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Camino de Santiago
  • Election run around in Georgia

    http://www.youtube.com/v/D5v9ooIh6xw

    Watch this weird video of Georgia’s Senator Chambliss. When my husband and I saw it we looked at each other and said, “Did you think that was strange?”

    ***

    Yesterday I voted for Jim Martin, the democratic challenger to incumbent Saxby Chambliss. I also had the task of finding a way to deliver my son’s absentee ballot, since he had forgotten to mail it in. At my local polling place a woman named Nancy drew me a map to the election board across town. It was a hassle to drive over there, but I knew Philosopher had voted for Martin, and I wanted Jim to get all the votes he could.

    At the election board office a clerk told me, “You can’t deliver that ballot here. Only the voter himself can deliver an absentee ballot.”

    “But how can he deliver it if he’s not here?”

    “I’m sorry, ma’am, you’ll have to take it to the Lawrence Street post office on the other side of the square. They will deliver the ballots to us by 7:00 so they can be counted.”

    Off I go in my car, find the post office, and park illegally on the wrong side of the road, near a construction site. I took some video of the raw Georgia clay torn up from a bulldozer, next to a pile of cracked concrete. You never know what images might come in handy.

    Once inside the post office I was disappointed for two reasons – no pictures to take, and a long line of people buying stamps and mailing packages.

    A woman in front of me, with teased, bleached blond hair, wearing a pants suit with gold buttons said, “Just look how long that line is, and we just got here. Why are you here?” A crowd of people had gathered in the vestibule, there being no room left inside the main post office.

    I explained how I needed to mail my son’s ballot. “Oh , is he in the service?”

    If I had any courage I would have told her I’d rather he go to prison or into exile than fight in the Iraq War, but I said, “No, he’s away at school.”

    How boring and anxiety inducing to stand in line. In Mexico and Costa Rica I found that people wait very patiently, no conversation. They expect to pass some time in line, and don’t complain. But in the US we get antsy, we fidget and start up conversations, and by the time we complete the wait, it’s as if we are in the same graduation class.

    Finally a clerk calls out, ” If you don’t need to exchange any money, you can come to this line.” I wave my yellow envelop at her, and she says, “Yes, people with absentee ballots can come here too.”

    A middle-aged man behind me follows, but as we approach the counter the clerk says, “Do you have the 49 cent postage affixed?” He doesn’t.

    “I have a stamp for you,” I say, digging through my bag while I speak, rushing for him in case the clerk makes him get back in line.

    “I’ll pay you a dollar for it.”

    “No, you won’t. You can pay it forward.”

    He leans close to me, and plants a kiss on my cheek! I’ve never been kissed by a stranger before, much less in the post office. Too bad Big Daddy won the election after all that running around town with Philosopher’s ballot, but at least I got a kiss.

    December 3, 2008
    Georgia senate run-off, Saxby Chambliss video

  • Poemocracy and Audible Edible Poetry

    Poems read by the author are the best, especially when the poet reads well, as Evan J Peterson does. You can hear him on his MySpace page, Audible Edible Poetry. Peterson has a great sense of humor, and does satire very well. Listen to his Garlic Poisoning, you’ll love it.

    His blog is called Poemocracy, and has links to several online literary magazines where he has been published, including this gem on qarrtsiluni, clay.

    Peterson describes his parents as hippies, which makes me laugh, as I think my son, who is 18, would probably say the same thing about me. I missed the true hippie generation, since I was a teen in the late seventies, but the atmosphere was all around us. We all wanted to live in a commune, but by the time we were old enough to do it, most had shut down due to lack of money or rampant hepatitis. Still, in Athens, GA we had events like the Wintersville Art Equinox Happening. Close enough to a commune-like environment, I suppose.

    December 1, 2008
    audio poetry, Evan J Peterson, hippies, Poemocracy

  • Latest Edition of Mannequin Envy

    One of my short stories is featured in the latest issue of Mannequin Envy. It’s called Coffee Wisdom. There are poems and stories by Susan Slaviero, Meg Pokrass, Jeff Klooger, Paul Fisher, Jeff Calhoun, and many others.

    I love the paintings by Pauline Lim, very surreal and Frida Kahloish.

    November 29, 2008
    Mannequin Envy, poems, short stories

  • A response to a poem by Holly

    Dear Holly,

    The buttons on my sweater
    strain at the thread, promise to bare
    my heart, leave me unfettered

    in a world of burly, leather-
    clad men who stare
    at the buttons on my sweater.

    I’ve never been a ‘come-hither’
    kind of woman–I’d rather
    my heart stay unfettered.

    One night of heated touch on feathered
    pillows, and my fingers close with care
    the remaining buttons on my sweater,

    now tense from coming together.
    I doubt I could ever prepare
    my heart to leave me unfettered,

    to open up its folds, consider
    taking up the dare¬
    to loosen the buttons on my sweater,
    to freely bare my heart, unfettered.

    ***

    I love playing around with forms. This one is a villanelle. Thanks, Holly, (Lost Kite) for the great image of the straining buttons, and for the idea to use the image as a metaphor for internal changes.

    November 28, 2008
    Lost Kite, villanelle

  • Round-up of thoughts

    • Peace to my blogging friends in Mumbai. The world is wishing you well–we’re all in it together.
    • For those of you in the US, Happy Thanksgiving, and to everyone else, I hope you have a delightful Thursday. Thursdays are usually good days. If I stay out late on a Thursday night, no matter, the weekend is just around the corner.
    • Fiona Robyn has placed one of my little stones on her site, A Handful of Stones. Thank you, Fiona!
    • Get Your Poem On is ready at Read Write Poem. Even if you didn’t write to their prompt, go ahead and link a poem. You never know what interesting people might come to your site to read your work
    • I have a post titled, “what’s up with words?” at Read Write Poem you might like, with some links to interesting sites about language.
    November 27, 2008
    A Handful of Stones, Fiona Robyn, Mumbai, read write poem

  • Lament for Federico García Lorca*


    You will always be a myth weaver
    with coal-black eyes who sings to me
    across the years of gypsies on shadowed roads,
    of velvet dark, of orchid dreams,
    of girls at night who wait downstream,
    windows open wide for men on horseback
    making their way down rocky slopes.

    But the riders have fallen–
    their underwater faces
    waver in moonlight cisterns,
    their arms like lilies glow under silver beams.

    If I could hold your hand across the years,
    lift you from the rivers where you wept,
    I’d draw you to my chest,
    wipe the tears you shed
    for all the lovers
    who slept before their time
    on earth was due to end,
    for children who died before
    they learned the dance,
    for men who were the darlings
    of other men,
    for Spirits of the Wind
    who tore away the chokehold
    of the trance.

    The stars began to fade
    the night you died–
    shot in a cave, tossed in a grave.
    Now your words of passion
    shine for you instead.

    *This title is in reference to Federico García Lorca’s poem, Llanto por Ignacio Sánchez Mejías.

    I first wrote this poem as a sonnet:


    Lament for Federico Garcia Lorca

    Garcia Lorca’s lambent words release
    their light across the years – his gypsy songs,
    laments for dying heroes now at peace
    in moonlight cisterns shadowed all night long.
    If I could hold his hand across the years,
    and lift him from the rivers where he wept,
    I’d draw him to my heart and wipe the tears
    he shed for all the lovers who have slept
    before their time on earth was due to end,
    for children who were born to those who danced,
    for men who were the darlings of their men,
    for those who broke the chokehold of the trance.
    The stars began to fade the night he bled–
    his words of passion shine for him instead.

    ***

    The prompt this week at Read Write Poem is to break the rules. I took what I liked from the sonnet, and rearranged the lines to suit the spirit of the poem. Lot’s of rule smashing going on here!

    November 25, 2008
    Federico Garcia Lorca, read write poem, sonnet

  • Collin Kelley's Chapbook and Youtube Channel

    Today I went to the high school where I used to teach Spanish, only this time it was to lead a poetry workshop for a former colleague’s AP Literature class.

    To show the students an example of a chapbook, I brought the latest one I’ve read, Collin Kelley’s After the Poison (Finishing Line Press, 2008). It’s a cool looking volume, with a black and white photo of a hand, a ring on the thumb, holding a glass bottle with raised letters spelling the word poison, resting on a bed of clover. An intriguing cover to excite the curiosity of young minds, especially if one considers that the word poison is referring to the dire political situations around the globe, and may even suggest that US policies have been responsible for spreading some of that poison.

    We didn’t have time to read any of the poems together, although I noticed one boy decided to skip a writing prompt to read a couple of pages. That’s OK, reading Kelley’s work would be just the lesson an eighteen-year old would want to take up the pen, or to take action.

    The poems start with Siege, exploring the death of Ronald Reagan and his legacy of homophobia, then onto War for Oil (Darfur, Africa), the tsunami in Banda Aceh, then back to the US with Confidentiality, about the lies the American public was told to lead us into the Iraq War.

    The poems are overtly political, but infused with the sensibility of a narrator who has lived a day or two in an urban setting, knows the language of the people, and is not fooled by anyone. These poems aren’t rants or grievances, they are the personal observations of a blue singer who reads the New York Times and listens to world news, all while keeping a bead on the pulse of the street.

    What keeps me going back these poems is the passion of the language, the force of the emotions. Yes, as political poems they chronicle a definite period in global history, but they move beyond the topical to portray a narrator who cares deeply about the world and the suffering he sees. Compassion is timeless.

    Kelley has recently started a Youtube channel where you can hear and watch him read from After the Poison. Click on “Kelley @Cornelia Street Cafe”. A warning is in order–listening to Collin Kelley might cause you to get involved in local politics!

    Kelley is also a political activist. He blogs about politics and poetry at Modern Confessional and twitter. In fact, during the presidential debates and the election Kelley was updating his reactions live on twitter. His latest efforts have involved protesting the implementation of Proposition 8, which would ban gay marriage in California, a state which has already seen the marriage of 18, 000 same-sex couples.

    Collin Kelley is not a poet to write a poem and let the others do the work. The passion evident in his writing is also demonstrated in his acts.

    November 20, 2008
    After the Poison, Collin Kelley

  • Sharon Olds reads at the Margaret Mitchell House

    It was a beautiful evening at the Margaret Mitchell House Literary Center in Atlanta, where Sharon Olds entertained us, moved us, made us laugh, pause, and take stock for over an hour.

    It was my first time seeing Olds in person, and I was stuck by how young she looks. Although she has a head of thick, long gray hair, her frame is slender, bird like, and her skin is smooth, taut, and fresh. I sound like I wanted to put her on a plate like a scone, don’t I?

    She read from her latest book, One Secret Thing, which she explained is not the norm for most poets, that usually they read a variety of poems, some from the collection, but others that might be currently published in various literary magazines.

    Olds stood behind a plexiglass podium, in front of ten-foot long plaques describing the young writing life of Margaret Mitchell. Poet Thomas Lux, who has a large following in his own right, introduced Sharon Olds as one of those rare poets who has readers in the thousands, which he attributed to her “fearlessness, clarity, passion, intensity, and drive to tell the truth.”

    Olds skipped around in the book, started with a poem that had us laughing, went back to the beginning of the book with poems about war, and then read poems about her mother’s illness and death.

    We fell out of our seats laughing from her poem, Self Portrait, Rear View in which she describes her aging bootie as seen in a wall mirror in a hotel bathroom.

    She was very humble, and admitted to writing sentimental lines that were cut only when a friend read them and made a funny drawing next to them to tease her. She said “I write lots of poems, and few I rarely show to anyone.” She even mocked her own reading of a line right after she said it, saying, no I sounded like a teenager. This is how I meant it, and then repeated the line. I loved that she was so self-effacing, unstuffy, both serious and lighthearted in turns.

    After reading twelve to fourteen poems, Olds took questions from the crowd. Even though she had created an atmosphere of intimacy and trust, as an audience we were shy. I mean, this was Sharon Olds! One of the best questions came from a high school student, who asked her who the “I” was in her poems.

    After a ten-minute reply that turned philosophical, Olds turned to the girl and said, “Was that a long enough answer for you?”

    But what she said was very interesting. She explained how she never would say whether or not her poems were autobiographical, had actually made a vow never to reveal her personal life or answer interview questions about whether her poems came from actual life, but that one day in an interview she changed her mind. She went on to say that the “I” in her poems is Sharon Olds, but that this “I”represents only one aspect of her psyche, that the persona or narrator of her poems is far bolder than she is in actual life, that she as a person is far more fearful.

    She also said to the young people present to write about anything they want to, that they shouldn’t let the old people tell them what poetry is. “I do not know what poetry is,” she said, “I think it changes.”

    To top off the evening she asked that the cameras be turned off, and then read to us a poem she had written that very morning! She had written it in honor of a person she had met in Atlanta. And it blew me away. I was floored with the moment she created, the truth of her words, and her generosity of spirit to share her brand new poem with us.

    So, can you tell I liked the reading? I also got to see my new BFF Collin Kelley, an Atlanta poet who does amazing work for the political and the literary community. Stay tuned–I’m going to write about his latest doings tomorrow.

    Update

    Collin Kelley has written a thoughtful review of One Secret Thing and Sharon Old’s reading, full of behind the scenes tidbits and his unique perspective as an established Atlanta poet.

    November 19, 2008
    Atlanta, Margaret Mitchell House, One Secret Thing, Sharon Olds

  • You want to listen to something?

    I just got home from leading a poetry workshop at the high school where I used to teach, opened my email, and saw that qarrtsiluni has posted a video I made for their latest issue, Journaling the Apocalypse. The video is called time capsule chronicles. If you have a spare minute and a half, please watch and listen!

    November 19, 2008
    qarrtsiluni, video

  • Sharon Olds and the narrative voice

    Sharon olds will read from her latest collection, One Secret Thing, tonight at the Margaret Mitchell House in Atlanta.

    Here’s a quote from Olds in an interview with The Guardian by Marianne Macdonald, entitled, Old’s worlds.

    “Poems like mine – I don’t call them confessional, with that tone of admitting to wrong- doing. My poems have done more accusing than admitting. I call work like mine ‘apparently personal’. Or in my case apparently very personal.”

    After reading one of Old’s poems, how many of us would have the nerve to ask her how it felt to have experienced the events she re-creates as poetry? If a writer makes a poem or a story, shouldn’t the art speak for itself? I doubt Olds wants to imply that she is the only person who has suffered.

    A poet listens to the world and reflects the world back on itself. Particular incidents are shaped to capture the essence of a real emotion, but aren’t necessarily a graphic reproduction of reality. Otherwise, who would need poetry? We could read tabloids about celebrities, and that would be enough.

    November 18, 2008
    Sharon Olds

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