Sharon Olds and Me

“You were very enthusiastic about writing poetry,” she says, as I hand her my copy of her latest book to sign. “You are a good poet!” “So are you!” I reply, pretty boldly I admit, but on this Pulitzer and I agree. I’ve been listening to Sharon Olds for over twenty years now, and each time, her work has grown, spurred on by her commitment to recording her truth.

I had the great good fortune of participating in not one, but two workshops with Olds in the early 2000s at the Omega Institute. My schedule was limited, so I was only free to do the weekend editions, but my employment at the time did make paying the impressive tuition easy. Money well spent. There was no work there, just a group of us who’d passed the application process, who’d demonstrated a commitment to poetry. She wrote along with us too, shared her rough drafts, offered comments on ours. She established a protocol of respect in those workshops which I’ve tried to emulate in my own attempts to lead my own workshops.

She is a delight in person, playful and wise all at once. For many years she hid her truth behind a firm assertion that the Speaker in her poem could not necessarily be assumed to be the Poet herself. She still does so today, but with a wink, acknowledging what we have known all along. Age and circumstance have always informed her work, as well as a thorough habit of observation I envy. She likens worms dug from the ground, in shape and color, to penises. She is not shy either of sharing intimate moments, odes to her breasts and clitoris. She writes about these things not for the shock value, but because they are precious parts of her body’s family. She gives them their due.

After the workshops, I had the pleasure of hearing Olds read at the old Dodge Poetry Festival, usually under the big colored lights of the Main Tent, her words transcribed by a frantic typist to the big running sign for those seated in the back. Crossing paths with her on the grounds, she was always gracious, always gave the impression that she recalled our time in the workshop. It’s happened so often I may begin to believe it soon. In recent years, she has slowed down somewhat. For a time, she divided herself between Manhattan and New Hampshire, in what must have been a schizophrenic lifestyle. It seems she is securely settled back down in the City full-time for now. A trip to Albany was probably one she knew well, from her days as our state Poet Laureate. I’m glad she made the journey again last night.

Olds' newest collection, Arias, was published a week ago, and of course I got it. I have never been disappointed by her books, and Arias is perhaps the richest example of her art. There’s a depth, a self-reflection in it, as it dashes forward and back, that is deeply satisfying to me. Old friends are mentioned, other poets, the many poets she’d been close to who’ve passed, and she looks towards her own ending, too. I’m only halfway through, but I’m glad I have the day off to plow through the rest. Plowing is a good thing, especially in material this nutritious. 

There is something about seeing her older, a cane, hearing less sharp than before, that isn’t sad so much as a firm sign of how long I’ve been observing her. She is aging, I am aging, and the world around us seems to be on fire, again. It has survived before, even as empires thought to be immortal did not. Olds signed my book, and I told her how beautiful she was. Her long hair is almost white now, clipped haphazardly away from her face, and her face is smooth and free of paint. I asked her, hesitantly, if I could hug her, and she agreed. I thanked her for coming, pressing close for a moment. What I really meant was, thank you for being. 

What the Heck? Worth a Shot- Dodge Reader Application

For regular readers, it may come as a bit of a shock, but I am in the process of applying to read at the 2020 edition of the Dodge Poetry Festival. I’ll wait for you to pick yourself up off the floor, tip your lower jaw back up to close your gaping mouth. But, wait. Let me explain…

In the last few months, I’ve been trying to seriously up my poetry game. I’m putting myself out there as much as work and life allows. I’ve read in a few places that are totally new to me, to people that are new to me as well. I’m sending work out a little more, and get things published at a higher rate, fulfilling my own theory that there is someplace for every poem you write. I’m even helping out an old friend by acting as Poetry Editor until the end of the year. Well, that last thing isn’t really a burden, so much as offering me the concentrated pleasure of saying ‘no’ repeatedly to 90% of the dreck that comes in for consideration. I know what I like, and I know what’s worth the space at this point.

In any case, as I was surfing the Almighty Internet the other day, I stumbled upon a link to the Dodge Festival, coming up in autumn of next year. Not just a link to the festival itself, but a link leading to the details of the application process to actually be a featured reader. In all these years I’d never considered myself worthy, and even now, I know that the Big Guns of Academia will be chosen before me. However, as I considered all the moving parts required, I realized that it would be a relatively simple thing to pull them together. I could manage to do a bit each day, between calls or before work itself. I certainly had freshly revised poems hanging around—there’s a book deal in the works that I will discuss when things are more definite. For now though, let’s say picking out twenty pages of what I feel is my strongest, most crowd-pleasing work was a relatively painless process.

A Poetry CV, or “Curriculum Vitae,” more commonly found in the world of arts & literature than a resume’ also existed in my files in a rough form. I pared it down to the most impressive credits so that it would all fit on two pages. In the process I brought my records regarding publication up to date. So, ultimately, when I get that letter of “thanks-no-thanks,” the whole endeavor will have been at least an opportunity to bring everything here at Casa Diva up to date.

Now, I have been a pretty vocal critic of the Dodge’s current incarnation. I understand the Foundation has gone through some hard times, and partnering with the City of Newark was the only way to have any kind of festival at all. I am sad that I’ll never wander the hallowed grounds of Waterloo Village, stopping at the mill to hear Lucille Clifton, or rising at dawn to hear Coleman Barks recite Rumi in the early mist. I tried Newark, and it was a different festival. No wandering from tent to tent, no easy forest charm. But, if it was the only way, I have to give credit for ingenuity where credit is due.

And instead of the Big Tent, dancing with colored lights, there is NJPAC. A shining chandelier hangs from the ceiling, modern and classical all at once, and its charm, in all my disgruntled fussing, did not escape me. However, I needed a break. Life was calling, love on a full-time basis was in the offing, and the Dodge fell low on my list of priorities. Now, some of my favorite poets have passed both big names and small town heroes. In fact, like a river we all swim in, the flow carries more and more away each year. I don’t like to think of myself as a time-waster, but so often that’s what I’ve done. I’ve had my rest. What time is left is for passions and delights, blessed by a sudden clarity of thought that can only be described as a star burst not unlike that sun inside NJPAC. I want to see where this poetry life will take me. One of those directions might be south, to Newark. And even if in the likely event my application is rejected, I may still give the Dodge another try. Time, after all, doesn’t last forever.   

"Until The Words Came"- New Book!

Just a quick update-- how time flies! April was jam-packed with poetry doings, and I'll be bringing you all up to date this week. For now, I'm happy to announce that my new collab with Guy Reed, Until The Words Came, has just been published by Post Traumatic Press!

The text is based on a reading we did together about a year and a half ago at Teresa Costas's WOMPS (Word of Mouth Poetry Series) at the Art Bar in Kingston, NY. Instead of the same old, same old, we decided to pick a theme that we could both live with, then truly read together, alternating poem by poem.

Oddly enough, the theme we picked was "Poets & Poetry." We've gone to several of the old, good Dodge Festivals together, as well as many, many readings around the Hudson Valley over our almost twenty-year friendship. I say oddly because I find poets writing about poetry to usually result in pretty dreadful work. Hopefully this chapbook bucks the perceived trend.

If you might be interested in a copy of Until The Words Came, you can drop me a line at cheryl.a.rice.02@gmail.com for now. The cost is $12, postage included. Soon, you'll be able to go to https://www.posttraumaticpress.com/ to order it there, too, but since the ink is barely dry, for now reach out to me.

Collaborations

 
    In the past, I have attempted collaborations with some musician friends of mine. Rather than working together, I offered them a handful of poems, and they either ran or didn't with an idea inspired by my words. Generally the results were far removed in mood and style from my original notions, although it's always been fascinating to see someone else's take and elaboration on your creation.

    Although I have prided myself on having excellent pitch ever since my elementary school music teacher, Mrs. Deutsch, told me I had it, I have never had the urge to create my own music. When I write, I hear the rhythms of the language, the flow of the words, and nothing more. I admire songwriters who can write both words and music, but they are definitely doing something different. Kissing cousins, but not identical twins.

    I still recall a one-time attendee of the Hudson Valley Folk Guild Kingston Coffeehouse who, while nervously introducing himself, remarked that he used to be a poet but that now he was a songwriter. The implication was clearly that his art was more complete now that it contained both words and music. Oddly, I don't recall his performance.

    My friend Guy and I are in the early stages of putting together a chapbook of poems by both of us. I consider this a collaboration of sorts, although the work we use will not be new. I have suggested a conversational format, with us sitting down and tossing poems back and forth until they fall into some organically logical order. It will be an experiment.

    It will also be an extension of the conversation Guy and I have had about poetry and life for the last fifteen. We've been to countless Dodge Festivals (RIP), and even more open mics and literary events throughout the Hudson Valley. We have never tried to compose a poem together, and I can't think of a truly meaningful way for me to do that with him, or with anyone. My poems are personal and rise from my memories, reactions and experiences. To mingle those images with someone else's doesn't seem to me at the moment as a way to producing substantive work.

    That being said, I do know of some amazing work that Will Nixon is doing with other poets. He's been writing collaborative poems in what I understand to be a back-and-forth process, something like an 'exquisite corpse'. They are rich, vivid and highly entertaining, but pretty far removed from my own poetic practices. In recent years, I have made an effort towards experimentation, but this has progressed more slowly than I might like.

    And in the meantime, the poems keep on coming in the old way, one line sticking in my head, urging me to get it down, following the stream of words and images trickling out of my untethered brain, until I reach the conclusion that my subconscious was aiming for all along. It's not pretty, but it generally works for me.

*Not My Dodge*

           

            

             I have a friend who this past October attended his second Dodge Poetry Festival, now held in Newark, NJ. He was thrilled by the experience, the easy access to poets, the comradery of other poetry lovers, even a large sales tent dedicated to poetry books, CDs and paraphenalia. No matter how many anecdotes I and other veterans of the Waterloo Village editions of the festival relate, he still insists he had a good time. I, however, can't help but feel that the Dodge as I knew it is gone forever, and that the Newark festival, aspire as it might, cannot hope to equal that event. In fact, I almost feel if another edition is held, a new name should be attached to it.

            There were of course flaws with the old location in Stanhope, NJ, serious flaws. The Village itself, at one time a touristy collection of antique buildings arranged to emulate a community of bygone times (appropriate perhaps for what many are schooled to believe is a dying art), went bankrupt some years ago, and the property through special arrangement was opened only for the Festival, every other year, or so is my understanding. Therefore, necessary maintenance to the site wasn't being done. There were plumbing issues. Parking could be hazardous in stormy weather, and in my memory, it rained every time I went to the Dodge.

            But these physical problems were always outshone by the tremendous gift of the Brigadoonish collection of poets, poetry lovers and lovers of poets who assembled there. I remember hearing Lucille Clifton read and speak about her work in the chapel. Open mics, always a mixed bag, benefited from the quirky atmosphere of the Mill. Small, white tents by the lake served as intimate spaces for mid-level, sometimes even non-academic poets to read in. Then there was the Big Tent. A sort of serene circus atmosphere reigned, colored spotlights and a brilliant transparency of the familiar, "Dodge Poetry Festival" logo were projected onto the curtains behind readers. Cranes with cameras swooped over our heads, like at the Oscars, and the resulting videos, many of which can still be seen on YouTube, were appropriately dramatic, and excelled at capturing the mood of each reader and day.

            What other facility combines the smell of mud and straw with the magic of Stanley Kunitz transporting us up to that rooftop he straddled in 1910, waiting for his first view of Halley's Comet? It was grand, it was open, you were free to come and go, but mostly we stayed. We got our "fix" of first-class poets, often reading work that hadn't been published yet, or work you'd come to know by heart, but never thought you'd be lucky enough to hear straight from the poet's mouth. The main theatre at the New Jersey Performing Arts Center, now the central performance area for the Dodge, is stunning in its own right. I still have a lousy snapshot of the magnificent chandelier that hangs there like a glittering molecule. But it was not my Dodge.

            There were no strolls in the grass, bumping into Sharon Olds or Chris Abani on their way to lunch. There was no light rain, mottled skies still bright with the promise of Galway Kinnell or Billy Collins. No trees, no birds darting over our heads, enjoying the music of words, too. Just not the Dodge. Not my Dodge, the festival I lived for and loved for fifteen some-odd years.

            I wish it well. Even the former proprietors of the Book Tent, Borders, have fallen by the wayside in these difficult times for literature, times when all of the arts need to reinvent themselves and how they reach their audiences. Any festival dedicated to that most maligned of arts that can manage to maintain even a hint of its former glory is to be commended. But, don't call it the Dodge. It's something. It's a grand time surely, if you can forget the forest from which it sprung.

*Happy Birthday, Sylvia Plath*

By my reckoning, Sylvia Plath would have been 78 years old today. It's difficult to imagine her as a mature woman, with a body of such personal work that tends to freeze her in the mind at the age she died, 30 (sadly, far short of the 9 times to die she claimed to have available in "Lady Lazarus"), a young mother, a betrayed wife, a frustrated writer. It is hard to imagine what the rest of her life might have been like, and later work with the added perspective of experience and time.

But time was not something Sylvia had a lot of. Mental illness is still a mystery to medical science, and was that much more in 1963. Recently at the Dodge Poetry Festival, Joseph Millar said, "Your poetry will save you," and I sobbed, knowing how true that has been for me. How much more does that apply to Plath? Without that particular outlet of expression, how many comebacks could Plath have managed after all? Would she have drifted off into the Atlantic as a child, the first near-death experience she describes in "Lady Lazarus" as an accident?

I think poetry saved her for as long as it could. Along with the sadness, there is empowerment and inspiration in her Ariel poems. They often seem to be the words of a sorceress conjuring up a new life, a new world to move into just as soon as this one passes. In "Lady Lazarus", the speaker isn't falling, but rising. She is triumphant over those in her life who would oppress her. It seems to be only in the last few poems, written when she was sick, worn out and grief-stricken, trying to surviving the coldest London winter in decades, that the voice becomes resigned to a terrible, final failure.

For 10 years I hosted an event in Kingston, NY called "The Sylvia Plath Bake-Off". I billed it as perhaps the world's only combination open mic and baked goods contest. I was harassed by Pillsbury for the use of the term "Bake-Off", but oddly never by the Plath estate. No insult was ever intended, and the tone of the readings year after year never failed to be anything but honorable, sympathetic and appreciative of Plath and her work. We had all been too close ourselves, as poets and performers, to "our boy" (Anne Sexton's waggish term for death and the lure of suicide) to be anything but.

I am older now myself than Plath ever was, the same age as her son Nicholas, who committed suicide not long ago. I no longer have the heart for smarmy, eye-catching names for events. Many here in the Hudson Valley remember the Bake-Off fondly, and keep hoping I will revive it. Once a thing has outlived its white heat, it is finished. I may gather poets together again, but in a more gentle manner. Not at the expense of one whose pain draws closer to me and becomes more real every day. Rest in peace, Ms. Plath.

Dodge Redux- Newark 2010

This was at least my 5th visit to the Dodge Poetry Festival, the biannual celebration that's been going on since 1986. Lucky 13 was almost canceled, but rescheduled at the beginning of this year and held in the city of Newark, New Jersey, a drastically different venue from the country scenes of old, but with numerous advantages, and oddities, that total up to a successful poetry event, if not the Dodge I knew and loved.

Newark welcomed poets with open arms. A Shangri-La of sorts was created in the several blocks around the New Jersey Center for the Performing Arts that served as home base. Police barricades kept traffic and other undesirable elements away from visitors, and made strolling other event sights, such as the First Baptist Peddie Memorial Church, the New Jersey Historical Society and the Robert Treat Best Western ballrooms as easy and safe as a walk in the park. However, the constant police presence began to wear on me towards the end. I began to wonder about the everyday state of the area, without the benefit of Newark's Finest. The Newark Police Department, by the way, was nothing but friendly and helpful to festival goers. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.

Past festivals for me have been a mix of mediocre academic readings and a few shiny rockets of words that make the whole event worth enduring. I didn’t see any rockets this time, nor did I suffer through the expected lows. New discoveries for me included Joseph Millar, a fellow phone company escapee turned poet, and the Dickman twins, Michael and Matthew, young phenoms of the poetry world based out of Portland, Oregon, followed by giggling groupies like rock stars. Hey, whatever it takes to get poetry out there… and they’re excellent poets, too. I didn’t hear much new work from Billy Collins onsite, but this past week’s New Yorker featured a poem of his that seems to be a departure for him, longer, more classical references, yet with a hint of that Collins ironic wit that his other work is so well known for.

Sharon Olds was there, too, down from her newish home in New Hampshire after years in NYC. Forgive me for dwelling, but she is a goddess, just as sweet and genuine in workshops as she is on stage or while signing books. The stuff I heard her read was not new, for the most part, but she has a book, Stag Leap, about the end of a long marriage, coming soon. Look for it. I enjoy the way Olds takes chances, and though for me she doesn’t hit the high notes every time, when she does, it resonates.

Other poets in attendance that I came across included Bob Hicok, Kwame Dawes, Rita Dove, Kay Ryan, and Rachel Hadas. Memorable moments included a tribute on Sunday afternoon to Lucille Clifton. Promoters used a quote from her poem, “Blessing the Boats” to both honor her and set the tone for this new venue: “may the tide/ that is entering even now/ the lip of our understanding/ carry you out/ beyond the face of fear.” I was lucky enough to hear Clifton at several Dodges, and mourn her passing with the others. Joseph Millar won my heart when at a panel discussion about poets and their day jobs, he proclaimed, “Poetry will save you!” I am living proof of that. And Amiri Baraka, living history, read some powerful words that were partially obscured by the jazz quartet behind him. This prompted me to buy his collected works just to read more. And obscured is sometimes OK, just making the voice another instrument in the band. Loved the jazz at 9 a.m., while my poetry partner went to hear Galway Kinnell read his translation of Rilke’s Duino Elegies in their entirety. G. came back all glassy-eyed like after a good romantic encounter. “Got Rilke?” says the Dodge mug he gifted me with, and soon I will.

Once onsite, events were well managed and organized, but remnants of the former confusion remain even after the fact. Two days after the close of the Dodge, I received a glossy promotional flier in the mail, almost a duplicate of one I’d received months ago. I live in upstate New York, and I can’t imagine it was mailed from too far away. How much money was wasted on that? Food at the festival was a cut above past years, and still I chose a cheeseburger for breakfast. My bad, not theirs. I also avoided the exhaustion of tramping across Waterloo Village, where I was often dehydrated and sleepy. Only one program had me drowsy, and that was due to the soft light coming in through the old stained glass at Peddie Baptist, and the heat rising up into the loft I was seated in. Luckily, the Robert Treat was steps away, and I got to nap in my bed this time and not a car in the parking lot.

My accommodations at the Robert Treat, a totally random choice that put my upstate friends and I right at the heart of the festival, were adequate, although oddly lacked a microwave in the room itself. I got a hot bath in, and a stunning view of Newark both day and night that I still haven’t been able to adequately translate into words. Dinner on Saturday night with friends from home, a longstanding tradition, was at Maize, the Treat’s in-house restaurant, an overpriced affair that was only convenient, not efficient or even worthy of the cost, no offense to Carlos, our diligent waiter.

I made notes for many poems, and rough drafts for three, while in Newark. I jotted down quotes like Millar’s for future sustenance. I am refreshed and recommitted to my art. I got out of Dodge for the weekend, and into a whole ‘nother animal. Now, back to the Patch Mines and the day job.

Note: I need to mention here the fliers that circulated around the festival concerning the closing of several public libraries in the city of Newark, an ironic twist if ever there was one. Taken as an isolated act, this is of course a disaster. However, knowing what little I do about Mayor Cory Booker and his dynamic efforts to revitalize this once vital city, I have to believe that it’s part of a bigger plan, and that his priorities for the city required it. Anyone with more information is requested to comment.

Here Come Da Dodge: Pre-Festival Jitters

    This weekend is New Jersey's biannual Dodge Poetry Festival, now transplanted from the bucolic setting of Waterloo Village in Stanhope to the rising city of Newark, and headquartered in the New Jersey Performing Arts Center. An article in yesterday's New York Times seems to do its best to justify the move by quoting such folks as NJPAC President Lawrence Goldman, who said that, "In the 21st century, poetry belongs in the complexity, density and energy of an urban setting." Such a notion seem to me to pigeonhole poetry as much as those who may feel that the only place it really belongs is in an antique village.
   
    The move was prompted primarily by two factors: a precipitous drop in the assets of the Dodge Foundation, and the physical deterioration of Waterloo Village itself, which in recent years has only been opened for this event. Trust me, toileting at Waterloo was an antique and risky experience in and of itself. Suggesting that the very nature of poetry itself has evolved into an urban art (therefore more marketable too, to those who's only interest lies in the cash-ola potential) puts limits on a type of literature which, on the contrary, has come to speak for broader and broader cross sections of society.
   
    Certainly the city of Newark's open-armed welcome to the Dodge Festival is a hopeful sign. My companion for the weekend, upon ordering tickets, received a welcome packet that includes a map and visitors guide, highlighting restaurants in the area of the festivities. I have never been to Newark but am anxious to conquer it, vehicularly speaking. It is accessible by public transportation (one supposed complaint about past festivals, but Stanhope was an easy 2 hour drive for me), but due to scheduling conflicts, we won't be arriving until Friday night.
   
    The schedule is missing some of the mainstays of past festivals as well, including Sunday morning Rumi readings with Coleman Barks, and the mere presence of the adorable Ted Kooser. Brian Turner, an Iraq War veteran, will be reading in Woodstock the Saturday of the festival. The roster is pared down, but other regulars will be there. Galway Kinnell will be reading and speaking about his translations of Rilke's Duino Elegies. Sharon Olds and Billy Collins will be there too. Sunday will feature a tribute to Lucille Clifton, who passed away this spring and has been an active presence at past Dodges.
   
    Collins' remark about the upcoming Dodge, "Poetry itself is in a postpastoral condition...," must be read with the kind of tongue-in-cheek reasoning that the man and his poems are known for. There is a place for pastures and parkways in poetry. Let's hope the move to Newark for the Dodge doesn't place undo emphasis on replacing one with the other. Let's hope Coleman Barks is back for the next edition.

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/06/books/06dodge.html?emc=eta1