Thankful Thursday: Sniffle, Snuffle, Whine

Sometimes it's hard to show up.

The good thing about Thankful Thursday is that I find myself very aware of the people, places and things that bring me joy. The bad thing is that I've set up a structure that requires my participation and sometimes, like this week, I'm not feeling very grateful.

I know, it's not nice to feel this way, and even worse to admit. It makes me petty and small and full of whine. I have a good life, filled with loving family and friends. Still, despite a multitude of reasons to feel grateful, I am cranky with a cold that has left me lazy and leaden.

My steps were heavy yesterday as I greeted the 9 and 10-year-olds for Happy Hour for Young Readers & Writers.  As usual, they bounded into the room eager to share their words and worlds. The smallest girl rushed in with a whirl, her hands stretched to give me her latest artwork.

For you, she said, though we both knew it was not really for me but something she had made to fill a spare moment between homework and happy hour. Sometimes you just take the gift, not as intended but as needed. I took her art; I needed the love.

After we shared our latest favorite words, we did a quick freewrite. One wrote about Halloween and her pirate costume. Another wrote a list of everything she wants to do, which includes traveling to France, playing a board game (instead of writing), and eating whip cream. Another wrote about the stormy weather.

Inspired by the gift of a word, I wrote about love. I am thankful for the smile that spread across the young girl's face when she realized that her action had created a positive reaction. Her simple gift stirred feelings that created a poem, that lifted a heart, that felt love.

Yes

Some days it's so easy to give love.
Others, the space between minutes is days long.
My eyes avoid yours. My voice trails, swallows itself.
The phone rings forever. I am never near.

Some days, a minute is a moment.
Your smile lights and spreads.
You offer me paper love, a vivid gift.
All I have to say is yes,
a word stronger than love,
and easier, too.

 

Gratitude. Appreciation. Praise. It's Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to appreciate people, places & things. What are you thankful for today?


The Artful Blend

I love art & word collaborations. And I'm loving the rise of animated poetry. Lately, I'm drawn to the beautiful blends at Motion Poems.

In 2008, an artist hears a poem and wants to share it with others. The artist, Angella Kassube, and the poet, Todd Boss, pool their talents and create short films involving poets, animators, illustrators and musicians. Here's a taste: 

 

This poem and more can be read, viewed and savored at motionpoems.com.

Want even more? The Poetry Foundation, a pioneer in animated poetry, now has a YouTube Channel for its Poetry Everywhere video project. Immerse yourself here.

 

Winner Announced!

Following a highly unscientific but honest drawing — my unbiased husband closed his eyes and picked a name from my special edition Women Writers Box — I am happy to announce the winner of the just-published, spine-fresh, crisp-paged book of poems Letters from the Emily Dickinson Room by Kelli Russell Agodon.

And the winner is . . .

Carol Berg!

Carol, your blog-comment skill has earned you a FREE copy of the much-praised book. Please provide me  (via email or in the comment section) with your mailing address so Kelli Russell Agodon, bless her generous poet heart, can mail the book to you.

Thanks to all for playing, reading, writing and inviting words to infuse & enthuse your lives.

And don't let the poetry love end with this drawing. Purchase Letters from the Emily Dickinson Room here.

 

Thankful Thursday


small things

the world is full of glass

unpack slowly

shake petals

serve tea

give wide starts

live among psalms

pull thin light

stand tall

give thanks

- drew myron 


Gratitude. Appreciation. Praise. It's Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to appreciate people, places & things. Do you do Thankful Thursday?  If so, let me know. I'd love to link to your blog. If not, get grateful here and now.

What are you thankful for today?

 

Poem as meal

A few weeks ago I enjoyed dinner with new friends.

The evening progressed, as these things often do, from drinks to banter to dinner at a well-appointed table. Relaxed and chatty, we settled into our seats. At each setting was a palm-size poem.

My heart fluttered — how perfect! how satisfying! A poem meal was mine! Our hostess read the poem and a grateful hush fell upon the room. The delicious dinner tasted even better under poetic influence.

The other day, I pulled on my jeans and in the back pocket I found the poem. How lovely to taste the memory of food, friends and poetry. 

Love

Czeslaw Milosz

Love means to learn to look at yourself
The way one looks at distant things
For you are only one thing among many.
And whoever sees that way heals his heart,
Without knowing it, from various ills—
A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.

Then he wants to use himself and things
So that they stand in the glow of ripeness.
It doesn't matter whether he knows what he serves:
Who serves best doesn't always understand.

 

Fast Five with Kelli Russell Agodon

Because five questions can lead to endless insight, I'm happy to introduce you to Kelli Russell Agodon. Her poetry collection, Letters from the Emily Dickinson Room, is easily my favorite book of 2010.

Born and raised in Seattle, Washington, Kelli Russell Agodon is the author of two poetry books, and is editor of Crab Creek Review. Letters from the Emily Dickinson Room was published this month and is dedicated to "those who write letters to the world."

You can win a free copy of this book. Simply post your name in the comments section below. The drawing will be held on Saturday, Oct. 23, 2010.  

I was delighted to see that many of these poems — and the book title — were influenced by your stay at the Sylvia Beach Hotel in Newport, Oregon, which is very near where I live. Which came first, the poem-letters, or the Emily Dickinson Room?

The poem-letters. I had been working on the collection for about two years when I stayed in the Emily Dickinson Room at the Sylvia Beach Hotel on a writing retreat with friends. It was in that room where I realized what I was writing about and was able to focus my collection and begin to write the poems that were missing. The title poem, “Letter from the Emily Dickinson Room” was written in that corner hotel room looking out at the Oregon coast realizing how much I craved calmness.

How would you describe your writing style?

If you’re asking about my style as in my method or process then my writing style is to write as many poems as I can and revise the ones I like best.  (And to try not to over-revise, something I’m quite good at.  I have killed many a poem by over-revising it and sucking out all of its energy and every spark.)

If you’re asking about my writing style as in characteristics or what is my voice or distinct form and/traits, then my writing style is conversational, sometimes surreal, sometimes narrative, sometimes humorous, usually accessible and with a dash of darkness for kicks.

Or maybe my writing style is glasses plus casual Fridays and black boots.

What is your favorite poem in this collection? Why?

Great question!  I like having to think about this as my easy answer would be, “They are all my favorites…”  But if I have to narrow it down to one, I’d say, Questions at Heaven’s Gate is probably my favorite because it was an underdog poem that I stood up for.  When my manuscript was accepted, I received some great advice on edits and suggestions on what poems to take out to make the collection stronger. This was one of the poems that was on the suggested “remove list.”

I remember feeling a deep gut instinct inside me that said: This poems needs to be in the collection.  On a personal level, this is very deeply an autobiographical poem about my father’s death and who he was, and in a certain way, how I’ve dealt with it (imagining him speaking with God, etc.). I love that I had to speak up for this poem and was glad I did.  I think it’s my favorite because it was almost not included.

Questions at Heaven's Gate (an excerpt)

I
When my father meets God
he says, Let me introduce myself . . .

When my father meets God
he says, Am I too early? Too late?

When my father meets God
he says, Do you serve drinks here?

When my father meets God
he says, It was easier not to believe.

When my father meets God
he says, I can see my house from up here.

When my father meets God
there is only the sound of my father
falling.

When my father meets God
he says, I can breathe again.

When my father meets God
rain returns to the city.

As an editor of a literary journal choosing from hundreds of poems to publish, what do you love? What do you loathe? 

I love poems that surprise me (and not in that shocking, swearing, taboo words/subjects way), but in fresh language, new images and putting the extraordinary into the ordinary. Anyone can write a poem about a shocking topic and have it stand out because it’s about a tragic occurrence or because of the nature of the subject, but I’m interested in writers who can write about a shopping trip, the forest, an experience in a way that connects me and makes me stop and pay attention.

There’s little I loathe beside people being unkind or poor manners. There’s more to love in poetry than to dislike.

I’m a collector of words and have my students collect words, too. What are your favorite words?

Hipsway, lollygagging, inky, salsa, penlight, oaf, shenanigans, tangle, moth, humdrum, hipbones, madronas, whiplash, bamboozle, numbskull, foxtrot, and prayer (though not necessarily in that order).

My least favorite word is filibuster. 

To win Letters from the Emily Dickinson Room, add your name and contact info in the comments section below by Friday, Oct. 22nd. Feeling shy? Email me!:  dcm@drewmyron.com

Your name will be entered in a random drawing. The winner will be announced on Saturday, October 23, 2010. 

Thankful Thursday: Sister-Friend

Gratitude. Appreciation. Praise. Please join me in Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to appreciate people, places & things.

Today I am grateful for my sister. 

It's not enough that she is raising six kids (three of which she and her husband adopted) and has, over the years, been foster mom to three other youngsters.

Now she offers even more inspiration: My sister Cindi has lost 75 pounds — steadily, healthfully — and has become what she haltingly calls a "real runner."

Two months ago she ran her first 5k, and last month completed her first duathalon. This is shocking! Cindi never ran, never even walked fast. She and I were sportless children, happy to hang out, watch Brady Bunch, and eat Capn' Crunch. 

Now she runs four to five miles each day. All her life, she has struggled with weight, gaining and losing the same dreadful pounds. Those of us who battle our bodies are well versed in the "eat less, move more" mantra. Knowing how to lose weight is the easy part. The real challenge is moving the body and changing the mind — day after day after day.

Even with this dramatic turnaround, Cindi is bashful about her success. "Oh, I've got a long way to go," she says, dismissing my praise. "This is the hardest thing I've ever done," she adds,  forgetting (or unfettered by) the burden of youngsters demanding everything her heart can give.

The weight loss is not just about fitting into the skinny jeans. Cindi is modeling good health for her family. At her daughter's grade school, she's active in the running club (while the other mothers walk and chat, Cindi runs).  And for her first 5k, she and her 12 year-old trained and raced together. 

Most important, she has finally put herself first. Sometimes that's the hardest part, she says. To let go of guilt. To feel worthy of time and effort when family needs press for attention.

"Today, instead of eating the box of chocolates, I went for a run," she says after a stressful day. "The old me would have ate like crazy. Today I chose to work out. I think I'm making progress."

More than progress, I say. Cindi is nourishing mind and body in the best possible way, and inspiring others (me!) to do the same. On this Thankful Thursday, I am thankful for Cindi, my sister and friend.

 How about you?  What are you thankful for today?

 

A few good things

Empire State Building, photograph by Thomas Hawk, appearing on tinywords.com

My head is full of assorted goodies. Let me share a few with you:

Tiny Words
Clean, spare design and strong work makes this website stand out from the crush of touchy-feely poetry choices. At Tiny Words, each season offers a new theme, and this fall the emphasis is on urban haiku. Bring on the city grit!

The Writer's Almanac
Free is my favorite word (along with frugal, bargain and betwixt). Everyday, The Writer's Almanac, a Garrison Keillor project, emails me a fresh poem for free. Some I love. Some I don't. But like fishing, a day of bad poems beats no poems at all.

Spirit First Poetry Contest
In 2010, its inaugural year, this contest received 750 poems from 42 states and 23 countries. It's back again — with cash prizes. Even better, there's no entry fee. That's what they call nothing to lose.

 

 

You'll kill.

Got a reading this weekend? Just in time — this nugget of advice from Lorin Stein, editor of the Paris Review:

It’s not your job to be ingratiating. Leave that to lounge singers. I find it embarrassing when a poet tries to be liked, or explain what he or she was thinking when she wrote blah-blah-blah. Patter is just a distraction—an apology.

My advice: Memorize the poems you plan to read. Anything spoken by heart commands attention. Bring the poems with you, so you can consult them if need be—but really, the way to win an audience over is to get up there, say your poems in a loud, clear voice, face out. Then say thank-you and get off stage.

You’ll kill.


Thankful Thursday: In Waiting

Gratitude. Appreciation. Praise. Please join me in Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to appreciate people, places & things.

My head and heart feel a bit brittle this week. I am waiting to chip, waiting to feel the appreciation buried a bit too deep. In the meantime, I am thankful for:

• Letters
The world is full of paper. 
Write to me.

— Agha Shahid Ali from "Stationery"

I love long, complicated, searching-the-heart letters. In a pinch, an email or Facebook message will appease. But really, I pine for pen on paper, words folded to fit an envelope that travels miles to find me.

• Kindness
On a hotel marquee I find wise words:
Be kind to unkind people, they need it the most.

And that reminds me of one of my favorite poems. I am thankful to have favorite poems, and to share them with others, who may (in a letter ?) say, Yes, I feel that way, too. And then suddenly, we are not alone, not brittle, waiting.

Kindness

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

— Naomi Shihab Nye
from The Words Under the Words: Selected Poems



Roll Film. Raise Spirits.

A scene from Mad Hot Ballroom

Where do you teach?

I’m not a teacher, I mumble. I'm more of an encourager. 

I don’t have a teaching background. Until I stepped into an old schoolroom in Waldport, Oregon, I never even liked children. I wasn’t looking to teach or to share hard-won personal experience. I was just showing up as a volunteer, meeting with a group of teenagers who were writing poems and stories and hanging out.

That was six years ago. I now lead four writing groups, and have grown to love the kids at Seashore Family Literacy.

Maybe we’re all teachers. Some of us step up, some hang back, and some know their role from the get-go.  I've realized there is no one way to teach or reach, and I'm inspired by those who connect with the lost and forgotten.

And I’m inspired by films that make me want to be more, do more.

Need a bit of inspiration, or just uplifting entertainment? Try a few of my favorite reach-n-teach films:

The Hobart Shakespeareans
This documentary follows Rafe Esquith, a passionate teacher who inspires his Central Los Angeles students to love and embrace Shakespeare, Mark Twain, math, history and more. (Esquith's  book, Teach Like Your Hair's on Fire, is also excellent).

Mad Hot Ballroom
Ballroom dancing goes from lame to cool for a group of New York City students in this insightful documentary, which follows a group of 11-year-olds as they learn to dance old-school styles including the merengue, rumba, tango, foxtrot and swing. (I love this film. It's the only movie in which I openly cheered in a crowded theatre).

Paper Clips
Rural Tennessee is the setting for this documentary about an extraordinary experiment in Holocaust education. Struggling to grasp the concept of six million Holocaust victims, students collect six million paper clips to better understand the enormity of the calamity.

Freedom Writers
Hilary Swank stars in this drama based on real-life California teacher Erin Gruwell's unorthodox methods. To break the cycle of violence and despair that threatens their futures, she has students keep journals, and apply history's lessons, to their troubled lives. While the story gets the Hollywood treatment, the overall message is worth the sometimes sappy vibe.

I'm always looking for great films. What have I missed? Please share your favorites.


On Sunday


God

Maybe you’re a verb, or some
lost part of speech
that would let us talk sense
instead of monkey-screech

when we try to explain you
to our loved ones and ourselves
when we most need to.
Who knows why someone dies

in the thick of happiness,
his true love finally found,
the world showing success
as if the world were only a cloud

that floated in a dream
above a perfect day?
Are you also dreaming our words?
Give us something to say.

— Michael Ryan

Thankful Thursday: Wine Words

Wine is poetry in a bottle.

For years I've rolled my eyes at the adage, but now I am delighted to see poetry not just in the bottle but on the bottle.

On their next: wine, King Estate Winery in Eugene, Oregon, offers a fabulous label and a creative back-of-the-bottle poem:

next:  2008 oregon pinot noir

next: is a statement
next: is a question
next: reminds us that
we always stand
at a crossroads,
that we are all poets,
all philosophers,
the makers and keepers
of our own dreams,
that we might bring wine to our friends
that we might share both
wine and words together,
folded into a moment
on the edge of the next.

The poem shows no author, and I am perpetually curious:  Is this the work of an ad agency? (and, if so, how do I get this gig?) Or a poem via a sister, who has a friend, who has a neighbor that is a poet?

I couldn't bear to appreciate the poem (especially those last two lines) and not know its author. A quick bit of sleuthing solved the mystery. The poem was written by Ed King, founder and CEO of King Estate Winery.

Turns out Ed likes to read and write poems, and he often supports nonprofit organizations that publish and promote poetry and the arts.

I'll drink to that! Hooray to top-down creativity! Power and poems to the people!

 

This message has been brought to you by Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to appreciate people, places & things. Are you a Thankful Thursday writer? Is so, let me know. I'd love to share your gratitude with others. Please visit these other Thankful Thursday writers:

Kelli Russell Agodon

Susan Rich

 

Send me a postcard


Crater Lake National Park in Oregon

The world is full of words. Lately, I'm leaning to less. Inspired by haiku, tanka, and Lisa Janice Cohen, I wrote these postcard poems.


Driving Along the Umpqua

wind swirls memory as

river light shines to

disolve pain so

gnawing

sadness

can

sink

 

Crater Lake at 7,000 feet

deepest

bluest

distant

water without sound

 

Heading Back

miles to go

heavy-hearted

your hand in mine

all the way home

 

 

Thankful Thursday: Pick and pluck

Gratitude. Appreciation. Praise. Call it what you will; I dub it Thankful Thursday, a weekly pause to appreciate people, places & things.

I am grateful for the sunny hour I spent with youngsters in the garden. Seashore Family Literacy's after-school programs are back in session and I am happy to be immersed in lively minds and tender hearts.

Yesterday brought a glow of autumn sun and willing spirits. We began our session, as we often do, by picking poems from bulletin board pockets. Can we take more, they asked, more than one?

As if poems were candy, we filled our hands and headed to the garden. Large rocks made for perfect poetry seats as we read to ourselves and to each other. Much to our delight, two girls chose the same poem: Praying by Mary Oliver.

In the garden, in the light, as they stumbled over new words, the 9 and 10 year old voices floated like a song. Just as I thought the reverence could not increase, the youngest girl, in a small voice, said, I like the part where it says pay attention.

We each agreed and wondered how we could pay attention to the world. With journals in hand, we explored the garden's bounty: expanding squash, heavy-headed dahlias, the scent of rosemary as we ran our fingers along what one writer described in her journal as, spiny green spikes reaching like hands.

Another youngster, fueled by the beauty of bleeding hearts, wrote, If there were flowers in my heart I would water them every day with my tears.

On this day, there were no tears. Only flowers to pick. Again, they asked: Can we take more? More than one?

And with gratitude for poetry, gardens and young minds, I said yes.

Praying

It doesn't have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try
to make them elaborate, this isn't
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

— Mary Oliver

Mean Disease

My friend is buying baby food for her father.

There are 168 hours in a week, she tells me.

Even with help and hospice, that's a lot of days and nights to live wide awake.

He falls out of bed. He can't chew. It's too much. The nights too dark. The days too long. She cobbles together a routine of helpers and hospice and friends and still there are too many hours with the slow loss.

You never know what you're signing up for. I wouldn't not care for him, she says in a whisper, but Alzheimer's is a mean disease.

I wish I didn't know today is World Alzheimer's Day. I wish September 21st meant nothing. But increasingly — enough to make a day of it — more of us know about this mean disease.

Here are the sobering facts:

- One in two people over the age of 80 have Alzheimer's.

- People as young as 40 have been diagnosed with the disease.

- Someone is diagnosed with Alzheimer’s every 70 seconds.

My grandpa, Bart Myron, a wheat farmer, lived for decades with an eroding brain. He was one of the 5.3 million people who suffer — whose families suffer — with Alzheimer's. On this day I wanted never to know, I think of him, and my friend's father, and the increasing numbers of us walking through long days and sleepless nights, living with this mean disease.

Erosion

Who knows how

the mind files memory?

 
missing pieces, your

history, this life, lies

three states to the south --

 
lost rusted cars, bindweed

decay in the sun

 
wild geese fight winds

that rattle shingles, shake doors

 
your vacant eyes sort

through weeds, neglect

 
memory somersaults

lands against antelope

bones blanched in desert heat --

 
futile to search for data:

the face of a son, the hand of the wife

price of wheat, words   

any words to rise, rescue us

 
from this wait

this long silent loss.


- Drew Myron

This poem appears in Beyond Forgetting,  an award-winning collection of poetry and short prose about Alzheimer’s disease written by 100 contemporary writers — doctors, nurses, social workers, hospice workers, daughters, sons, wives, and husbands — whose lives have been touched by the disease. Through the transformative power of poetry, their words enable the reader to move “beyond forgetting,” beyond the stereotypical portrayal of Alzheimer’s disease to honor and affirm the dignity of those afflicted. To read sample poems, see a schedule of upcoming readings, or purchase a book, visit www.beyondforgettingbook.com.


 

 

Carrying a Ladder

We are always
really carrying
a ladder, but it’s
invisible. We
only know
something’s
the matter:
something precious
crashes; easy doors
prove impassable.
Or, in the body,
there’s too much
swing or off-
center gravity.
And, in the mind,
a drunken capacity,
access to out-of-range
apples. As though
one had a way to climb
out of the damage
and apology.


— Kay Ryan



Thankful Thursday: Lips, Sun, Run

It's Thankful Thursday!

Gratitude. Appreciation. Praise. Please join me in a weekly pause to appreciate people, places & things that bring joy.

This week, I am thankful for:

Lipstick
From the department store or drug store, I love them all. Lipstick brightens my face and my mood. Such simple pleasure for such little effort.

Sun
On the Oregon Coast, admitting that I hunger for sun, dread grey, and struggle through rain brands me a spineless outsider (even though I was born in Portland!).  But I can't hide, fake, or pretend any longer: Sun makes me happy, gives me pep, gets me out of bed, out of my head, and into life. I am thankful for the two days of summer — i.e., blue sky, full sun, 70 degrees — we had last week.

Run
I never imagined my weak lungs could carry my thick legs out of the house, down the hill, to the beach and back. As a severe asthmatic with a missing half lung, I am beyond grateful that my body and mind have colluded to allow me to run. Thank you, lungs, for expanding just enough to give me breath and hope.

 Are you thankful? The gratitude movement is growing. Join me in welcoming other Thankful Thursday writers:

Kelli Agodon

Leah Dieterich