Big Mac Attack

I got an email from an editor at Softblow who said he had seen my work on line and wanted to feature me in the journal in July. I wrote back.  Where had he heard of me?  It was the poems in No Tell Motel, he replied. I was pretty sure my work had never appeared in No Tell Motel.  A quick trip to Google-land showed me the poet in question was Rob MacDonald.  Rob, I like your poems too. And Cyril Wong at Softblow would like a word with you.

Dorothea Lasky

I found this link to a Lasky poem on Ron Silliman's blog. I think the main thing I learn from Dorothea Lasky is the importance and prominence of voice--she sounds like no one else I have ever read or heard, a poetic voice that is distinct, hilarious, heart-breaking, and contains an ocean of sentiment without any false cheer or easy weepiness. Here's a taste from her latest book, Black Life. Check out Youtube for some great videos of Dorothea and her friends reading tour around her house.

Owen Pallett, my new music boyfriend

I liked him even more when I saw him live a couple weeks back.  Today, a rainy Sunday, the new leaves are that intense lime green, the sky is white, and this is the perfect album for right now.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tFXJKp-NgR8&playnext_from=TL&videos=KChF-2p2JLY

The Diamond Dog

I have been reading Diane Wakoski's new book, The Diamond Dog.  Here is a review.


I think the book contains poems that are among her best work, including "Black Ships Drawn Up on a White Beach," "Blue Ice Wolf," and "Things That Make Her Weep." Some critics seem to feel that Wakoski spends too much time working through and reworking failed relationships.  As someone who still aches with hurt over a break-up that is years gone by, and as someone who (like Wakoski herself) is currently in a stable and happy relationship but can still spend long minutes obsessing about what could have been, or what was not said, I tend to think in her poems she is just more honest about the lasting emotional reality of  lost lovers and old betrayals and failures than most of us find comfortable.

The new work, however, while certainly made up in part of poems addressed to old lovers, and poems that examine the hurt of love lost, and fathers figures who disappoint, encompasses that hurt and moves beyond it.  The Diamond Dog, a figure that through its permutations becomes as weighted and tangled with meaning as the most potent dream image, is the faithful dog, the dog that remains at its mistress's heel, or, at her bidding, runs forward, a scout, sniffing out the way to a place where the hurts of the past are burned to ash. And that place may be the realm that Whitman says is "different from what any one supposed, and luckier."

Here is the final stanza of "Blue Ice Wolf":

even in the blast from the icy polish
and shine off my father's military shoe,
transformed into the shimmer of the dog's diamond print,
then the Ice Wolf's blue paw,
finally the King of Spain's luscious royal foot
gloved, glinting gold; and I know
that at last he/they've come back,
and are waiting till it's time for me to follow them.
Any morning, if I glance up quickly,
when facing the wood of a Norwegian Maple
across the street,
I can make out their shadows.



Next up: brief remarks on other new books I am reading, including Other Flowers by James Schuyler and Black Life by Dorthea Lasky.

Boxcar Poetry Review

It was a Facebook surprise--I found out today via that online institution that Neil Aitken, the hard-working poet and editor of Boxcar Poetry Review, included me in the 2nd anthology, a sort of "best of."  I was very pleased to have work in two issues of Boxcar, I think Neil does an excellent job of selecting work and designing the site, so I am really happy to be included in the print anthology.  The most excellent poet and blogger Sarah J. Sloat has work in it, too.  You could get a copy here if you wanted.

Fourth Draft

See previous entries for the earlier versions.  Maybe it needs a title now.
This one even had intentional line breaks:

I never ride the train without thinking about you and how you died—
the lonely parking lot, your mouth on the gun, it’s something about
repeating the journey, the long trip back, after I had to identify
your body in the morgue, a journey with hours for sorrow, a window,
and regret: the golden light of dried grasses in the empty lots of Detroit,
a kind of resurrection, the return of a city to wild lands, to meadow.
At the top of a bare tree, a Cooper's hawk stares at military attention.
Later, a dozen, two dozen deer bound across a field
of last year's corn, flashing the arrows of their white tails,
maidens fearful of the monster on the tracks,
but swans seen from the window of this train, the swans
don't care, in inlets, in silvery pools at dusk, they are illegitimate sons
of the nearly-full moon, come down to this world to sip
from our waters, not the waters
of forgetfulness, no these cold waters are opposite of that.
I remember a movie I saw in high school, maybe
it was a movie I saw with you—the girl in the movie weeps,
she is talking to a nurse, she says, “I want to dance Juliet,
I wanted to dance the role of the swan.”

And a Third Re-Working

I never ride the train back from Michigan without thinking of you and how you died—the lonely parking lot, your mouth, the gun, it’s something about repeating the journey, about the long trip back, after I had to identify your body in the morgue, a journey with hours for sorrow and regret: the golden light of dried grasses in the empty lots of Detroit, a kind of resurrection, the return of a city to wildlands, to meadow. At the top of a bare tree, a Cooper's hawk stares at military attention--a meal might yet be revealed. A bit later a dozen, two dozen deer bound across a field of last year's mown corn, flashing the arrows of their white tails, maidens fearful of the monstrosity on the tracks, but swans seen from the window of this train, the swans don't care, In inlets, in silvery pools at dusk, they are illegitimate sons of the nearly-full moon, come down to this world to sip from our waters, not the waters of forgetfulness, no these cold waters are opposite of that, and I remember a movie I saw in high school, maybe it was a movie I saw with you—the girl in the movie weeps as she says, I want to dance Juliet, I wanted to dance the role of the swan.

Another Try at This

I fiddled with this piece of writing a bit more.  I may end up reading it at one of this month's readings:


I never ride the train back from Michigan without thinking of you and how you died—the lonely parking lot, your mouth, the gun, it’s something about repeating the journey, about the long trip back, after I had to identify your body in the morgue, a journey with hours for sorrow and regret: the golden light of dried grasses in the empty lots of Detroit, it's a kind of resurrection, the return of a city to wildlands, to meadow. At the top of a bare tree, a Cooper's hawk stares at military attention--a meal might yet reveal itself. A bit later a dozen, two dozen deer bound across a field of last year's mown corn, flashing the arrows of their white tails, maidens fearful of the monstrosity on the tracks, but swans seen from the window of this train, the swans don't care, In inlets, in silvery pools at dusk, they are illegitimate sons of the nearly-full moon, come down to this world to sip from our cold waters, not the waters of forgetfulness, no these waters are opposite of that.

Two Readings in April

I am not really a fan of National Poetry Month.  It seems to me to be (like so many other Months--Gay History Month, Black History Month, Lemon Curd Bar Appreciation Month) to be a way to corral something, make it neat and tame and easy to ignore the rest of the year.  "I mean, come on, we just gave a whole month to you. Do we really need to worry about you now?  It's May for Pete Squeaks!"  But all that being said, a whole lot of poetry stuff goes on in April, and I am not going to say no to reading when I am nicely invited.  So please do come hear me read.  I'll be reading mostly new work, and reading different stuff at each reading, for the benefit of the one or two persons who might be at both.

Wednesday April 14. 7:00 pm. To celebrate NATIONAL POETRY MONTH Gerber Hart Library will be hosting a reading by local poets including Richard Fox, Adam Hart, Gregg Shapiro, Robert McDonald, Kurt Heintz, and Joe Eldridge at Gerber Hart Library (1127 West Granville Ave. Chicago IL. 773-381-8030.) Join Gerber Hart's fanpage on Facebook to be informed of future events or check out their website.

Thursday, April 15. 7 pm at The Book Cellar. 4736 N. Lincoln Ave. in Chicago.
The readers are:

Kathleen Rooney, poet, essayist, author of Live Nude Girl and the book of essays For You, For You, I am Trilling these Songs
Kate Dougherty's writing is published or forthcoming in Columbia Poetry Review; Court Green; Action, Yes; and If Poetry Journal.
Robert McDonald's writing has appeared in Publishers Weekly, Stagebill, and the Chicago Reader, along with several very highbrow-type literary journals. (Note--this was not my description, I am cutting and pasting from their website.)
Richard Fox has contributed work to many literary journals. In 2000, he was the recipient of a full fellowship for poetry from the Illinois Arts Council. Swagger & Remorse, his first book of poetry, was published in December, 2007
Laura Van Prooyen’s poems have appeared in Another Chicago Magazine, Cimarron Review, and 32 Poems among others. Her first book of poetry, Inkblot and Altar, is forthcoming from Pecan Grove Press.