In Loving Memory

Grampy as "The Man in Black" (photo by Lisa Anderson)

Supersize Me!

My interview with Nick Lantz is up today at The Rumpus, along with a review of his books and a new poem. Here's an excerpt:

Ok. Seriously—what’s the deal with Donald Rumsfeld? His commentary (along with that by first-century philosopher Pliny the Elder) provides We Don't Know We Don't Know’s epigraph. Rumsfeld is also quoted no fewer than eight times throughout the collection. Is he a muse, trickster, fool?

Lantz: Linda Gregerson calls him a “fallen muse” in her introduction to the book, and I like that characterization a lot. The Rumsfeld quote from which the book takes its title is indicative of what drew me to him. His wording is precise, his syntax and logic are labyrinthine, and he manages to say something that’s true, strictly speaking, without actually telling the capital-T truth. His verbal contortions are infamous, but a lot of people mistakenly lump them in with our former President’s accidental malapropisms. Rumsfeld doesn’t misspeak in that way. He says exactly what he means to. He deploys language in a very deliberate way, and often says something that is technically true, but usually with the goal of obfuscating, confusing, or otherwise clouding the issue. In that sense, I see him as sort of the inverse of a poet—a poet being someone who uses language deliberately and makes things up (i.e., says things that are technically untrue), with the goal of clarifying human experience. Rumsfeld’s use of language is Machiavellian and very cynical, but it’s also very intelligent...

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Nick has a lot of terrific things to say about structure, book organization, the art of the associative leap, etc. Please click over and check out the rest of our conversation!

Going & Coming

Back from Connecticut, I'm already working on the next series of trips: Washington D.C., California / Oregon, Nova Scotia and New Jersey. There's potential for more, and the above list doesn't include K.'s work travel. I don't know how we're going to pull off the next two or so months leading up to our move...

Each week, something new crops up. We need new passports, international drivers' licenses, more vaccinations, special requirements for the dog. We need to copy and store important documents, decide what goes into storage, find out what our insurance policies cover overseas. The house is still on the market and soon we'll add one vehicle (we're taking the Jeep). Next month, we're enrolled in a week long orientation; the topic -- how to survive living abroad.

I need a course on how to survive right now!!

Sadly, K.'s beloved Grampy is in the final stages of lymphoma. It's difficult being away from California, especially when someone in the family is sick. I wonder whether we'll feel even more helpless in Jordan, given the extra distance...

The California / Oregon Tour is meant for celebration -- 10 or so days of goodbye dinners and barbecues. Each day = another town, another party. I cry easily and hate leaving people, even though I've moved what feels like 50,000 times. Already, the denial begins: "I'll see you one last time before we go..." I've heard myself repeat this promise several times since February. Note to recipients: I really really want it to be true!

Home

I Love the Black Swan...

...has been my refrain for about 10 days. I walk from room to room, just saying it: "I love the black swan" -- and you will, too. Click HERE to read it!

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The Beaded Talisman

Carl Phillips is the new Yale Younger Poets judge! Praise be!

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Yesterday I drafted a poem about this:

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How is it Thursday? Home in a few days to K., our beauteous Brussels Griffon (Jabberwocky Chewbacca), and T., who's visiting from NoCal. Where does the time go, and go and go...?

On Catkins & Light

April's Workspace

A Piece of Paper, Some Words

Tomas Transtromer (trans., Judith Moffett)

"...When I started writing, at sixteen, I had a couple of like-minded school friends. Sometimes, when the lessons seemed more than usually trying, we would pass notes to each other between our desks -- poems and aphorisms, which would come back with the more or less enthusiastic comments of the recipient. What an impression those scribblings would make! There is the fundamental situation of poetry. The lesson of official life goes rumbling on. We send inspired notes to one another."

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I've been in Connecticut with B. for more than a week, with the same amount of time to go. The days are long and filled with reading, talk, work, food, revision, music -- in short, all the good stuff. Feels like the old-years-in-San Francisco with B., only with both feet on the East Coast.

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Visited Connecticut College this morning and spoke with B.'s workshop. I'd rather talk about any poems but my own; however, it was wonderful to be back in the classroom and the students' questions were terrific.

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Currently reading:

Selected Poems 1954-1986 (Tomas Transtromer)
Elizabeth Bishop: Life and the Memory of It (Brett C. Millier)
Selected Poems (James Merrill)

What Was I Thinking?

 

Rummaging through old drafts is sort of like looking at photos past: it ain't always pretty. The terrible fashion. That bad hair...

After taking notes this morning for a potential poem, I dug up a discarded draft (circa 2004). The hope? Given its familiar subject matter, perhaps I could salvage a line or image.

No dice.

One of my closest friends has a talent for recycling bits of language. What doesn't works here, saves there. An opening sentence may end up closing a future stanza. Parts are resources rarely abandoned.

I'm the opposite: for better or worse, I almost always write full poems start to finish. If it works, fine. I'll fine-tune, revise and revise and revise. If not, I can't reenter the lines no matter how much time has past. When a button comes loose it's tossed, not saved for another blouse.

The girl reading in the photo is me, bad hair and all. Spring 2006, my attic apartment in Hamilton, New York. Most of what I wrote that year no longer exists. I drafted like crazy, and then drove away with a fraction of what I'd imagined.

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Currently reading:

Lighthead (Terrance Hayes)
Notes from No Man's Land (Eula Biss)
The Great Enigma (Tomas Transtromer, trans. Robin Fulton)
In Cold Blood (Truman Capote)