We writers have our favorite strategies, our conventions, our "tricks of the trade" so to speak. For some of us it is a particular way we begin or end our writing. For others, it may be a favorite phrase or word. For still others, it is syntactical techniques that make our writing "ours" and unique.
Out of these strategies was born, at some point, the "five paragraph essay." It was certainly a hallmark for organizations like Toastmasters, who used the format to give its members a safe way to approach a speech. It goes like this: tell them what you're going to tell them, then tell it to them, then tell them what you told them that you said you'd tell them. Ah, my eyes glaze over.
This particular "strategy" gets tricky when it filters down into and pervades school systems. The typical student-written five paragraph essay follows a toastmasters-style format, the result of which creates an atmosphere in which students write this way all the way through from 6th grade into high school, mistakenly thinking this is how everyone writes who writes. Gone is the creative impulse, the subtle shifts in approach that make reading so pleasurable. Teachers of English/Language Arts are frustrated (the good ones I mean to say) with the lack of creativity this "formulaic" kind of writing fosters. Many of them, and many school systems are pushing back hard against this mind-numbing writing.
Writing, simply put, would not matter without readers. So many students, and perhaps their parents, have come to see writing as a means to an end: students have to do it (write, learn how to write) to meet a standard or get a grade or get a job. This mistaken idea about writing is putting the civilized world in a precarious position. We live in a post-modern society that exists almost devoid of nuance and metaphor. We revere pundits and sloganeers. We listen for just the right sound byte to support a given position.
I say that the "tricks" of writing to culture, instead of writing from inside culture, damage that culture. We, as poets, essayist, journalists, etc. need to take the long view, not the efficacious view. We need to model for those who would write. We certainly need to engage at the school level and demand that what is taught is NOT the five paragraph essay, but a playful and creative approach filled with imagery, nuance, curiosity. We need to offer ourselves as models, get into classrooms and support those teachers who want their students thinking for themselves, in and out of the box. We need to shine a light on great writing, ours and others'. What kinds of exemplars are used in the schools of your area? I have been asking [as a school board member] to see the writing standards and exemplars for our district. I finally, after months of asking, got these. I took one look (and I did not have to look far) and saw that the exemplars of writing put forth were AWFUL. When one looks at an "essay" that has over a dozen misspellings in the first long paragraph, it is AWFUL writing. To say (as this report did) that this writing "met minimum standards" is dangerously worse. Somewhere, somehow, we have set the bar so low that we accept terrible writing as minimum. It is like saying "well the student arrived at school and stayed all day, so we're good because he/she met the minimum standard." Seriously? It is so with writing. We must set the bar high enough to tantalize student writers. We must let them know that creativity, within guidelines and standards, is key. We have a remarkable facility for language and usage. Let's employ these skills toward a new way of teaching writing. Let's give students in all settings, public or private, the tools they need to be their true creative selves. Being creative is not a means to an end, it is the end itself.
Let us not play tricks on our students, in school or in private workshops. We don't need to give "strokes" for any piece of writing we see. If we can be constructive in our criticisms and offer real strategies that live on the page as vibrant and nuanced and unique, we will foster that kind of critical thinking in all areas. Of course this begs the question of how much and what kind of criticism we give. It is fine to praise the effort, but without a way forward through revision and a tool box of strategies used daily by those of us who write now, it is empty praise and not at all helpful. In large part, it has to do with how we FRAME the message. We know the pitfalls in writing. We circle the edges of those daily. But we have developed ways to monitor our own writing, have learned to enlist the help of our writing peers, and have come up with methods for revision. We ought to share those strategies with those who will stand on our shoulders in the future. It is largely up to us who live with our writing every day to set the example by doing, and by sharing and mentoring. We have passion for writing. Let that infect all who look to us for how it's done.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Seamus Heaney is poet of the day for me today, but he is not alone
I'm up early, although I certainly don't believe in this practice. I have tidied my desk and sharpened a few pencils (highlighter pencils) and all my electronics are charged and ready for today's use. I have now turned on my music and am listening to "Deep Purple" by Nino Temple and April Stevens. All set. (breakfast once my stomach is awake)
In my straightening out of desk, I came upon my copy of Seamus Heaney's Selected Poems, 1966-1987, buried under some papers. I laugh as I recall that I once decided that I ought to always read poems from this volume alongside Richard Wilbur's New and Collected and Anthony Hecht's Collected Earlier Poems. These poets are my holy trinity of poets. I know, I know, where are the women poets? I have female poet heroes too, of course (Elizabeth Bishop, Kay Boyle, ESV Millay, Marianne Moore, et all) but these particular male poets share the aesthetic that has formed, and continues to form me as a poet. Blame it on "the canon" that I was exposed to the poetry of my triumvirate before I got tuned in to the women poets. Nevertheless it is true that when I need a big awakening in what poetry IS, I go to these three and their poems to "revise" me. I see how important it is to be well-read. I see how important diction is to embodiment in a poem. I'll quote here from each of my "guys" to show you what I mean about diction and how careful use of concrete details can make a poem SHINE on the page:
Wilbur (from First Snow in Alsace)
The snow came down last night like moths
Burned on the moon; it fell till dawn,
Covered the town with simple cloths.
Absolute snow lies rumpled on
What shellbursts scattered and deranged,
Entangled railings, crevassed lawn.
Heaney (from Digging)
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun
...
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
Hecht (from The Grapes)
I stood beside a table near a window,
Gazing down at a crystal bowl of grapes
In ice-water. They were green grapes, or, rather,
They were a sort of pure, unblemished jade,
Like turbulent ocean water, with misted skins,
Their own pale, smoky sweat, or tiny frost.
...
And all those little bags of glassiness,
Those clustered planets, leaned their eastern cheeks
Into the sunlight, each one showing a soft
Meridian swelling where the thinning light
Mysteriously tapered into shadow,
...
And watching I could almost see the light
Edge slowly over their simple surfaces,
And feel the sunlight moving on my skin
Like a warm glacier. And I seemed to know
In my blood the the meaning of sidereal time
And know my little life had somehow crested.
Well, it can hardly get better than this. These lines make me weak in the knees, make me want to write, make me want to give each of these poets a huge hug. [Two of the three are still living, so that's a possibility I suppose.] At any rate, I am determined to keep these three volumes ON my desk in case of a fire. I would certainly grab these if I were told I could only have three books for the rest of my life. Marooned on a desert island? Yep. These three in my rucksack. I never tire of the poems in these books. I learn something new every time I read the poems. EVERY time.
I won't taint YOUR experience of the above lines by analysis of them. But suffice it to say, I want you to digest them in a way that is meaningful and helpful to your own writing or reading of poetry. In my Wilbur study, I may make a comment on Heaney's or Hecht's poems from time to time, placing Wilbur's poems in the company of poems from the other two. They exist for me in a triangle, perfectly supporting one another, balanced, solid.
For today, it is Heaney. I will take notice of how he does what he does in the following [recommended] poems: Bye-Child, Follower, Bone Dreams, From the Frontier of Writing, and The Guttural Muse. I will read each poem several times, at intervals throughout the day. I find this to be a great way to let the poems IN to my unconscious mind.
NOTE: I also will read Dana Gioia's Nosferatu's Serenade, as I am committing that poem to memory which requires repetition on a daily basis.
It makes me smile to know that I have these poets available to me as teachers, by way of their poems. It is comforting to know that I don't have to travel to find help when I am bogged down in my own work and feeling like I am writing the same poem over and over (am I?) or when my diction seems to fall flat. I can read Bye-Child and find permission to write the unspeakable, have the freedom available to me as a poet to take a stand and do it in stunning language and image. I have skills with language, but often fail to give myself permission. Heaney and the others give me not only permission, but also urge me.
In my straightening out of desk, I came upon my copy of Seamus Heaney's Selected Poems, 1966-1987, buried under some papers. I laugh as I recall that I once decided that I ought to always read poems from this volume alongside Richard Wilbur's New and Collected and Anthony Hecht's Collected Earlier Poems. These poets are my holy trinity of poets. I know, I know, where are the women poets? I have female poet heroes too, of course (Elizabeth Bishop, Kay Boyle, ESV Millay, Marianne Moore, et all) but these particular male poets share the aesthetic that has formed, and continues to form me as a poet. Blame it on "the canon" that I was exposed to the poetry of my triumvirate before I got tuned in to the women poets. Nevertheless it is true that when I need a big awakening in what poetry IS, I go to these three and their poems to "revise" me. I see how important it is to be well-read. I see how important diction is to embodiment in a poem. I'll quote here from each of my "guys" to show you what I mean about diction and how careful use of concrete details can make a poem SHINE on the page:
Wilbur (from First Snow in Alsace)
The snow came down last night like moths
Burned on the moon; it fell till dawn,
Covered the town with simple cloths.
Absolute snow lies rumpled on
What shellbursts scattered and deranged,
Entangled railings, crevassed lawn.
Heaney (from Digging)
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun
...
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
Hecht (from The Grapes)
I stood beside a table near a window,
Gazing down at a crystal bowl of grapes
In ice-water. They were green grapes, or, rather,
They were a sort of pure, unblemished jade,
Like turbulent ocean water, with misted skins,
Their own pale, smoky sweat, or tiny frost.
...
And all those little bags of glassiness,
Those clustered planets, leaned their eastern cheeks
Into the sunlight, each one showing a soft
Meridian swelling where the thinning light
Mysteriously tapered into shadow,
...
And watching I could almost see the light
Edge slowly over their simple surfaces,
And feel the sunlight moving on my skin
Like a warm glacier. And I seemed to know
In my blood the the meaning of sidereal time
And know my little life had somehow crested.
Well, it can hardly get better than this. These lines make me weak in the knees, make me want to write, make me want to give each of these poets a huge hug. [Two of the three are still living, so that's a possibility I suppose.] At any rate, I am determined to keep these three volumes ON my desk in case of a fire. I would certainly grab these if I were told I could only have three books for the rest of my life. Marooned on a desert island? Yep. These three in my rucksack. I never tire of the poems in these books. I learn something new every time I read the poems. EVERY time.
I won't taint YOUR experience of the above lines by analysis of them. But suffice it to say, I want you to digest them in a way that is meaningful and helpful to your own writing or reading of poetry. In my Wilbur study, I may make a comment on Heaney's or Hecht's poems from time to time, placing Wilbur's poems in the company of poems from the other two. They exist for me in a triangle, perfectly supporting one another, balanced, solid.
For today, it is Heaney. I will take notice of how he does what he does in the following [recommended] poems: Bye-Child, Follower, Bone Dreams, From the Frontier of Writing, and The Guttural Muse. I will read each poem several times, at intervals throughout the day. I find this to be a great way to let the poems IN to my unconscious mind.
NOTE: I also will read Dana Gioia's Nosferatu's Serenade, as I am committing that poem to memory which requires repetition on a daily basis.
It makes me smile to know that I have these poets available to me as teachers, by way of their poems. It is comforting to know that I don't have to travel to find help when I am bogged down in my own work and feeling like I am writing the same poem over and over (am I?) or when my diction seems to fall flat. I can read Bye-Child and find permission to write the unspeakable, have the freedom available to me as a poet to take a stand and do it in stunning language and image. I have skills with language, but often fail to give myself permission. Heaney and the others give me not only permission, but also urge me.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Dream Job(s)
I am unemployed. Well, I an "unsalaried" at the moment. I work harder than I ever worked when I was employed by someone else. I don't keep regular hours, often working into the dark while the rest of my family sleeps. Sometimes however I need to go photograph the boats in the harbor or meet someone for lunch downtown. Sometimes I write in front of the TV if the Red Sox are on or the Patriots. I am inspired by sports (more on that at another time). Sometimes I just need to sit on the porch. Mostly I am at the desk daily.
My workplace is my office, a few steps from my bedroom in a nice little victorian house on the coast of Maine. At any given moment, my CFO may come in and ask me what I bought at Amazon, or how much of the Staples receipt is for business and how much is for home. He often reminds me that I ought to consider eating something. I don't have dress-down Fridays at work. I work in my pajamas most days, so to "dress down" would be quite the sight — even for me, my sole employee.
This sounds like a dream job. And it is. But it pays very poorly. In fact, it hardly pays at all. The IRS is on point constantly trying to say this writing business is a "hobby." Stamp collecting, coin collecting: those are hobbies. What I do is WORK. I send out my writing in hopes of publication. I have been fortunate to have many poems accepted and published. I have 4 books under my publishing belt. I am Poet Laureate of my city. Success! you say. Of course. But where is the cash, the scratch, the green, the dough? The truth is that poets are EXPECTED (in the world of publishing) to give away their work, to be happy to have the poem in a reputable journal, to get excited about the one or two contributors' copies that arrive, poem on page such-and-so. Don't get me wrong, it is fine to see one's poem(s) in print. It is great to have the "publishing credits" and get nice comments from other poets when they pick up a copy and see the poems there. But none of us could live on contributors' copies.
What do we do then? We often take teaching jobs. I did this, fresh out of my MFA program. I was hired to teach Freshman and Sophomore Comp at a community college, Victor Valley College to be precise. I did this very well. Although at times mind-numbing, the class provided me with the chance to be fully engaged with students. I loved them and their interesting lives which poured forth into their papers. I fought to get them to be more creative in their writing by inserting as much poetry as possible into our assigned work. I raved about the things poetry can do to make life worth living. I got through to them and many of them became joyful in their writing. I had one class of 12 students who just shone! I loved that class and it was mutual. Still, it was a drag on my own creativity. What time was there to write? I wanted to teach creative writing rather than comp. I went to my department chair and asked to be allowed (yes, ALLOWED) to teach what was my degree: writing, creative writing. She informed me that those classes were "plums" reserved for full-time faculty (I was an adjunct). I asked if it wouldn't be better for the students to be taught by someone 1. with a degree in writing and 2. who actually is a working, published writer. Her response shocked me."It's not about the students." Well, wow. I pointed out to her (in vain) that not ONE of those "plum" faculty members wrote a word, published, or had a degree in creative writing. No problem for her or the college. It was NOT about the students (beyond their tuition and fees). This was the slippery slope to no more typical teaching for me. I quickly lost heart.
Fortunately for me, I am noting if not creative. I realized that 1. I needed more time for my writing, and 2. I could teach privately. I scrabbled together a plan and that is the path I travel these days. I conduct workshops for interested writers who want to know what I have learned and discovered about writing. I am putting my degree to good use. HOWEVER... the pay stinks. If I could do a workshop a week, I might be able to make a decent living. But let's face it... it's workshops twice a year, at best three times a year if I am lucky. In this economy I am grateful for that. And my books sell well enough to make me happy that they are out there for people to read and enjoy. The shining star is the plenty of time to write aspect of my "employment" situation. My dream job? Not quite. But very satisfying on a number of levels. I am not complaining (much). But my dream job IS out there. I know it is. How to make it happen is another matter.
I have had several notions of what a dream job might look like for me. The one that is the quirkiest and which makes my family laugh at me is to be a toll-taker in a toll booth on I-95. It would be so interesting to see all the people who come through, what they are doing as they drive, how they ae dressed — to imagine where they are going or from where they have come. OK, so not going to happen. I live on the coast, AWAY from I-95. Probably would not be too healthy either, breathing in all those fumes. So... what to do and where to go for the dream job that wouldn't end up killing me.
My real dream job is teaching in a low-residency MFA program like the one where I got my MFA, no wait! AT the one where I got my MFA: Vermont College of Fine Arts in Montpelier, Vt. Yes, I suppose I'd take a job in another program. I would. But my DREAM job is at VCFA. The facts and the problem: I am certainly qualified. I have a degree in CW, I have 4 published books, I have an intimate knowledge of the program and its workings. I am motivated, there are already on faculty a number of grads. Ha! That may be the problem. Due to accreditation (apparently) there is some kind of limit on how many former grads they can have on staff. Oh and there is some kind of hiring freeze (I've been told). Hmmmmm. Not good for me getting the dream job. But I may have a solution. I hope it is a solution. My proposal is that VCFA hire me as an ADJUNCT. I could be the girl in the dugout, waiting to be put into the game when one of the poetry faculty is absent for a semester on LOA (Leave of Absence). This happens, more than one might think. How they have handled this is to add to the student load of the other faculty members. Why not, instead, have me do it? I think this is a brilliant plan. I am working on this plan. Seriously, I want my dream job. The one without the gas fumes.
Until this becomes a reality (and I am working on it), I will apply to other MFA programs and stay here at my desk in my pajamas writing the best poems I can, sending them out and being grateful for the credits and the contributors' copies.
My workplace is my office, a few steps from my bedroom in a nice little victorian house on the coast of Maine. At any given moment, my CFO may come in and ask me what I bought at Amazon, or how much of the Staples receipt is for business and how much is for home. He often reminds me that I ought to consider eating something. I don't have dress-down Fridays at work. I work in my pajamas most days, so to "dress down" would be quite the sight — even for me, my sole employee.
This sounds like a dream job. And it is. But it pays very poorly. In fact, it hardly pays at all. The IRS is on point constantly trying to say this writing business is a "hobby." Stamp collecting, coin collecting: those are hobbies. What I do is WORK. I send out my writing in hopes of publication. I have been fortunate to have many poems accepted and published. I have 4 books under my publishing belt. I am Poet Laureate of my city. Success! you say. Of course. But where is the cash, the scratch, the green, the dough? The truth is that poets are EXPECTED (in the world of publishing) to give away their work, to be happy to have the poem in a reputable journal, to get excited about the one or two contributors' copies that arrive, poem on page such-and-so. Don't get me wrong, it is fine to see one's poem(s) in print. It is great to have the "publishing credits" and get nice comments from other poets when they pick up a copy and see the poems there. But none of us could live on contributors' copies.
What do we do then? We often take teaching jobs. I did this, fresh out of my MFA program. I was hired to teach Freshman and Sophomore Comp at a community college, Victor Valley College to be precise. I did this very well. Although at times mind-numbing, the class provided me with the chance to be fully engaged with students. I loved them and their interesting lives which poured forth into their papers. I fought to get them to be more creative in their writing by inserting as much poetry as possible into our assigned work. I raved about the things poetry can do to make life worth living. I got through to them and many of them became joyful in their writing. I had one class of 12 students who just shone! I loved that class and it was mutual. Still, it was a drag on my own creativity. What time was there to write? I wanted to teach creative writing rather than comp. I went to my department chair and asked to be allowed (yes, ALLOWED) to teach what was my degree: writing, creative writing. She informed me that those classes were "plums" reserved for full-time faculty (I was an adjunct). I asked if it wouldn't be better for the students to be taught by someone 1. with a degree in writing and 2. who actually is a working, published writer. Her response shocked me."It's not about the students." Well, wow. I pointed out to her (in vain) that not ONE of those "plum" faculty members wrote a word, published, or had a degree in creative writing. No problem for her or the college. It was NOT about the students (beyond their tuition and fees). This was the slippery slope to no more typical teaching for me. I quickly lost heart.
Fortunately for me, I am noting if not creative. I realized that 1. I needed more time for my writing, and 2. I could teach privately. I scrabbled together a plan and that is the path I travel these days. I conduct workshops for interested writers who want to know what I have learned and discovered about writing. I am putting my degree to good use. HOWEVER... the pay stinks. If I could do a workshop a week, I might be able to make a decent living. But let's face it... it's workshops twice a year, at best three times a year if I am lucky. In this economy I am grateful for that. And my books sell well enough to make me happy that they are out there for people to read and enjoy. The shining star is the plenty of time to write aspect of my "employment" situation. My dream job? Not quite. But very satisfying on a number of levels. I am not complaining (much). But my dream job IS out there. I know it is. How to make it happen is another matter.
I have had several notions of what a dream job might look like for me. The one that is the quirkiest and which makes my family laugh at me is to be a toll-taker in a toll booth on I-95. It would be so interesting to see all the people who come through, what they are doing as they drive, how they ae dressed — to imagine where they are going or from where they have come. OK, so not going to happen. I live on the coast, AWAY from I-95. Probably would not be too healthy either, breathing in all those fumes. So... what to do and where to go for the dream job that wouldn't end up killing me.
My real dream job is teaching in a low-residency MFA program like the one where I got my MFA, no wait! AT the one where I got my MFA: Vermont College of Fine Arts in Montpelier, Vt. Yes, I suppose I'd take a job in another program. I would. But my DREAM job is at VCFA. The facts and the problem: I am certainly qualified. I have a degree in CW, I have 4 published books, I have an intimate knowledge of the program and its workings. I am motivated, there are already on faculty a number of grads. Ha! That may be the problem. Due to accreditation (apparently) there is some kind of limit on how many former grads they can have on staff. Oh and there is some kind of hiring freeze (I've been told). Hmmmmm. Not good for me getting the dream job. But I may have a solution. I hope it is a solution. My proposal is that VCFA hire me as an ADJUNCT. I could be the girl in the dugout, waiting to be put into the game when one of the poetry faculty is absent for a semester on LOA (Leave of Absence). This happens, more than one might think. How they have handled this is to add to the student load of the other faculty members. Why not, instead, have me do it? I think this is a brilliant plan. I am working on this plan. Seriously, I want my dream job. The one without the gas fumes.
Until this becomes a reality (and I am working on it), I will apply to other MFA programs and stay here at my desk in my pajamas writing the best poems I can, sending them out and being grateful for the credits and the contributors' copies.
Monday, July 30, 2012
Computer "killed" by Adobe flash Player virus, then resurrected by Apple genius, after buying whole new laptop
Do NOT get me started on my computer woes. I am thinking very bad thoughts about the evil person who messed with Adobe Flash player and caused my hard drive to become what everyone (most everyone) thought was a fatal disease.
[Well, I think I have to discuss this. Be patient with me. After all, this does have to do with my writing life. I will begin by saying how dependent I have obviously gotten on technology. I am actually thinking though of paper and pen writing everything JUST IN CASE. Oh well, not going to do that as long as there are technicians smarter than I am.]
This WOE of course began late Friday night. I managed to rescue my data (most of it) by erasing my computer and reinstalling from the backup on my Time Capsule. PEOPLE! You have to have back-up! I was also forward thinking enough at 3 AM to go online and schedule an appointment for Saturday at the Apple Store. I drove to Portland the next day and spent several hours there while they diagnosed the problem. They needed to keep on with that to see if the thing could be repaired/restored to its full functionality (I had no use of Safari or iWeb), so I had to leave the laptop there overnight. They'd call. Here is where I starting hoping to bring down a plague on the "genius" who infected Adobe, officially calling him Virus Guy from this point onward — among other colorful names.
MEANWHILE, I decided to buy a new laptop. I did this after consultation with husband (CFO of family finances) and he said go ahead. Lovely that he GETS that my writing life depends upon no gaps in computer use and accessibility. So I did this, drove 1.75 hours back home, exhausted from almost total lack of sleep the night before.
By evening the Apple guy had called to say that it was no go on the infected machine and they would ship back to me on Monday, with all ok other than no access to internet or editing site. So I could take off the rest of my data (I'd put my writing files on a jump drive before taking the laptop to Apple). Grrr, I thought, but ok since I have my new laptop. I am at this point busily working out how to make myself functional on new machine. I sleep fitfully and head off to church etc Sunday morning.
By lunchtime, a call from Apple telling me another genius there (they really ARE geniuses) had taken on the project of recovery for my laptop and succeeded! I am by now doing the happy dance UNTIL I remember that I just bought a whole new laptop!
OK, now they are shipping me a fully functioning laptop, no longer infected, and with new OS installed. (I am still steamed at Virus Guy of course for my sleeplessness and frustration and HOURS wasted.) Dilemma: I now have TWO fully-functional laptops. Everyone in this household is "laptopped." So, the plan as I see it is to connect both computers USB to USB and transfer rest of "stuff" I still need from now healthy laptop to new laptop. Then I will sell the one I am not going to be using. Do I put it on ebay? Do I advertise to the faculty in our local school district? Do I sell it within my own family? Do I ask my daughters if they know of someone who'd like a GREAT deal on a wonderful computer? What to do...
Any bright ideas out there, other than hunting down Virus Guy and wreaking havoc on him? This is a lovely thought, by the way. [forming hunting party, thinking of bows and arrows as weapons of choice]
[Well, I think I have to discuss this. Be patient with me. After all, this does have to do with my writing life. I will begin by saying how dependent I have obviously gotten on technology. I am actually thinking though of paper and pen writing everything JUST IN CASE. Oh well, not going to do that as long as there are technicians smarter than I am.]
This WOE of course began late Friday night. I managed to rescue my data (most of it) by erasing my computer and reinstalling from the backup on my Time Capsule. PEOPLE! You have to have back-up! I was also forward thinking enough at 3 AM to go online and schedule an appointment for Saturday at the Apple Store. I drove to Portland the next day and spent several hours there while they diagnosed the problem. They needed to keep on with that to see if the thing could be repaired/restored to its full functionality (I had no use of Safari or iWeb), so I had to leave the laptop there overnight. They'd call. Here is where I starting hoping to bring down a plague on the "genius" who infected Adobe, officially calling him Virus Guy from this point onward — among other colorful names.
MEANWHILE, I decided to buy a new laptop. I did this after consultation with husband (CFO of family finances) and he said go ahead. Lovely that he GETS that my writing life depends upon no gaps in computer use and accessibility. So I did this, drove 1.75 hours back home, exhausted from almost total lack of sleep the night before.
By evening the Apple guy had called to say that it was no go on the infected machine and they would ship back to me on Monday, with all ok other than no access to internet or editing site. So I could take off the rest of my data (I'd put my writing files on a jump drive before taking the laptop to Apple). Grrr, I thought, but ok since I have my new laptop. I am at this point busily working out how to make myself functional on new machine. I sleep fitfully and head off to church etc Sunday morning.
By lunchtime, a call from Apple telling me another genius there (they really ARE geniuses) had taken on the project of recovery for my laptop and succeeded! I am by now doing the happy dance UNTIL I remember that I just bought a whole new laptop!
OK, now they are shipping me a fully functioning laptop, no longer infected, and with new OS installed. (I am still steamed at Virus Guy of course for my sleeplessness and frustration and HOURS wasted.) Dilemma: I now have TWO fully-functional laptops. Everyone in this household is "laptopped." So, the plan as I see it is to connect both computers USB to USB and transfer rest of "stuff" I still need from now healthy laptop to new laptop. Then I will sell the one I am not going to be using. Do I put it on ebay? Do I advertise to the faculty in our local school district? Do I sell it within my own family? Do I ask my daughters if they know of someone who'd like a GREAT deal on a wonderful computer? What to do...
Any bright ideas out there, other than hunting down Virus Guy and wreaking havoc on him? This is a lovely thought, by the way. [forming hunting party, thinking of bows and arrows as weapons of choice]
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Sunday
It's Sunday and I haven't written a word (OK now I have written 14).
I had every intention of working on a poem today, but it just felt so good to think about writing rather than doing it. Sometimes it is the "down time" where one finds the best ideas, and those ideas spring forward to become the next poems. This is happening for me today. I took a long nap, during which I had vivid dreams about pebbles, stones, rocks, cliffs. I was flying on the back of a huge bluish bird that seemed prehistoric. I felt my hair streaming out behind me and didn't need to hang on to the bird to stay on her back. We seemed to be one. My feet were bare, and when I looked down at them, my toes were talons. I could tell what the bird was thinking and she knew my thoughts too. We rode the thermals for a long time until she set me down by a pond in a clearing. She looked directly at me and opened her beak. No sound came from her. She sat with me until I fell asleep. When I awakened she was gone. I was not afraid to be alone.
My job now is to put the images I saw as we flew into something that will have meaning for my readers. I am excited. I am jazzed. I am ready.
But at this moment there is dinner to prepare: a nice prima vera pasta with mushrooms, tomatoes, basil, olive oil, fresh basil and goat cheese. Mmmmm. My hubby and I will make this dish together and eat alone. Our grand boys are both at work. We will eat in the dining room, not in front of the TV.
Later, I will set to work on my poem. I can feel the wind in my hair as I write this.
I had every intention of working on a poem today, but it just felt so good to think about writing rather than doing it. Sometimes it is the "down time" where one finds the best ideas, and those ideas spring forward to become the next poems. This is happening for me today. I took a long nap, during which I had vivid dreams about pebbles, stones, rocks, cliffs. I was flying on the back of a huge bluish bird that seemed prehistoric. I felt my hair streaming out behind me and didn't need to hang on to the bird to stay on her back. We seemed to be one. My feet were bare, and when I looked down at them, my toes were talons. I could tell what the bird was thinking and she knew my thoughts too. We rode the thermals for a long time until she set me down by a pond in a clearing. She looked directly at me and opened her beak. No sound came from her. She sat with me until I fell asleep. When I awakened she was gone. I was not afraid to be alone.
My job now is to put the images I saw as we flew into something that will have meaning for my readers. I am excited. I am jazzed. I am ready.
But at this moment there is dinner to prepare: a nice prima vera pasta with mushrooms, tomatoes, basil, olive oil, fresh basil and goat cheese. Mmmmm. My hubby and I will make this dish together and eat alone. Our grand boys are both at work. We will eat in the dining room, not in front of the TV.
Later, I will set to work on my poem. I can feel the wind in my hair as I write this.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Writers in the Schools — Mentoring and Modeling
A poet laureate may simply sit on his/her laurels and bask. Some of our US laureates and many local laureates have indeed done this. Louise Gluck comes to mind. When she was named US PL, she was up front about doing only the requisite tasks attached to the honor. This does not make her a poor PL. It was her choice as to how to approach and fulfill the office. Of course I must admit here that it irked me. I thought that she was cheating the public, being selfish, etc. This was MY reaction. We have certainly had Poets Laureate who were very active and made poetry more alive for the citizenry (Robert Pinsky, Billy Collins, etc) and we've had others, like Gluck, who took the money and sat.
I was named Poet Laureate of Rockland, Maine in April, will serve a minimum of 2 years. I am pleased at being given the honor of course, but more so for the chance to use my work, my voice to proclaim poetry city-wide and beyond. I definitely am not Gluck-ish. I want to promote poetry and give it its proper due along with other arts in our city. With this in mind, I started in May with a public reading of a poem at the wreath-laying ceremony before the parade on Memorial Day. I chose The New England Dead by Isaac McLellan. Its old-fashioned feel and its lovely lines were perfect for the occasion. It is an emotional poem, but not sappy. It rhymes, which is good for public occasions like this. People liked hearing a poem being read, connected with it. Several expressed happiness at having a poet laureate in the city. I was happy too.
I followed that event with a June 10th reading of an original poem, Under This Flag, at the flag day celebration at the local Elks lodge. Again, people were happy to hear a poem. They appreciated and commented, saying "oh I used to recite poems when I was young" or "I can't write poetry myself, but I enjoy hearing poems." It is one thing for poets to give public readings in libraries or bookstores, where the audience is there FOR the reading BECAUSE it is poetry, or because they know the poet and want to be supportive. It is quite another ball of yarn to insert poetry into public occasions. The audience is a different one. This is where the work is so satisfying, where poetry gets a bit blue-collar or civic. This is where so many true lovers of poetry come out of the woodwork and declare themselves.
Over my term as laureate, there will be many of these small but important appearances, bringing poetry wherever a poem might enhance an occasion or event. I will attend as many readings by other poets as I can in order to support them because I truly believe that poetry ought to be "out there" in the public arena, available to all. There is another event planned for early August which will bring poetry to the streets of town (shhhh, it's a surprise!) — and there will soon be a poetry box in the library... watch for it!
Now comes my big project: Writers in the Schools.
I have been thinking about this for a long time, wanting to get writers and kids connected, to get kids writing in such a way that doesn't seem entirely academic to them. I KNOW kids write. I WANT them to be proud of doing so and to have some solid mentoring in doing so. This program is all about mentoring, about working WITH kids and teachers to make writing one of the pleasures of being in school.
I am certain that poetry is an integral part of kids' lives, from the small child who enjoys making silly rhymes at play to the teen whose angst or joys find their ways into countless hand-written journals. But what happens to poetry (and other kinds of creative writing) when it gets "institutionalized" is that it stops being joyful and starts being "work." When I lived in California and went into schools as a poet, I noticed a resistance to "one more thing we will be assigned for a grade" and felt sad. Sad for the kids and sad for poetry. My mission therefore became promoting writing in such a way as to make it lovely and lively for kids again as it was for me growing up. We wrote poetry and we memorized poetry. We heard our parents reciting poetry at home. (Yes, I grew up in Maine and my parents recited poems in the normal course of family dinners and events). My grandparents had favorite verses they recited. My dad's whole family would sit around and compose funny verses at reunions or gatherings. I want to make poetry "normal" again. Where to begin? In the schools.
Of course there are many kinds of writing other than poetry. I feel it my duty to bring as much of that to the kids as possible, to expose them to variety and show them the possibilities of writing. I am fortunate myself to be in a community of writers who are passionate about the kinds of writing they do. I want to tap into that passion for the kids' sakes.
This week I met with a group of dedicated teachers from our two local high schools (Oceanside East and Oceanside West). We met for nearly 3 hours hashing out a plan. It felt SO good to hear their passion, to feel the excitement in the room as we talked about how such a program would work. They are gathering the needed steam at their end and I am gathering willing writers at mine. We will start in the fall with me presenting to the teacher workshop day and getting the information out to all faculty. This is important as the vision includes having writers come into all kinds of classrooms, not just English/Language Arts classrooms. This includes special ed, alt ed, gifted and talented. ALL KIDS.
I envision having a sports writer presenting to school athletes. Writing in the locker room? Maybe, or maybe not, but certainly kids ought to know that one can combine a love of football or soccer or track or volleyball with writing. I want to bring in a couple who write historical nonfiction. These folks are fantastic researchers. Loads of worthy help there. What about having a professional blogger come to talk about the many ways one can blog for fun and profit. A writer of dark fiction? Why not. What about writing to or about music? A former rocker who writes about being in a band could fill the bill there. Sure! Is there a place for writing about food? What is ekphrastic writing? Should we have writing in an art classroom? YES! What happens when we spend 5-7 minutes a day writing free, just writing to write? These are all topics the teachers and I discussed in terms of exposure to a wide variety of writing styles and motives. Then there is the cadre of poets to bring forward. I hardly need to say that I'm all over that part!
Of course this IS a school-based project... thus we need to keep in mind the parameters of school schedules, time restrictions, and standards to be measured (learning outcomes). No problem. That is for the teachers. My part is getting the faculty as a whole on board, getting them to ask for writers to come to their individual classrooms, getting them to do a little writing themselves to model for their students. AHA! Now that is a wrinkle! I hope that this will happen, I will work to get this to happen. I am happy to teach the teachers to write creatively along with their students. Yes, I said ALONG WITH the students. To prime that pump, I have already sent a writing prompt to the group who met with me this week. Let's just see what they do with that! Ha! Ha!
As for me, the task is compiling a list of writers and getting them paired with the needs of teachers. Fortunately, the core group of teachers with whom I met is on board with getting those needs identified for/with me. I gave them a survey to help with this, and there is a plan to make some kind of a grid with needs and need fulfillment connecting — sounds a little like Math to me, but oh well! (hmmm, what about technical writing?) What was common to all of us who met this week became clear: a love of kids and the desire to give them the gift of writing. It is a gift with no strings attached. It is an investment in time and imagination. I am happy that there is excitement about this gift-giving project, happy to have it gaining ground.
By the way, I would be remiss if I failed to mention that both school principals are excited about this project. They have encouraged their teachers to embrace it. I will get them writing too, by hook or by crook!
Hopefully, by October the first of the writers will be in the schools, writing with kids and helping them to discover their hidden talents and passions for writing. School accreditation is happening in September so we are being patient in getting started, but I am hopeful that the project will take hold quickly after that, My BIG hope is that the program will result in the high school having its own literary journal and/or school newspaper. THAT would be fantastic!
If you are a Midcoast Maine writer with a passion for what you do and a yen to share, find me by email (mainepoet@me.com or poet.laureate.rcklnd@me.com) or post here. I have something a little bit great for you to do! Think about the kinds of writing you do or the kinds or writing you love to read, and make suggestions. I will appreciate your input. I am looking for someone who writes for children. I am looking for someone who writes about science. I am looking for someone who writes magazine articles. Step right up and volunteer!
Stay tuned for updates on the progress of the project. I will blog along the way, share with you how things are working. I hope you will comment. PLEASE comment.
I was named Poet Laureate of Rockland, Maine in April, will serve a minimum of 2 years. I am pleased at being given the honor of course, but more so for the chance to use my work, my voice to proclaim poetry city-wide and beyond. I definitely am not Gluck-ish. I want to promote poetry and give it its proper due along with other arts in our city. With this in mind, I started in May with a public reading of a poem at the wreath-laying ceremony before the parade on Memorial Day. I chose The New England Dead by Isaac McLellan. Its old-fashioned feel and its lovely lines were perfect for the occasion. It is an emotional poem, but not sappy. It rhymes, which is good for public occasions like this. People liked hearing a poem being read, connected with it. Several expressed happiness at having a poet laureate in the city. I was happy too.
I followed that event with a June 10th reading of an original poem, Under This Flag, at the flag day celebration at the local Elks lodge. Again, people were happy to hear a poem. They appreciated and commented, saying "oh I used to recite poems when I was young" or "I can't write poetry myself, but I enjoy hearing poems." It is one thing for poets to give public readings in libraries or bookstores, where the audience is there FOR the reading BECAUSE it is poetry, or because they know the poet and want to be supportive. It is quite another ball of yarn to insert poetry into public occasions. The audience is a different one. This is where the work is so satisfying, where poetry gets a bit blue-collar or civic. This is where so many true lovers of poetry come out of the woodwork and declare themselves.
Over my term as laureate, there will be many of these small but important appearances, bringing poetry wherever a poem might enhance an occasion or event. I will attend as many readings by other poets as I can in order to support them because I truly believe that poetry ought to be "out there" in the public arena, available to all. There is another event planned for early August which will bring poetry to the streets of town (shhhh, it's a surprise!) — and there will soon be a poetry box in the library... watch for it!
Now comes my big project: Writers in the Schools.
I have been thinking about this for a long time, wanting to get writers and kids connected, to get kids writing in such a way that doesn't seem entirely academic to them. I KNOW kids write. I WANT them to be proud of doing so and to have some solid mentoring in doing so. This program is all about mentoring, about working WITH kids and teachers to make writing one of the pleasures of being in school.
I am certain that poetry is an integral part of kids' lives, from the small child who enjoys making silly rhymes at play to the teen whose angst or joys find their ways into countless hand-written journals. But what happens to poetry (and other kinds of creative writing) when it gets "institutionalized" is that it stops being joyful and starts being "work." When I lived in California and went into schools as a poet, I noticed a resistance to "one more thing we will be assigned for a grade" and felt sad. Sad for the kids and sad for poetry. My mission therefore became promoting writing in such a way as to make it lovely and lively for kids again as it was for me growing up. We wrote poetry and we memorized poetry. We heard our parents reciting poetry at home. (Yes, I grew up in Maine and my parents recited poems in the normal course of family dinners and events). My grandparents had favorite verses they recited. My dad's whole family would sit around and compose funny verses at reunions or gatherings. I want to make poetry "normal" again. Where to begin? In the schools.
Of course there are many kinds of writing other than poetry. I feel it my duty to bring as much of that to the kids as possible, to expose them to variety and show them the possibilities of writing. I am fortunate myself to be in a community of writers who are passionate about the kinds of writing they do. I want to tap into that passion for the kids' sakes.
This week I met with a group of dedicated teachers from our two local high schools (Oceanside East and Oceanside West). We met for nearly 3 hours hashing out a plan. It felt SO good to hear their passion, to feel the excitement in the room as we talked about how such a program would work. They are gathering the needed steam at their end and I am gathering willing writers at mine. We will start in the fall with me presenting to the teacher workshop day and getting the information out to all faculty. This is important as the vision includes having writers come into all kinds of classrooms, not just English/Language Arts classrooms. This includes special ed, alt ed, gifted and talented. ALL KIDS.
I envision having a sports writer presenting to school athletes. Writing in the locker room? Maybe, or maybe not, but certainly kids ought to know that one can combine a love of football or soccer or track or volleyball with writing. I want to bring in a couple who write historical nonfiction. These folks are fantastic researchers. Loads of worthy help there. What about having a professional blogger come to talk about the many ways one can blog for fun and profit. A writer of dark fiction? Why not. What about writing to or about music? A former rocker who writes about being in a band could fill the bill there. Sure! Is there a place for writing about food? What is ekphrastic writing? Should we have writing in an art classroom? YES! What happens when we spend 5-7 minutes a day writing free, just writing to write? These are all topics the teachers and I discussed in terms of exposure to a wide variety of writing styles and motives. Then there is the cadre of poets to bring forward. I hardly need to say that I'm all over that part!
Of course this IS a school-based project... thus we need to keep in mind the parameters of school schedules, time restrictions, and standards to be measured (learning outcomes). No problem. That is for the teachers. My part is getting the faculty as a whole on board, getting them to ask for writers to come to their individual classrooms, getting them to do a little writing themselves to model for their students. AHA! Now that is a wrinkle! I hope that this will happen, I will work to get this to happen. I am happy to teach the teachers to write creatively along with their students. Yes, I said ALONG WITH the students. To prime that pump, I have already sent a writing prompt to the group who met with me this week. Let's just see what they do with that! Ha! Ha!
As for me, the task is compiling a list of writers and getting them paired with the needs of teachers. Fortunately, the core group of teachers with whom I met is on board with getting those needs identified for/with me. I gave them a survey to help with this, and there is a plan to make some kind of a grid with needs and need fulfillment connecting — sounds a little like Math to me, but oh well! (hmmm, what about technical writing?) What was common to all of us who met this week became clear: a love of kids and the desire to give them the gift of writing. It is a gift with no strings attached. It is an investment in time and imagination. I am happy that there is excitement about this gift-giving project, happy to have it gaining ground.
By the way, I would be remiss if I failed to mention that both school principals are excited about this project. They have encouraged their teachers to embrace it. I will get them writing too, by hook or by crook!
Hopefully, by October the first of the writers will be in the schools, writing with kids and helping them to discover their hidden talents and passions for writing. School accreditation is happening in September so we are being patient in getting started, but I am hopeful that the project will take hold quickly after that, My BIG hope is that the program will result in the high school having its own literary journal and/or school newspaper. THAT would be fantastic!
If you are a Midcoast Maine writer with a passion for what you do and a yen to share, find me by email (mainepoet@me.com or poet.laureate.rcklnd@me.com) or post here. I have something a little bit great for you to do! Think about the kinds of writing you do or the kinds or writing you love to read, and make suggestions. I will appreciate your input. I am looking for someone who writes for children. I am looking for someone who writes about science. I am looking for someone who writes magazine articles. Step right up and volunteer!
Stay tuned for updates on the progress of the project. I will blog along the way, share with you how things are working. I hope you will comment. PLEASE comment.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Why I Keep Writing
My husband is not a poet. He is not a writer of any kind. He is a husband, father and grandfather, teacher, friend, golfer dude. He is great at all of these things.
He enjoys reading about politics and current events. He enjoys doing a daily spiritual reading. He previously has not read poetry as a favorite thing to do. But he has been reading my work. OK, so you're thinking "nice guy, supportive husband, awwww!" All true of course. But it is more than that. He has been READING my work. He's found favorite poems, knows what causes him to like them. He can wax specific about that. He is reading slowly and savoring what he reads, a couple poems at a time. Right now he is immersed in my 3rd book, I Write in the Greenhouse, which is divided into seasonal sections. He's just entered "Summer."Even though he has gone to readings where he's heard some of the poems, I've not asked him to read them. But he is reading them.
This is part of what keeps me writing.
www.carolbachofner.com
He enjoys reading about politics and current events. He enjoys doing a daily spiritual reading. He previously has not read poetry as a favorite thing to do. But he has been reading my work. OK, so you're thinking "nice guy, supportive husband, awwww!" All true of course. But it is more than that. He has been READING my work. He's found favorite poems, knows what causes him to like them. He can wax specific about that. He is reading slowly and savoring what he reads, a couple poems at a time. Right now he is immersed in my 3rd book, I Write in the Greenhouse, which is divided into seasonal sections. He's just entered "Summer."Even though he has gone to readings where he's heard some of the poems, I've not asked him to read them. But he is reading them.
This is part of what keeps me writing.
www.carolbachofner.com
"Late Aubade" by Richard Wilbur — a brief commentary
NOTE: an aubade is a poem written "at dawn" as a parting is expected between lovers or as a parting has just having taken place between lovers. It is somewhat a lament, somewhat a reflection, somewhat an honoring of the relationship. It can be a pleading to the lover not to leave.
NOTE: "A Late Aubade" — excerpts taken from the poem which appears in New and Collected Poems, Harcourt Brace & Company, 1988. The poem is found in its entirety on page 153 of this volume.
The aubade form is a special way of being for the poet as well as for the reader. It allows for the habitation of sorrow, regret, and loss — without artifice. There is a setting forth of what is along with what cannot be, with its deep regret. Instead of a maudlin "woe" at the loss (anticipated at the late night hour or at daybreak), it celebrates as it mourns.
... Think of all the time you are not
Wasting, and would not care to waste (13-14)
... of time, by woman's reckoning
You've saved, and so may spend on this,
You who had rather lie in bed and kiss. (17-19)
Although the aubade need not follow a specific end-rhyme, Wilbur chooses to use bracketed rhymes (eg. a, b, b, a)
The resultant rhythms mirror the encompassment of the beloveds with their tryst, their time together, their love. Wilbur's poem is a great example of the form. He uses to advantage his skill as a formalist in the poem, taking care to make build the experience of the poem as a platform for the build-up to let-down of a lovers' parting.
Another technique Wilbur uses very subtly is the short fourth line in each stanza. This emphasizes and calls attention to the brevity of the lovers' time together. The speaker of the poem is musingly aware of this short span experience and considers what else the lover might be doing rather than being in bed: reading in a library, planting flowers, walking the pooch, shopping, lunching through a screed [whining screech] of someone's loves, etc.
...rising in an elevator-cage
Toward Ladies Apparel. (lines 3-4)
You could be planting a raucous bed, (5) which refers to the literalness of gardening in wild unpruned overblown disordered color, but also refers obliquely to the wildness of their lovemaking. However, the speaker is well aware of the passage of time, the fleeting moments of their lovemaking, their luxuriating in the haze of it. He says if you must go and then moves to one more plea for more time in the final stanza.
The speaker pleads his case in line 12: Isn't this better? followed by the support phrase: Think of all the time you are not wasting and the praiseful and would not choose to waste. Is this arrogance on the part of the speaker, or is it confidence?
By the sixth stanza, we see the hinge, the door swinging open for the good-bye. The speaker is plaintive but with a bit of self-directed and contained bravado. It's almost noon, you say? followed by the rehearsed glibness of cliché (time flies) an allusion to Robert Herrick's poem. The reference is ironic of course because the Herrick poem is written to "virgins" which clearly the dallying lover is not.
Finally, Wilbur's aubade reverberates throughout with the counterpointing of public and private time, the bustle of public activity with the slowed private activity of the lovers who make or want to make time recede. Isn't this better asks the speaker in line 12, after which he provides us with the answer.
One more thought for you to consider, dear reader:
Is "Late" a metaphor not only for the onrushing hour of parting, but also a commentary by the poet as his own onrushing mortality as a lover?
All in all the poem makes me think. It opens questions for me, including "Can a poem be artful in mirroring loss without being sappy or saccharine?" I think it can, think it ought. I am of the opinion that this form, the aubade, is a great way to tackle partings, whether licit or illicit, and do so without being too self-conscious.
NOTE: "A Late Aubade" — excerpts taken from the poem which appears in New and Collected Poems, Harcourt Brace & Company, 1988. The poem is found in its entirety on page 153 of this volume.
The aubade form is a special way of being for the poet as well as for the reader. It allows for the habitation of sorrow, regret, and loss — without artifice. There is a setting forth of what is along with what cannot be, with its deep regret. Instead of a maudlin "woe" at the loss (anticipated at the late night hour or at daybreak), it celebrates as it mourns.
... Think of all the time you are not
Wasting, and would not care to waste (13-14)
... of time, by woman's reckoning
You've saved, and so may spend on this,
You who had rather lie in bed and kiss. (17-19)
Although the aubade need not follow a specific end-rhyme, Wilbur chooses to use bracketed rhymes (eg. a, b, b, a)
The resultant rhythms mirror the encompassment of the beloveds with their tryst, their time together, their love. Wilbur's poem is a great example of the form. He uses to advantage his skill as a formalist in the poem, taking care to make build the experience of the poem as a platform for the build-up to let-down of a lovers' parting.
It is helpful too, for a reader to examine the images Wilbur chooses. He does not make these decisions lightly, in fact each image is designed to highlight an aspect of the lovers' encounter and their eventual parting. For example, in line 25, he urges her to slip downstairs/ And bring us up some chilled white wine. Is he herein referring to her being in a slip? He certainly is not afraid of the image/comparison of her shape and her skin in the final line: Ruddy-skinned pears.
Another technique Wilbur uses very subtly is the short fourth line in each stanza. This emphasizes and calls attention to the brevity of the lovers' time together. The speaker of the poem is musingly aware of this short span experience and considers what else the lover might be doing rather than being in bed: reading in a library, planting flowers, walking the pooch, shopping, lunching through a screed [whining screech] of someone's loves, etc.
...rising in an elevator-cage
Toward Ladies Apparel. (lines 3-4)
You could be planting a raucous bed, (5) which refers to the literalness of gardening in wild unpruned overblown disordered color, but also refers obliquely to the wildness of their lovemaking. However, the speaker is well aware of the passage of time, the fleeting moments of their lovemaking, their luxuriating in the haze of it. He says if you must go and then moves to one more plea for more time in the final stanza.
The speaker pleads his case in line 12: Isn't this better? followed by the support phrase: Think of all the time you are not wasting and the praiseful and would not choose to waste. Is this arrogance on the part of the speaker, or is it confidence?
By the sixth stanza, we see the hinge, the door swinging open for the good-bye. The speaker is plaintive but with a bit of self-directed and contained bravado. It's almost noon, you say? followed by the rehearsed glibness of cliché (time flies) an allusion to Robert Herrick's poem. The reference is ironic of course because the Herrick poem is written to "virgins" which clearly the dallying lover is not.
Finally, Wilbur's aubade reverberates throughout with the counterpointing of public and private time, the bustle of public activity with the slowed private activity of the lovers who make or want to make time recede. Isn't this better asks the speaker in line 12, after which he provides us with the answer.
One more thought for you to consider, dear reader:
Is "Late" a metaphor not only for the onrushing hour of parting, but also a commentary by the poet as his own onrushing mortality as a lover?
All in all the poem makes me think. It opens questions for me, including "Can a poem be artful in mirroring loss without being sappy or saccharine?" I think it can, think it ought. I am of the opinion that this form, the aubade, is a great way to tackle partings, whether licit or illicit, and do so without being too self-conscious.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Dreamers
Dreamers. Now they may really have a chance to see what it is like to live out in the open, free citizens with all that means. I wonder why we have become so exclusionist when there is such a short memory on the parts of many whose ancestors came here for this very dream. It's much, I think, like the welfare recipient who is now the welfare clerk and persecutes the person who comes to the welfare office for help. Now that he/she has risen above welfare need, it is okay to scoff at or denigrate the person who stands where he/she stood only a bit ago.
I applaud the president for taking this on when it is so UNPOPULAR in the southwest part of our country. He has guts. We need guts. I am proud of him. These kids did not sneak into the country to try and take something away from someone. They were BROUGHT here. They have lived in secret and fear because of others' attitudes. They have done all the right things in terms of school, serving in the military, etc. And for this the Jan Brewers of the world would send them to a place they have never lived, never experienced. These young people are OURS and they have talents, ideas, skills, and dreams for making this country continue to grow and prosper. We need to honor them with citizenship and stop the fussing over skin color (the real issue).
Three cheers to you Mr. President. And happy Fathers Day. You show your daughters a great example of what it is to be human.
I applaud the president for taking this on when it is so UNPOPULAR in the southwest part of our country. He has guts. We need guts. I am proud of him. These kids did not sneak into the country to try and take something away from someone. They were BROUGHT here. They have lived in secret and fear because of others' attitudes. They have done all the right things in terms of school, serving in the military, etc. And for this the Jan Brewers of the world would send them to a place they have never lived, never experienced. These young people are OURS and they have talents, ideas, skills, and dreams for making this country continue to grow and prosper. We need to honor them with citizenship and stop the fussing over skin color (the real issue).
Three cheers to you Mr. President. And happy Fathers Day. You show your daughters a great example of what it is to be human.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Great Article... read and discuss
The Urgency of Native Stories in the New Century
by Susan Power on Thursday, April 12, 2012 at 9:41am ·
I share this wonderful essay by Native American author, Susan Power. Hope you will enjoy it and comment.
[Powers's Comment: A few of my friends expressed interest in reading comments I made on this topic at Iowa State University. This is a just a brief introduction to the reading I then gave from my new novel -- so these words skim the subject which my fiction hopefully fleshed-out. Thank you for your interest!]
I was so fortunate to be raised in diversity at a time when much of the country was rigidly segregated. Our home welcomed (and often housed) people of all different races and religions, in great part due to my mother's outgoing nature and political activism. So I was taught to honor the traditions and histories of fellow human beings, whatever their origins, educational level, or economic means, and expected to look beyond the end of my nose. I like to say, using writer's language, that this is a multiple point-of-view world, and what the best education can do for us, is teach us to “switch heads.” I do NOT mean replace our own specific backgrounds and belief systems, languages, with some new generic model that has been scrubbed clean of any reference to the past, any true foundation, the catastrophic soup of the so-called American Melting Pot, where we're expected to bleed away our old stories, turn our backs on our ancestors. No, I mean the ability to momentarily set aside the childish ego that insists there is one road, one religion, a single story meant to smother all the rest. To switch heads is to step in each others' shoes, look at the world from inside, outside, upside-down, ultimately creating a new kind of discourse where our stories, ideas, technologies and beliefs are in conversation with each other. A new kind of discourse where the dynamic has nothing to do with winning and losing, shouting louder than the next person, dominating, demolishing, silencing. I was raised hearing stories about my great-great-grandfather, Mahto Nunpa (Two Grizzly Bear) who was a highly respected Council Chief. A critical part of his success as a leader was his practice of careful listening. Opening the mind along with the ears, hearing without judgment, considering all angles. Wisdom isn't knowing more than someone else, having the cleverer brain. Wisdom is the flexibility that comes with maturity, the ability to set aside assumptions, agendas, and the need to be right. Wisdom is the willingness to be surprised.
I've spent a great deal of my life being educated, both in mainstream institutions of higher learning, and on reservations, in Native enclaves, through trips to other countries, and by reading the works of prophets and philosophers writing out of very different traditions. This is education at its best, being exposed to many voices. But I reject the role of the marginal person, the empty vessel needing to be filled by others, as if teaching is a one-way road. I don't come from a subculture, a dangling branch that hangs off the proud American tree. Our tribal roots drill deep and have yet to be plucked from this territory, this Turtle Island continent. Indigenous peoples all over the world have been schooled by the mainstream for hundreds of years, as if we didn't know how to look at the world with a proper set of eyes. This, despite evidence that we knew how to live in a place so that life was possible from one generation to the next, all varieties of life sustained – not taking the most expedient shortcuts to grab resources. So, a few of us are beginning to turn the tables and step forward with OUR stories, our own lessons, which we offer up as necessary additions to the Canon.
Vine Deloria's last book, published before his death, is titled The World We Used to Live In – Remembering the Powers of the Medicine Men. This cousin of mine, a leading Native scholar, reminds us of the wondrous talents exhibited by our ancestors. He says, “There were two paths that led them to make sense of their world: empirical observation of the physical world and the continuing but sporadic intrusion of higher powers in their lives, manifested in unusual events and dreams....They understood that their task was to fit into the physical world in the most constructive manner and to establish relationships with the higher power, or powers, that created and sustained the universe.” He argues that this secular society which dominates all discourse essentially believes in nothing, acknowledging no greater good than what we can feel and touch. I lived a great deal of my adult life in this way, convinced that since I didn't have the profound experiences my mother did, those the mainstream would consider impossible, they must be imagined rather than lived, dream-stuff rather than “real.” It wasn't until I surrendered the hubris of my Harvard eyes, and opened in humble curiosity, that I began to see as my mother sees, hear as my mother hears. Remember, we send our children to college to be educated, and if they wish to become engineers or doctors, lawyers or scientists, they spend years learning the skills of their profession, serving long periods of apprenticeship before they're deemed ready to practice. So it is with what I call “Long Vision,” the ability to see in many dimensions, the ability to hear more than the chattering voice of the brain. It takes foundation and practice to open to these experiences. All knowledge isn't stuffed in the mind, but also issues forth from the heart and that secret place we call “spirit.”
Colonization and the missionaries' zeal to eradicate Indigenous life-ways, has separated too many of us from a skill-set that doesn't belong to those who are currently running this world, and running it into the ground. But that doesn't mean our stories and ceremonies and spiritual powers are lost to us. On the contrary, revitalization programs are growing across the country, as our ancestors tap us to recover what was hidden for a time.
I recently learned that a tipi lodge belonging to my great-great-grandfather, is part of the collections at the Oklahoma History Center. The lodge is exceptionally attractive, decorated with pictographs that record the history of my people. It was probably stolen in 1863 when our band was nearly exterminated by Federal troops looking to break the back of the Dakota Nation. Perhaps a soldier nabbed it as a souvenir. For decades Mahto Nunpa's buffalo skin lodge was stored in basements and attics, until eventually it was donated to the Oklahoma History Center’s collection. By this time the pictographs covering the hide had faded to near invisibility, mere outlines and sketches that were difficult to perceive with the naked eye. When the History Center moved to a facility with a controlled environment and the lodge was once again mounted on tipi poles and exposed to the light, there was an unexpected development – the pictographs began to emerge again, color returning as if newly painted, as if the original artist’s hand was telling the stories again for a new generation. Yes. It's time for our stories to live again, not as cultural curiosities interrogated by anthropologists, but as a blueprint for how to survive our crumbling world.
My new novel, Our Lady of a New World, took me seven years to complete. The process felt like an apprenticeship I served under the watchful eyes of elders. In order to find the truth of this fiction, the authentic voices, I had to expand as a person, develop greater compassion, courage, and patience. I had to set aside my expectations and plans, my agenda. At times I felt as though I had to coax these characters to offer up their stories, prove to them I wasn't here to exploit them for the purposes of advancing my career. Instead I was the Seeker, willing to do as much research as it took, as much meditation, revision, re-imagining as they deemed necessary before allowing me inside. Eventually they did. And the gift wasn't simply another finished book. No. They helped me alter my vision of what is possible.
Apologies for absence
So, blog followers! Have you wondered where I am? Have you wondered if I dropped off the blogger edge into an abyss?
Truth is that I have been SLAMMED since mid April with poetry month activities (a good thing) and then May was taken over by dental appointments that started with an emergency Sunday afternoon ROOT CANAL that is still happening (had phase 4 of 5 yesterday).
But there is good news in all of "the busy." On April 26th, I was named Poet Laureate of my city. I am thrilled to say the least and am up to my eyebrows in planning and doing. On Memorial Day, I had my first public appearance in service to the City of Rockland: read a wonderful poem by 19th Century Maine Poet, Isaac McLellan ("New England's Dead") at the wreath-laying ceremony in our downtown park. It was the first time a poem has been read there for Memorial Day. I hope this will be a regular thing. I've offered my poetic self for any and all city-wide events. I will read an original poem, Under This Flag, at the June 10th Flag Day celebration at the local Elks Lodge.
On June 12th, at 630 PM, I will be reading from my latest book, Native Moons, Native Days. The reading will be with two other wonderful women poets, Gayle Portnow (food, however peripheral) and Wendy Rapaport (On the Couch With the Good Enough Poet).
I have been busy attending readings of other poets and lending my support, as well as attending the Maine State Democratic Convention as a delegate, going to the Maine Poets Society May meeting, making every meeting of our school board's budget process, and in general have been straight out with something to do nearly every other night for 3 months. When do I get my summer vacation? Oh, yeah.... next week. We are flying West to grandson Nick's HS graduation. We are leaving the home fires in the very capable hands of Christopher and Justin, great young men who will stay behind to work their jobs and keep things going.
So, I have not disappeared. I have been SWAMPED. But I intend to get back on track with the blog now. I still have a LOT to say and share.
Well, time to get my poem ready for today's poetry group meeting at the library.
Truth is that I have been SLAMMED since mid April with poetry month activities (a good thing) and then May was taken over by dental appointments that started with an emergency Sunday afternoon ROOT CANAL that is still happening (had phase 4 of 5 yesterday).
But there is good news in all of "the busy." On April 26th, I was named Poet Laureate of my city. I am thrilled to say the least and am up to my eyebrows in planning and doing. On Memorial Day, I had my first public appearance in service to the City of Rockland: read a wonderful poem by 19th Century Maine Poet, Isaac McLellan ("New England's Dead") at the wreath-laying ceremony in our downtown park. It was the first time a poem has been read there for Memorial Day. I hope this will be a regular thing. I've offered my poetic self for any and all city-wide events. I will read an original poem, Under This Flag, at the June 10th Flag Day celebration at the local Elks Lodge.
On June 12th, at 630 PM, I will be reading from my latest book, Native Moons, Native Days. The reading will be with two other wonderful women poets, Gayle Portnow (food, however peripheral) and Wendy Rapaport (On the Couch With the Good Enough Poet).
I have been busy attending readings of other poets and lending my support, as well as attending the Maine State Democratic Convention as a delegate, going to the Maine Poets Society May meeting, making every meeting of our school board's budget process, and in general have been straight out with something to do nearly every other night for 3 months. When do I get my summer vacation? Oh, yeah.... next week. We are flying West to grandson Nick's HS graduation. We are leaving the home fires in the very capable hands of Christopher and Justin, great young men who will stay behind to work their jobs and keep things going.
So, I have not disappeared. I have been SWAMPED. But I intend to get back on track with the blog now. I still have a LOT to say and share.
Well, time to get my poem ready for today's poetry group meeting at the library.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Today is April 26th, a banner day of sorts. 1. it marks my final pregnancy adventure (my "baby" turns 38 today) 2. it marks the first day of no dental pain or procedures (oh am I happy about that!) 3. Poetry Month Rockland's Swarm of Poets.
Snails are out of their shells and dancing!
I have not blogged for a few days (see #2) but feel inclined to catch you up on the prompts. Nah! Let's just pick up at Day 26:
Seems like a good day to write something celebratory!
Write a poem of 10-24 lines celebrating something not usually celebrated, like cleaning day, bird feeder filling, belly button lint, packing away winter clothing.
Here are a few target words for you:
compass, cereal, margins,
produce, shy (as a verb), master
stupor, borrow, trace
This photo is a baby chickadee (Emile) that I rescued two springs ago when he fell from the nesting box and couldn't figure out how to fly. I put him back on top of the box and his parents came and fed him and taught him to soar!
Snails are out of their shells and dancing!
I have not blogged for a few days (see #2) but feel inclined to catch you up on the prompts. Nah! Let's just pick up at Day 26:
Seems like a good day to write something celebratory!Write a poem of 10-24 lines celebrating something not usually celebrated, like cleaning day, bird feeder filling, belly button lint, packing away winter clothing.
Here are a few target words for you:
compass, cereal, margins,
produce, shy (as a verb), master
stupor, borrow, trace
This photo is a baby chickadee (Emile) that I rescued two springs ago when he fell from the nesting box and couldn't figure out how to fly. I put him back on top of the box and his parents came and fed him and taught him to soar!
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Found this on my friend Siobhan's blog and think it worthy of reposting:
By Mary Ellen Socobasin,
Passamaquoddy Girl
By Mary Ellen Socobasin,
Passamaquoddy (1947-1988)
6 April 1995
Mary Ellen's death was a loss to our community and in her honor I post her words so that others may learn from her.
A proud Indian girl grows up on the reservation
Takes a walk to the white community
She knew nothing of
She was greeted with laughter
She was treated unfairly
For she did nothing to
She was called a redskin
She looked upon herself saw only brown skin
She wonders what is wrong with
She is called an Apache with a sneer.
She says, I am Passamaquoddy eyes full of tears.
She asks herself what have I done to
They make funny noises imitating her language.
She says to
Doesn't that mean anything to you.
But to
The language of hate.
She asks herself what have I done to
They don't know her. Still they condemn.
She committed no crime still they prosecute
Stones of injustice are thrown at her
Her heart starts to fill with bitterness.
She proclaims her hate for
Years of ignorance go by.
Then she realized what was happening.
She was getting to be just like
She says I am not one of
I will not condemn all of
For I am Passamaquoddy
A proud Indian woman.
Takes a walk to the white community
She knew nothing of
them
She was greeted with laughter
She was treated unfairly
For she did nothing to
them.
She was called a redskin
She looked upon herself saw only brown skin
She wonders what is wrong with
them.
She is called an Apache with a sneer.
She says, I am Passamaquoddy eyes full of tears.
She asks herself what have I done to
them.
They make funny noises imitating her language.
She says to
themI know two languages.
Doesn't that mean anything to you.
But to
them,they only understood one language.
The language of hate.
She asks herself what have I done to
them.
They don't know her. Still they condemn.
She committed no crime still they prosecute
Stones of injustice are thrown at her
Her heart starts to fill with bitterness.
She proclaims her hate for
them.
Years of ignorance go by.
Then she realized what was happening.
She was getting to be just like
them.
She says I am not one of
them.
I will not condemn all of
them.
For I am Passamaquoddy
A proud Indian woman.
--Mary Ellen Socobasin
Passamaquoddy
1947-1988
Passamaquoddy
1947-1988
Pain and Poetry
Pain and poetry. In some circles there might be the assumption that these two go together. I disagree. Today I am in pain. It's a dull pain emanating from my sinuses to my upper jaw OR from my back molar to my sinuses. Being Sunday, it is just not the day to find out which. So suffer I must until tomorrow. But this suffering will not produce a winning poem. Guaranteed that it will not. I will spend the day trying to ignore the ache, to medicate it with OTC meds, to feel dumpy and grumpy.
Oh sure, you say, that is pain. You will be quick to remind me that the suffering poet's pain is psychological or relational or situational (read: rejection after rejection). True enough. That happens. There is a LONG list of suicidal poets to account for that. But I say that sometimes what gets in the way of poetry is physical pain. This thing began yesterday and I accounted for it by the whole sinus infection reason. But I have netti-potted my sinuses and still no relief. I did get some relief with Excedrin, but it is still there, annoyingly there.
So pardon me for not writing today, not even work on projects I've already started. I may not get to write tomorrow either since I will have to do the rounds of professional help: start with the dentist to see if there is something wrong with the molar (root canal? OUCH!) and if not that, then to the doctor to see what is going on with the sinuses (antibiotics? some stronger pain meds?). Tomorrow may be a write-less day. Grrr.
Now tell me poets don't suffer!
Oh sure, you say, that is pain. You will be quick to remind me that the suffering poet's pain is psychological or relational or situational (read: rejection after rejection). True enough. That happens. There is a LONG list of suicidal poets to account for that. But I say that sometimes what gets in the way of poetry is physical pain. This thing began yesterday and I accounted for it by the whole sinus infection reason. But I have netti-potted my sinuses and still no relief. I did get some relief with Excedrin, but it is still there, annoyingly there.
So pardon me for not writing today, not even work on projects I've already started. I may not get to write tomorrow either since I will have to do the rounds of professional help: start with the dentist to see if there is something wrong with the molar (root canal? OUCH!) and if not that, then to the doctor to see what is going on with the sinuses (antibiotics? some stronger pain meds?). Tomorrow may be a write-less day. Grrr.
Now tell me poets don't suffer!
Of course you could make my suffering less by visiting my web site and buying a book...
www.carlbachofner.com
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Thursday, April 19, 2012
so what's your excuse? Day 19 Prompt
Today is the day for being pathetic, over-the-top pathetic. Write an "excuse" poem.
Example (notice all the internal rhymers in this):
Not Me
Water clogged with debris
a gushing leak from BP and all you do
is blame. Not my fault. See. I didn't bang
the pipe to break it, didn't fail to screw
the bolts in tight or whatever. Clang, clang
and the whole thing just gave in, gave way
and now you're trying to say, somehow
I had something to do with it all. A few
congressmen looked the other way (and dang!
I did vote for them) but how is it my day
for getting blamed? Look, what is it with you
that my vote is somehow on the hook
for them not taking a serious look at rules
for oversight. Sheesh, it don't seem quite right
to blame me here. I'm just one, ya know.
Say, I gotta go fill my tank. Vacation time for me
and the family. Off to the Gulf. They say on TV
it's safe now. I believe them of course. They'd surely
tell me if things had gone from bad to worse.
Don't eat the shrimp you say? I'm okay to eat it,
after all, BP is on the job making it all better now.
When I get back I hope you will have stopped blaming
me. I'm only one damned vote you see.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Day 18, LUNE-atic Day
so here's a bit of a nutty form for you to try: a LUNE
The idea of this form was to reply to the haiku, so often misinterpreted and miswritten by Americans. The lune is also three lines, but with some different components.
1. No need for the connection to nature that is characteristic of the haiku
2. Lines are of specific length, either by # of syllables or # of words.
3. You may use 3-5-3 OR 5-3-5 when composing your LUNE. You may write a string of related LUNES to gain ground and create a longer poem.
4. Do NOT use articles (a, an, the)
5. Use any 11 words except for the following words: nice, pretty, good, bad, very, ugly
Here is my example of an extended LUNE (notice the linkages between individual LUNES that create a gestalt. Notice what happens in the final LUNE stanza.) This is a word lune 3-5-3.
Lunatic
Wind blows hard.
Witch moon's face rises up.
Light flies everywhere.
Light flies everywhere,
sees whatever we are doing.
No sick shadows!
No sick shadows.
Whistle, cry out at will.
Break your fast.
Break your fast:
figs, honey, hot cross buns,
sweet olive branch.
Sweet olive branch
climb hills, swim across rivers,
braid your hair.
Braid your hair.
Witch moon's face rises up.
Whistle. Cry. Out.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Day 17 Poetry prompt.... your family
Today my maternal grandmother would be 105 (mom 85, me 65, twin daughters will be 45 this year... thus a generational 20 year span of eldest daughters on that side).
So why not write about a family member today? Go ahead and do it.
Here is a poem about my Nana (this is a fictionalized event... you do not have to tell the literal truth in order to tell a greater truth)
Lemon Cake
First you need great bowls
and a big spoon. Measuring
is easier with Nana’s teacups
the ones graduated
to your kitchen after her funeral.
It was all you wanted.
She used no recipe for lemon cake,
taught you to measure the heft
of flour in your palm, to see
how much lemon juice fills
the teacups, to know a pinch
from a smidgeon just by feel.
A pinch of cardamom, one
of nutmeg, a dusting of poppy seeds
over the wet mixture. She mixed
clockwise, said the sun travels
that way and helps the mixture
to rise just so to the rim of the pans.
For frosting, a package
of softened cream cheese, a splash
of vanilla and one of lemon juice.
Whip in half a hand of sugar
with the egg beater she got
as a wedding present in 1926.
Later, sit in your chair by the window,
listening to the rain come in gasps,
you will know her love is in the recipe
she never wrote out, the one pressed
into your hands, and in the teacup
you use tonight for tea.
Smell the lemons, smell her verbena.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Day 16 Prompt emptiness
Today is the day to write with white space. Take a stanza or two from a poem you have already written, one that seems to go ON AND ON...
Remove all articles (the, an, a) and prepositions
Remove all adjectives
Remove all conjunctions
LEAVE the spaces where you removed these (this program won't leave the spaces somehow and you will therefore see my revised poem without them... but look at what the result is anyway... pretty interesting. If you do it on paper (remember paper?) you will see a completely different result.
NOW
Change all verbs to NEW, active verbs
What is left? Post on my blog.
Here is my attempt: 1st the text unaltered
They come unbidden
to the porch, bits of straw, a berry
or even the leg bone of a baby bird
that died in the nest
dropped with one sad note.
First they dropped and flew,
then they hovered, singing
and cocking their heads
as if to enter a conversation —
as if only I spoke their language.
Birds, like lawyers of glass
came and sang their troubled cases,
me the judge and jury. Jay,
in his strident voice,
spoke first:
First, we need you to stop
the scratching music cats play,
the discordant tail beat of squirrels,
stop the deaths of our babes
from spoiled seed.
.
NOW, the text altered:
They buckle unbidden
porch, bits straw, berry
leg bone bird
spared note.
burned strangled,
hovered, singing
rustle heads
clear conversation —
I invent language.
Birds, lawyers glass
danced invented cases,
me judge jury. Jay,
voice,
trilled :
we beg you thump
music cats scrape,
squirrels,
uncover deaths babes
seed.
This is incredibly difficult to do well. But it's a part of the path to deep revision. SO give it a try.
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