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Friday Musings

It’s a shame to begin a Friday with a rant, but unfortunately this morning reminded me why it is so important to park well between the lines. My apartment complex has about 20 parking spots on either side of the building for its residents. I park on the left side (if you’re facing the building from the street) and spots on my side are extremely close together. I learned quickly that you must park right between the lines, otherwise it has a domino effect on all the other cars and before you know it, cars are smushed right up next to one another. This makes it virtually impossible to squeeze into the driver’s side door of your vehicle.

This is what happened to me this morning. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t really matter. I can usually sneak between the cars, and while I might mumble about it, I survive. However, today it was raining. Not drizzling or misting, but full out raining. This made the sides of my car wet, so when I pushed between them to inch into my car, my entire back side got wet. I continued to get wet as I tried to figure out how to get into my car while my umbrella was up. All in all, it was pretty annoying.
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Dana Gioia is taking in his leave:

When Gioia isn’t at the Aspen Institute headquarters in Washington, D.C., he’ll be writing at his home in Sonoma County. “The poetic gift is a very delicate one, and if you abuse the Muse, she may leave you,” he said.

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I’m working on my manuscript this afternoon. I think this poem is about done:

Sweet Pea
He told me once, while laying new slate tile
that your beauty reached across a cold sea
to a clever Scot who answered the pleas
of lords and dukes for deeper petal hues,
so he discovered purple, red, and blue.
He made ancient English gardens gleam bright
with cerise, carmine, lavender, and white.
Your form reminds men of delicate lace
beneath corsets and blue jeans, sex and grace.
But women see romance in your soft blush.
You were my gentle aunt’s long standing crush
standing in for children and lone hours
spent planting, watering, and weeding flower
and flower. My grandfather brought her
the first seeds, burying them by a fir
out behind her neat vegetable patch.
She always mixed a few sprigs in a batch
of lilies. When she got sick, he placed sweet
peas on her nightstand, tucked sheets over feet
while he sat through the night holding her hand
ignoring the plastic hospital band.
When she died, he brought sweet peas one last time
the blossoms garish against the grave’s grime.
but I’m having some trouble with this one:

Packing
The night I decided to move away,
I prowled the rooms of our small house to look
for my worn Bishop book, a cracked glass tray,
and that fish chowder recipe I took
from my mother. Instead, I found a post-
card from Wyoming covered in your quick
hand, lamenting miles of dying land. Most
of your cards and notes were a steady tick
of words, mapping isolation by miles
traveled, places seen, people found and lost.
I was the first, cast out in quick, deep piles
with my letters and photos at no cost.
And when you left, I wanted to keep
your words in my bedside drawer covered by
a chipped gold hand mirror, but it felt cheap
and as I pack, your cards answer why I
chose to pick books and old shoes off the floor,
but chose to leave your words behind in drawers.
Hmmm….(sound of brain struggling)

Thursday Musings

In Those Years
In those years, people will say, we lost track
of the meaning of we, of you
we found ourselves
reduced to I
and the whole thing became
silly, ironic, terrible:
we were trying to live a personal life
and, yes, that was the only life
we could bear witness to

But the great dark birds of history screamed and plunged
into our personal weather
They were headed somewhere else but their beaks and pinions drove
along the shore, through rages of fog
where we stood, saying I

~Adrienne Rich

This is a surreal day. We are happy to move on and live our lives, but at the same time that sense of “moving on” seems like a betrayal. This incident is no longer front page news, and if it is, it is at the bottom, encapsulated in a tiny graphic of a memorial tribute. So where were you seven years ago today? Can it really be seven years? Remembering is the most important thing we can do.
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I’m glad this week is almost over. The beginnings of exhaustion are setting in…
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Mac Update: took the computer to the Apple store. Waited for a half an hour for the tech guy to tell us that there wasn’t much he could do (shocking) and that we could pay $280 to send it out, so the other “tech people” can fix it. We’re exploring our options.
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Wednesday Musings

I saw this recent Sarah Palin nightmare on GMA this morning. Yikes! I mean really, this just tops it all off. Not only does she think the world is 6,000 yrs old, but she also thinks banning books and firing librarians is good idea.
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I discussed Alice Walker’s Beauty: When the Other Dancer is Self today and there response was lackluster at best. Some of this I blame on the fact that it is early in the morning (I teach the two classes back to back from 8-11) but a lot of it is just the classroom dynamic. When I read their journals, they get the material they just refuse to talk in class. I usually give them a week or two to warm up but now I know I will just have to call on them. Sigh. It’s like pulling teeth sometimes.
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A few other New Yorker covers I enjoy (sparked by yesterdays post):

Tuesday Musings

Over the weekend I got my hair cut. I now have bangs for the first time in about 5 years and I love them. Change is good!
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I was reading the Elegant Variation earlier today and came across one of Joshua Henkin’s 24 posts that he did for M. Sarvas while Sarvas was off traveling the world. The man is a posting machine, but he mentioned a writing exercise that I am now determined to do with me creative writing class (that begins in about two weeks). He suggested cutting off the end of a short story and allowing the student to write their own version. In a way, I’m surprised this exercise didn’t occurr to me earlier, because I love things like this that stretch the mind, but I’m definitely going to try it now.

I checked Sarvas’s novel “Harry, Revised” out of the library but have yet to dive into it. Too many books, too little time.
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I’m very tired today. I only get up really early (5 AM) to go to the gym once a week, but that once a week is brutal. Early to bed this evening…

Somewhere, somehow, fall arrived. I was conscious of it on my calendar and through my poetry (hence your regular fall poetry posting, which will be continuing through October) but I had not noticed any drastic changes in the landscape until yesterday while Iwas walking Kwe. Leaves are changing and in some instances, already falling. The air is crisper and I think I saw a pumpkin on a stand the other day…
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The cover of this weeks NewYorker makes me chuckle

Monday Musings

This weekend was a roller coaster. Usually, I try to post during the weekend, but Friday afternoon I managed to dump a glass of Crystal Light lemonade onto our Macbook. It wasn’t pretty, but R’s quick thinking may have saved the machine. He turned it upside down on a dry surface and immediately took the battery out. We let it “dry” for 24 hours and Saturday we managed get it turned on. Remarkably, the computer works just fine. There is a small amount of screen damage to the lower right hand corner, but otherwise all programs work well. The biggest problem is that the computer will not recognize the battery. We’re exploring the options and yes, I am kicking myself repeatedly.
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Greekfest was fun but somewhat marred by the computer fiasco. The lines were long and the food was overpriced, but it was delicious. My favorite item of the evening came when I was introduced to the “baklava” sundae. Yes, it is as sweet as it sounds. It’s composed of a scoop of vanilla ice cream, a scoop of gooey baklava, and a drizle of chocolate syrup. Yum!

Oktoberfest (Saturday) found me in a better frame of mind and I enjoyed myself even though there wasn’t much German about the event. RJ and I rode on the Ferris Wheel and the Paratrooper (R’s favorite) and we drank some beer. We had a good time with friends,- and I’m glad we went.
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I took Kweli on a long walk yesterday. We walked along the canal, through Rocky Ripple, all the way to Butler’s campus and back. I like walking Kwe, even though he get’s over stimulated and has slight ADD. I like being outdoors and it was a beautiful day. That being said, I wish other dog owners/walkers would be a little more aware when they walked their pets. This woman was walking her dog (looked like a beagle mix) and she crept up right behind me without even letting me know she was there. So she startled Kweli and she startled me, which caused me to stop, and let her go ahead. The same goes for bikers and joggers. Say “passing on your left or right” don’t creep up behind a walker and then almost run them off the road. Maybe someday when I have more time I’ll right a trail etiquette book.
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Your fall poem for today:

Home

I didn't know I was grateful
for such late-autumn
bent-up cornfields

yellow in the after-harvest
sun before the
cold plow turns it all over

into never.
I didn't know
I would enter this music

that translates the world
back into dirt fields
that have always called to me

as if I were a thing
come from the dirt,
like a tuber,

or like a needful boy. End
Lonely days, I believe. End the exiled
and unraveling strangeness.

~ Bruce Weigl
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Two interesting articles about Robert Giroux. A tribute and then an article about missed oportunities.

I love this idea. We sometimes forget about muses.

Friday Musings

I’m back at school today. As a new faculty member, I have orientations every Friday. So far they’ve been very helpful. Today’s session was over wikis and blogs and how we can incorporate them into Blackboard. We also received a tutorial over smart boards, which was neat and informative. Unlike some of my colleagues, I’m more than willing to embrace technology in the classroom. I think where educators make the mistake is when they don’t have a Plan B. Technology, just like many other things, is not full proof. If you go into a classroom planning to use a computer, projector, or smart board, you should also go into that same classroom prepared that those machines may not work. Part of teaching is being prepared. If you’re prepared, you’ll be fine no matter what.
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This theme of this weekend is “eat, drink, and be merry.” R and I and friends are attending the Greek Festival and Oktoberfest. Good times!
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I just read the winning story for the Emerging Writers Network fiction contest. Here is the link to the story, The Secret Life of Engineers, by David Borofka. I was struck by the title and the story is very good. Here is what the judge, Alyson Hagy, said about it:

The height of summer in the Rocky Mountains is the worst time of the year to judge a literary contest. Because it’s perfect outside. The sky, the alpine meadows, the back country streams are all signing their Siren songs. So it takes a very good set of short stories to keep me indoors…and interested.
“The Secret Life of Engineers” is a story that knows its voice and heart. It never resorts to literary pyrotechnics. It doesn’t try to do too much, and it left me with a rich, complicated sense of its characters despite the fact that it’s not very long. It’s a story that believes in itself, and thus, it made a believer out of me. The author of this story has a wonderful ear (there’s not a syllable out of place, in my opinion). He or she also has a keen sense of comic timing. In fact, most of the best stories I read for the contest were funny. Thank goodness for that. I loved the brio and balls of many, many of these entries. These writers are not shy, and that’s a good thing. They have something to say and good tales to tell…and they kept me glued to my chair despite the lure of the great Wyoming outdoors.

Thursday Musings

It has been an interesting two weeks here at the community college where I teach. There have been a lot of major changes that have impacted the school on a global level and then there have been smaller changes that have only impacted me. Having recently moved from an adjunct faculty member to a full time faculty member, I’ve had to readjust a little bit and some of those adjustments have caused me to discover new things, while others have reaffirmed things I already knew.

DISCLAIMER: I would just like to say that in the next part of this post I am in no way shape or form slamming adjuncts. I was an adjunct/Teaching fellow for 3 1/2 years, so I understand and sympathize with the hardships that come along with that kind of work.

I’m often frustrated by the lack of extra time that adjuncts are willing to spend with students. I know that they are only part time faculty, I know that they are more often than not under appreciated and under paid, and I know that many of them have second and even third jobs that they must have to make ends meet. That being said, it is their decision to teach and that is a decision that should be taken seriously. This little rant was prompted by a former student of mine who emailed me for help concerning her English class this semester. She was having a hard time thinking of a topic for her essay and wanted to run a few ideas by me. I told her I’d be happy to help but that she should ask her new instructor for help first. Well, I know her instructor and I know she’s an adjunct, so unfortunately it came as no surprise when she told me she had asked and the instructor had said “I’ll help you after you have a first draft.” Well, obviously, this isn’t going to help much in the area of topic generation. While it is a students responsibility to come up with their own topic, more often than not they just need to bounce some ideas of someone in order to get on the right track (which is exactly what happened with my student). We talked for twenty minutes, and she left here feeling more confident about her essay. All it took was twenty minutes. Sigh.
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Wednesday Musings

This story is unfortunate and it annoys me.

Here is the poem. You decide.

Education for Leisure

Today I am going to kill something. Anything.
I have had enough of being ignored and today
I am going to play God. It is an ordinary day,
a sort of grey with boredom stirring in the streets.

I squash a fly against the window with my thumb.
We did that at school. Shakespeare. It was in
another language and now the fly is in another language.
I breathe out talent on the glass to write my name.

I am a genius. I could be anything at all, with half
the chance. But today I am going to change the world.
Something’s world. The cat avoids me. The cat
knows I am a genius, and has hidden itself.

I pour the goldfish down the bog. I pull the chain.
I see that it is good. The budgie is panicking.
Once a fortnight, I walk the two miles into town
for signing on. They don’t appreciate my autograph.

There is nothing left to kill. I dial the radio
and tell the man he’s talking to a superstar.
He cuts me off. I get our bread-knife and go out.
The pavements glitter suddenly. I touch your arm.

~Carol Ann Duffy
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I don’t think I agree with the first line of this article. I mean, how else do you explain political poetry? As a rebuke I give you one of my favorite political poems:

The Colonel

What you have heard is true. I was in his house. His wife carried a tray of coffee and sugar. His daughter filed her nails, his son went out for the night. There were daily papers, pet dogs, a pistolon the cushion beside him. The moon swung bare on its black cord over the house. On the television was a cop show. It was in English. Broken bottles were embedded in the walls around the house to scoop the kneecaps from a man’s legs or cut his hands to lace. On the windows there were gratings like those in liquor stores. We had dinner, rack of lamb, good wine, a gold bell was on the table for calling the maid. The maid brought green mangoes, salt, a type of bread. I was asked how I enjoyed the country. There was a brief commercial in Spanish. His wife took everything away. There was some talk of how difficult it had become to govern. The parrot said hello on the terrace. The colonel told it to shut up, and pushed himself from the table. My friend said to me with his eyes: say nothing. The colonel returned with a sack used to bring groceries home. He spilled many human ears on the table. They were like dried peach halves. There is no other way to say this. He took one of them in his hands, shook it in our faces, dropped it into a water glass. It came alive there. I am tired of fooling around he said. As for the rights of anyone, tell your people they can go fuck themselves. He swept the ears to the floor with his arm and held the last of his wine in the air. Something for your poetry, no? he said. Some of the ears on the floor caught this scrap of his voice. Some of the ears on the floor were pressed to the ground.
~Carolyn Forché

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I am weary this afternoon. I taught two comp courses back to back this morning and it always puts a strain on my voice. My morning classes are a touch more apathetic then my afternoon class, so I’ll have to adjust my teaching method a bit.

Tuesday Musings

Just received this in my email:
New York, September 2—Louise Glück has been selected as the recipient of the 2008 Wallace Stevens Award from the Academy of American Poets. The $100,000 prize recognizes outstanding and proven mastery in the art of poetry. Brigit Pegeen Kelly has been selected as the recipient of the 2008 Academy Fellowship, which is awarded once a year to a poet for distinguished poetic achievement and provides a stipend of $25,000. The Academy’s Board of Chancellors, a body of fourteen eminent poets, selects the Wallace Stevens Award and Academy Fellowship recipients.
Of Louise Glück’s work, Academy Chancellor Robert Pinsky said:

Louise sometimes uses language so plain it can almost seem like someone is speaking to you spontaneously—but it’s always intensely distinguished…There’s always a surprise in Louise’s writing; in every turn, every sentence, every line, something goes somewhere a little different, or very different, from where you thought it would.

Louise Gluck was born in New York City in 1943 and grew up on Long Island. She is the author of numerous books of poetry, including Averno (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2006), The Seven Ages (Ecco, 2001), Vita Nova (1999), Meadowlands (1996), The Wild Iris (1992), Ararat (1990), and The Triumph of Achilles (1985). She has also published a collection of essays, Proofs and Theories: Essays on Poetry (1994).
Her many honors include the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, the National Book Critics Circle Award for Poetry, the Bollingen Prize in Poetry, and the Lannan Literary Award for Poetry. In 2003, she was appointed Poet Laureate of the United States by the Library of Congress. She currently is a writer-in-residence at Yale University, and she lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.
About writing poetry, Louise Glück wrote:

The world is complete without us. Intolerable fact. To which the poet responds by rebelling, wanting to prove otherwise… The poet lives in chronic dispute with fact, and an astonishment occurs: another fact is created, like a new element, in partial contradiction of the intolerable.

Brigit Pegeen Kelly was born in Palo Alto, California, in 1951. She is the author of The Orchard (BOA Editions, 2004), a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry and the National Book Circle Critics Award in Poetry; Song (1995), which was the 1994 Lamont Poetry Selection of the Academy of American Poets; and To The Place of Trumpets (Yale University Press, 1988), which was selected by James Merrill for the Yale Series of Younger Poets.
About Kelly’s work, Academy Chancellor Carl Phillips said:

In the course of her three books, Brigit Kelly has shaped a poetry and vision that demand to be taken on their own terms—which is to say, there’s an originality that is everywhere unmistakable. Her sentences shuttle steadily back and forth to produce a tapestry-like meditation that throws into arresting—often disturbing—relief a world that lies “beyond the report of beauty,” where cruelty and sweetness are easily, perhaps necessarily, confusable for one another, a world whose topography is at once mythic, recognizable, and utterly Kelly’s own.

Kelly’s additional honors include a “Discovery”/The Nation Award, the Cecil Hemley Award from the Poetry Society of America, a Pushcart Prize, the Theodore Roethke Prize from Poetry Northwest, and a Whiting Writers Award. Kelly, who has taught for many years primarily at the University of Illinois, has also taught at the University of California at Irvine, Purdue University, and Warren Wilson College. In 2002 the University of Illinois presented her with two awards for excellence in teaching.
Louise Glück and Brigit Pegeen Kelly will be participating in the Poets Forum (November 6-8 in New York City) where they will read from their work at the Poets Awards Ceremony. Louise Glück will also be part of panel discussions on contemporary poetry presented by the Academy of American Poets. For more information, please visit
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I really admire Kelly and Gluck, so I’m very pleased they received these awards. I would love to go to NYC to hear them read, but alas I’m a poor poet/professor. I wonder what it would be like to have unlimited funds where I could go to any workshop, panel, lecture, or retreat I wanted to go to…one can dream. Speaking of conferences, early registration for AWP is coming up in October. Three cheers for the windy city!
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I enjoyed my class this afternoon. We discussed the art of observation and how it can be useful in all types of writing. I used the famous excerpt about the old tom cat from Annie Dillard’s A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek when I talked about sensory detail. They thought it was gross and talked about it for 20 minutes. I loved it.