Neurotica Exotica

Pebble Lake!

2012-01-22T23:59:00.001-08:00

Hey guys, I have a poem in the new issue of Pebble Lake Review, edited by the delightful Amanda Auchter! Check it out here.

In other news, Adam Vines, esteemed editor of Birmingham Poetry Review, took one of my 'paradise poems' while the lovely George David Clark of 32 Poems took another in the sequence. That leaves one (the spring one) left unpublished. These are exciting times. I can't believe my work is finding homes, and, by proxy, a readership. Yes a small readership, but a readership all the same!

My First Interview

2011-12-22T09:33:00.000-08:00

Hello readers,

I was lucky enough to get asked some questions by an intern at The Potomac Review. I won their biannual poetry contest a few years back, and since they are offering the contest again, they decided to interview past winners about their winning poems, writing/poetry in general, and more miscellany! Please check out my interview here and leave comments, participate in the poetic discussion!

My Top Ten Shows of 2011

2011-12-15T21:15:00.000-08:00

I don’t watch a whole lot of television, but I sample many shows, and the few I stick to have to justify the time I spend viewing them. I’ve never been much of a consumer of pop culture “trash,” except in bite-sized morsels of the type Joel McHale regularly doles out on The Soup. Shows like Real Housewives amuse me on a conceptual level, but actually sitting down to watch on episode leaves me feeling as if I’ve slipped into septic shock. The same goes with scripted shows in the vein of Two and a Half Men. For me, it’s all about time. Why would I sit through something bad, even if it’s amusingly bad, if the returns are diminishing, let alone few and far between. This is how I justify not reading a single Twilight book the whole way through (though I’ve sampled and skimmed enough to know what I’m talking about when leveling criticism toward the series.)

There are shows I recognize as bad in a conventional sense that I do like (from the populist, designed-to-appeal-to-my-young-gay-demographic Glee, to the crass and misogynistic, yet bizarrely fascinating Millionaire Matchmaker) but they are the exception. I’m not going to explain what is good and what is bad, except to define these terms as they apply to my taste: something good pleases me on a consistent basis, rewards my time and attention, and challenges me with intricate plotting and depth of characters; conversely, something bad would be inconsistent in quality, offering seldom rewards for one’s time, and no redeeming qualities, even in the realm of so-bad-it’s-good camp.

Why am I defining these terms? Because I am about to undertake one of the most thankless tasks in television writing: compiling a top ten list of the best shows this year. Best, meaning my favorites, what programs I deemed as good. So, having wasted enough space with the preface, here are, in no particular order, my top ten television shows of 2011.

Breaking Bad

Community

Game of Thrones

Homeland

Justified

Louie

Parks and Recreation

RuPaul’s Drag Race

Top Chef

United States of Tara

(Shows that aired this year that I plan to catch up on to formulate a more qualified opinion: American Horror Story, Awkward., Boardwalk Empire, Enlightenment, The Good Wife, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia)

Christmas Time is Here

2011-12-12T20:56:00.000-08:00

'Tis the season, as the old refrain goes, and I find myself inexplicably drawn once again to Christmas music. Maybe I'm surrounded by bitter cynics. Maybe I think I'm "too cool for school" (note: no one who's ever said that has been too cool for school.) Whatever the case may be, I am always surprised how much I get into Christmas music once it begins infesting the airwaves and Starbuckses of America. I guess I'm inclined to think I am predisposed to dislike it since my musical tastes, otherwise, have been carefully cultivated to seem intelligent and classy to outsiders, an important aspect of current music culture. Music is just one of many different kinds of packaging we cover ourself in to make the way others assess us easier. If someone listens to Top 40 vs bands no one's ever heard of, you can seemingly assume a lot about their interests, personality, intelligence, lifestyle, etc. Of course, I don't really subscribe to such a reductive view of people (unless they're Black Eyed Peas fans--there's no excuse for that) but I think it's useful shorthand if you are trying to decide who to share new music with. Chances are your Justin Bieber lovers aren't going to be too keen on St. Vincent and vice versa.

But Christmas music is it's own odd genre, one I have a particular, queer (not in the gay way!) affinity for. I grew up in a lax Jewish household with an absentee Christian parent, so my convictions have never been strong either way. As I've gotten older, I've found myself identifying more and more with my Jewish heritage (even if it's mostly in name only--but isn't that truly Jewish!) but Christmas is and will always be an important holiday for my family to celebrate. So there's the music. Last year, when I was flying back home from Ohio, the song I most listened to was Kurt and Blaine's duet of "Baby It's Cold Outside" which stole my heart:

I've recently started watching Glee again and am surprised by how quickly it's re-captivated me. For a young gay man with few pop culture representations (let alone role models or examples) to glom onto, this male-male performance is exactly the sort of thing I've hungered for my whole life. It's bittersweet (this is before they got together) and steeped in classic American music... it's a subversion purely on the level of who's singing to who, and in what context. Wonderful.

Then there's this charming Mayer Hawthorne cover of Vince Guaraldi's Charlie Brown Christmas song, "Christmas Time is Here." I like this song because it's very slight, mellow, almost contemplative--and though it's ostensibly about cheer and celebration, it's so spare it actually feels more haunting than anything else. I am not familiar with Hawthorne (beyond his attempt to play a halftime show after some intrepid Detroit citizens signed petitions to prevent the scheduled act--Nickelback--from performing) but I find his voice, brittle and airy, to be a good compliment to this song:

The other song I am listening to this Christmas is an original song from one of my favorite bands, The Killers, called "The Cowboy's Christmas Ball." Steeped in Nevada imagery (one of the band's staples since they hail from Vegas) and toying around whimsically with genre mixing (in this case, cowboy rock and Christmas carols), I found this song to be delightful and fun to bop to. The video is similarly fun, featuring colorful Western drag and campy robots, among other things (such as lead singer Brandon Flowers looking as rough-hewn and handsome as ever).

I think this is a wonderful new addition to Christmas music, which sometimes apes 50's nostalgia (when all classic Christmas songs were seemingly minted) a little too shamelessly when those old tunes aren't being "reinvented" for a "modern audience" (read: caterwauled by human muppet Justin Beiber.)

If you're feeling at all Grinchy, I implore you to listen to some of this season's music--it's much more diverse, musically, than you might think, so you're bound to find something palatable. I'm spending the holidays with my family (and cats), curled up by the fireplace, watching Christmas episodes of 30 Rock, Arrested Development, Community, The Office, and, of course, Glee! I hope your holidays are enjoyable. See you around New Years!

Music to Revise to, Vampires Keeping Diaries, and Life Updates

2011-11-20T23:54:00.000-08:00

There's something remarkable about this cover of Coldplay's "Yellow." The all violin arrangement, courtesy of L.A.'s Vitamin String Orchestra stirs my salty soul to life. I first heard this cover on an episode of The Vampire Diaries, a show I've become increasingly obsessed with. Don't let it's placement on the CW, or it's superficial resemblance to Twilight fool you, it's a lovely show that satisfies bloodlusters, romantics, and supernatural junkies in equal measure. Really and truly.

In other news, all my PhD applications are in. They've been in since the beginning of the month, and I've felt very comfortable and free ever since dropping them into the mail (virtual or otherwise.) Now it's just a matter of recommenders recommending me, and then waiting, waiting, waiting. I also have a pair of fellowship applications to send off still, and am contemplating using a different writing sample for those since I've written a lot of work I admire since submitting the PhD apps. Isn't that the worst? Sending things then thinking...wait, wait, I've got this too! The again, new things always look shiny.

Much has happened on the publication front. Third Coast, Rougarou, and Pebble Lake Review have taken poems in recent weeks, something I'm grateful for and humbled by. I still have a lot of work out there, including a chapbook at the Wick Poetry Center, so fingers crossed and all that. I'm also working on a book review that will appear in an issue of The Collagist, one of the better online journals out there.

Life is otherwise quiet. I look forward to returning home for some much needed R&R (teaching has taken a lot out of me this term) and to taking classes again (including a seminar on the long poem with my advisor, Henri Cole) in the winter. I won't know much about my future (including a potential summer lectureship) until probably February or March, so until then it's all a big waiting game. Who knows what will happen? Regardless, I am excited for the changes coming my way. Change is hard, but good.

Pushcart Nominations for The Journal

2011-10-13T14:59:00.000-07:00

We at The Journal are proud to announce our nominees for the Pushcart Prizes.

Fiction
Jessica Hollander, "What Became of What She Made" (35.1)
Alexander Lumans, "The American Indian is Dead" (35.1)

Poetry
Laurie Blauner, "Nature Poem without Nature" (35.2)
Alex Dimitrov, "A Second Heart Swims Up My Throat" (35.1)
Louisa Diodato, "Hive" (35.2)
Christopher Salerno, "Halloween" (35.1)

Another Poem Bites the Dust (or Gets Picked Up for Publication)

2011-10-10T18:37:00.000-07:00

This space is starting to feel a little self-celebrating, but I've hit an unprecedented hot streak and feel the need to celebrate. Quarterly West, an exceptional magazine which seems to have switched to being an all online journal, will be publishing my poem, "Summer in Paradise," in one of their upcoming issues. This is very good news because a) that poem is part of a mini-series I inadvertently started working on (the only one that remains to be written is the 'winter' poem) and b) Lisa Fay Coutley, a fantastic poet my roommate, Nick McRae, introduced me to via the interwebs, is the poetry editor, meaning she likes my poems! I couldn't more excited.

Check out Quarterly West's new issue here. I like the visual aesthetic a lot: clean and modern, with just the right amount of color popping in the navigation buttons. I think you'll find that the poems by my online poetry friends/crushes Traci Brimhall, Rebecca Hazleton, and Oliver Bendorf, are particularly exquisite. I hope we can be real life friends some day too!

I will start posting more...personal things...soon in order to break up all these publication announcements (should I be fortunate enough to accrue any more in the near future.)

Publication News Roundup!

2011-10-05T09:20:00.000-07:00

Just a quick note on a recent string of publications: I have two poems forthcoming in Hawai'i Review (the issue is due out this winter), three poems forthcoming in Cave Wall (in issue 11, due out around AWP), and two poems forthcoming in Cream City Review (in an issue tbd). I feel incredibly lucky and fortunate to have my poems selected to appear in these fine, fine journals!

Review of Katherine Larson's Radial Symmetry

2011-09-01T15:18:00.000-07:00

This is a big moment for me! Today Ploughshares published my review of Katherine Larson's incredible book, Radial Symmetry, on their blog. While not a poem, this is probably my highest profile publication to date since Ploughshares is such an incredible, well-respected magazine. Anyway, just wanted to share my love of Larson's Yale Younger Poets' award-winning collection with the world! Let me know what you think...I really enjoy reviewing and will look to publish more in the future.

Check the review out here!

Summer (Never Not Busy!)

2011-08-23T00:04:00.000-07:00

I am going to update this space more. A dull and all too common refrain, I know, but dammit, it's the truth this time! (For the time being.)

I spent the first part of the summer at home, ~~successfully earning my driver's license and thus exorcising the last vestige of childhood from my person~~, almost getting my license except the California DMV screwed me over, giving my appointment time while scheduling me for an earlier one. The logic behind this style of scheduling continues to elude me. Alas, I will have to wait until Christmas before I can become a real man.

In addition to not getting a driver's license, I headed up to Northern California to work with a great group of poets at a writing conference/retreat, The Squaw Valley Community of Writers. I worked with Robert Hass, Brenda Hillman, Major Jackson, Sharon Olds, and Cathy Park-Hong, and I must say I loved every minute of it, from close calls with a black bear, hiking up Squaw peak, swimming in Lake Tahoe with Brenda and Sharon, eating a homemade Indian dinner big enough to feed a small army, or listening to Robert Hass spontaneously recite haikus from memory by candlelight. It was memorable and probably deserves a post all its own...something I'll consider for later. I definitely plan to go back again (though I have my eye on Breadloaf for next summer.)

Since returning to Columbus last month, I've been teaching a poetry writing class and editing The Journal. Today, in fact, I selected the last poem that will appear in our Winter print issue, which I am very excited about since it will be the first paper issue I edited 100%. It's thrilling to see just how diverse and strong the work is, that I've got new and established writers occupying space side by side, that I'm helping other people achieve their literary dreams. I can't quite describe the contact high I get from accepting a poem for publication--only that it is altogether different from when I win something or receive a publication.

Speaking of that, a mere few days ago, three of my poems--yes, trois, trieze--were accepted for publication in Cave Wall, a small poetry journal with a big heart and personality. There are few finer in my estimation, particularly of the small magazines that only publish poetry, so this is real honor. Rhett, the editor, wrote me an incredible kind and gracious email when she took the poems, and I later found out a contributor to one of The Journal's upcoming issues had pulled my work out of the slush. This is especially exciting considering Cave Wall reads submissions blind. No you-scratch/I-scratch dirty dealings--simply two poets finding each other among the chaff. Those poems won't be coming out until probably AWP. Just as well, then I can thank the editors in person!

Most of the Squaw poems will be going into my thesis/book ms, so I've got them poised for slush piles all across the country. I've never felt quite so confident about any packets of work before. I imagine I will land squarely on my face for dreaming big, but then again, who knows what will happen. As with my PhD and fellowship applications, I plan to roll with the punches and, strategically, play things where they lay. I'm engaged in writing longer sequences at the moment--very new for me--but so far so good. It's got me excited, as does the older Louise Gluck I'm reading, and the Cavafy/Elytis/Sefaris I'm currently thumbing through.

Well that about sums my existence (to this point) up. More in the near future. Thanks for checking into this space!

Self-Promotion!

2011-06-21T10:14:00.000-07:00

Hey all, (anyone? Bueller?)

I have two poems in the new issue of West Branch Wired: "Self-Portrait as a Butoh Dancer," and "Self-Portrait During a Tornado Sighting." Check them out at your leisure, if you are so inclined!

Not much else is going on. Maybe a book review coming out, but we'll see. I am enjoying my new role is poetry editor of The Journal. Oh, that's right, we have a new website! Check it out here. Pretty fabulous, right?

Subsidy by Elizabeth Breese

2011-04-30T20:49:00.000-07:00

I am finishing my celebration of one poem/one day for National Poetry Month with a poem by Beth Breese, who was my colleague last year at Ohio State. This poem comes from her wonderful chapbook published by the Wick Poetry Center at Kent State. Please enjoy.

Subsidy

I live hand to mouth

from my father's hand.

He is generous, I am

Helena Handbasket.

We write in serifs,

charcoal, & ventriloquy:

the dog says hello.

My father wants to live

in a silo & draw rabbits

smoking cigarettes

on the walls & eat herring

raw. There, we'd speak

with fear of the practical life

he might have lived.

We write of repairs.

Dad, your crushed eye

socket, the delirium

tremens, my, my, my

overdraft, my hopes

are flimsy & flaking

like mica that you'll survive

your regrets. Daughter,

my regrets look like me

at the hand of my father's

basement buzz cut.

Look, I wish I was living

hopefully, like you,

but with acrylic.

I am the child of

his reckless dreams.

I grow my hair long.

I was impractical &

catalogue the words

I cannot stand--dregs,

scrim, scum--

for a good time.

I live letter to letter

when he ghost-prospects:

hello, says the dog,

save a little of this.

(from The Lonely-Wilds, Kent State University Press 2011)

What The Angels Left by Marie Howe

2011-04-29T14:18:00.000-07:00

Normally, I am not a fan of the word "angel" in poetry (or in general really). There's just so much preciousness associated with them that their appearance usually signifies a poem is about to turn hard into the saccharin, the maudlin, the too-earnest-and-sincere. Not so with this delightful poem from Marie Howe's first book. I share it with you because it is a rule breaking poem in the best possibly way. Angles never appear here...and the poem is all the more mysterious and tantalizing for that.

What The Angels Left

At first, the scissors seemed perfectly harmless.
They lay on the kitchen table in the blue light.

Then I began to notice them all over the house,
at night in the pantry, or filling up bowls in the cellar

where there should have been apples. The appeared under rugs,
lumpy places where one would usually settle before the fire,

or suddenly shining in the sink at the bottom of soupy water.
Once, I found a pair in the garden, stuck in turned dirt

among the new bulbs, and one night, under my pillow,
I felt something like a cool long tooth and pulled them out

to lie next to me in the dark. Soon after that I began
to collect them, filling boxes, old shopping bags,

every suitcase I owned. I grew slightly uncomfortable
when company came. What if someone noticed them

when looking for forks or replacing dried dishes? I longed
to throw them out, but how could I get rid of something

that felt oddly like grace? It occurred to me finally
that I was meant to use them, and I resisted the growing compulsion

to cut my hair, although, in moments of great distraction,
I thought it was my eyes they wanted, or my soft belly

--exhausted in winter, I laid them out on the lawn.
The snow fell quite as usual, without any apparent hesitation

or discomfort. In spring, as I expected, they were gone.
In their place, a slight metallic smell, and the dear muddy earth.

(from The Good Thief: Poems, Persea Books 1988)

More Good News on the Publication Front

2011-04-29T14:03:00.000-07:00

I received in an email today during the class break between discussing one colleague's short stories, and another's sculptural/scientific art. The email was from the poetry editor at Hayden's Ferry Review, informing me that one of my poems was being accepted for the next issue! This is particularly good news because that poem is one of my favorites (one I've worked on for the past several years) and HFR is one of my favorite literary magazines, because the poetry that appears in their pages is often unanimously great. Two of my colleagues here at OSU have had their work in the magazine (in the same issue, no less) so I feel quite excited and humbled to be included in this next issue. Just wanted to let you guys (if you exist out there) know!

The Kimono by James Merrill

2011-04-28T12:13:00.000-07:00

Today's poem, while I have a minute, comes from my first poetic love and forever muse, James Merrill.

The Kimono

When I returned from lovers' lane
My hair was white as snow.
Joy, comprehension, pain
I'd seen like seasons come and go.
How I got home again
Frozen half dead, perhaps you know.

You hide a smile and quote a text:
Desires ungratified
Persist from one life to the next.
Hearths we strip ourselves beside
Long, long ago were x'd
On blueprints of "consuming pride."

Times out of mind, the bubble-gleam
To our charred level drew
April back. A sudden beam...
--Keep talking while I change into
The pattern of a stream
Bordered with rushes white on blue.

(from Collected Poems, Knopf 2001)

Publication!

2011-04-28T09:15:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, I'll release more details when they become apparent, but I just want to share some good news with you. I've had some poems picked up by Painted Bride Quarterly for the next print issue! I submit the poems they plan to publish for their food issue...so huzzah! Food poetry wins out. This is exciting news. I am not sure when the issue will come out, or how many of the poems they accepted (it sounded like they accepted all five, but I think that's just because of how Submishmash has us input the titles.) At any rate, it's good end to the work week...now I need to jump in the shower, grab a sammich on my way to campus, meet with students, have a Writer's Guild Meeting(?) and see Mark Halliday and J. Allyn Rosser read tonight...oh yeah, then drinks followed by Ladies 80's! Oy vey, the work of a poet is never done...!

Fastener by Heather McHugh

2011-04-27T09:46:00.000-07:00

Just working in The Journal office today, nothing special. Getting to know our intern right before she departs...sad, really, because I like her a lot. We talked about trans identity, interracial issues, parental stuff...the grand swathe of human being. That is to say, be-ing. In that spirit, something from Heather McHugh...the kind of poem that makes you think about thinking and speaking:

Fastener

One as is as another as.
One with is with another with, and one

against's against all others. Of the ofs on earth
just one alone is chosen. So the man

can't help his fastening on many
(since the likes of him like

look-alikes)... When the star-shower crosses
the carnival sky, then the blues of the crowd try to

glisten, to match it: and two who work late
in the butcher-house touch, reaching

just the same moment
for glue and for hatchet.

(from Upgraded to Serious, Copper Canyon Press 2009)

First Death in Nova Scotia by Elizabeth Bishop

2011-04-26T13:26:00.000-07:00

I am waiting for students to show up to their conferences. One so far has not. I am going to Ethiopian food later and have decided it is poem time, so here's some Elizabeth Bishop for you because she's the bees knees. This may be new to some people since it's not one of her typically anthologized ones.

First Death in Nova Scotia

In the cold, cold parlot
my mother laid out Arthur
beneath the chromographs:
Edward, Prince of Wales,
and King George with Queen Mary.
Below them on the table
stood a stuffed loon
shot and stuffed by Uncle
Arthur, Arthur's father.

Since Uncle Arthur fired
a bullet into him,
he hadn't said a word.
He kept his own counsel
on his white, frozen lake,
the marble-topped table.
His breast was deep and white,
cold and caressable;
his eyes were red glass,
much to be desired.

"Come," said my mother,
"Come and say good-bye
to your little cousin Arthur."
I was lifted up and given
one lily of the valley
to put in Arthur's hand.
Arthur's coffin was
a little frosted cake,
and the red-eyed loon eyed it
from his white, frozen lake.

Arthur was very small.
He was all white, like a doll
that hadn't been painted yet.
Jack Frost had started to paint him
the way he always painted
the Maple Leaf (forever).
He had just begun on his hair,
a few red strokes, and then
Jack Frost had dropped the brush
and left him white, forever.

The gracious royal couples
were warm in red and ermine;
their feet were well wrapped up
in the ladies' ermine trains.
They invited Arthur to be
the smallest page at court.
But how could Arthur go,
clutching his tiny lily,
with his eyes shut up so tight
and the roads deep in snow?

Falling and Flying by Jack Gilbert

2011-04-25T19:13:00.000-07:00

Well, my recitation went well! My friend recited the same poem right before me, so that was fun. Today was overall a good day, though I was tired throughout. I plan to sleep more tonight. I am enjoying getting to know my students a little better during our one on one conferences--I am glad we get to have a chance to talk about their work and a little bit about their lives. Anyway, it's poem time. So today, how about some Jack Gilbert:

Failing and Flying

Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It's the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. The she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not falling as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.

(from Refusing Heaven: Poems, Knopf 2007)

DCCXII by Emily Dickinson

2011-04-24T16:39:00.000-07:00

I didn't post Saturday because I was in Carbondale giving a reading several of my talented colleagues. It was all part of SIUC's "Writers On The Road" Reading Series wherein MFA candidates at various schools come to SUIC to give a reading, an exchange that has the visiting schools host SIUC MFA candidates for readings on another date. It wasn't so well attended (a combination of bad weather and Easter) but it was a lot of fun and allowed me to hear some of peers' fiction and nonfiction that I might have otherwise never heard. Anyway, I am back and posting poems now for NaPoMo. Here's one I am memorizing for class tomorrow, courtesy of Ms. Emily Dickinson.

DCXII

Because I could not stop for Death --
He kindly stopped for me --
The Carriage held but just Ourselves --
And Immortality.

We slowly drove -- He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too
For His Civility --

We passed the School, where Children strove
At recess -- In the Ring --
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain --
We passed the Setting Sun --

Or rather He passed us --
The Dews drew quivering and chill --
For only Gossamer, my Gown --
My Tippet -- only Tulle --

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground --
The Roof was scarcely visible --
The Cornice -- in the Ground --

Since then -- 'tis Centuries -- And yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity --

(from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson, Back Bay Books 1976)

Self-Reproduction with Scream Pillow by Jason Koo

2011-04-22T18:50:00.000-07:00

For today's poem (part of my National Poetry Month celebration, so to speak) I am posting a poem from a book I reviewed in the last issue of The Journal before I took over as Associate Poetry Editor. I am very fortunate to have met Jason at AWP briefly, later receiving both his approval and an offer to partake in Korean BBQ with him whenever I get a chance to head out to New York City. I am looking into the possibility of traveling this summer. At any rate, here's the poem:

Self-Reproduction with Scream Pillow

I was lying in bed again, after waking again,
After sleeping again, feeling demolished byt poised
When nothing occurred to me, nothing
Knocked on the door, nothing came swinging
Into my vision. The phone rang, I heard my voice
Saying I wasn't here; then staticking silence,
Then silence, then the phone rang again, again
I heard my voice, it sounded exactly the same.
I was trying to read the light in the room, the losses
it took as it passed through the dust-filmed
Blinds, from the leaves of the tree, the tailpipe emissions,
Every morning I wanted it to choose me, order
Me up, but it looked merely left there, on the stapler,
The rows of books, the soft calculator buttons,
It didn't come down from the heavens, it didn't
Break into the room like a fresh bull of beginning,
It didn't, it didn't, it made that sound, didn't.
I propped myself on my elbow and made a sail
Between my arms and my chest, but the raft
Of my bed stayed put, no wind came billowing
Across the biege ocean of carpet. Oh when
Did I enter this life of facsimile? The calendar said
May, said water & light, but those words lay
Over boxes, boxes and boxes and boxes
I wanted to break apart like ice cubes from a tray.
I saw my Scream pillow in the corner, facsimile
Of Munch's painting on the front squeeze me
and I scream this pillow doesn't just sit there
It expresses itself but it was just sitting there,
A product, a birthday present, it required a hand
To squeeze it, a will to make the hand squeeze.
Inside the man cupping his face to a lightbulb
Was no great, infinite scream passing through nature
But a little plastic box, and some batteries.

*note: the "squeeze me [...] expresses itself" section should be in non-italicized lower case caps...but I could't figure out how to do that.*

(from Man on Extremely Small Island, C & R Press 2009)

Wasps' Nest by Mary Ruefle

2011-04-20T22:15:00.000-07:00

What can I say? I love poems about insects as much as I am afraid/hate insects. It's weird how fascinated I am by creatures I don't ever want anywhere near me. I like the idea of bugs, of what they do, but not so much the actuality of their creepy, segmented bodies, and compound eyes. Anyway, a poem!

Wasps' Nest

The empty, almost weightless, onionated brain.
Planet-on-a-branch. The first lantern to flow in space
when Wang Bo thought, I'll look a little closer
I'll lift this flame inside.
His footsteps. His panting. His words
of announcement: how beautiful, how useful.
Not knowing what to say. Not knowing which would please
his boss. The distinct possibility of execution.
Thirteen months of his life already lost watching.
The secretions. The daily layer. The idea of doing it
himself. But who would believe such a thing?
To build a house out of paper and then abandon it.

(from Cold Pluto, Carnegie-Mellon University Press, 2001)

Thoughts on Poetry in Popular Culture and The AV Club Interview with David Orr

2011-04-20T14:07:00.000-07:00

I am not the type to worry about poetry's popular reception. Maybe this is because I am an insular creature by nature, that I've always preferred quiet, intimate activities and spaces to loud, demonstrative, gaudy spectacle. At any rate, I don't stress over the impact my work will have on the culture because I know poetry's impact is not wide reaching and, increasingly, is limited only to other poets (we seem to be the only ones reading each other's work, outside of a few exceptions like Billy Collins or Mary Oliver.) Perhaps I could wrack my brain trying to come up with an answer, but why bother? I am not in it to change the world--that's not a worthwhile reason for writing poetry (for me to write it, anyway.) I write poems because I have to and because I don't know how else to sublimate my anxieties--yes, I am taking the Freudian way out, but I do think there's something healthy about taking all the neuroses bundled up inside me (of which there are legion, I assure you) and depositing them on a blank space, at first allowing them to spill into whatever shape they choose to take, then later, arranging them in a form I find most cutting and impactful.

This is why I was interested in a recent interview David Orr's did with the A.V. Club, explaining a version of my own opinion on poetry's public life while promoting a new book of his, Beautiful & Pointless: A Guide to Modern Poetry. Now, I do have issues with 'poetry guides,' I find them to be at best misleading, and at worst, damaging to one's ability to approach poetry openly and honestly. I am very much against prescriptive reading, and I feel like many guides I've leafed through attempt to turn poetry into a kind of language that only a Rosetta Stone could help you decipher. Poetry is positioned as more Rubik's Cube than piece of art, and I don't particular think that the skills used to solve a puzzle are exactly the same as those necessary to approaching and reading a poem.

I don't get the sense Orr's book is purporting to do this, but as I read the interview, one thing I didn't like was Orr's seeming aversion to speaking of poetry as something worth our time, particularly a layman's time. It's funny seeing a poet under a public lens...that lens becomes a microscope, for poets appear so infrequently under such lenses that they are sort of picked apart when they do. I feel like the interviewer was really slicing and dicing Orr, and under that pressure, he didn't make as much of a case for poetry in the public sphere as he could. I am not saying he should have to do that at all, but seeing as how he was speaking to that specifically, I think he might have handled it a little better. He vacillated too much between discussing the inherent obscurity or mysticism of poetry with its bare truth telling --they are not mutually exclusive qualities or ideas, but parts of what make poetry such a strong, varied art form. Orr got trapped in talking about poetic sentiment in oppositional language, when poetry is often more nuanced than that.

What he did do well was talk about the way poetry exists in popular culture as an idea, rather than an artform. The political material was interesting and his discussion of the differences between how we treat foreign and domestic poets, as well as how social networking sites like Twitter serve a different, if parallel, function to what poetry does was also surprisingly resonant and stimulating. I have grown up in a piecemeal world in a lot of ways, where my life is compartmentalized in boxes, files, and folders, whether on my computer, on the internet, or in my schedule, apartment, relationships, etc. I think in some ways my notion of the world is both endless and finite, expansive and full of places to couch in. Orr's world is not the same as mine, and so his view of poetry and where it relates to the greater world is different--I see poetry is going into one of the boxes that exist inside me, and outside in the world, whereas Orr doesn't seem to see the world that way. This is probably a strange rumination, and something I'll revise as I think on it, but for now I feel that while my world exists in boxes, and poetry exists in one of them, those boxes are also sitting face-up, open.

Blackout at the White Swallow by Timothy Liu

2011-04-20T01:03:00.000-07:00

Blackout at the White Swallow

We swivel in our seats as pool balls crack
between bruised cheeks on monitors flanking
both sides of the bar--boytoys drinking out

of doggie bowls while men in leather masks come
to mount their holes. Shots of Jack and numb
refrains of "Dancing Queen" rein our senses in

as strippers primp and preen--so many throats
emptied of all their smoke. Why should we love
old trolls who prey on jocks too sweet to hold

a grudge? Leather faces drown in liquor
troughs while meat is herded across the floor--
nipple rings and barbell studs piercing tongues

the new stigmata even as we settle for men
slumped over billiard tables where latex
fists are warming up behind a beaded curtain--

(from Say Goodnight, Copper Canyon Press 1998)

Kay Ryan for the Pulitzer Prize

2011-04-19T16:56:00.000-07:00

I'm delighted that Kay Ryan has won this year's Pulitzer Prize for poetry. I came to Ryan's work very recently (only in the last year), and though her work is nothing like mine, I genuinely enjoy her poems and am always left feeling a sense of clarity or wholeness when I read them. Some might object to Ryan's brevity and lack of stylistic variation, and frankly I can see some validity to such arguments. However, I think the power of Ryan's compression, the unity of her speakers' voices have contributed to a varied and fascinating ouvre. At any rate, I'm a fan. In honor of Kay Ryan's prize-winning work, here's a favorite poem of mine:

Home to Roost

The chickens
are circling and
blotting out the
day. The sun is
bright, but the
chickens are in
the way. Yes,
the sky is dark
with chickens,
dense with them.
They turn and
then they turn
again. These
are the chickens
you let loose
one at a time
and small--
various breeds.
Now they have
come home
to roost--all
the same kind
at the same speed.

(from The Niagara River, Grove Press 2005)

Mosaic Magazine Poetry Workshop

2011-04-18T18:17:00.000-07:00

One of the undergraduates here at OSU--a friend of mine, really--has invited me to come speak to the editors of the university's undergraduate honors literary journal. Well, it's not exactly a lecture, per se, but more of a mini-workshop with lecturing elements. I am planning to run them through an abbreviated poetry writing exercise, have them read what they come up with out loud, then talk a little bit about what makes poetry so wonderful, why it's important, why we need it. I plan on showing them a handful of poems I find particularly valuable--poems like "Siren," which appears below this post--in the hopes of providing them with examples of poetry written now that they might follow.

When I taught undergraduate poetry writing in the fall, I found that one of the major problems I had with them was that their only exposure to poetry was via The Romantics or their antecedents or (in rare cases) Frost, Pound, or Eliot (seriously what are they teaching these kids? Not Wallace Stevens, that's for sure...!) I hope that by showing these students what is being written now, they will gain some apprehension of poetry in a modern vernacular, in a modern sense, and find something of value in it for themselves. Hopefully doing this will also help Clayton and Ben (two of my colleagues) to fill up their own poetry writing classes. Here's hoping!

Siren by Louise Glück

2011-04-18T14:13:00.000-07:00

Siren

I became a criminal when I fell in love.

Before that I was a waitress.

I didn't want to go to Chicago with you.
I wanted to marry you, I wanted
your wife to suffer.

I wanted her life to be like a play
in which all the parts are sad parts.

Does a good person
think this way? I deserve

credit for my courage--

I sat in the dark on your front porch.
Everything was clear to me:
if your wife wouldn't let you go
that proved she didn't love you.
If she loved you
wouldn't she want you to be happy?

I think now
if I felt less I would be
a better person. I was
a good waitress.
I could carry eight drinks.

I used to tell you my dreams.
Last night I saw a woman sitting in a dark bus--
in the dream, she's weeping, the bus she's on
is moving away. With one hand
she's waving; the other strokes
an egg carton full of babies.

The dream doesn't rescue the maiden.

(from Meadowlands, Ecco 1997)

Refresh, Reboot, Restart, Refocus

2011-04-18T01:51:00.000-07:00

Hello, hello. I've done a little spring cleaning starting first and foremost, with this blog (and all of my cleaning is likely to be restricted to this blog, Passover be damned. If I had a Swifter, things would be different.) I felt like I needed to change things, but not completely, hence why I deleted all my old posts but have decided to keep the same address and blog title. Consider this a new beginning...or an old rehash of what has become a rather hoary cliche: the guy who decides to rededicate himself to his blog once things have gotten stagnant. At any rate, National Poetry Month seems like the perfect time to begin again. With that, welcome back to my home. I'm going to try to keep this space updated regularly. Huzzah!