Why Poetry

I just read a poem, Reader, that expresses exactly how I’ve been feeling. It’s a poem about weeding. Written by someone I’ve never heard of. I got tearful. Then I realized: This is why poetry.

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“Long Story”

Every now and then I share a poem with you. My friend Maggie Anderson wrote this one. Maggie is the founding director of the Wick Poetry Center at Kent State University—she selected and edited Salt, and it is through correspondence about the poems and a number of visits with Maggie in Kent, Ohio that I’ve come to think of her as a friend.

The more I learn of her, the more I know we are cut from the same cloth. Seriously, when she tells her stories, I feel them in my bones. Our images are the same images. If you’ve read enough of my poems, you’ll recognize their images in “Long Story.” Now, while I go right away and write her a nice letter, please read this poem. I discovered it only this morning.

LONG STORY

To speak in a flat voice
Is all that I can do.
—James Wright, “Speak”

I need to tell you that I live in a small town
in West Virginia you would not know about.
It is one of the places I think of as home.
When I go for a walk, I take my basset hound
whose sad eyes and ungainliness always draw
a crowd of children. She tolerates anything
that seems to be affection, so she lets the kids
put scarves and ski caps on her head
until she starts to resemble the women who have to dress
from rummage sales in poverty’s mismatched polyester.

The dog and I trail the creek bank with the kids,
past clapboard row houses with Christmas seals
pasted to the windows as a decoration.
Inside, television glows around the vinyl chairs
and curled linoleum, and we watch someone old
perambulating to the kitchen on a shiny walker.
Up the hill in town, two stores have been
boarded up beside the youth center and miners
with amputated limbs are loitering outside
the Heart and Hand. They wear Cat diesel caps
and spit into the street. The wind
carries on, whining through the alleys,
rustling down the sidewalks, agitating
leaves, and circling the courthouse steps
past the toothless Field sisters who lean
against the flagpole holding paper bags
of chestnuts they bring to town to sell.

History is one long story of what happened to us,
and its rhythms are local dialect and anecdote.
In West Virginia a good story takes awhile,
and if it has people in it, you have to swear
that it is true. I tell the kids the one about
my Uncle Craig who saw the mountain move
so quickly and so certainly it made the sun
stand in a different aspect to his little town
until it rearranged itself and settled down again.
This was his favorite story. When he got old,
he mixed it up with baseball games, his shift boss
pushing scabs through a picket line, the Masons
in white aprons at a funeral, but he remembered
everything that ever happened, and he knew how far
he lived from anywhere you would have heard of.

Anything that happens here has a lot of versions,
how to get from here to Logan twenty different ways.
The kids tell me convoluted country stories
full of snuff and bracken, about how long
they sat quiet in the deer blind with their fathers
waiting for the ten-point buck that got away.
They like to talk about the weather,
how the wind we’re walking in means rain,
how the flood pushed cattle fifteen miles downriver.

These kids know mines like they know hound dogs
and how the sirens blow when something’s wrong.
They know the blast, and the stories, how
the grown-ups drop whatever they are doing
to get out there. Story is shaped
by sound, and it structures what we know.
They told me this, and three of them
swore it was true, so I’ll tell you
even though I know you do not know
this place, or how tight and dark the hills
pull in around the river and the railroad.

I’ll say it as the children spoke it,
in the flat voice of my people:
down in Boone County, they sealed up
forty miners in a fire. The men who had come
to help tried and tried to get down to them,
but it was a big fire and there was danger,
so they had to turn around
and shovel them back in. All night long
they stood outside with useless picks and axes
in their hands, just staring at the drift mouth.
Here’s the thing: what the sound must have been,
all those fire trucks and ambulances, the sirens,
and the women crying and screaming out
the names of their buried ones, who must have
called back up to them from deep inside
the burning mountain, right up to the end.

by Maggie Anderson

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Since You Asked

Since You Asked

by Lawrence Raab

for a friend who asked
to be in a poem

Since you asked, let’s make it dinner
at your house—a celebration
for no reason, which is always
the best occasion. Are you worried
there won’t be enough space, enough food?

But in a poem we can do anything we want.
Look how easy it is to add on rooms, to multiply
the wine and chickens. And while we’re at it
let’s take those trees that died last winter
and bring them back to life.

Things should look pulled together,
and we could use the shade—so even now
they shudder and unfold their bright new leaves.
And now the guests are arriving—everyone
you expected, then others as well:

friends who never became your friends,
the women you didn’t marry, all their children.
And the dead—I didn’t tell you
but they’re always included in these gatherings—
hesitant and shy, they hang back at first

among the blossoming trees.
You have only to say their names,
ask them inside. Everyone will find a place
at your table. What more can I do?
The glasses are filled, the children are quiet.

My friend, it must be time for you to speak.

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Translations from Behind Doors

Voice is everything, Reader. If you like the poems I’ve written, it’s probably because you like the voice behind and beneath and above them. You like the tone, the edge, the shift of tempo. If you like reading these posts, it’s probably because you sort of know what to expect but not quite. And there should be surprises. There should always be surprises. 

I sometimes listen to voices on the other sides of doors. I sometimes try translating what I think I hear being said there. I listen for the tone, for the voice—for the rise and the fall of it. Maybe it’s because my hearing is going, but lately I’m translating what Debbie says to me from another room. She is hilarious.

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A Heap of Inertia

Reader, all is well. I’ve just been a little bit tired of posting here every single day. And I’m betting you’ve been a bit tired of it, too. Especially when there’s really not much going on for me to write about.

You’d think I could shake something out to do and then write to you about it, but I’m a heap of inertia lately. And some of you have contacted me to ask if I’m okay…so quiet here and so quiet on Facebook; but when I look at that Status Update spot on Facebook, I am overcome with the predictable…I brace myself for that predictable flurry of one-line responses from the same old responders. Sorry, but I do. You, Reader, are not one of those responders…those folks do not know this blog exists, so if you’re reading this, do not count yourself among those I avoid.

I’m reading some of my poems at a nice event on Friday, April 17th. I’ve been invited to read with one other poet. You know it’s April…National Poetry Month…and in April, UC’s English department organizes a series of Friday-afternoon poetry readings. A lot of people from UC and from the community come. I’m one of the only Cincinnati poet invited this year. It’s sort of a nice invitation for sure—and I’m definitely a little nervous about it because all my people will be there…my peers, my teachers, many students. I hope I do okay.

So, if you’re in Cincinnati, and if you’re free at 4:00 pm on Friday, April 17, 2009, please consider coming to the Elliston Poetry Room on the 6th floor of Langsam Library to hear me read a few poems for about 20 minutes. The Elliston Room is absolutely beautiful…it’s a library devoted to poetry and houses one of the most complete collections of 20th-century poetry in the nation; and the artwork in there is spectacular. I’ve never seen it all from behind the podium, though, so this will be a new visual experience for me, too.

After the reading, we’re heading to Northside Tavern and then on to dinner somewhere. Come to that, too.

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The Stressed and the Unstressed

Yes, yes. Yesterday’s post was sort of bleak, wasn’t it. I had been looking for a poem about a train ride in winter whose title I had forgotten when I uncovered the one posted yesterday…and since most of you have not read it nor had any idea it existed, I thought I’d just put it up here. Thank God I no longer live the life captured in those lines.

Later in the day, I remembered the title of the winter train-ride poem (“January Chance” by Mark van Doren), but it no longer seems like something to post. Maybe another day.

But all this talk of poems gets me thinking about rhythm. There’s a rhythm to my mornings here with you…and all around me are rhythms of others in their mornings…my lights go on; my coffee steeps in it’s carafe; the paper delivery lady (who gets major applause for delivering in every single snowfall) drives down the street and throws the papers; my neighbor leaves for her school. If any of us get off schedule, the rest of us notice.

And last night, we had a really nice long dinner with two old friends. There’s a rhythm to our dinners together, too. PB is one of Deb’s oldest and best friends. Weeks into my relationship with Deb, I had to pass PB’s inspection, and she gave me a drilling in a smoky coffee shop. I’m still sort of shaken by it. And when Deb is around PB, Deb is more at ease than she is around almost anyone else I know. She smiles a different smile, and she’s funny in a different way, and she has a really good time. Deb G. is PB’s partner…Deb G. is from Texas and went to UT, so we’ve always hit it off…we like the same foods…and I mean we like a lot of food, too. So, when we eat out, we order appetizers, salads, desert, coffee…the works. This means we’re at the table for a long time.

And our conversations follow their own patterns. We catch up. We hear about our families. We drift into politics. Deb G. is our damned Republican, so you can count on our getting into a little fiery conversation around politics. She holds her ground no matter how shaky it is, and we rattle her. Sometimes we get pissy (my Deb is less pissy since Obama’s at the helm…funny how winning allows you to relax a bit). Funny, too, that last night Deb G., our animal-rights soldier, said she’s sort of over Sarah Palin since discovering that Palin approves shooting wolves from helicopters. In the end, we always agree to disagree. They read the papers and watch the news, so we sort of think together through events of the day. Last night we talked the economy, the philosophies behind the economic-stimulus plan, the investments; and always there’s the talk of what to do with aging parents and unpredictable siblings.

Yesterdays “A Circle Portrait” was written in blank verse—unrhymed iambic pentameter…five  stressed/unstressed units per line. When life is sort of spinning out of control, maybe we depend more and more on its rhythms to hold us together. Of course, breaking the rhythm is sometimes just as important, isn’t it.

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A Circle Portrait

A CIRCLE PORTRAIT

Lose a string of jobs, or days, and wonder
how the same amount of alcohol that made
you clever turned your witty words thick
and ugly. Nurse the hidden beer you stow
beneath the seat and drive the weaving streets
alone in the churning town. Press your brow
against the steering wheel. Admit defeat,
and pray the usual prayer: get me home,
I’ll never drink again. Then, fumble with
the swaying lock, the spinning room, and grope
the floor, recover equilibrium.
Tomorrow, pull into the pony keg,
and slip another pint beneath the seat.

Cruise the barrios, the littered streets,
and roll your windows down to hear the swirl
of families outside on rented steps.
The children jumping rope on sidewalks thread
a braid of jingles as they navigate
their way into the looping games. Their mother
unweaves the orange ribbon from her chair
then twirls the plastic twine into knots.
Cradle the quart between your knees and nod
your head against the wheel.  Imagine that
you’re safely home and you belong to them.
Tomorrow, pull the blinds and curtains closed,
and slip a peek outside. Who’s watching you?

Thumb through old albums, photographs and records,
and let nostalgia carry you away
from bottles filled with cigarettes and piled
so high you sneak them out into the garbage.
Dial the phone and wait to see who answers:
old friend, a lover, one who still recalls
the way you used to be and knows it might
be you who spirals down into the past.
Scribble circles on legal pads and slur
the circling lines to match your circling words,
compose the empty circles into faces—
tomorrow, pull a circle portrait out
and slip the penciled noose around its neck.

–Not Alice

JAMA: Journal of the American Medical Association
February 12, 2003

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Good Thing the Title’s so Short…

…it doesn’t offer up promises the little book can’t keep.

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Yes. Thanks for Asking Me

The first word out of my mouth is usually “no.” Do you want to do this? No. Do you want to go there? No.

Yesterday afternoon I received a phone call from the people at the Wick Poetry Center inviting me to an event at Kent State University in Kent, Ohio. These are the folks who sponsor the chapbook competition that Salt won last year; as a result, Kent State University Press is publishing Salt as a part of this year’s Wick Poetry Series.

At the end of each February, Wick has a big reading event to celebrate the poetry books they published the previous year, and that’s what they called and invited me to attend…not as a featured writer this year, but as one who will be a headliner at this event next February. And, of course, I spontaneously said, “No.” Like, “No, I think I’m busy that day.” It’s on February 26th, which is a Thursday, and believe me, my calendar’s clear. Except for work, but this kind of event sort of brings recognition to UC, so my higher ups are usually thrilled for me to do this stuff. Really, these books and their promotions are what academia is all about.

And who, for crying out loud, doesn’t want to be invited to a big poetry reading event as a writer good enough to have written a book that won a recognized competition? I mean, haven’t I always in my wildest dreams dreamed of this life? So why did I say No? I do not know what is up with me except that maybe this is suddenly getting sort of busy. On February 12th, Deb and I go to Chicago for three days for AWP (Associated Writer’s Program), the humongous national meeting for writers who are associated with universities. We’re going for the launch of Salt and for a book-signing thing.

Then, in April (poetry month), I accepted the invitation to attend some two-day gala anniversary event for the Wick Poetry Center (there’s a dance involved. Good God, no.). They’re publishing an anniversary anthology of all their authors, and a few of my poems are in it. And there will be other local readings and book signings. And maybe I’m just not so comfortable with all of this.

On the other hand, what fun. So, yes, today I will call the nice lady back and tell her that I made a mistake…that I’d love to drive the four long hours to Kent, Ohio for the party and the reading on the 26th. Fortunately, I’m pretty fun at parties because I’m more comfortable now that I’m older and because I don’t drink alcohol and because I know I can always leave whenever I want to. And because I’ve slimmed down a few pounds so that I feel better in my clothes. And I’m just so grateful that these folks like my poems enough to have published a little book of them.

Now, the bad part…shopping for some cool duds.

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Post on the Morning Following a Late Dinner

I did none of the things I thought I would do yesterday. Some days are like that.

I did, however, read Kimbrell’s wonderful poem to a crowd of between 75 and 100 people. You can tell when they’re with you, and they were with me. It’s a good poem, and I read it really well, I think. You never know until you start how it’ll come off, though…funny that we don’t have much control over when we’ll be “on” or when we’ll find ourselves sort of fumbling around our own words and bodies. Sometimes it just feels as if things have lined up right.

Maybe it’s because I’m 50-years old, but I feel more and more comfortable and I find myself able to be more and more personable when speaking before an audience.

Our visiting poet, whom I know from a five-week stay she had here a number of years ago, and I talked together a little—she seemed genuinely glad to see me—but there was more distance between us than I’d hoped, and that was sad. Maybe our conversation was surfacy because there were so many other people around who wanted to speak with her, or maybe you just can’t pick back up where you left off when there’s no real reason to do it.

At one point and out of the blue during her reading, as she was turning the page of her new book to another poem, she looked straight at me, brushed back her wild wild hair and said, “My hair has gone completely white since I last saw you. Shit happens.” Then she just stood there for a second. I don’t know what she meant.

I want to write more about why I love that group of people at the party and at dinner last night, but I think you may get bored with it, Reader. No? Well, then, I’ll try my best to tease it out…maybe tomorrow. Not now. Enough for now.

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