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.

Poetry Month Suggestion: Grow Readers

This charity organization allows you to select what project you'd like to sponser in schools. The requests seem rather modest. Search the site for poetry projects and you'll get upwards of a hundred requests from teachers who are trying to bring poetry to the classrooms (and to the streets).

Consider these: ways to help

poetry bloggers x a bit of spare change= more fans of poetry for our future

A bridge too far?

This is proof that simple is beautiful. (and that funny things do occasionally land in one's inbox.



1.go to www.google.com

2.click on maps

3.click on "get directions"

4.go from "new york" to "paris, france"

5.scroll down in the directions to number 23

Dreaming Poetry

So, I don't think I've ever done this before, but working on a review over the last few weeks, I was dreaming about the book and what I found so compelling in it. I acutally got up and went and jotted it down and it still made good sense even when I was awake.

I also dreamed that we were hiring John Montague at my university. Which is odd, since I don't actually have a University right now. Of course, Montague because I've written on his work, but what a joy it was to imagine his office just down the hall in my imagined university.

And not dreaming:

I read for a ladies' group on Tuesday. There were only about 10 in the circle but it was a pleasure to read and have others comment and ask questions about the poems.

And three poems soon in journals: "Troupe Portrait with Unicycle" is forthcoming in Tar River Poetry. "From the Greenhouse" and "The Drowned Girl orders a Cone" from Sojourn.

My husband asks me "What would be enough? Your first book?" I don't think it's possible to set a finish line for poetry. Is it? One goal leads to the next, one hurdle passed prepares you for the next. I want to run forever.

happy poetry month