Almost two weeks ago, I watched a PBS show called Echoes from the White House in which Jacqueline Kennedy gave a tour of the White House. Though dated, the show was captivating, and my mind has returned fairly often to this mysterious woman in the days since. Did Jackie O drink beer? Did Jackie O sing in the shower? Did Jackie O like poetry?
Some details of Jackie's tastes and habits I may never know, particularly if I never bother to read one of her biographies (anyone have any recommendations?), but I am pleased to at least know that she was a lover of poetry. Earlier this week, I visited Chincoteague, VA, and spent most of my time at the surprising number of independent bookstores there. At the one whose name I can't remember, I picked up The Best-Loved Poems of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, selected and introduced by Caroline Kennedy. Aside from the tasteful selection of well known favorites (Frost, Whitman, Hughes, Yeats, Keats, etc.), there are a few poems written by Jackie O herself, when she was still Miss Bouvier.
Who cares what she read? I think it's fascinating. The introduction explains that Jackie memorized her favorite poems and taught many of them to her children. To read these (mostly) familiar poems with that knowledge makes me see them differently, or at least makes me look closer. What is it in a poem that holds a reader? What is it in a reader that lets a poem hold?
Happy New Year!
31 December 2008
14 December 2008
Would it have been heavenly? Hellish? Revisiting Romeo & Juliet
Well, while we're riding the sweet Shakespeare waves, let's tan with the lotion of contemporary poetic responses (but let's not get stuck on my bad metaphors). Most of us know the story Shakespeare made most famous, Romeo & Juliet. Teaching this brilliant play to ninth graders a few years ago was definitely a teaching highlight: seeing young people move beyond initial resistance and doubt to heartfelt classroom discussions and productions was deeply satisfying. For one lesson, we watched two versions of the famous balcony scene between the main characters: the classic and sexy Zeffirelli version and Luhrmann's modern adaptation (also sexy). The students analyzed the artistic decisions each director made (between giggles), and several of them performed creative renditions in pairs -- blushing, as I was blushing, at the awkwardness of performing romance in these crowded classroom conditions. It was a memorable experience!
What if the play had ended differently, we asked at the end of our unit. What if the lovers had found a way to make it? Maxine Kumin answers this question brilliantly (with tongue firmly planted in cheek) in her sonnet, "Purgatory," which can be read and listened to here. Enjoy!
What if the play had ended differently, we asked at the end of our unit. What if the lovers had found a way to make it? Maxine Kumin answers this question brilliantly (with tongue firmly planted in cheek) in her sonnet, "Purgatory," which can be read and listened to here. Enjoy!
13 December 2008
Phoning Shakespeare
Last night, I downloaded Readdle's PlayShakespeare for the iPhone. Not only are all of Shakespeare's plays and poems now on my phone, but they are fully searchable! Utterly baffling.
Here: I give you his delightful 42nd sonnet:
That thou hast her, it is not all my grief,
And yet it may be said I lov'd her dearly;
That she hath thee is of my wailing chief,
A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye:
Thou dost love her because thou know'st I love her,
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suff'ring my friend for my sake to approve her.
If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain,
And losing her, my friend hath found that loss;
Both find each other, and I lose both twain,
And both for my sake lay on me this cross.
But here's the joy, my friend and I are one;
Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone.
On a completely unrelated note, check out my post, Writing Fibs, on Getting Something Read!
Here: I give you his delightful 42nd sonnet:
That thou hast her, it is not all my grief,
And yet it may be said I lov'd her dearly;
That she hath thee is of my wailing chief,
A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye:
Thou dost love her because thou know'st I love her,
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suff'ring my friend for my sake to approve her.
If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain,
And losing her, my friend hath found that loss;
Both find each other, and I lose both twain,
And both for my sake lay on me this cross.
But here's the joy, my friend and I are one;
Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone.
On a completely unrelated note, check out my post, Writing Fibs, on Getting Something Read!
04 December 2008
Speaking Ferlinghetti
A few months ago, a friend lent me Lawrence Ferlinghetti's second book of poetry, A Coney Island of the Mind, and I've been reading it sporadically in bits and pieces. It sits right next to my laptop, tucked into a cubby hole on my desk. Reading it fills in the odd spaces in my day: if a webpage is taking too long to load, I'm on hold, or I'm waiting for a phone call, I reach for Coney Island and skim it casually.
Earlier this week, I started over. I suddenly realized that I was stifling his momentum every time I read a poem -- or worse, half a poem -- and put it back down again. Without planning it, I started reading him aloud. Then I started pacing while reading, my arm conducting an imaginary poem orchestra, dancing on Ferlinghetti's clever rhythms and quieting down to a sort of prayer between verses. Poetry is meant to be read, I kept thinking. It's meant to be physical. Seeing, hearing, feeling.
And then I wondered, is it always? Are there poems only meant for the page (concrete poems, for example), poems that visually speak their meaning more than they do aurally? Are there poems only meant for the ears? Song lyrics, for example, can be written in paragraph form, even when the music indicates line breaks.
All I know is that speaking Ferlinghetti is wild. Who to speak next?
Earlier this week, I started over. I suddenly realized that I was stifling his momentum every time I read a poem -- or worse, half a poem -- and put it back down again. Without planning it, I started reading him aloud. Then I started pacing while reading, my arm conducting an imaginary poem orchestra, dancing on Ferlinghetti's clever rhythms and quieting down to a sort of prayer between verses. Poetry is meant to be read, I kept thinking. It's meant to be physical. Seeing, hearing, feeling.
And then I wondered, is it always? Are there poems only meant for the page (concrete poems, for example), poems that visually speak their meaning more than they do aurally? Are there poems only meant for the ears? Song lyrics, for example, can be written in paragraph form, even when the music indicates line breaks.
All I know is that speaking Ferlinghetti is wild. Who to speak next?
01 December 2008
Mbembe Martin Smith
Before I left for a Thanksgiving holiday in the wild west, I sat in my bathroom (a virtual literary journal library!), and sipped my daily dose of Alehouse 2009. I look forward to my annual issue of Alehouse, a journal edited by Jay Rubin of The Peralta Press fame. Maybe "fame" is a strong word, but Peralta (now defunct) was the first place (outside of my own school journals) to publish my poetry. I've been a loyal fan of both journals ever since. This year's Alehouse is my favorite yet. A rich mishmash of new names and old, of great poetry and short prose pieces, it has kept me well entertained and reflective. This issue pays tribute to African-American poets and poetry, and scattered throughout are interviews, poems, and short essays by and about them.
Seventy-one pages in, there is a short piece by Anastacia Tolbert introducing and memorializing Mbembe Martin Smith, a poet I wish I'd heard of sooner. I'm thankful for the introduction, and I plan to order his Selected Poems from BkMk Press; I wish I could find more of his work online to share, but perhaps a very short excerpt from "Survival Poem" will suffice for now:
"we can let our speech become air
& our fist soft clay.
or we can rise
up thru these filty towns
to rule our own space."
His is a poetry of an urban experience, an African-American experience, but it also a poetry of our shared experience. His work recalls and foreshadows difficult issues he and those around him faced (racism, poverty, and suicide, for example) with a lyrical and straightforward intensity that insists on being felt rather than observed. That he took his own life at 36 is tragic, but it is not a reason to read or not read his work. Smith's work should be read because it is good, important, and needs to be remembered. I hope that his collection being back in print, as well as his tribute here and elsewhere, will help ensure that his contribution to poetry's widening canon is not forgotten.
Seventy-one pages in, there is a short piece by Anastacia Tolbert introducing and memorializing Mbembe Martin Smith, a poet I wish I'd heard of sooner. I'm thankful for the introduction, and I plan to order his Selected Poems from BkMk Press; I wish I could find more of his work online to share, but perhaps a very short excerpt from "Survival Poem" will suffice for now:
"we can let our speech become air
& our fist soft clay.
or we can rise
up thru these filty towns
to rule our own space."
His is a poetry of an urban experience, an African-American experience, but it also a poetry of our shared experience. His work recalls and foreshadows difficult issues he and those around him faced (racism, poverty, and suicide, for example) with a lyrical and straightforward intensity that insists on being felt rather than observed. That he took his own life at 36 is tragic, but it is not a reason to read or not read his work. Smith's work should be read because it is good, important, and needs to be remembered. I hope that his collection being back in print, as well as his tribute here and elsewhere, will help ensure that his contribution to poetry's widening canon is not forgotten.
10 November 2008
Birthing a Manuscript
For the past several months, I've been working on a manuscript of between 60 and 70 pages to enter into contests and send to publishers. In poetry biz, having a book is like a having a passport; you can't get far from home without it. Furthermore, I've started to see my poems as related pieces meant to be presented together -- and I want people to read them. That seems obvious, but it is not always the case!
From what I understand, this desire to publish is not uncommon; nor is the practice straightforward. Since my first submission to a book contest was postmarked today, I thought I'd take this opportunity to talk a bit about process.
Like most things in my life, my process started with lists: I listed every single poem of mine that I thought was possibly publishable in a manuscript. I did this three or four times over two months, reconsidering work based on ongoing revisions and relationships to other poems. Once I had settled on 74 or so pages of poetry, I printed them out. I grouped poems together that felt connected (or interestingly disconnected) and made several stacks. In the process, I weeded out about ten pages (mostly due to redundancy).
Then I did what you see in the image: I wrote the titles of the final contenders on little bits of paper (recycled!) and sorted them on the keyboard tray of my desk. I used tape to hold them in place. This method allowed me to easily play with different orders without shuffling piles of paper all over my office floor. Clean up only involved sliding the tray back under my desktop!
After I'd settled on an order and on my sections (Part I through Part IV), I started to build the manuscript in a Word document, which allowed me to see the poems all together. Again, I found myself cutting (and sometimes pasting) poems based on the new experience of seeing them formally back to back.
My next step was giving my draft away to be read. Two generous and wonderful friends took a copy of the manuscript from me for about a week each, and each spent a few hours with me, giving me helpful feedback about placement, poem choice, and title. After each reading, I fine tuned: a word here, a section order there, cutting a stanza, adding a bridge poem.
After formatting a Table of Contents and an Acknowledgments page (four drafts in), I took the plunge. As I type this, my baby passes from postal basket to basket, making its way out of Bryn Mawr to its first contest. My little Moses, who will find you and give you a chance? Fingers are crossed!
I'm sure other poets have found more efficient (or perhaps more colorful) ways to build a book; if you know of any, please share!
From what I understand, this desire to publish is not uncommon; nor is the practice straightforward. Since my first submission to a book contest was postmarked today, I thought I'd take this opportunity to talk a bit about process.
Like most things in my life, my process started with lists: I listed every single poem of mine that I thought was possibly publishable in a manuscript. I did this three or four times over two months, reconsidering work based on ongoing revisions and relationships to other poems. Once I had settled on 74 or so pages of poetry, I printed them out. I grouped poems together that felt connected (or interestingly disconnected) and made several stacks. In the process, I weeded out about ten pages (mostly due to redundancy).
Then I did what you see in the image: I wrote the titles of the final contenders on little bits of paper (recycled!) and sorted them on the keyboard tray of my desk. I used tape to hold them in place. This method allowed me to easily play with different orders without shuffling piles of paper all over my office floor. Clean up only involved sliding the tray back under my desktop!After I'd settled on an order and on my sections (Part I through Part IV), I started to build the manuscript in a Word document, which allowed me to see the poems all together. Again, I found myself cutting (and sometimes pasting) poems based on the new experience of seeing them formally back to back.
My next step was giving my draft away to be read. Two generous and wonderful friends took a copy of the manuscript from me for about a week each, and each spent a few hours with me, giving me helpful feedback about placement, poem choice, and title. After each reading, I fine tuned: a word here, a section order there, cutting a stanza, adding a bridge poem.
After formatting a Table of Contents and an Acknowledgments page (four drafts in), I took the plunge. As I type this, my baby passes from postal basket to basket, making its way out of Bryn Mawr to its first contest. My little Moses, who will find you and give you a chance? Fingers are crossed!
I'm sure other poets have found more efficient (or perhaps more colorful) ways to build a book; if you know of any, please share!
26 October 2008
Rich's Wild Patience
Last week I finished one of my many "night stand" books (though they technically sit on a shelf cleverly built into my headboard), Adrienne Rich's A Wild Patience Has Taken Me This Far. For those who have read and enjoyed Diving into the Wreck and/or The Dream of a Common Language, Patience is an indispensable addition to the Rich collection.
Here are some of Rich's words, out of context, pulled from poems throughout:
I have heard from many students and friends that Rich is difficult, particularly on first read. She demands a curious, critical, and open reader, which none of us is all the time. I have put down her poems in the past when my mind was too dull with exhaustion or distraction, knowing I needed to return when I could give them more of my attention. So much of Rich's poetry is about the need to pay attention in life, to interrogate assumptions, to make decisions and bear witness with a critical mind. It is only fair that her poetry require the same quality of attention from her readers. It strikes me that reading Rich's poetry is practice for living the kind of life she models in her work. Surely my eyes, my mind, my body moves differently after living a bit in her words.
What I hope the sampled lines above reveal is that Rich can be prosaic in her poetry -- not in the dull sense of the word, but in the straightforward sense of it. In Patience, Rich gives us her characteristically tight, passionate poetry, but she also offers quite a few footholds to her reader. I often feel she is saying here, this is what I am trying to say. Read the poem again now. And I do. And I never regret it.
Here are some of Rich's words, out of context, pulled from poems throughout:
- "...I turn again, slip my arm / under the pillow turned for relief, / your breathing traces my shoulder. Two women sleeping / together have more than their sleep to defend." ("The Images")
- "Anger and tenderness: the spider's genius / to spin and weave in the same action / from her own body, anywhere-- / even from a broken web." ("Integrity)
- "The world as it is: not as her users boast / damaged beyond reclamation by their using / Ourselves as we are in these painful motions // of staying cognizant: some part of us always / out beyond ourselves / knowing knowing knowing" ("The Spirit of Place")
- "it is meant to be in silence that this happens" ("Frame")
- "When language fails us, when we fail each other / there is no exorcism." ("Rift")
- "Unborn sisters, / look back on us with mercy" ("Turning the Wheel")
I have heard from many students and friends that Rich is difficult, particularly on first read. She demands a curious, critical, and open reader, which none of us is all the time. I have put down her poems in the past when my mind was too dull with exhaustion or distraction, knowing I needed to return when I could give them more of my attention. So much of Rich's poetry is about the need to pay attention in life, to interrogate assumptions, to make decisions and bear witness with a critical mind. It is only fair that her poetry require the same quality of attention from her readers. It strikes me that reading Rich's poetry is practice for living the kind of life she models in her work. Surely my eyes, my mind, my body moves differently after living a bit in her words.
What I hope the sampled lines above reveal is that Rich can be prosaic in her poetry -- not in the dull sense of the word, but in the straightforward sense of it. In Patience, Rich gives us her characteristically tight, passionate poetry, but she also offers quite a few footholds to her reader. I often feel she is saying here, this is what I am trying to say. Read the poem again now. And I do. And I never regret it.
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