The Earthquake in El Salvador

The entire village where my daughter now lives was destroyed by an earthquake in January, 2001. A few structures, like this one, still remain.

Just as happened in our last visits, many conversations turn to the subject of the earthquake. Everyone has a story. A common question between villagers:
Where were you when the earthquake hit.

The earth moved like water beneath our feet, a mother says. The people were running one moment, and they were gone the next. One of her 9 daughters was killed when trying to save a child. Just as she handed the child to another woman, the dirt swallowed her.

Do the folks in the USA know about our earthquake, a man asks?

Yes, I assure him. People know about the earthquake in El Salvador. (I don't have the heart to say otherwise.)

The Beach in El Salvador

Working at the Ice Cream Shop or a tiny story about life in El Salvador

I asked Suzanne’s friend, Patrona, about this five dollar an hour wage. She didn't answer my question, but she and Suzanne started talking in Spanish about F. who got a job working at an ice cream shop in San Salvador. ( I think I understood the most of this story, though my Spanish isn't even close to up to snuff.) Her mom was really excited because it's hard to get a job in an ice cream shop in San Salvador if you are from a tiny village in the hills. Everyone wants a job like that, but no one can afford a place in San Salvador. So the woman who owned the shop let F. stay in her home. What could be more perfect?

Plus F. was starting to see a guy who was 25 and in the police academy too, a guy who was going to be able to make a good living some day. She invited him to a big fiesta she was planning for her 18th birthday, and the plan was that he would ask her father then if he could have permission to date F. (Already her father approved.) This is a big event, the asking to date the daughter event, and usually the young suitor is terrified. Everyone was talking and giggling and asking in suspense.

But then she learned the boyfriend was seeing a 14 year old girl, too. And the woman who owned the ice cream shop stopped paying F.. She kept saying she would, but that times were hard. She had F. working full time and was asking her to do other things, like clean her house. One day F. ran away. (She had to run away? I asked, wondering if she couldn't just have said, I'm not doing this. They nodded and looked at me, as if to say, don't you get it?)

Shortly after her return, C., an old man in the village died, so her eighteenth birthday party (that she'd been planning for weeks with Suzanne ordering the cake, and her mother worrying about the dress . . . and we were all planning to attend) was canceled because you can't have a party when someone in the village has just died. Instead there were seven days of funeral rites with everyone singing and praying into the nights.

Advice from a Tourist Guide to El Salvador

On our first days there, we chose to stay at a Salvadorian hotel on the beach because of the nice write-up in our tourist guide, a book which is completely outdated because, well, maybe no one wants to be a tourist in El Salvador. I imagine Peace Corps parents are the only folks who buy this book. Then I start wondering, are there tourist guides for every country? Your Vacation Guide to Chechnya? Or Benin? Or Libya? Or Papau, New Guinea?
Not to compare El Salvador with those places . . .

To be fair, last time we stayed at a budget hotel, El Salvadorian style, and it was the best. Just not the one the guide book bragged about.

$5 a Day?

Do they really pay $5/day to factory workers in El Salvador? Which U.S. companies?

I think the first guy who told me about the $5/day wage (though he wasn't the only one)
was from Reebok/Adidas. Reebok, btw, doesn't like to disclose its factory locations. Like Nike, it doesn't have the best human rights record.

Lacoste has its major U.S. operation in El Salvador. I spent a long time talking to a businessman who works for Lacoste, but he talked mostly about the beautiful women in El Salvador (verdad!). Esp. his girlfriend who has a home in the mountains, a home on the beach, a home in San Salvador with many servants and . . .

Water

Why is there a bathing cubicle in the kitchen-dining area in your daughter's house in El Salvador? a friend asks.

Because that's where the water is--the water for cooking, drinking, cleaning, and bathing.
There is no indoor plumbing in the houses in her village.
Water is turned on every other day by whomever it is that owns the water, and it runs for an hour into the hoses that fill the troughs. (The hoses are always turned on.)
People who can't afford water walk down a very steep hill to the river, then bathe, wash their clothes, chat with the other women who are bathing and doing laundry, and then carry their drinking water in pitchers--on their heads--back to their homes. The river is thick with mud at this time of year because it's the rainy season, and the hills are so steep, the rainwater washes the dirt away, dirt which is heavily fertilized by the farmers . . .

Is the water that runs into the houses treated?

I don't know. It's clear. But it's not safe for me to drink. The last time I was there, mosquitoes had laid their eggs in the trough. There were little red worms in the water. The women tossed in some white powder to kill the worms.

Do people get sick a lot?

Yes. Some Peace Corps volunteers get sick. Others, like my daughter, don't get sick any more than folks do in this country . . .

Americans Bathe Too Much?

Maybe it depends on what country you're comparing us too.

There's no hot water in the home where Suzanne lives, but everyone takes bucket baths at least once a day. Often twice. They ar every clean.

The women do laugh at how Suzanne takes bucket baths every day after running. Did you know you can get arthritis from taking cold baths when you're still sweating? You are supposed to wait until you've cooled down (which is something that rarely happens in my case).

A bucket bath, btw, is when you take what looks like a dog bowl, dip it in the water (which is kept in what looks like a big trough) and then throw it over yourself. This is the standard bathing method. And there isn't a lot of privacy. In her current house, the bathing unit is a little cubicle in the kitchen, which isn't exactly a kitchen. It's sort of like an open-air room or porch where the people, dogs, and chickens eat.

The Terrible French -and other national stereotypes

On the way back from El Salvador, I asked the flight attendant --a guy who said he flies all over the world:

So what is it about the French?

He answered that every nationality has its reputation. Or stereotype. And he laughed, adding, they live up to them. Really they do.

The Russians, he said, drink too much and never smile.

The Chinese complain about the food, esp. pasta. Orientals dislike pasta and ice. So the flight always runs out of juice, pop, and water. (And it's true. You really should NOT have ice in your drinks on airplanes.)

The Americans have huge suitcases and bathe too much.

The Japanese are the ones who will sometimes wear face masks for fear of diseases. And they don't want to be touched by accident.

The French? Oh, the terrible French. It's so true. You never want to try to serve a Frenchman.

What Is It about the French?

Do people speak English to you in El Salvador?

No, at least not in the places I was.

Although they did at the Sheraton in San Salvador.

And sometimes, when they did speak English to me, I would have a moment of panic, trying to figure it out. The first question I have to answer is:

Was that Spanish? Or English?

Do they speak other languages?

English is the language most people want to learn. Many might want to come to the U.S.. But there was one man at the Sheraton in San Salvador who spoke French as well as English, and he told me how he hated the French. Shoot, even the school director in Suzanne's tiny village hates the French. When I asked him why, he answered that he had been to Spain. As if that answered it.

What is it about the French?

A link to a list of literary reviews

www.poetrylinks.net/index.html

Let's Go to the Beach in El Salvador

So what was the beach like?

Costa del Sol is about an hour from the airport in San Salvador. A hot, hot drive. No one (not even the taxis) uses A.C.. (Gas is about $5 bucks a gallon.) And it's 90 plus humid degrees. As my daughter puts it, just be happy you aren't on one of the buses. Yeah, most people get around in buses--or they pack into the backs of trucks.

But about the beach.

It's beautiful. White sand, aqua skies, surf. Except for the lack of people (I think we saw 4 people on the beach), the packs of wild dogs that napped in the sand, growled and barked, and sometimes dove into the waves to cool off, and the herd of cattle strolling on the sand, the beach could have been just about anywhere . . .

Animation, Eye to Eye

I am posting this animation by Jimmy and co. again. Check it out if you haven't seen it yet.

www.leocov.com/pages/thickboxes/eyeToEye.html?keepThis=true&TB_iframe=true&height=620&width=845

from Notes on Writing

Sometimes when I write a poem on my computer, I think,
Okay. That sounds decent.

When I print it out, I find all kinds problems.

It's as if somehow the computer screen shows me only the dream of the poem.

Happy Fourth of July!

Things I am happy about:

1. I am home from El Salvador! ( Yes, I love this country. I do. And I will love it more when Obama is president.)
2. Indoor plumbing
3. Refrigeration
4. Hot showers
5. Water that is safe drink
6. Food I can digest. (I can't wait to feel well again! I always get sick in El Salvador. )

7. My daughter will be home in 5 months!
8. Her idealism, her spirit, her desire to help others . . . ( and The Peace Corps, which I think should be better run, but the idea of it, the wish behind it, and of those who join it, I admire so . . .)

9. And this ( which has nothing to do with the fourth). A little animation my son did at CMU with some other students.
It's really, really short. It's fantastic. (Okay, I know I shouldn't brag so about my kids. Sorry.) It will make you smile.

www.leocov.com/pages/thickboxes/eyeToEye.html?keepThis=true&TB_iframe=true&height=620&width=845

Things I Have Heard at Buddhist Teachings

1. There is a flower that grows in the Himalayas and only blooms once every 100 years. It is a rare person who ever sees it, even in passing, but even she rarely stops to realize its beauty.

2. In one moment of anger you can destroy a lifetime of good karma.

3. The myth of the western hero, replayed in popular films in the west, is of a hero who conquers evil by war and/or violence. But modern warfare is just a funeral pyre on which we heap the bodies of loved ones. (This was the topic of a talk by the Dalai Lama in NYC in --I think- 1996.)

4. Teachings on anger are like the texts on fire management read by forest rangers. There is always a lot of debate about the question of controlled burns.

5. Certain Buddhist masters, it is said, are magicians. They can levitate, manifest in two places at once, walk on water, and leave fingerprints in stone. Some of the greatest still fail to accomplish the most important feat of all: to leave an imprint on another’s heart.

6. The heart has a door which must be opened if one is to become a buddha. The door can only be opened by another human. Never by oneself.

7. A buddha is simply one who is awake. Everyone wakes up--if only for a second before s/he begins to dream again. Ah, what dreams! What nightmares . . . . We must keep our eyes shut tight to see what happens next . . .

8. But this is my question. Are the poems and stories only in the dream state? Would one be able to write if one woke up? Or would there be, as I have also been taught, no words for what/where/how one is then . . .

The Fastest Literary Reviews and the Slowest . . .

Okay, in my last post I mentioned reviews that take a really long time to respond (up to a year and often longer). I'd also like a list of the reviews that are the fastest, the ones that run like well-oiled machines. These reviews often give you a yes or no in less than 2 months. Happily, I think it's probably a long list. I'll add to it as I go along . . . I'd love some help with this!

On the fast list so far, I've heard from friends the following names.

Michigan Quarterly Review, Agni, Gargoyle, DMQ, The Barn Owl Review, Muse, Diagram, The Cincinnati Review, The Pinch, Mid-American Review, Mipoesias, Zyzzyva, New England Review, Poetry, The Atlantic, 2River View, Beloit Poetry Journal

The slow list:

Rougarou, Rockhurst Review, I-70, Pegasus, North American Review, Kalliope, Artful Dodge, APR, New Letters, Cutthroat

Ah-Mary showed me this! Amazing!

www.jefferybahr.com/Publications/RptSubTimes.asp

And thanks Jeannine for this:
duotrope.com/RTstats.aspx?report=Top25&pubtype=S

A list of literary reviews that . . .

I was out to lunch with S and other writer friends a while back, and S suggested we writers should make a list of literary reviews that take over a year to respond (or never do). She mentioned APR, Cutthroat, New Letters, Artful Dodge (I love Artful Dodge) and some others that never responded to her queries though she sent SASEs.

Is there such a list? It isn't that I would not send to these places. But it would be nice to know that I might never hear . . .

Summer

Summer at last. Sigh. Long days. And travel.

Suzanne, my daughter, will be home this week from El Salvador, and we will visit my 91 year old mom in Virginia. 91 years. Phew.

Then we'll fly together back to El Salvador. S. will be done with the Peace Corps in November. I can't wait to have her living in the same country.

Next, there's IMAGINATION in Cleveland . . . The second week of July. Probably my last time teaching there. It's always different, always fun, always inspiring. I hope I am back to feeling like writing by then . . .

I've been spinning my wheels lately. Though I am such a bad judge of my own work, I've realized that often when I think I'm writing well, I really stink. And vice versa . . .

But lately my critic has been on full volume. Change this, fix that . . .

I wish someone would teach me how to turn the volume down.

Teaching Physics, Physics Humor, and the Perfect Excuse

Is there such a thing as physics humor? S asked me the other day.

I don't know. I hope so. I mean, I did write a book of physics humor.

And if I were teaching physics, I'd need a sense of humor. And a lot of compassion.

Students (and not just physics students), btw, make up the most wonderful excuses.

I have been wondering lately if there is such a thing as a perfect excuse.

If so, there should be a prize for it. Every year. A national competition.

But the perfect excuse would have to be subtle. And convincing.

Like a lover. It should convince you it is telling the truth, that it has nothing else to offer.

If it comes on too strong, you won’t believe it. Or if it is too weak, too vague, who would listen to it? Or forgive it for all its trespasses . . .

No, the perfect excuse has to be just the right size and shape and temperature. And it must move at the right speed and rhythm . . .

so that you move with it into an alternate universe where all answers are yes. Yes! Yes! Yes!

And all endings are happy.

Dear Professor Do You Live in a Vacuum?

can now be ordered on Amazon. It's a collection of poems based on emails, comments, and notes students sent to my husband, a professor of physics.

When I first started collecting these, I sent a few to Lawrence Krauss at Case Western Reserve University, and he encouraged me to put them together in a book. I had this fantasy then of a mini-book of physics humor--and if it ever took off, I'd use it to promote science education . . . (Oh, such fantasies I have from time to time . . . )


Here's a sample:

Dear Professor,

You gave us that problem
about driving down the freeway at 60 MPH
in a VW bug and hitting a truck
that was driving at 75 MPH,
and you wanted to know what happened next . . .
I figured the answer was simple.
Drive a truck from now on.

Writing about the Past and Dairy Farming and rBST and r BGH and . . .

I've been writing a little about my past. Not a lot. It bums me out, writing too much about my childhood. Not sure why. But once I start, I hear my mother's voice in my sleep. A dairy farmer, she loved to lecture about milk, cows, organic food, CAFOs, you name it. I wake up sometimes, mid-lecture . . .

She was like a fact machine. You couldn't just sit back and relax, once she got started.

Here's the kind of thing she would say to anyone who happened to visit . . .about cows and milk and . . .

In case a person wanted to know about such things:


Grass-fed cows produce less milk than grain-fed, but it’s sweeter milk, as long as they don’t get into the onion grass.
Grain-fed cows gain weight and grow faster, but not as fast as those hormone-dosed cows.
But everyone knows. Hormones aren’t good for women or cows. In the case of cows, the hormones, rBST and rBGH, can increase milk production by 15%.
But these hormones are banned in Europe and Canada.
And if it weren't for Monsanto, they'd be banned here, too.
They make the cows sick. A cow isn't designed to be producing but so much milk. And who wants to drink the milk of a sick cow?
The farmers in the States inject the cows with antibiotics, and it’s hard to say just how much of the antibiotics get into the milk we sell. And into the ground water.
Some suspect rBST and rBGH increase the risk of reproductive cancers in humans.
Of course there’s always the others who say everything’s safe.
Go ahead, eat, drink, and be merry.

Random Things I've Been Thinking about

1. If we don’t elect a D in November, the Supreme Court will become even more conservative. McCain has promised to anoint another Alito or Roberts . . . Or how about another Scalia . . .

2. Grist is still the best source of on-line news.

3. I wish Hillary would stop wearing pantsuits. If she wants to wear a suit, why not a nice Italian men’s suit, 3-piece (navy or black or pin-striped) with a tie. And a hat. I like men’s suits and hats. They compliment every body type, and so far as I know, they don't usually come in yellow and aqua.

4. I think certain chain restaurants should be banned. They remind me of CAFOs, or Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations. CAFOs, in case you don't know, fatten animals up on hormones and grains, esp. corn. If you eat steer (or steaks) from CAFOs, you consume lots of hormones and bad karma.

5. My mom used to rant and rave against CAFOs. And my dad said he felt sorry for each and every steer. "But if I were a bull with no balls," he added, "I’d want to eat all day, too. I'd be just as happy then at CAFO. Or a Pondersa."

6. On the farm, where I grew up, the term "corn-fed" was synonymous with fat. "She's just corn-fed, that's all. You just need to give her a little time in the pasture . . . "

Magic

After reading the entry below on bio notes, my friend, S, pointed out that I always write about disappearing.

She says I disappear all the time anyway. it's true.

(Like Bilbo or Golem, I, too, am possessed by the ring.)

In The Book of Orgasms, in one poem, S. reminded me, I became a blonde guru who could disappear at precisely 3:30 every day. Why 3:30?

Because it’s the perfect time to vanish. Between 3:30 and 5:00. (And at cocktail parties, graduations, weddings, and wakes.)

I would disappear into the ley lines. S pointed out that I redefined ley lines. But then, she, like me, is one of the few who knows about ley lines. And who enters them and vanishes at will.

She even recognized the people who lived in these ley lines, an ancient tribe of cosmic men whose penises grow one inch each year. And become more enduring. Of course they only exist between 3:00 and 5:00 and can only be accessed through certain portals.

Houdini, of course, is among them. Which is one of the reasons I wrote Sleeping with Houdini.

I still remember the first time I saw invisible men and women. It was a game I played as a girl.


The invisible, I learned, are right between here and there, one breath and the next, one thought and another. (Sometimes here is more here than others, of course, just as there is more there and less there, depending.)

If I could be really quiet, I could see them.

But one word, and they were gone.

Poems are like that. And some stories, too. Just as they start to show up, someone can interrupt them. A phone call, a knock on the door.

And they are gone. If I don’t follow them to the other side, they vanish, never to be seen again.

When the author is not writing

Do you ever go blank when you have to fill out the bio note part of a page?

And want to say something . . . anything . . . interesting?

When the author is not writing,

she's usually sky diving, dropping slowly out of the sky.
It's the feeling of falling she can never get enough of . . .

When the author is not writing,

she's traveling the globe, searching for the missing link . . .

When the author is not writing,
she's deep sea diving, swimming along the ocean floor . . .

When the author is not writing,

she's learning the art of disappearing.
Many are beginning to suspect she doesn't exist at all.
Even she is beginning to wonder . . .

Notice

Things I've noticed lately. I like the word, notice.

One of Jim's students wrote him a week ago:
Dear Professor. I just noticed I received a D.

He just happened to notice.

And in the noticing, no doubt, he wished he could no longer notice.

But still, he is only noticing.
As if he is a mere observer. Even a distant observer.

And the D is like a bird that landed on his windowsill.
Who can say why? Or know how some things land as they land.

Reading

Sarah Willis and I will read at the Bertram Woods Library in Shaker Heights tomorrow night, May 22, at 7:00.

Sarah, who is one of my all-time favorite authors, is going to read her short-short fiction. I love listening to her read. Sometimes I feel she is writing my own childhood, only her stories takes place in Ohio or rural New York, instead of Virginia.
I haven’t heard her shorter work, so I am really looking forward to this reading.

Keeping some things in the closet

On one of my recent trips, the woman sitting next to me on the airplane told me she was cleaning her closets. It's a spiritual practice, she said as she refreshed her make-up.

You mean, metaphorically speaking? I asked, hopefully. I'm not the kind of person who gets into the cleaning thing. Unless I can do it with a pitchfork.

But no, she meant it literally. She said it's important to look at what you hold onto. Especially the clothes you'll never wear again, like those teal pantsuits you've had for years. (I've never worn teal or a pantsuit, and I have no intention of starting now.)

Like my wedding dress?

No, she wasn't talking about wedding dresses. Though it's true I never have taken mine out this big box where it's supposedly "preserved." I sometimes wonder if it's actually in there. I have contemplated taking it out and wearing it for Halloween, but I might scare someone.

But the other day I started looking at all the clothes I never wear. Like the Sylvia Plath dress that fits me like a glove. Or the Dorothy dress that has puffy sleeves and a fluffy slip that is designed to show. I just need red shoes and Toto, too. I wore it once upon a time. Or my mother's old double polyester black cocktail dress that makes me look like a penguin. My mother was a firm believer in one-size-fits-all.

No, I think I prefer just to close the closet door.

Literally and metaphorically.

I mean, who knows when a memory might come in handy?

Muffin Tops

I don’t know about you, but I like to shop alone. I don’t want anyone waiting on me, trying to help me out. But the other day I was picking up some underwear in the men’s department, and this woman called Sandy decided I needed help.

Why, she asked me, was I looking at boxer shorts? Normally I would have walked away, but I didn’t feel like being rude. After all, Sandy looked really tired, as if she’d had a hard day selling men’s underwear. And she told me she’d been up since 9 AM for the sales. Yep. The sales. Didn’t I know there was a two for one specials on all men’s lingerie? No, and I didn’t know that men called it lingerie. Yes, she said, before explaining to me all the latest styles of men’s underpants.

Those are called swingers, she told me, pointing to the plaid boxer pants I’d picked up. Swinging is not good for most young men. Especially the athletic types, know what I mean? As far as she was concerned, the only thing boxer shorts are good for is keeping the pubic hairs out of the zipper. I wouldn't let my boys go near them, she said.


Young men today, she added, are as fashion conscious as the ladies. It's only natural. But what it means is that there are all kinds of choices now. She asked me, does “the man in my life” wear low-rise jeans? Or those baggy pants with no belt, so they slide down? Because men and boys now get to select from a variety of styles in low-rise underpants. She showed me a new synthetic brand designed for men who need a little moisture- release. These keep our boys dry, she said, trying to explain away their price.

Before I left without deciding on which type of underwear would be just right for “the man in my life,” she asked if I knew what it’s called when I see a buttocks rising over the backs of pants?

You know what I’m talking about? she added, grinning.

Muffin tops. Yes, Ma’am. That’s what they’re called.

I’m so glad she told me that.

I now do all my shopping on line.

I did a reading at CU in Boulder and met the Subito Press folks. Such fun, young, and eccentric folks--just as I had hoped. Add to that: they are in Colorado! Certain places should be outlawed . . . They are way too fun.

Here I am post-reading with my awesome cousins, celebrating my birthday, just a few weeks ahead of schedule. Any excuse to celebrate. Any excuse to go skiing.

Celibacy

Today, when driving around, I was listening to the radio, to these two young priests who were being interviewed. One started talking about his priestly life enthusiastically. He said that people have misconceptions about what it entails to be a priest. They don't understand the meaning of celibacy, for example.

They don’t? I asked myself. What's there to understand?

I started wondering. I was reminded of this story about a man who was so spiritual, he claimed he never had to eat. He said he could get his energy from prana, or the air. So folks followed him everywhere. One day they caught him at 2 AM on a binge at a fast-food joint. The man was unapologetic.

Sure, the man said. I do eat sometimes. But not because I need to. I just enjoy it.

I thought maybe celibacy was like that, too.

Or maybe there is a Catholic text somewhere which explains the varieties of celibacy available to its practitioners. Or perhaps it contains a list of optional definitions. Maybe there is literal vs figurative celibacy. Or theoretical vs actual celibacy. A via negativa and a via positiva for celibacy. A celibacy that is not celibacy but is not not celibacy. A virtual celibacy, an ethereal celibacy . . .
Or maybe there is:

Celibacy for the priest: It only happens if/when he hears the call. Please note: the word, it, is open to interpretation.
Celibacy for the layman: Yeah right.
Celibacy for the pensive: A recurring nightmare, frequently discussed by those who engage in Freudian therapy.
Celibacy for scientists: A hypothetical reality, best not tested.
Celibacy for magicians: And you thought cutting a woman in half was cruel magic.
Celibacy in ancient Greece: A curse cast upon a man who had taken liberties with the goddesses.
Celibacy in the Middle Ages: A term used in battle to describe the state of a warrior who has been parted from his horse
Celibacy in fairy tales and fables:A term used to describe a legendary character who had nothing, wanted nothing, felt nothing, and suffered from nothing.
Celibacy according to the angels: Proof of human idiocy. Also, a preference for the wingless life.
Celibacy according to Elvis: Are you lonesome tonight?
Celibacy according to Odysseus: They had to tie me to the mast.
Celibacy according to Sheherezade: I will tell you the rest of the story tomorrow.
Celibacy according to Zorba: "There is no greater sin than when a woman asks you to her bed, and you do not go!"
Celibacy according to Anonymous: The fallen leaf can never return to its branch.
Celibacy according to Moliere: "I prefer an accommodating vice to an obstinate virtue."
Celibacy according to St. Augustine: "O Lord, help me to be pure, but not yet."

Ad

A couple of years ago, I received a letter from Nike asking me if I wanted to try my hand at writing an ad for them. They said they’d read one of my poems, and they thought I had a gift. And they’d pay me to try. I called to be sure. Yes, this wasn't a joke. Even if I failed miserably, Nike would send a nice check in the mail.

I thought about it. I remembered a high school English teacher who, like so many English teachers, fancied himself the next great American poet, but his greatest success was an ad for instant coffee. His ad was something like: What smells like, tastes like, is like fresh ground coffee?

But I was told a one-liner would not do. The Nike spokesperson seemed to think I might want to tell a little story in my ad, and maybe use some rhyme scheme, you know, compose some genuine poetry.

I tried to explain that I am not into rhyme schemes. I am not sure about the stories my poems tell. Or how genuine my poetry is . . . . I tried to warm them. But to no avail.

At the time, Nike was in the news for it’s sweatshops in third world countries, so I didn’t think I owned any Nikes. I tried not to, anyhow. But I did find a pair of draw-string Nike sweats. And I really liked them. All the elastic was long gone, and the pants were so thread-bare, they almost felt like they weren’t there. So I wrote this nice little ad. And several others.

Ad


Are you, too, looking for something
new in your life?
Something that's more you?
Do you want that special something
that protects you from the influx
of unwanted news, loneliness, despair,
inexplicable blues?
That let's you feel as if you are outside
in the summer air, strolling down the sidewalk
or sandy beach feeling nothing but the wind
in your hair? No chafing at your soul
or pinching at your wrists
and waist, no endless lists
of reminders and regrets,
no unsettling fears of, oh shit,
or what's next? Do you often say, fuck this?


How about a nice pair of drawstring pants?

Reading in front of parents and friends

I used to dread the idea of reading in my hometown. The idea gave me the willies. Reading in front of people from my past? Or worse, my parents? I don't think so.

On Saturday I read at the Virginia Festival of the Book in Charlottesville, the town where I grew up. My mother said she wouldn't miss it, though I suggested it might be too much for her to go. It was strange but sweet to be standing up in front of her. She’s 91, and I am sure she was secretly terrified that I would embarrass her. I was a terrified, too. She sat there in her wheel chair, in the middle of the room, the sun on her white hair, looking amazed. Afterwards, she wanted me to read the poems for her again in the privacy of her own room. Then she had me mark off all the poems I had read. She particularly liked the poems about herself. Yes, she would say, nodding. Yes. That sounds like me.

Reading in Santa Cruz

I just returned from Berkeley, California, where my son is in graduate school. What an amazing contrast to Ohio. I don’t even know where to begin. The blue sky, the weather, the hills, the city, the people, the politics.

A man walking down the street in a purple mini skirt with a matching Mohawk barely gets a second glance. A political protest marching in the middle of traffic down the main street is met with approving beep-beeps and waves. Folks living in the trees outside the football stadium peer out from the leafy branches and then go back into their tree houses. Four policemen sit on a bench watch and chat nonchalantly. They seem oddly relaxed and happy. What is wrong with this picture?

I gave a poetry reading in a book shop in Santa Cruz. I was wearing clothes for hiking when I arrived. So I went to the bathroom to gussy up a bit. A nude woman was in there, taking a bath in the sink. She looked a little worried when she first saw me, but then she spotted the bag of clothes I was carrying and suspected I might be a kindred soul. Somehow we started gabbing as she dressed, putting on layer after layer of thermal under-garments before finally covering them all in a large dress and a coat. She informed me that the book shop was a nice place to clean up and change. No one had yet bothered her when they found her in there. Then she asked me a few questions.

When I told her I was going to give a reading, she smiled wildly and said she had always loved poetry. She watched me slip on a pair of black pants and a black silk shirt. Ah, yes, now you look like a poet, she said approvingly, suggesting I tuck in the blouse. Then we both ambled out, me with a bag of books I hoped to sell, she with about four huge bags of assorted clothes and blankets.

I always feel a little nervous when I start a reading, and this one was no exception. After ten minutes of waiting, the empty chairs filled. I went up to the podium and began my reading as I usually do, opening with a poem called “Powerful Magic” that helps to center me. After reading it, I glanced out, just beyond the circle of chairs. The bag woman was standing there, smiling widely. She gave a wave, a nod and quick thumbs-up. I felt a wave of warmth every time I looked up at her. And each time she waved.

Your Audience?

Every now and then, when I am in a writer's group or at a workshop, someone will ask this peculiar question. Who do you imagine is in your audience? I always want to ask the same question back. Who is in your audience?

I begin to imagine that we all have an audience we never know or meet. It's as if there are these strangers out there somewhere on the other side of one of those one-way mirrors. They can watch our every move, but we never see them.

As a poet, I never imagine anyone reading my work. But what if I did? Who would they be?

Would there be any dentists, for example? Should I include flossing in my poetry?

This next poem, I might announce at a reading, is for all the dentists in the room.

What about rocket scientists? Flight attendants? Entomologists? Members of the Secret Police?

If an oxygen mask drops down during this next poem, place it over your nose and mouth and breathe normally.

I think it would be nice to supply emergency equipment for readings. Flotation devices. Beverages. Seat Belts. Vomit bags.

Sometimes at readings, everyone is wearing black, and a few have shades. It's kind of a New York thing, I guess. Or a poetry fashion statement.

I would like to dedicate this poem to all the secret police in the audience. I know you're out there.

Maybe I would be careful what I said after that. I would read poems written in codes so that only a few would understand.

Of course that's usually not a problem. Poets are already known for speaking in code.

I think they are known for speaking to the night, the dawn, the birds, the rain, the snow.

But audiences? I don't know.

A few quotes

I have this odd collection of quotes on my wall.
Some are so old, I have no memory of where they come from.


Here are a few:

1. "I heard a voice through a cloud of agony and sickness. The voice was asking me questions. It seemed to be opening and closing like a concertina. The words were loud, as the swelling notes of an organ, then they melted into the tiniest wiry tinkle in a glass." Denton Welch

2. "Lazy but brown, she can only be discussed in telegrams. I always see her going down the Avenue of September 19 to the bridge, which she doesn't cross. The woman from Wallachia wearing her beloved fur with nothing underneath . . . " Gunter Eich.

3. "We are immortal. I know it sounds like a joke. I know because I met the exception to the rule, I know the only mortal there is. He told me his story in a bar . . . " Julio Cortazar (?)

4. "We prefer the idea of continuing with a new body, like changing our clothes." Thich Nhat Hanh

5. " A poem is a device designed to create a mood in the reader that is similar to the mood its author was in while composing it. Right --

Poem: Early Spring.
Morning temperature on the Hochschneeberg: 34 F
Snow falling, in the form of rain.

...

Young Helga, weeping, is scouring the terrain for primroses." Peter Altenberg

"We can do no great things. Only small things with great love."

Mother Teresa

1 out of 99

A friend of mine told me last week that he had a ms. accepted.
Wow, such great news. But then he went on to say how
he had sent it to 99 places. And 1 took it.

I don't even want to think about the other 98. Or the pain
of all those submissions. Maybe we all know this pain too well.

Me, I don't count. I never want to know how many acceptances
v.s. rejections I receive. I don't believe bad news comes in 3s
or good things either. But I am amazed at how we writers do it.

Kind of like living in eternal winter. No matter how many times
we shovel, there's always more snow coming. Some of it, it's okay.
After all, it's just the season. But after a while, well, I dunno.

Revelations

I've been working on the same poem all week.
I keep waiting for a revelation. How to fix it.
The word, revelation, reminds me somehow
of Martin Luther. He was said to have had
some of his revelations on the toilet seat
when praying for relief. In this way he learned
that God sometimes listens. But not always.

Readings and Why I Live at the P.O.

Readings. I have some readings coming up. One in Tremont this Saturday. I try not to think about that fact too much. I get so nervous sometimes.

Then I think about the good, the bad, and the so-so readings I’ve attended. But one thing’s for sure. I will never forget my first. I was a freshman at Bryn Mawr College (I was there only a year), and I went to a reading one evening by accident. I mean I hadn’t intended to go. I was on my way to the library when one of the English professors caught up to me. She said there was this event I shouldn’t miss. A reading by a very famous, very southern writer. I was southern, wasn’t I? By then she was guiding me by my arm. So we went together to this formal room, smallish and carpeted, with a few people milling around. I think there were twenty people or so, and most were older, clearly from the faculty. I remember this long-winded introduction. Then this bent woman stood up. I was amazed at how she looked just like a toad. She was soft-spoken at first. But then all of a sudden she took off. She started reading in this thick, southern accent at 100 mph without even stopping for air. She was like a southern accent on steroids. You had to concentrate to keep up. I started laughing and couldn’t stop. She read "Why I Live at the P.O." first. The professor sitting next to me asked if I could understand her. That’s when I realized that Eudora Welty’s accent was so thick, some people were completely lost. They sat stone-faced, staring ahead, as people so often do at readings. But I was in heaven. It was like going home without going home.

I guess we all have a few memories of readings like that. No?

Subway Blonde

Lately I’ve been depressed and tired, so tired, I can’t even bother to focus . . .
(I have screwy eyes so this is easy to do this—to let reality blur
until it looks like an Impressionist mess)
on anything. Which means I keep misreading words.

I read the title of this poem by Amy Lemmon and Denise Duhamel,
“Subway Blunder,” in the new and wonderful Barn Owl Review,
and I was sure it said “Subway Blonde.” I even read the poem,
waiting for the Subway Blonde to appear. But all the woman
were brunettes.

I started to wonder about the blondes. And if they had left
before the poem was done.

And I was reminded of how I received a nasty rejection letter
last fall from a review that had kept the poem for two years,
and the editor decided to tell me why I was so bad,
and maybe it was because I was blonde.
The editor went on to correct my use of the word, blondes.
They’re blonds, not blondes, he wrote.

I wanted to write back that all my blondes have an e
on the end, and they don’t like it when you leave out their best parts.
Men like him know nothing about the blondes.


Oh, there are so many times I’ve wanted to write back to editors
like that. But as a blonde woman, I’ve learned its best to smile
and just say: thank you, please, and oh yes.

And take the next subway home.

If only I were James Tate

I keep thinking about what James Tate said, how he never revises. Because whatever I say, write, think, I want to take it back. Spruce it up, give it new clothes.

It’s true. I revise everything. I change my mind constantly. I’m always making mistakes and trying (to no avail) to fix them. I even dreamt about it last night. I dreamt I was in bed with an Asian man who smelled like curry. Then he wasn’t really a man. He was a woman with red fingernails. Or she was in bed with us too. She told me to stop sleeping with her husband. No, no, I said, I would never do such a thing. I have never even met your husband. I began to apologize profusely. But it was too late for apologies. I mean there I was in the bed with them. And in their dreams.

My friend, Z, has a dream coach (no shit) who has taught her how to fix her dreams.
She does this in her sleep (literally). It's kind of like having the pope overseeing her dreams.

I’m not sure I want to sleep or dream with a pope. I have enough poetry popes. If there is such a thing. I’d like to get rid of them all. I’d like to be like James Tate and say, whatever I did, it’s done now. And I will think of title in a matter of minutes. Ten minutes max. And then, the poem is over, like a bad dream. Or a good one. Who knows?

This is recent pic of Suzanne's family in El Salvador. Not sure what they're making, but sometimes when I get wrapped up in my world here, I like to take a break and look at pics of her there.

I think of her recent phone calls when she tells how she doesn't think she's doing enough. Jeepers, I want to say. You mean you haven't saved the world yet? Me, I'm still trying to fix line 3 in a poem about God only knows what.

S told me this joke she learned in the Peace Corps. What do you call someone who knows two languages? Bilingual. What do you call someone who knows three languages? Trilingual. What do you call someone who speaks only one language? Gringo.

Too Much

Okay, I admit it. I did have fun at AWP.
It's the friends that made it. Denise and Nick
(they're the best, always and forever), Peter
Genevieve, David and Amy, Jo and Karen, Richard and Sally.
And the readings. I love listening to Tate
and Collins and Simic and Edson and Irving and . . .
I even like listening to Simic ramble happily.

It was too much, though. Wasn't it? Way too much.

Stud Ducks

(on the elevator at AWP)

Hey, I remember you! We were in Stud Duck together.

Stud Duck? Was that a bar? Or a shooting range.

No. It was a poetry review. Don't you remember?
We were stud ducklings together.

A panel with Simic

You heard Simic? Was he great?

Well. I don't know.

What did he talk about?

Notebooks. Tiny notebooks.

And the woman?

You mean Chase Twitchell?

I thought Chase was a man.

No. She wasn't.
She talked about notebooks too.
Her notebooks have cat hairs on them.

And the entire panel was about tiny notebooks?
And cat hairs?

No. One was large. Chase's.
Simic asked why it was so large.

Why?

He didn't like it.

What?

The bigness.

Bigness?

Yeah. Simic. I think he opposes bigness.

Oh. Like agoraphobia? Of a large page?

I don't know.
He seemed scared of unlined pages too.

Are you sure?

No. But I did go to the panel.

What else did they say?

Well. Hmm. Simic esp. liked this one tiny notebook.
It had moleskin. He bought it in Germany.
He held it up. Like show and tell.
Then the lady, Chase, kept patting it.

She was patting his moleskin?

Yeah.

Oh. I'm sorry I missed it.

Oh, I feel great!
AWP is over!!!
And it was.
I love the word,
was.
Was, was, was.
Oh was, oh was,
oh was. Oh . . .

Okay, I guess I'm ready for Planet AWP.

But what are you going to wear?

I don't know. Who cares?
It's not the clothes that matter.

Oh. Really?

Of course. Just go as you are.

Okay. Maybe you're right.

(pic by Jimmy)

No, really, it's going to be fun!

Fun?

Yeah. They'll be lots of people.

Define lots.

7,500.

What if I'm not one of them?

AWP and Best American Poetry Blog

Oh, I am nervous about AWP! On the sad side, Sydney Lea will not be able to make it. He will be missed! On the bright side, David Lehman will be joining our panel on translation titled Speaking in Tongues on Friday at 3:00. And speaking of David Lehman, Best American Poetry has a blog now.

thebestamericanpoetry.typepad.com/the_best_american_poetry/
www.bestamericanpoetry.com