Nin Andrews

First Winter Rain

2012-01-27T14:19:00.012-05:00

FIRST WINTER RAIN
by Matsuo Basho

First winter rain--
even the monkey
seems to want a raincoat.

Ugh! I am so sick of these rains! Cold, wet feet . . .

JANUARY FLOODS
after Basho

January floods--
even the soul
wears wet socks.

Dear Professor,

2012-01-26T07:51:00.001-05:00

After great pain a dismal feeling comes

2012-01-24T21:38:00.001-05:00

Emily Dickinson:

After great pain a formal feeling comes--
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions--was it He that bore?
And yesterday--or centuries before?
The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
Regardless grown,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.

This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow--
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.

Ancient Music by Ezra Pound

2012-01-23T16:59:00.001-05:00

Ancient Music
by Ezra Pound

Winter is icummen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm.
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing: Goddamm.

Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Freezeth river, turneth liver,
Damn you, sing: Goddamm.

Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,
So 'gainst the winter's balm.

Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm.
Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.

We had such a beautiful snowfall, and now the raineth drops and slopeth us, and the river is all brown . . . And soon the wind will ramm . . .

For My Dog, Sadie, Will Consider Me

2012-01-22T13:46:00.003-05:00

For my dog, Sadie, will consider me.
For I am the servant of my dog, Sadie, and do duly and daily serve her.
For at the first glance of the glory of Sadie in the East, I worship her in every way.
For this I do by stroking her body.
For this I do by playing tug of war with her.
For Sadie runs and rolls and walks with me.
For having done her daily duty and received my adulation, she begins to consider herself.
For this she does by sleeping.
For first she sleeps in the living room.
For secondly she sleeps in the bedroom.
For thirdly she enters the dining room, taps the bell on the door to go outside, and waits for me to let her out.
For fourthly she chases the black squirrels from the bird feeder.
For fifthly she comes back inside and waits for a biscuit.
For sixthly she lets me wash her paws.
For seventhly she allows me lift her onto my lap for a bit of conversation.
For eighthly she stretches out on the couch and blinks at the sun.
For ninthly she waits for dinner to be served.
For tenthly she takes me for another walk, assuming the weather is suitable.
For on occasion, having consider'd me dull, and the walk, uninteresting, she decides to visit the neighbor instead.
For she allows the neighbor to pat and address her with admiration.
For she allows him to offer her his biscuits.
For neighbors and mailmen rarely forget to offer her their biscuits.
For she knows she must have many biscuits to perform her business.
For when her day's work is done, her business of sleeping begins again.
For she is the queen of sleep.
For she sleeps in the darkness and in the glaring light of day.
For she loves the sun and the sun loves her.
For she loves the night and the night loves her.
For she is an instrument of the love of God.
For she is an instrument of divine benevolence.
For she commanded Moses concerning the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt.
For she is the Messiah.
For every day and house is incomplete without her blessing.
For she blesses the world in her sleep.
For there is nothing sweeter than when she is asleep.

after "For I Will Consider My Cat Jeoffry"
by Christopher Smart

For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in . . .

Eleanor Ross Taylor, June 20, 1920-December 30, 2011

2012-01-21T13:06:00.001-05:00

A family friend, Eleanor Ross Taylor was a woman I feel lucky to have known. Like my mother, she was beyond unique. To describe her would be impossible. To admire her was natural. She was soft-spoken, brilliant, and impeccably well-mannered, but she was also perhaps the most honest writer I have ever met. I remember returning from college, full of youthful enthusiasm and showing her my poems.

I see, she said, reading them quickly. You have a nice grasp of language, but I haven't a clue what you are writing about. Some poets like this sort of thing, but I am not one of them. I think Greg Orr might like you.

She was 100% right. I felt guilty as charged. My work made little sense, but I liked words.

A few years later she asked me if I was sending my work out. I said not yet, and she chided me, explaining that she had been published because she knew all the right people, but that that didn't do much for the ego. "The ego is very important, especially for women. It's easy to set your goals aside and hide behind your role as a mother." And she quickly added that she was only beginning to take on her own career and send her work out aggressively.

She was the only writer who was willing to describe the politics of the literary world, telling me in unsparing details of the darker side. She felt that success was important, but one should not be too in love with it.

Because she was such a proper and southern lady, I was careful not to show her my early published work for fear of what she might think. But she found me out and wrote to me, telling me that she loved the language in The Book of Orgasms but could not tolerate that awful word, orgasm. Couldn't I come up with another word? Call it a fish or a horse? A question she asked me again, in person, a year later, adding that she, herself, couldn't think of better word for orgasm than orgasm. But she would keep thinking.

What I wish I could describe about her was her quick mind and her unsparing eye . . . her willingness to say the truth even when it was/is dark, as in her poem, "At Your Own Risk":

Blessed are the brave,/ for their skulls shall be crushed/ Blessed are the merciful,/they shall be tortured/ Blessed are the idealistic,/they shall despair/ Blessed are the generous,/their bones will be picked clean/ Blessed are the achievers,/ they shall exchange achievements for life/ Blessed are the accepting,/they shall be buried under a mausoleum of woe

And yet she also had the lighter side:

Kitchen Fable

The fork lived with the knife
and found it hard--for years
took nicks and scratches,
not to mention cuts.

She who took tedium by the ears:
nonforthcoming pickles,
defiant stretched-out lettuce,
sauce-gooed particles.

He who came down whack.
His conversation, even, edged.

Lying beside him in the drawer
she formed a crazed patina.
The seasons stacked--
melons, succeeded by cured pork.

He dulled; he was a dull knife,
while she was, after all, a fork.

Dear Professor,

2012-01-20T08:23:00.008-05:00

This is a fairly common misconception, that the sun, the moon, and the stars take turns getting close to the earth. I had trouble understanding it at first, but I guess that is what it looks like, right? The sun is close during the day, the moon at night. Duh!

TO THE RUDE NOSE UPON THIS FACE OF MINE

2012-01-19T12:33:00.007-05:00

The first time I heard Yeats, I was recovering from eye surgery that did not go well. The doctor simply could not wake me up. I remember the feeling of being under water, trying to surface, and then going under again and again. I remember finally waking and seeing my mother, terrified, by my bed. She was reading aloud from a collected book of poetry to pass the time. I didn't understand the poems, but I felt well enough to respond with two lines. And this, of course, meant I was truly awake again. She was so excited, she repeated my lines a few times and read the poem again. The poem has always sounded a little to me like the feeling of being under anesthesia with Druids and dreams and a Fergus lurking around.

TO THE RUDE NOSE UPON THIS FACE OF MINE

Red nose, freckled nose, rude nose of all my days!
Get away from my eyes, Nose, so that I may see a new way.

My lines make sense only if you are cross-eyed, and you are hoping that the operation has cured you.

TO THE ROSE UPON THE ROOD OF TIME

by: William Butler Yeats

RED Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days!
Come near me, while I sing the ancient ways:
Cuchulain battling with the bitter tide;
The Druid, grey, wood-nurtured, quiet eyed,
Who cast round Fergus dreams, and ruin untold;
And thine own sadness, whereof stars, grown old
In dancing silver-sandalled on the sea,
Sing in their high and lonely melody.
Come near, that no more blinded by man's fate,
I find under the boughs of love and hate,
In all poor foolish things that live a day,
Eternal beauty wandering on her way.

Come near, come near, come near -- Ah, leave me still
A little space for the rose-breath to fill!
Lest I no more hear common things that crave;
The weak worm hiding down in its small cave,
The field-mouse running by me in the grass,
And heavy mortal hopes that toil and pass;
But seek alone to hear the strange things said
By God to the bright hearts of those long dead,
And learn to chaunt a tongue men do not know
Come near; I would, before my time to go,
Sing of old Eire and the ancient ways:
Red Rose, proud Rose, sad Rose of all my days.

The Wild Ducks of Poland, Ohio

2012-01-18T07:14:00.002-05:00

The trees are in their winter glory.

The woodlands paths are muck.

Under the January sunlight the water
mirrors a still sky;

Upon the brimming creek . . .
a few Poland ducks.

Not much of a parody, but "The Wild Swans at Coole" is a poem I think of when I look at the trees, the reflections, and when I wish the paths were dry! It's so wet, the trees are rotting at the roots. Every time there's a big wind (like today), a few trees topple over. Huge sycamores block the trails.

There's also a bid to frack under the park here as well, which worries me.

The Wild Swans at Coole
by Yeats

THE TREES are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine and fifty swans . . .

And the last stanza, which I can't not include . . .

But now they drift on the still water
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake’s edge or pool
Delight men’s eyes, when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?

Dear Professor,

2012-01-17T07:21:00.004-05:00

The first time I heard this, I thought, No way. People don't really
think . . .
But then a high school physics teacher told me that quite a few of her students also think that all rivers flow from north to south . . .

Acquainted with Disdain

2012-01-16T07:33:00.001-05:00

Acquainted with the Night
by Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain — and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
A luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Two Legs . . .

2012-01-14T20:15:00.010-05:00

I was having trouble drawing legs with my mouse. Not a problem I have with a pencil, but . . .
So I thought this one up to test out some legs.

Dear Professor,

2012-01-13T07:14:00.000-05:00

I thought I'd start rotating in some physics comics -- based on the emails and comments students give my husband and friends who are professors.

It always amazes me to read student emails . . .

It was many and many a beer ago . . .

2012-01-12T07:42:00.000-05:00

with lines by Stacey Harwood, Daniel Dyer, and me.

2012-01-11T13:21:00.001-05:00

Snow! I'm expecting you!
Was saying Yesterday
To Somebody
That you were due--

(after Emily's poem, 1035, Bee! I'm expecting you!)

It's been impossibly blue and beautiful here lately. I know the snow is coming, that this can't last . . .
These are photos from my daily dog walk. I love these sycamore trees, and I love staring at the water, any water, creeks, rivers, lakes, the sea . . .

Torso of Marilyn Monroe

2012-01-10T14:07:00.014-05:00

Apologies for this one. But it is what I always think of when I read . . .

Archaic Torso of Apollo
by Rilke

We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,

gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark center where procreation flared.

Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders
and would not glisten like a wild beast's fur:

would not, from all the borders of itself,
burst like a star: for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.

A Certain Kind of Sickness

2012-01-05T10:08:00.002-05:00

There's a certain slant of light,
On winter afternoons,
That oppresses, like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.

Emily Dickinson

Evil

2012-01-03T18:23:00.001-05:00

Of course this is just a variation on the Langston Hughes poem, "Evil," which I love.

This poem reminds me of my personality to the max. As a girl (with strabismus and pink glasses, as depicted in the picture), I was always the one persisting in some irritating enterprise ad nauseum . . .

So now, as a theoretical adult, I keep thinking I am going to take a break from parodies, and I think I can.

I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.

But I won't make any promises.

Pie Beauty

2012-01-02T22:05:00.001-05:00

Pied Beauty
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

GLORY be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

Oh the holidays . . .

2011-12-31T15:00:00.010-05:00

The poems going through my mind today . . .

1. "Mending Wall," by Frost
"Something there is that doesn't love a wall . . . "

2. "Hope is a thing with feathers--
That perches in the soul--
And sings the tune without the words--
And never stops--at all-- "

by Emily Dickinson (this is the first stanza)

3. And of course, "Annabel Lee"

from "To a Mouse" by Robert Burns

2011-12-28T07:36:00.000-05:00

But little Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!
Still you are blest, compared with me!
The present only touches you:
But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects dreary!
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear!

Etiquette for Vampires

2011-12-27T15:11:00.000-05:00

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves . . .

from Mary Oliver's poem, "Wild Geese"

I don't usually bother with poems I dislike, but I don't like this one. And people send it to me from time to time, as if to comfort me.

I know it's a little nuts, but every time I read it or hear it, as in a yoga class or on NPR, I get stuck on the line about letting the animal of your body love what it loves. That's all you need to do? Really?

And --you do not need to be good?

Then I start thinking--maybe it would work in an etiquette book for vampires.

Make Way for Heywards

2011-12-24T07:42:00.003-05:00

Another childhood memory . . .
Nothing like being in a family of 6 kids, all born w/in 9 years.

A Swinger of Spruces

2011-12-23T17:52:00.001-05:00

WHEN I see spruces bend to left and right
Across the line of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some mom's been swinging on them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.

I keep thinking about my mother these days . . .

One of the funnier memories . . .

My mother loved to hike. She also loved to blaze trails. And she always wanted a trail to go by spots that offered the best views.

Once, the two of us were blazing a trail in the mountains of Maine, and we came to a rocky outcroppings with a nice view of the lakes and ocean. We couldn't figure out how a way to get from the cliff to where we wanted the trail to go. There was a steep drop-off, and no easy way down from it in the direction we wanted. So my mother decided to lie on her belly, reach over the edge of the cliff, grab onto the top of a young tree--a spruce, I think (some kind of young evergreen), and the tree slowly bent over, depositing her on the ground before popping back up for me.

It was a fun ride. And it became Mom's new "neat thing" that she had to show everyone.

Needless to say, not everyone was as happy with the tree-ride.

Whose chocolates these are . . .

2011-12-21T20:42:00.003-05:00

She won't see me pinching them though . . .

When I was growing up, we used to get so many boxes of chocolates. With six kids in the family, we were always pinching them to see what was in the center. When my parents got upset with the boxes of mutilated chocolates, we started operating on them with sewing needles, delicately drilling into the bottoms to see the core. The chocolates were pretty disgusting, even after the most careful needle drilling. It was always a tight moment when the chocolates were offered up to guests . . .

I Caught This Morning Morning's Millions

2011-12-19T19:46:00.002-05:00

From "The Windhover" by Gerard Manley Hopkins

2011-12-18T21:33:00.001-05:00

from Fern Hill

2011-12-13T06:56:00.005-05:00

My mother died peacefully at 9:40 last night.

Bah-bah Mom

2011-12-12T16:45:00.008-05:00

My mother is in her last days now. It's been a few weeks in coming, and as a silly coping mechanism, I decided to do a parody a day for each day she was still here. I had quite a few parodies already drawn and written.

My mother, a school teacher, read me so many poems as a child. I didn't like them, and so, as a bratty way to deal with them, I made up parodies. Once you start doing that, it becomes a habit.

So many dumb, dumb parodies run through my mind.

My mother also corrected my accent and grammar constantly. I remember her once saying, It's not bah-baby. You aren't a sheep. It's rock-a-bye-baby.

With a southern accent, bye, becomes bah.

Now, when I am in Virginia, I hear people saying bah, or rather, ba-ah, to each other as they wave goodbye.

I think I will be hearing her voice in my head even louder, at least for a while now.

A child said, What Is an Ass

2011-12-12T06:07:00.000-05:00

She Walks in UGG Boots

2011-12-11T07:02:00.001-05:00

In snowy climes with starless skies . . .

(Apologies. I am still thinking about the maven.)

The Maven

2011-12-10T08:03:00.000-05:00

This is just to say

2011-12-09T07:04:00.000-05:00

Every so often there's another article about how women prefer chocolate to sex. There are also articles that say women who eat chocolate are better in bed. A quick search this morning produced the following quote-
A third of women dream about chocolate during the day, compared with only 18 per cent who think about sex, says a new British survey.

There was a study years ago that said British men were dumber after sex. (I wonder if this after-effect applied only to British men?) And another that said 40% of men lie about their sex lives on surveys. Still others claimed that prayer before sex improved performance. About 30% said God never answered their prayers. Women, some studies suggest, rely on chocolate more than men or God.

I love statistics.

The Woman Not Taken

2011-12-08T06:52:00.001-05:00

Love Comics

2011-12-07T06:55:00.005-05:00

I used to love to read love comics. And somewhere along the line, poetry merged with love comics in my brain . . .

When I visit poetry classes of any age, from middle school on up, I am tempted to bring along a few love comics as a kind of illustrated text for some of the poems I know I will be reading . . .

Who said clouds are lonely?

2011-12-06T07:25:00.001-05:00

I wandered o'er vales and hills
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of nimbostratus clouds . . .

When we had to memorize this poem in 5th grade, I asked if Wordsworth lived in a dry climate when he wrote this poem.

Ah well. It's the second wettest year here in NE Ohio. And by the end of the month 2011 might be in first place . . .

I mean to say, we are having cloud cocktail parties, cloud conventions, cloud Occupy-Youngstown seasons . . .

And my dogs hate it!

The Poet's Café

2011-12-04T14:17:00.014-05:00

If one eats too often here, she will be framed with a fearful symmetry . . .

My Last Lunches

2011-12-04T07:35:00.002-05:00

What is the deal with food photography lately? I was in this coffee shop the other day, and this couple was busy photographing every item of food on their plates. And it was not exactly exciting food. Just black coffee, sandwiches, pie . . . What do they do with the pictures? Put them on the wall?

Hey, look, this is what I ate last night! And this was lunch! But wait, don't go. You haven't seen breakfast yet.

Song of Yourself

2011-12-03T07:35:00.003-05:00

Because I could not stop for Sex

2011-12-02T07:40:00.001-05:00

Do not go gentle . . .

2011-12-01T07:05:00.004-05:00

Another album of poetry my parents bought when I was in grade school had a scratchy recording of Dylan Thomas reading "Do not go gentle into that good night." Unlike the Dickinson album, this one was a very powerful reading, almost sermon-like. It reminded me of the Baptist preacher we sometimes heard on the radio and giggled about . . . I would make up parodies, or almost parodies of the opening . . . Any command could become a parody.

Do not pick your nose or wipe on your sleeve
blow, blow into a handkerchief

Do not dip the pitchfork gently into the dung
stab it
and hurl it upon the heap

My 2 First Parodies

2011-11-30T07:31:00.002-05:00

I think the first parody that ever occurred to me was the top one, a response to an album of Emily Dickinson poems that my mother purchased and played for us when we were in grades school. It was horrible . . . This woman with a sickly sweet voice, much like a female Mr. Rogers, recited Dickinson's poems. After listening to the record a few times, I turned to my sister and said, I think I want to throw up! Do you?

The second is a parody of Dickinson's "I'll tell you how the sun rose/ A ribbon at a time. The steeples swarm in amethyst, the news like squirrels ran./ The hills untied their bonnets . . ."
The parody came to mind when I was in high school- with my mother for one of her weekly visits to the beauty parlor. I remember thinking of the steeples of curlers in Aqua Net, the mouths ran and ran, their heads in bonnets . . .

Those were the days of sets, perms, and big hair.

Parodies again

2011-11-29T08:15:00.002-05:00

I drew these for the Best American Poetry blog for the week I blogged with Nicole Santalucia. I posted them a bit ago, but I thought I would post them here again. I love parodies.

How to Keep Writing after the Holidays

2011-11-28T07:10:00.000-05:00

Eye to Eye

2011-11-26T14:40:00.042-05:00

Today, the last day of Thanksgiving break, the last day my son
is home . . .
I wish he lived closer. I wish my daughter lived closer, too.

My son is a computer science graduate student, so I thought I would post an example of his work here:

eye to eye

This is a short animation that Jimmy
and friends made when they were at CMU.

from Borges and I

2011-11-26T07:42:00.003-05:00

Needlework

2011-11-25T13:39:00.004-05:00

Our Wonder World: The Noble Ideals of Americans

2011-11-24T11:46:00.023-05:00

Then there is this quote from Robert F. Kennedy in 1968--when he was seeking the Democtratic presidential nomination.

"Our Gross National Product now is over 800 billion dollars a year. But that Gross National Product counts air pollution and cigarette advertising, and ambulances to clear our highways of carnage. It counts special locks for our doors and the jails for the people who break them. It counts the destruction of the redwood and the loss of our national wonder in chaotic sprawl. It counts napalm and counts nuclear warheads and armored cars for the police to fight the riots in our cities. It counts . . . the television programs which glorify violence in order to sell toys to our children. Yet the GNP does not allow for the health of our children, the quality of their education or the joy of their play. It does not include the beauty of our poetry or the strength of our marriage, the intelligence of our public debate or the integrity of our public officials. It measures neither our wit nor our courage, neither our wisdom nor our learning, neither our compassion nor our devotion to our country. It measures everything, in short, except that which makes life worthwhile. And it can tell us everything about America except why we are proud to be Americans."

From Justice, What's the Right Thing to Do? by Michael J. Sandel, p. 262

And I thought making money is/was the American ideal.
Times, I guess, they are a-changin'.

Where did the grasshoppers go?

2011-11-23T17:56:00.001-05:00

Now that I am blogging about bugs, I have a question.

There used to be so many grasshoppers on the farm during the summer months. But now when I visit in the summer, I don't notice any. What happened? Is there a pesticide that wiped them out?

The Bug of the Night

2011-11-23T07:12:00.001-05:00

When my daughter was in first grade, my mother sent her a bug shirt for her birthday. It was a huge shirt with all kinds of insects on it, and it quickly became her favorite sleep shirt. She liked to pick her favorite bug-of-the night before going to sleep from "Grandma's bug shirt."

The Narcissus Daffodil

2011-11-22T07:01:00.004-05:00

Another flower that reminds me of my mother . . . She loved to tell the myth of Narcissus and Echo. The story of Echo always gave me the creeps, of a woman with no voice of her own, with no other wish than to love a man who was only interested in himself . . .

Jack-in-the-Pulpit

2011-11-21T07:30:00.002-05:00

My mother, 94, has been very sick. We thought she might not be with us much longer last week, but she has rallied. Still, she says she is not sure she wants to hang around much longer.

An avid nature lover, hiker, gardener, she has spent so much of her life trying to educate anyone who will listen about the birds, flowers, trees, rocks, and more. Two weeks ago, when she walked slowly on her canes around the garden, she pointed out every tree, bird, bush and flower and asked me if I knew their names.

This drawing is of the Jack-in-the-Pulpit. As a girl, I always loved it when she pointed to Jack, the stalk under the hood of his pulpit.

Three Responses to Blog Trolls

2011-11-20T07:01:00.000-05:00

The Blog Troll

2011-11-19T06:48:00.001-05:00

Blog Trolls

2011-11-18T07:16:00.002-05:00

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Troll_(Internet)

This Wikipedia article is one of several articles on the Internet that does a good job of describing blog trolls. It seems there are more trolls on poetry blogs lately, just as there are more poetry sites on the Internet that have viruses, including the site famouspoetsandpoems.com.

The general advice, when dealing with trolls, is simply to delete them quickly. Do not respond. And definitely do not click on their links.

Full Stop Interview with Nika

2011-11-16T17:06:00.016-05:00

My niece, Nika, a young and talented writer and reviewer, recently interviewed me for the literary blog Full Stop.

Anne Marie Slaughter: Diplomacy and Iran

2011-11-16T12:21:00.023-05:00

The article is here

I was interested in the section of her article that compares nuclear development to a football game.

Anne Marie Slaughter: Peaceful Intervention in Syria

2011-11-15T20:13:00.029-05:00

There are always so many conflicts going on, it's hard to wrap my mind around them all. Syria continues to baffle me, the courage of the people who protest despite the violence.

http://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2011/11/how-the-world-can-peacefully-intervene-in-syria/248321/

Sex Education

2011-11-15T07:30:00.000-05:00

My mother had a habit of comparing us girls to heifers, especially if it was a topic she didn't want to talk about. She liked to say she timed all of our births for spring, just as she did with the cows. Your father, she would add, was a good bull.

Eureka

2011-11-14T07:45:00.012-05:00

No eureka moments yet . . .

This reminds me of a Dear Professor entry inspired by a physics student who didn't like the labs or experiments.

Dear Professor,

You keep running around the classroom,
monitoring our experiments
and checking our work,
hoping we'll get it . . .
Like maybe we'll have some kind of
eureka moment.
Do we look like Archimedes in the bathtub?

Bathing in Your Brother's Bathwater

2011-11-13T13:01:00.001-05:00

from Southern Comfort, "Bathing in Your Brother's Bathwater"

It wasn't just the bathwater this nun considered dangerous. It was also the towels men dried themselves on.

I was thinking about the role of religion in sex education because my daughter works for a Catholic aid organization, and she was telling me about the NGOs that are dedicated to global population and reproductive issues, NGOs like PSI, Population Services International, and DKT International, which were both started by Phil Harvey, a businessman who began a mail-order condom business and a sex toy industry. Profits from his business help fund his work with AIDS, reproductive heath, malaria, and more.

Parodies

2011-11-12T08:04:00.000-05:00

I am posting parodies on the Best American Poetry Blog today -- as a finale for a week of guest blogging with Nicole Santalucia.

Bed Making Class

2011-11-11T07:45:00.004-05:00

There is a photograph of a few girls and a teacher smoothing a bed with this caption in Wonder World, Volume VII.

Home Vocations for Girls: Laundering

2011-11-10T07:58:00.000-05:00

Contagion

2011-11-09T07:16:00.002-05:00

I am guest blogging on Best American Poetry's blog this week. This is one of the poems I featured there today. The poem reminds me of the film, Contagion, or what I have heard of it. I am not sure why anyone would want to watch a movie about the spread of deadly disease.

Writers' Fear

2011-11-08T06:47:00.001-05:00

After posting the Juan Ramon post below, I had a few friends contact me and say they feared their manuscripts were the unloved ones . . . that they were Juan Ramon. I suppose we all fear that our manuscripts and books are unloved children, sent out into a cold and heartless world. Sigh.

Ham

2011-11-08T06:47:00.000-05:00

When I think of ham, whether it's Green Eggs and Ham, or just any old ham, I think of how my mother paid for my eye surgeries with Christmas hams. And by letting the doctor use my eyes for his research. I was, she said, a good specimen.

Poets at Open Mic

2011-11-07T06:37:00.000-05:00

I Do Not Like It, Juan Ramon

2011-11-06T07:16:00.001-05:00

What do you say when a dear friend and talented writer shows you his or her latest manuscript, and you aren't thrilled?

Three Views of International Aid Workers

2011-11-05T07:37:00.001-04:00

Questions about International Aid Work

2011-11-04T07:25:00.003-04:00

This is an old photo, from El Salvador.
I am still trying to understand how aid works, how it works well and not so well, and why. I am still thinking about the article in the entry below . . .

Food for Peace

2011-11-02T10:02:00.046-04:00

As many of you know, Suzanne is in Kenya, working in development. I learn a lot from her, as you might imagine.

Although it is not the major focus of her work, I often ask her about the famine. One of the major issues that confronts relief organizations is how food aid does and does not work well. There is a great article about it which Suzanne pointed out to me . . . I will quote from it and then link it below.

"America’s biggest food aid program sits in the farm bill because the program was originally designed as a way to get rid of surplus agricultural products to keep prices high. But seeing food aid through the lens of domestic agricultural means there has never been serious consideration of how to make food aid more effective."

http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/11/01/how-to-feed-the-hungry-faster/?ref=opinion

Remembering American History

2011-11-02T07:01:00.004-04:00

I hated history class when I was in grade school. The history books were so boring . . .

When I was in 3rd grade, our teacher left suddenly, and we were given a substitute. Poor lady. No one did any work for her. I would draw pictures of what she called "our American heroes" instead of doing reports. I think I informed her that this was an option allowed by our REAL teacher.

I remember drawing a picture of Paul Revere. I drew a little boy and wrote underneath: Paul Revere before his midnight ride. And then I added--he didn't even own a horse yet.

My father said my Paul Revere should at least wear a hat and long hair. I wasn't sure if he had a hat yet, or a ponytail, but just in case, I drew two pictures, one with the hat and a ponytail, one without.

Years later, when I think of Paul Revere, I think mostly about that weird hat.

Richorexics Anonymous Comic, 3

2011-11-02T07:00:00.000-04:00

A Fan at the Poetry Reading

2011-11-01T06:48:00.001-04:00

The Audience Members at Readings

2011-10-31T07:32:00.006-04:00

Little Englishmen

2011-10-30T11:59:00.005-04:00

Suzanne tells me that in Sudan, they've nicknamed these tiny bananas, Little Englishmen.

(Sudan was colonized by the British.)

from Kenya

2011-10-30T09:00:00.000-04:00

A new photo from Suzanne--taken at a celebration in Taita Taveta near the Tanzania border . . .
I love the way they seem to be jumping straight up--as if from a standing position.

Salt

2011-10-30T08:53:00.000-04:00

from "The Old Woman's Hide," which is in Italian Folktales, Selected and Retold by Italo Calvino

I love the openings of fairy tales. Often the stories are not nearly as inspiring, but the first paragraphs . . .

Michael Jackson: This Is It

2011-10-29T08:08:00.002-04:00

I used to suspect that Michael Jackson was really an alien.
I love his advice to artists . . . You gotta let it simmer.

Seven Billion!

2011-10-28T07:22:00.000-04:00

Born just in time for trick or treat . . .

I hope some of them are ETs. We sure could use some extra-planetary help with this problem, which even environmental groups avoid discussing for fear of offending some religious people. (And some economists?)

A Closed Concert by Karen Kovacik

2011-10-27T18:12:00.004-04:00

Two Sides of the Writer's Personality

2011-10-27T08:10:00.002-04:00

"The Story of My Life, As Written by My Mother," by Karen Kovacik

2011-10-26T14:06:00.000-04:00

Two Sides of the Writer's Psyche

2011-10-26T07:14:00.002-04:00

Richorexics Anonymous Comic, 2

2011-10-26T07:10:00.000-04:00

A Diet of Murderous Thoughts

2011-10-25T07:30:00.002-04:00

My Last Duchess

2011-10-25T07:28:00.004-04:00

I had to give the duchess a bit of an attitude. And a few more years . . . Somehow the desire for her to strike back overtakes me . . .

I have to read and teach at Lake Erie College today, and I am taking Tom Clark's wonderful new book, Canyonesque, with me. I plan to and use the poem, "Poetry Lesson" in class.

"Poppies" by Jennifer Grotz

2011-10-24T07:23:00.002-04:00

Richorexics Anonymous

2011-10-24T07:04:00.002-04:00

Mighty Be Our Powers

2011-10-23T08:09:00.008-04:00

This book is not as well-written as What is the What or Infidel, but it's still a fascinating history of Liberia, as well as a memoir. It was also inspiring to read about these women . . . empowering.

The fairest of them all

2011-10-22T07:42:00.004-04:00

In the world of poets, I always feel like the terrier in a party of lovely cats.

Boston terriers, now they are real genetic anomalies. Genetic anomaly, or genetic sport, the words my mother used to apply to me, meaning I don't know where you came from, but it wasn't me.

The term, genetic anomaly, always reminds me of those stupid questions teachers used to give us in what they called New Math, back in first grade. There would be a set of 4 things: a cow, a pig, a dog, and a fork. And you were supposed to circle what doesn't belong in the set. I always wondered who thought up those questions? What is wrong with the adults in this world?

Of course, I always wanted to make up my own sets: a pea, an acorn, a thimble, a snow flake . . . A rain drop, a sofa, a tea cup, a tower . . . A fairy, a fink, a bite, a teaspoon . .

Saturday Oct. 22 with Chris Barzak and Karen Schubert

2011-10-21T15:15:00.004-04:00

I will be visiting Chris Barzak's class tomorrow at 11:00
and then reading and teaching with Karen Schubert at the Boardman Y at 2:00.

I love list poems. A list of lies is such a great idea for a poem, and Karen's is a great one.
I am not sure if my little excerpt does it justice. You can read the whole thing here:
http://anti-poetry.com/anti/schubertka/

Chris's story is a magical sci-fi retelling of a rust-belt city in its smokiest days--a city that consumes the lives of its inhabitants. Painterly in style, "Smoke City" takes you into an unlit world, and at the end, you come out, like the main character, blinking at the light.

Beatrice and Virgil

2011-10-21T07:48:00.003-04:00

I am amazed at how people can suffer the most horrific experiences in wars and say it strengthens their faith, as in the case of the women in Liberia.
The reaction of the father in Atwood's The Blind Assassin makes more sense to me:

"However, a much worse thing had happened: my father was now an atheist. Over the trenches God had burst like a balloon, and there was nothing left of him but grubby little scraps of hypocrisy. Religion was just a stick to beat the soldiers with, and anyone who declared otherwise was full of pious drivel. What had been served by the gallantry of Percy and Eddie, their bravery, their hideous deaths?"

Beatrice and Virgil

2011-10-20T07:45:00.002-04:00

I have a habit of reading books without reading the reviews or summaries, and often I have no idea what I am getting into. As a result, I end up reading horrific tales of war and violence, themes I would normally attempt to avoid. For example, lately I recently read Murakami's Wind Up Bird Chronicles and Yan Martel's Beatrice and Virgil and Life of Pi.

In the Murakami novel a Japanese soldier is skinned alive by Mongolian and Russian soldiers. In the Martel novel, Life of Pi, Martel uses animal killings as a metaphor for human violence. A hyena eat a a zebra, slowly, ick, and, well, let's just say it's very reminiscent of the Murakami scene.

InBeatrice and Virgil I realized, only in the second half of the novel, that one of the main characters is a Nazi war criminal, seeking forgiveness. I also learned that this book was not nearly as well liked as Pi, but I really liked it. I think it has many of the appealing aspects of a Murakami novel-- it is deeply imagined and moves on many levels. In the end, the book reminded me (ever so slightly) of that movie, The Fog of War, in which Robert McNamara talks for hours about his role in World War II and Vietnam, as if he is needing to explain, to apologize, to redeem himself, even as he confesses.

From Kenya

2011-10-19T20:47:00.019-04:00

http://savings-revolution.org/blog/2011/10/14/lend-money-home.html

I have had so many questions about Suzanne, I thought I would post a link to her latest entry on the savings revolution blog, as well as a photo from her field work. She is in the field again this week, so I should have new pictures soon.

The Ear Model

2011-10-19T07:20:00.005-04:00

I been reading a lot of Murakami, and I keep thinking about certain themes, ideas, characters and images that recur in his books. Ears, for example. In his book, A Wild Sheep Chase, he has the main character fall in love with an particular ear model. It begins with a photograph and progresses to a relationship with a call girl-ear model. First he sees photos of his ears . . .

"The real reason I didn't take the photos down was that these ears had me in their thrall. They were the dream image of an ear. The quintessence of ears. Never had any enlarged part of the human body (genitals included, of course) held such strong attraction for me. They were some great whirlpool of fate sucking me in."

The Dangers of Drinking Tea or Coffee

2011-10-18T07:22:00.002-04:00

Beware of Pickles

2011-10-17T07:30:00.007-04:00

from Our Wonder World, copyright 1914

2011-10-16T22:14:00.003-04:00