To Open Up

Image of the Day:  The tufted tit-mice digging kernels out of seeds, banging them on the branches to open up. 




So tomorrow, I have declared to be my own personal Poetry Day.  I plan on reading a lot of poetry, included Valzhyna Mort's Factory of Tears, starting my Anna Akhmatova biography, reading the latest 32 Poems journal.  I also hope to write some poems, revise some poems.  I want to re-visit my manuscript again and choose poems for my upcoming reading in Gloucester.  I'm also going to start fretting over the NEA application, wherein I have to choose ten poems for a very large grant.  No pressure there.  Also, a few other small poetry projects, such as thinking about chapbook possibilities and other things. 


I am preparing for this by doing every single piece of laundry I can find today, cleaning the house this past week so I wouldn't / couldn't use that as an excuse when the going gets tough and find an hour and a half has slipped by just while I vacuumed this one little area over here and vacuum the whole house.  Yesterday, I also submitted some poems because I don't want to do that tomorrow as I tend to really dislike my poetry when I'm in that mode and it's a real slog to get it done. I don't want to feel that way about my poems tomorrow. 


I am hoping that this will spark a little more enthusiasm for my poems and for doing some poetry stuff. Also, because I haven't had the time or finances to do other kinds of poetry stuff that can help kick the poetry doldrums, such as going to poetry readings and or writing conferences etc.  I am making my own writing conference tomorrow, creating my own poetry reading.  Wish me luck.


I finished Incarnadine, by Mary Szybist.  It is beautiful.  So here's a poem by her, which is gorgeous, from the Poetry Foundation. 

In Tennessee I Found a Firefly

By Mary Szybist 
     

Flashing in the grass; the mouth of a spider clung   

          to the dark of it: the legs of the spider   

held the tucked wings close,

          held the abdomen still in the midst of calling   

with thrusts of phosphorescent light—

When I am tired of being human, I try to remember

          the two stuck together like burrs. I try to place them   

central in my mind where everything else must

          surround them, must see the burr and the barb of them.   

There is courtship, and there is hunger. I suppose

          there are grips from which even angels cannot fly.   

Even imagined ones. Luciferin, luciferase.

          When I am tired of only touching,

I have my mouth to try to tell you

          what, in your arms, is not erased.

Reading February 9 In Gloucester

Come listen to me read--I'll try and dig out some Valentine's-esque poems--and then check out the Open Mic afterward!

To Navigate

Image of the Day:  The increasingly cloudy sky--a spreading of grey wings--and busy chickadees.


Happy New Year!  I hope 2014 is generous and kind to you and yours.  (And, also, to me and mine!)
I spent New Year's Eve at home, relaxing by a fire, and enjoying being home.  Just the right amount of bubbly.  Did I mention how happy I am to be home?!?

For Christmas, I got a gift card to Amazon and spent it that very evening.  I purchased some music, some replacement music since I tend to be rough on the cds in my car, and also, and I know you'll find this shocking, some poetry books.  I bought:  Incarnadine by Mary Szybist, Quelled Communiques by Chloë Joan López--but that's sold out so I was disappointed, but will retry, and
Stay, Illusion by Lucie Brock-Broido.  I cannot wait to get those and dig in. 

I have a poem here, at Cider Press Review, which has just started taking simultaneous submissions, so I urge you to submit.  It's a very pretty journal, too, and easy to navigate. 

And I have an interview with the fabulous Diane Lockward, here, at IthacaLit, another very beautiful journal.  I asked Diane about her book, The Crafty Poet, which has been and continues to be incredibly helpful to me and I'm sure you as well.  So pick it up. 

New years' morning

by Carl Adamshick

 

A low, quiet music is playing-- 

distorted trumpet, torn bass line, 

white windows. My palms 

are two speakers the size 

of pool-hall coasters.

I lay them on the dark table 

for you to repair.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2010 by Carl Adamshick. From Curses and Wishes (Louisiana State University Press, 2011).