Blowing out the lights

It seems this year is a year of letting go. With my diagnosis in January, I had to give up the teaching that I love for the time being. And now Three Candles, where I've been an editor these past few years under the direction of Steve Mueske, is taking down the shingle as well.

I should think opportunity, more creative time, more free space. But, I'm feeling like the last person left at a party, blowing out the few candles left before walking aimlessly out into the night.

It's been a good party. That I can take with me.

Another's Skin

I'm reminded today (again) that we can never know what it is like to live in another's skin. We try hard with poetry at times to make that deeper connection with others, yet still, still we cannot know. We that remain can only speculate.

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance;
pray,love, remember: and there is pansies,
that's for thoughts.

Our world is smaller, and poorer, today.

In his words, here.

At the Summer's End

I'm finding it hard to believe that the last post I made was in June. The summer has flown by on the wings of parental responsibility. Yes, I have three boys. And two of them are now taller than me.



When summer does come to the end, I feel a bit of relief. The heat has killed many of my herbs, yet the bindweed and Witchgrass flourishes. I am ready for the school supplies in the aisles of the stores. The promise of lined paper and freshly sharpened pencils. I think Roethke got it wrong in Dolor. But, his is the office and the institution. Mine is the schoolroom and the artroom, where crayons still wait in their green and yellow boxes in twenty-four shade of possibility. And watercolors in their plastic trays evoke the shades of the sea and the skies at sunrise. I am ready for the routine of early morning coffee and lunch-sacks, backpacks, and yellow buses. I am ready to return to my books and poems and the clean promise of white paper.

A new room of my own.

Thanks to my husband, I have a new office. The old spare bedroom which was painted pale pink is now revised and wonderful. The walls are skysail blue and the trim white. The bulk of my poetry books are rescued from the depths of the basement and are at arm's reach. I'm hoping that inspiration will, too, soon be within grasp. Many of my favorite things have been gathered from their scattered locations: my collection of white pitchers, my framed print of an Asian inspired hydrangea, silver picture frames, my grandmother's delicate end tables, my collection of blue-based images I've amassed over the years. There are windows as well. One frames the blaze of the sunset and the lavender humming with bees and the other overlooks the prairie flowers I'm coaxing along. I feel as if I can breathe here.

Visiting Hours

It is officially summer, the reading program at the local library is in swing. I've bundled the kids off to collect an interesting assortment of books to keep them reading. My stack was bigger than theirs however as I picked up books that I know I must have read but can't remember reading (Atwood's A Handmaiden's Tale). I was sorely disappointed by the ending and felt furious about the "Underground FrailRoad" which one of the speakers so blandly jokes about. I also picked up (and have read already, as grad school does teach one to read full steam) her novel The Blind Assassin. And Willa Cather's My Antonia with its passionate view of the prairie life and the grand American Dream of owning and working the land.

Also, Gary Snyder's Axe Handles which I remember reading and enjoying the title poem and the poem about the deer and soy sauce, which as I check is actually titled "Soy Sauce."

The Best Day The Worst Day by Donald Hall was a bit harder on me. I haven't been able to read his poems that deal with the loss of Jane (Kenyon) and the prose account was wrenching in that I can relate perhaps too closely for comfort. Not the best book to read during the week I'm getting my chemo treatments, but sometimes it helps to hear how others have borne what at times seems unbearable. I haven't had The Worst Day, the one where it all comes to an end and hope is snuffed out like a votive candle in the wind.

I still trudge off to the appointments and the blood draws and hide under the covers when the drugs draw a pall between me and this world. Other days, life continues as normal, there are no visiting hours, there is no hall pass, the family must be fed, the dog let in and out. The ants visit. The grackles make their nest near my window and wake me before daylight. At times, I am crepe paper in the rain. Other days, hard clay.

Looking in Blackbird

As much as I love Steven's poem this post is not about the poem but rather to mention that my review of Five Terraces is in the current (Spring 2007) issue of Blackbird


But you can read the poem here (13 Ways), if reviews aren't your current cup of tea.

And since we're on the topic, it appears that if you're in Chicago, Blackbird might be a nice place for a dinner out.

Or if you're into a more classical approach, try Eighth Blackbird:who will also be performing in Chicago Friday May 18th.

As much as I love it here, somedays Kansas seems very far away.

More Poetry (manuscript) Dreaming

This time, I'm talking to the publisher of my book. He's sitting on the floor surrounded by the leaves of poems. No, he says, holding a poem up to me. You are not allowed to write poems like this one EVER again. NEVER. But, yes, there are six real poems here.

In my waking life, I do have a manuscript, but not a publisher. But I'm looking for one. I believe there are more than six real poems.

I am also dreaming of waitressing again. I wake tired from other people's demands on my time. From having to smile, to wait for the pittance that the people in my dreams tip.