Not an Obligation, But a Challenge

Like a crazy woman, I signed up for NaBloPoMo this year. (By the way, I hate this abbreviation. It's so difficult to pronounce.) I signed up about a week ago, and I am of two minds about it.

My initial reaction is dread and fear. What if I run out of things to say? Will I be forced to wax poetic about my pajamas? Or the few TV shows I like? Or the time my dad had us sell Monoracers at Venice Beach? Wait... I better stop now, I might want to use these next month.

But the more I think about it, the more excited I get. Initially, I started this blog as a way to reconnect with my writing. And it has worked marvelously. I'm writing every week, I've connected with other writers across the world, and I'm much happier in my creative life. So, if this blog is an extension of and a commitment to my writing life, then posting once every day is just a once a day commitment to my writing life. The more I post, the more I commit to writing. Plus I can stretch my writing muscles by having to write every day. It's challenging and disciplined. Music to a Capricorn's ears.

Besides, even if I wake up one night in a cold sweat (despite my pirate pajamas) and realize I need to post an entry, it only takes five minutes or so. Right?

Once More With Feeling: PBC Discussion of The Pajamaist

Note: Here's the *real* Poetry Book Club discussion post, after my silly initial posting 5 days early. I guess I was just too excited to discuss this book. Enjoy!




Discussion Questions

Overall, did you like the book? What about it did you like?

Were there specific poems that spoke to you? Which ones? Why?

Was there anything that confused you about the overall book? What was it?

Were there any individual poems that confused you?

How would you describe the author's style? How did he use language to convey images, ideas, or voice?

How would you describe the structure of the book? Did you see any sense of movement or progression from one poem to the next?

Would you choose to read this author again? Why or why not?

Poet is a Verb: Renew

The more I write, the more I understand my inspiration to be cyclical. By that, I mean that there are high times and there are low times. Even looking back at my Weekly Word Counts, I can see that there have been fertile writing times and fallow writing times this year. These times have little rhyme or reason; some days I am inspired, and some days I'm not.

On rare days, I feel a physical itchy rush of energy which translates to getting a lot of work done. This week has been like this. I've sat at my computer or in front of my journal for hours and when I'm not writing, I want to be writing. Or reading. Or posting on my blog. I simultaneously love and loathe these high creative times. I love it because I feel productive and on top of the world, and I loathe them because I know the crash that follows.

So this weekend, I've been focusing on renewing my energies. Filling the well, as some of my grad teachers called it. Part of this is reading and writing, the two most important verbs that a poet can do, and part of this has been taking care of myself. I can be miserable at this last part -- I'd rather do do do than paint my nails or take a walk or meditate, or any of the other typical well filling activities.

However, yesterday, my husband and I went to Minnehaha Falls with the camera and a couple of bottles of water, and we walked. Many of the fall leaves had already fallen to the ground, and that's when I really realized that November happens this week. (Already.) Sometimes we talked, and other times we were silent, just listening to the rush of the falls and the crunch of the dry brush underfoot.

When we left, I felt both calm and overjoyed, as if I was spilling over inside. I think that's what serenity and true creativity feels like, not the panicky compulsion to complete more and more tasks.

Continuation of Stranger Danger...

Last night, I went to an awesome Halloween party, hosted by a friend from my last job. It was a costume party, of course, and I went as a haunted doll (hence the picture above) and my husband went as an apocalypse survivor. We all read scary stories, an annual tradition inspired by the famous party attended by Mary Shelley and Lord Byron where Shelley debuted Frankenstein. Yes, we're very nerdy.

Our scary story elocution is a contest. There were a lot of scary stories, including a murderous game of cat and mouse between Alice and the White Rabbit, a cabal of cannibalistic foster children, a librarian who unwittingly donates her soul to the devil, a creepy doll party (my husband's story) and a reverse chronological detail of a murder gone wrong. After 3 years, I won the coveted Raven Award with the story about Scotty that I posted a bit of for Writers Island, and I'm totally excited about it.

So as promised, here is the Scotty Potty story, in it's entirety. It is long... but it is officially award winning.

The Stranger

I loved waking him up in the morning. I wished I could still sleep as he slept. His body twisted in pretzel shapes, clutching his raggedy bunny doll. I could never sleep that soundly anymore, not since bills and mortgages and project deadlines, and waiting to hear if he would stir.

This morning though, he was awake when I walked in. The room was freezing; the window beside his bed was open halfway. He figured out the childproofing -- he's only 5. His face was turned away from me, towards the icy air.
“What’s going on, buddy? It’s freezing in here.” I reached toward the window to shut it; he turned on me. His face was gray ash, his blue eyes shining.

“Don’t shut it. I need to get used to it.”
“Get used to what?”
“Cold. It’s cold where I’m going.”

I wondered if he was still asleep, night terrors like some of his kids in play group get. “School? It’s not cold there – they have heaters in the classrooms.”

My son looked down at his hands. He looked like his mother whenever he looked down, the heavy-lidded eyes, the pink lips. This morning, his lips were almost blue. His hands were empty.

“Where’s Mr. Carrot?”

He looked out the open window and I followed his gaze. Mr. Carrot was 10 feet from the house, half buried in the morning snowfall.

“Why’d you do that kiddo? Mr. Carrot’s going to need a bath now.”
“I don’t need him anymore. He can’t help me.”

I read about this in all the child-psych books, security blanket type issues. He’s ahead of schedule, but that was nice for once. He was smaller than all the other boys in kindergarten.

“What’s Mr. Carrot supposed to help you with, pal?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He paused, slid to the edge of the bed.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, pal?”
“How come you never call me by my name anymore?”

Before I could answer, he padded to the bathroom and shut the door.

He was quiet at the table, we all were, the three of us chewing our cereal. Only the dog noisily snorted his approval of breakfast. As my son fished the final Cheerios out of the milk, I grabbed my keys and his book bag. Our daily routine.

“Alright pal – time for learning.” I used my post-caffeinated singsong voice. He stared at his cereal bowl.

“I don’t want to go,” he said as if to the milk.
“It’s Thursday, little man. Only two more days and then we can party on the weekend. We’ll do forts on Saturday. Promise.”
“I hate it there, Dad. They hate me.”
“Who hates you?”
“Everyone. They pick on me.”
“They don’t pick on you.” My wife shot me one of her looks. This was a lie. His kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Keely, had already phoned us on several occasions, because he couldn’t play at recess without being ridiculed. I know how hard it is to fit in, but I figured he had to learn to fit in. We all do.

“They call me Scotty Potty.” I bit the inside of my cheek -- it was so minor, so nothing, but that must be horrifying to a five year old kid. My five year old kid.

“Don’t let it eat at you, Scott. Ignore them or go play with someone else.” I walked towards him – put my hand on his shoulder. At that moment, he transformed into a whirring vehicle of rage. He screamed, kicked, windmilled his arms.

“I donwana donwana donwana donwana--” He screamed those words over and over, a stream of syllables.

I had never seen him like this, not in five years of baths, bed times, and vaccination shots. This was more. He was a stranger to me then, someone else’s child full of rage.

We did what we could. I grabbed him by the pants, she hoisted him beneath the armpits, until little by little his voice grew hoarse from screaming and we somehow managed to squeeze him into the car. He finally stopped.

The entire drive to school, he never looked up.

When we arrived, I pulled Mrs. Keely aside. Told her about the tantrum, the nickname, the favorite stuffed animal face down in the snow. She smiled one of her wan, kindergarten teacher smiles.

“Paul, it’s natural for a boy of his – sensitivities – to dislike school. To fear the large groups of kids. I’ll keep an eye of him today, I’ll call you if anything happens.”

I left the classroom, the peeling posters on the wall, the cliques of kids already forming around the plastic house play sets and coloring books. I waved to Scott from the window; his face was still flushed and red. A group of boys sat in a circle around him, surrounding him. He did nothing and I left for home.

I spent the morning as I usually do, cleaning up dried milk puddles off the kitchen table while chatting with clients. I looked at those stubborn white films as the evidence of our lives together. Our table is ringed with the ghosts of former mornings, because they never truly disappear, even when I scrub. This morning, Scotty’s stain was thin translucent white and it flaked off in one intact iridescent circle. I didn’t need to add water; it just lifted off, like it was never there in the first place.

It was then that I remembered Mr. Carrot, lying in the snow. I wonder what inspired him to send the stuffed animal sailing out of the window late last night. He loved this rabbit. It’s been with him as long as he’s been alive. I stepped into my snow boots, barefooted, still chatting with my client. He was yammering on about project synergy and inclusive cooperation, or some other corporate bullshit. This is why I like to work from home, to remove myself as far as possible from corporate identity annihilation.

Mr. Carrot was still face down in the snow; he seemed to be sinking. I picked him up, his fur was stiff from the ice and cold. As I turned him over, I dropped the phone and it was immediately swallowed by the snow. Somehow, Scott had gutted Mr. Carrot. Not just gutted. His stomach was ripped open from throat (if he had one) to crotch. All of his gray stuffing was spilling out of the wound. I looked closely and found chew marks along his center seam, as if Scott had used his teeth. His button eyes had been plucked off and were hanging by single threads from empty cotton sockets. At that moment, the house line rang its insistent cheerful tone.
I fished the office phone out of the snow bank, hung up on the client. Fuck him. I’ll pay for it later, I’m sure. I slid-ran inside, picked up the phone.

“Mr. Noonan? This is the Franklin Elementary Principal.”
“Yes, Mr--?”
“Dr. Batton. It’s your son. An incident has occurred. You need to come in. Immediately.”

I took Mr. Carrot with me, even in his sorry state. Scotty may need him if he’s okay. That was my only thought as I drove – 55 in a 25 – the mile and a half to the school. If he’s okay. I wasn’t even praying for him to be okay – I just let the if hang there.

When I arrived, there were ambulances, cop cars, a field of red and blue flashing lights. A small stretcher was being wheeled out of the school. A little four foot body, draped in a heavy white cloth lay motionless upon it. Blood soaked the sheet where the face should be.

Instinctively, I ran to the stretcher. Told them I was the father. I needed to see what they did to him for myself. I uncovered the body from the feet, noticed that these weren’t Scotty’s shoes. A hand grabbed my arm forcefully. Someone said, “You’re not the father of this one.”

I was led into an empty classroom. They were all empty, but this was his classroom. The room was dark, the peeling posters of circus clowns and cartoon characters glowered at me. Their faces took on gray shadows. Scott sat on the nap map. As soon as I walked in, he looked up at me. I ran to him. He was unscathed – no cuts, bruises, broken bones, as far as I could tell. But he was covered in blood. Blood on his hands, on his yellow Dora sweatshirt. Blood around his mouth.

“What happened, buddy?”
“They didn’t call me by my name, Daddy. They never called me by my real name.”

I hovered over him, not knowing what to do. All I knew is that I didn’t want to take this one home.

Weekly Word Count, Oct 22-Oct 28

This was an awesome writing week. I wrote my scary story for the annual Halloween party last night, which was 1461 words, and a poem for Totally Optional Prompts. All told, I wrote 1961 this week, which brings my total to 28461 for the year.

I'm trucking along...

If You Claim the Name of Poet...

...you should run to the bookstore to buy Donald Revell's book, The Art of Attention. As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I picked this up at the Twin Cities Book Festival, a lollapalooza of local presses. I thought it looked interesting. I just finished the first section and I am floored by how good it is.

In this book, Revell examines the lyric eye, probably the most important quality of a modern poet. He contrasts the poetry of cleverness or wit against the poetry of rapture and focus, favoring the later. In Revell's view, a poem is a tangible product of our fierce attention to the world, rather than our shaping of the world. We don't invent the world when we write, we notice it in its glory. The poetry of attention as he calls is it is intimate, peaceful, unagressive and watchful. As he says, "the poet reads the world with writing."

This is pretty revelatory writing. I find myself underlining every third sentence. When I read it back now to isolate a few quotes, his sentences are so intertwined that I cannot excerpt it to give a good representation of its breadth and depth. Needless to say, if you write poetry or want to write poetry, this is the book to read.

Master of My Domains

Whew! It's finally working. After a little drama with the conversion, both this blog and Asphalt Sky have switched over into www land. So, the new address for this blog is www.9to5poet.com and the new address for Asphalt Sky is www.asphaltsky.com. Please update your bookmarks. Thanks!

Drugstore Perfume

Another wonderful prompt from Totally Optional Prompts -- click here to read the original, by Ted Kooser. I never really "got" him, thought he was pleasant enough, but this poem stuck in my head all week.

Drugstore Perfume

She stands in a yellowed bathroom, lathers
vanilla-scented moisturizer on freshly
shaved legs. Grits her teeth against
the sting of open nicks, watches red
bumps raise on white skin. In the smell
of vanilla mingled with the light
metallic tang of blood, she breathes in
1989, breathes in fluorescent pink clouds
of Love's Baby Soft and the white cotton
tampon threads, tangled in the black leather
recesses of her dirty purse. All
that's missing from this seventh grade
scenario are the blue gray clouds
of an eight grader's cigarette butt and
the burning desperation to be noticed
and not noticed, all at once. Wait,
that's still there, hiding beneath the blood.

Poetry Book Club Discussion: Matthew Zapruder's The Pajamaist

I hope you all enjoyed Zapruder's book -- I just finished on the commute home. I think this was a good book to read slowly. If Poetry Book Club has taught me anything, it's that a book a poetry needs to be savored/digested/pondered for a period of time.

Here are the discussion questions. I'll be posting my response later. I'm off to a Carol Muske-Dukes interview event.

Discussion Questions

Overall, did you like the book? What about it did you like?

Were there specific poems that spoke to you? Which ones? Why?

Was there anything that confused you about the overall book? What was it?

Were there any individual poems that confused you?

How would you describe the author's style? How did he use language to convey images, ideas, or voice?

How would you describe the structure of the book? Did you see any sense of movement or progression from one poem to the next?

Would you choose to read this author again? Why or why not?

Because I'm Crazy...

I joined NaBloPoMo and the "read. write. poem." group.

I think I can...I think I can...

Stranger Danger

This is an excerpt for a larger story that I'm writing. This weekend, I'm going to a good friend's Halloween party and everyone has to contribute a scary story to read aloud. This is a short-ish part of what I am writing. I'm hoping to finish it up today.


He was quiet at the table, we all were, the three of us chewing our cereal. Only the dog noisily snorted his approval of breakfast. As my son fished the final Cheerios out of the milk, I grabbed my keys and his book bag. Our daily routine.

“Alright pal – time for learning.” I used my post-caffeinated singsong voice. He stared at his cereal bowl.

“I don’t want to go,” he said as if to the milk.

“It’s Thursday, little man. Only two more days and then we can party on the weekend. We’ll do forts on Saturday. Promise.”

“I hate it there, Dad. They hate me.”

“Who hates you?”

“Everyone. They pick on me.”

“They don’t pick on you.” My wife shot me one of her looks. This was a lie. His kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Keely, had already phoned us on several occasions, because he couldn’t play at recess without being ridiculed. I know how hard it is to fit in, but I figured he had to learn to fit in. We all do.

“They call me Scotty Potty.” I bit the inside of my cheek -- it was so minor, so nothing, but that must be horrifying to a five year old kid. My five year old kid.

“Don’t let it eat at you, Scott. Ignore them or go play with someone else.” I walked towards him – put my hand on his shoulder. At that moment, he transformed into a whirring vehicle of rage. He screamed, kicked, windmilled his arms.

“I donwana donwana donwana donwana--” He screamed those words over and over, a stream of syllables. I had never seen him like this, not in five years of baths, bed times, and vaccination shots. This was more. He was a stranger to me then, someone else’s child full of rage.

We did what we could. I grabbed him by the pants, she hoisted him beneath the armpits, until little by little his voice grew hoarse from screaming and we somehow managed to squeeze him into the car. He finally stopped.

The entire drive to school, he never looked up.

When we arrived, I pulled Mrs. Keely aside. Told her about the tantrum, the nickname, the favorite stuffed animal face down in the snow. She smiled one of her wan, kindergarten teacher smiles.

“Paul, it’s natural for a boy of his – sensitivities – to dislike school. To fear the large groups of kids. I’ll keep an eye of him today, I’ll call you if anything happens.”

I left the classroom, the peeling posters on the wall, the cliques of kids already forming around the plastic house play sets and coloring books. I waved to Scott from the window; his face was still flushed and red. A group of boys sat in a circle around him, surrounding him. He did nothing and I left for home.

Weekly Word Count, Oct 15-Oct 21

This week I wrote an article for the Uptown Neighborhood News -- 909 words. Other than that, I've been working on getting Asphalt Sky up and running. I plan on getting back to Writers Island and Totally Optional Prompts this week -- they both have really good prompts for the week.

Until then, 26500 for the year.

Manifesto #313

I love this inaugural prompt from fertile ground, the new site that Jill and Carolee started. They ask that we write our poetic statement, or manifesto if you will, for why we write poetry. Manifestos have been on my mind lately, for a couple of reasons. Coincidentally enough, I was planning on writing an article for Poetic Monthly on the poetic manifesto by the end of the month. (Deadlines!) I've also been writing a lot of manifestos lately.

So here's the current incarnation of my poetic manifesto, which I wrote on the bus this morning.

Why Do I Write?

I always come back to the idea that I write because I have to. But I don't have to. I would survive without writing. I would live and breathe and eat and talk and sleep and make love, with or without writing. But I feel a compulsion towards expression, towards ordering, labeling, and deciphering the world around me. Without writing, I would feel surrounded by a gray monotony, like I had 550 channel cable with nothing ever on.

I write because it is difficult -- it takes strength, perseverance, discipline, and bravery, qualities I've never truly felt that I possessed. Yet, I spend hours each week writing and revising and putting my words out into the world, despite all the reasons to hide. On the page, I become strong, brave, disciplined and committed and I can see for a brief glittering second what I could become.

Most importantly, I write because I believe in the transformative power of language. Words are thoughts transformed into action. By writing, I create the world I believe in, the world I want to live in. I express my half-formed ideas and my hopes and truths and secrets, and I can see the slide towards action.


Edit: The image is not my own -- it is Joseph Beuys' 1970 Fluxus Manifesto. Sorry for the confusion.

Grand Opening: Asphalt Sky Literary Journal

I am thrilled to announce the opening of submissions for a new online literary journal, Asphalt Sky. Asphalt Sky's motto:

...Plant Your Feet...

...Arch Your Back...

...Reach Towards the Sky...

Asphalt Sky will publish poetry, prose, and artwork on a biannual basis, perhaps more often, depending on submissions. This journal will be dedicated to the publication of emerging artists and writers who present engaging and thoughtful work.

For more information...

...read Asphalt Sky's manifesto.

...read Asphalt Sky's submission guidelines for art, poetry, and prose.

...email me at asphaltsky at gmail dot com.

Why start an online literary journal?

I'm coming up on the year anniversary of this blog and I've been astounded by the quality of poetry and prose that I've found here amongst my blogging community. I hope to help formally publicize and publish a small fraction of the work that's inspired and motivated me to work harder.

How can you get involved?

The easiest way would be to submit your work. Submissions are open until December 31, 2007 and I'm looking for a good sturdy issue's worth of work before I publish.

I would also appreciate it, if you like the manifesto and what I'm trying to do, to tell others about it. I know that while I've carved out a little space online for Asphalt Sky, that space only becomes bigger through word of mouth.

Last, if you have a little free time to spare, I am looking for an editorial board. If you're interested, please email me at asphaltsky at gmail dot com. Later tonight, I'll post an editorial board announcement on the Asphalt Sky website for more info.

Thanks for taking the time to check it out!

Big Announcement Coming Tomorrow

Yesterday's working day was very successful, so I have a big announcement about a project that I've been kicking around for awhile. I've been spending too much time shuffling my feet on it, so I've just decided to jump on in!

Check back here tomorrow for more information.

Poet is a Verb: Using My Voice

I originally was going to title this post "Finding My Voice." That wasn't quite right, though, because I found my voice years ago. However, just because I know where my voice is, doesn't mean I use it all the time nor in all of the ways it could/should be used.

When I woke up this morning, I read this opinion piece in the New York Times, which talks about young writers at Gustavus Adolphus College in western Minnesota, trying to find their own voices as writers. The author states that there is a certain amount of authority that comes with being a writer. I liked this piece, especially this morning, on a day when I choose to honor my writing practice, because you can read authority for arrogance, truly, because you do have to believe in the importance of your voice in order to be a writer.

If writing is this arrogant act, this belief in the significance in what I say and think, what are the things that I do to honor writing, in spite (or because) of this? Today, I will be honoring my writing in the most simple and obvious ways. I will be actually writing. And doing a lot of it, considering my major procrastination this past week. The biggest way that I can honor my writing practice is by actually writing. Putting pen to paper, fingers to keyboard is the one true way that I honor and engage in my writing.

But once writing becomes a product, it needs to be put out there. Once my voice has been found and used, it needs to be heard. Because, why else would I write, except for other people to read it? The type of work that a writer has to accomplish in order to be heard can be a stark contrast to the act of writing, in some ways. Writing can be solitary and make you vulnerable -- publicizing your own writing can seem crass and may open yourself up to criticism. But, I think it's incredibly important to go that extra step, to further honor the work that I've done in creating a piece of writing.

One of the ways I may be helping to publicize my writing is to create business card. The image for today's post is the card that I designed at the Office Max website. For about 40 bucks, or 30 if it's all black and white, I can have 1000 calling cards that publicize my writing and help me to connect with other writers. When I went to the book fair this weekend, I realized how incredibly helpful it would have been to have business cards. I was meeting editors and more successful writers, and they had business cards to distribute. So why not me? By the way, I would love opinions on the look of the cards. I've blocked out my personal info, for safety reasons. The logo didn't translate perfectly, so there are actually lines all the way around the word "to", as if it were encased in a box.

Another way I can be engaging in this practice of using my voice, is to help other writers find and use their own. I've been struggling with whether or not to engage in a pretty big new project, and after a lot of thought and traveling to the book fair, I again thought why not me? So today, I will be also working on this project, in between playing with business cards and meeting my deadlines.

As I look at this list of actions that I will be doing today, I realize that writing is a lot of action and a lot of work, more than just sitting at my desk and pounding my thoughts into my computer.

Weekly Word Count, October 8-October 14

Another smashing week for poetry. Thanks to the two new prompt sites that have risen out of the ashes of Poetry Thursday, the lovely month and a half old Writers Island and the new and wonderful Totally Optional Prompts, I have written two poems this week. I also did a little revising.

So all combined, I have 1025 for the week. This brings my yearly total to 25,591.

The problem is that I'm engaging in a little (a lot) of procrastination. I have an article due by October 18 to the Uptown Neighborhood News that I avoided writing yesterday. I also would like to write another article/post at Woman Tribune. (I even have an idea.) And I just joined the staff of Poetic Monthly, so I have an article due by the end of the month.(I also have an idea for that one, too.) Last but not least on the procrastination celebration, a good friend of mine hosts a Halloween party each year where we have a scary story contest. This will be my third year, and I have yet to win. My scary story is in my head, where it can't remain for very long, or it will stop being scary and start being "scary."

If I don't surface this week, it's because I'm writing articles and scary stories as fast as I can.

Local Book Love

There are so many reasons why I love living in Minneapolis, but one that sticks out this weekend is the Twin Cities Book Festival. My city is incredibly literate -- we are often ranked in the top two in the Top Literature Cities in the US. (Stupid Seattle dethroning us this year.) We are also host to several notable independent presses and noteworthy journals. All of those organizations, plus many local writers and book artists converge upon Minneapolis Community and Technical College to showcase their wares this weekend. My husband and I walked down this morning and had an awesome time.

My three highlights were the books I got, of course.

I met Kirsten Dierking, the author of One Red Eye, which I loved when I read it earlier this year. I bought her new book, Northern Oracle, and got it signed. She was totally gracious and chatted with me for a moment while signing it, because we went to the same grad school.

I also bought The Art of Attention: The Poet's Eye, by Donald Revell, because it looked really good. It's part of a series, edited by local author Charles Baxter, by "important writers on the craft of writing." (Quote from the back of the book) The other one that has been produced so far is The Art of Subtext by Baxter.

The last book was a freebie from MNArtists, an organization I belong to, called What Light. It's an anthology of Minnesota Poets.

I also collected a lot of promotional material from a bunch of cool organizations, presses, and journals. So here's me passing along the info, to help support my awesome local literary scene. I've gotta keep the publication karma positive, if you know what I mean.

Organizations

Professional Editors Network
Laurel Poetry Collective
Minnesota Center for Book Arts
Minnesota Literacy Council
Minnesota Literature

Journals

Midway Journal
Minneapolis Observer Quarterly
Dislocate
Water~Stone

Independent Presses

Blueroad Press
Red Dragonfly Press
Coffee House Press
Spout Press
Scarletta Press

If you are a budding writer who lives in Minneapolis metro area, I would strongly encourage you to visit the book fair this weekend. It's a great networking opportunity and a good resource for local publication venues.

You've Got to Love Doris Lessing

Now, I know that there is going to be a lot of talk about Al Gore winning the Nobel Peace Prize. Heck, we might even admit that the polar ice caps may be melting. But I'm more interested in the Nobel Prize in Literature.

This year, the Swedish organization gave the Literature Prize to Doris Lessing. Now, I'll admit that I'm only 75 pages into The Golden Notebook, her most famous book, and I don't know if I can finish it. So, I'm familiar with Lessing's reputation, but not her work. But for a prize that has only been awarded to 5 women in the past 30 years (Elfriede Jelinek in 2004, Wislawa Szymborska in 1996, Toni Morrison in 1993, and Nadine Gordimer in 1991) it's nice to see the prize go to another spunky, feminist woman.

And what was her reaction to all the fuss? Well, she is quoted by the New York times as saying, "Either they were going to give it to me sometime before I popped off or not at all." You've got to love her!

Pass the Salt, Please

Okay, I couldn't resist. But after getting this prompt from Totally Optional Prompts, I focused on the element of salt in the poem. I use salt as a description a lot in my writing, so last night, I played a little word association with salt, and this is what came out.

Once a Salt Girl

When I was younger, I loved like salt --
either too much or not enough. I would crave
all or nothing in intense waves
until I was left with a parched
puckered mouth. There were days I loved
moderately, afraid of the intensity, forcing
myself to go without. I praised
my practicality, my discipline, ignoring
how muted and gray I had become. Now,
I know that love is much more than heat
and the absence of water, more than the gritty
bitter taste left in my open mouth.

The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round

With my new job, my commute has changed dramatically. I once drove 25-35 minutes each way, depending on traffic. I had to take five different highways, across the south metro, in order to get to work. There were some things were really lovely things about my commute. Half an hour each day of MPR, for one thing, and the view of the downtown Minneapolis skyline from the 94 overpass in the early evening, for another. But, I hated driving so far and so long to get to work.

Now, I take the bus to work every day. It's a 20 minute bus trip, with maybe 5-10 minutes of standing outside waiting for the bus to arrive in the morning or the evening. The bus takes me straight through the Seward neighborhood, a really hip and diverse area. Even though the bus stops at every block, practically, I enjoy it so much more.

It's such a shift in lifestyle and focus, to ride the bus each day. Driving in a car is a solitary activity -- I'm in my car, in my little bubble, driving at ridiculously high speeds next to other cars, other people in their little bubbles. A bus ride, on the other hand, is a communal experience. Especially during rush hour. I am pressed next to other travelers, trying to get to their respective jobs, schools, and lives.

But with my own space comes a certain level of freedom. When I'm driving in my car, I can argue with the politicians on MPR, sing along to my Ani DiFranco tapes, and pick my nose, if I wanted. When I'm on the bus, I journal in the mornings and people watch or read at night. I've been doing morning pages, a la Julia Cameron, to start my day off with a focus on my writing. I plug in my ear buds and tap my feet, maybe, but otherwise stay motionless. The goal on a bus is not to be noticed, not to take up too much space, not to annoy your fellow commuters. The goal in your car has nothing to do with the other commuters. It's about your own destination.

To be sure, I love the bus commute more. I could drive to work each day, and make it in 10 minutes, but there's something that's so relaxing and calming about this bus commute. There's less independence and flexibility, but I get to watch the neighborhood to pass by my window, without having to battle the traffic. I get to watch the people on the bus, in all their idiosyncrasies. And I get to start my day by writing, which is the way it should be.

So what if the guy next to me smells like beer at 8:30 AM?

Sleep Cycle

This poem stemmed from a prompt for Writers Island. The theme this week was renewal. I struggled with it a little bit, at first, but happened upon this image at the last moment.

Sleep Cycle

My body is a miracle, when it works.
Each night, it renews itself, replaces
dull skin with fresh, recycles

old blood with new. All while I sleep,
legs pressed to my chest, arm slung
over my eyes, shielding my face

as if from attack. Mouth slack
and snoring. My unconscious mind
discards old thoughts, shuffles memories:

my grandmother is still alive, six years
after her death, cooking me eggs.
My boss from two jobs ago hires me back,

asks me why I’m so late. I want to scream
that it’s Sunday, but my jaw is glued shut. My mind
rewinds and recoils and I call these dreams.

I ponder their significance, wonder why
I remembered this person, after so many years. I never
really notice all of this, until it stops working,

until I spend one night singing the same
old Indigo Girls song to myself, in one unbroken
verse, or I watch my cat chase the same

phantom moth in the corner. After nights like these,
I spend my days shaky and awake, crushed
inside my rumpled clothes. I stare too long

at my computer screen with caffeine jittery eyes,
replay memories of fourth grade heartbreaks and yesterday’s
mistakes, my heart pumping last night’s tired blood.

To Curse or Not To Curse

WBAI, a peace and justice radio station in New York City, self-censored earlier this year when they determined they could not risk airing Allen Ginsberg's landmark poem "Howl" on its 50th anniversary. They weren't worried about listener complaint or backlash from a conservative audience. They were concerned about the exorbitant FCC fines for swearing on the air.

The New York Times ran a very interesting editorial in today's paper about this radio station's act, and put it into the larger context of swearing in radio and television. Personally, I feel that the FCC should be putting swearing into a larger context -- if the swear is in an obviously literary work, like Ginsberg's amazing poem, then it should relax. If someone is swearing out of a desire to shock or offend, then fine the *^&%! out of them.

I think this is especially funny, since a few weeks ago I lectured on Howl's original censorship when it was published, 50 years earlier.

Weekly Word Count, September 30-October 7

This has been an excellent writing week.

In the poetry realm, I have written two poems this week, one for the wonderful Writers Island and the other for the now sadly defunct Traveling Poetry Show/Poetry Thursday. 1000 words for poetry.

Then, I found a new website that I just love, called Woman Tribune. It was started up by Holly at Menstrual Poetry and Amanda at Pajama Mommy as a forum for feminism and women's issues. She was looking for volunteers, so I signed up. You can see my first post pretty soon, so check it out. Since I plan on contributing there about once a week, I'll leave a little sidebar widget for all of my articles. At any rate, I wrote 590 for them.

That brings my total to a whopping 1590 for the week. 24,566 for the year.

Writing is fun, when it goes well.

Utopian Poetry

After a couple of weeks of missing the caravan in the Traveling Poetry Show, I've finally been able to catch up. Here's my interpretation of this week's prompt -- Utopia. By the way, the story that this poem refers to is Ursula Le Guin's story "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas." If you haven't read it, you should go. Right now.

Topos

I faced them, white board behind me,
blank unsmiling faces starting at me.

Only half had read the story:
an emaciated child, imprisoned in a basement

so that everyone else could live
in blind hedonistic bliss. The language

was difficult, predicates and modifiers
constructed in too tall towers. They gave up

by the end of the first page. I drew a line
on the board, wrote UTOPIA on one side

DYSTOPIA on the other. I asked them,
what does a perfect world look like to you?

The told me: no school, no worries,
money whenever we need it, no responsibilities

no jobs, no nagging parents, teachers or wives, no
children to feed. Their answers spun around me,

no, no, no. They slashed the ties that bound
their bodies to their heavy, weighted lives,

lives of waiting and listening and not doing. So,
I asked, how could this go wrong?

At first they were quiet, unable to imagine
how these limitless lives they just constructed

could topple. We wouldn't know anything,
we couldn't have anything, we'd get bored.

I imagined them drifting, experience to experience
like slowly deflating balloons, imagined

these driftless, half empty lives they try
to escape. I brought them back to the surface,

the root of the words, from the Greek:
topos means place. Dys means bad --

ruined utopias are bad places. U means
not, topos means place. Utopias

are not places, not realities
we can imagine existing, even for a while.

October Poetry Book Club -- We Have a Winner!

After two surveys, one typical and one sudden death, we finally have an October Poetry Book Club Selection.

We will be reading Matthew Zapruder's The Pajamaist. I'm very excited to read this book; it was my first choice, although I didn't rig the votes.

I will be ordering the book off of Amazon today, so I should have it soon. But to accommodate those people who may be scouring used bookstores or (heaven for fend) try to find it at their local big box retailer, I will be posting the discussion post on October 29. Hopefully, this will give you enough time to find and read the book.

If you have any suggestions for future Poetry Book Club books, or would like to have more information on the project, please let me know!

Happy reading!

Someone Else's Journey

This poem is part of a project that I am trying to transform. I originally wrote about 60 pages of a novel, set in the 1920's, about a girl who moves to LA from MN to be an actress, just as the talking movies began production. I couldn't sustain the novel, so I figured I would try writing her story in poem form. Enjoy!

Carrying Everything I Own
Train Ride from Minneapolis, MN to Los Angeles, CA
December 1, 1927

Sixteen hours ago, I took my seat
and faced my reflection
in the darkened window. Sixteen
hours and counting of rolling icy plains
and I’m not yet halfway there.

I haven’t slept yet, afraid
of losing my luggage or missing
the moment when frozen yellow grass
shifts to brown rock and the patches
of gray ice become muddy puddles.

I’ve never been further west
than North Dakota, but once I stepped
off the platform and into the train car,
I felt the rhythm of wheels
clacking against steel tracks
seep into my skin.

I’ve always been moving like this,
a faint reflection hovering
over half-lit houses and fenced-in yards,
ramshackle outhouses and neglected
corn fields, children bundled
in bulky black coats, playing outside.

This is the first time
I’ve seen myself so quickly, so clearly:

the empty landscape I’ve always known
flapping past me like a stiff white sheet
left out to dry in the winter wind

and me, smiling as I watch it go. I know
I’ll never miss it, after I arrive.

Poet is a Verb: Re-Structure

After leaving my old job on Friday, I felt like I needed to reorganize. I was feeling cluttered and disorganized, both physically and mentally. One place it was showing was my writing desk. So, as a way to honor my writing practice, I restructured my writing space.

What does this have to do with writing? I was feeling that my writing desk was a good metaphor for my writing life lately.

When I would come home from work, I would pile random crap on top of my desk. Junk mail and work files mingled with drafts of poems and my journals. Papers were precariously balanced on top of each other, until I couldn't find anything.

This was how I approached my writing. I would think of poems to write, then set them aside. I would bury them beneath thoughts of work and the responsibilities from my job that carried over to my home life. I would lose the impetus and the inspiration to write, because it was drowning beneath all of my other responsibilities.

As I was cleaning today, I was throwing away everything that had to do with that old life. All of my old lesson plans, notes from students, and graded papers got shoveled into a bag and dumped into the recycling bin. Then, I found filing systems for the non-writing things that I needed: condo association board documents, loose recipes I wanted to try, tax forms, and of course a lot of random crap. (You never know when you may need post-it notes, for instance, which is why I have 6 pads in various shapes and colors.) I segregated all of these things to the right side of my desk.

Then, I organized my art supplies and writing tools. I found several copies of my manuscript that have my editing notes written upon it, drafts of poems that I had been meaning to revise, and several half started journals. These things got segregated to the left side of my desk. Lastly, I got a nifty tiered filing system, so that I can organize my book reviewing notes and the drafts of poems in need of revision. These remain on my desk, where I can see them every day.

Now, my writing space is free and uncluttered and I feel a little bit lighter. All of my writing tools, at least the physical ones, are easy to locate and accessible. Plus, I've given myself a little peace of my mind and a clean space of my own.



* * *

My new job gives me every other Monday off, which allows me to have a day entirely to myself. I plan to devote a part of each of these Mondays to my writing practice, so that I can put in some time towards creation. I will be cataloguing my efforts here, as a renewed attempt at my Poet=Verb feature.