tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-358675186622415412024-03-18T02:13:51.388-07:00If Poetry JournalPoetry, Reviews, and InterviewsDonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-28343579903728156792009-02-24T10:53:00.000-08:002009-02-24T10:55:45.225-08:00If Poetry Journal Seeks Poems for Third IssueIf Poetry Journal is now seeking poetry for its third issue. The theme is tentatively "music," though I'm interested in seeing a variety of poetry about any subject. If you would like to submit 1-5 poems, please e-mail them to me (Don Illich) at ifpoetryjournaleditor at gmail dot com. No attachments, please put your poems in the body of your e-mail. Basic cover letter preferred. No previously published poems. Each contributor will receive one contributor's copy. The deadline for poetry submissions is April 25, 2008.Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-32592313414028284952009-02-19T06:54:00.000-08:002009-02-19T07:03:05.308-08:00Dear Anais by Diana M. Raab -- ReviewDiana M. Raab's collection <strong>Dear Anais</strong> covers an entire, varied life, from Woodstock revels as a teenager to the travails of late middle-age. Mixed in with the biographical material are musings on writing poetry, the ups and downs of romantic love, and lists of words/phrases that give a vision of a woman's life. The closes comparison for this volume are collections by Linda Pastan or Sharon Olds, but Raab doesn't quite have the same linguistic spark. A poem like "My Father" ends "I shall forever be warmed by you" without giving a complex enough picture of the father. In some poems Raab goes for the easy description, such as "dark poems" and "happy tears," like in "Prisms of Mind." Overall, though, the accretion of detail adds up to a good novel as much as a poetry collection. She is particularly fine in relationship poems, like "Crossword," which shows how Raab came to write poetry and offers strong details about her first date with her future spouse doing crosswords. Although there are no pyrotechnics, <strong>Dear Anais</strong> is a clear-sighted and sometimes romantic picture of a life lived and experienced deeply.<br />To learn more about Diana Raab and her work, visit her site at <a href="http://www.dianaraab.com/">www.dianaraab.com</a>.Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-39471313754728145482009-02-03T09:24:00.001-08:002009-02-03T09:25:32.287-08:00The Snide Ethic by Jessy RandallYou're having a lot of fun while the rest of us die off around you. Giggling in the back row while we decompose in the front.<br /><br /><br />Jessy Randall's collection of poems <strong>A Day in Boyland</strong> (Ghost Road Press, 2007) was a finalist for the Colorado Book Award. Her poems and other works have appeared in <em>Asimov's, Coconut, Many Mountains Moving, McSweeney's</em>, and <em>No Tell Motel</em>. She has a young adult novel forthcoming in 2009, and her website is <a href="http://personalwebs.coloradocollege.edu/~jrandall" target="_blank">http://personalwebs.coloradocollege.edu/~jrandall</a>.Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-53274270603863073712009-01-29T17:31:00.001-08:002009-01-29T17:35:14.371-08:00Mark Halliday's Keep This ForeverOne of the recent poetry collections I'd recommend is Mark <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Halliday's</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Keep This Forever</span>. Some of its so prose-like, that it doesn't really read as poetry at all. But I would say that he's a good storyteller and a great examiner of poetry and its place in the world/with the author/and among readers. His satirical humor is also something I like in his work. What's different about this collection is it's a little more heartfelt, including some wonderful poems about his father and his father's death.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Keep This Forever:</span><br />http://www.amazon.com/Keep-this-Forever-Mark-Halliday/dp/1932195726/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">qid</span>=1233279024&<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">sr</span>=8-1Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-59833373524887914282009-01-16T07:55:00.000-08:002009-01-16T07:58:59.564-08:00Ways to Practice PoetryI'm going to get back to posting poems, trying to review books, and continue this site as soon as I can. For now, I really enjoyed this this blog post's (see the link below) five steps to practicing poetry, and they could serve as a good guide for any poet. Revision/humility and gratitude are hardest for me, but I think they're really necessary. Please check this post out on Poetry's blog site.<br /><br /><a href="http://poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2009/01/mystery_birds_5_ways_to_practi.html#more">http://poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2009/01/mystery_birds_5_ways_to_practi.html#more</a>Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-31165543246101809952008-12-17T19:44:00.000-08:002008-12-17T19:45:33.875-08:00BreakI might be going on a break over the holidays, returning in early January. Have a good time.Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-6626238160812966152008-12-11T02:57:00.000-08:002008-12-11T03:05:54.685-08:00breathing schedule by Buck Downsmega mega<br />milligram<br /><br /> restless action<br /> and it does not fix --<br /><br />sleeping in the rain<br /><br /> leftover travel<br /><br /> leftover dazzle<br /><br />easy does it over<br /><br />A native of Jones County, Miss., <strong>Buck Downs</strong> works in Washington DC. He distributes his poetry primarily in the form of postcards, available through free subscription. To subscribe to the postcard list, visit this site: <a href="http://buckdowns.com/postcards/">http://buckdowns.com/postcards/</a>Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-66509708464788439202008-12-10T02:08:00.000-08:002008-12-10T02:10:46.106-08:00Phone Sex With You by Jessy RandallWhat are you wearing?<br />Um, pants and a shirt<br />Can you make it more sexy?<br />And a knit hat<br />Now you're lying<br />I'm wearing a poncho<br />Take it off<br />I'm taking off my poncho in a really sexy way<br />Describe it<br />It has Velcro and I'm unvelcroing the Velcro<br />What sound does it make?<br />A sexy sound like khkhkhkhkh<br />A velcroey sound<br /><br /><br /><strong>Jessy Randall's</strong> collection of poems A Day in Boyland (Ghost Road Press, 2007) was a finalist for the Colorado Book Award. Her poems and other works have appeared in Asimov's, Coconut, Many Mountains Moving, McSweeney's, and No Tell Motel. She has a young adult novel forthcoming in 2009, and her website is http://personalwebs.coloradocollege.edu/~jrandall.Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-89512349623260774022008-12-08T02:19:00.000-08:002008-12-08T02:33:40.133-08:00PF Potvin Final Day<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikRZRm1KTihf-9NctSffxjSPE-M16ramKHICeMIOuhTZMDiNvRwESNWKdw8F8UKzC2LzaaybO7pqPh8uOw0BeLhW843pV1ZGjBp2T0Tlkqw3resEI9gvEa_jdM1CrLg2-KsSDvXK20wLY/s1600-h/IMG_3371.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277364996268751586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikRZRm1KTihf-9NctSffxjSPE-M16ramKHICeMIOuhTZMDiNvRwESNWKdw8F8UKzC2LzaaybO7pqPh8uOw0BeLhW843pV1ZGjBp2T0Tlkqw3resEI9gvEa_jdM1CrLg2-KsSDvXK20wLY/s320/IMG_3371.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTMrmdCOMVoGD9AzsjFTvu5PKA_nRERBdF5SVGX1yvCRwzItDhKH620-9E5X0_kvI-vIs2HgDzg_KaNP4UnFZqtxZleygaElAZbSkp5HfPz9eEK7mOclMbph3Lj1UuzVQDGiSlGScVs_o/s1600-h/IMG_3946.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277364009171775378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTMrmdCOMVoGD9AzsjFTvu5PKA_nRERBdF5SVGX1yvCRwzItDhKH620-9E5X0_kvI-vIs2HgDzg_KaNP4UnFZqtxZleygaElAZbSkp5HfPz9eEK7mOclMbph3Lj1UuzVQDGiSlGScVs_o/s320/IMG_3946.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOp0gZa-_twXdTkPoDUz8Jxlo-SML0RwQm8fIjVUtHh3DvJhHR2EgewUnHs8NP_HUi4q6M_SLd0VgMW2LyLXWKy_oqhuM8YM-H9CavLZcxL-0pZz8fl3DolSgRu57r6dAnEP2EBkXPB6E/s1600-h/IMG_3705.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277363882440270210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOp0gZa-_twXdTkPoDUz8Jxlo-SML0RwQm8fIjVUtHh3DvJhHR2EgewUnHs8NP_HUi4q6M_SLd0VgMW2LyLXWKy_oqhuM8YM-H9CavLZcxL-0pZz8fl3DolSgRu57r6dAnEP2EBkXPB6E/s320/IMG_3705.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihOwNQYp-smdY8cYHlmK18YmCGZ0VSEGZol2TDzAUXis8v9qlw8FRx_ukJwd2u43klDXwiuApOuJosKiLA_SWEfUMs1rDZQb-Ozalc7HOv9Xu8yAqQZNa-3gOULfM2yubkB8be9qxfEqo/s1600-h/IMG_3362_1.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277363628757753410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihOwNQYp-smdY8cYHlmK18YmCGZ0VSEGZol2TDzAUXis8v9qlw8FRx_ukJwd2u43klDXwiuApOuJosKiLA_SWEfUMs1rDZQb-Ozalc7HOv9Xu8yAqQZNa-3gOULfM2yubkB8be9qxfEqo/s320/IMG_3362_1.jpg" border="0" /></a> <div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuH0BZ6_1FIBhG0F5TfwudpM50O14-h83NWI7SS2v1Z9FtL1ONFPTeN3vNJiDi3dhOmi24Lud3Hh0874yL8BYiWCn2wuFQjP537ATDmKvpSNpysXlAGa9RcaIwc2U4yFPNmL-9Y2XISvs/s1600-h/IMG_3362.jpg"></a><br /><div><div>Of course I thought it couldn't really hurt. Not like leaping naked from a tree to tackle a prickle of porcipines. So when my mother used to chide me about my wanderlust, I'd point my finger at the man to blame. My father. A few years ago he bid on a Rotary auction trip to Zululand in northern South Africa. He kindly bellowed "tallyho!" in my direction, so last winter I'd saved enough to finally get our trip off the ground.<br /><br />We spent several days in Cape Town before heading north. Contrary to international banter, the World Cup stadium is indeed shaping up, but the toll on the city's limited electrical resources is just as apparent as the multitude of cranes that loom and swing along the skyline. Before leaving the city, we hiked/climbed up the face of Table Mountain. Along the way, we befriended a gaggle of locals and filled our bellies the following day at their traditional brae (S.A. bbq).</div><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277363377397462706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9HMV-EWp6DqfGByNr-MNtTjT9IkxInN5i_BvgaxBOCbapexAIBn5yYHehvmwz8in7_Gruc8IOw6ePpB9MVguHhnzHrVjciGqHHRg4FGpaOYbS2A-6QHuKjgXvG_XssGz0wLRq9O6fsuY/s320/IMG_3320.jpg" border="0" /><br /><br /><div>One cavet for anyone traveling with a family member who is not yourself. Consider pharmacial drugs. Not just for yourself, but try to get a peak at what your loved one is taking before you sign on the dotted line. If you see one of the boxes with Monday, Tuesday... and that alone takes up an entire suitcase, better break your own leg in a sledding accident or swallow some gasoline with your malt liquor.<br /><br />In this case, my father and I were both taking what may seem unadventurous to an outsider-- maleria pills. But we had different types. What he was on I had taken before and it turned my brain into one of those factories from Pink Floyd's The Wall. Sometimes I'd sit and just want to cry. Unfortunatley, I didn't get around to real dramtics like making "line up" art, shaving my eyebrows, or stomping on wine glasses in my bare feet.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>But the drugs didn't seem to affect my father in the same way. He became even more outgoing, thrill-seeking, and tossed and turned most nights before finally dozing off for an hour or three. My new drugs gave me headaches, although now I think it's possible that those were side-effects of constantly chasing my father around the room.<br /></div><br /><div>That said, I'm looking forward to the holidays. We'll be celebrating early with my family in northern Michigan because the 50th U.S. state is calling and in case of an emergency, I always keep a loaded backpack at the door.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>P.S. For stellar trivia, try this "group of animals" site and amaze your friends and family over the holidays. <a href="http://www.npwrc.usgs.gov/about/faqs/animals/names.htm">http://www.npwrc.usgs.gov/about/faqs/animals/names.htm</a><br /></div><br /><br /><div>P.S.S.<br />And don't forget about snagging your copy of If Poetry. Until soon! </div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-88114637934065926012008-12-05T17:39:00.001-08:002008-12-05T17:49:53.499-08:00PF Potvin Week, Day 5<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOoQhC8q9zL4_HcbBGLQoZxsFwg5Cm7m_Ru8LA4fqVvwwA0SIP0qOekYagdYb5thbg-4ZnIgQyuYpA59W440QTuotkr-QzsoWSyajcJ-9Gj6x6OAA8o_DszSKRTuPRBRz8_2ZTfL4JC18/s1600-h/IMG_3488.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276487297749120482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOoQhC8q9zL4_HcbBGLQoZxsFwg5Cm7m_Ru8LA4fqVvwwA0SIP0qOekYagdYb5thbg-4ZnIgQyuYpA59W440QTuotkr-QzsoWSyajcJ-9Gj6x6OAA8o_DszSKRTuPRBRz8_2ZTfL4JC18/s320/IMG_3488.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>"What did he say? The giant's laptop? The lips of molehair?" </div><br /><div></div><div>"I don't know, I can't hear anything with my hood up." </div><div></div><br /><div>"What?" </div><div></div><br /><div>"Nothing, just be careful." </div><div></div><br /><div>I pointed a gloved thumb at sign. </div><br /><div></div><div>"So many cliffs, so little time. And who would go out walking on that air? It looks really unstable."</div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276487435438136642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisbX9joGK8S5qatYYms81UFJEaTOHdlj4yWfT49ovfVt3ZnpCH-CTz3o5aax66jGGEaTBRwVYcwFeJtwOul6vBIu0XxO0e31DuMJQylyEYlHfbXQVQjbzChTonEfQASHgizRa0JV6SnUg/s320/IMG_4331.jpg" border="0" /> <div></div><div>"Huh?"</div><div></div><br /><div>Nothing. Better to talk to myself. That way I'm sure to be heard. Better not get too close. Better just snap some pics from here behind the wall. Would be a stellar workout to run against this current, mile after mile. Makes me think of some top runs of all time. Currents on each and every one. </div><div></div><br /><div>-Mountaintop at edge of Arthur's Pass on the New Zealand's south island. Ran down the spine on gigantic snowpack, shadowcasting 20 feet ahead into the gyring clouds. </div><br /><div>- Night up mountainside near Bern, Switzerland and full moon blazing the spring runoff waterfalls. Cowbells in the distance and we howled for cheese and chocolate. </div><br /><div></div><div>- Tempted the great grey glacier at Torres del Paine in southern Chile by </div><div></div><br /><div>"Wooooooooooo!" </div><div></div><br /><div>"What?" </div><div></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276487878443327138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikTzmBBHoXweOn5C3yHMvZ4eie2fQV-gwdLrRKzlw3ZNMrm5UbzpFgxkaH6uGjs7RjC7YGfODrLXwa4lAyXFN28FbHKYGMrGOjSunUuTc0GW3Ha6IpSTFGUBP8owSA3rkZtWINru8jmVo/s320/IMG_4382.jpg" border="0" /><br /><div>"Take a step back, you're scaring me." </div><div></div><div></div><div>"I didn't even notice. I was just climbed over because I thought I saw an elephant."<br /></div><div>"You couldn't have because they're not in this post, remember? You can't just jump to your South Africa travels by snapping your fingers. They'll come in on our birthday, on Saturday."</div><div></div><br /><div>"Right, but can't I at least give a preview?"</div><div></div><br /><div>"Give me your hand and come back from there. Then we'll talk about if and what it could hurt."</div></div>Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-9648099451906449902008-12-04T02:52:00.000-08:002008-12-04T02:55:17.351-08:00Buy Issue 2 of If Poetry JournalIf you're interested in buying Issue 2 of If Poetry Journal, please mail a check for $5 made out to Donald <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Illich</span> to 1 Alsace Lane, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Rockville</span>, MD 20851. Thank you for helping support this journal in advance.Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-87042679811282122012008-12-04T02:26:00.000-08:002008-12-04T02:35:39.099-08:00PF Potvin Week, Day 4<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPSzc6_u_IGR4oO5YIJQO8NKVSytuAIxoo0M_Mgcssp-3VI_2_cK5ZzoHZqpQg7-ES1pPoSp2yiud97UlyDVHsHevBC-89qY7-WLL3YtPZBjXHq3KLh56NGAHV6R7I6tDeYWFaDz7dUM4/s1600-h/IMG_4446.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275881486957183746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPSzc6_u_IGR4oO5YIJQO8NKVSytuAIxoo0M_Mgcssp-3VI_2_cK5ZzoHZqpQg7-ES1pPoSp2yiud97UlyDVHsHevBC-89qY7-WLL3YtPZBjXHq3KLh56NGAHV6R7I6tDeYWFaDz7dUM4/s320/IMG_4446.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI5kvVzZgENsyYHuUFtD3ReErdEecFzkOjPDxB56KpIb5yoQkxrGHg_ze-J0qdUIQGkzqv5v4uTwn21wtSytXNxrt9k9pcC-CDmlDSCKMzuloRUhjjiaoLsF-VRxM7QGWrcsS_lBloHYo/s1600-h/IMG_4466.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275880819416007506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI5kvVzZgENsyYHuUFtD3ReErdEecFzkOjPDxB56KpIb5yoQkxrGHg_ze-J0qdUIQGkzqv5v4uTwn21wtSytXNxrt9k9pcC-CDmlDSCKMzuloRUhjjiaoLsF-VRxM7QGWrcsS_lBloHYo/s320/IMG_4466.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib4-CDVlHGUFtKqpe5GO4gXWEnTq74pF0pfpjH-rcGh1r_WtCHRgt2ZbiLjB4mkI8uT3FlhUr42SwGV7gXQM1ZzCR8RS_jsr1702BBYDvnPLSWQJ_WL4jc1MsfDHpdyS6A3rsMhxlYmLY/s1600-h/IMG_4458.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275880674718835026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib4-CDVlHGUFtKqpe5GO4gXWEnTq74pF0pfpjH-rcGh1r_WtCHRgt2ZbiLjB4mkI8uT3FlhUr42SwGV7gXQM1ZzCR8RS_jsr1702BBYDvnPLSWQJ_WL4jc1MsfDHpdyS6A3rsMhxlYmLY/s320/IMG_4458.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR2yvN2GYxO7uwtSJEakmSBqWvW3O4Z_XYKRjBhn4eOjp_hII5Oc4FDlQiEyyh1Q0dXTEBXm9pdgLzZQZZjRxMU_iZGctvX04DwfGYxq93L0y5AAsbXWqYiR8qwaFH-4TyaMjHfrTM-y0/s1600-h/IMG_4439.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275880576267390642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR2yvN2GYxO7uwtSJEakmSBqWvW3O4Z_XYKRjBhn4eOjp_hII5Oc4FDlQiEyyh1Q0dXTEBXm9pdgLzZQZZjRxMU_iZGctvX04DwfGYxq93L0y5AAsbXWqYiR8qwaFH-4TyaMjHfrTM-y0/s320/IMG_4439.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>The entrance to the Green road seemed hidden, so we hailed a local farmer on his tractor. For another 30 minutes we scouted around, then took what appeared to be a path through the mud and animal dung. It soon widened and became an apparent grassy road, penned in on both sides by maddening stone walls that have weathered and defined the territories of the land for centuries and longer. </div><div></div><br /><div>Eventually we skirted the road and huffed to the top of a ridge. There was an ancient fort, and regardless of crack or craic, we took refuge within and pulled lunches from our packs. It wasn't long before the cold crept in and we headed back down to make a brake for the man beating his cows from the road with a well-practiced switch. He was headed in our direction. Onward to the Cliffs of Moher. </div></div></div></div>Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-53608939917493337942008-12-03T04:04:00.000-08:002008-12-03T04:12:19.181-08:00PF Potvin Week, Day 3<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJFtoXnAUOddrY_SJEDBf9UQJ5emZFRWrbShJaumXtzcnC6FQImKVYo-mj4YzvsAMZ_XCi-DbC0VgjyMWjsOmTq6ELDUF32wuOgKpBnextE1RfkOBvDAf2isDZ4zTrDOPyzUy3gyF0pQ/s1600-h/IMG_4403.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275535293483505314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEJFtoXnAUOddrY_SJEDBf9UQJ5emZFRWrbShJaumXtzcnC6FQImKVYo-mj4YzvsAMZ_XCi-DbC0VgjyMWjsOmTq6ELDUF32wuOgKpBnextE1RfkOBvDAf2isDZ4zTrDOPyzUy3gyF0pQ/s320/IMG_4403.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><br /><div><br />After helping lug gear and rations into the station from the truck, I shook hands with the soldiers and clambered up to the tenfoot cross at the uppermost cropping of rock in order to gain full vantage. I looked around, up, over, and down. But all I could see was white. Just like the cross, or what it had been once. Now it sported rainbows of graffiti ranging from prophetic to profane. One of the largest appeared in bold black letters.<br />T<br />I<br />C<br />K<br /><br />I looked at my wrist and agreed. I'd forgotten my flashlight at the hospedaje, so I'd need to hoof down to make it back before dark. </div><br /><div><br /></div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275534833753191346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPDXMj734EkU51tqxk5CRsSrqGVoQca72107hkDuwupLViOUc6Ix8BsOpLoDcHcJVNpdbYNauI_poxeOTzGBC48dc9QEXoQyB0j1kvEkzHj_zMcPPVmSRivwSucXLQjUl41Z1OpIbqlKA/s320/Ireland_2008-1+050.jpg" border="0" /><br />The descent was uneventful, but considering it now, I've only been to one other guardtype station (which I'll get to later) and I didn't get a ride up with soldiers. Never even saw any. Just a slew of folk musicians. Inside and out of the pubs. They don't call it Doolin, Ireland for nothing.<br /><br />My best man, Michael, invited us last February for a week in his motherland during a folk festival. Turns out Michael's relative was none other than Ireland's Whistling Ambassador, Micho Russell.<br /><br />Although Russell has gone on to play in pastures of evergreen, the music he helped popularize lives and thrives in the pubs. The jams or sessions as I call them go on and on and on, fueled by rudy faces, hot whiskey, and Guiness. The locals, including Michael's uncle, called them something different, something that sounded like an addictive white rock.<br /><br />(upon spotting us in O'Conner's pub and squeezing his way over)<br /><br />"Enjoying it then?"<br /><br />"Sure are."<br /><br />"Yeh, itis a mighty craic."</div><br /><div></div><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275534990614647314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkrJJQbdSRLSB1pt5h5G0gNGIgoCmV1zCQ3-BVZqvhmJD1QleZhz3RWmDvhkiP9rG5EPNGSmBPbvxDDXUCPdV7JtX-7Rc6N-kH3lqCs5ohmXgjCTZysait08CafqAZctpWlR2MWxDlYWI/s320/IMG_4162.jpg" border="0" /></div>Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-92091320831467249732008-12-02T17:04:00.000-08:002008-12-02T17:05:00.425-08:00Buy If Poetry Journal Issue 2<form action="https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr" method="post"><br /><input type="hidden" name="cmd" value="_s-xclick"><br /><input type="hidden" name="encrypted" value="-----BEGIN PKCS7-----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-----END PKCS7-----<br />"><br /><input type="image" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/btn/btn_buynowCC_LG.gif" border="0" name="submit" alt=""><br /><img alt="" border="0" src="https://www.paypal.com/en_US/i/scr/pixel.gif" width="1" height="1"><br /></form>Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-68116535835678349092008-12-02T15:58:00.000-08:002008-12-02T16:09:39.773-08:00Day 2: PF Potvin's Further Adventures<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFGDuy9ELKxWoiZRvUNlpt3azLHLSp9fB3cpoiglsfxNatnC112raXdmPKPOjV8OlpV5Mp0cpBpxa3pHqudH0qmekhXZNrOhHVk6yoKdnyrBPD44YI_Qa5JoeVAGcPvpa5CVFWfiEoB20/s1600-h/Picture_004_(2).jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275347940540346658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFGDuy9ELKxWoiZRvUNlpt3azLHLSp9fB3cpoiglsfxNatnC112raXdmPKPOjV8OlpV5Mp0cpBpxa3pHqudH0qmekhXZNrOhHVk6yoKdnyrBPD44YI_Qa5JoeVAGcPvpa5CVFWfiEoB20/s320/Picture_004_(2).jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Sucker that fer-de-lance, deadly venomous fangster. I set out whistling up the main paved road and swung left, gradually ascending toward Barú. Although it was sunny, the top was shrouded in a halo of cloud. For more than an hour I walked without glimpsing a soul. The howls of random dogs behind fences kept me company. They grunted and rattled their chains as I passed. Finally I neared the gate to Parque Nacional Volcan Baru, and a small girl peeped out from behind a 10x10 concrete bunker. I greeted her in Spanish, but she only stared back. Later in town I discovered she was likely part of the Ngobe Bugle indigenous tribe, picking on the nearby coffee plantations. For all I know, she spoke no Spanish and may have even considered me a mule or monster, especially the way I sweated beneath my pack.<br /></div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275348031783052226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvkP4nxiIpL85MOc0NAehCYRl4Ma_R0VmTxyb7hd4B1hJ9uUoJq76bJOv7zRCfDCUCH7Tph_EHvuYLELJTgAupaIMkIaoazQ9GsV7_-e51YEyugNmRgcdcNwzcLqdsfSbd28H6e1owh3I/s320/Picture_006_(2).jpg" border="0" /><br /><div>Not long after, I paused and chugged a quart of water. I crunched some peanuts to keep the liquid down. I started hiking again and the road changed from paved to dirt to rock to mud to stone. There was a humming in the distance that seemed to grow louder even as I climbed away. I kept hiking until it forced me to spin about.</div><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275348339277584450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgBOTOZl-v0R3-zo7RFm1aLnbuGUSZ8TISFS8xT4AGblFKObtO339NG7cM_SPNvxmbHbwGN32fjTAtsCRZ0dYwa8nnlvnnmfdZ-yWg-8_QNtri8CE8ZU6YEcr3om85DHBC1WvEHqL7JHs/s320/IMG_2632.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div></div><br /><div>Filtered to Code<br /></div><br /><br /><div>Where the volcano road steeps to walking with hands, I waited for the soldiers. Their truck acked a grumble through the jungle gnarl as three standing in the bed lurched forward from the sudden brake. Then the biggest man turned. "What are you doing here?" Laughing at my accent, he thumbed me in while flashing his single front, a tooth like me, a sucker scaled and parching in the sun. For the rest of the day we negotiated that road — jumping in bed corners to lend better grip, splashing down to muscle through mud holes, even throwing shoulders below the bumper to shimmytender the axils over ledges. At times we'd hop out and whistle as the biggest man mounted the front grill and bounded the truck over boulders. When the wind began to whip the<br />cling from our shirts, we finally spied the summit. The biggest man lit up and motioned me head with his smoke. "Here's the station where all the voices get filtered to code. But you know gringo, it's the same message either way: a man a plan a canal panama." </div><br /><br /><div>Filtered to Code appeared in Ocho #19<br />http://cdn4.libsyn.com/miporadio/19.pdf?nvb=20081202020851&nva=20081203021851&t=04ba03ed4fb55a3c29a34</div>Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-79350277826359657312008-12-01T03:19:00.000-08:002008-12-01T03:37:14.781-08:00P.F. Potvin Week: Day 1Today starts a week of blog entries by <strong>P.F. Potvin</strong>, an accomplished poet. He is an Ultramarathon runner and is the author of The Attention Lesson (<a href="http://www.notellbooks.org/">No Tell Books</a>). His writing has appeared in Boston Review, coconut, Sentence, Born Magazine, No Tell Motel, and elsewhere. He teaches at the University of Michigan-Dearborn and travels whenever possible to support his writing. Discover more of his adventures at www.pfpotvin.com.<br /><br />December 1 and I already need to escape. The Ann Arbor winter with sleeting cold but little snow. Escape back to Panama. Boquete, to be exact. Warm without the blaze. Sweet Boquete, the mountain town in the north where I hiked, met crazy Panamanian birders, toured organic coffee plantations, and spent hours reclined with steaming cups of joe, scribbling in my red notebook under the eye of the looming volcano.<br /><br />Even then I was escaping. From my summer studying Spanish literature at a language school in San Jose, Costa Rica. I'd gone there because a professor knew a friend who knew the grandson of the Cuban writer whose book I had translated but couldn't publish because I couldn't get the rights. I was assured that the friend of the friend would certainly help me. I quickly discovered that everyone teaching at the language school in San Jose knew somebody who knew somebody and knowing didn't mean squat. It only meant that you had shaken the person's hand or kissed them customarily on the cheek sometime in your long and complicated life.<br /><br />Anyway, after spending my weekends puking from bus windows en route to swarming beaches where everyone either spoke English or wanted to "practice" some variation of "You want marijuana? You want girl?, You want coke?" Boquete was exactly what I needed.<br /><br />While I found Costa Rica to be obscenely in-your-face touristy, Boquete has retained most of its charm. As a gringo, I can't help but shy away from what I know and see and experience in my everyday gringtopia back home. That's part of the lure of travel, the unexpected.<br /><br />Although the gringos have yet to completely overrun the place, I could certainly see our telltale markings on signs as I bussed into town. International firms have purchased entire swaths of land on the mountainsides, invisible from the surrounding roads. They've branded them with ludicrous names like Valley Escondido I and Valley Escondido II (Hidden Valley I and II), as though the name could keep them like Frodo's ring, secret and safe from the surrounding residents and poverty.<br /><br />One place I did spy gringos, however, was outside the single market store. I stopped across the street at a café first thing after hopping off the bus. I drooled over the entire menu as I prepared to lay down a night's worth of greenbacks. That's right. American coin. But that's another story. Just as I was settling in, several gringo men older than my grandfather caught my eye. They were strolling by, hand in hand with prepubescent native Lolitas. Just the thought made me sour. When the waitress finally twirled out of the kitchen, all I could stomach to order was a chocolate milkshake, which is just as it sounds, milk + chocolate + agitation.<br /><br />As I sat waiting, I gazed in the direction of Barú, Panama's highest volcano. It was swaddled in clouds, but the following day I planned to hike the winding roads directly up from Boquete. A fellow student in San Jose had told me he went on an overnight guided backpacking trip up the volcano. When I pressed him for details, he confessed that an ATV had carried almost all of the equipment. As I usually look and smell like a mule when backpacking around my fair town, I found his method strange but managed to maintain my strategically poker face.<br /><br />Although the place I wanted to stay in was completely booked, I found lodging a block further down the dirt road at a small hospedaje (house that rents rooms). My room shared a common area and kitchen with two other rooms. I slept solid, rising before the sun to my chirping wristwatch and readied my daypack to trek to the top of Barú.<br /><br />Then I heard a woman scream.<br /><br /><br />Before the Dogs Get Deep<br /><br />Pitchforked, a boy of eight struts from his mother's hospedaje. He sweats the muddy cul-de-sac to end where the bony dogs crouch in deveined pipes. As he toes the tines, a fer-de-lance that slickcircled the bowl the tourist fled from squatting upon, tumbles limp like the veil, "Only a snake, Miss." It's all he can recall before the dogs perk, pack, and get deep their teeth.<br /><br />To be continued…<br /><br />Before the Dogs Get Deep appeared in Sleepingfish .875<br />http://sleepingfish.net/0875/SF_0875.htm<br /><br />New Work by P.F. Potvin in the most recent issue of Sleepingfish ZZZ<br />http://sleepingfish.net/zzz.htmDonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-82426203165004483022008-11-25T18:56:00.000-08:002008-11-25T18:59:01.007-08:00Say What You Will by Grace CavalieriI miss them. The women of the 50's, plain sheath dresses, large plastic earrings, coifed hair. How they moved in the room. The one with misshapen legs would be complimented for her stockings. The women greet each other and touch hands. I lean my back against the white linen lady, my back against her heart. She places her hand over my shoulder high on my chest and holds me to her. It says I know something bad, I will never tell you. Your husband. There is no redress. How I miss them, the women of the 60's, sandals and long colorful skirts, flopping their brilliance for sale. A high level of amiability, motives for manners, the women of the 80's clicking high heels at meetings, lunch, umbrellas lost in restaurants. They do not like the light, these spirits. I lean back. I can still feel her hand on my chest, they died just when everything was going so well, and she almost a perfect stranger.<br /><br /><strong>Grace Cavalieri</strong> has published several books of poetry. Water on the Sun (Jacaranda Press, San Jose) was listed on Pen American Center’s 2006 Best Books List. Among production awards, her recent play “Quilting the Sun” received a key to the city of Greenville, S.C.. Anna Nicole : Poems (Goss 183: Casa Menendez, 2008)is her latest book. She produces and hosts “The Poet and the Poem from the Library of Congress” for public radio.<br />www.gracecavalieri.com<br />http://www.miporadio.net/GRACE_CAVALIERI/<br />http://www.loc.gov/poetry/poetpoem.html (The Poet and the Poem from the LOC)<br />_http://www.themontserratreview.comDonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-25857369365486531532008-11-24T01:18:00.000-08:002008-11-24T01:20:06.674-08:00I'm In No Tell Motel This WeekOn a personal note, my poems are up at <a href="http://www.notellmotel.org/">No Tell Motel </a>this week. I thank Reb for taking them, and I hope you all enjoy them.Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-10856058980129900272008-11-23T16:16:00.001-08:002008-11-23T16:20:18.796-08:00Bird's Eye by Kim TriedmanThe day is still— fly with me.<br />Already I can see<br />the burning of the trees, and<br />above me only more and more<br />of yellow<br />spun to gold. You used to know<br />all the best places, the<br />ways.<br />See there—<br />that cornfield? Perhaps<br />that is where it all began,<br />the plowing and the seeding, the<br />sweat, yours, mine, salting<br />the earth. Even those<br />low stone walls, the ones that<br />stitch a lifetime<br />into patchwork, I thought<br />they were the kind that<br />never fell down.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Kim Triedman</strong> has worked in both poetry and fiction. Her first poetry collection – "bathe in it or sleep" – was named winner of this year’s Main Street Rag Chapbook Competition and has just been released by Main Street Rag Publishing Company. In the past year, she’s also been named finalist for the 2007 Philbrick Poetry Award, finalist for the 2008 James Jones First Novel Fellowship, semi-finalist for the 2008 Black River Chapbook Competition and semi-finalist for the 2008 Parthenon Prize for Fiction. Her poems have been published/accepted widely by literary journals and anthologies, including The Aurorean, The New Writer, Byline Magazine, Poetry Salzburg Review, The Journal, Main Street Rag, Poetry Monthly, Current Accounts, Ghoti Magazine, IF Poetry Journal, Great Kills Review, Trespass Magazine, ART TIMES, and FRiGG Magazine. She is a graduate of Brown University and lives in Arlington.<br />links:<br />website - www.kimtriedman.net<br />Main Street Rag on-line bookstore - www.mainstreetrag.com/store/chapbooks.phpDonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-71409778851790643362008-11-19T15:58:00.001-08:002008-11-19T17:04:59.138-08:00An Interview With Super-Poet J.D. Smith<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_sjTgc-LtCNuqjSczZrhZhVWm-vWIF_N-zJSiqz6kB_Gu3x2vqkqv3C8OzXLrEnIevZzj_2OXcDAC9WNz_r9Kg6CZrmleTBCJmHxTBnA6XHtSFNBVR3kAzMA3lWYb-DjBtvSx3MYPKI0/s1600-h/superman_pic2+copy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270523423300948690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 317px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_sjTgc-LtCNuqjSczZrhZhVWm-vWIF_N-zJSiqz6kB_Gu3x2vqkqv3C8OzXLrEnIevZzj_2OXcDAC9WNz_r9Kg6CZrmleTBCJmHxTBnA6XHtSFNBVR3kAzMA3lWYb-DjBtvSx3MYPKI0/s320/superman_pic2+copy.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>J.D. Smith's books include the collection Settling for Beauty (Cherry Grove Collections, <a href="http://www.cherry-grove.com/smith.html">www.cherry-grove.com/smith.html</a>), his first collection, The Hypothetical Landscape (Quarterly Review of Literature Poetry Series), and the edited anthology Northern Music: Poems About and Inspired by Glenn Gould (John Gordon Burke, Publisher). His children’s book The Best Mariachi in the World came out from Raven Tree Press (<a href="http://www.raventreepress.com/">http://www.raventreepress.com/</a>) in September 2008. His poems have been anthologized in the collections In a Fine Frenzy: Poets Respond to Shakespeare (University of Iowa Press), Poetic Voices without Borders (Gival Press), and Illuminations: Expressions of the Personal Spiritual Experience (Ten Speed Press). </div><div></div><div><br />Questions:<br /><strong>1. Who is your arch-enemy? Why is this person your arch-enemy?<br /></strong></div><div>JDS: John Ashbery. I'd better explain that.<br /></div><div>I don't bear any ill-will toward John Ashbery the man, who is probably perfectly decent (I've never met him). And I'm not necessarily going to wage war against John Ashbery the poet, though I suspect his work is ultimately a less intellectually profound extension of Wallace Stevens' project of cryptic free association.<br /></div><div>But I will dig in my aging heels against Ashbery the pernicious influence, a role he hasn't necessarily chosen. In recent years literary journals have been awash with Ashbery imitations where one line meanders into the next in a way that is not entirely uninteresting but that is ultimately both overly cerebral and quickly forgettable. The reader may get some pleasure from following along, but he is not going to be stirred to the depths of his being. If it hasn't been done already, someone could come up with a random imitation-Ashbery poem generator.<br /><strong></strong></div><div><strong>2. Do you fight crime or commit crimes? Why?<br /></strong></div><div>JDS: It depends on whether anybody's looking.<br /></div><br /><div>Most of the time, though, I like to fight the poetic crimes of undue obscurity and intellectual onanism, on the one hand, and on the other hand the crimes of self-absorption, posturing and sentimentality. Once I'm out of hands I use roundhouse kicks, ninjitsu techniques and assorted weaponry to fight off careless versification and propaganda that tries to pass itself off as poetry.<br /></div><br /><div><strong>3. What are your super-powers? How did you get them?</strong><br /></div><br /><div>JDS: Invisibility comes to mind right away, though that may just come with the territory of being a writer in this time and place, where writers don't get much attention in comparison to entertainers of one sort or another. This is the business I have chosen, though, and I knew these things going in, so I'll try not to whine too much.<br /></div><br /><div>Invisibility aside, my foremost superpower is shape-shifting. I write free and formal verse, and poetry that ranges in tone from the dire to the absolutely silly. When I'm not doing that, I'm writing essays and fiction, including work for children. And that is just within my superhero identity as Writer Guy. As a writer with a day job, I also have to maintain my cover as Salaryman, a mild-mannered editor—except for when I'm an irritable editor—and sustain both halves of my double life.<br /></div><br /><div><strong>4. What do you love about poetry?</strong><br /></div><br /><div>JDS: I love poetry above all for offering an ongoing sense of discovery and wonder. The world is too much with us, late and soon, as Wordsworth wrote, and anything that prevents our days from turning into a mind-numbing slog must be welcomed. At its best, writing or reading a poem means finding a combination of thoughts or sounds that never existed before, or finding a new way to look at the world. Poetry can transfigure experience and provide a sense of wholeness, as well as give us a sense of the interiority of others as well as afford great pleasure—all in a very short time, with minimal expense and no side effects. Considering how fragmented our schedules are, I am surprised that more people don't read poetry as a kind of mini-vacation.<br /></div><br /><div><strong>5. What makes you happy in your writing and what makes you unhappy?</strong><br /></div><br /><div>JDS: I'd like to take on unhappiness first, if that's okay. I am continually disappointed that I don't write more and better, and I have problems with procrastination and distractibility. That I haven't taken on a large and ambitious project troubles me as well.<br />What makes me happy involves both process and product. I love the moments when a phrase or an idea for a poem comes to mind, or when I make a revision, usually by shortening, that brings the poem closer to its ideal form. I also love the times of reaching mental exhaustion when I have finally written a poem that has been in the back of my mind for years. Then I feel like I am doing something with my life.<br /></div><br /><div><strong>6. Who are your favorite super-poets and what is so super about them? </strong><br /></div><br /><div>JDS: Questions like this are my kryptonite. I'm always afraid I'll expose the gaps in my reading and come off as a total dilettante. That said, here goes.<br /></div><br /><div>In the English canon I am going to reach way back and give a shout-out to John Skelton. His strings of rhyming short lines explore the possibilities of English in a way that foreshadows hip-hop. I also love the eighteenth-century guys, particularly Alexander Pope, who made sound and thought mutually reinforcing. Of more recent English poets, there's no ignoring Philip Larkin for his clarity and even tenderness as well as his wit.<br /></div><br /><div>On this side of the Atlantic, I will reach into the first half of the twentieth century and name Edwin Arlington Robinson. He help to rescue American poetry from the excesses of Victorian-era sentimentality, and he did so in spite of leading an amazingly hard life. Whatever the critical backlash may be these days, I still love the work of Sylvia Plath for the brilliance of its imagery.<br />As for contemporary American poets, there sure are a lot of them out there. On the formal side, among established poets I would include Timothy Steele, who is continually widening his range of techniques and who seems to widen his range of subjects with every book. Among younger formal poets, I think of Joshua Mehigan, whose first book The Optimist just crackles with music and intelligence. (It is virtually criminal that two other younger formal poets, Kevin Durkin and Melissa Balmain, have not yet found a taker for their book collections.)<br /></div><br /><div>There are quite a few very fine contemporary free verse poets out there, though there a great many more who range from simply boring to flat-out awful. I'll let you come up with your own names on that one. Charles Simic's combination of Eastern European and American sensibilities does a lot for me. I haven't yet read all of Bob Hicok's work, but he has an undoubted ability to make wide-ranging associations that add up to something. His poem "Book Report," which starts with a classroom assignment and moves on to environmental degradation, nearly brought me to tears. Two other super-poets that come to mind are Kevin Prufer, whose work tends toward the expansive and surreal, and Wayne Miller, whose work is more spare and sometimes more direct.<br />Finally, to get out of the English-language ghetto for a moment, it's important to pay homage to the Central and Eastern European poets of the twentieth century. You could start with Rilke and Trakl and go on to Milosz and the postwar poets who worked to maintain their individual consciousness in the midst of totalitarianism. The ability of some of those poets to express strange truths in plain language boggles the mind. </div>Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-43557212348375313532008-11-19T14:11:00.000-08:002008-11-19T17:03:28.667-08:00Kerning by Ann Cefola<span style="font-size:78%;"><em>Don’t give me that stenography crap,</em><br />the designer says, protesting two spaces<br />inserted after each period. Let me tell you what happens<br />when you do that: </span><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>In the text you create rivers of light.<br />But, I want to say, spaces tell me to stop. Breathe.<br /></em><br />They are waiters bringing tropical drinks with paper umbrellas. Twin beds<br />made up perfectly. Binocular lenses that form<br />one image. Miles of thought<br />after reading a billboard. The weekend. Systolic and diastolic pumps.<br />Good fences that make good neighbors. A swim lane’s<br />quivering blue lines. </span><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>Deus<br />ex machina.<br /></em><br />Give me a canoe. I will paddle those illuminated waters,<br />salute capitals and glide over run-on sentences like rapids. Yes,<br />the river will take me. Past misspellings and dangling participles.<br />Don’t dam them up. Text is tantric, it must stop<br />to be savored, to be full. Save the double spaces!<br />You must be reminded to—as the counterman<br />sighs when you hunt for change,<br /><em>Take your time.</em><br /><br /><strong>Ann Cefola</strong> is the author of Sugaring (Dancing Girl Press, 2007) and translator of Hélène Sanguinetti’s Hence this cradle (Seismicity Editions, 2007). Her Web sites are www.anncefola.com and www.annogram.blogspot.com; chapbook: http://www.dancinggirlpress.com/sugaring.html, and translation: http://www.spdbooks.org/root/pages/serp.asp?Title=hence+this+cradle&submit=Search&Author=Firstname+Lastname</span>Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-88937683624383260552008-11-18T18:10:00.000-08:002008-11-18T18:15:18.957-08:00Questions for John Keats, a PoetQ. What did you eat the most as a child?<br /><br /><em>A. And <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">lucent</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">syrops</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">tinct</span> with cinnamon.</em><br /><br />Q. Can you explain the success of the religious right?<br /><br /><em>A. Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.</em><br /><br />Q. Have you heard what's going on with the senate elections in Minnesota and Georgia?<br /><br /><em>A. Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, Dream, and so dream all night without a stir</em>.<br /><br />Q. Have you heard of that great If Poetry Journal yet?<br /><br /><em>A. Hear ye not the hum Of mighty workings?</em><br /><br />Q. Thank you very much for your time.Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-47345760971877657262008-11-17T19:40:00.000-08:002008-11-19T17:03:41.743-08:00Arrangement #5 by Jordan Sanderson<p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0in">We live in an obvious manor,</p><p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0in">if a bit unconventional, capricious.</p><p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0in">A well-organized, safe manor.</p><p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0in">An easy and conversational manor.</p><p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0in">Everyone who visits has good mannerisms.</p><p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0in">"What manner of manor is this?" you might ask.</p><p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0in">Our manor is in the manner of Modigliani's</p><p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0in">milieu. This manor knows nothing of mountains,</p><p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0in">little of macaroni, even less of mourning.</p><p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0in">Mooching, yes. Schmoozing, even more.</p><p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0in">Of mayhem and mealie pudding, an expert.</p><p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0in">A man of mangoes and a man of moons talk</p><p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0in">man-to-man in the manor about a man of manacles</p><p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0in">and a man of mandrakes. We are a family</p><p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0in">of manicous, munching minneolas in the mangy manor.</p><p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0in"><br /></p><p style="MARGIN-BOTTOM: 0in"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Jordan Sanderson</span> is originally from Hattiesburg, MS, and earned a PhD from the University of Southern Mississippi. His poems have appeared in several online and print journals, including Madhatter's Review, DMQ Review, and Parthenon West Review. He also has poems forthcoming from Double Room and Caketrain. He currently lives in Auburn, AL, and teaches at Auburn University. He has four poems in the previous issue (Issue 9) of Mad Hatters' Review: http://www.madhattersreview.com/issue9/poetry_sanderson.shtml. And two plays in a previous issue (2.1) of Prick of the Spindle: http://www.prickofthespindle.com/drama/2.1/sanderson/the_cow.htm, http://www.prickofthespindle.com/drama/2.1/sanderson/jamaica.htm</p>Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-44041536586856643252008-11-16T02:58:00.000-08:002008-11-19T17:02:11.149-08:00Early Onset Twilight by Carl Annarummo<span style="font-size:85%;">The history of a city with its lights turned off. Its ghosts clad in<br />eurethanes in the western outskirts, sitting with hiccups in neon<br />alcoholic rooms. This city was once an anagram for the poor. The bus<br />routes traced into air with rust and washed away in the drawl of<br />american water. Someone left their list of favorite songs in the<br />frozen food aisle. Big songs lorn in the titty bars where backup<br />singers follow you home with their hair muffling the russet scrims of<br />the traveling skyline. There's been a power outage. Smoke rises from a<br />tire fire. A hundred Days Inn employees enter the throes that comes<br />with dealing with strangers in the night as the fires are off by dusk<br />and the nights erase the heat. Pretty soon, you, the backup sigers,<br />the Days Inn maid staff, the strange firefighters, the tire-fire<br />onlookers, and myself all gather in the house of whoever has a<br />generator and we we'll all share stories and occasionally throw up<br />from the smell of the burning rubber and by morning we'll all be gone.<br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Carl Annarummo</span> runs the chapbook press "Greying Ghost"<br />(www.airforcejoyride.com). He currently lives in the Boston area.</span>Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35867518662241541.post-57812603157994981032008-11-14T19:09:00.000-08:002008-11-19T17:04:42.084-08:00The Importance of Peeling Potatoes in Ukraine by Mark Yakich<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifldWMBJSslB6aM5uYn-x-LkOeuyDpU4WfFfXkJd_jqh5NdVwJvsOKww3alOY_XWu2rtlu-TyauununwfLyNA0v5pTSX-ycNGIAC19WsW20bjpM1Vc7240hTzE64fpvviSuW25VENbYYo/s1600-h/cover-of-potatoes-thumb.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268718405356622818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 221px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 318px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifldWMBJSslB6aM5uYn-x-LkOeuyDpU4WfFfXkJd_jqh5NdVwJvsOKww3alOY_XWu2rtlu-TyauununwfLyNA0v5pTSX-ycNGIAC19WsW20bjpM1Vc7240hTzE64fpvviSuW25VENbYYo/s320/cover-of-potatoes-thumb.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />One of the books I've enjoyed lately is <strong><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Importance-Peeling-Potatoes-Ukraine-Penguin/dp/014311333X/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1226742235&sr=8-1">The Importance of Peeling Potatoes in Ukraine</a></strong>. It's one of those few books that split the difference well between experimental and emotional leanings. While others are purely dreamlike, others confront real world events like Sept. 11<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">th</span>. Some poems play around with shape, like "Please Present This Card At Ascension Church on Saturday, November the Fourth." This poem does so well while telling the story of a doomed marriage (with satirical humor). He can also make a unconventional chronological list of events related to potatoes emotional and touching. The poem "Proof Text," about the grim survival of a group of oppressed <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Ukrainians</span> during WWII, is one of his best, both heartfelt about degradation survived but also postmodern in questioning how able we, the privileged, can tell these kind of stories. I really recommend this book.Donhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13556663035451699295noreply@blogger.com0