This week I asked my students to bring in a collection of poetry that they’d commit to reading numerous times over the next month or so. At the end of all that, they’ll write short papers about the poetry and the impact it’s had on them as writers. So, to launch this, they each did readings from their selected books. John Ashbery and Neruda, Marge Piercy and Li Young-Lee. I was delighted.
And here’s the best part. Every single student asked if they could read “just one more” because my request for three didn’t satisfy. Every. Single. Student. Begging for the opportunity to read more poetry aloud. Guess what my answer was?
So, one of these budding poets chose Lucille Clifton’s book, Quilting. She said she’d had to narrow down her read-aloud choices from 19 favorites to a paltry five. And I kind of know what she means. Lucille Clifton is eminently readable. Both spare and profound. Both conversational and exquisite.
A few years back, when I sold my first picture book, I used the advance to go to the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry Festival (I mean, mortgage shmortgage, right?). And while I was there I was nearly silent. I did not shmooze or mingle or chat. I did not network. I really just took long walks on the side of New Jersey’s country roads and I read and wrote and listened to poetry. I was pregnant — with both baby and book, and feeling almost entirely internal.
On the last morning of the festival, Lucille Clifton read in the chapel. I remember it well because it really was like a prayer. Or, more accurately, a blessing.
blessing the boats
may the tide that is entering even now the lip of our understanding carry you out beyond the face of fear
Yesterday afternoon we had the usual gaggle of girls at our house to play.
My role’s usually quite limited during these dates, to something like Keeper of the Snacks and Band-aids.
But I observe and overhear. A lot.
Here’s yesterday’s snapshot:
Our first-grader and her chums spent more than an hour on the back deck, messing with a bunch of markers and tape and recycled materials. Making something for their art teacher at school. They thought she might be able to use the final, spectacular creation to hold her paints.
Remember, this is the supposed ‘Generation Consumption’, always needing more and new and now. And rumour has it that they’re spoiled and a tad on the selfish side. Also, according to the researchers, they don’t have the attention spans to stick with anything for more than five nano seconds.
Hmm. I don’t think so.
Maybe they all just need a little space, a little downtime and a pile of tape and old styrofoam. I’m just sayin’.
Meanwhile, down the hall, elder daughter and her… well… her colleague, have opened The Office of Cultural Experiences in the United States. They are answering phones and taking notes. They are, apparently, tasked with assisting folks who’ve moved here and are struggling in one way or another. What a concept.
When I walk into the room, my daughter’s helping an imaginary someone with ‘friendship troubles’.
Oh, also, they inform me, “We have another company that does global experiences.”
Which means, I’m pretty sure, that not only do they care about the whole entire world but they’re willing to help out where they can.
Umm, can you think of any reason other than the fact that they’re not old enough to have driver’s licenses, that these gals shouldn’t be in charge of, well, the planet?
Their’s is a blog pretty much everyone has crush on.
Why? Because it’s really, really good.
To note:
They do really smart, conversational reviews of (mostly) kids’ books. (I’m biased because we seem to have the same taste. But take my word. It’s just a pleasure listening to them chat.)
They do really smart, funny interviews with children’s author’s and bloggers. (Do they have an awesome dating record, or what???)
They do really smart, lovely Poetry Friday posts. (And ditto what I said earlier about having the same taste. Although maybe it’s not actually a bias — it’s just stellar taste.)
See what I mean? They’re just really smart and good.
Well, guess what?
A few weeks ago, they asked me to the prom. And I said yes! Blush, blush, titter, swoon!
And today I’m in my best turquoise taffeta, dancing over at Seven Imp. (I mean, being interviewed. But that sounds so dry and staid. Which it wasn’t.) Thanks, Jules and Eisha. You guys rock…
I was thinking about speed, time, diligence, patience, inertia and momentum after writing my post the other night.
And, really, I don’t recommend this line of thought. It’s daunting and you’re liable to get all mucked up in it. Your work, your calendar, your birthday — all will loom.
Here’s what I think we should meditate on instead:
It’s never too late. It’s never too late to write your first words. It’s never too late to throw your first pot. It’s never too late to sing your first aria or paint your first portrait or speak your first soliloquy. It’s never too late. It’s never too late to thread your first needle. It’s never too late to cook your first souffle. It’s never too late to strum your first chord or kiss your first love or make your first million. It’s never too late. It’s never too late to publish your first book. It’s never too late to win your first award. It’s never too late to stand at your easel or open up your laptop or stretch out in your hammock and start something new. It’s never too late.
And for those naysayers who wonder where I’m going with this and would like me to remember that I committed to a poetry post, how’s this?
Virginia Hamilton Adair was 83-years-old when she published her first collection of poetry. That’s Eight Three. See what I mean?
Here’s a tiny little verse of hers. You should look for others. Really.
THRESHOLDS I stand at evening at the open door, And see the wind I never saw before.
Remember back in July when I was doing backflips off the roof because I’d sold my next book to Harcourt?
Well, now I’m doing full gainers. ‘Cause the editor I’ve been looking for all my life has said yes to another manuscript. And it’s giving me a bit of a lift.
This one we’ll call World (in case the title evolves) and like Wind, it will be illustrated by Marla Frazee. (I’m doing an extra triple twist over that fact…)
Actually, World is cutting in line and will come out before Wind (which is the book I announced in July). Which means this has to be a very short post because I am in the middle of revisions as we speak.
Not that I’m complaining.
Recently I’ve written about not sleeping and about feeling like a freight train and this is what I mean.
There is something about the momentum created when things start falling into place that is almost scary until you start saying, “wheeee!” I think it’s that there are all those days in our lives that feel like a push or a slog or struggle or a drag, and when we find ourselves on a fast float to joy — thanks to luck, perservance, good timing or all the stars being lined up where they should be — it’s surprising. And overwhelming.
In a good way, but still.
As a friend said to me the other day, “What did you think was going to happen if you kept working and putting the work out there?”
Oh. Right. This, I guess.
So, bring on the all-night single-minded freight train of the muse. I’m at the ready. With my bags of gratitude well packed.
Last night, getting food on the table, I thought, “How many of our common conversational phrases do we pull from books?”
And it wasn’t a non-sequiter, either. I had just called out, “Wash up for supper, Ernst” when the query crossed my mind.
But here’s the thing. We don’t have an Ernst. We’ve got two daughters who usually call supper dinner. But Wash up for supper, Ernst is our daily and understood verb — thanks to Elisa Klevin.
It’s not unlike my personal favorite, “Think, Oliver, think,” — always a good reminder, and for which credit is due to Laurel Molk.
And hello, Jarrett J. Krosoczka — the pen behind “A very big idea. A very brown idea. A very big, brown, bag idea.” I mean, come on, tell me that you don’t need that phrase at least once a week.
I think this has got to be the highest form of authorial flattery — adopting bits of books into our own daily vernacular. The very idea that what we read resonates so contagiously — wow. Those are the books I wish I’d written or hope to write.
In the meantime, cheers to Elfrida Vipont (“But he never once said please!”) and Wayne Harris (“Mrs. Be-the-best-you-can”) and Ian Falconer (“I love you anyway, too.”)
Things would be a little less sweet and round and articulate around here without you all, and your books.
Lately I’ve been going through a really productive time, writing-wise. Lots of ideas, lots of getting it down on paper, lots of revisiting and revisioning and revisiting and revisioning. This, as you might imagine, feels good.
So, what’s the rub? That when I go through these crazy muse-driven stages, I don’t sleep. I don’t know if my synapses get lodged in the on position or what, but I lie in bed, night after night, wide awake.
Wide. Awake.
Sometimes I get up and read. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I cry. One time recently I got all confused and got dressed for my morning run before realizing it was 4 a.m. Which, in my opinion, is not necessarily when you want to clock a few miles.
Before this little phase (let’s not use the word episode since that sounds diagnosable), I rode the vivid dream express for about six weeks. I slept, but boy-oh-man were those dreams something. I mean, I lived with them for hours after waking. Whether I wanted to or not. Frankly, it was a little distracting.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I’d trade all this for writer’s block, but I am curious about how the rest of you wild minds strike a balance. I mean, can you schedule this stuff? And what about, y’know, the rest of life? Like putting gas in the car or making breakfast or occasionally sweeping the floor. I’m not talking about perfect here, folks, I’m just talking about avoiding the authorities and keeping the family free of any dirt-borne diseases. Sigh.
OK, I’m signing off now. I think I’ll go to bed early. ‘Cause you never know. Tonight might be the night…
I don’t want you to think we’re fickle folk by nature, but pretty much ever since my husband and I became my husband and I, we’ve contemplated moving.
Austin, Texas, is where we met and fell in love, but it’s not on the ocean (home of my husband’s heart) and it’s not in the mountains (home of mine) and it’s a very long haul to visit our families.
There were other places, we thought, that might suit us better.
So we kind of kept one foot out the door for a good, long time. Only every time we’d think, “maybe we should head to Colorado, or Oregon, or Alaska, or Belize…” something really terrific would happen. I’d get a fellowship. He’d get a new bluegrass gig. I’d start to teach. He’d get into graduate school. We’d get a canoe and adopt pets. We’d have a baby. We’d have another. Jobs fell into place and communities coalesced. We formed writing groups, bookclubs and bands. We grew close to our neighbors and colleagues. We found preschools and, later, elementary schools we thought were good for our kids and our family. We have running and tennis partners, babysitters, someone who gives smashing haircuts, and a guy who does our taxes. We have a hometown.
This year, we had another opportunity to hit the road… and we chose Austin. My husband took a new job, and we’re working on plans to add a little more space to our tiny-house-with-the-big-backyard. I’m not saying this is the hill we’re gonna die on, but I can say we are, today, deeply satisfied and firmly planted.
I could come up with a pretty good list of reasons for being here almost any time of year, but here are just a few of the things I’m loving right now:
1. When you live in Austin, Texas, you live in the Live Music Capital of the World. I know what you’re thinking. That chambers of commerce make up monikers like that one. But really. There’s a lot of music going on here. All the time. In parks, bars, restaurants, outdoor ampitheaters, schools and shopping centers. This weekend is the Austin City Limits Music Festival down in Zilker Park. We’ve ridden our bikes to see everyone from James Hunter and Gotan Project to Steve Earle and Zap Mama. Tonight, I won’t be blogging ’cause I’ll be down with Lucinda Williams and Ziggy Marley and Bob Dylan. I’m serious.
2. When you’re a kid in Austin, Texas, your city swim team has its final meet at the University of Texas Jamail Swimming Center. And when your school kicks off its Marathon Kids fitness program, you run the first mile at the University of Texas Mike Myers Stadium. Standing on those starting blocks, you feel like a real, honest-to-goodness jock — whether you’re six or sixteen.
3. When you live in Austin, Texas, people like Molly Ivins and Ann Richards and Ladybird Johnson count as family. When Mrs. Johnson died this summer, the city promptly re-named our lake (which is really a river, but that’s another story) “Ladybird Lake”. The old Congress Avenue bridge, that stretches across Ladybird Lake, is now called Ann Richards Bridge.
4. And speaking of the lake, when you live in Austin, Texas, you’ve got a crazy-lot of water and trails. The hike-and-bike trail, the Barton Creek Greenbelt, Barton Springs, Deep Eddy and a host of great, green, neighborhood parks. And that’s just some of the stuff smack inside the city limits. You should see the hill country.
9. When you live in Austin, Texas, you’ve got an incredibly active, talented, generous, friendly and successful SCBWI chapter to call your own.
10. And then there are the people. No way to scoop ’em all up into a bullet point. No way to link to ’em. But take my word for it. Austin is Texas Friendly. We share our lives with artists, parents, activists, athletes, neighbors, scholars, gardners, musicians and friends beyond measure. Which is the real point of a hometown. I’m pretty sure.
We still fly and drive to get our feet in the sand and our heads in the clouds and to get up-close-and-personal with our far-flung families. But in between, our day-to-day lives are here. At home.
Last winter I sat on a panel of judges for The Balcones Poetry Prize, sponsored by the college where I teach. We read more than 120 books of poetry — all published in 2006 — which makes me think it’s not true, people saying, “Nobody publishes poetry anymore.” Which makes me glad. That it’s not true, I mean.
I loved a lot of what I read, and I loved that it was my responsibility to sit and soak up poetry on certain chilly afternoons. With a hot chai in one hand and the dog at my feet. That is the kind of responsibility I much prefer to laundry.
The prize was awarded to Lorna Dee Cervantes for her weighty collection Drive: The First Quartet, which is really like five books in one — written over a period of 25 years. So first of all, it’s a massive undertaking. 300-some pages of poetry. I get a little weak just thinking about numbers like that. And then there’s the breadth of styles and subject matter — long, skinny poems in memory of David Kennedy… thick narratives about a barrio childhood… short, squat, spontaneous pieces that shine like beach glass buried in coarse sand. All the finalists were very fine, but this book was the right choice.
So yesterday, Ms. Cervantes came to give a reading at the college. I took my elder daughter with me and sat in the back of the theater and listened to poems about politics and poverty and love and rage. My daughter chewed her chocolate chip cookie and drew an elaborate picture of houses on stilts and I listened.
If you’d like to hear her voice, here’s a little snippet I found on YouTube….
If you’d prefer to just read, here’s something for you, poetry and cat lovers alike:
Baby Doll Dress
How I hated those pasty faces that drag of fray on the cuffs, that cracked tear of the chipped glass, staring, that fake blue of the sea. All my dolls were naked, stripped of their mute and crippled artiface. And the grey cats were gleaming in their lace and buttoned collars, in their bonny bonnets & braided silk trimmings. What elegant teas we had, hunger our only mistress of manners, seated like Mad Hatters, my tuna- tamed tigers and I.
