Earlier this week, I participated in the first International Poetry Reading and Reception at the community college where I work.
I originally planned the event eight months ago, and later linked it with the College's International Education Week festivities - a concession to my Dean, who proved to be my strongest backer, not only of the event itself but of my own dreams, desires and effort. As a result of this commingling of events, the day was out of my control, and fixed to a Monday evening.
First regret in hindsight: Monday is a lousy day to hold a poetry reading. Turnout was light. We moved the audience, who had seated themselves toward the back of the auditorium, toward the front.
Second regret: Large auditoriums may reveal high confidence in speakers and audience. But in reality, a small attendance is glaringly noticed when so many seats are empty.
This was my baptism. I've read at a number of places - and looking back, I realized the rooms were cozy, tight. Usually, seats had to be added to accommodate everyone. And without exception, these were held on a weekend evening.
Then there was the time frame: two hours of seating without interruption requires unusual stamina. Now why didn't I think of that? How many plays, concerts and other staged performances have I attended? Plenty. And how many of them force attention for 120 minutes? Well, hmm now. Few. When this particular convenience was not provided, people started leaving. Rolling into the second hour, individual abandonment became a contagion. When I watched my two good friends rise from their seats and lurk out, I knew my mistake was a biggie.
The morning after, I awoke with a sour memory. Disenchantment and disappointment poured over me like a deluge. I couldn't shake the awful feeling that I'd led two wonderful poets (Celia Alvarez and Marisella Veiga) into an open pit, a vast darkness; that I had not attended to reality - day, time, space, breaks.
But regret is like yeast that rises into a mountainous mass and two hours later, falls flat, levels out. It took more than two hours. But finally I recognized that my disappointment was based on untested expectations. A "first" of anything has inherently higher risk than a repeat act.
And continuing in the vein of relativity, I just read of a poet's experience at a reading arranged at a bookstore. She had zero turnout. She sold one book. And she received no honorarium.
So the nature of regret is flexible. Now I realize that an audience of 80-90 people ain't so bad when the alternative is zero. I recognize that press before the event, while not shaking the rooftops, was good. And, I recognize that poets do not go out of their way to support other poets. Multilingual people, immigrants, the displaced, English faculty, ESL faculty - they are the same. This isn't a condemnation, just a simple truth.
And the nature of regret is that it comes ready made for learning. I'm already meeting and organizing for next year's poetry event.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
The Nature of Regret
Blog Scans
Up early this morning and skipping from (mostly poetry) blog to blog. Here's what I've found worth reading:On the benefits of repetition: Diane Lockward talks about the value of writing out already published poems in longhand. "I process the poem in a way that I don't when I merely read." Julie Enzser and Ann Lederer add to the conversation.
Call for Midwest women poets: Becky Ellis with Cherry Pie Press announces the 2008 chapbook contest for women poets with a connection to the Midwest.
Minimalism or deserved rest: Suzanne Frishkorn has been busy. Her newest full-length book of poetry, Lit Windowpane, will be coming out next fall. You'll be able to get a copy at Main Street Rag Press. Suzanne, I'd love to write a review!
Giving Thanks: Ron Silliman devotes space reminiscing about lifelong friendships, the Grand Piano project, and is promoting a benefit reading in San Francisco for Will Alexander, a poet with no insurance to cover his chemotherapy.
Random Gift: I drifted over to Ruth Ellen Kocher's blog without any foreknowledge of her identity. I'm glad I did. She first recalls the power of a word ("will") and its synchronous effect on her life. Then there's a reflection of the visceral power of poetry, on how when she reads, her hand automatically moves to her heart, where she is touched, the intersection of body memory and verbal memory. And she talks about being homesick for poetry - a state I can empathize with - how it has moved out of her head, out of her house, and the distractions she machinates while the silence endures.
On the road: Go over to Gina Franco's blog for her random photos. She's been traveling and takes you along. There's a fish barely out of water, a grainy close-up of a tumbling shed roof, road signs, a mirror shot, eerie looking doll faces and snow falling in Roswell, NM.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Blog Grades
I ran across one of those quickie blog ratings and put mine through the test. According to The Blog Readability Test, my blog is at the level of high school. hmph!
Well, I wondered, how do other blogs compare?
I started a few random checks. Here's how folks are being graded:
I wonder how this gadget determines "readability" - is it connected with average syllabic count or with comprehension?
What's your score - or do you care to know?
NaPoWriMo Week Three
BLACK FRIDAY
ten Mourning Doves flurry across
the flagstones, dust-speckled wings,
something god-like in their descent.
A grey squirrel scratches the top crust
of a potted plant, pecan in mouth;
its body nimble as electricity.
Oyster white tiles and the waft of lint,
familiar Tide in the air, the clutter
and warmth of the laundry room.
A forgotten can of cranberry sauce,
a single lemon, the remains of French
Cut Green Bean Casserole.
Skin bright Clementines shine
an invitation from their rustic box;
orange silence at hearthside.
4AM clamor at Kohls -
imagined wealth, mock war,
elbows and adrenalin.
That second cup of coffee,
sweet as syrup while red-bulbed
shrimp plants burst like fiery pokers.
In a quiet alcove, a woman
is haunted by the deadly thing
stirring under her arms.
She surveys the ads, subtracts
the ordinary from the onslaught:
lymphoma, MD Anderson, memory.
She questions the day, the dip
in temperature, the possibility
that teases, stirring like a vine.
An oak tree splits asunder,
reeds attached to its hide.
Symbiosis fights suffocation.
An oceanic hush now as light
wind tilts the browning leaves.
One Blue Jay sings through silence.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Monday, November 5, 2007
NaPoWriMo Week Two
Nov. 5, 2007
Natural Surrounding
The shrimp plant outside my window is a forest
to the ants circling below, driven
by innate regimen to survive.
A noose circumscribes the neck
of a neighboring oak,
sticky vines in their relentless march:
symbiosis or suffocation.
This warm animal glances
from behind a viscuous wall,
believes she can rake in the scent
of Fall as it singes the blood
of gentle tallow, breaks the neck
of the fern and empties
the husk of the wasp, reverting
to its former life as bamboo chime.
She claims some bond - green in the veins
or bayonet hands, perhaps a lack of warmth,
the inclination to thrive on borrowed seed,
sipping from a flower pot, black
with fungus, no matter, it's wet.
She tightens her grip on the elements,
weaves a dry nest of shallow breath,
thinks she can endure.
The Genographic Project
Has anyone participated in the Genographic Project sponsored by National Geographic?
If so, what kind of surprising results?
Our Home
This National Geographic video traces the path of hominids, beginning around 195,000 years ago in the Omo River Valley in Ethiopia. It's a fascinating journey, moving from Africa to Australia, where clicking became the predominant mode of communication. Language began to develop with the emergence of the hyoid bone, which actually forms speech.
Language became the force governing not only the evolution but the survival of the early human. Around 50,-70,000 years back, tool use and language skills combined to create art and society. Those hominids whose genetic code did not contain the capacity for these expressions likely died off (more than a suggestion for the essential value of creativity). This "evolutionary dead end" of the hominids (Neanderthals),has been linked to their inferior thinking ability, dooming their branch of genetic development and opening the path to today's human.
A land mass called Sahul was home to the earliest known human settlements, survivors of the Ice Age, who used tools to clear land. The continent Sahul eventually became the separate countries of Australia, New Guinea and Tasmania. Human remains near Lake Mungo, New South Wales, are the earliest found outside Africa. Meanwhile, the hunters in Africa migrated north, tracking mammoth and populating much of Eurasia. To the south, a group of humans were populating caves and perfecting the art of drawing, leaving behind some 400 images of 14 different species of animals, ranging from the rhinoceros to bison.
The migration from Siberia to North America came about 25,000 years back when those mammoth hunters crossed a "land bridge" into Alaska called Beringia. Archaeological finds at cactus Hill, VA, date to 18,000, showing that these hardy predators made their way across the mostly iced-over continent during an extended period lasting around 10,000 years. Over in Europe, the Magdelanian culture was creating advanced tools and investing "substantial time and skill in cultural activities."
Once again, the predominance of creative expression marks an advanced level of culture.
Once the Ice Age receded (5,-10,000 years ago), agriculture began to replace hunting as the primary foundation of culture. Sedentary civilization, trade and artistic endeavors each broadened the degree and strengthened the permanency of these old humans. Goddess worship or matriarchal cultures connected to natural rhythms, was the preeminent structure of many societies.
Flash forward - What will our tracks leave behind to the next eons? Footprints that muddy and desecrate, global capitalism that blithely causes animal extinction? What creative expression will be unearthed? Flash drives loaded with nonsense? Videos of "shock and awe" in which antiquities are destroyed and looted? And what of evolution? Will ethnic cleansing replace the natural patterns of evolutionary survival?
Friday, November 2, 2007
NaPoWriMo Starts
Starting the month with a haiku:
Nov.2, 2007
Restless needle -
thought winding in and out,
a bee without honey.
Uniform Days
When we went Downtown, officious
trips to the busied structures
fronting Laura and Bay streets,
Mom held me by the wrist at each
street crossing, her face pained
and straight, her posture perfect.
Bills with deadlines brought us there
but once, we entered the glittered
realm of May Cohens, entering a side
door, hand in hand, her grip
inescapable, while amazed eyes
captured the width of column,
marbled ballustrade, ornate
elevators with bronzed frontispiece.
She held my wrist as we approached
an opening, a gulf in the floor,
stone steps and shiny railings
led down to the Basement,
where the Sales were hidden.
It was late August, outside,
the sun was steep and mosquitos
visited nightly, a blitzkrieg among
sweet grass and fireflies.
The basement held racks of white
blouses, short-sleeved and plain,
pocket-ready for the parochial
school badge. There were navy blue
beenies and navy blue jumpers,
a clean panoply of uniforms.
This was the beginning of my
uniform days, Mom's exact gaze
searching and finding necessary
items, my hand in hers, silent,
while all around, the world
opened in color and curiosity
unveiled itself, like a sticky web.
Sleep Walk
The needle of nightmare pricks
and guides like a wand of dense symphony
luring eyes open, relief from the staccato
of stuck tongue, dark glue of immobility.
For two nights now, it's brought
me to the quick release, feet fumbling
for the carpeted floor, the soft
groove of solid ground, the golden grass
of artificial turf to settle me.
Then the Buddhists sing their "Oms"
amid a background of synthetic
waterfall and moog music,
my morning coffee with U-Tube.
In three hours these eyes, ears
mouth, back will adhere to another
pastiche - the hum of bleak work song,
computer screen and red blinks,
false logic and prayers surrounding me.
This is no nightmare but a premonition.
Grasping at the edge of a hole,
swinging my hips upward, making good grasp
of tumbling weeds and dirt, while
below me, the emptiness of free fall.
In the distance, a lullabye,
its faint echo like Circe, calls
me back to sleep another day.
