Poetry Thursday - talking walls

I've done a few writing workshops now, and every time I do, I find that I have the most vivid dreams, both while I'm there and after I leave. This week I'll let the walls of the Marconi Conference Center and the Four-Point Sheraton at Cherry Creek in Denver tell you about it. Happy Poetry Thursday!


Rooms Where Writers Sleep

This is a dream about road conditions, this is a dream of
the library. Other people love cowboys, love liberals, love
men who say “I want you to feel safe with me.”
The next morning in the dream, she was wearing
a bathing suit the color of goldfish, saying “He wouldn’t
want to hear something like this”, heading into the basement.
Someone else was there. I can see you leaning back
in your chair, black and white postcards in hand.

If the Denver Art Museum is so upside-down, why
isn’t it closed on Saturdays, open on Mondays?

I wanted bewildering Modern Art, I wanted the way
the mind string words together, writes the poetry for me
like it should in an industrialized nation. Out comes a pun
and we love it for the automated nature of it’s creation.
I love to linger and confess. We spend time together,
someone loves the word “swarm”, someone loves
shimmering, someone loves Sunday, someone loves
the terms of taxidermy. When we go home, we take with us
the overstuffed bodies of the poems we’ve hollowed out
and filled again with what we all love.

52 Postcards - postcard 4

Postcard: The Pretzel Maker
For an explanation of 52 Postcards, look here.

I don't think there can be a writing exercise this week. I've been reading Agota Kristof's The Notebook, a grim but effective book that is entirely made up of two-page writing exercises.

So, free write instead.

The postcard this week is a rascal. A rascal who has tied a lamp-post into a knot and is standing abashed before a gendarmes.

Let's go back to Paris.

This is the sort of rascal who rides his bicycle across pebbles in the Tuilerie gardens, humming a little song to himself, about his bicycle. He loves puns and invents false trivia. He has a dachsund named Mr. Sizzles, who is known to all the children in the neighborhood. The boy who lives next door to the rascal tells the rascal: A dog put dirt on my stomach.

The rascally man plants strawberries in his flower beds and has a pair of pretend mice. He loves pork chops cooked in bacon grease and hangs little colored flags from the big tree in his back yard. His favorite colors are orange and blue. He likes to whistle.

Poetry Thursday - Virtual Reading

A little poetry-inspired photography

Out here in the middle of the San Juan mountain range in Colorado, on a ranch with three wolfhounds, four cats and two horses, when the other two writers who come and go here are out of town, there are no poetry readings, unless you count the wind whistling through the gaps in the wall of the barn, or the readings I do for myself.

So, I figure I better count the readings I do for myself, which is why I was so excited to get the poem below. Wendy Trevino, a grad student at UC Davis who roomed with me and Dana at the Tomales Bay Workshops, sent it to me yesterday, and I'd like to present it to you as my virtual reading:

portrait of a cracked pomegranate

light's rubbed clean
through garnet pulp
to the starlight of
seeds behind which
other seeds glow
dimly - all this
a membrane holds
in such tremble
a visible extension
of pith taut with
the pressure of all
these seeds inside
this radiant carapace

- Wendy Trevino

What I think of when I think of pomegranates is seduction. I think of the myth of Persephone, daughter of the goddess of the harvest, who was kidnapped and taken to the underworld by Hades, and of how winter came about because she ate pomegranate seends, unable to resist them after refusing everything else from Hades.

Since the beginning of November, we've had three pomegranates sitting in the wire basket that hangs from the kitchen ceiling. When I said goodbye to Wendy and left the workshop, I flew to Denver, where one of the things I bought was one of those pomegranates. But until Wendy sent me her poem yesterday, I hadn't been tempted to open it. Here's what I thought about it - too messy, and the kind of mess that stains, that red juice that you will never be able to get out once it has seeped into something.

In college, I once spent a chunk of my meager food budget on a pomegranate to share with a boyfriend who had never seen one before. We spread newspapers on the desk where I studied, and split the thing open, carefully picking out the seeds one by one. I wouldn't let him taste any until there was a nice sized pile in front of us. Finally, he popped one into his mouth, moved it around a little, and then looked at me and said "I don't get it." I must have given him a look, and then he said "All that work for that little thing? I don't get it."

And, outside of our nice Poetry Thursday circle, isn't that what we hear people say about poetry? Maybe not out loud, but in other ways. Sometimes, working on a poem, struggling with the tough rind of rhythm, line endings, stanzas, I feel the same way myself. Sometimes it's a lot of work for what turns out to be a pretty unsuccesful fruit.

Which is why I love Wendy's poem so much. It seduced me, made me want to brave the mess and open the pomegranates in that basket, even though I knew I would not be eating fruit that old. She made a tough thing look juicy, and wrote a poem that, to me, is a meditation on the hard work of poetry itself.

Besides - "radiant carapace"? I love that!

Go ahead, read it again. You know you want to.

52 Postcards - postcard 3

This was a particularly uninspired 52 Postcard week. I've decided to post the results anyway, because part of the point is that I'm not always going to write things I love, but it's good practice for me to sit down and do it anyway, forgive myself, and move on. Sometimes you write on faith, and nothing happens. Nothing interesting shows up. I'm learning to live through that. For an explanation of the project, look here. One little note - I never look at the postcard description on the back until after I've done the writing.

Postcard: Giant shoe made by bootmakers for the children's ward of the London Hospital. During Christmas festivities, the shoe will be filled with toys. December 12, 1931
Photograph copyright Hulton Getty/Archive Photos
Exercise: Physical description, then speculation

You can tell it's an old photo from the shades of black. They are grainy and brownish, not crisp or shadowy like a new black and white photo.
It's a simple photo really, two men carrying a giant shoe down the sidewalk. They both wear ties, white shirts with old-fashioned collar stays, and you can see the collars of suit jackets under the long smock-like coats they wear. They are each stepping forward onto their left feet. The man on the left is a younger man, with a longish wave of hair on the top of his head, an unsmiling mouth, and slightly furrowed brow. His eyes are a smudge, no way to tell what he's looking at exactly. The man on the right is the larger man, dark hair receding away from the deep frown that sits on his brow.

I want to think that the street they are carrying the shoe down is a New York street. You can see buildings in the background that might be apartment buildings, and the wide sidewalk in front of the storefront looks like the sidewalks of the lower east side.

What could the shoe be for? A display, an advertisement of some kind, because seeing such a large men's shoe, utilitarian, a plain style that makes you think more of re-soleing than of buying new shoes. The only thing unusual about the shoe, other than it's size, is that it looks like it was made with strips of leather rather than a few large pieces. But we don't expect the shoe to be real leather, we know it's just a model, and the strips are the seams where the papier mache was set on the frame, which you might imagine is chicken wire. Did these men make it? Or is this an order they picked up?

Well, that's it. After two days of procrastination, I've posted it. This piece of writing bores me terribly, so I'm thinking about that, and how it feels when what you are writing bores even you. It's sort-of an interesting experience in a way, it makes me think about editing. That is, it's all well and good to describe the physical details of a thing, but why would anyone care to read this? In this case, I don't expect anyone to, but what if these were my characters? Would it be important to tell you that the younger man's pants are narrower at the ankle than the older man's? What kind of picture do the details give you? If I wanted to write about these men, what would I leave out, and what would I keep?

Poetry Thursday Exercise - Lying!

Here it is. I can't tell you WHAT it is, but I think that's okay. I woke up at noon today, with this in my head, thinking "This is perfect for Poetry Thursday!" and I think that's funny. Title courtesy of Cinderella. Sort-of.

A Dream is a Lie Your Heart Makes

The butcher is slicing meat for a party I'll never have.
I order a latte the flavor of distance, take it from him,
then stand at the counter talking to a friend, maybe you.
Later, I reach over the counter for the latte again
forgetting I already have it. What the butcher gives me then
is a grin as far as Seattle, crooked on one side
and one half of his Oreo, white filling untouched,
because Bruce Springsteen never harmed a fly.

This Is Not a Poem

There Are No Words For Sunset

Ruby red grapefruit iced with sugar, the orange sheet
left to dry on the line, torn by the wind.
Candlelight on white china, the light underwater,
pebbles, the first days you lived alone.
The white flesh of a crisp apple, Paris,
sunlight on your closed eyelids, new snow,
cocktails on the porch in the evening, with a man who
wears the wrong shoes. Mint julep, melancholy.
Wind singing through the gaps in the barn’s north wall,
what you gave away. Hibiscus tea steaming in the cold,
persimmon. Something beautiful you made yourself.
Waking up well after long illness, fresh hay, merry-go-round.
Floating in a warm lake, falling asleep.
Lifting your eyes to meet someone else’s gaze,

evanescence.

52 Postcards - postcard #2

For an explanation of my 52 Postcard project, see this post.

Postcard: Chomping Chocolate
Photograph copyright Hulton Archive/Getty Images
Exercise: Describe only physical details of the postcard, no speculation, no metaphor.

It’s a black and white postcard, of four children and a dog. The children are all lined up in front of you, in front of round balls hung from a string, right at mouth level. On the left is the smallest boy, wearing muddy Wellingtons, with long shorts, a collared shirt and a cardigan sweater that has been buttoned wrong. You can see his ears perfectly, since they stick right out from his head, little round things like monkey ears. His hair pokes out especially on the left side. Next to him is the tallest girl, who also wears wellies, taller and darker, muddier too. She has a dress on, but it looks like the hem is somehow caught up and rides high on her left leg. She has a white collar on her dark dress, a collar that was probably once tidy. Her hair is cut in a little pageboy, clipped off to the right, and it pokes out too, as though static electricity is drawing it close to the little boy’s hair on that side. In her hands, she holds the dog’s front paws. The dog is next to her, white paws in her hand, standing up on his hind legs, halfway behind the tallest boy, who stands in front of the others and looks off into the distance. He is the only boy who isn’t trying to catch the ball in his mouth, even the dog has his mouth open to try and reach the ball in front of him, one little bottom tooth showing, nose in the air. The boy who looks off in the distance is the only one who looks tidy still, he wears a dark beret, a little white scarf tied around his neck like an ascot, the ends tucked neatly into his coat, which is zipped up halfway. His baggy dark pants have the cut of riding breeches, loose, and then fitted at the ankle. They fall over the tops of his shoes like spats. Only his shoes look scuffed. One hand hangs by his side, one hand is lifted, one finger pointed, not quite to where he’s looking. The last child is a girl, who stands behind him and to his left. She stands up perfectly straight, her little mouth open against the hanging ball, eyes closed, head tilted back a little. She wears MaryJanes and if you look closely you can see that she’s standing up on her toes just a little. She wears socks with her Maryjanes, all bunched up halfway up her calf. Her little dress is checked, with a round collar, and a pocket, little checks and puffed sleeves. Her right hand bunches up the fabric so that the hem hangs higher on the right than on the left.

Poetry Snapshot

This is a poem that is evolving out of some of the Tomales/Flynn exercises (did I drink the Kool-Aid, or what?). It needs enough work that I was tempted not to post it, but there are some things that I am enjoying playing around with, so I'm going to make a commitment to it by posting it here. That's like a promise that I'll revisit it later, right? The original exercises that gave birth to this were, in some ways, similar to what I know about the Artist's Way in that it was just about getting things going, putting pen to paper and not lifting it up or correcting anything. We did about half a dozen seven minute exercises all centered around the postcard that you see copied above. I'm really sorry I didn't get the name and artist. If anyone knows, please fill me in!

Seven Minute Writing Exercise

The first seven minutes is a black and white postcard,
Three quarters of it beach, one quarter sky
A figure in front, bent over, looking down.
On the right, beyond the horizon, plume of flame,
Black smoke filling the right hand corner.

I don’t have to be looking at the picture to tell you
That I would not be looking at the plume of flame
Beyond the horizon either. I would be the guy
Looking at the sand, whatever those little shapes
Will turn out to be. Then again, I say that, but also

I think about the fire trucks and how I cannot resist
A fire truck, in seven minutes I cannot tell you
All the ways I love fire trucks so I will just say
A firefighter is someone who shoulders so much
Responsibility, without any kind of power to abuse.

Or like my boyfriend with the ground floor apartment
Across from the fire station on 1st between B and C
Used to say – “It’s the boots.” But he could say that
Because in those days he wore boots too and because
Even though loving a guy who smoked in the shower

Was not that different from staying in a building
That was burning down, still I stayed until he took steps
To start evacuating the building. And what I think about
When I look at the postcard again, is how maybe I didn’t
Mention that it’s aligned vertically, though you know

That mostly it’s a landscape surprised by a man looking
At his feet, and you’ll know about the plume of flame
Because we’d probably all mention that about the postcard
The way I doubt that I could say more than a sentence or two
About Pauly without mentioning the drinking, or how

With him Avenue B and C were the three quarters of the picture
That were sand, just so you know where he stood, and maybe
It’s not me looking at my own feet, or what’s in front of my face
After all. Aren’t those his boots that have been taken off
And sit pointing towards some other future, and isn’t he

The one looking into the horseshoe shape in the sand,
A shape that can be either good or bad, depending on whether
You let the luck run out like sand. Isn’t that him
Looking so intently at his own bare feet, the way
He looked at my face the last time I was in town and said,

As though he had never even seen me before
“You are a very powerful woman.” making me less
The person who carried him out of the burning building
And more the one who gave him a ticket for torching it in the first place.

52 Postcards - postcard #1

The first thing I feel compelled to tell you is that this is not supposed to be good writing. Every week, I'm going to sit down with a different postcard, and write something related to that postcard for seven minutes. No editing, no cross-outs, just pen and paper. My desire to do this came from the realization that one of my writing problems is my unwillingness to sit down at the table unless I've got a phrase or idea that I am so in love with that I can't resist getting it down on paper. Sometimes you just need to sit down at the table, and see that you will survive the bad writing, and that the bad writing won't somehow commit you to more bad writing, as though writing was like a golf swing, and doing it badly would leave you with the relentless muscle memory of the wrong way to do it. Anyway, here's this week's bad swing.

Postcard: Have A Nice Day, 1977
Photograph by Paul McMahon
Exercise: Relate the postcard to your life

Last night in my dream, we were still together. We were at my mother's house, and it was the day before an event. Your old hatchback was outside, and as you walked out to it, you told me that you were going to see Sara and Steve. I wasn't invited. And with that, we broke up.

I hadn't dreamed that we were together in a long time. I hadn't thought about Sara in longer. In the dream, I couldn't believe that we had broken up, just like that, and when I woke, I wondered if I had ever believed it at all.

Days before we broke up in real life, I remember sitting in my car, in a parking lot that overlooked the beach. It was cold outside, that kind of cold that burrows deep in your ears. I sat in the car and wrote a letter in a notebook. When I write lettters in a notebook, it's unlikely I will ever send them, because that would mean tearing out the pages. I don't know what I did with that one. It was written to a girlfriend, one who I can think about those things with. I felt sad and content in the car, both at the same time, and I think maybe that was the first time I really knew we were about to break up.

The day we did, it was still a surprise. Talking about it was like walking up to a steep cliff you are going to dive off of. I remember a tablecloth that used to sit on the kitchen table, yellow and blue, that matched the tablecloth we had turned into a curtain over the window with the sill you later told me had rotted completely, so that you and your new wife had to take out part of the wall to fix it.

When I told Susan we broke up, she said "I feel terrible, I didn't even know anything was wrong." and after that, I didn't pretend anything was okay that really wasn't. But I'm not sorry that we kept that pact of silence about our relationship in a way, I think we had a quietness about things that came from the fact that we were closer then than Susan and I were. That seems okay to me, when you are with someone trust-worthy, like I was with you.

You wanted to talk about things after we broke up, but I never knew what to say. It was like we had been this postcard, a happy face drawn over a truth that was nothing more than blurry to me.

This one comes with a photo

I was at the Tomales Bay Workshops last week, and had a fantastic time. Totally inspiring, from my terrific poet roommates (Dana of Poetry Thursday - are you so jealous that she was my roommate? and Wendy T of the UC Davis graduate program, whose poem on 1999 I loved and hope to see again) to the poets who led workshops, read and delighted us with their panel discussion on poetry. If you do not know the poets Nick Flynn, Dorianne Laux and Gary Short, then you have much to look forward to in life.

Here's the brand new poem that happened to me today. Draft 1.5

For Halloween at the Ranch, After Tomales Bay

MaryEllen and Rose dressed up as Irish Wolfhounds,
who, the night before, had dressed up as two pairs of shining eyes
loping down the driveway to meet me
and their tongues dressed up as tongues
ready to reclaim me as their own, as part of the ranch again.

And my computer dressed up as a laptop that got left behind
at the Cherry Creek Four Points Sheraton in Denver,
refusing to return until sixty dollars and sixty-one cents had changed hands
until two days had passed, and the FedEx man knocked on the door
like someone else's dad delivering my errant trick-or-treater back to me.

What I dressed up as was an almost-35-year-old who had not bathed for 3 days
who has developed a fondness for boiling water in the kettle
on the wood stove, which was dressed up as a wood stove
allowing itself to be filled with fire by a woman who had previously
almost never started a fire by herself on the first try.

And on Halloween at the ranch, my hands dressed up as the spookiest thing
the thing that gives you a fright and leaves you delighted at the same time
like the reveal at the end of the Sixth Sense - five fingers full of words,
including a little finger smeared with the shadows of writing
and my hand refused to take off that costume and is wearing it still.