Yearly Archives: 2018

128 posts

The Top 3 Posts of All Time

top3

… all time being since this blog began, that is. I must admit that I began this venture more for the business side of poetry. As the new saying goes, creating a blog would make me a “brand” like “Kelloggs” and readers would click, click, click to buy my books of poetry, poetry, poetry (Editor’s Note: Ha, ha, ha.)

As it turns out, blog readers come to read blogs, not buy poetry collections. But I kept writing anyway. Why? As a warm-up? There’s that. To help myself think when reading poetry? That, too. Therapy of a sort when I post “Random Thoughts” posts. Hoo, boy.

In any event, curious as to what was most popular in the now long history of posts here, I found WordPress’s stats area for posts and Voila! as they say during riots in France, the Top 3 for me were revealed! Here they are:

Number 3 (Third most popular post):

How To Review a Poetry Collection I don’t know. What do you think? Students, maybe, assigned a book review on a poetry collection? Maybe, but more likely adults because what teacher assigns poetry collections? Poems, yes. Usually war horses that keep web sites like Schmoop and Sparknotes dot coms in business.

Number 2 (Second most popular post):

A Poem Should Be Mysteriously popular, as this post is more about what a poem should not be. But it includes Archibald MacLeish’s poem, “Ars Poetica,” along with a definition of that word. Maybe internet searches are seeking his poem? Or a little Latin lesson? Or inspiration to write their own ars poetica? Or jokes about swift kicks in the ars poetica?

Number 1 (Drum roll, please, for the most popular post of all time!)

“Apollo and Marsyas”: Zbigniew Herbert Redux Apparently translations of Herbert’s “Apollo and Marsyas” on the Net are few and far between. Yes, I get a lot of visits from Poland, according to the country counter, but fans of Herbert are everywhere, poetry being the universal language. Thus, the first place finish. For now.

For now? Who knows. Clicks on my books of poetry, poetry, poetry (now standing at “two” on the counter) may some day catch up, so pass the French fries and salt….

Top 3 Posts

Damned* Adjectives II: The Sequel

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Yesterday’s game was such a mad success with online poet-gamers and poet-grammar lovers (in both cases, their numbers are legion) that I thought I’d follow up with a contemporary poet, the wildly creative Dean Young.

The first version of his poem below, “Hammer,” features highlighted adjectives. Some of them are his adjectives and belong. Some of them I have added, to see if you can pick them out as superfluous for all the reasons adjectives can BE superfluous (and I love describing adjectives as being unnecessary by using adjectives–first “superfluous” and now “unnecessary.”

In any event, Young’s actual poem is a scroll-down below, so no cheating. Just pencil down the bad boys (my imposters) and tally up your score.

“Hammer”
by Dean Young

Every Wednesday when I went to the shared office

before the class on the comma, etc.,

there was on the desk, among

the notes from students aggrieved and belly-up

and memos about lack of funding

and the quixotic feasibility memos

and labyrinthine parking memos

and quizzes pecked by red ink

and once orange peels,

a claw hammer.

There when I came and there when I left,

it didn’t seem in anyone’s employ.

There was no room left to hang anything.

It already knew how to structure an argument.

It already knew that it was all an illusion

that everything hadn’t blown apart

because of its proximity to oblivion,

having so recently come from oblivion itself.

Its epiphyses were already closed.

It wasn’t my future that was about to break its reedy wrist

or my past that was god knows where.

It looked used a number of times

not entirely appropriately

but its wing was clearly healed.

Down the hall was someone with a glove

instead of a right hand.

A student came by looking for who?

Hard to understand

then hard to do.

I didn’t think much of stealing it,

having so many hammers at home.

There when I came, there when I left.

Ball peen, roofing, framing, sledge, one

so small of probably only ornamental use.

That was one of my gifts,

finding hammers by sides of roads, in snow, inheriting,

one given by a stranger for a jump in the rain.

It cannot be refused, the hammer.

You take the handle, test its balance

then lift it over your head.

I needed a little help with the word “epiphyses,” so I jumped to the American Heritage Dictionary site, which told me it was “the end of a long bone that is originally separated from the main bone by a layer of cartilage but later becomes united to the main bone through ossification.”

As the adjective would tell you, Dean can be quite erudite in his vocabulary.

OK, then. Let’s see how you did. Below is Dean Young’s “Hammer” as it should be. Hopefully you removed and dropped into your wastebasket for superfluous words (every poet should have one) all unnecessary words.

“Hammer”

by Dean Young

Every Wednesday when I went to the shared office

before the class on the comma, etc.,

there was on the desk, among

the notes from students aggrieved and belly-up

and memos about lack of funding

and the quixotic feasibility memos

and labyrinthine parking memos

and quizzes pecked by red ink

and once orange peels,

a claw hammer.

There when I came and there when I left,

it didn’t seem in anyone’s employ.

There was no room left to hang anything.

It already knew how to structure an argument.

It already knew that it was all an illusion

that everything hadn’t blown apart

because of its proximity to oblivion,

having so recently come from oblivion itself.

Its epiphyses were already closed.

It wasn’t my future that was about to break its wrist

or my past that was god knows where.

It looked used a number of times

not entirely appropriately

but its wing was clearly healed.

Down the hall was someone with a glove

instead of a right hand.

A student came by looking for who?

Hard to understand

then hard to do.

I didn’t think much of stealing it,

having so many hammers at home.

There when I came, there when I left.

Ball peen, roofing, framing, sledge, one

so small of probably only ornamental use.

That was one of my gifts,

finding hammers by sides of roads, in snow, inheriting,

one given by a stranger for a jump in the rain.

It cannot be refused, the hammer.

You take the handle, test its balance

then lift it over your head.

———————————————————————————————————————————

That’s right. I added but one adjective to the original: the word “reedy” before “wrist” in the line “It wasn’t my future that was about to break its wrist.”

How’d you do? Better than yesterday? Remember, a good poet leaves necessary adjectives — ones that carry their weight — and, during revision, weeds out the reedy ones, such as all those blue skies and puffy clouds and green grasses. This is where I say, “Class dismissed!” Oh, and have a day! (Let’s assume the “good,” shall we?)

Damned* Adjectives (Again)

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It’s easy–too easy–to damn adjectives all to hell and preach the Word: Thou shalt scorn both adjectives and their brothers-in-crime, adverbs, when writing and revising poems. But the truth of the matter is less black and white and more perplexingly gray.

So assign your poet writers-to-be (or, more wisely, yourself) the task of writing poems without these modifiers all you want. It’s a great assignment, yes. It’s push-ups and jumping jacks before your physical endurance feat, too. But it ain’t going to be what most poems are: verse rife with adjectives that pay their freight.

Ah. As my boy Will (Shakespeare to you) once wrote: “There’s the rub.” When your revisionary eye turns to the task of revising, you can’t just take the delete button to every adjective you see.

Sure, it’s a great exercise in Zen extremes, but your poem will be left shivering in the cold of the white screen, begging like Oliver (“Alms for the poor?”), and wondering what draconian school YOU went to for your feral MFA.

Let’s play a game and see how the pros do it. Below is a Philip Larkin poem that’s been messed with. Some of the adjectives are Phil’s and some are added by me, but all are in bold print.

See if you can identify the bad boys from the good. Don’t scroll down because the original appears below. Play the game first on the honor* system! (And imagine if I deleted the adjective “honor” from that request!)

Wild Oats (Not the Original, However)
by Philip Larkin

About twenty years ago

Two girls came in where I worked—

A bosomy English rose

And her studious friend in specs I could talk to.

Fresh faces in those days sparked

The whole shooting-match off, and I doubt

If ever one had like hers:

But it was the frowsy friend I took out,

And in seven years after that

Wrote over four hundred letters,

Gave a ten-guinea ring

I got back in the end, and met

At numerous cathedral cities

Unknown to the English clergy. I believe

I met beautiful twice. She was trying

Both times (so I thought) not to laugh.

Parting, after about five

Rehearsals, was an unstated agreement

That I was too selfish, withdrawn,

And easily bored to love.

Well, useful to get that learnt.

In my wallet are still two snaps

Of bosomy rose with svelte fur gloves on.

Unlucky charms, perhaps.

More adjectives than you’d expect, given the notorious nature of these parts of speech. Now take a look below to see how you did. How many Larkin adjectives got the axe in your version? How many Crafty ones passed muster and were left alone? Add them together to get your score. The higher the score, the more you need to ponder the point.

Phil’s original, then:

Wild Oats

by Philip Larkin

About twenty years ago

Two girls came in where I worked—

A bosomy English rose

And her friend in specs I could talk to.

Faces in those days sparked

The whole shooting-match off, and I doubt

If ever one had like hers:

But it was the friend I took out,

And in seven years after that

Wrote over four hundred letters,

Gave a ten-guinea ring

I got back in the end, and met

At numerous cathedral cities

Unknown to the clergy. I believe

I met beautiful twice. She was trying

Both times (so I thought) not to laugh.

Parting, after about five

Rehearsals, was an agreement

That I was too selfish, withdrawn,

And easily bored to love.

Well, useful to get that learnt.

In my wallet are still two snaps

Of bosomy rose with fur gloves on.

Unlucky charms, perhaps.

Of course, you are free to question even the greats. Is every adjective necessary in this poem? Does it depend on the poet? On the style? On the poem’s point?

Clear* as mud, as they say (in a useful-adjective kind of way).

Work in Progress — A Better Way

Lost Sherpa of Happiness poetry revising poetry The Indifferent World writing poetry

wip

We all know the joke by now–the sign on the road reading MEN WORKING. It’s how we learned the word “oxymoron” as the car sped past workers in hardhats leaning on shovels, sipping Dunkin Donuts coffees, chatting each other up.

“Work in Progress” is another matter, one with greater meaning and impact. As my third poetry manuscript grows (though not in Brooklyn), I’ve changed my approach. With the first two books, The Indifferent World and Lost Sherpa of Happiness, I created a folder on my computer and then created separate docs for each poem within them.

With this one, I smartened up. The folder is called “Work in Progress,” and it is a single doc containing ALL the poems as I go along. I keep them in the order I wrote them, leaving any new arrangements for the day when I’ve mustered 45 or more–about the number you need to call it a poetry collection as opposed to its little brother, the chapbook.

The advantage to this approach has proven to be huge. Why? Often I’m not in the mood to work on my most recent poem because it is frustrating me. In the past, I would seldom click other docs to look at other poems in the collection. Instead, I would avoid the frustration of the recalcitrant new poem by reading a book or, worse, the online news.

Now? I open up the “WIP” doc and am faced with the first two poems I wrote every time. “Oh, yeah,” I feel like saying. “You guys!” I scroll down and see the whole parade of so-called “finished” poems.

Revising is my middle name (thanks, Mom). It is also the lifeblood of poetry writing. Using this system, I find myself tinkering, changing, and–blessed be!–deleting entire lines and stanzas of poems I had considered “done.”

A couple of times, I’ve taken on the revision task of working on each poem in order until I worked my way back to the present poem. More often, as a warm-up, I find myself reading random poems in the “Work in Progress.”

Interestingly, I often change a word in a poem one day and then change it back the next. Must be the different light on Tuesday vs. Wednesday, but over time and with enough looks, I settle on a word I like better, even though I could go either way.

The revision practice of a “Works in Progress,” all-in-one-doc approach has also reined in my habit of sending babies to market prematurely like so many poor Oliver Twist waifs. Now when I send poems, they’re a sturdier lot, more fully grown and refined. It’s even emboldened me to submit to tougher markets, what the going-to-college kids would call “reaches.”

Though it came about by accident and through convenience, the new method has won me over. It works. It keeps the whole brood of babies in front of me. And, after a few days of revision, I’m all refreshed and ready to tackle that tough poem I’ve been ducking–the one that used to send me to all the bad news on the virtual front pages.

Tracy K. Smith Declares…

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In case you don’t keep track of such things, our latest poet laureate in the Estados Unitos is Tracy K. Smith. There was a nice profile on her in the April 15th copy of The New York Times Magazine, titled “The Poem Cure” by Ruth Franklin.

Included in the piece are many quotes and excerpts from her new book, Wade in the Water. “Literature allows us to be open, to listen and to be curious,” Smith tells Franklin. And as she travels the U.S. in her new national role, Smith vows, “I want to go to places where writers don’t usually go, where people like me don’t usually show up, and say: ‘Here are some poems. Do they speak to you? What do you hear in them?'”

As an African-American, Smith’s poems often confront issues of race. “You want a poem to unsettle something,” she says. “There’s a deep and interesting kind of troubling that poems do, which is to say: ‘This is what you think you’re certain of, and I’m going to show you how that’s not enough. There’s something more that might be even more rewarding if you’re willing to let go of what you already know.'”

This, of course, is a tall order. One thing we’ve learned in these days of division perpetuated by a “president” who specializes in dividing, is that people are *not* willing to let go of what they already know–perhaps because they can’t be bothered with poetry.

One of Smith’s interests is erasure poetry, wherein you take existing text, erase great swaths, and leave words which speak in a new voice. The article includes one that Smith created from Thomas Jefferson’s greatest hit, The Declaration of Independence. It appears and in her new book and looks like this:

Declaration
by Tracy K. Smith

He has
sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people
He has plundered our —
ravaged our —
destroyed the lives of our —
taking away our —
abolishing our most valuable —
and altering fundamentally the Forms of our —

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for
Redress in the most humble terms:…

Not a bad collaboration on Jefferson’s and Smith’s part–and further proof (as if we needed any) that we still CANNOT hold these truths to be self-evident, sadly.

Breakfast with Tolstoy

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One of my gifts to myself this year was Tolstoy’s A Calendar of Wisdom, a book offering a page of wise thoughts for each day of the year. What does it look like? Not much, which is what I like best.

Emblematic of its humility are the themes for each page. Tolstoy offers a few quotes sourced from various religions and cultures, then offers his own two rubles. By way of example, here is the entry for today, April 23rd, where the theme is one of my favorites, simplicity.

Real goodness is always simple.

Simplicity is so attractive and so profitable that it is strange that so few people lead truly simply lives.

Do not seek happiness elsewhere. Give thanks to God, who made necessary things simple, and complicated things unnecessary. — Gregory Skovoroda

Most of our spending is done to forward our efforts to look like others. — Ralph Waldo Emerson

Every great thing is done in a quiet, humble, simple way; to plow the land, to build houses, to breed cattle, even to think — you cannot do such things when there are thunder and lightning around you. Great and true things are always simple and humble.

No one looks less simple than those people who artificially strive to seem so. Artificial simplicity is the most unpleasant of all artificial things.

Except for the two attributions, all words are Tolstoy’s. Tomorrow’s entry, with a theme of bravery, quotes the Bible (Book of John) and Cicero. Some entries quote the Talmud, scientists, philosophers, writers, Confucius, Eastern wisdom, Persian wisdom, etc.

All in all, not a bad (or terribly difficult) way to start the day — with words and with meaning.

Poetry in Motion and Other Moving Thoughts

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acela

Notes on my return from spring break:

Time flies even when you don’t (file under “fear of flying”).
Which is to say, a week off traveling someplace will always disappear faster than a week off at home.
Reading on a train is conducive to sleeping.
After training south on Amtrak’s “Quiet Car” and failing to nab a seat on the “Quiet Car” heading back north, I now fully appreciate how and why the “Quiet Car” was invented.
Which begs the question: Why is there only one “Quiet Car”?
Good news: I finished one book going south and read half of another coming north.
Bad news: As you mathematicians can see, “quiet” = whole book and “noisy” = half a book.
I did not see a single raindrop all week.
Why is it that I love the sound of rain and even the feel of rain but NOT while I’m on vacation?
The book I am reading, A Time for Everything by Karl Ove Knausgaard, was originally written in 2004 but raised from the dead by his notoriety after the My Struggle books.
Meaning: His sales are not struggling.
I only read one poem all week and came home hungry.
Which is more than I can say for my stomach, which seemed to like the looks of every poetic cake, cookie, and candy it saw.
Back to the noisy car north: the culprits were primarily of a technological bent.
Meaning: I think we were on the “Giggly Car,” as three couples around us were watching videos on their phones slash iPads slash laptops while laughing hysterically as if no one else was around them.
Is there anything more annoying than other people continuously laughing on a plane, train, or automobile?
(Answer: “No.”)
(Acceptable Answer #2: “Hell is other people laughing. Continuously.”)
Coughing. It should also be noted that the whole world is coughing uncontrollably. No one seems to have a cough drop or hard candy. No one seems to think of buying Amtrak’s expensive bottles of water to douse their coughing. They just cough. Into the air. With only a half-hearted effort to cover their mouths.
Surely Sartre knew (but kept secret) that Hell is also other people coughing. Continuously. In your air.
One grown man was watching a cartoon on his laptop and telling anyone who would listen all about it. Something on the Comedy Channel. Gigglingly-good.
Is everybody 12?
One woman who was giggling loudly for 45 minutes straight finally fell asleep (apparently exhausted by her laughter). When someone opened and slammed shut an overhead compartment, however, she startled awake and gave the offender a menacing look.
Meaning: It’s OK if I make a lot of noise (because it’s me) but not if you make a lot of noise (because it’s you).
I saw hardly any news this past week and learned that a Trump-free week is good for both body and soul. Especially soul. Call me “Zen Craft,” then. I feel like Columbus after he discovered India in the Caribbean. (Try that next time you are in the Caribbean.)
Today is my official recovery day. The problem with thinking in advance by arranging for an official recovery day before returning to work is there is too much to do on official recovery days, like grocery shopping and laundry and planning lessons and looking at notes for future poems jotted on the blank pages at the end of Karl Ove’s new old book while other people are giggling.
If you’ve come this far, gentle reader, welcome back!

Teaching an Imitation Poem with “The Delight Song of Tsoai-talee”

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Once they leave the elementary grades, students are typically loath to write poetry. One way to get them to do so is to use a template based on well-known poem. I get good results with N. Scott Momaday’s “The Delight Song of Tsoai-talee.”

To start, I read the poem and discuss it like you would any other. What do you notice? (Students will surely mention the repetition.) What’s the coolest line? (Many students dig that long track of the moon on the lake.)

From here, I ask students to use Momaday’s structure to write an imitation poem. Thus, all lines in the longer first stanza start with the metaphor-producing words “I am…” and all lines (except for first and last, which I have them use verbatim) in the second stanza start with the words “I stand in good relation to….” In the name of variety, I ask them not to stand in good relation to any of the same things as Momaday, nice as they are.

As a less-intimidating model, I compose my own imitation poem of this poem on the SmartBoard. I also demonstrate a little revision on the whiteboard by writing the rather prosaic line “I am the frost on the grass.” I improve it a bit by changing it to “I am the frost on the morning grass,” but we had already done a lesson on distrusting adjectives — especially if they would come readily to the mind of readers, given the nouns they modify — and students will usually allow that frost on grass is most associated with the morning.

Great! For revision the third, then, I write “I am the crystal on the first frost of November grass.” Still imperfect, but definitely becoming more specific and subtle — similar to the insights Momaday uses to show his intimacy with nature.

For further practice on both identifying unnecessary adjectives (because they’re obvious), write “cold snow,” “white clouds,” “green grass,” and “blue sky” on the board. Ask for a revision competition–something realistic, but, for readers, unexpected. You’ll see how much more satisfying student creativity is when they give you things like “blue snow,” “slate clouds,” “burnt grass,” and “tangerine skies.” (And yes, you might add, using the writerly trick of using a THING that is that color instead of the color itself, works wonders in poetry).

Without fail, the first drafts produced in 18 minutes or so are remarkable, especially when they correlate to each student’s daily life. I have students do a read-around with their groups and choose a favorite from each group to be shared with the class.

Each of these creations are named “The Delight Song of (Student’s Name).” Once placed in a portfolio and read by Mom and Dad, they often draw comments and (dare I say it?) delight.

As it should be!

What Does “National Poetry Month” Actually Mean? I Found the Answers.

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I almost forgot, but it’s National Poetry Month. How I ever went a full week without realizing it is beyond me, but here we are and here I am, apparently unscathed.

What the heck does National Poetry Month mean, anyway? Is it more inept political meddling on the part of our Do-Nothing Congress led by our Do-Demagogue President? Actually, no. National Poetry Month is the invention of the Academy of American Poets.

Which begs the question: What in the world (OK, country) is the Academy of American Poets, and why am I not an honorary member? Turns out, it is comprised of not only poets but booksellers, librarians, publishers, and teachers. Together, back in 1995, they noted the successes of Black History Month (February) and Women’s History Month (March) to plot National Poetry Month (April) beginning in 1996.

(All I can say is, “Look out, May!”)

The venerable poets.org website offered these tips on how you can celebrate the month, but I have devised a few tips of my own:

Isn’t it time you memorized a poem? Pick one you like and then, in the time you would ordinarily use to check texts on your cellphone every day (about 9 hours and 36 minutes), commit it to memory, two lines at a time.
Read a poem aloud to someone you love. You can do it in lieu of grace some night at supper. Or instead of the maniacally-repetitious “Happy Birthday” song just before the day’s star blows out the candles and spreads his germs all over the frosting.
Copy a short poem onto a large piece of paper and post it at work after hours or before hours. I did this once and then, when everyone tried to figure out who did it, played dumb. It wasn’t hard. (The “playing dumb” part, not the posting a poem part.)
Read a book of poems. Honestly, I can’t tell you how many proud “bookworms” and self-described “readers” never read poetry. It’s a national scandal, which is why I’m leaning toward a National Scandal Month for May (and I know I’ll get cooperation from our president on that one).
In honor of National Poetry Month, the publisher of my first book is practically giving away my first book’s Kindle version for only three bucks. This alone is a national scandal (OK, quite localized scandal), but if it exposes more people to the radiation of my poetry, so be it.
Me, I like the feel of an actual book in my hands, however. I also like the National Sniff-a-Book Month (June is available) smell of its new paper and ink. And while The Indifferent World in paperback is $15.95 at amazon dot glom, I have copies for $12 each, which is something-something percent off (I hate numbers). Just e-mail me for the National-Poetry-Month deal (see “About” section above for e-mail).
And speaking of deals, my newest book, Lost Sherpa of Happiness, can be found on sale the same way.
Which can only mean that National Poetry Month is a way for poets not named Rupi Kaur to sell their books. May you wonder no longer. And if you made it this far, accept my blessings and gratitude. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m off to enjoy National Eat-Some-Pancakes-Drowned-in-Maple Syrup Month…

The Problem with “Best” Poems

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Let’s start with the judging-by-the-cover. The color is green-awful, giving perfectly delicious pea soup a bad name. And the chair. I’m not sure I would fancy the chair, for fear of turning into a fern before page 12 (were I to sit in it, and I would not).

That said, I’m sure Natasha Trethewey, guest-editor for Year of Our Lord 2017, had nothing to do with this cover. Nor did David Lehman (whoever he is), series editor. Sometimes covers just happen. Like Heaven’s Gate in the movies.

Every review of the “Best” series sings the same song: “Unevenly As She Goes.” Me, I like to see what poetry publications the poems are plucked from for future reference. The thinking goes like this: “Golly. Maybe if I send poems to the same publications, THEY’LL be selected as the best among American poems (2018, 2019, what have you) too!”

But it’s like chasing yesterday’s hot stock. Next year’s guest editor may have a yen for very different poetry publications, though you can always count on a few big boppers like Poetry, of course, and The New Yorker.

Among my faves in this collection: “Higher Education” (Jeffrey Harrison), “Certain Things” (David Brendan Hopes), “The Watch” (Danusha Laméris), “The Mercy Home” (Michael Ryan), “Seeing Things” (Charles Simic), “Good Bones” (Maggie Smith), and “Afraid to Pray” (Pamela Sutton).

There. Flip through to these next time you’re at the bookstore. It will be one man’s “best of the best” and equally uneven, proving the futility of the whole process of choosing the best. Or the best of the best. Or the best of the best of the best.

I best stop here. But first, a link to the Charles Simic poem, “Seeing Things.” Simple. Straightforward. However…. My kind of poem.