New York, etc.

We spent last weekend in New York, in a whirlwind of plays and restaurants and taxis. We managed to see God of Carnage, August, Osage County, and Blithe Spirit--all excellent productions, though I lean most heavily toward Osage County, which is truly a tour de force. It is almost impossible to find anything wrong with the production. It is mind-bendingly, wrenchingly true to life, and the actors wring every last drop of meaning from it. As for the others, any opportunity to see Angela Lansbury at her ditzy best is worth the price, and Jeff Daniels and his fellow cast-members give lessons in everything from nuance to murderous frenzy in Carnage.

Add to that the Washington scene: Legacy of Light at Arena in Crystal City and (my favorite play) Arcadia at Folger, not to mention Heroes at MetroStage. These constitute a mini-Stoppard-fest right here in town. While Legacy has no Stoppard connection, it might as well have. Playing at the same time as Arcadia, it is a prime target for comparison, with its time shifts and its questions of science and philosophy. It stands up surprisingly well as a companion piece.

A side-note to the NY trip: in a bookstore we visited, I bought a signed first edition of Billy Collins' Sailing Alone Around The Room, and am now revisiting those wonderful poems...

Mothers' Day

I'm not really crazy about Mothers' Day. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that it follows a little too closely on my own mother's birthday and I am always at a loss as to what to get her for any present-giving occasion--much less two in a row (and those in the approximate vicinity of Easter, which can be yet another gift occasion.) Complicating things even further is the fact that it used to coincide as well with my mother-in-law's birthday. Four tough presents in the space of two weeks or so used to make me distinctly non-celebratory.

Of course it is nice to be wined and dined (or more likely, brunched) on occasion, and I do appreciate the cards and notes and the recognition from my own family. But what I value even more (and I suspect I'm not alone in this) is the occasional email from my daughters, the phone calls, the recipe requests, and the offhand acknowledgements every now and then that they still need something from me. It may just be a grammar or spelling question, how to do some repair, an opinion on something--or even a request to watch the cat for a weekend or keep an eye out for a particular item they've been looking for at the store, but it's reassuring to be needed--even in a small way-- by two young women who are so competent and so demonstrably un-needy.

It's paradoxical that after all those years of cultivating independence in my children, one of my brightest treasures is the occasional trace of the children they used to be, children who needed their mom.

Rita Dove

Nothing is more humbling for any writer--amateur though they may be--than listening to, or reading a master. Last night, Rita Dove read from her most recent work at the Folger Theatre. Lapsing into a distinctly non-poetic mode, all I can say is: "wow!" And perhaps, "why do I even bother?" Well, maybe that's not all I can say. But then you probably knew that.

Ms. Dove's new book, "Sonata Mulattica", tells a story--a real-life story, informed by twentieth-century sensibilities, of a mulatto child prodigy violinist and his encounter with Beethoven. Having heard a selection of the poems, I'm ready to dive into the book and read and learn more. Like so many poets, Ms. Dove uses her work and her narrative to awaken and prod her readers' understanding and awareness of issues that extend beyond the immediate time and place of her story. Poets write parables, more often than not.

But, for me, the real treasures from last night's reading and discussion were Ms. Dove's responses to questions from the audience, particularly those relating to how she chose her subject--which admittedly is obscure. The question of inspiration is one that dogs the footsteps of most writers. How do you choose what you will write about? It was reassuring to hear that this famous (and prolific) poet was inspired by a scene in a movie, by a quirk of casting that caught her attention and caused her to look a bit deeper. To play my admittedly broken record yet again, she reaffirmed that inspiration need not be a lightning bolt or a voice from the heavens that gives out assignments like your ninth grade English teacher. It can be a minute in a movie, a certain slant of light, an oddball thought about something you see every day--it can be anything that captures your interest, for however brief a moment. The key is to pay attention, always and everywhere; to see and hear and taste and smell and touch the world you live in--then to take it all home and write about it.

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.