Book Quiz

You're Anne of Green Gables!

by L.M. Montgomery

Bright, chipper, vivid, but with the emotional fortitude of cottage cheese, you make quite an impression on everyone you meet. You're impulsive, rash, honest, and probably don't have a great relationship with your parents. People hurt your feelings constantly, but your brazen honestly doesn't exactly treat others with kid gloves. Ultimately, though, you win the hearts and minds of everyone that matters. You spell your name with an E and you want everyone to know about it.

Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

You're The Poisonwood Bible!

by Barbara Kingsolver

Deeply rooted in a religious background, you have since become both isolated and schizophrenic. You were naively sure that your actions would help people,but of course they were resistant to your message and ultimately disaster ensued. Since you can see so many sides of the same issue, you are both wise beyond your years and tied to worthless perspectives. If you were a type of waffle, it would be Belgian.

Franz Wright poem

The Wedding

As in heaven
all are smiling
at you, even
those
who know you.

(from his book Beforelife)

Speaking of marriage, here is an interesting article on becoming a wife and thoughts on being emotionally engaged.

Hey, isn't that Cuba...?

I was driving to the downtown library Saturday afternoon and a police officer walked up to my car while I was stopped at a red light. He asked me to wait a light-cycle. I saw some of the crowd activity a few blocks earlier, and figured there must be filming being done today for "End Game". (Most of the filming is being done at Gonzaga University...here's a picture from the one of major action scenes.)

So, while waiting I had a front row seat for a police car driving scene, with squealing tire stunt-driving. Pretty cool. After I finished checking out a heavy load of books from the library, I walked over to Brew Bros. Espresso. There were bystanders watching the production crew set up things, there were people with walkie-talkies, but there didn't seem to be much happening. So I dug into my Wallace Stevens research, and looked up occasionally to see if anything neat was going on outside. Then, I see this man sprinting down the street with a gun in his hand...yup, it was Cuba Gooding Jr.

It was interesting to see how fascinated we all are when it comes to Hollywood movie stars and to see an actual movie being made. I find the logistics of it fascinating, and the complexity of putting a story into action and filming it in segments. And of course I'm excited to see "End Game" when it comes out and see if my white Subaru is in that one scene, and the college kid's face is visible looking out the window of Brew Bros. while Cuba runs by. (Don't even know what the camera angle is.) My real story, my car, can become part of this fictional story on screen, but will still be a part of the "filming of" story on this particular day in Spokane.

The point is, we have all the unique stories of our lives, which are constantly changing and growing--some days are more Oscar-worthy than others. We're enraptured by movies, especially action ones, because it allows us to escape our own lives and enter in to another time and place, to closely observe the story of another person's (fictitious, but reality-based) life. We can escape our own madness, and watch characters either more complicated or less complicated struggle with life events, and we will be entertained. The essential pleasure, however, is in the momentary escape, the distraction if offers us. And when Cuba's stunt double came in to get an espresso drink, I thought about what his real story might be, who he loves, and why would three Japanese students want their picture taken with him (did they really think he was Cuba?)... and how we all have events in our lives worthy of a "movie scene". Put some headphone music on while walking downtown, get the right CD in the car for that road trip across the state, and that's a movie scene--just without the film rolling.

love

a poem by Raymond Carver ~

This Word Love

I will not go when she calls
even if she says I love you,
especially that,
even though she swears
and promises nothing
but love love.

The light in this room
covers every
thing equally;
even my arm throws no shadow,
it too is consumed with light.

But this word love--
this word grows dark, grows
heavy and shakes itself, begins
to eat, to shudder and convulse
its way through this paper
until we too have dimmed in
its transparent throat and still
are riven, are glistening, hip and thigh, your
loosened hair which knows
no hesitation.

(from his last book A New Path to the Waterfall)

Music

I'm reading D.H. Lawrence, Marianne Moore, and Robinson Jeffers today for Modernism class tonight. Last week I really enjoyed learning about Mina Loy and reading her poetry. She was a very bold, articulate, woman to write what she did in the 1910's-30's. Some of my favorite Loy lines/images:

~from "Songs to Joannes" (written 1915-17)

• "My finger-tips are numb from freeting your hair / A God's door-mat / On the threshold of your mind" (from Section II)
• "No love or the other thing / Only the impact of lighted bodies / Knocking sparks off each other / In chaos" (from Section XIV)

And in 1923, she wrote in her poem "Der Blind Junge": "Void and extinct / this planet of the soul / strains from the craving throat / in static flight upslanting" (stanza 7).

The Modernists have reminded me to think more carefully and critically about the music of poetry--the consider the rhythms and beats of my own poems.

When I was teaching high school Creative Writing, I incorporated music and discussed the creative work of lyrics in music which I thought was not only rhythmically successful but which also was comprised of beautiful lyrical language, with strong, fresh imagery. Some of the artists that I noted--depending on the crowd of students I was working with and what I knew they might enjoy--were U2, Jack Johnson, Indigo Girls, Dave Matthews, and John Mayer. I also have used The Smiths, They Might Be Giants, and Violent Femmes, as well as Paul Simon and Suzanne Vega. Songs overtly have a message to convey--that's part of the genre's responsibility: they specifically communicate something (usually emotion based, relational, etc.). However, poetry is usually more subtle or contains layers of meaning, and the speaker's voice and imagery carries the poem along. The language has to be precise and strong, because it stands on its own. A good song, even with silly lyrics, may still sound good. A poem without good music (the language itself) will be flat, dull...unremembered and never desired to be read again.

Another artist whose lyrics always cause me to pause and remember its images is Christopher Williams. And I'm going see him in concert very soon, in Seattle at the Tractor Tavern. The last time I heard him play live must have been nearly 10 years ago at The INN. Chris's music has been sort of a theme for Judd and my relationship, because it was one of the first things we learned we had in common...and Chris has some beautiful love songs (which sounds cliche to write that, but it's true...beautiful in an acoustic guitar, folksong, poetry kind of way).

Judd and Chris are old friends, dating back from their time as fellow summer staff workers at Malibu. So, we're excited for this concert, excited to see Chris again and tell him that his music was one of the catalysts for us falling in love.

My Favorite Walk

I like to meditate on imagery, ideas, and different writing ideas during my solitary walks with Emerson--gather details, listen to myself think in the space of fresh air. High Drive Canyon (not sure if that's the official name) is a little gem of Spokane. (To view today's walk in chronological sequence, start with the bottom photo.)

the end: view from the car

green grass! spring must be just around the corner

emerson

a fire-burned tree . . . wickedly beautiful

one of my favorite trails

The Ride

Emerson & I went for a walk this afternoon with my friend Kathy, who will be my new mother-in-law in less than six months. We charted a robust route through the neighborhood streets to maximize our sun exposure...the crisp warmth cozy on our sweatered backs, our cheeks, and sunglassed eyes as we maneuvered back towards home. It was rejuvenating.

I needed this walk in the sunshine, not only for the exercise but because I needed to clear my mind after the intense reading, writing, and self-introspection that had occupied much of today. Emotional purging always heightens my senses and helps me tap into more creative reserves of imagery and language. I don’t know what physical, biological, scientific processes are at work (if anyone does, please let me know), but it is a satisfying experience, albeit not without a little discomfort, displeasure, pain, and even heartache. It sort of feels like riding a wave. I can take a writing idea that has been stewing in my mind, or start thinking of an image or thought that is particularly intriguing and start mulling it over more openly when I'm in those moments. Really concentrating on the triggering subject, as Hugo would say. And just let my imagination travel from there. This wave carries me over a landscape of imagery and details as I try to focus on all the small details, the colors and textures of the scene which is building in my mind. As the poem develops through imagery, I just write. Just get it down. I often like to type the first draft, when available, because I type faster than I can handwrite, and can also type with my eyes closed—better able to focus on the mental picture, and just get it all down, without worrying about staying on the lines.

As I write out and develop the image, and the associations that come with it, the thought transforms into an idea, leading me to another idea and image, and this is the Wave. This is the smooth ride that I enjoy. The twists and bends, like river-rafting…the rapids of writing, then the gentle flow as I pause on a certain line, then the flow picks up again and I continue the ride. I’ve been river rafting quite a few times in the North Cascades, and this is an apt analogy. This is when it is extremely fun to write. However, sometimes writing a poem is a little more like hard work--forcing it out, really wrestling with an image or idea, frustrated when a poem is stalling and I’m trying to force it into being a certain thing or conveying a certain message. When this happens, it usually is not a successful poem. It lacks surprise. It becomes predictable. But when I can find the voice of the poem, and let the poem ride on its own creation, then it is successful. The voice takes over. And the imagery and ideas are fresh, engaging.

Robert Frost said a poem “must ride on its own melting . . . Read it a hundred times: it will forever keep its freshness as a metal keeps its fragrance” (from his essay, “The Figure a Poem Makes”). He also said, “No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.” How contemporary his ideas, and aesthetically accurate.

It’s not always easy to achieve what he describes. It’s sometimes really hard work to create that space in the day, to have everything working together to create that mental, emotional, and physical readiness for artistic creation. To weave language together to become a poem.

But it is so satisfying to do it, to have it, to know when you are in that zone—that moment when you can honestly say to yourself, “Damn, I’m a good poet” and you know at least one other person would agree with you.

To know that this process exists right here, right now in my life as a writer...I feel honored. I’m a writer. And I actually feel like one. It’s not a hobby, it’s my livelihood. It’s my work. It’s not bringing in a paycheck, but that’s not the point. The point is: it is my vocation—one that has chosen me as much as I have chosen it. A calling. And I need to show up and make the time.

Family hike

"Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air…" - R.W. Emerson

This morning I took Emerson, my husky dog, to the vet for his annual physical and immunizations. He is always very curious and fascinated by this field trip--all the smells of dogs and cats in the air, the treats, the attention he gets from strangers who all know his name and greet him. He's friendly to all. He weighs 62.4 lbs today, a healthy weight the vet said, though I know it's over the AKC standard for male Siberian huskies. But his father was a big white husky himself. Emerson has a little winter weight, I think, and he still has to go through his semi-annual big shedding event.

My Emerson lives up to his namesake well...he loves nature, is inquisitive, friendly to all and tolerant, seems meditative and comtemplative, independent, faithful.

And now we're going out together to enjoy the beautiful weather. Judd, Emerson, and I are going for a hike in Riverside State Park. We will drink some wild air, eat sandwiches and apples in the forest, and enjoy being a family.

Coffee

I was a Starbucks barista during the first five months of graduate school. I used to include the detail of coffee in my early poems, its smell was permeating my skin because I was around it so much--drinking it, grinding it, making it, serving it, cleaning it up. I can't believe I actually used to wake up at 3:30 a.m. or so on Saturday mornings to go to work. I can hardly put my contacts in that early. It was like being on Katie Couric's schedule, except getting paid only ten cents above minimum wage, standing all day, no prestige, same general outfit, and rarely would famous people come by to visit. Once some radio DJ's came by on a break from their morning show, that was sort of exciting. Of course, it doesn't take much to get excited when it's six in the morning and you've only had one customer in an hour.

I remember that "writers" would occasionally come in to do their reading, or would be tapping away at their laptops. They weren't famous writers, and none of my MFA friends. They were either pastors who were working on their sermon notes or writing non-fiction essays for magazine publication or something like that. There was also this really nice 50-something woman who told me about some of the fiction books she'd published. But she only came to Starbucks to read her morning paper. I think she lived alone, and this was a way for her to socialize. I had more fun talking to her while sweeping the floor on days she came.

Though I usually support local coffeehouses--like Rockwood Bakery or Lindaman's coffee bar, or a good drive-thru like Jacob's Java--I still go occasionally to Starbucks. The local one by my house is open every night until 10 pm, so it makes a great late-night reading place. And if I'm driving through Eastern WA, I know I can find good coffee at those few and far between Starbucks along I-90.

But for me, Starbucks has become like Wal-Mart...big, crowded, and invading every city...except, they are welcomed with open arms, they give their employees benefits, and other perks. It's a culture in itself, with a specialized language and code of conduct.

And it's not the most productive place to read/write for me. After about an hour, some of the baristas are a tad annoying. I can't help but start to listen to their petty talk and sorority-peppy voices. And I feel sorry for them in ways. I can empathize with them getting up so early to wear the white or black collared shirt, black or khaki pants, stand on their feet for 8 hours, clean up after people, and be perpetually cheerful to every customer who comes in. (I had to still go to work the same day my car was stolen...try that for a workout in phony cheerfulness!) But when I hear them discuss their grand plans for moving up in the company so someday they can be a store manager, regardless of what their current college course studies might be...well, I feel sad that they've been sucked into thinking this is all they can do, that is what they excel at. The green apron and stock options means they are truly valued.

So it was with enthusiastic interest that I read this article on msn today: Starbucks' genius blends community, caffeine The company knows that emotion, not logic, powers the decision to pay $3.22 for a double-tall latte, extra hot with a shot of sugar-free vanilla.

The author makes some good points and understands the slick machine that the Starbucks Corporation have made themselves into. I remember as a barista thinking it was pretty sad that some folks came everyday to get their fix, and was particularly disgusted by the sight of venti drinks. One man came through the drive-thru still in his pajamas to get six espresso drinks for his extended family who was back at his house (I think it must've been Thanksgiving). I remember telling him that we do sell espresso machines for the home. He seemed very interested, and it was obvious he was made to do this sbux errand by his wife.

So, in the words of a truly converted barista (and this was actually overheard coming from the mouth of one of my former sbux co-workers)..."Have a 'grande' day!"

Good Lines

Some days, when I'm really busy or stressed or sad, or when I just don't have the quiet space in the day to write something good, I like to read my favorite lines. Here are a few that I've collected recently in my journal:

• "It never ends, this brutal way we crack / our lives across our backs." - Richard Hugo, from his poem "A Night at the Napi in Browning" (lines 1-2 of the third/last stanza)
• "Oh to break loose, like a chinook / salmon jumping and falling back, / nosing up to the impossible / stone and bone-crushing waterfall - / raw-jawed, weak fleshed there, stopped by ten / steps of the roaring ladder, and then / to clear the top on the last try, / alive enough to spawn and die. - Robert Lowell, the original opening stanza (when first published in The New Yorker) for "Waking Early Sunday Morning"
• "Bright sun of my bright day, / I thank God for being alive -- / a way of writing I once thought heartless." - Robert Lowell, from "Logan Airport, Boston"

. . . and from Wallace Stevens's poem "Sunday Morning" ~

• from section I: . . . late / Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair, / And the freedom of a cockatoo" (lines 1-3) . . . "Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet" (line 13)
• and all but the first three lines of section II, (lines 19-30...my favorite!): [Note: this is actually supposed to be single-spaced]

Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,

In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else

In any balm or beauty of the earth,

Things to be considered like the thought of heaven?

Divinity must live within herself:

Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;

Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued

Elations when the forest blooms; gusty

Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;

All pleasures and all pains, remembering

The bough of summer and the winter branch.

These are the measures for her soul.

My Process...the ideal day

It's not always like this, but my favorites days include these steps in my Poetry Writing Process.

1. Wake up at a decent hour: For me, this is usually somewhere between 8:00-9:59 am, depending on how late I was up the night before. Sometimes I stay up until 1-2:00 am writing or reading, as I am a natural night person and feel this is when some of my best creative work happens. When I do stay up this late, I will give myself liberties with "sleeping in"...though if I get up after 10, I often feel guilty. Sometimes I rationalize this by setting my alarm for 9am, for example, so technically I did "wake up" earlier, but since I allow myself to press snooze I don't actually get up until multiple nine-minute increments later.
2. I go outside and say "Good Morning" to my dog. Sometimes he is still snug in his dog house (he's not a morning dog, particularly), other times he is casually laying down, alert, near the door of his kennel waiting for me to let him out for the day's playtime in the backyard. He is a very good dog.
3. Usually then I will go for a run with Emerson, or a walk--especially if it's sunny--or go workout at the women's place. But sometimes, I will do this later in the day if my schedule allows. [Today is one of those days....because: a) I'm craving coffee really, really bad; b) I have a slight headache; and c) I have too many things to do before my thesis advising meeting this afternoon and can workout after that.] The sun in Spokane is deceiving right now...it's warm and cozy from inside the house, but it's only 32-35 degrees outside. It's still winter.
4. Then I check my email, read something interesting online (like some blogs, my MFA friend and Amy Loves Books), read some poetry at Poetry Daily, etc.
5. And then I go to Rockwood Bakery to get their house coffee, settle into a padded wooden chair at one of their many tables (preferably one by the windows), and read my books, read new poems, and write in my journal. (My current favorite treat is their Cranberry chocolate-chip muffin. I love it.) Sometimes, it can get really crowded here, and therefore a little too noisy at times to feel like I can concentrate well in my "poetry zone." I like background noise, but I still need to feel like I've got my own private nook in the place.
6. Then, after a few hours (and maybe a coffee refill), I head home to type up some new poems or whatever, and continue on with my day.

I've found that my lines of poetry come together best, after I've had some time to brew over them. My news poems are most always ones that have actually been festering as lone images, or really, really rough and disjointed ideas in my journal. Reading other people's good poetry, helps to warm-up my senses, get my verbal brain muscles working. It opens my mind to think about one of my ideas in a new or expanded way. Then I can begin putting together a whole idea, or finish some drafts, or create a turn in a new poem that has stalled.

Of course, not every day is this ideal. I usually go to my part-time job a few days a week, so skip the coffeehouse and get some reading/writing done at home before I leave. Or I'm doing errands, or laundry, or other small tasks, but I always try to have a certain idea for a poem or image ruminating in my mind so I can explore different veins of it before committing it more fully to paper.

Every Tuesday afternoon this quarter, I meet with my thesis advisor Jonathan. He's a wonderful, intelligent man, with a generous and enthusiastic spirit. Aside from his typical greeting ("Hello, Buddy!" with a hug) and our discussions about poetry and my work, Jonathan and I talk about outdoor recreation, running (he's currently training for a marathon), and other writing life issues. He used to have a big dog named Yukon, was once a dog handler for a musher and his sled dog team in Michigan, and his wife is also named Amy. And he not only writes beautiful poetry, but also has a new book of non-fiction coming out March 1. (You can actually order it now, mine is on its way.)

So, Tuesdays are especially good days. They are full of grace.

My Valentine

"Whoever is open, loyal, true; of humane and affable demeanour; honourable himself, and in his judgement of others; faithful to his word as to law, and faithful alike to God and man . . . such a man is a true gentleman." - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Happy Valentine's Day!

Vintage Faith

As a poet, I've wrestled with the theme of spirituality in my work. I've either had poems whose speakers or characters "cried out" to God (usually dripping with despair and sentimentality...not my best work, esp. in high school). Or the speaker is searching for meaning in her life. Or the notions of church and religion have been presented through imagery and symbolism. The themes of grace, mercy, sacrifice, redemption...all these provide powerful emotional undertows for poems when used in subtle, individual ways.

I "grew up" Catholic, and one of the things I appreciate most about this experience is the rich vocabulary of symbols, images, and sacraments that it has provided me. The language connected with the Catholic experience is something I've only recently started to own in my poems, as Richard Hugo might say. This fall quarter was the first time that I actually have been able to produce a successful poem that touched on these elements of experience, the joy and pain inherent in religion and living a life that is faith-based.

From my childhood and teenage experiences, my prespective is that the Catholic Church (that is, its doctrine, practices, etc.) is fascinated by the mysterious or mystical, the darkness of sin, the blood and gore of Jesus Christ's Crucifixion.

I once read in a priest-authored book that sought to explain the Church's practices and one of the ideas that was most interesting to me (and one that I never really grasped or listened to during all my CCD, "Breakfast with God", and other sacramental, religious education classes) is the idea that the Church (with a big "C") believes that the sacramental elements of the Holy Eucharist (communion) were not just symbols of Jesus's body and blood, but that they actually became His Body and Blood when the Priest said a special prayer. I now know that this literal interpretation isn't exactly practiced anymore, though I'm sure some Catholic believers may still believe this.

Regardless, I find this fascinating ... the idea that one believes that he or she can literally swallow God, ingest Him--nourishment for the body and soul with one small, round wafer and a swallow of red wine. It is a beautiful metaphor.

One of my favorite poets, Franz Wright, is Catholic, and his faith and conversion experience is central to many of his poems. His book The Beforelife explores his personal redemption in the form of beautiful, lyrical poetry. One of my favorites is comprised of only six lines (pg. 24, The Beforelife):

Based on a Prayer of Rabi'a Al-Adawiyya

God, if I speak my love to you in fear of hell, incinerate me
in it;
if I speak my love to you in hope of heaven, close it in my face.
But if I speak to you simply because you exist, cease
withholding from me your
neverending beauty.

(note: lines 2, 5, 6 are actually indented mid-line, something this blog does not allow me to format correctly.)

Wright's latest book of poems is Walking to Martha's Vineyard, for which he won the 2004 Pulitzer Prize. He has inspired me to explore the issue of spirituality and faith in my own poems. The trick is figuring out how to do write this effectively and successfully...that is, to include the ideas of faith and a real God using authentic speakers and situations without proselytizing or creating melodramatic, sentimental verse.

I have not firmly established my aesthetic guidelines for this yet, but I am seeking.
* * *

One helpful tool for all of this is attending a new church--one that is new for me (I've been twice now) and new to Spokane (less than a year old). Vintage Faith Community is a recent church plant. It's small, down-to-earth, and real. It is what I have been looking for these past 17 months. Tonight I met the young pastor Steve personally; he greeted me in the foyer before the service. There was acoustic guitar worship, a five-minute coffee/socializing break, teaching on Philippians, Communion, a man wearing a kilt, a dog in the back row, couches at the back wall, and three MFA friends sitting near me.

* * *

P.S. A note on Fiction & Non-Fiction . . .

Some other authors who write from a Christian perspective and whom I admire (both for their skills and because they publish with mainstream presses rather than Christian publishing houses), are: Anne Lamott (numerous fiction and non-fiction books), Leif Enger (novel, Peace Like a River), and Kathleen Norris (non-fiction books and poetry). I've met each of these writers--Lamott and Enger in 2002 at Seattle readings sponsored by Elliot Bay Book Co., and Norris last year during her visit to Whitworth College.

For further reading ...

• More on Lamott...an interview, her thoughts, a Salon essay, an interesting bio-article.)
• More on Enger...his visit to Whitworth (which I missed last year!)
• More on Norris: some articles by her, one about her, and another.
• And an interesting blog about faith in fiction (with a booklist)

Meeting Gerald Stern

He was the visiting poet this week at EWU's Inland Northwest Center for Writers. I first met him at Thursday's Q & A...a funny, funny man...who had us sing "Popeye the Sailor Man" song, who told jokes, and talked about writing and his life. Afterwards, I got to eat dinner with him, along with our two professors Chris and Jonathan and some other graduate students. We ate at Catacombs and he sang German songs that echoed off the brick walls. He told fascinating stories and knows virtually everyone in the poetry literary world...one could play "Six Degrees of Separation from Gerald Stern." For example, he's really good friends with Jack Gilbert who taught for a year at Eastern before Jonathan Johnson (my advisor) did and occupied the same office. And Gerald (or Jerry, as his friends call him) also had Malena Morling as a student, who was a visiting poet in Nov. 2003, and for whom I made a cup of tea at the after-reading party at my house.

And his poetry reading Friday evening at Auntie's was just as entertaining. Even though I had not read much of his poetry before now, I was thoroughly enchanted...though I am often star-struck by literary celebrities whom I meet in the flesh. It amazes me that so many common people had no idea they ate in the same restaurant as him.

This week's trip to the Library

On my current reading list:

• Song of the World Becoming - Pattiann Rogers
• North of Boston - Robert Frost
• The Mercy - Philip Levine
• Fire-keeper (New and Selected Poems) - Pattiann Rogers
• Paterson - William Carlos Williams
• A Fish to Feed All Hunger - Sandra Alcosser

I'm also reading, Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry, by Jane Hirshfield. Which I'm liking so much and want to take notes in the book, so I recently ordered it from Amazon. For my thesis list, I like to first check out the books from the library (if Spokane has them) or at least something by that poet. Then if I know I really, really want this book and want to take notes in it, and keep it forever, I'll buy it from Amazon (or find it used through them) who offers free shipping on orders over $25. This helps create a sense of control for my obsession with book-buying.

Returning

Poet Franz Wright said in an interview once, "When I'm in certain moods, a conversation will start up in my head, and suddenly I'll realize that the language has reached a very high and interesting level, and then lines and stanzas will just kind of appear full-blown."

Now, writing hasn't exactly been this magical for me, but I do know the experience of channeling a certain persona, where the poem organically develops from an initial thought or image, and as the idea unfolds the poems' lines develop.

Robert Frost, who I recently studied for my Modernism Form & Theory graduate class, wrote in his essay, The Figure a Poem Makes: "For me the initial delight is in the surprise of remembering something I didn't know I knew. I am in a place, in a situation, as if I had materialized from cloud or risen out of the ground. There is a glad recognition of the long lost and the rest follows. Step by step the wonder of unexpected supply keeps growing. The impressions most useful to my purpose seem always those I was unaware of and so made no note of at the time when taken..."

I can relate to his statement, and also love that he said, "Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting." A lovely way to describe the process of writing a poem. And my recent writing experiences (i.e., poems I have written for my thesis) have felt like a return to my original joy.

If anyone other than my friend Emily reads this blog, then I will note that the month of January was exceptionally busy with grad school, getting engaged to the love of my life, wedding planning, trips to Seattle area, etc. I did not want to translate very personal real-life moments into blog entries. I want this venue to be an outlet for writing and publishing my essayistic ideas about poetry and life, not be a diary of my days. So, while I was writing, I wasn't publishing anything here. I will try to do better.