AMIDST THE BOOKS, A FAREWELL AND … A HELLO!

Dear 9.5 Billion Peeps (at last count, that is):
We’ve had a fabulously great time, have we not, on this blog! Thanks for staying with me! And now, I hope you continue to fly with me onto my next blog!

Yes, this is the last post here. I will continue posting – with a more focused bibliophilic focus – over at my new blog:

EILEEN VERBS BOOKS!

As they say, please update your links to http://eileenverbsbooks.blogspot.com Do note that on the new blog, unlike here, comments are allowed, that is, welcomed and encouraged!

And it seems fitting that I leave with my last update here of my Recently Relished W(h)ine List below. I will continue this feature in the next blog. For now, please note below that, in the Publications section, if you see an asterisk before the title, that means a review copy is available for Galatea Resurrects! More info on that HERE.


PUBLICATIONS
TOWARD THE YEAR 2014, Season’s Greetings Annual Poem-Card/Broadside by Sheila E. Murphy (as ever, absolutely FABULOUS. I think this particular poem may be my favorite yet from Sheila’s annuals!)

CARPE DIEM by Robert Frost, as a Holiday Broadside from The Poetry Collection of University of Buffalo/SUNY (a gift from Edric Mesmer – what’s not to like? Indeed, I love! Thanks Edric!)

REVELATOR, poem by Ron Silliman (masterful and mature. Makes the difficult seem easy with its not-at-all-uneasy-with-itself energy that seemed to have begun before the poem’s first word so that with that first word you already feel you’re in some majestic current. That is, wonderful propulsion – making it all the more lovely when the energy unexpectedly slows when a reader can’t help but pause to be affected by something read, in this case a reference to a son’s breathing – ultimately, lovely. Tho must return as sometimes the energy moves you forward so quickly that you just look by something you want to consider longer as if you’re on a train reading words on a wall rather than looking at a page. First word: “Words.” First two words: “Words torn…” Breathtaking. Will look forward to making it LinkedInPoetry Recommendation No. 100)

“SHE’S WELCOME TO HER DISEASE” DEMENTIA BLOG [VOLUME TWO], poems by Susan M. Schultz (innovative, moving, fabulous. LPR #94)

* DAS GEDICHTETE, poems by Patrick James Dunagan (much pleasure in these knotted meditations)

WE BURY THE LANDSCAPE: AN EXHIBITION-COLLECTION, poems by Kristine Ong Muslim (marvelous. LPR #95)

* IMAGO FOR THE FALLEN WORLD, poems by Matthew Cooperman and art by Marius Lehene (wonderful; unexpectedly elegiac. To be LPR #97)

* LITTLE “g” GOD GROWS TIRED OF ME, poems by Aby Kaupang (lovely. LPR #98)

* OF: VOL. I, poems by Ossian Foley (unexpected loveliness. To be LPR #96)

* THE ERRANT ASTROLOGERS by Felipe Benitez Reyes, trans. from the Spanish by Emily Toder (witty. Shakespeare-evoking. To be LPR # 99)

* HAITI GLASS , poems by Lenelle Moise (powerful and moving)

POEMS’ PROGRESS, poems and prose about their writings by Wendy Barker (it’s a type of book I’ve always wanted to write: poems and what led to their making. Here, the poems are okay but the prose is divine. LPR #93)

* TRIPLE CROWN: THREE CROWNS OF SONNETS by Jeffrey Cyphers Wright (masterful by a well-seasoned poet)

* A HUNDRED THOUSAND HOURS by Gro Dahle, Trans. by Rebecca Wadlinger

* BEYOND THE CHAINLINK, poems by Rusty Morrison

* TEXT (ISLES), poems by Nancy Kassell

* BEAUTY MARK by Suzanne Cleary

* PRACTICE ON MOUNTAINS, poems by David Bartone

* FOOL’S GOLD, poems by Norman Schaefer

* A BELL MADE OF STONES, poems by Lehua M. Taitano

* WHAT I’VE STOLEN, WHAT I’VE EARNED, poems by Sherman Alexie

* MANTIC, poems by Maureen Alsop

* AMIRI BARAKA & EDWARD DORN: THE COLLECTED LETTERS, Edited by Claudia Moreno Pisano

* HOUSE ORGAN, No. 85 Fall 2014, literary zine edited by Kenneth Warren

THE LAVENDER GARDEN, novel by Lucinda Riley

ROSE HARBOR IN BLOOM, novel by Debbie Macomber

THE CHRISTMAS BASKET, novel by Debbie Macomber


WINES
2002 Jadot Corton Charlemagne
2010 Dancing Hares
1991 Grahams port
2007 Elaine St Clair Syrah NV
2010 Entre Suelis "Castilla Y Leon"

A STORM OF FILIPINO POETS

So far, 129 Filipino poets from around the world will present poems for the fundraising anthology for Yolanda survivors that I'm editing: VERSES TYPHOON YOLANDA: A STORM OF FILIPINO POETS. Looks like it'll come out by March (hopefully). My 10th anthology to edit or conceptualize -- but the first that'll involve not just(and mostly)  English but several Filipino languages -- Filipino, Cebuano, Bisaya, Waray, Hiligaynon ... hm: but not a single Ilocano (the only language where I can pretend some knowledge). Well, some pundit estimated it'd take at least 3 years for the region to overcome the damage so hopefully the book will create donations/funds. So watch for this: http://angelicpoker.blogspot.com/2013/11/poems-in-time-of-yolanda.html

MORE THAN A THOUSAND WORDS

I'm on my way to releasing my hundredth book so I'm no slacker when it comes to my work. But it's not art-making but parenting that I've found to be the most complicated--the hardest --task. And the most affirming -- here are some recent pictures of my blossoming child (this blog, too, is just my refrigerator door for his pics -- my real life refrigerator, by the way, is so fancy you can't stick images on it (what was I thinking?!) I love my book covers, but wouldn't trade a single one for any of these photos taken, respectively, while debuting a new suit for the Homecoming Dance, hanging with his soccer teammates (dig those soccer shoes!), and harvesting pumpkins (small this year but still cheerful!) with the dawgs:

>

Poetry ... as a way of Life!

NO HEARTBREAK IN COLOMBIA

I just got back from Bogota, Colombia -- I went there last week on one day's notice to address a major disaster whose details I can't reveal publicly. But in dealing with this disaster that made me feel like my life was one bad C-version of a James Bond movie telenovela, the days were jammed with heartbreak, despair, intense frustration -- I came back and several people observed, Wow: you've suddenly got white hair!

There were also a few dead moments of waiting for various things to happen or not happen (ever noticed how life is also filled with these idiotic periods of waiting?). And I am pleased to report that, notwithstanding the disaster unfolding around me, during one of these waiting periods, I wrote a book review of a poet's memoir just because the book moved me to do so (one of a group of books I randomly grabbed from my To-Read pile to bring along on the trip). (The memoir is WHAT THE STONES REMEMBER by a poet unknown to me, Patrick Lane.) And I am so pleased because what this proved to me is that even when I'm not consciously thinking of poetry, poetry (concerns) dont' leave me -- they are so integrated into my life now like ... breathing.

That is, I used to be concerned about carving out spaces within my life to address poetry. Now I know -- I've restructured life so there's no seam between the two. Many wise poets say that to write effective poems the poet has to change one's life. I guess I did ... and, btw, for this past week I also had to change my diet. Here's a touch of yummy Colombia:

Ay yay yay -- those lovely chicharrons!

STATUS CHECK

9:04 a.m., Wednesday, Aug. 28, 2013. TERMINE! Finished the last of 57 poem-sculptures that will make up moi 2014 book, MICHEL'S REPRODUCTIONS OF THE LOST FLAG.

'Twas more complicated and difficult than I anticipated. Am relieved the first draft is finished.

Synchronistic now that whilst sculpting, I was reading during coffee breaks Daniel Silva's novel-series about an Israeli spy who also is a master restorer of paintings. To be mired in a world of radical politics requiring extreme sanctions and yet never losing sight of the singular integrities of Art. All useful scaffolding as I chiseled away at prose blocks.

Two more manuscripts. Then, shall the Poetry Muse release me? I wonder, since I would not be unhappy to be so released. Ironic. I've so desired to plumb Poetry's mysteries and fell deep with so much joy and appetite. Now, I wouldn't mind yet another way. Poetry's light is blinding, but it is dark light.

**

Only a (King Lear's) Fool would ever want to be a poet.

The problem is that being a poet is not about what one wants. It's not (just) about desire. It's also about helplessness...

WHAT IT'S LIKE (OR CAN BE LIKE) TO BE A POET

I was all day in San Francisco yesterday, moving from one meeting or session to another that involved me having to sign off on mucho legalese documents. And whilst in the elevator with the hubby in my lawyer's building downtown, we ended up sharing it with another lawyer. The hubby re-introduced us to each other, reminding me (since he knows moi memory is a sieve) that we'd met once before. The lawyer said, "Oh yes. I've read your poetry." Now. A wise poet -- and I like to think on matters like this I'm unlike moiself and am actually wise -- never expects to float through the world and bump into strangers who've read her poems. Never. So, to the lawyer's statement, I replied as I often do when I'm stumped. With humor. To wit, I replied, "I'm sorry" and we all laughed briefly as the lawyer (diplomatically if nothing else) paid a compliment to my poems (a compliment I realized was a compliment but didn't actually hear in its specifics because I was hearing instead the buzz of bemusement at being confronted this way). And because on matters like these I am wise, I've been reflecting on the incident. And, first, I am of course grateful to have had the incident -- because it's pretty rare when, as I've blatantly implied, poets meet a total or near-total stranger who's read their poems. And because I'm wise, I'm grateful. Then, being the perverse creature that Moi am, I become irritated. I'm irritated that I have to be grateful for moments like these. Because of course it hearkens the larger issue of how little poetry plays in many people's everyday lives ... such as that a poet can feel grateful for such incidents as yesterday's. Then I get irritated even more that I don't possess the grace to simply feel, Thank you, and then move on without being irritated. Then I get irritated at being reminded yet again of how I often am graceless. Then I get irritated at being irritated over what was an undeniably positive moment. And, now I'm sitting here berating myself -- mentally screaming at moiself, Don't you dare get irritated that the incident occurred, that someone actually read and liked your poems! Don't you dare! Sometimes, it's so ... so ... well, there's no other way to put it: so bloody irritating to be a poet!

THOSE POETS WHO SPEAK "THE LANGUAGE OF LIGHT" AND THUS PERHAPS SPEAK FOR US ALL

Art: ... The prayer that leads to stigmata,...
--Eric Gamalinda

I've said in the past, Judge Moi by what she reads -- and then I've mentioned my ongoing "Relished W(h)ine List" through which I post everything I read (to its completion); I don't discriminate between bad and good in that list; if I finish a book, it gets on that list (I don't list books I don't finish reading). And I do think this Relished List says something about Moi. (And since truly horrendous books don't end up being read to their "The End"s, it does say something good about a bad book to get onto the list...)

But perhaps a more accurate picture will be portrayed by a list still in its relative infancy, The LinkedIn Poetry All-Stars list. For example, my Recommendation #8 is a book by Eric Gamalinda. And so, go HERE for one of his poetics prose I published in PINOY POETICS -- I heart it and highly recommend you read Eric's "Language, Light and the Language of Light"... thus learn.

Another excerpt--this one I'm feeling is particularly timely today:

The reality of a poet living in contemporary society involves, unfortunately, constantly submitting himself to the judgment of a small elite of industry people, many of whom may not even be inspired by the music, history, art and poetry that inspire the poet, and whose only purpose, to put it a little unkindly, is to sustain the very industry that feeds them. I often wonder how many of these people, because they have been trained and conditioned to think only in certain terms, understand the work that artists do and the aesthetics and faith that compel them to create. In any case I believe they constitute a kind of barrier that insulates author from audience. I am thus inclined to praise the work of small presses, but more especially the inevitability of more widespread self-publication in the future, the democratization of publishing, which new technology makes increasingly possible: to demolish the authoritarianism of the industry and the institutions that support it, which I regret to say includes even the academe on one hand and the “spoken word” scene on the other, two poles that have contributed to creating a kind of herd mentality in poetry, a common, generic, “acceptable” set of voices. There is a tendency among poets in the academe and spoken word scene to mimic one another, particularly in diction and delivery; read any journal or go to any performance and you’ll see how everything is the same. This, however, is not necessarily a bad thing: If anything, it is an indication that we have reached the same crisis that made a poet like Rimbaud inevitable and necessary, a poet who would deviate and speak only for himself, not just TO an audience, and certainly not TO A MARKET, and in so doing perhaps speak for us all.

THE EXPANSE OF A POEM (AND BOOK)

A poem, book, or any work of art can be a doorway into something unexpected.  In the case of my latest post at SitWithMoi, Emily Dickinson's I'M NOBODY! WHO ARE YOU? allowed me to reflect on my relationship with Mom ... specifically how a book helped her feel so much better about her life.  Just in time, too, as she died within two months of the book-induced revelation. 

That story is HERE.  That story is yet another reason why I. LOVE. BOOKS.

"OH GOOD: MOI CAN CONTINUE TO DEGENERATE..."

for some reason, was one of my initial responses to Barry Schwabsky's contribution to a celebration of the 90th birthday of his teacher, Daniel Hoffman, over HERE. 

A more important reaction was my thought of how complicated it can be to teach/model compassion ... and I'm glad Mr. Hoffman was successful with Mr. Schwabsky. 

I once wrote to Mr. Hoffman.  He replied.  Utterly gracious of him.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, Daniel Hoffman.

And Barry Schwabsky?  Bless you, dear ...

Oh, and Jose Garcia Villa?  Calm down: you know I love you.

MINI GRATITUDE WITH A MAXI HEART

Whenever the world sends JOY moi way, I am always grateful.  THANK YOU.

LYN HEJINIAN HAD ME EVEN BEFORE THE WORD "LOVE"

I've been and am interested in The Grand Piano because of its described structure as a "collective autobiography." Ten different authors. Ten volumes. I had anticipated reading each volume as it was released but, after the first volume, failed to kept up. Now, I have all ten volumes at once.

I had no intention to do so, but this evening, I read through all of Lyn Hejinian's contributions in Volumes 1-10. No intention, I say, because I ended up caught in her contribution -- for me, they were page-turners and suddenly I was going through Volumes 2, 3, 4, 5 .... thought to pause after Vol. 5 coz it was late, then thought, what the heck, and continued on through to Volume 10. A very satisfactory read with an (to me) unexpected "ending" (Vol. 10) in what narrative thread I was threading through Volumes 1-9. I really need to re-read her contributions again. But on first read, my most powerful engagement was probably with Vol. 3 when she pissed me off -- well, not she; perhaps it's more accurate to say, I got pissed off (rather than she pissed me off) -- because something she wrote triggered several extremely uncomfortable memories I have as regards my mother. This is all just a testament, of course, to the power of her writing.

Oh, and there was another incident noted in Vol. 3 where two of the male poets asked her if she'd read this other author and she'd felt the question to be a "test" .... I get this. I know this. While not proposing acrimony, I am reminded of several conversations with males and male poets, including one with an older, male poet wherein, at one point, I told him, "You do not know more than I do. I simply know different things from what you know."

Anyway, I think I'm going to continue to read The Grand Piano this way -- i.e., each poet indivually. Then, depending on how I respond to what I've read, I might read the books the way the authors (I assume) intended, a volume at a time so as to get that "collective autobiography" point of view. Because the structure interests me and I want to see what's in that comparison of reading them individually vs collectively.

Huh. As it turns out, I think it's just as well (for me) that I ended up waiting to read The Grand Piano until all volumes were released.

UNIMAGINABLE SWEETNESS

is seeing your 82-year-old Mom see her very first book published!  Yep--first time author at age 82: that's inspiring!  Mom's book is DAWAC And Other Memoir Narratives, which was released in the U.S. but she only just saw her first copy last week when I went to the Philippines.  You see, Mom is bedridden from cancer now, which didn't stop her from knowing/feeling the  joy of her first book -- that first book is always special!  Here she is:

And here Mom is doing book-signings!  Grin!

I am so happy Mom experienced all this ...

Here's my cousin Dona at her sari-sari store, reading Mom's book (love these tiny stores that dot the Philippine landscape):

In fact, Dona will post a copy at her store for all the villagers to see that Mom wrote a book about them all!

This unimaginable sweetness of seeing your Mother experience her first book: Ay, nagsamit nga unay!

CELEBRATING DAWAC by BEATRIZ TILAN TABIOS!!

We at Galatea are all celebrating Mom's FIRST book!  Quite an accomplishment for someone just shy of her 83rd birthday!  You can see information about DAWAC And Other Memoir-Narratives by Beatriz Tilan Tabios over HERE, as well as order it from Amazon.com (give it a couple of days to get into their system) or Lulu.com at http://www.lulu.com/shop/beatriz-tilan-tabios/dawac-and-other-memoir-narratives/paperback/product-20386719.html.  Here is Michael relishing his Abuelita's book:

The dawgs are equally excited and are all over the box of books shipped over by the printer:

I'm going to repeat the Press Release below because I do want to belabor JOY whenever JOY exists:

***

MERITAGE PRESS ANNOUNCEMENT
(Please Forward)

DAWAC and Other Memoir-Narratives by Beatriz Tilan Tabios

ISBN No. 978-0-9826493-5-0
Release Date: Fall-Winter 2012
Available for $12.50 through Meritage Press (MeritagePress@aol.com) and Lulu.com (http://www.lulu.com/shop/beatriz-tilan-tabios/dawac-and-other-memoir-narratives/paperback/product-20386719.html).
Available for $14.50 through Amazon.com

Meritage Press is delighted to release a first book by a first-time author just shy of her 83rd birthday: DAWAC and Other Memoir-Narratives by Beatriz Tilan Tabios. DAWAC presents Mrs. Tabios' childhood memories of Babaylans (indigenous Filipino healers) as well as surviving the Japanese invasion of the Philippines during World War II.

DAWAC describes many incidents that would be lost today without the book's existence. They also make history come alive, as only the testimony of someone who lived through the experience (versus a historian's or academic's account) can accomplish. An example is a section that describes how she and her family ran to the forests to hide whenever the Japanese army approached their town. As it turned out, it was during those times of hiding when she ended up being introduced to Greek poets, because Homer's Iliad was a "little" book light enough to carry as she fled.

Beatriz Tilan Tabios received her B.A. with English as her major from the Silliman University in Dumaguete, Philippines. She developed her love for poetry as a sixth-grader reading Homer, William Shakespeare, John Keats, Alexander Pope, William Wordsworth and Samuel Coleridge while trying to survive World War II. She would further develop her appreciation for literature as a college student instructed by poet Edith Tiempo, the first woman to receive the title of National Artist for Literature in the Philippines. Critic and fictionist Dr. Edilberto Tiempo, then the head of Silliman University’s English Department, encouraged Mrs. Tabios to continue her study of English and American literature. As a result, Mrs. Tabios wrote her Master of Arts thesis, one of the earliest investigations, regarding Filipino literature, of “(The Use of) Local Color in Short Stories in English.” Later, Mrs. Tabios taught English literature at Dagupan College (now University of Pangasinan) and University of Baguio, before becoming a teacher at Brent School, a boarding school initially built for children from U.S.-American military, missionary and gold-mining families stationed in the Far East.

Advance Words on DAWAC include, from award-winning critic and writer Albert B. Casuga:

I found Beatriz Tilan Tabios’ memoir to be in the classical style of story-telling, worthy of her training under Edilberto and Edith Tiempo. I read “Dawac” and liked the characterization of Apo Kattim, particularly the use of an Igolot extract that was the colloquial dialect in the sanctuaries of Baguling, La Union, where my family evacuated and were sheltered by the bagos (Ilocano-Igolot-Pangasinense mix) during the Japanese mop-up operation before Americans and Filipino guerrillas liberated the Northern provinces and the Cordilleras. I still speak a smattering of the Igolot of Apo Kattim, which I picked up as toddler during our refuge in Baguling’s mountains. Mrs. Tabios’ use of the dialect makes for an authentic character as memorable as those mang-ngagas or herbolarios. I, too, was "cured" by an Apo Anong when I was a little boy—he brushed some leaves all over my fevered body (according to my mother) to trap the "evil spirit" inside an egg; after praying to rid the spell that "punished" me, he threw the egg into some banana grove in my grandmother's orchard (my mother swears to God the egg did not break!). The next day found me running around with my rambunctious cousins as I’d been "cured" of the malady. I learned these from mother's own memoir.
—Albert B. Casuga, author of A Theory of Echoes and Other Poems

For more information: MeritagePress@aol.com

DEVOTION: NO ONE ELSE CAN DO THIS FOR YOU

The Argotist Online has an interesting series discussing the state of poetry including "Otherstream" (the alternative to mainstream or "Knownstream")--which Jake Berry lucidly presents, in part of course, as

... Otherstream. It is turbulent and chaotic relative to the perspective of the Knownstream, yet it is present in the unlimited margins. To practice art in that space that is not actually a space means to surrender conventional ambition and work in the wilderness. No single description of it is sufficient since it is largely unknown and what is known cannot be determined to be representative. Failure, then, is a given and is the initial experience in this other “space.” To surrender and pass through failure without expectation is the price of admission out.

The series (my term) begins with Berry's essay "Poetry Wide Open: The Otherstream (Fragments In Motion)".  The following poets, critics and academics then respond:

Ivan Arguelles
Anny Ballardini
Michael Basinski
John M. Bennett
John Bradley
Norman Finkelstein
Jack Foley
Bill Friend
Bob Grumman
Bill Lavender
Alan May
Carter Monroe
Marjorie Perloff
Dale Smith
Sue Brannan Walker
Henry Weinfield

You can begin reading the respondents' offerings HERE. I am honored, by the way, to be mentioned in Anny Ballardini's response--thanks Anny! I am just starting to read everyone's response. For now, though, I want to respond to something Jake Berry mentions in his essay. He says others may feel that

It is reasonable to argue that with so much poetry available a gatekeeper is needed. Otherwise one might read, listen or watch for years and never get a sense of which poetry was important and which was insignificant.

Actually, a gatekeeper is not at all required for the reader who is deeply interested in poetry. When I started out, I had no idea who is who or what is what in poetry. So I went to my local Barnes and Noble poetry shelf and just began reading everything on it (yes, it was a limited start but I was starting from Ground Zero at age 35 and with poetry but a faded memory of elementary school assignments). What will happen, if the reader is committed to exploring poetry, is that you begin to determine what you like or dislike and lead your reading more and more to those tendencies you appreciate.  (After some time of learning those tendencies, I had to consciously be sure to continue to remain open to reading others outside of those tendencies because one never knows what will rear up in Poetry--a story for another time).  I didn't/don't need a gatekeeper but found out/find out on my own. My process requires a deeper commitment than the couple of years required to be majoring in poetry or creative writing. It's a daily commitment that continues on today on a daily basis. My approach, however, requires something that takes a lot of time and attention--one might call it Devotion.

Devotion is a much stronger force than a third-party telling you what's what or who is who. Devotion's expanse and the knowledge it will introduce will usually be much larger than any gatekeeper's particular knowledge ... and bias.  It's hard work--no one else can do it for you. You have to do it for yourself--if you abided only by what the gatekeepers say, it's like you asking someone else to do your research for you.  That's the thing about Devotion: there's no shortcut.  So, Poet, suck it up and just read radically.

I WANT TO FEEL ... YOUR PUNCH!

Yep, in my last boxing training session, I told Julio -- whom I'd been punching in our sessions as he teaches me form -- that I wanted to feel his punch. I wanted to know what a punch feels like!

I think it shocked him. And, later, he'd tell me that I'm the first student to request his punch! The first! After all those Peeps he'd trained! I'm really proud of that. I may never actually master boxing (but of course I'll never master boxing!), but I will have been one of its greatest students!* Which, actually, is not that far-off from my overall approach (to date) as a poet open to researching all sorts of topics: whether or not I will excel in a particular matter, I want to be one of its greatest students.

(But, yes, do note that parenthetical "(to date)" because I actually wouldn't mind switching gears whereby I narrow from the all to specializing in the one and indeed excelling at it. I just haven't found yet that one matter that's so compelling that it would draw me away from the rest of the world to it. And if that be moi path that's 'kay too.)

Anyway, so Julio punched me! Well, not my body but I slipped on his boxing mitts and he punched me there. WHAT A REVELATION! With his first punch, I immediately realized: to receive the punch is not to receive the power of his fist. Oh no! What I felt from Julio was not his fist but the power of his forearm and, presumably, the rest of his body from which that forearm emanates. The fist was not even (metaphorically) a presence!

To belabor the obvious, the punch obviously would be empowered if a boxer put his body behind the punching motion ... and the punch obviously would be empowered if the body behind the punch is in shape. That's EXACTLY how I view writing the poem! That is, the activities and research which occurred prior to the poet taking up the pen to write a poem is what will drive the poem. The author is not dead and that person's prior activities and preparations -- not a disembodied hand -- will make the hand, um, punch out a poem that will knock you out with its song, its beauty, its message, its power, ...

Such blather but I'm so amazed at not just the discovery but how it was so revealed quite physically (Julio is very fit!). I had not anticipated how the fist would play such a small part in boxing!. And, actually, this reminded me just now of how Meena Alexander told me (in my first book BLACK LIGHTNING), the poem is just the tip of the iceberg.

Of course -- without the body, there'd be no tip. Aren't I deep? Just Say Yes to that question as, Moi Dear, you wouldn't want to feel my ... punch!


+++++
* Reminds me of that period I studied kali martial arts under Gura Michelle; my sticks fumbled and bumbled but my kali poems? I'd like to think they bladed air! Speaking of blading air, I love this photo of Michelle making that sword dance (uh, I never moved like this either--maybe one of my goals is just to see how many martial arts forms I can bungle ... due to a more primary and primal goal: to amuse moiself):

R.I.P., ADRIENNE RICH

Among the many things I admire about you and your poetry is captured in

Rich was a hard poet to define because she went through so many phases. Or, as Rich wrote in "Delta," "If you think you can grasp me, think again."

You didn't just change poetry. You changed the world.

POETRY IS DIRECTING THE TRAFFIC

...was amused recently to see an article lauding a poet-art critic for his writings about so-called "unfinished" paintings. Said poet-art critic apparent was able to categorize artists together in such category, including perhaps some artists who otherwise would be (aesthetically) unrelated. This is a Peep who, as a poet, developed his own craft while "open-ended" poems were becoming the rage (so to speak, poetry of course is never really a rage...).

While I don't know which is chicken and egg -- whether 'twas the observations on contemporary (latter 20th century) art that influenced the poetry-writing or vice versa -- it's certainly possible that it was the writing of deliberately non-conclusive poems that guided the eye towards looking at paintings, rather than that the paintings themselves presented themselves unmediated by that poetry influence.

Not a criticism of the Peep, of course (is there really such a thing as an unmediated experience?). But am amused to see .... Poetry directing the traffic. Such a mischievous traffic cop, this Puw-etry...



'

YOU GO, ISAIAH!!

In my poetry I do not try to find the words to express what I want to say. In my poetry I try to find ways to express what the words have to say.
--Carl Andre

Later today, our family will attend church for Christmas Eve. I will be one of those doing a reading from the scriptures about Jesus Christ's birth.

The reason I am a reader is that the pastor yanked me into the role after a reading I did several weeks ago when I read Isaiah 61: 1-4, 8-11. The reason she yanked me into that reading was because the local paper did an article about my reading at the Library of Congress in October.

Actually, the pastor first asked if I could read one of my poems during a church service. I hemmed and hawwed because, ahem, I couldn't think of a single poem from my very prolific output that I would not be, ahem, embarrassed to read in a church setting. (Let me put it this way, my mother is VERY MAD at one of my generous blurbers for one of my books because he so, ahem, relished the eros in my poems...Anyhoo:)

So the pastor asked me to read from Isaiah instead and it would have been, at that point, extremely ungracious of me to pass. Not to mention that I hadn't attended church for something like eight months prior to her request. So, I sucked it in, went to church, and read Isaiah.

And here's what happened: that day, a few minutes before church was due to begin, I looked at the the Isaiah passages; I just read them on paper, which is to say, I didn't rehearse my reading. So, that morning, it came my turn to read the scriptures and I stepped up to the podium, opened the very Holy Bible to Isaiah and started reading.

O MOI GOD!
(no pun intended)

It was an unbelievable experience -- hot damn (forgive my blasphemy) if the words didn't just take over! I didn't mean to read the passage in any particular way, but the words themselves just took over my blathering mouth and there I was declaiming. I don't quite know how to describe it, but it's arguably the BEST poetry reading I've ever ever done -- not because I'm a great reader but because the words are so great! Isaiah, or whoever translated him for the New Century Version I read from, did an incredible writerly job! The words, the structure -- they had such an incredible music, rhythm, et al that by doing my job which was simply to be open to the poem, the words came out ... divinely.

I think I've had that occur in poetry readings (whether of my poems or others) less than ten times. The last time in memory that such occurred was when I was asked at the last minute to step in for Will Alexander at a City Lights reading. I read a Will Alexander poem and it was so musical that I felt I just sang-roared!

Isaiah (like Will Alexander) achieved something most poets never achieve: the poem takes over the poet because the poem creates a new life successfully through words, structure, music ... But don't take my word for it! Here are the verses from Isaiah I'm referencing. It doesn't matter if you're a Christian or not. Read them. Read these words for these words themselves, OUT LOUD. Perhaps you too will feel the inherent poetic structure, the crystalline logic of music here.

Isaiah 61: 1-4, 8-11

The Lord God has put his Spirit in me,
because the Lord has appointed me
to tell the good news to the poor.
He has sent me to comfort those
whose hearts are broken,
to tell the captives they are free,
and to tell the prisoners they are released.

He has sent me to announce the time
when the Lord will show his kindness
and the time when our God will
punish evil people.
He has sent me to comfort all those who
    are sad

and to help the sorrowing people of Jerusalem.
I will give them a crown to replace their ashes,
and the oil of gladness to replace their sorrow,
and clothes of praise to replace their
    spirit of sadness.
Then they will be called Trees of Goodness,
trees planted by the Lord to show his greatness.

They will rebuild the old ruins
and restore the places destroyed long ago.
They will repair the ruined cities
that were destroyed for so long.

I, the LORD, love justice.
I hate stealing and everything that is wrong.
I will be fair and give my people
what they should have,
and I will make an agreement with
them that will continue forever.

Everyone in all nations will know the
children of my people,
and their children will be known
among the nations.
Anyone who sees them will know
that they are people the LORD has blessed.

The LORD makes me very happy;
all that I am rejoices in my God.
He has covered me with clothes of salvation
and wrapped me with a coat of goodness,
like a bridegroom dressed for his wedding,
like a bride dressed in jewels.

The earth causes plants to grow
and a garden causes the seeds planted
in it to grow.
In the same way the Lord GOD will
make goodness and praise
come from all the nations.

After this experience, I'm reading the Bible again. How apt for me that, if this sinner finds religion after all (so to speak), Poetry too will have been my way back to its fold.

***

By the way, the pastor left a message in our phone machine following my Isaiah reading. She goes on and on about what a great job I did, and that she'd never heard the scriptures read that way before. I mention this because I refuse to delete that from the phone message machine. Nowadays, when someone in the household -- usually the hubby -- is making some wisecrack at my expense, I play the message out loud in the kitchen to prove to him how I am worthy of MUCH RESPECT.

I've been trying to figure out how to take that message and create a loop for it for a CD that he can put into the car stereo to listen to as he commutes back and forth to San Francisco. I haven't figured it out yet, which is unfortunate -- it'd be the best Xmas present that guy could ever get.

***

Speaking of Christmas, last night we went to San Francisco to see the delightful Dr. Seuss' How The Grinch Stole Christmas. Here's Michael and Mom:



Afterwards, we hung up some Grinch ornaments on the tree. A Christmas Tree, you see, is how I also like to think of my poems -- where what's ornamenting themselves there have real life avatars. You're welcome for my Christmas present to you: that is your poetics lesson for the day!

THE GRADUATE

This evening, Blue Oak School will hold its graduation ceremonies at the Napa Valley Opera House. I'm ... so moved to share Michael's graduation speech below (any grammatical or typo tics are his idiosyncracies of just knowing English for about 2 years). I truly did not influence his speech -- but it's obvious how HE IS SO MUCH MY SON! I mean, geez: how could he ever have thought to write his speech as mostly a poem!

Which actually leads me to mull about one of the advantages of adopting older children -- they are old enough to listen to you counsel them on their "new normal" as they join a new family as well as, in his case, a new country/culture. And so, coming out of an orphanage, he hadn't (yet) been exposed to how culture marginalizes poetry. When I discuss poetry with him, he receives the information without knowing that it's ... not typical by many folks' lifestyles to be discussing poetry. I think that's why he, on his own, thought about writing a poem to convey most of his graduation speech. Poetry -- it's not something he puts on a pedestal, or shirks from; it's not something he either disses or privileges. It's just part of life, everyday life.

He also didn't display self-consciousness as he voluntarily rehearsed last night the delivery of the poem, taking my earlier suggestion seriously about mentally counting 2 beats after each line-break and four beats after each stanza break (I wanted to slow down his reading to improve his pronounciation). I so appreciated his earnestness! Anyway, nuff said on that -- here is THE GRADUATE!


Michael Alexander Pollock Graduation Speech

Hello, my name is Michael Alexander Pollock. First I would like to thank everybody who has joined us today for this celebration where we 8th graders take the next step for going to high school. From my school experience I learned that you can’t just accomplish a goal by asking for it, but you can accomplish a goal by working hard for it. I reached the goal of graduating from 8th grade thanks to my parents who gave me the opportunity to learn and supported me along the way. I also want to thank the teachers who helped me this year. Now, I would like to share a poem called “song of my self.”

Song of Myself

I was born in Colombia
Speaking Spanish.
Knowing only one culture
With not much education.
I did not know how to help others.
I played soccer
But did not read books.

Today I live in the United States
Speaking English.
I’ve learned about different cultures
           like China, Italy, and Greece.
I am receiving a good education
           Especially from Blue Oak
I learned about community service.
I enjoy tennis, skiing, fencing, and swimming
And I read books every day.

In the future, I might live in Europe
I might be bilingual or more.
I will experience other cultures, especially Italy
           Where I want to visit as part of college.
I will work to help other people
           Like poor children.
I will expand my sports to include
           Baseball, water polo, and surfing
I hope to write about my life in a book.

Gracias a mis profesores que me ayudaron a lograr muchas cosas.
Thank you to my teachers who helped me accomplish many things.

Gracias a Mis padres por haberme dado la oportunidad y amor, tanto como todos los libros que me ayudaron a aprender a inglés.
Thank you to my parents for giving me the opportunity and love as well as all those books which helped me learned English.

***

By the way, the students were given a macro theme of "I Was, I Am, I Will Be..." for writing their speeches. Michael's poem contained three stanzas, each representing one of those three phases in the assigned theme. Isn't it a cool approach...?

But Michael did shoot down a suggestion I had for the poem title. I thought it could have been "Yo Era, Yo Am, I Will Be..." Get it? Begin in Spanish, transitioning from Spanish to English, and then being in all English! Yeah, okay: the concept was better than the manifestation...

...but it was a teachable moment as regards Whitman's Song of Myself! It's all ... good. It's all so good!

SUPER CEREBELLUM AND OTHER ... CRINGES!

Poof. There go more of moi feathers...! I'm so proud I'm fit to bust! To wit:

Last night Michael's class presented their "Capstone" projects to an audience of parents and friends. These were the final leg of a multi-genre approach to understanding a topic well enough to create several projects around it. For Michael, he chose the topic of what comprises the brain, some positive and negative effects that affects its development, and how alcohol damages the brain. He created a research paper complete with MLA notes (I don't even do MLA notes). Then he taught the brain to a class and made it fun by, after teaching them the brain parts and what it controls, asking the students to create superheroes from brain parts, e.g. Super Cerebellum or stuff like that. He projected drawings of the superheroes on the screen that enlivened what could otherwise have been a hum-drum slide show on what the brain looks like. BUT THAT'S NOT ALL!

Then he presented a short film of himself dissecting a sheep brain! Because a sheep brain is very much like a human brain! We're all sheep! It was ... gross! And all super and lovely at the same time! Here is my Super Son (and now I know why he so wanted to get that t-shirt from the Gap):



Those knees, btw, belong to the head creative honcho of Pixar, a very nice man. Jest sayin'...

Okay, now, proud Mama is left with just one more question: how to dispose of the sheep brain in her refrigerator without El Hijo causing a stink. It's hidden behind the butter dish at the moment so that Mom doesn't cook it by mistake. I've read about this, you know -- having kids' science experiments in the fridge. I feel I've passed yet another major parenting threshold, courtesy of ye olde sheep brain which I did not did not did not want to feel ... until I remembered that I'm a poet and thus supposed to be open to all experiences and so, to my son's delight, I felt said sheep brain ... and it was spongy and cringe-inducing. Just what I needed: more raw material for a spongy and cringe-inducing poem. World, await!