Friday, November 20, 2009


Woo hoo! I am finally shipping off my first book-length manuscript, and it's going to (hopefully) land in the laps of those wonderful editors at the Cider Press Review.

This year, CPR's Book Award is being judged by David St. John, a poet whose work, to me, inspires patience and ferocity, simultaneously. (Yeah, I said it.) Anyway, this is the first time I'll be submitting this kind of manuscript (unless you count my borderline-comical attempt at a chapbook back in 2003) (which I don't count) (because it was terrible) (no, you can't read it). I like to think that David's instruction thus far through Pacific University is what's making me confident enough to submit. For some reason, the idea of having him at the helm of a contest isn't as nerve-wracking as any other poet. I just can't picture him shredding manuscripts and cackling over the flames that consume my About the Author page. He's so damn nice.

I don't have a whole lot to report, other than the growth of my short collection of poems mocking poetry. I've got a working title (thanks, Sarah) but I'm still adding to its content.

I'm considering reducing it from 50 poems to 30... or so. I'm at 21 right now, and although it's still coming easily, I don't want to get to, you know, 43, and just start eeking them out for no reason other than bulk. I spent my office hours today writing poems that make fun of the I'm-A-Woman-Let-Me-Prove-It-Then-You-Can-Fear-Me poems, the I'm-A-Man-Let-Me-Prove-It-Then-You-Can-Respect-Me poems, the Poets-Are-Fascinated-By-Birds poems, and the Look-How-I-Can-Write-About-The-Seasons poems. So far so good.

Thanks to every one for reading! Oh, hey, and thanks to Charish for tell me how to put photos and links up on this thing. I'm making slow advances toward becoming almost-tech-savvy. Slow, I say!


Tuesday, November 17, 2009


Poem for a rainy, foggy November afternoon in the south.


They say Prometheus
brought a bucketful
of water to our planet
after his first delivery
but no one wanted it.
We were all lighting up
our trees and bushes
and straw huts
dancing around like dogs
shouting hey Prometheus
look what we did
and the great titan himself
rolled his eyes
rolled a cigarette
and waited for the flood.


Thursday, November 12, 2009


Hi guys!

This post won't include a poem; it's more of an update. A poetry update, though.

I have two new projects going on right now. The first is a book contest entry through Cider Press Review, which David St. John will be judging. David's a lovely individual and worked as an insightful instructor during my time at Pacific University. In fact, I've never felt 100% comfortable with sending out a book-length manuscript until I heard that David would be the final judge. Not that that guarantees any awards, let alone glowing feedback, but something about the way I've seen David work made me think it would be okay to fail in front of him. This being said, I'm compiling about 60 pages of poetry, making it my first official book. First prize in this contest is publication of said book by Cider Press, a wonderful organization that puts together quality, artistic compilations. I wouldn't say I plan on winning. (Cider Press has a very talented reader base that has, in general, been writing for a much longer time than I have. They have wisdom and experience on their side.) Actually, one of the best things that will come of this is having a manuscript by the end of this month, one that I can start sending out to other publishers when I get more "okay" with its finality. It'll be nice to put my first selection of poems together, mostly so I can continue on, swimming straight toward my next book-length piece.

Right now, my book is split up into three numbered sections: the first group of poems exposing my thoughts on the multi-faceted lives of women. It's got a feminine vibe, with most of my humorous pieces hanging out there. (This section is headed with an eerie quote from Charlotte Perkins Gilman, however.)

The second section's got all my "war poems" tied together. Here, I expose my observations on Tom's experience with deployment as well as the wars of the past. This section includes several published pieces, including the one from CALYX's current issue, "Late Autumn in Vancouver & Baghdad: The Preservation of Women".

The third and final section showcases my more surreal/narrative poems, including the title piece, "Breakfast With An Idiot", which, by the way, has nothing to do with Tom. : ) This section falls under a wonderful quote from one of surrealist Andre Breton's poems: "All at once too much freedom had been given to me..." I love that line. Not only does it suggest the sometimes-frightening power of our own imaginations, it also makes us second-guess our love of freedom.

Moving on.

My second project (and my current favorite) is a collection of 50 poems, all of which are hellbent on mocking poetry and poets themselves. Sarah helped me come up with the title (while sitting at her desk in Everett, Washington), which ended up as such: "50 Poems: A Compendium of Rather Short Poems, All Of Which Mock Poetry And Poets Alike, Vaguely, At Times, But Usually Pretty Clearly." I like it!

These poems, I think, stem from my study of accessibility in contemporary poetry. Why do poets write the way they do? Why do people unfamiliar with poetry seem to fear it? Why is it so hard to understand? Why are artists, by banking on enigmatic wordplay, effectively killing off their own art? Why do "normal people" distrust poets? Why are readings only attended by other writers? (I know this is not only caused by interests alone. There's something about poets--or poetry--that pushes others away.)

Anyway, I've been interested in contemporary poetry's accessibility (or lack thereof) for the past 5 years or so. In fact, I wrote my graduate thesis about it, hoping to uncover a way for new writers to avoid the pitfalls of inaccessibility.

These new poems, my compendium (a word that Sarah insisted upon, considering its multi-syllabic, infrequently used makeup), tackle the great poems of our past, the most wonderful, powerful, moving, sorrowful, passionate pieces of humankind, and effectively (I hope) crushes them, pounds them down, and shrinks their purpose and message into short, easy-to-swallow, hilarious little condescensions. Perhaps I can include a preview. The following is the first poem I wrote for this collection; it's a piece that I think sums up a lot of what a poet really wants to say when she sits down to write. It is titled, "That Sunset, The Moon, Your Car, Her Hair".


.I can’t
. help it
. me
. me

I just want to point out, right now, that I realize I am assuming the role of the self-centered poet here, and that I am embodying the very creature I aim to mock. I'm okay with that. Poets are annoying. Myself included.

Basically, I'm out to laugh at myself and others. Hopefully this book is a good way to do it. As it stands, I'm currently 9 poems deep into this 50-poem project. It's still in the infant stages. But it's coming together nicely, methinks. Actually, in one hour, I'm scheduled to show it to my writing group downtown. We'll see what they think. As far as publication for this book, I'm not certain just yet how I'll go about it. The guy I share an office with at CSU, Johnny Summerfield, is the head of New Plains Press, and he's mentioned that I should show him my work. (Eegads, he's also the director of the writers' retreat that goes to Sicily for one month every summer for some quiet time. I might have to ask him more about that.) Anyway, I'm not sure what to do as far as publication interests. Should I look for a specialized-humorous-poetry press? Or go with the ones I know and read? There ain't a helluva lotta funny presses left living these days.

Well, this has been refreshing. Thanks for reading! Hope everyone has a wonderfully productive end of 2009. And Happy Thursday!


Tuesday, November 3, 2009


Tom says I'm terrible at keeping this thing updated. But here's a new poem! Actually, it was written last month. But Peter Sears gave it a thumbs up, so I'm posting it anyway. By the way, Peter's poem "The Beast" will be in his new book, and I can't wait to check it out. (The best poem? The one about driving His Weakness around in the backseat of his car.) So, here's to you, Peter.


In the single-room cabin he built on the river
he scatters his fishing poles like dirty socks
and survives on noodles, bananas, and trout.

He once told a priest he’d wanted to get married
but never got around to it, which was a lie
because he had been around to it when he was in his twenties

but he didn’t see what other men saw in their wives,
recipes, pearls, white whicker trash cans in the john.
He wanted a woman who cleaned his rifle and disappeared.

He doesn’t think he’s grown too old to attract a woman
nor does he believe his cabin has made him a hermit.
He’s hip enough to hold a grudge against Jane Fonda

and young enough to keep a condom in his wallet.
His father used to call him Buck, and his mother once said
he moved from room to room so quietly as a child

he reminded her of a beautiful beast being hunted.
He sometimes pretends he is a magical young buck
and wades into the river without his fishing line, just to stand there,

majestically, like he’s balancing a heavy crown on his head.
He can’t imagine a wife understanding this. The fish
have come so close he’s felt their fins slapping his boots.