Wednesday, February 15, 2012

Want a challenge?  Write a crown of sonnets, beginning with the last line of a well-known sonnet, my friend/colleague Marnie Dresser writes.

Why not?  Gwendolyn Brooks writes sonnets I love.  I page through her collected poems, already thinking I must choose onoe known well enough to be recognized, so what else but "First Fight, Then Fiddle"?  The choice seems simple enough.  Seems.

Not what it seems.

Step one: I copy Brooks' last line.  Step two:  here it is a wekk or so later, and I have yet to get beyond the difficulty of beginning with Brooks' last line, "Wherein to play the violin with grace."  It's a mid-sentence.  I think to turn it into a question.  I think of the poet's best friend, anaphora, a first stanza with a series of lines: wherefore, whereas, whereof.  Words not lines.  Not yet.

Maybe Marnie fares better.  Maybe Chuck, our mutual friend with his superb sense of irony, already has leapt ahead.

Are any of us up to what Allison Joseph achieved in My Father's Kites?  Thirty-four sonnets.  And that's only the middle section of her new book.  That says nothing about the rondeaus and villanelles of the companion sections.

Oh, it's so easy to make yourself feel bad. 

It's not a contest.  It's a confraternity, a sorority.  If geese comprise a gaggle, what is a group of colleagues and Facebook friends?  A narcissus?  And what of a group of bloggers and other prose writers?  A bog?  More to the point here, what is a group of poets?  A party?  Let's make it a party.  Why not?

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

A quick writing start yesterday morning and a forecast of snow, so late morning errand walk: M&I Bank, a deposit to my book sales account; Snap Fitness to activate my Silver Sneakers membership; Outpost for coffee filters; Anodyne to avoid cleaning chores and concentrate on writing,

May as well reactivate my check cashing/ATM card at M&I.  The personal banker, one of two, in her office unbusy, at least apparently so.  I have difficulty unwinding my scarf.  She talks to me as if I am equally bumbling in financial dealings.  She asks if I have a credit card.  Oh, and where.  She prolongs my time in her office asking about my teaching, my retirement , my travel plans.  Have fun, she says about Turkey.  I hope so, but I watch Athens burning and I hesitate to pay up for plane reservations.  But sunglasses back on, hat, gloves and scarf.  Onward.

Snap Fitness is locked.  Those working out must have a keycard.  I don't copy the phone number for those interested in joining. 

Outpost.  I keep my sunglasses on.  I laugh as I answer  the checker, yes, I'm an owner, but not one smart enough to have memorized my number.  I decide to pay cash,  shake the 27 cents out of my wallet, know there is a five dollar bill in here somewhere.  The person behind me inches his cart forward.

Anodyne.  I've forgotten Peggy Shumaker's Gnawed Bones, the book I'm reviewing.  The chai latte with soy is not nearly hot enough even at first sip. 

But, hey, there's an accordion player.  He begins with "I'll Be Sailing."  He announces his songs, quietly, a tour of central and eastern Europe.  He sings in several languages.  He doesn't seem to notice how coffee drinkers talk over, around, and through his pleasantly knowledgeable introductions. 

The sky is grey, snow forecast for this afternoon.  For these two hours, there's no sunnier place, no place more likely to restore a sense of well-being, a sense of having accomplished something, or if not that, then still no place I'd rather be.

Monday, February 13, 2012

So, does Wallace Stevens have a mind of winter?  Is he "The Snowman" he writes about?

I wandered into writing a poem that considers this, actually that assumes it is so.  It started when I had six minutes left in a writing hour.  What to do with six minutes?

I lifted a phrase from a writing prompt I invented, and in six minutes I had a draft.  You can do a lot in six minutes.  The draft needed work.  Revising seemed to make it worse rather than better, so I kept at it.  The original phrase no longer appears in the current draft, at least the seventh draft for a poem that's already had more than three titles:  Earth-Minded; Insurance; A Walk with Wallace Stevens, not to mention several variations of the last title.

This is not one of those blessed poems that appear almost wholly formed, like a peach on a near branch of the tree and all you have to do is reach, reach just a slight stretch, and it's yours, just a little green on the side hidden from the sun, but warm to your touch.

This is a poem more like the song bird in the cherry tree.  Reach for the bird and, of course, it takes flight.  So the poem always seems imperfect, the shadow of the bird rather than the bird itself.

Today the New York Times published an article Melissa Harris-Perry and Chris Hayes, new hosts for MSNBC weekend programs.  Chris Hayes said about his show, "When we get it right, it's in making the subtext the text."

When I read this analysis, immediately I thought of my work on this current poem in draft.  I had been thinking in terms of trying to get the voice right; I even thought I finally understood "voice." Now, thanks to Chris Hayes, I have another way to think about the process of this poem.

And about Wallace Stevens as "The Snow Man."

Saturday, February 11, 2012

Oh, beautiful for spacious skies, Vince sings.  His voice fills the auditorium in a deeply felt traditional rendition of the song.  Then, one, two… America!  America! The choir rocks it.  And crown thy good with brotherhood.  America!  America!

Everyone on stage moves to the music.  We do, too, those of us who've come up on stage to be honored for our contributions to the fair housing movement.  We dance our joy in time with all the young people who are learning civil rights through music in this year's production of WE ARE THE DRUM.

Today's rehearsal brought warmth to this cold February afternoon.  The show brings music back to a school whose award-winning music program was cut.

The show opens in two weeks.  Performances are Friday and Saturday, February 24 and 25, March 2 and 3.  7:30 p.m. North Division High School on 10^th and Center in Milwaukee. 

Get your tickets now.  You will not want to miss this profoundly moving show.  www.capitaproductions.org