I get asked for poetry recommendations all the time. Mostly, people want to know which contemporary women poets they should be reading. This is my Amazon list of personal favorites. It is my hope that I can maybe help someone discover a new favorite female voice in a  historically male-dominated genre.

Lady Poets Who Get It

Also, if you have a Kindle or other e-reader and would be interested in a sampler in the form of an anthology of quality contemporary women’s poetry, you should check this out the superb Fire On Her Tongue, edited by Washington state poets Kelli-Russell Agodon and Annette Spaulding-Convy.

Soldier on, ladies!

So, I got it in my head for some reason to not post my poem drafts for NaPoWriMo on my blog this year. Instead, I’ve christened the month of April my “quit-pissing-around-and-submit-your-shit” month. I’ve been cranking out material (most of which I have actually LIKED believe it or not), revising the living hell out of it and sending it happily off into the tangerine sunset, either by e-mail or postal mail. I’ve gotten some acceptances, a ton of rejections (which is both fine and expected) and A LOT of very valuable feedback. Win-win, either way

Speaking of winning, I’m excited to say that I have a 3 poem “sea” themed  feature in the always fantastic Rose Red Review, which is edited by the lovely and talented Larissa Nash. Go…read…sprinkle the feed with magical comments! Larissa runs a publication of exceptional quality and beauty, and she deals with some pretty off-the-wall shit to keep it that way, let me tell you. If you enjoy Rose Red Review, please be sure to drop her a line and let her know.

I was lucky enough to spend a fantastic evening  with a good writerly friend of mine, Ginger Hamilton. We stayed up late into the night discussing a little bit of everything– from the perks and pitfalls of nurturing a writing career, ex-husbands and the tricky whore that is the universe. I had the distinct pleasure of getting to hear Ginger read some of her favorite stories that she’s written aloud. It was magical. Seriously, you should take the time to seek out her short stories if you have the opportunity. She is a fun and funny lady just bursting with life and overflowing with wisdom, and I feel very lucky to know her. The universe usually sends some pretty cool people my way. I suppose I should learn to trust it more.

At the moment, I find myself struggling through a period of Plath-like “I SUCK.” Meh. I’ll get over it. The universe has my back.

World Poetry Day was declared by UNESCO (the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) in 1999 as a day to support and appreciate poets and poetry throughout the world.

In honor of this day, I want to share with you one of my very favorite poems of all-time. Seriously, if I had a top-ten list, this gem would shoot straight to the top, and it’s only fitting that the poem was written by David Wagoner and is included in his 1999 collection Traveling Light: Collected and New Poems.

Enjoy!

The Silence of the Stars

 

When Laurens van der Post one night
In the Kalihari Desert told the Bushmen
He couldn’t hear the stars
Singing, they didn’t believe him.  They looked at him,
Half-smiling.  They examined his face
To see whether he was joking
Or deceiving them.  Then two of those small men
Who plant nothing, who have almost
Nothing to hunt, who live
On almost nothing, and with no one
But themselves, led him away
From the crackling thorn-scrub fire
And stood with him under the night sky
And listened.  One of them whispered,
Do you not hear them now?
And van der Post listened, not wanting
To disbelieve, but had to answer,
No.  They walked him slowly
Like a sick man to the small dim
Circle of firelight and told him
They were terribly sorry,
And he felt even sorrier
For himself and blamed his ancestors
For their strange loss of hearing,
Which was his loss now.  On some clear nights
When nearby houses have turned off their televisions,
When the traffic dwindles, when through streets
Are between sirens and the jets overhead
Are between crossings, when the wind
Is hanging fire in the fir trees,
And the long-eared owl in the neighboring grove
Between calls is regarding his own darkness,
I look at the stars again as I first did
To school myself in the names of constellations
And remember my first sense of their terrible distance,
I can still hear what I thought
At the edge of silence where the inside jokes
Of my heartbeat, my arterial traffic,
The C above high C of my inner ear, myself
Tunelessly humming, but now I know what they are:
My fair share of the music of the spheres
And clusters of ripening stars,
Of the songs from the throats of the old gods
Still tending even tone-deaf creatures
Through their exiles in the desert.

 

 

 

 

What better way to kick-start National Poetry Month (a few weeks early!) than with a poetry giveaway? The BIG POETRY GIVEAWAY, in fact.

The BIG POETRY GIVEAWAY is hosted this year by poet Susan Rich over at The Alchemist’s Kitchen, so if you want more details about how you can participate by having a giveaway of your very own, you’ll find all the details on her blog.

Basically, the gist of the BIG POETRY GIVEAWAY is that I am now charged with the pleasurable task of sharing poetry with you. I can deal.

From now until the end of National Poetry Month (midnight on April 30th, 2013), you will have a chance to enter and win one of three poetry books (Okay, so it’s supposed to be 2, but I REALLY like giving stuff away!). One book featuring my own poetry and two books written by two of my  favorite poets.

**All you have to do to enter is leave a comment with your name and e-mail address (so that I can contact you if you win), and yes, it really is that simple. No fuss, no muss and I’m picking up the tab at the post office, so no worries there.

Here’s what you might win:

The Journey to Crone anthology – 180 poems written by 79 amazing ladies (and me!)

OR

Murder Ballad by Jane Springer, which won the 2011 Beatrice Hawley Award. An amazing work!

OR

          Feeding Holy Cats: The Poet’s Experience in Israel by the incomparable Rick Lupert, who is also the proprietor of one of my favorite online poetry venues, the Poetry Superhighway

So, what are you waiting for? You know you’re hungry for some FREE poetry! Have at it!

I’m excited to announce the release (as of March 8, 2013, International Women’s Day) of the Journey to Crone anthology by independent UK publisher Chuffed Buff Books. My poem “Housework” is included, as well as the fine work of over 80 amazing women poets worldwide!

For now, the anthology is only shipping within the UK and the rest of Europe, but it will be available globally through Amazon in April. I can’t wait to get my hands on a physical copy!

From the publisher’s website:

A captivating and insightful collection of poetry that reflects all things maiden, mother and crone. Written by women, this anthology aims to voice and cherish the vast experiences of womanhood and female wisdom.

Our third day in New Orleans, it snowed for “the third time in 50 years”, the tour guide told us as we sat huddled in his van with a couple from New York City with thick east-coast accents who made snotty remarks about this southern city’s inability to deal with even a light snowfall, all of its daily business grinding to sudden, jarring halt.

On our way to River Road and its array of grand plantation houses, we were turned back. All roads leading out of the city had been closed, deemed too slick and dangerous to be navigated safely. Back at our hotel, we turned on the TV, caught snippets of the local news in the gray place between sex and sleep. Another murder, another rape, another dark day full of betrayals, all the terrible things that even the snow could not stop.

Outside, we walked the quiet, ghostlit streets. You kept the heavy hood of your coat drawn up, begging to be back inside. I wore my hair windswept and wild, feeling happy and lucky to be alive in a city so often untouched by the smooth, white hands of winter. The Cabildo and, in fact, all of Jackson Square, towered over us, rising like a choir of stone angels out of the storm.

I keep these things inside of me, still─ the deserted streets, the lamp posts festooned with holly, the wet sidewalks, the icy churning of the Mississippi, the locals who stood in doorways, dumb with wonder, catching snowflakes on their tongues.

The warmth of your body as you relented, finally, to my boundless joy and kissed me in the narrow swoop of Pirate’s Alley, the wind rushing like the distant moaning of spirits through the frozen tunnels of our ears.

This is a short, odd piece that I’ve been sitting on for awhile now. I’m not always the best judge of my own work, but I will say that I feel something here is not working, though I can’t put my finger on it….

Nonetheless, I thought I’d share, because I don’t really see this poem/fragment/thing ever finding a proper home…or getting the overhaul it surely needs, because I’m not too worried about it to be honest. It will most likely die here. And that’s okay. We have an understanding.

On the Isle of Black Dogs

You pressed your teeth into my skin,

left behind a savage throbbing.

Rough orange tongues of sun

licked the west side of our cabin

then scattered away like rabbits.

A deep biting cold rode ashore

on the ripples stones make

as they cut into a body of water,

the promise of winter’s arrival,

dead things dangling from its teeth,

crept across the lake,

its yellow eyes burning

like leaves.

I have always sucked at titles.

Anyway, here’s a rough draft of a divorce poem. Rough as in I finished writing this thing like ten minutes ago, and now I am going to post the raw, unedited version here and let it sit for a few days until I am fresh enough to go back and fix what needs fixing.

If you have any suggestions, please don’t hesitate. I’m not above constructive criticism, and I would never turn away friendly, writerly advice.

Also, I guess this doesn’t have to be a divorce poem at all. It is for me, obviously…but it could just be about that awkward moment when you have to return the pile of shit that the other person left at your place, and there are still all those memories and feelings you’re dealing with in your head.

It’s too early for me to even attempt to be eloquent…make of this what you will.

**UPDATE**

I’ve deleted the rough draft of this poem because I have recently edited and submitted the final copy to a lit journal. Once I submit the final draft of a piece, I take down the rough draft. It’s only fair. I want everyone to know that I really appreciated the feedback and the kind words. It helped muchly. You guys rock more than you know.

I’m having one of those poet moments. If you’re a poet, then you probably know exactly what I mean by this.

You have an idea. It’s been ruminating for awhile in your brain. So, you go to write a poem, and suddenly, all of the elegant language and brilliant imagery that has been collecting inside your head just slips away into fucking oblivion.

I have these days when I really feel that all I am writing is crap. I know, on a intellectual level, that all writers have these days. But on that basic, artistic, animal level…I stand (or sit, actually) stupefied.

In creeps the fear on its little, spidery legs. The fear that I have run out of things to say. Either that, or I have run out of creative ways to say what needs to be said.

To be fair to myself and my work, my head has really not been in a good place lately. I’m a miserable, depressed mess. Don’t get me wrong, I know that I am very lucky in life. Not to sound conceited, but I know that I have a life that many would envy, but depression is one of those sneaky, messy things that really doesn’t give a shit what kind of life you have, who you are, who or what you hold dear. It creeps inside like a thief in the night to steal away all of your happiness and common sense, and it brings its nasty, drunken horde of friends along with it just to make sure that its interference is as thorough and invasive as possible. It gets its hooks deep inside you and never really lets go.

Depression is something that is managed. It is never completely defeated.

Depression is an asshole.

It is the evil ex who fucked you over a lifetime ago and taught you to fear intimacy.

It is the former best friend who betrayed you when she slept with your college boyfriend, the one you really loved and thought you would marry.

It is the teacher who called you stupid in third grade and told you that you would never amount to much of anything at all.

It is a lot of equally devastating shit. I am pretty much out of comparisons at this point, so I will try to stop being so melodramatic now and try to move forward with this stupid poem.

For crissakes, it’s just a fucking poem. Just words on a page.

Just a poem <—- There is no such thing.

I’m super excited to be able to announce that I will have a chapbook, “True North,” published in September by the always excellent Maverick Duck Press! Seriously, I’ve never been disappointed with any chapbook I’ve ever ordered from them, and I have discovered several amazing new (to me) poets this way.

I’m a chapbook hound. The thing I love about chapbooks is the way they can give you a truly intimate snapshot of a poet and their particular style. In a way, chapbooks are their own kind of poem. Succinct, to the point, truthful and beautiful.

If you think about it, chapbooks are really the backbone (and the marrow) of the poetry community. These small publications allow awesome talent, that may otherwise have never received a proper introduction into the literary world, to be read and taken more seriously. Having a chapbook in circulation can give a poet something concrete to build upon, something more solid than just a dream or an idea.

By purchasing chapbooks directly from poets and from small presses like MDP, you help keep poetry alive!

Okay, so now I am through with my shameless plug. Except, not really…

I will also be doing a reading to celebrate the release of “True North” at The Daily Grind in Mount Holly, New Jersey on Friday, September 20^th. If you’re in the neighborhood, it would be cool to see you there. I mean it.