When I was little, I used to get overcome when I saw something I thought was beautiful. Once I ran down the hill above my house where we were working in the tomato patch to run back up with my camera to take a picture. I've lost the picture but kept the burning-lung gasping relief of getting back into the clearing and seeing the rainbow still there, holding its pose. This picture shows me at 5 after pulling one of the roses that bloomed beside our cement block playhouse. It seemed so huge and fragrant and impossibly wonderful, I asked to have my picture made with it. My cowlick was in full flare, I'm sure I smelled like a puppy from playing outside. But that very moment had to be caught. It is hard sometimes as an adult to feel such uncomplicated joy. But not tonight. For the past several years, I've been running in the yard in a different way, looking for things, writing them down, playing, working at the poems in my book. Now they are a thing, a real book. As tangible and exciting as that rose. Tomorrow I go into a room and share it with my family and friends and maybe some new friends and readers. I am going to forgo all the tormented bullshit creative folks put themselves through and just offer it up like I've done before. Just hand it out and say, "Hey, can I show you something?"
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17 Days until the book launch, feral readers!
I was hoping to pen some kind of eloquent mini-essay on how I feel about Dissecting the Angel becoming a tangible thing. I wanted to write some perfect collection of words to evoke my deep gratitude and joy. Something centered and calm and beautiful. But all I can think of is the feeling of my 15th summer, taking 45s to my friend Heather's house. We played records and danced and sang and shared our elaborate dreams. With perfect abandon. Big '80s hair flying, not worried about looking cool, singing to the back row. I am that kind of happy. More postcards from the fest. I was attempting to reproduce them as they'd been written, but one was very difficult to read so I typed out the text. Again, read with an eye to process, not product. In June, I decided to join a Postcard Poetry Fest as a way to jump start some new writing. The project was created by poets Paul Nelson and Lana Ayers and this year over 300 poets joined the list. Each participant was given a list of names and addresses and the chance to write a poem a day for the month of August and mail them out to strangers. In return, each writer receives postcard poems each day. I have always loved letter writing and sending and receiving. My first penpal was an aunt that lived in California (which may as well have been another country, and in some ways, was). There were several after her, through church missions, pop music magazines, young loves. The handwritten word never fails to inspire, if only for the very personal act itself, the little quirks of personality peeking out in script. Here are some of the poems from the month and I'll continue to post them, though with a caveat. These were written directly on the card in one go, with no notes and no exit strategy in some cases. You've been warned; these are first-draft poems. My crutches and obsessions and limitations all shine through. But hopefully, some of that earnest intent to connect directly, personally will show up, too. I am fortunate that many of my favorite poets are within earshot of me, at least on the first Wednesday of every month. Jay Morris is one of the fine voices I first heard at Word of Mouth. Like a CPR-kick to the heart, he'll get you going. Just listen.
When asked to introduce himself: I'm from Athens, GA. I'm studying Health Promotion and Behavior at UGA. I'm 19. I write poetry because it keeps me grounded while at the same time helping me notice the way I deal with life and give it meaning. Do you have any touchstone poems? I have so many touchstone poems it's hard to pick! However I guess I would say that After the Bachelor Party by Derrick Brown currently keeps popping up in my head. Do you have any writing/revising rituals? I don't know if I necessarily call it a ritual, but it's definitely something I do consciously. I find that I can't write poetry during the daytime. Only at night. Someone calls you a poet--how do you respond? I still feel pretty weird when people refer to me as a poet, particularly because people often inject a lot of pretension into that word. I'm becoming more comfortable with being called a poet as I'm more able to define what a poet is. Incidentally you helped me define a poet as "Someone who not only survives life, but does so insisting their heart and soul remain intact." What inspires you? A lot of things inspire me creatively. Music inspires me. Other poems inspire me. Books, conversations with friends, walks, runs, social issues. I guess I have myriad sources of inspiration. How do you deal with creative doubt? Dealing with creative doubt is the hardest question. Being a more confessional poet I have to be aware that there's a boundary between being moving and inspiring and being depressing and pathetic. When I get to a poem I've written that makes me feel that way I think first "Is this me being as honest as possible?" and second "Is there a way I can make it universal?" and third "Is this poem solutions oriented, or am I just wallowing?" * * * To read Jay's poetry (and you should), go to http://archerarrestedbukowski.blogspot.com/ A broadside is a large sheet of paper, printed on one side, historically for advertisements, proclamations, or political diatribes. A later iteration was to combine the text of a poem with an image. Broadsides are delightful in the way that they resemble storybook pages for grown-ups. The reunion of image and text that you can frame, or, for the more upstairs-garret look, tack to a wall. The collaborative aspect appeals, too. What happens when you get a visual artist and poet together? Broadsided has a great collection of these, provided digitally for easy reproduction. For folks who like printmaking and book arts, you can also find booksellers like this who sell limited editions of broadsides, if you'd prefer something a little more on the rare side. I have been fortunate to work with a few artists on some broadsides. The first was for the poem "The Gift." The talented David Calton provided the woodcut of a bee for the image. The Gift “Mystery Bee Disappearance Sweeping U.S.” I didn’t kill the bees, if that helps. You would have taken them, too. His breath sounded like wet fabric ripped in two While he searched for his EpiPen. That happened too often. When spring came I watched him watch The nonchalance of patio-sitters. Before a waiter ever asked he’d say, ‘Inside, please.” The research on beekeepers’ associations, The night raids, the elastic hidden In cuffs and sleeves. Yes, it was worth all the time and trouble. The smell of smoke and honey, That tacky wax on my skin. Ridiculous amounts of netting. I can’t tell you much more except Somewhere a warehouse thrums with bees. The air inside shakes with a million tiny breezes. If you enter the building, you will lose your shoes, Socks, and a layer of skin to the sticky floor. You will hear protracted thunder, The sound of frustrated industry. But from a distance the noise Becomes an eternal Om. Once this is all settled I will prepare a picnic for him, And we’ll sit just close enough To hear the monotone concert. There I will give him a jar of amber honey To match his eyes, to kiss off his mouth. More recently, I collaborated with Richie DeBiase of New Haven, CT. After considering several poems, we picked "Not" to use as a jumping off point for his wonderful illustration style. The kind and talented folks at Double Dutch Press (I highly recommend them for excellence in their craft and great customer service) in Athens screenprinted four copies of the poem. I wanted Richie to have multiples for "do-overs" if necessary. He sent them all back, beautifully illustrated, all with entirely different tones and feel! Richie's treatment of the poem is a great example of how differently a poem can be interpreted visually. Hopefully, the future will bring more chances to work with artists to combine text and image in interesting ways. Any artists and graphic designers reading this that see any poems you'd like to work with, let me know!
C.D. Wright's book, Cooling Time is one of my touchstones. When another "poetry-is-dead-or-is-it-if-not-let's-poke-it-with-a-stick-to-see" article comes out, I run straight to this book. No apologetic mincing, no "pardon, 'scuse" from a poet clearing his or her throat to be heard above the noise and fray. "Poetry is tribal, not material. As such it lights the fire and keeps watch over the flame. Believe me, this is where you get warm again. And naked." Her claims are brave and tonic, prickly and daring in their faith in the word. I grew up on the incantation of John, "In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God." Words can create worlds, define them, destroy them. Any number of totems, herbs, and candles remains stage settings until the magician utters the magic words. The dark turn? Control a language, control a people. So what are poets to do in light of all of this? "Give physical, material life to the words. Record what you see. Rise, walk and make a day." I can think of no better charge. When people ask when I started writing poetry, I have a hard time answering. I assume most people tinkered with writing poetry as children and teens. Some of us never stop. I do remember when I discovered free verse. It felt much like the time I went back home and my father dug up a mass flower bulbs he'd found in an overgrown, abandoned "homeplace." The root-ridden clump was a confusion of dirt and dirt-colored bulbs and thready roots. But they smelled like a promise of something. I had to plant them to know what that something was. A junior high teacher (I can remember two possible candidates for this, but the name is lost) took me and my best friend to a closet at our school. We could chose our pick of outdated textbooks and ruined library books before they were discarded. I pulled out Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle and Other Modern Verse. The copyright date was already three years before my birth, but opening the pages might as well have been stepping into a spaceship. There was Ciardi and Roethke and Cummings and Ferlinghetti. Dorothy Parker's "Resume" was in there and after memorizing and reciting it in English class, I was sent to the counselor's office for a checking over. I read Langston Hughes' "Too Blue" and heard blues, felt them. Sometimes I would take the book up into a mimosa tree to read, drunk on the strange combination of words and the smell of the pink blossoms. In a way that can only be felt at 15, the poems felt like contraband, like a secret. Poetry, read and written, remained that way for many years. What you see now is not new. Just wintered over, hidden by overgrowth, found again. And the bulbs? Jonquils. Poetry exists because the heart rebels against the suppression of its inner life. - Christina Viti |