Fighting over christmas cards

Today, everyone I encounter embodies the spirit of Cranky Christmas. Frazzled with too much to do, in too little time, leaves even the most medicated a bit unhinged.

Not me (not yet). Let the cookies bake. The presents wrap. The parties revel on. Instead of a fevered fa la la, you'll find me absorbed in a book: Everything is Everything by Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz, a slam poet and the author of five poetry books.

Because there's a spunky holiday theme running throughout the collection —  in the poems At the Office Holiday Party, The Art of Holiday Spirit: Astoria, Queens, and Season's Greetings — I unofficially crown Cristin the Queen of Tell-It-True Holiday Poets.

Season's Greetings

Sometimes I don't want to do anything at all,
not even the easy stuff, like decide what I want
to eat for lunch. I found out last night someone

I wished abject loneliness upon is now lonely
and I don't even want to think about how that
makes me feel. Now that's lazy, because maybe

it could make me feel powerful or vindicated,
but I'm thinking probably not. My partner & I
were doing the annual holiday cards last night,

and I kept saying, Who are we forgetting?
Who would be really cheered up by getting
a holiday card from us who's not already

on our list? And my partner said, Um, no one.
I don't think our holiday cards make that much
difference to anyone anyway. And I told him,

Well, if that's how you feel, why are we even
doing holiday cards at all? And we fought
about the joy our holiday cards did or did not

bring into the lives of our friends and family,
but make no mistake: at no time did we ever
stop doing our annual holiday cards:

me, drawing the cartoon versions of us wearing
santa hats or reindeer antlers, and him digging up
inside jokes to put in our talk bubbles, embossing

the back of the envelopes with our dachshund stamp,
the dog we consider an emblem of our relationship
because it words so hard, yet looks so ridiculous.

— Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz
from Everything is Everything

 

You can't wear a poem.

Read. Write. Repeat  . . .
May I offer a brief distraction?

Because life is more than words and you can't wear a poem, I like to amble through the fashion blogs.

I'm not interested in runway looks, emaciated models, or sticker shock. I'm a realist. I like stylish, affordable (read: thrifted) bargains.

Here are a few of my latest, favorite, fashion-focused blogs:

B. Jones Style

What I Wore

Hillary Quinn - The Bargain Hunter

I'm still searching for a fashion blog created by and for women over 40. No frump. No ladies who lunch. No overly natural looks. Does this niche even exist? Am I the only one on this hunt?

How about you? Where do you find fashion inspiration? Has fashion inspired your literary life? Or, conversely, has literature inspired your wardrobe ? (i.e. Are you wearing a bookish tweed blazer with elbow patches? Or a white house dress, ala Emily Dickinson?).

What's in your closet?

Thankful Thursday: Signs of the Season

When it comes to life,
the critical thing is whether
you take things for granted
or take them with gratitude.

- G.K. Chesterton

It's Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to appreciate people, places and things. This week I am thankful for:

Little Cuties
It's holiday season and I know because Little Cuties have arrived.

Little Cuties are actually Clementines but I'm a softie for a successful marketing effort so I'm sticking with the Cuties moniker. Known as the darling of mandarins, Little Cuties are small, seedless, sweet and easy-to-peel. A common sight during the winter months, Clementines have earned the nickname "Christmas Oranges" and are related to, but not the same as, the beloved Satsumas (though they all taste good to me).

Graupel
It's not hail. It's not snow. It's graupel, a meteorological phenomenon that occurs when supercooled water droplets coat a snowflake. On the Oregon Coast it's the closest thing we have to a White Christmas. (Go here to listen to pronunciation — this site should also be on my thankful list).


What gives you pause this holiday season? On this Thankful Thursday, for what do you give thanks?  


On Sunday

Vinegar and Oil

Jane Hirshfield

Wrong solitude vinegars the soul,
right solitude oils it.

How fragile we are, between the few good moments.

Coming and going unfinished,
puzzled by fate,

like the half-carved relief
of a fallen donkey, above a church door in Finland.

 

This poem appears in The Best Spiritual Writing - 2010, a book I almost didn't buy. I was put off by the title, fearing a tract-like compilation of preach and praise. A quick flip, however, revealed essays and poems by respected, down-to-earth, writers: Billy Collins, Diane Ackerman, Philip Levine, Floyd Skloot, and more.

Religious vs. spiritual, it's become a distinction many of us feel obligated to make. I am not religious, I say, quick to distance myself from the judgement and arrogance organized religion has wrought.  And yet, all these years I have still not scripted an explanation for the deep stirring within. In the book's foreword, Pico Iyer offers a thoughtful response that speaks to, and for, me:

"If someone asks me about my "spiritual life," I am likely to fall silent — even, perhaps, to go into hiding, because of my sense that whatever is deepest in us is that which can rarely be spoken. It's too enormous or invisible for words. In love, in crisis, in moments of transport we lose words as we pass out of ourselves into a larger presence or identity that has no need of the quibbles or the qualifications that words give body to; and yet sometimes I think that most of what I do is "spiritual" in that it has to do with trying to do justice to what our clearer moments have taught us; attending to the spirit that friends and circumstances bring me; being aware, always, that there is another world (some would say beyond, some would say within) the world we see and talk about."

 

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.