Fix Me

"In my mind, I already had it," he said.   The master drummer James Edward Knowles.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFinmFxI6eM&feature=em-share_video_user

"We Gonna Eat Next Week; Gotta Eat Next Week"

Thank you Mr. Redding. Thank you kindly. How I wish you were still with us. A true poet in your heart, you were. 

So, in honor of Nat'l Poetry Month, in the past one week alone, I’ve attended three poetry readings, captured four astonishing poets delivering their work, read the most profound debut poetry collection I’ve ever encountered, and drove, by myself, 92 mph down I-10 to Tucson, and back to Gilbert. And lived to tell.

R.S. Mengert

So much to herald I’ll try to allow the pictures to do most of the talking~~~~~~~Last Friday I was honored to host the duo poetry readings of John Gosslee and R.S. Mengert at Changing Hands Bookstore. It was a lovely evening filled with the audience's camaraderie for the commitment to poetry. Nights like that are really magical. The Lowdown:

R.S.Mengert: engaging, charming, strong imagery, narrative poet. God bless him, he wore a coat and tie, with a vintage tie clip. He is a fine poet, writing good sound work. And you could not meet a nicer person. He is currently teaching at Phoenix College, so if you're a budding writer or poet, for goodness sake's, get over there, enroll and take a class with him. You'll be happy you did. 

John Gosslee: promoting his book 12: SONNETS FOR THE ZODIAC. Wild man, wilderness poetry, lyrical, vexing, teasing. Looks eerily and exactly like a young "Moondance" Van Morrison. [Can't help but score him big points for that one.]

John Gosslee

John is throwing red-wax-sealed bottles into large bodies of water as he traverses the country on his book tour. Each bottle has one of his poems inside. I was so enthralled by the bottle he brought up to the lectern that at the afterward party in the pub next door, he gave me that particular bottle: #62 out of 150. The poem inside is called “Portrait of an Inner Life.” It perches atop my writing desk these days.  I love everything about it -- the poem inside, the numbered scrap of paper, thick crimson wax atop the bottle, delicate red ribbon that emerges out of the wax, winding its way down the length of green glass. [He scored more points for that one too.] 

What's a woman to say? You can become seduced by a bottle.

A few days later it was off to the Tempe Center for the Arts to hear the endearing clarity of the poetry of Jeredith Merrin. Her poetry is breathtaking in its normalcy. I found myself so moved by the decency and precision in her work. I knew I'd be a fan of her poetry for life. She has two collections out, BAT ODE and SHIFT, both from The University of Chicago Press. Her poetry consistently reminds me ~~ tell the truth, tell the truth. Bells and whistles are for cows and trains. Here's one of her brilliant, serene poems:

FAMILY REUNION

The divorced mother and her divorcing
daughter. The about-to-be ex-son-in-law
and the ex-husband's adopted son.
The divorcing daughter's child, who is

the step-nephew of the ex-husband's
adopted son. Everyone cordial:
the ex-husband's second wife
friendly to the first wife, warm

to the divorcing daughter's child's
great-grandmother, who was herself
long ago divorced. Everyone
grown used to the idea of divorce.

Almost everyone has separated
from the landscape of a childhood.
Collections of people in cities
are divorced from clean air and stars.

Toddlers in day care are parted
from working parents, schoolchildren
from the assumption of unbloodied
daylong safety. Old people die apart

from all they've gathered over time,
and in strange beds. Adults
grow estranged from a God
evidently divorced from History;

most are cut off from their own
histories, each of which waits
like a child left at day care.
What if you turned back for a moment

and put your arms around yours?
Yes, you might be late for work;
no, your history doesn't smell sweet
like a toddler's head. But look

at those small round wrists,
that short-legged, comical walk.
Caress your history--who else will?
Promise to come back later.

Pay attention when it asks you
simple questions: Where are we going?
Is it scary? What happened? Can
I have more now? Who is that?

-- Jeredith Merrin

And then it was a race to pack an overnight bag. The next day I drove down to Tucson, which from the Valley is a line as straight as a ruler, but if you know me you know that driving a car is not a highlight for me. It is not a joy; it is not an achievement. This does not mean I am not a good driver; it only means I do not care to be a driver. I care to be a "driven". But I do know the meaning of "imaginative speed" if my back is to the wall. And by the way, if you're interested in a trickle of water for a shower and very low, low light to get dressed and made-up in for a hotel room, but you want everything else to be really hippity-hop, chi-chi, reserve a room at aloft.  

You may not feel like you got all the shampoo out of your hair, but if you want to sit on a lobby couch, surrounded by kitschy furniture and eat so-so finger food, this is the place. 

But with it, I put up. Because I'd come to hear a seer read at the University of Arizona Poetry Center. Ilya Kaminsky was reading. And this reading I will never forget. Yes, he looks like an overgrown cherub, and yes, he's received more accolades than the next twenty poets behind him. Yes, he wore the obligatory washed-out jeans. And yes, due to his deafness, and his thick, tone-impaired Russian accent, his voice is like listening to tumbling crystals through roiling porridge. And yes, his book, famous now, DANCING IN ODESSA, has deservedly won numerous prestigious awards. And yes, his subsequent book, MUSICA HUMANA, too. The poems, as he was reading them, were displayed on film on the wall behind him. Poems crammed with the kissing of the behind of knees, the singing and unsinging in the streets of cities possibly there and possibly not, the worshipful appreciation of a loaf of bread.  The crowd grew so large they had to open the Poetry Center's wall, which really is elaborate glass doors, so that they could add eight, nine rows of twenty chairs, each row, outside into the courtyard.  You know how sometimes at a reading you'll let your mind drift, or look around at any sort of movement,  or crane your neck to see who's just arrived? This did not happen that night. I tell you, we sat entranced. The 150+ of us. We didn't move a muscle, collectively. At one point, he looked up from his book and he said, "Are you all asleep?" You could hear a pin drop, we were so mesmerized. I swear this is true. Ilya Kaminsky identifies himself a poet, but believe me, this man is a rabbi.

The wonderful debut collection of poetry I've discovered? The astonishing one? The one that makes me weep with the pure joy of its poetry? There's been a lot of talk lately about "The Next Big Thing." Everybody loves the moniker. We've all been bandying it about in reflective self-interviews. I have found the poet who fits this mantle, without any fanfare whatsoever. Her name is Lynn Melnick. Her book is IF I SHOULD SAY I HAVE HOPE, just out from a great independent lit press, YesYes Books. This is a picture of her. She is unassuming, humble, kind, sweet, humorous, generous and as gifted like an angel poet. One day the baton will be passed to her.

I don't say this often. In fact, I don't believe I've ever said this before. 
Lynn Melnick. The real thing.

Wallflower

It used to be that I was the prize
for stalking shadows, for keeping your trap shut.
I'd paint a corner to set myself in,

round that corner, smash a corner to see
what sprung up next. When I knew you loved me
you let me stay the night.

If I were you I'd erect a staircase and I'd climb
stone by stone just to escape myself.
Believe me, I've tried.

But you wanted me with you.
And I get it now.
The fronds are grooving on their flamingo stalks.

They're all we like about what we call California.
Here's our world, then, a dawn in the distance.
If you had told me, when I could speak only in whispers,

that the light hitting the sickly coral of the beach hotels
could travel further inland
and all the way east to find me,

this spot of a girl, grayer and gray and pink,
I might have hastened from my ambush
angling upward to the moon,

black and gravitational,
upending the illuminated trappings
we cannot live in this life without.

-- Lynn Melnick

April Comes in with an "A" as in Alphabet

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH!


New venues coming for poetry readings! New acceptances of poems at literary journals later this year! Brand new poems being written, and revised, and tussled with, and ironed out. It's a great month to make friends with the written word, folks! 

Mr. Rickles

I spent Friday night watching a legend. I can’t precisely say he “performed,” because he’s 86 years old, and performance is a peculiarly elusive ability at that age. A legendary comedian, he is one of the very last of a generation-honored group of entertainers, which is primarily why I wanted to see him in person.

To my ear, he said two hilarious things over the course of an hour. The first was, after he’d simply entered onstage to a roaring standing ovation and said a few “let me orient myself” comments into the mic, and after he received raucous laughter and applause just for being himself, he turned to his orchestra conductor, pianist and right-hand man, and into the microphone, he said “Are we done yet?” Absolutely priceless. I must’ve laughed a full minute.

The second time, much later in the show, he was telling one of his many “back in the day” stories. This one was about Frank Sinatra. It wasn’t part of a joke or even a punchline. It was just his set-up for his reminiscence. He said, “Through the door walk Frank and his friends, who are, uh, scientists…” and from an audience of 1,300, guess who was laughing so hard the musicians were looking at her? Yep. 

We stood in ovation to that man at least five times. The rest of his onstage performance was unusually tender and meandering. There was a fantastic 13-piece orchestra, who clearly adored him. There was the singing of heartfelt, smaltzy songs hearkening to memories and patriotism. I paid great attention to his presence. I wondered why he would put himself through that series of paces. He had difficulty walking across the stage and handling the mic cord. Of course I know there’s the money, but I wondered if there was something else. Some other reason why a person, particularly at that juncture in life, doesn’t simply cease doing the thing they know best how to do.

I’m thinking about if it’s useful to be puzzled by all this. Diminishment is a worthy consideration. Amplification is a worthy consideration.

Here Comes the Judge

Nothing like a real-life Maricopa County Superior Court Judge smiling and holding up a copy of my book.

This judge happens to be exemplary, righteous and wise. The Honorable Bruce R. Cohen. 

He is the inspiration behind the poetic matter for two poems in THE DAY JUDGE SPENCER LEARNED THE POWER OF METAPHOR: "The Persimmon Can See You," and "Why the Judge's Chambers Can Can-Can."

"Why the Judge's Chambers..." is available to read here. Just scroll down a little bit; this is my book's page on my publisher's website. 

And he does look dashing in black.

Very special. 

AWP Writers’ Conference -- NASCAR Race -- Ten Comments -- You Make the Call

1.  Do not wear chocolate-brown suede boots.  Although they’re gorgeous, they won’t look that way after you’ve trudged a half-mile through a dirt parking-lot to get from, and get back to, your automobile, OR spending a whole day whirling like a dervish darting from book booth to book booth, searching for that elusive golden book-calf. At the car race, you ask yourself, why is the dirt so wet in places? At the conference, why do the eyes of the people get glassier and glassier?

2.  At a NASCAR race, you can see a woman, out in public, in the dirt parking lot, relieving herself in full view, save for her open vehicle door. You will never for the rest of your life forget that image; additionally, you remain bewildered as to how much liquid one woman can literally contain. At an AWP Conference, you can see MFA students euphemistically emptying their bowels upon seeing the famous poet/writer of their dreams at the lectern or sitting at the panel table, or perched upon the hotel barstool. You cannot remember even one of their faces.

3.  You now know why the dirt is wet in the parking lot at a NASCAR race. You still cannot remember a single MFA face.

4.  Everything smells like mustard and wet socks for the first hour of every day. Car race: French’s. Conference: Gulden’s. Socks: not cashmere at either venue.

5.  Essentially, same amount of people.  Car race: 100,000. Conference: 11,000. Big difference: writers move faster, but with unfulfilling efficiency; race audiences, much larger width-wise, but the utilization of any deficits works to their advantage.

6.  A poet or writer would most likely submit later to scientific testing upon their own anatomy by a mad doctor to have an audience of 100,000 listening raptly to him/her read poetry from his/her latest volume. A car race enthusiast drives 95 miles an hour on the freeway just to get to the race on time, and that person is extremely happy not to be noticed by anybody.

7.  You can lose someone in a crowd at NASCAR and you will not locate them again – ever. You can lose someone, intentionally, in a crowd at the AWP conference – but there they are in the elevator, or two rows up at a panel talk. Moreover, they will turn around to look at you.

8.  Liquor. Everybody in the pool.

9.  You will not hear the Blues playing anywhere at a NASCAR race. You will be able to run for your life to at least one Blues club somewhere, within two blocks of your hotel. Memorize that path.

10.  The NASCAR drivers are protected by a high fence and then plenty of pit security. After the race, they are in their giant mobile homes and on the road before you’ve even gotten out of the metal stands. If there weren’t a law against it, you could literally butt foreheads with one famous writer/poet after another until you’ve knocked your own self out. Or gotten so hungry that by then all you want is a nice quiet meal. And a physician.

Bonus material:

T-shirts at a NASCAR race cost $26.00 and other paraphernalia goes up from there in price. T-shirts at an AWP conference cost $26.00 on the first day but by Saturday they’re practically throwing the stuff away. At NASCAR, hope to like anybody besides Number 48, if you’re interested in buying anything. Unless you have two hours to wait in line. Which people do, and God bless ‘em, happily. At an AWP conference, go ahead and like anybody of any number.

Race Pit Row. Phoenix West-Side Hills. Unusually overcast sky.

See you next year in Seattle, AWP!       

NASCAR, that was plenty. And thanks!

11 Things for a Woman to Note While Watching a First NASCAR Race, Start to Finish, on TV

1.   There is a serious amount of praying before the race.

2.   You realize people could lose their lives shockingly suddenly, and perhaps all that praying isn't just a going-through of the motions.         

3.   There is no point to a grass divider between the track and the pit.

4.   A woman behind the wheel races a lime green car; she stays with the top pack for 200 full laps, avoids a series of nasty multi-car crashes and even leads a lap for the first time in history. If you are a woman watching this, no one could ever have convinced you the degree to which your heart would swell with pride.

5.   Just the sight of the M&M’S logo will make you crave M&M’S.

6.   This desire will not happen if you see a logo for a hardware store or network service.

7.   Anything, and that means anything, flying off one of those race cars during the race immediately turns into a piece of shrapnel.

8.   Face it. Men race car drivers look homely and half-baked. How on earth could this ever happen, no one really knows, but their wives are stunning.

9.   What is wrong with a little side bumping occasionally?

10. Ear muffs are not an elective. They do not, however, come in pink or animal print.

11.  Next week, when you are physically at your first NASCAR race, try very hard not to act as if you too, could drive 196 miles an hour, given half a chance. Don’t forget to remind the folks you can’t drive stick; it would have to be automatic. Take note of how far over they bend at the waist, howling with laughter.

"The Next Big Thing" Interview

Cynthia Schwartzberg Edlow 

“THE NEXT BIG THING” INTERVIEW

Author: Cynthia Schwartzberg Edlow

 I have been tagged to participate in “The Next Big Thing” Interview Series. My deepest thanks to the multi-talented and gifted poet Helene Cardona for inviting me to respond to some questions about my poetry collection, published by Salmon Poetry in 2012. Helene is the author of several books, and now currently, Dreaming My Animal Selves, forthcoming from Salmon Poetry in March, 2013. Her Facebook Fan Page is: https://www.facebook.com/HeleneCardonaFanPage?fref=ts

****

TNBT: What is the title of your book of book of poetry?

THE DAY JUDGE SPENCER LEARNED THE POWER OF METAPHOR.

TNBT: Where did the idea come from for the book?

No single idea created this book. The poems here were born from the theater of human behavior I’ve participated in or been witness to for some long time. I’m always aware that my job is to be present, take note and document the findings. The poeticizing of the findings comes afterward, in the working of the craft. These are poems that are placed in personal familial surroundings, work or woodland surroundings, the gravity of courtroom events, the medical examiner’s table, the points of view from birds and widows, and reminiscences of young minds and those more experienced. Most of all, you’ll find the recurring theme of the sometimes bewildering, sometimes soothing, circuitousness of the astonishing qualities of the world’s machinery, no matter how much we as humans attempt to intercede or concoct.

TNBT: What genre does your book fall under?

This is a book of Poetry.

TNBT: What actors would you choose to play the part of your characters in a move rendition?

Well, let’s see. The Chief Medical Examiner is based on a real person, who himself is brilliant, charismatic, moody and excruciatingly frustrating. So I see Peter O’Toole perfectly fitting that role. All the attorneys and judges are based on real individuals also – so I’d see Mark Ruffalo and Mickey Rourke as attorneys, because they’re great actors and they can turn on a dime from quirky to lethal; Sissy Spacek would play the recurring female attorney who possesses a brilliant mind and some madness in her blood. The judges: off the top of my head, I see Jason Robards wearing a robe, and the exemplary Jack Lemmon, too. And in some of the lust poems, of which there are quite a few, when there’s a steamy love scene ahead, just insert Robert Mitchum, because he’s been my dreamboat since I was 8-years-old – so what point to stop now? Sidney Poitier, love interest fantasy marriage material. Invariable that most of my favorite actors are no longer with us. They really don’t make them like they used to.

TNBT: What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

Life, as we know it, is extraordinary and precious, and a privilege to experience – it is not bestowed to us by right, but by peculiar, engaging and unlikely accident.

TNBT: How long did it take you to write the first draft of the manuscript?

There never was any “first” draft of this manuscript. I was working on my Master’s Degree in the mid ‘80’s, writing and publishing poems, and I won a very sweet award from the National Poetry Competition Chester H. Jones Foundation during that time. The judges were Robert Creeley, Charles Wright and Diane Wakoski. Shortly thereafter, I had a poem published in The American Poetry Review and I thought surely I was sailing on the poetry river. Soon after that, I completely stopped writing – a cold hard stop – for a period of almost ten years. When I began writing poetry again, around 1998, it was with a more knowledgeable vigor and mature poetic voice. In retrospect, it could not have occurred in a better fashion for me. The time spent away from the page allowed me to truly uncover my poetic self. I was very fortunate. As I began writing again, the poetry came strong and fast, and probably 95% of the poems in the book were picked up by literary journals, anthologies and awards, and I began seeing various themes naturally generate from the work being created. So, the short answer is it took twenty years to write this book. My next collection-in-progress will take three years at the most. That’s called mastering the art of condensing time!

TNBT: Who or what inspired you to write this book?

Of all the questions, this is the most difficult, but satisfying, for me. My primary inspiration is music – soul, rhythm&blues, the blues, rock&roll.  It’s what influenced me before I even knew what poetry was. I was listening to The Coasters, The Temptations, Aretha Franklin, Otis Redding and myriad others way before I’d ever heard of Yeats, or Bishop or William Matthews or Sharon Olds. The sound of the music – the voices, the harmonies, the instruments, all combined together – was how I interpreted how my poetry should speak itself and be read. An important thing to mention is, it was also these amazing colorful, potent, imagistic lyrics that just swelled into my heart and mind. So when I turned to my own poetry, it became about infusing specific kinds of rhythm and language forms into each line, each phrase, each image. It’s not about rhyming; it’s about a soulfulness.

TNBT: What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

Sex galore. And plenty of it. Death galore, at the hands of a master. The trials and tribulations of human beings traversing the battleground of legal troubles. Finding serious love in a world of chance. To use a phrase from my favorite artist of all time, Van Morrison, I hope you feel this book is permeated with “a sense of wonder.” It’s the greatest gift to possess in experiencing this world.

TNBT: Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

The Day Judge Spencer Learned the Power of Metaphor was published by Salmon Poetry Ltd., Ireland’s groundbreaking, independent poetry publisher, and is distributed in the US by Dufour Editions, in the UK by Central Books, London, and in Ireland by CMD Booksource.

Heartfelt gratitude goes to my publisher, Jessie Lendennie, and to Siobhan Hutson, Salmon Poetry’s production manager. It is an honor to be a Salmon poet and affiliated with Salmon Poetry, Ltd.

****

It is with great pleasure and admiration that I introduce the following tagged poets and writers for next Wednesday’s “The Next Big Thing” interviews:

Charles Alexander http://www.chax.org/poets/alexander.htm

David Chorlton https://www.facebook.com/#!/david.chorlton.7 

Beth Copeland  http://bethcopeland-writing.com/about/

Doug Molitor http://www.dougsdozen.com

John Morgan  www.johnmorganpoet.com

****

My "The Next Big Thing" Interview

Just a heads-up: Next Wednesday, February 20th, LitBridge, will be posting my reflective interview about THE DAY JUDGE SPENCER LEARNED THE POWER OF METAPHOR, including some of the aspects that led to the inspiration for writing the book, and even what actors I'd choose for particular characters in various poems. Check it out next Wednesday!

My Queendom for a Broom Closet

 Here's a photo journey while I meandered through the mesmerizing Musical Instrument Museum in Phoenix.  I'm actually saving the very best photos for single blog entries. There was so much there that was so gorgeous that I truly felt the need to hide in a broom closet and live surreptitiously in the museum for a solid week.

Leonard Bernstein's baton:

Elvis' cowboy outfit from the film, Charro, and written instructions for the cast to get in their clothes and be at the right location on time. Breakfast on the plane, no fancy stuff. Hey folks, this is show business:

How cymbals are made:

An intricate piano, a guitar-maker's bench, a crazy bird-lute:

Of course, there's the Apollonia organ, still making music, every 2PM, every museum day. The accordians open and close, the bass drum booms, but no one appears to pull out the tenor saxaphones. Nevertheless, it's one hot show:

And the king of all beat:

Simply the best. How I love music.