**COAST TO COAST- Poetry Chaplet**

COAST TO COAST, original poetry chaplet by Cheryl A. Rice, c. 2011 Flying Monkey Press, only $5, postage included.

From the title poem:

"Coast to coast doesn't have to mean
Silver Zephyr, Orangeland Express.
There are commuters, the bi-coastal,
but the way I was raised, it's a world away."

A collection of poems about love lost, found, then lost again on opposite sides of the country. Quantities are limited!

Email me at dorothyy62@hotmail.com for the address to send your order to! Thanks!

**2012: Year of the Chapbooks!**

            2011 ended on something of a downbeat. In October, I was "let go" from my job as manager at the Inquiring Minds Bookstore in Saugerties. This was not a surprise, and I should have been preparing for it long before it happened. And it’s not without a little satisfaction that I now learn that I was replaced by a part-time manager! Onward and upward!

            Eligible for unemployment, I have spent a good portion of the last three months organizing my life. After last summer's horrific storms, I was inspired to begin tackling the piles of goods I have managed to store up in the basement of Casa Diva in the ten years I've been here, and the five my boyfriend has spent here as well. Consolidation, charity, out in the trash-- all options have been exercised. I don't ever want to move as much stuff as I did when I moved in here. The thing is, this house was the first place I was able to have all my possessions in at one time since I lived with my parents. It is time to let go of so much.

            I have also used the time to put together a couple of chapbooks, mainly from existing work, and I'm pleased to announce that I have TWO chapbooks scheduled for publication in 2012. In December, I put together a small chaplet through my own Flying Monkey Press as well. "Coast to Coast" is only $3, and believe me when I say quantities are limited. I'm not trying to be cute; only sixteen of them came out well enough to sell!! The chaplet is an homage to a special person who inspired a number of poems over the years, and although not enough to qualify as a full blown chapbook, I felt I wanted to get what work I had regarding this person out there, and in some kind of collected form.

            I sent a manuscript titled, "My Minnesota Boyhood" to Finishing Line Press back in February for their New Women’s Voices contest and heard nothing about the outcome until just a few days ago. An email informed me that the book had been accepted for publication, outside of the contest. Attached was their standard contract, requiring a presale of fifty-five copies for the minimum press run. Although satisfied that my work was in fact acceptable, I was somewhat annoyed at their total lack of communication beforehand. I had to keep checking their website to find out when a winner had been declared in the contest. In this age of email, I don't see any excuse for not sending a quick note to contestants.

            My friend Guy Reed had a book published by Finishing Line last year, and neither of us was altogether thrilled with the experience. Strange delays, oddly impersonal, form-type emails-- one had to wonder if his manuscript had been read at all. The final product was very nice, though in my opinion a bit overpriced at $12 for a stapled binding, but the content is of course excellent. I highly recommend "The Effort to Hold Light," and it's available through either Finishing Line or Amazon.

            In the meantime, I offered the same manuscript to Dayl Wise at Post Traumatic Press, based in Woodstock, NY. He had already put two months work into the book when I got the email from Finishing Line. He thought I was crazy to turn them down, I supposed because in some circles they might qualify as a "real" publisher. Dayl's press, started to in part provide a forum for the writings of military veterans, is as real as it gets. If I was to receive some sort of cash prize, I would have had second thoughts (see above). But all things being equal, I will continue to "dance with them that brung me," and "My Minnesota Boyhood" will be coming out in the next couple of months.

            A second manuscript, this one a collection of poems inspired by the city of Albany, NY and my experiences there over the last twenty-plus years, is in the works. Dan Wilcox is the proprietor at APD Press in Albany, and a longtime friend. He puts out few chapbooks these days, what with demonstrating and reigning as the Capitol District's Old Beatnik of Letters, but what he does do is carefully selected work. I am honored that he's accepted my work. I think we might be looking at fall for this one, and it's as yet untitled, but I will keep you posted on its whereabouts. 

            In the meantime, I'm writing, revising, and oh yeah, looking for a day job. I in no way believe that I'll be able to earn a living as a poet, and frankly, this gives me the freedom to write what I like, instead of what others assign to me. Better for my art, better for my mental health. Pass along any leads on work, and let me know if anything sounds interesting... anything, really!! It's been too long and I have no excuses for getting at least one update a month up here. Mea Culpa, as the overeducated say.

            Happy 2012!!

*Poem: "No Judgment Zone"*

O beautiful woman at the gym with your big body and your highlighted hair, your black button-down shirt and sneakers,

thank you for being here, whatever the reason.

It's a no-judgment zone, but that doesn't mean I can't look

at the pregnant woman in the long tight shirt pulled snug over five month belly,

man in the wife-beater and sunglasses, fingerless gloves,

tattoos that blend into his dark skin,

soft man in white , bright red face,

twenty minutes on the treadmill, TV tuned to MSG,

soft woman in pink sneakers, t-shirt advertising our gym, following a

trainer from station to station like an advocate of an unseen cross,

all here to look better, or feel better, or because their spouses want them to be,

or to be somewhere that's not their own house,

to meet somebody sober, somebody in the same sweaty boat. 

I've never found romance here, but I've taken kisses

from an old friend dripping with effort on the elliptical,

giggled at later by ladies watching, not judging me.

And there is the beautiful man I've been watching for years now,

beautiful because he keeps coming back.

He is always on the stationary bike when I begin my careful routine,

is still there when I come back for my last fifteen minutes, on a bike too.

He's the only one I recognize week after week, three years now,

and he isn't getting any smaller, but he's here, keeps coming back.

I want to thank him, this beautiful man in the dark goatee.

I want to tell him that some days the idea that he might be there,

keeps being there, is the only reason I come. 

I want to thank everyone for coming, and to skip the free pizza

on first Monday nights, unless it fits in with their food plan,

but it's a no-judgment zone, and doesn't that include cheerleading?

I am there myself to get it over with,

to lounge guilt-free before the fireplace video,

devour homemade popcorn 'til I pop myself.

I am here not so I can live forever,

but so I don't die quite as badly as I might otherwise.

O beautiful man, o beautiful woman,

thank you for joining me at the purple fountain, for the company

on this arduous stroll across the universe of machines,

into the path of most resistance.

CAR  2/1/11

*Poem: "Iowa"*

 

A kindly tourist explains the difference between

the heat in the Hudson Valley and Iowa, his home,

which can get this humid but, he said, it's hard to explain.

This New York valley holds the moisture in its bowl,

and that's what makes the trees so green,

then the autumn colors so vivid. He says the weather here

is comparable to southern Iowa or Missouri.

Twain spoke at commencement for the girls at Vassar

once upon a time, a century ago.

Was the weather like home then?

The tourist begins again on the shelves of books on autism,

says he's finished the top two, and has three more to go through.

He gets a hot coffee, despite the heat outside,

inadequate air cooling inside, dark, no milk,

lidded before he leaves the counter, so sugar is out, too.

Missouri, Iowa are faraway countries from upstate New York.

Nothing is far enough away from Long Island, and

inconsequential in any case. There are no beaches

on the shores of the Mississippi. There are no shells

in the mud of the Big Muddy. The sunlight, quickly returned

after a brief, hard shower, enters the shop with some

resistance from the awnings. The glare off cars across the street

is sharp and familiar, a part of summer sunshine in June,

when the light lasts longer and has more to say,

has a more definite impression to make.

Milt Jackson's metal bubbles pop on the CD,

barely audible in the background.

Ambience. It doesn't stop the kids in the afternoon

from playing with the puppets, using a flannel mouth

to say what they mean, assuming the dull roles of

physician, cheerleader, pirate, dragon.

Only Coltrane, narrating his own destruction,

Can chase the teens out into the heat,

down to the park, to smoke as teens always smoke

before their lungs fall out, beside the Esopus,

tribute to the Hudson, distant cousin of the

Mississippi, both being of water, both rolling

while we here stop and talk about the weather.

 CAR  6/1/11

**I'm BAAAAAACK!**

Just a quick note today, but after a few months of pretending to live like a non-poet, I have decided to embrace my fate and recommit to the Writing Life. I have several projects in the works, and a reading on Oct. 1 at the Beahive in uptown Kingston (part of Phillip's Levine's COW series), so I need to be back on the poetic ball. Bohemian Book Bin in November and Vooreheesville in December are a couple others readings I see on my dance card.

Wondering whether I should put another chapbook together on my own, or put some energy into shopping manuscripts around to some of the smaller presses. What's your opinion? I like the artistic control of doing it all myself, but of course being published by an outside entity is tremendously satisfying and validating. Perhaps I'll do both...

I think writing time will have to be carved out of the evenings. Mornings are a little rough lately, what with the back out and the allergies due to come back in full force any day now...  So, I'll be cutting way back on the Netflix dinners with my Beloved Roomie, TMM. Except for "Gomer Pyle, USMC"...

*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