Thank God! The fish tank is intact. In fact, the only thing out of place is a photo in a frame that fell off of a shelf in Jacobs studio. No wine bottles broken in the cellar. All is good.

What Is Possible

We head back to SF in a few hours. I didn't sleep well last night. I saw that there was an earthquake in the Bay Area, and I couldn't stop worrying that the fish tank broke or toppled or something. Also kept worrying something fell and broke or caused a fire. I know this is likely irrational, but the fact that it IS possible makes me worry. Back to work tomorrow and then off to NYC on Friday.


****************************


The Committee meeting I had to Chair went well. Thankfully.


****************************


Had amazing Japanese food last night at Matsuhisa. A-MA-ZING!


****************************


Am grading in between things today. Will be grading at the airport and on the plane. I multitask like that. It is more than a little sick really.


****************************


And I took one of those tests to see which candidate was most aligned with what I want and believe. I was quite shocked because it told me my candidate is Hilary Clinton. I find this odd. Is this test sponsored by the Clinton campaign? Just kidding. Anyway, I just wish I liked any of the Dem candidates a lot. I just am not fired up about any of them.


****************************


Thinking again about the draft of the new book. Haven't looked at it since I left Yaddo. But thinking about it. I am struck by the idea that it isn't right, that it is off somehow. But I cannot look at it yet. That would be a grave error on my part. I know myself. I will destroy it if I start tinkering this soon. But I still have that overwhelming feeling it is all crap.


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Clue: Warm Banana Cake...


****************************

Dreams of Lemon Chiffon

Jacob: I want to check about renting a car for a day.
Concierge: Would you like a Bentley, a Maserati?
Jacob: Um, no, just a compact car for the day.
Concierge: A compact car? (Pause) A compact? That would be a Ford Focus...
Jacob: That's fine. We are just driving to Disneyland.
Concierge: Very well then.

When we go down to the Valet to get the car, out comes a Lemon Chiffon PT Cruiser! The photo above doesn't do it justice. In the sun, the car is more like a lemon cream pie! A PT Cruiser! That is supposed to be a compact car? Reminds me of the time I went to Warren Wilson and rented an economy car and got an SUV.


*****************************


So we drove to Disneyland yesterday morning and spent the day bouncing between Disneyland proper and California Adventure. It wasn't too crowded, except at the new Finding Nemo submarine ride. We had fun wandering around. I had never been to Disneyland, but had been to Disney World. Disneyland is smaller, but it was okay seeing it wasn't that crowded. Had it been crowded, I think it would have been hell. They redid Space Mountain, and it was great!


*****************************


I have a bunch of meetings today. One is the Committee meeting for which I am the Chair. Tomorrow, we fly home to SF. I think we are having Cuban food with a friend tonight for dinner.


*****************************


Jon Anderson passed away.


*****************************


Clue: Pretty Woman


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La La La

Never ever stay at the Westin Bonaventure in Los Angeles. Can we say DISGUST? We were supposed to stay there until Wednesday for a meeting, but after a few hours in our vile 200 sq ft room that looked like the 70's spit up, we decamped and went to a hotel in Westwood. At least now we aren't crawling all over each other!


*****************************


The air here really does smell smokey right now. And LA smog seems thicker than usual. I hope the fires are getting under control. I cannot imagine all the people who have had to evacuate. I remember evacuating our house as kid when Hurricane David was coming. It was very unreal.


*****************************


Clue: Present for the Past


*****************************

Luxe

We are packed, mostly. Tomorrow we are off to LA (aka Hell, esp. with all the fires nearby). I have a medical meeting to attend. Jacob is coming along to be a good sport, and because he knows he can sneak away to the original Disney theme park. Now I am stuffed on Mexican food, and all I want to do is go to bed. Did I mention we will be sneaking away to Sin City sometime between Thanksgiving and New Year's? Well, we are. Why? Because we have been without sin for over 7 months.


****************************


Red Hen Press turns Thirteen. Is there really such a hotel as the Luxe Hotel? I would be afraid of a hotel named that way.


****************************


I think what I thought was a poem recently is actually a painting. By that I mean I have all these images in my head but no words, no phrases, no turning point in language. I had forgotten this feeling. I think I have a painting in me.


****************************


"The International Olympics Committee has decided to award Marion Jones' five returned medals retroactively to Al Gore, pending a steroids test, just in case."



****************************


Okay, I lied. We have been without sin for 23 hours.


****************************


Clue: Virgins, both...


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Judges, Monks, & Meetings

Four Way Books is now selling thier books online with a 32% discount! So, if you were thinking of buying one of their books but didn't want to use Amazon, well now you can get just as good a discount directly.


****************************


Once again, I am stunned by Diane Feinstein. Is she really my senior senator? Is she really a lead Democrat in the Senate?


****************************


Last night, Jacob and I went to hear the Kronos Quartet at the Herbst Theatre. They were playing as part of the SF Jazz Fest. A friend of Jacob's, who is also studying composition from the same person Jacob does, performed with KQ. She sang a Korean song that was pretty wild. The whole night was filled with amazing music. They even did a rendition of a classic Monk piece. I had forgotten just how versatile and challenging KQ can be. They will be at the Herbst again tonight. If you live in the Bay Area and can get a last minute ticket, you should go. You definitely won't regret it. Just google San Francisco Jazz Fest.


****************************


Lots of errands to do today. We head off to Los Angeles tomorrow. I have a meeting for a few days. I am the Chair of Membership for my specialty's national organization, so I have to go. I kind of don't want to go, but I have to... At least Jacob will be with me.


****************************


The Wall Street Journal looks at Simic.


****************************


Clue: YAZ


****************************

Day Off

T-Rob wants to continue the dialogue about education and Poetry.


****************************


Busy grading today. 5 hours down, about an hour or so left to go.


****************************


Well well well. Paul Guest won a Whiting Writers Award. Congratulations, Paul. I kind of assumed that is why you were secretly in NYC. The other poet to win is none other than Cate Marvin.


****************************


I discovered last night, via my publicist, that I am reading for a University that never finalized a reading with me. Bizarre. I haven't heard anything from this school since May!


****************************


Clue: "Down with Fascism, Up with people!"


****************************

Linked Words

You just never know what you will find in the trash! You so know people are going to start dumpster diving like mad in NYC.


****************************


St. Theresa--->Ecstacy--->Moby--->the whale--->kissing--->two women--->club--->beat to the heart beat--->the House beat--->vampire--->pupils--->sensitivity--->erector pilae--->BURNING

This is what keeps looping through my head the past day. No lines yet. No images yet. Just these linked words.


****************************


I like the idea of Zen. Just the idea of it.


****************************


Clue: GOOGLE!


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Webster's Third

I love stories like this. Another one to add to the stereotype that poets are Romantic and incapable of real work. Well, in this case, Romantic is quite true!


****************************


Because two different people have asked me in the last 4 days: The Websters Third New International Dictionary remains my favorite dictionary. Why? Well, it comes in a 3-volume leather bound set that includes a great multi-language translation dictionary at the end and because it was the last moral dictionary Websters did. Moral as in judgmental. As in it tells you if you look up prostitution that this is not a good thing. Hilarious! But I do love Websters Third. And I love the fact I found it at a Friends of the Library sale well over a decade ago for a meager $10 for the three-volume set! It was worth a lot more than that then.


****************************


"She counts the first books she read as The Bible, the dictionary and the telephone book. She first thought she'd be a preacher because she wrote her own edition of the Bible — complete with pictures."


****************************


My favorite phone book is the Yellow Pages in Gainesville, Florida. Just kidding...


****************************


Jacob and I have already re-designed the voting process for the Year-End Caption Contest Showdown. The voting will be easier this time. And we promise mystery judges again, and rounds of voting, and the final showdown challenge. It will be an extravaganza.


****************************


I have gotten a few emails from folks who saw a new poem of mine in The Southern Review. I haven't even received the issue yet. Don't you hate when you publish a poem and then are the last to receive your contributor's copy? I mean, what is up with that?


****************************


Clue: Girlina


****************************

Back From Wine Country

Because it has been raining here off and on for the last few days, the air was crystal clear today. Sunny, clear. The drive up to Sonoma was gorgeous. As we wound our way through Carneros to the Cline Vineyards, I found myself in love with California all over again, not that I had ever fallen out of love with her. And we were in such a good mood, we needed up buying four cases of wine to cellar. Well, knowing us, much of it won't be cellared; we'll end up drinking a lot of it. And on the way home, we decided to call up Ron and Kevin, fire up the grill, and make Chipotle grilled chicken, some sesame ginger shrimp, and a rice pilaf. Pair this with a Muscato Blanc (not the desert wine but the Italian varietal) and we decided we would be making something close to heaven. So, we are busy marinating chicken breasts and shrimp. We are busy chilling wine. And right now, I feel as if I am on a vacation even though I am at home. And this is a good thing. A very good thing. Because tomorrow, my clinic schedule is horrifying...

The Journal

John Lundberg offers his take on why we should read poetry (from The Huffington Post).


****************************


Jacob is in lab, but as soon as he gets home, we are driving up to Sonoma to pick up wine. And of course we will stop at Cline. We got married there!


****************************


A friend wants me to publish my Yaddo journal on-line. Well, I don't think that would be a good thing. Maybe in the future. The journal entries are harsh, incredibly sharp things.


****************************


Why am I always more nervous sending poems to magazines that have published me previously? I never find myself worrying when I send poems to magazines that haven't published me. But the ones who have published me, especially over a long period of time, make me nervous. Not sure why this is.


****************************


Again, the coins. In last night's dream, the coins were gold and shiny and I kept spitting them up. They fell on the kitchen floor and made a jingling noise.


****************************


Clue: Zeus gunpowder


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On a Clear Day

Dumbledore is, um, what? Who knew? (courtesy of Seth)


***************************


I have a lot of reading to do today. A healthy stack of submissions, a book I have been meaning to read now for some time, and a couple of literary journals. After the bearish last few days, I wish I were in Tahoe or Vegas or somewhere. But there is work to be done. And well, that is what I do: work. I am definitely my Father's child.


***************************



Lex Braes: "Fishmouth", 2001, Oil, 74 x 74cm



I google-stalked an artist I met at Yaddo named Lex Braes. I found some amazing paintings. Jesus, I had no idea. I thought he was just this funny guy across the table making jokes at dinner. I mean, his work just floored me. It is funny because after talking to him one morning, I realized I really am not a painter, that I made the right decision, in some ways, to leave it behind, at least in any serious way. He said that if I were really meant to be a painter, I wouldn't have left it. This doesn't sound earth-shattering, but it is. I cannot imagine not writing. I cannot imagine never returning to a poem. Not sure why that is. I mean the last time I stretched canvas and painted was in 1993. I have done some small collage things since then, but the last big canvas painting I did was in 1993. The strange thing is that although I miss it sometimes, I realize it is not essential to me the way poetry is. Kind of weird seeing I started out really believing I wanted to be a painter. In high school, I would have told you I was going to be a great painter, an artist. So funny. I could never have predicted then what I actually became. Doctor? Poet? No, I had no idea. Like I said earlier, the human brain lies.


****************************


Clue: Sponsored by Hellmans


****************************

Victor #22

Jacob has spoken, and the Winner of Caption Contest #22 is Reginald Shepherd for:




"Doesn't anyone in this place realize how much sexier I am than they are?"


****************************


Congratulations Reginald! You win bragging rights and entry into the Year End Caption Contest Blowout...


****************************


Runner-up: Collin Kelley for:

"Daily Model Rate: $10,000

Number of countries visited on photo shoots: 22

Number of famous people you've slept with: 36

Waist size: 29

Eating solid food for the first time in ten years and shitting your pants in public: Priceless"


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Until next time, we at The Muse thank all of you for stopping by and playing!


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The Brain Is Not To Be Trusted

More about Stalin, the young Poet-Thug... (registration may be required)


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Even Darth Vader loves Poetry!


***************************


Andrew Shields provides a take on empiricism after digesting Ange Mlinko's recent omnibus review in POETRY.

Andrew writes:

"Here's another way to put the point: any human brain (or brain of any species, for that matter) that does not produce a relatively precise image of the world around it is less likely to survive and successfully reproduce than a brain with a more precise image of the world around it. So "our sense data" may be "primarily symbols," but there is every reason to believe that those symbols are accurate (at least for those with healthy brains)."

I am not sure I can agree with Andrew. The human brain is far more untrustworthy than people realize! It filters out sometimes as much as 70% of visual data received via the optic pathways. Some posit that it does this to spare us a kind of madness. This is also why when people lose a segment of their vision, the brain can sometimes fill it in and trick the person into thinking the visual field loss went away. The human brain is not to be trusted. The mid brain, the older parts of the brain, are more like our animal brethren. But the human brain can lie. And those lies may well be an evolutionary inheritance. The human desire to live in communities likely plays more of a role in the human race's survival than anything else. Individually, we are woefully weak, and immensely stupid. Like bacteria or slime molds, we have learned that as a group we can capitalize on the different strengths of different people. Precise images of the world are not elemental to survival. Look at all of the studies that show how differently right brained and left brained people see the world. And what about folks like me who use both sides (though left slightly more than right), the ones who are ambidextrous, that never know quite which side of the brain to trust? Well, we write things like this... We are effed up in our need to doubt everything.


****************************


Right on schedule: Whenever I start to feel cocky about poetry, a rejection arrives. Yay!


****************************


Clue: Regulate


****************************

The Machine

Hmmmmm. Somebody is a little crabby today. Anyway, I am of the school that no one, no individual, can destroy poetry. No one has that kind of power. And some could argue poetry was destroyed over a century ago.


****************************


Another emergency patient coming today in clinic. Two yesterday and one today. I am busy, but strangely organized. I am like a machine, a well-oiled machine.


****************************


I did not say I was a well-lubed machine.


****************************


I have been reading a really good essay on Edwin Denby in the current issue of Yale Review. Amazing stuff. And boy did James Schuyler have a potty mouth! The essay quotes him after he and Denby broke up and, well, I was surprised to read what he said... Lots of tidbits in the essay about O'Hara and Ned Rorem and deKooning, etc.


****************************


Clue: Wet


****************************

Starry-Eyed

I mean, how many of these do we need? One for every state, county, city?


****************************


Adam Kirsch reviews Christian Wiman's Ambition and Survival.


****************************


For those who have asked, the first draft of the new manuscript is sitting at home, where it will sit for 6 months before I even look at it again. Why? I need to return to it as an editor and not as a starry-eyed lover. I cannot start editing it until I have some distance.


****************************


Yes, I know the Caption Contest photos are not as, ahem, risque as they used to be, but hey, I am trying to be more for a family audience. You know, like Vegas in the 90's.


****************************


Speaking of Caption Contest, if you haven't entered yet, you should.


****************************


Clue: "Bastard, You killed Kenny!"


****************************

Tiny Rant

Just because I am gay does not mean I am elegant and witty. If you want to come out and say I remind you of a friend of yours who is also gay, just say that! Saying I remind you of your friend who is also elegant and witty can be taken as effing offensive! Code. I could write a book about it.

Caption Contest #22

You knew it was coming. You knew it! Well, it is that time again. As always, the rules are the same. Post captions in the comments box below. Jacob shall select the winning caption. The winner gets bragging rights and may or may not receive a monetary prize (usually a $25 gift certificate). The money is decided before the contest opens. You know, another level of surprise.


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Winners of the Caption Contest this year so far are:

#12 : Justin Evans

#13 : Anne Haines

#14 : ADT

#15: Joseph Massey

#16 : Eddie Dixon

#17 : John Gallaher

#18 : R.J. Gibson

#19 : Simmons Buntin

#20 : Collin Kelley

#21 : Daniel Kaczmarek


So far this year, no one has taken a win twice! This will make for a VERY interesting "End of the Year Caption Contest Showdown," when the various winners of the year battle it out for the grand prize. It can be ugly. Will YOUR name be added to this list? Will you show us how it's done? Give us your captions, and tune in to see the results. Even if you don't enter, the captions usually are entertaining. Photo follows.


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****************************


Let the games begin...


****************************

Back to the Future

Back at work. Clinic and stuff a little crazy. But glad to be back.


***************************


I think you know what is coming soon.


***************************


Dreamt last night about flowers speaking to each other. I could hear them but whenever I walked up to them, they stopped.


***************************


Clue: Quidditch


***************************

Signs and Portents

Made it home in one piece. Left the hotel this morning at 6:50 AM and made it to JFK in fairly good time. Flight was on time. All went smoothly. I almost cried when I got in my house. I missed my space, and I missed a certain composer/biologist, too. Read the new poems on the plane coming back. I don't hate them. This is a good sign.


***************************


Once again, our Governator shoots down the bill. People keep saying that Judges shouldn't do things because then they are activist judges, that if the law is to be changed the legislature should do it. But then when the legislature does it, it gets shot down by a veto. Whatever.


***************************


Ron has a few words to say about the NBA.


***************************


On the flight today, I watched two episodes of The Tudors. They were, surprisingly, not very good. I thought they would be better.


***************************


Kind of excited to go back to work tomorrow. I missed it. Strange thing the ambivalences I feel about so much. But not medicine, not practicing medicine.


***************************


Clue: Aperture


***************************

Waste of Time

Robert Hass's new book is reviewed, pitted against his second book, Praise.


***************************


Yesterday, after getting to Penn station, it took me 40 minutes to get a cab. A lot of the cab drivers are not driving this weekend because of a religious holiday. And then, when I am looking at my hotel, the cab I am in hits a bicyclist. So I am there looking at my hotel but am told by everyone at the scene that I have to stay and make a statement to the police. It was the longest 45 minutes ever. So, even though I arrived at Penn Station a little before 5:00pm, I didn't check in to my hotel until 6:30 pm. I basically only had 15 minutes to shower and change to run out to dinner. A very odd day of travel. I can only imagine tomorrow morning trying to get to JFK to fly back to SF.


****************************


I will be flying back to NYC in a couple weeks, but now I am flying Delta. Why? Because Virgin America cancelled a segment of my flight without putting me on another flight. They told me to try booking my return on another flight, to which I told them to cancel the itinerary altogether. Great service from a new airline? They are all the same. The airlines need to be re-regulated.


****************************


A writer I recently met told me that literary blogs aren't literary. I told her that the ones I like are a mix, to which she responded: "Blogs are a waste of time. The internet is just a waste of time." I then discovered she had a MySpace page! Whatever.


****************************


A Zoo Press Post Mortem. I still don't really understand what happened with Zoo Press. I don't think we will ever know. What started out as being so promising just died, disappeared really.


****************************


Clue: Telescope


****************************

Passage South

I am leaving on a train in a few hours, leaving Saratoga Springs. My time here for the past two weeks is such a mixed one in my head. But I have to keep saying to myself, "You got so much work done." And this is why I came here, so I leave here happy I got what I wanted to do done. But I am still excited to get out of here and head back down to NYC. And I am even more excited about getting on the plane Monday morning and flying back to San Francisco.


***************************


The biggest thing I learned at Yaddo: that I need to simplify my life, need to make more time for myself so that I should not have to sequester myself at a place like Yaddo for two weeks in order to get work done. This is not a new lesson for me, but being here really hammered it home for me.


***************************


Clue: For us, the personal IS the political...


***************************

GO!

I am still trying to decide whether or not I like the new remake of the Bionic Woman television show. I have only seen two episodes, so I am still leaving the door open. I do love the fact the woman who plays Starbuck on Battlestar Galactica is on it as a kind of bad bionic woman gone wrong.


***************************


I found Lyrical Ballads, an amazing used bookstore in Saratoga Springs, while walking around today. I seriously had to exert serious will power. I have no room in my suitcase and they are heavy enough as it is.


***************************


One of the things I did while I was here was to go to the Roosevelt Baths to take a mineral bath. After all Saratoga Springs got its start as place where people came to take the waters. Well, can we say the water was dark brown to the point it bordered on rust! And they draw the bath so that instead of being hot it is tepid. So, imagine me lying in this giant tub where I cannot see my own body in the water, and I feel like ants are crawling on me. Oh, I forgot to mention, the water from the sprigs here is naturally carbonated. I was supposed to lie in it for 30 mins. but after 12, I gave up and got out feeling kind of dirty and gross.


***************************




This music always makes me think of both New York and Gainesville. Yes, a long story. The video is so dated. But that music is classic! Down to the creepy Twin Peaks music looped in the background. Hold Tight!


***************************


Clue: the 35mm world


***************************

Signature

I was kind of hoping for this. So, I was pretty happy when I read the news. The Nobel Peace Prize went to Al Gore and the UN Climate Panel.


***************************


Today is my last day at Yaddo. I have little planned besides packing up my stuff and heading into town to spend the night at a hotel. Will leave from the hotel in the morning and take the train back down to NYC. I got a lot out of my time here, more than I expected actually. But colonies aren't for everyone. Despite getting a lot of work down and being grateful for it, I don't think I am a colony person. I met people here who have been to countless colonies. People kept expressing surprise that not only was this my first trip to Yaddo, but that it was my first trip to ANY colony.


***************************


Unlike Eduardo, I was never attacked by a bat. Bats are afraid of me...


***************************


Robert Hass has a poem in his new book that I believe is titled "State of the Planet," slightly mocking "State of the Union" address. I am fascinated by it. Usually, despite believing in environmental causes, I usually despise poems about such things. And this is a long poem, about a lot of problems, and it weaves here and there, and it seems "thoughtful" and I dare say brave.


***************************


People are always offering advice on how your poems should grow or change, but I have come to the following conclusion. No one can offer such advice. I mean a teacher can help you tighten your poems or do more interesting things, but I am talking about friends and colleagues who say things like "Your poems need to be a little more edgy" or "Make it sexier." Well, we write the way we do, about the things we do, because of certain proclivities. Can we challenge ourselves? Sure. But people telling us to be someone else is stupid. The poems can change, but maybe not for the better. I mean, can you imagine if someone said that what your poems need are some more runs of dactyls? Some clever reversal of expectation in a phrase? It ends up meaning nothing. The establishment and then evolution of a style takes a long time. It cannot be rushed. It cannot be coaxed but it also cannot be thwarted. Some used to call it "voice." But it is our own signature, our style. "Friends" would do well enough to respect that and move on.


**************************


There is a statue on the terrace of West House at Yaddo. It is of a woman who, for some reason, is showing her right breast. I mean the gown she is wearing just happens to fall down exposing her right breast. And her face looks pained. And over the years, her fingers have been broken off, so she looks like a cross between a goddess and the mutant, Wolverine, the spikes sticking out instead of fingers. I have named her Becky. I am not sure why. But it has stuck, and now even some of the other residents at Yaddo are referring to the statue as Becky. Too funny.


**************************


Clue: Ignatz


**************************

Yay! Lights Are Back On...

It exists! There is another... I was not crazy. They fit together. They fit. 8 years of writing, and they fit. I have the first draft. I am drinking champagne tonight!


******************************


I did what I came here to do, so lights back on. This blog is no longer dark.


******************************


Clue: Plath


******************************

FROM SEPTEMBER 4, 2005 (with Yaddo Update)

My time at Yaddo is coming to an end shortly. But I have been productive here. Sometime today, I think I will have the first draft of my next book, something to work on (work out) for the next few years. And I have drafted and finished 12 new poems while here! Tomorrow is my last full day here. I take the train back to NYC on Saturday.


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From September 4, 2005:


The Mind's Time


Because San Francisco is buried in fog at this time of year, you must go out to the beach to see the sun set in that band of clear sky out by the horizon. And when the orange disk of sun drops quickly into the ocean, there is roughly half an hour where the light still emanates from the horizon despite there being no visible sun. And when this happens, the breakers take on a ghostly white under the darkening sky, darker even because of the fog. And in that time everything shifts and becomes doubtful: the trees become shimmering dark things void of green leaves, the streets become murky before the streetlamps light, the salt air begins to tinge with the sweet rancid smell of fish, the odor more prominent without even the slightest sunlight to oxidize and ionize it, the seagulls and pelicans morphing from birds into inky shadows reeling across the sidewalks.

Despite seeing this change countless times, I am always caught dumb during this time. The Mind's Time, I call it, when the visible world becomes more interpretable than normal, becomes more tenuous. Yesterday, Jacob and I were down by the ocean when this time came. The wind had picked up. The air became much more chilly. And those shadows sailing across the sidewalk were both beautiful and ominous. And I was thankful. Yes, I was thankful. And I wondered about what it means to be safe. And I wondered if any of us are ever safe. And I heard the rustling sound of the wind in the trees in Golden Gate Park. And for a minute, it sounded like rain.

National Book Award Finalists Announced

From the Press Release of the National Book Foundation


POETRY

Linda Gregerson, Magnetic North (Houghton Mifflin Company)

Magnetic North is a bold collection that explores the intersections of history, science, and art.

Linda Gregerson is the author of Waterborne, The Woman Who Died in Her Sleep, and Fire in the Conservatory. A recent Guggenheim Fellow, she teaches Renaissance literature and creative writing at the University of Michigan. Among her many awards and honors are an American Academy of Arts and Letters Award in Literature, two Pushcart Prizes, and a Kingsley Tufts Award. She lives in Michigan.


Robert Hass, Time and Materials (Ecco/HarperCollins)

These poems are grounded in the beauty and energy of the physical world, and in the bafflement of the present moment in American culture.

Robert Hass was born in San Francisco and lives in Berkeley, California, where he teaches at the University of California. He served as Poet Laureate of the United States from 1995 to 1997 and was a National Book Award Finalist in 1996 (for Sun Under Wood). A MacArthur Fellow and a two-time winner of the National Book Critics Circle Award, he has published poems, literary essays, and translations.


David Kirby, The House on Boulevard St. (Louisiana State University Press)

Long-lined and often laugh-out-loud funny, these poems encompass many things, including the heated restlessness of youth, the mixed blessings of self-imposed exile, and the settled pleasures of home.

The Robert O. Lawton Distinguished Professor of English at Florida State University, David Kirby is the author of numerous books, including the poetry collections The Ha-Ha and The House of Blue Light. He is a recipient of the Brittingham Prize in Poetry and a Guggenheim Fellowship, among other honors. He lives in Tallahassee, Florida.


Stanley Plumly, Old Heart (W.W. Norton & Company)

Plumly’s tenth collection of poems confronts and celebrates mortality—in the detailed natural world, in the immediacy of the loss of friends, and in personal encounters.

Stanley Plumly won the Delmore Schwartz Award and was recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, among other honors. He is currently writing a meditation on John Keats and lives in Maryland where he teaches at the University of Maryland, College Park.


Ellen Bryant Voigt, Messenger: New and Selected Poems 1976-2006 (W.W. Norton & Company)

This collection arranges poems from the author’s six highly praised books alongside a group of astonishing new pieces.

Ellen Bryant Voigt is the author of six collections of poetry and The Flexible Lyric, a collection of craft essays. Her poems, which have appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic, The New Republic, The Nation, and many literary journals, were selected for a Pushcart Prize and Best American Poetry in 1993. She was also a National Book Award Finalist in 2002. Voigt has received grants from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Guggenheim Foundation, and the Lila Wallace-Reader's Digest Fund. She teaches in the low-residency MFA Program for writers at Warren Wilson College. She lives in Marshfield, Vermont, and is currently Vermont State Poet.

FROM JANUARY 5, 2005

Hump Day, or the Life of a Cyclothymic


I love Wednesdays and I hate Wednesdays. Wednesday is my usual day off from Medicine, but it is also the day on which I try to read books, read poems for NER, think about my own poems, etc. Usually, I run out of time and I don't really end up thinking about my own poems much less attempting to write them. I know some friends of mine will be surprised to hear this; I simply don't write many poems. I average about 4 or 5 a year. In 2004, I had 6, which made me feel as if I had been super productive. But now, with little of 2005 gone, I have already thrown away one of those poems, so 2004 rings in at 5.

Anyway, I am in a poor state of mind today. I know most writers are cyclothymic (never fully manic, never fully depressed, but cycling between the two nonetheless). Sad, but the only time I ever heard of writers as a profession was in my Med School introduction to psychiatry class; the prof. pointed out that 80% or more of writers--specifically writers, not artists--had cyclothymia. At first I thought this was a bunch of crap. But as time passes, I am more and more aware of this cycle between low-level mania (never fully manic) and low-level depression (never fully depressed). To be honest, I thought this was normal until that class. Then, when I started talking to other med students, I discovered that none of them encountered this cycle at all, at least not in a repetitive, predictable, cyclical way. I mean I always knew I wasn't "normal," but the realization in that psych class was a bit overwhelming.

But, back to Hump Day... I am supposed to be reading poems for the magazine today, but I cannot. I know, in this state of mind, it would be a bad idea to do so. Over the years, I have learned to recognize this time. And I know it wouldn't be fair to be evaluating anything today. I will just have to put in extra hard work this coming weekend. By then, the "lows" will be passing and I will be heading back toward the middle. I tried, last night to get as much reading done before this set in. All day yesterday, I felt it coming. At 1:00 AM this morning, I gave up and just put the poems aside to be re-read again later. Somehow, I feel at fault. I am damned good at focusing in order to see patients, in order to do their procedures, their treatment plans, etc. But I seem to be incapable of focusing for anything else in my life when this time comes. I know if I were at the hospital today, no one would even sense there was anything different with me. But I guess my joke I am not a doctor but someone who plays one on TV is kind of accurate. Somehow, when I am at the hospital, the role of doctor supersedes all else. And I guess that is a good thing. No one wants to be freaked out having been diagnosed with cancer to then find some freaked out doctor. You would want someone with confidence, someone to help you, to help cure you. I am amazed more and more about how powerful the "role" of doctor is. It is so powerful that at times it seems to overtake me, and at times like this, that is a very good thing.

FROM NOVEMBER 11, 2006

Ready to Be Shamed


Click click click, that is all one can hear in this house today. Click click click click clickety clickk clickkk. Jacob is in his studio on his computer writing a piece for solo cello and orchestra. I have listened to the first 40 or so seconds of it. It is dark, soulful, and tinged occasionally with a Byzantine, almost middle-eastern sound, an ornament left floating about that dark and mournful cello and bass background. Even the bassoon and contra-bassoon sing that dark song with the bass and cello. And over here, in my studio, I have been proofing the final galleys of book. I am now done. Wouldn't you know I found a mistake I should have caught from the first pass! And this error is my own fault. I could have screamed. Other than that, the script is clean, very clean. And I have been busy revising stuff as well. Now, to grade and read submissions.

In Jacob's studio, the clicking is slow at times, furiously fast at others. He doesn't realize but he is humming things at times. When I sneak down the hallway and peek into his studio, I see music all over his desk. He is writing stuff on paper and on the computer screen. He is completely engrossed. I now think I understand why he says I look a little scary when I am deep inside a draft. There is nothing between him and the music right now. Nothing. Nothing else exists. And this makes me happier than I can explain here. It reminds me why we make art, why we put ourselves in such a space of vulnerability. It is this moment, this moment of being inside of it, that we crave. It is like a drug. It is being absorbed in the moment of creation, the moment where we can all be gods. And those gods must be Greek, immortal and powerful, but filled with flaws, ready to be shamed once what they have done is found out by the world at large.


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Still running lines of John Clare's around in my head. And I keep imagining Clare and O'Hara as lovers. No, not physical lovers, but the kind of friends where the friendship moves to the next level, to a level usually reserved for those who have shared their bodies and lives with each other. In this case, their minds and their work. Clare and O'Hara would have been amazing lovers. Each would have benefited the other. Each would have drawn the other out of their familiarities. I know this is crazy talk, but I cannot help it.


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I hope to God the resort we are staying at in Vegas for Thanksgiving has $5 craps tables! I am in need of craps play!!


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Who is our Contemporary Master of writing again and again about not having anything to write about? There is most definitely a poet who can wear that distinction on his sleeve. This isn't a slight. The poems are gorgeous.


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Found these lines this morning in an old notebook:


Should I look him in the eye? Should I
bury my head in the pillow and pretend,
in sleep, that nothing has happened?

Is it the pond out beyond the dirty balcony
or the ripples of his own abdomen
that he prefers?


Gag! Double Gag! No wonder this draft died. What the hell was I thinking? And yet? And yet? I still hear something there. So there must be a reason I saved these lines. But they need tempering. They need another story. They need another life, another speaker. They need too much. I was tempted to throw them away, but I can't. In times like these in the past, I held on to such lines. Years and years later, the poem found them. And this may be exactly what I need to do. Hold them. For God's sake, I have been unintentionally holding them for 6 years.

Ah, intent. Isn't that the ultimate in revisionist history?


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Clue: Foolish consistency is the Hobgoblin of little minds....


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FROM MARCH 25, 2006

This is actually kind of funny, considering where I am and the work I have been doing:

Five Point Leather Restraints


Last night we heard the San Francisco Symphony perform an evening of Shostokovitch. Rostropovich conducted. The Piano Concerto No. 1 was performed well, but I found myself drifting in and out of the concert. And then, they performed his fifth Symphony, which boomed and bellowed, then swooned and lulled, then boomed all over again. In the slower more plaintive moments, I found myself hearing Mahler. I kept hearing moments in Mahler's Fifth. I have no idea why I should be hearing Mahler while listening to Shostokovitch. When I said something to Jacob, he rolled his eyes and said something about how I always hear Mahler. Alas, he may be right.


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Picking up the champagne today. Getting beaten up (shiatsu) this afternoon. Heading out of town with Jacob for the night because we need to escape.


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Still thinking about Ashbery and Zbigniew Herbert. Still thinking about the appearances of accessibility. I am doomed.


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Last night, at dinner, I saw a guy enter the restaurant with one of the worst fake bakes I have ever seen. I mean he was practically orange! For God's sake, people, this is San Francisco. Why the hell are you fake baking. No one would possibly believe it is a real tan. Hello? It isn't sunny enough here for that. This isn't LA. And if you must fake bake, watch your freakin hair line so there isn't a tell-tale icky whiteness there to betray your bad decision to fake bake. If I could have handed out a fashion citation right there, I would have.


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I was trolling through old letters of mine recently and found this rather funny one. Well, it is funny to me. It was written on 30 September 1997, while I was an Intern in Virginia. I am not sure why it cracked me up, but it did. It literally brought back that day and time period in great detail. I was always so anxious then. I was always tired, too. Here is the letter written to a more senior poet friend/mentor:


30 September 1997


Dear S---,

There is just a hint of fall arriving here on the Virginia Peninsula: a few leaves here and there yellowing or turning pale orange. Of course this excites R--- and me after so many years in Gainesville where fall meant the leaves fell from the trees over two days of cold weather and turned brown!

I am on-call at the hospital. Things have just quieted down a bit now that 3:00AM has passed. I would try to sleep, but I know the minute I fall asleep there will be a code or something. So, I am waiting until 4:00AM before lying down. At least the chance of me getting a good hour of sleep is better then.

Medicine continues to have its ups and downs, but isn’t as bad as I expected. Believe me, it is bad, but it is just not nearly as bad as I imagined it would be. I have already become accustomed to the 100+ hours of work each week. I would never say an intern’s life is great, but I am surviving. Highlight of the month: a drunk, sixteen-year-old boy attacked me in the E.R. and I had to yell, “Restrain him!” at which six nurses came running in and restrained him in five point leather restraints. When they asked if I wanted anything else (meaning chemical restraints) I replied, “A job that pays me more to be punched in the face by a teenager.”

Yes, I sat down and figured out my hourly wage, and R--- almost cried when he saw the figure. S---, I make $3.27/hr., less than I made working part-time stocking shelves at a drug store when I was sixteen! To quote R---, “We have got to apply for NEA grants. It might be the only way we can afford groceries.”

I am sure you are now drowning in submissions as well. Ah September. I am continually amazed at how many poems some are able to produce. I am immensely jealous at times. I now only draft about 7 poems per year, and then I keep maybe 5 or 6. With each year, the number seems to go down a little. My days of putting down 10 or 12 poems in a year are gone. But there is little I can do about that. I was asked by L--- to submit an application to Yaddo. She all but assured my acceptance. But can you see me at Yaddo? By the time I was comfortable enough to write anything, the time there would be up! And I doubt the hospital would give me a month off to go hang out in Saratoga Springs.

I hope all is well with you. By now you must be an absolute pro at the commute between NYC and CT. I am busy trying to finish up the Winter issue of NER, the one that will feature the 20+ page title poem of Debora Greger’s next collection. I look forward to hearing from you shortly.

Yours, as always,

C. Dale


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FROM FEBRUARY 9, 2006

The Dragon


Okay, the tuxedos are out of the way. So, I guess the programs are one of the only things left. Let me never have to get married again. When I got married the last time, back in 1993, I was so poor we couldn't afford much. The good thing about that was there was little for us to do. But I want this time around to be special. And I think it will be.


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Has anyone seen a copy of A Public Space yet? Has the debut issue come out? I am curious to see it. I think Brigid Hughes will do a great job.


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THE DRAGON


The bees came out of the junipers, two small swarms
The size of melons; and golden, too like melons,
They hung next to each other, at the height of a deer’s breast
Above the wet black compost. And because
The light was very bright it was hard to see them,
And harder still to see what hung between them.
A snake hung between them. The bees held up a snake,
Lifting each side of his narrow neck, just below
The pointed head, and in this way, very slowly
They carried the snake through the garden,
The snake’s long body hanging down, its tail dragging
The ground, as if the creature were a criminal
Being escorted to execution or a child king
To the throne. I kept thinking the snake
Might be a hose, held by two ghostly hands,
But the snake was a snake, his body green as the grass
His tail divided, his skin oiled, the way the male member
Is oiled by the female’s juices, the greenness overbright,
The bees gold, the winged serpent moving silently
Through the air. There was something deadly in it,
Or already dead. Something beyond the report
Of beauty. I laid my face against my arm, and there
It stayed for the length of time it takes two swarms
Of bees to carry a snake through a wide garden,
Past a sleeping swan, past the dead roses nailed
To the wall, past the small pond. And when
I looked up the bees and the snake were gone,
But the garden smelled of broken fruit, and across
the grass a shadow lay for which there was no source,
A narrow plinth dividing the garden, and the air
Was like the air after a fire, or before a storm,
Ungodly still, but full of shapes turning.


--Brigit Pegeen Kelly


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Yeah, now THAT is a poem! I LOVE that poem. I still remember coming home from the hospital to find a stack of submissions to NER had just arrived. I remember seeing the envelope and being shocked (Brigit doesn't write a lot and doesn't submit much). I tore that envelope open immediately. I didn't even sit down. When I read this poem, I was stunned into silence. It went on to appear in BAP and in her latest collection, The Orchard. Brigit's work isn't for everyone, but I love its strangeness, its dark pastoral, its ability to instill doubt by making the most incredible things seem almost plausible.


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Breaking the Silence, Temporarily

Had to break the silence to report this!

I have decided to start up a literary journal, The Futility Review. It will displace The Atlantic Monthly and New Yorker on my difficulty rankings with the only score of 10. This is because it will be perfectly difficult: we will reject everyone. I will start by placing ads in Poets & Writers and APR, and a listing in Poet's Market. We will be looking for "your best work" and even if you send it, it will be rejected. Our solicitation strategy will be to send gracious letters of encouragement to fresh up-and-coming talent, and then tell them that what they have sent us wasn't up to the standards of their first book. From there we will move to established poets, rejecting them out of hand when their solicited work arrives. We will shoot down Hicok, Armantrout, Swensen, Pinsky. This will continue until we have rejected Glück, Graham, Walcott, and Heaney. We will take out even larger ads announcing our poetry prize and first book award. There will be no entry fee. The poetry prize winners will receive $5,000 and a featured place in our first issue. The book award winners will receive $25,000 and a stipend to travel to Colorado to read at The Tattered Cover. Like Auden's famed Yale Youngers, no one will win, not even Ashbery.


And so, here it is: The Futility Review OMG! That is effing hilarious!


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Okay, back to the monastic life of Yaddo...


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FROM MARCH 28, 2005 (with Yaddo tidbit)

Flattery, It's the New Honesty


A friend of mine sent me this a few years ago. It is funny in a new age kind of way (with more than a touch of irony to it). Of course, it would be nice if your computer did this all the time, wouldn't it? Click on this link and fill in your first name only. Then be prepared for something wonderful!


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Yaddo is going well, much better than I could have expected. Thank you to you kind souls (you know who you are) who have sent me emails and postcards and letters. Gracias.


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Clue: Pit Bull!


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FROM APRIL 29, 2006

What follows is the most read post I have ever made. I had written it up prior to the wedding because we used it is a template for rehearsal and stuff. On the big day, I just cut, paste, and posted. But it was kind of amazing how many people came to read this and, in a way, share in our day. No post of mine has ever had as much readership as this one. Not even close. April 29, 2006 will remain one of the happiest days of my entire life. I felt as if I were going to burst from happiness. And that day went by so quickly. It was as if it all happened in the blink of an eye.

The Ceremony



I promised several who could not be at the wedding that I would post the ceremony. It is below, except for our pre-vow statements.


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The Wedding Ceremony for Jacob Joseph Bertrand & Clarence Dale Anthony William Young


Processional:


Order:

1. Andrea Johnson (turns left and sits first row far left)

2. Jennifer Grotz (turns right and sits first row far right)

3. Emily Lutgen (turns left and etc.)

4. Rick Barot (turns right etc.)

5. Zachary Bertrand (stands before Michael Collier on left)

6. Geri Doran (stands before Michael Collier on right)

7. Jacob Bertrand escorted by Ralph and Diane Bertrand to foot of aisle. Ralph and Diane Bertrand proceed down aisle and turn left sitting in 3rd and 4th seat from center. Leave second seat from center for Zachary Bertrand.

8. C. Dale Young escorted by Clarence and Ruby Young to foot of aisle. Clarence and Ruby proceed down the aisle and turn right sitting in the 3rd and 4th seat from the center. Leave second seat from center for Geri Doran.

9. Jacob and C. Dale proceed down the aisle and stand before Michael Collier between their respective Best Persons.


Welcome:

Given by Michael Collier.

“Friends, we have gathered here today to share with Jacob and C. Dale a very important moment in their lives. In the years they have been together, their love and understanding of each other has grown and matured, and now they have decided to live out their lives together as beloved partners. This is a commitment not to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly – but reverently, discreetly, advisedly and solemnly. Into this holy estate these two persons present now come to be joined. If any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together – let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”

“Who stands now to support Jacob in his lifelong commitment to this man?”

Zachary Bertrand responds: “I do.”

“Who stands now to support C. Dale in his lifelong commitment to this man?”

Geri Doran responds: “I do.”

Zachary and Jacob sit on left in 2nd and 1st seats from aisle. Geri and C. Dale sit on right in 2nd and 1st seats from the aisle.

Readings:

Michael Collier: Let us now hear the readings to celebrate the joining of this couple.

Michael can then sit in chair reserved for him.

First Reading: Andrea Johnson proceeds to mike.

“First Reading

A Reading from The Book of ECCLESIASTES

Two are better than one, because they have
a good return for their toil. For if they fall,
one will lift up his fellow; but woe to him
who is alone when he falls and has not another
to lift him up. Again, if two lie together,
they are warm; but how can one be warm alone?
And though a man might prevail against one who is alone,
two will withstand him.”

Andrea returns to seat.


Poem: Rick Barot proceeds to mike.

“Having a Coke With You” by Frank O’Hara

Rick returns to his seat.


Second Reading: Jennifer Grotz proceeds to mike.

“Second Reading

A Reading from the First Letter of Paul to the CORINTHIANS

Love is patient and kind; love is not jealous or boastful; it is not
arrogant or rude.

Love does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it
does not rejoice at wrong, but rejoices in the right.

Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures
all things.

Love never ends.”

Jennifer returns to seat.

Poem: Emily Lutgen proceeds to mike.

“Sonnet XVII” by Pablo Neruda.

Emily returns to seat.

Michael returns to center position and takes mike. Reads Wedding Homily and then “Tree Marriage” by William Meredith.

Vows:

Michael asks Jacob and C. Dale to step forward.

Jacob: makes pre-vow statement.

C. Dale make pre-vow statement.

Michael asks Zachary and Geri to step forward (they should have the rings) to support the vows to be taken.

Michael: Do you, Jacob, in the presence of God, your family and friends, take Clarence Dale Anthony William, to be your beloved, your constant friend, your faithful partner in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, in joy as well as in sorrow from this day forward for as long as you both shall live?

Jacob: I do.

Michael: Do you, C. Dale, in the presence of God, your family and friends, take Jacob Joseph, to be your beloved, your constant friend, your faithful partner in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, in joy as well as in sorrow from this day forward for as long as you both shall live?

C. Dale: I do.

Michael: May we have the rings, the eternal symbols of the love and commitment between these two men?

Zach and Geri hand Jacob and C. Dale the rings. They then place them on each other’s fingers.

Michael: I now present to you all, Jacob and C. Dale. You may now kiss each other.

Kiss.

Recessional:

1. Jacob and C. Dale
2. Zach and Geri
3. Ralph Bertrand and Ruby Young
4. Diane Bertrand and Clarence Young
5. Emily Lutgen and Rick Barot
6. Andrea Johnson and Jennifer Grotz
7. Michael Collier

Move to Deck for Champagne Toast and appetizers.


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After the ceremoy, we had a reception there at the vineyards, a sit down dinner. And then later that night, we threw an after party back at the hotel. Greatest day of my life.


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FROM DECEMBER 24, 2005

This has to be one of my favorite posts ever. I realize hardly anyone else will love it the way I do. But, hey, humor me this once. Of course I will ask you to humor me again, but let us pretend I am only asking this once.

Happy Christmas to the One I Love


Well, after a morning of pure hell, I drove my car down to the MUNI stop, took MUNI downtown, walked to where I had to pick up Jacob's Christmas present, got him to leave the house (Dear God, I thought he wouldn't leave) brought it home, went back to pick up my car, got a digital camera, came home and set up the clues, etc. I locked him in the bedroom and then told him he could come out when I called him on his cell phone. When I called, I sent him to his studio where a card told him to go to the living room. In the living room, there was a big envelope and in it was a catalogue for this, his Christmas present. Then he said "Oh my God! Oh my God!!!" I then told him to open the living room blinds, and this is what he saw:










He just about had a stroke!

FROM DECEMBER 6, 2005

Snippets


Artichoke Heart started this, I think, and I have been fascinated by the ones I have seen around. So, here goes:

Ten Years Ago:

I am a third year medical student. I have been married for two years, and the ridiculous hours of third year begin to bother my then husband. I am almost never home, and when I am I am either tired or studying or both. I go to the hospital at 5AM and leave late at night. Sometimes, I stay overnight "on call." I HATE call. I become more and more unhappy because I almost never write poems. I have yet to see how the various parts of my life fit together. I am always tired, always freaked out studying. I am the perfect model of developing bitterness. During that year, I get 11 poems accepted for publication. I should be happy, but hate everything unless it can help me survive med school. I begin the disappearing process: disappearing from everyday life, disappearing from my husband, disappearing from my family. Inside I am a pit of rage because I don't know how to take back my life.

Five Years Ago:

I am the Chief Resident in Radiation Oncology at the University of California at San Francisco. My first book is in production. I am in better control of my life, but still flailing. My then husband leaves me early in the year. I am devastated, but it causes me to reevaluate my life (or lack of one). I almost quit Medicine but am talked into staying in residency by my Program Director who will not accept my resignation. I lose 27lbs. I am so poor I can only buy groceries once per month. I don't make enough to pay my rent on my own and must beg my parents for money. They call me to tell me they believe in me over and over almost daily. But I do not believe in me. I feel like a total disaster out of control. At the end of the year, I go to a party because friends insist on it. I meet a young man named Jacob. I worry, within weeks of dating him, that he will discover me to be a total fraud, a worthless person. I am a wreck.

One Year Ago:

I have been in practice for a couple of years. The Ex is finally completely out of my life. Jacob is still with me, which surprises me to no end. I have become comfortable in my own skin. I seem to know now that it is okay to want and do different things with one's life. Jacob understands this. He doesn't feel left out because I am stretched thin doing things. In fact, he supports me no matter what I do. My second book is supposed to be in production with Zoo Press, but nothing is moving forward. At the end of the year, after 4+ years of dating, I ask Jacob to marry me. He says yes.

Yesterday:

Got up at 5AM. Made it to the hospital by 7:00 AM. Saw 2 new consults, set up two new patients for radiation, saw 6 follow ups. Did some work on the new medical practice. Moved some stuff into the new house with Jacob last night. I am still a little ball of stress at times, but I am incredibly happy inside. I feel, at times, like the luckiest SOB on the planet.

FROM JANUARY 25, 2005

The One


In conversations with many different poets, I have noticed, on many occasions, that many poets can trace back and name the poem that first took hold of them, excited them beyond anything they could remember before, the poem that elicited almost a conversion reaction. Of course, there are some who just slowly fell into poetry, but I am always fascinated by "the one" poem. And no, I don't love the Lord of the Rings Trilogy and such things. But "the one" poem fascinates me.

I can tell you exactly when and where I encountered "the one." I was a Junior in high school, and we all took English Literature in that year. Somewhere, near the end of the year, we were assigned to read some of Yeats' poems. I can still remember the experience. There was "Lapis Lazuli" and "Sailing to Byzantium," but then there was "The Second Coming." I read it and was completely shocked. I think I read it 10 or 12 times in a row. I had never read a poem like it. I was completely bowled over. When I went to class the next day and the teacher (Kathy Doody, yes, that really was her name) asked for a volunteer to read it, I threw my hand up so fast I thought I would dislocate my shoulder. And then, when I read it out loud, I was even more shocked. It mesmerized the room. The sound of it. It was something as close to heaven as I could imagine. At the time, I never imagined I would ever be a poet, but I think, deep inside, I wanted to make something like that poem. I wanted to make my own poem like it. Even years after first encountering "The Second Coming," I would occasionally sneak a peak at it and marvel at it. I wanted to know how it worked. What made it tick? Who was this man named Yeats? How does one make something that can live and affect other people?

Years later, in college, when I dropped out of painting, I decided to take a poetry workshop. I think I believed a single workshop would open a secret door to making poems. It didn't. But it started me down a path that now, in retrospect, seems utterly inevitable. I need to write poems. I need to engage with language and image and all the intricacies that underly poetry. I may never write a poem like "The Second Coming," but god damn it, I will keep trying.

Another nice thing about that poem? When I first started dating Jacob, before I knew he had read any poetry at all, we were walking across downtown on our way to dinner. A hawk's shadow slipped across the street and I said: "Turning and turning in the widening gyre..." Jacob, without even a 5-second pause, responded: "The falcon cannot hear the falconer." I looked at him with what had to be shock on my face. And then, in sync, we both said: "Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world...." I knew, right then and there, he was "the one."

In your past, do you have a poem like "The Second Coming" lurking? For you, what was "The One"?

FROM JUNE 11, 2005

ON BEETHOVEN'S NINTH

What is it about certain works that simply enthrall you from the inside out? I hear the word genius bandied about a lot for Beethoven's Ninth, but I have no way to quantify that. I simply don't know enough about music or have the vocabulary to discuss the way say Jacob or Rebecca Loudon do. What I can say is that even though I closed my eyes a few times last night, I never fell asleep, never left my station for another world known as dream or silence. I think I was more impressed with last night's performance than the one I heard in Boston so many years ago. Maybe it is because I am older? Because I have lived and experienced so much since then? I don't know. What I do know is that I "felt" Beethoven's symphony, felt it inside of me. The second movement actually seemed a challenge of sorts, made my mind race with so many possibilities it almost hurt. And the final movement, despite all of its gloria and the voices lifting everything in the room, saddened me immensely. All I could think about is how we as human beings are so base, so terrible. Despite the finale being a testament to man and his/her relationship to the divine, what I heard was something so hopeful it only pointed to our complete lack of desire to become better. Of course, this is likely all in my mind. But I felt great sadness after that performance, felt as if we as a people had failed miserably. But maybe Beethoven's music understands that. Maybe he, himself, understood our lives are about failure and that to live means to take one's failures in one's arms and nurture them, forgive them, accept them. Clearly, I am overly contemplative right now.

For every person I have helped cure themselves of cancer, there are many who have succumbed to it. I was struck yesterday, while seeing a new patient, how much of the consult is simply me listening to and absorbing their fears and grief. In that moment, so many patients seem to feel as if a part of them has died by receiving the diagnosis of cancer. I have little to say other than how we will treat it, what our hopes are for the outcomes, details about scheduling etc. But people hear little of this. In fact, most patients hear about 30% of what we talk about. This is why I am always so grateful when a friend or family member comes with them. What is the transaction between patient and oncologist? I still don't know. In follow-up visits, we seem to have a relationship, something tangible at play. There is joy and there is sadness at times, but the new patient? What do we share in that hour to 90 minutes?

I have been asked many times if I share my sexual orientation with my patients, my love of poetry, etc. Well, I think this is why I don't. At least I don't with new patients or patients receiving treatment. It is, in essence, irrelevant. In that situation, I am irrelevant. No amount of discussion of me and my goals is even remotely helpful to them. It is, essentially, all about them. And I believe that is the way it should be. One of my follow-up patients yesterday, saw my engagement ring and said, "Oh, that's new!" I laughed. And then this big burly guy said, "It is good find happiness with another person." I was struck by the fact he said another person and not a woman. I said little and he then said: "How long have you been with him?" When I looked surprised he said, "Sorry if I am making assumptions." I tried to laugh but he knew I was uncomfortable. He went on to say: "My sister is the one who was convinced you are gay. I guess I was wrong. Sorry." It was then I said, "No, your sister is right. We have been together five years." He then looked pleased as punch and said, "I am glad you have someone. Life is hard enough. It is harder when you deny yourself love because others don't approve." I was so shocked at this statement from him that all I could say was that I would be seeing him again in 6 months.

Yes, I am contemplative today. Yes, my little mind is in overdrive. What the vast populace of America still doesn't get is that being gay isn't about sex. This man, this burly trucker of a man, got it. It is about love. I can have sex with women. I did for many years before realizing (or better yet, admitting to myself) that I was gay. The key here though is not sex. I can have sex with the same woman for all eternity, but I simply cannot feel love for her. I don't know why my brain is wired that way. It just is. With all this ridiculous political storm around same-sex marriage, people have overlooked this one fact. It isn't about sex. It is about love. And although I know some will say it can be unlearned or relearned, I don't believe that is true. Lord knows, I tried for years to unlearn, to be "normal." It is only in the past 5 years that I see something I didn't see for all my life before. I AM normal. Virtually everything I worry about, feel joy about, feel sadness about, are things straight people feel the same ways about. I am far more like my father and brother because of our common background than I am to other gay men. And this makes sense to me. Being gay doesn't make you and other gay men suddenly similar. It has never been about sex. But I fear for the foreseeable future, it will be spun this way. We will continue arguing over the morality of sex. Beethoven is right. Our goal is unity, is respect for each other, is love. My sadness arises because we still live in a world where love cannot be held up as something beautiful and necessary, but as a moral act. I will stop now knowing full well most of this post makes no sense.