Capricious creativity

Feeling daunted by the creative process? Don't fear, says Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love. Creativity isn't in you, but on loan to you.

Gilbert has thought long and hard about creative genius. Here, she gives a funny and lifting talk about the "maddening capriousness of the creative process."

Filmed at TED (Technology, Entertainment, Design) in February, the annual conference brings together the world's most fascinating thinkers and doers, who are challenged to give the talk of their lives — in just 18 minutes.

A gallery, a puppet, and more

How will Forecast inspire you? We asked the question but I’m not sure we were fully prepared for the response. Forecast, the word-art pairing that began as a collaboration of my poems with Tracy Weil’s paintings, has stirred unexpected elaborations.

Created first as an art exhibition, Forecast showed last fall to enthusiastic crowds at Weilworks Gallery in Denver.

Then it was an exhibition book, in vivid four-color, hardcover glory.

Then it was an online gallery, offering links to the book, poems and poster prints.

Then it was a Fan Club, drawing Facebook applause.

With Forecast, Tracy and I aimed to blend the creative arts to reach an audience of people who wouldn’t normally appreciate or gravitate toward art or poetry. Again and again, we asked: How will Forecast inspire you?

And the answer is: Forecast has now gone nutty, with an endearing puppet providing a dose of literary levity.

What’s next? An Ice Capades interpretation? A showing at the Disney World art gallery (and is there such a place?). Forecast is now hitting the road, looking to drop in for a chat, a film, a showing near you. Have you room? time? desire?

Snort, sigh, read & thrive

We’re renegades, I recently told a friend, making art that blurs defined lines.


We combine visual art with word art. We seek to give art air, offering paintings and poems to people and places in unexpected ways. Such a blending is not an especially unusual idea but still I sometimes feel out of step with writers and artists taking more traditional routes.

We’re traveling a pebbled path, I tell my friend, but we’re not alone on the trail.

Elizabeth Bradfield, editor and founder of Broadsided Press, is right here with us. Broadsided is “busting poems out of their perfect-bound covers, to free art from frames, to bring literature and art to the streets.”

Every month, BroadsidedPress.org publishes a new literary/visual collaboration available as a single-sheet PDF to print, enjoy and share — for free.

"Vectors" then print the sheets, called broadsides, and post them in public places, such as cafes, hallways, and bathroom stalls.

“Before paperbacks and pocket books, before blogs, there were broadsides,” explains Bradfield, a writer and designer. “Let's put words out there for people to snort at, sigh over, argue with, and read.”

Vectors are situated across the globe. I’m a vector! And you can be a vector, too. In fact, a few states are woefully vector-less. Alabama, Delaware, Hawaii, Idaho, North Dakota, New Mexico, Rhode Island and Wyoming need volunteers to spread the joy of words and art combined.

Consider this a call to action, to artists, to writers, to creatives of all sorts: Take to the streets. Share art and thrive!

More reasons to write

Need a creative jog? a jag? a kick in the pants? Writing classes call. Don’t leave home. Write here. Write now. With these easy, affordable online courses, there are no excuses, just more reasons to write.


Southeast Review's
30-Day Writer’s Regimen

The Southeast Review Writing Regimen is for poets, essayists, and fiction writers who want to produce a body of work by establishing structure to their writing life, and, at the same time, find new and innovative ways to approach their craft. Only $15.00.
Go here.

Write Free Month-Long Playshop
A fun, self-paced Write Free Playshop begins in March. The authors of Write Free: Attracting the Creative Life offer a four-week course for only $19.95.
Go here.

Poetry for the People – Scholarship Available
Poetry for the People, an email class led by Sage Cohen, starts March 11. Act fast and you may enjoy the class for free (normally $199.). Scholarship applications are due February 15.
Go here.

I am . . .

I love new words. Words that aren’t words at all but when you hear them you think, Yes, of course.


In the student writing groups, we collect words. Our favorite words line the walls to create a playground of possibility.

We write I am poems. This fun and easy form combines images and actions, punctuated with a declaration. In writing these poems we create and define ourselves anew, every line, every time. Youngsters (and adults, too) take to this form quickly. Most of us like to write about ourselves, and I am poems give us permission to play with our words.

Here, a few lines, from a nine-year-old poet:

I am loveful.
I am wind.
I am Mother Nature’s friend.
I am a secret.
I am a hoper.
I am a lover of pie.

When she asked me if loveful was a word, I hesitated. It could be, it should be, it’s such a sweet and, well, loving word. By the time she read I am a hoper, I was cheering along with her. Is it a word? I’m not sure. I don’t care. I want to be a hoper, too!

By chance, By poem

Some days I am asleep and slog through the weight of darkness, expecting and (no surprise!) finding no chance for change. But when I am wide awake, synchronicity is everywhere. I stumble into chance encounters and collide into unexpected joy.

Recently, a friend shared with me a lovely book of poems by Mari L'Esperance, who, it turns out, is a friend of a mutual friend. (We live in a Facebook world in which everyone is connected by the tenuous thread of knowing everything and nothing about those we claim as ‘friends’).

I was touched by the gift. I had just returned from a visit to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and still felt a glowing appreciation for the city’s hard-working history and rugged beauty. As I paged through the book, I landed on this poem — featuring the iconic rivers that run through Pittsburgh’s heart — first.

Synchronicity, it seems to me, made apparent by a poem.


As Told by Three Rivers

Eight a.m, up too late the night before
learning the nose and throat, the bones
of the hands. Rounding a corner
on the seventh floor of Eye & Ear, the view
from the window takes you by surprise:
the city of Pittsburgh fanned out before you,
its verdant wedge of land softened
by the arms of three rivers, their names alone
like music — Monongahela, Allegheny, Ohio —
threading their slow eternal way home,
knowing. You think of Naipaul’s book, how
that distant mythic river in that distant
unnamed place reminds you somehow
of these three rivers meeting, the purpose
in their joined ambition as it should be,
how their journey tells the same story,
a story of becoming, of knowing one’s place
in the world. Standing there at the window
you see how everything that’s come before
has brought you here, how it all makes sense,
the three timeless rivers moving forward,
deliberate and without questions, telling the story
of the life you have chosen, of the life
you could not help but choose.

Mari L'Esperance
from The Darkened Temple
Winner of the 2007 Prairie Schooner Book Prize in Poetry

Pity the apostrophe

The apostrophe is a troublesome little bugger, but to eliminate it entirely?


Birmingham, England's second largest city, is leaving punctuation purists across the globe incredulous with a decision to drop all apostrophes. I like that grammar can cause such a stir, and I really appreciate the snappy writing by reporter Meera Selva:

LONDON – On the streets of Birmingham, the queen's English is now the queens English.

England's second-largest city has decided to drop apostrophes from all its street signs, saying they're confusing and old-fashioned.

But some purists are downright possessive about the punctuation mark.

It seems that Birmingham officials have been taking a hammer to grammar for years, quietly dropping apostrophes from street signs since the 1950s. Through the decades, residents have frequently launched spirited campaigns to restore the missing punctuation to signs denoting such places as "St. Pauls Square" or "Acocks Green."

This week, the council made it official, saying it was banning the punctuation mark from signs in a bid to end the dispute once and for all.

Councilor Martin Mullaney, who heads the city's transport scrutiny committee, said he decided to act after yet another interminable debate into whether "Kings Heath," a Birmingham suburb, should be rewritten with an apostrophe.

"I had to make a final decision on this," he said Friday. "We keep debating apostrophes in meetings and we have other things to do."

Mullaney hopes to stop public campaigns to restore the apostrophe that would tell passers-by that "Kings Heath" was once owned by the monarchy.

"Apostrophes denote possessions that are no longer accurate, and are not needed," he said. "More importantly, they confuse people. If I want to go to a restaurant, I don't want to have an A-level (high school diploma) in English to find it."

But grammarians say apostrophes enrich the English language.

"They are such sweet-looking things that play a crucial role in the English language," said Marie Clair of the Plain English Society, which campaigns for the use of simple English. "It's always worth taking the effort to understand them, instead of ignoring them."

Mullaney claimed apostrophes confuse GPS units, including those used by emergency services. But Jenny Hodge, a spokeswoman for satellite navigation equipment manufacturer TomTom, said most users of their systems navigate through Britain's sometime confusing streets by entering a postal code rather than a street address.

She said that if someone preferred to use a street name — with or without an apostrophe — punctuation wouldn't be an issue. By the time the first few letters of the street were entered, a list of matching choices would pop up and the user would choose the destination.

A test by The Associated Press backed this up. In a search for London street St. Mary's Road, the name popped up before the apostrophe had to be entered.

There is no national body responsible for regulating place names in Britain. Its main mapping agency, Ordnance Survey, which provides data for emergency services, takes its information from local governments and each one is free to decide how it uses punctuation.

"If councils decide to add or drop an apostrophe to a place name, we just update our data," said Ordnance Survey spokesman Paul Beauchamp. "We've never heard of any confusion arising from their existence."

To sticklers, a missing or misplaced apostrophe can be a major offense.

British grammarians have railed for decades against storekeepers' signs advertising the sale of "apple's and pear's," or pubs offering "chip's and pea's."

In her best-selling book "Eats, Shoots and Leaves," Lynne Truss recorded her fury at the title of the Hugh Grant-Sandra Bullock comedy "Two Weeks Notice," insisting it should be "Two Weeks' Notice."

"Those spineless types who talk about abolishing the apostrophe are missing the point, and the pun is very much intended," she wrote.

Off the wall, out of the book, into the world

. . . Poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes,
they are sleeping. They are the shadows
drifting across our ceilings the moment
before we wake up. What we have to do
is live in a way that lets us find them . . .

Naomi Shihab Nye
from Valentine for Ernest Mann

Poetry isn’t hiding anymore. Isn’t gathering dust in tomes of required reading (all those heavy Norton Anthologies breaking the backs of beleaguered students). Isn’t sitting in the back row, waiting for National Poetry Month when it can, albeit briefly, dance and sing and mean more than iambic this-and-that.

Poetry has a new gig. It’s bold and creative and — gasp! — commercial. Poetry sells, and that’s not so bad.

I’m heartened by recent marketing efforts that play with words and invite poetry to the creative party.

• Microsoft’s newest ad campaign features bold Blackout Poems seen in two-page spreads in dozens of national magazines this month. The form (sometimes called ‘found poetry’) has recently gained a loyal following, due in large part to the work of Texas writer and designer Austin Kleon. See his work here.

• Grey Goose Vodka is getting a word groove, too, with a full-page ad presenting a poetic toast:

A Toast

To the future
To hope
To home
To family
To good friends
To peace
To love
To a great year
To good times
To mistletoe
To seeing you soon
To all of us
To the two of us
To tonight
To last night
To a few days off
To new beginnings
To memories
To 2008
To 2009

• Even Safeway is going poetic. In many stores, the floral department is now clearly marked with large letters declaring Poetry in Bloom.

Wallflower no more, poetry is out, loud and proud. Have you found poetry in unexpected places, from unexpected people? What poems are playing near you?

Savor & Share

Poetry opportunities, they call. So much to create and explore. These ones are so good, I’ve got to share:


Judyth Hill – my first poetry instructor and favorite role model – is leading a two-day poetry workshop in Mexico next month. Don’t miss this. The author of six books of poetry, Judyth has been aptly described as "energy with skin.” That’s no overstatement. Her creative energy, combined with her expansive writing career (poet, teacher, baker, food writer), invites and encourages liberation, invigoration and celebration.

Poetry Writing: The Sweet Ecology of Manuscripts
Feb. 23 - 24, 2009
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico
More details here.

• • •

On another note, and closer to home (well, my home, anyway), Declaration Editing seeks an intern to lend a hand with Four and Twenty, its short form poetry journal. The internship is unpaid, but the lucky helper gets to, among many things, sort through poetry submissions. (It’s the voyeur in me that goes giddy at the chance to sneak peeks at the work of others). And, best of all, thanks to our widening world of email and such, you can intern from the comfort of your own home. So Jetsons!

Go here for more.

• • •

Speaking of home — and the increasing ease of laptop living — now you can take part in a writing workshop without getting out of bed. Poetry for the People email class starts March 11.

In this six-week class, Portland poet Sage Cohen offers six lessons with six assignments completed in six weeks. The class is designed to boost and support writers of all levels and experience. I took this class last year and it provided much-needed focus and structure.

Get going, go here.

Where were you?

Where were you when the world gained hope and beamed with pride?

Yesterday, during the Presidential Inauguration of Barack Obama, I was in an airport terminal, huddled around a small tv with low volume and a cutting glare. A small band of us were waiting for a plane but fixed to the image of a man, and a moment, who made history while easing us from a painful past.

The concourse was hushed as the 44th president took the oath and addressed the crowd in a speech that carried the power of poetry.

The flight was on time and I rushed my way to a window seat, missing Elizabeth Alexander’s Inaugural Poem. Did you catch it? Did the words sing to you?

Alexander is just the fourth poet to read at a presidential inauguration, and she joins poets Robert Frost, Maya Angelou and Miller Williams. That Obama chose to include poetry on the momentous day speaks of a man, and a leader, who values the arts and the creative inspiration words can bring.


Praise Song for the Day

Elizabeth Alexander

A Poem for Barack Obama's Presidential Inauguration

Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what's on the other side.

I know there's something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.

Kaylin, who are you?


God Says Yes to Me

Kaylin Haught

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
And she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
And she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
Or not wear nail polish
And she said honey
She calls me that sometimes
She said you can do just exactly
What you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it okay even if I don't paragraph
My letters
Sweetcakes God said
Who knows where she picked that up
What I'm telling you is
Yes Yes Yes

I ran across this poem a few years ago In the Palm of your Hand, a poetry workbook by Steve Kowit (1995, Tilbury House Publishers).

Since then, I've shared it with many friends and writers, and have seen it posted on numerous websites and blogs. It's a great poem, full of sass and insight, but I have yet to discover additional work or information about its author Kaylin Haught.

In this age of Google and Facebook and instant knowledge of anything, anytime, I want more. Who is Haught? Do you know Haught? Has she other great poems? Kaylin, are you out there?

Bright ribbon unspooling

When the poetry is working, it doesn't feel so much that I'm crafting it as that it's presenting itself. Of course it's not often like this, but it has been -- the bright ribbon of the poem unspooling in my mind and waiting while my fingers fasten it to the paper. I've had that. God, I've had that.

Beth Ann Fennelly

I’ve had it, too. Not lately. Not now. Instead, I have this:

Things to do

to avoid writing when writing — or the ability to write anything smart, clever, insightful or real— seems impossible, unbearable, improbable:

Check email. But don’t respond. To respond means you are engaged and engagement reveals the charade of writing.

Research poems. Look for the William Stafford poem you heard while listening to someone else’s more interesting conversation. Go to Google and discover, a half hour later, that the poem has no online home. You must buy the entire book. Contemplate an order. Recall your credit card balance. Rethink your instinct. Go back to search of poem. Read others, but quickly because you are supposed to be writing.

Go to Facebook. See if your ‘friends’ are doing anything you don’t know about, want to know about, slightly care about. Berate yourself for indulging in trivial distractions.

Hear other poets. Listen to readings of little-known poets in little-known places and wish it were you. Remember that they spent hours writing and reading and writing more. Look at your empty page. Compare and despair.

Eat. Reconsider breakfast. Cereal. And a spoonful of peanut butter. And a Diet Coke.

While wiping the kitchen counter, remember the load of jeans in the washer, the whites in the dryer. Fold the towels. Consider the stack of shirts to iron. Walk away.

Feel the pressure of a New Year. Revisit the vow to write more and eat less. Recognize the luxury of time. Kick yourself for wanting, wasting, complaining.

Turn off computer, or just the email. For one full day — okay, one hour.

Check email one last time.

Pick up pen. Don’t think. Forget and forgive, all you are, all you want to be.

— Drew Myron

To love, to try

Is love enough,
Or can you love some more?

— Michael Franti and Spearhead
Is love enough? from Yell Fire!

Traveling along Hwy 101 with the ocean at my side, I always crank the sound on this song. Twice a week, I drive to Seashore Family Literacy to share the joys of reading and writing with giddy grade-school girls, awkward middle school kids, and searching adolescents.

Is love enough
Or can you love some more?
It goes on and on and on and
on and on for a thousand years
What language are your tears?

We meet in the Writing Studio — not a classroom — and I don’t consider myself a ‘teacher.' Something more occurs. A fellow volunteer says he is haunted by the kids and I may be, too. Each session I go home full, holding words, struggles, sorrows and joys. My mind works every name and conversation in a sort of prayer, the way you worry a small stone in your palm until you know every contour and angle, every thin crack.

Genuine sharing stretches and marks your heart. Love isn’t enough. You feel capable of more.

The other day an ad caught my eye. January is National Mentoring Month and to promote its campaign ServiceNation.org wisely used an excerpt from a speech Barack Obama made last summer:

We need your service, right now, in this moment— our moment— in history. I’m not going to tell you what your role should be; that’s for you to discover. But I am going to ask you to play your part; ask you to stand up; ask you to put your foot firmly into the current of history.

Volunteer work is not just about giving. The emphasis on service is only part of the story. It’s not what I can contribute but what I get in return, time after time, week after week.

Like life, not every volunteer moment is stellar. The movies get it wrong, with the cliche of the man in the soup line who beams a toothless smile, or the child who masters reading and all turns well in her world. Some days are that great, and everyone goes home happy.

But most of the time, real change is slow and quiet. Often my efforts seem small and futile but I still go home satisfied that I am a small part in a bigger world. I have value and purpose, and I am capable of love.

It’s that simple, and that profound.

When the song asks Can you love some more? I eagerly agree to try.

Last light

I’ve never cared much for the hubalub of New Year’s Eve. The forced cheer wears me out. So, last week it was with vigor that I embraced a new sort of new year celebration.


A small group of us drove three hours south along the Oregon Coast to arrive at Cape Blanco — the most western point of the contiguous U.S — where we watched the sun set on 2008. In essence, we were the first to see the last sunset.

As the sun slipped in and out of a scattered winter haze, we sipped champagne, burned sage, sang songs, took photos, walked the lighthouse grounds, and recited bits of poetry and prose. It was the perfect marker of ends and beginnings -- and wonderfully free of false joy.


Cape Blanco on December 31 at 4:53pm

Drew Myron

On this last day
we stand on the edge of earth
and study the horizon for last light
From this western perch a rolling edge
swallows and surrounds

We spread our arms as the
smallest bird extends its wings
and despite its size
shoulders a trust that
hurts amassed will soften with time
that each day is fuller than the last
that everything flies and forgives

Wind presses memory
cups an ear to the thin wall of hope
answers every loud cry
every sudden turn
every call into the dark well
Says yes
maybe

wait

In this pale light
we peel the skin
of a new start
vow to say yes
quickly, kindly
We’ll talk less
listen more
feel the mark of every heart

As the sun sets
and a faint moon pulls
we dive into all we know
all we do not

all we forget
and forgive
all we hope
to love
to live

More than memory

We are more than what we remember; we are all that we have made.

— Inara Verzemnieks, reporter, writing about the handmade books by artist Shu-Ju Wang.

Shu-Ju Wang, a Portland, Oregon painter and printmaker spent the last year working with four senior citizen women in various stages of memory loss. Together, through conversation, painting, printmaking and collage, they chronicled their lives through artful, evocative artist books. Get the full story here.

Learn more about Shu-Ju Wang here.

Small, delicious poem pleasure

Sometimes I feel saturated. Too much stuff. Too many words.


Which is why I love Four and Twenty, a short form poetry journal. The journal — edited by Vinnie Kinsella of Declaration Editing in Vancouver, Washington — presents poems of 20 words or less, in four lines or less. Small nugget poems. Bite-size and delicious.

I have three poems in the current issue, including a Poem of the Week featured right now. Go to the website here, and download the handy-dandy PDF for your poetry reading pleasure.

New, Old, Forgotten and Found

Last month’s post calling for book suggestions delivered some great additions to my list. With the holiday break, I settled into some good reads, including these:


The Descendants by Kaui Hart Hemmings.
Sharp writing and painfully real characters make this story shine. In her debut novel, Hemmings deftly creates a smart and endearing story of a father forced to wake up — and take charge of his two daughters — in the midst of his wife’s death. The book is now being adapted for film, so read it quick before airbrushed actors glam up the grit of true emotion.

Bee Season by Myla Goldberg
I’m late to the party on this on this critically acclaimed and wildly popular book. Published in 2000 and later made into a movie (not to be confused with The Secret Life of Bees, an enjoyable book turned into a painfully sappy movie), Bee Season is snappy and sharp, and told in the voice of Eliza, a quirky 11-year-old pursuing the national spelling bee title.

Practicing for Heaven, by Julia B. Levine. I’ve waxed on about this contemporary California poet before but getting a Christmas gift of her early work reminds me that I can’t say enough about her ability to turn crisp pain into warm insight.

I didn’t want to like it, but I have to admit Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld is a good, engaging read. The story of a Massachusetts prep school initially made me groan. I mean, really, do we need another story of overindulged teens? But this story is smart, the characters are complex, and the book is a true page-turner. I read it in one sitting.

There are still a few days left in my self-declared and official Holiday Reading Season (wherein participants are allowed and encouraged to further the sport of reading by lazing about for hours, absorbed in books). I hope to enjoy — and in some cases, revisit — these books, too:

Gilead by Marilynne Robinson was suggested by reader Beth. Critics have hailed this book as brilliant, multi-layered and spiritually contemplative.

Just After Sunset by Stephen King
I’m a hit-and-miss fan but King’s new short story collection has garnered great reviews, and I’m eager for some bite-size reading. He’s so darn prolific (he’s written over 40 books) that over the years he’s gone beyond his trademark horror to offer a bit of something for everyone. My favorites are On Writing, a blend of memoir and manual, and Hearts in Atlantis, five thematically linked short stories set during the Vietnam War.

Unless by Carol Shields
Reader Auburn McCanta shared my enthusiasm for The Stone Diaries and couldn’t wait to read more of Shield’s work. Sadly, the author died of breast cancer in 2003. Unless, published in 2002, was her last novel. While she left us 10 novels, three short story collections and three volumes of poetry, I’m still hungering for more.

Birds of America by Lorrie Moore
Anything by this quick-witted writer is worth reading. She’s smart, tight and wry.

What’s on your library list? On your desk? By your bed? What's got you glued? I'd love to hear from you.