And so it ends...

"So, some of my friends will no doubt ask why am I writing a blog. Well, one of my New Year's resolutions is to do some new things, things people wouldn't especially expect me to do. So, why not?"

(the very first post on January 1, 2005 at this blog)


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Some of the very first people to comment here were Paul Guest and Eduardo C. Corral.  I created this blog at first out of a desire to do something new.  I have continued it out of a sense of obligation.  This is a fault of mine that can be seen throughout my life.  I keep going.  I keep going long after I should stop.

The funny thing is I started this because at the time it was something almost no one would have expected from me.  But now, this very thing has become an expectation.  People actually now expect me to blog.

But things have changed.  What used to be a fun way to find community and build on it has grown into a chore.  Part of the reason it has become a space for news is that it is less taxing for me.  But much has changed since I first came here to this space.

I now keep up with friends via other outlets.  And those friends mostly keep up with me via those other outlets.  I was going to wait until the last day of this month, but I decided that it isn't even necessary to do that, just another one of my OCD things to finish out on the last day of a month.

I already struggle with time to write, and that hasn't changed.  Hell, it was the source of the name for this space.  But in this year where I am fortunate to receive monetary support to continue the writing I have been doing, I am faced with the fact that a big organization has faith in me and my writing, and I owe it to them and myself to really try to focus on that.  There have been times when I have been away or too busy to post, and the funny thing is I didn't miss it.  So, in this year of changes (and there are more to come), I now bid adieu.  I hear the voice of Steve Orlen in my head from three years ago saying there will come a time when you will need to give it up.  He was talking about this blog.  And he was wise to know this.  I think the time came at the end of 2010, but like I said, I tend to not give things up.

To all the friends I have made in this space, I am grateful to you.  But now, it really is time for me to shut this down.  Since January 1st of 2005, I have posted 3,454 posts here.  That astounds me.  I have learned much in my time here, but the time has come... not for me to lip synch for my life, but to return to the work that brought me here in the first place.

With gratitude to all who have stopped by for all these years,

C. Dale

Ninth Letter to the Invisible

THERE are times recently where I absolutely despise the use of the word "sublime."  The last usage?  A hipster-looking man at the baseball game who explained to a youngish goth woman that baseball was not dull or slow but elegant and, yes, sublime.  Part of me wanted to slap this man.  But as I sat there watching the game, the sunshine radiating across the Park, the perfect 68 degree day with the slightest of light breezes coming in off the Bay, I had a moment, to use your expression.  And suddenly, the offending word didn't seem so offensive anymore.  It actually seemed perfect.  Right there, the experience of baseball was sublime.  I know you are not really a fan of the game, so I won't bore you further, but it made me stop and think about words and our definitions.  What if the reason we disagree with folks is simply a lack of depth in our lives to be able to match the way people use words?  What if the deficiency of words is merely a deficiency of ourselves and our lives?

Anyway, enough of me thinking out loud.  I am sorry about the review you received for ______________.  I forget now which poet said in an interview how he never read reviews of his own books, and I wish more of us could be that way.  I had a review of Torn that I felt was hardly complimentary.  The sentence that struck a nerve for me was the opening sentence of the review where the reviewer wrote that I had a tendency to lead readers through "soporific wisps of words."  I would be lying if I said that didn't sting.  But it brings us back to that whole issue of words.  What if the reviewer simply lived a life whereby my poems seem to him like just that, soporific wisps of words?  All of this is to say that you cannot place so much credence in one review.  It is a record of one person's reading and by no means a "consensus statement."  Not that it helps when people say this, but I will say it anyway: be grateful for the attention because it is better than being ignored altogether.

I am happy to hear you are drafting new poems, even if many of them end up in the trash bin.  As Don Justice says, "The trash can is always hungry, and we feed it so little."  But all kidding aside, the fact you are sitting with the page, or screen in this case, and putting words down, tells me you are fine despite the review upsetting you.  It is what we do.  We return to words.  And I am not sure there is anything more we can do.  I have a record three poems drafted this year already.  But with my luck, I may only get one more down before the end of the year.  But I am trying, will continue to try, to do more.  It is difficult not being hard on one's poems.  So I understand well why you write the way you do.

I am still in shock at receiving the fellowship.  No huge plans so far, but I am going to use the funds to "buy some time" away from the Practice.  I am applying to a couple of residencies because I want to make the most of any time I can buy.  The last thing I want to do is take time from medicine to then sit at home and fill the time with other things besides writing.  You know damned well that my life is filled with distractions and obligations.  At times, it seems as if just making time to write is a hurdle.  I know, so melodramatic!

Best of luck with the move.  Moving is a circle of Hell in my book.  I will always remember December of 2005 because Jacob and I were moving, planning our wedding, and I was setting up a new medical practice.  It was painful.  These kinds of things always come in bunches.  But they also come to resolution, and soon you will be in the new place and you can write up lists of things for that husband of yours to accomplish!  Nothing like a good list for someone else!  Before me today, a slew of errands.  Let us talk soon.  And send me some of these new poems when you can allow yourself to let go of them.


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Eighth Letter to the Invisible

I have the day off from Clinic, which meant a morning crammed with errands such as taking my car in for service. Driving across the Golden Gate Bridge to Marin to drop off the car, I was struck by the fact I have driven over that bridge countless times and yet, and yet, every time I cross it something seems different. Same bridge, but different: at times, fog; at times sailboats all over the Bay; at times an armada of gulls sweeping overhead. But this brings me to your criticism, though it is small, of my life today.

I am not the young man you met in graduate school; this is true. In many ways, it is difficult for me to recognize that man. And you are right to say that that young man was obsessed with poetry, that he seemed to spend every waking moment reading it, writing it, discussing it, teaching it, etc. But what may surprise you is that, despite what you think, poetry is still a deep obsession in my life.  In some ways, it is my primary obsession.

You write that I spend much of my life now being a doctor, that the flame of poetry has died. This, I can assure you, though I don’t believe I need to, is completely wrong.  Poetry is no less an obsession for me now than it was when we first knew each other twenty years ago.  But that obsession is now more internal than external. I still read poetry all the time.  There is never a week I don’t read poetry.  But I am not a graduate student who wants everyone to know I am a poet.  I am a poet.  And all the things you remark about are external to the actual life of making poems.

I had to laugh when I read your criticism that my poems tread the same ground and that this was the ultimate proof that I no longer live a life filled with poetry.  And here is where the Bridge comes in.  We cannot help our obsessions.  We cannot help the desire to return to things again and again.  At least I cannot help that.  But see, each time I go back I find something new, something else: the fog; the sailboats drifting by; the gulls overhead.  I find, in the same moment, many things I had not seen before and may never see again.  If anything, I don’t see my obsessions and repetitions as a failure of my being a poet.  I write despite that.

You are right to say much of my time is taken up by the practice of medicine.  I would be lying if I said otherwise.  There are days when even in the shower I am going over treatment plans of patients of mine, checking and double-checking in my head that I have done all the steps correctly and in the correct sequence.  I do this sometimes in the car, while eating dinner, while getting ready for bed, and sometimes even as I am trying to fall asleep.  But this is my life.  It is a life that feels as much chosen as given to me.  But this does not mean poetry is any less for me.  If anything, the discipline of thought required of me for my “day job” has only helped me as a poet.  Or at least I convince myself of this.

Medicine has not made me wise.  Editing has not made me wise.  Teaching has not made me wise.  Life has made me wiser, and for me poetry is essential to my life.  As the ancient Greek said: “Wisdom is knowing which questions to ask again.”  I ask and I ask over and over, but I never know if that is just me seeking knowledge or if that is, in fact, wisdom.  I suppose one never knows which questions to ask again.  But in this, again, I see repetition and obsession, a willingness to return and look again.

So, despite not wanting to give a defense of my own life, something I would normally brush off with an imperious statement such as “There is no need for a defense,” I have done just that.  For me, life is poetry, albeit a raw poetry, a series of drafts.  One need not run from life to have the time to take those drafts and make something more from them.  All one needs for that is desire and perseverance.  And I would like to believe that I have those things.  I would like to believe that.

And so I end with congratulations on placing your first book and with well wishes for it once published.  You should be happy, not because you now feel as if “you have a place at the table,” but because it is something to celebrate.  You have always had a place at the table, book or no book.  And what you feel were unnecessary diversions in these years, I might see as necessary for the work you did.  In the end, I will not ask you to forgive me my “sins” as you see them.  What I ask is that you forgive yourself.  Only a man who has not forgiven himself looks at others and believes their lives are “perfect.”  I am, in this way, still a student of Dostoevsky; I still believe what makes us all human is suffering.  All of us suffer whether or not you can see that.  All of us.  Anyone who says other than that is either lying or delusional.  The great thing that binds us all as human beings is suffering.

Even now, you have my best wishes,

Seventh Letter to the Invisible

I know I am a bad correspondent.  I have so many excuses to offer why it has taken me almost two months to reply to your letter.  But I won't trouble your patience with them.  The world is filled with excuses, and it makes me irritable and irritated sometimes.  So, I won't add any excuses.  I will simply beg your forgiveness.

I finished reading the book you recommended.  I can see why you are attracted to it, but I found so little in it that interested me.  Yes, there was wordplay.  Yes, there were clever ploys and surprises at the ends of poems, but it lacked, for lack of a better word, heart.  It just seemed to me the poet was bored herself and that she was just doing us a favor by writing some poems.  I admit I was a big fan of her work in the first two books, even the third, but this new book is dreadful.  Okay, maybe that is too harsh, but I just cannot see myself going back to it.  Maybe I am not the right reader for this book right now.  Maybe I am too irritable.

I, too, continue with new poems.  I have three so far this year, the last still going through revisions.  Like you, I fear I have become a broken record.  Every poem I have written since I finished the last book manuscript is skating the same ice.  I think my mind is working out larger constructs.  I realized the same thing is happening in my short stories.  They are all linked by characters, narrators, overlaps, etc.  I seem to be resisting the containers.  But your poems in this sequence, series, whatever you call it, are incredible, dense and beautiful.  And unlike _____________, who you adore and force me to read, these poems have "heart."

We leave for Rome in less than a month now, and I almost feel as if I am counting the hours.  I am so tired.  The idea of three weeks without clinic, without grading/teaching, without editing, without recommendation letters to write, is almost too much for me to comprehend.  But it is coming.  I will pass on the restaurant recommendations to Jacob.  I will try to take photographs and email them to you from the Eternal City.  I hope to be as scandalous as a Borgia...

Sixth Letter to the Invisible

THIS may be forward; in fact, I am sure it is, seeing we have never met in person. But I am responding to your end of year/book about to come out angst, which I know well. In fact, I know it far too well. You write that your New Years Resolution is to stop comparing Poetry to Church, but that comparison, I suspect, is at the core of why you write poetry.

Why does one spend five years "moving commas and cutting loose language"? Because the process is more than a process for you, more than a process for me, and more than a process for most who write poetry. That working and working is like whittling, like casting and casting mock-ups for artwork. Why do any of us do this? Because, it is a type of devotion. I firmly believe this. Yes, for some artists, there are odd motivations, but for those who stick with this making of things, it is devotion.

Here are two quotes by Joseph Brodsky that I carry around with me in my head:

"Every writing career starts as a personal quest for sainthood, for self-betterment. Sooner or later, and as a rule quite soon, a man discovers that his pen accomplishes a lot more than his soul."

I have listened to artists argue about this quote, and it always comes down to the "a lot more than his soul" aspect of the quote. But I have no beef with that. I believe the pen is very much a part of the soul, an extension of the body and therefore an extension of the soul. The other quote is an exchange between Brodsky and a Judge in the Soviet Union:

JUDGE: And what is your profession?
BRODSKY: Poet. Poet and translator.
JUDGE: And who told you that you were a poet? Who assigned you that rank?
BRODSKY: No one. (Non-confrontationally.) Who assigned me to the human race?
JUDGE: And did you study for this?
BRODSKY: For what?
JUDGE: To become a poet? Did you try to attend a school where they train [poets] . . . where they teach . . .
BRODSKY: I don’t think it comes from education.
JUDGE: From what, then?
BRODSKY: I think it’s . . . (at a loss) . . . from God.

The year comes to a close with two-faced Janus who looks both forward and backward at the same time, and it is natural to look over what we did and ask why or why not. But you are a poet, _______________, assigned that by a power much higher than you can interrogate. It is no wonder you put Poetry and Church in the same phrases. Even in your subconscious you already know why you write poetry. It is a devotion, a devotion to the world and the life of this world. In this, poetry is no different from any art. We create art because we create art. In all art, no matter how we like to deny this in the postmodern world, there is a glimpse of the afterlife, of the communal power of the human mind. So, my friend, we continue on. We draft our poems. We move commas and line breaks. We listen. We watch. We live. We write. To some, our need to do this is silly. To others, it is something they wish they could do. But this life of making art, this devotion, is one I would never trade in for anything. And something deep inside me tells me this is true for you as well. Again, I know I am being forward having never met you in person. But I have met your heart and your mind in your poems, and I know full well you share in this terrible devotion.



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Fifth Letter to the Invisible

I got into my car this morning, tired and cranky, and drove to the hospital to do an emergency treatment. By the time I got to the hospital parking lot, a calm came over me, my mind cleared, something inside me both strengthened and relaxed. I stepped from the car and was Dr. Young, that man who is both me and a complete stranger. It is a role I have trained for and worked at for such a long time that it comes on or over me with almost no thought. You ask again about being a writer, and for me, it is much the same.

Years ago, in a letter, I told you the parable Don Justice told me about the field. But I have my own version of this. Yes, Don's version has the excitement of the lightning and the field itself, but mine seems more my own. I hope I can do it justice (no pun intended): There is a grove outside a temple. In this vision I have, if you can call it that, the temple is somewhere in southeast Asia. And the grove is more like a jungle. An old man sits on the steps of the temple. And day after day I go to the temple, but the old man tells me I should be in the grove clearing the leaves from the pathways between branches. At first, I think this old man is crazy. But after years and years of going to the temple I become frustrated. No matter how many times I light the incense or clear the steps of the temple, I never glimpse the god. Years go by. I go often to the temple. I do what I think I should be doing. After all, the temple is where one finds the god, right? Finally, I stop and speak to the old man, who asks me why I come to the temple, asks me what it is I am looking for there. I tell him I am looking for the god, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. And when he hears this he laughs. He laughs for a long time. It is then he says that the temple only prepares you to see the god, but one never finds the god in the temple.

I leave the temple and as I am walking I see the grove/jungle. I walk into it and notice there are leaves and debris everywhere. It is a total mess. And I remember the old man from years previously telling me to clear the leaves and trash. So I start. From that point, time after time, I go to the temple and then the grove. One day, as I am clearing leaves, the wind picks up and the branch above me moves suddenly. A flash of light passes and I see a sandal in the sky. I have glimpsed the god.

One can take himself away from life and hope to become a writer. One can sit at his typewriter or computer day after day, and all it does is help prepare one to be a writer. But see, it is when you are living your life, when you are clearing away the debris and trash that one glimpses the god. Inspiration comes at the oddest moments. All we can do is work hard, clean the temple steps and light the incense; we do these things to be prepared. So, I tell you that despite feeling discouraged, you are a writer. And maybe, just maybe, if you go into the jungle, if you live your life content in waiting for the god, the god will be glimpsed. Live your life, my friend. You are a writer and no one can take that away from you. Doing all these things you believe writers need to do is equivalent to visiting the temple. You have visited it enough. I am not saying you shouldn't visit the temple anymore, just that you need to live your life. It is time to do some work in the jungle.

I know. I know. Mine is nowhere as elegant as Don Justice's field. But it is what I have and what I believe deep inside me. And now, I am off to the temple to light incense and sweep steps. I have already been out in the jungle today. Write me soon, and send me the new poems. I am sure, knowing you the way I do, they are not awful. And I promise not to put blue pen to it. I just want to read them.


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Fourth Letter to the Invisible

YOU seem preoccupied, challenged lately. And I would be lying if I said I didn't understand that. I know well the pain you are feeling right now. And I know well that anything I say to make you feel better will sound cliche. Time passes and changes everything between two people. And if lucky, the two people change in sync or at least in ways in which a friendship is maintained, sometimes even grow. But sometimes, time passes in ways that friendships die. And this, too, happens between lovers. But do not let this color every friendship you have. I am still your friend. And you have many friends.

I fear I am partially at fault here because of how our friendship developed. I guess I always leave more to the other person when they were my student. I suppose I do so out of respect and because of the initial power differences in such a relationship. But even as time passes, even as the relationship becomes more a friendship, a things of equals, I worry that the history of teacher/student is still something to be overcome. I realize there is arrogance in this, because I never feel this in the friendships I have with people who were my teachers. All of this is to say do not be angry with me. I wasn't refusing to look at your poem, just trying not to reinforce the dynamic of me being your teacher. I see now that there were other things at play as well.

I re-read Catallus, at your suggestion. But I still don't feel an attraction to that work. I laugh at times reading it. At times I am surprised, still, by some of the things he writes. But how to explain why one poet seems essential to me and another does not. I know Catullus is worthwhile and important, and I would teach Catullus if a student of mine needed him. That is not the same thing though. I teach and admire many poets I do not love. I have learned much from poets I do not love. You know my distrust of Frost, but you also know I have taught Frost. And you know I am no fan of Robert Lowell, and yet I have taught Lowell. I guess what I am saying is I do not need to love a poet to learn from them or use them to teach others. My investments in poetry is in poetry, not in Poets. Not sure why I think that way.

I am, in fact, going back to Warren Wilson this Winter to teach. I rarely teach there in Winter/Spring, but I may not be able to go next summer, so I am teaching there in January. I have hopes of pulling something off for next summer; more on that later. After my insane lecture on accessibility as a function of sentence structure used as rhetorical device, after dragging all of the students through passages of Heart of Darkness and poems by O'Hara and Koch, I am opting for something simple this time: a seminar on Shakespeare's The Tempest. Hahahahaha. I know full well this won't be easier, but I need a challenge. And what better to challenge you than a room full of graduate students in both fiction and poetry writing and Shakespeare?

To answer your question, I never use the Crow or the "quadrants of the field" when teaching undergraduates. How would I recognize their Crow? Most undergraduates are just establishing their own patterns. They have read so little. I cannot see their style, their pattern, well enough to then see the poet who is both a challenge and a warning to their work. Even with graduate students, I can only see a Crow if the student already has a recognizable style. Sometimes, I just cannot see it. I suppose I could use the "quadrants of the field" story in teaching undergraduates, but again, I am not sure I would. Craft is a term that can have a terrible connotation. And discussing The Field may be seen, through their eyes, as simply a privileging of craft. In the end, craft issues are all we can teach, but it isn't all of Poetry. We fixate on craft because it is the easy way to teach poetry. I bet you are surprised to hear me of all people say that!

I have looked over your poem and have attached it to this. I remind you that you asked me to give it the full treatment, as if you were my still my student. I won't do this again. It has been too long since you were my student, and anything I could have taught you you have already learned. As you will see, my biggest peeve throughout the poem is your use of adjectives. You are so in love with them in this poem you would think you have only been writing for a year or two. You, yourself, have given classes on the reliance of adjectives as the mark of the juvenile poet. So, is this an intentional choice on your part? Is this something conscious? I must say I am at a loss. But who am I to judge? Again, I think you should show this to Chris or someone for whom your relationship is different.

So, my friend, I have a long day ahead of me. I wish I could say I feel like the Master who effortlessly raises his hand and calls the lightning down. But alas, I am still just one who knows which quadrant of the field increases my chances of being struck. I hope Don Justice isn't turning in his grave each and every time I restate his maxim. Call me in a few weeks. Let me know you are in a better frame of mind. You know I am a worrier. So call me, __________. Just let me hear your voice so I can be sure you are okay.


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