Bracing Myself to Enter a Poetry Contest

Confession: I have entered fewer than five -- much fewer than five -- writing contests in my life. But I am planning on entering another soon. A poetry one, to be specific.

I don't enter them because I don't want someone to tell me what I sometimes fear: I am not all that good. Who wants to get their hopes up only to hear that they had no chance of winning? On top of that, this is my writing we are talking about. That stuff is important to me. I worked hard on them and they carry a lot of me in them.

But if a writer is going to move forward, someone else needs to be reading their work. I have submitted a couple things to literary journals without success (though one person did write me a full-length letter in response, which means it was good and they realized it), and I suppose I did get to present a couple stories at National Undergraduate Literature Conferences. Which is pretty cool. I also won regional awards for my editorials in college. My boss thinks I should submit my column next year for a journalism award, too.

Basically, I'm not a lost cause. Just a timid cause.

I don't think I've mentioned my column yet. It's called the Front Porch, and in it I relay small bits of happy news in a chatty way. If someone becomes an Eagle Scout, gets a scholarship, makes the dean's list, wins a snowmobile, needs volunteers, you get the idea, it goes into my column.

So I suppose this is a dual-purpose blog post (I didn't realize I forgot to write a post last week! Whoops). First, to tell you I am preparing myself to enter another contest, and second, to tell you I'm a columnist of sorts these days.

To read my Front Porch column, visit www.idahopress.com/heyipt/ and look for headlines saying Front Porch. I've gotten some negative feedback, but mostly the community seems to enjoy it.

As for which poem I am submitting, I'm not sure yet. I have reached out to a writer friend for some help, because the contest hasn't been around for more than a year. Without knowledge of what sort of poems they prefer, I'm at a loss. I'm thinking of entering my poem about Nisha, the Teddy Bear Buttons paragraph fiction (pretending it's prose poetry, which maybe it is), or this poem, which is called Relics.


There is a red, wooden swing
hanging from the lone chestnut tree
that shadows my front yard.
Rachel, the girl with naturally curly hair
who loves mustard yellow,
made it with a friend
before she left for Russia.
Moscow, where she learned to adore
matching scarves and hats,
old window frames,
and long train rides,
but not so much the food —
except for borscht (beet soup),
blini (pancakes),
and smetana (sour cream).

The red swing stayed with me;
I brought it in during the winter
to protect the wood from snow,
and in the summer,
my landlord’s two daughters played on it.
She also left me with a painting
of a rainstorm over a bridge that traverses a river,
beside which two people walk,
one in red and one in light blue.
Neither one is holding an umbrella,
but they don’t seem to be in a hurry
to escape the rain pelting the walkway.

Borscht

I'll let you know how it goes, no matter which one I end up going with. Cross your fingers for me.

The Quiet of Me

At the time of dreams,
I empty my mind,
Sweep it clean of the debris of the day,
Allow the stress to stream from my fingertips
And sink through the mattress --
Away,
Away
From my hunched shoulders
And embryonic crows feet.

I let the debris, the stress, the to-do lists
Fill my dustpan and pour out
Into the night, creating
stars outside the window
of my soul,
Separate,
Separate
From my whited canvas
And ujjayi breath.

I sit in an empty mind
Brilliant as the clouds
And spinning as a comet through space
The space filled with stars that were
Mine,
Mine
As a secret place in the forest
And an heirloom skeleton key.

Perhaps
Perhaps
This is the space where space
Meets soul and dreams
Trip lightly

Behind --
But away, separate.
Mine, perhaps.

Allow Me to Explain Why You Should Learn the Rules of Grammar

My current reading book is Muriel Barbery's The Elegance of the Hedgehog. In it, a student asks the language teacher why people learn grammar:

"You ought to know by now," replied Madame Never-mind-that-I-am-paid-to-teach-you. "Well I don't," replied Achille, sincerely for once, "no one ever bothered to explain it to us." Madame Fine let out a long sigh, of the "do I really have to put up with such stupid questions" variety, and said, "The point is to make us speak and write well."

 I thought I would have a heart attack there and then. I have never heard anything so grossly inept. And by that, I don't mean it's wrong, just that it is grossly inept. (under the section called " Profound Thought No. 10")

I'd like to take a moment to explain why we learn, or should learn, grammar.

Read this:

It is from Joshua Marie Wilkinson's Selenography, and it is actually just a snippet of a many-pages-long poem.

One reason to learn grammar is so you can mold language in ways you otherwise could not.

Most obvious: "Static" is not a verb, so per grammar, this is ridiculous. But instead, it makes total sense and the strangeness of it makes us pause to soak it in, whether we want to pause or not. Actually, each line break is strange enough to cause the reader to trip, making this difficult to get through ... on purpose. Wilkinson is ripping apart phrases, causing what journalists call "split" lines. By all rights, it should be

storm-heavy planks & storms enough
to call you on the telephone
& static your pause.
I know...

But it doesn't, and that forces you to conjure these images, tripping every time a sudden change forces a new one, paying total attention whether you like it or not. Both the line breaks and the incorrect word choice does this.

Why learn grammar? To gain control of your own words, to make them do what you want instead of the other way around.

Another example of tight control, this time following all the rules:

Jose Pina Castro, an Ontario, Oregon, man who pleaded guilty to mayhem for biting off part of a woman’s ear in Caldwell, will spend 10 years in prison with five years fixed, 3rd District Judge Christopher S. Nye ruled Wednesday.

This is what journalists call a "lede," which is a fancy word for the point of the story, almost always the first sentence. Ledes, when done correctly, are chock-full of information, and it would be difficult to understand it all without grammar's help. Things we learned from that one sentence:

1. Who? Jose Pina Castro. He is from Ontario, Oregon.
2. What'd he do? He bit off a woman's ear; but more recently, he pleaded guilty to doing so. Turns out "mayhem" is a word that means you got rid of someone's body part.
3. Woman? Yeah, she's from Caldwell (Idaho).
4. What now? He's going to be in prison for at least five years, probably 10.
5. Says who? Christopher S. Nye, who is a judge in the 3rd district.
6. When did he rule that? Wednesday.

All that info (minus the "mayhem" definition, that was thrown in as a fun fact from me), in one sentence. One! It was not in the least bit confusing or exhausting to read. This can be attributed to smart grammar.

Another reason for grammar is so we can be precise and not confuse anyone.







Point made.

Quick recap: Three reasons to learn grammar (umbrella reasons, but I didn't want to lecture for too long). First, so you can break the rules of grammar on purpose and make your language work for you. Second, so you can be a language master and do things like squash tons of info into itty bitty spaces. Third, so you don't confuse anyone.

That last reason is the primary one. Grammar is there so no one gets confused. If you're a writer, however, consider those first two reasons. Control is the reason for grammar. It allows you to say what you want to say in whatever way you want. If you know the reason for a rule, you know when to break it and how to do so in a way that won't confuse people. Poetry is the main opportunity to ignore grammar. Dialogue is another invitation for purposeful grammar neglect. There is not always a need to break the grammar rules, though; usually, you can practice correct grammar and, using the second reason, create beautiful and efficient works of written art.

Does that answer your question, Achille?

Short poetry (random, original)

The doctor had a big gut,
the sort that looks like it would
fall
into
his
legs
were his belt not there to squeeze
his insides upward.


In the morning, before
the others get up,
the carpet like crisp snow
beneath your feet


They had two pillows between them,
the one lopsided and the other
altogether flat.


The moon, like a child's
smudged flour thumbprint in the sky
amidst spilled rock candy.


I wonder — if one massaged
the earth, would the mountains
sink
or align?


The thing I love about Greece
is the color white.
And about the color white —
bright stillness.

2014, A Christmas Poem

Season of stars,

diamonds piled up on the doorstep

and frost growing like fur on streetlamps.

Light from the houses around reflects off the snow,

marred only by footprints and the remnants of play.

Christian or no, this is the season of love,

of fireplaces and cookies,

songs and family,

presents and light.

Christmas lights the Earth softly,

spreading to pinch our cheeks pink

and shining from our eyes.

Maybe We Shouldn't Read Poetry

I think we may be approaching this poetry thing all wrong.

Way back in the day, poetry was some blind dude telling you stories (Homer). These days, we think of it as a column of words in a book you read. I'm not talking about content. I couldn't care less whether poets are talking about sunsets, wheelbarrows, people in jail, or whatever else is on their minds.

When Homer was around, people absorbed poetry. It was a primary form of entertainment and history, something that brought people to their feet, cheering (or so I imagine, anyway. I wasn't there). These days, you kind of nod to yourself and turn the page. If you're that girl in a poetry class I took, you make a copy of it and hang it on your wall. I once took someone's magnet words, found on their refrigerator, and rearranged some into the sentence, "My memory walks upon sunsets in wonder." Poetic, no? Some people would argue it doesn't mean anything. I would argue it's pretty.

A poetic sentence on a refrigerator is as useful as the cherry blossom trees on Capitol Hill in Washington, D.C. I've heard they look beautiful when they bloom, and they are all over the place. They probably make some people stop, take a picture, post it to their Facebook.

But it's only refrigerator poetry.

Those cherry blossom trees don't provide cherries. And they also don't smell. They look pretty, but they don't embrace their potential as cherry trees (I'm ignoring biology, stay with me here). A line of poetry on your refrigerator doesn't change your life. A column of text in a book can, but it's unlikely. That's because you shouldn't read poetry.

Poetry should be listened to.

It should be absorbed through the skin and the ears, you should want to repeat the words to taste them on your mouth. If you go to YouTube, you can see poetry while you hear it, watch images swell beneath the words spoken aloud. I highly recommend this use of YouTube.

Poetry is part music. It is what gave birth to lyrics, and it is a sibling of written prose. We should be able to hear that music--the stressed syllables, the sounds of the letters, the pauses and tempo switches--while we soak in the meaning of the words. That's when you're doing poetry right. If you aren't listening to it, you are getting only half the poem. You're getting a cherry blossom tree instead of a full cherry tree.

I realized this only just the other day, after being told it by nearly all my English professors in college. This video is what brought it to me. Think how weak this poem would be, in comparison, if it were read silently. Perhaps if we were taught in school to listen to poetry, instead of taught to read it, we would enjoy it more. Perhaps things would be just a little bit different.

An original poem, posted in honor of my ancestors - for Memorial Day

Lucerne Wreaths

My grandma says in those days,
no one was paid to take care of the cemetery.
The day before Memorial Day,
she and her siblings would pull the weeds
while her father mowed the grass.
The next day, the fresh clippings were sprinkled
on the graves, where the family made new mounds.

Her mother would wrap lucerne from their garden
around wire to make wreaths for the graves --
small purple flowers nestled in green and bound in a loop.
The lucerne and wire would soak overnight,
and then her mother would pin homemade hair pins,
made by my great-grandpa, on the wreaths.

She says they always looked so nice.
But because those were the years
they never took pictures of anything,
I have never seen the clippings, nor the wreaths.
I am left outside, wondering
at the sacredness of memory
and a nostalgia for family members I never knew.

Lucerne (alfalfa, but my grandma says they called it lucerne)

The Final Gambit of Sisyphus

Yes, this is an original poem. Enjoy (at least, I hope you do).

I

It’s getting smaller.

I realized this a century ago or so,

when the stone fell into the great fissure the first time.

I wonder it was once so big as to roll over that rip in the earth;

during my more recent climbs, I must stop

and carry my punishment each time we cross.

Its surface is smooth, its imperfections worn away.

But this makes no difference;

I push onward

and follow as it rolls down the mountain.

II

I am rid of the stone;

Aeolus took pity and cast it away.

What was once a boulder became a pebble,

then a particle of sand.

Now I stare after it,

immobile and unsure,

learning to regret my rejection of Hades.

What's Elizabeth Reading? ...Goldberg

I enjoy pretty poetry, I enjoy poetry that is weird, I love poetry that makes me think, and Egypt From Space by Beckian Fritz Goldberg has all three, I am happy to report. In the "pretty" category, we get lines like, "When memory dies the bird goes on, no longer a beast of burden. / It goes on in the infinite dark you can never / contemplate without growing blank and falling back into the world again." For "weird," we get "The bird that came with memory came with a man named Ed," and for lines to make me think, Goldberg offers, "After memory there is now," and other wonderful lines. Those three examples all come from a single poem, if you couldn't tell. The first poem in the book, in fact.

Why do I like this book? Its poems are pretty, unique, weird, and thought-provoking all at once, and they do so with grace and without throwing me out of the poetry. I have a feeling most poets would not be able to do that.

Something in particular that is new (for me) about this book of poetry is Goldberg's use of sequences. A sequence is a collection of poems that are thematically linked, usually. Egypt From Space is divided into four sequences of poetry, and beyond that, there are two mini sequences inside of a sequence and three sequences that transcend the four main ones. What I mean by that is that the first poem in the sequence might be in the first official sequence, the second and third may be in the second official sequence, and so on. I've never seen that done before, and it was an interesting way to lay out a book of poetry. It connected the sequences themselves, helping to create a single book of poetry. It also allowed her to bring to mind ideas and images that she had already used earlier, giving us a canon to work with within the book itself, storing up memories she could play on later.

I've talked about thisness before on this blog, and Goldberg's poetry definitely has it. The details make the poems seem more real, and there are some solid, concrete details in here. To randomly open to a page and grab some (because they are that plentiful): "The pig, you see, was a terrible voyeur of fragrance and / he thought he smelled a truffle in there," "The hotel pool in Mexico / clogged with purple bougainvillea petals drifting from the / patio," and "So American I can almost feel GIs riding home on the bus of my tongue" (those were all from different poems this time).

So no, I would not suggest this book of poems if any of those quotes made you flinch or gag. If, however, they were a delight to your mind or your mouth as you maybe read them aloud, I would suggest the book. It is one of my favorites from the books of poetry I have had the chance to read. I can't say that it changed my life, and none of these poems made me want to print it out and stick it on my wall--I guess they didn't resonate, though they did entertain and delight--but I can say that reading this book was definitely not a chore. And if it was a chore, it was the type of chore that you enjoy doing for the sheer pleasure of the experience. For me, that's weeding. I know, it's weird, but I like how dirt smells and how plants look and grow. What can I say? Somebody's got to like it.

For those wondering about Goldberg's credentials: She teaches in the MFA program at Arizona State University and is the author of several books of poetry. I first stumbled upon her poetry while reading through Best American Poetry 2013.

Continual Acceleration

At this moment, you are tearing through the day

at the incredible speed of one thousand miles per hour.

So say the scientists, their quantification of Earth’s spin

(and that’s ignoring the fact that we’re also hurtling in orbit around the sun,

with the 67,000 miles per hour that adds on).

We’re also speeding up — continual acceleration,

courtesy of the laws surrounding circular motion.

But despite the frightening speed of this single day,

tendrils of hopeful daffodils still emerge

above the ground, the red-breasted robin

flies without worry of being left behind by his nest,

and you, instead of absorbing the impact

of sheer velocity by standing at an angle to the ground,

you maintain perfect perpendicularity

and balance.

What Makes a Great Poem

I typed that title for this blog post and thought, "Dang, do I really think I'm qualified to write something with that title?" Well, probably not, but I have some things to say on the subject, so I'm going to express them.

I was once asked to define "poem." It's surprisingly hard to do, it turns out. For me, a poem is any piece of writing that places musicality and imagery over every other item that might be on a writer's agenda. I know that is a terrible definition, it really is, but it's the closest I can get right now. I could say a poem is anything written that isn't prose . . . but then there's prose poetry, so there goes that idea.

With this rough definition in mind, then, the thing I think makes a poem great is thisness. James Wood defines the term in his book How Fiction Works: ". . . Thisness is palpability; it will tend toward substance . . . the wax of a bathroom floor, the calendar for 1808, the blood in a boot. But it can be a mere name or anecdote." He goes on to say that thisness is detail that brings a piece of writing to life.

Without details like this, a poem is just "meh." If the details (and through them, the ideas) resonate with me personally, I consider the poem to be a great poem. This makes it a highly personal thing, whether or not a poem is actually outstanding. If a poem does not make you nod while reading it, doesn't make you want to stow it away somewhere for future reading, doesn't make you pause and say, "This," then it didn't do its job, frankly. Maybe the issue is you, maybe the issue is the poem. For me, if a poem doesn't resonate, I figure it's either good/fine, bad, or (and this is the worst option) "meh." "Meh" (think "bland") is the worst option because it means the poem incited no emotion or response whatsoever, and poems are supposed to make you respond to the text. I would consider that the function of any poem.

I'm okay with reading good poetry. I prefer great poetry. Thisness helps a poem to hit home, and that's why I use it as my main criteria for what makes a poem amazing. Here's a poem that resonates with me. Feel free to disagree, but I'm going to use it to illustrate my point. It's by Memye Curtis Tucker.

This poem has a lot of technical thisness (12 centuries, fear of leaving the king prey to evil spirits, the glaze, etc.), but that's not what hit me. It's more like the arm that's behind the fist that hit me, with the fist being the ideas the thisness conveys. I feel truth in this poem, and that is why I consider it a great poem. It isn't in my face, telling me I need to learn something; it seems more like an unassuming observation, and the thisness makes it real. The poem would not have half the power it does were it not for the thisness involved.

Nisha, Feb. 25, 2014

A friend and coworker of mine passed away yesterday. I wrote this as a way to let out some of my thoughts and emotions, but also as a way to honor her. We worked together at the University Journal student newspaper, and she was one of our news editors. This poem, along with other thoughts by people on staff, is going to appear in the newspaper tomorrow. Yes, we still put out a paper. After all, the world of news doesn't pause, even for those times when a person's world stops turning. So here's to you, Nisha.


Nisha, Feb. 25, 2014

She had a way of making me forget

she was a smoker. Electronic cigarette,

a pen-like object she used in the office

to become a dragon lazily breathing out fumes.

Naturally curly hair pulled away from her face,

feet propped up on the counter,

she showed me the reason why smoking

was once seen as sophisticated and classy.

She used to laugh about how she

was the only person here who spoke Farsi,

a language she learned in the military

but had no civilian use for, except

to write in that Persian alphabet

from time to time, letters that were

nothing more than pictures to me,

intricate doodles on a sheet of paper.

I heard the news last night —

Nisha Hood died today.

I can’t seem to remember when I last saw her,

or what we talked about.

Work, school, plans, no idea.

So I choose her final impression:

An exquisite, confident woman

in a cream peacoat and black boots,

laughing and smiling with her eyes.

What's Elizabeth Reading? ...Best American Poetry 2013

I'm not really sure how to talk about an entire book of poetry, and I'll admit that up front.

I've recently discovered, thanks to an exercise I did in a class, that I prefer poetry that either portrays an experience or a snapshot of memory/life or explores an idea. With that said, there were some poems in The Best American Poetry 2013 that I enjoyed and some I did not. My least favorite was "Joe Adamczyk" by Mitch Sisskind, and I think my favorite was "Wintering" by Kevin Young, though "George W. Bush" by Mark Jarman had the ideas I found to be most intriguing. There are 75 poems in this collection, each by a different poet and each following its own style. Most are contemporary in tone and language--for instance, the first poem compares sex to a sandwich with mayonnaise and the second poem is a numbered list of 101 one- to two-line statements, usually incomplete, that tell a story (example: "54. The dirt was gone. 55. Except for a few grains that had embedded themselves into his palm.").

The poems are mostly in either free-verse or in some form the poet made up to suit their own purposes (Exhibit A: That second poem. It's titled "Pachyderm," by the way, and is by Sherman Alexie). I don't know what that says about American poetry these days compared with poetry from other places throughout history, but there you go.

This is not a book for those who . . . how to put this. It isn't porn, but it hints at porn from time to time. One poem is about an exotic dancer, for example. But what do you expect from a book of poetry that starts out with a poem that compares sex to a sandwich? No, it isn't being sexist with that comparison, though there are poems in there about being sexist.

This collection is the 2013 installment of The Best American Poetry, and I think that series title deserves a pause. Did this collection represent America? Was it supposed to? I don't know, to be honest. I didn't travel throughout America in 2013. I feel like the collection was a mix of ideas and morals, scenes and voices, and that is what makes up America. Mixing pot, you know. In the introduction, Denise Duhamel, the guest editor for this collection, mentions that she had problems trying to portray "American": "I understood the basic concept - I was to choose work written by poets living in or from America, most likely from magazines published in the United States, though I was able to consider American poets published abroad. How was I able to get in as much of America as possible?" Add to the usual problems of diverse cultures and walks of life the problem that not every sector of America has great poets, and also, that she was not able to consider all types of poetry. I'm not sure about other types, but I know there were no sound bites in this book allowing me to listen to a spoken-word poem, something that isn't meant to be read at all, but heard. Songs are also a form of poetry, and they were not represented. So the series is inherently flawed, but maybe I see it that way because of my more-liberal definition of "poetry."

I did something new and made a pinboard for this book on Pinterest. Only rarely am I a Pinterest user, but I thought it would be an interesting experiment to pin one image per poem. I'm not sure it helped with my comprehension of the poems, but it did force me to pay attention to the imagery and the central ideas or themes used. I was sometimes (okay, more than sometimes) saucy in my captions, so be warned. Click here to visit the board. Note: There is no nudity or crude imagery on the board, though the comments may make mention of sex (never graphically).

P.S. - I just submitted my first-ever piece of feedback to Google. My request? I told them I want to be able to type em dashes into blog posts. There is no way to do that now without copying one from another website. I consider this request both extremely practical and nerdy.

My Totally Incomplete Reflection on Racism

I learned I’m racist while I was dating a black man.
I figured it out because the idea that my kids
may not look like me was on my mind.
A lot.
I found myself Googling whether kids born
to mixed race parents
look at all like the white one.
It turns out I learned racism in a science classroom.
No, it wasn’t from the teacher;
it was from the subject, the DNA,
studying all those recessive and dominant genes.
It wasn’t a deal-breaker,
whether or not they would look like me,
but it was something that made me uncomfortable,
a fear I only mentioned to my mother.

What are the borders of racism?
Does it count as racist to say only “people of color” should apply,
because they have too many white people

and they want an interracial population?
Sounds racist to me.
But if a white person doesn't do it,
people point and say they are racist
for only having white people.
But not for only having black people,
because society says you can’t not give a black person a leg-up.
Isn’t that racist?

And you know what, I’ll own it here and now that I’m a believer in the Bible
and I do honestly believe that stuff about skin color
being a mark from God.
I just don’t think it still applies.
Ancestors from so far back they don’t even have gravestones,
their actions and sins and ideas shouldn’t be held against you.

You've never even met them.
But does that mean that God is racist?
I once saw the head prosecutor for the Rwanda trials
give a presentation to a room full of college students.
I didn’t look at him and think, “That’s one cursed dude.”
No, I looked at him and God whispered to me,
“That’s somebody special. He’s a somebody.”
The man radiated God to me.
     He was black.
So even if God used to be racist, He isn’t anymore.
But God has said He never changes,
so I guess He wasn’t racist to begin with.
Maybe it’s just a big misunderstanding,
something blown out of proportion.
A misread signal, or
a signal taken way too far.

Martin Luther King had a dream
that little black boys and black girls would join hands
with little white boys and white girls.
I did that: held hands with a black man,
while I was dating a black man.
And you know what? I dumped him.
Is that racist?
No, because I didn’t make that decision based on the color
of his skin.
I did it based on the content of that man’s character.

I don’t know if society today is more racist or not
than it used to be.
The only way to be completely non-racist is to ignore race altogether.
But race is part of identity,
so it should never be ignored.
I guess I just think I should not have to ask
for the Caucasian-colored crayon.
Just hand me the box
and let me recognize the colors without ranking them,
let me use the new crayons, the broken crayons, the flat crayons,
let me pick my favorites and color a landscape
that’s just a landscape, not some assertion
that green is the best color because it’s used the most.
I used it the most because there’s a lawn with some trees.
You see, the thing about lawns and trees,
is that when they’re healthy—
they’re green.

Cool

This was my first attempt at a poem that is meant to be read aloud. So go ahead and charm the person next to you with your dramatic reading of it. I hope you enjoy it.

Cool

This summer, I learned cool.

I learned it because I hung with someone different from me,

Someone whose father’s job was playing lottery,

Someone who grew up in SoCal but took themselves to Disneyland when they were nineteen

because they were tired of seeing happiness via widescreen,

Someone who looked at me in the Safeway parking lot and asked, “You’re a virgin?”

My response: “Yes. That surprise you?”

This summer, I learned my family is cool,

Cool because we shingled our own roof and had neighbors stopping by with lemonade,

Cool because we all attend my sister’s bedroom floor tea parties,

Cool because we had a masquerade while we were camping,

Cool because us kids would play baseball in the backyard—

Almost enough of us to play, but not quite,

so we’d just use the person on second when we ran out of batters.

I learned that cool isn’t Fonzie like my mom said it is,

And, second-hand from someone who was the stereotype of cool,

I also learned cool isn’t getting drunk and having a one-night stand,

And threesomes aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

My professor told me he’s never seen a family that is a team,

That faces life like the Avengers upholding each other’s dreams.

It’s sad that the part of my story that I thought was cliché

Is the part that makes it interesting and intriguing and cool—

It’s that sister who’s moved out and Skypes the younger for her birthday.

They have a Play-Doh sculpting competition judged by Mom.

I learned that cool is knowing the rules to Dominion,

Watching meteor showers while lying on a backyard trampoline,

Wearing a friendship bracelet made by my sister,

Knowing how to roast a marshmallow so it looks like the sunset,

And having the patience to stand up to jerks

Coupled with the self-control to not lash back.

And what’s cool about it all isn’t the glamour or the glory or the gold,

Because that stuff isn’t there.

What’s cool is that the life I was born living

is the one a broken Cinderella somewhere is wishing for,

thinking it’s impossible.

But I’m here to tell you it is possible.

That’s not to say we have it all, though,

Because we don’t.

I borrowed my prom dress,

I used fourth-hand skis,

I spent summers doing work outside,

I wore Wal-Mart to a high school that shopped at designer stores,

Every weekend, I helped take care of my great-grandmother from Germany,

And Ben Franklin became my hero because he thought up the lending library.

This summer I learned that Dorothy was right when she said there’s no place like home,

when she abandoned those ruby shoes

And all the fame from Emerald City.

I learned she was right because this summer, I learned about cool.

And it’s family and home and kickin’ it old school.

2013 Creative Writing/Teaching Conference at Southern Utah University

I spent a few hours yesterday and the first half of today attending the 2013 Creative Writing/Teaching Conference at Southern Utah University (where I attend college). Jane Hirschfield and Robin Hemley were the visiting writers. Jane is a poet, and I must admit that when I first read her recent book of poetry, Come, Thief, I was not in love. I could tell they were good poems; they just weren't my cup of tea. Here's what I mean, if it's possible to explain:

Everything Has Two Endings

Everything has two endings--

a horse, a piece of string, a phone call.

Before a life, air.

And after.

As silence is not silence, but a limit of hearing.

It just doesn't make me care. I guess that's my main problem with her poetry. I loved that last line, though: "As silence is not silence, but a limit of hearing." It's a twist on my regular way of seeing the world, and that's something I value.

After listening to her read, attending a class she taught, and interacting with her later, I find myself liking her poetry more, or at least, seeing that she is a wonderful poet. After that, it's really just a matter of taste (and I'll just go elsewhere, I suppose, for poetry that makes me want to eat the page).

In the class, she led us through an exercise for poetry writing. Before I walk you through it, let me write something that I wrote as a result:

She wraps herself in the scarf of delight,

tugs it round her hair

and down her back

in a wondrous cascade.

The wind feathers it

while she sits on the couch,

watching the rain condescend

to kiss the earth.

And here's one more:

Autumn

I look in my mailbox

and find only a black beetle.

Now that you've admired how poetic I can be ;-) , I will show you what she had us do that led to them. You should give it a try. First, I wrote ten ordinary nouns in a column (without thinking too hard).

house

panther

orange juice

scarf

boy

school

bell

tower

shower

fingernail

Next, in a column beside that one, I wrote ten abstract nouns (no thought given to correspondance).

argument

thirst

cold

delight

wonder

history

stereotype

giggle

scene

comedy

The next step was to write "of" between my first and second columns. Thus:

house of argument

panther of thirst

orange juice of cold(ness)

scarf of delight

boy of wonder

school of history

bell of stereotype

tower of giggle(s)

shower of scene

fingernail of comedy

Then she had us write about one of those things/combinations we had created. That's where my scarf of delight thing comes from.

Another exercise she led us through was to write a short thought or image in the sense of haiku without caring about the syllables and meter. She suggested using a season to title or begin the short poem-esque piece of writing. That's where my black beetle piece came from. That, and the one time I opened my mailbox and found nothing but a black beetle. For some reason, that particular image has stuck with me for some time, and I keep looking for an excuse to use it.

Robin Hemley was there in his capacity as a writer of creative nonfiction, though he also read some poetry, and he has written novels. After the reading, I asked him why he started writing creative nonfiction, namely, memoirs. I wanted to know what made a person decide to start writing about themselves under the assumption that other people actually would be interested. It sounds a bit narcissistic (but then, I'm the one writing this blog, so who am I to talk?). He did not seem particularly narcissistic, but then, most writers need to be a little cocky in some way, otherwise they wouldn't try to get published in the first place. Anyway, I asked, because I was curious. Turns out he had already been writing fiction when someone suggested he do it, and that's where it started. Makes sense to me.

He talked with us about how memory can assist but also get in the way of writing a memoir. Memory is the worst eyewitness. Basically, it comes down to figuring out the line on your own, because writing a memoir does involve a bit of fiction. It's true! Nonfiction and fiction are like neighbors, and if nonfiction wants to have a lively household, they have to borrow decorations from the house next door. The house is still nonfiction, and the people are still nonfiction, but the decorations tie it all together.

Translation: While I may not remember what color the couches were, it might prove a useful detail. So I include a color.

I guess this means y'all should never completely trust a word I say. Actually, I make it a policy to be honest, except when I'm lying ... er, writing.

They were both delightful people, and I really enjoyed the conference. Thanks to SUU and the Utah Humanities Book Festival for putting it together.

Kolob Canyon Review

The university I attend has a literary journal called the Kolob Canyon Review.  A while back, I submitted a poem to the journal and it was accepted.  It was great for someone to accept it, because I'd also tried it at a few other literary journals and was tired of rejection letters at that point.  There's only so much you can take, you know?  Last night, there was a poetry reading for the KCR.  There was a mistake in the program so although I was scheduled to read, I wasn't listed in it.  They figured it out and I read my piece.  It seemed extraordinarily short to me, because I read this poem just after someone else had read a short story.

Some great pieces were read, and I had a good time. :-)  This poem below is the one I submitted and read.

Earl Street

Four youthful explorers

took a summer walk.

Adventure pushed them

beyond the mailboxes

at the corner of their neighborhood.

They

stopped

often

for the littlest, who tended to lag

behind,

fishing for pond scum

in the thirsty wetlands by the road.

Past the end of the pavement

they found a rusty street sign –

Earl Street and Greenfield Drive.

Abandoned by progress,

discovered again by these children,

Earl Street is two parallel trails

in the earth, carved by wheels.

The explorers quested

to the end of Earl Street,

where it is erased

by field grass.

Then they turned back

toward home.

Vanilla Ice Cream

Just wrote this poem.  Edited by no one but me, written in about 30 minutes.  I'm an impressionist poet, what can I say?


Vanilla

what

is the difference between vanilla?

it’s like the ice cream Company

got too many shipments of beans

and needed Somewhere to put them

vanilla Bean

French vanilla

Homemade vanilla made in a factory

Plain vanilla - the extra of the Extra

or else the thing the company wanted to make

in the First place

as for me,

I put Vanilla in a bowl

and sprinkle it with color.

candies that Swirl through the cold,

leaving smears

in the Milky beans

ice

cream makes me tremble

that’s all that’s wrong with it

my shoulders Vibrate

like an incessant phone call

and my taste buds say

“don’t pick up the Phone”

cold that doesn’t like

to leave,

like the rainbow left in the bowl

which is Like a promise

to always eat Vanilla ice cream

again

Apparently I Was in a Poetry Exhibit

Last semester, I took a poetry class.  As a class, we took one evening to visit Cedar Breaks National Monument.  We took a short hike (more of a walk, to be honest) and watched the stars come out.  We were then asked to write a poem about a constellation, incorporating the mythology, science, and visual aspects.  The plan was that these poems would be put together into an exhibit later on.

Being me, I bent the rules.  I thought about the different constellations and finally decided I wanted to talk about Earth instead.  It's a star, right?  The concept I was working with was What constellation would Earth be a part of?  Luckily, the professor went through with it.

I had a hard time with the poem.  I wanted to make a statement, but every time I tried, it came across as terribly didactic, which I hated.  I went through more drafts of this poem than I remember ever going through for any other poem, and each draft was radically different from the one that preceded it.  I'm still not completely happy with the final product, but it will do.

The semester ended, and a couple months ago, the professor sent me an email saying she wanted to include my poem in a class poetry exhibit (not everyone's poem was going to be included).  I responded, she asked for a short biography, I sent one, and then I didn't hear from her again.

Last week, a friend of mine who had been in that class mentioned the exhibit casually and that was when I learned that there would be a poetry reading for it this week, meant to open the exhibit.  I was confused.  Was my poem going to be in the exhibit or not?  The professor had told me she would let me know when it would be, but she hadn't.  I sent her an email, but she didn't respond.

That evening, I went to work and mentioned my confusion over the exhibit and the reading.  My co-workers told me that I would probably be in the exhibit, because I was on the posters.  What?!  I hadn't even noticed there were posters for it.  I tracked down a poster (easier than I thought; apparently I'm just oblivious sometimes) and here is what I saw:

Looks like I had nothing to worry about.  They were using me - just me - to advertise the event.  I took this to mean that I would definitely be involved in the reading.

So I asked my friend for details (the professor still hadn't gotten back to me) and then attended the reading.  It went well, and I was surprised by the number of people who attended.  I guess I'd thought only my classmates and maybe their roommates would attend.  If that was the case, my classmates have a lot of roommates, and some of them are professors.

The reading was Tuesday. I pilfered one of the posters today (Friday).

A photographer from the University Journal (where I work) was there and took some photos.  I asked her to send me the photos of me reading my poem, so these are hers.  To give her due credit - her name is Arissa Rowley.

There is also a photo of my poem, which will be on display in the library until April.
 I've already posted this particular poem, but here it is again so you don't have to hunt it down.  You might notice that there are a couple changes, though they are small.  On top of these, the exhibit did not include my first line.  Lame sauce.

Atlas

Stars --
They fill the heavens
like torches from the past.
Yet city lights obscure our direction
and buildings hide the constellations.

But when Atlas shifts his shoulders,
so our lives meet with disaster,
we find ourselves staring at the sky--
because the jostling reminds us
why we make the choice
to breathe.

I can climb a mountain
and see through Atlas' eyes.
Whether I see manmade stars
from the city at my feet
or distant gleams in the sky above,
there is a glory in the sight.

When you go to sleep tonight,
pause for a moment
and look at the sky,
because somewhere out there
an alien child is looking in wonder
through his bedroom window
at the diamond in space
shouldered by a Titan.

Atlas

Stars –
They fill the heavens
like torches from the past.
Yet city lights obscure our direction
and buildings hide the constellations.

But when Atlas shifts his shoulders,
so our lives meet with disaster,
we find ourselves staring at the sky,
because the jostling reminds us
why we make the choice
to breathe.

I can climb a mountain
and see through Atlas’ eyes.
Whether I see manmade stars
from the city at my feet
or distant gleams in the sky above,
there is glory in the sight.

When you go to sleep tonight,
pause for a moment
and look at the sky,
because somewhere out there
an alien child is looking in wonder
through his bedroom window
at the diamond in space
shouldered by a Titan.