those who know they thirst

You see, I want a lot.
Maybe I want it all:
the darkness of each endless fall,
the shimmering light of each ascent.

So many are alive who don't seem to care.
Casual, easy, the move in the world
as though untouched.

But you take pleasure in the faces
of those who know they thirst.
You cherish those
who grip you for survival.

You are not dead yet, it's not too late
to open your depths by plunging into them
and drink in the life
that reveals itself quietly there.

Rilke, from Book of Hours

... a favorite, always

***
(photo: niece, who teaches me to want, new years eve)

yes, and

.... Love for the earth
and love for you are having such a long
conversation in my heart.

from Thirst by Mary Oliver

This is a line from one of my favorite poems. The first time I read it, I sat on the floor between shelves of books in Borders, probably looking through a stack of magazines I piled in my arms and lugged with me. The title of the book, which is the title of this poem, stuck out to me from the binding of the thin paperback where it sat on cart of books to be shelved. I picked it up, thumbed through, read a few short poems, and cried when I read this one, stuck in at the very end of the collection. And, when I first read it, and for years after, this line seemed to me to describe a battle. An either/or. You choose the earth or "you" (God) and the author, trying to choose God, gives away a lot of things (we read in the next lines of the poem). 

The poem appealed to something in me, but I struggled with this line because, I realized, I really like the earth. Not just like the geese and ponds that Mary Oliver usually writes about (though sometimtes I like those, too). But I'm talking the way I feel after a run, sweaty and satisfied. Feeding my people with brunch or a really good salad. Tears that are happy or cathartic. Rhythm and dancing. Holding a book in my hand. Finding a piece of clothing or jewelry that I love or that are flattering on me. I like being carnal - of the body, of the earth. But am I supposed to not like these things? What does it feel like to like God more? To let him dominate the conversation? Win the battle?

But the word she uses isn't "battle," but "conversation."

My friend is a comedian and has taken improv classes. She's hosted groups of creatives at her apartment, and as a warm up activity, she leads us in "Yes, And." Two of us sit across from each other, are given a premise, and make a story by affirming what the other says and building on it. "Yes, and." 

The last time I read the poem, that word "conversation" stuck out to me and I realized that  it was this kind of conversation that these loves may want to have in my heart.

Yes, and. The things we love about being in a body, being on an earth, holding and smelling and feeling and being with - all this in conversation, affirming and building on the things we love about being God's, of the spirit, able to sense and intuit mystery and be filled with grace and see how one plus one can equal some crazy number we didn't think possible. 

***

(photo: lights in trees, pasadena nights)

pack nothing, except the prayers

...Who knows what
will finally happen or where I will be sent,
yet already I have given a great many things
away, expecting to be told to pack nothing,
except the prayers which, with this thirst,
I am slowly learning.

-from the poem Thirst by Mary Oliver (a fav)

***
(photo: pasadena, ca)

i read this book of poems

"Coda" by Danielle Chapman
     from Delinquent Palaces

Beyond the speeches we're given to when young--
the crystal moon, the harlot moon, the moon
big as the sun elongating scrolls
of banisters on the skin of someone
else so young--beyond the still moon cut
from a royal purple sky we stare into
as into the pupil of a beautiful
machine--beyond our grand stupidities--
the urgency won't perish: to be known
in one's own person as crocuses are known
by sun, conceiving green to breathe it,
for ravishment by light, to grow
into the moment in our cells when we open
ourselves as a plant uncoils pistils
and become refulgent whether looked at or not.



When I was in high school, my best friend started dating a guy who wrote poetry. So she started writing poetry, too, and sent some of her poems to me. Then, she bought me a small journal with blank pages and encouraged me to write poems, too. I wrote some really bad ones and stored the journal away for a very long time.

Since then, I've read books of poetry and books about poetry and even took a class on poetry. I found the journal and read my own early poetry. My conclusion: I'm no poet. And though I still read poetry, I'm sure that half the time I'm missing what's meant to be noticed. But poetry is forgiving. Just keep reading it over and over, and soon things emerge that you didn't see at first. I think that's why I love it so much. Surprise and discovery will keep you going after something.

So, I read a book of poems and here is my favorite one. I keep reading it over and over, each time finding something new.

***

(photo: blue sky over Michigan, at writing conference where I bought and read this book)

you can just feel God shining through

I think poetry is the mind of God. All the great poems that I love seem to me to all have that little ingredient. You feel like you’re in the presence of the mind of God... Take Rilke, I mean, you can’t just live and come to the conclusions he came to. I think his mission was to learn to get out of the way so that something bigger could speak through him. Emily Dickinson, my God, she’s full of the mind of God. You can just feel God shining through those poems, darkly. So it was her, but it wasn’t. ... There’s something unaccountable that happened to her. And it’s that unaccountable thing that I love.

-poet Li-Young Lee via here.

(more of my own words, soon...)

already with you

Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks
     by Jane Kenyon

I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years...

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper...

When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me...

I am food on a prisoner's plate...

I am water rushing to the wellhead,
filling the pitcher until it spills...

I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden...

I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge...

I am the heart contracted by joy...
the longest hair, white
before the rest...

I am there in the basket of fruit
presented to the widow...

I am the musk rose opening
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit...

I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name...

***

(a favorite, always...)

one of my favorite poets gets long-listed, and crying during poetry readings

The week-long announcements of the National Book Award long lists was created for book nerds like me. (And yes, I realize 90 percent of my readers just stopped paying attention with that opening sentence.) Each morning, I've eagerly scrolled my feedly feed for a blog entry to show me a new list of stand outs. Monday was young adult literature, which I don’t really follow. But Tuesday was poetry, which promised some new-to-me writers to check out. And at the very top of the list beamed one of my favorite (if one of the only ones I read) poetry books this year. I might have fist pumped while yelling the author’s name. I was at home when this happened, just so you know.

You see, I’ve actually been wanting to tell you, to tell everyone really, about this writer. Meet Ross Gay. I first encountered his writing through an essay, Some Thoughts on Mercy. It was waiting unassumedly in a magazine I’d subscribed to, and in an evening of disciplined reading I opened the magazine and didn’t expect much. Then, I started reading and was startled and also drawn in by his tone, which seemed to communicate an incredible amount of grace — for the police who profile him as a criminal for the color of his skin, for his country that has allowed this behavior to remain the norm, for himself and the wild range of emotions he felt in response. And then the ending. The ending is what got me because he starts talking about his early attempts at bee farming, which at first seems an odd way to reflect on the intense personal experiences he shares. But then you catch onto the emotions he’s describing in his encounter with these bees is so closely reflective of how he responds to the world around him. I can’t do it justice, you just have to read him.

The emotional power and fresh use of imagery in including that scene should have told me this guy was a poet at heart. And he is. But I didn’t really get into his poetry until just a few months ago. The writer’s name had tucked itself into the back of my mind because I kept that wonderful essay as an example of the kind of writing I’d like to emulate. Then, at a writer’s conference, his name jumped out to me when I skimmed the program for seminars to attend. He was doing a reading from his new book. I earmarked the page and put it on my schedule.

The reading included five poets. The first read her over-serious poetry in an over-serious tone that nearly lulled me to sleep. But Ross sat at the end of the table, his long legs splayed before him, his grown out hair tucked into two small buns like martian, his impossibly wide grin spreading the length of his deep jaw. His graciousness was written all over him. I listened as the other four poets read. And then Ross stood up and the energy of the room changed. He smiled and bounced slightly. He set his timer for his 15 minute time slot, and explained he would read one poem from his book, the title poem: Catalogue of Unabashed Gratitude. And off he went.

This wasn’t a reading, it was a performance, a full embodiment of the feeling he meant to convey, which was a joyful thanksgiving for things that most consider quite simple, but in which he recognizes a deeper gift. It was for the words he spoke, and also how intimately and fully he felt them, that I started to cry right there in the brightly lit convention center room. I was a bit embarrassed at first. I feel deeply, but usually not publicly. Maybe it was the lack of sleep and overconsumption of sugar, I reasoned. But then I realized that this is what poetry is: an invitation to live fully and be thankful for all you receive.

I wish you could have been there with me, but second best is watching a different reading of the same poem for yourself. Go here. Minute 23 is the good stuff. (Well, it's all good stuff, but you know what I mean.)

the 100 day project: like basting a turkey, and other creative thoughts

A few of you might have heard about the 100 day project. For those who haven't, the rules are simple: pick a way to be creative every day for 100 consecutive days, then document it on social media for accountability/community. Remembering how fun and useful and focusing other streaks I've done have been (my blog every day in May streak, and then my #rwrunstreak, documented on Instagram), I knew I wanted to join in. A day or two later I used Instagram to post part of a poem that had become meaningful to me and used a photo I thought had the feel of the poem and that's where I found my 100 day task: caption an original photo (by me) with a poem I choose (not by me).

(Yes, this blog post is in part a plug for my Instagram feed. Follow me! My nieces and nephews keep asking how many likes they get when I post their photos, and they are clearly un-impressed by my following. I promise photos of cute kids, scenic runs and, now, poetry.)

But more than a scheme to get more followers, this project is about fostering creativity. The image of basting just came to mind when I thought of the term "creative juices." I'm not a huge meat eater, so the image isn't the most appealing to me, but it's a true one. This creative streak is about keeping things juicy with the hopes of serving up something good real soon.

It's been two weeks since the 100 day project started. Time to reflect:

• Choosing a poem a day requires me to read lots of poetry. And poems require slow, sometimes repeated, reading. Some days I'm not so discerning, and may just skim a few before I find one I want to post. Other days, I've sat with a poetry book and read deeply and slowly.
• Being quick and dirty about creative work is useful. It helps me to let go of perfection, and sometimes even understand a hunch or gut response that led me to match a photo with a poem, or take a photo from a certain angle, etc. (Or sometimes it's the opposite, like, there is nothing of value in that - which is ok!)
• Choosing two mediums that are not my own craft (not a photographer, not a poet - though I love both images and words) helps me to disconnect myself from the product. Both also refine the way I see, hear and think, which has been fun.
• I like that I'm promoting the reading of poetry. Posting poetry on Instagram makes me feel slightly subversive because it's all about scrolling, quick looks, a tap for a like. I don't know if everyone who likes the poetry-captioned photos are reading the poems (or just liking the photo itself) but if I can help one person to discover something or slow down while reading a poem they wouldn't have normally read, that's a win.
• Reading more poetry has helped me get more words in me. I think of it as eating, swallowing. I have more heft as a writer. My mind sings more. I have been thinking in story and image. This is a very good thing for me.

I may have more to say as the project goes on. But for now - see all of my poetry-captioned photos here! And if you have a favorite poem, I'll consider requests.

the one guest

She who reconciles the ill-matched threads
of her life, and weaves them gratefully
into a single cloth -
it's she who drives the loudmouths from the hall
and clears it for a different celebration

where the one guest is you.
In the softness of evening
it's you she receives.

You are the partner of her loneliness,
the unspeaking center of her monologues.
With each disclosure you encompass more
and she stretches beyond what limits her,
to hold you.

-The Book of Hours: Love Poems to God by Ranier Maria Rilke

places you will not go

After a Back on My Feet run from Skid Row to the Water and Power Building, where we watched the sun rise over Los Angeles. A quick prose-poem of sorts.

Are there places you will not go? Maybe they are places you believe to be off limits to you. Where your type of person doesn't go. So far you wouldn't even know the way.

And so you don't even think about how much you really want to go, you don't bother to wonder whether the sunrise looks different from there or if the breeze is a little cooler, the stars a little brighter. You have never felt the urge to climb the steps that lead there because you question if your legs could carry you the whole way. You don't want to brave feeling alone or out of place, you are afraid of needing to run out, and fast.

But what is the alternative, the overcrowded streets you live along now, where your home is as small and flimsy as a cardboard box?

poets with a press pass

One of my favorite panels at the writer's conference I attended a few months back was one I hadn't planned on going to. (I learned that you can pick your choices ahead of time, but these kinds of conferences - perhaps not unlike shopping at a farmer's market - are best savored by testing and tasting and choosing by feel as you go.) Earlier in the day I'd heard a journalist-turned-social worker, who moonlights (is that what she would call it?) as a poet read some of her work and talk about her life. I was immediately drawn to her because she seemed so earthy, so real, and because we seemed to have some things in common.  She read a poem about homeless kids who live under the Atlantic City boardwalk, and I was blown away by how she'd captured their voices, their aches, their strengths in what she wrote. When she read her poetry, I felt and wanted to act, which is probably what the best writing does to us. At the end, she mentioned that later on in the day, she and a few other poets would be presenting a panel called Poets with a Press Pass. They were all former journalists who now wrote poetry.

I had never intentionally thought about the intersection of these two kinds of writing, but I knew I wanted to hear more of what she had to say (and write). When I got there, I sat close to the front. Three rather homely, middle-aged people sat at the table at the front, their books in front of them. When they introduced themselves, they each explained their journalism background, then read from some of their poetry. The first thing I wrote in my notes from this panel was "look up these authors!" It should also be noted that only in this and one other panel did I sheepishly approach the authors to talk with them and tell them how much I enjoyed their writing and insight.

Here is some of how they explained the connection between journalism and poetry:

• inspiration, precision, connections, curiosity, empathy, honesty
• know there is a poem in something just as you know there is a story in something
• precision - in journalism, related to accuracy; in poetry, related to meaning

Here are some (important) differences I'm thinking of right now:

• News can be skimmed to get the gist, poetry needs to be read slowly to get the feel
• News is old after a few hours, whereas poetry is essentially timeless, and each new reading gives you something new
•  consumption vs. being gutted open

The poets on the panel were Tina Kelley, Susan Cohen and (I can't find his name! but he was good). Go look up these authors!

polishing the stars

My sister Andrea sent me this text this morning. Some context: Amelia is her seven-year old daughter and one of the coolest second-graders around (I'm biased, but still...). The maps and water is my other sister, Lori. The poetry and Shel Silverstein is me.

I was a little surprised to hear about Amelia taking the book to school. If you've been following along, you may remember reading about my nieces and nephews opening gifts at Christmas last year, and how they seemed a little disappointed with the seeming dullness of the books I gave them. I didn't necessarily blame them. Books just kinda sit there, looking all rectangle-like and unmoving. There's some work involved in getting to the fun of them.

Anyway, apparently Amelia opened the book and found the fun in the Shel Silverstein book I gave her. I knew she would like it, because like Mr. Silverstein, she is a little goofy and giggly (her laugh is the best), and she also thinks pretty deeply and makes astute observations. Did I tell you that the last time I saw her, she recognized a painting on the cover of one of my books as a Van Gogh? She was six at the time. I know.

So, in honor of Amelia and her budding love for poetry, and just because Shel Silverstein is great (and should still be read by adults), here's one of his poems for you today.

Somebody Has To (from A Light in the Attic)

Somebody has to go polish the stars,
They’re looking a little bit dull.
Somebody has to go polish the stars,
For the eagles and starlings and gulls
Have all been complaining they’re tarnished and worn,
They say they want new ones we cannot afford.
So please get your rags
And your polishing jars,
Somebody has to go polish the stars.
~Shel Silverstein
(via here)

poetry heals

Every once in a while I suffer from bouts of anxiety. To look at me you might not notice when I'm in one of these funks. I still go to work, do my hair and eat mostly the same. But say I could draw some expression of what I feel and think inside - I'd show you something with dark colors, confused, messy strokes, and trust me, it would not be pretty. Actually - and I'm sorry to be graphic - it might actually look a little like puke, because that's what I often feel like doing, physically and verbally. That's what anxiety feels like.

But let's pull back for a moment, because I'm certainly not trying to share any kind of dark demons with anyone here. I'm just acknowledging - hey, they're there (and we all have some of some kind, right?). What is hopeful is that the simplest, unsuspecting experiences can punch holes in our darkness and allow some light to shine in.

That's what happened this morning. My particular current stream of anxiety has something to do with getting it right and carrying a certain fear that I'm messing up my life. Heavy, right?! No one should carry that, because messing up a life is a pretty hard thing to do, especially when you believe in the reality of a forgiving, redeeming, all-powerful God (which I do). But then I sat down at my computer and read a poem that came to my inbox today. It started with these lines:

I wish that there were some wonderful place
In the Land of Beginning Again.
Where all our mistakes and all our heartaches
And all of our poor selfish grief
Could be dropped like a shabby old coat at the door
and never put on again.*

So that's what this is, I thought, a shabby old coat. One that I can take off and leave and never put on again. And just like that, the tight feeling eased a bit. I forget that poetry - and writing in general - can do that. The personal becomes universal and helps us to feel not so alone. It's still pretty mysterious to me, but somehow the written word is so healing.

Are there any poems, verses or words that have brought you relief or healing?

*From "The Land of Beginning Again" by Louisa Fletcher

a metaphor for everyone's

Good writing works from a simple premise: your experience is not yours alone, but in some sense a metaphor for everyone's.

from A Poet's Companion

I came across this line in some reading for my poetry class and I thought, "EXACTLY." That's what we aim for, anyway. It's the same "personal as universal" idea that came up in the memoir writing workshop, and slowly but surely I am understanding how to incorporate this into my writing. I think it has something to do with getting down to what the experience was really about, and working up from there. But I think sometimes I've found it most helpful to just start writing about the experience, and the writing itself helps me to drill down to the real meaning.

I think poetry (good, accessible poetry) is the master of this, because of the mandate for rich images. I'm also learning about line and stanza structure, which is kinda like getting a new set of really good speakers: now I'm listening to a fuller, deeper music I never knew was there.Or at least could never articulate. (Because really good poets can make you feel the music in their writing without the un-studied poet really understanding, I think.)

For any food writers or poets or curious people out there, I also wanted to share this blog post on food writing. She gets at the same point: that writing about food is about food and so much more. It's about universal themes like memory, relationships, security and happiness (among other things, of course).

I'll leave you with a poem that I think does this well. Jane Kenyon is a favorite of mine, and a master at making her experience available to everyone through her poetry.

Thinking of Madame Bovary 

The first hot April day the granite step
was warm. Flies droned in the grass.
When a car went past they rose
in unison, then dropped back down...

I saw that a yellow crocus bud had pierced
a dead oak leaf, then opened wide. How strong
its appetite for the luxury of the sun!

Everyone longs for love's tense joys and red delights.

And then I spied an ant
dragging a ragged, disembodied wing
up the warm brick walk. It must have been
the Methodist in me that leaned forward,
preceded by my shadow, to put a twig just where
the ant was struggling with its own desire.

(via Writer's Almanac, 4/12/12)

summer 2012 reading list

As promised: Summer 2012 Reading List

The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Knowing this is a literary must-read and a favorite of many, I bought this book (and even started it!) a few years ago. But it was just so… big. I got intimidated and shelved it. Determined, I put it on my to-do list for 2012. By starting it in June, I’m giving myself nearly six months to finish it. But hopefully I’ll wrap it up before the end of summer. Wish me luck.

Journaling as a Spiritual Practice by Helen Cepero

I plan to make my way through this one slowly, meditatively, intentionally. It includes exercises that I want to be sure to try. I’m hoping it will expand and ground my personal journaling to enhance my writing and connect to God in new ways.

Life on Mars by Tracy K. Smith

If you watch this reading by this Pulitzer-Prize winning poet, I think that is all the explanation you really need. Her poems contain some images that are really precise and imaginative. I would love to write like that. Summer is a time for dreaming, right?

The Color of Water by James McBride

I read this one after college and remember loving it. Time for a re-read, and to study how the author approached the form of memoir.

The Summer Before the Dark by Doris Lessing

Last year I read another of Lessing’s books (snagged at a used book sale for 25 cents!) and fell in love with her spare yet weighty style of writing and her dark stories. I’m going back for more. On a sidenote, I bought this book on impulse from a used bookstore (only slightly inferior to used book sales), and I’ve looked forward to reading it since the day I bought it.

The Atlantic Fiction Issue

I’m looking forward to buying this to get my fill of some contemporary short stories. Last year I bought it on my way to the beach and devoured it.(The link above takes you to the online version of the 2011 issue. Read these stories! I remember especially loving Scars and How to Win an Unwinnable War. And The Great Zero was disturbing, in a good way.)

I wish I could add more to the list, but I’m trying to be realistic, so there it is. Tell me what you plan to read! By yourself, to your kids, with your bookclub, even for class - I want to know!

PS I'm taking an online poetry class this summer, also on my 2012 list of must-do's. Eek, I'm so excited!

even this late

Anyone who has read my blog over time might notice that I sometimes make plans that I don't keep. I won't get into that now, and though I wonder if I should feel guilty for breaking promises, I don't. Yet I do want to share that I've been thinking about this blog, about writing, about what's next. I won't make promises, but there is movement. (Also, I realize it may not matter much to the smattering of readers who come here, but it's exciting to me - so there it is.)

In the meantime, and while I get some more thoughts on paper, I wanted to leave you with this poem from today's Writer's Almanac. They've been featuring some really good ones over there lately. And for the comments: I'd love to hear about your favorite or newly-discovered poets and poems.

"The Coming of Light" by Mark Strand, via here.

Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow's dust flares into breath.

(Also, does anybody know if re-printing poems that have been re-printed and citing the source is ok? I'd love to know. I feel like it's a bit iffy...)

they are the way they are

"Living Things"
by Anne Porter

Our poems
Are like the wart-hogs
In the zoo
It's hard to say
Why there should be such creatures

But once our life gets into them
As sometimes happens
Our poems
Turn into living things
And there's no arguing
With living things
They are
The way they are

Our poems
May be rough
Or delicate
Little
Or great

But always
They have inside them
A confluence of cries
And secret languages

And always
They are improvident
And free
They keep
A kind of Sabbath

Emphasis mine; published today on Writer's Alamanc

staggered by their own luxuriance

I meant to post this yesterday in celebration of the first day of summer, but the day got away from me. The photos are of the peonies I bought for my desk at work yesterday (hence the faux wood desktop in the background). Few things will encourage coworkers to stop by and chat like beautiful flowers (and pending deadlines -- but that's a different kind of conversation!).

The poem below is one of my favorites. Enjoy!

Peonies at Dusk

White peonies blooming along the porch
send out light
while the rest of the yard grows dim.

Outrageous flowers as big as human
heads! They’re staggered
by their own luxuriance: I had
to prop them up with stakes and twine.

The moist air intensifies their scent,
and the moon moves around the barn
to find out what it’s coming from.

In the darkening June evening
I draw a blossom near, and bending close
search it as a woman searches
a loved one’s face.

Jane Kenyon from Constance (1993)