Happy Halloween! Happy birthday, Keats!

October means three things to me: my son's birthday (12!), Halloween, and Keats's birthday! John Keats was born on this day, Halloween, in 1795, 225 years ago. His life was short--he lived only to the age of 25, leaving us some of the most beautiful poems in the English language. Many days this month, I've been reading, copying out, or trying to memorize my favorites. Here is one, the beginning of Endymion:

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep 

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,

Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils

With the green world they live in; and clear rills

That for themselves a cooling cover make

 Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms

We have imagined for the mighty dead;

All lovely tales that we have heard or read:

An endless fountain of immortal drink,

Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

   Nor do we merely feel these essences

For one short hour; no, even as the trees

That whisper round a temple become soon

Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,

The passion poesy, glories infinite,

Haunt us till they become a cheering light

Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,

That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,

They alway must be with us, or we die.

 

My son has strict instructions to read this at my memorial. (And these instructions predated him. I think I first decided that this needed to be read at my memorial by the time I was in my early twenties, though I remember a poster of at least the first line on my wall as a teenager. The only place I cared to go when my parents took me to Rome was the Keats and Shelley memorial museum, which is where I got that poster. I'd have thought I'd outgrow this love for this poet who died so young--what could he know about life?--but I haven't.) I love this beginning of Endymion, which seems to me such a statement on the power and balm of beauty in whatever form, including poetry, in our lives. I can remember times when those words "Some shape of beauty moves away the pall / from our dark spirits" seemed to echo in my ears, when I was depressed and would see a dart of blue jay, or the sky mirrored in the pond's face, or a beautiful poem and feel at least I could endure a little longer. Beauty can be a balm. Of course, it isn't always. 

And Keats's bower. Even though he was so young and it's tempting to say that no one that young could have any wisdom that would last, perhaps he was wise beyond his years, having seen his mother and brother die of tuberculosis, which, of course, would later kill him in his room near the Spanish Steps in Rome. (A collegiate me wrote a haiku about Keats in that room, but I doubt I can find that--or should.) So when he mentions "a sleep / Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing," I can't help but read the tuberculosis into that--that he knows something important about how distinctive restful sleep and breathing and health are, something that I as an insomniac and person who has had ill health appreciate. (Also, Keats was apprenticed to a surgeon for four years.) This poem--or piece of a poem--reminds me how much I love literature ("All lovely tales that we have heard or read"), and that I need to keep that in mind ("They alway must be with us, or we die."), a lesson you wouldn't think a person with an English PhD would need, and yet I do. (Holding onto poetry and literature and the other things that feed my soul are getting me through this pandemic--that and friends "as good as spring itself," as Hemingway said.)

Probably my favorite of the odes is "Ode to a Nightingale," but that is a difficult poem to copy out because of all its indentations. Also, it is for me a difficult poem to memorize. So I've been working instead on this, the third stanza of "Ode on Melancholy":

 

III

She dwells with Beauty--Beauty that must die;

   And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips

Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,

   Turning to Poison while the bee-mouth sips:

Ay, in the very temple of delight

   Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,

      Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue

   Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;

His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,

      And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

 

Joy shows up in this poem too, this time personified, at least at first. Then Joy seems to be more of a plant that blooms a grape--a thing of the moment. Here, according to Keats, whoever really savors the joy of beauty also sees or experiences melancholy because beauty dies--or at least some beauty dies. (The beauty of Keats's work has not died for me! Some beauty does not die.) Perhaps part of why Keats's work endures is because he focuses so much on beauty and the life of the imagination. Perhaps.

Keats is a mystery indeed. How can anyone by the age of 25 create so many beautiful and wonderful enduring poems? Yes, many of us remember Keats mostly for the odes and maybe "The Eve of St. Agnes." But I'd argue that most great poets are this way: that contributing as many as five poems to the rich history and conversation of poetry in English is prodigious indeed. I would be ecstatic if I thought that out of my life of almost forty-eight years so far, I could contribute even one. I live in hope.

Here are what are thought to be Keats's last serious lines that he ever wrote, found on a blank space of the manuscript of a comic poem he was writing. The eerieness just suits Halloween, his birthday:

 

This living hand, now warm and capable

Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold

And in the icy silence of the tomb,

So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights

That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood

So in my veins red life might stream again,

And thou be conscience-calm'd--see here it is--

I hold it towards you.

 

Have a wonderful and safe Halloween, everyone!

Poetry Collection Draft 4 Wordcloud!!!

Draft 4 is complete! And submitted!!! I've already submitted it to two publishers!!!! With many many thanks to all my dear friends who have helped me get to this point!

Notes on Writing and Gardening, Trust and Patience, in a Pandemic

Happy nearly August! I'm so happy to be blogging! Almost every morning when I water the garden and see whatever new happinesses (a new bell pepper today!) or aggravations (who is munching down my Napa cabbage?) the day has brought, I think how much I want to blog about the garden and the many animal visitors we have seen this year. But now, with my Stargazers in full bloom, I knew I had to blog!!!

I really wouldn't let myself blog at all until May because I'd set myself a May 1 deadline for having the third draft of the poetry manuscript done, so a wonderful friend could read it and give me some feedback. I was very lucky in the early days of the pandemic (March and April) to have the manuscript to focus on. It kept me sane--and away from reading zillions of disturbing reports and craziness, which would've stressed me out even more than I already was. This fabulous distraction worked so well that I got the manuscript into shape before the deadline. I was organized and driven. When I finished, I missed those feelings of being organized and driven. I thought I would go on to my next project--because in some ways, at least during the winter, I had felt the second project calling, but knew I had to complete the first one--but I was surprised to find I felt completely stymied on that. (Still do, actually.) But in May I thought I would blog. I intended to blog.

But I didn't. And it's only been in the last few weeks that I figured out that the situation of living in a place where people have values very different from mine (not only does this county vote opposite to how I do, but they voted down a new library in a recent local election--come on, people!) during a pandemic where truth claims and credibility are called into question actually took my voice--or a big part of it. Or made me feel so beat down that I didn't feel like I had the strength or desire to speak. So many people have blogged and written poems and written stirring things and reported doing great things on Facebook during this pandemic--I wish I were one of them. But, really, I process things slowly, and I am trying hard to love my own path with its gifts/lessons of discipline and patience rather than spend time envying the achievements of others. I've been happy to see many more poetry readings in the last couple months than I've seen in the last ten years. (I feel like a major accessibility issue, especially but not only for disabled people, is finally being addressed because it has to be. For some of us, access has been an issue for some time!)

My favorite conference came and went (so glad I "went"--it was on Zoom), and it helped me come back to myself in all sorts of different ways--including starting me happily on draft 4 of the manuscript! A sweet friend is helping me by reading the sections as I "finish" with them, which is a great gift I treasure. I haven't blogged before now because I am mostly too busy with editing and writing and occasionally getting some reading in (oh to spend the day reading!!!) and all the usuals of life.

So, we've always had lots of animals come onto our land, but this year we had a lot more. In late spring, we had ducks coming regularly to our pond, though that's since stopped. I had hoped that at least one mother duck would stay and share her ducklings with us--to no avail. We used to keep chickens and ducks, but when I got sick with my autoimmune arthritis mystery disease, it was very challenging to tend them. My husband's back occasionally goes out, so there were these times when we'd look at each other and try to figure out which one of us hurt less and how we could do less for them in the snow. And that's how my homesteading fantasy died--when it came right up to the limits of my body. Since I thought I had debilitating arthritis and doctors weren't helping to explain what I could expect because they didn't know (still don't know) what I had, I thought the pain was what I could expect going forward. Thank goodness I am much better now, thanks to a brilliant book and a ton of work, including changing my diet. But I have a fondness for ducks, and I miss the ones we used to have, so I loved seeing those ducks in our pond and wished they would stay.

Then there are the robins. In our porch light, a robin had built a nest several years ago. This year, we found her at it again, fixing it up and laying those bright blue eggs. (We don't open the front door when she's nesting because it disturbs her, so we pay close attention to the nest. Yes, we are very funny people but the animals are the best part about living here!) And then the two babies with their upstretched mouths. And then a week or so later, all gone, the robins off into the trees. For the first time since we've been here, she's on her second set of babies in one year in the same nest. Right now, she spends her days finding worms and feeding them to the babies. One morning pretty soon, we'll look and they'll be gone.

For the first time since we moved here, we have baby muskrats and baby groundhogs in our backyard. They are so adorable. Also lots of bunnies. We've seen does with her children scampering behind all awkward on their legs come through the backyard as well. With predictable results. We had two big salad bowl planters full of salad greens (the kind you can cut and then they grow back) on our porch. One day I was watering, and saw that it had been almost completely munched down. (I'd really have liked to have seen the bunnies or deer or whatever on the porch though!) Now, there's nothing growing in there. They munched it all the way down! These critters we love so much really did a number on the entire garden actually, so we had to put down the usual things that they don't like (we're completely organic, so there's soap in bags and things like that).

And then the garden itself! Because I was sick last year, I let the whole thing go. So even getting it deweeded and ready was quite the challenge, but I did weed all eight raised beds (again and again and again because that is so much of what gardening is: I need to weed again actually) and got them all planted, having started seeds in the basement. I find starting seeds to be roulette--it's not about what I want to plant, but about what actually comes up. And that was especially interesting this year because most of what I started were old seeds from previous years. So we've got too many tomato plants and not enough bell peppers. We had broccoli and cauliflower started, but that also got munched down and now won't grow properly. Napa cabbage and alpine strawberries are new experiments for me that are growing at the moment. Then in the direct-seeded category: we had two kinds of peas but they're spent now and so the beans are trying to come up. I finally got a kind of zucchini that is resistant to mold, so I'm actually getting some zucchinis out of my garden, finally. Then there's blue jade corn (the only kind I had because early on in the pandemic it was very difficult to get seeds and we had no money) with beans and squash in a Three Sisters planting.

My one sadness is that the nasturtiums are not getting big and bountiful and taking over and spilling into the walkway (so the blog image here of nasturtiums seems like a lie). So far, we have only one orange bloom. But I'm hopeful. (It's not really the blooms I love, but the silver dollar leaves, but they're not taking over--at all.) Gardening is so good for me since it cultivates patience and trust. You just can't plant things in the ground and then dig them up a little while later to make sure they are growing. You have to be patient and trust that things are happening where you can't see them.

And patience sure seems needed now--in our present pandemic circumstances. And certainly writing--at least my writing--requires a kind of long patience, a trust that I'm not wasting my time, which is a lesson I seem to have to learn over and over again. Watering my garden in the morning shows me that patience is worth it, that I trust rightly. Writing too is worth it. This post will remind me of my beautiful garden when there's nothing but grey snow to look at.

Stay safe, everyone. Hang in. Patience.

Draft 3 Wordcloud

Solstice Reflections on Writing

It's Winter Solstice today, the shortest day and longest night of the year. Many people reflect at the end of the year in preparation for New Year's and New Year's goals, I'm sure. Because my birthday was the day before yesterday, I get a double whammy each year. So I've been reflecting on this past year and its blessings, which have been varied and plentiful on many fronts, especially my editing and my health, I feel very lucky to say. But what I want to focus on here is writing.

During this reflection time, I have felt this strong urge to engage with my writing, especially revising and getting stuff out. I've definitely put my own writing on the back burner, for good reason, for the last several months. But now I feel this. . .how to describe it. . .determination, demand, this fire in my belly to write, send things out, get this poetry project done. Though I have all sorts of ideas about blogging regularly and learning how to write reviews and doing all sorts of new things, I've decided that I absolutely must not sign up for any writing-related projects until my Holy Land poems are revised into their third draft. This is my winter project and when I emerge from the dark cold, so will this draft. Even if people are not clamoring for my poems, this collection must get done, even if it never sees the light of day publishing-wise. Writing is a pact of honor with myself; when I don't write or send stuff out or check in with myself as a writer, I let myself down, I get down on myself, I spin myself into this old familiar dustdevil, questioning whether I am indeed a writer and beating myself up for all I haven't accomplished. Well, I AM a writer. (Duh. Or I wouldn't have that drive at all.) Even if no one else cares, I must write what is mine to write and get my work out there.

Last year around this time, I had set myself the goal of 200 submissions in order to get really brave and keep myself engaged with writing and sending stuff out. I have sent out 140 poetry submissions so far. I have also sent out a number of job applications and resumes for specific editing projects--so many, I didn't count them. I'm sure if I went through my email for the year, I would count at least 60 job and editing project applications, some of which I did get, but many of which I didn't. I've gotten pretty brave. I no longer worry when I'm not chosen for an editing project (unlike earlier this year when I was pretty upset about not doing well on an editing sample). I'm pretty sure I met the 200 submission goal as well as the underlying point of the goal.

I don't know yet whether I'll set another like it for this year. 150 poetry submissions? I also got and unprecedented (in my career) six poetry acceptances this year, including getting featured in Lunch Ticket's Summer/Fall 2019 issue! So that was terrific!

So it's been a fabulous year in many ways. Considering how much has changed since this time later, I am excited about what might be true a year from now. But if I get to the end of 2020 and I still don't have much more to show for my poetry project, I am not going to be very happy. So I don't want to lose track of writing even when it can't be my top priority. I have this idea that I should show up as a writer, asking what that looks like each day so that each day it can be different and fit into what else is happening. The downside of this is then writing itself doesn't become an unthinking habit that I just do each day. For a long time this year, I wrote in the morning so it became the automatic thing I did after morning pages. But then I didn't like how long it took me to get to editing, which I needed to make more time for. Asking myself what writing looks like today means I have to consciously think about that and figure it out each day, which might be great in that I'll feel like a writer and might be awful because then it's this extra weight I put on myself each day without the benefit of a habit to slip into. I don't know. I may set myself other goals to help me on my way to getting this project done. But 3rd draft in 2020! It's going to happen!

Getting Out of My Own Way to Blog!

I have been wanting to blog. I'm not sure why. But I want to. So, finally, instead of trying to mentally figure out whether it's a good idea or what I should write about or strategize it in some way or figure out why, I've decided to just go with it. When I just go with things--even when I don't understand them--things usually turn out okay.

Here's another thing I've decided to go with: I really love the Conference on Poetry and Teaching at the Frost Place. I wanted to go last year, but then I went back and forth and back and forth about it and ultimately decided not to go and applied to something else instead because I'm not teaching anymore (except my son) and so what's the point of going to a conference full of teachers? The point is I want to go and I love the people and last time (already a couple years ago!) I came home totally inspired for two weeks! I remember I thudded back to earth after only because things were so difficult at work. Now that I edit at home, which I love, maybe that high would last even longer. Anyway, I want to go and feel drawn to going, and I am going to get out of my own way and go! Why do I stand there with my arms crossed in front of the idling car of my own heartfelt desires?

I've been reading Dahlia Ravikovitch's poems in the wonderful translation by Chana Bloch (my dear departed teacher) and Chana Kronfeld. I've been reading in small sips during my always-too-short poetry time in the morning, and I'm almost done. Most days, I've been copying out one of her poems, a practice I learned at the Conference on Poetry and Teaching that I had actually been doing for scholarship for years (copying out important quotes so I could really see each word). Now, I'm using my scholarly practices for poetry and trying not to berate myself for not having done it earlier. Since I'm almost done with Dahlia, I have to figure out what I'm going to read and copy out next. I'm also partway through a bunch of books--some about poetry, about writing, about other stuff (like the history of France, since my son is now learning French, and he loves history and I can find no histories of France for children). Also, I have this feeling like I should be deep in a novel just now, but I'm at a loss about what I want to read. So far, there are lots of things I feel I ought to read, but nothing that's grabbed me. I always have a list of things I feel I should read as research for my collection of Israel-Palestine poems, but it's often emotionally difficult to read that material and not at all the deep plunge into another world and escape that reading can be. So I'm waiting until something wonderful inspires me to curl up under a blanket and read, ignoring everyone and everything. My logical side wonders when I'd fit that in anyway because what I really need to do is edit.

It's been incredibly cold. It feels like winter came early this year. We had a snowstorm on Monday that downed some power lines in the village we live outside of; luckily, we have a wood burning stove and a small generator, so we weren't too cold. Right after the power came back on, the Internet went out, and we haven't had home Internet since. I joined the 21st century and got a Smartphone yesterday purely for the mobile hotspot, which is how I'm online now. My son had a bad cold with a cough, which worried me a great deal with the cold but he's on the mend now. Today, he is happy and shiny, excited for a wonderful relaxer day.

Today, I'm going to edit and have a lovely day with my family, probably going to one of our local libraries to check out even more books, some on France to complement my son's studies, and a book I need for fact-checking for editing.

I love editing. I didn't realize I would love it so much, especially literary editing. I feel so blessed it found me.

Have a lovely day!

Finishing Black Crow Dress

Oh! I finished Roxane Beth Johnson's Black Crow Dress this morning (I try to start my day with poetry), and there are such beautiful images and lines, I must share them.

In "Clea, Living and Dying," a voice that we've heard throughout the book suddenly shares that she's had many lives, rather than just one. Describing her different lives, she tell us: "Once, a saint: my soul clung to God the way an egg grips its separate parts." I've had a lot of experience with eggs (having had laying chickens and ducks) but I don't think I'll ever look at an egg the same way again.

I didn't mention yesterday that some poems are in the voices of the slaveowning people, rather than the enslaved people themselves. In "Caroline Confronts Tobias Finch," we learn that Tobias, a slaveowner who loved, in his way (which is to say in a brutal, dominating, and demeaning way: is that love?), Caroline, ultimately leaves her to die in the snow. Beyond death, she won't forgive him, which denies both of them their rest. So there's a wonderful turnaround in this poem. Caroline says, "You follow me now, hollering through every season, saying Caroline, let me go." Oh! So smart. Beyond death, the ironic end--no, the eternity--he deserves! Who was it who said that art has something to do with justice? (The quote I'm thinking of but can't quite recall is Yeats, I think? Also, I think, many others have yoked the two together.)

The final poem, "Goodbye to My Favorite Ghost, Clea," is in the poet's voice. Listen to this: "Now, put your hands in the loam, pull damp moss from the earth's scalp--a pillow for your grave." The earth's scalp! Oh! I love images of the earth as a person, as a body. And using scalp is an inventive and different way of doing that because scalp as a word and a thing is not particularly beautiful--it's a harsh word with a history that echoes, at least for me. So perfect. So evocative.

The ending comes full circle, with the ghosts taking their leave and the poet saying goodbye to the ghosts who at the beginning were coming to haunt her. What a wonderful book of poems!