Grasping at Minutes

The student papers are piling up, the news of the world is more stressful by the day, and poetry is not making it to the top of my priority list lately. I read in fits and starts. I try to keep up with my favorite blogs. And, I recently realized that I hadn't sent out any poems for September, so tonight I made a start. The start feels rejuvenating, but the student papers are leering at me from my bookbag.

I am just about reconciled to being a summer writer, at least for generating new work. I know other academics who work this way, but I had hoped I'd be able to "settle into" my teaching career enough to free up some time during the school year to do some serious drafting. It doesn't look to be happening anytime soon. I make small revisions. I work on the manuscript as new deadlines for book submissions approach. I am carving out time tonight to focus on submissions--the stack of folders teeters to my left. In other words, like so many others out there, I make do.

We've just completed Week 5 of a 16 week semester.

Reginald Shepherd 1963-2008

Reginald Shepherd died earlier this week. Reginald chose Blood Almanac for the Anhinga Prize and changed my life. I never had the chance to meet him and thank him in person, and we only exchanged a handful of emails; however, I will be forever grateful to him for plucking my manuscript from a long history of semi-finalist and finalist status.

More importantly, having read his work and admired it deeply, his voice will be missed.

You, Therefore
For Robert Philen

You are like me, you will die too, but not today:
you, incommensurate, therefore the hours shine:
if I say to you “To you I say,” you have not been
set to music, or broadcast live on the ghost
radio, may never be an oil painting or
Old Master’s charcoal sketch: you are
a concordance of person, number, voice,
and place, strawberries spread through your name
as if it were budding shrubs, how you remind me
of some spring, the waters as cool and clear
(late rain clings to your leaves, shaken by light wind),
which is where you occur in grassy moonlight:
and you are a lily, an aster, white trillium
or viburnum, by all rights mine, white star
in the meadow sky, the snow still arriving
from its earthwards journeys, here where there is
no snow (I dreamed the snow was you,
when there was snow), you are my right,
have come to be my night (your body takes on
the dimensions of sleep, the shape of sleep
becomes you): and you fall from the sky
with several flowers, words spill from your mouth
in waves, your lips taste like the sea, salt-sweet (trees
and seas have flown away, I call it
loving you): home is nowhere, therefore you,
a kind of dwell and welcome, song after all,
and free of any eden we can name

Reprinted from Fata Morgana by Reginald Shepherd, published by the University of Pittsburgh Press. Copyright © 2007 by Reginald Shepherd.

Job Benefits

I've talked about teaching at the community college level before, but today a new benefit made itself known to me. Each semester, as I begin teaching literature (either in a Comp class or in a Lit class), it is inevitable that a student challenges all my long-held beliefs about the worth of my subject matter. As I explain once again why I see literature as valuable to a student who may never read another poem, story, or play outside of my class, and who may be more concerned with how to pay this month's electricity bill than how to write a literary analysis, I am forced to stop and think and put myself in that student's shoes.

I ask my students simply to give the literature a chance. I ask them to be open-minded and curious. Today, I was reminded that I need to be the same with my students. My hope is that we all learn something from each other by the end of the semester.

Today, I am grateful to be teaching such diverse students, who may yet teach me more about the literature that I love.

A New Field of Dreams...For Writers

I have been under the weather lately, but this post on Poetry's Harriet blog did indeed make me smile. Check out Travis Nichols' Iowa You Make Me Smile. It appears that Iowa City is trying to recover from the horrible pork barrel fiasco of the Rainforest Project with a plan for a museum of literature and other goodies on the site.

Birth Day

Yesterday, two of my closest friends welcomed their baby boy to the world.

Hello, Harper! Welcome to the World!
In a few hours, I'll be meeting you in person.
Can't wait.

First Two Weeks

Well, we've been back at school now for two weeks, and, as suspected, my writing/reading time has dwindled. Unfortunately, time for blogging is suffering the most.

One tough moment in teaching lit. is when I've assigned a story or poem or play that I love, usually a piece that was instrumental in my formation as a writer, and I walk into the classroom completely pumped up and discover that the class or a particularly vocal student finds the piece less than thrilling. Such a thing happened earlier this week. I know not everyone has the same taste and not all of my students are interested in literature to begin with. That being said, it still takes the wind out of my sails a bit when it happens.

In the meantime, I did find time to read the new issue of Poets & Writers and now have several new scraps of paper with authors & titles listed. I thought the article on David Rhodes, an author with whom I was unfamiliar, was especially interesting. I hope to be able to read Rhodes when my schedule eases up a bit. Also, the article on the Dickman twins, Michael and Matthew, especially the sample poems, made me want to check out their work.

When will the cloning machine be ready, or the time-stretching machine?

Sadly

Please read this blog entry from Stacey Lynn Brown regarding one press's unethical dealings with her book, and pass it on.

What I'm Reading: Unaccustomed Earth

Jhumpa Lahiri is one of my all-time favorite fiction writers. I first fell in love with her work when reading her story collection Interpreter of Maladies. Then, her novel The Namesake came out, and it was just as wonderful. This week, while getting back into my teaching schedule, I've been trying to read a story a night from her new collection, Unaccustomed Earth.

Lahiri writes out of the emigrant/immigrant experience, mostly Indians who move to Great Britain or America or the next generation of Indians born in the west. She is a subtle writer, and I am perhaps drawn to her for the quietness of her prose.

One story in particular took my breath away. "Hell-Heaven" tells the story of a woman unraveling her mother's life. Her mother and father were married in India in a traditional arranged wedding. The narrator has grown up in America and struggles to understand her parents. We are all alien to and from our parents at some stage of adulthood; however, the culture clash of being raised in India, as the narrator's mother was, and being raised in America, as the narrator was, brings that alienation into even sharper focus. The story ends, and I won't spoil it for you, in a jaw-dropping revelation about one moment in the mother's life which might have changed everything, but didn't. It's a story, intricately woven, of love, duty, and loss, three eternal components of the human condition.

Lahiri has a way of gently drawing me into her characters and their lives, exposing their cares and concerns in such an empathetic way that I can't help forming a deep bond with them. As is true of all great books, I am slightly saddened each time a story ends.

Glacial Elegies ~ 5 Hrs; 8 Ft

I can't remember if I've blogged about the eight foot conference table my brilliant husband bought several years ago or not. (Today was the first day of classes and my brain is a bit muzzy.) In any case, this past weekend, I spent five hours shuffling poems around on said eight foot table. Said table is cumbersome. Most days it lurks, propped up behind the door to the laundry room, something for the dust bunnies to hide behind. However, when needed, it is the perfect location for laying out the individual poems in a 50-60 page manuscript.

[This weekend of revision was based on the careful comments from two close poet-friends, to whom I am indebted.]

I'm not sure why or how, but it looks like I'll end up with three sections in this book, the same as the last. The table is perfect for making three rows of poems (of about 20 poems each) and still being able to read each poem. I discovered with Blood Almanac that I need to see the entire book at once during its construction. I need to be able to let my eye float over the pages and to let my brain see the connections between the poems (or not). As I weighed the comments and made my decisions, I plucked poems from here & there and placed them in a new location or tossed them on the floor. What I found most interesting was the domino effect that began almost immediately. Yes, I agreed that the first poem in the first section wasn't doing its job and needed to be moved. But, wait, now the next poem isn't working to launch the section, either .... Drat .... chaos and shuffling begin.

In the end, after five hours and three separate printouts, I felt a sense of wholeness about the book that hadn't been there before. I've added a few newer poems that have been in the pipeline and I've taken out a few of the weaklings from the first draft. I'm also happier with the arc of the book now. Who knows how long the satisfaction will last, but it's a good feeling for now.

What I'm Reading: Weather Eye Open

With a new school year approaching, and a new computer needing a home on the desk, I've spent the last few days reorganizing my home office. In the process, I found a slip of paper with the title Weather Eye Open and author Sarah Gridley. (I'm in the habit of jotting titles/authors down on scraps of paper as I stumble across them. I suppose it is up to fate as to when and if I ever continue the journey of reading them.)

Having read only the first handful of poem in Gridley's book, I am already falling in love with her work. Her use of language is gymnastic; verbs, nouns, and adjectives sparking against each other in huge leaps of imagination.

Here's the opening of "Genealogy"

To ear, the shell recounts the ocean's holdings. To eye,
the book refigures pulse, spun-black signatures outlasting
guests of body.
      She locks it in
the top-most drawer. In sleep a bullfight
brights its gore inside her.

Here's the opening of "Wanting the Ten-Fingered Grasp of Things"

At this portion of the curve
where quartz is ground, the ocean brokers
broken wares. Energy is cursive, cold, and beautiful.

Basically, at this point, I want to type the full extent of each poem I have read. In some ways, I am surprised at how strongly I am receiving these poems. While I'm not a narrative poet, my poems usually show some tie to a sense of place, with a clear speakers, usually an I or a she moving through time and space. At lease in the first couple of sections of poems that I've read in Gridley's book, this doesn't seem to be the case. These poems are pure lyric, and I feel like I'm swimming through the language, awash in images and actions, making my own sense of the work.

Quotes and more

"Yet it is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top."
Virginia Woolf
A Room of One's Own

"There is no reason to write a book unless the process of imagining it changes one's life forever."
Richard Manning
Grasslands

"I was an earth thing all along
my feet are catching in the brush"
A. R. Ammons
"Breaking Out"
A Coast of Trees

~~~~

Books on the side table waiting to be read:

Unaccustomed Earth Jhumpa Lahiri
Cocktails D. A. Powell
the true keeps calm biding its story Rusty Morrison

Smattering

Tomorrow, I go back to work. A week of meetings and professional development. Students on the 18th. My goal will be to blog once a week. My teaching schedule is still in flux. One of the realities of teaching at the community college level is that there is no consistency in student enrollment. Classes that make easily one semester might struggle the next, even for full-time faculty. I'd rather start the semester off with a bit more surety, but there you go. I should know by Tuesday what I'll be teaching for sure and when. The situation is even more tenuous for adjunct instructors, and they have my sympathy.

I am pleased with my accomplishments for the summer. The book is shaping up and facing its first readers. Thanks to those who've taken the time to give me feedback. I'll send it off for the first time by Sept. 15th. I only hope that I'll be able to keep my writing balance when back to teaching. As always, it is helpful to have a supportive husband along the way.

I've just discovered (or rediscovered, maybe?) the idea of the palinode, a poem that retracts what a poet might have said in an earlier poem. I'm fascinated by the idea, as I've been struggling with several poems I've written in which I know I've captured a "truth," yet the poems seem so harsh and filled with blame/regret/anger. This palinode reminds me that I might have captured a momentary truth, but I can always retract and change my focus. I've always known that poetry (art) could do this, but it's nice to see it in action.

I've been reading the current issue of Hayden's Ferry Review and highly recommend the poetry gathered there. Of particular note is the international section, which features poems in the poet's orginal language on the facing page opposite the translation. This should be mandatory when publishing translations. Having never seen Bengali in print before, I was stunned by the beauty of its characters. I couldn't read the original, of course, but some readers will be able to, as I am of some remnants of French, and seeing the original against the translation only widens the dialogue. Aside from the translations, the journal is simply beautifully produced and worth the read.

Elegy for the Library Checkout Card

So, I've been using InterLibrary Loan from my school's library and using the public library a good deal. As I thumbed through a book last night, it struck me once again how much I miss the old checkout cards. I loved being able to see who had read a book before me. All the different handwritings and names made me feel connected in some way.

Granted, I also like the due date slips that are pasted into the book with the due date stamped. This way I can see how many other readers have checked out the book. I feel sorry for books with no other stamps than mine. Granted, the library might have just changed the slip, but still, that one date looks so forlorn. If I'm browsing the shelves and see that no one has checked the book out, I just might take it home so it will earn a stamp!

However, our public library uses recyclable due date cards. Each card has four dates, month and day, printed so that depending on how the card is flipped in the slot, a different due date shows up. The "save the planet" part of me loves this idea, but it doesn't let me know the history of the book, which saddens me.

I do know the reasons for pulling checkout cards, and I'm a huge fan of privacy laws, so I'm not seeking a return to the old. I'm just mourning the passing of a tradition that made me feel a part of a larger circle, I guess.

Wordle

Thanks, Monda, for posting about Wordle.net. I have been mesmerized all afternoon. Here is a Wordle of my poem "Berries Frozen in Fog." Watching the program create the image, I "see" the poem in a new way. Fun. Loads of fun.

(Sean, if you read this, you will be soooooooo proud of me. I learned how to do a screen shot and convert from a TIFF to a JPEG. Holy Cow!)

Here's the poem as it appears in MARGIE vol. 5:

Berries Frozen in Fog

Small orange bursts burden the branch. The weight
makes bend and curve, shows all there is to know

about belief. The fruit’s skin glows like blown
glass that breath itself might break in half.

This is winter in the west, my refugium
(from the French fugere, which means to flee),

my high ground under siege. This fleeting
wind has dragged the arctic down to me.

The day proceeds, decidedly outmatched.
Slow thaw. The sprig springs back. The tipping point

is met. The ice melts off the leaves the way
that grief lets loose, gently undoing the latch,

when no one else is watching, slipping past.


Now, back to the new submissions!

Embarkation

August has arrived. For those unfamiliar with the world of poetry publishing, most of the journals and publishers work on an academic calendar. Things move slowly, slowly during the summer months, if they move at all. Many lit mags and book contests are closed to submissions during June and July.

Yesterday, a handful of lit mags opened their reading periods. Come September, the floodgates will be loosed. It's time to warm up the printer and buy the paper.

However, soon, the paper and printer will go the way of all things 20th century. A good portion of the journals are now accepting submissions via electronic means (either email or an online submission manager). A poet-friend and I had lunch this week and exchanged recent experiences with online submissions. There are many pros and a few cons, it seems. The pros have to do with saving money on postage not to mention paper and ink, receiving confirmation on receipt, ease of withdrawing a piece if necessary, and saving time in general. Our one beef with the electronic submission format has to do with the responses we receive. Both of us have received snail mail rejections with notes of encouragement from mags that are now using electronic systems. We've both gotten vague replies via email from the same mags that encouraged us in the past. It is near impossible to tell if the rejection is the standard one or if there is a personal message within.

Case in point. I recently received this email from a journal I absolutely love and admire and have been submitting to for years. In the past two years, I've felt like I was gaining ground because in snail mail rejections, I've gotten personal notes of encouragement. Here's the email:

"Thank you for giving us the chance to consider your work for publication in The anonymous Review. Though it does not fit our current needs, we appreciate your interest in our magazine and your commitment to quality writing. I really enjoyed reading your poems. Keep up the great work."

Those first two lines seem to be the standard rejection, but the next sentence brings in the "I." Is that the personal message? It seems unlikely that editors have the power to edit within the system, but I'm still curious. Does the electronic system prevent editors from sending personal notes?

Let me be clear. I'm not criticizing this journal, or any of the others using electronic submissions. By and large, I prefer to submit electronically. I'm just throwing the uncertainties out there. Anyone who tries to get their work out there knows that the process, aside from the very clear guidelines provided by most journals, is muzzy indeed.

I've got my list of 20 mags with open reading periods, I've got my batch of poems all polished and shiny, and tomorrow I'll begin the process of sending my poems out there, if I find the courage to begin.