MoPoWriMo

So, I invented this thing.

I have to give partial credit to James Goldberg, who gave me the idea years ago in some AML (Association for Mormon Letters) session or other, or maybe it was at a New Play Project talkback. The thing he said, which I remembered while pondering the relationship between talent and consecration and the "building up of the kingdom," was something about the concept of "tithing" talent. What this might look like for a writer, he suggested (or I remember him suggesting, or I thought to myself at the time), would be to try to make 1/10 of one's writing projects spiritual in topic or theme. Writing a gospel-centered poem, for example, every ten poems. Or (and again—I'm not sure if this was my own thinking in response to his suggestion or his suggestion), another option is Sabbath-oriented. For example, a writer would commit to writing something spiritual every Sunday, while writing other stuff on other days.

Whatever it was he meant, the concept behind it—that of setting aside time to use my talent to explore spiritual things as opposed to trying to write a killer poem that I could publish in the world (in order to get national exposure, perhaps, or to build my CV to make me more employable)—has sat on a stool in the back of my mind, clearing its throat every once-in-a-while, just to let me know it was still there.

So I got an idea. I have, at times, participated in NaNoWriMo (you can read about that here on my blog) and variations thereof. One of the variations that has proven very successful for me is having a goal to produce a poem a day for 30 days. So I decided to take a month and dedicate it to spiritual writing. The goal was to produce a poem each day which arose from my spiritual beliefs and culture. This was going to be good! I always produce better when I have an assignment. I also produce better when I have someone to be accountable to, so I asked James and a few others if they'd like to take up the challenge with me. And they asked a few friends. And they told two friends, and they told two friends, and so on, and so on.

I started a facebook group and invited everyone interested to join. As far as reporting to the group was concerned, the goal was simply to post each day. If you want, I said, you can post the poem you wrote. Or you can just report on what you did. But check in each day, if possible.

That was all the instructions I gave; everyone was welcome to set his or her own assignment and report as he or she wished.

What happened was monumental, at least for me. First of all, I produced a lot of work. In fact, after I was done with the month and began revising, I saw that, with my new work added to stuff from my thesis and before, I finally had enough work to make a collection, and went on to spend the next six months assembling what has become my first book. During the month, I didn't produce a finished draft each day, but I did so on many days, and on other days I got some good prewriting done that later led to poems. Of the 30 efforts I made during that month, I've gotten at least 15 solid, finished poems, and a bunch of other work that still might end up being used in some way. That's a fantastic percentage, I think.

Another thing that happened was that I felt more creative, more skilled, and more productive at the end of the month than at the beginning. Something happens when I am working hard and regularly. The more I write, the more ideas I get, the more "poetic" I feel, and the more "poetic" my first drafts feel. (By "poetic," I mean, in part, "surprising." As in, "No surprise for the writer; no surprise for the reader" [Robert Frost].  And surprise is a difficult thing to "work on" as an artist.) I found myself more interested in my work, and my work more interesting.

My favorite thing that happened was the sense of community that arose among the participants. There was a synergy. I believe that we were all writing better because we had each other to write for. It was not a critique group; it was simply a group of people who were an appreciative audience for each other. For me, anyway, there was a great sense of excitement, as I worked on my daily poem, in knowing that I would be sharing the draft that very day with others who would comment on it (but not critique it).

An audience is powerful. I think back to the time in my life when I felt ready to try writing seriously, and what a big impact the AML List played in that decision. (I've written about that here before.) I will be forever grateful for my AML friends who became the people I wanted to write for as well as about. They have always been the ones I have in mind as I write. Anyway, this group of people that came together for what I named "MoPoWriMo" (Mormon Poetry Writing Month) gave me a reason to write, to keep generating every day, to push myself to greater freshness. I loved the results.

So we did it again this year. Between the two events, President Nelson asked us to use different words to indicate members of the church, but I've kept the name the same because I want to communicate that we are talking about the culture in general, not anything official regarding membership or doctrine. We've switched from May to February, because May was a crazy-busy month for many, and February is just always in need of a reason for existing, right? (Being shorter helps, too. We don't mind being done a day or two early.)

This year, I put less pressure on myself to make the topics directly relevant to the church, its doctrines and culture, though I usually consider those topics first. The fact is that most of my life is infused with my worldview and beliefs, so most poems end up being spiritual in some way. But poetry is better with energy behind it, so I've learned to seize whatever impulse is strong and run with it. This year, especially, I've become more aware of the importance of taking care of my reading while I am participating in this project. Just as a runner training for a marathon needs to pay attention to nutrition, when I'm doing MoPoWriMo, I perform a lot better if I increase the quantity and quality of my poetry reading each day. I found, this month, that reading poetry that is quite different from my own style was especially helpful. It pushed me new directions, infusing energy when I was lagging in the last week or so.

One of my favorite things that happens during MoPoWriMo is what I call "sparking." It's when a line or image or subject from one person's poem sticks in the head of another writer and then makes an appearance somehow in the second writer's poem. One example I can think of actually happened as the month ended. Eric Jepson, eager for the hard work of the month to be over, posted one day about being glad that, come March, "trees will just be trees," not symbols for anything. I loved the phrase and the idea, and wrote a poem the next week about it. Someone else took a line from one of my poems complaining about February and wrote an entire poem about February. I love this synergistic phenomenon.

I recommend that all artists find ways to create challenges and assignments for themselves, but doing it within a community for a set period of time has brought me joy and greater productivity. Also, it has brought me new friends. What's not to love?

Some poetry for you today:

First, William Carlos Williams, interpreted VERY NICELY by Matthew McFadyen:

And now, "Variations on a Theme by William Carlos Williams," by Kenneth Koch, which you can get at this link  http://www.cs.berkeley.edu/~richie/poetry/html/poem191.htm (so I don't feel guilty for pasting it here).

Variations on a Theme by William Carlos Williams
Kenneth Koch

1
I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer.
I am sorry, but it was morning, and I had nothing to do
and its wooden beams were so inviting.

2
We laughed at the hollyhocks together
and then I sprayed them with lye.
Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing.

3
I gave away the money that you had been saving to live on for the next ten years.
The man who asked for it was shabby
and the firm March wind on the porch was so juicy and cold.

4
Last evening we went dancing and I broke your leg.
Forgive me. I was clumsy and
I wanted you here in the wards, where I am the doctor!

Happy World Poetry Day!

I hope you enjoyed that bit of poetry yesterday. If you haven't yet, go down to yesterday's post, below, and watch that video.

And in celebration of World Poetry Day, I did not write you a new poem, nor did I search out an obscure, international poet to share with you. Instead, I've prepared for you 10 Reasons Why I Love Poetry (in No Particular Order):

1. Because every time I think I can't make it through to the end of the day/illness cycle/temper tantrum/traffic jam, I hear Carol Lynn Pearson's words, "I dim, I dim, I do not doubt/ if someone blew, I would go out" . . . and then the other half of poem, too. (Hint: she does not go out.)

2. Billy Collins's "The Lanyard." 'Nuff said.

3. Images that haunt me:  "shine like shook foil," "a pair of ragged claws" and "asserted by a simple pin," plums in an icebox, fog on cat feet, mackerel on ice. And images from my own poetry, too: the post-partum woman in the shower, the mother with diamonds in her hair, the mother whose tentacles stretch into other rooms, the chronically ill person staring at the inside of her eyelids . . .

4. The calling out to whoever is in the next room to say, "Listen to this!" (even the people in my life who don't think they like poetry)

5. That feeling: "Yes, that is it. You have named it."

6. That feeling:  "Yes, that is it. I have named it."

7. The dappled things. Hopkins says, "Glory be to God for dappled things," and I think that line describes the benefit of poetry better than anything else could: poetry celebrates the dappled things. It is a way of cherishing the details of our experience, in all their dappled, freckled, glorious imperfections. It is a way of falling in love with the world.

8. Because reading—and writing—poetry is a way to prove to myself that I am awake within my life.

9. Because the existence of poetry (along with music and art) is proof to me that God exists and that we are His children. I have no problem with evolution, but I refuse to believe that poetry is just a natural variation of animal evolution. It is godliness.

10. Because all is spiritual unto God, and when a poet gets it right, God is there.

***
And let me just add that if you think you don't like poetry, it's because you haven't read the right stuff. Really. It takes time to find the stuff that speaks to you--but it's out there. I think it's worth the search.

A little charm for your Tuesday

(Thanks to Kristi, a connoisseur of good stuff)

Sylvia Plath

Last week I finished The Journals of Sylvia Plath (the edited version). Three things struck me:

 1) How familiar are her struggles about how to see herself—"Am I a writer or not? Am I a poet or can I be a novelist, too?" I've struggled with the same thing, trying to move from poetry to prose. Do all poets long to be novelists? Also familiar was the way she struggled with unstructured time. Once she was out of school and had days ahead of her in which to write, she had a hard time figuring how to make herself work, deciding on goals, trying to feel that she was really working while also needing to fill her tank with reading, etc. And how tempting it is to just dribble the day away with "stuff." It's this struggle that makes me want to get back into school. I need the deadlines, the structure.

2) How much more desperately she wanted to be great than I do. She was so much more determined and work so much harder than I do. She made herself (and I like to think it was more enjoyable for her than it is for me) do writing exercises, describing scenery, real people, etc. All the things a great writer should do, the warmup and flexibility exercises. I hate them. She did them, hard and often and well. She was hungrier than I.

3) Once again, why is it that so many great poets were/are mentally imbalanced? What does the self-interest, the self-examination that goes along with being a poet have in common with mental illness? Does one lead to the other? Can I use my mental health and overall contentment with my life as an excuse for not being all that great as a poet? Can I? Because I am. Content with my life. Pretty well-balanced. Able to abandon my work at the drop of a pin and wander off to enjoy something else, possibly indefinitely.

(It's a nice reframing of my basic laziness.)

Some favorite quotes:

I wonder about all the roads not taken and am moved to quote Frost . . . but won't. It is sad to be able only to mouth other poets. I want someone to mouth me. (33)

Why am I obsessed with the idea I can justify myself by getting manuscripts published? . . . Do I like to write? Why? About what? Will I give up and say, "Living and feeding a man's insatiable guts and begetting children occupies my whole life. Don't have time to write"? Or will I stick to the damn stuff and practice? (33)

So I am led to one or two choices! Can I write? Will I write if I practice enough? How much should I sacrifice to writing anyway, before I find out if I’m any good? Above all, CAN A SELFISH EGOCENTRIC JEALOUS AND UNIMATINATIVE FEMALE WRITE A DAMN THING WORTHWHILE? (35)

Perhaps my desire to write could be simplified to a basic fear of nonadmiration and nonesteem. (37)

If all my writing (once, I think, an outlet for an unfulfilled sensitivity—a reaction against unpopularity) is this ephemeral, what a frightening thing it is! (37)

The artist's life nourishes itself on the particular, the concrete: that came to me last night as I despaired about writing poems on the concept of the seven deadly sins and told myself to get rid of the killing idea: this must be a great work of philosophy. Start with the mat-green fungus in the pine woods yesterday: words about it, describing it, and a poem will come. Daily, simply, and then it won't lower in the distance, an untouchable object. Write about the cow, Mrs. Spaulding's heavy eyelids, the smell fo vanilla flavoring in a brown bottle. That's where the magic mountains begin. (170)

I began realizing poetry was an excuse and escape from writing prose . . . Where was life? It dissipated, vanished into thin air, and my life stood weighed and found wanting because it had no ready-made novel plot, because I couldn't simply sit down at the typewriter and by sheer genius and willpower begin a novel dense and fascinating today and finish next month. Where, how, with what and for what to begin? No incident in my life seemed ready to stand up for even a 20-page story. I sat paralyzed, feeling no person in the world to speak to. Cut off totally from humanity in a self-i9nduced vacuum. I felt sicker and sicker. I couldn't happily be anything but a writer and I couldn't be a writer.  (249)

I feel I could crack open mines of life—in my daily writing sketches, in my reading and planning: if only I could get rid of my absolutist panic. I have, continually, the sense that this time is invaluable, and the opposite sense that I am paralyzed to use it: or will use it wastefully and blindly.

My worst habit is my fear and my destructive rationalizing. Suddenly my life, which had always clearly defined immediate and long-range objectives—a Smith scholarship, a Smith degree, a won poetry or story contest, a Fulbright, a Europe trip, a lover, a husband—has or appears to have none. I dimly would like to write (or is it to have written?) a novel, short stories, a book of poems. (251)

I felt if I didn't write nobody would accept me as a human being. Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don't love me, love my writing and love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering and reordering the chaos of experience.

Well, I imagine you can tell a lot about my own struggles by reading the quotes which stood out to me . . .

It's poems like this . . .

So I've been reading John Updike's poetry. Didn't know he was a poet until just a couple of years ago when I came across "Seven Stanzas at Easter," which I quoted from here.

So, anyway, he is a phenomenal poet. The sheer variety of subjects he takes on, and styles, and images and ease of rhyme (when he cares to rhyme) is just mind-blowing to me. Here's one of my favorite images, which comes as the last line in a very long poem about bats and, in particular, chasing a bat out of his house one evening:

Stealthy as a parent, I wrapped it gently up;

it chirruped, exerting a questioning pressure

back through the towel like the throb of a watch.

Up, window. Up, screen. I gave the bat back

to the night like a cup of water to the sea.

Man, it's poems like this that make me despair of ever being a poet—and yet, it's poems like this that make me wonder if maybe I could be one. Because of the way I resonate when I encounter that one, perfect image ("like a cup of water to the sea"). There must be something poetic in me to be able to get such joy from a turn of phrase like that, right?

My dream: to hear someday that someone loved an image of mine as much as I love this one.

Presenting . . .

I'm so impressed with this new anthology. Tyler Chadwick, a poet himself and a guy who has been active in the Mormon Letters community, edited it, and it was a (huge) labor of love. And it truly is love. We all know that nobody makes money when it comes to poetry. I'm so impressed that Tyler and his buddies saw a need for an updated anthology and they jumped in, putting their own money and time on the line for this. It's huge, and amazing, and I'm sure it will be used as a textbook for classes in the future (besides being a fantastic addition to any personal library--right?).

Anyway, you can order it here. Do so, if you care about poetry and Mormon lit.

A few of my own poems appear in it, right at the end. I re-read them today and liked them a little less than in the past--I think I could do better now. (Especially that "Patriarchal Blessing" is a wee bit sentimental . . . ) But I always experience that when I read my older things. I imagine other poets do, too.

I hope you pick this up, and then you can let me know what you think.

Meeting Billy Collins

So I got to meet Billy Collins this week. As in FACE TO FACE. As in, NOT across a book-signing desk, but in a room where I could have asked him anything, spoken to him for five or ten minutes all by myself. And here’s what I asked him:

Nothing.

I couldn’t think of a single thing to say to him. Later, after his reading when he opened up the room to comments, I thought of all sorts of things I would have liked to ask him. In particular, I would have liked to ask him whether he thinks the art of being a poet can be taught. I’m not talking about revision, or skills of craft. I’m talking about being able to see a poem in a scene or detail and knowing how to get it down in a shape that is appreciable by others. I would have liked to ask him how it felt to be Poet Laureate, and what he did while he held that office. I would have liked to ask him (and I never would have dared) whether, being as familiar as he is with the more complex work of other poets, he enjoys being labeled as “the accessible poet”—does he feel people looking down on him for that? Does he wish his poetry were more dense? I want to ask him how he judges other people’s poetry whose styles are so different from his own. What does he look for when he judges poetry contests, for example? What has he learned about craft, over the course of his career? What kind of goals does he set for himself, in terms of actual work time—does he, for example, have a goal of spending two hours a day working on poetry?

Sigh. I lost a huge opportunity. It was just plain old shyness on my part. I sat there thinking, “This guy has absolutely no interest in talking to me—why should he?—so I will exit this conversation quickly so he can talk to more important people.” And this assumption on my part had absolutely nothing to do with Mr. Collins’s own response to me. He was kind and attentive and would have answered me with warmth.

PBBBBTTHTTHTH!!! to me and my stupid self-consciousness.

However, on the bright side, I was immensely nourished by the whole OCCASION of my meeting him. I got to spend a really pleasant evening with one of my favorite people (no, not Billy, but my good friend Kristi, whose family is sweet, whose home is so perfectly HER [and beautiful], and whose genuineness and love of truth always make me enjoy her company). And I got my book signed. And I had a really nice drive to and from Ephraim. Coming back, I took the long-way-round through Mona and Goshen while the sun was rising above the hills. It was a nice, nice experience, even without Words of Wisdom from Billy Collins.

And I enjoyed the thoughts he did share after his reading. Particularly, Kristi and I were affected by his comment about the process of writing a poem: “I never start with an end in mind. If I take away the surprise for myself, why would I even bother to write it? That takes away all the enjoyment.” She and I both have been too worried about ends. We resolved to be braver about seeing each work as a journey.

I’m so blessed to have people like Kristi in my life. Lately, I’ve been feeling grateful about so many things—the interesting people I get to know, the great books I’ve met in my life, my fun family (immediate and extended), football, bright fall sunshine, Dove peanut-butter chocolate, water with lemon. It’s a good life. And now I’ll end before this sounds even more like a testimony meeting . . .

Book Report

Shame on me; I’ve let it go too long. Part of my excuse is that I finally joined GoodReads, so I’ve been posting reviews, of a sort, over there. But I know a few of you like to see what I’m reading here, so this is for you. This is what I’ve read since October. I’ve put asterisks by the ones I highly recommend or plan to read more of.

Fiction
The Passage by Justin Cronin. I listened to this one, and it was a really well-done audiobook. I wouldn’t have picked it up for myself, but Angela recommended it and she’s a trustworthy resource for me. First of all, it was creepy but gripping. I’m not usually into this kind of thing (horror-ish, sort of on the level of Stephen King but much more elaborate), but I actually think it is an amazing piece of work and it kept me going until the end. The difference (between this and horror that I won’t touch) is that it is character-intensive and doesn’t sacrifice story for plot (oh, tell me you understand what I mean by that). It’s a sort of vampire book but I wouldn’t even call it that. A vampire dystopia, I guess. Very interesting.

The Girl Who Played with Fire and The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest by Steig Larsson. These are a little violent and nasty (but it’s easy to skip over the nasties). His plots keep me reading. I enjoyed the third much more than the second, but then I prefer intrigue to action.

No Going Back by Jonathan Langford, who is a friend of mine, as is the publisher, Christopher Bigelow. I think this was an important story and told in an interesting and effective way. I’m glad it was published. The alternating viewpoint got a little monotonous at times and could be repetitive. I’m glad this book exists.

*A Sense of Order and Other Stories by Jack Harrell. Fantastic book—it is everything I want Mormon fiction to be. Well-written, thoughtful, down-to-earth short stories with colorful characters I want to spend time with and fresh plots. Reminded me of another of my favorites, Neal Chandler’s Benediction, only this is more serious.

The School of Love by Phyllis Barber (short stories). I like her use of magical realism and dreams. This was OK, but didn’t stand out.

*The Lonely Polygamist by Brady Udall. I expected this to be another negative, shock-intensive or whiny book (though I haven’t found Udall to be that way at all) but it wasn’t! It’s full of interesting, delightful characters, some quite humorous, and realistic problems. A couple of sex scenes might make some uncomfortable, but overall this is a really enjoyable and satisfying read with no short-cuts. Well done.

Our Tragic Universe by Scarlett Thomas. About a writer trying to write a novel. This was interesting to me just because of the thoughts on turning a life into a book, but the plot was a little scattered. The review calls it “whimsical”—I would say “flighty.”

The Known World by Edward Jones. An interesting tale about blacks in the south who owned slaves.

*Room by Emma Donoghue. I wasn’t going to touch this with a ten-foot-pole because of the subject (woman and small son are imprisoned for years, kept by a man in his shed), but it was actually extremely enjoyable. Beautiful, true writing and not painful. (Told in POV of the little boy.) Try it.

Angel Falling Softly by Eugene Woodbury. Also published by my friend Chris (Zarahemla). I think Woodbury’s writing is getting better and better. This one has a fascinating premise (believing Mormon meets guilt-ridden vampire) and is not a typical vampire book—much more philosophical. A little too philosophical for me at times (it lost me) but still a very interesting read.

The Camel Club by David Baldacci. If it hadn’t been on audio, I would have quit early on. This is apparently a very popular series, sort of on the lines of John Grisham or Tom Clancy but not as good as either. One thing that makes it slightly more interesting is the inclusion of descriptions of the middle-eastern cultures and mindset—but those sections were quite didactic. I didn’t enjoy being able to see the bones of this book: “Here is the Chapter in Which I Show the Villain’s Motivation.”

The Chosen One by Carol Lynch Williams. This was a really interesting YA book about a girl who escapes from a fundamentalist polygamist group. Quite realistic, I imagine. I think it could have been shorter. This book was the final convincer to me that I am not a YA author.

By Nightfall by Michael Cunningham. A disappointment. He’s a great writer, but this story didn’t do much for me. (Gallery owner has mid-life crisis, marriage falling apart, wonders if he’s gay.)

The Kitchen House by Kathleen Grissom. I listened to this and the audiobook was amazingly well-done. A very interesting read about a white immigrant girl in colonial Virgina but I found it quite depressing.

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz-Zaphon. A long book, and I got halfway through but couldn’t finish it. (Should have stopped after two chapters, but it had a great blurb from Stephen King, whom I don’t read but whose philosophies of what makes a good story I generally agree with, so I kept going.) A guy is haunted by a book and by its mysterious author.

*In Sunlight In a Beautiful Garden by Kathleen Cambor. Historical fiction about the Johnstown dam disaster. I’m not a big fan of historical fiction, but this was really well-written with full, interesting characters. I’ll read more by her. (One very skippable and short sex scene.)

The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton. This is probably the third time I’ve read it and I actually liked it less this time. I’m sick of the false romance of the philosophy that there is only one true love out there for each person. What a waste Newland Archer made of his life, refusing to fully invest in his wife, who turned out to be more clever than anyone suspected.

Anatomy of Peace by the Arbinger Institute. Don’t bother. This isn’t really fiction. I love the philosophy behind what the Arbinger Institute does. But they should get out of the fiction business. Just read Bonds that Make Us Free instead.

*East of Eden by John Steinbeck. Whenever I read Steinbeck, I wonder why I don’t read him more. This is rich and deeply satisfying, and makes a philosophical point that I deeply agree with. Like all great fiction, it takes the whole story in order to make the point (in contrast to Anatomy of Peace, for example).

Memoir/NF
Persepolis by Marjane Satrapi. I read very little graphic novels (OK, pretty much none). But I picked this up from a display shelf at the library thinking it would be an interesting way of learning more about the culture and history of Iraq—and it was. Very interesting.

When Food is Love by Geneen Roth. She’s the one who advocates intuitive eating as a way to get away from eating to distract yourself from emotional problems. This was very interesting to me and I can see that many people would benefit from her suggestions. I realized that I don’t really have this particular problem, though. (Nice, for a change.)

Lit by Mary Karr. This was better than Karr’s earlier book (The Liar’s Club)—at least, it was more interesting to me. Mostly because Karr makes a major change over the course of the book, and it’s believable.

*Notes to Myself by Hugh Prather. Very interesting little book of notes made by an extremely self-conscious person as he lives his life. Must be read a little at a time.

*The Pain Chronicles by Malanie Thernstrom. The first half of this book should be read by anyone with chronic pain or illnesss. She describes what it feels like and how you think when you’re going to so many doctors that the search for a solution becomes a way of life. I think all doctors should read it, too. The second half got long and boring for me.

Loud and Clear by Anna Quindlen (essays). I listened to this and it was an entertaining experience. Typical Quindlen.

Raw Edges by Phyllis Barber. This one, I felt, was problematic. I enjoy Barber; she’s a great writer on the paragraph level. But the overall structure of this book didn’t work for me. At times I felt she told too little about her feelings and at other times, too much. As with all memoirs, it was very self-conscious. I read it to the end, though, and was interested.

Various health books: The New Glucose Revolution, The 10-Day Glycemic Diet, The Low Blood-Sugar Handbook, The Feel-Good Cookbook, Beating the Blood Sugar Blues. All of which served to freak me out and depress me. Some contradict each other. I’m so overwhelmed.

*The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating by Elizabeth Tova Bailey. This book really spoke to me because it is about a woman who is quite ill and spends hours in her bed doing nothing but watching her pet snail. Many, probably most, people will find this book deadly boring but it was very moving to me. Thanks, Angela!

The Jewel in the Wound: How the Body Expresses the Needs of the Psyche and Offers a Path to Transformation by Emily Rothenberg. This would be a fantastic book if its subtitle were accurate. Unfortunately, the true title should be: How My Body Expressed the Needs of My Psyche and How I Thought About it Lots and Lots—Also Dreamed About It. It was just too boringly specific to one woman’s problems while trying to be about everyone. If she had made it a simple memoir, it might have been more interesting; or, if it had told me how to look at my own illness, it would have been worthwhile.

The Color of Water by James McBride. A memorior about a white Jewish woman who raised 12 black children, mostly as a widow, who all went to college and made good. This is pretty interesting, though not incredibly well-written.

Poetry
Cries of the Spirit, anthology of women’s spiritual poetry edited by Marilyn Sewell. Very thorough and nourishing. Not light or sappy at all. Great variety in style. I highly recommend it. (Thanks, Kathy!)

*Different Hours by Stephen Dunn. My new favorite poet. This is an amazing collection (it won the Pulitzer) that is at once accessible and deep—in other words, rewarding regardless of the amount of time you choose to spend on it. I love how he can communicate such abstract things as existential angst through real, specific scenes.

A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver. Very basic, for beginning writers of poetry. A little too basic for me. I did enjoy the poems she used as examples, though.

Her Side of It by Marilyn Bushman-Carlton. Published by Signature. A couple of these poems appeared in Segullah when I was editing it. Very accessible, enjoyable, narrative poems. This was good but not, I felt, as strong as her earlier book, on keeping things small.

My poetry class

I mentioned that I started up a new class. Just to clarify, it is a class that I am TAKING, not teaching. But I should point out that one of the reasons I’m taking it is to learn how to teach a poetry workshop. I’m afraid to teach poetry writing to people, and I want to find out why and how I can fix that. Because I love teaching, and I love poetry, and why shouldn’t I be able to combine them?

Well, one reason is that I am at a complete loss when someone presents me with a poem they’ve written that is terrible. I don’t know where to begin with them. Also, I’m at a complete loss when I encounter a poem that is supposedly good but which doesn’t speak to me at all (the inaccessible poems that require an OED and a master’s in English history to decipher or, even worse, the ones that don’t care about voice and meaning at all but are just a smattering of sounds and images). So I’ve been watching my teacher work in order to get ideas about this kind of thing.

My teacher, Jill McDonough, has several strategies that really work well. (Keep in mind that I’ve only been in class three times now, so I’m sure she’ll have even more as time goes on.) First of all, she has really structured her class and her assignments so that we go the places she wants to go (as opposed to a free-for-all, write-whatever-and-we’ll-spend-the-whole-time-discussing-it approach). For example, we’ve concentrated on only one form for these first few classes (blank verse), and we’re hammering it. I’m getting kinda sick of it, but it’s getting hard not to think in iambic pentameter—in other words, it’s becoming second nature. And it’s a really smart beginning in a situation like hers in which the students have a huge variety of skill levels and background in poetry (some are still struggling to know what a metric foot is, for example).

A second smart thing she does is that when we are critiquing, she has us “ask the poem a question,” not criticize the poet. Either orally or in writing on the poem, we ask about the things that confuse us or which don’t seem to be working: “Why did you choose this word? Is there a more concrete word you can use here?” “Why is this line only four feet long when all the others are five?” “Which person is this pronoun referring to?” etc. That way we don’t get the long answers from the defensive authors.

But the thing of most value (to me, at least) that Jill does is that she teaches us right at the beginning how to set assignments for ourselves. She demands several timed free-writes during class, each building on the previous one, so that we never have no basic material to begin with. (I myself never run out of ideas for poems, but for some of the students a blank page with an assignment to write a poem is paralyzing.) But also, she has taught me how to set myself a very specific assignment based on something else I’ve read. For example, we read Ted Hughes’s “The Thought Fox,” then analyzed it for quite a while. Once I decided what was really happening in the poem, I set up similar parameters for myself, making changes as they interested me. “Write a 14-line, blank verse pastoral in which a person, without actually performing any action, makes a realization. This realization is shown only externally, through the natural world.” This very specific assignment resulted in something more interesting than what I would have produced had I just begun with my trigger (January in Salt Lake City). I may take the poem out of blank verse when I revisit it, but I got more and different language with the assignment than I would have without it. Jill’s example was very interesting—she had read a particular poem and then set up for herself an assignment that was even more specific, including, for example, the requirement that she “draw heavily on the vocabulary of a specific profession” and “describe a disaster.”

Regardless of whatever else I get from this class, that one thing has made it worthwhile. I’m doing an adequate job of producing pretty good poetry, but the thing I needed most was instruction in how to BE a poet, how to walk myself through process, and this is what she’s given me. (Also, I’d sure like to move from “pretty good” to “great,” but I’m still not sure that’s possible.)

Of course, another huge benefit of the class is that it includes deadlines and assignments that I wouldn’t normally give myself. These things always push me to a higher level. (Which is why I was hoping to enter school . . . but that’s a whole nother discussion.)

Finally, this class, as do all poetry classes I've taken, has exposed me to some new work that I'm enjoying. Last week I discovered Stephen Dunn (I know. Ridiculous that I hadn't before) and have a new one to add to my list of favorites.

A couple of things I have been struggling to accept

1. I may never be a noteworthy writer. In fact, I might not ever even publish my own book.
2. I may always be sort of sick, low-energy, unable to get strong no matter how willing I am to get up and exercise.

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I can’t tell you how much these two things affect me, how I keep circling around them, dodging them, trying to prove that they cannot be so. There is great fear involved, and as I try to analyze what it is I’m afraid of, I come face-to-face with prejudices I have had about myself and others, about where value comes from. My greatest hope (besides of getting completely well) is that I can figure out how to access the source of true worth—God’s love, and my value as His daughter. The more I become able to feel His love and approval, the more I can learn to find joy in simply being the best wife, mother, friend, sister, daughter, daughter-in-law, visiting teacher that I can.

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I’m not saying I’m giving up on writing (or on finding a diagnosis and cure, for that matter). But I am sick and tired (and I mean those two words in their very literal senses) of the quest, the constant reaching, and the accompanying guilt, shame, depression that comes in each day of not making progress in either.

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I’m determined to find a way to focus on the present, and on the many tiny (and some huge) joys I already have in my life.

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Some examples:

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--Through all of this, I have always slept well. I know that most people who struggle with any kind of chronic illness don’t sleep well. I know I’m truly blessed. I also don’t have pain. These things are HUGE.

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--I will never stop loving to read, and God has blessed me with a return in ability to concentrate. I can read and judge and discuss what I read with great satisfaction.

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--Even though I get too easily exhausted, I CAN walk. I know people who can’t, because of knee issues, etc. I can take a mosey with my husband at twilight.

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--I couldn’t have a more patient husband.

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I had a tough week because of some interactions with people who didn’t understand. It’s so easy to say the wrong thing when you are healthy and strong, especially if you feel you have earned your good health and strength—by getting up early, working out, etc. I guess that’s one lesson I can say that I’ve learned from this: what not to say to sick people--or to anyone at all, really, since you can’t always tell by looking whether someone is struggling with a health issue.

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And here are a couple of poems just for you, loyal readers, which I wrote about dealing with an illness. Maybe they will help you understand. Thanks for sticking with me, my friends.

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In Their Fifteenth Year of Marriage, Illness Strikes

copyright Darlene Young—don’t copy without permission, please (but I almost always say yes)

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Loathe the smell

of myself, these

sheets, the constant

ragged termite whine:

I might die and

leave things undone . . .

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or, a thousand times

more harrowing:

I might live

and leave things undone

trailing behind me

in the dust

like a lame limb.

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Loathe the walls

and ceiling: my own

body inside out,

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this body that you

still, strangely, reach for,

loathsome, fickle

prison that you

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--unbelievably--

stroke with reverent

tenderness.

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Love was once

the lightning;

it has become

the bread.

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While loathing clots

my lashes, coats

my teeth, grits

between my fingers,

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love

holds my hair

back from my face

as I wretch,

appears before me

despite my raging:

kind,

still.

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Fierce Passage

copyright Darlene Young—don’t copy without permission, please (but I almost always say yes)

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Today I was researching my ancestors, sifting through the nested

petals of internet pages for names that belong to me,

people who’ve left their bloody signatures in my genes.

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I found Melissa, some sixth great-great of mine, tucked into a corner

of a census under her husband’s name, with only one word to describe her:

invalid. Besides her children, that one word is all she left behind.

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It’s been three years since I first got sick--three-and-a-half,

really, but who’s counting?—long enough that when I meet

someone I wonder if I should tell them. “You really don’t know me,”

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I could say, “unless you know this one thing.” Instead I play

with being a different person, one who is whole in the eyes

of strangers, simply a human being, anyone. After all, three years

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is hardly any time, is less than a tenth of my life, is not my life.

I am not my sickness. I won’t wear the label or watch any kindly soul

lower her eyes while filing me into the box marked invalid.

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But

while I’d like to be considered complete, I can’t deny

that any account of me isn’t complete without

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an accounting of those days, those long afternoons

listening to people talking in other rooms, people

walking by outside the window, people on talk shows who,

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while full of other problems, still have energy enough to jump

around the stage--which simply shows how easily we forget what matters.

After so much time in bed I have no time for weight-loss ads,

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wrinkle creams, advice columns, tips for success. How much

of a relationship is based on what we think we know?

Which toothpaste tips the scale from “glance away” to “come closer”?

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Those pea-green, seasick days in bed have changed forever

the flavor of my days, helped me see that it’s a sin to assume

anything. We can’t ever see at first the whole of anyone,

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and yet we each and all have come through some fierce

defining passage. Everyone has come from somewhere.