spring & all

Yes, it is June now. Yet, I feel as though spring is just beginning.

Spring and All [By the road to the contagious hospital]

by William Carlos Williams

I

By the road to the contagious hospital
under the surge of the blue
mottled clouds driven from the
northeast-a cold wind.  Beyond, the
waste of broad, muddy fields
brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen

patches of standing water
the scattering of tall trees

All along the road the reddish
purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy
stuff of bushes and small trees
with dead, brown leaves under them
leafless vines-

Lifeless in appearance, sluggish
dazed spring approaches-

They enter the new world naked,
cold, uncertain of all
save that they enter.  All about them
the cold, familiar wind-

Now the grass, tomorrow
the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf
One by one objects are defined-
It quickens:  clarity, outline of leaf

But now the stark dignity of
entrance-Still, the profound change
has come upon them:  rooted, they
grip down and begin to awaken

– See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15536#sthash.NclZQt8r.dpuf

poetry dose {Jennifer Borges Foster}

I’ve had these two poems by Jennifer Borges Foster bookmarked on my laptop for over a year now. Every now and then I find myself reading them again and again. They were published here.

—-

What does the grave say?

by Jennifer Borges Foster

What does the grave say? My gates are all caves.
– Theodore Roethke

What does the cave save? Small bones to make its teeth.
Where do their ghosts sleep? In a bowl of feathered rest.
What bird flies best? The one with his long throat open.
Has the sky spoken? No, it sings, it weeps.
What does the rain complete? The valley’s cupped hand.
Does this chasm demand? Yes, your dawn and dreams that fell.
Will this morning swell? It breaks against the trees.
Can the forest breathe? It unfurls a high green lung.
Are its roots unsung? They hum and suck, they chant.
Do its twigs want banter? Just the light laughter of birds.
Is this what the deer heard? That, and horse’s hooves.
Does the horse know truths? He bears a girl the leaves long to kiss.
Will they bend and miss? She gallops too fast, they sigh.
Do her hands clutch the bridle? She falls while her teacher drinks.
Is his heart sinking? He takes his pen to lift its tendons.
Will she go unmentioned? We will love her better in his memory.

My sparrow, you are not here.
– Theodore Roethke

—-

Chance, Chant, Chain

by Jennifer Borges Foster

The stroke and stress of what came before us
is all boast; the sacred text of a sage’s naked guilt,
a sheaf of scripture intended to trick. We roll the
moveable frame back again and again, each scene
unfolding like pasture or passage, saying chance,
chant, chain. We are roped in afresh and furthermore,
we admire confinement, to recline against one’s wall
is to rest. We recall that memory is malleable, but
overlook it to admire the approach of the unfamiliar
branded with our specific stamp of discretion.
I love you, we say. I’ve never felt this way before.

—-

Jennifer Borges Foster is a poet, bookmaker, and the editor of Filter, a hand bound limited edition literary journal. She is the recent recipient of grants from Art Patch, 4Culture, and the Seattle Mayor’s Office of Arts and Cultural Affairs, and was short-listed for The Stranger’s 2007 Genius Award in literature. Her poems have appeared in The Beloit Poetry Journal, Prairie Schooner, ZYZZYVA, and other journals.

bookmaking & AWP bound

For the past few months I have been working on a book making project for Sweet Books. My friend, Claire, and I worked as bookmakers and designers for two books, one of poetry and one of creative nonfiction. Both books were hand-bound and stamped. We even constructed the cover paper for one of the books and made four book-presses to help with the process. We learned a lot about printing and making books throughout this project. I will be heading to Chicago tomorrow morning to attend AWP ( a creative writing and literary arts conference).  I get to spend the next few days attending creative writing panels, going to readings and  meeting the authors of the books Claire and  I’ve spent months making.  Our hard work has payed off. 

teaching iambic pentameter

I taught iambic pentameter to my undergraduate poetry students this week. Teaching meter often feels like teaching trigonometry in Chinese to college students. I remember being stunned and confused when I first learned iambic pentameter(not to mention the many other forms of meter). So, to make learning meter, something that seems to be a rather monotonous and wonderful beast, interesting and engaging for my students I used the following lesson plan:

We began the class with students reciting a 10-12 line memorized poem. (I had assigned this two weeks in advance). Once they finished their recitations I asked how they worked to memorize them poem. This lead into a discussion of the elements that make a poem memorable: sound, repetition, rhythm, rhyme, metaphor and image.  I then introduced meter and asked if anyone was familiar with the sound/the beat of iambic pentameter. A few students were and they immediately began tapping out the daDUM, daDUM, da DUM on their desks. I asked the others to join in. And then we were all beating in unison. “It’s a heartbeat,” one student said.  I was happy someone recognized the familiar sound. I responded by sharing that  iambic pentameter is often connected to the human heartbeat by scholars and poets. And that we often times write and speak  in iambic pentameter without meaning to. This meter is intrinsic to our nature. Therefore iambic pentameter may be innate to us because of our heartbeats. Our ears, minds and whole being tuned to experience it. I then showed this video(one of my favorite Ted Talks) in Which Bobby McFerrin illustrated the connection between our neurons and sound.

We then went on to scanning the meter of a few poems including:

Saint Judas, One Art, Sonnet 29,  Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

After my students were proficient enough in recognizing meter, I had them work in small groups(3-4) to write an over the top and cheesy iambic pentameter poem with a perfect and painfully obvious rhyme scheme. They seemed to enjoy the chance to use this new form to make something ridiculous and fun. I heard some terribly wonderful lines when they shared their poems.

This gave them practice before their  homework assignment, a 10-12 line poem in blank verse.

John Steinbeck on falling in love

I recently came across this letter in The Atlantic in which John Steinbeck gives advice about love to his son. I had to share it with you.

New York November 10, 1958

Dear Thom:

We had your letter this morning. I will answer it from my point of view and of course Elaine will from hers.

First — if you are in love — that’s a good thing — that’s about the best thing that can happen to anyone. Don’t let anyone make it small or light to you.

Second — There are several kinds of love. One is a selfish, mean, grasping, egotistical thing which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind. The other is an outpouring of everything good in you — of kindness and consideration and respect — not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak but the second can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn’t know you had.

You say this is not puppy love. If you feel so deeply — of course it isn’t puppy love.

But I don’t think you were asking me what you feel. You know better than anyone. What you wanted me to help you with is what to do about it — and that I can tell you.

Glory in it for one thing and be very glad and grateful for it.

The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it.

If you love someone — there is no possible harm in saying so — only you must remember that some people are very shy and sometimes the saying must take that shyness into consideration.

Girls have a way of knowing or feeling what you feel, but they usually like to hear it also.

It sometimes happens that what you feel is not returned for one reason or another — but that does not make your feeling less valuable and good.

Lastly, I know your feeling because I have it and I’m glad you have it.

We will be glad to meet Susan. She will be very welcome. But Elaine will make all such arrangements because that is her province and she will be very glad to. She knows about love too and maybe she can give you more help than I can.

And don’t worry about losing. If it is right, it happens — The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.

Love,

Fa

theater clouds

I find  Elly Mackay’s dreamy paper constructed  prints to be absolutely beautiful.  Her miniature theater scenes create a world that encompasses the playfulness of childhood and the whimsical spirit that resides within each one of us {no matter how old we may be}.

They look like ephemeral secrets to me, like I’m getting to look into someone’s collection of copper buttons or old spoons.   Small theater boxes made into art scenes remind me of Octavio Paz’s poem dedicated to  Joseph Cornell’s  boxes.

OBJECTS & APPARITIONS

For Joseph Cornell

Hexahedrons of wood and glass,
scarcely bigger than a shoebox,
with room in them for night and all its lights.

Monuments to every moment,
refuse of every moment, used:
cages for infinity.

Marbles, buttons, thimbles, dice,
pins, stamps, and glass beads:
tales of the time.

Memory weaves, unweaves the echoes:
in the four corners of the box
shadowless ladies play at hide-and-seek.

Fire buried in the mirror,
water sleeping in the agate:
solos of Jenny Colonne and Jenny Lind.

“One has to commit a painting,” said Degas,
“the way one commits a crime.” But you constructed
boxes where things hurry away from their names.

Slot machine of visions,
condensation flask for conversations,
hotel of crickets and constellations.

Minimal, incoherent fragments
the opposite of History, creator of ruins,
out of your ruins you have made creations.

Theater of the spirits:
objects putting the laws
of identity through hoops.

“Grand Hotel de la Couronne”: in a vial,
the three of clubs and, very surprised,
Thumbelina in gardens of reflection.

A comb is a harp strummed by the glance
of a little girl
born dumb.

The reflector of the inner eye
scatters the spectacle:
God all alone above an extinct world.

The apparitions are manifest,
their bodies weigh less than light,
lasting as long as this phrase lasts.

Joseph Cornell: inside your boxes
my words became visible for a moment.