Tuesday (I could sleep for a week) Musings

I don’t know why I’m so tired this week, but exhaustion seems to keep creeping into my day. I went to bed early last night and even took a nap in the middle of the afternoon, but my energy level still feels below par. I hope this isn’t a sign that I’m getting sick, because that would not be good.
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Low Flying Swallows A Sign of Rain

Plugged by a twelve gauge,
the Road Curves sign became, overnight,
an inscrutable glyph. Snuff-colored
outcrops stained dark by rain
and striped by drill scars
bracket the interstate. Folds in rock
and refolded folds in their peripheral
skirts. Hummingbirds dip their beaks
in the stoop of clematis you planted.
When had I kissed you like that?
An lo moth on the screen it flashes
its hind wings and flaps audibly off.
You and I semi-reading on the couch
wondering where our son is. A page
falls from the music stand. The ceiling
fan whirs, the dog sprawled under it.

Forrest Gander

Saturday (Overextended) Musings

I woke up this morning at 7:45. For a weekend, that’s pretty darn early. I had made a commitment, but when my alarm went off I was reminded why my weekends are so sacred to me. This week has been a killer. I feel like I’ve been just barely keeping up, and while next week promises to be better, I really needed this weekend to regroup.

I think it is important to know your limits in terms of scheduling. I’m very conscious of this because I learned a long time ago (when I was in middle school) that when I over commit myself, I start to get over tired and when I start to get over tired, well everything falls apart. I like being involved in a variety of things that revolve around my career and my personal life, but I think there comes a point when you just have to make time for yourself. I got over feeling guilty about this along time ago. What prompted me to think about it was a comment that a colleague made on Friday during our cooking class. Basically this woman said she felt guilty for taking three hours out to come and do something that wasn’t relate to work. I think this is how a lot of people feel, and I think it’s sad. You shouldn’t feel guilty about taking time for yourself. Everything gets done one way or the other.
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I stayed up late last night baking two loaves of whole wheat bread for RJ to take home to various people. I’m officially in love with my bread machine. I’m making honey banana bread tomorrow. I’m also making this recipe that we learned in my cooking class on Friday:

Power Spheres

3/4 cup dried apricots
3/4 cup of dried apples
4 brown rice cakes
1 cup of unsweetened coconut
1/2 cup of sunflower seeds
1/2 cup of pumpkin seeds
1/3 cup of sesame seeds
1 cup of rolled oats
1 1/4 cups of fruit sweetener
1/2 cup of natural peanut butter, slightly warmed

1. In food processor, pulse the apricots, apples and rice cakes to a fine mixture. Transfer to large bowl and set aside.

2. Next, pulse the coconut, seeds and oats to roughly combine. Add the fruit mixture. Also add the fruit sweetener and peanut butter.

3. Mix and combine. Chill for one hour.

4. Roll the dough into about 2 oz. balls. Roll in sesame seeds to combine. Serve or wrap in plastic and refrigerate.

*These make excellent healthy snacks.
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RJ and I have decided to join a CSA (community supported agriculture). The name of the farm is Seldom Seen Farm and they’ve agreed to arrange a drop point at school, which is awesome. I’m going to put a link to their site under my “Worthy of a Look Section.” Check it out.

Wednesday (Sent Submissions) Musings

I sent out 17 hard copy submissions today and submitted 3 online submissions. This brings my grand total to 20. Most of the journals have a 3-4 month turn around, so I’m going to try and put them out of mind for now. Most of the places I sent to I feel good about. I read samples online and in print, so I tried to send certain poems to certain journals. I also try to send to one or two long shots. In a way, this another way to torture myself, but I also think it can’t hurt.

I know that it is impossibly hard to get work accepted. The poetry world is flooded with a lot of mediocre poems but there are also a lot of wonderful, emerging writers out there. I know that out of these 20 submissions, it is a very real possibility that none of them will amount to anything. If that happens, then you send again the next submission period. Persistence is an important part of the battle.
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This is fascinating. I used to live in Texas…

Hundreds, if not thousands, of poetry enthusiasts, cowboys and the downright curious have come to Sul Ross State University for shows in the past, he said.

This troubling at the least. I’ll probably post more about it later this week, but for now here is the link:

But in this new era of lengthening unemployment lines and shrinking university endowments, questions about the importance of the humanities in a complex and technologically demanding world have taken on new urgency. Previous economic downturns have often led to decreased enrollment in the disciplines loosely grouped under the term “humanities” — which generally include languages, literature, the arts, history, cultural studies, philosophy and religion. Many in the field worry that in this current crisis those areas will be hit hardest.

Tuesday (Poetry, Envelopes, and Stamps) Musings

As today’s title suggests, I spent all afternoon putting submission packets together. I’m already starting to doubt myself, so it is best to get these out tomorrow before I tear them open and throw the contents into the garbage.
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Economic crisis getting you down? Why not buy a Matisse?

PARIS — Despite the global economic crisis, a lot of money seems to be left over. On Monday, the private collection of Yves Saint Laurent and his partner became the most expensive one ever sold at auction, bringing in more than $264 million on the first night alone.

Monday (Bread!) Musings

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with a muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let areoplans circle the moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policeman wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one:
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

W.H. Auden
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I teach A Good Man is Hard to Find in my Creative Writing class, so I may check this biography out:

What makes “Flannery” so valuable is the degree of intimacy with which it captures O’Connor’s sensibility in that story. What creates a gap is Mr. Gooch’s use of the word “so.” There’s something in that “so” that he doesn’t fathom. There’s still a part of O’Connor that we can’t really know.

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I made bread this weekend in my new bread machine. It is whole wheat, and it is delicious. I think this bread making is going to be a regular occurrence from now on.

Saturday (Winter Returns) Musings

I would encourage everyone to check out the latest issue of New Madrid. I’m not plugging this journal just because it is from Murray’s MFA program and because I worked on journal. I’m very proud of where the journal is going and this issue (our theme was intelligent design) is very well done. There are a lot of wonderful pieces but here are just a few “Breasts” by Pamela Johnson Parker, Slow Fuse of the Possible: A Poet’s Psychoanalysis by Kate Daniels, Mouse by Mark Brazaitis, Small Talk by Lauren Smith, and Call it Beautiful by Scott Doyle. I’m still finishing the issue but please go to the link (listed under my links section) and check it out.
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This article appeared in the the Sunday Book Review section of the New York Times:

In October, John Ashbery became the first poet to have an edition of his works released by the Library of America in his own lifetime. That honor says a number of things about the state of contemporary poetry — some good, some not so good — but perhaps the most important and disturbing question it raises is this: What will we do when Ashbery and his generation are gone? Because for the first time since the early 19th century, American poetry may be about to run out of greatness.

What strikes me about it is it’s the same old question. When the old “greats” die, will there be anyone to replace them? I have news for poets, this isn’t just a poetry problem. I also think it is a bit narrow minded to say that just because the older generation is passing on, all poetry is doomed to mediocrity. The younger generation learns from the greats, they idolize the greats, and then they move beyond them. That’s is and always will be the cycle. I don’t think poetry is any different.
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Friday (Submission) Musings

As I mentioned earlier this week, I’ve been preparing packets of submissions to go out. I’ve noticed a couple of things while researching journals that I think are interesting.

First, as far as I can tell, not as many journals are moving to online submission as you think. I still have to send hard copies to most places. In fact out of the twenty some journals I have as possibilities, I think only two or three use online submission. Also, those two or three are online journals.

Two, who doesn’t take simultaneous submissions? Not many people, but there are still a few. I know my opinion doesn’t count for much, but I think not accepting simultaneous submissions is a mistake. I know that if I come across that line in the submission guidelines, I don’t even bother to send my work. Let’s face it, it still takes many journals a couple of months to read through submissions. I’m not going to let someone hold my work hostage. Especially when there are no guarantees. As a side note, I noticed a lot of places will accept simultaneous submissions from prose writers but not for poets…

Three, the “what we’re looking for sections” on most journal websites are still frustrating. I genuinely appreciate it when journals try to give writers and idea of what they’re looking for. But, (you knew it was coming) this is only useful when it actually tells you something about the journal. All journals want to publish new and unique poetry. Who doesn’t?

I’m sending packets out next week.
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Ms. Rosalia, 54, is part of a growing cadre of 21st-century multimedia specialists who help guide students through the digital ocean of information that confronts them on a daily basis. These new librarians believe that literacy includes, but also exceeds, books.

UNC creative writing professor and poet Michael McFee has won the 2009 James Still Award for Writing About the Appalachian South.

Thursday (I Awoke to a Dusting of Snow…) Musings

The temperature dropped drastically last night. In fact, when I took Kweli out at 9, it was sleeting. He was not impressed. He walked about 50 feet away from the door and then proceeded to shake his head vigorously for five minutes. My thoughts exactly.

It’s official. I don’t like attitude. Just so everyone knows.
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Break-up Poetry

And if more people break up after hearing his poetry, Arnold, who is himself divorced, can relate. The difference between offering your poetry to an audience and offering your heart to someone you desire, he said, is small.
“Whether in writing or in love, it’s a similar gesture,” he said.

Wednesday (Rainy) Musings

It’s a dark, rainy morning in the Midwest. Really, this is the kind of day that would be better spent at home, under a blanket, watching a movie. Instead I’m sitting here in my classroom listening to my students click away on their keyboards.
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I would like to extend my congratulations to Pamela Johnson Parker and poet and friend of mine. Sunday she received notification that she’s been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
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Food for thought:

Poetry exists to break through to below the level of reason where the angels and monsters that the amenities keep in the cellar may come out to dance, to rove and roar, growling and singing, to bring life back to the enclosed rooms where too often we are only “the living and partly the living.”

May Sarton
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I spent the better part of four hours last night compiling a list of journals to send my work out to. AWP left me feeling energized and cautiously optimistic. It’s a jungle out there, but the only way to get anywhere is to suck it up and jump in. I know that a few months from now when the rejections start rolling in, my cautious optimism will be replaced with full blown despair, but in the meantime I’m trying to focus on the positive.

A friend gave me a compliment today while we were commiserating about the woes of getting your work “out there.” He said, ” Writing my friend, I’m thinking about your poetry, and actually, I miss it. It always made me feel good, reading it, not like so much muck poets tend to shoot for these days. Yours is like lotus poetry, blooming white and clean even if it’s rooted in mud.”

Thanks, Sam. I hope someone else thinks so too.

Tuesday (Mark Rothko) Musings

I had a very interesting conversation with a student today. I’m still processing it, but when I have some coherent thoughts, I’ll be sure to share them.
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I did not post a poem yesterday because of AWP, so here’s this weeks tidbit:

Those Winter Sundays

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he’d call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love’s austere and lonely offices?

Robert Hayden

Incidentally, this poem was playing in the elevator at AWP. I must have heard it a half dozen times.

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I love Mark Rothko. I have his calendar hanging on the wall in my office. This is February: