National Poetry Month has been very good to my poetry. Two fabulous literary journals have just released brand-new issues, and I am fortunate to have new poetry in them. My poems in these journals will be included in my next poetry collection, come February, 2018.
Enormous joy, and gratitude to the editors of South Dakota Review and Santa Clara Review.
So I finally hit zee social media wall. I do not like green eggs and ham, Sam I am, I do not like green Sams too. I like it when grown women call themselves women instead of girls. I like it when people don't have to show pictures of their children every 3 days. I like it when people are so confident in knowing they're alive they don't have to write something to the world to say "here I am, here I am, here I am." Or that they're pissed or happy. Or that they like shrimp but hate beef. Or they've now got the cancer your own loved one had almost a decade ago, and now this other person actually "gets-to-the-bone" how scary it is. You know. Life could stop! You could lose your life! And then pictures of their dinner. The food they're about to eat. What the hell is that? Does anyone really know what that means? Because I find that creepy as all get-out. One day remind me to tell ya about them Merchandise Mart service elevators. I like a crazy bison who remembers me after, oh I don't know, what, 2 years maybe, and saunters over to me, stands there indifferent, blasé, and patient, and then without warning throws me that BOOM-Eyes thing where her face morphs 2 whole feet wider like "I can break up this steel fence in an AZ second." She does not use social media but I've said that before. No wonder the wiser of my acquaintances simply peruse from a distance or just choose to live the real thing outright. It's nat'l po month and I haven't a reading to give anywhere, which frankly feels mahvelous. That suggests malaise but you know, I figured out this Poetry will speak well enough for itself and the people will find the whole lot. I don't push the river. Done with that. That river has no need to be pushed. HornSectionAll Day Every Day comes out in February, 2018. The cover art was drawn for the book by a master. A master drawing guy, I say a real master. A New Yorker Master Illustrator any book editor would get on their knees to thank for such an immaculate cover. Who fell to their knees in genuine gratitude? Me. Anyone else? My shadow. The three poets who have graced my book with their statements about it, which will go on the back cover? Poetry masters, and my favorite part is that they are each completely different in their poetic stylings from one another. Different generations; different sexes. Different sensibilities. One with a gigantic sense of humor; one I've never heard actually laugh. All three genius in their own right; much varied approaches to poetry. Who understands these three individuals invested their time, their brains, their hearts and their heads to write words in response to my own? Me. Biggest ever surprise to me was the poetry I thought they were all going to fall head-over-heels for was not the poetry each single one of them mentioned in their blurbs. Matter of fact, each of them made a concerted point to accentuate a particular series of poems that I swear evolved by accident. I've been told whether I like it or not people of all stripes respond to these poems. It's like I had not choice in the matter. They forced themselves out and no choice, for good or ill. I now have one full semester of teaching poetry for small money under my belt. The very reason I went to university and received my Master's Degree, and everyone in the world expected me to start teaching Comp 101 as soon as I got my diploma (especially my mother), but of course, I knew then there was no way I was going to make a living in academia. For the very same reasons I experienced these past 4 months: spending 3 to 4 hours of prep time per 1 hour of every teaching time, combined with further research for new material to edify myself--all my best creative energies would have had no choice but to go into the classroom. I wrote exactly zero poems in three months. Honestly, I don't know how writing teachers do it. Law gave me hot-damn material, and I could still reserve my best energy for the page. Not bad for 22 years. Speaking of 22 years, it's against the laws of man and the universe to hold it against a woman for getting older, so drive your trash to the outskirts of town and bury yourself in it. I'm getting tired of you American assholes who can't see what European men have seen since the dawning of time: that women at all ages, women aging, and aged, are beautiful, in the decade they exist, and deserve to be loved maddeningly for and during that time all the time. This here is bullshit--thinking 19-year-olds' are the end of beauty. Speaking of grants and residencies and fellowships and all that chazerai: hurdy-gurdy, ever since I was a freshman undergraduate and heard wisps of chitchat about these topics in English classes and workshops, I swear to you on my dead dog's head, I always thought it meant the people applying for them were poor, unable to stand on their own, and they needed monetary assistance. I'd no idea it was a "picked-what-looks-best-on-the-billboard" thing until about a decade ago. Which is uggs late to start playing the fellowship game. I thought it was for the poor and downtrodden who couldn't get a leg up otherwise. Nobody is going to give a middle-aged white woman with all the textbook sexuality of a boring heterosexual female, with a penchant for passion, hell yeah, I'll admit, with a really nice house, and enormously, thank you G-d, magnificent health, a happy Jew, whose mother was Christian or Catholic or Christian, because, a) she worked on the "if it feels right, run with it" program, like a m-f'ing B.o.s.s., plus, b) the Jewish blood is so blasted strong--and then throw in a noble man for a tie-up spouse, not just a run-of-the-mill "good guy" but truly, uh, ladies (and some of you gents), this is your Disney Prince right here, except he looks nothing like the picture,WHICH IS WHY YOU KEEP OVERLOOKING HIM. Except you must stir in "stubborn, moving into pertinacious" (which is a total pain in the posterior) and "intermittent insufferability" into the mix. And this one bursts a lot of people's bubbles, but: you have to get your own jewelry--- the diamonds, the gold, the plat. At least it's beaut the way you love it. Cold day in hell before I receive a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts. Here in AZ they don't even hand out grants or monies unless you work full-time in the program school/university factotum schedule, or ahem, ya know....
But you read an Edlow poem and you'll know all the jewels were set solid in there, which only means I was paying attention to our Miss Brooks, and The Coasters, The Four Tops, The Temptations, The Olympics, Otis, Laura Nyro, JB, Vanlose my Stairway.
Communication is marginal from my publisher, but still I reel with much happy. The vedy, vedy, vedy, famous poet sent his beautiful blurb about my poetry for Horn and man o man, it's smooth and hot like ice cream on fire. Cue the Fine Young Cannibals. I always dug that lead singer something lowdown moan-bad.
Heh, right on, right on, a cashmere sweater, dag thing nobody but robobots reads these posts~ got to " Move To Work"