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123 Meme--Tagging All Readers

1. Pick up the nearest book (of 123 pages or more).
2. Open to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.

His son inherited all the money, and he led a merry life, going to masquerade balls every night, making paper kites out of rigsdalar bills, and skipping gold coins into the lake instead of stones. That way the money could quickly disappear, and it did. Finally he owned no more than four skillings and had no clothes but a pair of slippers and an old dressing gown.

Hans Christia Andersen, Fairy Tales, "The Flying Trunk."

My work clothes (on nonteaching days): A pair of slippers, an old dressing gown.

Jeanette Winterston--from The Times Online

It may be that we have been focusing too much on how to get kids to read, when just as urgently we need to get them to speak - confidently, fluently and, yes, poetically. Ted Hughes was a big believer in teaching children to memorise poetry, and to recite what they had memorised.

Any actor will tell you that the way to learn lines is to learn them out loud, and that the repetition of lines seems to explain their meaning. When we read out loud, or when we recite from memory, we have an audience, even if there is no one in the room. We start to convince or entertain an invisible other, and as we do so both the sense of the passage and our confidence in it increase. It doesn't matter even if we don't understand all the words. Booming out poetry helps kids no end, and is why we need them to grapple with Shakespeare, with Donne, with Dylan Thomas. The more unfamiliar the language the more spectacular the transformation from incomprehension to delight.

Reading silently, the acute pleasure of book and eye, is a sophisticated pleasure. Reading or reciting aloud is campfire stuff, good fun, muck in, and kids very soon lose their nerves and vie with one another in the high spirits natural to them. It may well be that, now we are breeding a solitary generation locked to computer screens, the best antidote is not a book and a bedroom, but learning a story and learning to tell it - learning a funny poem, refinding the out-of-fashion skills of rhetoric and challenge.

If I begin: “A King had three sons ...” what's the next line? It's a game I play with the kids, and it demands a certain stock in trade of stories known, some current imagination, and pleasure in words. I really believe that kids are language-monkeys and that with the slightest encouragement they find the words the so-called education experts believe are so stressful, impossible, absent.

Forget the five-hours-a-week culture routine. Kids need two languages and a musical instrument. The end.
____________________
Amen and Selah. I so insist on students reading aloud and memorizing--in unison at times. This is one of the most valuable lessons I ever learned, and even though I'm not a great reader, I'm better than I used to be. Harvey is the among the best of readers, and I love to hear him read. I don't miss a chance to go to any reading--fiction, poetry, memoir, storytelling workshop. I want to hear.

I also agree with the "two languages" and the musical instrument. Studying piano for 10 years still enriches my life. I didn't play very well, but I learned what playing very well was supposed to sound like (not like the church pianist!), and I fell in love with Beethoven, Mozart, Grieg, and Saint-Saens (the only operas I'd know otherwise would be soap operas). Piano is the reason I type 200 WPM without ever taking a typing class. I transcribe the way a metronome beats. Music has supported me spiritually and financially for many, many years.

Anything in the Thicket

Here are the sections:

Love and Other Four-Letter Words (12 poems--love poems)
A Child's Garden of Curses (11 poems--narratives)
A Walk Through the Memory Palace (14 poems--ekphrasis)

Does this sound like a thesis? AAARGH. I feel like I have given myself a really bad haircut.

Post Oscar Analysis

I did well in three of the four acting categories (missed Swinton, although did say she was coming on strong. Cotillard did win--you can pay me now.

As for the fashion notes:

Scarlet Women--A major trend (including Tilda Swinton's hair!) I was particularly smitten with Anne Hathaway's and Miley Cyrus' looks. Katherine Heigl is one of the most beautiful of actresses, but she was SO nervous.

Basic Black--Only Hilary Swank and Jennifer Garner did it right. (Otherwise, too sober (Linney) or too feathered (P. Cruz) or way too much bling--hello, Nicole--the only thing tighter at the Oscars than Jennifer Garner's amazing dress was NK's forehead). I don't know what to say about Tilda Swinton's dress. I wish she'd brightened it up a bit. She has made astounding color choices in the past.

Bjork Award: Cody Diablo. Harvey yelled out YABBA-DABBA-DOO when she walked forward in a gown she could have cribbed from Fred. The woman can write, though.

Honorable Bjork Mention: What was up with Julie Christie's pink suede gloves? I would have loved them--with another outfit.

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Oh, Really? That's Me? Are You Sure? Why?

You Are a Question Mark

You seek knowledge and insight in every form possible. You love learning. And while you know a lot, you don't act like a know it all. You're open to learning you're wrong. You ask a lot of questions, collect a lot of data, and always dig deep to find out more. You're naturally curious and inquisitive. You jump to ask a question when the opportunity arises. Your friends see you as interesting, insightful, and thought provoking. (But they're not always up for the intense inquisitions that you love!) You excel in: Higher education You get along best with: The Comma

What Punctuation Mark Are You?

Oscar Predictions: (AKA: The Pamelas)

FILM

My preference: There Will Be Blood
My prediction: Atonement. It will take the split between Rudin's two films and win. See Grammy: Hancock, Herbie.
Who was robbed: The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is an awesome film, yet the original slate is a good one.

LEAD ACTOR:
My preference: Daniel Day Lewis, There Will Be Blood
My prediction: Ditto--there's no one else who can mesmerize the way he does. He owns TWBB.
Who was robbed: James McAvoy was the best thing about Atonement. Those eyes! They should have their own award. He should be in the constellation instead of George Clooney. (See the comments below under Supporting Actor. Not sure where to categorize two of this year's fine performances).

LEAD ACTRESS:
My preference: Marion Cotillard, La vie en rose
My prediction: Ditto. She inhabited this role, physically, emotionally. She was Piaf. The only way Julie Christie wins is if voters recognize her 43-year span between statues. I really think her rudeness at the SAG Awards (thanking her fellow actors for their "tiny parts" in HER success) will cost Christie some votes. See also: Crowe, Russell, A Beautiful Mind.
Who was robbed: Amy Adams, Enchanted. What a charming performance, and not merely the B side of the record, as Blanchett's performace was as Elizabeth I.

SUPPORTING ACTOR:
My preference: Javier Bardem, No Country for Old Men
My prediction: Bardem. Even his hair was serial-scary. And he was due for The Sea Inside.
Who was robbed: I really think that Gorden Pinsent from Away from Her needs to be recognized somewhere. Was it star or supporting? I think that Casey Affleck, although compelling, had a lead performance. Paul Dano completely surprised me in TWBB. From near-mute in Little Miss Sunshine to pulpit-pounding!

SUPPORTING ACTRESS:
My preference: Amy Ryan, Gone, Baby Gone.
My prediction: Ruby Dee, American Gangster. I think we're tired of C. Blanchett's hype for a movie where Heath Ledger was overlooked. Linda Hunt's already done the gender crossover exquisitely in The Year of Living Dangerously. Amy Ryan's performance is going to be overlooked in view of Dee's long career/overdue accolade. Tilda Swinton is also making a very late charge. She was thorough, but she doesn't fit the long career/newcomer pattern that seems to define this category.
Who was robbed: Didn't anyone see Olympia Dukakis in Away from Her? Didn't anyone see Catherine Keener in Into the Wild? Any incarnation of Briony in Atonement could have made this category. All three were compelling.

DIRECTOR:
My preference: Paul Thomas Anderson, There Will Be Blood
My prediction: Julian Schnabel, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
Who was robbed: Sean Penn did a great job in Into the Wild. Why was this movie almost completely snubbed?

WHAT NEEDS TO CHANGE: Add some new categories.

Best Ensemble, Drama: No Country for Old Men. Not a weak performance and Bardem was awesome.

Best Ensemble, Comedy: Juno.

Breakthroughs: Josh Brolin (Actor). Saoirse Ronan (Actress). Ben Affleck (Director).

Happy Valentine's Day, Harvey!

Not a red rose or a satin heart...Not a cute card or a kissogram.
Carol Ann Duffy

Power-Crazy Senior General Than Shwe

Anti- features its first chapbook. Edited by A. J. Patrick Liszkiewicz, this features poems by Kelli Russell Agodon, Ivone Alexandre, John Davis, Anne Haines, R. Joyce Heon, Luisa A. Igloria, A. J. Patrick Liszkiewicz, Woody Loverude, Nathan McClain, Carolyn Moore, Pamela Johnson Parker, Heidi Sulzdorf, and Saw Wai (translated by Dr. David Law). Click the link above!

Thanks to Anti- and also to A. J. Patrick Liszkiewicz for his enthusiasm and effort in organizing this.

The Tide Is High: Tel Telesti

I'm not the kind of girl who gives up just like that.

After listening to Blondie, especially the song above,and incessantly reordering and ordering, I have handed in the first draft of my thesis. Tel telesti.

Almost all poems have been revised (two to go which my thesis director wants to read first). The shortest poem is a haiku; the longest is 9 pages of blank verse. (Nope, I can't believe it either--I was in Mark Jarman mode).

All I need is an introduction, and I have 3 essays to cobble together for that.

Maybe I can stop panicking and start working on the last two revisions now.

Best AWP Quote, Galway Kinnell

"And I fell upon Emily Dickinson with great joy.”

I wish I'd been able to go for this alone. Galway Kinnell is one of my poetry crushes--but I don't want to fall on him, or Jared Carter, either.

Some Quotes on Poetry Too Good Not to Share!

I purchased a used copy of A Formal Feeling Comes : Poems in Form by Contemporary Women. The selections are wonderful, and I'm especially enthralled by a former owner's notes.

The poetic line here is in jam.--Mary Jo Salter, "What Do Women Want?"

Where is the poetic con seated? --Julia Alvarez, "How I Learned to Sweep"

Nice example of just a position. --Maxine Kumin, "The Nuns of Childhood: Two Views"

In every case the former owner's notes were apt, except for this mysterious quote, written on a blank page near the end of the book:

Does the language come first or fourth? This sounds like ballet, maybe a question asked by Degas' Little Ballerina. I'll be pondering that one a long, long time.

Meme I was almost too chickenshit to answer

Reading & Writing

1. What are you currently reading and what's on your to-be-read pile?

Currently reading:

Ordering the Storm
Geography III
The Dig
Ghost Money
Ariel (both versions)
Rose

To Read:
Behind My Eyes
Dismal Rock
From Garden to Garden (essays on Lent)

Everything I'm reading except for the essays is purportedly to help me order my thesis.

2. What type of writing influences your work most: fiction, poetry, or non-fiction?

I'd have to say my work is more influenced by poetry, then nonfiction, then fiction. I'd rather read fiction than anything else, because I can still read it discretely. I can be just a reader, and I can read quickly and without a deeper awareness. It's an autonomous function, like my pulse. (I've been reading for as long as I can remember, so sometimes it does seem autonomous--thank you, Uncle David, and your comics!)

When I read poetry and nonfiction/memoir, I'm reading critically, as both reader and writer. This takes work and makes for a slower read. I'm breathing it in, and I'm conscious of the breath--aria or snorkle. I have to stop and read sections aloud, to hear their voices, or the music my voice takes on when I incant their words.

3. What 3 characteristics, elements or themes are prevalent in your work?

Childhood as a way into a poem
Art as a way through a poem
Being voiceless as a condition I struggle with daily

4. As a writer and a reader, does gender matter?

Absolutely at times; at others, absolutely not. I think the careful love of language matters most--and I don't care if you're female/male, bi/straight/gay, poet/ novelist/ essayist/pamphleteer, if there's love of language, there's the tectonic plate.

I do think that gender matters to me as a writer. I come from a family where women are Echo only. I'd like to be Narcissus sometimes, or Orpheus. I write about the powerlessness I feel as being born into a family where women weren't encouraged to speak at all, much less tell stories or secrets about their family, or hint that there's a body beneath the Iron Maidenform brassiere. I still feel words have to be squeezed out sparingly like toothpaste at the end of the tube--leave some for the rest of us!--and there's no taking back those words, just as there's no replacing the Pepsodent. The thing of which I'm proudest in my life is that my children feel no such need to squelch their opinions, that Raleigh has things to say and will say them, that Daniel listens actively to women and encourages them (and me!). I understood nothing about this idea of conversation coming from the root word lifestyle. Harvey understands everything about it, and this is the greatest gift he's given me--to have a voice in my own family and to have the nerve to take that voice to a wider audience.

Poetry Corner: Students and I are on NPR again

When you click on the link, scroll down to the bottom of the page, where you'll see the Poetry Corner, Norman Mailer memorial show. Three of us read--the first is in my current 214 class. He must have understood the anaphora assignment thoroughly, as you can tell from his well-crafted antiwar poem. The second student is not in my class--his poem is great, in a cummings-y he spoke rapidly way. I'm the final (third) poet. Listen to me read with pneumonia giving me a more graveled voice than usual. My German's so gutteral! This poem is about what the announcer refers to as "the immigrant experience." I like that understatement, and this is one of my favorite of my poems. I've never written heroic couplets before.

My Mundane (Blog Meme from 01/30/2008)

DISCLAIMER: This is the longest blog post ever.

5:22 a.m. I awaken, more prescient than clockwork, at 5:22 (before the alarm goes off at 6:00). Fumble for glasses, bathrobe, slippers. Forget that I left these in bathroom last evening and freeze my ass off sprinting around bed. Hurdle over cat, hurdle over husband’s stack of 27 art and philosophy books he’s reading at the same time, land in laundry basket conveniently left in front of the sink by 10-year-old daughter. Send washcloths tumbling and cat running in to investigate. Resolve to start sleeping in something other than a bed, as I am too old of bone and too cold to be streaking. Find bathrobe and flipflops. Find glasses. Find mirror and sink. Brush teeth. Turn alarm to snooze so Harvey can have 15 more minutes of sleep. Feed and water cat who’s executing perfect figure 8's, an eternity around my ankles. Start coffee. Turn the thermostat up 10 degrees to a more acceptable 68. There’s snow on the cars, on the maples, on the sidewalk. My street’s still asleep, as is my family. I have 30 minutes of privacy! (Think of Robert Bly poem, "Driving to Town Late to Mail a Letter." Poetry equals panic equals thesis. Resolve not to think of thesis for at least 15 minutes).

Turn on computer and download work to transcribe/edit. Read a poem out of my daily anthology. Decide to memorize some Frank O’Hara or maybe Kinnell—he has more poems on sleeping. Think about going back to bed. Check 3 sets of email instead. Jobs still download. Journal for 3 pages of daily blah blah blah. Obsess over thesis. Shoulder crepitates—snaps, crackles, pops like Rice Crispies. Change position for comfort. Cat jumps on journal. Time to stop writing and start moving.

Eject cat from lap. Wake up Harvey and stay in room for 5 minutes of unnecessary but welcome conversation. H. persuasively wheedles about not getting up but finally rises at 6:15. In the meantime, I awaken Raleigh, who groans at my voice in her “Dracula’s Daughter, age 10”* morning routine. Start looking for socks. Find 6 socks, none of which matches. All are black. All are hers. She decides to wear boots.

Remind daughter that bus will be here in 25 minutes. She stumbles into bathroom and in 2.3 minutes comes out looking gorgeously grouchy. H.’s in shower singing the blues. Tell him that his school day has just been cancelled due to snowfall. Song changes to “O Happy Day” in a falsetto worthy of Aretha herself. H. emerges in bathroom and cannot see anything because of steamed-up glasses. Trips over cat. Trips over books. Is still singing “O Happy Day.” How many verses does that dratted song have?

Sign permission for field trip, permission for photos, permission for permission slips. Autograph her 99 score on social studies test. Brag on R.’s excellent grades and good study habits. She rolls her eyes but no longer gripes. H. comes into study, bearing coffee, milk, and cinnamon toast. R. has a piece of toast before the bus arrives. (Bus coming in 5 minutes—real breakfast is served at school). She walks to the bus, taking my cashmere gloves (not fair—I am stuck with her mittens! Both are black and on the radiator, so serves me right). R. throws snowball at me as she leaves. Splatters against the storm door—I duck, even though I am safely behind the glass, watching her slide down the sidewalk. When I slide like that, it’s neither graceful nor intentional.

7:15 No child. H. and I decide that editing can wait an additional hour. Ahem.

8:00 Shower. Drink more coffee. Get dressed in favorite work outfit—pajama pants with dice on them and black thermal shirt. Read news. Discover John Edwards has dropped out and have a moment of silence for my preferred candidate. Start shivering. Husband has turned down thermostat to 60 degrees. Wife turns up thermostat. Thermostat wars ensue. Détente at an acceptable 65 degrees.

8:30 a.m. H. curls up on chaise and starts reading Archaeology. I leave for work. Commute is on the other side of the coffee table.

10 a.m. First break. Look at thesis subdivision folders—wonder if I really need a section titled “A Four-Letter Word for Obsession.” Read revised poem to H., who asks, “Is that about us?” Ask if he really thinks that we’ve been married since 1892 and are farming at points west of the Rockies. Tell him that the poem is about locusts, not about him. “Oh. I just heard the part about genes.” “No, jeans with a J. Locusts jawed the jeans right off a farmer’s legs.” “Read it again.” I do, and H. offers very helpful criticism about the least musical part of the poem. Revise troubled stanza—it’s much better. Stick it back in thesis subfolder entitled “Widows and Orphans.”

Back to editing. Work till 1:30 p.m.--done for the day. Have edited 10,000 lines—a new record with someone else in the house. Beef stew and French bread. Good crusty bread. Splurge and have a glass of wine to celebrate the stew, the bread, the snow day, lunch with my favorite poetry critic and husband.

2:30 p.m. Start laundry. Move laundry basket. Congratulate self for remembering this.

2:45 p.m. Take nap. Wake up 15 minutes later to snow being shoved down the back of my shirt. Raleigh has struck! Academic practice was cancelled, and she’s come home on the bus. We get dressed in real clothes and take a walk. Trade dry mittens for wet cashmere gloves. Not the smartest parental move. Watch the maples’ branches transform from prisms to trickles.

6:00 p.m. Go out for pizza and salad. Take daughter and her best friend Maurecio to study group. Come home. Try to read for an hour—Ordering the Storm. Cannot concentrate--panicking silently about thesis. Rearrange 15 poems obsessively. Decide on a name for third section. Send off long poem to ekphrasis contest. Write 15 words about laundry. (That’s my newest poem and has no end in sight). Wonder if I can wedge it into thesis. Start to panic again.

8:00 p.m. Fight over the sink with cat. Brush teeth, wash face, moisturize with Oil of Delay. Wonder if crevices beginning between brows will grow deep enough to qualify as geographic landmarks. I think the word I want is arroyo. Still have my hair, which still isn’t gray. Pull hair over face to see if bangs will hide arroyo. Bangs will hide entire face. Discover heretofore-unnoticed family resemblance to Cousin It. Decide bangs are not the answer. Yet.

8:15 p.m. Daughter and Harvey arrive home from study group with ice cream. Decide that wrinkles can be banished by prn intake of ice cream. Cherry Garcia! Brush teeth again. Kiss family goodnight. They don’t want to watch a movie. They want to Wii. Gladly shut door behind them.

8:35 p.m. Watch movie—La vie en rose. Gratitude journal should include Netflix; resolve to be more grateful for the one place that’s never sent me a rejection slip. Movie’s disjointed, but Marion Cotillard is fabulous--much better than Blanchett, Page, or Linney. Wonder how she pulled off that decrepit posture. Resolve to take more calcium, so that posture will not soon be mine. Realize that I’ve lasted longer than Piaf and feel really lucky that I have my spine in semi-working order. Remember ice cream has calcium and debate having another small bowl to prevent osteoporosis. Think the Oscar will be between Cotillard and Julie Christie, who has the better script. Alice Munro, no wonder. Do wonder what Christie uses for wrinkles, as she seems ageless since Heaven Can Wait. Ponder if she’d have wrinkles if she had a thesis to write at age 50. Remember that Julie Christie is 66 and still radiant. Sigh.

10:30 p.m. Go to bed. Go directly to bed. Do not pass GO, do not collect $200. Do collect reading glasses and cat. Look in on daughter, who’s sleeping with book in hand: We Rode the Orphan Trains. Kiss husband again. Remember pajamas 2 seconds after crawling into bed. Talk H. out of his pajama top so I don’t have to get up again. (Teasingly threaten to end cease-fire over thermostat if I have to leave the confines of the bed with its electric mattress warmer). H. talks me out of an extra pillow—fair trade. Turn out reading light. Say a prayer of thanksgiving for snow down my shirt and the daughter who put it there, for snow days and naps, for heat and someone I love with whom to squabble over the thermostat, for books and movies, for ice cream named after the Grateful Dead, for mittens and gloves, for rudimentary French to enjoy Piaf and for the revised stanza of locust poem, and especially for H. and R., for the black cat and the bronze mouse reading lamp. Give thanks that I moved the laundry basket, thanks that tomorrow is a teaching day, and I can wear new Anne Klein shoes to celebrate reading and teaching Frank O’Hara. Wonder if this is the best sartorial decision if snow continues to drip. Decide to wear new shoes to reading at SIU instead. Remind myself for the 123rd time today not to obsess over thesis. It’s not my job to write the best poems ever—it’s my job to write the best poems I can write, right now. Start reciting this week’s poem to memorize: “For I can snore like a...” and I’m out. **

That’s my mundane. Boring enough for you? I won’t trade.

* Old Lily Tomlin routine about teenage daughter and her parents.

** Opening line to "After Making Love We Hear Footsteps," G. Kinnell.