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Poem On Line

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3rd Wednesday has published my poem “Le Plus Ça Change” on their website.

I am very pleased with this small poem because it was formed by looking at two poems which were not quite working and taking the best parts of each (the images, of course) and combining them. Perhaps it shouldn’t have taken me as long as it did to try connecting these pieces, since they were both about things French. But the brain gets into ruts of thought sometimes; the process is a great pleasure when something breaks through.

I hope you like it too.

Another Spring Poem

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One written a little while back, but an actual experience. The allusions to Wallace Stevens “Disillusionment in Key West” are due to an exercise in a workshop with Marj Hahne.

Disillusionment in West Texas

A sunny morning in March.
Off the interstate, empty roads.
Along the main street—
if this is the main street—
yellow stucco buildings.
No one walking about,
no windows to stop at,
no shiny OPEN signs,
no trouble parking.
Where are the installations,
where are the galleries,
where is a shop selling
mid-morning coffee?  Marfa
is closed on a Tuesday morning.

Ars Poetica

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It seems that poets are the only artists who use their art to explore or describe their own process.  Visual artists don’t have that option. Novelists may write about writers, but it’s not the same as this Ars Poetica, which is almost a sub-genre, though it’s probably better to see it as a theme or topic.

Here’s a recent effort of mine.

Journey

The route a poem takes is not determined
by the root it comes from. Where
do the words want to go? Their road
has no mile markers; I cannot measure
how far I’ve come. Why do I need to?
Calculation is for highways, keeping
the mind busy on a paved and graded
artery for speed. Since school years
there have been no grades on
this writing process, which slows
to a walk, a halt when the cairn
by the trail falls and the shine
of the separate stones enchants me.

Am I trying to console myself, and my fellow poets too, for the fact that not every attempt can be brought to conclusion?  Both trail and stones are images I’m very fond of and perhaps it’s time to put them in a personal “overused” folder!

A Chapbook I Recommend

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A daughter-father relationship and threats to a way of life mingle in Fat for Our Stories by Vivan Faith Prescott, a native of Alaska.  Prescott and her father harvested salmon together; several poems describe that labor, its joys and difficulties.  Others comment more specifically on changes in the climate, leading to a sense of things out of season. The reader learns about both the life of salmon and the concerns of those who depend on them in a series of gentle poems using a variety of forms.

There are many sad notes, like “We were once good at reading weather.” in “Five Degrees Above Normal.” but also hope, as in the end of “On a Variety of Temporal and Spatial Scales”:

The scent of my natal stream
still awakens me, the sea butterfly
still stirs my morning coffee.”

This chapbook is well worth ordering from Green Linden Press, especially for those like me who have not personally experienced a life dependent on nature’s balance.

Odd Questions—Or Am I Just Out of Date?

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I believe poems have to stand or fall on their own merits.  Describing their origin can certainly add interest, but if a poem can’t be understood on its own, it probably isn’t speaking clearly enough.  I have been accustomed to sending out poems into the world on their own.  I’ve had two recent experiences that suggest this is not how others do things.

The first case concerns my poem “In the Service of Beauty” published by Muse,  a journal of Riverside City College, Riverside, CA.  The poem is in the voice of Artemisia Gentileschi, the painter.of 17th century Italy. I received an email from students asking thirteen questions about the work and my ideas.  When their professor told them that was too much to ask, the questions were reduced to three, questions about my thoughts on femininity, the influence of the women’s movement, how that had influenced my writing of the poem.

I wrote back that “femininity” is a construct of patriarchy and I don’t use the word any more.  I made general answers to the other questions, but what did this have to do with my poem, I wondered.

Not long after, I came up against a request to include with my submission a ‘Positionality Statement” “Please state how your identity as a writer serves the content of this piece, if it speaks to a specific component of your identity or intersectionality.”  I conclude that academic discourse is doing its best, once again, to destroy our language.  Of course I have a position, in relation to all the variables of class, race, gender, etc., etc.  But how does a person have positionality or intersectionality? – we are not abstractions.

I will not submit to a journal that wants me to work as seriously on a statement as I do on the poems.  The poem is what the reader makes of it.

Poem: word play

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This poem started with words, then found an image it could latch on to.

Pathways

The path divides:
sympathy one way,
pathology the other.
Will illness, yours or
another’s, as you walk
the hospital corridor
bring you to empathy?
There’s a chance any
route is a dead end.
When you reach a wall
you’ll wish you’d brought
a ladder, to climb the way
ancient monks pictured
the path to perfection,
but if you’d carried
that weight you’d not
have come this far.

I’ve seen an image of that metaphorical ladder – with those who lose their focus falling off the sides. I’ve long forgotten where I found it but it has stuck in my memory.

Poem

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A poem whose title, I hope, doesn’t tell you where it is going. So I added a photo.

It’s One of Those Days

Some days I want to burn
a bridge, not for the flames—
a grand show of power and light,
like throwing books on a bonfire. 

Fire should do its work
in a fireplace, warming
a room of respite,
after a session of work.

As long as the bridge stands
I’ll miss whatever surprises
wait down the road as I turn,
walk back across, saying,
“I’m sorry, how can I help?”

(The photo is from the cover of my book, Made and Remade. The poem is much more recent.)

Word Play

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Sometimes I think a poem is going somewhere and the words take it somewhere else.

Are We There Yet?

The mind, divisible, thinks itself
at the rail of a boat on a river,
ignores the visible, messages
of eye and ear, the photo on
the wall, the furnace murmur.

Only mind can go there.  Body
cannot, sitting in its chair, reading
a travel brochure.  You are right
here, even if you’re wrong, having
lost the map, about the where.

Where do you want to go?
I’ll agree to meet you there, but
we’ll be here when it happens.
You can’t get there from here
though you’ll get here
from there every time.

The writer doesn’t always know

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Some poems retain their relevance, others don’t. I wrote this two years ago, when the invasion of Ukraine seemed as bad as things could get. I ended with ellipses to represent I knew not what. Since October 7, readers will be able to fill them in on their own. Is that enough to keep the poem relevant? You decide.

Antidote

Images from the east:
dark tanks and uniforms
black against snow,

like old news reels
without the grain and streaks.
The world’s gone retrograde.

Full moon in the western sky
pierces the clouds of earth’s
realities. I walk in its light

away from unending reports
of sorrows I cannot mend,
in Ukraine, Syria, Iran . . .

I think that the poem is still true, but also that there are more important things that need to be said.

A Poem About the Ordinary

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Someone has said that poetry should make the ordinary strange. If you remember the source, please send me a comment. Does this poem accomplish that, or is it something many of us feel?

In the Produce Section

For health I focus on vegetables.
They don’t agree.  Lettuce speaks
for flexibility, carrots for steadfastness.
Tomato cries “I’m ready and willing.
Don’t put me off.”  Celery says
“Tomorrow is fine.  Next week
could bring disaster.”  Squash
puts the kibosh on my scheme for an
ordered life: “None of us last forever.”
Chard and kale argue over which
is the greatest.  I take them by turns
to avoid hurt feelings.  Balanced
diet, pleasing meals?  A challenge
in this cacophony.  Potatoes
and onions say nothing, ready
to start new growth if I ignore them.

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