Two Poems by Gerald Stern

There are two beautiful poems by Gerald Stern over at Poetry Daily this morning. I enjoy the way these poems pull a sentence across several line breaks and commas. The endings are so much more cathartic after that breathless tension.

This Morning at Poetry Daily

There's a well-crafted poem over at poetry daily this morning--Sherman Alexie's "The Father and Son Road Show." Alexie's latest book, Face, was published this year by Hanging Loose press.

Happy Thanksgiving

I realize it was yesterday, but I'm still feeling thankful. And stuffed. But apparently the group I'm in--the stuffed group--is shrinking. And not in the good way. The number of Americans who can't rely on full cupbaords and leftovers in the fridge is increasing. "Food insecurity" is on the rise.

If you feel like sharing some of your caloric good fortune, consider Philabundance or Feeding America. I give to Philabundance because they're local for me. Feeding America (formerly Second Harvest) is a national organization that helps local food banks. Here's how they operate: How Feeding America Works (from their website). If you know someone in need, Feeding America also has a foodbank locator on their front page (while a google search might also do, this might be a bit more organized).

Weekend in New York

I was in my friends' apartment this weekend trying to explain how much Tony Hoagland means to me. He profoundly changed the way I thought about my poetry. Here's what I couldn't articulate properly on Sunday. I came into grad school writing safe, pseudo-confessional jibba-jabba. These were poems that felt "deep," but actually just skimmed the surface of deeper issues. They were fun to read to a group of a strangers--it felt risky. It wasn't. Hoagland sat me down, and we had a meeting that I think about almost every time I work on a poem. At the meeting, Hoagland read one poem to me. One poem. W.S. Merwin's "Yesterday" touched my ears and I began to weep. It was the poem. It was the sound of Hoagland's voice, reading.

It was that I realized just how far off-course I was going.

To this day, I think Hoagland knew exactly what would happen. We talked a bit more, and I left the meeting almost shaken. What I took away from that meeting is difficult to express, but I have thought about it like this: Don't go the edge of the fire. Step into it.

I will be disoriented, on fire: that's fine. I can worry about line breaks and rhythm later--after I'm sure that I've found the center of the fire. And, even if I don't find the center, it's at least productive for me to stumble around with honest sentences and diction trying to find that point of heat where things matter.

A Poem for a November Morning in the Northeast

It's not cold enough yet to regret the press of my feet against the floor in the morning, but it's getting there. What I don't regret this morning--what I can actually take pleasure in--is the poem over at Poetry Daily, a.k.a. poems.com. Go read Andrea Blevins's "First Winter in Maine,"and savor those last few lines.

If you want the main page of the site--to see a new poem every day--click www.poems.com. Remember that this is poems.com.
There are several websites with poetry in the URL that exist solely to waste your time and money. Avoid them unless you want to laugh or cry.

A Friend Gives Me An Important Book of Poetry, and I Only Like the Inside Cover

Years ago, while I was away at a summer arts camp, my best friend sent me a book of poetry. In the front, my friend wrote about our friendship--it's value to him. The book? Debt by Mark Levine. I was young and stupid, and I didn't realize the debt I owed my friend. I focused less on Levine's words and more on my friend's words, his handwriting. Like I said, I was away from home. I was young and stupid.

What joy, the other morning, when I discovered this column by Stephen Burt:
http://bostonreview.net/BR34.3/burt.php
The journey went something like this: poems.org / November 13, 2009 / Angie Estes and her book Tryst / Oberlin College Press / A review by Burt / Googling Stephen Burt / Boston Review.
Hey, I'm not as well read as I should be, and I won't pretend. Basically, I get curious. Then I go read. I wasn't moved by Estes work, but it's form made me curious. Off I went.

Thanks to Burt, I now have this other context for the book, for the gift. I didn't realize it's place in language poetry. Today, I think that I'll re-read (and re-consider) Debt. If you haven't read Burt's column, get to it. Ever wonder what's going on in poetry? Here's one answer. Yes, to some degree what he's bringing to our attention has always been an important element in poetry. However, the way he suggests that the new thing stems in a way from words used by Tony Hoagland--the idea of "inscription"--feels, at least to me, sharp. Is that where things are? Where they're headed? Hey, why not? I mean, what meant more to me? The book, or what my friend inscribed the book?

As for my friend, I will never question his tastes again. Star Wars? Pro Wrestling? Forget it. He gave me a gift of contemporary poetry history. I'm curious again. I owe him.



So, go see his play.
http://bricktheater.com/exposition
*

Welcome

No grand claims, let's just see how this goes.