Letter never sent

"I wrote you a letter, actually. Two. Though I didn't know where to send it."

She said nothing in response to the opening.

"How did it make you feel?"

"On the surface, calm. Deeper than that, abandoned."

—from Abandon, a novel by Pico Iyer

For years I've written letters. Some get sent. Most do not.

A few years ago I began using letters as a writing prompt with students: Write a letter to your younger self. To someone you love. To someone you don't.

The exercise is cathartic, and creates a calm but poignant sadness. And almost always, the letters I do not send are seeds for the letters I finally do.

Tender willing

Today the world is full of words. Every line a message, every phrase a faint clue in a map made just for you.

A poem — read at the right time, in the right light, and then read aloud a second time to be sure the magic is real and not some trick of mood and light (but all art, she says, is trick, all timing and tender willing) — plucks a string still so long that just the pull is a motion aerobic in its relief.

It adds ups.

These words float across water like cotton from the tree. They skim the surface of invitation, land lightly in a pose of patient calm.

This landscape of message and meaning, direction and delivery, does not disturb as much as nudge -- just enough -- the root of desire. Calls to you softly, says grow.

For the love of static

I’m freshly restored from a journey to the heartland. The good life was wonderfully devoid of schedules, plans and urgent emails. Going unplugged has become so rare, and is so initially unsettling, that I think I need to do it more often.

Turns out, I’m not alone in my aversion to constant connection.

Following my ‘Goodbye Facebook’ post last month, several people responded with applause. Some had contemplated dropping out, and felt empowered to finally do so. Others admitted they had never joined the flurry and felt vindicated in their wallflower disposition.

As I discover the tech fatigue of others, I feel puffed up with a sort of self-satisfaction (that is sure to bite me back at any moment). Today, I was giddy to find a Poets & Writers interview with Howard Junker, editor of venerable literary journal ZYZZYVA. In this excerpt, the bold emphasis is all mine.

PW: [Were your] values tested when, as an editor, you had to follow the technological advances of the past decade or so?

Howard Junker: At first, tech was my friend. Desktop publishing was a godsend. E-mail was great. The Web started out great, but digital has been totally disruptive. The low-end workhorses of words on paper, like newspapers, are already destroyed. The luxury items, like lit mags, can survive as toys for the rich — Glimmer Train, Tin House, Zoetrope — or as enticements, like stadiums and museums, in universities. But the Twitter sensibility has no room for literate articulation. To read and write you have to enjoy being alone, quiet, and static. That's not what tech fosters. I like blogging as a daily yoga. I post every day, as a personal exercise, not as a marketing tool.

To see

"It is crucial that a poet see when she is not looking — just as she must write when she is not writing," writes Linda Gregg in her essay The Art of Finding. "To write just because the poet wants to write is natural, but to learn to see is a blessing."

The sun broke through the June gloom today. As if obeying stage directions, the coastal clouds parted to shine summer solstice bright.

At Cape Perpetua, I walked from forest to sea. As a new season revealed itself, I joined in its vigor. I was bright-eyed at all I had forgotten: chest-high fern, thick skunk cabbage, and tidepools still but lively. I took photo after photo but could not capture the thin salt layer clearing my head, or the lulling traffic of wave after wave meeting rocky shore.

Though I had seen so much, I could not convey the change of season, the change in me. On this first day of summer, I'm still learning to see.

Goodbye Facebook

It was fun at first. I was found and friended. I delighted in gaining the attention of people I had forgot (old boyfriends, tenuous high school pals, the friend of a friend of a neighbor I barely knew).

But after my year-long stint, Facebook is now too much and not enough. Too much information and not enough substance.

I had to give it up: the status reports, the pithy replies, the clever repartee, the family photos, the incessant checking of other people's quizzes. I didn’t care really, but I couldn’t turn it off. Facebook became my tawdry tabloid, delivered all day, every day. I was an addicted voyeur.

I had real Facebook friends, to be sure. The same ones I telephone and email. For months, we crowded into the Facebook booth instead, sharing the high of fresh quips and bright banter. Just like in real life.

But Facebook glaringly confirmed what I already knew: I’m not a ‘social networker.’ I don’t have a 'platform.'

To be clear, I’m no Luddite. I appreciate and use modern technology. Running my own marketing communications business, I know well the value of modern media tools. In my personal life, however, I don’t wish to live the odd combination of transparent and calculated.

So, today, with reinforcement from a friend (no really, an actual, live friend whom I talk to on a regular basis and — gasp! — see in person), I quit Facebook.

With just a couple of clicks, I slipped out of the party. As with any good gathering, nobody noticed my departure. The party chatter continued as my 75 friends maintained an enviable pace of meandering amusements.

So long, my somewhat social network. It’s late. I’m tired. I’m returning to the antiquities of telephones, emails, and in-person gatherings in which real, live people share actual conversation.

Five years ago, when my husband and I were contemplating a move that would take us from urban center to remote, small town, a friend cheered us on. “Remote,” he said, “is the new luxury.”

With this recent disconnection, I’m going remote again. Accessibility has created a charade of meaningful connection. Within the one-line updates and clever banter, I’ve discovered I don’t really need to know so much about so little.

More fibs

The fibs keep coming!

The six-line, 20 syllable poem has a count of: 1/1/2/3/5/8. While the traditional fib is just six lines, many have opted to expand the form and link the stanzas.

"I promised myself to fib at least once a day," says Auburn McCanta, who regularly writes for the Huffington Post and her own blog. She shares her first fib here.


On Pie Day

Spoon

Bowl

Apples

Cinnamon

Crust with butter dots

The scent of a mother’s lined hands

Soft

Green

Apron

Wrapped like wings

Around small shoulders

Drying off a girl’s cloudy tears

--- Auburn McCanta

Summer travel produces poetry

Oh the beauty, the horror, the long whine of the family road trip. Who hasn't endured this summer nightmare? Emily Andrade beautifully distills the experience in this found poem, which originally appeared at the Found Poetry Project.

The Ten Commandments (of traveling with my parents)

1. Don’t snap your gum.
2. Don’t ever drive that close to a semi again.
3. Follow that car!
4. Don’t put your fingers on the window.
5. Watch out for elk.
6. Tell me where we are.
7. Be ready with the money before we reach the toll.
8. Don’t eat mother’s tuna sandwich.
9. Please, don’t kill us.
10. Pass me that lotion.


Written by Joseph and Sharon Andrade
Minivan trip to San Bernardino, CA, from Indianapolis, IN, Spring 2005
Found by Emily Andrade

Emily explains her found poem: “Original quotes from Joseph and Sharon Andrade during a minivan trip to San Bernardino from Indianapolis, Indiana for my Uncle Ruben’s funeral in the spring of 2005. Formed into poems by Emily Andrade, who was taking notes and a strict diary of the trip. Joseph and Sharon did not know they were being recorded and Emily did not know she had poems until the end of the trip. (A special thanks to the Andrade parents, who made these poems possible.)”


Fibbing along

Recently enamored with the short form poem, last week I shared my love of the fib. Named after the mathematical Fibonacci sequence, the fib is a six-line, 20 syllable poem with a count of: 1/1/2/3/5/8.

Jill Reedy Groseclose took a try and produced a modified fib.

“[It’s] one syllable short,” she says of her first fib. “Kind of a theme in my life...”

In this poem, Jill, who is my cousin, fills family references into just a few lines, giving a nod to our mothers (both voracious readers), to our grandmother (a master crossword-er), and to our recent reconnection.

An
Instant,
Serendipitous,
To find you so in love
With words, Their shape and sound

I
Love
Them too!
Malleable and enduring
Are the words our inheritance?

The poem is a loose interpretation of a traditional fib. But I like that the piece bends the rules to represent its “fibness.” Isn't a fib, after all, just a soft fabrication of malleable facts?

Thank you, Jill.

Keep those fibs coming!

Fibbing

I’m no good at math but I do appreciate structure and brevity. So, when writer/photographer Jack Cantey posted his fib experiments, I was immediately intrigued.

The fib (named after the mathematical Fibonacci sequence) is a six-line, 20 syllable poem with a count of: 1/1/2/3/5/8.

I’m drawn to the fib for the same reasons I like the tanka and the lune: controlled beauty and distilled language. But with the fib, there is also the beauty of typography. The lines undulate on the page, creating gentle waves of white space, that, in turn, make the spare lines even more powerful.

In sleep

last
night
angry
rain pelted
windows, battered doors
by morning the sky turned amber

a
still
voice said:
forget the
storm in your head, clear
every dream, dark, coiled and mean

- Drew Myron

I encourage you to try a fib. It’s a fun and attractive poetic form that can produce unexpected results. Start fibbing now! Send your fib experiments and I'll post them here.

Bloat be gone!

I’m drawn lately to the short forms: tanka, lune, fib, scratch-outs and more. Poems that are lean and fit, that reach and leap.

This turn to form, to rules and constraints, is a new fascination for me. In recent months, I’ve become fatigued with the confessional quality of everyday life, the bloated exposure of saying too much, too clearly. Rather than the tell-all, I want to parse and peel, and make words work in the rearrangement.

My poetic efforts are not profound. These word games are often academic but they work because the process requires attention and focus to language and choices. And the form gives shape to emotions I’m not ready to access — or share — directly.

In the next few weeks, I’ll share some of my favorite short forms, starting with the lune.

Lune
3 lines, 11 words
3/5/3

I love this form, especially since it spiraled into a successful mistake. The lune (pronounced loon) was invented in the 1960s by poet Robert Kelly, who was not satisfied with the Western use of haiku. Kelly, according to the Teachers & Writers Handbook of Poetic Forms, recreated the traditional haiku into a thirteen-syllable form of 5/3/5.

Later, poet Jack Collom was working with schoolchildren when he mistakenly remembered the form as a count of 3/5/3 words, not syllables. The result is a more flexible form of haiku that is easy to teach and create.

With an emphasis on word count, rather than syllables, the new lune is less mechanical and more accessible. In the following poem, I’ve linked three lunes together to expand on a theme.

Yes. No. Almost
(a linked lune)

Spring sneers, pauses
shifts wind, turns hope sour,
says not yet

I swallow the
gravel of these moody May
days, and wait

In the seam
of inbetween the sun frays,
boldly breaks free

— Drew Myron

Now it’s your turn. Have you tried a lune? Send me your work. I’ll post them here, and we’ll celebrate the satisfaction of the short form.

Find Your Place - V. 3


I write to show who I am.
The paper won’t judge me.
When I come here, I know

I’ve come to a place where

I’m free to be who I am.

Jessyka
16 years old

Find Your Place: Volume 3 is hot off the presses!

Last week’s Book Launch Party & Reading celebrated the Young Writers, a collection of teens who tenderly, fiercely, feverishly authored an 80-page book packed with poetry and prose. The party was packed with 50 people – including the mayor! – and love and support embraced the room.

Young Writers is a program of Seashore Family Literacy, a nonprofit organization based in Waldport, Oregon. The group was formed six years ago by a dedicated handful and continues to grow each year. This year we have 13 students and six adult volunteer-mentors.

The group is a voluntary activity. There are no grades, no attendance, no writing requirements. Just a lot of love, support and encouragement.

We meet every Thursday evening in the Writing Studio at the Waldport Community Learning Center. We share food, ideas, our latest work, and then we write together. And though much of the writing is dark and heavy, dealing with real-life issues, we spend a remarkable amount of time laughing. Somehow, when we’re in the Writing Studio, the burdens outside the room can be let go, if even just for two hours on a Thursday night.

And sometimes, for many of us, those two hours mean the world.

Find Your Place: Volume 3 is available for $10. Proceeds support the Young Writers at Seashore Family Literacy, a nonprofit organization.


Writer Revealed

Today kicks off the first installment of Writer Revealed, an occasional series featuring interviews with writers who intrigue and inspire me.


As my first guest, I welcome Sage Cohen, the author of Writing the Life Poetic: An Invitation to Read and Write Poetry, and the poetry collection Like the Heart, the World. Cohen teaches the online class Poetry for the People, and is editor of Writing the Life Poetic Zine. She lives in Portland, Oregon with her husband and infant son.

You’ve been published in dozens of journals and anthologies, won first place in the Ghost Road Press contest, were awarded a fellowship to attend New York University, and have taught poetry at universities, hospitals and writing conferences. Yet, even with all those credentials, you have said that you could not get a publisher for your book of poems, Like the Heart, the World. That’s disheartening news for the rest of us. Can you share your experiences and tell us about your decision to self-publish?

Disheartening? I sure hope not! I did not say that I could not get a publisher for my book of poems. What I said is that I chose another path—one that felt more empowering, more fun, and more expedient than waiting for someone else to publish me!

Before deciding to self publish, I spent about a year sending my manuscript out to a handful of publication contests. (Most poets expect to send their work out for many years before it gets published—if ever.) It placed as finalist or semi-finalist four times, which was exciting. That was enough validation for me...I didn't want to spend any more time waiting for someone to choose my book for publication. I felt a sense of urgency to have that body of work in the world, and to have it look and feel exactly the way I wanted. I've spent years creating marketing communications materials for clients, and I always enjoy the opportunity to design and produce my own pieces. So I hired my favorite illustrator/designer to layout the book and create the cover, and within a few months, had a finished product in my hands.

It was very empowering deciding that my book was ready to be born, and then making it happen. The poems in Like the Heart, the World span more than 15 years and reflect time periods and thematic cycles in my life that felt complete. With this publication, I feel that they've been well honored, which gives me more breathing room to embrace the poems of this life chapter.

I hope that my experience will remind other poets who feel helpless about the poetry publishing waiting process that they have options. We can decide when our manuscripts are ready to go forth into the world as books, and we can do that however we like...the traditionally prescribed way or our own way.

Last month, during National Poetry Month, you wrote a poem every day. How did that commitment shape, or reflect, your writing practice?

I love setting ambitious—and even unrealistic—goals for myself like that one. When I write on a deadline, with a goal of just getting something down on the page, it gets me out of perfection mode and into production mode. That’s where the real juice is for me: in the mosh pit of making poetry happen. I started my sagesaidso.typepad.com with a similar intention. Every day for a year, I wrote something new and posted it. I highly recommend the exercise. You’re likely to surprise yourself with how much you have to say—and how well you are able to say it!

Your classes and your book incorporate poetry examples, using a wide range of styles and poets from which to learn. Do you read poetry on a regular basis? Who has influenced your writing life?

I read poetry as much as possible! It is like food for me: something I need to keep ticking.

My influences started close to home with my mother, an English teacher, honing my writing and editing skills. My father saw the spark and named the “writer” archetype in me. My teacher Albert Cwanger in sixth grade affirmed my creative intelligence. And my teacher Matthew Carr in high school was the matchmaker in my love affair with literature. From there, every poet and writer I’ve ever read has awakened some new possibility in me. I am grateful for the incredible wealth of genius available to all of us in books.

As a teacher, what do you look for in a poem?

I always look for what is most alive—and focus on how to bring that forward in a poem. I think when students are aware of and engaged with what they do well, their poems can make great leaps forward.

What are your favorite poems and why do you like them?

That’s a hard one—like trying to name every street in my favorite country. Stanley Kunitz’s poem “Touch Me” is the one that bubbles up to the surface right now. It is a poem about nature, about love, about aging—about that edge we all walk—one of joy laced with its disappearance. This is what I come to poetry for: the chiaroscuro of language that gives shape and meaning to our experience.

Touch Me

Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that's late,
it is my song that's flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it's done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am.

— Stanley Kunitz
from Collected Poems

In your book and in your classes, you encourage community. Can you tell us more?

Yes! I believe that for many of us, poetry is more powerful and more possible in community. So I've created a number of ways to keep a dialogue going with poets and writers everywhere. You can join in the Writing the Life Poetic conversation at my blog.

I also just launched the very first issue of the Writing The Life Poetic Zine, a free monthly publication featuring the panoramic wisdom of ten Portland poets. The zine offers writing prompts, publishing markets, interviews, wisdom and tips about cultivating a writing life and community, and more! If you'd like to receive a monthly muse infusion, just visit writingthelifepoetic and enter your email in the top right box where it says "Sign up for our email newsletter."

And finally, feel free contact me directly at sage@writingthelifepoetic.com

Sage Cohen will present a free poetry workshop in Newport, Oregon on Tuesday, June 2 from 7 to 8:30pm at the Newport Public Library. This is a Willamette Writers event.

Blog blame

My stomach still churns. It’s been nearly a year since I began this blog and I still have mixed feelings about the medium. (I’m equally chagrined that the word “blog” – from the start a horrid hybrid of web and log — has gone from simple noun to clunky verb.)

I’m not stuck in the past, grousing about the good ol’ days. I’ve got dirty laundry: 68 “friends” on Facebook, a dozen bookmarked blogs, and an embarrassing fascination with the self-absorbed women of Real Housewives: New York.

That said, I continue to feel queasy about the ‘look-at-me’ quality that our social media — Facebook, Twitter, staged reality and such — encourages. Public positioning is now standard fare. Like a sugar binge that at first feels reckless and fun, the splurge leaves me ashamed and fatigued.

All of which leads me to Allison Glock, a journalist and poet who recently wrote the spot-on essay “I Blame Blogs.”

“Problem is, most of us are insignificant,” she writes. “We are not all undiscovered talents, stars awaiting illumination, unrecognized geniuses, gifted children. Most of us are average folks, getting by or not, in love or not, happy or not, and the opportunity to catalog these daily ups and downs (or snark about someone else’s) is not one that should necessarily be taken.”

Along with the harangue, Glock, thankfully, offers redemption. The cure comes in poetry. She writes:

"Poetry is about nothing if not empathy, generosity that can sneak up on you, that you didn’t know you needed until you found it and felt the release, like a long-forgotten thorn plucked from the pad of your foot. Ah, that feels better."

Read the full essay here.

From the beach church

"I have a lot of faith. But I am also afraid a lot, and have no real certainty about anything. I remembered something Father Tom had told me — that the opposite of faith is not doubt, but certainty. Certainty is missing the point entirely. Faith includes noticing the mess, the emptiness and discomfort, and letting it be there until some light returns."

—Anne Lamott
from Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith

Bluebird in my heart

On this last day of April, National Poetry Month comes to a dramatic close with Poem in Your Pocket Day.

I love this day. For weeks I have been preparing: posting poems, reciting poems, and sending postcard poetry. Already this morning, I have been gifted with poetry. Hannah, of the Young Writers (a high school writing group), emailed me a lovely Shel Silverstein ditty; and Julianna, barista at the Green Salmon Coffeehouse, handed me a coffee and one of her favorite poems, Bluebird by Charles Bukowski.

What can be better, I wonder, than standing in this circle of words?

Poetry

Pablo Neruda

And it was at that age . . . poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, not silence,
but from a street it called me,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among raging fires
or returning alone,
there it was, without a face,
and it touched me.

I didn't know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind.
Something knocked in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first, faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing;
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
the darkness perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire, and flowers,
the overpowering night, the universe.

And I, tiny being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss.
I wheeled with the stars.
My heart broke loose with the wind.

A pocket poem

National Poem in Your Pocket Day is on Thursday, April 30, 2009.
Time to write a poem, post a poem, carry a poem.
Share poems with friends, family, neighbors, strangers.

Isn't this the perfect poem for your pocket?

Hope

It hovers in dark corners
before the lights are turned on,
it shakes sleep from its eyes
and drops from mushroom gills,
it explodes in the starry heads
of dandelions turned sages,
it sticks to the wings of green angels
that sail from the tops of maples.
It sprouts in each occluded eye
of the many-eyed potato,
it lives in each earthworm segment
surviving cruelty,
it is the motion that runs the tail of a dog,
it is the mouth that inflates the lungs
of the child that has just been born.
It is the singular gift
we cannot destroy in ourselves,
the argument that refutes death,
the genius that invents the future,
all we know of God.
It is the serum which makes us swear
not to betray one another;
it is in this poem, trying to speak.

Lisel Mueller
from Alive Together: New & Selected Poems


Off the page, the hook, the charts . . .


Off the Page was off the charts!

Held this past Saturday night, the third annual event packed the house. Over 70 people attended, filling every seat, tabletop and even the floor. Many squeezed in doorways and leaned against walls to enjoy the word extravaganza.

Two days later and I am still buzzing with gratitude — for the encouraging crowd, for the engaging writers, and for the buzz of creativity circling this community.

Books sales were brisk and the table pulsed with eager readers. Did you get your books? If not, no worries. You can still purchase, at the source:

• Words Out Loud, poetry & flash fiction by Khlo Brateng. Go here.

• Kevin's Quicksand, a novel by Sheila Evans. Go here.

• Beyond Forgetting: Poetry and Prose on Alzheimer's Disease, featuring work by Kake Huck, Mark Thalman and Drew Myron. Go here.

• Every Last Cuckoo, a novel by Kate Maloy. Go here.

• Forecast, a horoscope-inspired word-art collaboration by Drew Myron and Tracy Weil. Go here.

• When Movie Was a Band: The True Story of My Short Life as a Rhythm Guitar Player, a memoir by Rick Schultze. Go here.

• Catching the Limit, poetry by Mark Thalman will be published soon. Get updates here.

Special thanks to:
Green Salmon Coffeehouse for supporting the arts and letting us invade (and rearrange) the space.
Shamrock Lodgettes for providing rooms for our visiting writers.
Richard Sharpless for setting a cool-coffeehouse-music vibe.
• Writers far and near, for taking part and sharing words & good spirits.
• An encouraging audience who filled the room with laughter, energy and enthusiasm.

Thank you!