I love this poem from Alexandra Teague's new book Mortal Geography. The two parts of the poem are the exact same words, in the exact same order -- only the punctuation is different. But they tell wildly different stories about the narrator's feelings for her beloved. Apart from the technical skill (which is amazing), I admire how this poem says something about the thin line between love and hate, how it can turn on a pin.

Two Drafts Written After a Fight
by Alexandra Teague

I.

Do I love you: yes or no?
The question: Is love a figure of speech?

I do - sometimes. Everyone wonders about our love; still,
there can be no doubt I have been true (almost always).

Happily remembering the start of our romance; it seemed
so promising ...

And is love continual happiness or not?
Is not what matters?

I cannot tell you who I want to spend my life with.
Enough about our love.


II.

Do I love you? Yes or no - the question is, love,
a figure of speech. I do.

(Sometimes everyone wonders.)
About our love, still, there can be no doubt.

I have been true, almost always happily
remembering the start of our romance;

it seemed so promising, and is. Love,
continual happiness or not is not what matters.

I cannot tell you, who I want to spend my life with,
enough about our love.


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Check out this poem from today's Poem a Day, From Nick Lantz's We Don't Know We Don't Know (formatting lost). I blogged about the book a couple months ago, and am happy to see it is getting around:

Ancient Theories by Nick Lantz


A horse hair falls into the water and grows into an eel.
Even Aristotle believed that frogs
formed from mud,
that mice sprouted like seedlings in the damp hay.

I used to believe the world spoke
in code. I lay awake
and tried to parse the flashes of the streetlight—
obscured, revealed,
obscured by the wind-sprung tree.
Stranded with you at the Ferris wheel's apogee
I learned the physics
of desire—fixed at the center,
it spins and goes nowhere.

Pliny described eight-foot lobsters
sunning themselves
on the banks of the Ganges. The cuckoo devouring
its foster mother. Bees alighting
on Plato's young lips.

In the Andes, a lake disappears overnight, sucked
through cracks in the earth.
How can I explain
the sunlight stippling your face in the early morning?

Why not believe that the eye throws its own light,
that seeing illuminates
the world?
On the moon,
astronaut David Scott drops a hammer and a falcon feather,
and we learn nothing
we didn't already know.

I liked this poem from the recent issue of Atlantic Monthly:

Ironweed

By Robert Morgan

There is a shade of purple in
this flower near summer’s end that makes
you proud to be alive in such
a world, and thrilled to know the gift
of sight. It seems a color sent
from memory or dream. In fields,
along old trails, at pasture edge,
the ironweed bares its vivid tint,
profoundest violet, a note
from farthest star and deepest time,
the glow of sacred royalty
and timbre of eternity
right here beside a dried-up stream.


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Looks like those soldiers are hard at work, protecting our freedom. This is too funny.

Had a lovely day before Mother's Day brunch with mom and one of my sisters (and her husband and son) yesterday. Perfect weather. It finally feels like spring is here. And mom seems to be thriving in Assisted Living at the Mount.

Oddfellows and Toxic Flora

Thursday late morning. I’m sitting at my new “favorite” place: The Oddfellows Hall Café next door to the new Elliott Bay Books! Dean and I stumbled upon it the other day when we were at Elliott Bay, and had a delightful time there, having our late morning espresso and snack. It’s a nice open space, very rustic, with restored wood and tables and funky decorative art from the history of the building and the “Oddfellows” -- whoever they were. And it is packed with students, hipsters, people writing or staring into their laptops, or talking in groups, or having little business or art meetings. It’s an ideal location being next door to Elliott Bay. You can go buy a book or a magazine, and then come over to the café to read, write, hang out. Perfect!

The other day, when Dean and I were at EB, I bought the new issue of Field, and two new books of poems, Leavings, by Wendell Berry, and Toxic Flora, by Kimiko Hahn. The Hahn book is amazing. I love it. Apparently she would read the weekly Science column in the NY Times and, when inspired, write a poem in response to it. The book has several themes or areas of interest: the strange life of flowers and the bizarre ways they have evolved: “Toxic Flora,” and “On Deceit as Survival” open the book with this theme, and Hahn extends it to the human world of parents, love, sex, and and parenting. Other poems look at the animal world, particularly butterflies and other higher insects, and how they have evolved. Other poems explore Space and the Cosmos: I particularly liked the poems about Pluto, and the poem about the 11 yr old girl Venetia Burney, who won a newspaper contest to name the newly discovered planet. Other poems include meditations on her own aging, and the ways she has evolved as a person, a wife, a mother, a teacher. Two particularly touching poems are: "Demeter's Cuttings" in which her daughter calls from a date's house, saying that it is too late for a train home, and that she will have to stay the night, and Hahn imagines her daughter as Persephone trapped in the underworld, and begins her own sleepless wait up for her to come home. And "Sweetwater Cavern," in which she is a tourist, being ferried across an underground lake by a bored college student in a hoodie, and he becomes a version of Charon, and leads her to embark on a consideration of her own death. Hahn's writing is spare, complex, unafraid of scientific terms and language -- in fact she revels in them -- all while being very witty, accessible, and sensuous.

Highly recommended.

4 Dead in Ohio

Always remember this . . .

Poetry and the Political

Great article written by David Biespiel. Check it out:

Now consider the balkanized world of American poetry. Like Americans everywhere, America's poets have turned insular and clustered in communities of aesthetic sameness, communicating only among those with similar literary heroes, beliefs, values, and poetics. Enter any regional poetry scene in any American metropolis or college town, and you will find the same cliquey village mentality with the same stylistic breakdowns. Over here you have the post-avant prose poets, over there the kitchen-sink confessionalists, and across the road are the shiny formalists--and no one ever breaks bread together. As with politics, where you have "I'm voting for That One" liberals and "Time for a Tea Party" conservatives, poetry has evolved into a self-selected enclave, and also--exactly like other sectors of American life--it has stratified into enclaves within enclaves that are hyper-specific and self-referential.

And they say there are no gays in the military? This has got to be the gayest thing I have ever seen: some soldiers in Iraq grinding it to Lady Gaga's "Telephone."

Paul Nelson over at SPLAB noticed this recent review of my last book What's Written on the Body. I did not know about it, so thank you to Paul for pointing it out. It's nice to know someone has spent some time with the book, and thought enough of it to write a review.

I think Joel Weishaus (the writer) takes an interesting Zen Buddhism approach to the book. And I like what he mentions about the Middle Ages, and how physicians "read" the body for signs. Though I did not know of the Rafael Campo quote he mentions.

Check out SPLAB here.

Check out the review at the Poetica blog here.

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Horoscope:

The Scorpio/Taurus Full Moon, of which we will start to feel the effects on the evening of April 27, is a powder keg, triggering strong emotions. Tempers could flare as the Sun and Moon trigger stubborn Mercury in Taurus and feisty Mars in Leo. Words carry tremendous power now to heal or hurt, unite or divide. Impatience is likely, and impulsive purchases, flirtations or jealousy can get you in hot water. Keep a cool head at this Full Moon, and find a healthy outlet for your passions. What might that look like for you?

This should be a fun night. Voice is so important in poetry, and I truly believe that poetry is meant to be read aloud, and not just exist on the page. Read all about it at the Poetry Out Loud website.

Nine Student Finalists to Compete for $50,000 in 2010 Poetry Out Loud National Finals
Award-winning actor John Leguizamo to host tonight’s competition

WASHINGTON, DC—Nine high school students will vie for the title of Poetry Out Loud National Champion and a $20,000 award, tonight at the Lisner Auditorium on the George Washington University campus in Washington, DC. The nine students advance from yesterday’s semifinal round of 53 students from every state, the District of Columbia, Puerto Rico, and the U.S. Virgin Islands, and from a field of nearly 325,000 high school students who have competed in Poetry Out Loud contests in classrooms nationwide. A total of $50,000 in awards and school stipends for the purchase of poetry books will be given out on Tuesday night.

The nine finalists are:

Alabama State Champion Youssef Biaz (Auburn, AL)
Illinois State Champion Annette Putnam (Andover, IL)
Maryland State Champion Nora Sandler (Bethesda, MD)
Montana State Champion Diego Javier Steele (Lolo, MT)
Nevada State Champion Emily Orellana (Reno, NV)
Rhode Island State Champion Amber Rose Johnson (Providence, RI)
South Dakota State Champion Ruth Haile (Sioux Falls, SD)
Virginia State Champion Tia Robinson (Warsaw, VA)
Wisconsin State Champion Madeline Bunke (Brookfield, WI)

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Good luck everybody!

Dean and I went out Friday to Columbia City Cinema to see "Date Night" for our own little date night. I love that theater: very laid back, popcorn served in plain brown paper bag, tickets that just say "admit one" and are torn from a roll at the little lectern that is the box office. The theater has had a bit of financial difficulty of late, and the owner has been asking for donations. I hope they don't go under, as it is great to have a little neighborhood theater. So donate! Or at least go to a movie there.

And what a silly sweet movie "Date Night" is: a "married-with-kids" love story and a screw-ball comedy crime-thriller all in one. Steve Carell and Tina Fey have great on screen chemistry. I think the car chase is one of the best I've ever seen: the conjoined cars, the taxi driver with the kindle in his glove box, it was just a hoot! And Mark "nice pecs" Whalberg is wonderfully subdued in his bit part. Go see it! You'll laugh your ass off. I promise.

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Yesterday Dean and I did major yard work: we took the reciprocating saw to the two dwarf black pines that we planted about 5 years ago, that were not dwarf at all, and were growing exponentially out of control, and needed to be removed. And while we were at it, we cut down another small evergreen shrub we no longer cared for, that had grown misshapen. We are replacing the black pines with some dwarf Italian Cypresses. They are supposed to get no larger than 6 feet tall, 2 feet wide. They are supposed to have "Aromatic, lemon scented needles" and "Bright chartreuse foliage." We'll see . . .

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We went with E and B last night to see Compania Nacional de Danza at UW Meany World series. It was a fun show, but not as good as last time they were in Seattle. Though the last act, with the dangling chain curtain in the background, and the 4-legged table used as a prop for the very slow, acrobatic/gymnastic pas de deux, was pretty amazing.

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Today, Susan Rich reading at Open Books at 3 pm.

And in May, the Jack Straw Reading Series, curated by Jared Leising, has a great lineup.

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Not Gay Enough to Play Softball?

This is just too funny and ironic for words. Much ado, a tempest in teapot (or batting box, for that matter), in my opinion. But seriously, if these guys were straight, what were they doing trying to join "our" team? Don't straight guys have enough options in the uber-hetero, uber-homophobic no-fags-allowed existing sports leagues (that often discriminate against gay players?).

I went shopping at the new Elliott Bay Books on Capitol Hill yesterday. It's a nice open space, with high ceilings, exposed wood, plenty of natural light. It has the same kind of feel as the old store: a hallowed place for books, with wood shelves along the walls and aisles, as well as tables of books everywhere. The main difference is the store is mostly in one main room now, and not the rabbit warren of multiple rooms and levels that the old store had. There is one small separate area upstairs, and a separate area for the cafe (under construction). And the reading area is down a set of stairs, in a basement room in the back. The store was packed with customers yesterday, so hopefully all bodes well! Congratulations to Peter A and crew!

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I bought two books of poems there: Allen Braden's A Wreath of Down and Drops of Blood, new from The VQR Poetry series, and Phantom Noise, new from Brian Turner and Alice James Books.

I have known Allen's work for years, and published some of his poems back when I was at Floating Bridge Press, and it is so good to see this full collection. He weaves together themes of contemporary love with family memory and farm work and hunting images. One of the frameworks for the poems is a series of sonnets titled "Taboo Against the Word Beauty . . ." One is "Invocation", another is "Epistolary Version" and others are "Elegiac Version" and "Troubadourian Version." They are each pretty amazing. Here's one:

Taboo Against the Word Beauty: Troubadourian Version

My life without your love: everywhere
the chalk goes, something's left behind.
On the other hand, antlers dropped by deer
are loved to nothing by porcupine.
In spring, they say, a young man's fancy turns
to this. Meanwhile the swollen Green River
uncovers record snowpack in the mountains,
plus the latest fancy of a serial killer.
Why test your notion of romance by limitations
to skin and bone? A lace of fascia warm
as gentle love when flesh is splayed open.
Disrobe and clothes forget their human form.
I'd cinch a cord around your throat and take
you from behind. I'd do it for beauty's sake.


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Brian Turner's new book covers a lot of the same ground as Here, Bullet. Though the narrator seems to be home from war now, and having bad memories, PTSD problems, relationship problems, and the like.

This one poem blew me totally away (no pun intended):


In the Tannour Oven

Stitched into the gutted belly of the calf:
a fat young lamb, dressed and cleaned,
its organs removed from the cave of bone.
And within the lamb: a stuffed goose.
And in the goose's belly: a mortar round.
And within the mortar round: a stuffed hen.
And in the hen's belly: a grenade.
And within the grenade: a stuffed thrush.
In the thrush: a .50 caliber bullet.
In the .50 caliber bullet: seasoned
with murri, oil and thyme -- a wedding ring.

Ah, love -- when you undo the stitches,
take your time. I have love letters
stuffed inside me, these tiny bodies
made heavy by their own labored breathing.

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I love how this poem captures the insane Trojan Horse/nested dolls quality of war, violence, trauma. How we get all wound up in entangling binds of country, history, religion, fate -- both on a national level (the silly wars we are stuck in) and on a personal level (the soldiers who come home scarred, and unable to let it go).