Found Poem

I'm not usually too impressed with found poems, but this little one is sort of perfect. 

Writing Workshop

Mark invited me to a writing workshop he was holding. I brought a poem because that was what I had written the day before, and I mentioned this to the other writers because I wasn’t totally sure about the poem in question (which is a good reason to ask people what needs to be changed.)
After I read my poem, Kean said “You wrote that yesterday?”
Er, yes. Actually, I probably wrote it in about a half hour, maybe forty minutes if you could fooling around with the line breaks. I usually write poems without regard for line breaks, and then experiment with them later.
Everyone was mostly supportive of the poem. Kean mentioned that it sort of spun off on a tangent fairly early on, and the more I look at it, the more right I realize he is. So, I’m cutting that bit.
Mark did give me a wonderful compliment though: he told me I have amazing catalogs in my poems. That made me feel wonderful. I must admit, I’m sort of obsessed with catalogs, so I was happy to hear that.

Marilyn Hacker Poem

I was reading some poems today, and I came across this great bits by Marilyn Hacker:
"You did say, need me less and I’ll want you more.
I’m still shellshocked at needing anyone,
used to being used to it on my own.
It won’t be me out on the tiles till four-
thirty, while you’re in bed, willing the door
open with your need. You wanted her then,
more. Because you need to, I woke alone
in what’s not yet our room, strewn, though, with your
guitar, shoes, notebook, socks, trousers enjambed
with mine. Half the world was sleeping it off
in every other bed under my roof.
I wish I had a roof over my bed
to pull down on my head when I feel damned
by wanting you so much it looks like need."
Ruth likes to tell me "be mean, keep them keen," and I've already mentioned why I dislike that entire life philosophy and how I think it's a little one-sided.  (Boys are far less likely to put up with a mean girl than the opposite.) 
I love the last bit of imagery, with the roof being pulled down. 

Dean's Mom's Younger Self

At work today I was reading when I had an idea for a poem, and then off I was, writing one instead of working on what I was meant to be doing.  This is becoming rather typical of me. 
It was mostly a work of nostalgia.  During the Superbowl a few days ago, I was thinking about when Dean and I went to a party together for it (this was back before I was a regular attendee at things at Casa Paul).  We had to walk on this giant sheet of ice to get there.  I remember slipping and sliding.  "Here Dear," Dean said, and he let me take his arm.  Dean says dear to me a lot, and it's one of those little things I like about him.  We had only recently become friends, but it was one of those friendships that immediately took off and it was like we knew each other. 
As we walked, I realized how much he sounded like another old friend, and it was strange, realizing that I was gravitating to the same types of people over and over again. 
And then I thought about when we were sitting in the cafeteria, talking about Doctor Who, when Dean turned suddenly and said "You look exactly like my Mom did when you were her age."  We were sitting with a bunch of other friends then, and Matt was all "Way to be creepy."  We decided as a group that Dean's current Mom had gone back in time to get her younger self, bring her younger self back to the present to watch Dean.  And, obviously, I was Dean's Mom's Younger Self. 
And then I thought about a dance I went to with that group of friends, and how much great music they played, especially techno.
So, basically, I was working off of nostalgia.  And not doing my real work. 

Poetry Problems

Last week, I got up in the night to write a poem.  This in itself is not unusual because writing poems in the night is pretty common for me.  (Also common: the shower.  Why I cannot write poems when I have nothing else to do and am already sitting at my computer I don't know.  It always has to happen when I am busy.)
I realized a sentence in that this poem was meant for someone.  Actually two someones, but one of them is dead, so really, there's only one someone I can give the poem to.
I don't give people poems.  I realize that was Emily Dickinson's big thing, but I never have found myself thinking "I should give this poem to him/her."
Which is not to say I don't write poems about hims and hers, I most certainly do.  But they are almost never nice poems, and even when most readers would call them "nice" there is usually something less than kind lurking there in the text.  I have love poems that imply all sorts of nasty things, although mostly people read them and go "Wow.  That's gorgeous."  No one ever asks me if that last line is meant to imply that some is a coward or a liar or a jerk.  No, no one ever asks me that. 
I am in a pickle with this poem.  I'm going to give it to him, but only if I think he'll interpret it as good.  It's not actually a love poem, but a poem about something he's been involved with for awhile.
The problem is I have mixed feelings about this something but I'm not sure if the poem is doing that.  On one hand, he could see the poem as a tribute, one that puts his something in line with some very brave, loyal, admirable sort of work.  Or he could see it as a condemnation, a critique, even a depiction of posturing.  The worse bit of all of this is I'm not even sure what it is.  I still can't figure my feelings out at the moment, which was the point of writing the poem. 
Maybe to be on the safe side I shouldn't give it to him? 
It's times like these I wish I wrote modern-updates-of-romantic-dribble in the style of Mary Oliver.  Something on nature, something without a sliver of criticism or darkness, something bland enough to be difficult to hate.  Unless you are me and bored to tears with another ode to sunshine and wish someone would be more interesting and critical in their writing. 

First Drafts

Shared some newer poems with Robert yesterday.  He says that he really liked them and then named two as the most interesting.  Also, he liked the imagery.  (Robert always gives unspecific comments on poems.)  I still feel like I have work to do on them, but I'm happily in that mode where I'm writing a lot of first drafts.
I feel like I've been making leaps and bounds in my writing the past few years, and I think I recently had another breakthrough.  I feel like my first drafts are significantly better than they were even six months ago.  I'm also getting better and letting those things I get attached toin the writing process go.

Work Report

Work yesterday was fine.  (Yes, I managed to remember my makeup this time.)  I had the worst craving for chips.  I've been a very good girl about eating healthy as of the past few months, at least in terms of what I eat.  I only have desert at dinner, and that's usually a cake or pie, though sometimes if I am lucky a lemon tart.  But I've also been eating a lot, just because it seems like I get large helpings at the caf.  So I was so disappointed in myself for wanting chips because I've haven't eaten that kind of crap for weeks.  Ugh. 
Around ten days ago I had to send something to a prisoner in the mail.  Which was fine, but I was warned by the boss not to include staples or paper clips in the package because then they would reject the package.  So I got the package back today with a note saying it didn't like that I had put a sticker on it.  It was one of those stickers that contain our address, so someone can send it back.  When I showed it to the boss, she said that prisons will do anything to send mail back.  No kidding, I thought.  So when I go into work next week, that's the first thing that's going to be on my list of things to do.  I can hand write an address, I just wish someone would have said something to me first. 
The rest of the day was spent doing some research.  I consider myself pretty good at research, but the person I was trying to find information on seems to be as close to a nonentity as one can be these days.  One of the other employees mentioned she's been in the news a lot lately, but if Google News hasn't been able to find her, I don't think that it's true. 
The problem I have when I'm doing research is that I tend to get sidetracked by interesting information that isn't pertinent to what I'm doing.  I ended up reading this philosophical discussion of a moral dilemma.  I don't really know much about philosophy; it's one of those areas I'd like to read up on or take a class on, though I never have.  Anyway, the author basically said that there are three options to a moral dilemma: do something bad but effective to achieving your goal, do something bad and ineffective or walk away.  I recently had a moral dilemma and took the second option, then after that didn't work, picked the third.  But according to this author, the best move was the third, at least in the context they were speaking about. 
Walking away is such a hard thing for me.  So hard.  I always want to fight for whatever.  And maybe this author was wrong about the moral dilemma thing, but the idea of always choosing to walk away (and then, assumably, taking a deep breath and getting over it), seems so unsatisfying.  And I suspect that approach will drive me half-crazy because then I'll always wonder "what if" about those circumstances. 
See what I mean about getting completely sidetracked at work?  I do it all the time. 
I got sidetracked in other ways yesterday.  I came up with an idea for a memoir a few days back, and I found myself considering titles and structure for this yet-unstarted project. 
And then I found myself contemplating why serial killers exist and why are they always white and almost always male.  I have a theory involving a lot of complicated globalization and dominance and the word hegemony, but I wasn't meant to be thinking about serial killers at all. 
And then later I was thinking about the novel Desert Blood, which I read a few years ago.  The book is about the Mexican/U.S. border and a series of murders taking place there.  Apparently there was a real case of a U.S. Border Agent who raped women when he caught these women crossing the border, and because they were illegal it took ages before one of them called him on it.  I was wondering if certain details of the novel were based on those horrific incidents.  (Certain things in the book are based on a series of real crimes that are related, though not quite the same.)
I then came across a reference to how people get notices to stick to brick buildings: something called wheat paste.  I'm assuming it's some kind of paste involving wheat as a major ingredient but I found myself thinking how I had never considered how people did that or that it was something relatively simple and easy.  So, if nothing else, all this research seems to be good for me in terms of learning trivia. 
I even wrote a poem at work a few days ago.  I know, I know: I'm not supposed to do that.  But I've got one of those fickle Muses that comes and goes without a lot of warning.  And if I don't write an idea down right as I'm having it, I always kick myself later when it doesn't work as well. 
I've actually been looking at that poem today, and I think it needs work, but I feel better about it than I was expecting to.  I have been writing longer poetry as of late, and this one is rather short. 
Sadly, sometimes I think I get more done than they expect me to.  Which makes me wonder what in God's name everyone else is doing.  I dawdle enough as it is; how to people dawdle anymore than I do?  I get my work done out of sheer boredom since there's nothing else to do. 
There's also been an ongoing drama over a crashed hard drive.  Not, thankfully, with anyone I work with, but across the hallway I can hear a fair amount of yelling and whatnot over it.  Mostly I've ignored it, but sometimes it's hard to.  The woman at the center of this ongoing saga is very loud and, I suspect, the head of that group of workers.  She has ordered various people around about it.  And she has complained loudly on the phone.  And then went into a rant about how computer people are stupid and lazy.  Maybe I've just had better interactions or maybe she has a particularly useless IT person, but I've always had good to great interactions with computer people.  They've always solved my problems and even have been good at calming me down.  (Computer problems stress me out disproportionately.)  Jimmy, Dean, even Daniel are all computer people and I know if I went to them with a problem, they would never dare tell me they wouldn't help me or give me a hard time.  They all love me, they would all do their best to save me from my own mistakes.  Especially Dean.  Dean has been particularly good to me about these kinds of issues. 
Not that I would want to inflict that women on those three.  All three are relatively calm people, and out of the three of them, only Dean would complain about her.  (Though only in private.) 
Also, I don't know if something happened while I wasn't here or maybe in another part of the office, but I noticed sexual harassment posters suddenly went up all over the office.  Was there an incident?  I'm really curious, even though I know it's not really my business.  Part of me wants to know so that I can avoid the harasser like the plague. 
I did a little report writing and sent it to the boss before the end of my shift. 

Last Letter

Found this great little blog post discussing the publication of the a poem Ted Hughes wrote about his wife Sylvia Plath.  I'm a big Plath fan, and although Hughes is a good poet, I hate him as a person.  I think it's pretty telling that his companion after Plath died also committed suicide later on.  This sort of thing also reminds me why I'm so glad feminism exists, because it gave women permission to take care of themselves and not sacrifice always for their husbands at the expense of their minds and well-being.  Talented young women are far less likely to kill themselves now, and for that I am entirely grateful.  We need those talented women to create art, music, and books that forces us to see the suffering and strength of modern young women.

Patriotic Poets

Today I'm reading up on some poet biographies.  Given that it is the 4th of July holiday still, I thought I would concentrate on a couple of American poets.  Things I've learned so far:

-Phillis Wheatley was from what is approximately modern Senegal in West Africa.  
-Even though Wheatley was "discovered" as smart early on in her life, they still made her work.  She wrote poems about how she wished she could stop being a servant and live the life of an academic.

-Wheatley published broadsides, which, for those of you not totally obsessed with the literary world, is a poster version of a poem, usually printed so that the words are indented into the page, so you can "feel" the word.  Broadsides are sort of a lost art in our culture, but I can assure you they're really cool.  

-Wheatley had asthma.  I honestly wasn't even sure people back then knew what it was. 
-When most Americans wouldn't publish Wheatley's work, she turned to a publisher in London. 
-Wheatley got to meet other famous people, including Benjamin Franklin and George Washington. 

-A lot of Wheatley's poems were written in couplets, including iambic pentameter (that's what much of Shakespeare is in) and heroic (which is the form favored by epics.)  This indicates to me that she must have been educated in the classics.  She also wrote about death, which everyone knows is a favored topic of poets. 
-Many British readers were uncomfortable with Wheatley's slave status.  They often criticized her "family" and owners for keeping her in slavery.  However, as a house slave, she got to avoid many of the worst aspects of slavery or the tough life of being a free slave in an overtly racist country. 
-Her husband was John Peters, who was a free black.  He may have been a lawyer.  Since he was ambitious, a lot of white Americans hated him. 
-"Refugee" slaves were slaves that were considered too sickly to work on things like sugar plantations in the Caribbean, so they were sold off as house servants in other parts of the world, including New England. 

-Walt Whitman's father was a admirer and friend of Thomas Paine.   
-Whitman was part of the first generation of American children. 
-Whitman's brothers and sisters were given patriotic names, including Andrew Jackson, George Washington and Thomas Jefferson. 

-As a child, Whitman was apparently picked out of a crowd by the Marquis de Lafayette (who was instrumental in providing French support during the Revolution.) and carried young Whitman on his back. 
-Whitman's relationship with his father was imperfect; he respected him but they were never close.  There is some indication that his father may have been an alcoholic.  Whitman had a close relationship with his mother. 

-Like Shakespeare, Whitman didn't have a lot of formal schooling.  He spent six years in a public school in Brooklyn, and at around twelve began working. Whitman continued his education by spending time renting books from a library. 

-Whitman liked Sir Walter Scott and James Fenimore Cooper.  He liked Shakespeare's Richard III, which I also love. 
-Whitman was not just a writer but a publisher, beginning with become an apprentice printer as a young man, at around twelve or thirteen.