Author: bripike

Thursday (Concert) Musings

Tonight we’re going to see PJ Harvey. This will be a nice way to end my week.
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The Argument of His Book

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July flowers.
I sing of Maypoles, hock carts, wassails, and wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal cakes.
I write of youth, of love, and have access
By these to sing of cleanly wantonness.
I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece,
Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris.
I sing of times trans-shifting, and I write
How roses first came red and lilies white.
I write of groves, of twilights, and I singThe court of Mab and of the fairy king.
I write of hell; I sing (and ever shall)
Of heaven, and hope to have it after all.

Robert Herrick
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Another gem from McSweeney’s:

INTERNET-AGE
WRITING SYLLABUS AND
COURSE OVERVIEW.

BY ROBERT LANHAM

– – – –
ENG 371WR:
Writing for Nonreaders in the Postprint Era
M-W-F: 11:00 a.m.–12:15 p.m.
Instructor: Robert Lanham
Course Description

As print takes its place alongside smoke signals, cuneiform, and hollering, there has emerged a new literary age, one in which writers no longer need to feel encumbered by the paper cuts, reading, and excessive use of words traditionally associated with the writing trade. Writing for Nonreaders in the Postprint Era focuses on the creation of short-form prose that is not intended to be reproduced on pulp fibers.
Instant messaging. Twittering. Facebook updates. These 21st-century literary genres are defining a new “Lost Generation” of minimalists who would much rather watch Lost on their iPhones than toil over long-winded articles and short stories. Students will acquire the tools needed to make their tweets glimmer with a complete lack of forethought, their Facebook updates ring with self-importance, and their blog entries shimmer with literary pithiness. All without the restraints of writing in complete sentences. w00t! w00t! Throughout the course, a further paring down of the Hemingway/Stein school of minimalism will be emphasized, limiting the superfluous use of nouns, verbs, adverbs, adjectives, conjunctions, gerunds, and other literary pitfalls.

Wednesday (CSA) Musings

Our CSA started last week and I’m already in love with it. This week we got salad mix, swiss chard, carrots, snap peas, and cucumbers. I’m eating a salad right now made from all of the above and it is yummy. I’m really excited to see what goodies we get as the summer progresses.

I’m feeling less tired this week, so (fingers crossed) I figure I must finally be getting back into the swing of things. I’m looking forward to the weekend. We have a few fun things planned and Ashley may be coming to visit.

I received another “good” rejection email from Newport Review. They encouraged me to submit again, so I probably will. I still have quite a few poems out in the universe, so we’ll see.
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kitchenette building

We are things of dry hours and the involuntary plan,
Grayed in, and gray. “Dream” makes a giddy sound, not strong
Like “rent,” “feeding a wife,” “satisfying a man.”

But could dream send up through onion fumes
Its white and violet, fight with fried potatoes
And yesterday’s garbage ripening in the hall,
Flutter, or sing an aria down these rooms

Even if we were willing to let it in,
Had time to warm it, keep it very clean,
Anticipate a message, let it begin?

We wonder. But not well! not for a minute!
Since Number Five is out of the bathroom now,
We think of lukewarm water, hope to get in it.

Gwendolyn Brooks
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Monday Musings

I hope that I become accustomed to these three hour back to back classes, because if I don’t, it could be a long eight weeks. Tuesdays and Thursdays aren’t too bad because I have a break in the middle, but those six straight hours on Monday and Wednesday are killer. I’ve incorporated group activities and in-class work so I’m not constantly talking or answering questions, but even so, it is exhausting. Of course part of the problem is when you teach everything four times, it also starts to get boring.

I will admit that I’m jealous of poets who are taking it easy this summer or who are working simpler, less demanding jobs while they’re on breaks from their PhD or MFA programs. However, whenever I start to feel really tired I think that this is reality. This is how life is and while I’d like to take the summer off from teaching, it isn’t realistic and it won’t be anytime soon. Also, I am able to write and read and learn and continue on despite my crazy teaching schedule. And really, life is never going to get less hectic and while I loved my time as a student, it’s an artificial environment. It doesn’t last. Sooner or later you’re going to have to learn how to be a poet in the real world, so here’s to keeping on keeping on.
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I know people have a variety of feelings about Dave Eggers and McSweeney’s, but the most recent issue includes excerpts from actual writing workshops. These are some of my favorites:

“It’s your story, your voice, your choices, and I don’t want to question them, but why these words?”
“You talk about pregnant raindrops and chaos and auditory canals and ‘the passing of time’ as ‘an orifice,’ when you could really just be talking about humidity and ears.”
“This character seems more like a retired librarian than a former terrorist.”

There are a lot more. Check them out. They are well worth it.


Monday (And so it begins…)

I’m back from vacation. It was a good break. A lot of travel, a lot of reading, a lot of writing, and a lot of what some people call “quiet time.”

Today was the first day of the 8 week summer term at school. I’m teaching four sections of comp in 8 weeks, so saying it is a marathon isn’t the half of it. This morning was a typical first day morning full of technology malfunctions and unexpected issues. The strangest and most startling event was one of my students having what appeared to be a seizure about an hour and half into my second class. Updates to come.
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Variation on a Sentence

There are a few or no bluish animals…
Thoreau’s Journals, Feb 21, 1855

Of white and tawny, black as ink,
Yellow, and undefined, and pink,
And piebald, there are droves, I think.

(Buff kine in herd, gray whales in pod,
Brown woodchucks, colored like sod,
All creatures from the hand of God.)

And many of a hellish hue;
But, for some reason hard to view,
Earth’s bluish animals are few.

Louise Bogan

At the Cancer Clinic

She is being helped toward the open door
that leads to the examining rooms
by two young women I take to be her sisters.
Each bends to the weight of an arm
and steps with the straight, tough bearing
of courage. At what must seem to be
a great distance, a nurse holds the door,
smiling and calling encouragement.
How patient she is in crisp white sails
of her clothes. The sick woman
peers from under her funny knit cap
to watch each foot scuffing forward
and take its turn under her weight.
There is no restlessness or impatience
or anger anywhere in sight. Grace
fills the clean mold of this moment
and all the shuffling magazines grow still.

Ted Kooser

Sunday (Art Fair) Musings







These photos are not the best quality because RJ took our lovely new camera to a conference, so I took these with the old camera.
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These are some of the artists I liked but couldn’t afford. Yet.

Nancy Nordloh-Original Oils and Watercolors

Martina Celerin-Dimensional Weavings (one of my favorites)

The Perfect View/Patti and Bob Stern-Architectural Artificial Into Art

Dolan Geiman-Contemporary Art with a Southern Accent

Thursday (Off the Radar) Musings

I’ve been off the radar since last week when classes ended for the semester. I went down to Murray (see pictures below) for graduation and my robing ceremony and then went into work on Monday to finish grading. As of last Tuesday I’m officially on my break until the summer semester begins June 1st. Tuesday I spend some time reading and writing (I drafted out two poems). Yesterday was a rainy day, so I cleaned and wrote thank you notes. Today, more reading and writing. I’m enjoying my time off. Next week I’m headed back to Erie.
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One of the poems I drafted out on Tuesday was prompted by an article by Elif Bautman called “The Bells” that appeared in The New Yorker at the end of April. This is the excerpt that caught my interest:

“Defying orders that the bronze guest be silenced forever, the people of Tobolsk outfitted it with a clapper and installed it in a local belfry. Because the bell had been defended by Tsarevitch Dimitri, and was surely fond of children, a legend arose that, if you washed the clapper and collected the water in a special container, it became an elixir for curing children’s diseases.”
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Ursula K. Le Guin, the science fiction writer, was perusing the Web site Scribd last month when she came across digital copies of some books that seemed quite familiar to her. No wonder. She wrote them, including a free-for-the-taking copy of one of her most enduring novels, “The Left Hand of Darkness.”

This would all sound familiar to filmmakers and musicians who fought similar battles — with varying degrees of success — over the last decade. But to authors and their publishers in the age of Kindle, it’s new and frightening territory.

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Thursday (Last Day of Classes) Musings

This is the last class day of my spring semester. I’m handing papers back this morning. Tonight, my creative writing students are preforming their 10 minute plays. Friday morning we head to Murray, KY for my graduation and to spend Mother’s Day with my parents.

No Sign of Poet Lost in Japan

The Japanese police said that a weeklong search had not turned up any details on the whereabouts of Craig Arnold, an American poet who has been missing on a Japanese island since last week.
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How a Simile Works

The drizzle-slicked cobblestone alleys
of some city;
and the brickwork back
of the lumbering Galapagos tortoise
they’d set me astride, at the “petting zoo”….

The taste of our squabble still in my mouth
the next day;
and the brackish puddles sectioning
the street one morning after a storm….

So poetry configures its comparisons.

My wife and I have been arguing; now
I’m telling her a childhood reminiscence,
stroking her back, her naked back that was
the particles in the heart of a star and will be
again, and is hers, and is like nothing
else, and is like the components of everything.

Albert Goldbarth
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Wednesday (More Rain and Marie Howe)

I read all of Kingdom of Ordinary Time yesterday afternoon. I was sitting in my office and it was on my desk. I couldn’t help myself and before I knew it a good hour and half had passed and I had to leave. Of course, this was the first reading and I’ll go back through the book many times, but this is my favorite poem so far.

Reading Ovid

The thing about the Greeks and Romans is that
at least mythologically,

they could get mad. If the man broke your heart, if he
fucked your sister speechless

then real true hell broke loose:
“You know that stew you just ate for dinner, honey—

It was your son.”
That’s Ovid for you.

A guy who knows how to tell a story about people who
really don’t believe the Golden Rule.

Sometimes I fantasize saying to the man I married, “You know
that hamburger you just

gobbled down with relish and mustard? It was
your truck.”

If only to watch understanding take his face
like the swan-god took the girl.

But rage makes for more rage–nothing to do then but run.
And because rage is a story that has

no ending, we’d both have to transform into birds or fish:
constellations forever fixed

in the starry heavens, forever separated,
forever attached.

Remember the story of Athens and Sparta?
That boy held the fox under his cloak

and didn’t flinch. A cab driver told me the part
I couldn’t remember this morning–

in Sparta he said it was permissible to steal
but not get caught.

The fox bit and scratched; the kid didn’t talk,
and he was a hero.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,
Jesus said. He said The kingdom of heaven

is within you.
And the spiked wheel ploughed through the living centuries

minute by minute, soul by soul. Ploughs still. That’s the good news
and the bad news, isn’t it?

Marie Howe
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