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]

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.

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.

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

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

Found this on my friend Siobhan's blog and think it worthy of reposting:

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 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 withthem.
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 them I 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

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!

Of course you could make my suffering less by visiting my web site and buying a book... 

www.carlbachofner.com

Day 21 prompt

Today write about an incident that nearly "took you down" an incident that was negative, but didn't break you. 20 lines or more using the following words:

undertow
wreck
mango
frosting
playground
trapeze
hip
lock

Day 20 Prompt

A day off for you poets! Happy Friday!

OR

write a poem about leisure, vacation, or just a "bumming' day"

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.

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.

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.

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

faltered nest

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.

Strange word Prompt Day 15

What is the strangest word you know? Is there a word that gets to you ... can't let go of it word... one that keeps popping up for you?

Write about that word or use it in a line of a poem that exemplifies the word.

Come on, you can DO IT!

Day 14 Prompt Foreign Phrase poem

L'avenir appartient à ceux qui se lèvent tôt

(French equivalent of "the early bird gets the worm")

For today, use a foreign phrase in a poem. Make sure the poem does its job exemplifying or explaining the phrase.

Here is one of mine:

Il n’y a pas un chat dans la rue, an aubade

The streets are empty, wind stirs

light against the building where I leave you.

Soon enough cars will shoosh the pavement

and work will begin in every office and shop.

My damp hair will dry in the sun, my wet cheeks too.

No shadows to give up our secrets, whisper our names.

Won’t you promise this is not the end, come to me

again when the light falls behind the city?

If I tell you I cannot go on without you,

will you mock me and say not our arrangement?

Will you sigh and dress more slowly,

send me a ring that was your mother’s —

one meant for your daughter (you have only sons).

The street begins its crawl from darkness

to the light where you fly home to another

and leave me with my cat, our secret, this perfume.

The French phrase means "the street is empty" but literally, there is not a cat in the street"

A Call to Action

Robert has challenged us to write a blog for today that includes a call to action at the end. So I guess I will hop on my soapbox for a few minutes.

I am struggling with (constantly) the issue of grammar. My longstanding grump is the "where I'm AT" thing. It is not okay in any vestiges of propriety "to end a sentence a preposition with." HA! Do you see how silly that sounds? It is obviously correct to say it this way: "to end a sentence with a preposition." No way, no how is it okay to end a sentence with a preposition. However, I am faced with supposedly educated people IN education doing just that: a couple principals and even one acting superintendent. Grrrr. When I hear it (at least three or four times a week for the past month at PUBLICLY-TELEVISED meetings), I grit my teeth and grimace. I want to shout out and demand better grammar from those who are at the helm(s) of education. I do not do this. I get a headache of epic proportion instead of doing this.

I recall an argument with a student in one of my college English classes who had a (she thought) logical explanation for using "at" in this way. I told her that "where I'm at" is incorrect because of the aforementioned "rule" of grammar and because "where I'm" literally means "where I am," thus no need for the "at." She said that made sense except that adding the "at" made the location more specific. Huh? She went on to say "where I am" could be any location or state of being, but "where I'm at" is a specific location or state of being, focused and definite. This made NO SENSE whatsoever, but several other students said that was how they saw things. Oh my gosh. I thought I was going to start bleeding from the eyes and ears at that point. I continued to require my students to stop using that incorrect grammar and corrected it every time they fell back into it. I furthermore stated to them most emphatically that anyone using "where I'm (she's, he's they're, we're, you're) at" on an essay or in a paper or on a test would fail that instrument of assessment. Grumble grumble grumble from the students.

Here is a funny story that happened after we'd had the discussion about "at" at the end of a sentence determining location. A student, who was looking for another classroom, came to the door and asked "where's the _____ class at?" A sudden look of impending doom came across everyone's faces as they waited to see what I'd do. I said the following:

"Well, the _____ class you are trying to find is on the upper campus, but perhaps since you used incorrect grammar in ending that sentence with a preposition, you might consider staying in this English class." Hoots and howls and other sounds from my students. One said, "Uh, oh, she took him out! He never saw that one coming!"

So what do I do here when an acting superintendent of schools and one school principal commit this grammar crime over and over? Ignore and continue to grit my teeth? Confront privately? Pray that the people watching the broadcast don't catch the error and think we are a bunch of illiterate boobs?

I say it's time to confront poor grammar, issue grammar crimes tickets to all who commit them. TAKE BACK GOOD GRAMMAR! Go ye forth then and correct, complain, demand!