Author: bripike

Friday Musings

My class last night was excellent. There are about fifteen students and they all have a really good energy. They asked lots of questions and the three hours moved quickly. I’m both pleased and relieved. A three hour block for a class can be painful if the students are not involved, so hopefully this trend will continue.

My meeting with the librarian also went well. I secured the display case for our novel display for March. I wanted to get this display up last semester, but I’m glad that the posters will be displayed along with the student reviews. I also found out about the newly revamped poetry contest that the library is sponsoring and I may end up being a judge, which is neat.
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In the January issue of Poetry, there is an interesting essay by Clive James. He spends a lot of time talking about Stephen Edgar, and I wish he’d spent more time talking about the concept I’m going to excerpt here:

When reacting to a poem, the word “perfect” is inadequate for the same reason that the word “wow” would be. But it isn’t inadequate because it says nothing. It is inadequate because it is trying to say everything. On a second reading, we begin to deduce that our first reading was complex, even if it seemed simple. Scores of judgments were going on, too quickly for us to catch but adding up to a conviction—first formed early in the piece and then becoming more and more detailed—that this object’s mass of material is held together by a binding force. Such a binding force seems to operate within all successful works of art in any medium, like a singularity in space that takes us in with it, so that we can’t pay attention to anything else, and least of all to all the other works of art that might be just as powerful. We get to pay attention to them only when we recover.

I think this gets at the larger question of how do we talk about poetry? This is a very important question to me as a poet and a teacher. How do we find the language to talk about what moves us? What we respond to? I think that many students are intimidated by poetry because they don’t know how to talk about it, and is there a right and wrong way? Also, this essay addresses the issue of moving beyond the first reading of a poem. I know I’ve read poems the first time and been completely taken with them, only to find more to like upon a second reading. This also can have the reverse effect.

Thursday (Winding down…) Musings

It is the end of my week. Unfortunately, I’ve made myself work for the end of my week. I have office hours till 3, then I have a meeting with one of the librarians, then I have our first blank page meeting of the semester, and last but not least I have to come back at 7 and teach my creative writing class. The first week back is always difficult. It takes me awhile to teach my body that 6 am is a reasonable time to get up in the morning. However, I feel all this is worth it in order to not come in at all on Fridays. Also, Monday is MLK day, so I have a four day weekend. I’m ashamed to say I’m looking forward to it.

A colleague introduced me to theradio.com and I’ve been listening to it at the office. Good stuff.
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Nikki Giovanni has a new book out all about love. It’s called Bicycles: Love Poems and this poem appears in it:

We Are Virginia Tech

We are Virginia Tech
We are sad today, and we will be sad for quite a while. We are not moving on, we are embracing our mourning
We are Virginia Tech
We are strong enough to stand tall tearlessly, we are brave enough to bend to cry, and we are sad enough to know that we must laugh again
We are Virginia Tech
We do not understand this tragedy. We know we did nothing to deserve it, but neither does a child in Africa dying of AIDS, neither do the invisible children walking the night away to avoid being captured by the rogue army, neither does the baby elephant watching his community being devastated for ivory, neither does the Mexican child looking for fresh water, neither does the Appalachian infant killed in the middle of the night in his crib in the home his father built with his own hands being run over by a boulder because the land was destabilized. No one deserves a tragedy
We are Virginia Tech
The Hokie Nation embraces our own and reaches out with open heart and hands to those who offer their hearts and minds. We are strong, and brave, and innocent, and unafraid. We are better than we think and not quite what we want to be. We are alive to the imaginations and the possibilities. We will continue to invent the future through our blood and tears and through all this sadness
We are the Hokies
We will prevail
We will prevail
We will prevail
We are Virginia Tech

This poem interests me because in my thesis defense we briefly talked about handling social and political issues in poetry and how important it is. I admire what this poem is trying to do, but I’m not sure it does it. The language doesn’t seem strong or lyrical. Also, the entire poem seems expected. I understand the form and I understand the intention, but I think it could be more.

W. D. Snodgrass, who found the stuff of poetry in the raw material of his emotional life and from it helped forge a bold, self-analytical poetic style in postwar America, winning a Pulitzer Prize for his debut book, died on Tuesday at his home in Erieville, N.Y., in rural Madison County. He was 83.

Wednesday (Holy sh*t it’s cold!) Musings

It is very cold. Everywhere. After watching the weather and a few morning shows today before heading to school, I’ve made one important decision: I am never moving to Minnesota, North Dakota, South Dakota, or Montana. I know snow. I grew up in New England before moving to Erie. However, the temperatures in Fargo are just not right. Hell, the temperatures in Chicago right now are just not right. Thank goodness for all things fleece.

We had some weather here this morning, so I received the usual onslaught of emails about poor road conditions. I don’t know if the road conditions were poor. I live six blocks from school;however, I also know that Hoosiers are notorious for over reacting to snow, ice, or any combination thereof. The fact of the matter is, missing the second day of class is not a smart move.
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Marxist principles have been dripping steadily into the minds of American youth for more than a century. This isn’t altogether surprising. After all, most parents want their children to be far left in their early years — to share toys, to eschew the torture of siblings, to leave a clean environment behind them, to refrain from causing the extinction of the dog, to rise above coveting and hoarding, and to view the blandishments of corporate America through a lens of harsh skepticism.

Monday (First Day of Class)

I arrived at school at 7 am this morning. I was bit surprised to find that I was the only one here when I got off the elevator. I must be one of the few poor souls who volunteered to teach 8 am classes. A lot of people (students included) groan about the 8 o’clock hour, but I like it. I’m done teaching by 11 and I can spend the afternoon grading, doing paperwork, or counseling students. This also allows me to leave early enough in the day, so that I can go home and actually get things accomplished.

My classes went well this morning. There appears to be some good energy.
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The First Line is the Deepest

Kim Addonizio

I have been one acquainted with the spatula,

the slotted, scuffed, Teflon-coated spatula

that lifts a solitary hamburger from pan to plate,
acquainted with the vibrator known as the Pocket Rocket

and the dildo that goes by Tex,
and I have gone out, a drunken bitch,

in order to ruin
what love I was given,

and also I have measured out
my life in little pills—Zoloft,

Restoril, Celexa,
Xanax.

I have. For I am a poet. And it is my job, my duty
to know wherein lies the beauty

of this degraded body,
or maybe

it’s the degradation in the beautiful body,
the ugly me

groping back to my desk to piss
on perfection, to lay my kiss

of mortal confusion
upon the mouth of infinite wisdom.

My kiss says razors and pain, my kiss says
America is charged with the madness

of God. Sundays, too,
the soldiers get up early, and put on their fatigues in the blue-

black day. Black milk. Black gold. Texas tea.
Into the valley of Halliburton rides the infantry—

Why does one month have to be the cruelest,
can’t they all be equally cruel? I have seen the best

gamers of your generation, joysticking their M1 tanks through
the sewage-filled streets. Whose

world this is I think I know.

courtesy of Poetry January 2009

I like this poem. A lot. Partly because it is clever. Partly because of the pop culture references. Partly because it is brave. Mostly because it is honest. It is a poem made out of the stuff of our current world.
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This is too perfect. I like the question posed at the end of this article. I’m going to think on it.

In the face of his arrest on federal corruption charges, Mr. Blagojevich offered Rudyard Kipling’s “If.”

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

Understandably, he left out the last line of the stanza:
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise.

Too bad poetry is still getting the short end of the stick:

The proportion of adults reading some kind of so-called literary work — just over half — is still not as high as it was in 1982 or 1992, and the proportion of adults reading poetry and drama continued to decline. Nevertheless the proportion of overall literary reading increased among virtually all age groups, ethnic and demographic categories since 2002. It increased most dramatically among 18-to-24-year-olds, who had previously shown the most significant declines.

Sunday (Brussel Sprouts!) Musings

In my attempt to support local markets and cook more, I’m trying to incorporate a wider variety of vegetables into my diet. I never liked brussel sprouts. When I was a kid, my mom tried sneak them into meals, but boiled, they have the consistency of an eyeball. Slimy. Yesterday at the farmers market they had brussel sprouts and they looked so green and fresh and perfect that I thought “there has to be another way to eat these.” And you know what? There is. I made this recipe last night and it was delicious.

My amaryllis has three blooms!

Saturday Musings

We’re supposed to get freezing rain and 1-3 inches of snow later this evening. If I were back east, I wouldn’t think much of this forecast. It is fairly typical of this time of year and usually the snowfalls are much greater. However, I’m not living back east. I’m living in the Midwest and we don’t handle inclement weather well. I know this seems odd. I live four hours from Chicago and they’re perfectly capable of dealing with snow and ice and any combination thereof. However, here in Indy, citizens worry, drive to fast or too slow, and more often than not, end up in a ditch. Therefore, we’ll be hanging pretty close to home this evening.

We went to two farmers markets this morning. One was the winter market that we try to go to every Saturday. We got some meat, sweet potatoes, and squash. All the products there are fresh and locally grown. The second market is closer to where we used to live and offered brussel sprouts and green beans. This market is owned and operated by a local chef and once again all the items are fresh and local.

I think it is important to eat well. I’ve always thought this, but until recently I have not worked actively to follow my own advice. However, one of my resolutions this year is to eat better and cook more. I like cooking and in order to support that idea, I signed up for four “Cooking with Culinary” sessions at school. Also, I think it is important to support local growers and buy their product. I was psyched to learn that this newer farmer’s market we discovered is open till 9 AM Monday through Saturday! This is huge.

Finally, we attended an open house this afternoon for my school dean who is leaving for a new job in Minnesota. It was fun. I like my colleagues. Although, I do think it’s amusing that most people don’t think I’m old enough to be a full time faculty member. I am the youngest faculty member in the Liberal Arts Division, but there are several of us that are all in the same general age range. However, whenever I’m meeting spouses or other faculty members from different departments, they ask me if I’m administration first.
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Another brilliant idea from Animal, Vegetable, Miracle. This is in reference to celebrating Kingsolver’s 50th birthday:

“Camille made the call, and it was inspired. The tiniest posy, anything would serve. And truthfully while we’d put prodigious efforts into our vegetable gardens and orchards, our front yard lay sorry and neglected. Anything people might bring to set in that ground would improve it. Thus began the plan for my half century Birthday Garden: higgedly-piggedly, florescent and spontaneous, like friendship itself” (106).
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To say that I’m an animal lover, is probably an understatement. Whenever a commercial comes on concerning the Humane Society or the World Wildlife Fund, I usually change the channel. It’s not because I don’t care, but these commercials really bother me. One of the worst ones I’ve seen is in regards to polar bears. This is put out by the WWF and has Noah Wiley (past ER fame) looking bright eyed and down in the mouth and he explains the plight of the polar bear. There are numerous shots of polar bears frolicking in the snow and diving for fish. However, the commercial ends with a mama polar bear and her cub jumping off a piece of ice and swimming off into the vast unknown, because of global climate change, the ice is melting and they will eventually drown due to exahuastion.

The first time I saw this commercial I bawled for five minutes. I’ve avoided it ever since, until the other night when RJ made me watch it again, at which point I started to cry when explaining how the fuzzy fur cub would end up as shark food. Needless to say, we immediately logged onto the WWF’s website and adopted a polar bear cub.

As you can imagine, there are many animals you can adopt, in many price ranges, on the WWF’s website, so RJ and I decided we would continue to support the cause (as our funds allowed) every month. If that’s not a successful public awareness campaign, I don’t know what is.

Thursday (Snowy) Musings

Recent Amaryllis photos:

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Linda came to Murray to give a reading on Saturday night, but I couldn’t stay for it. I’d like to check out Flight reviewed in The Atlantic:

Linda Bierds, whose poetry has appeared regularly in the Atlantic since the 1980s, has enjoyed a prolific and successful career; her work has earned multiple Pushcart Prizes, grants from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts, and a Macarthur “Genius” award in 1998. Her latest book, Flight, a collection of new and selected poems, showcases work from her seven previous collections of poetry, distinguished by a precise and musical voice, a passionate eye for detail, and a distinctive, decades-long exploration of the lives and voices of well-known artists, scientists, and historical figures.

It seems that ever since the Million Little Pieces debacle, false memoirs are popping everywhere:

Days after Berkley Books announced that it was canceling the publication of the memoir “Angel at the Fence,” after its author, Herman Rosenblat, acknowledged that he had falsified parts of his story, an independent publisher said it was negotiating to release the book as a work of fiction.

Wednesday (tedious, tedious, tedious) Musings

I arrived at my office around 10 this morning and I’ve been working steadily on my composition syllabus every since. I didn’t change much from last semester, but changing the dates and adjusting journals and a few other assignments takes forever. On top of that, we’re required to post our syllabus and course notes to an electronic system. I embrace technology (to a point) but when that technology creates more work than is necessary, I start to get cranky. My irritation increases when I realize there are students of mine that never even log onto said electronic system. Sigh.

It is snowing. For real. In Indiana. I’m enjoying it even though I haven’t seen a window in about five hours.

This is what I would have (among many other animals) if I had unlimited space.
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Too bad this is memoir is probably going to be as dull as it sounds:

Scribner said in its announcement that the memoir would offer “an intimate account of Mrs. Bush’s life experiences.” Mrs. Bush said in the release that she would tell “the stories of the extraordinary events and people I’ve met in my life, particularly during my years in the White House.” Financial terms of the deal were not disclosed.

Tuesday (Back to school) Musings

Classes don’t start until next Monday, but we have a week of in-service before then, so today I came on around 10 and started to prepare myself (physically and mentally) for the new semester. I want to revamp my syllabus for creative writing and comp, but that’s tomorrow’s project. Today, I attended a meeting for Phi Theta Kappa, which I am faculty adviser for and organized my office. I also sent an email to sign up as a volunteer at the humane society. It is something I have been meaning to do for years, and now I finally have the time.

I discovered something interesting this afternoon, while I was procrastinating and copying poems into my reading journal, I want to write. I know. I know. No kidding, right? I’m a poet. I write. But here’s the thing, when I finished my masters I spent a long period of time not writing. In fact, I actively avoided it. I was burnt out. Bad. This is not to be mistaken for writer’s block, which I’ve also dealt with. In comparison, this was more disturbing because it was as if my thesis had robbed me of the joy I feel in writing poetry. Luckily, I am not experiencing this feeling this time around. In fact, I want to work on a poem this evening. The idea has been marinating for awhile, but now I’m ready to dig in.

I woke up at five o’clock this morning to the sound of a dog barking. At first, I thought it was Kwe but then realized the barking was somewhat muted. My next thought was, Bam Bam, but the bark was too big for him. My third thought was, wow, this dog is still barking. This lovely canine continued to ruff until I got up at 8 am, at which point RJ had been rolling around and cussing for three hours while I had tossed and turned. I love dogs. I do not always love their owners.
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I’ve gone back to reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle and I have another quote to share. This is in regards to eating your vegetables:

“Overcooking it turns nearly black. To any child who harbors suspicion of black foods. I would have to say, with the possible exception of licorice, I’m with you” (57).
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This comes with perfect timing, because one of my resolutions this year is to read poetry by poets I’ve never heard of. These are the best according to Virginia Quarterly and I don’t know any of them:

1. Kevin Prufer, National Anthem
2.Chris McCabe, Zeppelins
3.C. D. Wright, Rising, Falling, Hovering
4.Dan Bellm, Practice
5. Aaron Baker, Mission Work
6.Claudia Emerson, Figure Studies
7. Todd Boss, Yellowrocket
8.Katie Ford, Colosseum
9.Fady Joudah, The Earth in the Attic
10. Chad Davidson, The Last Predicta