Day 311 of the "What are you reading, and why?" project, and, while I will no doubt learn what some other people are reading when I get to work today, I am posting early to share with you the frigate bird, an image sent by faithful reader Kim, related to yesterday's "no frigate like a book" Emily Dickinson-bookmark* and Marilynne Robinson-book-of-essays post.
The male of the species puffs itself up to mate.
Almost enough said.
However, you know me, so I will say a little bit more. The frigatebird (one word in Wikipedia) is also sometimes known as the Man of War bird, which also relates to Robinson's observations and hopes that we will cease the relentless making of war machinery, and Pirate bird. No more pillaging of the earth, please.
And, while I thought I would continue my Marilynne Robinson trend by reading Home, I am instead reading The Secret of Lost Things, by Sheridan Hay, that Christmas gift from Sarah. Already I am in the bookstore, The Arcade, where the main character has just been hired, meeting the eccentric employees, and watching the owner price books and write the price in pencil lightly on the first page in his own distinctive handwriting.
The writer has lived in Australia and New York and worked in bookstores!
*Bookmark given to a high-school English teacher last night! (Along with a listening ear, so she could vent a bit about the lack of reading going on in today's classrooms. And I told her about Figment, for literary teens, which might also inspire non-literary teens a bit, eh?!)
And Happy Birthday, Jane Austen!!
Showing posts with label Emily Dickinson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Emily Dickinson. Show all posts
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
No Frigate Like a Book
Day 310 of the "What are you reading, and why?" project, and I return today to The Death of Adam, by Marilynne Robinson, because I finally finished this amazing book of essays by a wonderful historian and novelist, and because of the marvelous mention of Emily Dickinson on page 211. This comes in the essay titled "Marguerite of Navarre, Part II, " which is really mostly about Marguerite, while the essay "Marguerite of Navarre" (understood to be part I) was mostly about Jean Cauvin, whom she sheltered and nurtured.
In addition to revealing Robinson as an excellent historian and compassionate moralist, this book reveals her as a feminist and environmentalist. I remember that when I started this book, I kept wondering why The Barbaric Heart, by Curtis White, wasn't full of references and citations to Marilynne Robinson. Her book was first published in 1998, and his in 2009, a full decade later. I still don't know why!
Her last essay "Wilderness" heralds a book like his: "I think we are desperately in need of a new, chastened, self-distrusting* vision of the world, an austere vision that can postpone the outdoor pleasures of cherishing exotica, and the first-world pleasures of assuming we exist to teach reasonableness to the less fortunate, and the debilitating pleasures of imagining that our own impulses are reliably good." She points out that our own impulses quite often foist nuclear waste onto the wildernesses of Utah, Idaho, and the Lake District in England, so beloved of the Romantic poets. In fact, she has a whole book, Mother Country, about environmental pollution in Britain, evidently so ignored or so unpopular as to be out of print....
People want pictures of koalas. They want to "Save the Whales" on bumper stickers. They don't want the cold hard truth.
"I am bold enough to suggest [that], to this point, environmental successes quite exactly resemble failure. What have we done for the whale, if we lose the sea? If we lose the sea, how do we mend the atmosphere?" And so on.
*And Curtis White, in The Barbaric Heart, criticizes the environmental movement itself for falling short of the real change, which must come in the heart.
"Every environmental problem is a human problem," says Robinson. "Civilization is the ecology being lost. We can do nothing that matters if we cannot encourage its rehabilitation." She wants us to civilize ourselves enough not to keep up with the current money-based industrial and military practices that require the relentless dumping of dangerous garbage into our seas and wildernesses, even to "surrender the idea of wilderness," especially of wilderness "as an escape from civilization," and instead become civilized enough not to destroy it and each other.
But what about Marguerite and Emily?! Marguerite gathered scholars and writers together and promoted French as a literary language and advanced civilization in the time she lived, and herself wrote poems and stories that today read as modern but were neglected in her own time and "read as lady's poetry and therefore as all she asked of herself, or the best she could do. Emily Dickinson comes to mind." And the dismissing of her innovations in language and punctuation.
"There is no frigate like a book," wrote Emily Dickinson. When I first heard that phrase, I did not know a frigate was a sailing vessel, often light and swift, that could carry me away to far-off places, like a book, and sometimes a war vessel, that could "arm" me with knowledge. But I had heard the phrase "frig it," one "f" word substituting for another in a frustrated curse, so I thought I was hearing something I shouldn't have heard when someone, my dad, I think, first quoted that line in my hearing.
But I have sailed backward into history, and forward into the inevitable deterioration of the environment if we do not veer off our present course, via The Death of Adam, by Marilynne Robinson. And still I look around at our present world, as she does, with childlike wonder and hope and ripples and waves of compassion.
In addition to revealing Robinson as an excellent historian and compassionate moralist, this book reveals her as a feminist and environmentalist. I remember that when I started this book, I kept wondering why The Barbaric Heart, by Curtis White, wasn't full of references and citations to Marilynne Robinson. Her book was first published in 1998, and his in 2009, a full decade later. I still don't know why!
Her last essay "Wilderness" heralds a book like his: "I think we are desperately in need of a new, chastened, self-distrusting* vision of the world, an austere vision that can postpone the outdoor pleasures of cherishing exotica, and the first-world pleasures of assuming we exist to teach reasonableness to the less fortunate, and the debilitating pleasures of imagining that our own impulses are reliably good." She points out that our own impulses quite often foist nuclear waste onto the wildernesses of Utah, Idaho, and the Lake District in England, so beloved of the Romantic poets. In fact, she has a whole book, Mother Country, about environmental pollution in Britain, evidently so ignored or so unpopular as to be out of print....
People want pictures of koalas. They want to "Save the Whales" on bumper stickers. They don't want the cold hard truth.
"I am bold enough to suggest [that], to this point, environmental successes quite exactly resemble failure. What have we done for the whale, if we lose the sea? If we lose the sea, how do we mend the atmosphere?" And so on.
*And Curtis White, in The Barbaric Heart, criticizes the environmental movement itself for falling short of the real change, which must come in the heart.
"Every environmental problem is a human problem," says Robinson. "Civilization is the ecology being lost. We can do nothing that matters if we cannot encourage its rehabilitation." She wants us to civilize ourselves enough not to keep up with the current money-based industrial and military practices that require the relentless dumping of dangerous garbage into our seas and wildernesses, even to "surrender the idea of wilderness," especially of wilderness "as an escape from civilization," and instead become civilized enough not to destroy it and each other.
But what about Marguerite and Emily?! Marguerite gathered scholars and writers together and promoted French as a literary language and advanced civilization in the time she lived, and herself wrote poems and stories that today read as modern but were neglected in her own time and "read as lady's poetry and therefore as all she asked of herself, or the best she could do. Emily Dickinson comes to mind." And the dismissing of her innovations in language and punctuation.
"There is no frigate like a book," wrote Emily Dickinson. When I first heard that phrase, I did not know a frigate was a sailing vessel, often light and swift, that could carry me away to far-off places, like a book, and sometimes a war vessel, that could "arm" me with knowledge. But I had heard the phrase "frig it," one "f" word substituting for another in a frustrated curse, so I thought I was hearing something I shouldn't have heard when someone, my dad, I think, first quoted that line in my hearing.
But I have sailed backward into history, and forward into the inevitable deterioration of the environment if we do not veer off our present course, via The Death of Adam, by Marilynne Robinson. And still I look around at our present world, as she does, with childlike wonder and hope and ripples and waves of compassion.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Resisting Temptation
Day 308 of the "What are you reading, and why?" project, and, while New York Times reviewer Dwight Garner has been reading Humorists: From Hogarth to Noel Coward, by Paul Johnson, I have been resisting the temptation to buy all the "new" (fine-looking used) books by Christopher Moore that have come in at Babbitt's recently, 3 paperbacks and a hardcover.
I am a sucker for humor and one of them is even titled You Suck. Yes, it's about vampires. I resisted the temptation to buy this for my niece, a vampire connoisseur. I thought it might be too risqué, but she is familiar with risqué vampires, too, so it might have been OK.
I did not resist the temptation last Christmas to give my parents a humor book: In a Word--words by Margaret Ernst, and drawings by James Thurber--because it was too perfect. She is a retired English teacher who loves words, and James Thurber is one of my dad's favorite humorists. They have Columbus, Ohio in common, among other things. Thurber, in fact, is one of the funny guys in Humorists, along with Laurel and Hardy, the Marx Brothers, G. K. Chesterton, and....Nancy Mitford?
And I did not resist a skinny funny book on the history of toilets for some lucky kid in my acquaintance (who does not read this blog).
What helps me resist temptation is a basic lack of cash. Hence, today's bookmark reminder, and the fact that some of my gifts this year are indeed Emily Dickinson collage bookmarks.
This one is made with a giant 500 bill folded over a piece of cardboard, with butterflies on front and back. My son scanned both sides and then put the images together to recreate the whole bill and make the butterfly wings touch! Isn't that cool?
The Emily Dickinson lines are these: "Each life converges to some centre." The cut up phrases that make this line do converge on the center, McKinley's head. "A narrow fellow in the grass" hides along the narrow margin. (My son loves how the color of the money matches the color of the printed poetry page.)
Above the butterfly on the other side: "I measure every grief I meet." And below: "Heaven is what I cannot reach!" At the utter bottom: "It dropped so low in my regard."
I find that rather funny.
I am a sucker for humor and one of them is even titled You Suck. Yes, it's about vampires. I resisted the temptation to buy this for my niece, a vampire connoisseur. I thought it might be too risqué, but she is familiar with risqué vampires, too, so it might have been OK.
I did not resist the temptation last Christmas to give my parents a humor book: In a Word--words by Margaret Ernst, and drawings by James Thurber--because it was too perfect. She is a retired English teacher who loves words, and James Thurber is one of my dad's favorite humorists. They have Columbus, Ohio in common, among other things. Thurber, in fact, is one of the funny guys in Humorists, along with Laurel and Hardy, the Marx Brothers, G. K. Chesterton, and....Nancy Mitford?
And I did not resist a skinny funny book on the history of toilets for some lucky kid in my acquaintance (who does not read this blog).
What helps me resist temptation is a basic lack of cash. Hence, today's bookmark reminder, and the fact that some of my gifts this year are indeed Emily Dickinson collage bookmarks.
This one is made with a giant 500 bill folded over a piece of cardboard, with butterflies on front and back. My son scanned both sides and then put the images together to recreate the whole bill and make the butterfly wings touch! Isn't that cool?
The Emily Dickinson lines are these: "Each life converges to some centre." The cut up phrases that make this line do converge on the center, McKinley's head. "A narrow fellow in the grass" hides along the narrow margin. (My son loves how the color of the money matches the color of the printed poetry page.)
Above the butterfly on the other side: "I measure every grief I meet." And below: "Heaven is what I cannot reach!" At the utter bottom: "It dropped so low in my regard."
I find that rather funny.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
We Play at Paste
Day 307 of the "What are you reading, and why?" project, and Cody, delightfully, is soon to be reading a stack of musical comedies in hardcover first editions! I don't know why, but I do know that he and his two friends braved the blizzardy weather and dropping-to-zero temps to obtain these playscripts at Babbitt's, as one of the day's three customers!
The stack included The Fantasticks, by Tom Jones and Harvey Schmidt, based on Les Romanesques, by Edmond Rostand, also famous for Cyrano de Bergerac; Mame, by Jerome Lawrence and Robert Edwin Lee, with music by Jerry Herman, based on the play Auntie Mame, by Patrick Dennis; Applause, by Betty Comden and Adolph Green, lyrics by Lee Adams, music by Charles Strouse, and based on the movie All About Eve (which I had completely forgotten!); and The Sound of Music, the famous Rodgers and Hammerstein musical with a book by Howard Lindsay and Russel Crouse, and based on the actual Trapp Family Singers and the memoir by Maria von Trapp.
And, also braving the weather, three of us met for the Sunday afternoon poetry workshop. We met not in the rare book room, our usual haunt, but across the street at the Coffeehouse, so we could have hot liquids. Alas, any time the back door opened, we got hit by the cold draft.
Poetry is the occasion for today's images, two of my collage bookmarks, with first lines by Emily Dickinson: "We play at paste," "Victory comes late," "The nearest dream recedes, unrealized," and "We outgrow love like other things."
I did not take pictures of the ones I gave to by book group, but my son, home now from college, scanned these for me and gave them pale gray backgrounds, and saved them as images I can use in my blog!!
Yay for technologically savvy children! Who help their mommies.
The stack included The Fantasticks, by Tom Jones and Harvey Schmidt, based on Les Romanesques, by Edmond Rostand, also famous for Cyrano de Bergerac; Mame, by Jerome Lawrence and Robert Edwin Lee, with music by Jerry Herman, based on the play Auntie Mame, by Patrick Dennis; Applause, by Betty Comden and Adolph Green, lyrics by Lee Adams, music by Charles Strouse, and based on the movie All About Eve (which I had completely forgotten!); and The Sound of Music, the famous Rodgers and Hammerstein musical with a book by Howard Lindsay and Russel Crouse, and based on the actual Trapp Family Singers and the memoir by Maria von Trapp.
And, also braving the weather, three of us met for the Sunday afternoon poetry workshop. We met not in the rare book room, our usual haunt, but across the street at the Coffeehouse, so we could have hot liquids. Alas, any time the back door opened, we got hit by the cold draft.
Poetry is the occasion for today's images, two of my collage bookmarks, with first lines by Emily Dickinson: "We play at paste," "Victory comes late," "The nearest dream recedes, unrealized," and "We outgrow love like other things."
I did not take pictures of the ones I gave to by book group, but my son, home now from college, scanned these for me and gave them pale gray backgrounds, and saved them as images I can use in my blog!!
Yay for technologically savvy children! Who help their mommies.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Echoing Emily
Day 305 of the "What are you reading, and why? project, and today is Emily Dickinson's birthday and also Human Rights Day, so Sarah and I, and Babbitt's Books, are celebrating this in the store blog by offering up our books by or about Eleanor Roosevelt, who led an international committee in drafting the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and Emily Dickinson, who wrote a jillion poems and sewed them up in little packets and stored them in a chest in her closet.
I celebrated in advance by making some collage bookmarks, each with the first line of an Emily Dickinson poem glued somewhere into the collage.
Dave is celebrating in his blog today (Via Negativa in the blogroll) by airing some podcasts of various people reading poems by Emily Dickinson. If I can master my technology challenge, or get someone to help me, I will send along a recording, too! Here, by the way, is his Woodrat Podcast for Thanksgiving, as I am thankful for Human Rights Day! (Which I will celebrate by writing some letters for Amnesty International.)
I suggested to Dave that he contact Kelli Russell Agodon, who wrote the book Letters from the Emily Dickinson Room, for a recording, and I am further celebrating by returning to my reading of that book. (I read around in it when it first arrived so I wouldn't just race through, and then last night I gorged on it. I must have been really hungry for poetry after reading Loving Frank. I promise I will re-read more slowly and carefully, and chew each bite 35 times, Amanda Wingfield...and Helen Stevenson. OK, enough of that.) Anyhoo....
I am delighted that the Emily Dickinson Room is a real place not just in Amherst, at Emily's family home, called the Homestead, but in Oregon, in the Sylvia Beach Hotel!
Kelli's poems are also delightful--clever, wise, funny, and oh, my God, the anagram poems are amazing! Here is a snippet from "Xanax Prescription Goes Unfulfilled."
Let me trust my emotions
because even in my nuttiest rooms,
I find safety in words. I satisfy wonder,
to alphabetize is to baptize and heal.
And then, utterly resisting "Dr. Xanax," she insists:
Let me get through this
without you.
Let me
echo poems
as with that
as with that
comes hope.
These poems treat the huge subjects of poetry--God, love, death--as did Emily's, and echo and allude to other great artists. She explores the letter form, as the book's title promises, in such poems as "Letter to Vincent Van Gogh, Who Loved Silence" and "Letter to Walt Whitman, Who Painted Butterflies." And, as I love coincidence, I just have to mention that some of my bookmark collages included cardboard butterflies, which feature in Kelli's Whitman poem, that starts off with this newsy epigraph: In 1942, Whitman's handmade cardboard butterfly disappeared from the Library of Congress. It was found in a New York attic in 1995.
Of course, Emily Dickinson loved butterflies, too!
And, of course, my cardboard butterflies came from a Kleenex box.
I celebrated in advance by making some collage bookmarks, each with the first line of an Emily Dickinson poem glued somewhere into the collage.
Dave is celebrating in his blog today (Via Negativa in the blogroll) by airing some podcasts of various people reading poems by Emily Dickinson. If I can master my technology challenge, or get someone to help me, I will send along a recording, too! Here, by the way, is his Woodrat Podcast for Thanksgiving, as I am thankful for Human Rights Day! (Which I will celebrate by writing some letters for Amnesty International.)
I suggested to Dave that he contact Kelli Russell Agodon, who wrote the book Letters from the Emily Dickinson Room, for a recording, and I am further celebrating by returning to my reading of that book. (I read around in it when it first arrived so I wouldn't just race through, and then last night I gorged on it. I must have been really hungry for poetry after reading Loving Frank. I promise I will re-read more slowly and carefully, and chew each bite 35 times, Amanda Wingfield...and Helen Stevenson. OK, enough of that.) Anyhoo....
I am delighted that the Emily Dickinson Room is a real place not just in Amherst, at Emily's family home, called the Homestead, but in Oregon, in the Sylvia Beach Hotel!
Kelli's poems are also delightful--clever, wise, funny, and oh, my God, the anagram poems are amazing! Here is a snippet from "Xanax Prescription Goes Unfulfilled."
Let me trust my emotions
because even in my nuttiest rooms,
I find safety in words. I satisfy wonder,
to alphabetize is to baptize and heal.
And then, utterly resisting "Dr. Xanax," she insists:
Let me get through this
without you.
Let me
echo poems
as with that
as with that
comes hope.
These poems treat the huge subjects of poetry--God, love, death--as did Emily's, and echo and allude to other great artists. She explores the letter form, as the book's title promises, in such poems as "Letter to Vincent Van Gogh, Who Loved Silence" and "Letter to Walt Whitman, Who Painted Butterflies." And, as I love coincidence, I just have to mention that some of my bookmark collages included cardboard butterflies, which feature in Kelli's Whitman poem, that starts off with this newsy epigraph: In 1942, Whitman's handmade cardboard butterfly disappeared from the Library of Congress. It was found in a New York attic in 1995.
Of course, Emily Dickinson loved butterflies, too!
And, of course, my cardboard butterflies came from a Kleenex box.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Dressed All in White
Day 265...and it's Halloween! As I write, I realize I will soon be interrupted by the teenie weenie Halloweeners, er, trick-or-treaters, who start while it is still light out. I have some Dum-Dums for them. Usually I have Beer Nuts, but Kiwanis has switched from a peanut day in fall to a flower day in spring, so I don't have any leftover spring flowers or Beer Nuts to hand out at Halloween.
Now some of us might be scared of our own pasts, but Connie has been reading The 13th Hour by Richard Doestsch, and says she doesn't have too many regrets. It did make her ponder some of the choices she's made, wondering how things might have turned out differently. I send you to her blog entry, If I knew then what I know now, so you can see more about what she thinks. You'll see that she's now reading The Lost Symbol, by Dan Brown, and pondering that, too.
Looks like The 13th Hour is a thriller with time travel, so a fun way to ponder the past. Watch out that you don't kill anyone, though.
Here's another wonderful blog entry about books, by Mark Kerstetter, of The Bricoleur. He shows us ten favorites, covers and all, and a bit about the editions and why he loves them. I looked for the John Ashbery book with the Joseph Cornell cover at work today, but alas.... We had other Emily Dickinsons, but not the one he pictures. I have my pink paperback Final Harvest, of which I am very fond.
But, as Mark warns, and in honor of Halloween, we should be scared of editions that present the poems not as Emily wrote them!! Instead, hacked, maimed, and disguised by editors who chose to conventionalize her.
And it's always fun to see what Seana is reading or discovering over at Not New for Long! (Currently A Corpse in the Koryo, by James Church.)
I just remembered I have an Emily Dickinson dress in my closet, from past performances of The Belle of Amherst. I could go as Emily Dickinson for Halloween!!
Now some of us might be scared of our own pasts, but Connie has been reading The 13th Hour by Richard Doestsch, and says she doesn't have too many regrets. It did make her ponder some of the choices she's made, wondering how things might have turned out differently. I send you to her blog entry, If I knew then what I know now, so you can see more about what she thinks. You'll see that she's now reading The Lost Symbol, by Dan Brown, and pondering that, too.
Looks like The 13th Hour is a thriller with time travel, so a fun way to ponder the past. Watch out that you don't kill anyone, though.
Here's another wonderful blog entry about books, by Mark Kerstetter, of The Bricoleur. He shows us ten favorites, covers and all, and a bit about the editions and why he loves them. I looked for the John Ashbery book with the Joseph Cornell cover at work today, but alas.... We had other Emily Dickinsons, but not the one he pictures. I have my pink paperback Final Harvest, of which I am very fond.
But, as Mark warns, and in honor of Halloween, we should be scared of editions that present the poems not as Emily wrote them!! Instead, hacked, maimed, and disguised by editors who chose to conventionalize her.
And it's always fun to see what Seana is reading or discovering over at Not New for Long! (Currently A Corpse in the Koryo, by James Church.)
I just remembered I have an Emily Dickinson dress in my closet, from past performances of The Belle of Amherst. I could go as Emily Dickinson for Halloween!!
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Education Sunday
Day 117 of the "What are you reading, and why?" project, and today is Education Sunday at my church. My mom and the other Sunday school teachers will speak, and whatever kids are there will be included. Several are on vacation. School's out!!The mom-in-church thing is one of the reasons I did not make it to Ohio this weekend to visit my alma mater, pun intended, on a reunion weekend. Sigh... I am so not hip in my humor. (I make myself laugh, though. Sometimes through my nose. Anyhoo....! Gesundheit.)
Also, my mom is my real alma mater. She's why I'm a poet. (For college buds, she told me to do The Belle of Amherst as my senior thesis project, so I did, and I have been in love with Emily Dickinson ever since. So that's why I'm weird! And spend a lot of time in my own back yard. Looking at flowers. Again, anyhoo...!)
What was I saying? Oh! Marty is reading The Death and Life of the Great American School System; How Testing and Choice are Undermining Education by Diane Ravitch. Marty teaches theatre at the local community college, and says this is a very good book, based on Ravitch's 40 years of experience observing education, sometimes as historian, sometimes as Assistant Secretary of Education. Ravitch has changed her mind on education issues, seeing both sides politically and all sides realistically, and now understands that standardized testing, as the foundation for learning and funding, does more harm than good. Marty says it took Ravitch this long to figure out because she didn't have kids in the schools, herself, going through it.
Ravitch has written lots of books. Here's her website.
Richard is reading Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things, by Jane Bennett and his written about it in his own blog, where he mentions a "blog-chain reading group." Wow, what a great idea! The Bennett book looks really important, presenting a philosophy of "vital materialism." (I don't want to apply my weird punnish humor, but I do want to say "vital.") Looks like Bennett, like Sandra Steingraber, handles all the complexities in environmental issues, their science, their politics. But I'm not sure. If you are reading Jane Bennett, and/or Sandra Steingraber, you tell me!
It's Education Sunday. Go read something.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Eau de Bad Poetry
Day 71 of the "What are you reading, and why?" project. Diane will soon be reading Swimming with a Hundred Year Old Snapping Turtle, poems by Freya Manfred, thanks to me and Garrison Keillor.That is, I discovered Freya Manfred thanks to Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac, and Diane discovered her thanks to me reading one of her poems on Poetry Sunday at my church, in our annual celebration of National Poetry Month.
Oh! Or shall I say, "Eau!" This is not to suggest any badness in reference to Freya, though there is plenty of eau! She is swimming, after all, with a 100-year-old snapping turtle, and she is even swimming, with scuba apparatus, in her author photo in the back of the book, in the edition I have with an About the Author page added in August, 2009, by Red Dragonfly Press of Red Wing, Minnesota. (Have I mentioned I'm a Pisces? Have I mentioned my dream of swimming with dolphins? Have I mentioned my admiration for cephalopods? Including that playful octopus that stole the guy's video camera on my MSN homepage this morning! With song lyrics that include Jacques Cousteau, swimming with dolphins, and "I love you.")
I love Freya Manfred. I love her with the excruciating tenderness her poems generate in me.
As I told the congregation on Poetry Sunday, I feel about Freya the way Joan Didion's daughter felt about Georgia O'Keeffe when she saw the painting of clouds in the Art Insitute in Chicago. She said, "I need to talk to her." But, for now, I will listen to Freya, to her poems.
No, really, for now, I would like to discuss bad poetry. I am putting B is for Bad Poetry, by Pamela August Russell, on my Wish List at Amazon, awaiting that next coupon I get when I pay off my credit card bill. (I confess, that's how I got Freya Manfred, but now I will save up and actually buy her other books from Red Dragonfly Press!)
And this is the follow-up from yesterday, about Susan being troubled by finding only books by popular male poets, like Billy Collins (Ballistics), or immortal female poets (like Emily Dickinson), on the display endcap at Barnes & Noble during National Poetry Month. And, by the way, I handled one of the early printings of Final Harvest at work yesterday, right before the power went out and I went home, which is Thomas H. Johnson's edition of 575 of her 1775 poems.
Which does circle us back round to "bad poetry." That is, all of us poets have to write at least 1775 poems to get 575 good ones, or that's what it feels like, anyway. Surely even the great poets write plenty of bad and mediocre poems on the way to the good and great ones.
But what Russell has done is to celebrate the "bad" and "mediocre" impulse in all of us, humans or poets, in what must be actually very good poems, full of cleverness, craft, and probably downright genius. It takes a really good poet to write bad poetry, the kind that makes the reader cringe at the truth and laugh out loud, and that's what people are saying about B for Bad Poetry. Which is on the endcap at my local Barnes & Noble, for National Poetry Month!
And here is a bad poem I have written in honor of it, of her, and of bad poetry everywhere:
Today in Barnes & Noble
I saw a book of bad poetry
on the endcap.
I could have been making $$
at this all along.
I coulda beena contenda!
on the endcap.
I could have been making $$
at this all along.
I coulda beena contenda!
Instead
I Beano fartenda!
And now you know the horrible, embarrassing truth about me. (Although I was vaguely hoping you'd stopped reading this entry a little earlier....)
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Projectile Synchronicity
Day 49 of the "What are you reading, and why?" project.
Paulette is reading Break of Day by Colette, and it is just now, as I compose, the break of day. There was a full moon last night, and life is beautiful.
A young man on spring break, soon to graduate with a wildlife biologist degree and a poetry habit, is now reading Charles Olson, who believed that poetry was a "high energy construct," poets taking energy from various sources and projecting it onto the page via thought, breath, heart, words...."projective verse."
(My hidden stand-up self cannot help but imagine projectile versifying.)
(That's why it's a hidden self.)
But now I must confess to some 1) impulse buying based on 2) synchronicity. Susan commented here earlier on synchronicity, cool coincidences, Carl Jung.
I was reading Midwest Eclogue by David Baker (see earlier entry), the poem "Melancholy Man," and the note on it at the back of the book referring to Anatomy of Melancholy by Robert Burton. Having written recently on melancholy, I was struck by that coincidence and then further stricken by the desire to read the Burton book. Fortunately 1) I was home and thus nowhere near a bookstore and 2) when I accessed the Babbitt's search page, we didn't have it.
But I came into work yesterday, to do my lovely how-the-heck-am-I-going-to-make-a-living-as-a-poet job of typing books into the store database, and there it was, newly discarded by a library, The Anatomy of Melancholy by Robert Burton, in the All-English translation (no more Latin) edited by Floyd Dell and Paul Jordan-Smith. You know what happened next.
One of my jobs during how-the-heck-am-I-going-to-make-a-living-as-an-actress stage of my life was to work in Special Collections at the Newberry Library in Chicago. They have a fabulous Floyd Dell collection, so I learned a lot about him there. That's when I realized Edna St. Vincent Millay had also worked as an actress in Chicago, before heading off to Greenwich Village. And, yes, behind me on the bookshelf is the huge biography of Millay, Savage Beauty, by Nancy Milford, Christmas gift from my mom and dad back in 2001, deeply enjoyed. My mother introduced me to "Renascence," Millay's long passionate poem about coming back to life, as a verse reader on the high school speech team, and I've been in love with her ever since. Likewise, Emily Dickinson. Their fat biographies sit side by side, in fact, a fine coincidence in my random organizational system based on love.
Paulette is reading Break of Day by Colette, and it is just now, as I compose, the break of day. There was a full moon last night, and life is beautiful.
A young man on spring break, soon to graduate with a wildlife biologist degree and a poetry habit, is now reading Charles Olson, who believed that poetry was a "high energy construct," poets taking energy from various sources and projecting it onto the page via thought, breath, heart, words...."projective verse."
(My hidden stand-up self cannot help but imagine projectile versifying.)
(That's why it's a hidden self.)
But now I must confess to some 1) impulse buying based on 2) synchronicity. Susan commented here earlier on synchronicity, cool coincidences, Carl Jung.
I was reading Midwest Eclogue by David Baker (see earlier entry), the poem "Melancholy Man," and the note on it at the back of the book referring to Anatomy of Melancholy by Robert Burton. Having written recently on melancholy, I was struck by that coincidence and then further stricken by the desire to read the Burton book. Fortunately 1) I was home and thus nowhere near a bookstore and 2) when I accessed the Babbitt's search page, we didn't have it.
But I came into work yesterday, to do my lovely how-the-heck-am-I-going-to-make-a-living-as-a-poet job of typing books into the store database, and there it was, newly discarded by a library, The Anatomy of Melancholy by Robert Burton, in the All-English translation (no more Latin) edited by Floyd Dell and Paul Jordan-Smith. You know what happened next.
One of my jobs during how-the-heck-am-I-going-to-make-a-living-as-an-actress stage of my life was to work in Special Collections at the Newberry Library in Chicago. They have a fabulous Floyd Dell collection, so I learned a lot about him there. That's when I realized Edna St. Vincent Millay had also worked as an actress in Chicago, before heading off to Greenwich Village. And, yes, behind me on the bookshelf is the huge biography of Millay, Savage Beauty, by Nancy Milford, Christmas gift from my mom and dad back in 2001, deeply enjoyed. My mother introduced me to "Renascence," Millay's long passionate poem about coming back to life, as a verse reader on the high school speech team, and I've been in love with her ever since. Likewise, Emily Dickinson. Their fat biographies sit side by side, in fact, a fine coincidence in my random organizational system based on love.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Midwest Eclogue

Day 44 of the "What are you reading, and why?" project.
I am now reading Midwest Eclogue by David Baker, because I went to hear him read last night and marveled at his poems. An eclogue is a pastoral or bucolic poem or set of poems, and I had encountered the eclogue in poetic tradition in works by Virgil and Spenser, and in music in works by Lizst and Stravinsky, so while the word doesn't come up that often, the form persists.
My mother will be reading his newest book, Never-Ending Birds, and then we will trade! The title of this one came from his daughter, Kate, he told us, and we learned other things about this delightful girl, now a young woman, in his poems and patter. What a wonderful reader he is, and what a joy and relief to attend a reading where the poet reads his poems well, reads them as they are written, with thought and restrained emotion, punctuation and line breaks that help convey both natural speech and artful selection and arrangement. These are poems that say something and can be uttered!
Baker is a gardener, so I look forward to poems of fine observation of nature and flowers, and other information. Already, in "Hyper," I have learned more about ADHD and, in "Cardiognosis," more about the structure of the heart and the history of knowledge about it. I am doing the thing I do with poetry books--skip around and read individual poems--and then I will go back and read the book straight through as a whole. I will do this in the summer, in the back yard, when I am not reading other things simultaneously, and when various wildflowers and perennials are blooming all around me.
The cover of this book attracted me and looked very familiar. Some of us had lingered in the gallery to chat after the reading, and David said the cover came from an illustration he found in The Gardens of Emily Dickinson by Judith Farr. "I have that book!" I said. And I have it now in front of me, so I can tell you that the flower and insect painting is by Maria Sibylla Merian, and is from Dissertation in Insect Generations and Metamorphosis in Surinam, a set of hand-colored engravings. David said it appealed to him in presenting, as if from nature, things that could not really happen in nature--different colored blooms on this same plant, and this particular gathering of insects in time. (Are those the caterpillar stages of the butterflies hovering?! For someone who does not believe in linear time anymore, this makes perfect sense to me!)
This book, The Gardens of Emily Dickinson, also shows us paintings of flowers by Martin Johnson Heade, who traveled to Brazil to see hummingbirds, and paintings of women and flowers by Winslow Homer, one of my favorites. Of course I had to ask the poet if he'd read A Summer of Hummingbirds by Christopher Benfey, and he hadn't yet, but had the book and would be assigning it as a special project for his students.
So here's a guy whose work I want to know better. I had read many individual poems in journals, and the brief teaching essay in the current issue of Spoon River Poetry Review, but I do so look forward to reading all his books. Another little intersection is Jane Hirshfield, whose blurb, "Beautiful, inventive, learned, musical, and wise" appears on the front cover of Midwest Eclogue, hovering there like a tiny italicized moth. I have several of her books, too.
A few more connections to mention here:
Also in the audience was Kathryn, who will have a poetry chapbook, Turtles All the Way Down, coming out from Finishing Line Press sometime soon. She has degrees in biology and English, and pointed out that some plants do have different-colored blooms in nature. I am hoping Lorel will comment on her back yard experiments with art and flowers, and maybe some of you have seen the nature sculptures of Andy Goldsworthy?
And maybe Mary will comment on the insects in the painting? And/or Lauren, a poet and a painter of insects, who was reading This Nest, Swift Passerine by Dan Beachy-Quick in an earlier entry here, and was also reading Journal of Jules Renard and The Red Book by Carl Jung when I first asked the "What are you reading?" question at Facebook.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Melancholy Baby
Day 43 of the "What are you reading, and why?" project.
Today, and since last night, I am feeling a little melancholy. The spring itself is joyous--the sunshine, temps in the 60s, birds and animals out, dogs barking at the new smells, etc.--but perhaps the shift to the new season, or the energy it takes to shift, creates this other, poignant mood.
So I'll tell you that Beth is reading "Ode on Melancholy" by John Keats, and two other poems with a strain of melancholy in them, for a poetry discussion tonight. Her discussion group is also reading T. S. Eliot's "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," and that's melancholy with its yellow fog and whispering women, doubts and regrets, mermaids singing. So is Walt Whitman's "Facing West from California's Shores," even with its "very pleased and joyous moment," as it's about traveling the world and not finding, or quite remembering, what one set out to discover.
And melancholy is one of those mixed emotions, isn't it? The sadness is dominant, but the sweetness is underlying. I think of Abraham Lincoln's melancholy. 2009 was a big Lincoln year, especially here in Illinois, and I am still halfway through Team of Rivals, which I want to finish 1) before the movie comes out and 2) before I start The Lincolns: Portrait of a Marriage, by the poet Daniel Mark Epstein, whose book Lincoln and Whitman: Parallel Lives in Civil War Washington I very much enjoyed. I'm also a loyal reader of Epstein's poetry because he's a Kenyon College alum, like me!
Some years ago, I had my Lincoln College students read an excerpt from Lincoln's Melancholy: How Depression Challenged a President and Fueled his Greatness by Joshua Wolf Shenk. I heard Doris Kearns Goodwin speak, and she does like that more open term, melancholy, to describe Lincoln's famous sadness. She prefers it to the clinical-sounding "depression." The discussion of the medications of the time in the Shenk book and Atlantic excerpt fascinated my college students, as several of them were also medicated on our more modern drugs; in Lincoln's day getting treated for ailments might add lead poisoning to the list of troubles!
Biographies and memoirs are particularly good at exploring strains of sadness in our lives. Paulette is now reading Hermione Lee's thick biography of Edith Wharton. I have been reading it, too, slowly, and my bookmark in it is in roughly the same spot as my bookmark in A Tragic Honesty: The Life and Work of Richard Yates, by Blake Bailey--that is, about a quarter of the way through each. I can report that one summer, reading a number of things at the same time, I made it all the way through Cynthia Griffin Wolff's thick biography of Emily Dickinson. I think what happens is that I encounter a rough spot in someone else's life...and just can't get past it...but I must, as I am reading to learn how to be human.
And Michael and Kay, who sometimes read the same book at the same time, took up Half Broke Horses, a "true-life novel," by Jeanette Walls, after reading her memoir The Glass Castle.
Tonight I'll be attending a poetry reading by David Baker, who is poetry editor of The Kenyon Review. It's poetry, so I imagine I'll encounter a bit of melancholy there...but perhaps in the way that blues music relieves by giving voice to the blues...
Today, and since last night, I am feeling a little melancholy. The spring itself is joyous--the sunshine, temps in the 60s, birds and animals out, dogs barking at the new smells, etc.--but perhaps the shift to the new season, or the energy it takes to shift, creates this other, poignant mood.
So I'll tell you that Beth is reading "Ode on Melancholy" by John Keats, and two other poems with a strain of melancholy in them, for a poetry discussion tonight. Her discussion group is also reading T. S. Eliot's "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," and that's melancholy with its yellow fog and whispering women, doubts and regrets, mermaids singing. So is Walt Whitman's "Facing West from California's Shores," even with its "very pleased and joyous moment," as it's about traveling the world and not finding, or quite remembering, what one set out to discover.
And melancholy is one of those mixed emotions, isn't it? The sadness is dominant, but the sweetness is underlying. I think of Abraham Lincoln's melancholy. 2009 was a big Lincoln year, especially here in Illinois, and I am still halfway through Team of Rivals, which I want to finish 1) before the movie comes out and 2) before I start The Lincolns: Portrait of a Marriage, by the poet Daniel Mark Epstein, whose book Lincoln and Whitman: Parallel Lives in Civil War Washington I very much enjoyed. I'm also a loyal reader of Epstein's poetry because he's a Kenyon College alum, like me!
Some years ago, I had my Lincoln College students read an excerpt from Lincoln's Melancholy: How Depression Challenged a President and Fueled his Greatness by Joshua Wolf Shenk. I heard Doris Kearns Goodwin speak, and she does like that more open term, melancholy, to describe Lincoln's famous sadness. She prefers it to the clinical-sounding "depression." The discussion of the medications of the time in the Shenk book and Atlantic excerpt fascinated my college students, as several of them were also medicated on our more modern drugs; in Lincoln's day getting treated for ailments might add lead poisoning to the list of troubles!
Biographies and memoirs are particularly good at exploring strains of sadness in our lives. Paulette is now reading Hermione Lee's thick biography of Edith Wharton. I have been reading it, too, slowly, and my bookmark in it is in roughly the same spot as my bookmark in A Tragic Honesty: The Life and Work of Richard Yates, by Blake Bailey--that is, about a quarter of the way through each. I can report that one summer, reading a number of things at the same time, I made it all the way through Cynthia Griffin Wolff's thick biography of Emily Dickinson. I think what happens is that I encounter a rough spot in someone else's life...and just can't get past it...but I must, as I am reading to learn how to be human.
And Michael and Kay, who sometimes read the same book at the same time, took up Half Broke Horses, a "true-life novel," by Jeanette Walls, after reading her memoir The Glass Castle.
Tonight I'll be attending a poetry reading by David Baker, who is poetry editor of The Kenyon Review. It's poetry, so I imagine I'll encounter a bit of melancholy there...but perhaps in the way that blues music relieves by giving voice to the blues...
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