With vine leaves in his hair

I write this entry whilst periodically running into the kitchen to prepare the closest thing to a full meal — and the only non-liquid and non-mashed food — that I have had since Friday. Please excuse any typos, language issues, etcetera, etcetera.

A Most Exciting Thing: my friend R. and I have decided to both read all of cummings’ work, straight through, all the way, badaboom. As you can probably tell by my obsessive poem posting, I’ve been inexplicably drawn to the work of the great initialed one for quite some time. This is a quest to find out why.

A Second Most Exciting Thing: One of my professors from graduate school had some very good news today, about which I can only say, yay for awesome people getting awesome news!

A Third Most Exciting Thing: Grant Application One is DONE! And Grant Application Two is all over but the attachin’. I’ve also found two more grants that I plan to apply for tonight. I write of these because these applications represent a major achievement for me. For a very long time, I have been very afraid of filling out grant applications, and sending poems to The Big Magazines, and so forth — perhaps out of fear of rejection. Now, I’m taking a new track: you never know if you don’t try. So bring on the slips! I fear them not.

Tomorrow is the last day of Hedda Gabler, sadly. I spent much of the afternoon thinking about verb tense in her Act Four “confrontation” with Tessmen over Eilert’s manuscript: Nicholas Rudall translates one line as “I have not got it.” Which seems much more ominous, final, and indicative of Hedda’s mental state than Rolf Fjelde’s translation as “I don’t have it anymore.” Or maybe I’m spending way too much time thinking of verbs and should, instead, spend more time thinking about ponies.

I am definitely thinking about a Fourth Most Exciting Thing, which is that Finishing Line Press has sent me a mock-up of what the book cover will look like — and I am so excited! The photograph is by an absolutely amazing photographer named Bogna Kuvzerawy — everyone should check out her work here! It is breath-taking and inspiring.

And now … THE COVER!

Far and Wee

I am just now barely beginning to emerge from my flu-induced cocoon of suffering (yes, I said Cocoon of Suffering. I did. And I meant it.) and find myself with mid-terms to grade and two grant applications still to finish — yikes! Ah, well. The mid-terms shall be a pleasure, and the grant applications should be finished by the end of the evening.

I have done something important already this evening, which is to make three very-belated purchases. The first is a subscription to Inch, a fantastic magazine of short poems and short fiction edited by none other than the fantastic Mr. Ross White (who has, I certainly hope, already seen the Slowest. Nom. Ever.). It’s rare to see a journal pay such attention to the short poem, which is such an important form. I also purchased two books from Bull City Press, Ellen C. Bush’s Licorice and Michael McFee’s The Smallest Talk. I’ve read a few of Bush’s poems, and think they’re amazing, and am psyched to read McFee’s book after his insightful article in The Writer’s Chronicle (complete with a shout-out to Bull City and Mr. Ross White).

That was a good deal of hyper-linking, and a good deal more energy than I’ve expended in a while. It might be time for a nap. But first: today was such a gray and awful day — I spent most of it reminding myself that Spring is just around the corner. And to further remind myself, and you, of this, what better to do than to post this poem? What better way to fight the gray?

n Just-

spring when the world is mud-

luscious the little

lame balloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come

running from marbles and

piracies and it’s

spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer

old balloonman whistles

far and wee

and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it’s

spring

and

the

goat-footed

balloonMan whistles

far

and

wee

e.e. cummings

“Pure? What does it mean?”

When I shook hands with three people on the same day who had just returned to work from the flu, I knew I was in trouble. However, I didn’t really know just how much trouble I was in until the mercury kept climbing on my thermometer. I’ve spent most of the day grading papers in bed, and sleeping, and waking myself up by talking in my sleep (a very bad habit of mine which gets worse with illness).

In honor of my current temperature, I post this, which might — just might — be my favorite Plath poem:

Fever 103°

Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple

Tongues of dull, fat Cerebus
Who wheezes at the gate. Incapable
Of licking clean

The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin.
The tinder cries.
The indelible smell

Of a snuffed candle!
Love, love, the low smokes roll
From me like Isadora's scarves, I'm in a fright

One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.
Such yellow sullen smokes
Make their own element. They will not rise,

But trundle round the globe
Choking the aged and the meek,
The weak

Hothouse baby in its crib,
The ghastly orchid
Hanging its hanging garden in the air,

Devilish leopard!
Radiation turned it white
And killed it in an hour.

Greasing the bodies of adulterers
Like Hiroshima ash and eating in.
The sin. The sin.

Darling, all night
I have been flickering, off, on, off, on.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.

Three days. Three nights.
Lemon water, chicken
Water, water make me retch.

I am too pure for you or anyone.
Your body
Hurts me as the world hurts God. I am a lantern ----

My head a moon
Of Japanese paper, my gold beaten skin
Infinitely delicate and infinitely expensive.

Does not my heat astound you. And my light.
All by myself I am a huge camellia
Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.

I think I am going up,
I think I may rise ----
The beads of hot metal fly, and I, love, I

Am a pure acetylene
Virgin
Attended by roses,

By kisses, by cherubim,
By whatever these pink things mean.
Not you, nor him.

Not him, nor him
(My selves dissolving, old whore petticoats) ----
To Paradise.

Riding down the road along with the General, in that long black habit, and with feathers in her hat.

Yes, my fellow denizens of the blogosphere, that title can mean only one thing: tomorrow is my favorite, favorite, FAVORITE day of every Spring: the day we begin Hedda Gabler in my World Literature II class.  I remember my first experience teaching Hedda as being a bit shocking, as my students insisted that Hedda was, well, a b-word, and a bit of a coward.  This was something I had never quite considered.  My first time reading the play, at about eleven or twelve (yes, my tween years were filled with admiration of Ibsen and Chekhov characters, which goes quite a while to Explain), I could only think of her as a hero.  Once my students explained, I began to see their point of view: her insistence on decorum, on escape through hearing of the lives — and mangling the lives — of others.  Still, I can’t help but wonder if there’s something a bit heroic in her recklessness, even if I must admit that it’s destructive — or, at least, in her search for an act that has some meaning.

I feel like Hedda most when I am driving.  Sometimes I wonder if all of my stress comes out when I’m behind the wheel.  I’m calm.  I’m fine.  I get into the car.  Suddenly, I’m honking the horn, yelling at stop lights, and hurling unpleasant epithets at the drivers around me.  Thank goodness I don’t have General Gabler’s pistols in the glove compartment.

Been thinking quite a bit of Plath’s “Medusa” lately, a poem which has always seemed to me to be about Living in the Wake.  Living in the Wake is a difficult way to live, but it seems to be the way of all flesh.  And raises, as most good poems raise, the question of whether the past is ever the past.

Methinks that billet doux will be out soon!  I’ll be keeping an eye on dancing girl’s website.  Kristy Bowen posted some teasers, and I cannot wait to see the full book!  I am absolutely thrilled to be a part of this project (that’s my bird in the ribcage right there!).

And some more good news: Prairie Schooner has accepted two of my witch poems.  I was struck speechless when I saw the e-mail, and have been walking around in euphoria since!

I found this evening that someone had found my blog by Googling the following: “Is Emily Dickinson hopeful or hopeless?”  Good question, fair Googler.  A better question: for her, is there a difference?

“What will you say tonight, poor solitary soul?”

(Having just taught Baudelaire on Thursday, I had to give this a title from Fleurs du mal. Though his work is often gruesome and certainly not the kind of thing you want to put in a Valentine’s day card, I’ve always loved Baudelaire, and continue to love him more each time I read/teach him.)

Apologies for the brief blog drought. The semester is spinning into gear, here, with accompanying papers to grade and exams to write, not to mention lesson plans for Wordsworth, Coleridge, and the aforementioned Mr. Baudelaire. My students did a wonderful job with “Kubla Khan,” which can be a difficult sell — I’m very proud of them. Then, there was the Art of Writing program on Friday afternoon. We talked about personification, and the students wrote some beautiful poems personifying abstractions. And, best of all, my fabulous, forever fashionable, and frankly fantastic friend R. came down for a visit. I spent most of the weekend feeling incredibly thankful for her, and for the wonderful group of friends I’ve found here.

I have some good news to share: I’ll be taking part in the Alabama Book Festival in Montgomery on Saturday, April 19th. It promises to be an amazing event — Dan Albergotti, Rick Bragg, Kate Gale, Natasha Trethewey, and Jake Adam York will be there as well — I am beyond excited to see their readings.

Also, my second chapbook, The Mariner’s Wife, is now on sale! You can find it at Finishing Line Press’ website. It ships on May 16th, but, if you order it now, you’ll receive free shipping, and possibly some of my leftover Valentine’s Day candy.

R. and I had a conversation in which she said some brilliant things (as usual!) about verb tenses in poetry, and the potential promise in the oft-maligned be verb. An is is an interesting thing, implying presence, permanence. I’ll be contemplating the be for a while, I think, in the midst of grading and grant applications.

Spandex House

I am worn out after a long day, which included a brief guest-teaching-stint (on The Revenger’s Tragedy, which I had never read, but which is, as it turns out, officially the Foulest and Most Violent Play Ever Written EVER, oh dear goodness).

And the day is still not finished, as I must finalize my plans for The Most Exciting Thing Ever — The Art of Writing Program begins tomorrow!  I’ll be traveling to W.F. Burns Middle School in Valley, Alabama to teach an after-school program with the wonderful, sassy, and super-smart Whitney Reed.  I am absolutely elated to be teaching creative writing again, and beyond excited to be team-teaching with Ms. Reed (as I shall have to become accustomed to calling her).

This evening, I learned that albino frogs can be quite creepy.

Don’t believe me?  Look at this.  Look at this, and tell me it’s not creepy.

See?  Creepy.

I would also like to mention that last night’s Project Runway was perhaps the best episode of all four seasons, if only because they did not go to Mood, but, instead, to … Spandex House.

Inhabited by a Cry

In The Robber Bride, a novel I’ve loved since I first read it at age 14, Margaret Atwood writes, “The end of any history is a lie in which we all agree to conspire.”  I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, as I’ve been sorting through old files and revising my manuscript.  I’ve found a truth I did not expect to find: how these pieces, these poems, these things I had relegated to old dusty days, to a self that no longer exists, have, despite my protestations, an eerie relevance to the facts of my current existence.

It makes one wonder: are we, as poets, as writers, simply in the habit of circling certain themes over and over again, or are we, as human beings, simply in the habit of living certain habits, events, patterns, over and over again?

Plath would, I suppose, say that there is little difference.  Perhaps this is what she meant in “Elm”: “I am terrified by this dark thing / That sleeps in me: / All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.”

Though Plath also wrote, in “The Moon and the Yew Tree,” “I simply cannot see where there is to get to,” and I am not convinced that there isn’t an exit, a chink in the circle through which one can escape.

In other, less brooding news: Scott Baio continues to be my enemy, grant applications require a great deal of busy work, and granola persists in being a tasty treat.

The Death of a Desktop/The End of an Era

Alas! It appears that my dear desktop, which has been my faithful companion for over six years now, is ill and ailing: every other time I try to turn it on, instead of booting up, it only gives me a black screen with a single cursor blinking ominously in the upper-left hand corner. This is not a good sign. Not a good sign at all. In an attempt to avoid disaster, I’ve spent much of the week transferring my files to the external hard drive my parents thankfully, thankfully got me for Christmas. This is, of course, far more complicated than it may seem, especially as I have about a billion more files on my desktop than I actually need (which may explain the hard drive’s suicidal feelings and the ominous blinding cursor). It’s been a week of sorting and thinking: which poems can I let go? Which class plans might I need again? It’s somewhat startling, to realize that a poem which occupied me for months or even years now can be easily relegated to the recycle bin. I’ve always had a tendency to be a bit of a pack rat, and think that might be why: to throw a thing like a poem away seems to be such a huge statement, a letting go of the person you were.  Of course, I’m not sure that I should attach the same kind of meaning to the various bits of ephemera I’ve got stashed around the apartment …

It does make me feel better that I’ve just found out that a sonnet of mine will be appearing in the Crab Orchard Review’s upcoming issue on adolescence.  If there’s one subject I know quite a lot about, it’s an awkward adolescence.  I would post pictures, but I don’t want to give anyone nightmares.