To celebrate the turn of a fresh new year, a quote from Aurobindo Ghose’s visionary epic poem Savitri: Out of the paths of the morning star they came Into the little room of mortal life. I saw them cross the twilight of an age, The sun-eyed children of a marvellous dawn, The great creators with wide brows of calm,The massive barrier-breakers of the worldAnd wrestlers with destiny in her lists of will, The labourers in…
. . . And liking it. Today The Pedestal posted my review of Oswald LeWinter’s two recent poetry collections, Ages of Chaos and Fury and Atoms of Memory. Reviewing forces you to think analytically and contextually and re-read poetry, which I believe is the only way poetry should be read. If it’s not worth a re-read, it either isn’t poetry or isn’t your kind. I have another book review I’m marketing, and an offer to…
Does the holiday season hit everyone this way? Like a speeding wall? My only salvation this season (and I mean that in a religious sense) is reading poetry. Every morning, a little bit from a favorite book, and a few deep breaths. And then the day goes by in a freeway blur. Here’s a poem that made me breathe this morning: Of Being— by Denise Levertov I know this happinessis provisional: the looming presences –…
Can be made from titles encountered in rambles through the poblogosphere. Especially from misreads: heart volleyascension musicshore of that yearetymology feminine singnon-abysmalkids cloissonestrips of filmprophetic warhugging sycamoregenesis of flarfknitting performance Help yourself. Visit https://racheldacus.net for more information and writing by Rachel Dacus.
My first book had only one review — basically trashing it. My second has had two reviews, both to praise it. In the five years between, I’ve learned a little detachment. But the harder of the two to resist is the praise, I find. Odd, that you want to become everything that a reviewer praising you might claim. One of the things I’ve especially been pondering from Terri Brown-Davidson’s laudatory review is the idea of…
It’s that time of year, when most of us want to hide under a pillow until the announcements of Pushcart Prize nominations are over. Or we want to get badges made to wear even on our pajamas: “Award Nominee” — though of course some wiseass could quip, “Yeah, they hand those out with Pez dispensers.” Sour grapes! A nomination for any literary award is an occasion for celebration, if only because poetry and literature need…
I just had the best review I’ll probably ever get. No matter what. Because it’s the first time anyone has ever said such things about my poetry. The Pedestal just posted a review of Femme au chapeau by Terri Brown-Davidson that makes me want to quit sending out envelopes, stop plugging my book and stay home and write. And work hard. Because she completely connected with what I was hoping I was doing. It’s an…
… is the sign that could be inscribed over my head today, but instead here I am, blogged down. I should be working on fundraising, poetry, housecleaning, cooking, dog-walking and various other things. My excuse is, I’m sick. Just the right amount — not too sick to eat, nor too sick to enjoy being lazy — and not so well as to feel the shoulds pressing hard on my shoulders. Oh, that’s a nice set…
I’m sitting here at the keyboard while vegetables burn in the kitchen and my poems for this weekend’s readings are rehearsing themselves upstairs. I found myself feeling oddly disheartened about my poetry this week, at the same time that I was picking and rehearsing the poems from my book to read. I found myself thinking that it has been awhile since I wrote one that I felt about as I feel about these. Fallow field…
Or is Poetry skewing its standards to narrow the range of subjects and style of poems it publishes? I want to like what Wiman is doing with it; I want to find freshness and new horizons. I find narrowness in the last few issues, and an increasingly peevish tone to ALL the work. Does some high-profile editor have on his Cranky Pants? Even the Humor issue had the taint of contemptus mundi. It’s discouraging. I…