The Art of Elimination

Kick off the weekend with a Newspaper Blackout Poem poem by writer-designer-cartoonist Austin Kleon. I can't wait for his book, scheduled for release in April 2010.

oregon autumn

October Collusion

in this slowing season

tree, rain and soil conspire

earth, damp and clammy

invites river to rush

fern dashes past ivy while

shore pine and hemlock

reach in whispered light

plot to enter winter's

dark wetness

coiled and snug

— Drew Myron

Lost & Found

Sometimes a book keeps coming back. You read it once, love it, pass it on or set it aside. Years later, it resurfaces on your friend's kitchen counter or in the doctor's office. You are flushed with memory and love. You invite it in, hope that it holds the same allure.

Fifteen years ago, in a season of serious illness, crushing love and profound sadness, I found solace in a beautiful book passage. I made copies, pasted the words in my journal and read them again and again. I wrapped myself in the comfort of clarity, if even for just moments at a time.

Last week, I loaded up for winter reading. As daylight wanes my reading time lengthens. At the used bookstore in town (Mari's Books, a closet-size shop packed with unexpected gems) I filled my arms with new material. Just before leaving, I spotted the book that made me feel less alone so many years ago. I embraced the book like an old friend, dashed home, pawed through pages and found my favorite passage once again.

Tears

You never know what may cause them. The sight of the Atlantic Ocean can do it, or a piece of music, or a face you’ve never seen before. A pair of somebody’s old shoes can do it. Almost any movie made before the great sadness that came over the world after the Second World War, a horse cantering across a meadow, the high school basketball team running out onto the gym floor at the start of a game. You can never be sure. But of this you can be sure. Whenever you find tears in your eyes, especially unexpected tears, it is well to pay the closest attention.

They are not only telling you something about the secret of who you are, but more often than not God is speaking to you through them of the mystery of where you have come from and is summoning you to where, if your soul is to be saved, you should go next.

— Frederick Buechner, from Listening to Your Life

Like, totally, whatever, you know?

Today's entertainment courtesy of Taylor Mali.

See more of Mali and other performance poets in SlamNation, one of my favorite films.

So, what do you write?

From cocktail parties to client meetings, the question is inevitable: What do you do? followed by, What do you write?

I always fumble for an answer. Am I a journalist? a freelance writer? publicist? poet? instructor?

I am all of these, in succession and all at once. But “I’m a writer/marketing professional/instructor . . . ” is an unwieldy response that is returned with wrinkles of doubt and a swift walk away from the babbling woman who lacks a sense of self.

I am a former newspaper reporter and editor, and I run a marketing communications firm that promotes businesses and organizations. I am a poet, published in journals and books. I work with youth, leading writing groups and classes. I am an occasional travel writer. I write ad copy for agencies. To add to the confusion, the other evening I was introduced as a blogger.

It gets too much to explain. This writer’s role is full and assorted. Most writers-for-hire (which sounds crass and commercial but does make a point) juggle a variety of clients, topics and titles.

So what do you call the writer who has not written a best-selling novel (and has no such plans) but still uses words to explain, ignite, assist and inspire?

At WordCount, Michelle Rafter proposes the end of “freelance writer” in favor of “journalist entrepreneur.” She’s got a point and has sparked a spirited conversation.

Meanwhile, I’m still sorting myself out. As a communicator seeking definition, I am my most difficult assignment.

Why I Write

To shift the structure of a sentence alters the meaning of that sentence, as definitely and inflexibly as the position of a camera alters the meaning of the object photographed...The arrangement of the words matters, and the arrangement you want can be found in the picture in your mind...The picture tells you how to arrange the words and the arrangement of the words tells you, or tells me, what's going on in the picture.

— Joan Didion, from Why I Write (New York Times, 1976)

Poem as prayer

My neighbor is the poet laureate of her church, St. Luke’s By the Sea Episcopal Church.

Just the name makes me smile. By the sea. How idyllic. Indeed, it is a small and unassuming church situated along the road traversing the Pacific Ocean.

I love that poetry is part of the program. Poetry as spiritual practice in which all art is holy, in which holy means reverent, means concentrated appreciation, means meditation on life.

While my neighbor-friend is not a poet, she has a fierce appreciation for poetry. Together, she and the priest choose works for each service. They aren’t necessarily religious poems, she notes, but offer a range of cultures and perspectives, from Sufi poet Hafiz to nature-focused Mary Oliver.

After the service, the congregation is hearty with praise. “The best part,” she says, “is that people really appreciate the poems, people who may not read poetry on their own.”

And maybe, without knowing, they are thankful for the gift of prayer delivered in a poem.

Praying

It doesn't have to be

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones, just

pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try

to make them elaborate, this isn't

a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.

— Mary Oliver

from Thirst: Poems

Scattered and satisfied

Whatcha reading? I've been in a book frenzy, poring through a mix of fiction, mystery and poetry. It's a scattered but satisfying book list.

A few highlights:

Auntie Mame, by Patrick Dennis

I recently found this 1955 classic on my shelf, and was quickly transported to childhood memories of watching Lucille Ball as Mame (I've discovered that Rosalind Russell, who starred in the original version, was much better). Turns out the book has been gathering dust on my shelf for years. It originally belonged to my mother-in-law, who shared it with her son (my husband). He never read it, but I delighted in the fun and breezy romp.

Ordinary Genius: A Guide for the Poet Within, by Kim Addonizio

A great book for poetic guidance, direction and encouragement. There are oodles of self-help guides but this one stands out for its nuts-and-bolts, down-to-earth tips and tone. I especially appreciate the section, "do-overs and revision."

My Abandonment by Peter Rock

A thought-provoking novel about a homeless father and daughter who find refuge in an urban forest park in Portland, Oregon. Sad, illuminating, and based on a true story.

Tuesday: Volume 4

This anthology of poems and prose from the central Oregon Coast writers group (that meets every Tuesday) features the work of 21 writers, and a special section on the theme of Highway 34, the scenic link over the coastal mountain range and into the Willamette Valley.

The group holds a soft spot for me; When I moved to the coast five years ago, the Tuesday group welcomed me with warmth and kindness. There, I met Fred Strauss and Brian Hanna, who introduced me to Seashore Family Literacy, which introduced me to a new world of purpose and poetry . . . At only $5, this book is a screaming deal — and who knows where it may lead you!

Now, it's your turn. What are you reading, and what do you recommend? Light, dark, fancy or frightful, I'm ready to read.

After the rain

I wanted to lose myself in books. Because the day began with rain, I felt no guilt in this retreat. But then the sun blazed through the clouds and it became difficult to justify my languor.

Writer Amy Krouse Rosenthal knows this feeling, too:

Rainy Day

Rain is your pass to stay inside, to retreat. It’s cozy and safe, hanging out on this side of the gray. But then the sun comes out in the afternoon, and there’s disappointment, even fear, because the world will now resume, and it expects your participation. People will get dressed and leave their houses and go places and do things. Stepping out into the big, whirling, jarringly sunny world — a world that just a few minutes was so confined and still and soft and understated, and refreshingly gloomy — seems overwhelming.

— from Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life