Thursday, September 30, 2010


So, as I write this, Tom is somewhere in the sky between Baghdad and Kuwait, starting his long journey home for a short two weeks of much-needed R&R. I plan on spending the bulk of that time lounging with him at the spa, wandering through Denver, celebrating his birthday, and catching up.

For now, I'm sitting across from a stack of papers and stories (about, oh, four inches high) waiting to be graded. If I'm going to take next week off, I've got hours and hours of tedious work ahead of me, much like Tom, who can only travel one mile at a time.

I started thinking about my Advanced Writing independent study student this semester, with whom I've been meeting each Wednesday morning at a coffee shop just seven blocks from my house (a perfect little morning walk). For two hours, we discuss her assigned readings from texts by Richard Hugo, Ursula LeGuin, Constance Hale, Jerome Stern, and the occasional Natalie Goldberg. I listen as she reads her writing assignments aloud, more often than not noticing areas to focus on before I do, and tolerating my chants of "again!" after each piece.

This week, we focused on the sound of words in both poetry and prose, but we mainly focused on Roethke's poetry-- a subject inspired by Richard Hugo's fourth chapter from Triggering Town called "Stray Thoughts on Roethke and Teaching." (When we move further from prose into poetry, I'm busting out the big, fun guns like Steven Dobyns and Robert Pinsky.) We studied three poems from a collection of Roethke's work and noted how each piece moved up and down the scales of vowels and consonants, according to mood, to produce dynamic tones and evocative emotional responses. (Seriously. Read these poems aloud: "Orchids", "Child on Top of a Greenhouse", and "Cuttings (later)". Tell me it isn't singing for people who can't sing.) We also discussed Hugo's (and Roethke's) philosophy on not focusing too hard on publication or making a poem what it might not be. I am a particular fan of adding one of Hugo's rules to every exercise: "The poem must be meaningless" (Triggering Town, 30). By concentrating on the words (and all the "little things") the bigger picture comes together naturally, somewhere in our periphery, where we might not notice it at all until the piece is as complete as we want it.

Finally, we ended our session with an exercise I came up with after reading Ursula LeGuin's short chapter from Searoad titled "Foam Women, Rain Women" (a piece I recently assigned to my Intro to Lit class for rhetorical analysis as a short story, which went over much better than I expected). I asked for two nouns. Then we put the word "women" after each of them. Then we wrote a poem or short scene using that line as a title. Ten minutes. Even though LeGuin's "Foam Women, Rain Women" is more about how water comes in as many forms as women seem to, I wanted to play with the limits of a good title, the words for what they are: just words. My student chose the nouns: "drum" and "kettle". And off we went to write our versions of "Drum Women, Kettle Women".

My student's poem was worth revising this week; my poem was crap. However, later on that day, I tried again. This time, I chose "bone" and "muscle" for my nouns, and I decided to push a little further away from LeGuin by using "birds" instead of "women". The format is still entirely hers. But, as I sit here avoiding my papers-to-be-graded, hoping Tom will make it to Germany and eventually the states safely, I realize I can barely collect my thoughts well enough to come up with an exercise, let alone a format of my own. I feel as if I've been rushing around these past few weeks, filling in the blanks, everywhere, and I'll continue to do so for the next two(ish) days.

Here she be. Thanks for reading!


Bone birds are so white they’re colorless,

self-starved, ugly, limbs held together with ribbons

of skin like tape, they’ll crack your binoculars.

Sometimes there’s a dead one on the sidewalk,

run over, no blood trail. Bone birds just snap

like bubble wrap and they’re gone, icy beaks cracked

wide open, wings drawn up like sails.

Muscle birds live for the silvery bath water

beneath the laundry line outside and swell like sponges,

absorbing, sucking, voices sweetened by sugar water,

honey, crumbs from last night’s spongecake thrown out

then resurrected. Muscle birds are mostly blue or violet but

my dad’s dad saw a red one on Christmas once,

nestled into a pine tree and glowing like a lantern.


Tuesday, September 21, 2010


I've taken to reading Raymond Carver's poems before I go to bed. It's wonderful.

Of course, I have to read twenty minutes' worth of comic books afterward so I don't have nightmares of being swallowed alive by a sea of sadness and depression and beer burps, but whatever. I have plenty of Calvin & Hobbes lying around.

(poem temporarily hidden!)


Friday, September 10, 2010


It is my professional opinion that I should stop spending so much time with good fruit. Because my table is literally covered in jars of jam, sweet and spiced with rum, sealed and ready for the holidays. Tom says I'm out of control. I probably am.

Of course, jam and other desserts are what I turn to when I'm procrastinating, and I currently have about sixty papers and short stories to grade. Yowza.

So, tonight, as I wait for the batch of blackberry-rum to finish boiling on the stove, I think about some fruit I haven't tackled yet. Which leads me to the pomegranate, which reminds me of the tale of Persephone and Hades, of Demeter, of how the seasons came about. Maybe I'll find a pomegranate tomorrow at the farmer's market. For now, I'm logging off with tonight's poem from my scratch notebook, plus a nice little picture I found online.


I told him I hated


because I didn't

think he knew

who I was.

One bite

and the seeds

slide out

like fish eggs.

He said

he hated them

too, for real,

and from his

many pockets

he produced one,


and tame looking,

a swan heart,

tossed it


toward me

and I reached

without thinking.

My mother says

I can dislike


all I want but

ripe fruit

must be eaten.

He leaned against

a charred pillar,

watching me.

I remember

my hands grew hot

as I chewed,

his red mouth


over a seed

as it slipped

down my chin.


Sunday, September 5, 2010


A quiet day here, with little to report. I sewed a button on a shirt today (if you know me, you realize what a huge feat this is). Here's a poem and a photo from my camera for your Labor Day.


Surprise mortar attacks have left

makeshift trenches between tents

every day this week, and the Forward

Command Center burst into flame

this morning at 0200,

a shade of red you can’t describe.

In the past three days I have washed

every scrap of fabric in the house,

bleached the kitchen, cleaned the windows,

fixed the screen door, made three batches

of strawberry jam with rum, hammered

butter into croissant dough, jogged ten miles

and finished two Agatha Christie novels.

You sounded as if everything would be fine

until I told you about the yellow irises

I bought last minute at the store tonight,

twelve of them at their peak, reflecting gold

over the grey-flecked linoleum,

over their cellophane funnel

dotted with red markdown stickers

that read in handwritten letters take me!