I decided to go to the Homestead for a while, visiting the ancestors. Ha ha. It’s been fun to wake without an alarm and to devote entire hours – hours! – to reading. I consider it a wonderful setting for writer’s summer camp.
There’s the familiar sights and sounds of summer, whether taking walks down the dirt road or watching summer sports. It didn’t take more than a day before I felt an epic poem coming on, a la The Song of Hiawatha:
By the shores of Wiggins Lake,
in the big brown stuff’d recliner,
rested the warrior, The Old Man,
pointing with the TV clicker,
shouting at the TV, angry,
angry at the lousy Tigers.
Unfortunately, my father didn’t like the reference to “The Old Man” – a proud warrior’s title, I thought. I suppose the Detroit Tigers won’t like it, either. Everyone’s a critic.
Gollub, Matthew. Illustrated by Kazuko G. Stone. Calligraphy by Keiko Smith. Cool Melons-Turn to Frogs!: The Life and Poems of Issa. New York: Lee & Low, 1998.
This is a beautiful book, even for children who aren’t fond of poetry. Matthew Gollub tells the story of the haiku master Issa, interweaving translations of 33 haiku. The narrative creates a framework for understanding, especially the plaintive poems written when Issa keenly felt the loss of his mother.
“Motherless sparrow,/ come play/ with me.” Continue reading
Robin in bird bath
Flurry of wings and water
Enjoy the spring rain!
Confession: When I get stuck while writing – such as 400 words into a scene that I realize doesn’t move the plot – I have a couple pick-me-ups. One is to pick up a dry academic book and read until my brain screams for creative release.* The other is to read a children’s book.
While perusing my library’s catalogue, I came across a title I hadn’t seen since I was little: Flower Moon Snow: A Book of Haiku by Kazue Mizumura. I requested a couple contemporary haiku books, too, which made an interesting contrast. Continue reading
“I do not come from an intellectual family. (…) There was not poetry read around the dinner table, and they didn’t take me to the library. The point is: If I got into poetry, then it’s accessible to everybody. That’s been my mission since I was a teenager: To try to get people to see that poetry is more important than people think it is.
At work on Friday, I walked into the lounge and saw Mike’s staring up from cover of the arts section of The Detroit Free Press (aka Freep). I haven’t seen him in years, but he looks the same: white beard, black beret, keen eyes behind dark-framed glasses.
How nostalgic! And serendipidous, considering the rut I’ve been in. Continue reading
I’m in the throes of spring cleaning the linen closet, but I wanted to give my readers something nice: Gary Dexter’s piece about reciting poetry in the streets. He writes:
“Poetry is strong stuff: sometimes I wonder whether I’m really licensed to deal in it. Words, the right words, can make people cry and laugh and fling their arms around you. If your aim is to get hugs in the street from complete strangers, you can do no better than recite Shakespeare.”
I’m saddened by the tl;dr crowd (too long; didn’t read), which seems to grow in number. Not to mention, I have yet to meet a person under 40 who has a poem or two memorized. But Mr. Dexter’s account gives me some hope that there are young people who are open to poetry.
…in winter, that is!
It takes a practice to drive in snow, sleet, and ice. This winter being so mild, I’ve been out of practice. I didn’t realize how much until Friday, when I drove to my parents’ house. Snow was coming down lightly, but the roads were clear.
As usual, I was using the Driving Like an Old Lady Technique, a skill that has made me a favorite among designated drivers and owners of sports cars.* Not to disclose all the secrets of this mysterious art, but suffice to say that it involves sticking to the left lanes. I get to my destination in a timely manner, but with 1/3 the road rage. Continue reading
Back home again. Didn’t really want to leave my parents’ house – I even put up with The Rack (also known as the guest futon) – but the forecast calls for freezing rain today. So I got on the road after breakfast in a local restaurant and the final search for personal effects.
It was the shortest drive I’ve taken between my birthplace (aka La Cuña) and La Casa de Tontería. Usually it takes 3.5 hours, not including those time distortions caused by seeing the flashback of my life – and that of the driver behind me if it’s a life-flashing double-feature – when an SUV decides to switch to my lane without warning. Continue reading
From my treasure book, here’s a poem by Dunstan Thompson:
Fragment for Christmas
Dear Lord, and only ever faithful friend,
For love of us rejected, tortured, torn –
And we were there; who on the third day rose
Again, and still looks after us; descend
Into each wrecked unstable house; be born
In us, a Child among Your former foes.
For more than a year, I’ve been trying to track down the work of a once-acclaimed, then obscure American poet: Dunstan Thompson. It started when I read one of his poems that was re-published in a review of Dunstan Thompson: On the Life and Work of a Lost American Master. I think that was 2011 or 2012.
I found a copy of his 1943 collection called simply Poems. Back then, he wrote in a densely-packed web of images which were beautiful but not quite what drew me to his work. I also picked up his novel The Dove with the Bough of Olive and a travelogue The Phoenix in the Desert which were positively inexpensive.
But I figured what I really wanted was his later work, published posthumously as Poems 1950-1974, called “The Red Book” because of its dust cover. In July I heard that The St. Austin Review might have copies of it, so I contacted someone there. After assuring me that he’d let me know when he spoke to the supplier, I heard nothing and follow-up inquiries went unanswered. That was in August. Continue reading