Tuesday (Poetry, The Pope, and Photographs) Musings

Today I went to Starbucks and worked on my poetry. It felt great. I’ve decided that I’ve got to start managing my time better. This summer was dreadful in terms of writing and it is my fault. Beginning this week, I’m turning over a new leaf. I know all this comes with graduating from MFA and no longer having a structured writing/reading schedule. I’ve got to do it myself.

In lieu of my renewed commitment, I read the June issue of Poetry this morning. Out of the entire issue, I found two poems I liked and they were both by the Greek poet A.E. Stallings.

Tulips

The tulips make me want to paint,

Something about the way they drop

Their petals on the tabletop

And do not wilt so much as faint,

Something about their burnt-out hearts,

Something about their pallid stems

Wearing decay like diadems,

Parading ﬁnishes like starts,

Something about the way they twist

As if to catch the last applause,

And drink the moment through long straws,

And how, tomorrow, they’ll be missed.

The way they’re somehow getting clearer,

The tulips make me want to see—

The tulips make the other me

(The backwards one who’s in the mirror,

The one who can’t tell left from right),
Glance now over the wrong shoulder
To watch them get a little older
And give themselves up to the light.

A Mother’s Loathing of Balloons

I hate you,

How the children plead

At ﬁrst sight—

I want, I need,

I hate how nearly

Always I

At ﬁrst say no,

And then comply.

(Soon, soon

They will grow bored

Clutching your

Umbilical cord)—

Over the moon,

Lighter-than-air,

Should you come home,

They’d cease to care—

Who tugs you through

The front door

On a leash, won’t want you

Anymore

And will forget you

On the ceiling—

Admittedly,

A giddy feeling—

Later to ﬁnd you,

Puckered, small,

Crouching low

Against the wall.

O thin-of-skin

And ﬁt to burst,

You break for her

Who wants you worst.

Your forebear was

The sack of the winds,

The boon that gives

And then rescinds,

Containing nothing

But the force

That blows everyone

Off course.

Once possessed,

Your one chore done,

You ﬂoat like happiness

To the sun,

Untethered afternoon,

Unkind,

Marooning all

You’ve left behind:

Their tinfoil tears,

Their plastic cries,

Their wheedling

And moot goodbyes,

You shrug them off—

You do not heed—

O loose bloom

With no root

No seed.

This second one is especially brilliant. I love that line “they will grow bored/clutching your/umbilical cord.” However, the rest of the issue I found lacking. There was one poem in particular that got on my nerves a bit. It was “Agape” by Timothy Murray. To be fair, the poem wasn’t what bugged me. I liked the poem well enough, although not as much as Stalling’s poems. It was the note at the end of the poem that bothered me. First, the note was about as long as the poem. Second, this poem apparently came to the author in a dream from which he awoke and typed it into the form we see in Poetry. Forgive me for being the cynic, but what? Also, what Pope John Paul said to the author, Te Dominus amat (God loves you), seems lacking. To be perfectly frank, the note at the bottom of the poem seems to be more interesting than the poem itself.
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I took my camera and went for a walk in Broad Ripple today. Here are some photos from that walk._____________________________________________________________________

Friday (walking) Musings

This is the second Friday that I’ve gotten up early and gone for a walk on the Monon (a trail here in Indy). I don’t know why I didn’t start doing this earlier in the summer, because it is really good for my head. I feel better and it gives me a chance to get out and commune with nature. I like morning the best out of all the times in the day. There is always a strong sense of renewal.
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“And I believe that poetry is an action, ephemeral or solemn. in which there enter as equal partners solitude and solidarity, emotion and action, the nearness to oneself, the nearness to mankind and to the secret manifestations of nature.”

Pablo Neruda
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I heard this story on NPR this morning on the way home from my walk and I almost started weeping in my car. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a bit of an emotional basket case, but there is something about hearing a grown man on the verge of tears:

Mendoza, 65, looks like a man who’s spent his life on a ranch. He drives a mud-spattered pickup; he wears thick rubber boots and filthy jeans. But he doesn’t look like a guy who will cry when he talks about selling off his herd.

Tuesday (When it rains…) Musings

I woke up this morning to go to the gym and it was pouring down rain. This did not help my motivation, which took another blow when my beloved informed me (through barely open lips and closed eyes) that he was not coming. He had not fallen asleep until well after 2 am. He was sleepy. Besides, it was raining. With that final proclamation, he pulled my abandoned pillow over his head and resumed snoring.

Damn.

Anyway. I went. I got wet but at least I went.
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2008 NEA Fellowships Announced.

One member may push for John Updike, while everyone else is set on John Grisham. One person wants to have a glass of wine and talk about the book, while everyone else wants to get drunk and talk about their spouses. “There are all these power struggles about what book gets chosen,” Ms. Burg said. Then come the complaints: “It’s too long, it’s too short, it’s not literary enough, it’s too literary … ”

Tuesday (Ouch!) Musings

I had my flu shot a few minutes ago, so my arm is sore. I’ve always been a little sensitive to shots but I figure it is worth it to avoid getting sick this spring or over the holidays. Last year I had this horrible combination of strep throat and bronchitis. It was terrible. I suspect that I contracted it from one of my students who was hacking awhile for two weeks while handing in his papers. It’s hard to avoid germs entirely but at least I can prepare for them.

In other news, the crunch is on for my manuscript. I’m working away on my preface and need to get another draft to Brian before Thanksgiving. Also, I’m still fiddling with the order for the actual book, so that’s always fun. The ideal date for my committee to have the thesis is Dec. 5, so the end is in sight. As is the case with most major projects, I don’t start to feel the pressure until the end. Yesterday, while I was working on my preface I had the impulse to throw it out and start again. Fortunately, I resisted that impulse.
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This is from an article that appeared WJHG the local news station that targets Okaloos, FL where parents are trying to ban the book Kite Runner:
Parents also have the right to request a substitute book for their child.
That’s why Principal Charlene Couvillon feels one complaint shouldn’t dictate a district-wide ban.
“I think as a parent I have the right to say I don’t want my child to read that book but I don’t have the right to say that for your child.”While the content in The Kite Runner is disturbing, I think it is ridiculous to say it isn’t appropriate for high school students. To assume that these students do not have the intellectual capacity to deal with rape, which seems to be what the parents are saying, is strange considering they see depictions of it everyday on tv, in movies, and in music. More to the point, you cannot sheild your childrent from ugliness forever. They need to confront it, learn from it, and move beyond it.

This is a little late, but here is a review from the San Francisco Chronicle concerning Toni Morrison’s new novel, Mercy.
I recently subscribed to Poetry. I’ve been meaning to do this for about two years, but kept forgetting. This particular issue I’m particularly taken with several poems (the Levine I posted yesterday) so here is another one for your reading pleasure:

Zeus to Juno

He—
You saw the way her body looked at me
all address
calling me down
she was so
well-turned
curve and volume
her body presented itself–
Clay–
I could mold it

She—
You were taboo
not totem–
covered her
though your wing gave no shelter

Your pale plumage
became shadow
Your beak caught
in the net of her hair

He—
When I entered her
her death became my life
in her death swoon
she fell away from me
the more she fell
the deeper I pursued her
the deeper I went
the more lost she became
her body
became a forest of echoes
hills and valleys
echoing each other, a language
I didn’t know–
surrounded alone

She—
The discarded body
lies in long grass
Flies and wasps
fumble there–

on a summer day
the lost girl hums–
Kelly, Sarah, Joanne changed
into parable

Prodigal hair
flung out
body agape
like a question

The scavenger crow knows–
she’s beautiful,
outgrowing her name
in the noon heat
Fiona Sampson