*Green Eyes & the Green-Eyed Monster*

            Just so you don't all get the idea that I'm the benevolent, generous and all-supportive Poetry Diva of the Hudson Valley you thought I was, you should know that a friend shared a pre-production layout of a postcard promoting a first book of poetry, to be published by a real press, and after my initial thrill, the very next emotion I experienced was jealousy. I feel like the last kid to get my ears pierced, despite my many self-published products, appearances of my work in over 40 literary journals and my recent success with the RANDOM WRITING poetry workshop. I think what pushed me over the edge were the three endorsements for the book, written by mutual friends. Wonderful, insightful remarks all, but I really wished they’d been about my work.

            Not that I often think my work is worthy of professional publication. I know how much sweat and blood my friend put into the preparation of that manuscript. I helped with the revisions, and had the opportunity to read a large chunk of this work all at once, the same experience readers will have when they order the book. Dues have been paid and publication earned. I fluctuate about the quality/value of my work between somewhat worthy and total crap. I don't write this to fish for compliments. It is really what's happening between my ears. I continue to write mainly because I continue to need to express myself, to witness, to shoot my mouth off in a subtle way that I suspect will deteriorate over time into blatant curmudgeony haiku. 

            I am also very aware of the serendipitous nature of the publication game itself. I have often read published works that very clearly illuminate the sexual relationship that surely exists between editor and poet. I do know black from white. My efforts at publication have also been intermittent at best, and life at large usually gets the best of me these days. I have work out now, not much new but little circulated. Coming back to it a few years after its composition, I had the ability to cast a fresh eye on it, and saw it was good. Good enough for publication? I don't have that answer. All I know is no one will publish poetry that's still in my computer files. Otherwise, I'd have been the new Plath by now. Although Sexton had more fun.

            Incidently, I wish my friend nothing but the best in this endeavor, and am honored to have been included so intimately in the process. I'll keep you all posted, and you'd really be doing yourself a favor to pre-order when the time arrives. 55 must be pre-sold for publication to take place, a practical stance for a 21st century publisher to take. I'll keep you posted.

*Poem: "The World Stood Still For Easter"*

God, the world stood still for Easter,

no Walmart strolls for fun after church,

no super sales at the mall!

You were lucky they had milk left at the 7-11,

to make it to the deli by noon!

We got up early for our chocolate bunnies

(one year blinded by my brother before breakfast),

chosen not for the taste, but their fascinating shape,

rabbit fur, sometimes a cart molded into their waxy shells,

silky pressed daisy pasted onto their necks,

and jellybeans eaten in order of preference:

green, yellow, orange, red, sharp pink, black,

always one lost in the cellophane grass

until next year.

Breakfast was eggs we dyed the day before,

R2-D2, or just a crayoned name,

stripes or stickers on impatient pastels,

a few muddied experiments,

some tucked into a braided wreath of bread.

Then into new outfits for church,

my small rosebud bonnet early on,

sheer white shell covered with gauzy flowers

that hung around for years, then went away,

navy pantsuit, black for optimists,

and always new shoes, black velvet wedges when I was older,

strappy white sandals when the weather held.

And sometimes spring was with us by Easter and

sometimes not, but we always gambled to dress the part,

though some years winter coats covered

sky blue, peach pink granny gowns.

And our church had Easter in it every day,

giant paper butterflies hung from the clean rafters,

white and orange and yellow blocks of glass

glowing in the morning light and sometimes sun.

Hymns we knew all the words to on Easter,

jiggling the plate with envelopes of change.

Dinner was pot roast or sauerbraten,

Sunday dinner where we all behaved,

sat politely at the picnic table we kept for dining

in the little kitchen, fire at my mother's back,

spoke to each other as if we'd just met,

wondering how to proceed,

the promise of a new meal

broken by the last crescent crust.

And dessert was solitary relief in front of the TV,

Davey and Goliath faded with the noon and the robin,

shoes and long dresses discarded,

descent into puddings and cakes and all heaven,

Peeps silent in the common basket,

bonnets laid aside in the dark.

CAR  4/11/04

**Town Versus Gown: Academic and "Street" Poets**

Last week, a friend of mine was featured reading his poetry on a local radio station, along with a professor from one of the area colleges. Mike Jurkovic has no college under his belt that I'm aware of, but 25+ years of fairly technical experience at Cosmodemonic Communications. The professor's work I am aware of, but I don't know him personally. The contrast in style was striking and as most poets know, there is something of a split in the poetry community between those with schooling and those who are driven to express themselves in words without a formal education. Generally, I can see the positive attributes to both types of writing, but personally my taste does lean towards the so-called "street" poets.

            Luckily, none of the poets I know who might fit into that category actually live on the street or spend most of their time there. Their poems can often be grammatically incorrect, or the meanings of words bent or broken, depending on how much they rely on computer thesauruses. One can be critical of these flaws, or accept them as part of the creative process. I can only completely do that if I know the poet made those choices to err consciously and deliberately. I still believe in proper grammar and usage because they are elements that make the language common to all of us-- the level playing field on which we all interact.

            Academic poetry (for lack of a better term-- I see Mark Doty has recently taken exception to it, but until the lines become blurred, if ever, it will be the one I choose) has a tendency to rely too much on form, in my opinion. The lines are carefully crafted, with rhymes and rhythms perfectly assembled. More often than not, however, I find the overall effect of such poetry gutless. It rarely soars for me. There are exceptions of course, but I am speaking now of my personal experience with poets in my immediate radar. The chances that street poets take in content, metaphor and vocabulary interest me far more than the level, sanitary structures that are the rule and not the exception from the Ivory Tower.

            I think perhaps the two groups could benefit from more exchange. The street poets could only make their work stronger by nailing down the basics of grammar, spelling and usage. Then variations would be deliberate choices for effect and not accidents. The benefits to academics would be less precise, but no less valuable. The subjects that street poets write about are far more wide ranging than those of the academic. Opening up to that expanded realm of possibility can only enrich their work.

           

            Writing is a solitary activity. Going out to open mics and hearing other poets from anywhere is always a broadening experience, even if you don't connect, even if you don't like what they have to say or the way they say it. Reading big and small publishers and going online, where many of the little magazines are migrating to because of economics, helps to remind us why we all do this. We are trying to communicate our feelings, our thoughts and our observations. The language that we are using, whether flawed or stilted, isn't really all that different when it comes down to it. Listen beyond the words, read between the lines. Go to the streets and climb the Tower. It will be an adventure, at the very least.

*Janine Pommy-Vega Celebration- Woodstock, NY; 2/20/11*

 

            There was a celebration of the life of Janine Pommy-Vega yesterday in Woodstock, NY. Vega, who passed in December, 2010, was one of the few females allowed into and promoted by the tight, male-dominated circle of Beat poets in the 1960s. She was a force unto herself as well, and for almost 30 years taught writing workshops in the prisons of New York State. Two former workshop participants were among the speakers, and they revealed that the groups often referred to Vega as "Mother".

            I knew Janine only as an acquaintance. My shyness, which may come as a surprise to some, sometime prevents me from taking advantage of the poets around me, the big leaguers that we are accustomed to having among us here in the Hudson Valley. The same is true of my relationship with Enid Dame, who many recall as perhaps the least threatening person to inhabit the planet. I was lucky to have had her attentions for one morning at a small workshop, but I do regret not just going up and chatting with her at the many readings she and her husband Donald Lev attended. Donald is still here, and yet I still feel that absurd intimidation with him at times, though I do my best to go beyond it. Regret is a bitter, irrevocable emotion, but one that can perhaps help to change my future behavior, at least a little.

            Vega was genuine, tough, dynamic, and yet so sunny and positive that if one didn't know better, one might think it was merely an attention-grabbing false face she wore at readings. Even the last few times I saw her read, her once strong body crapping out on her big time, the energy behind her words remained. I was privileged to have seen her up close and it action. She grabbed your attention, that's true, but it was because of the power of her words, her energy, for lack of a less Woodstocky term. She had the beat, she was a Beat, and that rhythm will echo down through future generations of writers, activists and optimistic doers.

            I will remember two things about Janine. During a chat after a reading, we were talking about chapbooks, and she advised me to use a spine as opposed to a folded and stapled format, so that the book would be visible on the shelf. What an excellent observation! I also have an image in my head of driving down the back roads of Woodstock during a fireworks display, sometime in late summer a few years back. We passed by Janine, standing beside her car, left foot wrapped in the boot that had become a permanent part of her wardrobe. She was looking up at the sky. smiling. Janine Pommy-Vega, who had traveled the world, charmed hardened criminals, moved mountains as she hiked them, could still be delighted by the simple spectacle of summer and gunpowder. What an example for us to follow, always trailing behind where she cleared the way.

*COLLEGE OF POETRY- SPRING 2011*

NORTHEAST POETRY CENTER

COLLEGE OF POETRY

           

SPRING 2011 CURRICULUM

MARCH 19-MAY 7

RANDOM WRITING- CHERYL A. RICE,

SATS. 10 A.M.-12 NOON

dorothyy62@yahoo.com

RANDOM WRITING is a poetry workshop based on Inspiration, Word Play, Text Play and Peer Response, designed to encourage prolific and satisfying writing.

20TH CENT. LATIN AMERICAN POETRY IN TRANSLATION- JANET HAMILL,

SATS. 1:30 P.M.-3:30 P.M.

www.janethamill.com

Hamill’s course will examine the exciting panorama of 20^th century Latin American poetry in all its regional and stylistic diversity.

TUITION: $150 PER 8 WEEK COURSE.

FOR MORE INFORMATION OR TO REGISTER:

WILLIAM SEATION, 845-294-8085, SEATON@FRONTIERNET.NET

Northeast Poetry Center, 7 West Street, Warwick, NY  10990

*Poem: "Blessed"*

Blessed

"Is Jesus still alive?" my niece whispers to my sister,

unconvinced by the pomp and ribbons

of the decorated tree before us,

o holy night carolers trembling song,

dark-robed minister and his simple good grin.

"He was a good man, and that's

why we celebrate his birthday,"

is my sister's ecumenical reply.

We have talked about this, and agree about

the man, the story, the not believing. 

I am not guilty as this litany assumes,

wasn't born bad, have not gone,

owe no apology to some Great White Father King,

but the congregants recite,

in the glow of electric popcorn balls,

30-watt savior device in the popsicle creche,

their apologies.

My nephew and niece are invited to the menagerie,

handed a small stuffed donkey, plaster lamb

to add to the crowd in attendance at the celluloid babe's cribside,

after the second hymn, second verse, O Little Town tonight.

They don't know the words,

and we are so distracted by the lights and burgundy and

gold on the tree tumbling into our laps

that they almost miss their cue.

Yes, Jaimee', there is a Jesus,

and he lives as surely as Christmas returns,

with or without the snow you missed,

without blame, even without faith,

He fills the pantry for the poor that

the minister says is bare already, only December.

He carries the souls of the suddenly light into the next act.

He lays in the bed of straw, patiently waiting for his attackers

to come with their gifts, to cover the earth in gold,

surround the barn in a cloud of frankincense,

lubricate his small limbs with myrr

for the sleep of

the peacemakers,

for they are blessed.

CAR  12-28-01

*Writer's Block & Therapy*

I've been seeing a therapist for about a month and a half now, due to some issues that I was no longer comfortable boring my friends with. And trust me, I did enough of that this year. So, in that time, and maybe for a while before that, I haven't written one poem. Now, there are times that I say that and go back into my files and find one or two that have somehow leaked out and avoided my conscious memory, almost like they don't count as poems. But that's not

the case now.

            As usual, I had a flood of ideas after the Dodge, and two or three of those became poems, but after that-- just silence. I don't really let these silent times bother me much, because I have learned from experience that I will come around to writing again. I am, however, contemplating the connection between therapy and writing. Is it a drain on my creative resources? Is the break my Muse is taking related more to the holidays than the biweekly sessions with a loving,

receptive sounding board who validates my essential sanity and instincts? Or is it that, because most of my poems are of such a personal nature (hopefully personal in a way that is universally recognizable and accessible), I am afraid that the therapist is my only audience right now, and my best "material" is going to her and not the page?

            There is no doubt that I was in need of an objective ear. I have been fighting depression on and off all year, the kind that won't just go away with a little yoga or Budweiser. And I don't anticipate that this round of therapy will go on forever. But I am a teeny bit anxious about writing. Anxious now to get back on the literary "horse" I rode into this blog on, and so much else in my life that's worthwhile.

            I still trust I will, but for now, I am doing the mechanical work of being a poet. I have sorted through twenty years worth of poetry, cleaned out files and thrown away multiple copies of no use. I managed to complete the application for the New York Foundation for the Arts fellowship in poetry, offered only once every two years. I read a few old Christmas poems at a party yesterday (invited to, incidently, NOT forcing myself on an otherwise jolly affair!). I went to a terrific reading on Saturday night hosted by my friend Rebecca Schumejda and featuring three talented Hudson Valley writers: Guy Reed, Glenn Werner,

and Will Nixon. I am still going through the motions.

            I have made some notes for a drawing that I'd like to begin. A sort of expression of my anxiety this year. For the many who don't know, art and writing were neck and neck in my life for many years, before I chose the language route in college. I even earned my Regents diploma in art. I still keep drawing supplies around, but rarely use them. Perhaps this quiet time is the time

to go back to that nonverbal express. Or, a time to restore visual art to my creative options.

            I do trust that I'll be writing again soon. I have projects planned. But this time of year, everything seems to be planned for "after the holidays". I am coasting now. It's OK. I'm still breathing, therapy is going very, very well, and I look forward to seeing more friends over the course of the season. All is well today.