tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68242770202857226492024-03-14T07:45:13.696-07:00Lives of the SpidersA blog about poetry, the writing and reading thereof, and also about the stuff of the world that goes into making poetry, which is to say, everythingRobert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.comBlogger194125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-26849062846428193752015-07-01T21:17:00.002-07:002015-07-01T21:17:56.747-07:00Don't Mention the Moon (A Selection from The Edith Wharton Sentences)
<b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;">Don’t
Mention the Moon<o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;">The
ink-stained desk at which all his poems had been written resented poetry, it
disliked ink, and had no use for wineglass rings on the wood, or the caustic
splashes of whiskey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it was a desk,
and so had little to say about poetry or anything else, and lived its wooden
life in the hope that someone other than a poet, a premier, for example, or a
CEO, would one day sit down and sign a check, or initial an order to invade a
country, anything but the love-sick mutterings or impotent phrasings the desk
had perforce grown so resigned to house. “Just don’t mention the moon today,”
thought the desk. “For once don’t sit here and write about the moon.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style",serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-18069239999410155472015-04-26T20:25:00.000-07:002015-04-26T20:29:24.232-07:00<b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Evasion (A
Portion Of The Transcripts</span></b><b><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">)<o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">What is
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is it with you and spiders?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Why this<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>obsession?<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">What is it
about the ocean, the fish<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">like needles
in the blanket of the ocean?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Why this
evasion?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">What is it
about the mountain, the villages<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>of snowdrops<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">in bloom<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>on the mountain?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Beauty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rendering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Love<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">in all<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">its odd-bodied forms.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">Go on...<o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">I love the
spiders because<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">who else
will, and who<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;">has ever
loved me<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>like I want to be loved.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial",sans-serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-17034333329443522192014-09-01T19:32:00.000-07:002014-09-01T20:30:17.318-07:00And Now, a Word from Louise GluckThis struck me from an interview with Gluck. (Apparently she rarely gives interviews) in this month's <i>Poets</i> <i>and</i> <i>Writers</i> magazine:<br />
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<span style="color: blue;">"For me it's tone--the way the mind moves as it performs its acts of meditation. That's what you're following. It guides you but also mystifies you because you can't turn it into conscious principles or say precisely what its attributes are. The minute you turn tone into conscious principle it goes dead. It has to remain mysterious to you. You have to be surprised by what it is capable of unveiling."</span><br />
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That's what I love about writing poetry. The work itself unveiling to you, the work itself letting you know what it needs to say.Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-63836719180043293702014-08-18T10:30:00.000-07:002014-08-18T10:30:00.240-07:00From "The Edith Wharton Sentences"<b><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">The
First of November<o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">“I
shouldn’t have had to ruin this umbrella by using it in the rain. A frying pan,
or cookie sheet is never more perfect than when it hangs on a shelf in some
kitchen notion shop. An umbrella in its stand is the idea of an umbrella, while
the same object, flecked with sleet and turned half inside-out in a rough
onslaught of November wind, is that idea put forth and the argument lost.
Weather and time together win every debate they have ever staged, even against
hearty teams such as steel, concrete, brick walls, and hope.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: SimSun; mso-fareast-language: ZH-CN;">The
shop girl looked at me as if I hadn’t spoken. “Do you want this wrapped as a
gift,” she said. So I suppose we understood one another after all. We lived on
the borders of the wicked city, it was the first of November, and the
weatherman’s promised gale had only just arrived. <br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span>Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-90558924277204043012014-08-16T12:07:00.000-07:002014-08-16T12:07:48.708-07:00About Time: Thunderbird, Little Red Riding Hood, and Edith Wharton, among other things.It flows, apparently, and runs, and gets away from me like a horse might get away, by swimming into the ocean. I haven't been blogging, at any rate. But rather than offer excuses or explanations I think I'll just start again. And say that I have read a lot of things, young adult novels I read for my day job, and novels and nonfiction I read because reading is what I do. And poetry, always. The last book of poetry I read that made me want to right away respond by writing my own poems was <a href="http://www.dorothealasky.com/" target="_blank">Dorothea Lasky</a>'s <a href="http://therumpus.net/2012/09/thunderbird-by-dorothea-lasky/" target="_blank">Thunderbird</a>. A couple of weeks ago I sat on a bench at the Chicago lakefront on a beautiful day. I read a poem from <em>Thunderbird</em>, and then write a poem in my notebook. Rinse, repeat. It was a really good morning.<br />
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I also recently read an anthology forthcoming from Viking in March 2015, <a href="http://www.thevolta.org/ewc38-bflauer-lmelnick-p1.html" target="_blank">Please Excuse This Poem: 100 New Poets for the Next Generation</a>. Dorothea Lasky is represented, and other poets I've long admired, <a href="http://www.diodepoetry.com/v5n3/content/hall_ja.html" target="_blank">James Allen Hall</a>, <a href="http://www.cortlandreview.com/issue/six/bibbins6.htm" target="_blank">Mark Bibbins</a>, <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/247868" target="_blank">Timothy Donnelly</a>, <a href="http://www.theparisamerican.com/matthew-zapruder-poetry.html" target="_blank">Matthew Zapruder</a>, <a href="http://www.pen.org/poetry/last-sext" target="_blank">Melissa Broder</a>, <a href="http://matthewdickmanpoetry.com/anything.html" target="_blank">Matthew Dickman</a>, <a href="http://poems.com/poem.php?date=16113" target="_blank">Ocean Voung</a>, and <a href="http://www.smith.edu/poetrycenter/poets/seeingwhales.html" target="_blank">Michael Dickman</a>, among others. It's the kind of anthology I wish I'd had when I was 20, and all the anthologies seemed to be filled with poets that were either dead, or, to my 20 year old self, yes, unforgivably old, so much older than I that they seemed to already belong to history rather than the now.<br />
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Now, of course, I am older than poets who seemed so old to me then. Still and all it's valuable for young people to have an anthology made up of contemporary voices.<br />
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In my own work, I'm writing 3-4 new drafts for <a href="http://livesofthespiders.blogspot.com/2010/09/edith-wharton-sentences.html" target="_blank">my Edith Wharton Sentences</a> each week, and also typing already-written pieces into the growing document. Finishing one manuscript this year has whetted my appetite to complete more, and I think I have a very good shot at being done with the project before 2014 is over. I've also being working on a series of new spider poems, probably prose poems, if they remain in their current form. I did a mash-up of spider imagery combined with exercises from a textbook on the Little Red Riding Hood story that I found in a thrift store. I go back and forth on thinking they are really great to seeing them as just exercises that should not see the light of day. Lucky for me they can hang out in a notebook and marinate for a while.<br />
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Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-61560570311233899182014-03-15T12:02:00.000-07:002014-03-15T12:09:19.393-07:00Short Takes on Two Recent Books<b>The Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog</b>, by <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/alicia-ostriker" target="_blank">Alicia Suskin Ostriker</a><br />
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Each poem in this book is comprised of three speakers, the Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog, and each speaker always speaks in this order, although the Dog does not always get the last word, so to speak. The Old Woman speaks of human concerns, the Tulip is the voice of Beauty, and the Dog speaks for the animal. Yet they also speak of what they are, woman, flower, dog, just themselves, if those selves could all cogently speak. The trio discuss God, Love, Death, the nature of Man. I thought I'd had other books by Ostriker on my shelf, but I can't find any now. I do remember using her book <i>Stealing the Language: The Emergence of Women’s Poetry in America </i>when writing some papers in grad school<i>. </i>This one will remain on my shelf--I love the interplay of the three voices, how their conversations open up the world, and how, when you listen to speakers who are good at arguing their case, your loyalties and opinions shift and change like leaves in the wind.<i></i><br />
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Here is one of the shorter poems in this collection:<br />
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<span style="color: blue;"><b>Soften and Melt</b></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: blue;">The man man made me soften and melt</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">said the old woman.</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: blue;">The bee made me shiver like a rag</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">said the dark red tulip.</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: blue;">The bitch made me push</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">said the dog.</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><br /></span>
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<b>Bay of Angels</b>, by <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/diane-wakoski" target="_blank">Diane Wakoski</a><br />
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Why do we chew again and again on the bones of old wrongs? Why are we (are some of us, many of us, most of us?) haunted by old love, love gone wrong, ancient betrayals, decades-old heartbreak? This can be true, I think, even if our present is relatively happy and drama-free. Wakoski examines her past with movies and myth as her companions, finding tropes in both that twine and echo in her own life. In the last section of the book, "The Lady of Light Meets the Shadow Boy," she writes poems that are inspired by a new friendship/mentorship with the poet Matthew Dickman, yet these poems, too, are meditations on the past, and what both poets share from it. I am always in awe of Wakoksi's catalog of imagery: the natural world, the urban environment, jewels, cloth, flowers, cinema, the qualities of light, as well as her ear for prosody and her skill with line-breaks. This collection, along with her previous book, The Diamond Dog, indicate to me another flowering in this poet's career. Some of the fieceness of her earlier work is not here, but she has replaced anger (which was exciting) with a hard-won wisdom (calmer, but perhaps more beautiful.) I look forward to her work, always.<br />
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Here's the third stanza of "Some Beauty Needs a Dimness." The poet is describing how a winter scene would be different if the sun were out:<br />
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<span style="color: blue;">Now the </span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">gold and green and orange snow blowers and shovels</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">would come out, a reminder of</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">worldly destruction; the kids in red gloves would</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">dirty the world with snowballs, the car mufflers</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">would blow out a column of asserive, lively particles,</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">some perhaps staining the snow blue. Even the light itself would be</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">cheerful and lose its sonority.</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">Edward Weston's pepppers -- wouldn't you shudder</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">if they were green? Would you ever want to see a Greta Garbo </span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">film in color?</span>Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-41749280837979692072014-03-11T21:33:00.001-07:002014-03-15T12:04:02.862-07:00The World Will Find A Way to Break Your Heart<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">From an interview with <b>Mark Doty</b> in <i><b>Tricycle</b></i> </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">http://www.tricycle.com/blog/dont-they-know</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark Doty:</span> Grief does not seem to me to be a choice. Whether or not you think grief has value, you will lose what matters to you. The world will break your heart. So I think we’d better look at what grief might offer us. It’s like what Rilke says about self-doubt: it is not going to go away, and therefore you need to think about how it might become your ally.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I find that line all the time in my notebooks, "the world will break your heart." Or better, " the world will find a way to break your heart."</span></div>
Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-41603346050431492402014-02-21T20:41:00.002-08:002014-03-10T21:37:57.594-07:00The idea of the leap<br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"I love Robert Bly's idea of the leap and Lorca's<i> duende</i>. For me, these two concepts can supercharge a poem. They are jet fuel. Bly defines a leap as movement from the conscious to the unconscious and back again. For me this is true to the way the human mind works. We are continually moving between the reality and dream, daydream, memory, fantasy. And <i>duende</i> is that acknowledgment of mortality—the shadow of death. So for me these concepts are central to the poetic process: the self or voice, sense images, moving from the conscious to the unconscious, and <i>duende</i>." -- </span><i style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);">Barbara</i><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><i> Hamby, in an interview in </i>Superstition Review</span></div>
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I've really been enjoying her New and Selected Poems<br />
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<br />Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-44601673486284450812014-02-11T21:14:00.001-08:002014-02-11T21:14:23.998-08:00Dear Wrought Iron Fence,<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">In
troubled times I imagine turning you into</span>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">a
weapon. Tonight in full</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">moonlight
I decide what you might say</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">if
you could speak, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">a
voice that sounds like Mary Tyler Moore when </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">she
holds a spear. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">In
December ice is your secret </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">friend,
I can tell </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">by
the ferocious way each glass</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">knife
finds</span></div>
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(One of the 69 Letters poems) </div>
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Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-57541311425714453832014-01-26T11:23:00.001-08:002014-01-26T11:31:30.126-08:00Hidden From Me in Veils of Cloud<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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I was in Seattle for much of this past week at Winter Institute, a conference for booksellers. It's always such a buzz to be with 500 other slightly insane bookstore types and writers, discussing business, authors, reading, and the like. Not to mention hauling away a metric ton of free books. The sad part was that I didn't actually get to experience much of Seattle. The conference business starts in the early morning and goes on through the day, with publisher sponsored dinners at fancy venues in the evening. On the last day I took a walk with my coworker Sarah and we went to the Pike Place fish market. And on the first night there was an opening party at Elliot Bay Book Company, where I could not resist buying the new Mary Ruefle collection and Frank Stanford's book-length poem <i>The Battlefield Where the Moon Says I Love You</i>. They were right there on the staff recommends shelf, looking at me.<br />
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After a breakfast with New Yorker cartoonist Roz Chast, among others, It was off to the airport, where we discovered a nerve-wracking wait to see if our 11 am flight would actually ever leave. Two things make the wait worth it. I was daydreaming, looking out at the trees-- it was a sunny warm day-- and I realized suddenly that the huge bird that had just landed on a telephone pole about 200 feet from me was a bald eagle. All winter long I've been wanting to see a snowy owl, but this was just as good; it was the first bald eagle I've ever seen that close with my own eyes. The eagle was only there for two minutes before two crows swooped down and drove it away.</div>
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About the same time I saw the eagle, I noticed Mt. Rainier in the distance. Since there was not much chance of crows casing the mountain away, I got to see it over a period of several hours, mist-shrouded, clear but distant, and suddenly sharply clear, as if it had moved closer when I wasn't looking. I suddenly remembered the poet Denise Levertov wrote several poems about the Mountain when she moved to Seattle at the end of her life.</div>
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<b>Witness</b></div>
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Sometimes the mountain</div>
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Is hidden from me in veils</div>
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Of cloud, sometimes</div>
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I am hidden from the mountain </div>
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In veils of inattention, apathy, fatigue,</div>
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When I forget or refuse to go</div>
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Down to the shore or a few yards</div>
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Up the road, on a clear day,</div>
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To reconfirm</div>
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That witnessing presence.</div>
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-- Denise Levertov, in <i>Evening Train</i></div>
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Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-69386207013178190132014-01-13T20:07:00.000-08:002014-01-13T20:07:23.327-08:00One of the Ancient Spirits of the World.Just before Christmas I went to the lakefront, hoping to see o<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BJzy4bR0Lnw" target="_blank">ne of the snowy owls who have landed here in Chicago for a while.</a> I drove past a group of people who were all staring up into the black branches of an apple tree, some of them pointing, some of them aiming cameras. By the time I parked the car and reached that slushy point on the lawn, the group was disbanding. One woman walked away yelling" who- wee, who- wee" over and over, like she was calling a pig in at slop time. I hoped a snowy owl would not respond to that sort of thing. I went walking on a sliding cold trail, through the slush, out into the prairie field at Montrose Point. I saw a squirrel, and a man with binoculars looking at finches, and breathed in the scent of dry grass and winter. But I didn't see a snowy owl.<br />
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I thought of the first poetry workshop I ever attended, led by <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/diane-wakoski" target="_blank">Diane Wakoski.</a> For the first session, she just read us recent poems she'd written, and one of them was the poem "Removed from Natural Habitiat," about the speaker viewing snowy owls in a zoo:<br />
<br />
...Part of their beauty is<br />
In their stillness, the unblinking eyes like money that is hoarded,<br />
The head cocked a little, the body stationary, and seemingly<br />
Unjointed."<br />
<br />
I wanted to see a snowy owl at the lakefront, in the snow fields on the beach, or in a low tree, or out on the cold pier. I wanted to see one snowy owl, even though I'd seen videos and photos of many of these recent city visitors online. you can't google " snowy owl chicago" without plenty of information. And images appearing. I found for example, that these owls descending from the north are called an <u>irruption</u>, not a migration, and that more than likely it comes of there being an overabundance of owls in the north, so that the younger ones are driven away by the elders, and come to us looking for food. <br />
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<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875);">I thought I might see one of the ancient spirits of the world.</span><br />
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I wanted to see a snowy owl, with my own eyes, but did not, and so had to cast around for other forms of ferocity, and beauty.<br />
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<br />Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-53333704493945151162013-12-15T12:18:00.000-08:002013-12-15T12:21:07.898-08:00Pretending to be Morpheus: An Short Interview with Dave AwlI've known writer/performer <b>Dave Awl </b>since the late 1990s, when I used to see him as part of the famed <a href="http://neofuturists.org/" target="_blank">Neo-Futurist ensemble </a>and their long-running <b>Two Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind </b>evening of <a href="http://neofuturists.org/toomuchlight/" target="_blank">30 plays in 60 minutes.</a> I have always appreciated his work, both the plays, monologues, songs, and skits from TMLMTBGB, and printed work from journals and his collection of poetry and prose, <a href="http://www.ocelotfactory.com/seameans/" target="_blank">What the Sea Means,</a> and was reminded of that fact when I saw <a href="http://www.escapeintolife.com/poetry/dave-awl/" target="_blank">he'd been featured recently</a> in the on-line journal <b>Escape Into Life</b>. Dave was kind enough to respond to some questions that occurred to me after reading this lovely batch of work. (I originally typed "lovely bath" of work, which also seems apt--one bathes in his work and emerges warm, refreshed, and clean, ready for the day or the night to startle and begin.)<br />
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<b>Lives of the Spiders:</b> Can you talk a bit about your process with the Night Diary poems? Do
you compose drafts late at night while you are already (still) up, or do
these writings stem from those middle of the night "oh crap I woke up
and can't get back to sleep" times?<br />
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<b>Dave Awl:</b> I do often find myself
writing poems at two or three a.m -- it's a natural writing time for me,
when my inhibitions and my guard are down and things flow a little more
freely. But it's not a requirement, and I write by day sometimes, too
... I'm pretty sure I scribbled some of my first Night Diaries poems
down in my spiral notebook while riding the bus in broad daylight.<br />
<br />
The
main idea behind the Night Diaries poems was that I wanted to try
writing poems that followed the strange logic and surreal thought
processes of dreams -- kind of like dreaming out loud into my notebook
or keyboard while fully awake. I had been studying Jung for years,
taking classes at the <a href="http://www.cgjungcenter.org/" target="_blank">Jung Institute in Evanston,</a> and keeping a dream
journal for a while before I wrote the first Night Diaries poems. But
rather than turning my dreams themselves into poems, I wanted to try to
consciously write like the part of my brain that makes up my dreams.
Pretending to be Morpheus, for a few minutes at a time.<br />
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<b>LOTS:</b> Do you consider yourself to be a "night person?" What associations or
tendencies do you have with writing at night that might not be true of
writing in the brazen light of day? <br />
<br />
<b>DA:</b> Yes, I'm very much a
nocturnal person. I've always found nighttime peaceful and relaxing, and
it's when a lot of the most fun things happen. Night is when all the
fabulous monsters come out. I like that nighttime is less crowded ... my
literary hero and eventual friend Russell Hoban used to say that as an
artist you need empty spaces in which to create, and I think at night
there are more empty spaces to write into. It's easier to be imaginative
at night, too. To steal a line from a performance piece I once did on
this subject, non sequiturs and useful twists of expression breed in the
moonlight.<br />
<br />
And I think of this lovely line from Russell Hoban's
novel <i>The Medusa Frequency</i>: "At three o’clock in the morning the moments
patter like rain on the roof of night; the silence is a road to
anywhere."<br />
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<b>LOTS: </b> The titles of these works in <i>Escape Into
Life</i> indicate more material--of there's a "Night Diary 82" one would
assume there's a "Night Diary 1" and a "Night Diary 81." Other poems
found on-line, such as "Film Loop #12" for example, would lead one to
consider the existence of other Film Loop poems. Do you have an archive
of Night Diary entries? And if so, can you quote from another of those
entries for the readers of Lives of the Spiders? (Dave's answer, after the break.)<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
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<b>DA: </b>Well, the
numbers aren't meant to indicate the sequence in which the poems are
written -- it's more like I'm reaching into a big imaginary grab bag of
possible poems I might write, and pulling out #42 or #12 or whichever
one is calling to me at the moment. I've always been a huge John Lennon
fan, and I like that he recorded a song called "#9 Dream," but he
didn't feel the need to record dreams #1-8 beforehand. Starting with #1
and then working your way forward would be too linear and prosaic and
literal, somehow. Especially for work that's surreal and dreamlike in
nature.<br />
<br />
Also, the numbers I choose for the titles sometimes have
numerological connections. "Night Diary 82" suggests the year 1982 to
me, in addition to being #82 in a sequence. And something about the poem
connects back to that year in my life -- or at least I felt that way
when I titled it.<br />
<br />
The first Night Diaries poems I wrote were
eventually published as an online chapbook in 1997 ... and then that
chapbook was included as one of the sections of my book collection <i>What
the Sea Means</i> a few years later. But the original version is <a href="http://www.ocelotfactory.com/nightd/" target="_blank">still available online.</a><br />
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<b>LOTS:</b> When you write a letter poem, are you writing it to a specific person or persons?<br />
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<b>DA: </b>Sometimes
it's a letter to a specific person. Other times it might be a letter to
my past or future self, or to posterity in general. In the case of
"Letter 3/12/07," I think of it as possibly a letter from a future self
to my present self. <br />
<br />
And I think some of my "Letters" are
messages from one part of the psyche to another. In Jungian terms, I
think "Letter: August 1" may be a message from the Self to the Ego.<br />
<br />
When
I started using the word "letter" in the titles of my poems, I'm sure I
was thinking of <a href="http://www.poetspath.com/transmissions/messages/ohara.html" target="_blank">Frank O'Hara's "Personism: A Manifesto,"</a> where he says
that after writing a poem to a certain person he was in love with, he
realized he could have used the telephone instead.<br />
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But also:
Several of my favorite poets have avoided giving titles to some or all
of their poems. Sometimes it feels as if giving a poem a title takes
away a little of its mystery -- defines it a little too much right at
the outset. On the other hand, you do need something to go up there in
the title line. So poets come up with various ways of titling without
titling. <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/179622" target="_blank">e.e. cummings</a> just numbered all of his poems, and the first
lines are used to distinguish them. <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/frank-ohara" target="_blank">Frank O'Hara </a>has a whole bunch of
poems that are just called "Poem" -- which seems to be his default title
for an untitled poem.<br />
<br />
I wound up using "Letter" in a similar way
... I think it's my way of giving a poem a title that doesn't pin its
meaning down too much.<br />
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<b>LOTS: </b>Could you name several writers, filmmakers, or visual artists who you see influencing you in these poems?<br />
<br />
<b>DA: </b>Well,
the aforementioned <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/12/15/books/russell-hoban-frances-author-dies-at-86.html" target="_blank">Russell Hoban</a> looms very large in my consciousness,
as does the also aforementioned Frank O'Hara. Rilke is another major
influence for me. There's a certain tone he achieves, especially in his
later poems written in French -- a kind of naked open-heartedness and a
peaceful vulnerability -- that I'm just in love with, and probably
trying to emulate wherever I can. <br />
<br />
Magritte is my favorite
painter and sometimes in my poems I'm trying to juxtapose objects and
images in a beautifully strange way, like he did. The same goes for my
favorite surrealist or pre-surrealist poets, like <a href="http://www.poemhunter.com/robert-desnos/biography/" target="_blank">Robert Desnos</a> and
Pierre Reverdy and Jean (Hans) Arp. There's a marvelous anthology that
<a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/michael-benedikt" target="_blank">Michael Benedikt </a>edited called <i>The Poetry of Surrealism</i>, and that really
had a huge impact on me -- I slept with it under my pillow for a while
in the early 90s.<br />
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Artwork by Jean (Hans) Arp</div>
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<b>LOTS: </b>Thanks for taking the time to converse via email. Now I suggest we all go and write down or dream some dreams, be it night or day or some place in-between.<b> </b>Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-62887831337426809592013-12-11T14:01:00.000-08:002013-12-11T20:38:03.478-08:00Introduction to the Best Words from the Short Biographies of Poets in "The Best American Poetry 2013"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOL169KeDkn_z8l0jhMi2Pr3Jyis1Sj-BRg9cE9xsawXF1NHHoLN8Gab4j1Nzmspzf5A19Ky44aDTUOXRCjkQBklm9vE3u0vrkyK9WsUK19II4_tbSdKYq49-bPn8fUgbyAHnyYSJE67o/s1600/bestamericanpoetry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOL169KeDkn_z8l0jhMi2Pr3Jyis1Sj-BRg9cE9xsawXF1NHHoLN8Gab4j1Nzmspzf5A19Ky44aDTUOXRCjkQBklm9vE3u0vrkyK9WsUK19II4_tbSdKYq49-bPn8fUgbyAHnyYSJE67o/s320/bestamericanpoetry.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">These best words, taken from the biographies of poets in this year's <i>Best American Poetry</i> volume, were selected by a panel of linguists and crossword puzzle dignitaries from across the nation, and in two cases, (Senegal and Norway) overseas. Meetings, taking place over a contentious three days in Iowa City, only nearly avoided violence--the verb advocates were adamant in their ongoing quest for better representation, while the noun contingent, as usual, argued for the primacy of persons, places, and things. Thankfully, the question of whether or not any one biographical note may contribute more than one word to our annual list seems to at last be laid to rest. A rare majority opinion of the delegates decided once and for all that one word and one word only may be selected from any contributor's biography, no matter how worthy and attention-getting accompanying words in the note might be.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Any such list, is, at its heart, a tad arbitrary. Nonetheless, the panelists feel we've been able to latch on to an acre of the national poetic landscape, reflecting the varied and various responses of poets who have been asked to describe their own works. Interestingly enough, this is the first year that <i>two </i>words beginning with the prefix "un" have made the list, and they happen to appear side by side. This is also the fourth year in the past five that the word <i>grandmother </i>has been so honored.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The editors wish to thank the National Endowment for Noun Appreciation, the Smitherton and Aptly Adverb Coalition, and the Society of Thesauri Development for their on-going and much-needed support. Special thanks and recognition are due to Thaddeus (last name Jones?) the bartender at the Deadwood Tavern, for his fortitude and patience as we work out some form of payment plan that does not involve the authorities. The check is not yet <u>in</u> the mail, but we expect to hear back from the fine folks at the Guggenheim Foundation any day now, at which time a final settling of accounts can be made.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Without further ado, the list:</b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">magpies. soldier. echo. enlightenment. collections. nagging. violence. faceless. risk. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">accumulation. enemies. leaven. numbered. grace. compost. confusion. skipped. prissy. born.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">loneliness. dopplegangers. tonic. pagan. numerous. hiding. residencies. puberty. dire.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">flight. laugh. sisters. elopement. secret. voyage. bedrooms. luck. impossible. glamour.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">ladder. hurt. proximity. horse. code. craving. crime. decipher. birdbath. baffles. rapidly.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">sheep. doorframe. sacrament. speaker. therefore. absence. suitor. meander. castaway.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">taverns. openness. choose. grandmother. road. everywhere. seduction. bedtime. suffering. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">mortal. concrete. unfolding. uncomfortable. betrothal. grateful.</span>Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-24977428851617129502013-12-09T20:08:00.000-08:002013-12-09T20:09:21.657-08:00The things one comes across in the dark wooded internetLynn Emmanuel's work, for example. I have liked her prose poetry work, it has such an affinity and response to Gertrude Stein. <a href="http://bostonreview.net/poetry/self-portrait-items-snowy-lithograph" target="_blank">Here she's in a more lyric mode,</a> and she does it oh so well.<br />
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I also found our recently that my mentor and friend Diane Wakoski has <a href="http://www.anhinga.org/books/book_info.cfm?title=Bay%20of%20Angels" target="_blank">a new book just out from Anhinga Press.</a> I've ordered my copy, and hope it is en route.<br />
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Meanwhile, in Germany, poet Sarah Sloat discovers that she has been nominated for a <a href="http://www.dmqreview.com/13Fall/Sloat.htm" target="_blank">Pushcart Prize. For the second poem, if you follow the link.</a><br />
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Contemporary surrealist Eric Baus has a new book coming soon. <a href="http://diodepoetry.com/v6n1/content/baus_e.html" target="_blank">I think these might be in it.</a><br />
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Dorothea Lasky curates <a href="http://multifariousarray.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">a poetry reading series in Brooklyn.</a> I'm not excited enough by this news to simply take off to Brooklyn, but you'd better believe the next time that work or friendship brings me to NYC I'll be eager to see if the trip coincides with a night when this takes place.<br />
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In a final and mostly self-serving entry, I'll say that I have <a href="http://newworldwriting.net/fall-2013-3/robert-mcdonald/" target="_blank">some prose poems in <i>New World Writing.</i> </a> Did I say that already here? That's OK, repetition is a form of music. And I just re-read these and I'm still fond of them.<br />
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<br />Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-14343959062824259492013-11-26T21:23:00.001-08:002013-11-26T21:27:18.226-08:00The Woman Who Sometimes Sits Invisibly at the Foot of Your Bed I've been so crazed and busy with work, and worried about parental health and such that I forgot to crow about this--but I have prose poems in<a href="http://newworldwriting.net/fall-2013-3/robert-mcdonald/" target="_blank"> the newest issue of New World Writing.</a> I submitted five prose bits, and editor Frederick Barthelme accepted all five, and lo, there was much rejoicing, much popping of corks and hooray the lad's still got it kind of exclamations among the voices in my head. Expect more regular updates for a while, as it appears I'll be back to a normal 40 hour week throughout this holiday season, leaving me no excuses for not at least saying hello to the keyboard now and then, just to be friendly.<br />
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When the dish ran away with the spoon, while the knife and fork went about their daily routine and tried not to speak of such matters.Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-62439564217045126722013-11-24T20:31:00.000-08:002013-11-24T20:31:27.942-08:00This just in over the transom I have a poem up in the latest issue of <i>Transom</i>, and I feel very lucky to have work <a href="http://www.transomjournal.com/" target="_blank">there among such </a>good company.<br />
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<span style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19px; white-space: nowrap;"><br /></span>Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-89377013014273310462013-09-02T18:20:00.000-07:002013-09-02T18:20:03.204-07:00Street PoniesI went with Darren to a street festival that focuses on reuse and recycling, as well as local resources. So the beer sold was Chicago-brewed, and the food was all from small independent Chicago vendors. We saw artists who were selling jewelry made from Victorian era buttons, and lamps made from old appliance parts. I assume the camel in the upper corner was either born in Chicago or perhaps was once a citizen, and transformed by a lover's curse.<br />
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<br />Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-66907061984294319872013-08-18T20:51:00.000-07:002013-08-18T20:52:59.789-07:00Who Needs a Deck of Collage Poems Cards? Me.And you probably do, too. My friend Jen Besemer's project is now available to Joe and Jan Public, and the rest of us. And I think it's very cool. <a href="http://www.raintaxi.com/chapbooks/#ohm" target="_blank">Check it out here.</a> And find out more about Jen and her always provocative and startling work <a href="http://www.jenbesemer.com/" target="_blank">on her website.</a> Ok. Go forth and read, and write, and order most excellent card collections, some of them blank so you can add your own two cents and a blue jay feather's worth.<br />
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<br />Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-13492685613832633132013-08-14T19:56:00.000-07:002013-08-14T20:20:21.590-07:00Dear Overcoat,<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">In
you I become an old man, </span>
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raven, someone’s</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">uncertain
doom; in you I could carry </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">the
Prince of November’s</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">one
dozen pockets, home</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">to
a pebble, a pen </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">and
a knife, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">you
stretch me </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">taller,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">you
catch the wind, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">you
are a plowed field</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">for
the first snow to fall,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">you
the fashion</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">I’d
been </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">wanting</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">to
hide myself within, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">oh
overcoat, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">realm</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">of
moths and mantle </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">of
fog, the means</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">to
mask my unsculpted</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">body—I
found you in </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">a
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">I
lost you</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">in
a pile of coats </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">at
a stranger’s</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">party,
or did you melt </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">into
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">or
unseen hands</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">swing
you</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">on
a stern</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">and
clanging </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">metal
hanger?</span></div>
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Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-62092559872926294742013-07-28T09:20:00.001-07:002013-07-28T09:20:22.704-07:00Dear Family Chronicle of a Flock of Pigeons,<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">There
are so few pigeon </span>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">heroes,
or dastards, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">and
also, I think, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">so
few affairs, since</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">each
and every character</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">mates</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">for
life—the history </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">of
pigeons </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">is
a chronicle</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">without
wars—sure, a falcon</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">grabs
a sacrifice now</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">and
again,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">but
on the whole this </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">is
the tale of how you rose,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">a
chorus on </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">a
January morning,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">wings
nearly </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">white
against a bank </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">of
darker cloud, and I </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">read
that chapter,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">thankful
to see </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">the
fog of my breath </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">while
I waited</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">on
the train, nearly</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">able
in that moment</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">to
love my lifetime the way</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">a
flock of pigeons loves</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">to
be silver in a flash </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">of
sky, dark</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">then
silver.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA3yryTT7LSV_fJC8ebNFduT1w4BqCB67OJJGyPWB_CpO0UiiherOqQndG9jYRg-ecuQdMWvbdZ_Cmp8yDDe6ZCocCB7y8snKhy30cZDlkL35XJXrtL4YrK6FpaKUDernPo-VBd9mz_qM/s1600/pigeons_swarm_dn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA3yryTT7LSV_fJC8ebNFduT1w4BqCB67OJJGyPWB_CpO0UiiherOqQndG9jYRg-ecuQdMWvbdZ_Cmp8yDDe6ZCocCB7y8snKhy30cZDlkL35XJXrtL4YrK6FpaKUDernPo-VBd9mz_qM/s400/pigeons_swarm_dn.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-188111956884723622013-07-20T09:37:00.001-07:002013-07-20T09:37:02.665-07:00After the poetry reading<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv53Hn_yozFd9EkEYxvOCGWrcBvpFfcKmNHlA_MHc_vxmelTO83H7BrCjyYmw8hipZSckUj_wucFdKDfmV3sNsicVQuMAWK8NrVTwX10YKND9VQAeql3s6BHnjWByqGNyJG-xGBQ45pEY/s640/blogger-image--1591513175.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv53Hn_yozFd9EkEYxvOCGWrcBvpFfcKmNHlA_MHc_vxmelTO83H7BrCjyYmw8hipZSckUj_wucFdKDfmV3sNsicVQuMAWK8NrVTwX10YKND9VQAeql3s6BHnjWByqGNyJG-xGBQ45pEY/s640/blogger-image--1591513175.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div>It was an hour before dusk, very hot, and the light of early evening was made especially beautiful but the intensity of the readers he'd heard just minutes before. Ravenswood Avenue, that bland alley of light manufacturing, took on the mantle of temporary beauty.<div><br></div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWcrkP41kydN2L4P06H45Az5e_wukfUAu6Xo7fMw6Deb4Ps4pJVwjxm3dEVgjQvvyZEKpRNgC84267ahEPKHfcxRwGS83WAxwwTP-WQlYd7Ku2KeKKXpzAAtjl01B15UH0Ky35fhzBwjs/s640/blogger-image-835539651.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWcrkP41kydN2L4P06H45Az5e_wukfUAu6Xo7fMw6Deb4Ps4pJVwjxm3dEVgjQvvyZEKpRNgC84267ahEPKHfcxRwGS83WAxwwTP-WQlYd7Ku2KeKKXpzAAtjl01B15UH0Ky35fhzBwjs/s640/blogger-image-835539651.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-90979887675267098842013-07-04T11:54:00.000-07:002013-07-07T11:45:56.993-07:00Dear Dented Box of Cupcakes,<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</xml><![endif]--><br />
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table.MsoNormalTable
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mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";"> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIlBTC09wvECUj3-Xw5mAFi_eIv6N3DYY5fX9BR1FLw-6P6Qit9Zs5lO1n-Uz0vrdnNmzgeeqqT4-_wkShfcjBiz3DSaLrfTBa1IG5y-JerLO17JDkVwyQagoqesQ6XM_TMZgjs15MgzM/s880/destroyed-cupcakes-from-cakesmash-session.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIlBTC09wvECUj3-Xw5mAFi_eIv6N3DYY5fX9BR1FLw-6P6Qit9Zs5lO1n-Uz0vrdnNmzgeeqqT4-_wkShfcjBiz3DSaLrfTBa1IG5y-JerLO17JDkVwyQagoqesQ6XM_TMZgjs15MgzM/s400/destroyed-cupcakes-from-cakesmash-session.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";"></span><b><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">Dear Dented Box of Cupcakes,</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">All
the toddlers weep at your disarray, preschoolers</span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">point
out </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">the ruin of your frostings, powdered sugar</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";"></span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">pools </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">like blue sand in your corners, and your devil’s food </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">bundles, your
Mini-Cooper carloads of lard </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">are smeared, smashed, </span>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";"></span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">among
the fallen. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">Let this be the worst thing to happen </span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">today, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">a slip and an oops, </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">some momentary grieving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">Let
this be </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">the worst thing </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">some of these witnesses will </span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">ever
know. But of course </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">that’s impossible. There shall </span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">be
loss </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">upon truckload of loss. Someone will die.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">Someone
will fall </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">in love with somebody else.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">Might
as well, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">I tell the children, (as I push them</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">aside)
might as well try</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">for
a smidge of icing.</span>
</div>
Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-62829041743222363052013-06-08T11:17:00.000-07:002013-06-08T14:49:21.414-07:00The Spider Poetry/Prose ChallengeWhy should this blog be all about me? Why can't it be about you, and spiders, too? Please submit up to three poems or short (500 words or less) blocks of prose containing the spider as image, myth, or word by July 3. During the August I'll share the best submissions. The works submitted do not have to be "about" spiders, or in any particular form or format, but should contain at least one word or phrase that connotes arachnids: web, spider, weave, etc. This is your chance to be viewed by the veritable <i>dozens </i>of "Lives of the Spiders" readers. If the call for work takes on extra zing and fizz, we can think about an anthology, of the e-book or print format. But let's just start with spiders, and writing. Ready, set, write. (Or <i>send</i>, if you have that one spiderwork poised and ready in a file or drawer) <b>robmc1002@gmail.com</b><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBgqRWzbxwH7fbjy-IUr4eWGlMaSH3DNWnwFjCm3BttbbWC1ud-vdbGC5eW8jLn79ap415vHp8GFErFBOC8vEpTdJ54d6QdEdch3V8MLRGc6auA-yDEE9Ah4hXGNE8R7kWkm0zAeFCblI/s1600/spider.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBgqRWzbxwH7fbjy-IUr4eWGlMaSH3DNWnwFjCm3BttbbWC1ud-vdbGC5eW8jLn79ap415vHp8GFErFBOC8vEpTdJ54d6QdEdch3V8MLRGc6auA-yDEE9Ah4hXGNE8R7kWkm0zAeFCblI/s320/spider.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
From <i><b>Spiders </b></i>(c. 1941):<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Spiders keep on growing and molting until they are full-grown. One of the pictures on page 22 shows a trap-door spider that has just molted. In time the female spiders find mates and lay eggs. The story then begins all over again. </span><br />
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<br />Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-65972634142541657812013-06-06T19:20:00.002-07:002013-06-06T19:20:35.204-07:00Tuesday Funk, with Rhinos, and Spiders Oh MyI read at the Tuesday Funk reading series in May. And t<a href="http://www.shunn.net/cgi-bin/managed-mt/mt-search.cgi?blog_id=21&tag=McDONALD%20Robert&limit=20" target="_blank">his was captured via modern technology </a>and now its on the internets and such.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/D6oz-0UpeHE?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<br />Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6824277020285722649.post-64918968897974912452013-06-03T19:13:00.002-07:002013-06-03T19:13:13.726-07:00You May Run Into Gertrude Stein on the Bustled Streets of New York City<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQOVUPQXK7SabzjODfdIUP3Hu9v6idxi7HYNb-C552tcnFjntBnu57ASggymYWWWZJxuSPqH7yyTcIKyu8WOYzUWSJ7YJcQ-aImDseZ_hZy8ezZWvQR1NMJMnBLf4vzuRxfEAHj3Zut7M/s1600/gertrudeinbatterypark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQOVUPQXK7SabzjODfdIUP3Hu9v6idxi7HYNb-C552tcnFjntBnu57ASggymYWWWZJxuSPqH7yyTcIKyu8WOYzUWSJ7YJcQ-aImDseZ_hZy8ezZWvQR1NMJMnBLf4vzuRxfEAHj3Zut7M/s640/gertrudeinbatterypark.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />
I was in NYC for <a href="http://www.bookexpoamerica.com/" target="_blank">BookExpo</a>, the big annual bookselling conference. Walking to a dinner that was going to be paid for by the publishers, and understand that if you are a bookseller at BEA pretty much all your food and drink will be paid by publishers, I ran across this lovely sculpture of Miss Gertrude Stein, looking both solid and also cloud-like, in a Buddha kind of way. It was such a pleasure to see her. Among all the flash, and promotions, and publicity machines grinding their tired gears, it's good to be reminded that part of of the industry is rooted in a love of words, and how they an be coaxed to play and be new. The dinner, by the way, was lovely, and I like writer <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lauren_Myracle" target="_blank">Lauren Myracle </a>even more than I did before.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">A SOUND</span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: blue;">Elephant beaten with candy and little pops and chews all bolts and reckless reckless rats, this is this.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">DINING</span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: blue;">Dining is west.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">CELERY</span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: blue;">Celery tastes taste where in curled lashes and little bits and mostly in remains.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
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(Three of my favorite sections of Tender Buttons, first published in 1914.)Robert Mchttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04013788250792475947noreply@blogger.com0