Friday, April 29, 2011

April 29, 1987 to July 14, 2010: Anniversary




True Love--Sharon Olds

In the middle of the night, when we get up
after making love, we look at each other in
complete friendship, we know so fully
what the other has been doing. Bound to each other
like mountaineers coming down from a mountain,
bound with the tie of the delivery-room,
we wander down the hall to the bathroom, I can
hardly walk, I hobble through the granular
shadowless air, I know where you are
with my eyes closed, we are bound to each other
with huge invisible threads, our sexes
muted, exhausted, crushed, the whole
body a sex—surely this
is the most blessed time of my life,
our children asleep in their beds, each fate
like a vein of abiding mineral
not discovered yet. I sit
on the toilet in the night, you are somewhere in the room,
I open the window and snow has fallen in a
steep drift, against the pane, I
look up, into it,
a wall of cold crystals, silent
and glistening, I quietly call to you
and you come and hold my hand and I say
I cannot see beyond it. I cannot see beyond it.

-----

I cannot see beyond it. I cannot see beyond it. Now I am on the other side of this snow globe, and you, beloved, are awakening in a bed, in a house, on a street, in the village inside that sphere. I can hold you in my hands, but I cannot hold you.

Happy Anniversary, sweetheart. Would you be proud of me?

I've tried so hard to avoid a life with ice at its heart.


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Thursday, April 28, 2011

Train - Marry Me

April 27, 1987: Harvey asked me to marry him at 6 a.m., with lines "A Birthday by Merwin"
April 28, 1987: The entire length of our betrothal.
April 29, 1987: We were married, 23 years.

Tomorrow is the first anniversary without him.



Wednesday, April 27, 2011

The Poem I Wish I'd Written: Linda Pastan


There are so many, but as I approach my 24th anniversary on Friday--(is it still an anniversary, I wonder, if only one of you is here to remember?)--this is the one I wish I'd written, or at least one this good.

The Happiest Day

It was early May, I think
a moment of lilac or dogwood
when so many promises are made
it hardly matters if a few are broken.
My mother and father still hovered
in the background, part of the scenery
like the houses I had grown up in,
and if they would be torn down later
that was something I knew
but didn't believe. Our children were asleep
or playing, the youngest as new
as the new smell of the lilacs,
and how could I have guessed
their roots were shallow
and would be easily transplanted.
I didn't even guess that I was happy.
The small irritations that are like salt
on melon were what I dwelt on,
though in truth they simply
made the fruit taste sweeter.
So we sat on the porch
in the cool morning, sipping
hot coffee. Behind the news of the day--
strikes and small wars, a fire somewhere--
I could see the top of your dark head
and thought not of public conflagrations
but of how it would feel on my bare shoulder.
If someone could stop the camera then...
if someone could only stop the camera
and ask me: are you happy?
perhaps I would have noticed
how the morning shone in the reflected
color of lilac. Yes, I might have said
and offered a steaming cup of coffee.

Linda Pastan
____________

I remember sitting with you in the glider at our Arts and Crafts bungalow, Raleigh asleep in your arms and Dan and his friend JJ doing something best not investigated on the carport. Pink roses were in bloom with their lemony scent; the buds on the peonies were big as ping-pong balls. A bumblebee landed on the rim of your iced tea glass and climbed up your arm for just a second before looping away. How quietly we laughed, as Raleigh drowsed and Dan and JJ continued their mysterious activities...What happened to that quiescence?

Pink roses are blooming here, at our old Queen Anne--their scent fills our--no, my--bedroom; buds on the peonies are big as ping-pong balls and starting to open, each petal soft as an areola; Dan is out on his own; Raleigh is doing something best not investigated on her laptop. I'm here and I'm remembering you transplanting roses and the peonies to this house, our last house, bringing me coffee to the porch swing and asking me about beehives... could we have one, or maybe two? And I wonder why I never noticed how happy I was, why I took it for granted, as I took the sun coming up over the crab apples, the gloss of the hosta leaves, sometimes your dark hair against my shoulder and sometimes my honey-colored hair against yours.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

Al Green-Let's Stay Together(Live)

Oh, Al Green, I have loved you since 1970. There is no telling the number of times you've been on the stereo when....(Fans self).

You'd never do that to me, would you baby?

We now return you to your regularly scheduled non-plaid programming.



ROB BRESZNY'S ASTROLOGY FOR THIS WEEK

CANCER (June 21-July 22): I know how secretive you Cancerians can be
because I'm one of your tribe. Sometimes the secrecy is a bit neurotic,
but more often it serves the purpose of sheltering your vulnerable areas.
I'm also aware of how important it is for you to be self-protective. No one
is better than you at guarding your goodies, ensuring your safety, and
taking care of your well-being. I would never shame you for expressing
these talents and I would never ask you to downplay them. Having said
that, though, I want to make sure that in the coming weeks they don't
interfere with you getting the blessings you deserve. It's crucial that you
allow yourself to be loved to the hilt. You simply must let people in far
enough so they can do that.

I think it's time that I come out of my shell. I need to be loved to the hilt. I need to love someone to the hilt. I need to be blessed. I need to have an open heart, open mind, open house mentality. Only 23 more days, and I can work on it. I am excited to think of what I can get done at my house and make it beautiful again.

John Keats: "If something is not beautiful, it is probably not true." I want this house to be TRUE again, truly a home.

I have an electrician who'll come for the wiring, I have carpenters who'll come for the fence and the outbuildings, I have friends and family who'll come for decluttering and cleaning and carpet removal. (Dang Harvey's dog!)

In August, I want to have a BIG PARTY when I get back from Sewanee. Y'all are all invited. Before then, BYOB (bring your own broom).


Monday, April 25, 2011

Post-Lent

Until the end of the month, it really helped me to take the time to post gratitude journal items. I really liked recounting how many good things I have found in my life. They don't defray the loss of Harvey, which I don't think will ever be lessened, but they do give me a reason to continue to go forward.

GRATITUDE JOURNAL: The top five entries.

1. Harvey's journals. He did love me. He did. (Sally Field moment).

2. All poetry. It is the god head, the god speak, the god spell. It is praise, serious praise. That's the way I understand who God is: He created the universe by speaking it into existence. He sent his Son the Word to show us how to love and to live in love. His Son the Word sent the Spirit as comforter and intercessor to speak for us in the words we don't know we have. I feel that poetry parses those words for us.

3. My children who love me. They know me and my bad temper and tears and tirades better than anyone else, and they love me nonetheless.

4. My friends who love me. See above. Plus they hear my secrets except #5, about whom I have never really talked before. I guess I am outing myself, but here goes:

5. Flynn. I am very happy to have you, o boyfriend who is sexy and silly and serious in the fact that you're not afraid of your feelings. I'm afraid of your feelings--and of my own. This is way too fast for me.

Thank you, family and friends. Thank you, Flynn the Red. Thank you, Poetry. Thank you, Master of the Universe. Thank you, Harvey, for writing it down, for drawing it out, for making sure I'd find it.

Without all of you, I might have had a pulse, but I know I wouldn't be alive. I'm still afraid of April 29.

Love to you all,

Pamela

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Happy Easter

Be grounded, be hopeful, and don't judge others. Be Dolly.



_____
Happy Birthday, Robert Penn Warren!

"Everybody knows a thousand stories, but only one cocklebur catches in your fur and that subject is your question. You live with that question. You may not even know what that question is. It hangs around a long time. I've carried a novel as long as 20 years, and some poems longer than that."

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Excerpted from THIS DAY IN HISTORY: April 23

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Welcome to the THIS DAY IN HISTORY daily email from History.com

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April 23, 1564 : William Shakespeare born

According to tradition, the great English dramatist and poet William Shakespeare is born in Stratford-on-Avon on April 23, 1564. It is impossible to be certain the exact day on which he was born, but church records show that he was baptized on April 26, and three days was a customary amount of time to wait before baptizing a newborn. Shakespeare's date of death is conclusively known, however: it was April 23, 1616. He was 52 years old and had retired to Stratford three years before.

Although few plays have been performed or analyzed as extensively as the 38 plays ascribed to William Shakespeare, there are few surviving details about the playwright's life. This dearth of biographical information is due primarily to his station in life; he was not a noble, but the son of John Shakespeare, a leather trader and the town bailiff. The events of William Shakespeare's early life can only be gleaned from official records, such as baptism and marriage records.

He probably attended the grammar school in Stratford, where he would have studied Latin and read classical literature. He did not go to university but at age 18 married Anne Hathaway, who was eight years his senior and pregnant at the time of the marriage. Their first daughter, Susanna, was born six months later, and in 1585 William and Anne had twins, Hamnet and Judith. Hamnet, Shakespeare's only son, died 11 years later, and Anne Shakespeare outlived her husband, dying in 1623. Nothing is known of the period between the birth of the twins and Shakespeare's emergence as a playwright in London in the early 1590s, but unfounded stories have him stealing deer, joining a group of traveling players, becoming a schoolteacher, or serving as a soldier in the Low Countries.

The first reference to Shakespeare as a London playwright came in 1592, when a fellow dramatist, Robert Greene, wrote derogatorily of him on his deathbed. It is believed that Shakespeare had written the three parts of Henry VI by that point. In 1593, Venus and Adonis was Shakespeare's first published poem, and he dedicated it to the young Henry Wriothesley, the 3rd earl of Southampton. In 1594, having probably composed, among other plays, Richard III, The Comedy of Errors, and The Taming of the Shrew, he became an actor and playwright for the Lord Chamberlain's Men, which became the King's Men after James I's ascension in 1603. The company grew into England's finest, in no small part because of Shakespeare, who was its principal dramatist. It also had the finest actor of the day, Richard Burbage, and the best theater, the Globe, which was located on the Thames' south bank. Shakespeare stayed with the King's Men until his retirement and often acted in small parts.

By 1596, the company had performed the classic Shakespeare plays Romeo and Juliet, Richard II, and A Midsummer Night's Dream. That year, John Shakespeare was granted a coat of arms, a testament to his son's growing wealth and fame. In 1597, William Shakespeare bought a large house in Stratford. In 1599, after producing his great historical series, the first and second part of Henry IV and Henry V, he became a partner in the ownership of the Globe Theatre.

The beginning of the 17th century saw the performance of the first of his great tragedies, Hamlet. The next play, The Merry Wives of Windsor, was written at the request of Queen Elizabeth I, who wanted to see another play that included the popular character Falstaff. During the next decade, Shakespeare produced such masterpieces as Othello, King Lear, Macbeth, and The Tempest. In 1609, his sonnets, probably written during the 1590s, were published. The 154 sonnets are marked by the recurring themes of the mutability of beauty and the transcendent power of love and art.

Shakespeare died in Stratford-on-Avon on April 23, 1616. Today, nearly 400 years later, his plays are performed and read more often and in more nations than ever before. In a million words written over 20 years, he captured the full range of human emotions and conflicts with a precision that remains sharp today. As his great contemporary the poet and dramatist Ben Jonson said, "He was not of an age, but for all time."

________
I find it appropriate, in a turning-turning-and-coming-round-right way, that Shakespeare died on his birthday. Full circuit. A sequence not unlike the sonnets' cycle.

Here's one of my favorite of Shakespeare's sonnets.

ROMEO
If I profane with my unworthiest hand
This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this:
My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

JULIET
Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.

ROMEO
Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

JULIET
Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

ROMEO
O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;
They pray — grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.

JULIET
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.

ROMEO
Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take.

[Kisses her.]



A line that follows this sonnet fascinates me--Juliet's You kiss by th' book. Is this said in awe (I swear on the Bible, on all that's holy, you kiss wonderfully!), or as criticism (You kiss as though all your "experience" is book learnin'!). I favor the latter interpretation. Romeo's professed love for Rosaline is textbook stuff; I think Juliet is egging him on toward another kiss, an even more passionate one. This is another duel in Romeo and Juliet.

I'd like to write a dueling sonnet, with two speakers. Oh, May 16, will you ever get here?

Friday, April 22, 2011

For F. on Good Friday: Mimesis, Diegesis, Soma




______
Antiphon. Against sound.

The story and what sounds like the story.

Narcissus and Echo.

Whose story?
_______
He represents; she reports
He embodies, she narrates
He transforms, she indicates
He knows only a continuous present, she looks back on a past

She represents; he reports
She embodies, he narrates
She transforms, he indicates
She knows only a continuous present, he looks back on a past
________
Christ is mimetic; I as believer am diegetic.

Harvey is mimetic; I as widow am diegetic.

Poetry is mimetic; it goes to show. The essay is diegetic; it tries--essays--to tell.

Where do the poems come? When do the poems come? How do I find the nondiegetic in all this diversion, diegesis?

I understand Dickinson's #640 better now.

Because Your Face
Would Put Out Jesus'


I have a piece of broken and stapled china, transferware, which somebody loved enough to mend. It's always reminded me of requited love.



I am a piece of broken and stapled china, transferware, and somebody loves me enough to offer platinum and diamonds, as if this will chink the cracks, caulk the chips, unweave the crazing. Will it?



Can you see the fissures, fractures? Look closer. There are more than you think.

Can you see that this is my body, which was broken not for, but over?

Come closer, for I'm showing you stigmata.

If you want to take my hand, you have to take my hand.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

If I'm Alive and Well, Will You Be There Holding My Hand?


GRATITUDE JOURNAL:
1. Wallace Stevens. There is no kryptonite that stops him from healing my heart. He makes me think, and his music satisfies my ear. Sonority, resonance--he sustains me.
2. Elizabeth Bishop. Qualification, exaggeration, restatement--she helps me see. She lets me know that form is to be mastered, not just followed.
3. Marianne Moore. Syllabics stun me--she lets me play. She indulges my perusal of weird atlases and pursuit of Bakelite bracelets and hats, knowing there's a guide. (I wish she'd gotten to name the Edsel).
4. Frank O'Hara. He lets me know it's okay to love language, that the vernacular isn't verboten. (And sometimes, just sometimes, it's okay to flaunt your vocabulary).
5. Tennyson. After many a summer dies the swan. He teaches me everything I need to know about torquing the sentence into a line.

DREAM: I have written a poem about a cashmere sweater, and it is my best poem ever. I surely hope so. It's posted on billboards; the London Times sends me flowers and asks to publish it; John Cusack is so stunned by its greatness that he takes me out for calamari.

REALITY: I drafted the poem. It's not my best poem ever. I, however, will accept Mr. Cusack's invitation for calamari at any time.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Mahendra Singh: Gratitude Journal

I don't know the title of this piece by M. Singh. I'd call it "Merrill's Victor Dog Meets Eliot's Peach As It's About to Be Pricked by Snodgrass's Needle." I can look at it and its anemones all day.

I found this through one of my favorite blogs, 50 Watts. Today, I'm grateful for blogs, and I want to list a few reasons why.

GRATITUDE JOURNAL:
1. Will's 50 Watts. My favorite blog. Illustration, illustration, illustration.
2. Rebecca's Radish King. My other favorite blog. Poetry that will take off the top of my head and fibrillate my heart. A well of honesty. A well-wrought life.
3. Bibliodyssey. My other other favorite blog. A cabinet of curiosities. The best history lessona ever.
4. The poets I have discovered through blogs: Natasha Trethewey, C. Dale Young, Peter Pereira, Rebecca Loudon. I have all their books and treasure them. Well, almost all their books. I have to wait till payday for Torn.
5. The wonderful friend I have rediscovered through this blog, who will last me a lifetime. RFB. I do believe you are a keeper. Keep yourself well. I'll see you today or tomorrow.

Blogging has been a wonderful way for me to record my griefs and woes. I consider this practice writing to warm up for the real work, but the pieces elegizing Harvey in the "Remembering You Through" may be some of the best writing I've done. I hope so.

Our wedding anniversary is a week and a half away. I hope I can survive mostly intact, like old Noritake china, crazed but serviceable.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Ten Minutes of Rain and Thunder Audio [HQ]

1

GRATITUDE JOURNAL:
1. I have found the perfect shirt for my poetry reading. It is a peachy-pink--the color of pink lemonade melted at the bottom of a 1940s bubble pitcher. My cameos look amazing with it.
2. I have been jewelry shopping--more on that later. I have the coolest rhinestone and emerald glass-eyed gator bracelet. It's fabulous vintage.
3. Raleigh has Sperry Topsiders and Ree Zips and the world's coolest socks from Sperry, as well. She bought me lunch at Olive Garden as a thank you. (I have mannerly, generous kids).
4. I have found the perfect lipstick (red), which I've been searching for since Persian red was discontinued in 1993. I have also found the perfect dress--and it's in my closet. Oh, I cannot believe the dress I wore in 1997 is now the perfect dress 14 years later.
5. It's flip-flop weather, and I have been given the money for a pedicure. Oh, my feet will be beautiful soon. Decades after I stopped playing tennis, I had tennis toes--cramped and red and ugly nails. They're finally gone, and I can have pretty feet this summer. I bought some black sandals to celebrate.

Poetics and Gratitude (from April 15)

and my heart--

you can't plan on the heart, but

the better part of it, my poetry, is open.


(Frank O'Hara, "My Heart"


GRATITUDE JOURNAL


1. I've worried for a long time about my poetics. I wonder why I write in open form, or form that the poem dictates, rather than form dictated by the rich tradition of our guild and imposed on the poem. In "My Heart," Frank has summed this up for me, just as he's clarified how to use the line for me, how to control breath and breadth in a poem, how to write about art and music and movies.


I wish I'd known you, Frank. I'd have bought you a Coke, and we could have talked about our shared crush on Kenneth Koch (the pun in the title "Having a Coke with You"). Thank you for being my touchstone in so many ways. From you and Bishop, Whitman and Emily, Tennyson and Donne, Sexton and Sylvia and Maxine, I've learned so much this year. And Stevens, Wallace Stevens, without whom I'd not survive this grief.


2. Flynn, I do cherish your hands and your smarts and your sense of humor. Can I get a witness? Can I get a witness? Can I get a witness? (Lather. Rinse. Repeat).


And you already have a big fine car. Maybe some day I'll get to drive it. (See video).



3. The days of Lent are drawing to a close. Lemon Lift, Red Zinger, Constant Comment, Earl Grey...oh I miss your tart citrus on my tongue, your clear ruby color in my cup, your cinnamon and bergamot top notes steaming from the teapot and infusing the room (bathed every vein in such liquor). I want to use my Alice in Wonderland tea set and host a tea party. I even have the Johnny Depp hat and promise to wear it on Easter Sunday for said tea ceremony.


4. Taxes. I am grateful for what they do for the government, and I don't mind paying them. I do mind all the electronic BS that goes with filing an extension.


5. Baseball. A. Pujols and my beloved Cardinals need encouragement. I'm hopeful someone will take me out to a ball game. I'd love to go with my son to St. Louis. We've never been to a game together, and I've not been to one in over 30 years. Harvey was wonderful in so many aspects, and I couldn't bear to ask him to take me to a game. He hated sports until the very last year of our marriage, when he willingly watched the Super Bowl with me. (Baseball doesn't translate well to television. It's so beautiful live).



Thursday, April 14, 2011

Cries and Crises

The fella is sick. The classroom is crazy. The computer is on the fritz.

I'm still grateful.

1. Harvey's death was 9 months ago today. It has been a long set of trimesters--shock, anger, depression. I'm ready for a rebirth. I will love him always. I'm so enormously grateful for the ways that he changed me.
2. My pink linen dress from 1987--the one I wore when we were married--is one size smaller than I am now. There's a possibility it may fit this time next year--but if it doesn't? I'm okay with that. I feel so much better now that I'm not carting around triple digits of extra weight. Maybe I'll stick around longer to be grateful for more things in my life.
3. Every day, in every way, I am grateful to God for not deserting me, even when I was ready to give up on love, life, and laughter. Every day, in every way, I wonder how people survive this type of grief. I'm irrevocably changed, but someday I'll be completely changed, and I will see Harvey again. I long for that day, but I don't want that day to be tomorrow, or this day, as I did when I thought I'd die, and wanted to, and even thought about dying, without him.
4. I am grateful to Sewanee for asking me back. What a wonderful surprise!
5. My cat is a comfort, such an attention seeking lap warmer. I'm so glad he's stopped looking for Harvey in every room. That was heartbreaking. (He still sleeps on one of Harvey's t-shirts that I don't have the heart to pick up and wash. It's in Shadow's bed).
6. Poetry always wins. Always. Over fiction, over prose, over art, movies, flowers. It's poetry.
7. I have really cute shoes today. I found a pair of black Puma flats that are cute and comfortable. I want another pair, because I'm sure these will be worn out!
8. Frank O'Hara. He is becoming my touchstone. I have learned so much about art, music, phrasing, the line from him. And he was never ever taught to me. I make sure my students get to spend a little time with him--every single semester. Others come, others go, but he and Bishop remain, right up there with Keats and Walt Whitman.
9. Emergen-C. It really really works.
10. Spinach salads with Greek dressing, almonds, and peppers. Healthy and pretty. As I aspire to be.

Here's a little Frank for you. I put him on FB this morning, but I'm always willing to share my favorites again. It's a poetics statement for me, why I write what I write, why I shape it as the poem requires, not what the form requires of the poem.

MY HEART--Frank O'Hara

I'm not going to cry all the time
nor shall I laugh all the time,
I don't prefer one "strain" to another.
I'd have the immediacy of a bad movie,
not just a sleeper, but also the big,
overproduced first-run kind. I want to be
at least as alive as the vulgar. And if
some aficionado of my mess says "That's
not like Frank!", all to the good! I
don't wear brown and grey suits all the time,
do I? No. I wear workshirts to the opera,
often. I want my feet to be bare,
I want my face to be shaven, and my heart--
you can't plan on the heart, but
the better part of it, my poetry, is open.



Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Gratitude Journal, Two Days in One

1. I am grateful that I didn't delete my blog when I tried to make it private.
2. I am glad that I am so interesting that my students want to read this, although it did make me slightly uncomfortable (Translation: MORTIFIED) that one of my students mentioned that there is a "sexy post about your old boyfriend." (Well, he's not that old, but 35 years ago is a long time). I also was very surprised that the "old boyfriend" read that post about kissing him. That is strange. To have the past read the present words...
3. I am grateful that I was able to substitute teach a real workshop and see how wonderful are the poems Caitlin, Sean, Ford, Ryan, Joan, Sebastian, and Patrick are writing. I was glad to meet David, whose poem I adored. Thank you, Carrie Jerrell, for sharing your class with me. I return them to you, predominantly intact.
4. I am glad I have 214/beginning writers, as we had a great workshop today over the "thing" poems a la Rilke, or Simic, or Duffy. Go Kencie, Brittany, and Lauren; get ready, Greg, Austin, Jen, and Sarah Beth.
5. I am grateful that kissing is still my superpower.
6. I am glad I followed my instincts and didn't date the guy who turned out to be in a relationship (Translation: MARRIED). I have dated a married man before but he was married TO ME, and his name was Harvey. We had dates all the time.
7. I'm grateful that Harvey wrote me a sexy post-it note about an aboriginal instrument called a didgeridoo. I'm glad I found it on a day I was missing him so badly. It really reminded me of what we had that was special, and sexy, and circular. I loved him. I love him. I miss him.
8. In spite of #7, or maybe because of it and #5 and #2, I am glad to admit that ihaveaboyfriend. I am afraid to type this properly, although he would like me to sky-write it in capital letters. (SURRENDER, PAMELA). Part of me wants to keep this very private. I am so grateful, though, for flowers, and phone calls, and videos, and dates, that I want to mention it. I hope this doesn't hurt anyone who wanted me to be a grieving widow forever. I hope that my kids and Harvey's family understand this, because I know that Harvey would understand it, approve of it, and encourage it. (We talked about this 5 years ago, when he had a heart attack). Harvey would so approve of this guy, and I am so glad that I can rely on what Harvey taught me about men and relationships.
9. I am grateful that school is nearly over. I cannot wait to write every day. I didn't write the last two days and "it like to have kilt me." (Quote from one of my favorite stories--can you name it?)
10. I am glad that I discovered the key to a grilled cheese sandwich is shredded cheese. No more stretching stringy glop! Which is a good thing in Gummi Bears but not so much in Swiss cheese.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Erasing a Letter from Miss Emily and Forwarding It to the Beloved


Dear, dying

stunned my spirit.

a flake gathered by the wind

now part of the drift called "the infinite."


We don't know where he is, though so many tell us.

Silence...

Seraphs are solemn artists.

illumination comes but once

the grass suffices

It sweeps around me like a sea...

______

GRATITUDE JOURNAL:

1. Dale Ray's chocolate pie. OMG. Ecstasy.

2. Convertible rides.

3. My friend Sally's friendship, encouragement, and laughter. And her spiral-notebook hair.

4. Poetry. It is the godsend, the godspeak, the godspell.

5. Sex and sex and sex and sex--"Shattered," The Rolling Stones. I have written a short short story called "Shadoobie." I once wanted to write microfiction based on each of the Some Girls tracks. If I can find "Shadoobie," I'll post it.

Saturday, April 09, 2011

Notes Toward the Beautiful: Some Prewriting


What happens when the model moves from object to subject, when she literally goes past the frame? This happens in late 19th and early 20th art, literature, music...and it starts with a shift of perception, which is integral to that shift in power, that transformation into a new mode of art. This change in perception deepens the relationship of artist to his/her medium. In literature, it's often the struggle among author, narrator, and text that triangulates change.

"One evening I sat beauty on my knees. And I found her bitter. And I insulted her." Rimbaud, A Season in Hell

Power's shifting here, too. Look at the difference between Keats' "Truth is Beauty," preserved in its museum of artifice/artificial language, and beauty's position in Rimbaud. She's dandled on a knee; she's lacking charm; she's insulted rather than revered--yet she's never ignored.

How do you deal with the beautiful in your art? (Is it Nabokovian--how beauty is destroyed/spoiled at the same time that it's created, the light/dark of an elaborate chess game? Is it Keatsian--an ideal that is eternal and an eternal goal? Is it Rimbaudian--is there snot on the nose of Venus?)

(from "Some Notes on Narration" by Pamela Johnson Parker)

(Marcel DuChamp, Nude Descending A Staircase, No. 2)
_______
GRATITUDE JOURNAL

1. Kings of Leon.
2. Sunshine.
3. Sleep, blessed sleep in a smooth-riding car, and not worrying if you snore or drool, because the person beside you truly doesn't care and finds you beautiful anyway.
4. Band of Horses.
5. A Saturday without worries. So unlike Friday. So looking forward to Sunday!

Friday, April 08, 2011

Fini, Done, Kaput: The Work Week Is Over

Gratitude Journal:
1. My mother's birthday. I am so glad that she is healthy this year. She and my dad are out of town celebrating.
2. My beautiful vintage lace dress, which someone baptized tonight in Pinot Grigio. (It all came out! I may have been the only person drinking Coca-Cola and still smelling like a wino).
3. My school's sponsorship of Ciaran Carson's poetry reading. (I realize that I understand more about long lines and short lines and when they work/don't work).
4. My friends who were at the party. My students who were at the party. The fact that I didn't have to stay at the party and after tonight don't have to go to any more of these parties. (See #5). The amazing MSU writers with whom I am privileged to work.
5. My self-control, exhibited at its fullest when I was insulted behind my back and to my face.
Part of me wanted to smack him, part of me wanted to snarl back, and part of me just looked at him with my poker face, which is rapidly aging into this one...and imperious silence won out.




(I may be "old." I may be "not going anywhere." I may be "merely an adjunct." However, I go to bed tonight knowing that today I have been generous to students, appreciative of a good poetry reading, and not condescending or cruel to someone else. I also go to bed tonight knowing that I have written today. And those hateful remarks did make me cry, but not till I was in my car on the way home, missing Harvey and wondering why I bother trying to fit in. And glad I didn't bring a date to this stupid thing. And very glad that the Kings of Leon concert is tomorrow).


Thursday, April 07, 2011

From the Writer's Almanac® for April 7


Harvey and I saw this exhibit in Cincinnati. I will never forget how very startling, how very sexy those photographs were.

  • On this day in 1969, the Supreme Court unanimously struck down laws prohibiting private possession of obscene material. Exactly 21 years later, a display of Robert Mapplethorpe photographs opened at Cincinnati's Contemporary Arts Center, causing the Center and its director to be indicted on obscenity charges. It was the first time a gallery faced prosecution for the content of the work it displayed, and it meant that the Center could be fined $10,000, and its director jailed for a year. A jury acquitted both a few months later. By that time, the exhibition had drawn bigger crowds than for any other in the city's history. More than 81,000 people came to see Mr. Mapplethorpe's photos in Cincinnati before the exhibition went on to Boston.
I think this is a beautiful way to remember today, as well: Everything blooming.
  • And it is Buddha's Birthday, also known as Hana Matsuri in Japan. The story goes that when the Buddha was born, dragons flew down from heaven and poured fragrant water over the land, like a sweet rain, and all the flowers on land and water bloomed simultaneously. So on this day, statues of a young Buddha are decorated with flowers and carried to temples in procession, and children in Japan take turns pouring sweet tea over the Buddha's head. It is a day of gratitude.
"The World Is Too Much with Us" and I'm glad that Wordsworth wrote about it!
  • It's the birthday of poet William Wordsworth, (books by this author) born in Cockermouth, England (1770). The philosopher Bertrand Russell summed up Wordsworth's career this way: "In his youth, Wordsworth sympathized with the French Revolution, went to France, wrote good poetry, and had a natural daughter. At this period he was called a 'bad' man. Then he became 'good,' abandoned his daughter, adopted correct principles, and wrote bad poetry." His mother died when he was eight, and he went off to school in the Lake District, where he liked to wander around the countryside. At age 20, he went on a tour through France and Switzerland. France was celebrating the Revolution, and Wordsworth was completely absorbed in the politics. In the Alps, he was overwhelmed by the sublime presence of nature. He later said, "Perhaps scarce a day of my life will pass by in which I shall not derive some happiness from those images." He returned to France the following year and fathered a daughter there, whom he left. The Anglo-French War kept him from returning. It was during the next 10 years that he wrote his best poetry, including "Tintern Abbey," "She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways," "Ode: Intimations of Immortality," and "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud." Wordsworth challenged what he called "the gaudiness and inane phraseology of many modern writers." He wrote about ordinary things and private thoughts, the view from a bridge, daffodils. His friend Samuel Coleridge published him. Eventually, he separated from Coleridge, who was a drug addict. Wordsworth got married and raised five children. He came to see the French Revolution as a mistake. He accepted a government job to pay the bills. His title was "Official Distributor of Stamps for Westmoreland."But by the time he reached middle age, his collections of poetry were best-sellers. And when he was 73, he became poet laureate of England.
I've always wanted to teach Snow White.
  • It's the birthday of writer, editor, and creative writing teacher Donald Barthelme (books by this author), born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania (1931). He is considered to be one of the great American surrealists. He's the author of four novels, including Snow White (1967) and The Dead Father (1975), but he's best known for his strange, fragmented short stories. He was the son of an architect and was schooled early in art theory and design. When he was eight, his family moved to the outskirts of Houston, Texas, to a modernist home designed by his father. Donald said: "We used to get up from Sunday dinner, if enough cars had parked, and run out in front of the house in a sort of chorus line, doing high kicks." As an editor of the magazine Forum, he was the first to publish Marshall McLuhan's speech "The Medium is the Message." As a writer, he was attuned to what was happening in the visual arts, in movies, and in music, particularly jazz. He called himself an "alleged post-modernist." His first story collection, Come Back, Dr. Caligari (1964), is full of absurd, surrealistic stories. In one story, Batman is ashamed of himself because he doesn't think he's doing a good enough job fighting crime. He said, "Writing is a process of dealing with not-knowing, a forcing of what and how." He said, "Write about what you're afraid of."
Ironically, iconically, this is the day I taught Frank O'Hara's "The Day Lady Died."
  • It's the birthday of the singer Billie Holiday, born Eleanora Fagan in Baltimore (1915) to teenage parents. She was never professionally trained, but by the time she was 18, she had spent more time performing in clubs than performers twice her age. When she recorded with Benny Goodman, her career took off, and she went on to work with Artie Shaw and Lester Young, who gave her the nickname "Lady Day." She struggled with relationships, and addiction, but her apartment in the Bronx was always open to unemployed musicians, and she left a plate on the table that held money for food and subway fares. In her autobiography she wrote, "Singing songs like the 'The Man I Love' or 'Porgy' is no more work than sitting down and eating Chinese roast duck, and I love roast duck." Studs Terkel saw a performance of Holiday's in 1956, and he wrote: "When she went into 'Willow, Weep for Me,' you wept. You looked about and saw that the few other customers were also crying in their beer and shot glasses. Nor were they that drunk. Something was still there, that something that distinguishes an artist from a performer: the revealing of the self. Here I be. Not for long, but here I be. In sensing her mortality, we sensed our own." She died at age 44.

GRATITUDE JOURNAL:

1. Billie Holiday's "Willow Weep for Me," which inspired my poem "78 RPM." Go here to listen and read this poem, from my first collection, A Walk Through the Memory Palace. http://memorypalacewalk.com/78-rpm/

2. Studs Terkel. For doing the hard work and doing it right.

3. Great discussion on Hell today. I wish I'd done a better job planning the Dante lesson, but my students bailed me out, once again. They are so wonderful!

4. Flowers. Growing and delivered. I love pink roses and pink tulips and pink peonies. I have all three today.

5. The human body, especially the middle aged human body: So beautiful, so brittle, so battle-scarred. A landscape bespeaking survival.



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Wednesday, April 06, 2011

David Bowie - China Girl




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I remember dancing to this with you, innumerable times. You were China White to me, and oh, was I addicted.

I was so beloved, and I was so in love.

How can this be past tense? How can I get past this? I have tried prayer, meditation, writing, therapy (when the therapist cried more than I did), exercise, fasting, more prayer, more meditation, more exercise, dating again, and I just cannot work through the grief of you being gone. I'm so afraid that loss will be the spike in my arm forever.

How do I turn my back on a love like ours? How do I walk into a new relationship with eyes and arms wide open? How do I awaken in the mornings, before I open my eyes, and still (for just a nanosecond) smell you--sugar cookies and cigarette smoke entangled in your curls?

Every time I hear this song, I imagine nothing but you and remember everything, including this, sent 5 hours before you died:


Just once, just once to hold you again, I'd gladly repeat every single hour's torment, if I could have that chance to say a proper goodbye to you, for you to tell me I'm doing the right things with Raleigh, with the house, with the new poems, with my life.

(It isn't proper, such bad writing, such sentiment. You'd say, SSHHSH).

Gratitude journal is private today.

Tuesday, April 05, 2011

Todd Rundgren - I Saw the Light



GRATITUDE JOURNAL:
1. Oh, Universe. I have plans for a writing retreat this summer. Thank you for making this possible.
2. Oh, Universe. I have tickets to a Kings of Leon concert. Thank you for this! I so look forward to a night of music.
3. Oh, Universe. I have a new poem. It's a happy Harvey poem. Maybe the run of sad poems is over for a bit...
4. Oh, Universe. I have the world's smartest (straight-A and savvy) children. Be good to them.
5. Oh, Universe. I hate to ask you for one more thing, when you've been so giving and forgiving today, but could someone please publish my 208-line poem about Doris Holbrook?



Monday, April 04, 2011

The Thrill Is Gone - BB KING & ERIC CLAPTON- Best Version Ever!



I saw BB King when I was pregnant with my son (nearly 27 years ago). He was amazing then and is amazing here. I'm grateful for getting to hear him.

GRATITUDE JOURNAL:
1. Marc Chagall. Another touchstone. He is BLUE to me in the way that Lautrec is red and yellow.
2. Guitar music: Chet Atkins. B.B. King. Eric Clapton. George Benson. Lindsay Buckingham.
3. Whoever invented No-Doz.
4. Tulips--those little turbans, especially the pink and the yellow ones.
5. Basketball. I predict Butler by 6.

I'm very tired--trying to plan out Dante, Machiavelli, the Canterbury Tales, the Renaissance and Neoclassicism. Tired and ready for RoPo and Frankenstein.


Sunday, April 03, 2011

Sunday Gratitude

GRATITUDE JOURNAL:

1. Harvey's giving me these amazing tulips pink as a prom queen's lipstick, white as her strapless bra.
2. My friend has bought a Bondo-primer red Buick Riviera. I will be able to see its metamorphosis into something sleek and slick and black.
3. I won my basketball pool. I hope Kemba Walker and Butler both have wonderful games.
4. Church was amazingly useful today--on a practical and a spiritual level. I saw a way to finish out the semester in HUM based on the wages and the gift verse in John. (Who'd a-thunk Jesus could be postmodern?)
5. Shopping with Raleigh with a gift of money from a friend resulted in shoes, shorts, and tees for her and a most amazing denim skirt and jacket for me. I feel all French!

Saturday, April 02, 2011

Gratitude

Bargain Bin Finds
1. Green ruffled cashmere cardigan. The green of Ireland's mossiest rocks. $1.00.
2. Navy and red floral dress with a big red sash. $1.00.
3. Ivory and buff and Alice Blue dress with sequins--and sash. $1.00.
4. The Little Lame Prince. First edition, London, 1875. MONEY MAKER. 50 cents.
5. Fugly brass lamps with Japanese figures screwed into the bases. (Removing the figurines from the base, I discover that they're OCCUPIED JAPAN. The holes are the natural firing holes that someone had adapted without damaging to these lamps. $10.00 for the pair. (Value probably around $15 to $25 each--they're both perfect).

$13.50 plus tax. I will make at least $100 from that book. I will enjoy the cardigan for years to come (and am wearing it today) . Those dresses are new! (It was dollar day at the thrift store so I could have gone hog-wild, but I restrained myself to only three things. To bring in three things means I get rid of 9, so 9 pairs of ill-fitting jeans are in the donate box right now).


Friday, April 01, 2011

Wings and Seeds



This is the story of my first marriage. I'm so glad I gave love a second chance. I'm saying yes to a third one, when it's time.

Gratitude Journal:

1. That today isn't yesterday. (I would re-live the Harvey years, but not the Roger ones).
2. That there are love and laughter in the world, and some of it is ours. And I will do my best to love again. I promise you that.
3. That my life is not a country music song, even one with vocals as beautiful as this one.
4. That I have come out of the thicket of grief relatively unscathed. I am broken but have been splinted, and I am healing. I was loved and am still loved. I should remember that it's only money, and I have more of it than 99.44% of the people on this planet.
5. That the Kings of Leon will be in Memphis next Saturday and so will you and I.