists on being seen and dealt with.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-1153159698093441312006-07-17T13:35:00.000-04:002006-07-17T14:08:18.190-04:00P-town: Day 2 at FAWC<img src="http://www.grierwhite.com/shell.jpg" align=left style="margin-right:7px; border:solid 1px black"><br />Today was our first day of workshopping with the poet <a href="http://www.pw.org/mag/dq_seshadri.htm">Vijay Seshadri.</a> Read his work <a href="http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16670">here</a> and <a href="http://www.threecandles.org/reviews/vseshadri_gallery.html">here.</a> A few points Seshadri brought about about poetry:<br /><br /><br />--A poem is not a represenation of an idea; it is a "dramatic act"<br />--The meter, rhythm, and voice of a poem is determined by a poet's own physiology<br />--The tension inherent in a poem's structure is created by the horizontal nature of the line, since the experience of prose text is primarily vertical<br /><br />I am not stating these as truisms, only as ideas Seshadri brought up. I find them fascinating and wonderful starting places for discussions about the quality and funtion of poetry. What do you think?<br /><br />Although I have generally viewed poetry as artifice, as a medium through which to communicate emotion, ideas, and experience, I also, in the process of writing, have been greatly moved; so I must admit that there is a "dramatic act" going on. I cannot, however, pass on that experience unfiltered to the reader. I can only offer the poem, and the poem itself is not the experience.<br /><br />Let's remember that this kind of discussion is abstract, although fascinating. The most important thing is that we read and write poetry, no matter how we define those processes.<br /><br />Before I go: a plug for Cicchetti's Espresso bar at 353 Commercial Street in P-town. The best espresso in town, easily. Yummy treats, friendly service, consistently great espresso.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-1153086492399990352006-07-16T17:27:00.000-04:002006-07-16T17:48:12.483-04:00In P-town<img src="http://www.grierwhite.com/handsinsand.jpg" align=left style="margin-right:7px; border:solid 1px black">This is how I know I'm in P-town and not in Boston: when I got my henna tattoos at the <a href="http://www.westendsalon.com/">West End Salon</a>, the artist asked if I "would like some glitter on those." I said, "hell yeah I want some glitter." Now I have a long, gorgeous snake on my left arm and a sun with curly rays on my right hand, both sprinkled with the prettiest purple glitter I ever saw. It makes me happy.<br /><br />I have wireless access not only at the <a href="http://www.fawc.org/">Fine Arts Work Center</a>, not only at the lovely <a href="http://www.ptownlib.com/">P-town libary</a> across the street from me, but also in my little studio rental on Commercial St. It's great--I can get so much done just by hanging out.<br /><br />Tonight we have our first mini-session with the poet <a href="http://www.diacenter.org/prg/poetry/97_98/seshadribio.html">Vijay Seshadri</a>. I'll be in a workshop with him all week. I included his poem "Survivor" in my <a href="http://livingpoetry.blogspot.com/2006/07/fine-arts-work-center.html">previous post</a>; do yourself a favor and read three of his poems over at <a href="http://www.threecandles.org/reviews/vseshadri_gallery.html">three candles press</a>. They are wonderful.<br /><br />I brought a picture of Cleo with me to put by my bed. I brought two poems about her to workshop, if I can gather my courage to do so. I miss her.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-1152893154009537802006-07-14T12:01:00.000-04:002006-07-14T12:29:24.210-04:00The Fine Arts Work Center<img src="http://www.grierwhite.com/beach.jpg" align=left style="margin-right:7px; border:solid 1px black">I cannot properly express how grateful I am for all of your kind, thoughtful responses to the loss of my dog, Cleo. I can see that I am not the only person who is familiar with this experience, and who has felt it so keenly. I am genuinely moved by how much kindness can be found in the world.<br /><br />I wasn't sure for a while if I would be able to make my yearly trek to Provincetown because Cleo was so ill; and after she died, I wasn't sure I wanted to. But I have decided to forge on. Tomorrow I take the ferry to P-town for two weeks of poetry and beach time. I am taking two workshops this year, one with <a href="http://www.pw.org/mag/dq_seshadri.htm">Vijay Seshadri</a> and the other with <a href="http://www.poems.com/motherho.htm">Martha Rhodes.</a><br /><br />Here is one of Vijay Seshadri's poems, entitled "Survivor," which can be found at the <a href="http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/16670">Academy of American Poets</a> site:<br /><br /><br />Survivor <br /><br />We hold it against you that you survived.<br />People better than you are dead,<br />but you still punch the clock.<br />Your body has wizened but has not bled<br /><br />its substance out on the killing floor<br />or flatlined in intensive care<br />or vanished after school<br />or stepped off the ledge in despair.<br /><br />Of all those you started with,<br />only you are still around;<br />only you have not been listed with <br />the defeated and the drowned.<br /><br />So how could you ever win our respect?--<br />you, who had the sense to duck,<br />you, with your strength almost intact<br />and all your good luck.<br /><br /><i>Vijay Seshadri</i><br /><br />This is the other side of survivor's guilt, the point of view of those who observe and judge. The speaker resents the subject's survival because he reminds everyone of their losses. His presence brings to mind everyone who "bled" or "flatlined" or "vanished" or "stepped off the ledge." Regardless of if he had "sense" or "strength" or just plain "good luck"--qualities that are normally admired, but are derided here--the speaker believes he does not deserve to still be "punch[ing] the clock."Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-1152332823451505682006-07-08T00:09:00.000-04:002006-07-08T00:29:10.556-04:00Goodbye, Cleo<img src="http://www.grierwhite.com/chrisandcleo.jpg" align=left style="margin-right:7px; border:solid 1px black">Have you ever read <i>A Prayer for Owen Meany</i>? At the end, John is giving an elegy at a funeral for his great friend whom he dearly loved. During his elegy, in the midst of his grief, he calls to god, "Give him back."<br /><br />That has always struck me as the truest response to the death of a loved one, and it is more true now than ever. On Thursday, at about 1:30 pm, my dog Cleo died. That's Cleo in the picture being walked by my husband in Cape Elizabeth, Maine.<br /><br />She had been battling hepatitis for a few weeks, and was severely underweight. Her spirit never wavered, and we had hopes she would have some time left; but during the night, she began having pain in her leg and couldn't stand. We took her to the emergency vet, and it turned out she had developed a blood clot in her leg. She had already lost circulation in that leg by the time we brought her there. It was evident after a few hours that only the most painful and invasive treatment might bring her relief, and it was quite likely she wouldn't survive it given her already critically ill state. <br /><br />We decided, agreeing with the vet, that her time had come. She was in a lot of pain despite a great deal of pain meds. We were present as she passed, and it was very quick. The experience was much, much more difficult than I anticipated, despite knowing it would be tough. I found it almost impossible to grasp her death, even though her body was right in front of me.<br /><br />In my still raw state, I find it tremedously unfair that she had to die when she so clearly wanted to live; but her body had taken as much as it could take.<br /><br />I love Cleo and I miss her so much. I want her back.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-1151004585275887362006-06-22T15:19:00.000-04:002006-06-22T15:49:09.996-04:00Update: Cleo Rallies<img src="http://www.grierwhite.com/Cleo2.jpg" align=left style="margin-right:7px; border:solid 1px black">Look closely at the bed in this picture. You'll see Cleo stretched luxuriously across the width of the bed, enjoying time away from the cats. We took this picture last year at the Nine Zero hotel in Boston, a dog-friendly boutique hotel.<br /><br />Cleo has rallied. When we took her home from the hospital, we didn't think she would last through the week. She wouldn't eat, and I had to administer subcutaneous fluids every day, because she hardly drinks any water. She went from a lean 15 1/2 pounds to about 11 pounds. She was listless, fatigued, and couldn't even chase the cats.<br /><br />After a few days, we could take her off the pain medication. Apparently she isn't finished with life yet. Despite a diagnosis of severe end-stage hepatitis, with a liver that is small, very inflamed, and scarred, and a lengthy scar running from her stomach down to her abdomen, she is very close to her old self. SHe still needs the IV fluids, and she is too weak to take a real walk, but my husband carries her to the Common and lets her walk around in the grass. She loves it. We discovered the one thing she'll eat: boiled chicken, which took a while for two strict vegetarians to discover. I'm hoping she'll eat it with a little rice, just for a little balance. Hell, I'll cook an elk for her if she'll eat it. She is definitely living the best-case scenario with this disease.<br /><br />So Cleo lives on, and I wanted to say thank you, thank you, thank you for all of the kind words and encouragement. It means a great deal to me and has helped tremedously. Danny, your poem is touching and wonderful. I'm going to print it out as a keepsake. I can't say thank you enough.<br /><br />I promise, when things stabilize, I will get back to poetry and all of your wonderful blogs. I will be in Provincetown workshopping at FAWC from July 15-29; let me know if any of you will be there. Also, I'm signing up for a Writers in the Round retreat in September. Check it out <a href="http://www.deidrerandall.com/witr06.html">here.</a> If you feel like a few days on a lovely island off of the New Hampshire coast, this could be the thing. The poetry instructor is Tom Daley, a very talented Boston area poet.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-1150032644932876992006-06-11T09:19:00.000-04:002006-06-11T09:33:43.346-04:00Cleo<img src="http://www.grierwhite.com/cleo.jpg" align=left style="margin-right:7px; border:solid 1px black"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Cleo is a sixteen-year-old terrier mix, about 15 pounds. We adopted her from the pound when she was four. For the last few days, she has been in the hospital, undergoing and recovering from a surgerical biopsy on her liver and intestines. The news, so far, is not too good.<br /><br />We visited her yesterday, and saw the stitched wound in her abdomen, the I.V. in her foreleg, and the shaved area for medicine patches on her side. We talked to the vet; he says there are abnormalities in her intestine and liver; he kept using the word "hepatitis," although the biopsy results are not in yet. He says we can give her medications orally, so when she starts eating again, we can take her home. He says, with proper treatment, we can enjoy "whatever time we have left with her."<br /><br />These are tough words to hear. The vet is clearly trying to prepare us for something. I don't want to be prepared. I don't want to steel myself for losing the pet we adopted in our first year of marriage. It's hard for me to imagine being with Chris without being with Cleo. <br /><br />I was wondering why I didn't feel like blogging this week, and I realized thinking about Cleo was taking up my energy. But I missed the blog, too. So I'll just blog about her.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-1148829247997022912006-05-28T11:02:00.000-04:002006-05-28T11:15:38.273-04:00Erasure Poem<img src="http://www.grierwhite.com/erase.jpg" align=left style="margin-right:7px; border:solid 1px black">I was perusing the <a href="http://theothermother.typepad.com/bigwindow/">Big Window</a> blog and found a post about creating your own erasure poetry online at <a href="http://erasures.wavepoetry.com/index.php">Erasures,</a> a site sponsored by Wave Books. I found it strangely inspiring. Here's the poem I wrote, created from "A Book of Operas" by Henry Edward Krehbiel:<br /><br /><br /><br />In the third house<br />night sings a dream and<br />transcribes it with bits of<br />moment<br />and<br />promise;<br />a<br />masterpiece<br />when sung<br />as impulse<br /><br /><br />Go write your own erasure poem, then come back and post what you wrote in the comments section. I'm headed to Disney World for a week, and I will be without my trusty iBook; I'll read them when I get back!<br /><br />Take care.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-1148572730593494482006-05-25T11:43:00.000-04:002006-05-25T12:19:41.426-04:00Abalone Moon Journal<img src="http://www.grierwhite.com/beard.jpg" align=left style="margin-right:7px; border:solid 1px black"><a href="http://abalonemoon.com/bcl/index.html"><i>Abalone Moon</i></a> is a "journal of the poetry and the arts" and worth checking out. The current issue features the work of <a href="http://www.poetrysuperhighway.com/ppa279.html#fp1">Brendan Constantine.</a> You can also read his <a href="http://abalonemoon.com/bcl/ivbc.html">interview</a> with Velene Campbell.<br /><br /><br />No Guessing<br /><br />I keep reading how destiny laughs at chance, how the man who said so<br />was ahead of his time, but he was seventy when he died, had a beard<br />like a white Persian cat devouring his considerable face. I bet he<br />didn’t go willingly.<br />I bet he didn’t say “Honey, would you hold my pen, it’s my<br />turn<br />to die.” I bet someone had to pry the bedsheets from his hands. And<br />after<br />they wrote him into the ground, his beard went on growing, grew until<br />it<br />had arms and legs, a tail and teeth. I bet it prowls the cemetery<br />still, a huge and muscled<br />snow leopard, the old man’s skeleton still caught in its<br />coat.<br />There’s no telling if you’d ever see it and if you did, no guessing if<br />it might<br />tear you apart like a bedroom. Destiny can laugh all it wants about<br />chance,<br />but chance is on the floor about destiny. It’s knocked over the table<br />with the candles and the goldfish. The carpet is ruined, the party is ruined,<br />the night is ruined,<br />it can never be cleaned.<br /><br /><i>Brendan Constantine</i><br /><br /><br />The beard of this deceased seventy-year-old can be seen as a metaphor for the human desire to live. It sprouts "arms and legs, a tail and teeth." It "prowls the cemetery" refusing to rest or move on; it is stuck and angry and threatening. It is clinging to life; it is a stuck and angry life, but still a life.<br /><br />Last week, I was helping a friend who has been depressed for a long time and was starting to have suicidal thoughts. Although she wasn't sure if she wanted to live, I know if her life were threatened by an intruder or a disease or a car barrelling toward her, she would fight tooth and nail to survive. It's strange how that instinct kicks in. When we have the leisure to contemplate our lives, it is so easy to judge them, to criticize ourselves for how little we think we do or how far we are from reaching our goals. We might wonder if our lives matter. But when our life is threatened, we are wired to fight for it with everything we have. Destiny carries no relevance when you just want to live.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-1148325592674652962006-05-22T14:53:00.000-04:002006-05-22T15:21:18.563-04:00New Issue of eratio<img src="http://www.grierwhite.com/womanback.jpg" align=left style="margin-right:7px; border:solid 1px black"><br />The Spring 2006 issue of <i>eratio postmodern poetry</i> was released today: <a href="http://www.eratiopostmodernpoetry.com/index.html">go check it out!</a> Meanwhile, here's an example of what you will find there:<br /> <br /><br />Evening Moths, Morning Anchor<br /><br />i'm so unfamiliar with painting<br />wrinkles on my restless skin.<br />why don't you stir me with kindness?<br />be good to the woven<br />muscle on my shoulders,<br />put the tips of your middling<br />fingers on my bony spine,<br />shake the dirt from my vertebrae,<br />tear it from my back,<br />mend it with your hands,<br />spend the evening<br />making me whole again.<br /><br />or is it the plucking of strings<br />that I'm so unfamiliar with?<br />why don't you raise hands<br />to me and flick digits across<br />my cheeks making them into<br />waves of fleshy ocean.<br />pull out the sides of my mouth<br />and reach down deep for<br />the dim lamp light of a soul.<br />sift through piles of antiques.<br />an old heart, a soiled liver,<br />smoky lungs—an umbrella<br />lodged in my stomach!<br />grab it quick and open it fast<br />to hold you in the clear from<br />a family of moths who have been<br />feeding on my woman parts.<br />they will swarm into your open plane<br />because your light is bright.<br />I am drawn to you and anchored<br />to your hip while you spend the evening<br />pouring kerosene down the drain.<br /><br />is it the settling colors on your face<br />that are so unfamiliar?<br />reds and rusts about my clavicle<br />blend like bleeding sunset pigments.<br />why don't you wash me with your hair?<br />smear the stain across my breasts,<br />ripen me with hue at my navel,<br />float me on the surface of the lake,<br />spend the evening dyeing the water.<br /><br /><i>Nubia Hassan</i><br /><br /><br />I love the sensual ferocity of this poem. The subject is yearning to be undone, unmade, even ripped open, by someone who will be willing to put her back together again, to "tear" her spine from her back and "spend the evening" making her "whole again." The experience of physical connection with another human is so "unfamiliar" to her; we can infer that she has felt solitary for a long time, given the "family of moths who have been / feeding" on her "woman parts." She is ready, even desperate, for connection; willing to be reached into, grabbed, and pulled apart.Amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8641638.post-1148057106857443602006-05-19T12:22:00.000-04:002006-05-19T13:11:24.433-04:00Au Revoir, Stanley Kunitz<img src="http://www.grierwhite.com/kunitz.jpg" align=left style="margin-right:7px; border:solid 1px black"><br /><i>"Death and life are inextricably bound to each other. One of my feelings about working the land is that I am celebrating a ritual of death and resurrection."</i><br /><a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/05/15/AR2006051501665_4.html">Stanley Kunitz</a><br /><br /><br />It's a tough thing to wake up one morning and find that the one hundred-year-old mainstay of American poetry has died. Stanley Kunitz was a founder and great supporter of the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, Massachusetts, a place where I have completed several writing workshops. The common room is named after him. He had a house in P-town, where he spent a great deal of time in his beloved garden. I heard that if you walked to his place to say hello, he would greet you kindly and with no pretension. I wish now I had mustered the chutzpah to do it last year, when I had the chance.<br /><br />In tribute to this great poet, I'm posting a poem from his 1930 collection called <i>Intellectual Things.</i> Au revoir, Mr. Kunitz. See you on the other side, where we poets will gather to drink good wine, talk of love and beauty, and laugh at all our former confusion.<br /><br /><br />Deciduous Branch<br /><br />Winter, that coils in the thickets now,<br />Will glide from the fields; the swinging rain<br />Be knotted with flowers; on every bough<br />A bird will meditate again.<br /><br />Lord, in the night if I should die,<br />Who entertained your thrilling worm,<br />Corruption wastes more than the eye<br />Can pick from the perfect form.<br /><br />I lie awake, hearing the drip<br />Upon my sill; thinking, the sun<br />Has not been promised; we who strip<br />Summer to seed shall be undone.<br /><br />Now, while the antler of the eaves<br />Liquefies, drop by drop, I brood<br />On a Christian thing: unless the leaves<br />Perish, the tree is not renewed.<br /><br />If all our perishable stuff<br />Be nourished to its rot, we clean<br />Our trunk of death, and in our tough<br />And final growth are evergreen.<br /><br /><i>Stanley Kunitz</i><br /><br /><br /><i>Photo found at</i> http://www.provincetowngov.orgAmyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08754785071196846157noreply@blogger.com5