Are you mindful of the other driver?

Between home and work, those huge digital matrix signs loom over the interstate, the ones intended to keep you abreast of traffic situations. But, except during snowstorms, there are no real traffic situations between home and work. It’s not that kind of town. So, instead, the signs display helpful messages and driving tips. Usually somewhere between self-righteously bossy (“Texting and Driving Don’t Mix”) and winkingly practical (“DUI Patrols Tonight”), lately the DOT has turned more philosophical. The other day, all over the state, the signs asked, “Are You Mindful of the Other Driver?”

It is the word “mindful” that seems out of place in square letters above the interstate. I am used to the DOT being concerned about my driving habits and even about the more physiological aspects of my mental state (who doesn’t like rest stops with free coffee?), but this seems to enter another kind of territory, a territory that is normally the domain of poets and pastors (and—on a side note—of Dinty W. Moore’s new book). I’m not used to hearing about such existential stuff from the lower levels of state bureaucracy. Not that I mind. In fact, I kind of like the idea that they might have more to say than “Merge Left in 1500 Feet.”

But that “mindful” and the abstract “other.” The word choice suggests authorship in a venue that is normally dominated by anonymity. This is not, I think, language that could be produced by machine or by government committee. This language was created, composed. So, reading it, driving beneath this message, I imagine the DOT copywriter in his cubicle, the perfunctory fabric walls, the smell of canned air. Read more »

I
Among twenty dusty hills
and the blowing tumbleweeds,
the only still thing
was the eye of the Ranger.

II
I was of three minds,
like when three different stations
are playing Walker reruns.

III
The answer is waiting
like a roundhouse kick
before it lands.

IV
A man and a woman
are one.
A man and a woman and Chuck Norris
are Chuck Norris.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
the tight jeans
or the karate pants.

VI
A bag filled with rats
was tied around his head.
Ten seconds later
the rats were dead.

VII
O extra fist
under Chuck Norris’ beard,
do you imagine
we cannot see you? Read more »

This is a care bear. Care bears care.

Sometimes I care about things too much.

Yeah, I know that sounds like the cheesy canned answer you give during a job interview when they ask you what your weaknesses are, but it’s true. And if it’s not a weakness, it’s at least an occasional waste of energy. I’m not saying that caring is bad for you, but caring too much doesn’t make you any more likely to achieve the thing you desire. In fact, I think it often makes you less likely to achieve it.

True story #1: I’ve been noticing a pattern lately in my thesis meetings where the poems that I really care about, that I’ve obsessed over and rewritten several times, that I previously considered “my best,” receive a response like, “Eh, this is a good idea but it isn’t there yet.” On the other hand, poems that I wrote in half an hour in order to meet my weekly quota are received with intense enthusiasm. Maybe this means that if I think too much about a poem, I end up interfering with how natural the poem sounds. Or that my poetry sounds better when I don’t think about it much at all.

True story #2: I had it in my head that I should apply to nine MFA programs (because nine is odd and square – don’t judge). I spent about three months researching and in the process really fell in love with two programs. I learned everything about those programs. I had dreams about what my life would be like when I got into one of those programs. I became so obsessed with those two programs that when I finally worked on finishing the other seven applications, it turned out I was going to miss one of the deadlines. So I needed a new ninth school. My roommate said I should apply to somewhere in the Northwest. I looked into the University of Washington and discovered their creative writing building shared a name with one of my exboyfriends. So I applied to Eastern. Read more »

I didn’t think there was another person on the planet besides my mother,who could scold me in such a manner that I couldn’t make direct eye contact for a full ten minutes afterwards. But alas, I have found such a person and he is my thesis advisor. During our first meeting of the quarter, he quietly dismissed my excuses for not having read but three of my thesis books (that he assigned last Spring). When I said that I didn’t want to be influenced by other voices, he said, that this (graduate school) was the time to be influenced, this was the time to steal.

Provocative, Searing, Blunt. Yes, please.

I came home with his office copy of Elizabeth Alexander’s “Body of Life”, disgruntled with another book that seemed to focus on the Black Experience. Didn’t I already know that CH wanted me to focus on the Black Experience?, Read more »

This is a documentary about ASL poetry. The young lady pictured is Aneta Brodski, a deaf poet who I think kicks some serious ass.

This fall quarter I took an introduction to American Sign Language (ASL) class. I’m horrible with language retention (perhaps I’m just too fond of English), but I’ve often been told that I talk with my hands and since I know I’m a visual learner, I thought I’d give ASL a try.

Admittedly, I had an ulterior motive. I have a secret ambition to one day be able to sign my poetry. I love the idea of poetry in translation, but like I said, I’m not so great with the languages and there’s always the problem of something vital being “lost in translation.” ASL I think actually adds as much to a poem as it might take away because it’s a visual language. You cannot casually “read” an ASL poem – you have to experience it and I love that about ASL. I’m drawn to the idea of being able to launch my words into the third dimension.

But I’m not there yet. What I did discover throughout my class though are certain similarities between poetry concepts and ASL concept rules. Here’s a little rundown of seven things that ASL taught me/reinforced about poetry: Read more »

I have an idea that may help moderate the number of unsolicited manuscripts now inundating every literary journal in the country and especially Willow Springs.  

Believe me, nobody’s complaining!

But rather than kicking in a $3 reading fee [WS doesn't do that] wouldn’t you enjoy tilling the soil, or milking a cow, or making sure that chickens had free range of a farm owned and operated by a consortium of MFA programs?   (I said “owned”… but should have said “owed.”)

Deep down, I know you would treasure the dirt under your fingernails.  It might even give you some healthy microbes to snack on while brooding on that narrative arc or that esoteric allusion…

And more than anything else, some kind agrarian/literary hand-holding would send us down the lane where Wendell Berry has been and where the poet-novelist-conservationist bids us to follow.

Wendell Berry is still alive.   Back in June of 2009, a blogger apparently pulled a “Twain” on the former professor at University of Kentucky and ‘exaggerated’ his death.  It turns out (although Thomas Berry passed away) the man who bought some land in Henry County (Wendell) has survived and continues to thrive.  Here’s a Youtube clip of the poet being introduced by Bill McKibben.

To gush about the author of Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front has been my pastime for years.   Let’s join in mid-stanza:

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium.  Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Read more »

“This is your brain…” Imagine a freshly hatched egg rolling on the kitchen counter.  To the left is a skillet set on a stovetop and there’s butter already simmering on its stick-resistant and concave surface.   Some legendary actor then cracks the egg shell with one hand, allowing the yoke and stuff to spill into the hot skillet.   The egg fries quickly — sunny-side-up — and the voice-over of the commercial continues, “And this is your brain on drugs…  Any questions?”

I’ve seen variations on this themes on everything from astrological horoscopes to bumper-stickers to political buttons (see end of post) to a manual on Zen Buddhism (This is your brain on Buddha!)

And yes, as prevention programs go, this one beats Nancy Reagan’s “Just So No!” hands-down.

Metaphors, 1.

Moralizing Slogan, 0.

And yet, before we, in the creative arts, run up the score, I’d like to consider a book on the brain that has been acclaimed by neurologists, psychologists, psychiatrists, neuro-imaging researchers and even by such egg-heads as the editor of Poetry Magazine, Christian Wiman.   The book is published by Yale University Press and is written by Johns Hopkins mega-star in the above fields, Iain McGilchrist.  It’s entitled, “The Master and His Emissary,” which is odd, considering it has nothing to do with the despicable institution of slavery, nor with any messengers who might have made special deliveries.  Nothing literal like that at all.

On the contrary, the subtitle saves the day (not to mention the marketing department’s ass):   “The Divided Brain and the Making of the Modern World.”  And it is here — in that criss-crossing, apple-saucing of the two hemisphere’s of your primary internal organ, your grey matter, that the rubber meets the road… that the kettle becomes black… that the chicken (coming first) traverses the road, lays the egg (coming second), which gets fried in the skillet, next to the kettle on the adjacent back-burner…   The point is, once the author clears his throat, everyone who has ever set a coffee mug down upon a literary journal of any reputation should stand and salute.  Or bow and genuflect.   McGilchrist is brilliant, as the mere progression of chapters in the table of contents can testify:

Read more »

I know I’m not the only person who has a “special reader”, that person you give your work to after you’ve cooked it real good and you think you can knock his/her socks off with one bite and yet, you never do. But this is the reason you keep bringing him/her work because maybe one day you will write something that will make your special reader pass out with adoration. Or so we dream.

artwork done by Kori in high school containing lines of my poetry and famous quotes

My special reader is also a poet. Her name is Kori and she is a graduate student at the University of Washington. If someone had told the two of us that we would be attending graduate school for the same discipline at the same time in Washington state, we would have, very literally, laughed ourselves into crying. Surely, we would have said, wiping the irony from our eyes, the Universe is not so twisted. Read more »

The first question I ever asked the readers of Bark was in reference to lying and most specifically about what it means when a Confessional Poet lies in his/her poetry. It’s been several months since that first post and I’ve made considerable progress. Now I lie all the time. I make up people and I add in emotions and I’ve become a damn magician about creating a mood. Well good, my degree has been helpful already, I can lie like a rug.  And then a few weeks ago Leyna asked “Where do your ideas come from?” and I’ve been thinking about it ever since because the simple answer for me is that my poems are still true happenings in my life as well as the lives of my family and friends. It seems my narcissistic tendencies haven’t been cured.

Nowadays, poems come up like burps for me. Sure I ate that meal hours (or years) ago but I burp and taste  it all again. This summer’s writing has been pretty slim but what has been captured  are reflections on things that happened up to  five years ago. Five years ago, I didn’t know I wanted to be a writer but I knew something else. I knew I wanted wisdom the kind that came from experience and not good experience but the tragic shit like alcohol or drug use, but I didn’t have the balls to harm myself physically. Instead I understood my own ability to bounce back from emotional damage, to be hurting and laughing at the same time, to puke and rally. Read more »

I found this in my Amazon wish list.

I’ve been reading Major Jackson again. I can’t seem to stay away from him. This time it’s Hoops, his second collection of poetry. Immediately I was struck by the chasm of technique between this book and the first one I’d read, Holding Company, which was the 3rd book he’s published.  I tried to explain to a friend how different these two books were and the only metaphor I could come up with was of a baser nature. I told her that Hoops was like the Missionary position and Holding Company was like Reverse Cowgirl.

Her reaction wasn’t what I expected. She started extrapolating all kinds different ideas about virginity and Christianity and internal struggles in relationships and trying to relate them to Jackson’s poetry.  I hadn’t taken into account the missionary position’s position as the the baby step into the world of sex. Or that it’s often seen as a position of power for men over women. I saw her point but I meant something much simpler. (Here is the point when my grandmother/mother/family should probably stop reading. And for those of you who don’t know these two positions, you should do a Google search to educate yourself. I’m going to assume from here on out, we’re all on the same page.)   Read more »