May 07
Baltimore, Bookmaking, Reading, Writing 13 ways of looking at awesome, up and coming baltimore writers 1 Comment
Please come out and support me and my classmates. We’ve all worked really hard this semester, and we can’t wait to share our beautiful new books with you. In addition to getting to hear us read some of our work, we’ll also have our books for sale, so bring some cash or your checkbook.
May 05
Bookmaking, Design, Poetry, Writing 4 Comments
As you are surely aware at this point (because I haven’t stopped talking about it for almost a month), my thesis project required me to write, design, and hand-make a book. It’s been quite a learning process, but I’m mostly done, with 30 copies just waiting to be hauled to the reading this Friday.
I plan on sharing the “making of” the book in a later post, but for now, The Mockingbird’s Song by the numbers:
More photos of the book can be found on my flickr site.
May 02
Personal i'll expect everyone to call me Master now, thinking up an answer to that unavoidable question of what i'm going to do next, yay free time Comments Off
On May 7, 2010, I will present and sell my MFA thesis project, a book of poetry I have written, designed, and handmade, at a public reading.
On May 16, 2010, I will graduate from the University of Baltimore with a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing and Publishing Arts. After three years of honing my writing skills and learning book arts and design, they’re ready to set me free.
Because I hope that you’ll be able to join me as I celebrate this achievement. If you’re local and you’d like to come out for the reading at 7:30 p.m. on Friday, May 7, I’d love to see you there (email me for directions/details).
And while I’m only allowed five guests at the graduation ceremony, we’re having a party at my house afterward. If you can make it, we’d be thrilled. That’ll be Sunday, May 16, at 4:30 p.m. (invitation to follow with location). If you’re from out of town, no worries. Just send some happy thoughts my way. It means so much to me just to know you’re thinking of me on my special day.
Apr 30
Poetry, Reading, Writing 4 Comments
I’m not sure there could be a better way to close out National Poetry Month than with guest blogger Rose Huber of On A Lobster Placemat. She’s my classmate, coworker, and friend, and today she’s going to tell you about Jason Schneiderman. I’m hoping to be back on the blog in a few days with some book updates (i.e. I hope to publicly announce that I am finished, finally, goshdangit.). We’ll see how that goes. But in the meantime, enjoy Rose’s post.
The first time I read Jason Schneiderman, I was sitting in a scratched-up wooden desk in a tiny college classroom in western Pennsylvania. I was taking a poetry class (and [I'm] most definitely a fiction writer) and feeling uneasy. His work was some of the first that opened me up to poetry – a late bloomer – but better late than never.
I had an opportunity to see Schneiderman read in a Pittsburgh warehouse of sorts in 2007. Driving up to the city, my friend Eric and I didn’t really think that the Gist Street Reading Series was actually on Gist Street. It was. We got lost, showed up right before he spoke his first word and somehow managed tight seats in the first row. After the reading, I bought his book, and he signed it: “To Rose: Doctor Who is better than Titanic! Your friend, Jason Schneiderman.”
To this day, I still think we’re friends.
Here is “Sublimation Point” from his book “Sublimation Book,” published in 2004:
Sublimation Point (for M.B.)
The answer is entropy – how smell works -
little bits of everything – always spinning
off from where they were – flying off at random
into the world – which is to say into air.
There are other ways of solid to gas -
they’re substance specific, like iodine,
or dry ice – how I felt when I saw you -
straight to a new state without passing
through expected ones – as though enough
of me left at the moment you appeared that
I could never be whole without you – apply
heat – I turn straight into ether.
Apr 29
Today’s guest blogger is Dave Kiefaber, who I think is especially fantastic because of his collection of punk flyers and his poetry podcast series.
Wallace Stevens was, to judge by appearance, the photographic negative of what people expect a poet to be; a lawyer and insurance executive who looked like Dwight Eisenhower, complete with matching politics (Stevens was a conservative Republican). Throw in several drunken altercations with the likes of Ernest Hemingway and Robert Frost, and Stevens comes off as a bit of a thickie, certainly not someone to whom whimsy came easily.
And that’s where you’d be dead-ass wrong. Stevens wrote some of the goofiest poetry ever. He wrote “13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” which has become the mantra of UB’s writing/publishing program, but my personal favorite of his is “The Emperor of Ice Cream.” Let’s look at the first six lines of it, shall we? Right.
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month’s newspapers.
Note the jaw-breaking consonance he uses to slow the reader down, to build a rhythm. Free verse poetry withers and dies without rhythm, in my opinion, and Stevens was right up there with Walt Whitman in terms of anchoring his work on the page with sound.
“Emperor” examines contemporary mourning rituals and how mundane they are in the face of what they’re supposedly preparing the deceased for; note “last month’s newspapers” and the dresses “as they are used to wear.” Ritual has become routine, which is by nature unthinking and unemotional. In the face of the afterlife, it does all seem rather shallow But there’s a giddiness to this poem that I can’t put my finger on, most likely because I’m not a poet, that keeps it from being a downer or a wooden morality play about how to properly grieve the dead. Maybe it’s the pace that’s eventually set by the diction employed here. Maybe it’s the imagery of ice cream, long celebrated as a confection and associated with youth and innocence and joy and thoughtless consumption. No great political or philosophical points were ever built on a hill of ice cream. It’s soft and sweet, far removed from the finality of death.
Whatever it is, it works for me. I like vivid, unorthodox imagery. I like playfulness and absurdity. I like poems that aren’t total self-gratifying inside jokes between the poet and maybe three other people he/she knows. Wallace Stevens satisfies these things in ways that, honestly, not very many other poets do. That and he punched Ernest Hemingway. In the face. Awesome.
Apr 28
Poetry, Reading, Writing 1 Comment
Today’s guest blogger is Jenny O’Grady, whose poetry I shared with you last week. She’s a professor at the University of Baltimore, where she teaches Literary Publications and Electronic Publishing. For her post, she’s sharing one of Mary Karr’s poetry. And now, without further ado…
I wasn’t a mother when I first read Mary Karr’s “A Blessing From My Sixteen Year’s Son,” but that didn’t matter. I loved how the violent first lines gave birth to the story of her offspring’s growth and all the uncertainties — hers, his — that seem to orbit naturally around teenagers. I loved the last line, spoken plainly by an unassuming cop. I read it over and over again from a dog-eared copy of 2005’s “The Best American Poetry.”
Now that I am a mother, I approach it with even greater awe. I feel a mother’s relief knowing her son has not only survived the car crash, but that he has become a man of backbone, strong of character at a most fragile moment. As a poet, I appreciate Karr’s direct language, her lack of mushiness, her containment of emotion in solid words and actions. She makes it seem so easy — the writing, not the mothering.
Two excerpts from “A Blessing From My Sixteen Year’s Son,” the beginning and the end:
I have this son who assembled inside me
during Hurricane Gloria. In a flash, he appeared,
in a tiny blaze. Outside, pines toppled.
Phone lines snapped and hissed like cobras.
Inside, he was a raw pearl: microscopic, luminous.
Look at the muscled obelisk of him now
pawing through the icebox for more grapes.
* * * *
The cop said the girl in the crimped Chevy
took it hard. He’d found my son
awkwardly holding her in the canted headlights,
where he’d draped his own coat
over her shaking shoulders. My fault,
he’d confessed right off.
Nice kid, said the cop.
* * * *
Read the full poem or hear Mary Karr read it here.
Apr 27
Poetry, Reading, Writing Comments Off
Note: I’m so excited to kick off a week (almost) of guest bloggers. It feels like the best way to round out the month. Today Andy Livingston, a friend of mine, does the honors as he shares the poetry of Lew Welch.
Lew Welch had no luck. Roommates with Gary Snyder and Philip Whalen. Championed by William Carlos Williams, he failed to catch any serious attention.
After a nervous breakdown, he moved to Chicago where he wrote ad copy. He was there in Chicago at the night of the famous poetry reading at the Six Gallery in San Francisco.
Although active in the Beat scene, he missed the first wave but tackled the life of a working poet in San Francisco. On May 23, 1971, he walked out of Gary Snyder’s house in the mountains of California. His body was never found.
The Basic Con
Those who can’t find anything to live for
always invent something to die for
Then they want the rest of us to
die for it, too.
These, and an elite army of thousands,
who do nobody any good at all, but do
great harm to some
have always collected vast sums from all.
Finally, all this machinery
tries to kill us,
because we don’t die for it, too.
Apr 27
Poetry, Reading, Uncategorized, Writing 1 Comment
For my last entry on poets I know, I thought it would be fitting to go back to where poetry begins for me: Susan Swartwout. I know I’m not the only student from Southeast Missouri State University who could say that because Susan has been a mentor to many. She has an amazing ability to look past the awkward, bumbling lines of first-time writers and see the skeleton, the roots, of something beautiful.
I pulled out my old files tonight and looked through my notes and writing from EN275, Intro to Creative Writing, and took some time to remember where I started. While it’s simultaneously slightly embarrassing and a lot amusing to look at how far I’ve come since then, I can see, through my drafts, how Susan helped me shape my writing and I can recognize those lessons she taught me that still echo in my mind every time I write or revise my poetry.
So, tonight, I wanted to share some poetry by my mentor, the woman where it begins.
First, from her book Freaks:
In the dusk of my heart there are
no safe places. Thin-skinned
winged emotions flap their blind
interior paths and sometimes scream
just to let themselves know where
they are. That they are.
~from “Nightfall Brushes Her Hair”
From her book Uncommon Ground, inspired by her time in Honduras:
Citrus trees grip the mountains, birthing
lemons the size of small melons
and limes so shining you want
to rub them over your body.
At the top of the village road,
the orange grove shimmers,
even the leaves look succulent:
cavern-green of Lorca’s dreaming.
Hard nipples of fruit that swell
in sunlight practice their pendulous droop.
~from “Fence” in Uncommon Ground
Note: I’m excited to bring this month of poetry to a close with some awesome guest bloggers, starting tomorrow. First up is Andy Livingston, so keep an eye out for that.
Apr 26
Poetry, Reading, Writing Comments Off
When I was living in Cape Girardeau and going to school at Southeast Missouri State University, I was lucky enough to fall in with a wonderful group of poets. We would meet up every week for a workshop in someone’s living room or at a restaurant that would let us hang out if we bought a plate of fries and some coffee. We put on readings in bars and even an old church and published chapbooks. We called ourselves Prescription Strength Poetry.
Looking back, I know how important that time was for me. I began to find my voice, to take more chances in my writing, and to actually become a writer, thanks to the advice and encouragement those amazing poets offered me. So tonight I’m pulling out the old chapbooks and Balancing on a Bootheel: New Voices in Poetry from Southeast Missouri, a book put out by Southeast Missouri State University Press, and picking out some of my favorite poems. This means that in most cases I can’t link to the full text online, but it doesn’t make the poems any less awesome.
My favorite thing about Doc, aside from his curly hair and aviators, was his quick, bitingly sharp wit. Here, an excerpt from “Thus Spake Millard Fillmore”:
She caught me off-guard
and I never forgave her for it.
I was into her for all the wrong reasons,
and we were both okay with it.
I was attracted to her for the same reason
I’m attracted to Joan Baez and David Bowie,
and I’m not sure that’s healthy.
And when speaking of responsibility,
I quoted Millard Fillmore;
and she asked if he was an obscure poet.
Realizing she was serious,
I just replied, “Yeah, he was.”
Mandy is my best friend in the whole world, and someone I know I can always trust for an honest opinion of my work. Her poetry is elegant and strong. An excerpt from “The Phoenix”:
I know it’s time when my skin
fatiques so thin that I glow red.
Blood surges against barrier,
friction of life against a too-worn body
sparks flame. Arms parallel to the Earth,
head pointed into her, I stand alone
and erupt into fire-hell,
demand respect from a world
bogged in greens and blues
as I suffer all-consuming fire
until I am only ashes.
Ben Marxer
Things I remember about Ben–his hermit crab named the Kraken and that he taught me you should never chintz on your pizza deliver boy’s tip (they know where you live). His poetry can be brutally honest or sarcastic, and it never lets you off the hook. Here’s an excerpt from “The Square Root of Negative One Equals 1″ (you can actually hear him read it here):
I’m fairly certain
that the band Phish
doesn’t exist
I see people wearing the emblems
concert T-shirts proclaiming loudly
that they were there
that they bore witness
However, I have never heard a Phish song
I’m not even sure what kind of music they play
I heard that they toured with The Dead
which serves only to support my point
I’d never trust a doped up Dead head
to cut through the memory haze
far enough to certify whether actually they saw them
or not
Shawn’s poetry has a lucid, accumulative quality that is something I am always striving for in my own work. His poem “Father’s Wood Shop” is a beautiful collection of images, some of the every day, some of the slightly off or broken. An excerpt:
You told me a good carpenter hides his mistakes, like that missing nail
that caused a shaky shelf, the foundation, you contended, was intact
….
I would ask why not measure twice, cut one; you told me this was how
you learned, this was how to work, to frame with human hands
I remember the first time I ever heard Dustin read his poetry. A group of grad students came in to do a reading for my Intro to Creative Writing class. I’ll never forget how energetic and funny Dustin was. He showed me that poetry can run the full gamut, from serious to humorous. Here’s excerpt from “I Am Catfish” (read the rest here):
I recently sent my girlfriend’s dad
a postcard
with a fish on it.
The postcard had
Get hooked on fishing in Missouri
printed on the front.
My girlfriend had seen it and said,
Ha! You should send that to my dad!
So I did.
I didn’t know what to write
on the back, so I put,
I am Catfish. Remember me.
Every time I read Nikkie’s poetry, I think to myself, “this woman knows exactly how I feel.” Her work doesn’t beat around the bushes, doesn’t bother to make sure the reader is comfortable, it just puts it all out there. It’s a quality I admire, as I am prone to shy away from the uncomfortable in my work. An excerpt from her poem “Chunky”:
apparently, I’m not fat.
at least, not to paige,
jc penney salesgirl of the month.
through paige’s eyes,
i’m not “chubby”
or “round”
or “plump”
or “curvy”
or “heavy.”
i’m not even “thick.”
nope. it seems
i am decidedly
“chunky.”
thank you, paige.
No one can perform poetry like Jon Thrower. I’ll never forget his thesis defense where he stomped and yelled and, if memory serves, threw McDonald’s cheeseburgers into the crowd. I can’t read his work without imagining his voice–it’s not fully alive until he reads it. And when he does, it grabs you by the shoulders and shakes you, maybe even slaps your face, and you don’t forget it, not for a long time, if ever. An excerpt from “The Barge Worker’s Common Law Wife, A Letter.” (Read the full poem here. You can also hear him read another poem here).
You biked out from County Road 213
heavy metal t-shirt and small-engine forearms,
catwalked all the way to the creek, you said.
Before any of us left the big wheel,
before the ancient pains crouched
in my thighs and my flower,
before the white cars came and the men
with hubcaps pinned to their hearts.
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