A Week with Audrey

Let me say this at the outset: I am no baby person. I have friends (forgive me, all of you) who melt at the very sight of an infant, who adored every moment of their children's babyhood, who cried when their little ones boarded the kindergarten bus. Not I.

My children were (and still are) wonderfully beautiful and intelligent, but I loved them most when they finally learned to speak. Perhaps it is my basic insecurity. I get panicky when I don't know what I'm doing--and babies are (and always have been) the ultimate unknown country. How do you KNOW what's wrong when they can't tell you, when their only switch seems to be OFF or ON, smiling or crying? I need more sophisticated controls, more fine-tuning.

We have spent this week in San Diego in the company of our daughter and 4-month-old granddaughter. Young Audrey is a marvel. If one ever wondered how our species survives, all it takes is one look at her in the morning when she wakes. One wriggle, one baby kick and squirm, one sunshiney smile, and we are toast. Anything she wants or needs is hers, whether it be room service at 3 AM or an extended walk in the garden to distract her from whatever is causing her to whimper...she can trample all over our sleep patterns and restaurant ways and recreational reading habits, and we barely notice. She smiles at us as if we are what she prizes most in this world--and that is reward enough.

Don't get me wrong. I suspect that if I were to be the primary caregiver for an infant, I would probably fail utterly. My daughter (and son-in-law) do an admirable job, with remarkable good humor. I can do a pretty fair back-up routine, and haven't forgotten the basics of diaper-changing, baby-holding and transfer, and the intricacies of car seats and porta-cribs. But I am still not a baby person.

I may, however, be an Audrey person, and I hope that Audrey turns out to be a Grandma kind of little girl.

Cloud

Is it the economy, or the presidential mudfest, or the time of year, or what? I'm finding it difficult to read the paper, or follow through on projects, or even write much. The weather has been gorgeous, but there still seems to be an oppressive black cloud hovering overhead, making it hard to breathe. I think it's called the future.

I went through the paper yesterday and there's not much joy in Mudville. Negative headlines far outnumber (if not obliterate) positive ones. I'm no Pollyanna, but when the only happy-face headline involves the results of Lehman Brothers contributing to a Habitat for Humanity housing effort in India--and the worry that funds for charity projects like these will dry up--I think we're in worse trouble than just the economy. Is there nothing good happening anywhere?

I'm tired of the McCain/Obama campaigns. Both sides are just repeating the same old songs, with additional random accusations flung at the other guys. Why not say something new? Why not address the reality of the situation and at least try to offer, if not hope, at least some sympathy? I don't believe much of what I hear from either camp any more. Just let us vote and get these people and their petty accusations off my TV screen.

I can't help worrying that, with all the mud that's been thrown, the emotional tenor of the campaigns, and the rampant fear engendered by the economic crisis, whoever wins will be the long-term loser. When campaign appearances start to sound like KKK rallies, and even candidates can't rein in their own supporters, when people who want us to elect them show no signs of being thoughtful citizens, much less LEADERS, even economic worries take a backseat to fears of anarchy. How far have we regressed as humans? The only way to get through hard times is together, with the support of our friends and neighbors--and it appears we are even losing that in today's divisive atmosphere.

When our financial gurus start bruiting about sums of money that we can barely comprehend, when presidential "assurances" cause the market to drop even further, when it's becoming increasingly clear that there's no one left in charge who we can trust or rely upon, what do we do? Covering our eyes, holding our ears, and singing at the tops of our voices hasn't seemed to help (and I suspect that's what we've all been doing for the past few years.) I'm not sure that there's any remedy except to put our heads down against the wind, gather our courage, hold on tightly to whatever we have left, and try to bull our way through the storm.

It would sure help if we didn't have to do it alone.

Kingston Trio

Nick Reynolds is dead. Nick Reynolds, as in Bob Shane, Dave Guard...and later, John Stewart: the Kingston Trio. I am sure that means nothing to the vast majority of people online, but they were the soundtrack to my freshman year in high school. They were the group that crossed over from folk to Top 40. Who doesn't remember "Tom Dooley" or "MTA" or "Tijuana Jail" (and the calm baritone response to Nick's frenzied Spanish yipping in that introduction: "No more drinks for the dwarf.")? But I always liked the tongue-in cheek songs that you found on their albums or in their concerts and not on the radio...Zombie Jamboree, Merry Minuet, Ballad of the Shape of Things....

As much as the music, the Kingston Trio brings back times and people. My introduction to them was via Tom Magrogan, president of our CYO, and an avid fan who had all the albums--and was murdered in his early 20s before his life began. They bring back the years BEFORE the Beatles, the years of Joan Baez and her copper kettle, of The New Christy Minstrels, of Peter, Paul and Mary...and the Kennedy years, when joining the Peace Corps was a valid ambition, and the world's problems seemed to be solvable.

We were all much younger then. Goodbye Nick.

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.