The Writing Path Blog

Anis Shivani, in a Huffington Post article about poetry book contests, makes an excellent point about how contests damage the art: Is this the best way to discover new poetry talent in the country? What happens to editorial judgment, consistent aesthetic vision, commitment to particular values, building a movement, advocating for a particular style, and creating a critical mass of new writing if the contest model is allegedly based in “impartiality” and “blindness”–in other words,…

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Yesterday I received Mary Biddinger’s terrific new chapbook, Saint Monica, out from Black Lawrence Press. I was lucky enough to be asked to write a blurb and so get to see this marvelous, original, biting, and witty collection before it came out. I can only reiterate my comment on the back: Biddinger crisply narrates these memorable tales that entwine horror and sensual discovery, using deft rhythms, head-snapping line breaks, and highly original imagery.” I give…

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Thanks to Nic Sebastien (Very Like a Whale), I discovered the wonderful A Year with Rilke, which pairs poems with art by friends of Rilke. One of the great things poetry online can do is pair with visuals. Another great thing it can do, as Nic’s sites so brilliantly showcase, is become sound again, rise from the flat page into the music poetry is meant to be. Also was sent a link to Joyland’s blog…

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Poet of our generation, happy 70th, Dylan! He’s still got it, the lyrical chops, in my opinion. Interesting that so much of the best poetry of our generation has been in the form of song lyrics. A lot of people argue that lyrics and poetry aren’t the same, but I think that’s an old-fashioned view. To me — writing both — they’re part of a continuum. So here are a few of my favorite Dylan…

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The Geraldine R. Dodge Foundation’s Giving Voice session at a two-day arts seminar this May brought poetry to leaders from fields unaccustomed to considering the art: leaders from every sector: finance, social services, arts administration, marketing, real estate, education, media, health, engineering, insurance and government. Bravo! to the Foundation for reaching out beyond the teaching community and bringing poetry to a wider audience of leaders. A very interesting way of carrying out the mission of…

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It’s a restless, atmospheric spring day, I’ve been listening to Bach and looking at gorgeous images of Dutch tulip fields, and my own poem came to mind. This is from Earth Lessons. WHY I LIKE WEATHER Famous for always being there, it takes no hikes or long vacations, leaving forty beeps on the answering machine. Evasive, evocative, weather is as much what you see through as what you see.This afternoon my dog and I headed…

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I’m happy to have my review of Crooker’s newest collection appearing in The Pedestal magazine’s new issue. It’s hard work, but I like book reviewing, which is a way of concentrating on poetry in an arc of expression, as a good collection must be. Here’s my pull-quote from the review: “In these glass-half-empty times, Barbara Crooker takes a radical stance: she wants more. She celebrates the life of the senses in poems of praise, gratitude,…

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After Reading Dante’s Paradiso We live in a heaven we take great pains to avoid.Shielding our cheeks from a winter sky’s chilled fur, we hunch against the brush of air that has rushed gloriously everywhere. We listen into our phones so as not to be pierced by arias in the pines. Clench worry’s hands to keep a woodpecker’s drumming from entering our bones. Stay separate.Refuse to sail a cloud into evening’s gold. I circle your…

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Another for April, thinking we might get more of the unusual April showers today. First appeared in Pirene’s Fountain: Mesmer Rain can be like Chopin, all piano strings and syncopated pauses, geometry of blings under wheels and rubber heels. A blissbaptism from branches. Drooled harmonies. On your neck, wet kisses slithering. Rings around plop into pools: ting, ting, ting, ting. Scriabin zithering loss up your edges, then his departure’ssudden, cold feathering. And one of my…

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Every Morning I Try to pronounce a divine name perfectly, knowing I can’t really say its swallow-swing or enunciate the syllables a mockingbird loops in medleys, can’t whisper vowels of an airplane’s rhyming trail. Names like that must be repeated as a flower lets pollen fly. I should mimic the closed bud’s wise pause. My human mouth can hardly shape the million-zinnia alpha letter, let alone the final plosive dazzle – but I can hum…

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