My first residency begins January 8th; I fly out the 6th. My goals this year are dictated almost entirely by the requirements of my program and are fairly simple:
* 24 -30 polished poems
* read 40 works of poetry or poetics
* 24 annotations of works read
Taking full advantage of my MFA is my top priority for the year. That means not just doing the work, but taking advantage of the opportunity to work with other poets (both my teachers and my fellow students). Make friends, find writing partners, develop relationships with faculty and students. This will be challenging from afar (though in a low-residency program we’re all “from afar” – none of us can wander down the hall and pop into office hours, after all, so in that regard all of us are facing the same challenges of maintaining relationships through largely electronic means) but not impossible. I’ve long believed the community component of a writing program is one of its most valuable aspects, so the goal that I can’t put numbers on, that I can’t check off as accomplished, that should be the on-going goal of any writer is to enter my community fully, contribute to it, sustain it, and stay connected to it.
And somewhere among the rough drafts and the essays, always find the joy in writing.Goals goals, MFA, on writing | Comments (3)
I’m dusting off my blog. A new adventure is about to begin. I’ve been accepted to the low-residency MFA program in poetry at Pacific University in Oregon and my first residency begins in January.
I want to use this space to write about the experience – both logistically, as an international student; and intellectually, as a place to think out loud about what I’m learning and to share poems and poets I find exciting.
I’m expecting a lot of hard work and not enough hours in the day. I’m expecting to be doing homework during the boys’ hockey practices and waking up before the rest of the family. I’m expecting a lot of packages in the mail and international shipping charges. I’m expecting to be challenged. I’m expecting a lot of revisions.
I’m expecting to have the time of my life.MFA | Comments (3)
I was saddened to read of Maxine Kumin’s passing at 88 yesterday; and grateful that her long life gave us so much of her poetry. In her honor, here’s a selection of her poems I was able to find available online in the short time since I read the news and which I am fairly confident have been reproduced in the public domain with permission.
From Poetry Magazine, July 2002, “Getting There.”
From The Writer’s Almanac, “Our Ground Time Here Will Be Brief.”
From the archives of The New Republic, “History Lesson” and “Saying Goodbye.”
At The Hudson Review, “Red Tape and Kangaroo Courts I,” “Red Tape and Kangaroo Courts II,” and “Old News.”
From The Poetry Center at Smith College, “Waterboarding, Restored.”
From Poetry Daily this essay by Kumin “Metamorphosis: From Light Verse to the Poetry of Witness” originally published in The Georgia Review, Winter 2012.
And I’ll leave you with Kumin’s words from a 1973 conversation with Pearl London as recorded in Poetry in Person: Twenty-five Years of Conversation with America’s Poets, edited by Alexander Neubauer (if you don’t have this book, get it!):
Poetry roundup | Comment (0)
Because, you see, this is what I conceive the function of the poet to be. Not to moralize, not to polemicize, not to grieve, not to praise, and not to damn. But to name, to tell, to authenticate, to be specific, to report what he [sic] sees and what he [sic] feels. I suppose if I have a credo, that would be the credo that I have.
I first read Danusha Laméris in The Sun magazine and knew I’d found a name to watch for. So I was delighted this week to see her poem “Fictional Characters” appear in The Writers Almanac this week. For those of you who also love her voice, here are some more poems from her:
“The Lord God Bird” in Rattle, from 2010.
“The God of Numbers” in The Sun Magazine. “Eve, After” is unfortunately not available online, I enjoyed that one even more.
“The Bugs of Childhood” from The MOON Magazine.
“Horse” at Connotation Press.
I hope you enjoy this wonderful poet!Poetry roundup | Comment (0)
Some reading for you this weekend:
“Deer” by Deborah Miranda. I confess that this is the first I’ve read of Miranda’s work, but after reading “Deer” I can’t wait to get my hands on some more from her!
“Love Poem for Naming” by Corrie Williamson is up at The Missouri Review. You do know to check their website once a week for a new poem, right?
Because I love Traci Brimhall and scour the web regularly for works of hers I’ve never read, this piece published at The Rumpus in 2012: “After The Plantation Fire.”
Likewise, I’m always on the lookout for Joe Wilkins and this week I stumbled upon “The Fragments of the World Seek Each Other” at About Place Journal.Poetry roundup | Comment (1)
Whenever I read a poem by Linda Pastan I am reminded that I don’t read enough of her; here’s her poem “The Poets” up at Plume.
Up at Cave Wall, Katherine Maurer’s “Field Survey.”
I always admire poets who can pull off the traditional forms. Last week I gave you a sestina, this week I give you Aileen Bassis’s “Bulgarian Pantoum” at Literary Bohemian.
If you’re not signed up to receive a poem from the Academy of American Poets every day, you should be. Then you won’t miss out on poems like “Another Country” by Ryan Teitman. (Go here to sign up for a poem every morning.)Poetry roundup | Comment (0)
“Every time I have set out to translate the book (or story, or hopelessly long essay) that exists in such brilliant detail on the big screen on my limbic system onto a piece of paper (which, let’s face it, was once a towering tree crowned with leaves and a home to birds), I grieve for my own lack of talent and intelligence. Every. Single. Time. Were I smarter, more gifted, I could pin down a closer facsimile of the wonders I see. I believe that, more than anything else, this grief of constantly having to face down our own inadequacies is what keeps people from being writers. Forgiveness, therefore, is key. I can’t write the book I want to write, but I can and will write the book I am capable of writing.” – Ann Patchett, The Getaway Car: A Practical Memoir About Writing and Life
“Our poems can never satisfy us, since they are at best a diminished echo of a song that maybe once or twice in a lifetime we’ve heard and keep trying to recall.” – Stanley Kunitz, The Collected Poems
And yet I keep at it. One day, one line, one word if only for a second it will be like clear water. Like Schwarzeis. Just once, I will be transparent, and the thing on the page will be the thing in my head.
From my notebook | Comments (2)
I’m back. I won’t bore you with where I’ve been – dark night of the poet’s soul and all that, we’ve all been there – but will tell you what I’ve been reading.
I’ve been reading these two poems in Four Way Review by the incomparable Traci Brimhall.
I’ve been amazed by this sestina at Heron Tree: “Sestina: Two Names” by Sharanya Manivannan.
I’ve been visiting “The Isle of the Narrator” by Amy Breeder, up at Plume.
And fittingly, I’ve been reading “The End of This Year” by Jack Ridl at Writer’s Almanac.
Here’s to another year of reading and writing!Poetry roundup | Comment (0)
I’ve been having a long dry spell of a summer, the kind of dry spell between new poems that has passed unsettling and has moved on to disturbing. So having my poem “The Kindness of Ravens” up at Heron Tree this week is a real shot in the arm (even if I did write the poem some time ago – you know how long it can sometimes be between completion and publication). Many thanks to the editors at Heron Tree for including me!Poetry, Shameless self-promotion | Comments (4)
I didn’t have friends over to my house when I was a kid. We lived on a block with a fair number of children in a pretty close age range – on any given evening we could muster up to a dozen kids for kick the can or bloody murder. Summer afternoons my brother might play running bases with the boys from up the street, and I would play on the swing set in the neighbor’s back yard – and for a few years kids would come to the slide in our back yard, until the Blizzard of ’79 when our garage collapsed sideways from the weight of the snow and crumpled the slide. (My brother and I were getting older by then, and our parents didn’t replace it.) In the winter we went to the sledding hill or the ice rink. I often think of myself as having been a solitary child, but the more I think about it, the more I see it’s not so much that I didn’t have people to play with, it’s that I never brought friends over to my house.
It might be the first thing a child of alcoholics learns: having people over is a risky proposition. Bringing people home spontaneously especially so. This was never articulated or discussed; my parents did not forbid house guests nor did my brother and I agree to some pact in which we didn’t have friends over. There were not outward signs of chaos that we might have been ashamed of – my parents didn’t argue or shout more than the average harried parent might, the house was always clean, the yard always well-kept, the kitchen well stocked, our parents appropriately dressed, my brother and I had bedrooms that were nicely decorated and perfectly normal kids’ rooms, it all seemed pretty standard. But we knew, the way kids know such things, that it probably was not such a good idea to have friends over to play. Adult children of alcoholics reading this might understand that internal alarm bell, the sixth sense that picks up the invisible wrongness underneath the seemingly regular suburban home. Whatever it was, I had it.
The boys have friends over a lot, especially Small Boy. He’s finishing up his second grade year and has the type of long-standing friendships with kids now that Boychen, as a first year Kindergartener, only just is beginning to forge. Small Boy and his friends are also more independent – they can get to each other’s houses on their own and only have to ask for permission but do not need to be accompanied back and forth the way the 5 year olds do. So they arrange their own plays among themselves and then, at the last minute, remember to ask a parent if it’s okay. (Usually. Small Boy has been known to come home from the playground with an unannounced friend in tow. Saying they’re really hot and need popsicles.)
SB had two friends over yesterday afternoon (Mondays SB has afternoons free from school but Boychen has Kindergarten in the afternoon), and as the rain kept coming and going they ended up playing inside most of the time. They were loud and crazy and running from SB’s room to Boychen’s room shooting Nerf darts at each other. When the boys left (after shaking my hand and saying goodbye to me, because they’re good Swiss boys), I told SB that I like his friends. I do, actually. And I like that they come over here to play, and I like that the boys feel comfortable having their friends over. I like the wild rumpus of boys everywhere. As my parents’ daughter, as the adult who grew out of that kid with the sixth sense, it means a lot to me to see that my kids know their friends are welcome here.
It means that I am my parents’ daughter, but I am not my parents.
It means that my boys aren’t me.
It means that I need to stock up on popsicles.
Life in the Swiss countryside, Mama days, What makes me tick | Comments (2)