Tuesday, March 12, 2019

Hollisterian Nouning

Glancing at a receipt for a flannel shirt this morning, I saw the shirt itemized as wovens.  Now I realize I'm not in a strong position to judge seeing as I'm shopping at Hollister but don't like this past participle adjective being used as a noun. Wovens to me feels like filling your mouth with water, opening your mouth halfway, and trying to keep it from sloshing out. 

It's pretty common to noun verbs and adjectives -- "receive the invite," or "make the gender reveal." Donald Trump's tweeted a dehumanizing and ugly riposte to Ann Coulter, claiming that "tens of thousands of illegals are being apprehended at the border." That particularly ugly illustration shows just how insubstantial nouned adjectives are. Here, someone is reduced to a description, humanity and substance stripped. That's what nouning does, reduce something to a category, a quality. 

Sure, there's not much danger in retail as in politics, but you can see the trend there. It's a brave new world where you can put on a woven, pop a few edibles, and drop that invite into the mail.

Wednesday, September 5, 2018

Homeric Thoughts on Being Home

The last months saw me far-flung, from the high deserts of New Mexico to the grass-clad steeps of Faroe. Travel is a wonder but I can't shake the Homeric truth Odysseus tells Nausicaa -- Where shall a man find sweetness to surpass his own home and his parents? In far lands he shall not, though he find a house of gold.

Tuesday, July 31, 2018

30/30 -- Round Four

Tomorrow is August which means more dry heat here in Santa Fe and a start to another round of 30/30, Tupelo Press' poem a day challenge. This is my fourth time around for this daunting challenge. It'll be an interesting one as I'll be far-flung for it -- New Mexico, Iceland, Faroe Islands, Denmark, and Ireland. Writing a poem a day will be the thread to hold the disparate locations together.

I hope you'll join me in my journey and follow me (and the other great poets) as we write our way into newness and revelation -- who knows what the page will bring?! There are three ways you can support me during this coming marathon of writing.

Read. The best way to support my journey to read along. Last year, so many people were kind enough to follow my daily progress and to get in touch with messages of encouragement and appreciation. Just knowing you're out there means a lot. And get in touch with my fellow 30/30 sprinters if you like what they're writing.

Collaborate. My friend Laurel got off to a head start on this one dropping me a postcard with a great poetry prompt on it. Many of my previous 30/30 poems came from reader suggestions. Others doodled out lines from my poems in art/word drawings. One friend sent a postcard from her honeymoon in Grandada with my poem Granada written on the back. 

Donate. 30/30 helps raise awareness and funds for Tupelo Press. For the last fifteen years, Tupelo Press has been publishing and supporting work from a diverse array of poets from around the world. They're innovative and creative and maintain a wonderful community of poets through projects like 30/30. My goal is $350 dollars. That's just a few donations of ten and fifteen dollars. If you choose to donate, I have some perks I'll throw your way.

$1+ -- A handwritten (hope you can read it) postcard!
$15 -- A handwritten poem from the month's work!
$35 - A copy of my chapbook, The Homeland - translations from the German of Katharina Müller.
$50 -- A limited letter-press print of my poem Dog Days from The Michigan Poet
$100 -- A private reading at your home or any venue of your choice

Monday, June 18, 2018

Notes for a failed novel


Tórshavn, Faroe Islands

Start with the location, basaltic hills, green against the grey sweep of the North Atlantic. Its stark majesty will seem like a literary device but sometimes the reality of a place happens to lends itself to meaning. Still, despite the realtors’ adage, there are more important things.

Describe sheep.

There’s a ruined cathedral in Kirkjubøur, massy medieval stonework standing unroofed beside grass-roofed houses and a smaller wooden church with a whalebone gate. In the 1800s, researchers found a reliquary with a metatarsal of St. Magnus and a fragment of the true cross which they sealed up again. When opened a century later, there was only dust. This must be a metaphor for something.

I lived in a tar and timber house…

A possible beginning: a German, a Canadian, and two Americans walk into the bar at Hotel Hafnia.

Another: The Faroe Islands rose out of the icy sea in a tumult of volcanism fifty-five million years ago. It’s been downhill since. On second thought, avoid erosion jokes.

Warren says the last eruptions covered swamps with molten lava. The contact layer of metamorphic rock can be seen clearly in the cliffside at Gàsadalur harbor. Another metaphor? For what?

Graffiti truths in the bathroom at Sirkus Føroyar: “once bread becomes toast, it can never be bread again.”

In Old Irish: Argir means “the summer pasture.”

The puffin is sometimes called “sildberi,” “the herring-bearer.” Kennings are alive and well.

Tuesday, May 1, 2018

May Day

Happy May Day, dear reader. It's beautiful here and spring is stirring dormant creativity and slowness. I feel my shoulders relaxing and my gaze widening to take in a beautiful world. Herrick's poem below celebrates rural customs of celebrating May in the form of an escalatory argument of a suitor to get his sweetheart to come into the woods and celebrate the fertility of spring with him. He ends with a momento mori, that spring implies winter, that fertility implies death, that we must live while we can and pick the flowers in season.

Corinna's going a Maying

Get up, get up for shame, the Blooming Morne
Upon her wings presents the god unshorne.
                     See how Aurora throwes her faire
                     Fresh-quilted colours through the aire:
                     Get up, sweet-Slug-a-bed, and see
                     The Dew-bespangling Herbe and Tree.
Each Flower has wept, and bow'd toward the East,
Above an houre since; yet you not drest,
                     Nay! not so much as out of bed?
                     When all the Birds have Mattens seyd,
                     And sung their thankful Hymnes: 'tis sin,
                     Nay, profanation to keep in,
When as a thousand Virgins on this day,
Spring, sooner than the Lark, to fetch in May.

Rise; and put on your Foliage, and be seene
To come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and greene;
                     And sweet as Flora. Take no care
                     For Jewels for your Gowne, or Haire:
                     Feare not; the leaves will strew
                     Gemms in abundance upon you:
Besides, the childhood of the Day has kept,
Against you come, some Orient Pearls unwept:
                     Come, and receive them while the light
                     Hangs on the Dew-locks of the night:
                     And Titan on the Eastern hill
                     Retires himselfe, or else stands still
Till you come forth. Wash, dresse, be briefe in praying:
Few Beads are best, when once we goe a Maying.

Come, my Corinna, come; and comming, marke
How each field turns a street; each street a Parke
                     Made green, and trimm'd with trees: see how
                     Devotion gives each House a Bough,
                     Or Branch: Each Porch, each doore, ere this,
                     An Arke a Tabernacle is
Made up of white-thorn neatly enterwove;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
                     Can such delights be in the street,
                     And open fields, and we not see't?
                     Come, we'll abroad; and let's obay
                     The Proclamation made for May:
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But my Corinna, come, let's goe a Maying.

There's not a budding Boy, or Girle, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
                     A deale of Youth, ere this, is come
                     Back, and with White-thorn laden home.
                     Some have dispatcht their Cakes and Creame,
                     Before that we have left to dreame:
And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted Troth,
And chose their Priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
                     Many a green-gown has been given;
                     Many a kisse, both odde and even:
                     Many a glance too has been sent
                     From out the eye, Loves Firmament:
Many a jest told of the Keyes betraying
This night, and Locks pickt, yet w'are not a Maying.

Come, let us goe, while we are in our prime;
And take the harmlesse follie of the time.
                     We shall grow old apace, and die
                     Before we know our liberty.
                     Our life is short; and our dayes run
                     As fast away as do's the Sunne:
And as a vapour, or a drop of raine
Once lost, can ne'r be found againe:
                     So when or you or I are made
                     A fable, song, or fleeting shade;
                     All love, all liking, all delight
                     Lies drown'd with us in endlesse night.
Then while time serves, and we are but decaying;
Come, my Corinna, come, let's goe a Maying.

Hollisterian Nouning

Glancing at a receipt for a flannel shirt this morning, I saw the shirt itemized as wovens .  Now I realize I'm not in a strong posi...