Paintbrush and Trigger

A New Beginning

2012-01-30T14:42:00.000-08:00

So it's a new year and all that. As far as blogging goes, it's been quite a while. The other day I woke up and I felt more my writer self than I have in a long, sad, crazy time. No regrets though. I mean, writers have different practices and mine has always been a bit opposite of Hemingway. I work on a series of poems to the point that writing is all that exists. I do this until I am ready to return to living. Then I go out and feel all alive and happy and awful until the world empties me. Then I return to the words. It's not that I don't write during the "living stage." I do, but it's really just words here and there that I pack away. So much has happened. I will share a bit here and there, but more importantly, there are things to be written and maybe even sent off into the world.

My Ireland

2010-08-29T11:55:00.000-07:00

Spain was lovely, but I of course took a few days to go over to the mistress land, my Ireland. I don't think I could ever be in Europe without going to Ireland for at least a couple of days.

Missing Spain

2010-08-17T00:52:00.000-07:00

What I cherish so much about Europe is the way in which people approach each day. Sure, work must get done and it does, but what really seems to count is what Omar Khayyam referred to as "The leaves of life falling one by one." The countries I have visited all seem full of people sucking the marrow out of each day.

This summer in Spain I saw so many lovers holding each other on benches or spread out upon a blanket in a park. Like Khayyam's famous Rubaiyat, what seemed to matter most was the company of your love, a loaf of bread, a book of verse, and some wine.

I feel so far from Spain. I search for it each day and I wonder if I've lost it. Should I just give in and rush to Subway to get a 5$ sub? I don't think so. I have so much more living to do and I can see no more fulfilling way to do it than what I have observed, what I have immersed myself in during the last 8 years of my life spending summers in Europe.

Spain, I'll keep searching for ways to live like the way you taught me.

What makes up your Paella?

2010-07-29T23:28:00.000-07:00

Look at this gorgeous plate of paella. There is a bizarre, at least to these Ohioan taste buds, mixture of foods ranging from a plethora of seafood to a plethora of vegetables. And yet, each bite tasted different from the previous one. Tastes tramped around my mouth and every new taste seemed to complement the previous.

I returned from Spain a few weeks ago and I am trying to figure out how I can unleash my taste buds here in Ohio. Literally, I can't. No food here can compare to what I have eaten in Spain. But how can I equate the plate of paella to my life?

Again, it comes back to balance. Look at the balance of food on the plate. What tiny pieces make up my paella. Writing has to be the clams. I have to dig to find writer Jen, but she's really important to the whole mix. Other parts of my life that need reflection in order to find out where they fit on my paella plate are: runner Jen or my commitment to exercise, family, preparation for the future, culture and travel, love for Telemachus & Edith, being a teacher as well as being a continuous learner, prayer, time with my Pete, and time for me. I may have skipped some things.

I was glad to come home to my loved ones, but honestly, Spain is a magical place and like a few other countries I have visited, the Spanish seem to know not only how to balance life, but to enjoy it. I need to work on that. I need to learn how to be in the moment instead of in my head concocting ideas.

I look forward to blogging more. It may be about writing or it may be about my recent travels, or perhaps it will be about my beautiful Telemachus & Edith. Whatever I blog about, it will go back to that plate of paella. Blogging will help me explore what is on my plate that shouldn't be and what needs to be on my plate that isn't.

AWOL

2010-03-01T22:00:00.000-08:00

Though I am only averaging one poem a month as well as some nonfiction mutterings, I am still putting that MFA to good use. For the past few years I have been thinking about creating a writing outreach program and finally, I did it. Of course, it took a great group of 11th graders to attempt such a thing.

AWOL, Aspiring Writers Outreach Locally, launched last week. My 4th period class is completing Honors English 11 coursework at home and in class on Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays, I teach them how to teach writing. On Wednesdays and Thursdays, they (in pairs) go to an elementary class to run little writing workshops.

So far so good.

I am busy busy busy: teach, administrate, write (or think about writing), and run.

Still, I have time to read so if you have any ideas on making an outreach program a success or even just a lesson idea, please comment.

Sea-grass & bottle, Ireland, County Mayo

2009-11-24T21:40:00.000-08:00

Does Jennifer enjoy life?

2009-11-24T01:42:00.000-08:00

This question was posted on my Facebook page by my mother. I just taught her how to use Facebook last weekend and now she is out of control. She also posted at least 8 other questions. The questions were things like, "Would you date Jennifer?" or "Do you think Jennifer likes dogs?" I had to laugh. I mean, my Facebook is mostly used for professional purposes. I am friends with a plethora of people from writers to students to parents of students to friends to teachers to old high school friends.

I'm not sure "Would you date Jennifer?" is an appropriate question.

Anyway, I deleted all of the questions except "DOES JENNIFER ENJOY LIFE?" I thought that was a strange question. It turns out that my response ended up being more of a list of times and people that make my little heart swell with thankfulness. So I thought I would share the list with the world.

Does Jennifer enjoy life?

Let's see...once she fell in love with van Gogh's letters and then she retraced his life in France from death to St. Remy to Arles to Paris.

She fell in love with Ireland and decided to wed herself to the Cliffs of Moher. She's returned every other summer (once even three times in a year) to see those cliffs.

No matter how much it humiliates her boyfriend, Jennifer dresses up the loves of her life, Telemachus & Edith, in ridiculously adorable clothes that say things like "Pugs not Drugs" or "Pug Life."

The Jeep Wrangler days. Top rolled down. The peace birthed by a little Eazy-E or Chet Baker. No obstacle the Jeep couldn't overcome.

And the snowboarding days that hopefully aren't over. Vermont. Countless trips to Colorado, Whistler in Vancouver...and the most thrilling, (though she did get lost for three hours) the Austrian Alps.

There is a girl named Kelly who Jennifer has spent many many days with enjoying life. There have been makeshift fire batons, evenings at Border's, trips to Detroit to be with other Red Wings freaks, and evenings spent on the patio doing nothing at all, except looking at baby ducks.

And there are three women, one now passed on, who love Jennifer more than she could ever ask or sometimes even want to be loved: Mom, Aunt Linda, and Bubba.

Now Jennifer is driven to defy her body and become a runner. A half-marathon in May awaits.

So does Barcelona in June, with a little side trip to the mistress land of Ireland. Jennifer and her friend will backpack Spain like they are 22, not 32. They will jump ship to Africa for a few days and see what that has to offer.

Does Jennifer enjoy life? Not always. But she is present in life. Mostly, she feels alive. And though she is not happy every moment of the day, she is usually thankful.

Oh...and because of all of the traveling, she is also always broke.

One more backpacking summer

2009-11-17T19:09:00.000-08:00

I have managed to do it again.

A plane ticket to Europe. June. Barcelona.

When I return a new stage begins.

I feel the nakedness of my finger. I feel the warmth that awaits. Princess-cut, perhaps.

I never thought I'd say this. Never. I want marriage. I want children.

I feel lucky just thinking about it. I feel loved.

And going to Spain will be pretty cool as well.

Teaching Cormac McCarthy

2009-11-11T19:00:00.000-08:00

The Road by Cormac McCarthy was a summer reading choice for my students. The students who chose McCarthy's Pulitzer Prize winning novel are happy, happy readers. I haven't heard one complaint about the novel.

Today we had a great day. We have a lot of these. A student, for his presentation, put us into groups of four (I love presentations because I get to be a student). We had to leave the classroom for a bit while the student hid bags of food. Then, we took turns scavenging the classroom for the food, which of course was a bunch of candy. When it wasn't our turn to scavenge for food, we sat in the hallway and wrote in our writer's notebook about whether or not we would be a good guy or a bad guy as defined by McCarthy's novel.

The students who didn't choose The Road as a summer reading book are all headed to the library to get a copy. A movie was recently made and should be out in theaters at the end of this month. I am hoping to take the students on a field trip to see it. Viggo Mortenson will be playing the father.

For those of you who haven't read The Road, I suggest that you do. It is about a post-apocalyptic world where a man and his son travel along a road in hopes of finding some place that is not dead. The few humans left in this charred world are mostly cannibals. There is a line near the beginning of the book. I don't have the book with me, but the line says something like "If the words of the boy were not of God then God never spoke." It's a breathtaking book about the love of a father and son and the microscopic hint of hope that lingers in a cold and dead world.

High school teacher mutterings

2009-11-02T19:14:00.000-08:00

In education classes (or during boring professional development days) we learn about the importance of student led conferences. Any one-on-one time you spend with a student is highly beneficial, but for me, there is something even more beneficial, or at least more practical than student led conferences.

The truth is that when you have 20-30 kids in a class it is nearly impossible to meet with students more than once every few weeks and even that is unlikely. What I have observed as most beneficial to high school students is to teach them how to speak to each other about literature. It is through higher level discussions that my students learn to talk about books. It is through intense writing workshops that they learn how to talk to each other about writing.

I learned how to facilitate this type of learning environment through my graduate writing classes. I wish more high school teachers could see the value of the workshop. It’s definitely hard work and requires more time, but it is invigorating and more valuable to students and their learning.

So many high school teachers are stuck in the swamp of simple comprehension questions. Do you need to know who wrote a book? Yes! Do you need to be able to recall the name of the apartment complex a character lived in at the beginning of the book? That would be nice, but I think it is much more valuable that you can discuss the character’s growth and flaw…

I don't know what the future holds for me. I am not sure if I want to always teach high school. The thought of doing any one thing for my entire life makes me feel a sense of dread. However, I do think I have something to say about teaching. I usually don't blog much about it, but I think I will start sharing snippets of what I have learned and what I am still learning in the classroom.

As a teacher...

2009-10-27T17:24:00.000-07:00

It's hard to always be positive. The more I challenge students, the more the parents challenge me about grades. The more time I spend working on things for the classroom, the less time I have on my own writing.

I confessed to Mark Doty (a few weeks ago at his reading/craft talk) that teaching at the high school level sometimes, many times drains me. He said that I have to be able to on occasion say, "Make this. Okay good, now go make another one."

And then there is Facebook, and being department head, and....you get it. I'm always so friendly and optimistic. I'm full of ideas and help.

I'm not sure where I can really be myself. I don't even allow complaints on my blog either, really.

The truth is, I am mostly optimistic and I do truly love helping students, but somewhere in the past near decade I have lost the ability to allow myself the once-in-a-while public sigh. Or the, "I'm sorry, I just don't have time." As a result of this public image martyr syndrome, the people closest to me suffer.

For me, being a great teacher means being an okay writer, a sometimey friend, an unfocused girlfriend, and a distant daughter. Add running into the equation and time is even more scarce. I must find balance. There are so many wonderful teachers who are also wonderful at their other roles in life. I must figure this out.

Hand-me-downs

2009-10-25T18:54:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl, I used to get my cousin's hand-me-down clothes. I was always so excited to sort through the boxes that my aunt would send.

Now Edith gets my cousin's dog Gracie's hand-me-downs. Gracie is an adorable Boston Terrier, and lucky for Edith, Gracie must have had a growing spurt. My cousin sent Edith at least ten new outfits, some still had a tag.

My Iron Spine: A Review

2009-10-24T17:51:00.000-07:00

New Zealand writer Helen Rickerby’s second book, My Iron Spine, is poignant, witty, tender, fun, and moving.

Rickerby has organized the book into three sections. The first section, Flashes of déjà vu, is compiled mostly of autobiographical pieces. A charming voice waltzes through the narrative, saying things like, I was playing hungry / hungry hippos / when my grandmother died or I wonder / if the Kingdom of Heaven / is like the Titanic- / not enough lifeboats.

A striking poem in this section is Eleven Fragments of God. Rickerby poetically meanders through questions, stories, and dialogue, pertaining not only to metaphysics, but also to personal grief. Corsets and comforts titles the second section of My Iron Spine. The poet writes in the persona of several women, including Artemisia Gentileschi, Mary Shelley, and Sylvia Plath.

In the third and final section, Laughing at Ophelia, the poet invents a world where she spends time with an array of historical women. Check out a few of the titles: Burning with Joan of Arc, Swimming Lessons with Virginia Woolf, Housework with Linda and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and Kate Sheppard and I go for a Ride. In the final poem, Rickerby hangs out with New Zealand born writer Katherine Mansfield. The poem, titled Partying with Katherine Mansfield starts out ‘Don’t be a bore,” says Katie / as she pulls me up by my arm / to the dance floor.

At times My Iron Spine is akin to Anne Carson’s The Glass Essay. Rickerby seamlessly layers her work with research, autobiography, and imagination. What more could a reader want from a book of poetry? Rickerby is a poet who celebrates women and their lives. Most of all, she celebrates their voices.

My Iron Spine is available through Amazon.

Gettin' paid for poetry

2009-10-17T23:09:00.000-07:00

This is a milestone, I suppose. Aside from winning money for contests, I have never been paid for publishing a poem. So here it is, my first check from a magazine. I hope Firstmerit can cash checks from New Zealand. What is even better than receiving a check? Seeing your poem in JAAM 27. The magazine looks gorgeous. Thanks to the editor of JAAM, Helen Rickerby. My next post will be a short review of Helen's stunning, new book, My Iron Spine. I am currently savoring each poem.

Faces only a mother could love?

2009-10-13T15:28:00.000-07:00

Of course not! Everyone can see the striking beauty in these two faces. The top picture is Telemachus; the bottom picture is Edith.

Writing as Excavation

2009-10-09T13:06:00.000-07:00

In his craft talk at The University of Akron last week Mark Doty said that there is a tendency for poets not to reach far enough in their poems. We get swamped by our own craft and somehow that attention to craft prevents us from truly exploring our poem and its possibilities.

Here are some of the tips Doty shared:

Get better at tolerating your own messiness.

Suspend the need to judge yourself during the process of writing.

Practice not finishing a poem.

Excavate and explore before polishing.

Inspiration Isn't Quite Enough

2009-10-03T19:47:00.000-07:00

Inspiration was always easy to find, sprinkling itself across the surface of the strangest places and people.

Then craft was born, largely because of a few professors who took me and my writing under their writer wings.

With grad school came deadlines which disguised themselves as the developing of a writer's work ethic.

And then I graduated and somehow became so obsessed with what I deemed to be perfection in my own craft that I had lost the ability to actually sit down and allow myself to make things with words.

Mark Doty reminded me last night that inspiration arrives first. Then comes the push. As writers we must learn how to marry what is given as inspiration with the will to see what we can make of it.

I practice this marriage as a runner. Honestly, without the push, the inspiration is useless. If I didn't push myself to run, I wouldn't even be a runner.

Now I must do the same with writing.

ATTEMPT

2009-10-02T21:51:00.000-07:00

I've not been moved lately. Tonight, I was.

I saw Paul Lisicky and Mark Doty at The University of Akron. They gave a craft talk.

It was just what I needed. I will spread some of the brilliant things they said throughout my next few posts.

I need to go to bed soon. Tomorrow I am running a 4 mile race. This will be the longest race I've done. When I come home from the race, I am going to write, for the first time in quite a while.

Paul Lisicky said that when he doesn't write, he's sick. Me, too. Post-MFA has been a constant case of the writing blues sniffles. Paul also said that he allows himself to sit down and attempt to make something rather than actually make something. I like that.

Tomorrow I am going to ATTEMPT to run 4 miles. Tomorrow I am going to ATTEMPT to make something with words.

Summer Nap

2009-08-03T07:06:00.000-07:00

Painting the Summer Away

2009-07-14T09:58:00.000-07:00

This summer I've busied myself with apartment redecorating. I don't have a camera so this picture is from my cell phone. My kitchen was so boring with everything white white white. I decided to use a deep brown not only to contrast with the white, but also to contrast with the yellow.

For me, summer is about recharging and preparing for the academic year. This is the first summer in 8 years that I am not either taking a class or backpacking in Europe. So, HGTV has provided me with something constructive.

My next task is designing a new writing room.

Happy 1st Birthday to Edith

2009-06-05T12:18:00.000-07:00

A little bit of this, a little bit of that

2009-05-28T17:26:00.000-07:00

In my attempt to eat fresh, healthy food without cooking every single day, I have discovered the pure joy of organizing what my boyfriend and I now call "a tray" for dinner once a week.

The above is a picture of the first official tray night. We picked out the food together: Havarti cheese, Italian bread, shrimp, cottage cheese, cherry tomatoes, and prosciutto. After returning from the grocery store, I went for a run and when I came back, Voila, Pete had everything organized and looking gorgeous on my tiny table.

The tray is like my life. I'm up for new things and I'm trying to balance my days with a variety of friends, activities, books...you get what I mean.

Writing is something I have tucked to the side, at least for the last few weeks. I have one more week left of school and then the summer is mine. This is the first summer in years that I don't have either college classes or backpacking trips.

I have forced myself to quit feeling guilty that I am not producing more work. It's lovely to sample other areas of life, but I do look forward to returning to the page.

Seriously...

2009-05-14T21:04:00.000-07:00

I teach high school. I don't write about it often. I shouldn't care what people think, but seriously, I mean seriously, seriously, many writers think that being a high school teacher means that you aren't a serious writer. I even had a professor in MFA school give me a B+ and say (actually, he wrote it to me in an email), "I am sure you are a really good high school teacher." It was patronizing, condescending, and hurtful. I learned to conceal my profession. In my publication bios, I rarely mention being a high school teacher.

AND THAT IS SO RIDICULOUS. I'm a poet and a high school teacher. I can be talented at more than one thing.

The above picture is that of a really big candy bar that was placed on my desk in my classroom last Friday. Look at the tag. It says, "Have a puddle-wonderful day." Here are some of the other things that are written on the gorgeously wrapped chocolate bar:

The mediocre teacher tells.
The good teacher explains.
The superior teacher demonstrates.
The GREAT teacher inspires.
A teacher affects eternity; she can never tell where her influence stops.

A writer is one who gives voice to the voiceless.

They may forget what you said but they will never forget how you made them feel.

Three reasons to have a writer for a teacher:
1. endless coffee
2. an excuse for a childish mind
3. pugs

Someday I may wish to teach college. Who knows? But I must admit, (and many writers who have visited and worked with my students would agree) teaching high school can be a rewarding, challenging, and beautiful experience. I am blessed each day to work with the students who fill the seats in room 201.

I teach them how to make poems and how to practice empathy through reading and writing. They leave me chocolate bars decorated with e.e.cummings references. I know life isn't all rainbows and puppy dogs, but for some Saran wrapped cliche reason, these kids make me a better person.

We have the best days so very often. Days we will never forget. So I teach them about enjambment and I talk about my pugs and they remind how tender words can be and how happy I am, on most days, to be alive.

Some days are rough and teaching is not always conducive to my own writing, but for the most part, I can't imagine a more puddle-wonderful way to spend my days. Thank you to all of my students. I won't keep you a secret anymore.

Mother's Day 2009

2009-05-10T19:09:00.000-07:00

Changes...

2009-04-28T17:10:00.000-07:00

The other day I snapped this picture and then I shouted across the parking lot to my neighbor Diane, "Hey look."

She looked for a moment and then smiled. The nun who lives one complex down drove by and Diane said, "Damn, a rainbow and then Sister Mary drives by us. Now that's a moment."

And it was.

No matter how cliche rainbows may seem, I can't imagine anyone not loving them.

Thoughts on Please

2009-04-13T09:54:00.000-07:00

It has been nearly a month since I have touched this blog. Shame on me. I have been attempting to take the poem a day challenge, but I haven't been happy with 99% of my work. However, that's not the point of PAD. I was/am hoping to return to that place where poetry was less neurotic, that place where I put my laptop on an upside down laundry basket and typed away into the night.

Since my last entry, I have spent much quality time with Jericho Brown's book Please. It has been a long time since I have combed through a book this much. My clean, signed, gorgeous copy of Please is now a bit rough. Many pages are dog-earred, and there even exists a smudge of coffee here and there. This is of course a compliment to Jericho's work. I am in no way one of those people who believe in keeping a book in mint condition and the shape of a book (or my old Jeep Wrangler-for a nostalgia-drenched example) speaks to how much I cherish it.

Terrance Hayes' blurb of Please reads, I could never say all I love about this book...I agree with Hayes, and for the sake of not divulging everything, I will only list a few aspects of the book that have resonated in my mind for the past month as I have savored this book.

Jericho wastes no time or word in this book. From the very first poem, the reader is slammed into a world where seemingly opposites are separated only by diaphanous, thin lines the speaker must walk across; sometimes tip-toeing, sometimes waltzing, sometimes even stomping. The tongue lashes but loves. A young man with a father is oh-so-fatherless. A song is an affirmation and a form of torture, a celebration and a lament. This juxtapostioning continues throughout the book and leaves the reader a joyous wreck.

And the sequencing!!! Jericho definitely needs to teach a course on assembling a manuscript. Please is organized as three sections of poems: Repeat, Pause, and Power. There is also a forth section of notes titled Stop. To give you an idea of Jericho's style, check out the table of contents. Here are the titles of the poems in the first section: Track 1: Lush Life, Prayer of the Backhanded, Track 3: (Back Down) Memory Lane, Track 4: Reflections, Scarecrow,
Again, Autobiography, Detailing the Nape, Track 5: Summertime, Beneath Me, and Herman Finley is Dead.

For me, the common thread of all books that I find worthy of multiple reads is that the writer must create a world where I can be moved. I hope that's not too selfish, but I want my heart broken in new ways. I want to cringe and laugh, and hold my breath at times. Please is one of those books that smacks the reader while caressing him or her. Take this brief excerpt from the poem Pause, which is the first poem of the second section.

I should have known-
I who hate for people to comment
That I must be happy
Just because they hear me hum.
I want to ask
If they ever heard of slavery,
The work song-the best music
Is made of subtraction,
The singer seeks an exit from the scarred body
And opens his mouth
Trying to get out.

Do you have chills yet? It is not uncommon for most of the poems in Please to have that effect.

It is hard for me to digest that Please is Jericho's first book. It is just that impressive. Of course, one look at the teachers and friends thanked on his acknowledgements page and you will see that he has worked with a variety of fabulous writers.

Jericho Brown is certainly no amateur that landed a first book deal. Please could stand up to many writers third or fourth or fifth book. And then some.

Pleasure Delayer

2009-03-12T16:52:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had a book that you were so psyched to read that you forced yourself to do a dozen other things in order to permit yourself the pleasure of reading it?
Well, all of my to-do list is crossed off and Jericho Brown, here I come.

I saw Jericho read with Terrance Hayes exactly two weeks ago at Cleveland State University. Having been a Terrance Hayes fan for years, the reading has been marked on my calender since Michael Dumanis told me about it many, many months ago.

Starstruck and thinking 99% about hearing Hayes read, I had no idea that Jericho Brown was going to deliver one of the best readings I have ever attended. You know, that sort of reading that makes you want to go home, lock your doors, and write for a month straight? I could list a bunch of adjectives describing the entire reading, but I don't think I could ever manage to do it justice.

The only word that comes to mind is duende.

Please, Jericho's debut book, has burned a hole in my bag. I have used this fire to motivate me to finish reading other books on my self-inflicted reading list. And now, I have finished a few novels that somehow escaped me in my education (Slaughterhouse-five, White Noise) as well as several poetry books that have been collecting dust on my shelf (not because they are bad, but because I buy more books than I can read).

Off to Jericho Brown reading heaven I go. I will post some highlights of the book as soon as time permits. Until then, I hope you have a new book to read that rocks your poetry world.

Thoughts on the Writing Life

2009-03-03T02:00:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I feel really alone about my need and love for poetry. I have friends who are writers. And I teach so much good stuff. But still, you know what I mean? If I didn't have access to the computer on a daily basis I would barely get my daily poetry fix. I know I constantly pull this "I'm an only child"ranting and looking back over my recent blogs, it wouldn't take a psychologist to analyze my aesthetic loneliness. Is this just post-MFA? I hate to think I have to be in a workshop to feel as if I am a writer.

Much of the reason I pursued an MFA was to be part of a support system of writers. I loved every single assignment and class. I'm not saying I didn't learn anything, but being around writers who were consistently producing work and talking about it...well it was just what I needed and need.

On the back cover of APR's Jan/Feb issue is an excerpt from a speech Stanley Kunitz gave in 1994. I have read it over and over and will post some of the excerpt.

Poetry, I have insisted, is ultimately mythology, the telling of the stories of the soul. This would seem to be an introverted, even solipsistic, enterprise, if it were not that these stories recount the soul's passage, through the valley of this life-that is to say, its adventure in time, in history.

If we want to know what it felt like to be alive at any given moment in the long odyssey of the race, it is to poetry we must turn. The moment is dear to us, precisely because it is so fugitive, and it is somewhat of a paradox that poets should spend a lifetime hunting for the magic that will make the moment stay. Art is that chalice into which we pour the wine of transcendence. What is imagination but a reflection of our yearning to belong to eternity as well as to time?

Poets are always ready to talk about the difficulty of their art. I want to say something about its rewards and joys. The poem comes in form of a blessing-"like rapture breaking on the mind," as I tried to phrase in my youth. Through the years I have found this gift of poetry to be life-sustaining, life-enhancing, and absolutely unpredictable. Does one live, therefore, for the sake of poetry? No, the reverse is true: poetry is for the sake of the life.

An excerpt from "Noir: Orpheus" from Terrance Hayes' first book

2009-02-28T23:12:00.000-08:00

Love should be a tow truck-
What rescues our stalled, abandoned hearts;
What leads us back to repair.
Love should save us,
But it won't.

Small Talk and My Maudlin Head

2009-02-08T06:07:00.000-08:00

I'm 31 and with each new social encounter I am realizing that I have no clue how to make small talk. I blogged a month ago about my lack of gym talk, but my lack of social grace stretches far beyond breaking a sweat with a bunch of ladies who only ask yes/no questions about the weather.

I am great at talking to teenagers or the elderly. Teenagers appreciate my randomness. I think I am good with the elderly because some sort of melancholy respect surfaces inside of me and I want to know about their lives. Other than that, I can only really establish a sense of social elegance when I am talking to writers, readers, animal lovers, snowboarders, and my neighbors.

Am I just that selfish and limited? I know that the word normal is a stereotypical concept, but recently I have been around so many people that I would suppose to be considered normal. These people are good people: people who work hard, pay their bills, genuinely love their families, watch Cavs games, drink water...and I do these things too (not so much the Cavs games but perhaps during the play-offs), so why am I at a loss of words?

I think I hate that the majority of people I spend my time with never ask questions or if they do, they are questions like, "Did you have a good day?" What am I supposed to say to that? I want someone to say, "What was the absolute most beautiful moment of your day? The funniest? The ugliest?"

The sad part is that I sometimes don't ask these sorts of questions that I crave because people think I am strange...or they can't answer them.

On the positive side, I am blessed with many writer friends who will talk shop with me as well as a few select friends who understand my only child/poet sensibilities. And I have a best friend who is a poet even though she doesn't write and only reads biographies about rock stars. She listens. She also probably thinks I am strange, but she appreciates it, just like I appreciate it when she uses gorgeous imagery to describe the members of Motley Crue's former drug problems.

Thank you to those people...and to everyone else (who would never be reading this), I am sorry that I sometimes pull my maudlin head back in like a turtle. It's not you.

Bukowski and Cleaning

2009-01-20T16:20:00.001-08:00

My friend Kelly always teases me that she will never ever help me move again unless I get rid of some books. I don't know that I will be moving any time soon, but I have been attempting to downsize some of my belongings. Books are close to impossible to part with. If I do manage to find one I don't want (from one of my four bookshelves), I end up rationalizing buying four more.

I spend more time on Amazon than I do at the library. This weekend I decided that one entire bookshelf had to go. The shelf itself was an eyesore. It took an entire day. I managed to rid myself of about 3 whole books. But I took some baby steps. I reshuffled and decided that some books could be stacked neatly in one of my closets. I mean seriously, what are the chances of me ever rereading Aristotle's Nicomachean Ethics or Nietzsche's Genealogy of Morals? I majored in philosophy for a year or so in undergrad and for some reason, I seem to think that I need these books forever.

And Bukowski. I thought he was a god when I was much much younger. I must have 20 0r more of his books. I still admire his infinite drive to write every day. There is something to say about coming home from a night out and hammering out three poems. I used to do that. Truthfully, those poems of mine need burned. It was a satisfying experience but nothing came out of it. I suppose it was a necessary stage in my early writing life, but in the end I had to distance myself from his work. His line breaks...I won't even get started.

I will never be able to write three poems in one night again. I'm ecstatic if I write three poems in a month. I can think about one line for hours, even days. My process is slow and neurotic.

As for Bukowski, well, I am not quite ready to part with his books, but all of them, except for one, are stacked in a closet. I imagine some day I will let go.

Lonely Ohio Winters

2009-01-14T16:54:00.000-08:00

I made it to Brandywine on Saturday and managed to ride for a few hours before I became bored. These pictures are from the parking lot. I have learned the hard way to not put a camera in my pocket while snowboarding.

Just the other day my boyfriend asked me why I don't snowboard with anyone. I used to snowboard with my friend Bryan, but he moved to Colorado so he could ride seven or eight months of the year.

I tried to explain to my boyfriend that snowboarding is about me, the board, and the mountain...or in Ohio's case, the hill. When I attempted to discuss this with him, I meant what I said. Snowboarding is a lot like writing. The act is sacred sometimes, and it's all mine. I don't team write.

But I must admit, after going down Grizzly a dozen times this past Saturday- tumbling, jumping, giggling...I started feeling this pull in my gut.

Loneliness.

I must be cracking up or something. I have always been, "Oh, I love spending time with myself." And now, as I get older, I realize how much companionship means to me. Writer Jen spends enough time alone; snowboarder Jen may need a snowboarding buddy.

Or at least I need some more challenging terrain than Brandywine so I can spend less time being lonely and more time worrying about the artistry of snowboarding.

P.S. Thanks goes to my loyal Jeep. Recently I had been thinking about purchasing a vehicle that would be easier on the gas and such...but I must admit, never once in eight years has the Jeep been stuck. It's small and incredible-perfect for winter snow driving and summer convertible cruising.

I'm heading out

2009-01-10T05:49:00.001-08:00

The roads are a mess. I know I am crazy.

Still, what can an Ohio snowboarder do? I normally despise Brandywine because it takes three seconds to get down the hill. I refuse to get step-in bindings so it is rather annoying to unstrap and restrap constantly. But with this powder, I'll deal with it.

Happy snowstorm everyone. I now put my faith in one 2001 Jeep.

No Found Poem at the Gym

2009-01-06T14:47:00.000-08:00

I exercise at a place where people never stop talking. I want to scream. I have spent close to six months listening to their small talk. The trainers constantly ask yes/no questions. The people pretending to break a sweat complain about the weather or talk about past/present/future holidays.

Did everybody have a good day? Yes. It sure is cold out. Did anyone do anything fun on New Years? Yes. Did you make some resolutions? Yes. I don't want to slip on the ice. Are you happy the holidays are over? Yes. I have to take my Christmas decorations down. Is your heart rate okay?

The worst part about these questions is that if you are there long enough, you hear the same cycle of questions in the same day.

If your hate rate is not okay, are you really going to say something?

The older I get, the more I lose the gift of small talk. It's not like I can truly exercise and talk at the same time anyway.

I guess I too have comments on the weather. I can't wait until I get a snow day so that I can go snowboarding at Seven Springs. Or, I can't wait until it's warm enough that I can run outside and spend less time exercising indoors.

Waiting on the words

2008-12-14T15:47:00.000-08:00

Edith is recovering well from both being spayed and having her tiny nostrils enlarged. Her surgery forced me to camp out at home this weekend. That's never a bad thing, really. I have never been too interested in astrology, but my sign (cancer) is right on for the most part. Despite my summer trips, I am a complete homebody.

Besides for the entertainment of watching Edith maneuver around the apartment in her plastic cone, I was also given great reading material to engage in during this time. Frank brought me a Christmas present:Heather Derr-Smith's new book; I am only about halfway through and I'm savoring every word. Plus, I am reading a friend of mine's new work. We both graduated last May and he already has a chapbook plus worth of work. If I sent out my new work, it would consist of a handful of poems.

I like to think the words are brewing, but I'm not so sure anymore. I think about poems all of the time. But when will they emerge? I've become somewhat of a perfectionist about first drafts. That's ridiculous. Everything else in my life is so lovely, but I'm waiting on the words to surface. It's like I need a writing therapist.

2008-12-04T04:05:00.000-08:00

Out of Balance

2008-11-22T14:30:00.000-08:00

I am ashamed that I have not blogged in quite some time. I'm constantly trying to balance my life. If I'm doing great at my job, chances are that I am not writing as much as I need to be. If I'm writing a lot, my apartment is most likely a mess.

My November poem a day was going well for about two weeks and then I got really involved in my job and being a good friend and all that stuff that stifles my writer self.

I miss grad school. I miss deadlines. Does that make me a poser?

And as I sit here and whine, do you think I am going to stay home tonight and write? No, I'm heading out for some Thai and maybe a little blues.

2008-11-05T02:25:00.001-08:00

CONGRATS AMERICA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Writing about Ruins

2008-11-03T16:49:00.000-08:00

I have been writing about Ireland. This is something I've mostly avoided for years. It's time, I think. I feel smothered by faces and ruins and ruins of faces. I hope that of the 30 poems I write this November, at least a few can put these ghosts to rest.

Saturday Thoughts

2008-11-01T13:38:00.000-07:00

If I worked for Bulmer's, I would use the above picture as an advertisement. Everything is blurry except the can of cider that my chef friend is drinking. I snapped that shot on the 3rd of July in Doolin, Ireland.

I miss such things from my Irish summers.

This picture I snapped a few minutes ago. My friend is visiting from Ireland. She came with a suitcase full of gifts. Bulmer's is something I can't get anywhere around here. I have four glorious cans. That means that I can taste summer.

I have decided to do the PAD (poem a day) challenge for November. I can't predict what other days will hold, but as for today, I can't think of a better way to spend an afternoon: A pint of Bulmer's, a poem, and two pugs.

It's not quite Ireland, but it will do for now.

My Crib in Woodsfield

2008-10-29T17:20:00.000-07:00

When I stay with my grandparents, I get to inhabit the apartment above the garage. It provides a country setting that is perfect for writing. It's like a cozy bed & breakfast...but with a few pictures of the Bush Family.

Yes, it is a bit frightening, but I must look past the portraits of George and enjoy the mosaic of antiques this writing haven offers.

And try not to lose my appetite when I see this picture on the fridge. Ah, the joys and pains of having Republican grandparents.

About Grandma...

2008-10-27T17:01:00.000-07:00

She loves antiques, as you can see. She also loves to cook, but her kitchen is too small. She has to store food and pans in other rooms. She always says, "This kitchen ain't big enough to cuss a cat."

When it comes to political affiliation, she admits that she mostly votes Republican, but she says, "I vote for the best person."

We don't agree so much on the upcoming election, but she does give me some very unique blue glass every time I visit. And damn, she knows how to make the best mashed potatoes.

When asked why he is a Republican

2008-10-21T14:37:00.000-07:00

Grandpa says, Republicans done more for the working man than the damn Democrats.

I give Crystal the poodle more of my fried steak. As long as I can remember, my grandparents have owned at least one poodle.

I like all dogs for the most part, but poodles always look like they have dirty mouths.

Disclaimer

2008-10-19T18:08:00.000-07:00

Every chance I get, I go visit my grandparents in Woodsfield, Ohio. Though it is only a two hour drive from Akron, it is like going to a different country. This is not a country I would want to live in necessarily. I enjoy the architecture of the courthouse (pictured above). Other than that, there is not much to see or do. But for writers, that can be a good thing.

I have not visited The Wooden Shoe in quite a few years. Grandpa shouldn't really drink with the medications he's on and he has made me promise not to go into The Wooden Shoe alone.

So I take lots of walks and runs. If I get tired I can take a break and sit on one of the many benches in Woodsfield.

There is something about courthouses, bars, and American flag painted benches that makes me think a lot about America.

And for me, being in a town where most businesses are closed, McDonald's is the center centre, and every third house is for sale...well that makes me think a lot about being a Democrat and how important this election is.

My grandparents are the biggest Republicans I know. Grandpa has plastered his yard and SUV with McCain/Palin paraphernalia. We have agreed to disagree and I know they love me no matter what. But they act as if being a Democrat is a disease. It makes me laugh as their granddaughter, but it sorta scares me as a human being.

I told them that I would like to blog a bit about some of the things they say. And, that I would like to post some pictures that I took. They have agreed to it. I would never ever want to disrespect them in any way. I know they both have a great sense of humor.

So, my next few posts will be about this place I often visit and my grandparents, two people I love despite their political beliefs.

October Ode Challenge

2008-10-14T19:14:00.000-07:00

I have been thinking about the Cliffs of Moher a lot lately (pictured above). This picture exhibits how I feel sometimes about my writing. I'm right on the cusp of some thing. I need to just let go and jump, figuratively of course. Sometimes I work on one line for hours, days, and maybe even months. It helps to know there are other poets who take quite some time to finish a draft. When A. Van Jordan came to Akron last spring he shared that he writes rather slowly. And we all know that A. Van Jordan rocks.

I get more neurotic as I age and I can't put the words on the page until they are ready. I guess I work in my head a lot. I accept my process for the most part, but I do think I feel better when I am producing more.

With that in mind, I gave myself an October ode challenge. Every morning I must write three odes in less than 15 minutes. This has been so much fun. Of course, 99% of what I am writing will not make it into my next manuscript, but the point is, it is a warm-up for the day. It gives me a little poetry buzz. And, it has forced me to narrow in on the tiniest of objects instead of big huge places where cliches fester. Plus, the ode is so much fun. It gives you the chance to spend more time with poets like Neruda. It also has allowed me to be a bit more appreciative of little things.

Happy October ode writing!

What Kids Are Saying About John Gallaher

2008-10-09T17:20:00.000-07:00

John Gallaher came to work with my high school students yesterday. It was like church...no, it was like what church should be. I could go on and on and on about how much the day meant to me...but instead, I'll share what the kids had to say...verbatim.

He made me want to explore my imagination and be more creative.
I like how he talked about his wife and children. It made him seem more like an every day person.
He is so funny.
I love how he connected art and religion.
I agree that schools do kill creativity.
I love his poems, even though some are hard to understand.
I think he should come and speak again.
He's pretty much amazing.
He made me realize how Sarah Palin's comments are actually offensive.
He is inspiring.
He has a natural air of being an artist.
I love how he says that not everything has to have meaning.
He taught me to not always search for the answer, but to enjoy the exploration.
I love how he talked about that Wally Steven guy. I want to read his book too.
I really want to buy Johnny G's books because he is an amazing speaker and from what I have read, an amazing writer.
I love that he made us write and it didn't feel like an assignment.
He showed us that we can be creative in all aspects of life.
I need to go and see him read.
I like when he dropped the f-bomb. It was necessary.
He is even crazier than Miss Sullivan.

Thank you to everyone who made John's visit possible. I look forward to having more writers come and dazzle my 17-year-olds.

I'm always a poet. It's not really a choice. I am thinking of a Henry Miller quote, something like, "The writer does not want to write: he wants the world to be a place in which he can live the life of the imagination."

Thanks John for helping me and my students return to that place. We will never forget our day together.

Poetry Fix

2008-09-30T03:04:00.000-07:00

Some exciting poetry extravaganzas are approaching. John Gallaher will be in Rubber City next week. He will be reading with Michael Dumanis and Amy Sparks next Wednesday, October 8th at The University of Akron.

Friday I am heading to the first meeting of a spectacular writing group. This is definitely something I have been looking forward to attending. I am a poetry nerd.

My current poetry fix is C. Dale Young's The Second Person. If for some reason you have not read this book, get on Amazon right this minute. It's worth every cent. Here is the ending of a poem called "Infidelity."

For consolation, you carry a fistful of sand.

You carry yourself over the dunes with a fistful of sand
and a newly discovered love of the second person,

your shirttails small flags left in your wake.

The Pet Blogger

2008-09-21T09:36:00.000-07:00

I can't remember where I read it, but somewhere I read a rant about poets who blog too much about their pets. You're either an animal person or not. And with pugs, well, they are similar to Jeeps...if you don't have one, you might not quite understand.

In any case, I do think I need to blog more about writing. I think about writing so much that I rarely write about it. I should.

At the same time, if you want to see my work, you can check out the journals I have listed to the right. I love reading a variety of blogs and I especially love reading blogs about the poetic craft.

So I apologize about the dog pictures and nonsense, but I know you sorta like it too.

I am a real poet, I swear. The way I look at it is like this. I need a space where I can be gushy about Telemachus and Edith. This blog helps me keep that sentimentality out of my work. Okay, well once in a while it seeps into my work. But these dogs provide me with so much love and entertainment that I can't keep it all to myself.

2008-09-09T18:52:00.000-07:00

Factory Farming & Poetry

2008-09-07T07:32:00.000-07:00

Ashley Capps, author of Mistaking the Sea for Green Fields, emailed me (and many other poets) to ask if I would consider posting links to both a poem she published in Boston Review and a youtube video.

What I loved so much about her email was that she said, "I absolutely don't believe people have to be vegan or vegetarian to care about the treatment, and living/dying conditions, of farm animals, or to advocate for farm animal welfare." She also selflessly mentioned that it is more important that someone watch the video than read the poem.

Hopefully, you will read the poem and watch the video. Both are worth your time.

Tommy Shaw is a god

2008-08-25T16:48:00.000-07:00

Styx, as usual, was phenomenal last night at The House of Blues in Cleveland. When asked what some of my favorite musicians are, many people expect me to say Morrissey or The Cure. While I do have special places in my heart for Morrissey and Robert Smith and the boys, the truth is I am a die hard Styx fan.

When I reveal my love for Styx, most people laugh. My last three boyfriends have not condoned this love and that may be one reason why they are ex-boyfriends. Who can't hear the beauty in "Blue Collar Man" when Tommy sings "Keeping my mind on a better life where happiness is only a heartbeat away. Paradise can it be all that I heard it was, I close my eyes and maybe I'm already there?"

I don't mess around when it comes to Styx. Once, at a Pittsburgh show, I got into a fist fight with a guy over a Tommy Shaw guitar pic. Tommy threw it to me, I caught it, and some middle-aged buffoon was ashamed he didn't catch it for his girlfriend. Security pulled him off of me while he was beating me. Luckily, the pic was tucked safely in my hand where Tommy threw it.

Now let me give a little disclaimer. I like Tommy Shaw Styx, not Dennis DeYoung Styx. I do like some songs Dennis DeYoung wrote, but many times they end up a bit creepy. Take "Sailing Away." It's a great song until the every end when the aliens show up. Lawrence Gowan sings Dennis DeYoung's song better than Dennis DeYoung.

See, I'm not ashamed to admit that I like something and I bet that if you really thought about it, there is a Styx song you love too. Hopefully, it's not "Mr. Roboto," another creepy contribution of Dennis DeYoung's.

And if you are wondering how this connects to my writing, don't worry about it. Trust me. I got something cooking that does in fact require the use of Styx. If you are one of the few people I told about my idea....shhhhh....it's a secret.

Dog Days

2008-08-11T11:21:00.001-07:00

These are definitely the dog days, but in a literal, good sense of the word. I am lucky that I work in a field that gives me the summers off because these past weeks have been important to Edith's training. She is 11 weeks old and she can sit, lie, and give me five. She adores and tortures Telemachus. All in all, it's a nice little family.

I have had a lot of time to read and write as well. This past week I read Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer, Dog Years by Mark Doty, Mistaking the Sea for Green Fields by Ashley Capps, and Huck Finn. I loved every single book. Though Huck Finn and Into the Wild did make me get the traveling itch again.

For those of you who love poetry, I highly recommend Capps' book Mistaking the Sea for Green Fields. I am on my third read and have found it to be a stunning debut book. Here's a short poem:

April

Everywhere, the ghost
wigs of dandelions,
everywhere the green
toothache of early spring.
The cops-in-training
are beating their horses,
and they wave at me
from the fields. All the girls
show their shoulders now.
The future promises more
of the same. It is hard
to love people enough.

For those of you who love poetry and/or dogs, Doty's Dog Years is a lovely memoir about the lives of his two lovely dogs, Arden and Beau. My favorite line in the book is..."Thus, in the face of all dangers, in what may seem a godless region, we move forward through the agencies of love and art."

I am not sure what my reading agenda is this week. I have so many books to read. I'm looking forward to spending some time with Bern Mulvey's book, The Fat Sheep Everyone Wants. Other than that, I have not made up my mind. Happy reading, everyone.

Missing Ireland

2008-08-04T10:15:00.000-07:00

2008-07-29T07:59:00.000-07:00

Represent, yo.

2008-07-27T08:23:00.000-07:00

I may bid on a house in the near future. It's small and cute with a huge yard, space for a garden, and it happens to be close to my family. I have decided to bid on it because it is possibly going to sell for a price I can't pass up. The house payment will actually be much lower than my rent. Plus, then I won't be throwing money away and all that jazz my mom always tells me. It's yellow and I love yellow.

What puts a dent in my excitement is that I love where I live now for many reasons. The apartment is two floors, the rooms are huge and I have a patio that overlooks a creek (or sewer) and the woods. This morning there were 27 ducks out there!

For those of you who know me well, you already know that I am obsessed with my neighbors. Such a variety exists here in these so-called luxury apartments...a couple teachers, a few junkies, a nun, a prostitute, some cops, a stripper or two, and the cutest little old ladies in Akron. There is the complex informer, the drunk who throws beer bottles from her balcony, the old Italian couple who make their square of grass look like something out of a gardening magazine and a maintenance guy who coasts around in a golf cart, 24 pack of Natural Light in the back. There is even a man in an electric wheelchair who loves Bud Light and America so much that he drives around late at night with a flag billowing from the back of his chair, Bud Ice in hand. Sometimes his girlfriend rides on his lap.

And I'm leaving this gem of a place.

I can't think of a genre of music that doesn't have something intriguing about it. Lately I have been listening to a lot of rap. I am the only one in my circle of friends who really has a nook in my heart for rap. And yes, I get teased about it. But as I walk around here (and of course it's nothing like Compton or Brooklyn or Detroit), I realize that the thing that attracts me to bands/artists like NWA, Tupac, Jay-Z, and Bone Thugs is their connection to their neighborhoods. I know this exists in other genres but it seems to be the life and breath of much rap, at least older rap.

I've written one poem so far about a neighbor and that will be handed over to the world in the next issue of Barn Owl. There must be more neighbor poems in me. I think of Nas, one of the only brilliant rappers still around. In his song "One Mic" he says something like This is my hood, I'm gonna rep until the death of it. This is what I must do.

Thanks Mary and all of BOR for picking up the first of what I think must be a series.

In case you didn't already guess, I am the poet pug lady. I wanted to keep the poet thing on the down low but my mother used to walk Telemachus every day when I was at work and she likes to tell everyone about me.

Pug Pageant Mother????

2008-07-24T10:49:00.000-07:00

Once in a while a poem comes out fast but that is usually if something hits me and I just grab a notebook or napkin and scribble it down. Mostly, I mull and mull over words and look at Microsoft Word for hours. Being a word-muller has one benefit. As you can see from the above picture, Telemachus likes to sit in my lap and sleep on my arm as I attempt to write poems. This makes typing especially difficult, but when a phrase only arrives once a day, it's not so bad.

To the right of the picture you can see the new puppy, Edith, sleeping in her new tiny pink corduroy bed. She is just so cute that I can barely stand it.

Okay, so don't judge me just yet. I have not purchased one single outfit for Edith. My best friend Kelly just happens to own a Pomeranian named Lola and little Lola likes to eat and can't quite fit into some of her clothes. Kelly passed some outfits down to Edith.

I of course have not taken her anywhere in these outfits because it is too hot, but my apartment is quite air conditioned so I must admit, there has been one small fashion show.

Am I a pug pageant mother? That's a horrible thought. If I told you that pugs love clothes, would you believe me? I swear!

Welcome Edith

2008-07-22T10:49:00.000-07:00

Some people just aren't dog people. Those people are not very happy with me right now and I don't much care. They say things like, "How can you take care of two dogs? How can you afford it? Telemachus likes being alone. You aren't home as it is. You make irrational decisions."

Here is my reply. Look at my new little baby's face. Dogs are pack animals. I was never home because I worked full time and earned an MFA (one in which I traveled to four universities) in 3 years (Thanks mom for helping out with Telemachus). I'm broke...there will be no more summer long backpacking trips for quite some time. I'm a writer so that means most of my time is spent right here in this very apartment. I am my mother's only child and look how messed up I am. Telemachus needs a sister (hopefully not a girlfriend).

In all seriousness, I know those non-dog people will come around the minute they set eyes on this new beauty. And who wouldn't love a dog named after Edith Piaf? I should train her in French. The only problem is that though I spent some time in France a few summers ago, I can only say things "I would like some red wine. I would like some white wine. I will have the special of the day. Thank you."

As for Telemachus, he is not quite sure about Edith yet. I only pulled the above picture off with some bribing. I do have confidence that they will soon be the best of friends. My intent was to rescue a dog...what could be more special? However, most of the dogs at the places I searched were too big for apartment living. Pugs are a bit different from other dogs and as much as I love Pit Bulls, I just didn't think it was right for Telemachus. So now I have two babies who will climb into the bed using the doggy steps and keep me up all night with their snoring. Does life get any better than this?

This definitely isn't County Clare

2008-07-20T14:32:00.000-07:00

I imagine that for the next few weeks I will compare everything to my recent time in Eire. My first "back in the states" event consisted of driving in a '49 Plymouth to Dragway 42 for "Rock and Race." Drag racing seemed like a good thing to get my mind off Irish village life.

There were no Gregory Flynns or Paddy Flanagans to tell me stories. No one said slainte while slamming a pint glass against mine. Actually, no glass was allowed, but I was in good company. I do believe everyone needs a little rockabilly music.

Good music is good music. A spinning bass and a Johnny Cash song (performed by the The Hot Rod Hucksters) isn't quite the foot stomping fiddle playing that happens every night at McGann's, but for some reason, though my cliche wannabe Irish heart hates to admit this, I knew I was home when in between each Hot Rod Hucksters' song someone screamed out "Free Bird...Free Bird." A little Skynyrd never hurt anyone.

Leaving Ireland and taking a borrowed book with me...

2008-07-14T18:10:00.000-07:00

My chef friend let me borrow the book Notes by Irish poet Peter van de Kamp. The chef doesn't know it yet, but I just don't see how I can part with this book, especially since I am leaving Ireland. I can't tell you what I think of the book as a whole because I keep getting stuck on the first poem. It has thumb smudges and Guinness droppings all over it. Check it out. Enjoy!

Return

If, on a sultry night,
You flutter past my porch
Into the light of my living,
I'll save you from the scalding.
I'll elbow the lighswitch off,
Face the moon,
Elbow french windows shut;
And hands still in prayer
Entombing your tremble
(sinuous as venial sins
flicking walls of the chapel
before their confession)
Will spread in supplication
For your dark flight.
And I? I'll go back in again,
Switch the light back on,
Read a book, maybe,
Or maybe watch TV.

-Peter van de Kamp

Where I live and what I live for....

2008-07-05T11:01:00.000-07:00

The Cliff Walk

2008-06-30T03:49:00.000-07:00

It was a beautiful day in County Clare for a walk along the cliffs. Though I had my hood up because of the wind, my face got sunburned. Everything here sorta looks like the Shire and though I am surrounded by people in the evenings, I sometimes feel a bit lonely like Frodo.

And for some silly reason, I can't stop weeping. I think I may need to lay off the Neruda. These cliffs mixed with a little Pablo...and my 31st birthday around the corner=weeping. Good weeping, though.

Doolin

2008-06-29T03:25:00.000-07:00

Kelli and I had a great night in Dublin on the 26th and now she is back home safely in Ohio. After sending Kelli on her way, I took a bus (or several) to get back here to my favorite place, Doolin in County Clare.

Jacquie and Greg are wonderful company and the amount of fun I have been having is insane.

I have made a friend who is a chef at a little cafe about a mile from where I am staying. He makes wonderful meals that look like something that should be in a fine dining magazine. I drink coffee, eat hummus and asparagus, do a little writing, gaze through the window at the countryside and pretend I'm never leaving.

The chef also enjoys writing so we have started a notebook that allows us to write back and forth.

I think I could sit in that cafe forever.

Today I am going to walk to the Cliffs of Moher. It will take me a few hours, but Jacquie works at a shop on the top so I will catch a lift back with her. Yesterday a man jumped. It took over twenty men to pull his body from the water. I think that makes four people this month, but I'm not sure.

Despite the sad news of suicide, I am looking forward to a tough climb and one breathtaking view.

Thoughts from the Peninsula

2008-06-22T06:03:00.000-07:00

Yes, that says Telemachus. Today is Telemachus' 3rd birthday so even though I am very far away from him, I found it an appropriate time to write his name in the sand somewhere near Slea Head on the Dingle Peninsula.

Happy birthday, Telemachus. I know you can't quite read or even understand why your mother has left you for five weeks, but I love you, love you, love you.

Kelli and I have been having a great time. We have invented two clever games. One of the games is called Quicksand and is pictured above. The object is to see who can sink the deepest without being swallowed. The other game is called Jellyfish. This game requires that you run towards a jellyfish. Whoever gets the closest without getting stung is the winner. Jellyfish is a bit tricky because of the rough waves. You must get as close as possible to the blobs of blue tentacles before a wave thrashes the beast against your Ohio leg.

I have not written much, but I picked up three books yesterday (great way to make the backpack heavier) that are absolute treasures. All of the books are by Blasket Island writers. The Great Blasket is an island where people lived practically untouched from the modern world until 1953 when the remaining 20 people or so were evacuated. The books I picked up were written in Irish around the beginning of the 20th century and translated into English around the middle of the century. One of them (the name escapes me this very moment) is written by the last poet to leave The Great Blasket.

What strikes me as haunting about these books is that when these people were writing them they knew that their way of life was diminishing. Every sentence is smeared with a sense of loss. The sea gave them life yet also imprisoned them in some ways.

I have been trying to take a boat to The Great Blasket Island, but the wind has been too harsh. Tomorrow is my last shot. Wish me luck. I need to see where these people lived.

Settled here in Dingle for a few days. Hopefully, I can get some writing done.

2008-06-21T00:31:00.000-07:00

Cork

2008-06-20T06:50:00.000-07:00

We're on the piss.

Five days in...

2008-06-16T08:41:00.000-07:00

Well, I have to be honest and say that I was dreading the North. Kelli and I drove from Dublin to Derry on Saturday, mostly on the coastal route (at least from Belfast).

The city of Derry holds the best and worst of things for me. It is swollen with the hangover of civil war as am I.

I think some ghosts can rest now. I walked along the wall, visited the coolest club in the entire world-Sandino's, and talked to locals to catch up on the craic.

I also walked the paths I walked four years ago. I pushed my face against the window of The Gweedore, but I couldn't bring myself to have a pint there. Some things I need to leave snuggled in the past.

We are on the West coast now. Last night we stayed in a B & B right down the street from the grave of Yeats. Tonight we are in Clifden.

And for those of you who are wondering, yes, I miss Telemachus like crazy...but this is my time.

Dublin

2008-06-13T22:36:00.000-07:00

I have been to Dublin several times before this week and I have almost never had a good time. Once, when I was in love, I flew to Dublin for 27 hours. It was crazy miserable.

But this time Dublin has been different for me. Endless wandering of streets in search of tucked away pubs, conversation stretched across smooth, meal replacing pints.

The River Liffey is so lovely. It splits the city into two distinct sections and for some reason it seems to organize something inside of me as well.

Today we get a car and head to Northern Ireland. I hope I can reclaim the North just as I have reclaimed Dublin, but I don't know. There are ghosts in the North.

How do you say goodbye to this face?

2008-06-10T11:50:00.001-07:00

Telemachus is watching my every move. He knows I'm leaving. Five weeks and two days is a long time to a human, but what about an animal? I'm hoping the vet is telling me the truth when he says that to a dog, five weeks is no different than two weeks.
I never thought I could love a dog this much and even though I am thrilled to be going back to Ireland, the thought of not waking up to this face breaks my heart.

I know he will have a great time with my mother. I already saw the treats she has hidden in her cupboards. I hope she remembers my lectures on "Loving something doesn't mean you stuff it with food."

Two days...

2008-06-09T03:55:00.000-07:00

One week...

2008-06-02T18:08:00.000-07:00

...and I will be heading to Eire. It feels like I am going home. Most people think I'm Irish because of my last name, but I'm not.

This is a picture of my Ohio friend Jacquie and me at McDermott's about four years ago. Now Jacquie lives in a cottage behind McDermott's. I can't wait to sit at this very picnic table and write. There is live ceili music every night at McDermott's and the craic is always good.

It's been a rough weekend for my family, but things seem to be improving and I am humbled by the miracles I've witnessed.

On the poetry tip, I had the poem Sitting at Le Cafe la Nuit picked up last week by American Poetry Journal. I couldn't be happier with my recent acceptances, but I also look forward to lounging around the fields of County Clare and writing some new stuff.

I'm looking for some good novels to read on my trip. I have a couple lined up, but I am open to suggestions. If you had all day to read and write (and pub crawl), what would you be reading?

Alison

2008-05-31T20:28:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling thankful. Someone really important to me almost died. And the truth is, as I whispered in her ear that she needed to come back, I knew that she could never recognize my voice.

How can you beg someone back to you if you were never really in her life?

We're not completely out of danger, but things are quickly improving.

I'm so selfish with my time. And as I type this I realize that I am galloping off to Ireland in less than two weeks.

I live so much in ideas and words that exist only in my head or on the page. What a lonely life this writer bullshit sometimes is.

In any case, Alison, I do love you.

Visiting the Grandparents

2008-05-26T17:46:00.000-07:00

Moonshine is always Grandpa's special little treat to share with me when I drive to Woodsfield, Ohio to visit him. Grandma is not much for the moonshine. She says it makes her loop legged. Grandpa buys a gallon each year when he visits his relatives in Carolina.
Grandpa loves old cars like this 1975 Cordoba. Though he allowed me to drive the 72 Cadillac, I have not yet conned him into allowing me the privilege of driving the Cordoba.
Grandma just may be the sweetest thing in Ohio. She cooks wonderful Southern meals and says funny things like, "This kitchen ain't big enough to cuss a cat."

2008-05-24T11:28:00.000-07:00

Getting Ready

2008-05-17T21:20:00.000-07:00

I emptied my backpack today. I use it to store random things throughout the year, but in about three weeks I will be packing it for my summer.

My goal is to keep it under 30 lbs. That means I can pack about two pairs of jeans, a sweatshirt, a dress, five shirts, some underwear, some socks, hiking shoes, a bed-sheet, a towel, some basic toiletries, and a few books. And of course... a notebook and flash drive. I love to read books and then leave them in places. I always imagine who will pick them up. I left Camus in Belfast once.

My friend Kelli and I will have a rental car for the first two weeks so technically we won't be truly backpacking. We will be staying in a hostel or two but I imagine we will mostly stay in bed & breakfast style set-ups.

The real deal backpacking will begin on June 27 when I say goodbye to Kelli and the rental car. She will fly home and I will be on my own. Though I am looking forward to those first two weeks with Kelli, driving stick shift on the left side of the road, I am just as excited to be alone with my backpack. There is nothing like a backpack full of dirty clothes and public transportation. I will take Bus Eireann from Dublin to Doolin; I am definitely a West Coast girl when it comes to Ireland.

Right now I am listening to Radiohead and thinking about what Ireland may have in store for me this time. Each time I go there, it is harder for me to leave. Once I even brought someone home with me. I have promised my family and friends that I will not do that again. Some things need to stay in summer.

I have some pretty cool things going on here in Ohio right now; things that make me feel torn.

But not torn enough to make me stay, just torn enough to know I still have at least one good year left in Ohio.

After that, who knows. Ireland is much like a first love that I never quite get over and honestly, Telemachus would look quite adorable rolling around the hills of County Clare, his mother resting on a blanket nearby, pen in mouth, soul dew covered and happy.

It was a normal day...

2008-05-12T14:47:00.000-07:00

...until I discovered that a new lady moved in my complex and she has a pug named Bruce. When she asked the name of my pug, I hesitated. It's such a big mess to say "Telemachus." People never say, "That's cute." They say, "What the hell does that mean? Why would you name a dog that? Do you actually call him that?" Anyway, I wanted to make up a new name for Telemachus. I want Bruce to like him and all. Telemachus doesn't have many pug friends. I almost said, "Fred" or "David," but I couldn't lie. Only time will tell if Bruce is allowed to be friends with a hooligan named Telemachus.

When I returned home and checked my email, I found out that New York Quarterly is taking a poem of mine. That has always been a dream magazine of mine. I'm so happy that I don't even care if my neighbors think I'm strange. I mean, who names their dog Bruce, right?

Wilde times after the MFA

2008-05-08T17:53:00.000-07:00

Congrats to Frank on his good publication news as well as successfully making it through his first year of grad school.

I have been completely done with grad school for 26 hours and I am already catching up on little errands. I took Telemachus to the vet today for a check up and it cost me $140. What a rip off and I can't even retell the events of the vet visit. Let's just say that I should have named Telemachus something like Ron Jeremy and that even though he is my little prince, my next dog will be a girl.

I started reading The Picture of Dorian Gray today. It is a book I should have read years ago. I feel like every three paragraphs I am stumbling onto a huge idea that I need to write down, like, The only artists I have ever known who are delightful are bad artists. Good artists exist simply in what they make, and consequentially are perfectly uninteresting in what they are.

There is a gorgeous statue of Oscar Wilde in Merrion Square. Five weeks from today I will be in that very city of Dublin, perhaps perched on the grass, book in hand, Oscar looking down at me.

Lazy Sunday

2008-05-04T15:24:00.001-07:00

What are you doing Thursday?

2008-04-30T03:35:00.000-07:00

I am reading at Visible Voice bookstore on this Thursday at 8:30. I will be reading with some of my favorite poets on the entire planet: my brilliant girl Amy Sparks and rock star Jay Venner, along with Karen Schubert and Virginia Konchan. Come check it out. I will be reading all of the poems I can't read in front of my family at the Saturday graduation reading.

Baby Ducks are Hatched

2008-04-27T12:03:00.000-07:00

Much of today I have spent sitting on my patio, watching the baby ducks in my creek/sewer. They are the sweetest little things.

I feel like today's the day

2008-04-20T12:29:00.001-07:00

It's a sweet Sunday afternoon. My defense went better than I ever could have fathomed. Thanks to the dream team: Maggie Anderson, Mary Biddinger, and Craig Paulenich. I feel much better having turned in my thesis. I just have to finish my internship and attend two more Dumanis classes.

Right now I am listening to Amanda by Boston. Until today, I had never really thought about this song. It's on a CD somebody made me, but I usually skip it. But today, I think I am going to listen to it a few times. I don't know anyone named Amanda. Maybe my next dog will be named Amanda. Then I can sing the song to her. Or, perhaps I will name her Cecelia. There is no song called Telemachus so I just generally change the words to songs when I sing to him. Telemachus pretty much prefers reggae. I am not sure why, but I must support him in his interests. I added Marley to one of his middle names. His full name is Telemachus Goteborg Neruda Marley Herlihy Sullivan.

Check out a very new poem of mine on Arsenic Lobster Poetry Journal. It's a really hip journal and I am excited to have a poem there.

Well, I have to meet Jay soon so we can work on our real vs. imagined presentation for Tuesday.

April Madness

2008-04-16T18:27:00.001-07:00

This week is poetry crazy. Tonight I had the amazing opportunity to listen to A. Van Jordan talk shop and read a few poems. Tomorrow I will travel to Cleveland to hear Claudia Rankine. And Friday...........I defend my thesis. I'm really going to miss my NEOMFA friends. It's all too much for me. I'm exhausted, but in that good kinda way. And I got a really personalized rejection letter today. I love those.

One More Irish Summer

2008-04-12T06:47:00.000-07:00

I ordered my new passport since my original was MIA. My two week plane ticket has now been extended a few more weeks.
It is confirmed. One more Irish summer. How blessed I am.
This will be my backyard. My MFA will be in my back pocket, my Telemachus snuggled safely with my mom or Sara. I will be most happy. Thanks to everyone who is making this possible. And if anybody else wants to volunteer to help out with a chubby little pug, please let me know.

It's a Jeep thing

2008-04-10T08:01:00.000-07:00

The Jeep (pictured above from years ago…license plate is different now) has broken down for the first time ever. I bought her brand new in 2001 and I have been most lucky. At this moment, there are so many things wrong with her and it is going to be $900 to fix her. That is a lot of money, money that was supposed to be spent in Ireland. Don’t worry; I’m still going to Ireland. I already have the plane ticket. Guess I will have to hitchhike a bit more (just kidding, mom).

The mechanic said there are two schools of thought and that neither one is right. One school believes in maintenance: tune-ups, transmission flushes, etc. The other school believes “If it’s not broke, don’t fix it.” Obviously, I belong to the second school. I have been a negligent Jeep parent.

The mechanic hinted that now at close to eight years old, over 100,000 miles…I may need to start thinking about trading in the Jeep. The problem with this is that I love her. She is the only thing that I have ever really owned. And she’s just so damn tough. She has managed to pull me out of the muddiest of situations. That awful blizzard we had recently, you know, the one where no one was allowed to be on the road, well, the Jeep performed amazing feats. She didn’t hesitate once.

I despise the idea of someone else driving her. No one could possibly love her like I do. But then again, my love never translated into basic maintenance. Next time I will be better. I will be more mature. I will mark oil changes on my calendar. I will get a garage.

You see, I can’t see my life without a Wrangler in it. When I’m having a bad day, I crave that little Jeep wave. I have to know I can drive over curbs and through ditches. I need to have a winter vehicle that transforms into a summer convertible dream.

The Neighbors Must Be Stopped

2008-04-05T15:49:00.000-07:00

My neighbors are driving me nuts. I've tried to be proactive about things. I talked with them. I banged on the wall. I talked with the landlord. And after all of that, I even called the cops. The thing is, I hate being a snitch, but ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.

Nothing has helped. They, two college boys who really need to get girlfriends, play video games at least 12 hours a day. I can somewhat handle the Guitar Hero since I have a secret adoration for hair bands, but the war video games must stop.

I am trying to work on a manuscript here and every three minutes the entire complex shakes and I'm ready to hit the floor. Those calm days of gazing outside to see the charming little creek/sewer are over. Instead of peering out my window to admire baby ducks I am expecting to see a chopper. Instead of comfy pug printed PJ's, I'm sporting camouflage.

And so the war begins.

I have stooped to their level and it feels good. This morning, while they were still asleep from their Friday night Halo 3 marathon, I rediscovered my love for Chicago drum-n-bass DJ Danny the Wildchild.

Tomorrow when I wake up at 7 am or so, I just may pull out the Irish tin whistle CD. And, I may just get my tin whistle out and play along.

You just don't mess with someone trying to finish an MFA.

What I'm thinking about at 2 am on a Saturday

2008-03-29T22:51:00.000-07:00

Debby MacDonald is by far my favorite animal cop. She works for the Michigan Humane Society. She is tough, but passionately compassionate.

I don't watch television much, but when I do, Animal Cops seems to be where my remote control halts. The people who work as cruelty investigators are my heroes.

The only thing I don't quite get is the food aggression test. They feed a dog and then stick a plastic hand near the food to see if the dog is aggressive. The sad thing is that many times when a dog reacts aggressively, they must put it to sleep. I understand, yet I don't. If you put a plastic hand in my food, I'd definitely get aggressive.

I sure pray that my Telemachus never has to past a food aggression test. He would never bite the plastic hand, but he would growl, and the hair on his back would spike straight up. According to the specialists at the Michigan Humane Society, that is food aggression.

Check it out

2008-03-20T13:46:00.000-07:00

New poems of mine published here. I'm pretty stoked to be published in a journal called "Innisfree." It warms my wannabe Irish heart.

And the celebrating begins...

2008-03-15T16:51:00.001-07:00

The Real Obituary

2008-03-10T17:17:00.001-07:00

Today marks exactly two years since Henry Balthis died.

Henry was a no nonsense kinda guy, retired from the Ironworkers Local 17. He only stood about 5”2 on a good day, but he was mean and he had fiery hair. His friends called him Red. When Red walked in the front door of a bar, his enemies snuck out the back.

Not only was Henry known for his boxing skills, he was also rumored to be quite the pistol whipper. Henry wasn’t afraid of anything. Once he chased a man who owned a leopard. The leopard ran too.

In his elder years, he had two passions: cats and fatherless children. He lived in a warehouse with his six cats: Bigfoot, Crybaby, Mister, Watermelon, Number Five, and Number Six (yes, he named two cats after numbers). When he wasn’t busy overfeeding his cats, he enjoyed visits from two of his many grandchildren, James and Jennifer.

Henry never asked for help. When he had heart attacks, he drove himself to the hospital. He did however ask James to bring him the occasional Whopper with cheese. Jennifer got off a little easier. Her chore, which was really an honor, was spending countless afternoons with Henry watching Animal Cops.

Henry owned at least eight vacuum cleaners. Even though his personal hygiene skills were at times questionable, the floor in his warehouse was always swept.

Henry Balthis did a good job dying.

He was surrounded by family members who cried and told stories from many many Christmases ago. One granddaughter even spoke of Henry’s warm, tender grandfather hugs. Jennifer and James smiled at each other from across the room. They had Henry stories from the previous Christmas and the one before that. They had Henry stories from the previous week. And they both knew that though Henry liked to give hugs, he was really bad at it.

A Henry hug was like being burped.

Happy Blizzard!

2008-03-08T08:28:00.000-08:00

Dear Mom:

2008-03-05T18:45:00.000-08:00

I need you to watch the dog while I go back to this place. I need one more summer.

Here is a sweet William Butler Yeats quote to further my request.

"But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams."

Too Cool For Glamour Shots? Probably Not

2008-02-28T15:32:00.000-08:00

Top: What can I say for that? Aqua Net & hair bands. Nine Inch Nails had not yet changed my life. And for some strange reason, I think I had on a Denver Broncos coat.

Middle: This would be 9th grade. You can see Trent Reznor had influenced me a bit with the haircut, but the fluffy hair was still in my blood. What a crooked smile.

Bottom: This was at the end of my senior year. My pants were five times too big, but my hair was coming along.

Summary: Twelve years later, I still think Beastie Boys are cool.

Okay bloggers, start posting the pictures. And Sara, this was for you.

Sorry I did not scan these to the best of my ability.

How I spent my snow day

2008-02-26T18:20:00.000-08:00

For my Dumanis class, I have been reading Olena Kalytiak Davis' And Her Soul Out Of Nothing. To be honest, nothing we have previously read in the class has resonated with me. But this book is stunning.

Reading Davis' book has made me re realize how important the first poem of a book is. It should function as a map to the rest of the material. Davis opens her book with the poem A Few Words For The Visitor In The Parlor. She writes, Dear Visitor: You divide your age in two then square it by a dying mother. I am always gathering her up into my arms. Believe me, you never forget somebody that thin.

The poem opens up the book with a strong narrator who will spend the rest of the book defining an interior life where soul resides, grieving and living.

If you have not read it, I urge you to order it. It's one of the best poetry books I have read in quite some time.

Check it out, yo.

2008-02-22T18:30:00.000-08:00

Some new poems on Wicked Alice...along with Miss Jessica Jewell's always incredible work.

What's on my poetry agenda for this weekend?

My manuscript is once again on the floor. The first and third sections must be reorganized. I have cut two or three poems and have decided that the speaker/protagonist/poet (whatever) must be wed, at least metaphorically, to painter Vincent from page one.

I also will be reading Jay's manuscript. I can't wait.

A 30 year old and her sweatshirt

2008-02-18T16:43:00.000-08:00

Look at that sweathshirt. Is there any article of clothing that could be more comfortable? More me? Yet it seems to be a real issue for some people who claim to love me.

It was about this time two years ago when my grandpa started getting really sick. Yet, even on his death bed he managed to ask me, "Why the hell do you wear that old rag?"

And my best friend Kelly, well she has been trying to get rid of this sweatshirt for years. She was subtle about it at first. A few years ago, she bought me a new sweatshirt, an expensive baby blue Burton one. She would say things like, "Why aren't you wearing your new sweatshirt? It looks so good with your blond hair?" I almost fell for it.

At this point, Kelly is honest with her feelings. Last Saturday I reached for the sweatshirt to complete my evening attire and this is how the situation unfolded.

Kelly: Ah, NOOOOOO. Absolutely not. I'm not going anywhere with you in that.

Me: What's the problem?

Kelly: It's disgusting.

Me: Well, it's who I am.

Kelly: Well then be yourself when you are not around me.

She thinks she's funny, but her NEVER SUMMER SWEATSHIRT PREJUDICE only makes me want to wear it more. When she gets married some day, I will wear it with my maid of honor dress. I will even stick my thumbs through the holes in the sleeves.

Please, everyone answer this...

2008-02-16T23:51:00.000-08:00

Before I explain why I am enthralled with this simple question, just answer it. CAN BATMAN FLY?

I know I'm pathetic.

2008-02-14T19:54:00.000-08:00

Sunday thoughts on teaching...snowboarding

2008-02-10T10:06:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I went to Seven Springs (PA) to snowboard. Conditions weren't the greatest: slushy, a tiny bit of mud on some runs, and a million people waiting in line for the lifts; but I am an Ohio girl so I cannot complain about weather.

I had a great time with my friend and her son. They are still in beginner mode which forced me to stop and dissect how it is that I snowboard in order to teach them.

My friend seemed gracious toward my teaching, but I'm not sure I taught her much of anything. When it comes down to it, what is teaching, really?

Sometimes it boils down to something quite simple. I can tell you how I snowboard. I can tell you what other snowboarders would say. And then you have to take that wisdom or stupidity and figure out what works for you. Sometimes it works like that in poetry as well.

I tried to explain to my friend's son that one way I learned to snowboard was to ride with people who were better than me. That forced me to have to keep up and push myself to limits I didn't anticipate were even possible. This is similar to how poets constantly read other poets.

My friend (tailbone on fire, knees black and blue) kept getting angry, slamming down the board and using some four letter words. I got a little Zen on her, tried to elaborate on the spirituality of snowboarding. You must respect the mountain as something much greater than you. And the board, well it must become an extension of your own body.

Really, my friend hasn't yet fallen in love with the art of it yet, but I hope that she will. As for me, even though I am 30 and according to my mother I need to be thinking about mortgages, there is just about nothing in the world that makes me as happy as snowboarding does and I need to do it much more often than I do.

New York

2008-02-07T03:27:00.001-08:00

Here are the highlights of my New York/AWP trip:

Hanging out with Amy Bracken Sparks (pictured above with Jay)
Spending time with Joey, my friend from high school
Hearing Frank McCourt speak, possibly the funniest man in the world
Watching James Tate smile as he dodges questions
Seeing The Red Studio by Matisse (MoMa with Sara and Jay)
Eating my first gyro
Walking through Central Park and being lonely
and drum roll please...seeing Robert Bly at the NEOMFA reception

Will Blog Soon

2008-02-04T19:31:00.000-08:00

I have been so busy reading emails and working on my assignments for Dumanis' class tomorrow. Plus, I have been mildly distracted by the Jackson 5 for some reason. I will post an AWP picture and some comments tomorrow or Wednesday or Thursday.

Getting Ready for AWP

2008-01-27T16:50:00.000-08:00

This will be my first year attending AWP and my first time in New York City. Though I am counting down the minutes, there is just so much to do.

My mother is coming over to babysit Telemachus. Even though he doesn't smell (well...maybe a teeny bit), she insisted that I bath him. She thinks I should bath him every week, but that is not good for his pug skin.

This is a picture I took of him today (on my cell phone) in his bath robe. Notice the ray of light in the background announcing what a divine little thing he is.

My mom gets annoyed with my strict regulations on the quantity of food Telemachus can have. He acts hungry all the time. Pugs just do that. They know how to manipulate you. At the mere mention or sight of food, Telemachus spins in chaotic circles. As much as he loves me, he would sell me out for a sliver of hamburger without thinking twice.

Last summer when I went to Bisbee for a week, my mom stayed with Telemachus and he gained two pounds. How is that possible? That is like a human gaining 20. She thinks I starve him but anyone who has seen him knows that he is plenty well fed.

What will happen if she watches him this summer when I go to Ireland? I will come home to a baby hippo instead of a pug.

Mom, I know you read this. I am appreciative for all you do, but you can love him without making him resemble a pig anymore than he already does.