Watershed Review

For my second literary event of the semester I went to the Watershed Review’s launch party at the 1078 gallery. The first thing i noticed when I entered the room was the way the chairs and microphones were set for some kind of reading or speaker which, turned out to be a band with Professor Matt Brown rockin the guitar to the sultry tone of the singer’s voice. There was beautiful, playful and thought-provoking artwork on the walls and tables for sale and auction. One of the pieces I really liked was the pastel tea cups that were stacked since I am an avid tea drinker myself and I just thought those were so sweet and playful. Likewise the fox in the collared shirt and vest was cute; it reminded me of something that might be matched as an illustration for something like The Wind In The Willows or the Mr. Toad’s Adventures books. There was one art piece that had Rackel Baumer and I pretty perplexed; It looked like it was supposed to be some kind of bird from the hindquarters of it’s body being feathered and it’s long stork-like legs which stood among some kind of tall reed-grasses. However, where it’s neck and face should have been there was what looked like a very large growth hanging down from the neck region and where a face might’ve been it looked more like what you might see under a microscope when looking at a virus reaching for a white blood cell with little arm tendrils reaching out into the air towards nothing. I think the favorite art piece for both rachel and I was a print of a tree that seemed to be going through all the seasons and times of day at once in which the vivid colors and the technique used has created an utterly beautiful image.

           
             After checking out the art for a while we sampled a delicious array of cheese and crackers and dips and fruit. It was this part of the event where I found inspiration for my next poem “Cheez CRAVING Cheese” when I discovered my best friends extreme affinity for cheese which, amused me to no end. We then had the opportunity to hear some of our favorite classmates speak. It was really nice to hear the editor’s I know like Trish and Tim and Stan get up there and have a chance to speak about all the hard work that went into getting the Watershed up and running after seeing them bite their nails over getting everything done in time for the big unveiling as-well-as getting to hear how rewarding it was. All of the editors picked some really great pieces to read. I loved the one from the waitresses perspective about the dad who wanted King Crab legs for his little pink daughter who had Leukemia and how both author and reader were able to convey the displaced anger and stress and frustration of the father. I loved the speaker’s voice in the piece about the mother leaving and the woman reflecting back on herself as a girl; I felt an odd connection to this person and I wanted to go home and finish reading the rest of it. The one about the professor who’s dad always gave them watches was funny and I love the detail the author goes into in describing them. I can’t remember the exact title or author of the poem but there was one that was read that’s imagery was fantastic. I wanted to sit and study it so I could make sense of the story it was telling behind the imagery. My only clue in rediscovering this one is that I know the last couple lines were about a scarab beetle with a secret message scrawled across its belly being a secret name for jesus. Regardless this was a beautiful send-off for the watershed filled with beautiful sounds and images which I enjoyed thoroughly.

Kitchen poem:The Last Chance Double-Cherry Pie

The Last Chance Double-Cherry Pie

 

There was a scream of alarm from downstairs

warning her of a smoke-stack rising.

Once the start of something great,

now a pan of onyx ash and burnt sugar stench.

 

Let it be noted that the ash was once woven;

lattice of dough roads designed with such attention to detail.

Every dip and climb and curve of its shell creating

rows and rows of perfectly parallel lines which

then formed perfect picture frames for the rich ruby

sweetness, that would have been.

 

Double-cherry pie, reduced to a smoldering crisp.

Her eyes were ablaze and when she reached the kitchen,

she glared at him holding the remains of her

 once-sweet creation.

 

Shifting her gaze, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry

at the sight of his oven mitt’s design.

Its cheerful cherry twosomes dangled from

dainty stems which, seemed to spring

 from beneath the pretty pairs of new lime leaves;

it was an offensive black backdrop that set this scene.

 

It was too much irony—her patience had been spent.

 

The pie did not survive this time.

He knew just how, and what it meant.

No sheepish smile could diffuse

her ire for his negligence.

He knew that he did it and wanted to fix it.

But he’d lost his chance this time.

 

It was a double-cherry Pie, one of a kind,

dressed to perfection, carefully tended,

and molded— just for him.

It could have been epic but,

instead he just let it die that day.

 

She couldn’t trust him, to keep her pie alive

Admittedly, she’d reached her end this time

The only ingredients she had left to remake it

were all—expired.

OBSESSION AS fUEL

I like Stanley Kunitz's advice to young poets "polarize their contradictions" which the author translates to mean"'cultivate your obsession' rather than therapeutically resolve it, try to make a full relationship with it." I also agree with earlier in the article where the author says that a poet without a true obsession may have too much time to think. In my own writing I find it so much easier to write when I do have something bothering me that has been consistently on my mind because for me, poetry has always been an outlet for my stresses and curiosities about life. The concept of obsession as a blessing is a really interesting perspective which I don't think I would have ever considered before.

Wolf-Dog

Met him about three months ago.

When, one day he placed his paws with a graceful hop atop
 an undersized, rain-stained, weather-worn fence.

bubblegum tongue hung from his mouth, panting.

Dripping beads of wolf-dog sweat.

 

Extending his greeting, that tenor call so sweet.

My  tune would not suffice, but oh, to sing his song!

Content to sigh and shuffle by.

watching him all the while when, all of a sudden, I see.

He smiles and winks at me?!

 

He beckons me to stay, and chat a while.

Having some time, I willingly oblige.

When I reach his yard his eyes are hard.

Though  his tail says "I'm a friend"

 

Most would say he is comical.

Long gangly legs don't fit massive paws.

Coat of soft, salt and peppery hues.

Pieces of it everywhere, shedding.

Pieces of my wolf-dog friend.

Downy and course at the same time.

He tends to to overheat.

With one ear up he listens.

The other, he lets sleep.

 

He thrusts his nose into my coat, sniffing where I've been.

  Then places one over-sized paw in my palm to shake with him.

I take it and shake it, scratching his back for a while.

my meeting and greeting with the wolf-dog ends.

Terribly handsome; devilishly sweet,
My new wolf-Dog friend.
 You say your ears are itching as you,
Drink of  these pure waters I'm sipping
So I go ahead and give them a little scratch. 

  

Today I miss the wolf-dog; He lives right past my creek.
Sometimes I wonder where he goes when he's not here with me.

 

 

 

.

 

 

Reading Response for 4/19 : Constructing New Meaning

Stephen Dunn's "The Poem, Its Buried Subject, and the Revisionist Reader: Behind 'The Guardian Angel'" had some very valid observations about the reading and writing process such as his point about how when you come back to an old poem you have written, after years of not thinking about it, you come back as more than just the creator but as rather, as another audience member bringing a new understanding of and/or ideas about the meaning of the piece to the reading. His exact words on this concept were, "If twenty years have elapsed since you've written a poem... then you're likely that poem's revisionist" (210). One thing he writes shortly after that really reminded me of what poetry writing Professor Jeannie always reminds us in our workshop revisions and that was; "as author, no matter how well you've blended your intentions with your discoveries, the reader always completes your poem." That said I can also completely relate to the feeling Dunn expresses about this feeling of it being like someone trying to rename your child. When I had my first creative writing course at my junior college, having to listen to feedback on my work was the hardest thing because everything I'd written up to that point and even through that class were things that I had only intended for my own eyes and had no intention of sharing with a class full of my contemporaries. That said, over the last six years, much like Dunn I have come to the realize the importance of this process and value the feedback regardless of how hard it can be to hear sometime. I like how Dunn segues from this topic back to the revisionary process and one's own reading of their work. Similarly to how Dunn "rediscovered" his "Guardian Angel," just this week actually, I found some old journals while looking for a smaller notebook to carry in my purse and in it were a few old songs and poems I had written between the beginning of junior high through my early college career (I was always a sporadic journal writer and I never stuck with the same book long enough to fill it completely so I've lost many journals like this). It was interesting to see how differently I though about certain topics I had written about then (boys, animosity towards my step mother, etc.) in comparison to how similarly I perceive others like, nature, or my best friend (though even in this, my vocabulary had significantly improved with the years of practicing as had my mastery of the English language until I now am able to much better articulate the messages I'm intending to express through my poetry.) I have yet to have an epiphany of realization such as Dunn describes of his reading to a colleagues students. Despite this, I really like the concepts Dunn describes at one point between pages 214-215 about looking at his poem as architecture in eliminating excess content, that's seems like a very accurate description of how I felt in trying to thin out my catalog poem for class. I like how he played with the different endings for his poem and how in doing so, comes up with very different results each time but went with the one that spoke to him the most; I've never thought of it as having the decisions made for me before in my own writing. But, Dunn does a really good job of explaining the writing process he went through while creating "The Guardian Angel". While reading this I kept mental noting all kinds of useful writing tips and tricks I wanted to try for my revisions. This is a very useful, interesting article and I really enjoyed reading it, I didn't see the guardian angel as a metaphore for for the condition of the American poet coming but it was a suprisingly pleasant twist!

Epic poem: Getting to Know Her

Getting to Know Her

 

I remember all those times that we didn't go to see her because she was too eccentric; too far away.

I remember hating the drive; the nauseating twist and turn of the ribbon-thin road and her kisses  we fled upon arrival: squeeze us tight sloppy-wet all-over-your-face kisses we pushed away.

I remember she smelled like mothballs and dust of raggedy old wool sweaters collected over decades of adventures abroad, stained with residue from, litters of puppies and parrots, Arab horses, llamas, donkeys, and three massive Mastiffs.

I remember we would sit and watch television in the house avoiding her and sunshine as she tried to ge to know us, or asked for help with the zoo.

I remember being annoyed, all the advice she tried to give: letters, newspaper clips and phone calls once a week, how following mom's lead, we never really listened, and we rationalized being mean. 

I remember how a phone call changed it all halfway through my junior year; one about the cancer; she had less than a year.

I remember being told leaving school early was a bad idea but I didn't care; I hated it anyways and my grandma needed me there; she needed someone to show they cared.

I remember 2008, the year I graduated high school on the last day of my sixteenth year, callousness and apathy I’d shown, now a double headed serpent, knot in the gut of a guilty girl.

I remember how proud she was, happy because I finally listened without resistance, following her advice For those last two classes online the first time I ever lived away from home.

I remember hating that word, terminal, and Grandpa for causing this, when she let me take care of her those three months, before she got too bad.

I remember the story: a Psychiatric Ward, radon rod administered by force, being told he had a husband’s right to put her there, accused of insanity but all she wanted was America with her girls.

I remember a hospital room, her frail bony frame on the bed; shadow of the buxom woman she'd once been and how I could trace with my eyes, every feeble vein through her papery skin.

I remember not sleeping, in a chair by her side, running on hospital coffee because I couldn't stand the thought of her being alone when she died, the way she'd lived most of her life.

I remember when they came to visit; watching them cry, I did not; they didn't have the right to condemn her just yet, smothering her; wounding her pride.

 I remember how we silenced them when they debated her ability, to reason and think, like just because  she had cancer she was some kind of vegetable, and how it angered me.

I remember the chemo took a lot but never that; she held fast to a wit filled fighting spirit questioned on what she thought of the president, I knew what her reply would be.

I remember her scoff at the taste of Bush's name in her mouth, Arabian sandstorm that it had become and on her lips that split like the driest creek’s sunbaked crust; she needed spit to speak.

 I remember savoring a smirk of pride as I watched while she crowed her complaints; outspoken woman that I loved who made horses danced in Spain and dared to win desert races against royal men.

I remember the first time she asked me to help her dress; how her pride was wounded by the weakness she showed.

I remember the news, political debates mingled with calls, selling the animals she loved, how it broke my heart to see her watch them disappear, sold off one by one, and the hill grew barren.

I remember the day her favorite horse was hauled away; how I wanted her to come back to a shining clean home and a warm meal if she was willing and able to eat that day.

I remember how I cleaned until the brown-grey cabinets turned white, her startled look when she came home, and the smile that lit up her eyes.

I remember as she smelled the pasta, how she sat down next to me, took my hand, and kissed it saying Simply, “thanks,” cherished moment shared where I pointed to my cheek.

I remember telling her, “That kiss belongs here.” and, “I’m sorry;” the hoarseness of her voice laughing, “are you sure!?” and waving away my apology; nodding my consent, I needed that moment.

I remember, that was the last week up there, until that place killed her, negligent nursing home where I couldn't stay and watch her like before; still, she never complained.

I remember it was August when her decision was made firm that I move back "home" to start college in  the fall and how adamant she was that do as she wished.

I remember the bike trip across town when I had long enough breaks and how by then, she’d just smile and mouth my name.

 I remember it only took a month there before voice was put to sleep so I'd tell her about me; all   the things she’d asked about before, when I was mean.

 I remember remembering as I left the last time, stories some said weren’t true, ones they verified, stories that I longed for in the last months of Grandma Helen’s, fantastic and all too short life.

Two months in prison and then she was gone.

 I remember how honored I felt as I wrote her eulogy but at the funeral when I got up there to read, that I could only manage the first few lines when my eyes began to water and, for the first time, I cried.

I remember despite all the things I had written on the pages in my hand, all I could think was that it still  wasn't enough and wanting so badly just to hear her voice telling another story.

I remember instead, angry at the interference of my tears, my aunt's soothing voice repeating that mantra they all do, “it’s okay to cry; let it out; It's good for you.”

I remember her tracing my gaze and saying it wasn't my responsibility; looking over at mom in the pew, I  knew I couldn't heal her heart; mine had barely survived the guilt of my own serpent strikes.

I remember reading pages through the tears; how I hated hearing, “lovely speech”; my words, still not enough; the details were too fuzzy; I couldn't get them right.

I remember, she used to say, "Honey, I’m so tired I don't remember now," her way of gently brushing off my pleas for more before she'd drift off to sleep, lost in a sea of coveted memories.

I remember stories brushed off by the world as unimportant; front-page highlights; stories of her life.

I remember her hating that label, insane, which, perhaps she feared one day I’d name as her girls had done yet, I never could, even back then, when I was no more than a mean little kid.

 

Reading Response #5 Fragmented Memories to Art

              I Found Eavan Boland's essay "Lava Cameo" from her collection Object Lessons: The Life of the Woman and the Poet in Our Time to be a beautifully written account of the history of turmoil occurring in Ireland around the time of her grandmother's passing. This reading brought a flood of those forgotten and faded memories of my own grandmother about whom I have asked very similar questions. Like when Boland says, "A hundred years ago she was a child once. But where? Strange to think that once the circumstances of her life were simple and available. They have become, with time, fragments and guesswork."

When I read where she wrote, "I have pieces but they are few enough," it made me stop and consider what I know of my own family history and how easily we do loose so many pieces of those memories over the years and eventually sometimes we end up with just fragments and how frustrating and disappointing that can be. I can relate all too well to that feeling of wanting to know more about a loved one who passed before you had the chance to ever really get to know them. There were several points that this essay brought up some very strong emotions and memories for me because of that. It put me back in the year I graduated high-school when we found out my mom's mom had sinus cancer and I think how horrible I felt in that moment I was told because of all those times that we didn't go to see her, because she was a bit of a hermit with too many animals living in a trailer in the foothills about an hour from where we lived. I remember hating the drive up there because it made me carsick and how when we got there my brother and I would flee from her kisses because they were the gross, sloppy, wet all over your face ones and when she gave them to you, she'd try to squeeze you tight. But she smelled like mothballs and dust because of all the raggedy old wool sweaters she'd collected over the decades on adventures abroad. They were stained with animal stuff from making parrot food and cleaning up after all the puppy litters, birds, horses, llamas, donkeys, and mastiffs (which terrified me then). My brother and I would sit and watch television while she tried to visit and get to know her grand kids. I remember being annoyed by all the advice she tried to give, letter's with newspaper clippings on how to improve your math skills and phone calls, once a week at least, and how my brother and I never really listened. I remember how mom was so much worse with her so, we rationalized it.

I remember so vividly how that phone call halfway through the first semester of my junior year changed it all. After that, I remember my counselor telling me leaving high school early was a bad idea. But I didn't care, because I hated it anyways and she needed me there. By now, mom had already left to another state, my brother had a family of his own, and my aunt, the only other relative my grandma had here, lived nine hours away. I remember how my counselor said she understood and went out of her way to help make sure I woud graduate. I remember the day before I turned seventeen how proud grandma was that she knew I'd finished school before she died and that I had let her sit and help me with my English class online without resistance, happily taking her advice. It was the first time I'd ever live away from both my parents but she let me take care of her for those three months before she got too bad for just me. I remember loathing that word, terminal, and my grandpa for being the cause of this. I remembered the story of the radon rod the psychiatric ward had shoved up her nose. I remember being told in England, at the time, a husband had the right to put his wife that place if he so desired. And that's what he did when she tried to leave him with her girls.

I Remembered her hospital room and her frail bony frame on the bed, a shadow of the buxom woman she'd once been and how I could see every vein through her papery skin. I remember not sleeping, in a chair in a bed by her side, running on hospital coffee because I couldn't stand the thought of her dying alone the way she'd lived most of her life. I remember when my mom and brother came to visit and watching them cry, realizing I still never had. I remember them babying her, wounding her pride and how I got to help her shut them up when they were debating her ability to reason and think, like just because she had cancer she was some kind of vegetable with nothing left upstairs. I remember how angry it made me. The chemo took a lot, but never that, she held fast to her fighting spirit and her whit. I asked her who was the current president, and what she thought of him though I already knew what her reply would be. I remember She scoffed at the taste of President George Bush's name on her lips. She knew I was a Republican and supported him. Though her eyes were barely slits, and her mouth was perpetually dry since the chemo had destroyed all of her salivary glands , she signaled for me to moisten her mouth so she could reply. I dampened her mouth with a lubricating swab like the nurse did and watched the other two's faces as she let out a torrent of complaints about his policies and for the war we are still in ending it all with, "He's a piece of shit." I allowed myself a smirk because even if I disagreed, I was proud of her for once again being the brazenly opinionated woman that I knew.

I remember after that she started to get better again so after mom went back to Tennessee and brother left; I took her home again. I remember the first time I had to start helping her dress, and the first time she asked me if I could clean the animal's pens. I remember sensing her pride was wounded by her weakness and when she demanded that I let her pay me for the work. I remember how naked her hill looked as all the animals started disappearing, sold off one by one. I remember days of CNN and FOX and endless political debates between phone calls to the local area papers to sell off her heart's passion, the animals she loved so much, and how it broke my heart that she felt that it was what she had to. I remember the day she went to the neighbors' after her her prized stud horse was hauled away and how I wanted her to come home to a clean place and a warm meal, if she was willing to eat that day. I remember I cleaned the whole place until the brown-grey cabinets had turned white to my surprise. I remember her shock when she came home, and the smile that followed it as she smelled the pasta I'd made . I remember as she sat down next to me, how she took my had and kissed it and said thanks. It was such a cherished moment; I remember I pointed to my cheek and told her, "This is where that belongs, I'm sorry I was such a brat about that for so long." I remembered her laugh, as she waved my apologies away and asked if I was sure, and I nodded my consent. I remember how I needed that moment. I remember, that was the last week we lived there before she went to the place that killed her. I remember that negligent nursing home and that I wasn't there for her like before but she never complained. It was her firm decision that I move back to Dad's because they both agreed that I needed to start college and I remember how adamant she was that I start as soon as possible so I wouldn't "get behind." I remember riding my bike across town from the local college to see her when I had long enough breaks how by that point she'd just smile at me and gurgle my name because within a month of living in that place her ability to speak was essentially gone; so I'd tell her about my classed and all the things that didn't really matter but made up my day. As I'd leave I'd think of all the stories my mom said had never happened, and the ones she verified. These were the stories that I begged my grandma to tell me, the last months of her too short but incredibly fantastic life. I remember my aunt asking me to write her eulogy and how honored I felt. I also remember that as I got up there to read and I sad the first few lines my eyes began to water and it was the first time that I cried because despite all the amazing things I had written down to say about her on the pages in my hand, all I could think of was that it still wasn't enough and wanted so badly to hear her voice telling another of the stories of her life. I remember instead, my aunt putting her arm around me and her soothing voice telling me the same mantra my mom has told me all my adolescent life when I got angry at my tears. "Meggy baby, it's okay to cry. It's good for you. You need to let it out.You don't have to be strong for, or take care of anyone else." Then I remember as I looked over at my mom in the pew, my aunt saying it wasn't my wasn't my responsibility. I remember how bad it hurt that I couldn't fix her hurt, I couldn't even fix mine. I remember her coming up to the podium too, and them standing with me as I finished reading those pages about her through my tears. I remember I hated hearing that I had given a beautiful tribute, because all of those memories were still not enough; the details were too fuzzy, I couldn't get them right. I wished so badly that I had been able to hear more of her stories, but she didn't really think they were as important as I did. So there were only a few that summer. Mom and my aunt were perfect skeptics of Grandma's tales and I think she was afraid that I wouldn't believe her either but I did; they were the hilights of her life. She used to say, "Oh honey, it's been such a long time, I don't remember right now. Ask me another night." That was her way of brushing me off gently, before she'd wander and go to sleep.


After remembering all these things myself to the best of my ability, there is one line in Boland's piece that stood out more than the rest and that I found really inspiring as a writer and it's where she is talking about the memory of her great grandmother's father's history. She says, "And the way I build that legend now is the way I heard it: out of rumor, fossil, fact, half memories." I think it's beautiful and it makes me want to play somuch more with and build  my own memories of moments in my life, memories of things i've seen and those fragmented remembrances of ancestors and moments stuck on a country lane watching the kids and cows go by. Her descriptions are so vivid it's impossible not to congure them up in my mind. This whole article connects so well with what we have been discussing in class about paying attention, walking, and writing; this whole paper is saturated with calls to the reader to pay attention to the details around you and draw from your memories and what has ever left you with a memory as fuel to feed the fire of creativity in regard to writing. There is one last point on page twenty eight which I noted and relate to. It's where she addresses one of her struggles with writing saying that she could go through the motions but there felt a disconnect which she later realized was: " my powers of expression made my mind as a human being the subject of the poem, my life as a woman remained obdurately the object of it." I feel like this is still really hard for me not to avoid and I'm hopeful that the lessons she shared can help with that.

Literary Event: the Reading of "Just Like That"

For my first literary even I went to Patricia Ann Mcnair''s reading of "Just Like That" a short story from her book The Temple of Air. I love how she portrays the cicadas as making an electric buzzing I know exactly what she meant when she said it after having to try and sleep through that same incessant buzzing for over a year in the time that I lived in Tennessee. I could never quite figure out how to describe that sound before when trying to explain it to friends who lived back here in California but now I can thanks to Mcnair's depiction of it. I could picture the tornado sirens and the indoor halls of a high school back east so easily as she described the sound of the wind. These are things I remember from my own high school experience in Tennessee. I love how she was able to capture the narrative voice of such a young character so well and how the dialogue played so well into the plot line. I appreciate the enthusiasm with which she read the story and how she actually acted out the character's voices and seemed to bring them to life for us as listeners instead if just doing a monotone reading of the words on the page. Even more than that I really appreciate the honesty in the answers she gave to questions asked of her about her writing techniques like how she DOES have to struggle with things like being able to find the right words for her dialogues to fit the age of the character and the era that the speaker is living in. It was also comforting to know that as such a great writer still has to struggle with her writing like the rest of us and that before she ever gets to the point that she is content with her work, she can go through up to even thirty drafts. There were several parts of her story that intrigued me too. Skitching was something I'd never heard of before but now that I have it's something I decided is going on my bucket list of things to do before I die. There is something about the simplicity of her writing that is truly beautiful and relateable to me. I really enjoyed having been able to go to this event!

Depression

It could be a shallow indent left in the mud by a curiously calloused child's hand;

the type of glassware Grandma remembered to me from days gone by

when she was but a child herself; these were the times when markets crashed,

jobs were scarce and the nation went hungry hoping for change;

angular line used both by surveyors of earth and sky as they journey West;

one will wonder at the slant of these celestial junctions as they stand inside it;

a hollowed land where water once locked by looming earthen walls has all been whisked away;

an unnaturally strong thief who empties the pockets of the mind until it becomes drained;

no burden of caring;  no will to wake up and face the day;

manifest physical pain commence and consequence it;

driving force of industry for doctors and shrinks;

crook in the trunk of a familiar tree where a hurt heart creeps to contemplate life;

when children cease to play; often lonely but never alone;

caused and cured by many things like a muddied child's hand in the 1930's.

The writer's journey and the Influencers They Meet Along the Way (response #3)

                Carl Phillips’ Another and Another Before That: Some Thoughts on Reading was a really insightful piece on his own journey in reading and writing in which he has taken the time to express what he’s learned on this journey.  As a fellow writer I can appreciate the suggestions he has to offer. The way he starts of this piece does remind me a bit about our class discussions about paying attention walking and writing.  His concept on how to look at reading is great:  “as the lifelong construction of a map by which to trace and plumb what it has ever meant to be in the world, and by which to gain perspective on that other, ongoing map—the one that marks our own passage through the world as we both find and make it.”  I agree with his idea that reading is necessary to gain perspective on the world, it’s like that old saying about putting yourself in the other person’s shoes and seeing if you can walk a mile in them.

                There was one point in his essay that I laughed when I read because I do so strongly relate to the sentiment he shares: “Writing has always been for me an entirely private act—I don't share poems with other writers, I've no particular interest in having my work workshopped. Writing is one of the few spaces where I can be alone and not be questioned as to why or how I choose to be myself. Reading has also been that, from the start. I think it's true to say that, through childhood, the one thing I most looked forward to was being permitted to go upstairs to my room and read.”  It is as if he captured on paper, verbatim the thoughts that have for years swam through my head. It wasn’t until my first college level creative writing class that I learned to accept that sometimes, just sometimes, constructive criticism is a good thing. It also helped that when we did our workshops though the responders had to write their names, the poets were allowed to remain anonymous so there was somewhat less of a social anxiety to deal with. This, I greatly appreciated considering (go figure) I had already been clinically diagnosed with anxiety just six month prior.

                I can appreciate how later in the article he says everything counts, from People Magazine to the New York Times. But right before that he said something that really stuck in my head, “any poet worth reading probably read everything that came to hand, out of that insatiable desire, that curiosity that makes us wants to grapple with the irresolvable and/or memorable and transcribe it in lines.” While I agree whole heartedly with his statement, it’s somewhat disheartening because lately it just seems like there’s not enough hours in the day to read all I want to! He seemed to understand this sentiment also as he ends the piece with this pearl of wisdom, “If we are genuine readers and writers, we should see squarely the impossibility of reading everything there is to read—and yet, impossibly, we should want to try.”  On this same note, I Love the fact that he lists all the authors that have influenced him over the years and what he has learned from them. It gives me something to look forward to when I have some free time; reading suggestions are always welcome. In conclusion, I have to leave you with my favorite quote from the article: “To read is to get a sense of the many ways in which vision has manifested itself in the past and continues to do so. We are wasting our time, though, if we believe that we shall thereby gain access to our own vision.” For me, this was pretty thought provoking and after considering it for some time, very true. Never have I read two authors that sounded exactly the same; it seems to echo back to his earlier statement that, “an original voice can perhaps half willingly be seduced; it is rarely mastered.”

Sailing on a Heat Wave

Perhaps you don't recall...

that summer I sailed away,

propelled by heat; powerful surges,

 rocking, rolling, rippling undulation of days.

Sweltering waves of afternoon sun, 

washed over you. Lulled
as you were, to sleep.

Pallid brow, dew-drenched

despite your sanguine blush.
Fragmented light, glittering, danced down the wall.

 golden rays like smoke tendrils

 traced the contours of your face;

  lightning whispered away,  

summoned me, from there...

to adventure.

The Disease

Everywhere I look, you kiss.
 you cuddle.
        you coddle.
               you croon.

When I start to feel a snide remark
     slither
       up
          my
              throat----
 I bite my tongue;
 as much as I want to be bitter,
 I can't.

I feel a pit
in my stomach.

I'm not, that angry girl anymore;
the one who laughs at "you fools."

I want to know what it is that drives you,
puts you in this rabid, ravenous state.

What is it that causes
the ever-glowing twinkle in your eyes,
that keeps you together
despite the constant fights?

Blind to the world
and everything in it, except,
each other----
when I see you like this.

You hunger  for each other;
Cannibals,
so gently tearing each others' flesh.

I wonder,
and the pit in my stomach swells.

Still, I find myself smiling,
witnessing  your joy, I realize---
I want your disease.

I wonder
how everyone's getting infected,
Everyone but me.
I crave the madness that you share.

I name the pit envy,
        and love
 was your disease.

D.A. Powell Making a Case for Exploration, Making mistakes and Against Over Thinking

The D.A. Powell essay was actually very interesting and informative. It gave names to techniques I had been, but never realized I have been using in my writing all along. The section of the essay where he discusses Tristan Tzara’s opinion of poetry we’ve written as being the greatest mistakes we’ve made Powell says, “Perhaps the first and greatest instinct of poetry is to mistake, misstep, mishear.” I agree completely; I whole heartedly believe in accidents of discovery and the “Mondegreen effect.” Despite the fact that I’ve had too many Mondegreen situations to count happen to me with music that I “thought” I knew, some of my greatest discoveries in my own writing have been the result of misreading my own handwriting in my poetry diaries. In my case, I generally always write my poetry in small cursive so it’s harder for other people to read on the off chance that there are snoops around who would read it. As a result of this I’ve have misread my own writing on several occasions where it turned out for the better.

I think the part in this piece that most related to the issues we’re discussing in class about paying attention, walking, and writing was where towards the end of the essay Powell references Rachel Zucker telling his students to “take the familiar from your work and make it unfamiliar,” when she says to “revise towards strangeness.” Though I didn’t completely feel comfortable embracing this notion, Powell’s addition to her advice, “revise toward discovery,” I absolutely agree with. When we take the walks we have to write about our thoughts and the sights we see in combination with the fact that we are obligated to make ourselves consciously aware of our surroundings which, in this day and age doesn’t seem to happen very often. Because of this, I think we are naturally forced to start to think about these things in ways that are different from the familiar. Before our walks I never would have looked at the creek coming back from to town from my best friend’s house as a, “muddied ribbon, its faint shimmer faded from years of wear as it vainly (which ironically, originated as valiantly) struggles to cinch the waist of this legless college town.” However, in my free-thoughts while I was staring at the creek, I thought about the reputation of “Chico drunks” and how most creeks really do look like shiny ribbons from far away and my great uncle Archie a 93 year old marine core raider one of the bravest men I know. Later when I was looking back at it I thought of something he used to call the “worthless drunks” he’d met in “his day” and the end result was the aforementioned line in my notes. Though all situations and ideas were familiar to me before in some way or another, the form they took in combination was something strange to me; yet, I liked it. This is the understanding I gained from the concept of revision towards strangeness and discovery that Powell communicates.

In another section, I love the analogy he makes about not being able to use an ultrasound on your brain for a poem that is still developing. Far too many times in my writing experience I have asked the exact questions to myself that his students ask him if he worries about. Is this too____ or is this too ____. I love the advice he gives at the end of the paragraph on the top of page 223 where he says it’s good to worry about tone and language but, “take these worries on at the time of revision, not at the time of first vision.” If I had a mantra for poetry writing I think this would be it. It is far too easy to over think things when you’re working in an environment where the tools you have to use are as endless as the possibilities you have to use them, profoundness and vagueness are celebrated, and success is never guaranteed (despite the fact that it is human nature to strive for success).

Yesterday's Dreams

When you left

I learned to write, I learned

to capture my voice----

on a page I

drained all

the

hurts

I

dare

 not

 name.

when you left

I learned not to cry, I learned

to put pen to paper----

Dry-eyed like the creek

at summer's end;

tears,

once

 freely flowing

trickle

away

to

 nothing;

like you.

Gone.

When you left

it was

words on a page,

I, with pen

glued to parchment

I, write you away.

 yesterday's

dreams.

 

 

 



Sanctuary Lost

There is a door,
white framed and glass paned.
I've looked through it a hundred thousand times.
          
But today,
today was different.
            Shimmering azure waters,
            pink lolling toungs of pups;
            my childhood play things
                                           were not
                                                    what caught my eye.

I slither through the crack,
                                 narrow space
                                             I permit myself,
so as not to wake mother from her mid-day slumber.

Creep across the steaming cement and sharp white rocks.
Summer grass tickling my bare feet---- I reach for it.
Shiny thing which caught my eye, a latch?
The fence shudders under my unsteady child's hand
                                                                           and swings open.
Magic!
Sparkling waters of a creek that slithers,
                                                    through the depths of the suburbs.
It beckons me to follow it---- so I do.

A dusty trail leads me to a secret paradise,
              my sanctuary for years to come.
I've lain in the field of poppies for hours
       ----and days.
Where miners lettuce fed my hunger pangs,
Where the touch of lamb's-ear calmed my nerves,
Where I made endless flower chains.

I never wanted to leave.
                                But, one day
           mother's husband came,
                                         stealing it,
                                                  and her,

                                                         away from me.
                                     

“No, I wasn’t meant to love and be loved”

By: Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib

Translated By: Vijay Seshadri

No, I wasn’t meant to love and be loved.

If I’d lived longer, I would have waited longer.

Knowing you are faithless keeps me alive and hungry.

Knowing you faithful would kill me with joy.

Delicate are you, and your vows are delicate, too,

so easily do they break.

You are a laconic marksman. You leave me

not dead but perpetually dying.

I want my friends to heal me, succor me.

Instead, I get analysis.

Conflagrations that would make stones drip blood

are campfires compared to my anguish.

Two-headed, inescapable anguish!—

Love’s anguish or the anguish of time.

Another dark, severing, incommunicable night.

Death would be fine, if I only died once.

I would have liked a solitary death,

not this lavish funeral, this grave anyone can visit.

You are mystical, Ghalib, and, also, you speak beautifully.

Are you a saint, or just drunk as usual?

Source: Poetry (April 2009).

           This poem speaks to me on a couple different levels. I love the authors progression in
introducing the relationship. It feels like such a real reflection. In the beginning there is bitterness in the tone when the author says,"No, I wasn’t meant to love and be loved./ If I’d lived longer, I would have waited longer." A lamentation of their state of being perpetually waiting on someone who would never be theirs. Moving on the author spends three stanzas describing the degree of anguish this makes them feel. Then the subject turns to the narrators friends for the next two standaz describing the separation the narrator felt even from friends  because of the relationship. It describes how they offered no comfort but rather criticizm using exquisite imagery to express the degree of harm their treatment made the narrator feel, for example: "Conflagrations that would make stones drip blood/ are campfires compared to my anguish." The narrator descibes how this feeling carries on over a period of time. The end though, is what grounds poem in reality,the part i connected with most, "You are mystical, Ghalib, and, also, you speak beautifully./ Are you a saint, or just drunk as usual?" This poem is about those silver tounged devils who may be genuine when they're sober but when they're drunk, they do what they have to to get what they want.