Author: bripike

Tuesday (Perfect those Poems. It’s Submission Time…) Musings

And so it begins. The fall semester is in full swing and because I have yet to be completely buried by grading, I’m getting round one of the fall poetry submissions underway. This morning I updated my handy little spread sheet. Yes, it is color coded. Yes, I am slightly anal retentive. Yes, I have an irrational fear of accidentally offending some poetry editor somewhere if I do not keep vigil over my submissions. Yes, I know that despite all this prep, I will be politely rejected. A lot.

Fun, isn’t it?

There are a handful of places that encouraged me to send to them again, so I started with those then moved on to recommendations from fellow poets and mentors. The first round includes 22 journals, only three of which use electronic submission manager type software. I know that electronic journals are growing in popularity, but it appears that snail mail is holding on strong. I’m partial to it myself. I have no rational reason for feeling that way though.

Friday (If I Could Meet Miss. Bishop…) Musings

Those of you who keep up with daily publications better than I do already know that the July/August issue of Poetry included a “Poets We’ve Known” section at the end of the magazine. I really enjoyed reading about Robert Creely, John Ashberry, and Miroslav through the stories of their friends. My favorite of course was Katha Pollitt’s reminisces of Elizabeth Bishop. It is foolish for me to say this, but I’m going to anyway, I think we could have been friends. This little glance into Bishop’s life made me admire her even more, especially when Pollitt talks about her as teacher and compares her to Bernard Malamud, who was at Harvard at the same time:

“…he saw himself, I think, as I kind of talent scout from God. Maybe he was–but I had friends who took years to recover from one of his verdicts. Bishop had the opposite approach: she seemed to enjoy teaching, and was clearly amused by her students, a typical combination of the bow tied and tie-dyed–young fogies and hippies–but I don’t think it was a calling, part of her identity. She wasn’t concerned to make final judgments or peer into our depths.”

I like this because I feel much the same about my students. While I do think that teaching is a large part of my identity, I’m not really interested in judging my students. This could be because I teach a lot of introductory level courses, but destroying their will to write isn’t what I signed up for.

But Pollitt’s account also makes me envious and I agree when she calls herself foolish for not accepting Bishop’s invitation for a visit to New Haven. While many critics have accused Bishop’s poetry of being cold and detached at times, Pollitt’s story shows just how much she was willing to extend to her students. As Pollitt mentions in the opening, she was one of the few professors who took a class to her home.
____________________________________________________________________

This is a neat article about incorporating flowers into cocktails. They’re very romantic and they look like something I could write a poem about. See pictures below:

Thursday Musings

This is my last day of classes for the week. Unfortunately, it is a long day. Two classes this morning, office hours this afternoon, and then back to school @ 7 for my creative writing course.
___________________________________________________________________

I wrote a poem this morning about a single mother. I know this comes directly from teaching and I know I’ll have to revise this poem many times to get it right. I feel like it is a subject that requires special care and consideration, because it can become trite so quickly. I’m hoping it develops into something…

I finished the last issue of Poetry just in time to receive my next issue. I liked a lot of the poetry in the beginning section. This is one of my favorites.

Blowing the Fluff Away

The sprig of unknown bloom you sent last fall
spent the long winter drying on my wall,
mounted on black. But it had turned to fluff
some months ago. Tonight I took it down
because I thought that I had had enough
of staring at it. Brittle, dry and brown,
it seemed to speak too plainly of a waste
of friendship, forced to flower, culled in haste.

So, after months of fearing to walk past
in case the stir should scatter it to bits,
I took it out to scatter it at last
with my own breath, and so to call us quits.
—Fooled! for the fluff was nothing but a sheath,
with tiny, perfect flowers underneath.

Robyn Sarah

Tuesday (Busy busy busy…) Musings

The fall semester started this Monday and I hit the ground at a dead sprint. My schedule for the first portion of the semester borders on insanity, but I spent a lot of time with my calendar and I think I’ve got it covered. What’s most important is I have set aside key days and times for writing and reading and all things related. This morning I came to school @ 7 am and spent an hour and half writing. I plan to do it again on Thursday and then Fridays I’ll have the whole morning, so I’ll be able to spend even more time on my own work. I know I’m going to be exhausted, but if I can stick to this schedule, I’ll feel better about how I spend my time. More importantly I won’t feel like such a poetic dud.
___________________________________________________________________

A Book

There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any courses like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without the oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!

Emily Dickinson
___________________________________________________________________

I wrote a poem about a pig this morning. I think I was inspired by attending the Indiana State Fair last Friday.

Thursday Musings

Monet’s Waterlilies
(for Bill and Sonja)

Today as the news from Selma and Saigon
poisons the air like fallout,
I come again to see
the serene great picture that I love.
Here space and time exist in light
the eye like the eye of faith believes.
The seen, the known
dissolve in iridescence, become
illusive flesh of light
that was not, was, forever is.

O light beheld as through refracting tears.
Here is the aura of that world
each of us has lost.
Here is the shadow of its joy.

Robert Hayden
_________________________________________________________________

Tuesday (Severe Weather) Musings

The weather all day has been one big rumble. There is a weather front coming through and the lightening and thunder are unreal. I’ve been writing all day with the window open looking out at the sky.

The Academy of American Poets has compiled a list of poems in honor of Shark Week on the Discovery channel. I love Shark Week, and I love that the academy is branching out into other areas.

Described by poets as “death-scenting,” with “lipless jaws” and “eyes that stare at nothing, like the dead,” sharks have long served as a cultural symbol of mortality and looming danger. Despite the fact that sharks kill fewer than 20 people a year, their reputation as the ocean’s deadliest predator continues to inspire fear and fascination throughout the world.

Monday Musings

Today is my parent’s 35th wedding anniversary.

I began my distance learning certification today so I can eventually teach courses online. I am glad that I elected to take this course during the summer break, but so far it isn’t the nightmare people made it sound. Knowing the technology is half the battle.

Here are two more videos from our house hunting adventure. These two homes are in the Bates-Hendricks neighborhood. The house on 738 Orange Street is at the top of our list right now. The space was just incredible.

Wednesday Musings

How Doth the Little Crocodile

How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
One every golden scale!

How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly he spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in
With gently smiling jaws!

Lewis Carroll
__________________________________________________________________

I’ve thought of another poem sparked from an article I read in The New Yorker called At the Train Bridge by Calvin Trillin. The part that stayed with me was the quote that ended the piece, “The beauty of that place has been cursed by my actions. My memorial is made out of iron and concrete.”