Everything Changes

Tiny Moon, 2021

 

Hello. Thank you for visiting.

I've recently gotten word that the "Follow by Email" feature on this blog platform is going to be discontinued in July 2021. I'm not sure when I'll be writing my next post here, but if you’d like to keep informed about my other writing, I’ve added a section to the bottom of the home page of my website where you can add your name to my email list. I’ll let you know when I am releasing something new into the world.

Be well.

Wait for the Light

Ranunculus, 2018

I read Pablo Neruda's poem, "Emerging," this morning. Then I read it again. Then I had it read to me. Then I read it one more time. I'll probably read it again later today.

This is the beginning of the poem:

A man says yes without knowing
how to decide even what the question is,
and is caught up, and then is carried along
and never again escapes from his own cocoon;
and that’s how we are, forever falling
into the deep well of other beings;
and one thread wraps itself around our necks,
another entwines a foot, and then it is impossible,
impossible to move except in the well —
nobody can rescue us from other people.

But this is just an excerpt. If you'd like to find the rest of this poem, and I think you should, I'm aware of a few options.

You can locate a copy of Neruda's book of poems, Extravagaria, and read it there. If you subscribe to The Paris Review, you can read this poem on their website. If you prefer someone read it to you, you are in luck. You can listen to The Paris Review's podcast, Episode 11, (also on their website, no subscription necessary) at the 01:22 mark and hear this poem in its entirety. Alternatively, if you can track down a copy of their Spring 1974 issue, you'll find this poem in print.

Enjoy.

There Are Stars

 2017

I don't like writing about art, visual art. Or film, or poetry, or prose, really. Yet I've done all of the above, and have learned of great works by others who have done the same. Still, what I find on my own is always what I favor most. Much of the magic is in the finding, and then watching the formerly unknown film or painting or poem or novel as it opens up to me.

I'll return to the best work again and again, if I can find it, but I wonder if my returns are less about the great works themselves and more about attempting to reclaim the magic that was in my initial moment of discovery, and how my first experience with the work changed me. But can these things be separated? Isn't it all intertwined—the work, the discovery of the work, the way the work changes the viewer? Doesn't it all combine and add another layer to each person who sees the work? 

Part of me wants to tell everyone I know to get to the seventh floor of SFMOMA before January 1st, when the exhibition that holds the work I discovered Friday, stayed with for over an hour, and then returned to with someone special on Saturday for closer to two hours, and share this experience with me, but I hesitate. 

I know my telling will subtract something from all the work can be, and I even worry that the someone special I introduced to the work on Saturday was unable to feel what I felt on Friday, when I walked into a particular room on the seventh floor of the museum, without a single preconceived notion, and felt myself begin to change.

“There are stars exploding around you
And there is nothing, nothing you can do”

—Lyrics in this work I reference, such as the above, are drawn from parts of Ásdís Sif Gunnarsdóttir’s poem, "Feminine Ways."

Good Bones

Light in the Dark, 2017

Reading a poem like Maggie Smith's "Good Bones" presses hard, it leaves a bruise. But for me, what also rises to the surface is a sense of feeling grounded, walking on solid earth again. Such a relief, after treading so lightly, for so long, hiding from what I feared, or attempting to ignore it, desperately concentrating all energy on the good, the kind, the beautiful, but none of it ever really coming into focus, always distorted by that greasy smudge of fear. "Good Bones" just addresses it all, puts the fear and sadness and everything else right out there, makes us deal with it, but note how Smith ends the poem with the word beautiful. Terrible things are out there. Some of these things are within our control, many are not. Beautiful things are out there too. When I remember to acknowledge these conflicting truths, fear loses some its power, I can direct my energy, and it is possible to clearly see what is good again.

This place could be beautiful,

right? You could make this place beautiful. 

 —Excerpt from Maggie Smith's poem, "Good Bones."

It's Called Taproot

Space to Breathe, 2017

Did you know there is a magazine out there without ads, created for makers, doers & dreamers, with sections titled head, hands, and heart?

Yes, it exists. It’s called Taproot.

I’m honored to have my writing in their latest issue, GROW, in the heart section, accompanied by a papercut illustration by the talented Jennifer Judd-McGee.

The people who pull this magazine together are the types who don’t have a problem dedicating their first two pages, as well as their last page, to a peaceful floral print, and this makes me happy.

We all need a little space to breathe.

Thanks for doing what you do, Taproot.

Issue 22 :: GROW

You can find more of my work in these earlier issues of Taproot:
Issue 6 :: WATER
Issue 3 :: RETREAT

She's Got a Way

Transition, 2017

Of course, I flip directly to the Linda Pastan poem, and smack-dab in the middle I find these lines:

I've started to dismantle my life already, throwing
out letters from people I remember loving, (14–15)

And they stick, like a bur to a sweater.

-Excerpt from Linda Pastan's poem, Plunder, in The Paris Review, No. 220.

1/31/2017

January is running out.

It will never be replaced.

I am tasting my tea,

watching steam lift from its surface.

I can make another cup, just like this one,

but I cannot add another day to this month.

What Is Now

Endpapers, 2016

I was reading a book of poems written by a woman who decided to take up poetry at the age of 90, a book offering more illumination than I was prepared for this evening. Illumination of so many things.

What it might feel like to lose a spouse and miss that spouse, desperately. The experience of reading your own writing, many years after the words were written, and realizing that beautiful part of yourself is gone. The gratification of taking a stand on a small thing, but one that will change each remaining year of your life—demanding no one buy you birthday gifts, at 90 years old. The relief felt. No more false gratitude required. The energy of those little lies, returned to you.

And just as she gets me thinking about my future, I turn the page to find an interview where she is quoted:

It is very constrictive and destructive to always be living beyond the moment; to be preparing.

So I lean forward, resting my right elbow on this book, my chin in my hand, and look at the wall for a while, appreciating what is now.

Poems from the Pond

Carnival Evening

Carnival Evening, 2016

May 22, 2016

I let it go. For a moment I just sat there, my feet warm in thick socks as the wind roared outside, and examined all of the details of my new book—the silver National Book Award Finalist seal on the front cover and the detail of the Henry Rousseau painting it was stamped over, the small square photograph of the poet's face on the back of the book, lower left, and the bookmark the person at the shop had tucked inside.

Then I heard the wind again, it had gotten louder, and I put the book down. It was strange, I thought, the way books sidle up beside weather. Or is it the other way around? I'm usually aware of the weather when I'm reading a book, aware in a way I am not while watching a movie or researching a topic on the internet.

Soon there was only the ticking of the clock and the settling sounds of the cottage. The thing I had let go attempted its return.

The wind growled and saved me. I picked up Pastan.

#threepoemsthursday

Fish & Game Quarterly

Poet's Chair, 2016

I'm sitting in the poet's chair over at Fish & Game Quarterly. The spring issue of this online publication is out today. I've just learned that my two poems in this issue are Fish & Game Quarterly's first poetry offerings. I'm honored. These are not warm and fuzzy poems, although one of them is titled Peaches, but they are dear to me.

You'll also find photographs from Inverness, CA, a remembrance of Prince, an essay about space and place written by a former bass player in the band Hole, digital art, a piece about the future of food magazines (there's hope!), even an instrumental track by a trio described as an idiosyncratic blend of dub, roots reggae, and spiritual jazz traditions. This and more are shared by a diverse group of contributors from New York to Bali.

Fish & Game Quarterly 

Enjoy.

Upstairs in the Poetry Room

Last Thursday I visited City Lights, specifically to visit the poetry room upstairs. Two windows, five chairs, one stool, and the largest poetry selection I've ever seen in a bookstore.

I entered alone, but there was someone right behind me making my photo taking awkward and self-conscious. He seemed serious. He picked up a book, sat down in the poet's rocking chair, and did not stand up until he left the room. I must have looked at ten different books—up and down, up and down—and I sat in two different chairs. But I was serious too. We were both quiet.

Then a very tall young man entered the room, serious as well, and focused, like the other guy. Just one book and one chair.

Any less serious visitors felt uncomfortable in our presence. If they were too loud and chatty, they toned it way down to a whisper. If they were overly impressed with the poetry room, and too vocal about it, they calmed down and patiently perused the collection. Those who obviously didn't care about poetry, but were inspecting the place as a landmark, departed quickly.  

But maybe it wasn't us. Maybe the poetry room has its own power. It's possible it controlled us too.

#threepoemsthursday

A Reading in Marin

It's time for another reading.

I'm going to be joining a handful of writers and artists published in West Marin Review, Volume 6, in Corte Madera on Monday, May 16th. I'll be reading my short prose contribution to West Marin Review as well as a few pages from After the Sour Lemon Moon.

An informal evening of prose, poetry, and art.

Book Passage
51 Tamal Vista Blvd
Corte Madera, CA 94925

If you happen to be in the neighborhood, we hope you'll stop in and join us.

A Reading in Petaluma

I'm going to be joining a handful of writers and artists published in West Marin Review, Volume 6, in Petaluma, CA on March 25th. I'll be reading my short prose contribution to West Marin Review as well as a few pages from After the Sour Lemon Moon.

An informal evening of prose, poetry, and art.

If you happen to be in the neighborhood*, we hope you'll stop in and join us.

Friday, March 25th - 7pm
Copperfield's Books
140 Kentucky Street
Petaluma, CA 94952

* If you are in Northern California, but Petaluma is a bit out of the way, I'll also be participating in a similar event at Book Passage in Corte Madera, CA on May 16th.

To the Top

Guardian Angel, 2016

It's been a while. How are you?

Much has gone on during my absence. I've been productive, which is a good thing, but I don't find productivity all that interesting. Do you?

When I think back to my time away, the experience that rises to the top is a trip to an off-season beach town where I found Patti Smith's M Train in the local library. It was a trip taken not long after my departure from social media, yet I don't think anything I experienced afterward felt as good.

Between getting bundled up and taking long walks at low tide, and quiet mornings with soft light entering the bedroom and falling upon Patti Smith's words and images, well, it doesn't get much better.

It's nice to be back. I hope you've been enjoying the start of this year.

A Quick Hello

Still Flowers, 2015

Hello. I hope you are well.

Have I shown you these sunflowers? Quite amazing, aren't they? They make me think of time and its passing.

Yesterday, while riding a bus, I spotted the poet Jack Hirschman on a street corner. He was scribbling notes into a tiny journal. I'm always so excited when I see him out in the world. My first thought was that I'd witnessed part of his poetry writing process, but on further reflection I realized he might have been adding to his grocery list.

I wonder how long I'll remember this scene, a poet on a street corner. How long will I hold on to these fallen sunflowers?

What are you thinking about this last day of November?

Duende

Inspiration, 2015

I was waiting for a smoothie and reading an article in The Surfer's Journal (No, I'm not a surfer, but I did actually get up on a board and "surf" in Hawaii a few years back...Yes, I did.) and saw mention of a lecture Federico García Lorca, the poet, gave in Buenos Aires in 1933. Actually, I was waiting for a smoothie, drawn in by this photograph and overlaid text, then began reading the article.

The article first quoted García Lorca as saying duende is, 

"...that mysterious power that everyone feels but no philosopher can explain."

I later perused Wikipedia's Duende (art) entry and found:

"El duende is the spirit of evocation. It comes from inside as a physical/emotional response to art. It is what gives you chills, makes you smile or cry as a bodily reaction to an artistic performance that is particularly expressive."

And García Lorca had written:

"The duende, then, is a power, not a work. It is a struggle, not a thought. I have heard an old maestro of the guitar say, 'The duende is not in the throat; the duende climbs up inside you, from the soles of the feet.' Meaning this: it is not a question of ability, but of true, living style, of blood, of the most ancient culture, of spontaneous creation."

Climbs up inside you, from the soles of the feet... Fantastic.

García Lorca's 1933 lecture ended with:

"The duende….Where is the duende? Through the empty archway a wind of the spirit enters, blowing insistently over the heads of the dead, in search of new landscapes and unknown accents: a wind with the odour of a child’s saliva, crushed grass, and Medusa’s veil, announcing the endless baptism of freshly created things."

Think about that for a while.

Thanks to The Surfer's Journal 24.2, the Duende (art) Wikipedia entry, and Poetry in Translation's translated text from the 1933 lecture, Theory and Play of the Duende.

West Marin Review

p. 49, 2015

I am happy to have my short prose piece, The Rancher Whispered, in the sixth volume of West Marin Review, a literary and arts journal. Copies are now available at a variety of independent bookstores in Northern California, and online. Details here.

Carol

My Paris Bedroom, 2011

I'm pretty sure I've shown you this photo before. It is the bedroom of the Paris apartment I stayed in during the winter of 2011. Why are you seeing it again? Because I woke up this morning thinking about Carol. Carol is an American letter carrier traveling alone in Paris in the short film, 14e arrondissement, from the anthology film, Paris, je t'aime (2006). What I want you to do is click on 14e arrondissement at the bottom of this post and watch Carol. The short film is 6 minutes and 45 seconds. You will not forget Carol. One day you will wake up missing her and you will return to her in this short film about an essay with a poem buried inside. #threepoemsthursday

14e arrondissement

Handwriting

Late May, 2015

I recently bought this book, secondhand. When I opened it up for the first time last night I found this surprise, Michael Ondaatje's signature.

Michael Ondaatje held this book in his hands and signed it.

He is the only man my husband does not want me to run into when he's out of town, even though he too is married, and older than my father. I do love a good book. And have you ever seen the photograph of him in the blue sweater? #threepoemsthursday

The Thing Itself

Post, 2015

I ate breakfast alone today, without friend or family member. No radio or book, not even pen and paper. Just breakfast and me. It tasted better than usual.