Monday, April 14, 2008

This weekend I went to Groliers and bought

Matthew Rohrer - Green Light
Christan Hawkey - Citizen Of
Cannibal #3

I couldn't believe they had Cannibal on hand. I do love the all poetry mart, but its selection can be a bit stuffy. I'm delighted with Green Light. His latest Rise Up inspired me a lot this winter. Other things I acquired lately are

Nin Andrews - Dear Professor
Nin Andrews - Sleeping With Houdini
C.D. Wright - Rising, Falling, Hovering
The Best American Prose Poems - edited by David Lehman

Nin Andrews sister left those books for me last Friday and asked if she could read at my bookstore. People leave behind books for me all the time. They're mostly garbage, but this was awesome. I had read her before. She will be coming in September.

I feel an obsession with C.D. Wright coming on. It may just be her commanding name. Either way I have her Selected Poems coming my way that I need to read as soon as I can.

I have been reading a lot, but am having trouble finishing anything. I am still reading Jane Kenyon. In his collection of essays,Orphan Factory, Charles Simic considers Jane Kenyon and the lyric poem. He evades critical analysis, instead wraps her into an impassioned voice of "naked humanity." I picture her as with a sweater on. She strives to ascertain the "uncomplicated mind" through the precarious mundanities as captured through everyday witness. I honestly find her work helpful and am surprised I've gone so long without it.

I came across this blog which regards a thought I've been mulling over lately. I've seen a few editors when stating guidelines for their magazines ask for "pure" work (my words, not theirs) where it cannot be previously published in any realm, including personal blogs. I don't know how I feel about this. For one, it is good to regard the work as more sacred than the writer may treat it, giving it the devoted attention it may or may not deserve. But calling into question the credibility of a piece because it has surfaced on the authors blog seems extreme to me. Writers' blogs in particular walk an odd line between an attempt at a personal connection and a curriculum vitae. There is a self awareness, especially when the possibility of writers/editors/mothers who may find you through links to your work. But however polished an individual may seem this medium is basically a practice. There needs to be room for do overs and drafts. I often like to post work, usually to counter self indulgent rants like this one with a product of productivity. Lots of great writers post what they're working on. The voyeurism can sometimes be an inspiration for a creative process. Sometimes its finished, sometimes it'll be changed. Either way, I'd hate for it to be considered "published." Just because the little orange button on the left says it, it doesn't make it true.

Tonight, under heavy eyelids, I have written a tribute to do overs set in my favorite annual celebratory time of doing things over, daylight savings time. It is called Practice. For now anyway. Most likely it will change.


Let the annual party to turn back our clocks commence in the moonlit field. Let us dance in the headlights to the sound of our car radios tuned to one late night harp solo. And then, as if fireflies aborted from a jelly jar, all the shit we’ve said in the last hour never really happened. Like the mention of an underwater kiss shared between you and your brother last summer. Or the confession you fed me by the tire that you keep the allowance left in your daughters’ pockets when you do her laundry. In that hour was the only time you didn’t call me uncle and for once I felt positively corrected in my wet clothes. The country calculator. The reason we hate math and the days drive slower.

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