Special Dispensation

Is it Friday yet? No, of course not. It's only hump day and the way my energy level is, I'm hoping to make it to Friday by shere gravity. It's been so busy at work lately that I am hard pressed to want to do anything requiring major commitment by the time I get home. Tonight I have a reading from an anthology that is just off the press. So I'll be heading out shortly to read rather than go home. I didn't do a NoPoWriMo daft last night and I likely won't do one tonight either given the poetry event. Perhaps the poetry gods will be kind to me and grant special dispensation.

I've actually been doing some charcoal sketches during this past week. My youngest daughter was like, damn, when did you learn to draw. I told her if and when it happens I'd let her know. My main reason for wanting to do some sketches is to sharpen my awareness to my surroundings. To better grasp the texture of things. I remember when I saw Donald Hall here in town a couple years back, he made the remark that he learned more to benefit his poetry from his friendship with the sculptor Henry Moore than any poet. I was struck by this. I figure it can't hurt if I am able to awaken my awareness to greater experiences.

I'm off to my reading.

Finding duende

I've been reading some material from several sources on the subject of duende. I find myself transfixed the concept of this sort of anti-muse. It's amusing that so much time and energy is focused on us finding the inspiration of our muse and yet there is beneath the surface this vast iceberg of subconsciousness that we as poets so often abnegate.

I've spoken here in the past about how so often the really striking poetry rises out of conflict. This is something Donald Hall has written about in essay. In Edward Hirsch's the demon and the angel - Searching for the Source of Artistic Inspiration he talks about the emergence of the duende philosophy I believe first introduced by the Spanish poet Federico Garcia Lorca in a 1930 lecture. There are a variety of other poets and philosophers who speak of this same mysterious force deep within human nature. I am finding the shared view of numerous poets on this subject to be a significant part of my learning curve as it relates to poetics.

In both my own writing and in the works of other poets that I especially enjoy reading, I like to see and feel dissonance. That contrasting conflict that arises when we write from inspiration on one hand, and allow ourselves the uncensored deep rooted mysterious part of our self to come out and play in our work. It is when these two forces - internal and external are present that I believe the best writing often occurs.

Enough on this subject tonight... but I will take it up again tomorrow.

The Second Language of Poetry

Reading Donald Hall's essay Goatfoot, Milktounge, Twinbird - infantile origins of poetic form is loaded with interesting insights that I feel are truisms and while I could not have articulated them as well, I believe in some strange way I've known these things all along. Perhaps they have simply been lost among too much other mind clutter and by reading this, it allowed me to skim some of it off the top of that murky pool.

Discovery & Recovery - That is what poetry is about. It is the poet pulling from within and getting it on paper which allows a reader to process it. Hall says it is one inside talking to another inside. For the reader, it is a process of recovery.

I have long held that poetry is really a collaborative between reader and writer. What Hall describes here confirms this. What the writer and the reader have is something in common, but different (usually). The writer relates something that the reader identifies with from their own life experiences. Since each of us has different life experiences their discovery and recall may be similar, but not identical. This constitutes the second language of poetry. Speaking through the second language of poetry, can be clearly different from a more obvious message or story line of a poem. When such a connection (second language) is made, this becomes the sensual body of the poem or where some connection between reader and writer occurs.

There is more to this essay, but I will tackle that another day.

Where's the Beef?

Wow.... That's some big beef jerky!

Weekend is over. I succeeded in sending out more submissions as I had planed.

This morning, I was pleased to learn that a submission of a poem I wrote earlier this year but had never sent out till now has found a home! So there's the beef!

I'm reading Breakfast Served Any Time All Day- Essays on Poetry New and Selected by Donald Hall. There is some wonderful stuff in here. There are things in it that you feel as you read them you must have known because deep down they seem like truisms... yet at the same time they are new to you. I'll have more to say on some of these things later.

I have enjoyed the Indians / Yankees series. Some really exciting baseball. I have to say I'm pulling for the Indians in this series. Go Tribe!

Picked up three interesting books at the Library yesterday. They are:

• Breakfast Served Any Time of Day - by Donald Hall


• Your Own Sylvia - by Stephanie Hemphill


• Otherwise - New and Selected Poems - by Jane Kenyon

Another writer / poet friend of mine has started a blog - Scot Isom - you can check it out here.

Wow... Poet season baseball has been really incredible so far. Even without my Giants, I have been enjoying some exciting games. The Indians / Yankees series has been super! Go Tribe! What a nail bitter last night!

Poetry Revision Part 1

Rewrites, revisions, whatever you want to call them require a writer to examine something already committed to a page. Early on, I probably viewed revisions in more a negative light than a positive one. Not overtly, because I don't recall it as such and I don't recall thinking about it much at all. I am sure now, thinking back this was a subconscious thing.


For the young writer I think there is an urgency to create work. There were times I knew a rewrite was necessary and I did them. There were no doubt times I didn't, yet should not be satisfied. I suppose it is a part of maturing as a writer that we learn not to be in such a rush. Awkward as it may be, I am learning this. This is an especially difficult lesson for one to learn when they did not start writing till later years and feel their life rushing along before their very eyes.


I did a survey of readers on my blog as to how many times on the average they would rewrite a poem. The results are of course not representative of a scientifically controlled survey, and the response was not near as many as I would have liked, so we are dealing with a very small universe.

The Question was this: On the average, how many revisions do you do of poems you write?
The results are as follows:

• 3 or less 14%
• 4-10 57%
• 11-25 14%
• 26-50 14%
• more than 50 0%

I suppose it should not surprise me that the biggest response came in the 4-10 range. At first thought I would have placed myself in that category based on nothing more than a perhaps less than educated guess. But as I pulled out a few drafts of things I've written more recently, I decided that I really am more likely in the 11-25 range on an average, but closer to 11 then the higher end of the range. I've had a few like one titled Night Wishes that came almost spontaneously and as I recall tweaked I think two words in it from the original draft. Things like this however are rare.

I know people who firmly believe the first thought on paper is the best and don't like to make changes because of the belief that something subliminal has lead them to write a great truth. I find subliminal influence on writing very interesting but I don't subscribe to any notion that there is something sacred about the first thoughts to reach the page.

I have marveled at the assertion by Donald Hall that he has rewritten poems hundreds of times. The poem White Apples about his father's death took him 17 years to write.

I think there is a comfort level that must come only with maturity in writing that allows you to slow yourself down a bit and really look for the right words in the right places in your poems. One of the benefits of getting work accepted in various venues and waiting for them to come out is that it has allowed me not to be in such a hurry to get something new to send out. In fact of my last four accepted poems, two have been older ones that have hung around a while.

More rewrites are not always going to make a better poem but I think some level of rethinking is always critical. In fact I now like to put a poem that I feel is finished back and revisit again a week later. Sometimes what sounded good a week ago leaves you thinking what you might have been drinking when you stopped and put it aside. I have taken the rewrite process to an extreme and found that I was getting further from what I wanted, not closer. There is obviously nothing magical about the number of drafts but I think a willingness to try new language or approach is critical to growing as a poet. Sometimes shaking up the poem by reversing the beginning and the end, or rewriting a first person into another viewpoint.

If I am having trouble getting started with new stuff, I find that it is sometimes go back to old journals and pull out something unfinished, or really rough and work on it from a new perspective.

I've got more to say on the topic but I don't want to unload it all tonight. Besides, I'm interested in other perspectives on the value of revision and the process others use.

On another look...

Last Thursday night, I picked up Donald Hall’s The Painted Bed when I couldn’t sleep. I shuffle through various poetry books on my night stand, even after reading them, going back to them again and again usually proves to be worthwhile.

I read three poems that night at random. All poems I have read multiple times before. That night there were things that resonated in two of these poems that simply did not do the same for me in earlier reads.

In Wool Squares where the voice talks about going through a “muddled heap of women’s work and finding wool squares she used to knit while he sat opposite. And this is one of those poems that one assumes Hall is writing from his own persona. Jane has succumbed finally to leukemia and he does a most interesting thing. He evokes Young Caitlin, wife of Dylan Thomas. It is so odd that this did not strike me as particularly profound in earlier readings. Hall finds himself in Caitlin here the widow with the “leftover life to kill.” His final stanza…

“At seventy I taste / In solitude / Starvation’s food, / As the land goes to waste / Where her death overthrew / A government of two.”

My recollection is that in earlier reads I focused on the wool squares themselves and the visual of the two of them sitting in the same room, he recalling her work on them. I also connected with his solitude. It is hard not to read Halls late work especially and not feel the grayness. But in this last read I was struck by his metaphorical view as the two of them a unique government that was overthrow by her death. These are not profound discoveries in this poem, but they provided a more salient view for me then before.

The other poem was Ardor. Hall unleashes all the accompanying feelings; the outrage, the desire. The inability to work, to love or die. “Each day lapses as I recite my complaints / Lust is grief that has turned over in bed / to look the other way.” A very strong final line in the last stanza. The magnitude of it seems so real in my latest read.

People will often say that Hall is a downer to read. Certainly, isolated to an individual poem or two, one can easily reach this conclusion. But even in Hall’s later work, the underlying motive is love. There few contemporary poets that have the command of love either in abundance or loss that he has.

Workspaces...

A worthwhile slide show called Workspaces: Donald Hall - - A Slide Show can been seen here. Thanks to Cindy for the link.

Couple of other items....

Thanks to those who have responded to the rewrite / revision survey in the side bar. It's still open so please respond if you haven't.

I still have a few of my broadsides, Give Me Some Everyday Religion a poem of my own with an Anne Sexton epigram on it. If you'd like one. just e-mail me with your address.

A New Poet Laureate

It was not long ago that another blogger poet Cindy turned me on to a poet that had somehow slipped under my radar in spite of his acclaim. I've previously mentioned this in earlier blog posts. The poet is Charles Simic. Imagine my surprise when reading my e-mail, I learned that Simic has been named to fill the Poet Laureate post this fall replacing Donald Hall who will only serve one term due to his health.

This is somewhat a bittersweet moment in my view as I have especially enjoyed the Hall period. Hall was such a refreshing voice to me following Ted Kooser. Kooser is enjoyable, but in my view lacking in the depth that Hall's work shows. Additionally, while Kooser was and remains a strong advocate for broadening the consumer base of poetry, I believe he has done so at the expense of dividing those in the literary arts themselves.

Simic is an immigrant. He was born in Belgrade, Yugoslavia in1938. Living as a child under the shadows of Hitler and Stalin. His family came to the U.S. in 1953.

Like Kooser, Simic is not a difficult read. Like Hall, there is clearly more depth to his work. He is no Bly or Ashbery, but he is a brilliant mind and I have enjoyed what work of his I have read. I believe he'll bring a positive voice to the position.

Father's Day

Couple of items from Father's Day.... A Waterman Phileas fountain pen -burgundy and black marbled ( picture doesn't do it justice) and my ASU ball cap complete with "Sparky" the Sun Devil. By the way, ASU won their opening round of the College World Series Saturday. They play again tonight.

The pen is from my lovely wife. It is gorgeous and way more pen then I would have bought myself. Writes as smooth as honey. It will certainly make both journaling and hand written poetry drafts much more enjoyable.

Speaking of Father's Day.... Enjoyed this piece about Donald Hall & the poems he wrote on the passing of his father. While he write about the experience right away, the poem took 17 years to complete.

The Atlantic Shrinks

In a somewhat historic venture - British and American poetry will come together and converge in three cities. Poets Laureate Donald Hall and Andrew Motion will conduct a series of three joint readings. There has never been a joint reading of American and British Poets Laureate before.

When & Where:

• Monday, May 7, at 6 p.m., Fullerton Hall, Art Institute of Chicago
• Thursday, May 10, at 7 p.m., Coolidge Auditorium, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
• Wednesday, June 6, at 6 p.m., St. Giles-in-the-Fields Church, London

All events are free and open to the public, but reservations are strongly encouraged; call (312) 787-7070.

Deep breath

I won't say I'm in a bad mood, but I not exactly chipper either. I've had two grueling days at the office. Then today we were informed that our long standing casual Friday has bitten the dust.

Then let me heap a little more on the pile. This weekend I sort of hit the skids with writing. Everything seemed forced and it bugged the hell out of me. It has been quite a while since I have been in a writing funk, so I suppose I should be grateful for the nice run. No, that is not how one looks at this. Instead, it is like the zit that is bigger than your face.

I'm trying to calm myself down and remember that I've lived through this before and it will surely happen again. So take it in stride and just keep writing. Crap and all. it will work itself out.

Donald Hall is coming into town this month. I'm looking forward to hearing him.

I have a KC Metro Verse meeting tomorrow night.

I've got two places I need to get material off to by the 15th.

Just need to keep myself focused, meet my goals for the month and just write, knowing it will work itself out sooner or later.

22 Lines

Busy weekend with family gathering on Saturday and Sunday I spent most of the day at my wife's office helping rearrange things. I did carve out a little bit of time to read some poetry over the weekend and did write a bit, even if it wasn't a great deal.

The sky was a beautiful filtered pink glow when I left for work this morning. Looks like it could turn out to be a nice day outside even though the morning started out a bit chilly.

Found a deliciously interesting article on Donald Hall I wanted to share. There were several things I found fascinating but among them was reference to a poem of Hall's that appeared in the Nov. 13th New Yorker under what now seems a somewhat ambiguous title, Maples. Mike Pride reports in this article that the poem condenses Hall's nearly entire 78 year lifespan into these 22 lines and at the same time providing an insight to the themes of his life's work in poetry: decline & loss, place, nature, mankind's addiction to wanton destruction. Read the piece here.