Well, I’ve done it again.  I’ve entered another writing contest, which means my bank account is $20 lighter and that I’ll receive a subscription to a journal that I’ll read later and remark while turning the pages, “That’s it!  That’s the winning poem!”

Alas…  One of my M.F.A. colleagues (on staff at Willow Springs) says that if I review a batch of poems that have been submitted and I provide reasons for it not to be accepted (or pursued further by my fellow editors), that must mean that my own verse is better.

Well, I’m not sure that it “must,” but for the time being at least, I am struck with how we rationalize by non sequiturs ad infinitum (and how we lapse into latin).  Nothing follows nothing:  good, better, best…  And the grand prize goes to… Subjectivity!

***

Jorie Graham has loads of fascinating things to offer about the poetics we practice, the poems we write and the poems we judge (ie., compare and contrast with other poems).  In this regard, the Poetess-in-Charge at Harvard U. even has her own rule named after her own controversial evaluation of various works in the University of Georgia’s 1999 contest.   The rule essentially stipulates that a judge must recuse her or himself if the potentially award-winning poems are penned by the aforementioned judge’s students, or her future husband.

Read more »

It’s time to feel bad about something fun (sorry guys).

I haven’t seen Avengers yet but I hear it’s pretty rockin’. Unfortunately, a lot of that rock was generated by artists and writers who are dead and died poor. It’s a familiar story; artist who die in poverty are, much like their remaining possessions, worth a dime a dozen. It’s even a romantic little dream to imagine that one’s work might shake a culture to its roots when discovered years after one’s death. That may be cold comfort for the deceased, but to us living it’s a story with a happy, if belated, ending.

Read more »

With a brief hat tip to Sam Ligon and Jeff Corey, and without any further ado:

1. “In Scenic Pigs, Arizona”

2. “The Pool Boy Sends His Regards”

3. “Here’s to You, ‘Typhoid Mary’”

4. “Forty Pounds of Tallow and Thou”

5. “Nude, Manning a Leaf-Blower” Read more »

Can you guess the relationship between this butterfly and my post?

So I haven’t barked in a while because I’ve been obsessing over this thesis thing, but I’m back with an earth-shattering post. Except not really. My brain is still recovering from writing that thesis thing, so I thought I’d offer you a bit of Saturday randomness.

When I go out in public, I like to play a little game called Guess the Relationship. It’s pretty much what it sounds like. I sit unobtrusively somewhere and watch for pairs of people and try to decide what their relation is, how healthy it is, and, if they’re a romantic couple, how they’re going to break up. It’s sweet, I know. Lately, I’ve also added another game called Pick Out the Serial Killer. But that’s another story/post.

I was recently at a fast food restaurant and found myself in the unique situation of having two people at the table behind me who I didn’t notice when I sat down (and therefore I had no idea what they looked like). So here’s my attempt to relive how the game played out:

Voice #1: They’re not real vampires. I mean, they sparkle in the sun and I think that’s just embarrassing. Real vampires should be scary, you know?

Voice #1 is male and anywhere from 18 to an immature 35. I’m guessing early twenties based on the timbre of whininess and a need to prove himself.

Voice #2: Oh I don’t know about all this Twilight stuff, but when I think of a real vampire I think of Brad Pitt. Have you seen Interview with the Vampire? Back in my day, that was the movie to watch.

Voice #2 is a woman, older, at least 50 based on that “back in my day” comment. I’m going with mother and son. (At this point, I get distracted by thinking about Gary Oldman as Dracula and eating the rest of my burger, but I pick up the conversation again when I hear this:) Read more »

Henri’s ennui is much worse than yours.

I’m nervous about writing, and perhaps I should be.

Growing up I never liked to read.  Neither of my parents went to college.  Neither of them took the time to peruse much more than a copy of Popular Mechanics, or maybe, the Readers Digest abridged version of Alex Haley’s Roots, which they would watch on television anyway… But I can’t blame my anxiety about reading and writing well on them.

All I can say is that I love the capacity of words to inject emotional energy into a Tuesday afternoon with the drive-through traffic at Starbucks swirling around me.  I grew to love novels, short stories and poems, but first and foremost, I was impressed with the miracle of a well-chosen word.  And sometimes, even an poorly-chosen word would suffice and set me off.  Just the sheer effort of an individual to articulate his or her experience–that’s enough to make my hair stand on end.  Hence:  my apprehension!

What if I fuck it up?

Today I heard on National Public Radio a segment with Henry Louis Gates, Jr.   It dealt with “Roots Envy,” or the inability of some folks to trace their family ancestry back generation after generation like the legendary figure of the 1970′s best-seller.  Gates, around that time, became enamored with the possibility and discovered some things about his mother and father that were remarkable.  For example, evidently one of Gates’ kin had marshaled in and out of a Revolutionary War militia between the years 1777 and 1784.  For an African-American that’s especially intriguing.  Also, during the broadcast, Neil Conan asked the author of the Henry Louis Gates, Jr. Reader to revisit what he had written about his mother’s funeral.   (The audio of this reading, available today at 6 p.m., is worth listening to.)  He actually didn’t appreciate the stale, blue-blood service that they had back in 1997.  And so, with nothing more than a few words, he described the rowdy sermon and the swaying hymn-sings and the falling-down-in-the-aisle catharsis that would have been preferred.  It would have been a funeral like they had had for this uncle or for that aunt.  It would have been hot.  It would have gone on for hours.  It would have included those paper-fans, by which the mourners move the air about in vain…

I tell you, when I heard Gates read about this re-cast episode of his life, I wept like she were my own mother.  While driving through road construction barriers on I-90, I nearly couldn’t see that I’d be losing the left lane.  And I realized, while putting my foot on the brake, that I don’t have to be so nervous, that I’m not so much searching for that perfect word as I am searching for that intuitive trigger or that trap door that allows me to plunge into humanity’s collective subconscious.  Is there such a thing… such an ocean of dreams?
Read more »

I cannot be the only person who has had this experience on more than one occasion. I’m sure you know what I mean: You and some other polite stranger are waiting in line for something—maybe at a busy Starbucks, or, like me, to board a plane yesterday morning for Texas—when you have something on your person that alerts this stranger that you are still a student. In my case, I was putting away my student I.D. after it had fallen out of my wallet.

Standing next to me was a really attractive elderly woman, with expensive Gucci glasses that I would’ve loved to have stolen for myself and perfectly coiffed white-streaked silver hair. Ever since my own hair tragedy three days ago, I’m envious of anyone who looks even marginally better than I think I do.

She gave me a smile and said, “Still in school?” I said yeah, I’m in grad school, actually. “For what?” Creative writing.

Then it happened, as it did every time. Her smile sort of faded and she said, “Oh, that’s nice,” and the conversation was over.

Yeah, I know, Cat. That was my reaction too.

Read more »

I love Twitter. If you have spoken with me and I somehow didn’t talk about video games, I may have dropped an excited/incomprehensible explanation of Twitter and how much I like it on you, and for that, I thank you for humoring me. It’s difficult to explain how to use Twitter. Using Twitter is like telling a joke at a party. The difference is that with Twitter, you can see if your audience really liked your joke, and weren’t just being polite, and, even better, you can see if they liked it enough to tell all their friends about it. In the barren wasteland of Internet-speak, these everyday actions are called “Faving” and “retweeting” respectively, but they are very much like the human behaviors they resemble. And because you can see how many people faved or retweeted you, it encourages people to say funny or insightful or strange things (or sometimes all three at once), like a no-stakes poetry contest that lasts all day and never ends. Read more »

The older I get, the more I believe it to be so.

So I was perusing my usual blogs earlier this week, and came upon an article in Wired, plugging a new documentary by filmmaker Stephen Maing, titled High Tech, Low Life. The name of the film comes from a quote attributed to author William Gibson, who famously used the term to describe cyberpunk fiction as a sort of lire noir of the Information Age. Given the film’s focus on citizen bloggers in the People’s Republic of China, the title seems quite appropriate.

I haven’t seen the film yet, as it’s only just now screening in select cities. However, I was very interested in the article itself, which details the efforts of Chinese citizens to undermine the country’s infamous “Great Firewall.” Granted, by now we’ve all read volumes about China’s record of Internet censorship, mostly in a  pro-America, be-grateful-for-the-freedoms-you-have context. That sort of talk has never really interested me, as it’s frankly dishonest and is usually employed to stifle legitimate criticism of America’s own human-rights record. What DID interest me about this preview, however, was the very different kind of censorship that Maing’s film appears to portray. Read more »

The Graceful Dance of the Zamboni as Seen in It's Native Habitat

It’s the thought I have in the blue hours of the morning, sitting in front of a word document realizing I can’t create a good story by bashing stones together. It’s my Spanish speaking skills slowly atrophying in the dull, liquored parts of my brain. The thought is there when I watch episodes of Mad Men at marathon length, or go out on a Friday night. I could be so much better. I could be doing more.

I could write the great American novel, I could get in running shape, I could learn Chinese and sign up for the Peace Corps. There are exotic women in exotic places with exotic animals perched besides them waiting for me. I could help out around the community, take up gardening, have a rough and tumble life on the road like Jack Kerouac while I write feverishly about my experiences sneaking onto boxcars. There’s never a time when self improvement isn’t an option, you can always work harder, can always go to sleep a little more haggard, but lately, when  I think these things, I feel so damn tired.

Read more »