Learning Curve

One of the greatest advantages of being the poet laureate is that I am often given the impetus I need to take time to read and think about what poetry is and what it does. I had agreed to talk this week to a group of people at the Hollin Hall Senior Center. I was given pretty free rein to talk, read, or lead a writing exercise within my hour and a half timeframe--and in my usual fashion, didn't get around to really planning things out until the days immediately leading up to the event.

The day before, I had picked up Billy Collins' new book, Ballistics, and had happened upon a great little (four lines!) poem called Divorce. This came on top of the completion of a poem-to-order for the Alex Awards, and also a reading of my son-in-law's notes on how a particular sculpture of his came to be. This confluence of circumstance led me to think about exploring the concept of creativity, and how ideas are harnessed and brought into some sort of concrete form. Indeed, this is one of the most frequently asked questions I get: how do you write something to order? where do you get ideas? what makes you choose a particular metaphor? My pre-laureate answers pretty much would have amounted to "I dunno", but I now feel like I owe people more than that.

So. How do you get ideas and convert them to poems? That's a question that is akin to asking someone how their mind works. Assuming that mine does, all I can really say is what I know about my own process. When I have a subject that I have to write about, I start to write things down: thoughts, phrases, sentences, words--anything that has any association with the topic. I may write paragraphs, I may write lists, but eventually, there will be a word or phrase or sentence that sounds right, or that appeals to me in some way. It's that something that is the seed for whatever I end up writing. Sometimes I don't find it the first time. Sometimes it just jumps up and skims across the page, playing with all sorts of other thoughts that I race to write down. That's how my "Audrey" poem went: one phrase and I was off and running. Other times (last year's Alex Awards poem springs to mind) the process drags on and on and is tinged with a note of panic as the deadline approaches.

For me, the writing process is a continuous game of free association. A poem for a grief counseling newsletter starts out with lists of how you feel in the wake of a loss, how you are shaken and battered by events, but eventually come out the other end..and the metaphor that pops out of the lists is a pinball machine. That works, and I have my poem.

Then comes the inevitable question about editing. I used to say I didn't edit. But when I actually look at what I do...well, I guess I do. Usually I edit on the fly and rearrange lines and phrases and words as I type. Or look at the printed product and start juggling things around. Hardly ever do I sit and cross out words on a handwritten copy. I type my first draft and save it to disk, then mess with it some more over the period of time I have before it's due. And sometimes even after that. Sometimes I find a better word. Sometimes I realize I could make more sense if I moved things around. Sometimes I just look at it and say "What a piece of crap" and start over. But I never throw things away. There's always the possibility that I can cannibalize old pieces of stuff and come up with something new. In fact, when I'm really stuck, I will often go back and read everything I've written--finished or unfinished, good or bad--and I can usually come up with something that incorporates one good phrase that was enmeshed in a pile of bad or trite (same thing, really) verbiage (is it just coincidence that that word SOUNDS like 'garbage'?) I am an avid recycler in that respect.

And thus I meander through my explanation--sort of. It's far easier to point to people who do it well: Billy Collins for instance, who polishes his little nugget of insight down to four trenchant lines that say everything there is to say about divorce. Or the poem Hardware, where the poet talks about nuts and bolts and wingnuts for two stanzas and somehow tells you without speaking it aloud that he is grieving for his father. Or Joseph Awad, whose poem Generations speaks so eloquently of a father's love for his son that it makes me cry every time I read it. Or the poem whose name and author I can't remember (God, how I wish I could find it again!) about a woman who berates her husband for coming home from the supermarket with the wrong brand of just about everything--then turns that into a grateful acknowledgment that that was how he picked her to marry. (I guess you have to read the poem, but it is a great one, I assure you.)

I guess all I can say is that I'm thankful that I have this position that makes me consider things that are more important than my usual fare, and discuss them with other people. Ideas are what keep us going, after all.

In honor of the Norman Conquest--anniversary this week!

Speaking of language and derivations that resulted from the incorporation of French (and all its interesting derivations) into the English language.....Poet, for example, we got from the Old French word poete, which entered French from Greek via Latin. In Greek, there's poiein, a verb meaning "to create." And in Greek there is poetes, "maker, poet." In Middle English, "poetry" at first referred to creative literature as a whole.

Weekend in New York

Having just returned from a weekend in New York that was full of fine food, good theater, and good friends--and also a full measure of walking--I am catching up on everything from laundry to email. I'm grateful to be home, in spite of the great time we had, because New York is just too much for me. Too many people, too much traffic, too much noise, too much stimulation...Alexandria is more my speed. Close enough to theater and museums and restaurants, but far enough that they aren't shoved down your throat with a heaping helping of humanity.

We took in MoMA's member preview of the Van Gogh exhibit on Saturday morning, then had lunch at Sardi's (JC loves their Floating Island dessert.) Theater-wise, this was a revival weekend; we saw South Pacific, Gypsy, and A Man for All Seasons--none of which I had seen in their original stage versions, though I had seen the movies. All were fantastic, but my once-Catholic heart was particularly touched by the last of those three.

What a shame that every young person in America cannot see that play...What a role model to emulate. ..a man who obeys his conscience without becoming a screaming ideologue, or inflicting his beliefs on anyone else; a man who holds to his moral compass wisely and wittily and earns respect, even as his friends despair of him. Frank Langella brings this totally human scholar and statesman to the stage, and makes us love him and his family--and even more, makes us admire the steel in the man that makes him sacrifice so much that he holds dear for something he holds even dearer: his character.

1787: We the people

Two hundred and twenty-one years ago today in Philadelphia, the Constitution was signed, giving birth to an experiment in government that has been more successful than the signers ever dreamed. Today is a good day to step back from the current political fray and look at what this document, this idea, this dream has produced.

We have, for over two hundred years, experienced peaceful (for the most part) elections of our leaders. We have seen the civilized transfer of power from one party to another. We have seen slavery abolished, and the right to vote extended to all citizens, regardless of their race or gender. We have seen inflammatory legal issues decided by our courts system, and the results debated and sometimes changed via prescribed procedures.

It hasn't been perfect. We have made mistakes. There have been violent disagreements and protests of unpopular policies, but we have been faithful to that initial statement of our founding fathers: "We, the people..." are the deciders for our country. We, the people, will vote in November and select our leaders once again. We, the people of the United States of America, have been making history for over two hundred years, and this election is another chapter, another illustration of how that happens. Whether we choose a black man or a white man, a woman or a man, a soldier or a statesman, we know that the Constitution is strong enough to withstand whatever storms we may encounter. Times may get rougher, challenges harder to meet; prestige may fade, economics may falter, but we planted our flag over 200 years ago in Philadelphia. It will stand.

Happy birthday, Roald Dahl!

Is there a child alive who has not heard, read, or watched a story by Roald Dahl? If such a child exists, I must condemn his/her parents/family/teachers to one of the lower circles of hell for depriving him/her of some of the best stories available for kids. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Twits, James and the Giant Peach, The Witches...all the wonder and horrors and dreams and fears that populate kids' imaginations, orchestrated and presented in a way that captivates not only kids, but their parents as well. Go back and read them again as a birthday tribute.

Farm to Fork

If last night's Farm to Fork dinner at Del Ray's Evening Star was any indicator of the value of freshness, maybe I need to start growing food crops in my tiny garden. Somehow I doubt if my efforts--in the garden or my kitchen--could produce the results that we enjoyed last night from the kitchen of Chef Will Artley. An ambrosial gazpacho was succeeded by a series of plates (shrimp fritter, scallops, salads, wonderfully crunchy little chips of garlic, beef tenderloin, ratatouille napoleon) that kept topping each other in flavor, innovation and just plain deliciousness. The previous list was from memory--and I'm a person who sometimes has trouble remembering what I ate for lunch!

I also have to say I am pretty much a dessert purist, and the listed dessert that incorporated tomatoes as well as a basil ice cream had me casting a fairly skeptical eye at the menu. However...like everything else on the table, it vastly exceeded expectations and I would have cheerfully pocketed two or three to take home. The wines were ignored in the discussions, but certainly did not deserve to be. When did they say the next dinner in this series will be?

The trouble with blogs

It's so easy to START a blog..it's keeping it going that is difficult. I don't always have something to say. Though my family might differ with that, I am certain they'd agree that not everything I prattle on about is worth listening to. I've opened this screen at least three times today in the hope that a bolt of lightning will illuminate the room and I will suddenly have an idea worthy of a paragraph or two. Nope. I've pretty much decided that I MUST do an entry at least once a week--which gives me absolution for a little more than 80% of my time. I can live with that.

That resolved, I have been attempting to corral my poetry oeuvre into some sort of orderly topic-oriented progression, so that I might enter a few contests, submit to a few journals, and perhaps, just perhaps, achieve (in that suddenly-free 80% of my time) that devoutly-to-be-wished goal: publication.

It isn't easy. Despite my exalted title (ahem) I am still as uncertain about the quality and value of what I write as I ever was. It's so easy to brush off a compliment or a kind word as simple good manners. (Perhaps that is because of the books I've read and readings that I've walked away from with a contemptuous "I could do better than that!")

In any event, sending my work off to a journal or other publication feels like putting a brand-new kindergartner on the bus--or perhaps, more accurately, flinging them under the wheels of the bus. I read a poem, then I start (figuratively) to comb its hair or tweak its shirt, or lick my handkerchief and scrub away at an imagined spot. It's impossible to believe that it is ready to be dispatched into the real world to be judged and (possibly) found wanting. Far easier to keep it safe at home.

But then, how will I ever know whether it measures up or not? Maybe this is why so many artists (and I include poets among them) aren't recognized until they are dead. They can't let go.

After the conventions

I'm beginning to think that the best method for evaluating our national circus (otherwise known as the presidential election) might be the same process used in rating other competitive enterprises: collect the scores, throw out the highest and the lowest, then average the middle ones. That way, we could just ignore all the over-the-top shenanigans (Sarah Palin's speech, for one), throw out all the low blows (but who's counting?), and whittle things down to reality-level.

Accept the fact that (thank God) our system of checks and balances won't permit the fulfillment of the more outrageous promises/consequences and believe that the American public won't fall totally for the exaggerations, misrepresentations, and downright lies that people tell (and the media reports) while under the influence of the convention spotlights. No candidate is a savior, and no candidate is the devil incarnate. Lord knows, we've had some bad actors in government, and politics can generate some pretty reprehensible behavior--but, somehow, we've managed to hold things together for a couple centuries with this system of ours. No matter who is elected, life will go on; perhaps not in the way we want it to, perhaps not without some serious bumps in the road, but on, nevertheless.

I'd like to believe that when I go into the voting booth in November, there will be millions of others like me (and certainly millions of others NOT like me) who will be listening to their own consciences, their own values (if the Republicans haven't damaged that word for all time), and their own beliefs, and will be voting for the people who are most closely aligned with their own views. I'd like to think that when the voting is done, all those millions of people will accept the results and continue to work and be involved in the governmental processes that allow even the minority to have a voice in how this country operates. That is, after all, the way this is all supposed to work.

Sarah Palin: Gloria says it better.

http://www.latimes.com/news/printedition/opinion/la-oe-steinem4-2008sep04,0,1290251.story

Summer's End

Only yesterday the sunshined schoolbus
ceased its daily orbit round the neighborhood.
We shrieked across the schoolyard,
books and teachers in our wake.
Freed from the solitary confinement of our desks
we wrote our names instead in jet trails
across the vast blue board of sky,
multiplied our hours by each blade of grass,
perfected the physics of skipping stones
and measured the depth and flow of creek and pond.
From grassy beds, we studied pinprick stars
in the planetarium of night
and wrapped ourselves in lush damp air
that sparkled with fireflies and magic.

Yet here we stand in August, three months gone--
with our barefoot mornings and lemonade afternoons,
days of watermelon on the porch
and thorny blackberry expeditions behind us,
learning once more the sweet alchemy of a peach
while the juice of summer
trickles through our fingers...