Need More Readings Fast!

Here are a couple of ideas for you. Don't forget tonight there is a reading at Satchel's Grill. Since there is no school next week there is also an event coming up on Monday. I've never been to one of these but anything is worth trying once right?

Monday, November 19
The Spoken Word Reading and Workshop Series presents Denise Jolly and Ryler Dustin! Bring your own poetry to workshop at 5:00 at BSU, then come to the slam to see the full feature.
-- Workshop with Denise Jolly and Ryler Dustin!
BSU Student Union Building (Alexander room)
5 PM, free
-- BOISE POETRY SLAM with Denise Jolly and Ryler Dustin!
The Funny Bone
405 S. 8th St.
Signups 7:30, Show at 8, $5
-- Feature by Denise Jolly and Ryler Dustin and open slam!

http://boisepoetry.com/calendar.htm

A few words about Tuesday

I guess I should apologize if anyone felt uncomfortable with my poetry on Tuesday. I try to keep it simple and I did not intend to offend anyone with my workshop poem. I got to thinking about it and the teacher did ask me to discuss it after class. I guess I knew where I was coming from when I wrote it and as the writer, I felt it was relatively 'safe.' If anyone took it a different way then I am quite sorry.

It goes to show you that there is something to the audience question. How focused should we be on audience? I try not to write for workshop audience and I don't think that anyone else in our 'classroom community' does. I think we all stick to what is important to us and so what if... seems to be our attitude. I feel like this is a good thing. With that being said I still must apologize to anyone who was offended by my poem.

Gosh, I am almost at a loss for words. I know this is not a place to talk about 'workshop' exactly but I think what I am going to say is safe enough. Ivy mentioned that she didn't feel the first six lines of my last poem we workshopped meshed with the rest of the poem. I find that interesting that she said that because I talked to Dustin Lapray about a month ago and we talked about some of the things that we felt were our poem problems. I told him that I had problems with my own first few lines and he gave me some good advise. Dustin told me that he sometimes struggled with the same issue and that he finds that he often finds a better beginning further down in his poems and ends up cutting his first lines out. I loved this advice. I've been trying to do this in my own work.

This is an interesting concept that we cut out those first lines we've penned. I think the first lines woes are the last bit of holdover from our 'essay' nature.

Readable Things

If you haven't had time to read Emily's response to the post on poem 10 she clears up my blue question.

I think William Carlos Williams is going to be an enjoyable read. I thumbed through the book a little and stopped on page 113. I found such wonderful words.

Fire burns; that is the first law.
When a wind fans it the flames

are carried aboard. Talk
is a fire and not only of the blood.

The writing is nothing, the being
in a position to write (that's

where they get you) is nine tenths
of the difficulty: seduction

or strong arm stuff. The writing
should be a relief,

relief from the conditions
which as we advance become--a fire,

a destroying fire. For the writing
is also an attack and means must be


This poem continues on but I was drawn in immediately by what I was reading. I wanted to read more. I think this weeks readings are going to be pleasant and a wonderful break from vile, depressing Berryman.

Just Me & Berryman: Should I Be Scared?

Okay so I am a complete chick, chick, chicken. Jodi gave me the perfect opportunity to talk about Poem 10 of Berryman and I froze again. I have to address this or else I will drive myself crazy for not talking about it in class. Let's just call this the bonus edition from class then, shall we.

I find Berryman's Poem 10 so disturbing. If you get a chance please read it again because I feel like it talks about a lynching. Take a look at the picture and also go to the website http://www.withoutsanctuary.org/main.html I feel like you can really get perspective if you at least look at the photo I included and then reread Poem 10. This poem and photo are disturbing. Besides leaving a very bad taste in my head I also began to question why Berryman would include this written image in the book? What is the significance, what is the reason for including it?

My big question though shifted to what other images are in this poetry that I am missing. Once I deciphered this image I started going back and looking for others. I went through them with widget and dictionary.com at my fingertips looking for images missed. Berryman creates a word web that I don't think I can completely explore in just three weeks. I want to know why Berryman is using the 'blackface' idea for the text. What is the significance of this? So many questions, so little time.

My last question, I promise! What is with the fascination with the color blue? Emily's poetry and our discussion in class really got me thinking about the color blue and nature. We find the color blue in the sky and water but where else in nature can we discover the color blue? How often is blue a color that we associate in our environment?

Last Night After Class...

I was talking to a fellow poet who is a MFA student. We talked about something that I found very interesting. He told me that he has different folders on his computer that he puts different poems in as works in progress. The idea was that he didn't always see his poems in successive order. The reason I mention this is because we are all going to do these chapbooks at the end of the term. Perhaps this might help someone to organize these little gems we've been writing. It's just a suggestion. Folders are fluid just like anything else but I was struggling with how to organize my work and his idea struck me as brilliant. Something to think about.

I've been struggling with what to write here. I think I had it out with my space over my last entry. In a way I feel very disconnected from my own blog. I usually have tons of things to say. This is odd for me. Ah but, I think something is bubbling. My husband comes from this huge-never-a-dull-moment family aka more drama than you'll ever need in a single lifetime. One sister went to visit another and the report she came back with was disturbing. I listened in horror as she explained that one of her sister's boys got into a scuffle with one of her girls. I was horrified that my nephew was not punished for putting his hands on my niece. Call me old fashioned if you want but it made me see how the cycle of abuse in my husband's family continues. That is a bit personal I know but as academics I think we discuss these topics without it necessarily being something that we come into contact with.

I am the worst position of all because my feelings about the matter are so strong but I've watched members of the family basically turn their heads and look the other way and allow behaviors to continue and nobody stands up for the women involved. I feel bad about my niece more than anything because she doesn't know how unacceptable it is for a man to put his hands on a woman. I don't want her to grow up feeling powerless and voiceless. But now I wonder, when does the cycle start, will this be the first of other events in her life? I hope not. It makes you want to write something good does it not?

Remembering that not all women have the same opportunities or exposure to the right kinds of relationships so they form boundaries that are not healthy for them later. I must call my niece today and tell her that what happened to her is not acceptable. I hope it makes a difference. Someone has to say no and assure her that she is not voiceless. That's my little anecdote for today. Help someone else realize that they have a voice too.

Acceptance: Ode to sterilized places & neat clean poetry

Fluffy words with no teeth
gorging meals of oatmeal and green jello
with a dash of saltpeter.

Tender gums and infected tongue grind
flavorless meal.
No salt.
Jalapeños banned from this confined space
fearful of heavy gas, discharged
when flavors are allowed to mix
and disagree with the stomach.

Marvelous moving mermaids
Fantasmic flying fairies
Whimsical waltzing witches (only the good ones)
or
Seductively sexy sweethearts

As long as it rolls off the tongue,
sounds sugary sweet or
pings of clumped tomato paste
does that make it
Remain sterile enough to ingest.

If you stray away from the ordinary
You will be told to get back in your seat,
fasten your seatbelt and
no, no, no, the finger shakes
You may not remove your buttocks from,
cushioned cramped seat until the fasten your seatbelt light
is extinguished.

Please let me be a cardboard box
at least there I can feel like I
live in two worlds--wrapper touching what's inside
but exposed to the outside world
where I can breathe.

Articulate in simplistic pseudo shifts
Sanitized so a child can understand.
NO jumping, fighting or pulling of little Suzie's braids.

Okay, give it a try!

I love this and
I hate that
because of...
blah blah,
blah blah,
blah
And all wrongs are righted in the final stanza
The End

I am not your standard 'one size fits all'
poet that fits in a compact box.
I am not always clever in the way you easily detect
or
sweet matronly grandma, age: 72.

Say it again with better poetic flair?

Walk beside calm trickling rivers and other slow moving creeks.
Places made happy and brightly lit
where tripping or falling are not allowed.

I tippy-toe on jagged rocks
until my pink toes bleed.

I say it again?

Travel comfortably on swollen bloody feet
across parched desert littered with broken discarded things.
My hands grasp razor wire
Not skipping rocks across calm ponds surrounded by tulips and fragrant clover.

Why make this space baby's breath in a vase?

I am thorns on roses.
Cut lilies left unwattered in summery windowsill.

Thus, the illusion of happy, fun poetic places
is crushed by violently thrusting ocean waves--they crumble
piers that stood sixty-years strong and homey well-built dwellings.

Can this be a free space for expression where molds are maintained
Idolized and embraced by the lover.

Where fairies flutter wistfully
and whisper sweet nothingness in the ear.
This space is reserved for battles with demons and pretentious poetry gods.

Does this roll off the tongue sweetly,
attract warm fuzzy feelings in the heart.
Do you get every nuance and pull it tightly to a pale thin skinned breast.

If so, I have failed miserably in my assessment,
Made too light of nauseating, cloud-like verse.
I want you to bristle and pull back your hand from the flame.

What Now?

A space created to talk about your work without talking about your work. My poem was subjected to workshop hell and I survived. What now though? I have not read my written responses but listened to different things everyone said in class. In totality all elements matched. Different people picked up on different things that were headed exactly where I wanted to go.

My basic questions are how many 'tool tips' are appropriate to give the reader? I'm left with these questions of how much information is too much and how much is too little. This is so difficult because I am a blogger of sorts and I talk about any ole thing that comes to mind. This space is comfortable for me. It is by no means foreign or a place where I am shy or hold back too much. I just don't want to bend in that poem. Every last dang element my class touched on but how connective do I want to make it? How A equals B equals C yeah you got it do I have to be? I know that there are possibly three or four 'spell it all out' lines that I could give that would completely tie everything in--clear visual, check!

I sound like a disgruntled workshopee but I am not. But I am however going to switch over to a freer space, one where I can breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, fill my lungs.

Dry Feet

Something must be said about dry feet. I promise this will relate to poetry as well. As fall begins and summer draws to a close, I can't say that I am disappointed. So many people wear sandals, flip flops and the like. The people that irritate me are the people who wear these items but insist on wearing them with dry feet. I hope you know the ones I am talking about. Cute shoes, even nicely painted toes on occasion but the feet are so dry that you fear they will start a brush fire if they walk through dry grass.

Ashen, dry cracked feet. Feet that have been long neglected. Even between the toes you can see white encrusted madness. Anyone who has these dry feet AND they are dirty to boot, we should really talk. It grosses me out just thinking about it. Anyway, these feet remind me of poetry and the quest to create fabulous poetry. All of us as poets have our sandals on and we are ready to get out there and do something. But what?

What we are doing now as a class, I believe, is applying lotions and potions to our feet. We are completely prepared as humans to walk the walk but how will we do it? Dry feet or beautifully salved feet that are smooth, supple, and pleasant to gaze upon. Some of us require drastic measures to achieve magnificent looking feet. Me included. Lotions don't cut it for me, I require Vaseline in thick application to make my feet decently fit to look at. I am comfortable with this being the case.

What about those who are not? Perhaps they will never achieve what they seek. I guess you could say taking Jodi's class is a trip a fancy foo-foo shop. She allows us to sample many different works so we can ultimately find the right combination of salves, balms and compounds until our feet are no longer an eyesore to others.

There you have it! I managed to talk about something relevant AND give a little shout out about people that have nasty ate up feet. I shiver just thinking about them, it is perhaps one of the biggest... never mind because I will offend someone if I go on. If you have nasty dry feet... read more poetry and rub a little somethin-somethin on them when you wear your sandals or flip-flops.

Happy almost fall.

Early Morning Ramblings

This is a difficult Blog. After class last night I came up with the marvelous idea for a new poem. Normally, I think of my Blog space as somewhere I can get immediate gratification. If I must write on this thing anyway, I want it to take shape and form. How do I create a space where I talk about my own poetry without providing 'spoilers' for the next poem I submit?

I can't say for sure that I will be able to create a happy, happy, joy, joy place where I talk about my writing without talking about my writing. That seems slightly off to say such a thing but I want to be able to share that I've come up with my next self thought stroke of brilliance. Do I continue to subject my family to my word frenzy? They love me for that you know. Not really. Perhaps I will just continue to seek their perplexed placated smiles.

So, having a space to write about poetry and my poetics without discussing my work is not the place I'd hoped to create. I guess I could talk about the reading here.

Here's something to talk about that nobody but me may be interested in. I think of myself as musically diverse. Love myself SOME rap. One song in particular that is poetically brilliant, Ghetto Vet (clean version) by Ice Cube. I have listened to this song about thousand times. He's got a verse that I completely did not get until recently. The content of the song is phenomenal. People think about gangsters and thugs and how terrible they are etc. But what if that's your life? What if you've been exposed to just that? I don't get all freaked out I suppose. I have a cousin that lived that life. I never would have thought as we were growing up that he would join a gang. I had another cousin that never even got out of high school, he was shot dead at school.

What does this have to do with Ice Cube and the song Ghetto Vet. It is a brilliant portrait that he paints about someone who was shot and survived. He creates a vivid imagery that tells a story about this gangster that survives only to spend the rest of he life disabled. Who thinks about them? Anyway, the entire song always made sense to me until recently when my aunt and I were having a discussion about King hospital in L.A. Bam! I got it, I understood something about Ice Cube's song that I'd never seen before. What's my point? I guess the most important thing I want to say is that if it is the brilliant poetic nature of Ghetto Vet these things stay with us and we take pieces of work with us. We can't help but gravitate to work that moves or perplexes us. The thing that most impresses me about Ghetto Vet is that if you have no idea about living in L.A. there is no way that you would ever get Ice Cube's song. It was two verses that made perfect sense but he reached beyond and connected with a specific group of people.

I shall regret when I push publish post.

Woohoo!

I am so happy just to be able to write something. No spoilers. All I can say is that my summer turned out to be a bust. My writing hit a bunch of valleys and valleys and valleys, but finally peaked ever so briefly just to wind up back to the valleys again.

I am ecstatic that I wrote a poem and turned it in before midnight. Who knew that it would feel this good. More than likely, I will look at the poem again tomorrow and realize that I want to change fifty things. Fortunately, I can fill my time with reading or something.

Welcome to Part II

This is a new space created exclusively for English 305-Intermediate Poetry & Poetics. What you'll find here will morph into something. I can't tell you what at this very moment but it will grow and transition. To those of you who hate pink, I do apologize. I thought I would explore my feminine side.