Poetry Month

This is the home stretch: the final week of National Poetry Month, one final burst of literary awareness, culminating in Alexandria's first Poem-in-Your-Pocket Day on April 30. I am hoping that we've succeeded in generating some interest in that event, and that The Athenaeum on Thursday night will be thronged with Alexandrians, waving their favorite poems and clamoring for the opportunity to share them with an audience. But, whether we have 5 or 50 or 500 participants that night, there have been some palpable results. We have started conversations. At City Hall, in restaurants, in coffeeshops, in bookstores, people have talked about poetry, and that is something they may not have done since they were in high school. People have REMEMBERED poetry, whether the poems they remembered were elementary school doggerel or Mad Magazine parodies or memorized pieces from their youth. In a small way, we have reconnected at least a part of our population with poetry.

In this busy month, I have talked to a variety of people about what I do--from 6th graders to casual acquaintances, from cocktail party conversationalists to family and friends, from neighbors to waiters and business owners. None of these have responded with the ever-so-polite "Oh" or "Really?" when I talk about stimulating interest in poetry. Almost without exception, they launch into stories or memories or favorite poems, willing to share an experience that relates to poetry. That is a measure of success that I never expected when we launched Poem-in-Your-Pocket Day. 

That's what poetry's all about, really. Communicating. Sharing the human experience in the best way we know how. We don't have to wait for Poetry Month or even a Poetry Day to celebrate it. Whether we speak or write or sing it, it's poetry. Poetry Month is just a reminder of that. Celebrate it.

More inspiration

I seem to have a broken record here--or at least a scratch in the record that causes my needle to skip and repeat, skip and repeat. (A metaphor lost on anyone who has never been acquainted with the vagaries of vinyl recordings...sad.) In any event, I keep discovering new things about inspiration and motivation in writing, chief of which is that, for me, there's no inspiration like a deadline. I suspect I am not alone in that regard.

Witness the fact that I was asked four days ago for a poem for a local publication. I wrote something, but (wisely) set it aside and went back later to read it again before I sent it on its way.  Absolute drivel when I looked at it again. So I started over, and this time, came up with something that I at least liked enough to send out to some friends for comment. However, the key thing here was the mechanics of inspiration. It's very hard to analyze, but I'm coming to the conclusion that ideas happen for me as a result of striking images that pop up, unbidden, throughout my day, IF I ONLY WOULD PAY ATTENTION. The whole idea of writing notes on things I see, or taking pictures of them seems to be a good way of embedding thoughts in my teflon-coated brain. Pictures and words remind me of what I was thinking. And sometimes, I can even expand and improve upon those initial ideas by working at them later. This morning, we were driving into the city, and during a stop at the drycleaners, I noticed how much the scene outside my window, blurred by the rain, called to mind paintings I'd seen. I snapped a few pictures through the window and uploaded them when I got home. I may never do anything with them, but with any luck, if I'm ever stuck for an idea, I can look back at them and see what I saw this morning again, and perhaps make something out of it. Who knows?

In the meantime, here's one of the pictures--and the poem for the newsletter.

Spring Song

 

Spring scribbles color on the landscape

like a four-year-old with a thousand crayons:

redbud pink on rain-dark bark,

forsythia stars, shining yellow on fountain branches,

the shiny green of ivy, emerging on its vines,

Re-papering a rose-brick wall,

And tulips marching in their military reds and golds.

 

There are the soft pastels of springtime sounds and smells:

the spice of daffodils, the sharp, dark tang of mulch

spread round chilly pansy toes and primrose feet,

and, singing through the hopeful, new-bud green

of flowers, shrubs and trees,

the April forecast of sun and showers

with a chance of lilacs.

Poem a Day?

I believe I mentioned in passing a few blogs ago that I was going to attempt to answer the challenge from Poets.org to write a poem a day during National Poetry Month. Well, I am 8 days behind in that goal, but...I AM surprised that the reason is simply that I don't have enough time to write them all down. Because I know I have that pledge hanging over my head, I am on constant lookout for something to write about: some snippet of time or scene that bespeaks a poem. Interesting. So, I have initiated the little green notebook. Barely the size of a credit card,  it lives in my pocket, and when anything strikes me--anything at all--I scribble it down in my little green book. Green for "go", perhaps? So far, the green monster has generated material for two poems: one that I like very much (at least on first glance) and one that may yet work its way into my affections. There are also several notes-to-self that I hope will start growing and bearing fruit now that they are planted in a notebook.

Another tool that I never expected to yield anything literarily useful is my camera. While in Tucson, I took a lot of pictures (not ALL of Audrey!) and found that some of the images have lingered in my mind and are prompting a few ideas. But--PIYP Day is demanding attention. And Easter dinner (I'm baking rolls..) And everyday life. And my appearance before City Council. And all the things I WANT to do as well. Maybe I've been having trouble sleeping for a reason. Maybe I should just get up and work. Nahhh.

Visit to Tucson

It would be hard to write anything this month without mentioning the fact that we spent four days in Tucson this month visiting our daughter and her family...which of course includes the incomparable Audrey. I hesitate to join the legions of grandparents who pop out Yellow-Pages-sized photo albums when anyone asks about their grandchildren. I have tried to confine myself to the occasional Facebook album, and particularly sweet snapshots on this site.

The fact is, I am far more of a doting grandmother than I ever expected to be. That said, let me say that young Audrey is as beautiful and clever as ever, and is currently mastering the art of feeding herself. She is practicing walking, and I have no doubt that our next view of her will be on her own two feet, speeding off toward whatever has caught her curious eye.

On another matter (pretty much unrelated), I was particularly excited this trip to have found a cookbook with the recipe for the Arizona Inn's wonderful currant scones. One of the truly decadent pleasures of staying at the Inn is afternoon tea in the library--featuring all sorts of delightful little cakes and sandwiches...and the best scones ever. Even Audrey agreed--and spent some serious time on the lawn outside our room nibbling on one. (See above picture.) I will thoroughly enjoy attempting to reproduce them, I'm sure--maybe I can make them for Audrey's next visit to Virginia. 

Caught in the Downpour

It's raining, it's pouring...well, it's drizzling, if we're talking about the weather, but in a metaphoric sense, it HAS been pouring. With National Poetry Month on the horizon (only a couple more days) and Alexandria's Poem-in-Your-Pocket Day on April 30 to be organized and planned, and the awards dinner for the Alexandria Commission on Women, and a reading gig last week at Greenspring...I have been working hard to stay afloat. 

My laptop and I have been essentially conjoined for the past few days, and I have been pursuing a crash course in my relatively new Mac's capabilities vs. my tried-and-true Dell. I know the Mac can do what I want to do, but it's more familiar on the Dell--and thus faster for me. However, I still feel as if I am spending most of my waking hours transferring files via email or thumb-drive to and from whichever laptop requires them at the moment. I have promised myself that, as of May, I will become a one-machine woman again. 

If you are interested in PIYP Day, it is really starting to shape up. Everyone I talk to seems to be enthusiastic about playing a role--from my bank to the Athenaeum, from church friends to people I've met at the Folger Theater. I'm just beginning to realize that I am not in this alone, either. Cherylanne Colton has been wonderful at recognizing what needs to be done and who needs to be contacted and when. For a seat-of-the-pants organizer like me, she is a godsend: someone who develops workplans and lists vs. someone like me, who relies on serendipity far too often.

But, lest we forget the whole thrust of this month...let me issue a challenge to all you poets out there. The Academy of American Poets suggests that we challenge ourselves to write a poem a day this month, and I'm going to give it a try. They may not be (as Boris and Natasha might say) "gem every time", but if I could get something on paper (or onscreen, as it were) I'd at least have some raw material to work on during May. Thirty poems! Imagine that.  If I could do that, I might even be ready for my next round of readings when they come along.

Perfect

I have been cleaning out my office (well, attic-with-shelves-and-a-table) and am appalled by the number of notebooks I have in my possession. There are other things I accumulate-- purses, bags, wallets, and don't even ask me about my box of greeting cards!--but the notebooks are far and away the most prevalent. 

I like paper, and there are apparently as many ways of binding it together in a pleasing wrapper than I ever thought possible. There is the leather-bound journal I bought in Florence, the empty stitched notebook that fits into another lovely leather case (Crane's stationery, Tyson's Corner). There are the Circa notebooks from Levengers (you can actually rearrange the pages!) and the quotidian spiral books that remind me of taking class notes in college. Then, there are the Moleskin notebooks that come with blank or lined or quadrille paper, and have that eminently practical elastic band that holds the book together so the pages don't get mussed.

There are 3-ring and 6-ring notebooks, some with zippered cases, some with handles or shoulder straps for easy transport. There are presentation folders for those days when I need to carry only a few papers, but need to look organized. Some books are small and purse-worthy; some are tall and reminiscent of ledgers you might see in Dickensian stories; some are like reporters' notebooks, and others, artists' sketchbooks. When opened, each holds a tantalizing morsel of information. One documented a European trip in 1985, another contained a half-finished letter written after our move to Alexandria. Some have snatches of The Novel, or bits of writings that surfaced later in different form. 

The goal, I believe, has always been to have a journal, in which I would consistently record my days. I have failed utterly. I do write things down, but hardly ever in the same place. The current notebook is always upstairs or in the car or abandoned on the dining room table. Inaccessible. And I am far too lazy to pursue it. Far easier to write in or on whatever is handy.

I'm still seeking the perfect notebook: the one with smooth, lined paper that makes my pen float across the page, recording beautiful, moving words and deep thoughts. The very act of opening this book will be inspirational--a far cry from the mad scribbling that goes on at stoplights when I get an idea on the road. My notebooks are so civilized, and I am still trying to believe there is one out there that can civilize me.

Not a chance. Inspiration isn't neat and tidy; it doesn't come when bidden, if it deigns to come at all. Inspiration is a rowdy mutt that leads you through the muck and mire of writing, chasing and being chased, cheerfully holding ideas, like Frisbees, in its grinning mouth--teasing and slobbering and constantly evading capture. If I could write in my prissy notebook every day, in a civilized fashion, it would hardly be any fun at all. It would be like walking an extremely well-behaved showdog: one that had had all its 'dog' removed. My notebook collection bows to that ideal--but I don't think I really want it. Give me a mutt and an undisciplined cross-country chase any day of the week. Arf.

(Note: the picture above is an anonymous internet mutt, unfortunately not mine.)

Inspiration?

People sometimes talk about the internet (and technology in general) as if it were a bad thing; that it contributes to the general illiteracy of the population. I'm sorry, but I don't agree. When I was a kid, the same arguments were made about television, and before that, about movies or comic books or dime novels...Whatever the new thing was, it was obviously bad news for education, for attention span, for vocabulary, and even the physical well-being of children.

Now, I don't pretend to have proven anything scientifically, and it may well be that there are some bad effects that are traceable to our more recent gadgets. However, the alarmists of our generation may not have it all correct either. Case in point: Facebook Notes. In the past week or so, I have been subjected to an inordinate number of Facebook Notes requests. All of these ask you to copy the message, delete the previous person's answers and insert your own--then tag your friends and pass the task on to them. One could spend one's days simply replying to these requests--if one had the time to spare--and then, reading the results. Who doesn't have a little curiosity about their friends' responses to some random personal questions? 

This week, I have been researching writing prompts--ways to get kids to write poetry--for the simple reason that I am doing a couple of poetry workshops for middle school students. One of the ways I ran across was something called 'automatic' poems. The rationale behind this (grossly oversimplified here) is to give the kids a template and have them fill in the blanks.  At the same time I was reading about this method, I serendipitously received the Facebook request that asked you to Google your own name plus the word "needs", copy the first ten hits and post the document on your Notes page.

Well...to a man with a hammer, everything looks like a nail. And to a woman with a poetry workshop, this looked like an automatic poem. I tried it, and, you know, it didn't turn out badly. Now I'm looking at everything that comes over my Facebook transom in a slightly different light. Could I make a poem out of the "One Word" request? What about the BBC Book list? Or the Six Line Memoir? Who knows but that technology in the form of Facebook is presenting me with an endless source of inspiration? Who knows what other gadgets and so-called "time-wasters" might provide? This might even provide an entry into writing for the sixth-graders I'm tasked with inspiring. Anything's possible... I'm optimistic.

And for those of you who might be interested..the poem's on my Notes page...