I seem to have lost not just a weekend, a la Ray Milland, but a full week or so. The truth of the matter is that life has intruded on the internet--or something like that. Inject a little reality--like some unexpected travel, a party to give, and a major automotive breakdown--and the most faithful blogger can fall down on the job. Mea culpa.
My trusty vehicle had just passed the 100,000 mile mark and I was congratulating myself on its stellar performance for lo, these eight years, when it decided to go out with a (literal) bang--in the middle of beltway traffic Monday morning. One minute, I was sailing along at 60 mph--and the next, was coasting on my remaining momentum across two lanes of traffic toward an inglorious stop, trailing a cloud of black smoke and what looked like a river of oil. With the invaluable aid of my cellphone and a AAA rep who was able to determine my location from what meager information I could supply ("Uh, just past an exit somewhere between Route 50 and Andrews Air Force Base ..") we managed to get the car towed back home to Alexandria. I am happy to report that the car has received an engine transplant and is again back on the road, though I wouldn't have expected that happy ending last Monday.
More to come...like, what is this Bathroom Poetry Project I read about in the Post this morning?
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Donkey's years?
A posted comment on yesterday's post inquired as to the length of a donkey year. Hmmm. Yet another of those verbal leaps that I tend to make. I know what it means--a long time--but how in the world did that phrase come about? The answer to all things is obviously to google it. I did, and the explanation involves EARS, not YEARS--or maybe a little of both. My source traces it to cockney rhyming slang..."years and years" is translated to a rhyming phrase "donkey's ears". Over the years, "donkey's ears" was corrupted to "donkey's years". Who knew?
As long as I'm on origins of useful phrases, commonly used or not, there was another that surfaced this weekend. My husband and I took a letterpress printing class on Saturday, and were thrilled with the experience. We learned how to set type and convert our efforts to a hand-printed card. For bookish types like us, what a great chance to expand our knowledge base-- and particularly satisfying for me to write, choose a font, set type, choose paper and print my own poem. For those of us who are control freaks, being able to work through the whole process from start to finish was nothing short of nirvana. And JC was so taken that he is trying to figure out how we could possibly find space for a press of our own. Anyway, the individual pieces of type--i.e. the letters--are called "sorts". Thus, when a printer was setting type for a print job, and found himself short of certain letters toward the end, he was said to be "out of sorts". As I could well imagine when I nearly ran out of "w"s for my effort. We both had a great time. For avid readers like us, it truly gave us a new appreciation for the printed word that we have relied on all our lives for information, relaxation, and entertainment.
I guess this is not the right time to say that we just bought a Kindle electronic reader, huh? But that's a different story.
As long as I'm on origins of useful phrases, commonly used or not, there was another that surfaced this weekend. My husband and I took a letterpress printing class on Saturday, and were thrilled with the experience. We learned how to set type and convert our efforts to a hand-printed card. For bookish types like us, what a great chance to expand our knowledge base-- and particularly satisfying for me to write, choose a font, set type, choose paper and print my own poem. For those of us who are control freaks, being able to work through the whole process from start to finish was nothing short of nirvana. And JC was so taken that he is trying to figure out how we could possibly find space for a press of our own. Anyway, the individual pieces of type--i.e. the letters--are called "sorts". Thus, when a printer was setting type for a print job, and found himself short of certain letters toward the end, he was said to be "out of sorts". As I could well imagine when I nearly ran out of "w"s for my effort. We both had a great time. For avid readers like us, it truly gave us a new appreciation for the printed word that we have relied on all our lives for information, relaxation, and entertainment.
I guess this is not the right time to say that we just bought a Kindle electronic reader, huh? But that's a different story.
Monday, June 16, 2008
A blog, a newspaper, and a poem.
I've come to the conclusion that a blog is like a pet: it needs regular feeding and exercise. Even if it's out of sight, it's never really out of mind, and generates its own variety of guilt. As you drop off to sleep, this vague uneasy thought burrows under your consciousness--"I should have written something today.."
My usual mental response is: better to write something of interest than to write for the sake of writing. Which is all well and good, BUT..it doesn't really stop that little mole from digging up a pile of guilt anyway.
I was on the Metro last week and was absolutely riveted by one of my fellow passengers. At the time, it was just curiosity, but I'm beginning to think that he is the beginning of a poem. I took my seat and started reading my paperback, and noticed that the gentleman in question was reading his newspaper--but in the most orderly fashion I've ever observed. With almost military precision, he picked up each section from his lap, folded the section vertically, then horizontally--read the top sheet, flipped to the quadrant below, then turned the section, refolded, and read top and bottom quarters. He repeated this for each page: northwest quadrant, followed by southwest, northeast, southeast. By this time, I was watching him more than I was reading. How neat! How tidy! How considerate of other riders! And how beyond my capabilities...The man qualifies as a true wonder of nature.
When I open a newspaper--or a map!--anywhere, it immediately expands to fill the space available. I could, I believe, fill an entire Metro car with one of my exploding newspapers. In the car, I wrestle prodigiously with your standard gas station map--so much so that I have been reduced to buying ADC maps because they are bound with that little black plastic spiral that keeps them leashed and confined and incapable of crawling into the already-crowded backseat of my car.
I wondered where he had learned his method. I wondered if I could learn it. I imagined him in a crowded elevator, elbows in, rectangle of news held in front of his face. Stepping off the elevator, he would tuck his neat package of information under his arm and proceed to his office to organize nothing short of the D-Day invasion. He made me think of Roman soldiers, running in such tight formation that one misstep could topple the century. (I was reading about Rome in my paperback.) This is a man, who in one of our society's rapidly-shrinking theater or airline seats, could manage to be comfortable, yet not spill over into someone else's personal space. He is self-contained, respects boundaries, is informed and efficient. Everything I wish I were, and so obviously, am not.
And so, the poem. What better metaphor for poetry than my friend, the subway rider? Perhaps he started off as messy and (pardon the expression) all over the map as I. Perhaps he has worked to refine his behavior, his actions, his newspaper reading, much as a poet refines and polishes the great lump of words he initially produces, taking away the superfluous, amping up the things that work, grinding away at the rough spots until the words flow smoothly and effortlessly describe, picture, and pin down the intended meaning. Perhaps what I saw was the zillionth reading of his newspaper-reading poem, performed every day for donkey's years on the Metro. And the finished product was awe-inspiring.
May I someday be as accomplished a poet as he was a reader.
My usual mental response is: better to write something of interest than to write for the sake of writing. Which is all well and good, BUT..it doesn't really stop that little mole from digging up a pile of guilt anyway.
I was on the Metro last week and was absolutely riveted by one of my fellow passengers. At the time, it was just curiosity, but I'm beginning to think that he is the beginning of a poem. I took my seat and started reading my paperback, and noticed that the gentleman in question was reading his newspaper--but in the most orderly fashion I've ever observed. With almost military precision, he picked up each section from his lap, folded the section vertically, then horizontally--read the top sheet, flipped to the quadrant below, then turned the section, refolded, and read top and bottom quarters. He repeated this for each page: northwest quadrant, followed by southwest, northeast, southeast. By this time, I was watching him more than I was reading. How neat! How tidy! How considerate of other riders! And how beyond my capabilities...The man qualifies as a true wonder of nature.
When I open a newspaper--or a map!--anywhere, it immediately expands to fill the space available. I could, I believe, fill an entire Metro car with one of my exploding newspapers. In the car, I wrestle prodigiously with your standard gas station map--so much so that I have been reduced to buying ADC maps because they are bound with that little black plastic spiral that keeps them leashed and confined and incapable of crawling into the already-crowded backseat of my car.
I wondered where he had learned his method. I wondered if I could learn it. I imagined him in a crowded elevator, elbows in, rectangle of news held in front of his face. Stepping off the elevator, he would tuck his neat package of information under his arm and proceed to his office to organize nothing short of the D-Day invasion. He made me think of Roman soldiers, running in such tight formation that one misstep could topple the century. (I was reading about Rome in my paperback.) This is a man, who in one of our society's rapidly-shrinking theater or airline seats, could manage to be comfortable, yet not spill over into someone else's personal space. He is self-contained, respects boundaries, is informed and efficient. Everything I wish I were, and so obviously, am not.
And so, the poem. What better metaphor for poetry than my friend, the subway rider? Perhaps he started off as messy and (pardon the expression) all over the map as I. Perhaps he has worked to refine his behavior, his actions, his newspaper reading, much as a poet refines and polishes the great lump of words he initially produces, taking away the superfluous, amping up the things that work, grinding away at the rough spots until the words flow smoothly and effortlessly describe, picture, and pin down the intended meaning. Perhaps what I saw was the zillionth reading of his newspaper-reading poem, performed every day for donkey's years on the Metro. And the finished product was awe-inspiring.
May I someday be as accomplished a poet as he was a reader.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
City Council Meeting
For those of you who may have missed tonight's City Council meeting, Councilman Ludwig Gaines kindly presented a proclamation noting my first anniversary as poet laureate, and added more than a few kind words. In addition, Kirk Kincannon and CherylAnne Colton were introduced, and brought with them the beautifully framed calligraphy version of "City of Songs" that will be hung in City Hall.
As I said this evening, the one thing that the proclamation did NOT mention was how much fun I have had this past year, talking about and writing poetry with groups ranging from toddlers to senior citizens. There always seems to be something new on the horizon, and I am constantly gratified by the amount of interest shown in reading and poetry and the arts.
(I would be remiss if I did not note that once again, there was a mascot at the meeting: this time, Tony the Titan, representing T.C.Williams High School for their all-night grad party...)
As I said this evening, the one thing that the proclamation did NOT mention was how much fun I have had this past year, talking about and writing poetry with groups ranging from toddlers to senior citizens. There always seems to be something new on the horizon, and I am constantly gratified by the amount of interest shown in reading and poetry and the arts.
(I would be remiss if I did not note that once again, there was a mascot at the meeting: this time, Tony the Titan, representing T.C.Williams High School for their all-night grad party...)
Monday, June 9, 2008
First Anniversary
Tomorrow, Tuesday, June 10, is a sort of anniversary for me. Tomorrow marks my second appearance before the Alexandria City Council--my first since my official appointment as the City of Alexandria's Poet Laureate at a meeting last year. At that first meeting, I was competing for attention with the Recycling Squirrel from the local elementary school. This time, I've hesitated to look up who else shares the agenda. All I know is that I am #7, and there is a proclamation marking the first anniversary of my appointment.
Some might ask what I have done in the intervening months. In fact, if I were to tabulate the questions I've received since becoming the Poet Laureate, that question would top the list: what does a poet laureate do?
Initially, the office received a lot of attention. I was interviewed (TWICE!!) by the Washington Post, and also by local newspapers like The Gazette-Packet, and the local cable TV show, Maturity. I've appeared occasionally in articles and letters to the editor, with subscribers and/or reporters urging other communities to initiate similar positions. We are currently a small and select group, we poets laureate. Only about ten cities actually have us on their books.
But, setting fame aside, what I have been doing mostly is writing and reading poetry. There are apparently many groups out there who espouse the writing of poetry as a pastime. Of course, there are the schools, where that encouragement comes from the curriculum, but despite the usual wet blanket effect of classroom assignments, there is enthusiasm for poetry and surprise that an ordinary person (i.e. not someone in a classroom) might want to write it.
What it boils down to is that, in my thirteen-month tenure, I have (in no particular order) participated in, by means of either reading or writing poetry-- or both-- the following activities:
Some might ask what I have done in the intervening months. In fact, if I were to tabulate the questions I've received since becoming the Poet Laureate, that question would top the list: what does a poet laureate do?
Initially, the office received a lot of attention. I was interviewed (TWICE!!) by the Washington Post, and also by local newspapers like The Gazette-Packet, and the local cable TV show, Maturity. I've appeared occasionally in articles and letters to the editor, with subscribers and/or reporters urging other communities to initiate similar positions. We are currently a small and select group, we poets laureate. Only about ten cities actually have us on their books.
But, setting fame aside, what I have been doing mostly is writing and reading poetry. There are apparently many groups out there who espouse the writing of poetry as a pastime. Of course, there are the schools, where that encouragement comes from the curriculum, but despite the usual wet blanket effect of classroom assignments, there is enthusiasm for poetry and surprise that an ordinary person (i.e. not someone in a classroom) might want to write it.
What it boils down to is that, in my thirteen-month tenure, I have (in no particular order) participated in, by means of either reading or writing poetry-- or both-- the following activities:
- the rededication of the Freedmen's Cemetery (original poem)
- the annual Alexandria Birthday Celebration
- a Writers' Walking Workshop
- a poetry workshop for developmentally disabled kids
- poetry reading at a local nursing home
- the rededication of T.C.Williams High School (original poem)
- a poetry cafe at a Fairfax County high school
- a poetry slam for an Alexandria elementary school
- an elementary school 'opera' about the city's role in the Revolution, the Civil War, and Reconstruction
- Stories in the Park--a library program for toddlers and their parents during the summer
- two poetry workshops for the Hollin Hall Senior Center
- The Alex Awards (original poem)
- the Alexandria Library's Alexandria Authors evening
- Poetry Month speaker at an Alexandria elementary school assembly
- a poetry workshop with 2nd graders
- an event at the German Embassy initiating a program of poetry cards in the Metro
- a reading by the former poet laureate of Pennsylvania at a local university
- a reading by our Virginia poet laureate, Carolyn Foronda, at GMU
- the City's PTA Reflections contest, as judge and speaker at the awards ceremony
- the City's elementary school poet laureate contest
- an event sponsored by the Del Ray Artisans celebrating the arts
- a panel discussion on Gerard Manley Hopkins and his work sponsored by a local church
- an appearance at the National Convention of the League of American Penwomen, held here in Alexandria
- Read Across America program at Hammond Middle School
- the Yockadot Poetics Festival
- a painting class at the Torpedo Factory...
Well, you get the idea. People call with all sorts of requests, and, if at all possible, I try to oblige them, and work toward my goal of promoting poetry within the city, as well as promoting the city through poetry. I write poetry for occasions, when asked--and read my work, sometimes whether or not I'm asked. All in all, it's been a fairly busy year. I have certainly not been bored, and I most certainly have been amazed at the interest exhibited by Alexandria's citizens, and have learned a great deal about my own community. I am constantly relating stories to my family and friends about inquiries I receive, and saying about the groups and people and events I've discovered, "Who knew?"
Obviously, the City of Alexandria did--or else they would not have gone to the trouble of seeking out a Poet Laureate for the city.
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