Sunday, December 31, 2006
(As an aside, one of the kids named the New Year's party The Uncle Party because ... well ... there are so many uncles around! Maybe we should create an Aunt Party, too.)
The long answer is that we want to connect with the people who mean the most to us at the start of something and the end of something. I mean, most of us are lucky to be surrounded by friends and family when we enter and exit this world. I think New Year's celebrations (and birthdays) reminds us all of this in some way. And with a New Year comes hope that our journeys will be happy ones.
So no matter where you are destined to be when the clock strikes midnight, I wish you happiness and good health in 2007. And thanks to all those who participate in Sunday Scribblings every week. You remind me that I never have to go it alone.
Saturday, December 30, 2006
This video is not for the easily offended.
A few weeks ago, Justin Timberlake hosted Saturday Night Live and performed this skit with lots of bleeps, so SNL decided to release it on YouTube. Currently, it is the #13 most-watched video in YouTube's history according to MediaBistro.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Letters swallow themselves in seconds.
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.
So much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
Orange swirling flame of days,
so little is a stone.
Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
I begin again with the smallest numbers.
Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
only the things I didn’t do
crackle after the blazing dies.
~Naomi Shihab Nye
“Burning the Old Year” from Words Under the Words: Selected Poems
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
I don't know exactly where this quirky poem came from, but it's told from the point of view of a lobster. And I'm quite sure that this one will never see the light of day again.
Enjoy the lobsters!
Even a blind lobster finds a mollusk or two, you say,
bold as an August tide along the Maine coast.
You sit beside me and watch boats circle overhead,
dead fish and bottom-dwelling invertebrates,
our friends, swirl into a mini-vortex while lowly laborers
drop their traps in the waters above.
I have never loved another the way that I love you:
hopelessly, complicatedly, crazed.
We’ve tunneled together through the fronds of seaweed
and walked along the bottom feeding
as if we were the only two crustaceans in the Atlantic Ocean.
Someday we’ll settle among the cobble
but for now we’ll keep plodding.
All night a slow-moving rain raises the tide.
Deep between the mud and rocks
we shed our fragile shells and listen
to waters parting in our shallow inlet,
knowing our soft shells crack and our claws snap off
if handled without care, without love.
1. Look at me being silly with my new camera, courtesy of my handsome hubby. I'll upload a few more picks this week.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
The gifts have been wrapped. The stockings hung with care. And visions of Christmas cookies are dancing in my children's heads. (If my kids are envisioning these cookies then maybe they're having nightmares.)
After a marathon last-minute shopping extravaganza, it looks like the O'Neil family is ready to celebrate the holiday in high style. And I have to admit, I'm really excited to see the kids' reactions tomorrow morning.
Merry Christmas everyone! Wishing you love, love, and more love this holiday season.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
I've said it before and I'll say it again, blogging has changed my life. Had it not been for this blog, which really was a happy accident, I would be trying to nail down the same lame writing and fitness goals. Blah. Blah. Blah.
Why has this year been the best year ever? Besides the fact that my family is healthy and happy, I've had a huge change in my outlook about how to make life changes. Change, real change, comes from within. But I'm not suggesting I had an Oprah-like "Aha" moment. It was a Seinfeld moment.
Remember the Seinfeld episode called "The Opposite"? From TV.com:
George comes to the realization that he should try to do the opposite of everything. As he does, his luck changes and everything begins to go his way including getting a girlfriend, a job with the Yankees and moving out of his parents' house.
Not that I equate my life to George's, but I did what he did--I rejected my natural tendencies and did the opposite. I wrote when I was tired. Mailed poems to publishers despite my fear of failure (or is it my fear of success). Started working out at 5 a.m., five days a week. There's something to be said for turning off that 8-track player constantly playing "no" and "I can't" in my head.
So this year, I feel like I won Willy Wonka's golden ticket (I'm referring to the original movie and not the Johnny Depp remake). What could I possibly do that could top 2006? I don't know yet but I can't wait to find out and share it with you.
For more on change, visit Sunday Scribblings.
Anyway, from CelebrityWonder.com (the last sentence is my favorite part):
Britney Spears has a new tattoo.
The singer got a small black star inked on her right hand, and was joined by younger sister Jamie Lynn, 15, at Los Angeles' Devil Doll Tattoo Parlor at around 10pm on Tuesday night (12.19.06).
Britney looked nervous as she saw the tattoo artist preparing the needle, but she left the parlor smiling and laughing.
She already has a collection of tattoos, which allegedly include a sexy fairy on her lower back, a Hebrew etching on her neck, a butterfly and a vine on her right foot and a Japanese symbol on her bikini line.
The 25-year-old also has a pair of pink dice on her left wrist to match the blue dice her estranged husband Kevin Federline has on his right forearm.
Britney's wild behavior since her split from Kevin has concerned record bosses.
Last week, she was advised to end her friendship with Paris Hilton if she wanted to save her music career.
The "Toxic" singer has enjoyed a series of late nights with Paris since filing for divorce.
She has also been photographed on four occasions without underwear and last Tuesday (12.12.06) Britney flashed her nipples in a see-through white lace top and no bra as she stumbled out of Los Angeles nightclub Element.
Britney apologized to her fans for her recent behavior on her official website, but warned: "I look forward to a new year, new music and a new me. I'm just getting started!"
Thursday, December 21, 2006
The Editor Speaks
There is flow among the elements
on a page. Word buttressing word,
lines asleep on a featherbed of 80-pound stock.
After all, the newsletter you’re reading
is an ecosystem for language,
and there you are preening and sorting
someone else’s natural selection. Your hands part
the cool water of the page’s surface,
splashing letters in your face—
every voluptuous character, every minuscule glyph
rolling down your cheek as beautiful as tears.
Yet all that negative space bends to
the wind’s slightest rustle,
keeping the kerning in sync with the leading,
the tracking aligned with meaning.
Everything gives off a vibration—
just listen to the callout box and what it calls:
Helvetica opens its beak to Galliard,
while the serifs bloom their impossible hues.
They fling themselves against the synapses of the brain,
until something frilled and pithy is born,
something elemental but not original.
The trick is not to care about any of that.
You hold your red pen like a torch
as you run through a forest of thickly settled text
only looking back to see what branches
you have burned.
I love the feeling of completion.
This is the poem I wanted to submit for Poetry Thursday. In fact, I got up two mornings in a row to finish it and I'm only finishing it now. So this baby is new. Feedback appreciated.
I am obsessed with poems about work; I hope to write more of them. I mean, we spend so much time at our jobs that I relish the challenge of making office life poetic. As you can guess, many of the terms in the poem relate to editing and publishing: 80-pound stock, character, glyph, negative space, kerning, leading, tracking, callout box, Helvetica, Galliard, and serifs. Tried to work in the word, "pica" but couldn't find a spot for it.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Creatively and spiritually, y'all have made this the best year of my life. I can say that because my family and friends are happy and healthy, which has allowed me to focus on me for a few minutes every day. Now, I see my life more clearly; I am so in tune with the words and images that surround me. Even the small, mundane things have meaning in my life. And the poetry. Let's not forget the poetry. Check out these stats.
*Number of blog posts as of December 20, including this one: 258.
*Number of profile views since July 2005: 1419. I had two blog posts in 2005, but really didn't start blogging until April 2006 (National Poetry Month).
*Number of poems written since April 2006: 42.
*Favorite poem written for blog: Sex and Pizza
*Least favorite poem written for blog: Five Bucks
*Favorite blog post: Tell Me Your Secret
*Least favorite post: Last week I attempted to try the Secrets post again. But I was reminded that I have a site meter so I could find out who posted what, despite my anonymous request. That was kind of a bummer so I took down the post altogether. That's the first and only time I've ever taken down a post. (To the person who made the comment: no big deal, and thanks for the heads up.)
The big number is the 42 poems written this year. Not all of which I have liked, but I try to post a few not-so-good ones with the half-decent attempts. Most of those made it into my revised manuscript. All in all, 2006 has been my most prolific year ever. Hard to believe with two kids under 4 running around.
A special thank you goes out to the lovely ladies at Poetry Thursday and Sunday Scribblings for giving me a place to put my creative energies.
I started blogging to kick-start my poetry, but the benefits have outweighed my initial reason for entering the blogosphere. Again, I send out my deep gratitude and thanks. Now, bring on 2007!
Monday, December 18, 2006
How to debate (my dad)
How to fight back if I'm ever attacked (my dad)
How to show compassion (my dad)
How to drive (my dad)
How to fish (my dad)
How to ride a bike (my dad ... wait, that was my mom)
How to play tennis (Alex)
How to write a poem (Galway Kinnell, Phil Levine. They were my professors at NYU.)
How to give constructive feedback (Galway Kinnell)
How to get and stay out of debt (my husband)
How to kayak (my husband)
How to trust (my husband)
How to have patience (my son)
Sunday, December 17, 2006
(Who says I'm not crafty! Hee! Hee! Hee!)
It's hard not to get anxious this time of year. I'm a big kid at heart, so this time of year brings out all of the family traditions for the Christmas season.
After Tuesday, I'm on vacation until 2007 (boy, I like how that sounds). Then my parents arrive from Virginia to spend the week with us. I'm fortunate that they are retired and are able to travel. We see them a few times a year, but wish it could be more. I'll spend the week finishing up the Christmas shopping, deciding what to make for Christmas night dinner (I think I'm deep-frying a turkey), and seeing Tim's family over during the course of the week.
What I most anticipate is watching Alex and Ella open their presents on Christmas day. My parents have shipped seven boxes to my house so they can avoid packing gifts. Seven boxes?!? Believe it or not, we're trying to keep a lid on the amount of presents we exchange. Since my parents only get to see the kids a few times a year, I don't mind their generosity at all.
Also, I'm looking to spending quality time with my husband, good food, good friends, and documenting it all with pictures and words on the blog.
Ho! Ho! Ho! And happy Sunday Scribblings.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Happy Poetry Thursday!
In kindergarten, I was the only one with afro puffs.
The only other person at school with a hairstyle even resembling a fro
was my dad when he picked me up at the end of the day.
They were stellar long before I knew who Angela Davis was.
My hair was parted down the center into two clusters,
one on each side. Mom used hair grease to oil my scalp
and comb out the naps, with barrettes holding them in place.
Afterwards, she used the afro pick: a short straight metal comb
with that muscular black plastic hand in salute. To me
it was cold steel that looked like prison bars,
but there was always that fist high above the bars grasping.
We watched Sanford and Son and Good Times
while fixing my hair, and I knew Wilona kept hers
in her purse. I’d see them sticking out of the back pockets of blue jeans
belonging to the neighborhood kings and queens.
It would be much later before I attached faces to those fists.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Monday, December 11, 2006
I know journals and magazines are weeding through their slush piles now, but it almost seems coincidental that I received a rejection on the same day from another journal. But I don't care, because I'm on top of the world! Besides the publication, there's just a lot of good stuff going on-- I feel as if I'm accomplishing almost everything I set out to do in 2006. Hope to blog about it over the next few days.
Can you believe there are only 20 days left in the year?
Sunday, December 10, 2006
This is Ella, my beautiful, funny 16-month old daughter. Most of the time she is a source of pure joy with her laughter and curiosity. But her sense of wonderment can get the best of her, and me. For instance, she loves to put things in her mouth. You name it--week-old crackers, crayons (LOVES crayons), paper--if it's under something or hidden in a thick layer of dust, she'll find it.
So yesterday we decorated our Christmas tree, putting the fragile ornaments on the top, and a few plastic ones around the bottom (my son helped with the low-hanging ones). And while Ella was great at handing me things to put on the tree, she was even better at removing them as soon as I looked away, over and over again, all afternoon.
Now I know Ella doesn't get what a Christmas tree is, and that next year she won't take things off of the tree so freely. But I'm not sure how to discipline her--or at least get her to stop what she's doing. I think taking the ornaments, putting them in her mouth, and rolling them down the holiday brings her a little closer to understanding the holidays in some way. Of course, when Christmas comes, she's going to really enjoy the tree, the food, and opening presents with her brother and relatives.
So I throw this questions out to the Sunday Scribblings audience: What should I do here? Should I remove the low ornaments and be done with it, or is there some way I can teach Ella to look but not touch. And maybe this is part of a larger question: What do you do with a child when "no" doesn't work?
Friday, December 08, 2006
In July 2005, I wrote my first blog post--pretty unremarkable by most standards. Three weeks later Ella was born and I had forgotten about the blog. In truth, I told some poet friends that I started a blog, which they thought was unremarkable. So I didn't come back until this past April, also know as National Poetry Month in the U.S.
It wasn't until the third post of April (or fourth post ever) that someone responded. And that someone was ... Alex, my best friend. Check out Alex's Blog; tap into some of his past posts. He works for a news organization and has some detailed insights on world events.
The entry was about posting at work, and the lack of balance in my life. His keen response to my griping was, "You know what they say, you do something 21 days in a row & it becomes a habit. So keep it up." And he was right.
So this is dedicated to the one I love--big Al! My son's namesake. You can't spell whimsical without "al"! My oldest friend (read: the one who has all the dirt on me). And that's the cool thing about friends: we choose them. But maybe it's more accurate to say that we chose each other.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
1. The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was …
Allen's Ginesberg's Howl resonated for me in college. It was the first poem I thought, "My god, you can say that in a poem?!" Prior to that, Robert Frost's Nothing Gold Can Stay--I remember because it was featured in the movie The Outsiders. In fact, it is the only poem I can recite by heart to this day.
2. I was forced to memorize (name of poem) in school and …
This is a soliloquy rather than a poem, from MacBeth (forgive the punctuation):
"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day, to the last syllable of recorded time. And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing."3. I read/don’t read poetry because …
Next to being a mom, it is my vocation. My life's work. I know this as sure as I am breathing.
4. A poem I’m likely to think about when asked about a favorite poem is …
Sharon Olds' The Takers; Phil Levine's The Simple Truth; Elizabeth Bishop's The Moose.
5. I write/don’t write poetry, but …
I don't write enough poetry consistently. But Poetry Thursday has helped with that considerably. For 2007, I want to write a poem a week, and a poem a day for National Poetry Month (April in the U.S.).
6. My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature …
There is no difference. I love it all and learn so much from other genres. But, as William Carlos Williams once said:
"It is difficult/ to get the news from poems/ yet men die miserably every day/ for lack/ of what is found there."
7. I find poetry …
as necessary as plasma.
8. The last time I heard poetry …
Was this morning on my iPod. There are plenty of downloads available from the Academy of American Poets' Poetcast to poetryfoundation.org's podcast.
9. I think poetry is like …
The best drug ever! Writing a good poem can be better than sex. Sometimes.
For more sound and fury, visit Poetry Thursday.
It’s as though sheer will provides
the feeling of action: broad shoulders
balanced on a narrow frame
the V-shaped digress of his back facing you.
How many times have you spoken to
the man at the computer?
How many times have you imagined
that back against a wall, hand clutching hip,
hand cradling head, lip touching lip
touching lip touching lip.
He’s the wrong man, you’re the wrong woman
yet you feel as if you could sink or swim. Live or die.
The frothing of spirits thick with passion,
and all those pheromones processing … processing
because language can be difficult
because whatever it is between you
can’t be sated. Gaze by gaze,
you enter this place beyond other places,
beyond the body itself, where the midnight tides ebb,
and a great wave swells and drifts away
carrying you over the lip of the world.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
If you know of celebs who write and/or publish poetry, add to the list. All of these links are to Amazon.com in case you would like to see the book covers ... or purchase copies -- whatever floats your boat.
A Night Without Armour, Jewel (singer)
The Lords and the New Creatures, Jim Morrison (singer, deceased)
The Forest of Love: A Love Story in Blank Verse, Jack Palance (actor, deceased). I have an autographed copy of this book--got it as a gag gift.
Touch Me, Suzanne Sommers (acrtress)
Yesterday I Saw the Sun: Poems, Ally Sheedy (actress)
Always a Reckoning and Other Poems, President Jimmy Carter. Actually, Carter's poetry is pretty good so I really don't consider him in the same category as the others.
Blinking with Fists: Poems, Billy Corgan (singer)
Monday, December 04, 2006
"There are really only two kinds of readers-aloud of poetry — the first prompts a collective slumping and hanging of the head in the lap, which sometimes indicates thoughtfulness and which sometimes indicates sleep; the second refuses to lose the eye contact with the audience."
~from "Poets Read Compellingly, Even At Lenght," The Oberlin Review
I was reading this article from The Oberlin Review, which prompted me to think about all of the poetry and literature readings I've attended. The good ones and the bad ones. These days they seem less like community gatherings and more like Barnes & Noble book-selling events. Not to mention spoken word events, which can be really fun or all performance and no substance.
Also, I have been thinking about my performance as a poetry reader. Personally, I'm rusty; I haven't read in public in more than three years. But public speaking scares the bejesus out of me, so I tend not to be conversational with the audience. I look down at the podium, looking up toward the end, while trying to focus on the crowd and not on any one person--exactly the opposite of what a reader is supposed to do.
Now that I think about it, I probably give off that "I'm only doing this because I have to" vibe. Again, this is why I don't read in public.
So I ask you as a lover of literature, tell me about some of your experiences going to a reading or giving a reading. You don't have to name names (unless you want to!). What makes a reading memorable for you? Do you like Q&A sessions? Do you like a mix of old and new works? What do dislike about the readings?
Sunday, December 03, 2006
If these walls could talk, they’d tell you:
- I’m sitting at my office desk in my pajamas waiting for my kids to get up. Haven’t had my first glass of water or morning tea yet.
- I’m having poetry withdrawal from not writing a poem in the last 72 hours. I’d like to write more but I think I’ll be writing less in December because of the holidays. I'm a little sad about that.
- I’ve been going to the gym like clockwork, five days a week for the past three weeks. My abs are killing me; when I cough, they ache.
- I’m surrounded by boxes of gifts from online retailers that need to be wrapped.
- We just installed a new bathtub and surround for our main bathroom, just one of the many household things we’ll do before the end of the year.
- Boston may get snow tonight. I’m a big kid at heart, so I’m hopping for a *MASSIVE* snowstorm so everyone gets a snow day, and the snow removal crews can make some extra cash.
- Last night we took the kids out for pizza after Christmas shopping and they loved it! Fortunately, they were well behaved and loved people-watching in the busy restaurant.
- My 16-month old daughter eats crayons like they’re going out of style. She gets mad when I take them away from her. If she finds a stray one, it’s like she’s found a piece of Godiva chocolate. Can’t wait to introduce her to Godiva chocolate--now, that’s something special.
- My three-year-old son likes to sit in our cars and pretend he’s driving. So last week we left him alone in his dad's car while we worked in the yard, and he put all of the change in the change compartment into the CD player slot. Now the radio doesn’t work. *sigh*
- My husband has a part-time gig working at Gillette Stadium, home of the New England Patriots football team. I hear him shuffling about the house getting ready. The coffee maker clicks and gurgles. The shower hisses on. And one of the kids whimpers. Maybe he or she will go back to sleep a few minutes longer so I can have my morning tea.
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Thursday, November 30, 2006
If I ever doubted the Boston-area poetry community, they were put to rest as I stood in a line of what seemed like 400 people waiting to get into the art-deco theater. The crowd, made up mostly of women, waited patiently, and I eavesdropped on every conversation I could. Heard lots of banter like,” We must recreate the universe!” and “I’ll wonder if she’ll read her Percy dog poems.”
As it turns out, she did read a few Percy poems, as well as many older ones and some from her new book, Thirst. She read a good 20 poems for about 45 minutes.
Here are some random things that I learned about Mary Oliver:
- Every photo of Mary that I’ve seen is in black and white, so I though she was much older, maybe even frail. In fact, she’s quite the opposite—spry and healthy as a horse.
- Her voice is clear and seasoned, and she likes to talk between poems; though, I wanted to hear more tidbits. I always like to know how poets feel about their works over time. I did get some of that but not as much as I had hoped. Still, when she reads, her voice resonates, like she has lived with the words for a long time.
- Every time Mary finished reading a poem, the audience groaned in affirmation. Also, lots of head nodding.
- Mary made a list of poems to read, and yet she couldn’t seem to locate any of them quickly from book to book. And she veered off the list to read a few new, unpublished poems.
- She has nine poems about her four-year old dog, Percy.
- Someone brought a baby to the reading. As the mother of two kids under four, it’s difficult to expect a child to stay quiet in such a venue. So after a few playful squeals from the back, Mary said, “That’s the best sound in the world, a baby’s voice.”
- When the reading ended, the book signing was held at the Brookline Booksmith bookstore, just down the street from the theater. Somehow I ended up walking alongside of her (didn’t speak with her) and noticed that her escort was a priest! At the very least, he was a man of the cloth. That, somehow, was comforting to see. With the signing held at the bookstore, the line to buy books was outrageously long, so I left in frustration.
- Jumping back to the beginning, the host from Brookline Booksmith quoted and spoke about the first line of Mary’s poem “Messenger.” I thought that would be a great way to end this post for Poetry Thursday.
My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird —
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here,
which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.
I felt privy to sit back and be astonished by Mary Oliver’s work. Happy Poetry Thursday everyone!
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
*Attend Mary Oliver reading, and write up a review for Poetry Thursday
*Write a poem
*Collect manuscript comments from readers
*Send out manuscript to two more readers
*Write a poem
*Make list of places to submit manuscript
*Send poems to three different publications
*Read David Tucker’s Late for Work
Write a poem
Update 2007 booklist
Ho Ho Ho
*Show my parents my manuscript (YIKES!)
*Write a poem while my parents are staying with us for Christmas (yeah, right!)
*Spend alone time with Tim since we’ll have in-home babysitters
*Enjoy Christmas with my beautiful, loving, supportive family.
Happy New Year!
*Blog like it’s going out of style
*Make final manuscript changes before sending out in January
*Try not to get too sappy about how much blogging has meant to me in 2006
*Brace myself for the onslaught of the “January” jokes.
Now the only thing I didn't do on my November to-do list was send poems out to publications. My fear of failure--rather, my fear of success--prevents me from sending out to journals and magazines, I think. In any case, I'll give it another try this month.
I'm looking forward to tonight's Mary Oliver reading--can't wait to share my thoughts with you for Poetry Thursday.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
I remember being asked to my senior prom. A week before the prom my date changed his mind. To this day, I still don’t know why. Maybe something better came along.
I remember running into a friend at the mall, telling him my sad story, and his sweet offer to escort me. I remember he owned his own white tux.
I remember my mother taking pictures of us at the front door.
I remember my date’s car stalled in our driveway. My parents drove us to his parents’ house so he could borrow his father’s car.
I remember eating our prom date meal at Red Lobster.
I remember being so flat-chested that my nipple popped out of my strapless mint green dress. Some things never change.
I remember we arrived after the crowning of the king and queen.
I remember the movie Carrie, when the bucket of pigs’ blood drenched Sissy Spacek, covered her peach-colored prom dress in red.
I remember having more fun at the after party than the dance, watching the sun rise over sleeping houses.
I can’t remember the name of my date. Can barely picture his face anymore.
I remember wondering what the big deal about senior prom was.
(This is kind of an old poem created out of a writing exercise. Write down 10 "I Remember" statements and see where they take you.)
Sunday, November 26, 2006
The world bursts at the seams with people ready to tell you you're not good enough. On occasion, some may be correct. But do not do their work for them. Seek any jobs; ask anyone out; pursue any goal. Don't take it personally when they say "no"--they may not be smart enough to say "yes."
First a foot, then the whole body
found wedged upside-down behind
a tall bookcase,
a young woman missing in a home
she shared with her family
most of her life.
Eleven days misplaced, the police surmised
she simply fell over trying to adjust
a television plug behind the shelves—
Simply, as if she disappeared
to that land of lost socks and
and could be retrieved
simply by believing it so.
Her sister passed her bedroom
without stopping to look
but could not put her finger
on that unfamiliar odor
soaking the house in loss.
It doesn’t matter, at this point,
if they believed it was a kidnapping,
or death or escape.
Only the following remains:
a little thing miscalculated, collapsed,
and gave way. What new fear
will guide their silent house at night—
her absence pinned against a plaster wall.
In the end, it wasn’t enough
to see her every day,
to love her silence and her shaky grace.
They seem convinced of
a quiet so deep
even common sense can’t intrude on it.
Every now and then, I write stories based on news events. Currently, this one is running on CNN.com. Also in the series are True Story and True Story #2: Devotion. Feels goos to write about people outside of my family. Constructive feedback is welcome.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Admittedly, I love this face. At age 37 with two kids, I’m one hot mama! (Hee! Hee! Hee!)
Also, I feel my most glamorous when I’m wearing hoop earrings. I don’t wear these big ones all the time. But when I do wear them it’s like wearing a talisman that wards off all negative thoughts.
While it is my ultimate goal to become U.S. Poet Laureate, I’d like to be known as the “hot” poet laureate. Yes, I’d like to be known for my turn of phrase and my command of verse and meter. But the general poetry audience does not really think of poets as being sexual at all. And the ones you do think of are not really that sexy in person. Let me be the one to break that stereotype (I'm laughing as I type this, yet I’m kinda serious about it.)
I rather like the concept of glamour because rarely in my day to day are people “under my spell.” In fact, I think they run for the hills. My kids do—I know they’re conspiring against me. But I did get a nice complement from my husband about how I looked today. So maybe there is something to glamming it up every once in a while.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Wednesday, November 29, 6 p.m. Coolidge Corner Theatre
According to Brookline Booksmith's Web site, the event is sold out. But if you're like me, you're not one to take no for an answer. Call and maybe they will release more tickets. You never know!
Next week, I will attend a Mary Oliver poetry reading. She will be talking about her book, Thirst, so I'll give you a full post on the event. In all the years I've attended poetry readings, Mary Oliver is a first. I wonder what her voice sounds like. Will she read old poems? Will she talk between poems? Will the audience be a generous one? Can't wait to find out.
And onto today's poem, it's a first draft and needs work. And I'm not sure if I'm keeping the title.
I look forward to reading your post throughout the day.
Water fills the bathtub
telling me all of your secrets.
How many chickens and stars
can you hold in one hand?
Alone in our safe place,
we rediscover that same old fear
carved on your back forever,
your song dripping from the faucet
like wet chalk.
Never ceases to amaze me how
the body forgives intrusion
and goes on about its business.
Still, there is anarchy in your land—
cells waiting to attack, the viruses
that let you walk the streets
My little god,
it is time for your destruction,
so let’s put the stars back,
we are finished with the world
and all of its negative space.
Some nights are like this,
so content it puts our hearts
in a forgetful stupor.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
Lying in bed this morning, I had a 10-minute debate with myself on why I should leave my warm bed for the gym. And it all came down to this: change doesn’t happen overnight, so why don’t I go and see what I can do today. That’s it. I don’t have to count calories or step on a scale or look in the mirror—all of which are deterrents for me. All I have to do is make today different than yesterday and the rest will take care of itself.
So I did 30 minutes on the cross-trainer machine, and I feel GREAT! I mean, I was happy (still am). The endorphins kicked in with a vengance—good thing because my son was in rare form this morning. But it was okay, because mommy took some “me time” for herself.
What I need to do is create a time map of my day so I can see how I want to spend my day. (A time map is kind of like a budget for your activities.) Otherwise, I won’t get anything done, including my new-found enthusiasm for a healthier lifestyle.
Hope I can stay with morning workouts and evening writing. That would be the cherry on top of a great 2006.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
You scored 66 Demeanour, 50 Debauchery, 62 Traditionalism, and 70 Expression!
|You like to talk about yourself, and you smile ALL THE FUCKING TIME. You're not very daring or original, but hey, that's why Oprah loves you! Your masterpiece is "I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings", or at least you think it is.|
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Proceeds will go to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina.
What the heck is the difference between a hero, a sub, and a grinder? This is a conversation that comes up in my office at lunchtime once every six weeks. We’re all foodies at heart, after all.
According to Epicurious.com’s food dictionary, a hero sandwich is generally defined as “… a small loaf of Italian or French bread (or a large oblong roll), the bottom half of which is heaped with layers of any of various thinly sliced meats, cheeses, tomatoes, pickles, lettuce, peppers—anything for which the cook is in the mood.”
Here in Massachusetts, we call them subs, which begs the question: Can a sandwich by any other name taste as delicious? Why yes, according to Wikipedia. Here's their list of sandwich names from around the country:
In the United States, the terms "submarine" and "sub" are widespread, but there are also many regional names for the sandwich, especially in the northeast part of the country:
- Bomb — New England, usually used for hot sandwiches with melted cheese and other toppings. Steak bombs, turkey bombs--yum!
- Bomber — New Jersey
- Cosmo — North Central Pennsylvania in and around Williamsport, PA - a cosmo is an oven toasted sub.
Grinder — New England (some say this refers specifically to an oven-toasted sub) and Riverside, CA. I've never heard anyone seriously use the term grinder.
- Hero — New York, northern New Jersey and the Eastern United States. When I lived in Virginia, no one ever called them heroes.
- Hoagie — Philadelphia and environs, including South Jersey
- Italian — New Jersey, Maine, Maryland
- Poor boy or Po' boy — Gulf Coast, especially around New Orleans
- Spuckie — Boston, Massachusetts (now rare) . My husband is a Massachusetts native with Italian relatives and he's never heard the word.
- Torpedo — New Jersey
- Wedge — New Jersey and Westchester and Rockland Counties in New York and southwestern Connecticut
- Zep (for zeppelin) — New Jersey. Really?
- Italian - Maine, where "Italian" is used regardless of the filling--which is specified separately. For instance, a "ham Italian", a "veggie Italian" or a "roast beef Italian". A regular Italian tends to be a ham Italian. Italians are big here, too, especially, the Hot Italian sandwich. Hot Italians refers to the spicy flavor rather than the temperature.
So what are these sandwiches called in your corner of the world?
Friday, November 17, 2006
In autumn, Operation Enduring Freedom commenced,
which some party-poopers wanted to nickname
Operation Infinite Self-Indulgence.
We tied flags to the antennae of our cars
that snapped like fire when we drove.
In winter there was Operation Gentle Sledgehammer,
which seemed linguistically a little underdigested,
but we lined up squads of second-graders
to stand at attention while we beat a drum.
Let me make it clear that I was
as doubtful as anyone about Operation Racial Provocation
but I loved Operation Religious Suspicion,
which led to Operation Eye For An Eye,
which was succeeded by Operation Helping Hand;
—Let me tell you that was a scary-looking hand!
But that was also a very successful Operation.
Someday you will be required to perform a terrible deed
in order to save yourself,
but save yourself for what?
That would be a question for Operation
Self-Examination to answer,
which is a very painful operation
performed without anesthesia
in a naked room full of shadows and light.
Perhaps I might suggest, instead,
Operation Self-Medication, or Operation Endless
In the meantime Operation Collateral Amnesia
is proceeding very smoothly
When it is over we want call it Operation One Big Happy Family—
Is that okay with you?
(My apologies for not being able to break the lines correctly in Blogger.)
Thursday, November 16, 2006
The Last Cigar
Smoke ’em while you got ’em!
and that’s what everyone did
until all the cigars in the world
were gone. Ropes of smoke
wafting up to heaven, creating
blankets of sweet smog. Tobacco fields
were turned into low-income housing;
the wrappers became biodegradable containers
for grape tomatoes and strawberries.
And the people went about their lives,
until a man in a town on the outskirts
found a perfectly preserved cigar
in his damp basement. He longed
to take this tightly rolled bundle
between his lips, but instead
he told a few gypsies and
not soon after, his lone discovery
was placed in a glass humidor.
It toured the country like a rock star,
complete with an entourage
and green and blue M&Ms at every stop.
Eventually, the last cigar was placed in
True believers who missed the taste of smoke
came out in droves to see the famed torpedo,
the scent of phantom leaves still fresh
on their fingertips.
As for the man,
he was grateful that time dimmed
his recall of some things—aftertaste,
the smell of burnt air leaving traces
wherever he went. How satisfied he’d be
if he wasn’t walking through his landfill of a mind
wondering what Freud would do.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Too bad poets, writers, and teachers don’t get the recognition our society affords athletes and rock stars. Wouldn’t be great to have your first book accepted right off the bat because the masses have heard of you and are clamoring for more, like the NBA draft?
I’d be lying if I said, “I don’t need recognition or validation by my peers.” I don’t write in a vacuum. I write, primarily, because I need to see my life before my eyes. Sometimes it gets so lost in toys and bills and long commutes, which is time away from home that I’ll never get back. But I also put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, so that one day I can support myself as a writer (and become U.S. Poet Laureate!). I just think being a writer is one of the greatest vocations in the whole wide world!
Last night, I made revisions to my poems and sent them off to the next round of trusted souls for their opinions. Then in December, I will shove my baby out into to world to sink or swim.
Monday, November 13, 2006
10 wonderful things that start with O:
- O’Neil, my last name. Okay, this one I stole from Bug but it’s applicable.
- Oprah. She rocks my world! So does O magazine.
- Sharon Olds, my former professor and mentor. Also rocks my world.
- Obi–Wan Kenobi, aka Sir Alec Guinness (Ewan McGregor is okay, but not as good as the original.)
- Orange Juice. Tropicana Pure Premium, some pulp.
- Oak trees.
- Ohio. A big swing state in this year’s election.
- Off the Wall by Michael Jackson. Look at that album cover. Michael, what the hell happened?
- Okra. Probably the only vegetable I’ve written poems about. Maybe I should branch out to sweet potatoes.
Five bad things that start with O:
- October…everything dies in October. Not even a good holiday to lessen the blow.
- The OC. Is that still on the air?
- Bill O’Reilly
- OG—slang for “original gansta.”
- The word "over"; rather, its constant misuse. Over refers to spatial relationships: Let’s fly over the Grand Canyon. With numerals, I see this a lot: I won’t pay over $200 for an iPod this year. It’s better to use “more than” in such cases: If it costs more than $10 to see a movie, I’m not going. You get the idea.
I don’t believe in tags so if you feel like trying this meme, consider yourself tagged. You take letter P. Then pick five friends and have them work through letters Q-U.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
I was born in the Year of the Cock. Nappy hair,
fat lips, toothless smile. I threw words around
my back yard until darkness came,
and when I woke up, darkness warmed my bed.
That was the year I took Annie’s breast into my mouth
to taste her milk, the year I swallowed an open safety pin.
That was the year Jed and I dry humped between mid terms;
below the waist, my body was made of metal.
The cherry blossoms bloomed too early, opening
their tentative pedals to the sky. How many layers of dead skin
did I pull from my apple lips?
That was the year Prince didn’t want his name,
wrote “slave” on his face and seceded from the union,
the year I told Nikki I was tired of her shit. Then I met Tim,
danced with him on a pool table—the year I knew he’d be the father
of my children.
That was the year of the nipple, the year
Prince took back his name, the year of Prince Alex,
the year of yellow-eyed Ella, the year of the year
I found myself, the year God blessed the rage in me,
the year I brought sexy back.
That was the year I became January,
the coldest month of the year,
I come from the god of new beginnings,
always looking backwards and forwards.
Last December, I wrote down my new year’s goals (because I don’t believe in resolutions), thinking this year I’d give my writing top priority. With two kids under four and a two-hour commute daily, I thought there would be no possible way to write on a regular basis, much less publish or put together a manuscript. But then I started blogging, and my life became all about me again.
I’m leery of the word “suddenly,” because things rarely happen all of the sudden—usually we’re given signs. But in April, after just a few blog posts, suddenly, my days were more than just the same old same old. I wrote poetry. And then my poetry tuned into essays and lists and memes and photos. Now I have a completed manuscript; and, more importantly, I can see poems everywhere. Seems as if I am just starting to tap into my imagination, as well as the wonderful words and art of my fellow bloggers. What a fine fraternity (hmmmm … sorority) we make up in the blogosphere.
Coincidentally, yesterday I was driving to Boston, reflecting on what an incredible year this has been creatively. So I will close with a few photos from the afternoon, which I consider a visual representation of poetry. Keep in mind, I was driving when I took two of them—now I’m sure that was a sign of good things to come.
For more drivers, visit Sunday Scribblings.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
To Do List
This Weekend (well, Sunday)
- write two poems
- clean desk
- read Terrance Hayes' Wind in a Box
- write one poem
- send poems to one journal/review
- work on manuscript revisions
- send revised manuscript to next group of readers
- read Tony Hoagland's What Narcissism Means to Me
Week 4 (Turkey Week)
- write one poem
- send poems to one journal/review
- Make reservations for AWP conference
- write one poem
- send poems to one journal/review
- go to local poetry reading
- attend Mary Oliver reading (Brookline Booksmith)
- work on second revision on manuscript
Also, I need to get involved with my local writing community. I'm a big advocate of being part of the solution and not the problem. I like the idea of starting a writers' group or working on a group project. But I just don't have the time. Still, I have to make an effort to connect with other poets locally.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
If my life had a soundtrack, what would the music be?
Here's how it works:
1. open your library (iTunes, winamp, media player, iPod)
2. put it on shuffle
3. press play
4. for every question, type the song that's playing
5. new question-- press the next button
6. don't lie and try to pretend you're cool
No Other Way, Jack Johnson
Never Say Never, Romeo Void
("I might like you better if we slept together." Classic.)
first day at school:
Come on to My House, Rosemary Clooney
falling in love:
All in Love Is Fair, Stevie Wonder
Califonication, Red Hot Chili Peppers
Sex Bomb, Tom Jones
(Okay, this song is pure cheese, but I love it!)
Fighter, Christina Aguilera
Strawberry Letter 22, The Brothers Johnson
Bust A Move, Young MC
Golden Years, David Bowie
getting back together:
Is There Something I Should Know, Duran Duran
Best of My Love, The Emotions
("Devastating love and affection..." Go head on withcha bad self!)
birth of child:
Whispers and Moans, Crowded House
("When I wake up in your room, to share one piece of your life, when tomorrow comes we may not be here at all, without your whispers and moans.")
Remember the Time, Michael Jackson
Digging in the Dirt, Peter Gabriel
I'm just thankful The Wiggles didn't come up in the shuffle. This may be more revealing about my personality than any poem I've posted on the blog.
I may have to go back and post a cool version and choose songs for the categories.
This was fun.
However, this is probably not the week to tell her I have a blog.
The Only Time I Ever Saw My Mother Drunk
She bounded into the house with a piece of silver tinsel
wrapped around her neck, tucked inside her coat
like a winter scarf. Dad propped himself up
from door frame to wall to wall.
They had been across the street for hours
visiting our Polynesian neighbors. Mom said
they spent most of the night trying Karaoke.
Dad slurred, but was happy to talk about
the neighbors who performed nightly at Blue Hawaii
and their Christmas tree that touched the ceiling.
Suddenly she erupted with a spasm
that bent her body in half. A thick liquid glistened
on the floor. At some point she noticed a contact lens
had fallen out. We knew it was lost
in the chunks on the brown tiled floor.
Mom knelt down, tried to collect the goop with her hands.
Dad just shook his head, started in with a lawd have mercy,
then was silent. He watched my mother cry
into her hands, then stumbled out,
knocking over a chair on his way to the bedroom.
Upstairs we heard the rattle of pants and belts
that hung behind the bedroom door. He
fell asleep, made himself unavailable to us
while in the bathroom, I stripped my mother,
wiped the crusty film from her mouth
and put her to bed in my room.
I held her hand in my two until she
drifted off. While they slept, celery chunks
and cocktail wieners waited for me on the kitchen floor.
Somewhere a lens floated in heavy syrup.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Massachusetts overwhelming elected the state’s first black governor, Deval Patrick, last night. He’s only the second black governor to be elected to office in U.S. history.
As a Virginia native, it was my great privilege to vote for the country’s first black governor, Doug Wilder, in 1990.
But today, I am a proud, card-carrying member of the Democratic Party in Massachusetts. I live in a state where hope is the mandate. Congratulations, Deval, on running a successful grassroots campaign. Thank you for not running any negative television ads, and thank you for taking small campaign contributions and not caving to special interest groups.
Now don’t f*ck it up.
P.S. Things I do love about this state: Boston Red Sox, Celtics, and Patriots; it’s a Blue State; it allows gay marriage and will offer heath care to all of its citizens next year; steak tips; the wages are higher, on average, for professional women; and, most importantly, the people. It’s always about the people.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Tony Hoagland (Listen to the Poetcast.)
November like a train wreck –
as if a locomotive made of cold
had hurtled out of Canada
and crashed into a million trees,
flaming the leaves, setting the woods on fire.
The sky is a thick, cold gauze –
but there’s a soup special at the Waffle House downtown,
and the Jack Parsons show is up at the museum,
full of luminous red barns.
– Or maybe I’ll visit beautiful Donna,
the kickboxing queen from Santa Fe,
and roll around in her foldout bed.
I know there are some people out there
who think I am supposed to end up
in a room by myself
with a gun and a bottle full of hate,
a locked door and my slack mouth open
like a disconnected phone.
But I hate those people back
from the core of my donkey soul
and the hatred makes me strong
and my survival is their failure,
and my happiness would kill them
so I shove joy like a knife
into my own heart over and over
and I force myself toward pleasure,
and I love this November life
where I run like a train
deeper and deeper
into the land of my enemies.
(from What Narcissism Means to Me. Saint Paul, MN: Graywolf, 2003.)
Monday, November 06, 2006
Ten years ago, CC was a grassroots effort. It united a disenfranchised group of writers, and became a way to make our poetic voices heard. Now the group boasts roughly 270 members with its fellows publishing books and articles, and teaching at institutions throughout the United States.
On the eve of U.S. elections, I want to know if you've been a disruptive seed for literature? In other words, have you ever challenged the established norms to create an event or group project in your community? Have you ever started a writers’ group, held a reading event, created your own journal, self published a book or chapbook, or put together an anthology? Did you enjoy the process? Would you do it again? CC is a great example. And bloggers have a knack for challenging established norms.
Tell me what was it like to be the small pebble that created ripples in your literary community.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Friday, November 03, 2006
Thursday, November 02, 2006
I was thinking about the idea of worth. Specifically, I was thinking about it in reference to Amy Tan's Joy Luck Club. Know your worth. Those words run through my head all the time. As a middle-class black woman in Massachusetts, what is my worth as a poet? What is my story? And now that I am raising a daughter, who is second generation removed from the civil rights movement, how am I going to explain how important it is to value those things we take for granted. Poetry is a way into all of those complex subjects for me.
So I was thinking about all of this and wrote something completely different! How many times has that happened to me over the years. Oh well. Maybe I'm not ready to write about worth because I'm unsure of my own. Well, I'm unsure about where I fit into the scheme of things.
Kerning is an old print term that refers to the spacing between letters. I was thinking about family and words and came up with this.
Today I spent the morning
brushing pink crayon
from your teeth. This tells me
you know how to eat words.
You’ve tasted those intangible calories
that fill my cavernous heart.
You’re beginning to understand
how sloppy and brutal the imagination can be.
I put my fingers between pearly teeth
and yank petals of paper from your mouth.
Someday, I will teach you how to read
words that are not there,
show you how to breathe without
disturbing the air. Nothing lives
outside of us in this overprinted world.
Decide for yourself. Then let me know
if you can eat a crayon without leaving
Also, read the previous post about Sharon Olds' poem, The Victims.
When Mother divorced you, we were glad. She took it and
took it, in silence, all those years and then
kicked you out, suddenly, and her
kids loved it. Then you were fired, and we
grinned inside, the way people grinned when
Nixon's helicopter lifted off the South
Lawn for the last time. We were tickled
to think of your office taken away,
your secretaries taken away,
your lunches with three double bourbons,
your pencils, your reams of paper. Would they take your
suits back, too, those dark
carcasses hung in your closet, and the black
noses of your shoes with the large pores?
She had taught us to take it, to hate you and take it
until we pricked at your
annihilation, Father. Now I
pass bums in doorways, the white
slugs of their bodies gleaming through slits in their
suits of compressed silt, the stained
flippers of theur hands, the underwater
fire of their eyes, ships gone down with the
lanterns lit, and I wonder who took it and
took it from then in silence until they had
given it all away and had nothing
left but this.
Copyright Sharon Olds, from The Dead and The Living
When I think of the poems that hooked me into my poetic life, this one was monumental. Back in the late 80s (ugh), I took a creative writing class as an undergrad in college with Toi Dericotte. We hit it off, and I knew I had found my vocation.
The Victims by Sharon Olds is simply amazing.
“When Mother divorced you, we were glad.” Glad? Of course I had to read on. Divorce is difficult for all parties, but to gloat about it?
Great as the opening is, the following line I carry around like a jewel:
“Then you were fired, and we
grinned inside, the way people grinned when
Nixon's helicopter lifted off the South
Lawn for the last time."
Fired? Wait a minute. I can speak this way in a poem? I can fire my father? My lover? My boss? I can take the power back in our so-called relationship? Sharon pushes the envelope as she continues with the Nixon reference. I was born close enough to the Nixon era to understand how his his legacy of lies and deceit hurt this country. So to equate the father to a the ultimate father figure, a president, who left office in shame no less … brilliant.
So who are the victims in the poem? Not the speaker, or the family that “pricked at [your] annihilation” I think the errant fathers are the victims. They are the slugs, the loser dads who wouldn’t know kindness if it came up and gave them a hug. These men are not men. These men run from doing the real work of raising healthy, responsible kids. Maybe they valued work over family. Or alcohol over family. Or both. We all know lost souls like this. They cannot be saved. All we, as readers, are left with is this poem. Can we be saved or are we victims, too?
I love this poem because it is fierce in its steadfast and unflinching way it tells this story. I cherish it because it was given to me by my soon-to-be mentor. And I revel in it because I had the great privilege to study with the woman who wrote it.
Allen Ginesberg’s Howl made me take notice of poetry. But The Victims gave me the courage and the permission to say the unsayable.
(For more poems, visit Poetry Thursday.)
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
By far, the hardest part has been finding an order. At this writing my poems are in four sections, 55 pieces total, but I'm considering using two sections: a division into the personal and the private.
Now this is the best part--it is such a thrill to hold my life's work in my hands. Next to my marriage and my family, these poems are what I cherish most.
1. Update to-do list
2. Update poems with my hard copy edits
3. Reorder poems
4. Write acknowledgements and notes pages
5. Send to friends on Friday for first look
Also, here are some book titles I'm considering, from the titles of poems in the collection:
*Drinking and other poems
*The Small Plans
*Always There's Something
Any thoughts? Also, I don't have a poem called "Worth," but I hope to write one for Poetry Thursday.