Drafting Days: Cat Scratch Fever

71º ~ glorious, after days & days & days of soggy rain, the sun arrives but not the humidity, wahoo


Yes, I've been writing for the past three days, but I've found that I'm not driven to include my draft notes as I've done in the past. In some ways, the process is always the same: sit in chair, read for inspiration, wool-gather words, become struck by a line, begin.

What I do have to say is that the drafts for Monday and Tuesday were inspired by my recent dental drama (needing a crown replaced, discovering serious decay, having a root canal performed by a jackass, etc.).  However, today, the draft remained medical in nature, and with a human subject, but was inspired by Gracie, our diva-cat who just underwent her second major surgery for breast cancer.

Some of you may remember that the sickly speaker was largely inspired by our cat Lou-Lou's lost battle with myelofibrosis. Now, I seem to be writing about surgeries to remove masses from a human speaker, but based on Gracie.

All of this reminded me that once, when I had been talking about the great emotional toll taken by working with community college students, who have higher rates of poverty, domestic violence, homelessness, etc, someone asked, "have you written poems about their stories?" My answer then, and now, was and is "no." Those are their stories to tell. While I empathize and sympathize and give all I can to support those students and help them find a way out, I don't feel inspired to write persona poems around those issues.

Instead, I seem to be most comfortable transfiguring the experiences of our cats onto human figures in my poems.    

So be it.

Drafting Days: Touchstone Poets

75º ~ working on our sixth straight day of seeping rain, little sun, all is mossy and green


Today, I'm thankful for touchstone poets.

I'm still casting about for my groove, having caught it briefly a few days ago and then lost it. Today, I feared it was gone forever, but then, wahooooza, I found it again.

Last night I remembered that in the past I often told myself, "I'm going to write a poem in the morning," before going to sleep, and that I'd had some success with this. So, I did it last night, and I repeated it through my morning routine. Then, I put my butt in the chair (B-I-C) and picked up the nearest book. I read it with little interest. The poems weren't really my thing, even though the language was interesting and the ideas clever. Still, I gave it the college try and I repeated my goal to myself.

Eventually, I realized I had given the book a solid effort and put it down. An image flashed in my head, the image of my bookshelf and the spines of a couple of books I'd brushed past the day before when putting another book away. Aha! I thought, I'm going to re-read Lisa Russ Spaar, who like Lucie Brock-Broido, is someone whose poetry often charges through me and sends words tumbling out of me and onto the page. Why didn't I just start by reading someone whose work I already knew would do this?

See, I have this type A personality problem. I have this towering stack of poetry books that are unread, and I feel like I have to read the new ones before turning back to the old ones. But, as I was repeating my "I'm going to write a poem this morning" mantra and being frustrated, I realized that these should be two separate activities. The reading to inspire new drafts works best with writers and books I've already read and loved. The reading of unread books is to discover others who might fall into that camp later.

In any case, I opened Blue Venus and got all the way to the second poem, when a line of my own came bursting out ("When all the gods have gone to ground..."). Shazam. After days of forcing lines, stumbling and stuttering through the process, today a draft flew down the page. OK, so it's another short one, only 12 lines, but again, it felt "right."

So thank you to those touchstone poets, for teaching me over and over to trust the process and for the poems, both yours and mine.

Drafting Days: Finding the Groove

76º ~ the air thickened with humidity, a quarter inch of rain yesterday, more on the horizon for today, the six-week-old sod rejoices, we humans struggle for breath


Dear Reader, I have done it. I have written 11 lines that I do not hate.

Blessed be the work of Lucie Brock-Broido who rarely fails me. Instead of listening to the no-voices today...well, after listening to them for two hours...I heaved myself up and said, "screw it...I'm going to write an 'Am' poem even though I know I've done one before ('June' from Blood Almanac), and even though I know I'm imitating the form found in Lucie Brock-Broido's 'Am Moor.'"

Here's the thing. The first time I read "Am Moor" in Davis McCombs' form & theory class at the University of Arkansas, the poem sang to me in that weird, connective voice. I bonded with it more than with any other poem in The Master Letters. Yes, it seems ego-centric to focus on the phrase "I am," but by excising the "I," the poem explodes into the mysterious mix of persona and poet.

So today, I started with all the things that I'm afraid of right this minute. No, I started out thinking I was writing about things that have me stressed today, having suffered a bout of "wild mind" at 2 a.m. and getting little sleep after that. Quickly, I realized that beneath those little stresses was a whole lot of fear. Once I cracked that door open, the poem unfolded.

This draft is teeny, tiny at only 11 lines, but the drafting of those lines felt like singing...stuttering while singing, but singing nonetheless. And if it takes writing several more "Am" poems in this fractured lyric form for me to discover whatever's coming next, then so be it. I'm tired of trying to think of something new.

PS: B-I-C works!

BIC and Writing Badly

79º ~ a thin cloud cover muting the sun, a week without rain, spent the morning watering


I've written before about BIC (butt-in-chair) and writing badly, and once again I find myself right there at the beginning of the cycle. This cranky brain time is often compared to starting up a physical activity again after a time of inactivity; one must re-train the muscles or the brain's sparkplugs to fire at the right the time, to strengthen, to succeed.

So, for the past week, I've been at my desk every morning for several hours, often reading, sometimes scratching really crappy lines in my journal, and from time to time, doing nothing at all but staring. However, after years of experiencing this cycle, for the first time, I'm not really too anxious about it. Sure, there's the ever present fear and all the negative voices, but I'm holding on to past results, to the knowledge that I've been here before and I've found my way out.

One way out is to exorcise the negativity, so here's a list of what I'm hearing in my head these days.

"All the good topics have been taken."
"There's nothing left to write about."
"You've already written about your grandparents, your parents, your landscape...how boring to go there again."
"Nobody wants another bird poem so stop writing that!"
"Nature has been done to death in poetry. There's nothing new there."
"No, you can't write another poem about what you see outside your window."
"No, you can't write more poems about the body and illness."
"No. No. No. No. No."

Still, I scratch on. All the while, Gillian Welch is singing in my ear:

"There's gotta be a song left to sing
'Cause everybody can't have thought of everything
One little song that ain't been sung
One little rag that ain't been wrung out completely yet"

I hope so...I know so...I just don't know what's around the corner for me yet. So, here's a toast to letting the process work, to keeping my butt in the chair for however long it takes.

Today I Wrote a Poem

74º ~ the sweet warmth returns, praise be, all sun and a breeze that can only be defined as "playful and non-threatening"


Today, I wrote a poem. It is only the third poem I've written in 2014, my slowest period of writing yet.

I have been looking forward to a return to focused writing for several months, but this morning, I had to put my pen where my mouth has lately been. By this I mean that sometime in April, I think at the Arkansas Literary Festival, I was asked about writer's block, and I proudly declared, "I don't believe in writer's block!" If memory serves, I conceded that sometimes I write really shitty drafts, but that I always try to write.

This morning, I began with a method that has rarely failed me: the word bank. For any new readers, this is when I skim a book (usually of poems) from a writer I admire, and I "steal" the nouns & verbs, and sometimes adjectives, that stand out. I let these fall on my journal page in a tumbling mess, my goal being that spark of inspiration/ignition as two words strike each other in just the right way. Today, I filled my page and sure enough a teeny, tiny little spark occurred and I jotted down some quick lines. However, these lines were mostly about sound and I wasn't connected in any emotional way to the meaning, so they fizzled out.

Sigh.

I decided to go back to what I'd been doing the last few days...just reading. I picked up Bright Power, Dark Peace, a chapbook jointly written by Traci Brimhall & Brynn Saito (Diode Editions, 2013). While I'm desperately looking forward to reading this book, I didn't even make it past the first page, "Traveler's Guide to the Ruined City." This prose poem takes the form of an information page one might find in a travel guide or almanac with sections for population, location, history, language, etc.

I didn't even read the descriptions following the section headers. I just dropped the book and picked up my journal, knowing that the angry sisters from last year had something else to say via this adopted form. I didn't use all of the same categories as Brimhall & Saito, and I used line breaks because prose poems are hard for me. Interestingly, I didn't need my word bank at all once I began describing the home of the angry sisters, not a town, city, state, country, etc., but their center of operations, the abandoned barn in which they live together. Who knew?

So, thanks to the inspiration of fellow poets, I have a new (probably shitty) draft, "The Angry Sisters: An Almanac," and that is all that matters.

What I'm Reading: Ghost Gear by Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum

59º ~ in the grips of a cold spell not natural for the middle of May, all is gray, yesterday only up to 61º, today they foretell 73º, but I am doubting


Ghost Gear (University of Arkansas Press, 2014) is a book drenched in water, the water of oceans, lakes, rivers, creeks, and rain. Within that water a body might be buoyed or swept away, and therein lies the promise and the threat at the heart of Andrew McFadyen-Ketchum's re-visioning of his own coming of age. A master of the lyric narrative, McFadyen-Ketchum takes us back, back, back, sometimes to the time of his father before the son's birth, sometimes as far back as the origin of the universe, but mostly back to the time of his own youth as he grew into manhood and tested the boundaries of geography and emotion.

In one of the opening poems in the book, "Tonight," the poet murmurs,

If only I could drop into sediment and murk, so much lost
of the heart's heave through amnion and the liquid wake
and sleep, so much forgotten of the ocean's collapse
and the skull cap's crowning.

The rest of the book is an attempt to reclaim the memory of those key moments in childhood and to examine how those moments helped create the current "I" of the poet-speaker. In doing this, McFadyen-Ketchum allows that not all memory is accurate, but through a deep concentration on authentic details (that trait of the best poets among us), he gets as close as possible.

As example, here is the beginning of "Slag":

I remember sweat, three pennies pressed wide
by the twin track of the train
barely a cinder's heat in my pocket, shirt slicked
to my back like the last bit of flesh on a picked-clean bone.

The train in this poem echoes other trains, along with cars and planes, that appear throughout the book. The speaker on the cusp of adulthood seems always intent on speed, on getting out and getting away, as indeed "Slag" ends with just such a longing:

I wished for the galloping forth of the Minotaur,

and instead it was the Tennessee Southern barreling forth
the coal economy as I crouched just inches
from the flashing-past boxcars,
envisioning the day I'd take off at a sprint
and hurl myself into another land.

This need to test the limits, to move out and away (with some great speed!) from childhood weaves in and out of nearly every poem in the book. Ultimately, though, the poet recognizes what many of us recognize about our family and our childhoods: "I never left that place. I never / returned to that place."

What I'm Reading: Trace by Simone Muench

67º ~ light showers, gray skies, multiple birdsongs, the privets all in bloom (ugh...privet blooms make privet berries, privet berries make privet seeds, privet seeds make baby privets which must be pulled)


I have been a fan of Simone Muench's work since I read Lampblack & Ash (Sarabande, 2005). Last week, I had the time to read Muench's latest, a chapbook of centos from Black Lawrence Press, Trace. (It looks like Sarabande has just published a full-length collection of these centos as well: Wolf Centos.)

A cento is typically defined as a collage poem made up of lines from other poems, sometimes by the same author, sometimes not.

In Trace, each poem is titled "Wolf Cento" and is listed in the table of contents by first line. The thread of the repeated title reinforces the theme throughout this book, as we are in the land of the wolf, the land of forests, huntsmen, and animal instinct. The closeness of animal instinct and what we think makes us human (thus above the animal fray) is at the heart of the matter.

In the back of the book, where I normally jot notes to myself about a collection, I have one small phrase: sound explosions. That sums it up for me, and here is an example from the first cento in Trace.

With flowers in their lapels, nine
howling wolves come hungering.
A surge of wet syllables
dangles from their mouths.

As alway, Muench delighted me with her images and I found myself underlining multiple lines on each page. And there, dear reader, is where I hesitated. Just whose words was I underlining? And with that, my mind went all wonky on the idea of authorship. At the end of the book is a two-page list, tightly packed, of "source materials," a list of names in alphabetical order with no titles of individual works and no connections to Muench's individual poems.

Let me pause to say that at the same time I was reading Muench's book, I was grading final essays in Comp I, essays in which students were meant to demonstrate synthesis of source material and proper MLA documentation. In other words, the time was ripe for me to question the cento.

As a composition instructor, of course, I am hell-bent on making sure my students give credit where credit is due, as an artist, this often conflicts with the idea of shared material and the way artists build new pieces of art from the work of those who have gone before. This butts right up against my work in paper collage, where I was so concerned about copyright that last year I consulted a copyright lawyer about the work I was doing.

The letter of the law is that the way I do my paper collages, I am violating the copyright held by every photographer, artist, and graphic designer who produced the image I cut up. The letter of the law is that when we write centos, unless the original work is out of copyright (and that is very rare, as even texts from Homer's time are often still in copyright for the translator, or the work of writers from the first half of the 20th century are often still in copyright for a family member or trustee), we are violating copyright.

Yet, the cento and the visual collage are clearly "new works." The way Muench smashes lines together or deftly weaves them into a new fabric is her art. The way she sees connections and makes for us as readers some wholly new experience is her art. Is that art by its nature something less than a poem in which she brings each word to the page on her own? Is the cento that much different from my own experience with word banks, in which I "steal" words from other writers and smash them together to form lines of my own? Where does the line exist between raw material and theft?

I know that in other cultures, the idea of individual ownership is not so onerous, but in the 21st century American world of "me, me, me" "look at what I did" the cento (and the collage) stands out as a challenge it seems, as a place to acknowledge the makers of the original pieces while at the same time enjoying and celebrating the new creation. And Trace is certainly a collection that I celebrate.

Full to Bursting

74º ~ humidity declining after 36 hours of sopping wet air and 1.5 inches of rain, a yard newly sodded & now in need of mowing, all the trees in leaf, the world is all pale green


Sometimes life is full to bursting, dear reader. And that has been the definitive case for this semester, for good and for ill. Happily, C. seems well on the mend and nearly back to normal, final grades have been recorded, the large landscape project completed, and my eye now turns back to poetry and home. I won't be attending any conferences or residencies away from home, but I plan to make May 19 - June 20, my own private writing time, minus four days when I'll be working to help host the Arkansas Writers' Conference at PTC.

In the meantime, here are some of the happy poetry things that have happened of late, in no particular order.

One of the poems from The Girlhood Book of Prairie Myths, "Choosing Not to Bear" is included in the Mother's Day feature currently up at Escape into Life. Editor, Kathleen Kirk shows her amazing talent of pairing poetry with art, as always, in this feature, and I appreciate so much that she wanted to show another side of the idea of mothering.

My contributor copy of burntdistrict arrived and waits for me. Here are just a few of the folks with whom my poems (two sickly speaker poems) share pages: Maureen Alsop, Simon Perchik, Michael Levan, Emma Lister, Jennifer Martelli, Barbara Duffey, and so many more. All thanks to the editors, Liz Kay & Jen Lambert, for giving the sickly speaker a home.

Also, my contributor copy of bluestem has long been on my desk, featuring "Seized with a Small Fever," another sickly speaker poem. The lineup of writers in the 2014 print edition is lengthy and mind blowing, including but not limited to: Hannah Cook Cross, Darren Jackson, Jane Satterfield, Marilyn Kallet, Al Maginnes, Charlotte Pence, Gary McDowell, and so many more. Thanks to all of the editors and readers at bluestem for the inclusion.

Two more sickly speaker poems found a home, this time online at Tupelo Quarterly. While this journal has only just begun, it is already one of my favorite reads. Again, I'm surrounded by fellow poets whose work I admire deeply: Dan Albergotti, Kwame Dawes, Chera Hammons, Nancy Reddy, Adam Tavel, and so many more (again).

Yes, the sickly speaker's entire manuscript has been circulating with publishers again this year, currently as The Alchemy of My Mortal Form. Just recently, I was stunned when the manuscript was named a semi-finalist for the Kathryn A. Morton Prize with Sarabande. With all my years of experience with books 1 and 2, I know to take this small victory and celebrate. Yes, this is a good indication that the book will find a home, but I also recognize that it probably won't be a quick journey. In the meantime, many congrats to Jordan Zandi's Solarium, which won the prize this year.

With nothing on my radar save poetry to read, the Carolina wren has taken up his post near my window to provide the background music, and the breeze is cool enough for now.

A Dickensian Kind of April, A Dickensian Kind of Post

70º ~ humidity at 100%, wind hard and steady out of the south, the first severe thunderstorm rolled through at dawn, we await the bulk of the storms due to arrive in the heat of the day


A Dickensian Kind of April...only in the sense of "it was the best of times; it was the worst of times." A Dickensian Kind of Post...in length.

Angie Macri, with whom I read on April 3rd, recently texted me that I needed to update my blog of folks would think she'd abandoned me in a field outside of Searcy, AR after the reading...oh, how I wish that was really what happened!

Instead, there was this.

I had a fabulous time sharing my personal narrative on Paula Martin Morell's Tales from the South, on Tuesday, April 1. This radio program is broadcast internationally, and is well worth a listen to any of the archives. I can't bear to listen to my own voice, but I hope y'all will check me out here. You can hear all about "Gracie's Great Adventure" (yes, I talked about one of our cats!), listen to a mini-interview, and an audience Q & A. All thanks to Paula for this amazing opportunity!

The morning after Tales, C. woke up with some kind of allergic reaction happening. I suspected an insect bite and sent him to the doctor.

From April 1 - April 12, our entire yard was under construction, as Little Rock Lawn Care and Landscaping came in and transformed our surroundings. Just keep that in the back of your mind. For much of this journey, we were parking in a neighbor's empty driveway or across the street; for the beginning part of this journey, there was quite a bit of mud!

On April 3, Angie Macri and I did a joint reading at Harding University, thanks to an invite from Dr. Nick Boone.  We were able to meet with students for an informal workshop and Q & A before our reading. The students were wonderful, quite talented, and asked insightful questions. I had blurbed Angie's forthcoming chapbook, Fear Nothing of the Future or the Past, earlier in the year, but after the reading I'm even more eager for my copy to arrive in the flesh, so to speak. Also, kudos to Harding. The room in which we read was elegant, and the audience engaged.

On arriving home late on the night of the 3rd, C.'s allergic reaction had spread to his hands which swelled to twice their size and began to throb with intense pain. A trip to the doctor the next day could not prevent a scary two weeks where his immune system went haywire and attacked his joints, putting him in an intense pain I hope I never see again and immobilizing him. In the midst of the busiest month of the year, I became a 24/7 caregiver for a few days, with great help from C's parents who came up several times to cover me.

The week of April 7th, saw the planting of a National Poetry Month garden at PTC. My brainstorm that led to the purchase of my lovely laminator! Thankfully, we had done much of the prep work at the end of March and I have access to a student worker who helped make all of this happen.

With the help of steroids and painkillers, C seems fully recovered. We see the allergist soon to discover the source of his misery. Of course, just as C recovered, my vertigo returned! I spent three days of the past week waiting for an appointment with the physical therapist to put my micro-crystals back in place. For the curious, here's all the info on that.

I did get back in fighting form, just in time to welcome Charlotte Pence and Adam Prince to the Big Rock Reading Series and the Arkansas Literary Festival. Charlotte's first full-length poetry collection, Spike, is forthcoming from Black Lawrence, which also published her chapbook, The Branches, The Axe, The Missing, and Adam read from The Beautiful Wishes of Ugly Men, his debut short story collection. Charlotte and Adam are friends, so I might be biased, but I think they gave a knock out reading on Friday at PTC. I was only sad that we had a fairly small turn out. I just wasn't on my A game for promotion and marketing. Luckily, Charlotte and Adam are gracious folks.

Friday night was the Author! Author! party for the festival. All praise to Brad Mooy and the folks who make the festival happen each year. The party is always one of my highlights, with food, drinks, and lots of time to mingle and check out the books of the featured writers.

Yesterday, I was lucky enough to read on a panel with Ash Bowen and John Bensko for the festival. Ash and John are both fine poets, with Ash continuing the U of Arkansas legacy (graduating a few years after me). Both also have new books: The Even Years of Marriage and Visitations, respectively. All thanks to Hope Coulter, my good friend, for moderating our panel. I can't wait until I can return the favor! Finally, all my gratitude to local friends in the audience who might have had to listen to repeats of a few of the poems. Seeing your faces in the crowd put me at ease.

After the reading, I got to have drinks with Charlotte and Adam, and soak up some sweet springtime sunshine. We did talk shop some, but in that sharing of experiences way rather than in any kind of academic pressure way. Yet, we still made time for telling those family stories as well and generally enjoying each other's company. A fine end to a fine festival.

I arrived home around 6:00 p.m., and I collapsed into my recliner, happy for all of the poetry and poets in my life, thrilled that C had spent the day piddling in the back yard, and eager for May 13th (graduation day). I spend my summers writing, and I am ready to go!

Where I'll Be This Week: Tales from the South and Harding University

47º ~ a wee bit late, but spring sprang sprung, all the hardwoods are budding, the flowering trees are flowering, and things are right with the world for the moment


It's going to be a busy week for the Kangaroo.  I've got regular classes, two extra meetings for committee work and professional development. (Somehow, by the grace of the syllabus gods and goddesses, I didn't make anything major due in any of my classes this week.) At home, we are having a wonderful landscaper come in and take our scrubby yard down to nothing and build it back up again. And I have two writer events of my own.  Hold on to your hats!

Writer Event One

Tuesday night (April 1) I'll be reading a piece of non-fiction for Tales from the South. If you are in central Arkansas, I hope you'll consider coming out for a great meal and a chance to hear about "Gracie's Great Adventure." Yes, I wrote the narrative about one of our cats. Chuck is always teasing me about how I need to write some cat poetry, and since he features at the center of Gracie's adventure and will be in the audience, I figure this should suffice.

While I won't be reading poetry, I'll bring a few copies of the books in case anyone is in the mood to support the writer!

Tales from the South is produced and recorded for airing on KUAR and KUAF (Arkansas NPR stations) at Starving Artist Cafe in the Argenta District of North Little Rock. Doors open for dining at 5:00 p.m. with music from The Salty Dogs from 6:00 - 7:00.  I go on at 7:00 and the whole thing will wrap by 8:00.

*This event is ticketed with limited seating.

Writer Event Two

On Thursday (April 3), Angie Macri, poet-colleague-friend, and I will carpool up to Harding University. In the late afternoon Angie and I will conduct a workshop with creative writing students, and then in the evening we will read for faculty, students, staff, and, I believe, the public. If you are in the vicinity of Harding, feel free to message me for details about the reading.

I'm super excited to read with Angie because her first book is coming out soon. Fear Nothing of the Future or the Past is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. You should pre-order your copy today. I blurbed this book, and I can tell you that you won't be disappointed!


I can already predict that I won't be back to blog writing this week, but it is on my list of priorities starting in May. As always, I'm thankful to all of you for reading!

Angie Macri: Writing Process Blog Tour

Thanks to Sandy Longhorn for including me in this tour and being willing to host me on here.  Since this is her blog, I won’t speak in introduction of her or her accomplishments, and since I’ve known her so long, I’m at a loss because there’re so many things to say.  So I will say what she might not even realize:  that she is an earnest woman, concerned with not only place but justice, and that is something that comes through not only her poems but her self.  Such a genuine heart is a rarity, and it is at the core of her words.

What am I working on?

Lately I’ve been trying to promote my first book, a chapbook, Fear Nothing of the Future or the Past.  To keep overhead low, pre-order sales determine the press run, and I’ve been trying not to worry about that.  I’m also beginning to plan readings for the book.  My idea is to reach out to small libraries in Arkansas this summer.  I was awarded an Arkansas Arts Council fellowship years back and that is how I thought I might give back to the state.

There are other manuscripts, too, full-length collections.  One is making the rounds and seems well received but not enough to be selected for publication.  One has developed from the chapbook, with those poems as its core.  Another is called Walking Liberty, which explores issues of freedom for the American woman.  And another seems to be forming from poems related to apples and roses.  The pieces come as they may and I sort them when I can.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

When I was studying creative writing in school, a professor told me, you know, successful poets aren’t nice people.  With the possible exception of Bishop.  Bless him, half the time he didn’t even call me by the right name, but what he said stuck so well that my first thought when I saw this question was still this:  the way that I differ from other poets is that I’m not as good as other poets.  I might be nice, but I’ll never make it.

At first, his comment led to efforts to make my work match others.  To push myself to Do What I’m Supposed to Do.  I struggled with that for a long time.  And then I said forget that, I’ll write how and what I want.  Through this liberation, I have written pieces that are mine.  But I still have phases when I struggle.

Why do I write what I do?

My father started his education at a community college.  His first class was in composition, and he had to analyze the poetry of Robert Frost.  My father had grown up in Brooklyn, a first-generation American, and poetry wasn’t part of his world.  He had gone to a technical high school so he was well educated in math and science, but not in reading or writing.  He was being trained for a technical job, so literature wasn’t thought as being important for his well being.  He had lost his mom to cancer and then was lost himself, bouncing around, ending up in the Midwest working in a cannery.  That wasn’t the future he wanted, and he knew college was the key to something different.  But there he was and poetry was alien to him. 

He only got a C in the class, he would tell you, but he swore that if you could understand poetry, you could understand anything.  No text intimidated him after that.  He took his newfound powers of analysis and continued his education, eventually earning a Ph.D. in educational philosophy.  His students’ lives were better because of that one class, and so was mine.

But more important than the tangible success of his education is what I also mentioned:  that after his mother’s death, he was lost.  Poetry was the way he found solace, freedom, hope, even in the face of his grief.  Through poetry he realized he wasn’t alone, and that such communion is timeless and even beautiful.  He never articulated this to me in these exact words, but I realized them through him in time.

He wrote in the margins of his books, and as soon as I could hold a pencil, he let me draw, then write in the margins of his notebooks.  He loved nature and science, art and philosophy.  Nothing was out of our reach, nor why should we assume that it should be?  Such exploration, such harmony, such basis on tradition and then reaction and movement out and back is natural to me. 

These are things I have come to understand as he suffers now with Alzheimer’s.  I write what I do because of him. And I work to honor him and my mother who loves him, and to offer hope, even in the face of this horror.   

How does my writing process work?

It doesn’t work the way that I wish it could.  I would like to be able to concentrate.  I wonder, if I could, what could I do?  But it isn’t in the cards right now.  Working at a community college, teaching a composition-heavy load, takes time and energy.  Helping parent four children does as well.  These aren’t complaints but matters of fact, and I am thankful to be a teacher and a mother.  So my writing process has become the last hour in the day, and not all days, when I read a few poems in whatever book has come through interlibrary loan.  Sometimes I mull over a phrase or image that caught in my head earlier in the day, maybe during my commute.  Then I see what follows.  I use the Notes tool on my iPhone because that way as I’m falling asleep I can still work and not feel like I’m working.  Then, on mornings on the weekends if I’m lucky, or after I come home from a day at work if I’m very lucky, I have an hour when my head and the house are quiet enough that I can take the Notes to the computer and formalize them into a poem.  These are poems I never thought to write.

This isn’t my ideal process, but it seems to be working for now.  And now is all we have.

The next writer on the tour will be Christina Stoddard, whose webpage is http://www.christinastoddard.com.  Her manuscript Hive won the Brittingham Prize from the University of Wisconsin Press and will be published soon.  Christina reached out to me about a year ago to take part in The Next Big Thing Interview Series, and reaching out to her now seems like a great way to catch up and see where we’ve been and gone in the past year.  Please look for her responses next week.

Where I'll Be: Tales from the South, April 1, 2014

42º ~ dark sky just barely thinking (what a typo! I meant "thinning") toward dawn, trees all skeleton, the tiny leaf buds invisible in this non-light


In my office at work, there is a 4" x 4" printed piece of paper that says "Just Say No." I put that piece of paper there several years ago to remind myself that it is okay to say no. Sometimes it works; sometimes it doesn't. Lately, it doesn't.

Still, it's hard to complain when so many opportunities present themselves. Last weekend, one such opportunity sprang up in my inbox from friend and colleague Paula Martin Morell, the creator, executive producer, and host of Tales from the South. Paula had a cancelation and wanted to know if I was interested in appearing on the program for April 1. With that sign hovering somewhere in the back of my mind, I replied "sure!" unable to turn down such a fantastic offer.

For those unfamiliar, Tales from the South is "a radio show created and produced in conjuction with Temenos Publishing Company. The show is presented by The Argenta Arts Foundation with additional support provided by AY Magazine, The North Little Rock Visitors' Bureau, and William F. Laman Public Library.  The show is taped live on Tuesday nights at Starving Artist Cafe' in the Argenta Arts District of North Little Rock, Arkansas. We offer dinner and a show, and shows are $7.50 admission and open to the public. The night is a cross between a house concert and a reading/show, with incredible food and great company. Tickets must be purchased before the show, as shows are usually standing-room only." 

The show happens once a week, and three weeks out of the month it features three readers per show. The fourth week is devoted to The Tin Roof Project, which "features a well-known Southerner reading his/her own true story," a casual interview, and a Q & A session with the audience. Paula had invited me to be on The Tin Roof Project.

So, I won't be reading poems (gulp!), and I need to live up to the phrase "a well-known Southerner" (double gulp!).  An amazing opportunity and an great writing challenge!

If you live in central Arkansas, or will be passing through on Tuesday, April 1, 2014, I hope you'll consider attending the event. The information on purchasing tickets is linked here.

Blog Tour: My Writing Process

52º ~ leaden skies, not a slip of wind to speak of, spring buds advance in the face of possible snow and ice in the forecast for tomorrow, this is the winter that just won't quit

Dear Readers, as most of you know, my Midwest, puritan roots run deep, even though I’m now living south of the snow line. It is with much guilt and self-recrimination that I confess to you all that I missed a deadline this week. Seriously, I can’t remember the last time I let a commitment fall through the cracks; I can’t even remember the last time I showed up late for a meeting.

But that’s what I’ve done to my wonderful poet-friend, Erin Coughlin Hollowell. Erin invited me to participate in a blog-a-thon, and normally I pass on such things, but this one sounded fun, a series of questions about one’s own writing process. Each person is supposed to answer these questions and then pass them on. I’ve passed the questions to another great poet-friend, Angie Macri, whose first chapbook is forthcoming. Angie doesn’t blog, so watch for her answers here at the Kangaroo on Saturday, March 22.

~~~

I first “met” Erin through poetry and blogging. Erin writes at Being Poetry and is the author of Pause, Traveler released by Boreal Books, an imprint of Red Hen Press. You can read my thoughts on this fabulous book here.

With great delight, I was able to make my personal, physical introduction with Erin at AWP several years ago, and I made sure to seek her out in Seattle this year for a quick hello and a hug. Erin’s poems are the best kinds of poems: genuine, authentic, and cathartic. I can’t wait to read more of her work, and I’m thrilled when I find her name on the back cover of a journal or in the preview list for an online mag, flipping/clicking to the table of contents immediately to find her new poems. Lately, those journals include Alaska Quarterly Review, Terrain.org, and Sugar House Review.

Read all about Erin at: http://erincoughlinhollowell.com/

Read Erin's response to this blog tour at: http://www.beingpoetry.net/so-you-want-to-know-about-my-writing-process/

~~~

Now to the blog-a-thon questions.

What am I working on?

Nothing. Zero. Zilch.

To clarify, at the moment, I’m experiencing a fallow period. I finished the sickly speaker series and am sending that manuscript around and around and around (on the oh-please-pick-this-manuscript carousel go-round). The Girlhood Book of Prairie Myths is alive and well, which means I’ve been doing readings, working with my publisher Jacar Press on getting the word out there, and revisiting these old poems that are suddenly new again. Yes, I worked on the angry sisters for a bit late last year, but they really haven’t stepped up to the forefront again.

All of this is to say, I am a poet in search of an obsession. Blood Almanac and The Girlhood Book of Prairie Myths are all about the prairie and the people of the prairie (in the contemporary sense rather than the Laura Ingalls Wilder sense). The sickly speaker broke whatever spell the prairie had on me by weaving her own voice into mine. Now, I’m searching, scanning the horizon for something new.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?*

In terms of my poems about the Midwest, many poets write about place and do it well. When I wrote those poems, I knew I was following in a tradition and I had amazing mentors and models from whom to draw. With that being said though, my poems differ by being about a quiet, some would say repressed, place. Yes, those poems are not poems of rebellion, not poems of trying to break free, as I never felt trapped by that quiet and that wide-open, weighty sky.

The sickly speaker poems, many of which are now seeing the light of day in journals, may be considered different by some as I adopted and adapted the “baroque complexities” of language used by poets such as Lucie Brock-Broido, Lisa Russ Spaar, and Mary Ann Samyn.

*I am a bit suspect of this question, as I wonder about the need to “differ.” Of course, each poet should establish his/her voice, and no one wants to simply imitate others. However, poetry has broken wide open these days to embrace everything from spoken word art to the “difficult” poets. We all may differ to one degree or another, but we are all exploring language through concision/precision and sound, we are all of us attempting to give voice to the unsayable condition of being human.

Why do I write what I do?

Because I read what I read, I know who I know, and I am who I am.

Reading: It is the number one piece of advice I give to anyone who asks me how they too might become a published writer. If you aren’t reading (both in your genre and widely outside of it), you are not exploring your medium. Reading, and listening by extention, expands our vocabularies and exposes us to varying syntaxes. There is as much to be learned about writing from a book by my fellow poet as there is from listening to a spoken word poet perform or attending a play, as much to gather from reading an article from Nature, or even, shudder, Forbes.

Networking: This is not a dirty word and writers need to get a grip on this. We do not exist in a vacuum. Our friendships, both within our writing worlds and beyond, inform what we write. I have many poet friends whose work differs from mine in theme or form, but reading their work and talking with them about poetry (be it in person or online) make me a better poet.

I am: A person who identifies with the land and the weather; this is a direct result of my formative years. A woman, a daughter & auntie, a wife, a co-guardian of two cats, a community college instructor, a homeowner, a liberal Democrat living in a red state, and a Law & Order (the original) and Big Bang Theory addict. And I am so much more. My point is that every part of my life bubbles up and through my writing.

How does my writing process work?

I have to have a largish amount of time (at least an hour but preferably several hours) first thing in the morning. I have to have this time before the cares, worries, and tasks of the day get their talons sunk into me. For whatever reason, after I’m fully interacting with the world, I can no longer set aside my to-do lists or my worries about family, friends, students, etc. to focus on writing. However, if I can get to the desk before any of that, I’m good. I can set all of that aside and just get lost in language.

I need a cup of coffee (breakfast blend, super hot, Silk French vanilla creamer) and a glass of orange juice (30% juice, 70% water, lots of ice).

I need either quiet with just the sounds of birds, wind, squirrels, and the occasional car going by. Or I need instrumental music, usually strings (see Yo-Yo Ma and Steffen Basho-Junghans).

I need a window onto something green and alive.

I need books and journals piled around and tipping over on me. I need my own writing journal and a good pen (currently I’m using a Uni-Ball Signo 207 in blue-black or in red-black). *There can be nothing on my desk from my “other” life, no bills that need paying, no papers that need grading, no letters from friends, no wallets, scraps, or other clutter outside of poetry.

I need the cats to leave me in peace.

Once all of that is in place, I usually begin as so many others do, by reading. I might gather words in my journal; I might stare out the window. Inevitably, something snags in my brain; two or more words smash together like steel on flint, and shazam, a line begins to form. There will then be much scribbling, by hand, in my journal. There may be lines, arrows, boxes, circles phrases. There will certainly be cross-outs and slash marks overtop of nearly illegible words. It’s a total mess of a page. Eventually, there will be lines of words forming themselves into something like stanzas. When those lines gather enough weight, I move to the computer and draft until I “think” I have a “complete” poem. I have found that if I stop before the poem feels “done-ish,” I can’t go back and “finish” the poem. There is a certain organic energy to drafting for me, which perhaps explains why my poems are usually a page or less in length. The long poem eludes me, like the proverbial big fish lounging around in the mucky bottom waters.

There’s a lot about this process that is hazy, but the process is a result of years of work, years of training my brain to shift into writing mode, and years of being alert and aware of the world and the people around me when I’m not at my desk.

How to Make a Reading a Performance

60º ~ sunny beauty ahead of another whack from another polar vortex headed our way later today through Wednesday..."uncle"!


As many of you know, I was on the road last weekend, giving readings with Jacar Press in North Carolina, and then, I had my Little Rock launch of The Girlhood Book of Prairie Myths on Tuesday night. Despite winter storm Pax disrupting the beginning of my NC trip and causing us to have to cancel the reading at Flyleaf Books in Chapel Hill, the rest of the readings were thrilling, with wonderful audiences and, in the case of NC, amazing co-readers.

During one of my readings, a poet-friend asked for advice on how to read well. I know that much of this has been said elsewhere, but here are my tips and tricks.

1. Think about the poetry reading you have enjoyed the least and analyze why. If it wasn't a matter of poetics and/or subject matter, it was probably a matter of performance. If it was a matter of performance, jot down all the things you would have done differently and implement that list the next time you read.

2. I want to be entertained at a reading. Yes, I know there is a difference between performance poetry (i.e. spoken word) and page poetry, but if folks are going to come out to hear me read, then I'm going to read like I mean it, and that means adopting some elements of performance, first and foremost, projection (of the voice). I'm a terrible actor, but I do remember the brief lessons in speaking from the diaphragm that I received in a college acting class. Those lessons have been priceless whenever I read.

3. If you are nervous about a venue, check it out in advance. The best option is to attend a poetry reading at the same venue before your own event so you can see the layout and watch how things run. In this past week I read at a coffee shop (espresso maker whirring, dish washer behind the bar chugging, chairs scraping, & etc.), at a restaurant with a stage (and a Southern debutante birthday party going on to my left as I read), and in the quiet cathedral of Richard Krawiec and Sylvia Freeman's home. In all three places, those who were there for poetry were amazing audiences. In the coffee shop and restaurant, it was my job to deliver for those who had shown up to support poetry and me. Here is where 'teacher voice' comes in handy in being heard over coffee machines and debutantes alike.

4. If you don't have experience using a mic, find a way to get some. Ask a friend who has access to a PA system let you practice. Ask the venue operator to let you come early for an event and do a sound check. Find out if there will be a podium or not. (I prefer not, but that's just me.) Be prepared to read with a mic and without, with a podium and without.

5. Know your poems. Know them backwards, forwards, and inside out. At every reading I did in the past week and a half, I flubbed one or two lines (in one case leaving out an entire line!) due to sound or movement distractions, but because I had the poems near-memorized I just kept going. I didn't have to fumble to find my place. When kids getting ready for music recitals are told to "just keep playing," there's a reason for that. Fumbling by the performer causes the audience to dis-engage, to check their text messages, to whisper to the people nearby, etc. Don't give them a chance!

6. Practice your performance. Just like an actor would mark up a script, I mark up the poems I will read. Yes, the enjambment and end-stops should be clear on the page, but when I'm in front of an audience, I don't want to have to guess, AND I don't want to have to scrutinize the page. I also make breath marks (sometimes a carrot mark, sometimes the abbreviation "br.")

7. Know the limits of your own eyesight. Many poetry books and journals use 10 point font. In the weird lighting of some venues, especially if a spot light is on you, there can be a shadow on the page. Do not hesitate to print your work out on regular paper in larger font. Even if you have a book, you can hold the book as a prop and as a publicity tool, then, just set it down and read from the larger font. I promise you, the audience will understand.

8. Acknowledge your audience. Try to make eye contact in between poems or in major pauses within a poem. The best trick for me is to locate one receptive person in the audience on my left, one in front of me, and one on my right, and read to them. These people might be friends or acquaintances; however, they are just as likely to be strangers. I pick them because of body language and their own eye contact with me. I use these folks as my thermometer to gauge audience reaction to certain poems and to tell me when the audience has had enough.

9. Let the audience know where you are in terms of your set list from time to time. For example, I might say, "I'm going to read two poems from my first book, and then focus on The Girlhood Book of Prairie Myths."  Then, when I'm winding down, I will say, "I've got three more poems for you all." (Be sure to check the temperature of the audience and drop a few poems from your intended reading list if they seem restless.) As an audience member myself, this is reassuring and lets me know the poet is conscious of my presence in the audience. It will also give anyone pause if he/she is tempted to text or step out to use the wash room or the like.

10. Try to have fun. If you are tense, the audience will be tense. If you are calm and collected (or can fake it until you make it), then the audience will give you their trust.

February: The Month of Travels, Readings, Panels, and More

29º ~ 3 inches of perfect snow, no wind, struggling to get above freezing, our "new normal" 20 - 30 degrees below our "old normal"


The weather has been downright Midwestern of late, but February is marching on, and it is chock full of poetry adventures and readings to celebrate the publication of book #2: The Girlhood Book of Prairie Myths.

This past Thursday, we hosted Jericho Brown at the Big Rock Reading Series at PTC. It was a spectacular reading, and while a wee bit of snow earlier in the day dampened our turnout a bit, we still had about 50 folks there.

Next week, my travels begin. At the end of the week, I'll fly to North Carolina for the following events.

Thursday (2/13): Flyleaf Books Second Thursday Poetry Reading
Flyleaf Books, Chapel Hill, 7:00 - 8:30 p.m.

Featured readers at the monthly Second Thursday poetry series will be Maura High, author of The Garden of Persuasions, winner of the Jacar Press 2013 Chapbook Contest, and Sandy Longhorn, author of The Girlhood Book of Prairie Myths, winner of the 2013 Jacar Press Full-Length Poetry Book Contest. 

Friday (2/14): Wake Tech Community College
Visiting Al Maginnes' classes at Wake Tech.  Wahoo!

I'll get to read to and talk with Al's students and also spend time with my po-brother!

Saturday (2/15): Second (Third!) Saturday at Tate Street Coffee House
Tate Street Coffee House, Greensboro, 7:00 - 9:00 p.m.

Jacar Press poets Maura High, Edison Jennings, and Sandy Longhorn will be traveling to Greensboro to read for us at Tate Street Coffee House on Saturday, February 15, at 7:00pm.

This trip means I'll get to meet Richard Krawiec of Jacar Press in person and continue by onslaught of thanks for his publishing of The Girlhood Book of Prairie Myths. I also get to spend time with friends I don't get to see nearly often enough, and I get to meet spouses and/or children I've only known through Facebook.  Wahoo!

~~~

Back home in Little Rock, I'll be gearing up for my Little Rock launch of the new book on Tuesday (2/18). I'm so honored to be launching the book here with a reading at South on Main, the restaurant associated with the Oxford American. As part of the extravaganza, my PTC colleague and friend, Dr. Barry McVinney will perform with his jazz ensemble, Trio Cabrito, from 7:00 - 8:00 p.m. Then, I'll take the stage (yes, there's a stage!) at 8:00 for some poems and some Q & A.

Double bonus...the food at South on Main is deeeviiiiine.

~~~

Then, we wind up the month with all things AWP (2/26 - 3/2). Seattle, are y'all ready for this?

At this point, I don't have any readings scheduled, but I'll have copies of The Girlhood Book of Prairie Myths in my backpack, and a Square reader attached to my phone. Anyone want a copy?

I have one panel, so here is where you are guaranteed to find me. The panel will talk about setting up a reading series or festival at two-year colleges, which present unique hurdles; however, I'm sure much of the information will transfer to community events, four-year colleges/universities, or high schools.

vent Title: Here We Gather: History and Advice on Setting Up a Writers Conference, Festival, or Colloquium at a Two-Year College
Scheduled Day: Saturday, 3/1/2014
Scheduled Time: 12:00:PM - 01:15:PM
Scheduled Room: Room LL4, Western New England MFA Annex, Lower Level

Otherwise, I'm playing this one by ear folks. If you want my cell number, send me a message. Texting is the best and surest way of planning once my sneakers hit the concrete floors of the convention center.

~~~

My one request of y'all, Dear Readers, please do whatever weather dance, prayer, sacrifice, or ritual you do to make sure this winter weather blows itself right on outta here early next week, so we may all arrive safely and soundly, AND ON TIME, wherever it is that poetry/writing is taking us in the days to come.