Caption Contest #16

Yup, some of you thought this wouldn't happen again. And some of you were waiting patiently. And yes, it is definitely that time again. Time for the caption contest. For those who are new here, the winner gets bragging rights and may or may not win a surprise monetary prize (already decided by us here at The Muse before posting this). Captions should be left in the comment section below, and the winner will be selected by our resident judge, Jacob.

Winners of the Caption Contest this year so far are:


#12 : Justin Evans

#13 : Anne Haines

#14 : ADT

#15: Joseph Massey


Will YOUR name be added to this list? Or will one of these caption gods and goddesses simply shut you out? Will one of our previous champs return to show you how it is done? Give us your captions, and tune in to see what happens.


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Let the games begin...


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Anniversary

Hard to believe it was an entire year ago that we got married. It seems like yesterday.

Home

Overheard at LA Times Festival of Books:

"What stage is that?"
"Um, the Poetry Stage."
"Poetry?!"
"Yeah, poetry."
"YUCK!"


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Read, signed books, went to LAX, flew back to SF, made it home. Tired. On Friday, an overnight flight to New York. At least then Jacob will be with me. I used to hate traveling with people, especially people I was dating, but Jacob is different. I actually like having him with me. I know. How sappy.


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Twice today, people came up to me and asked me directions. Even when I said I didn't know, they looked at me like I had two heads. It was later I realized they thought I worked at the Festival. I mean, come to think of it, there was hardly a person of color in sight.


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Clue: Basilisk


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Quickie from LA

After 2 gate changes, an hour on the runway in SF, an hour drive in stop/go traffic from LAX to Westwood, I am now finally in my hotel room at the W. Heading out for some comida Cuba later with my friend, Gaby, and her partner. I am always excited to eat Cuban food. Not easy to find it in San Francisco.


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All W Hotels are the same. I swear to God. The mocha woods, the meshy curtains, the black and white, etc. Who invented the W chain of hotels? It is so unlike any of the other hotels in the Starwood group of hotels. Thanks God they have amazing beds though. I have enough trouble sleeping away from home.


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Woman in lobby: This hotel is so dark.
Young guy with her (son?): Well, duh.
WIL: What ever happened to classic furniture anyway. Classic. That is what is missing.
YG: Um, I am heading out to the pool area. I need some vitamin D.
WIL: Okay, I guess. But can't you just take a tablet?
YG: Yeah, right. Whatever.
WIL: I hope I can find the room in all this darkness.
YG: If you can't, I am sure you will find the spa.


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Oooh la la. Room service just came and I am hungry enough to eat Missouri. Haven't had anything to eat today. Have a good weekend everyone.


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Clue: That is so NOT a cashew


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The Horse

There are times when everything seems like a dream, and I imagine that, at times, some of my patients think this must all be a dream, something that can be left in the pillowcase. There is no understanding denial. None. How the human mind constructs a casing for the terrible, eliminates it from consciousness, is an incredible and incredibly scary thing. I have been wallowing in this lately. No, not wallowing in denial, but in that space where people go in hard times. What I am trying to say is that I cannot stop thinking about this, how people set up barriers in their heads. I am fascinated and disgusted by it. I am moved but remain hardened. Sometimes, I wonder to what lengths my worry will travel. And always, in the background, my mom and the expression I vowed as a child never to use: "You can lead a horse to water, but you cannot make it drink." And despite that vow to never utter this, I find myself saying it all of the time.


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Anytime someone says "It's all good," I think "psychotic."


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Busy couple of weeks coming up. Four of the next 5 weekends will involve travel. LA, New York, Seattle, etc. Praise God in Heaven for the pillow-top mattress!


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I find it harder and harder to watch the news. It gives me heartburn and keeps me up at night.


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Clue: Mandara


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In No Uncertain terms

This is an amazing find. I just love stuff like this. Very few stories in the news lately fill me with wonder. Most of them fill me with dread.


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An interesting interview with Franz Wright.


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Still readjusting to being back from vacation. Sitting in a meeting last night after leaving the hospital, I found myself zoning out, wishing I were staring at the Pacific from a balcony or deck. There was vigorous debate about nominations for President of the Association. I snapped out of my daydreaming just in time to turn down a nomination in no uncertain terms!


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American Idol was total snoozefest last night. I never thought I would say this, but I actually kept wishing Sanjaya was still on the show because I am sure he would have done something to wake me up.


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Clue: Pilot


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The Carp

Antonio Gamaneda won the Cervantes Prize. Maybe he is getting closer to a Nobel?


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Alone in clinic today. Busy. Life is back to normal.


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In the dream last night, giant carp were swimming in a pool that was above the ground, the water suspended in the air and the fish gliding through it slowly. Reddish-brown leaves were occasionally blowing by. It was cold. It was windy and cold. My fingers had small nails sticking out of them. So did my neck. I worried I was turning into a porcupine.


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The poem I thought was starting to form has already frittered away. All left now is one image. Not even one word remains.


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Clue: Translational transitives


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The Plaid Ashtray

Oh yeah, this is what it feels like to get up at 5:00AM again. I almost forgot. Gag!


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Nathaniel Mackey continues to win awards for Splay Anthem. Good for him!


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I just realized that the robot is gone. Bloglines had a couple of posts I had missed while away, but it also had the "closed" entry. I will miss reading posts at Equanimity. But I also know things come and go.


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IN THE LITTLE BOOK OF GUESSES


I’ll make you up from out
of the living rooms we face,
equal parts singing gate

and people we knew once,
in biographical order. Equal lengths

investiture, and the sun came out
and it was bright in my eyes.

The room is dark behind
the flaring particles. The day
is twenty years ago

and Tuesday. I did not mean
to leave us there with nothing,

as I was saying car rides
for wonderful. It hardly matters. Unequal parts
wanting to mean something

and frosted glass. Whose cigarette
in the plaid ashtray?

Whose clothes on the coffee table
as the dog begins to bark?

The black dog out in whatever yard,
barking off and on

the rest of our lives.



--John Gallaher, from The Little Book of Guesses (Four Way Books 2007)


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Clue: Oro


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O Fortuna, Part Three

Have you voted yet for 2007 Poet Laureate of the Blogosphere? I have. And just like with regular voting, I never divulge for whom I have placed my vote.


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We are safely home. Glad to be back on land. Glad to be back in the City by the Bay. On the first night and the last night of the cruise, I got the spin on Wheel of Fortune and won $1,000. I really almost lost it when it happened on the second night. Both times on the same machine! The casino staff was struck dumb. One woman told me my luck was disgusting, which made me laugh all the way to the cashier!


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For info on my reading at the LA Times Festival of Books, check here. I will be the guy who smiles kind of nervously. I will also be the one with the most identifiable laugh.


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Excited to be back in clinic tomorrow. Very excited.


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I have some images and words in my head, which makes me think I may actually write a poem this year. But it is not yet coming together. It is all fleeting. Many small glimpses, but no real view yet. But I am happy to be having these thoughts, happy to be thinking about a poem.


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On the flight today from LA back to SF, two men in the row behind me were talking and got to talking about their kids. One reported he was very worried about his daughter because she was studying poetry writing at the New School in New York. The other man, an Irish man, told him he would be worried, too. The father of the poet said: "And the worst part is she really thinks she can make a life of this!" When we landed and were getting up to deplane, I commented that being a poet isn't so bad. And he asked if I knew any poets. I told him I did and many of them were fine people. He looked shocked. But then he looked reassured. It was too funny.


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Clue: Salud!


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Ghost

We are sailing back up the Baja Peninsula toward California. It has been a good trip, though spending my birthday in another country was a little weird for me. Hard to explain, but I just kind of wanted to be at home for it. I kept feeling odd all day on Wednesday. Thanks for all of the birthday wishes posted and via email. They meant a great deal to me.


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Weird to think I fly from LA back to SF tomorrow and then at the end of the week fly bac to LA for the LA Times Festival of Books. My reading will be on Saturday at 4:30 pm in the Poetry Tent at UCLA. I realized it will be my first reading from the new book. If any of you are in LA and want to swing by, I hope to see you there.


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I am strangely looking forward to going back to work, even though I was totally stressed out from work before I left.


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I saw Hart Crane's ghost.


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Clue: Starboard


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That Day, Again

A long time ago, in a galazy far far away...

Yup, today is my birthday. Strange to be in another country today. We'll have to see what Mazatlan holds for us.

Natasha Trethewey Wins Pulitzer Prize

Sailing in Mexico today and checked my email. In it was a message from Sean Singer telling me my good friend, Natasha Trethewey just won the Pulitzer Prize! I almost effing fell overboard! Jacob and I did a little dance, and tonight we will toast her. What fantastic news.

Ciao for now

Rough day. There is nothing quite like clinic to make sure you remember what is important in life. Nothing like it, really. Most of my concerns and "issues" pale quickly when talking to many of my patients. Now home to do laundry, pack, sleep, get up and fly to LA, sail away to the Mexican Riviera. I will not be reachable by cell phone (to those of you who know my cell number). I will not have unlimited internet access/email the way I did in Alaska, so unlikely I will answer any emails. Basically, I am dropping off the face of the planet tonight only to reappaer on a ship with a book in one hand and a drink in the other. I will return, I think. Ciao for now.

Minor Rant

Busy day ahead of me today. I cannot believe that tomorrow we fly to LA and then sail to the Mexican Riviera on Sunday. It always seemed so far away. We booked this to help celebrate my parents' anniversary, and we booked it over a year ago. We haven't even packed yet!


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Yes, I know my poems fall into what some might call the traditional mode as opposed to the experimental or more language-based modes. But that doesn't mean I only read and love traditional verse. Three times in the last week, I have had to listen to fellow poets tell me how surprised they were I liked something. Well, why is that? Why must everything be so effing polarized. It isn't just in Poetry. The whole country seems to be this way. Yes, I love Yeats. But I also love O'Hara. Yes, I read D.H. Lawrence. But I also read Baudrillard and Spivak. I love words, people. I love language. Why effing else would I do this to myself. I don't like binaries. In a binary world, a multiethnic man like me doesn't exist. I have never liked binaries. Don't tell me I shouldn't like Del Ray Cross's work. Don't tell me I shouldn't like Stephanie Young's work. I will like what I damn well please. I would think it fairly obvious that I write the poems I write because they are the best I can do with what I have. Have I written wilder poems in my life? Of course. We all gravitate to what we can do reasonably well. Do I push myself to grow and do more? Of course. But I am not interested in "us vs. them." There is no us vs. them. We are all us, and we are all them. Call me simple-minded, but I am just a doctor who loves poems, loves poetry.


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Anyway, need to be in the O.R. for a procedure shortly.


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Clue: Genius of Love


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Monstrous As Love

Haley, the genius of whore wear, finally got the boot last night. I kind of thought Phil would be going home. Either way, both aren't very good. No idol next week for us. But thankfully, next week is Country Night, which is almost always a terrible show.


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SCHNEIDERMAN


Would you take this name if you loved me,
keep it in your mouth for the answer to “last name?”,
spell it over and over and over again
for every clerk in every hotel, spell it on every form,
every name tag, every credit card application?
What if you knew it wouldn’t fit, that you’d be
“Schneiderm” on the SATs, “Schneiderma”
at school, and “Senidernam” in your yearbook? What if
you were a neurologist, and your patients
could never remember a three syllable name?
What if you consulted a numerologist, and “Schneiderman”
plus your first name added up to “early death”
or “wasting disease?” What if your first name
were “Schneiderman” as part of an odd family tradition
and you would end up as “Schneiderman Schneiderman.”
What if you hadn’t been born yet? What if
the angels in heaven showed you some possible lives
and you had to pick your family before Elijah placed his finger
on your lips and made you forget? Would you
make the same decision, to journey down that birth canal,
to slip headfirst into “Schneiderman,” heavy as Poland,
monstrous as love?


--Jason Schneiderman, from Sublimation Point


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I loved this poem even before I ever heard Jason read it. But when he read, it was even more hilarious. Jason has the quirkiest mind at times. And I love the way he seems both thoughtful and playful at the same time in many of his poems.


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Up until yesterday, I didn't even know this "laurel" existed. I am curious to see how it turns out.


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Clue: Naggage


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Do Not Ask

Not sure how I missed this earlier today when I read the news. But it is an incredible thing, this article published in JAMA. Diabetes takes a tough toll on people, the health care system, our economy. It is time we start seriously thinking about stem cell research. And we need to remember that stem cell research and embryonic stem cell research are not the same things. The irony does not escape me that this article is from a UK publication.


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Artists standing in fields, emerging, are eligible. No fees. Must submit complete applications. No medical facilities-- an amplification of this policy offers barrier free access in all main buildings if you do not have a car. Couple must apply individually. No provisions for partners. Do not send money via Western Union. If you have any questions about the application process, do not ask.


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O small gods of Mylanta!


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Clue: Up to no good


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...Killed The Cat

Have to finish up some editorial work today. Also need to run a bunch of errands so I am not scrambling on Friday night. We fly to LA on Saturday morning and then go on to Mexico. It had seemed really far away for such a long time, but now, it is practically here. Time is such an odd thing.


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American Idol's Latin night was one of the most boring nights they have ever had. J. Lo was an interesting mentor. I am still not sure what the point of this whole mentor thing is except as a way to promote the mentors. Worst performance of the night? Phil, with Haley (whore wear) Sarlato a close second. Who should be in the bottom three tonight? Phil, Haley, and Chris Richardson. Who will be in the bottom three tonight? Phil, Haley, and either Melinda or Lakisha. Yes, tonight will be a shocker. Worst part of last night? Jacob has become a full-blown Fanjaya. How this has happened, I just don't know. But it is horrifying.


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A friend recently asked me how is it I am so serious about Poetry yet this blog never seems serious. Well, simple. This is not really a poetry blog. I am not going to expound on poetics here. Nor am I going to present myself as a poetry critic. I am a poet who blogs. The tagline at the top of this blog spells it out quite clearly. I am not Ron Silliman. I am not any number of quick-witted, smart-minded poet-critics. And I won't subject readers to silly attempts to be that way here. Just like with lit mags, there are tons of blogs out there. I do what I do. Others do what they do.


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Instead of posting a poem here today, I wonder if some of you could just let me know a poem you read lately that knocked your socks off, took the top of your head off, jazzed you, etc. I know, I know, curiosity killed the cat. But I am curious.


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Clue: Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon


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Again, What The...

The folks over at Swiggler never fail to surprise me with their bizarre polls. You may remember some of them I have posted here before. Well, this new one is no less bizarre:

Top Ten Female Celebs Lesbians Would Like to Bed


1. Jodie Foster
2. Angelina Jolie
3. Portia di Rossi
4. Beyonce
5. K.D. Laing
6. Sybil Shepherd
7. Ellen DeGeneres
8. Venus Williams
9. Carmen Electra
10. Jennifer Lopez

(from Swiggler)


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Carmen Electra? Dear God in heaven. I want to know how they do their polls.


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Last Hook

In stressful situations, you learn interesting things about yourself.



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BLACKBERRYING


Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.

Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks--
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.

The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.


--Sylvia Plath


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Still one of my favorite Plath poems. She is such a wildwoman when it comes to diction and to metaphor.


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Jacob is still not fully better, but he appears to be getting better. I am still willing myself healthy.


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Clue: Changed, Transformed--a lie


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We Are All Kept

This brings new meaning to the phrase "kept man." Lord.


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The Guggenheim Foundation named their Fellows for 2007. The poets are:

Christopher Buckley
Greg Delanty
Erica Funkhouser
A. Van Jordan
Dana Levin
Malena Morling
D. Nurkse
Kathleen Peirce
Laurence Raab

A special congrats to my friends Van and Dana! You guys rock.


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Amazing the things people believe about you without even knowing you.


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Clue: Never Again


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That Sin Which I Did Shun

Happy Easter, y'all!


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Well, I must not be as good a Town Crier as I think I am because I missed these good news items:

Craig Teicher has good news so stop by and wish him well.

Kelli won some good money and a really good publication credit! Definitely swing by and give her some love.


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Thank God it is sunny here today. Friday and Saturday were so gloomy, dank, and dismal. I am still willing myself healthy. And I pray Jacob starts to feel better soon.


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A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER


Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallow'd in, a score?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son
Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;
And, having done that, thou hast done;
I fear no more.


--John Donne



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I post the above for the soul of Tony Robinson. He knows why! Boy needs to go to Confession.


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Clue: Rex tremendae majestatis! Qui salvandos, salvas gratis! Salva me.


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Under the Spell of Dopamine

Walcott’s most fluid and achieved work lies in the books from “Sea Grapes” (1976) through “The Arkansas Testament” (1987), where a mature intelligence no longer wrestles with language like an Antaeus, but subdues it by being subdued. “Midsummer” (1984) long seemed to me the exception, a laggard book of hours by an author too often at his desk. Reading the selection here, I realize I missed something.


from The New York Times (registration required)


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John Gallaher broaches the issue of "accessibility."


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I need to look through my emails again, but I got a very interesting Neuroscience article recently that looked at the fact poets and writers use not just the left brain to create but a tiny area in the right brain as well. Not surprising to me was the fact when you overstimulated this area in the right brain, you could demonstrate elements of bipolar disorder. And also, not surprisingly, this area of the right brain also has a part in "magical thinking," seen best when the left brain is suppressed. I know I did not dream this, and I am pretty sure I know who sent me the article, but I cannot find it now. Apparently, that bizarre statement about bipolar disorder and cyclothymia mentioned in my first year med school behavior class, the one about how the highest incidence of both was in poets and writers, has a biologic basis after all. It may in fact be that the very area of the brain that allows us to draw connections and make metaphor is, in fact, also associated with behavior we may not like.


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I have a distinct melody in my head from Brahms' Second that I cannot seem to shake.


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Clue: My little green friend...


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A Different Country

The AP has an article about Frederick Seidel. How odd. Interesting article at times.


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Olena Kalytiak Davis so totally owes me referral fees. After yesterday's post of her poem, 8 people went from this site to Amazon and ordered her book! I want 10% of the royalties on those 8 books, Olena. Do you hear me? Oh, I just realized that that wouldn't be enough to buy a mochachino. Okay, well, scrap it then. Ah, the reality of publishing poetry.


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Jacob is sick. I think I may have been sick earlier in the week but thought it was allergies. Or maybe it was allergies and now I am worried I will get sick. Nothing is worse than a sick doctor! But I am willing myself healthy. We leave for Mexico in a week. I cannot and will not be sick!!


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HOMAGE TO A GOVERNMENT


Next year we are to bring all the soldiers home
For lack of money, and it is all right.
Places they guarded, or kept orderly,
We want the money for ourselves at home
Instead of working. And this is all right.

It's hard to say who wanted it to happen,
But now it's been decided nobody minds.
The places are a long way off, not here,
Which is all right, and from what we hear
The soldiers there only made trouble happen.
Next year we shall be easier in our minds.

Next year we shall be living in a country
That brought its soldiers home for lack of money.
The statues will be standing in the same
Tree-muffled squares, and look nearly the same.
Our children will not know it's a different country.
All we can hope to leave them now is money.


--Philip Larkin, from Collected Poems


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Not sure why I pulled Larkin's High Windows from the shelf this morning. But it is a tiny volume and I started reading. I have a love-hate relationship with Larkin. Difficult to explain really. But I chanced upon this poem of his and read it in a state of true disbelief. Are all foreign conflicts similar at the core? I felt as if this poem had just been written, felt as if it were written about the very conflict happening now, the overwhelming cost of it (in many different ways). I still marvel at the way Larkin repeats words exactly within the schema of the iambic line and still ends up with a natural sounding poem, both in diction and in idiom.


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They are raising the price of first class postage AGAIN! Whatever!


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Clue: "Hello Darkness, my old friend..."


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The Power of Catholic Guilt!

My whole department went out to lunch today. The special, of all things, was a tri-tip sandwich. It looked sooooo good. And the sad part. I could not for the life of me get myself to order it! Every time I thought about biting into that delicious steak sandwich, I then thought about my head bursting into flames, what Sister Perpetua told us would happen if we ate meat on Good Friday. And so, I ate fish and chips. I mean, I am not even Catholic anymore. But I just couldn't order the steak sandwich thing. I wanted it so bad, but I couldn't get myself to order it. I kept imagining the flames roaring out of my ears, my head exploding. The fish and chips were just so ordinary, so not as tasty as that tri-tip sandwich looked. Gag!


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The Memorial Day weekend dilemma continues. And what is up with Seattle and Conventions. Many of the hotels are sold out in late May when I am supposed to be there.


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I got the nicest letter yesterday about the new book. It was all the nicer because it came from a poet I admire but have never met. No, I am not going to tell you who it was. Jeez. I am a private kind of guy sometimes, you know?


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Clue: Ruh-roh Rhaggy


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The Low Voltage of the Moon

I am SOOOOOOOOO glad this is just now happening and didn't happen, say, a couple of years ago. Knowing a certain person's penchant for all things Disney, we would probably have ended up taking advantage of this! The horror. The horror!!


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SIX APOLOGIES, LORD



I Have Loved My Horrible Self, Lord.
I Rose, Lord, and I Rose, Lord, And I,
Dropt. Your Requirements, Lord. 'Spite Your Requirements, Lord,
I Have Loved The Low Voltage Of The Moon, Lord,
Until There Was No Moon Intensity Left, Lord, No Moon Intensity Left
For You, Lord. I Have Loved The Frivolous, The Fleeting, The Frightful
Clouds. Lord, I Have Loved Clouds! Do Not Forgive Me, Do Not
Forgive Me LordandLover, HarborandMaster, GuardianandBread, Do Not.
Hold Me, Lord, O, Hold Me

Accountable, Lord. I Am
Accountable. Lord.

Lord It Over Me,
Lord It Over Me, Lord. Feed Me

Hope, Lord. Feed Me
Hope, Lord, Or Break My Teeth.

Break My Teeth, Sir,

In This My Mouth.


--Olena Kalytiak Davis, from Shattered Sonnets, Love Cards, and Other Off and Back Handed Importunities


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I try not to post poems I have posted here before, but being National Poetry Month and such, I am just posting poems I love here. And I love this poem. So, there you have it.


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Clue: A Cock in a Frock on a Rock


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Happy Birthday, Charlie!

Wish him a Happy Birthday, when you have a chance.

Emptying the Ocean

Was I surprised the Glocker Rocker went bye bye on Idol last night? Nope. Yesterday morning, while chit chatting with my Mom, I suggested she would be going home. Alas, she did. We all know who should have gone home, but America continues its bizarre love affair with Sanjaya.


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HEAD, PERHAPS OF AN ANGEL

limestone, with traces of polychrony, c. 1250

           Point Dume was the point,
he said, but we never came close,
no matter how far we walked the shale
           broken from California.

           Someone's garden
had slipped, hanging itself by a vine
from the cliffs of some new Babylon
           past Malibu.

           Drowning the words,
the wind didn't fling back in our faces,
the Pacific washed up a shell:
           around an alabastron

           of salt water for the dead,
seaweed rustled its papers, drying them out,
until it died.  Waves kept crashing
           into the heart

           of each shell
I held to my ear like a phone,
but they were just the waves of my blood.
           And through it all

           I heard him say,
how could it be nine months ago
his grandson had taken his own life,
           somewhere back east?

           He was fifteen.
O Pacific, what good is our grief?
Something screamed at the sandy child
           who poured seawater

           into a hole.
Child, you'll never empty the ocean,
Augustine said.  How can I believe?
           The wet fist of a wave

           dissolved in sand.
Like a saint, a seagull flapped down the beach
in search of something raw—an angel
           with an empty pail?

           No, a teenage boy,
hands big as a man's, held a sea slug
quaking like an aspic.  Under a rock, another
           drew into its body

           a creature
larger than itself.  Live, said Death,
to child and childless alike, indifferently.
           I am coming.

--Debora Greger


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The fact this poem skitters along the edge of an emotional outburst, the fact it never reaches that outburst (more a mere sigh to the Pacific), is still one of the reasons I love this poem. I have taught this poem in lectures and classes I have done on the Elegy, and people are always surprised by it. Witty, almost charming, it is filled with an awkward kind of grief that is made so palpable by the time the final lines arrive. In this poem, I can find the hallmarks and the signposts of Elegy passed down to us over so many centuries.


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I have taken to making up my own Visa commercials. I will be driving home and will suddenly think one up:

Gas to drive from San Mateo to San Francisco $6.21
Map of the City $5.00
Sitting in a Traffic Jam at the 380 interchange PRICELESS


Yup, I have no idea why, but I find myself doing this all day long, with the priceless things being usually somewhat sarcastic. (Do you think I included enough modifiers for sarcastic there?)


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No, I have not really written a poem this year. Well, I kind of have one, but it is a humorous poem, and I am not sure I am going to keep it. In fact, it is doubtful I will be keeping it. In fact, I am dumping it soon. I might even dump it today.


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Strangely enough, the NPM poll has reappeared. If you haven't already done this, then please do it for me now:

National Poetry Month

By now, we all know that April is National Poetry.

Has National Poetry Month helped Poetry?

Yes, it has increased exposure and sales
Yes, it has increased exposure
Yes, but I am not sure exactly how
No, it has just forced publishers to release most poetry books in March/April
No, it only promotes a certain kind of poetry aesthetic
No, these kinds of "months" never work

View Results

Create your own myspace poll



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Clue: Helium


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Definitely Not Corporate America

American Idol was an utter disaster last night. And what was the worst thing of all? Jacob is turning into a Fanjaya! He was actually looking forward to what Sanjaya would do last night. I thought I was going to have a meltdown. And, as usual, Collin's recap is 100% dead on (minus all of the Fanjaya stuff). I had to die laughing when I read what he wrote about Gina because I thought almost the exact same thing when I was watching the show. If you haven't seen Collin's recap before, you must read it. Even if you don't watch Idol, they are hilarious.


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I forgot to mention that the latest issue of NER is out and about. Yes, I know, it is a little late, but it is still a wonderful issue. Poems this time from Eric Pankey, Chris Forhan, Jericho Brown, Paisley Rekdal, Brian Swann, A. Van Jordan, Elizabeth Haukaas, David Yezzi, and Rosa Alice Branco (translated from the Portuguese by Alexis Levitin). To check out some sample poems, check out:

Jericho Brown's "Prayer of the Backhanded"

and

Chris Forhan's "Hubbub and Ruck"


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Of course, if you want to subscribe to NER, we would be thrilled. We even have a secure order form. And NER makes a fantastic gift for a writer's birthday or other such event. How's that for subtlety? Hahahahahaha.


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Not sure what happened to the NPM poll, but it appears to be gone, deleted. Last night I had just reached a 115 respondents. This morning, all gone. Well, it was pretty clear that a little more than 50% of folks think NPM has helped poetry, even if a large number of those folks aren't sure exactly how it has done that.


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You know who visited me in my dreams again last night. This time, he was dressed in a business suit, all corporate America, but he was carrying a Louis Vuitton briefcase and had these amazing Dolce & Gabana eyeglasses on. And all he said this time was: "You are not Dr. Williams." And he repeated it several times. He never removed his glasses or put down his briefcase. Why a man I have never met shows up in my dreams repeatedly is completely beyond me? I almost am not surprised by him anymore.


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Clue: Grimm Tales


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High Wires and Cornices

Yes, I am aware that I play a kind of Town Crier role for a segment of the blogosphere. It pleases me. On that note, stop by Deb Ager's blog to see her good news and to offer her some congratulatory words.


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Only 60 or so of you took the poll yesterday on National Poetry Month. Considering that is but a fraction of the folks who visit here daily, I am posting it here again and asking you to answer it for me (if you haven't already). It literally takes less than 20 seconds. All you have to do is click on your answer and click "vote." That simple. So, help me out and answer this:

National Poetry Month

By now, we all know that April is National Poetry.

Has National Poetry Month helped Poetry?

Yes, it has increased exposure and sales
Yes, it has increased exposure
Yes, but I am not sure exactly how
No, it has just forced publishers to release most poetry books in March/April
No, it only promotes a certain kind of poetry aesthetic
No, these kinds of "months" never work

View Results

Create your own myspace poll



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It is, once again, Tuesday, which can only mean one of two things: Idol and Collin's recap of Idol. I am so excited I might start crying like that planted girl any minute now!


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PAUL


Up the sea-dark avenue
at two in the morning a shadow
comes shouting oh
you mother-fucker I hate you Paul
echoes of feet and then
I hate you I hate you Paul

the old moon is sinking through
clouds beyond high wires and cornices
the buildings creak
drifting on the tunnelled hour the call
bounces ahead along
the street like a fleeing ball

there after each of the few
cars has passed over its words Paul you
can't get away
I hate you with my feet in the Paul
street like a bell I know
you are there you nowhere Paul

I am coming after you
whatever you do whatever you
think I hate you
across the street into the doors all
the way through the frozen
windows up against the wall

listen to me I hate who
you are nobody else will ever
hate you the way
I do I always hated you Paul
the whole time thinking you
could hold out on me that small

invisible you but to
me listen there was nothing to you
I was onto
you fooling with me your slick tricks all
the while and I hate you
where you are everywhere Paul

I go on hating you through
the roar of the Paul subway the red
lights at the Paul
cross streets out of sight into the Paul
night that cannot be touched
nor brought back by hate at all.


--W.S. Merwin


(because every so often you need the phrase "mother-fucker" in a poem!)


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Now that Battlestar Galactica's season is finished, I have nothing to watch on Monday nights. The TiVo lineup seemed so empty with BG recorded from Sunday night.


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Why do I always feel that I am supposed to go somewhere for Memorial Day and Labor Day? Why? I am already starting to feel that pull to plan something. It must be that people at work are talking about it and it is entering my subconscious.


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I read a few poems by Vallejo last night. I knew I was tired because I couldn't focus. If I cannot focus on Vallejo, I am really tired. I actually went to bed earlier than I normally do. You know I don't sleep much.


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Clue: 4-chambered trap


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Corruption?

Have you answered my NPM poll below? You should. I am curious. You don't have to be a blogger to answer. You don't have to post a comment. Just click your answer for me. I KNOW what I think about NPM, but I am curious to see what others think.


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John Gallaher has a very interesting post on corruption, a selection of an interview with Gerald Stern. Definitely worth reading.


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You just have to love Spring.


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Clue: I can sense some of you!


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Curious What You Think

National Poetry Month

By now, we all know that April is National Poetry.

Has National Poetry Month helped Poetry?

Yes, it has increased exposure and sales
Yes, it has increased exposure
Yes, but I am not sure exactly how
No, it has just forced publishers to release most poetry books in March/April
No, it only promotes a certain kind of poetry aesthetic
No, these kinds of "months" never work

View Results

Create your own myspace poll

That Woman Men Divined

Finished my taxes yesterday. Of course, because I waited, I lost out on the 50% discount for the tax service, which expired 3/30/07, the DAY BEFORE I finished my taxes! So irritating seeing I could have finished them before the cut-off date. And lo and behold, this year, for the first time, I had to pay state taxes in Vermont and North Carolina. It wasn't much to either state, but it just seems weird to pay taxes in a state you don't live seeing you get no benefit from those tax dollars. Who understands the outrageously difficult tax codes. It is why I rely so heavily on tax software to guide me through all the permutations and forms. But sure enough, this was the first year I had to pay state tax in other states. And the worst part? I had to pay another $34.95 for my software to file in NC and another $34.95 to file in VT.


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Verlaine and Rimbaud alive again on the stage. Dear God. One can only imagine the oddities on display in this play.


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"When people come home from work, stare wearily at TV for a few minutes and fall into bed, to argue that they should stop to read a poem seems like an argument for using an outhouse instead of a bathroom. Inconvenient, awkward and slower to get to."


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"It’s clear to me that some poets are more important than others. The world is awash with poets who have no reason to be writing, who make no difference to the world at large or to the world of poetry. I’m not speaking of the outright bad poets, but of the sea of depressingly competent poets of no consequence, though sometimes of undeserved reputation."


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THE REBIRTH OF VENUS


He's knelt to fish her face up from the sidewalk
all morning, and at last some shoppers gather
to see it drawn--wide eyed, and dry as chalk--
whole from the sea of dreams. It's she. None other

than the other one who's copied in the book
he copies from, that woman men divined
ages before a painter let them look
into the eyes their eyes had had in mind.

Love's called him too, today, though she has taught
him in her beauty to love best
the one who first had formed her from a thought.
One square of pavement, like a headstone (lest

anyone mistake where credit lies),
reads BOTTICELLI, but the long-closed dates
suggest, instead, a view of centuries
coming unbracketed, as if the gates

might swing wide to admit, here, in the sun,
one humble man into the pantheon
older and more exalted than her own.
Slow gods of Art, late into the afternoon

let there be light: a few of us drop the wish
into his glinting coinbox like a well,
remembering the forecast. Yet he won't rush
her finish, though it means she'll have no shell

to harbor in; it's clear enough the rain
will swamp her like a tide, and lion-hearted
he'll set off, black umbrella sprung again,
envisioning faces where the streets have parted.


--Mary Jo Salter, from Unfinished Painting


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I appreciate and love this poem by Salter for different reasons as the years pass. I once loved it because of its odd commentary on Art. For a time, I loved it because of the clever way she employs word play. But now, I love it almost entirely for the way it was put together. I hardly know what the poem "says" anymore.


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I am having lunch today with Nicanor Parra. He is so serious. His humor is so dry. It may as well be high tea we are having. But he will crack a few bawdy jokes, and then all will be good.


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Clue: April [really] is the cruelest month...


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