Thankful Thursday: Juxtapositions

juxtapose |ˈjəkstəˌpōz; ˌjəkstəˈpōz|
verb [ trans. ]
place or deal with close together for contrasting effect

Today, I am thankful for juxtapositions, as in:

• Hot, tomato soup on a damp winter night.
Satisfaction in the simplicity of tomatoes — warmed, dished, salted and served.

• In a pile of bills, I find a letter.
I'll send you my stories, writes the young woman. I guess it's kind of a waste of paper because I could email them but it just seems wrong to me not to have stuff on paper.

Yes, I think. Exactly. In just a few words she has summed my life.

• A sugarplum has no home.
Yesterday, Happy Hour for Readers & Writers lived up to its name.

I feel like I'm inside a sugarplum, said the nine-year-old, launching us into laughter and poem-making.

We were giddy with imagination. We floated on whip cream clouds and bubblegum sweetness. We couldn't wait to speak our poems, dance our poems, and share ourselves. Quickly, the hour ended. Goodbye, sugarplum, we said to each other, as we waved our way toward home.

But not all the sugarplums went home. Last night, as rain and winter closed in, one child curled up with her family and slept in a car.

I want to be thankful for juxtapositions but sometimes gratitude carries a sadness, too.

Today is Thankful Thursday, the weekly pause to appreciate people, places, things. What are you thankful for today?

What Saves Us

Looking After by Tracy WeilOver at Soul Pancake, the question is big: What Art Has Saved Your Life?

Poetry saved my life, I often say. As an asthmatic youngster rushed in and out of hospitals, books were my first friends. But looking back, books were just the first in a series of artful steps that paved my way, and saved my life. 

Music helped me endure the agony of adolescence. And isn't this true for many of us? The soundtrack of adolescence always plays. For me, it's an eclectic blend: Pink Floyd's Comfortably Numb, The Cure's Lost in a Forest, Jackson Browne's Running on Empty.

In high school, writing, in the form of the school newspaper (Thank you, Mrs. Trembath), saved me. In journalism, I found direction, purpose, and an excuse to enter the lives of others.

In college, suicidal, visual art was my tourniquet. Vincent Van Gogh, Georgia O'Keeffe, Auguste Rodin, Stanton Englehart, and perhaps most importantly, Tracy Weil, who became a lifelong friend and a partner in artful collaborations that included home decor, handmade books, and poetry-painting exhibitions.

Still and again, art -- in all its forms -- ignites, excites, inspires, and saves me. Has art saved you?

 

Thankful (Thanksgiving) Thursday

Dear Thanksgiving,

Thank you for not bowing to commercialization. You offer no songs, mascots, or greeting cards (though Hallmark keeps trying). I like your simplicity.

As holiday cheer cranks to a frenetic pace, you remind me to reflect. Thank you for giving me the gift of gratitude.

With appreciation on this very Thankful Thursday,

Drew

 

 

Thankful Thursday: Delayed

A funny thing happened on the way to gratitude this week.

As Thankful Thursday approached, I gathered many things to share (favorite bookstores, bodies of water, author quotes, words) and mentally distilled and arranged my appreciation in a hierarchy that would reveal gratitude, thoughtfulness and, if I was lucky (and honest about my desire to impress), a touch of creativity.

My enthusiasm, however, was doused when a taken-for-granted internet connection was cut. No email. No Facebook. No blogs. No interaction with anyone outside of talking distance.

I was bereft -- for about one minute. And then I was awash in gratitude. Really.

I shut the computer off, put my shoes on, and walked. And walked. And thought. And watched. Colors were vivid, sounds crystal. And the inner voice, the one that cajoles me to be more clever, more insightful, more productive, more of everything I am not, hushed.

If this sounds dramatic, it is. Sometimes the world is full of too many words. I need to pare down. Talk less. Go quiet. Even -- shudder -- stop writing.

Yes, three days later I turned the computer back on, and was again connected to the larger world. But I know now that I can turn away again at will. On this Thankful Thursday on Saturday, I am grateful for the contemplative silence that was always within my reach but that I forgot I had the ability to access, control, invite and enjoy.

 

For the love of language

I can be a bit peevish (a Thankful Thursday word) about grammar.

Your and you're.

It's and its.

Their and they're.

And don't get me started on apostrophes.  Admittedly, I sometimes take an annoying self-righteous tone. Thank goodness Stephen Fry has — in creative typography — simultaneously spoken for me, and put me in my place.



Thankful Thursday: Feel Good List

My pet lizard died, said the young girl, I can't write.

The others nodded and the mood turned dour. Happy Hour for Young Readers & Writers was not at all happy.

Okay, I said, easing my grip on the prescribed assignment. Let's make a Feel Good List!

They picked at their nails, sunk in their seats. They sat resistant until I wrote the one thing that every 10 year-old loves: pie.

From there, the list grew quickly:

burping
grandma's house
the phrase "holy smokes"
lasagna (both for its taste and the funny spelling)
books
poems
blue
gladiolas
people who listen

Pens raced across journal pages and joy bounced around the table. In just a few minutes, we had 50 things and much happiness.

This morning, as I contemplated Thankful Thursday, I thought of the youngsters and our ability to shift — with appreciation — the mood in the room and in our hearts. Instead of focusing on what we had lost (the lizard, for example) we looked for what we had. Such a simple shift yields profound results.

A moment ago a friend called. Where's Thankful Thursday? she asked. I look for it every week. I glowed with gratitude. Her inquiry kicks off today's Thankful Thursday List of Things That Make Me Feel Good:

A friend who is a fan

greek yogurt with honey and berries

the low angle of light in November

tapioca

cashmere

the earrings I bought for $1.50, purchased in a bright, loud mall

the fact that malls exist (and that, because I live in a small, remote place, when I do go to a mall everything seems so bright and shiny and sorta wonderful, for about an hour, before I become overwhelmed and retreat to the serenity of my quiet, small town life)

bubble baths

sunshine

my sister

pens that glide

beaches

the song Here Comes the Sun

lavender

magnolia trees

mittens

summer

the letter I received this week, handwritten and sincere

manners

the word peevish

warm, soft sheets

pie - including, but not limited to, peach, apple, pecan

Today is Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to appreciate people, places and things. What are you thankful for today?

Continue the good vibe. Visit these grateful people:

Molly Spencer

Kelli Russell Agodon

 

Platitudes & Poems

Don't give me platitudes.

You gotta play to win.

The real failure is the one who doesn't try.

Blah blah blah

As a writer, I like to see my words out in the world. Because the established form of credibility is publication in literary journals, my routine goes like this:

1. Write poems.

2. Submit poems to journals (and there are thousands, of varying quality and prestige).

3. Wait for response from journal editors (days, weeks, months).

The competition is demoralizing. A single journal can receive hundreds of poems, for instance, with space to print just a handful (and most journals are published one to four times a year). The goal is to earn placement in the top tier journals (a ranking built on shifting sand) but the reality is that poetry, as with other art forms, is subjective. The entire process has its flaws and produces in me a raucous internal monologue:

Who reads these journals, anyway?

What is my desired audience? If it is people who do not yet know or appreciate poetry, why am I courting the converted?

Am I looking for the stamp of approval? If so, how do I justify a stamp saturated with subjectivity?

Why isn't the act of writing enough? Must I be published to feel joy or value?

In whatever way I answer these questions, the end result is the same: Rejection stings. A bit of kindness is a balm, which is why I am (almost) pleased with my latest rejection: 

This is a form letter—necessary with a tiny staff and all these submissions—but what I’m about to say is sincere . . .  We rely on your persistence and generosity.  We really do hope you’ll keep sending new work as it’s ready.

Also, it should go without saying that our decision to return this submission doesn’t mean much.  We’re just fans of poetry ourselves, and all tastes are subjective.

Which reminds me of the one platitude — in poem form, naturally — I can swallow:

'Tis a lesson you should heed,
Try, try again.
If at first you don't succeed,
Try, try again.

- Thomas H. Palmer, Teacher's Manual (1840)


Thankful Thursday: Where I Live

Yachats, Oregon — Image by Sky-View Photography This is where I live:  A small town called Yachats (pronounced yah-hots) on the central Oregon Coast. There are 650 full-time residents, no stoplights, a sprinkling of shops and cafes, and a post office that serves as the central source of news and gossip. 

There is also lots of rain (about 72 inches per year) and some days I am not thankful.

On Monday, I was damp-to-the-bone when an early winter storm gave us whipping winds and two inches of rain in a single day.

On Tuesday, the sun dazzled bright and my every complaint was made small and faint.

On Wednesday, a thick fog wrapped everything in matte gray.

On this Thankful Thursday, I am grateful to live on the edge of earth, in the midst of change. 

 

Wait, Scratch, Scribble

Some days I am a placeholder. It goes against my tendency to live-quiet-but-with-purpose. Lately I am holding my breath for something to shake loose, take shape.

And so, I reach for two sure things: My old-book-turned-into-journal and blackout poems.

Scribbling and scratching among the type helps me shape the shapeless hours. I'm not creating keeper poems. But making things matters. Maybe all writing is exercise, a preparation for the very next thing.

How to Get Through

With bright effort,
start clean.

Consider the danger
of experts.

Cry, and give
another try.

 

Thankful Thursday: Sniffle, Snuffle, Whine

Sometimes it's hard to show up.

The good thing about Thankful Thursday is that I find myself very aware of the people, places and things that bring me joy. The bad thing is that I've set up a structure that requires my participation and sometimes, like this week, I'm not feeling very grateful.

I know, it's not nice to feel this way, and even worse to admit. It makes me petty and small and full of whine. I have a good life, filled with loving family and friends. Still, despite a multitude of reasons to feel grateful, I am cranky with a cold that has left me lazy and leaden.

My steps were heavy yesterday as I greeted the 9 and 10-year-olds for Happy Hour for Young Readers & Writers.  As usual, they bounded into the room eager to share their words and worlds. The smallest girl rushed in with a whirl, her hands stretched to give me her latest artwork.

For you, she said, though we both knew it was not really for me but something she had made to fill a spare moment between homework and happy hour. Sometimes you just take the gift, not as intended but as needed. I took her art; I needed the love.

After we shared our latest favorite words, we did a quick freewrite. One wrote about Halloween and her pirate costume. Another wrote a list of everything she wants to do, which includes traveling to France, playing a board game (instead of writing), and eating whip cream. Another wrote about the stormy weather.

Inspired by the gift of a word, I wrote about love. I am thankful for the smile that spread across the young girl's face when she realized that her action had created a positive reaction. Her simple gift stirred feelings that created a poem, that lifted a heart, that felt love.

Yes

Some days it's so easy to give love.
Others, the space between minutes is days long.
My eyes avoid yours. My voice trails, swallows itself.
The phone rings forever. I am never near.

Some days, a minute is a moment.
Your smile lights and spreads.
You offer me paper love, a vivid gift.
All I have to say is yes,
a word stronger than love,
and easier, too.

 

Gratitude. Appreciation. Praise. It's Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to appreciate people, places & things. What are you thankful for today?


The Artful Blend

I love art & word collaborations. And I'm loving the rise of animated poetry. Lately, I'm drawn to the beautiful blends at Motion Poems.

In 2008, an artist hears a poem and wants to share it with others. The artist, Angella Kassube, and the poet, Todd Boss, pool their talents and create short films involving poets, animators, illustrators and musicians. Here's a taste: 

 

This poem and more can be read, viewed and savored at motionpoems.com.

Want even more? The Poetry Foundation, a pioneer in animated poetry, now has a YouTube Channel for its Poetry Everywhere video project. Immerse yourself here.

 

Winner Announced!

Following a highly unscientific but honest drawing — my unbiased husband closed his eyes and picked a name from my special edition Women Writers Box — I am happy to announce the winner of the just-published, spine-fresh, crisp-paged book of poems Letters from the Emily Dickinson Room by Kelli Russell Agodon.

And the winner is . . .

Carol Berg!

Carol, your blog-comment skill has earned you a FREE copy of the much-praised book. Please provide me  (via email or in the comment section) with your mailing address so Kelli Russell Agodon, bless her generous poet heart, can mail the book to you.

Thanks to all for playing, reading, writing and inviting words to infuse & enthuse your lives.

And don't let the poetry love end with this drawing. Purchase Letters from the Emily Dickinson Room here.

 

Thankful Thursday


small things

the world is full of glass

unpack slowly

shake petals

serve tea

give wide starts

live among psalms

pull thin light

stand tall

give thanks

- drew myron 


Gratitude. Appreciation. Praise. It's Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to appreciate people, places & things. Do you do Thankful Thursday?  If so, let me know. I'd love to link to your blog. If not, get grateful here and now.

What are you thankful for today?

 

Poem as meal

A few weeks ago I enjoyed dinner with new friends.

The evening progressed, as these things often do, from drinks to banter to dinner at a well-appointed table. Relaxed and chatty, we settled into our seats. At each setting was a palm-size poem.

My heart fluttered — how perfect! how satisfying! A poem meal was mine! Our hostess read the poem and a grateful hush fell upon the room. The delicious dinner tasted even better under poetic influence.

The other day, I pulled on my jeans and in the back pocket I found the poem. How lovely to taste the memory of food, friends and poetry. 

Love

Czeslaw Milosz

Love means to learn to look at yourself
The way one looks at distant things
For you are only one thing among many.
And whoever sees that way heals his heart,
Without knowing it, from various ills—
A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.

Then he wants to use himself and things
So that they stand in the glow of ripeness.
It doesn't matter whether he knows what he serves:
Who serves best doesn't always understand.

 

Fast Five with Kelli Russell Agodon

Because five questions can lead to endless insight, I'm happy to introduce you to Kelli Russell Agodon. Her poetry collection, Letters from the Emily Dickinson Room, is easily my favorite book of 2010.

Born and raised in Seattle, Washington, Kelli Russell Agodon is the author of two poetry books, and is editor of Crab Creek Review. Letters from the Emily Dickinson Room was published this month and is dedicated to "those who write letters to the world."

You can win a free copy of this book. Simply post your name in the comments section below. The drawing will be held on Saturday, Oct. 23, 2010.  

I was delighted to see that many of these poems — and the book title — were influenced by your stay at the Sylvia Beach Hotel in Newport, Oregon, which is very near where I live. Which came first, the poem-letters, or the Emily Dickinson Room?

The poem-letters. I had been working on the collection for about two years when I stayed in the Emily Dickinson Room at the Sylvia Beach Hotel on a writing retreat with friends. It was in that room where I realized what I was writing about and was able to focus my collection and begin to write the poems that were missing. The title poem, “Letter from the Emily Dickinson Room” was written in that corner hotel room looking out at the Oregon coast realizing how much I craved calmness.

How would you describe your writing style?

If you’re asking about my style as in my method or process then my writing style is to write as many poems as I can and revise the ones I like best.  (And to try not to over-revise, something I’m quite good at.  I have killed many a poem by over-revising it and sucking out all of its energy and every spark.)

If you’re asking about my writing style as in characteristics or what is my voice or distinct form and/traits, then my writing style is conversational, sometimes surreal, sometimes narrative, sometimes humorous, usually accessible and with a dash of darkness for kicks.

Or maybe my writing style is glasses plus casual Fridays and black boots.

What is your favorite poem in this collection? Why?

Great question!  I like having to think about this as my easy answer would be, “They are all my favorites…”  But if I have to narrow it down to one, I’d say, Questions at Heaven’s Gate is probably my favorite because it was an underdog poem that I stood up for.  When my manuscript was accepted, I received some great advice on edits and suggestions on what poems to take out to make the collection stronger. This was one of the poems that was on the suggested “remove list.”

I remember feeling a deep gut instinct inside me that said: This poems needs to be in the collection.  On a personal level, this is very deeply an autobiographical poem about my father’s death and who he was, and in a certain way, how I’ve dealt with it (imagining him speaking with God, etc.). I love that I had to speak up for this poem and was glad I did.  I think it’s my favorite because it was almost not included.

Questions at Heaven's Gate (an excerpt)

I
When my father meets God
he says, Let me introduce myself . . .

When my father meets God
he says, Am I too early? Too late?

When my father meets God
he says, Do you serve drinks here?

When my father meets God
he says, It was easier not to believe.

When my father meets God
he says, I can see my house from up here.

When my father meets God
there is only the sound of my father
falling.

When my father meets God
he says, I can breathe again.

When my father meets God
rain returns to the city.

As an editor of a literary journal choosing from hundreds of poems to publish, what do you love? What do you loathe? 

I love poems that surprise me (and not in that shocking, swearing, taboo words/subjects way), but in fresh language, new images and putting the extraordinary into the ordinary. Anyone can write a poem about a shocking topic and have it stand out because it’s about a tragic occurrence or because of the nature of the subject, but I’m interested in writers who can write about a shopping trip, the forest, an experience in a way that connects me and makes me stop and pay attention.

There’s little I loathe beside people being unkind or poor manners. There’s more to love in poetry than to dislike.

I’m a collector of words and have my students collect words, too. What are your favorite words?

Hipsway, lollygagging, inky, salsa, penlight, oaf, shenanigans, tangle, moth, humdrum, hipbones, madronas, whiplash, bamboozle, numbskull, foxtrot, and prayer (though not necessarily in that order).

My least favorite word is filibuster

To win Letters from the Emily Dickinson Room, add your name and contact info in the comments section below by Friday, Oct. 22nd. Feeling shy? Email me!:  dcm@drewmyron.com

Your name will be entered in a random drawing. The winner will be announced on Saturday, October 23, 2010. 

Thankful Thursday: Sister-Friend

Gratitude. Appreciation. Praise. Please join me in Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to appreciate people, places & things.

Today I am grateful for my sister. 

It's not enough that she is raising six kids (three of which she and her husband adopted) and has, over the years, been foster mom to three other youngsters.

Now she offers even more inspiration: My sister Cindi has lost 75 pounds — steadily, healthfully — and has become what she haltingly calls a "real runner."

Two months ago she ran her first 5k, and last month completed her first duathalon. This is shocking! Cindi never ran, never even walked fast. She and I were sportless children, happy to hang out, watch Brady Bunch, and eat Capn' Crunch. 

Now she runs four to five miles each day. All her life, she has struggled with weight, gaining and losing the same dreadful pounds. Those of us who battle our bodies are well versed in the "eat less, move more" mantra. Knowing how to lose weight is the easy part. The real challenge is moving the body and changing the mind — day after day after day.

Even with this dramatic turnaround, Cindi is bashful about her success. "Oh, I've got a long way to go," she says, dismissing my praise. "This is the hardest thing I've ever done," she adds,  forgetting (or unfettered by) the burden of youngsters demanding everything her heart can give.

The weight loss is not just about fitting into the skinny jeans. Cindi is modeling good health for her family. At her daughter's grade school, she's active in the running club (while the other mothers walk and chat, Cindi runs).  And for her first 5k, she and her 12 year-old trained and raced together. 

Most important, she has finally put herself first. Sometimes that's the hardest part, she says. To let go of guilt. To feel worthy of time and effort when family needs press for attention.

"Today, instead of eating the box of chocolates, I went for a run," she says after a stressful day. "The old me would have ate like crazy. Today I chose to work out. I think I'm making progress."

More than progress, I say. Cindi is nourishing mind and body in the best possible way, and inspiring others (me!) to do the same. On this Thankful Thursday, I am thankful for Cindi, my sister and friend.

 How about you?  What are you thankful for today?

 

A few good things

Empire State Building, photograph by Thomas Hawk, appearing on tinywords.com

My head is full of assorted goodies. Let me share a few with you:

Tiny Words
Clean, spare design and strong work makes this website stand out from the crush of touchy-feely poetry choices. At Tiny Words, each season offers a new theme, and this fall the emphasis is on urban haiku. Bring on the city grit!

The Writer's Almanac
Free is my favorite word (along with frugal, bargain and betwixt). Everyday, The Writer's Almanac, a Garrison Keillor project, emails me a fresh poem for free. Some I love. Some I don't. But like fishing, a day of bad poems beats no poems at all.

Spirit First Poetry Contest
In 2010, its inaugural year, this contest received 750 poems from 42 states and 23 countries. It's back again — with cash prizes. Even better, there's no entry fee. That's what they call nothing to lose.

 

 

You'll kill.

Got a reading this weekend? Just in time — this nugget of advice from Lorin Stein, editor of the Paris Review:

It’s not your job to be ingratiating. Leave that to lounge singers. I find it embarrassing when a poet tries to be liked, or explain what he or she was thinking when she wrote blah-blah-blah. Patter is just a distraction—an apology.

My advice: Memorize the poems you plan to read. Anything spoken by heart commands attention. Bring the poems with you, so you can consult them if need be—but really, the way to win an audience over is to get up there, say your poems in a loud, clear voice, face out. Then say thank-you and get off stage.

You’ll kill.