My dream self dies upon waking

I had a breakthrough in my first dream poem during my Techniques of Poetry class last night. Larissa Szporluck is the most perceptive reader of poetry I've ever met. I'm fairly certain that she pulls more meaning out of my poetry than I do. I hope one day that I'll be able to tap into whatever realm she's in.

Other than that, the rain continues. The semester is winding down very quickly, then it's time for building snowmen and curling up under blankets with hot cocoa.

(Sorry this is so blurry)

Pleated long-sleeve shirt- yesstyle.com, Elephant necklace- Wal Mart, Rope belt- thrifted, Knit lace shorts- yessstyle.com, Moccasins- Roots

These are what the shorts look like close up.

Let me back in

I've reopened by obsession with Explosion in the Sky's newest album, Take Care, Take Care, Take Care. Good cold/rainy/windy day music.

My go-to autumn/winter outfit (over-sized sweater, leggings, and boots):

Sweater- thrifted, Boots- Amazon?

Coat- Gap, Circle scarf- American Apparel

"How easily bored I am without pain as proof"

Bowling Green's (specifically Mid-American Review's) yearly writing festival, Winter Wheat, was this past weekend and I was asked to participate by helping at the registration table, attending panels, and--leading my own panel! It was really great (albeit hectic and exhausting). It felt to me like a mini version of AWP--same basic structure. I felt closer to everyone in the creative writing programs, met some wonderful new writers, and started a couple poems that I'm pretty excited about. Karissa and I did a panel on Anatomical and Neurological Language in Poetry, and I think it went really well. We got on some great discussions about merging body and mind/science and lyricism, using textbook terms to add dynamism to your poetry, how to write a death or autopsy poem when the mind is detached from the body, and quite a bit more (if anyone is interested in seeing the notes for the panel, I'd be glad to send it to you). It was great getting up in front of a room of writers and talking about something we were passionate about (even though prior to our research, we knew little to nothing about anatomical terms!).

The literary journal, Hobart, that was positioned next to the Wick Poetry Center table at AWP last year was also there! I bought Mary Miller's book Big World from them, which I'm obsessed with. The guy at the table recognized me and we talked for quite a while about their journal and my switch from Kent to BG and this year's upcoming AWP. I also saw a friend of Ted Lyons' whom I talked to for a little bit. There were readings by Kyle Minor, Ann Townsend, and Seth Fried (seriously impressed by all of them!). Overall, great experience. But because I was so busy with Winter Wheat festivities Thursday-Saturday, I left nearly all of my paper grading for Sunday. But I got them all done! 14 essays in one day (phew). I think the festival refreshed me in a way that I very much needed, which helped clear my mind for all that grading.

I'm very much looking forward to Thanksgiving break. I could definitely use the time off (even though I'll be grading a new batch of essays over break). If anyone is around the Kent area this Wednesday through Sunday, I'd love to catch up. :)

Also, a new outfit (I wear these shoes and this dress a lot. I think it's time to get more creative.):

Long-sleeve shirt- Wal-Mart?, Pleated dress- yesstyle.com, Oxfords- thrifted, Heart necklace- Target?

"Consider the rooms that outlast us"

Felt impulsive. Cut my bangs.

Also, I'm currently working on a series of dream poems. I also need to sit down and make some serious revisions to all of my poetry. Perhaps I'll post something soon. Hope all is well with everyone. :)


**Update: Just a new outfit.

Oversized sweater- thrifted, Blue leggings- Target, Boots- Amazon, Necklace- H&M, Watch and ring- Meijer

Some thoughts on prose/narrative poetry

We had an abridged conversation in workshop tonight about prose/narrative poetry (I say "abridged" because it was truncated in that it didn't seem to go anywhere and we had quite a few more poems to critique). It started on a question I had for the class--when is narrative, or prose, form appropriate in poetry? I wasn't looking for a formulaic answer about when to use prose form over lyrical form, but rather, I wanted to hear some insights from the class. As someone who is very drawn to prose poetry (e.g., prose, paragraph blocks, etc.), it's something I'm really interested in discussing and researching (although I can't seem to find any essays on the subject online).

It seems as if many poets, when critiquing a poem, often feel the need to cut out articles, prepositions, "prosey" language, punctuation, etc. in an attempt to make the poem sound more lyrical, more rhythmic, perhaps more mysterious. I admit, these components can appear clunky or discordant in certain parts of poems or in a poem that is otherwise musical in its language. However, I think we are too quick to cut out articles or prepositions or lengthy lines just because it doesn't have the fragmented phraseology that is indicative in so much poetry. Is it so terrible to write a poem in full sentences? To write one in paragraph form?

The beauty of writing as an art form is that it can take on many forms. By way of this, different forms can influence each other. Prose can intermingle with poetry and vice versa. By writing a poem in a narrative form, we are at once telling a story and enlivening it with poetic imagination. Writing in prose does not equate to prosaic language. In other words, writing in a traditional manner does not make the writing dull or unimaginative. It's a way to add dynamism to the poem. Readers can say, Yes, I'm reading a narrative. But is there more? That being said, some poems written in full sentences or block form do not always take on a traditional narrative. For instance, Franz Wright's poem Imago or many poems in Elizabeth Willis' Meteoric Flowers are both very whimsical in their content but are presented on the page in blocks and full clauses. We see fiction writers merge mediums as well--Gabriel Garcia Marquez's fiction is palpable with whimsical, poetic language; the short stories in Mary Miller's Big World combine mundane scenarios with heightened peaks of larger perception. There is something rich and idiosyncratic in the coagulation of styles.

I find myself continually reasserting my hesitance in taking on that which is so indicative of poetry workshops--the impulse to cut. We have to first determine the heart of the poem, what it wants to be, where it wants to go, before we decide to omit anything (even parts as simple as articles or prepositions). Because of the hyper-inclination to revise or "clean up" the poem, I fear that this may be inhibiting the growth of more narrative or prose forms. By appropriating a classic form with our own fresh, strange themes or diction, we may be able to break open something entirely new.


**Update: Really great essay on Russell Edson/prose poetry--> http://www.believermag.com/issues/200403/?read=article_manguso

"I’ve watched words flower sideways across your mouth"

It's always a little strange going into the week after an illuminated weekend, as if the world should take notice, should give me time to seep myself into those three days some more. I feel like I'm in a dream.

Dennis and I made some more delicious food (as we do every weekend), and took a walk in the cemetery near my apartment. It's really beautiful and has some gravestones dating back before 1800. I didn't get any photos of the cemetery, but I did get a couple of la comida. :)

Farfalle, crushed tomatoes, artichoke hearts, garlic, onion, crushed red pepper, sugar, basil, white wine, parmesan cheese, garlic bread

Eggs, avocado, hash browns, toast

Halloween poem

BLOOD-FOLD

he can’t see me in the dim bar light.

he is smiling at someone else.

someone else is hidden.

someone else is meaningless.

are my edges beginning to fade,

with nothing to drape my organs?

I become a platelet, spilled on concrete.

eat me with a fork and swallow.

he is a blur of black-and-white face paint—

a ghoul, a shadow, a sharp-toothed reminder.

why do I always construct myself

from other people’s skeletons?

this trust has run dry.

this marrow contains no water.

the room pulses like a vein

and I am suddenly aware of myself.

I step out into a throng of strangers.

the night tangles its breath on my coat.

this ache     hangs      like a web.