I've been working on a sestina for about six days now, and I'm quickly remembering how forms help me to describe situations in ways I wouldn't have otherwise. I'm usually afraid of making metaphors and similes, because I'm just not confident that I can make effective, non-cliched ones. However, whenever I write sestinas, a metaphor always gets in there; even more significant is that I actually try to develop it and allow it to flourish.
I guess the ironic thing is that I'm so paranoid about writing down some overused simile or metaphor... or idiom (which, actually, are often similes)... and even saying them that when I'm asked to say them, I can't always get them right. Sharon, Amber, and I were doing a writing exercise that had to begin with a cliche. I think I said, "Oh, apples and oranges" and "When cows fly," both of which I think allude to cliches but aren't quite. I heard someone make a mistake on an NPR interview. She said that "everyone has a shadow in their closet." I started cracking up, though I thought the idea was interesting, since you generally can only have a shadow in your closet if the door is open, which would defeat the meaning of the "skeleton in the closet" since it's not hidden, but which also evokes the idea of some kind of other self.
Back to the original reason for this post. I've been trying to find my way back to writing poetry at the level that I think I used to write. I've been having trouble. I think the sestina is helping, though. This predetermined structure seems to be helping me break out of this older mold I've been stuck in.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
How I Saved a Scorpion
I saw the title of my next blog entry in my head: "I killed a scorpion." I saw other things, too, like what the scorpion would look like writhing under the broomstick handle, a partially crushed little guy still trying to sting anything, and even my own hands shaking after killing my own zodiac sign. So, after standing there in a partial daze, holding the broomstick like a little threat in front of the equally dazed arachnid, I ran into my writing room (also the bunny room now), grabbed an empty plastic jar that usually holds timothy hay cubes, and returned to find... no scorpion in sight.
After moving a few things with the tip of the broom stick, I found him (or her) under Bryan's cordless drill charger, and then I screamed. :) And then, I used a dust pan to shuffle the little guy into the jar and quickly screwed on the lid.
There's a nice, large area of desert near our place, so I was able to take a flashlight and my jar and let him out there. Hopefully, he'll find some food and a cool rock to inch under. He's good; I'm good. I think this experience helped both scorpions living in my near vicinity and myself. After watching the little guy try not to get into the jar and try not to step onto the dust pan, I'm a lot less afraid of scorpions in general. He kept trying to play dead, I think, and he never tried to strike at anything; he just wanted to be left alone.
Since October, when I saw my first scorpion (outside of the Desert Museum) in person, hanging out in our kitchen, I knew my fears were unjustified and mainly based on the way scorpions look. Where's the head?--I mean, I know where it is, but since it's not "head-shaped" with a nice neck, it looks kinda headless. Headless things are scary things... or so I thought. Now that I've seen a scorpion up close--really up close--and interacted with one, I actually kinda like them. And I have much more respect for them. Yay, scorpions. Oh, here's what he looked like:
photo by Matt Reinbold
After moving a few things with the tip of the broom stick, I found him (or her) under Bryan's cordless drill charger, and then I screamed. :) And then, I used a dust pan to shuffle the little guy into the jar and quickly screwed on the lid.
There's a nice, large area of desert near our place, so I was able to take a flashlight and my jar and let him out there. Hopefully, he'll find some food and a cool rock to inch under. He's good; I'm good. I think this experience helped both scorpions living in my near vicinity and myself. After watching the little guy try not to get into the jar and try not to step onto the dust pan, I'm a lot less afraid of scorpions in general. He kept trying to play dead, I think, and he never tried to strike at anything; he just wanted to be left alone.
Since October, when I saw my first scorpion (outside of the Desert Museum) in person, hanging out in our kitchen, I knew my fears were unjustified and mainly based on the way scorpions look. Where's the head?--I mean, I know where it is, but since it's not "head-shaped" with a nice neck, it looks kinda headless. Headless things are scary things... or so I thought. Now that I've seen a scorpion up close--really up close--and interacted with one, I actually kinda like them. And I have much more respect for them. Yay, scorpions. Oh, here's what he looked like:
photo by Matt Reinbold
Sunday, August 31, 2008
What's My Inspira-a-tion?
I can't help but remember that at one point I did feel "inspired" to write. I generally hate it when people talk about being inspired, because it makes it sound so easy to be a poet. I think it's hard. I don't just get "inspired" and then let the words flow.
The words don't flow. Not usually, anyway. They kinda randomly spill out like legos or slightly hardened globs of Play-Doh. And then I shove, stick, and mush them into different configurations using whatever skills I've picked up from other poets along the way, and then somehow I decide it's done. Or as a poet once said, it's abandoned.
When I was younger, before I went to school for poetry, my main poet inspirations were William Blake and Robert Frost. However, I also believe that Toad the Wet Sprocket was a major influence. I listened to All I Want, Hold Her Down, and Butterflies soooo many times on my little Sony Walkman. I think the songs evoked a lot of emotions within me that I spent most of my days trying to supress. I was rather quietly and ashamedly dealing with deceit and abuse, and those songs were almost like an introduction to therapy, in that they allowed me to actually feel.
I think I sound angry at poetry right now. After teaching so many freshmen composition and advanced writing for various professions classes, it's like I've lost my ear for music. What's funny is that when I say music, I'm really thinking of the rhythms of poetry, but when I think of the rawness or vulnerability of content, I'm thinking of Toad and other lyrics I've enjoyed over the years.
Lately, I've been listening to Cold Play--mainly Viva La Vida and Fix You--and I think it may be helping.
The words don't flow. Not usually, anyway. They kinda randomly spill out like legos or slightly hardened globs of Play-Doh. And then I shove, stick, and mush them into different configurations using whatever skills I've picked up from other poets along the way, and then somehow I decide it's done. Or as a poet once said, it's abandoned.
When I was younger, before I went to school for poetry, my main poet inspirations were William Blake and Robert Frost. However, I also believe that Toad the Wet Sprocket was a major influence. I listened to All I Want, Hold Her Down, and Butterflies soooo many times on my little Sony Walkman. I think the songs evoked a lot of emotions within me that I spent most of my days trying to supress. I was rather quietly and ashamedly dealing with deceit and abuse, and those songs were almost like an introduction to therapy, in that they allowed me to actually feel.
I think I sound angry at poetry right now. After teaching so many freshmen composition and advanced writing for various professions classes, it's like I've lost my ear for music. What's funny is that when I say music, I'm really thinking of the rhythms of poetry, but when I think of the rawness or vulnerability of content, I'm thinking of Toad and other lyrics I've enjoyed over the years.
Lately, I've been listening to Cold Play--mainly Viva La Vida and Fix You--and I think it may be helping.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Mochihead
http://www.mochihead.com is what I've been up to lately (besides getting ready for summer school, not writing, writing a little, exercising more, etc.).
Monday, April 30, 2007
Saturday
On Saturday, we met up with some friends in Davis Square and watched "Strange Culture," which is about artist/activist Steve Kurtz. It was part of the Boston indi film festival.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Jefferson Carter and Glenn Mott
Right now, I'm reading Sentimental Blue, by Jefferson Carter, and Analects on a Chinese Screen, by Glenn Mott. Charles (Alexander, of course :) ) sent me a nice bunch of new Chax books, so I guess they will be my summer reading. Right now, I've read half of both Sentimental and Analects.
One thing I'm especially enjoying about Analects on a Chinese Screen is the... flow... for lack of a better word. My own poetry tends to be so confined, in a way, so it's refreshing to read poems that don't seem to have rigid edges. By "edges," I think I mean a number of things: one obvious agenda; a beginning and ending on every page, though there are both on some pages; every grammar rule abided, etc. I don't know who wrote the book's description on the back cover, but it says, "Analects on a Chinese Screen is a collection of selected writings, miscellany, and passages whose subject is China," and that "the 'I' of Analects refers to a protean self." In the last few years, I feel like my poetry has been relying heavily on delivering a message, and my writing process has been about "supporting an argument"--that is sooo messed up. I mean, I write poetry, not essays!
Teaching at Northeastern University is great. I agree with the philosophy of the program, and the director of the Writing Program and director of the First-Year Writing Program are so supportive and also very down-to-earth. I sooo enjoy teaching, and my students have been great. Our text and the essay prompts that are included in it challenge the students to reflect upon their own presumptions and biases--about writing, reading, people different from themselves...
but the GRAMMAR is getting to me! And the ESSAY form is getting to me. I've been branching out, having them read Gloria Anzaldua's "How to Tame a Wild Tongue," and having them right hybrid texts (for one essay), but I still need to teach grammar rules... and I LOVE GRAMMAR, it seems. It appeals to some part of my mind that yearns for the simplicity of black and white, right and wrong, good and bad. And yet, that way of thinking is so hurtful to my process as a poet.
Agh!
I'm enjoying the wit and sensitivity in Jefferson Carter's Sentimental Blue. I'm also loving the vivid images. The second poem in the book, "Strep Throat," depicts his dog as it "scuttles/ down the hall," wondering where he is. It made me think Apollo, our little one-year-old black cat, who we found sitting on Dale Ernhart, Jr. Blvd. in North Carolina. Apollo--he was so lost and so little. We had to feed him with a syringe at first. And now, he thinks I'm his mother. He's always looking for me. Carter also has this great image of... you know, it would actually be really lame of me to talk more about his images. I mean, it would do the poems a great disservice. And I ought to actually go read more of them, instead of writing about my memories of them.
One thing I'm especially enjoying about Analects on a Chinese Screen is the... flow... for lack of a better word. My own poetry tends to be so confined, in a way, so it's refreshing to read poems that don't seem to have rigid edges. By "edges," I think I mean a number of things: one obvious agenda; a beginning and ending on every page, though there are both on some pages; every grammar rule abided, etc. I don't know who wrote the book's description on the back cover, but it says, "Analects on a Chinese Screen is a collection of selected writings, miscellany, and passages whose subject is China," and that "the 'I' of Analects refers to a protean self." In the last few years, I feel like my poetry has been relying heavily on delivering a message, and my writing process has been about "supporting an argument"--that is sooo messed up. I mean, I write poetry, not essays!
Teaching at Northeastern University is great. I agree with the philosophy of the program, and the director of the Writing Program and director of the First-Year Writing Program are so supportive and also very down-to-earth. I sooo enjoy teaching, and my students have been great. Our text and the essay prompts that are included in it challenge the students to reflect upon their own presumptions and biases--about writing, reading, people different from themselves...
but the GRAMMAR is getting to me! And the ESSAY form is getting to me. I've been branching out, having them read Gloria Anzaldua's "How to Tame a Wild Tongue," and having them right hybrid texts (for one essay), but I still need to teach grammar rules... and I LOVE GRAMMAR, it seems. It appeals to some part of my mind that yearns for the simplicity of black and white, right and wrong, good and bad. And yet, that way of thinking is so hurtful to my process as a poet.
Agh!
I'm enjoying the wit and sensitivity in Jefferson Carter's Sentimental Blue. I'm also loving the vivid images. The second poem in the book, "Strep Throat," depicts his dog as it "scuttles/ down the hall," wondering where he is. It made me think Apollo, our little one-year-old black cat, who we found sitting on Dale Ernhart, Jr. Blvd. in North Carolina. Apollo--he was so lost and so little. We had to feed him with a syringe at first. And now, he thinks I'm his mother. He's always looking for me. Carter also has this great image of... you know, it would actually be really lame of me to talk more about his images. I mean, it would do the poems a great disservice. And I ought to actually go read more of them, instead of writing about my memories of them.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
Favorite Poetry Books (National Poetry Month)
It's National Poetry Month, so I thought I ought to start blogging again. Lists sound do-able right now, so here it goes:
10 of My Favorite Poetry Books of ALL TIME
(from off the top of my head)
in no particular order
1. Shakespeare's Sonnets
2. Unbearable Heart, by Kimiko Hahn
3. The Tyrant of the Past and the Slave of the Future, by Christopher Davis
4. Paramour, by Stacy Doris (krupskaya)
5. Ring of Fire, by Lisa Jarnot
6. Poeta en San Francisco, by Barbara Jane Reyes
7. Dictee, by Theresa Hak Kyung Cha
8. Crazy Melon and Chinese Apple, by Frances Chung
9. Tremble, by C.D. Wright
10.Selected Poems, by Alice Notley
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