A Feast of Words for Thanks Giving

My husband pronounces today's holiday with an emphasis on the thanks, as in THANKS-giving. He does the same with UM-brella. Is this a Pittsburgh dialect? (as in redd-up? or yinz?) or just a Davidism? Either way, I am thankful for his natural emphasis on gratitude.

Let the feast continue! We've got a buffet, with word offerings from Candice Crossley, Ruth Harrison, Fred Strauss, and Paulann Petersen.

Reader Candice Crossley opens today's feast with wise words:

If the only prayer you ever say in your

entire life is "Thank you," it will be enough.

— Meister Eckhart

 

The following poem, by Ruth Harrison of Waldport, Oregon, is a pantoum first published in Harp Strings Poetry Journal.

Breaking Bread:  a grace for mealtimes

Thank first the wheat, that lately stood alive
and amber, silvering in each change of wind.
Next: yeast, whose lively villages must thrive
to lift the dough to life of any kind.

Amber turned silver in the change of wind
--we feed on earth caught up through root and grain
expanding to lift life of any kind--
we feed on earth, and on her partner rain.

We feed on earth caught up through root and grain ...
Thank next:  roots white and hot, transformed, and bless
dark soil that feeds us and its partner rain:
these lives join ours to rise in consciousness.

Thank now  roots white and hot, transformed, and bless,
these leaves in green expression of the soil,
whose lives join ours to rise in consciousness
and feed our energy for daily toil.

These leaves give green expression to the soil.
Hardest and last, we thank you, gentle beast.
You daily feed our energy for toil;
your life subsumed in ours, in ours released.

Hardest and last, we thank you, gentle beast.
who never harmed us, yet whose life we take:
your life subsumed in ours, in ours expressed:
In joining our adventure, may you wake.

You never harmed us, all whose lives we take.
Thanks, yeast:  your lively villages once thrived.
Conscious of shared adventure may you wake.
Thanks first to wheat, who lately stood alive.

— Ruth Harrison

 

Fred Strauss, a writer living in Tidewater, Oregon, shares a poem noting the pleasures (and pitfalls) of art, nature and good intention.

Basil Around the Easel

I set up an easel to paint all my sunsets,
escape my dumb sets, ignore many
subsets. But, out from our sky flew too
much goo. So there sits my easel
colored in plants, garden ants, scarecrow
pants. Never been used, badly abused
no hues have accrued. Accused of being
an ornament, a bangle, a jangle. Sadly,
it urges the ground around grow up make
this a harbor. Gladly to die for me and my
ardor. A frame takes the blame.

— Fred Strauss

 

We'll wrap up today's meal with a poem from Paulann Petersen, Oregon's Poet Laureate:

A Thanksgiving Grace

From us—here amid the blessing
of such good company—our gratitude.

For the bounty that draws us
around this laden table, our praise.

As we give our thanks, we celebrate
abundance: these fruits of the earth,

this bloom of family and friends
gathered here from nearby, from afar.

- Paulann Petersen

 

Our Feast of Words celebrates the power of gratitude through words. I am thankful, and grateful too, for friends, family, readers and writers who share these words with me, with you.

The Feast is not over! We've still got dessert. Keep those poems, paragraphs, prayers and praises coming. We'll be feasting all week. Send your word-works to dcm@drewmyron.

The feast begins

Peter Holsapple

Welcome to the Thanks Giving Feast of Words.

When I called for thankful-themed writing, I had no idea the response would be so swift and rich. I'm delighted with the offerings. We'll be feasting all week!

We'll start out with two pieces, from Ann Staley and Cathy Murphy. 

To set a thankful tone, poet and teacher Ann Staley, from Corvallis, Oregon, shares an Inuit Song:

And I thought over again
My small adventures
As with a shore-wind I drifted out
In my kayak
And thought I was in danger,

My fears
Those small ones 
That I thought so big
For all the vital things
I had to get and to reach

And yet, there is only
One great thing,
The only thing:
To live to see in huts and on journeys
The great day that dawns,
And the light that fills the world.


Our next piece comes from Cathy Murphy, a teacher living in Sacramento, California.

Gifted

Gifts given, over a two-week span, to a first grade teacher for her birthday

Golden gumball machine rings
A sparkly silver pencil (sans eraser)
Half a Pop Tart
Bits of red string
A broken plastic Easter egg
Coloring book pages, some blank, some not, some addressed to former best friends
Misspelled notes and pencil drawings
Shiny beads, hair bands
A single white frosted animal cracker wrapped in a used paper napkin
Two Skittles, half an eraser
A note enclosed in a partial envelope wrapped in torn paper and tied with cassette tape
Plastic gemstones, a friendship bracelet
Playground pebbles with flecks of shiny granite
A penny, a ruler, a caterpillar
Books with torn pages and crayon scribbles
A still-warm slice of sweet potato pie
Two inches of pale blue ribbon with three navy blue stars
An old stuffed rabbit with one button eye and no tail
A fuzzy green Lifesaver, a broken purple crayon
Two princess dominoes, a grocery store gift card
A plastic flower, a silk flower
Four purple and two pink roses from Gaby’s backyard
Part of a homemade burrito, teeth marks on one end, beans oozing out the other
A dried out green marker
Three strings of Mardi gras beads
A plastic refrigerator magnet, maroon, capital Q
Quarter-inch diamond-shaped pieces of mirrored plastic
A used white eraser with the initials AM
Two sheets of car stickers
A song
Salvaged fuzzy-backed princess stickers
A plastic flower bead, a carrot
Three tangerines, four apples, a bruised pear
The embossed flower cut off the top left corner of a check
And a deck of 49 playing cards

— Cathy Murphy

 

Would you like to share? Please send your poems, paragraphs, prayers and praises by email to dcm@drewmyron.com. In this feast of words, more is merry.

A feast of words! A potluck of poems!

 Austin Kleon - artist/writer

In the spirit of thanks giving, let's feast!

I've set the table and I'm ready to eat. Please share with me your poems, prayers, paragraphs & praise.

Send me your words — small starts, lines of hope, your stories, your flash, your fiction, your long list or one true thing.

I'll collect and gather, and post your works here. Got a blog or a book? Send a link, and pass the potatoes.

To take part, simply post your thankful-themed word-works in the comment section below, or email me at dcm@drewmyron.com.

It's the season of gratitude. Let us savor and share.

 

Fast Five with Oregon Poetic Voices

In a world that really

doesn't seem to value

the small, quiet voice,

I think they felt like

they mattered

says Doug Erickson, as he finishes a day recording people and poems in rural Oregon.

Oregon Poetic Voices, founded by Erickson in 2009, is the nation’s largest online poetry repository, offering a comprehensive digital archive of poetry readings from all over the state.

OPV contains recordings of almost every significant Oregon poet — including a 1921 recording of Oregon’s first poet laureate — and over 300 contemporary poets of all ages, backgrounds and accomplishment. Access to the wesbite is free, and participation is open to all.

“We hope to be as inclusive as possible,” he says. “Early on I thought it was important that this not to be a juried project. I felt that to really capture the essence of Oregon and its poets, it was important to leave it completely open to all. It gives the site a mixture of literary, cultural, and anthropological layers.”

Though not a poet, Erickson — who works as special collections archivist at Lewis & Clark College in Portland, Oregon — carries an enthusiasm for the written and spoken word. As a result, OPV is growing fast. He travels town to town, across the state, inviting new, established, and self-described poets to share their words.

“I have had people come on horseback and on bus, from homeless people to the wealthiest of our state,” he says. “Each with a story, and a medium to share their thoughts, ideas, and creativity.”


Doug Erickson, Oregon Poetic VoicesYou are not a poet, yet you appreciate poetry, and think it worthy to archive. Why did you create Oregon Poetic Voices?

I do not self identify as a poet, but I am a writer, and know the highs and low of trying to communicate through printed words. Early on I thought it was important for me to not be a poet, and for this not to be a juried project. Much of the academic world that I live in is peer reviewed and scholarly. While I am a big believer in this type of scholarship, I felt that to really capture the essence of Oregon and its poets, it was important to leave it completely open to all. This has enabled the site to grow much faster that it would have been if every poem and poet was vetted. It also gives the site a mixture of literary, cultural, and anthropological layer to it. I imagine that not only those interested in poetry, but also anthropology, sociology, history and literature, in the future will find this site useful. I hope it becomes a time capsule for the thoughts and ideas of many Oregonians from this time period. 

When and how did you start OPV? 

The idea comes out of the encouragement of William Stafford, who was my colleague and friend at Lewis & Clark, who wrote and encouraged writing every day. When his archives came to the college, and I saw the nearly 50,000 pages of correspondence, I realized that much of these letters were from fellow writers, those that were famous, and those that were just simply trying to write, or become writers.

His teaching philosophy was "no praise, no blame," meaning encourage people to continue to pursue and grow as writers and thinkers. Sometimes praise and blame can lead one down a path that takes away from that seeking. While I don't fully subscribe to that notion myself, I do think in the case of OPV, this approach is a good one. Sure, there are many bad poems, yet there are also some very good, if not great, ones. They all represent a place in time for a writer/poet. Some with bad poems will go on and write great ones, and vice/versa. So, I wanted to capture and create a medium where this could take place.

Oft times historians and archivists wait for the history to come to them, rather than go out and harvest the activity that is happening presently. History is full of examples of recording that survived over time, the ruling class, and the prevailing race. With technology, and hopefully more cultural compassion, we can harvest the history of people, regions, races, genders, and voices, hereto forgotten or destroyed. And we can do it in the season that it is being created. I hope this is what OPV is doing. 

What do you hope listeners will experience? 

I hope they encounter the breadth, and expanse of this collection. There are so many self-identified poets that really feel passionate about their writing, and words. I have had people come on horseback and by bus, from homeless people to the wealthiest of our state. Each with a story, and a medium, to share their thoughts, ideas, and creativity. I think that Oregon is unique in having so many poets, but I also think that if other states were to try this same project (and I hope they do!) they would find that many people would come forward to share their writings. 

Here's an excerpt of an email I received. I share it with you because I think it captures the feelings that many have when they come together and are able to share their work. I just happen to be the person who brings the equipment. The real OPV is simply the poets, young old, good, bad, famous, and not famous. Each share equal footing here, and collectively make up the voice of Oregon:

 . . . I'm the woman who was so emotional I insisted on hugging you and thanking you for letting our voices be heard. What you may not know but should, is that when my friends came out of the recording room their faces showed the joy of accomplishment. We sat around the table and our poetry tribe found a reason to be a community together because a community happens sometimes when you don't know it will and reading our work brought us together. Reticent, shy people bubbled over with talk. People who I'd had to nag and keep after dared to come and do something they truly feared but wanted to do so much and, because of you, they just did it.  . . .  In such a complex, difficult, unknowable place as this earth, this life, I love when something is so clearly GOOD, and Oregon Poetic Voices simply is. 

How is OPV funded?

OPV started with an initial grant from the Library Service and Technology Act, a grant distributed to all 50 states and administered by the State Library. The money originates with the Institute of Museum and Library Services.

We only have funding through January 31, 2012. After that, well . . . we are working on it. We are not really in a position to take donations, unless some angel wants to come in and be a major funder. We are looking to small granting agencies to see if we can keep some of this program going after Feb. 2011. I am Head of Special Collections and Archives here at LC for the last 20+ years, so I will continue in that role, and hope to keep OPV alive in some small way if no money comes our way. 

Bonus Question:  Anything I didn't ask that you'd like to answer?

None of this would be possible without the hard work and dedication of my team at Lewis & Clark College: Melissa Dalton, poetry project fellow; past poetry project fellow, Tessa Idlewine; Jeremy Skinner and Paul Merchant, my colleagues in Special Collections and Archives; OPV's design team Jeremy McWilliams and Annelise Dehner, and student interns and assistants past and present, Rachel Sims, Chris Keady, Natalie Figuroa, Anna Fredrickson, Caitlin McCarthy, and Becca Dierschow; workshop leaders, and all the local folks in communities across Oregon who helped to organize and prepare for OPV, and for making us feel at home in your communities. 

To learn more, and listen, to Oregon Poetic Voices, visit www.oregonpoeticvoices.org.

 

Thankful Thursday: Oh, Florence!

It's Thankful Thursday. Joy expands and contracts in direct relation to our sense of gratitude. What are you thankful for today? A person, a place, a thing? A story, a song, a poem? What makes your world expand?

On this Thankful Thursday, I am thankful for cellos and harps. For lush lyrics and sweeping sound. For the transformative power of music. For Falling by Florence + the Machine.

I've fallen out of favor and I've fallen from grace
Fallen out of trees and I've fallen on my face
Fallen out of taxis, out of windows too
Fell in your opinion when I fell in love with you

Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh
Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh

Sometimes I wish for falling, wish for the release
Wish for falling through the air to give me some relief
Because falling's not the problem, when I'm falling I'm at peace
It's only when I hit the ground it causes all the grief

Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh
Whoa-oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh

This is a song for a scribbled-down name
And my love keeps writing again and again
This is a song for a scribbled-down name
And my love keeps writing again and again
And again and again and again and again
And again and again and again and again
And again and again and again and again
And again and again and again and again

I dance with myself, I drunk myself down
Found people to love, left people to drown
I'm not scared to jump, I'm not scared to fall
If there was nowhere to land I wouldn't be scared at all
At all
At all

Fall
Fall

Sometimes I wish for falling, wish for the release
Wish for falling through the air to give me some relief
Because falling's not the problem, when I'm falling I'm at peace
It's only when I hit the ground it causes all the grief

Lyrics by Isabella Janet F Summers and Florence Leontine Welch

 

Get a grip & other rules

Weather Report

All this time on the the planet, and still I am no wiser
than I was thirty years ago, when I began to write,
scratching on a yellow pad while the voices in my head
screeched not good enough. They're still shrieking
their shrill words in my left eat, just above the migraine
that's singing a high E sharp from its perch in my brain.
Not good enough, and I know it, but today the sky
is that low blue note that comes after a storm,
and the locust is sending out round green messages
as it bobs and weaves in the wind. There's a flock
of cedar waxwings in the sumac, wearing
their little black masks, stealing the afternoon away.
The light streams in from the west, still I wrestle
with my old friends faith and doubt. A thin scribble
of clouds float by, obscuring the sky, and all the words
are hiding, elusive as that bird over there, the one
that's singing its heart out, just out of sight.

Barbara Crooker
from Calyx, Summer 2011

 

November is National Novel Writing Month and writers are rattling across keyboards in a rush to create a novel in a single month. I'm exhausted already.

And the poets, not to be outdone by their driven brethren, are pressing pen to paper to pull a poem a day from the mysterious fog where poems reside. And this, too, wears me out. 

With a mixed mind I enter this writing challenge. I don't like group-think, though I do like structure. Don't like obligation, but favor commitment. Don't care for frenzy, but crave productivity.

I'm not writing a poem-a-day. Can't take the pressure. But I am writing every day. Already, just a week in, I'm feeling good and stretched. The following reminders have helped with my writing pledge:

Drew's Rules for Daily(ish) Writing 

1.
Set low expectations

I'm not writing profound poems or epic tales. I am writing one word and another word and maybe a few more. I am writing lists that turn into poems, and dreams that turn into trippy descriptions. I'm doodling with words. If something reaches higher, great. If not, so what, I've exercised my mind. (Tip of the pen to Kelli Russell Agodon for this suggestion).  

2.
Any bit of time will do
I don't write all day. Five minutes will do. If it's going well, I keep writing. If it isn't, I let go and return the next day. By establishing a daily pattern, I've lessened the pressure to write good each time.

3.
Play

Have fun. Let go of results. Remember the mystery of pen, paper, mind.

4.
Get a grip
Stop whining. Writing is not manual labor.


Thankful Thursday: Running, Writing

Today I ran 30 minutes and nearly three miles without stopping.
I am beyond thankful. I am weeping with gratitude.

It's not a huge accomplishment for most people but it is a big deal to someone who has lived a life of asthma inhalers and emergency room rushes, and then, years after breathing was enhanced, a tumor was discovered and a hunk of lung removed. 

And so, running is a big deal. While my childhood was largely sickly and sedate, my adult life has not been inactive; I hike, ski and swim. Respiratory treatment has greatly improved since my first visit to National Jewish Hospital, where I lived as a child.

Still, until recently, running alluded me. I envied those lean, long runners. I wanted to experience legs and lungs working together. A few years ago, with encouragement from my husband, I started a slow jog — to the end of the street. I'd pant and wheeze and nearly cry with discouragement, and he would rally me to go just a bit more.

And then last winter my asthma flared. I couldn't run. A murky x-ray suggested infection, demanded stronger medication. This was no emergency. This was how I had always lived: try, progress, stall, repeat.

Last summer, my lungs stronger, I began to run regularly again. Encouraged by my sister, my friends at Daily Mile, and coaching from Running Mate, I have now — this week — achieved a 30 minute run without resting, stopping or stalling.

Now I realize how much running is like writing. I never really want to run but once I start a sense of wonder and accomplishment kicks in. I can do this! Each time, my body surprises me with its ability.

But, really, it never feels easy.

Writing often feels the same. Some days words flow and everything clicks. And the very next day I am stuck in the sludge wondering, How do I do this?

On the difficult runs, when the lungs shrink and the couch calls, my husband nudges me: Look how far you've come! And in the writing life, too, it helps to have friends and mentors, or just a crazy neighbor who appreciates your pursuit.

Running, like writing, like asthma, will offer both struggle and ease. I will start and start and start again. On this Thankful Thursday, I am grateful for the chance to keep showing up, slogging through, and shining on.

 

It's Thankful Thursday. Joy expands and contracts in direct relation to our sense of gratitude. What are you thankful for today? A person, a place, a possession? A story, a song, a poem? What makes your world expand?


Ignore everybody

by Hugh MacLeod

Hugh MacLeod, artist and writer, offers some sage advice:

1. Ignore everybody.

2. The idea doesn’t have to be big. It just has to be yours.

3. Put the hours in.
 

4. If your biz plan depends on you suddenly being “discovered” by some big shot, your plan will probably fail.

5. You are responsible for your own experience.
 

6. Everyone is born creative; everyone is given a box of crayons in kindergarten.

7. Keep your day job.
 

8. Companies that squelch creativity can no longer compete with companies that champion creativity.

9. Everybody has their own private Mount Everest they were put on this earth to climb.
10. The more talented somebody is, the less they need the props.
 

11. Don’t try to stand out from the crowd; avoid crowds altogether.

12. If you accept the pain, it cannot hurt you.
 

13. Never compare your inside with somebody else’s outside.

14. Dying young is overrated.
 

15. The most important thing a creative person can learn professionally is where to draw the red line that separates what you are willing to do, and what you are not.

16. The world is changing.
 

17. Merit can be bought. Passion can’t.

18. Avoid the Watercooler Gang.
 
19. Sing in your own voice.
 

20. The choice of media is irrelevant.

21. Selling out is harder than it looks.
 

22. Nobody cares. Do it for yourself.

23. Worrying about “Commercial vs. Artistic” is a complete waste of time.
 
24. Don’t worry about finding inspiration. It comes eventually.
 

25. You have to find your own schtick.

26. Write from the heart.
 

27. The best way to get approval is not to need it.

28. Power is never given. Power is taken.
 

29. Whatever choice you make, The Devil gets his due eventually.

30. The hardest part of being creative is getting used to it.
 

31. Remain frugal.

32. Allow your work to age with you.
 

33. Being Poor Sucks.

34. Beware of turning hobbies into jobs.
 

35. Savor obscurity while it lasts.

36. Start blogging.
 

37. Meaning Scales, People Don’t.

37. When your dreams become reality, they are no longer your dreams.

 

Enjoy more fun and insight from Hugh MacLeod at Gaping Void.

 

Thankful Thursday: Acknowledgements

When you get a book, what's the first thing you read?  The front cover raves? back cover blurbs? dedication?

I go straight to the Acknowledgements. This section, usually situated in the front of the book, often reveals an author's history and demeanor. Here, in many cases, is a listing of previous publications, writing group membership, fellowships earned, workshops attended, and even endearments.

Some writers maintain a distance, providing a straightforward accounting of publications in which the works first appeared. Others, like my friend who after 40 years of writing published her first book, gushed for two pages (in small type), reaching back to thank her grade school teachers.

I am intrigued with a writer's narrative, the thread of gratitude that chronicles a creative life.

The other day, on a long drive, I reached that trance-like state in which thoughts expand and unwind. What, I wondered, if I wrote my acknowledgements right now? What would my page include?

As I examined the turning points in my life — first job, influential teacher, kind doctor, family friend — I found a thread of people who had widened my path, lightened my heart, and energized my steps. My first "real" job, for example, offered a mentor, who later became a colleague, and 20 years later is my very good friend. And then there's the volunteer work writing with teens that stretched my heart and changed my life.

It's a great exercise, to find the thread of people and places that have pebbled your path. My Acknowledgements page grows each day, and I am flush with gratitude. 

It's Thankful Thursday! Gratitude. Appreciation. Praise. Please join me in a weekly pause to appreciate the people, places & things that bring joy. What are you thankful for today?


Come here often?

What's a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?

No really, it's time for some market research. I need your help. In the interest of better blogging, I want to know:

How did you find me, and how will you find me again?

Do we know each other? Are we strangers connected only by this blog? And now that you are here, what keeps you coming back?

How do you read me? Through an email subscription? With Google Reader? With Blogger? With your own browser bookmark?  Or did you stumble upon this page in a website stupor (if so, happy to have you here, please have a seat, settle in).

So, do you come here often, and can I buy you a drink?

 

Begin here

Preparation

Before you write
sit and notice your breath.

Allow a gentle carousel of words
to flow in their current around you,
then on your breath
into your space of longing
where hunger lies. Become

a body of invitation and hospitality
where words are welcome, where
breath moves freely, where sparks
ignite and your own fire burns.

— Linda Gelbrich


Go deeper:
Listen to this poem at Oregon Poetic Voices.

 

Kill your darlings


Orphans, confessions and artist statements

1.
Today, I press against a story still moving.

2.
I check my email. You are never there.
I do not know who you are.

3.
This dense fist of worries, a mad distance.
Your voice in my ear, miles away.

4.
This is not warning, sign or symptom. This is the artful unravel. 

5.
I write letters in my head. Entire conversations exist in my mind.
We are fine, thanks for asking.

6.
This is how much a letter means: At the post office I can’t wait to open my mail. In the car, I tear open the envelope and enjoy a surge of floating hope: I can do this, I think. This is life, driving home, making dinner, holding on.

7.
Lived so long in gray, I’ve forgotten the taste of heat.

8.
Know your part: In this poem and nearly every poem, I say we. I say all of us. This is false. There is no collective. There is only too much of me.

9.
The postman says:
You look dressed up today
.
I showered, I say.
Well
, he says, you clean up good.

10.
I have enough ends. Tell me a story of starts.

 - Drew Myron


Kill your darlings, they say (William Faulkner, Mark Twain, and later Stephen King and many others). It's good advice. Every writer has “darlings," lines and passages that shine bright but just don't fit the current work. While I am an incessant editor, sometimes I just can't hit delete. Instead, I nudge my darlings to the curb and hope they find a home in my next poem (or the next . . . ). These are my orphans. I keep them close until they find a forever family.

Do you have orphans? What do you do with your little darlings?


You are a winner!

Following an unscientific but honest drawing — I closed my eyes and picked a name from my Women Writers Box — I am happy to announce the winner of The Voluptuary by Paulann Petersen. 

And the winner is . . .

Jill Hardin

Thanks to all for playing, reading and writing.

Don't let the poetry love end with this drawing. Purchase The Voluptuary here.

Learn more about Paulann Petersen, Oregon's Poet Laureate, here and here.

 

Thankful Thursday: Hey kiddo!


Happiness is not what makes us grateful.

It is gratefulness that makes us happy.

— David Steindle-Rast

 

It's Thankful Thursday!

Gratitude. Appreciation. Praise.

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

This week, I am thankful for:

Kiddo, as a term of endearment

Phone calls with family

Invigorating exercise

Epsom salt baths

My coffee, conversation & play-with-words friend

Insurance companies that pay their bills (yes, this actually happens!)

The low light of autumn afternoon

The word simper 

Genuine smiles

Hush, as in reverence

 

It's Thankful Thursday! What are you thankful for today?


Fast Five with Paulann Petersen


We write to discover, to define

— moment to moment to moment —

who we are, who we are becoming.

This happens as we write.


Because a few direct questions can offer insight, I'm happy to present Fast Five — short interviews with my favorite writers. Life may be short but who doesn't have time for five questions — and a chance to win a great book?  (To win, simply post your name and contact info in the comments section. See details below).

Paulann Petersen, Oregon’s Poet Laureate, is a former high school teacher and author of five poetry collections and four chapbooks. She has led workshops and given readings in hundreds of places — from Powell's in Portland to Omsania University in India — and in nearly every nook and cranny of Oregon. A Portland native, she is a member of Friends of William Stafford and organizes the annual Stafford birthday readings. Petersen’s most recent book is The Voluptuary, published in 2010. 

You are an accomplished poet and teacher, and now Oregon's esteemed poet laureate. What do you know now that you didn't know when you first started writing poems?

I know now what I couldn't have possibly known when I began writing poems: how the process itself would buoy and sustain and inform my life.  We write to create ourselves, to discover, to define — moment to moment to moment — who we are, who we are becoming. This happens as we write. Not until I was immersed in the process could I begin to realize its potent effect.

You've been called a writer of embodied poetics, and have said, "I believe in body poems, poems that rise from the body."  Would you please elaborate?

A poem is a creature of sound. A poem comes to us, all poems come to us, through the oral tradition. Yes, a poem has a certain life as mere text on a page. But that life as text is only a fraction of the poem's complete life. A poem can't assume its complete life until it's been given voice.   

A poem has a sound form, it's comprised of a sequence and combination of sounds. A poem has musical devices. A poem has kinetic energy. A poem has risen from the physicality of its maker, and it speaks to the physicality of a listener.

For me, writing a good poem means writing an embodied poem.

You've written five full-length poetry books and taught hundreds of classes. What makes a poem work?

Sound form. Compression. Line integrity. Unpredictability — a little or a lot. A sense of incipient recklessness. A sense of conveying something that's coded in the blood. These make a poem work.

A good poem is a vehicle for transformation. It transforms the listener/reader as she or he hears or reads it.  A good poem, in the process of its making, transforms the poet.

Of all your poems, which is your favorite? Why?

Hmmmmm. I avoid hierarchies when I can. Vertical structures are dicey at best. (Best. There's one of those vertical structure words!) So picking a favorite poem: that's a dicey proposition. But there are two poems that I read frequently when I'm giving readings. And both of them sonically and conceptually feel right to me, even after repeated readings. They are among a group that feel like embodied poems, time after time.  "Appetite"  and "Bloodline." 

Bloodline

The moon is wet nurse
to roses. She suckles
each soft-mouthed poppy.

Blame her for menses.
Rail at her for the craving
to binge and purge.

Please her when you choose
to delay the day for planting,
biding your time
until night has fattened
her silver torso. Praise her
when the fleck of seed
poked down into damp dark
takes hold and swells.

Any girl-child is always
her offspring.

Upbraid her for your daughter's
sass and door-slams,
that hot hurry to be what most
differs from you.

Long ago, the moon decided
on a pathway against the route
stars take. No one else
would dare to walk
the black sky backward.

- Paulann Petersen


I'm a collector of words. What are your favorites?

I'm smitten with noun lists. I use them when I'm teaching writing workshops (workshops designed to generate new writing from participants). One of the noun lists I give to participants contains nouns I took from my own work. I often remark that I couldn't have a noun list that didn't contain blood, magpie, magnolia, ink, salt, skin and moon. 

Bonus Question: Is there something distinct about an Oregon poet? or Oregon poetry?

Oregon poetry, like Oregon itself,  is characterized by remarkable variety.

Oregon is mountains, ocean, high desert, rain forest. It's the hotsprings in Hart Mountain Antelope Refuge, the Church of Elvis in downtown Portland, pelicans on Klamath Lake, herons in oaks Bottom on the Willamette. Oregon is abundance; it's variety, vast and gorgeous. Our state teaches its poets inclusiveness and gratitude. Oregon encourages a wide embrace, and its poetry does indeed have a very wide embrace.

Another distinction: my bet is that there are, given our total population, as many good poets per capita in Oregon as anywhere on earth.


Meet Paulann

In Waldport, Oregon
Saturday, October 15, 2011 at 2pm
Waldport Community Center, 265 NW Hemlock St.
Free

In Medford, Oregon
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Oregon Book Fair
Free

See more events on Paulann's website.

Win this book!

To win The Voluptuary by Paulann Petersen, add your name and contact info in the comments section below. Feeling shy? Email me, add 'Book Drawing" in subject line:  dcm@drewmyron.com

Your name will be entered in a drawing, and the winner announced on Monday, October 17, 2011.

 

 

Thankful Thursday: All the small things

Today I live in the quiet, joyous
expectation of good.

— Ernest Holmes

Don't sweat the small stuff, and it's all small stuff, they say.
Do give thanks, for every small thing, they say.

So, is the small stuff a pebble in the shoe, or a flower in the sidewalk crack?

It's all attitude, in gratitude and in life. On this Thankful Thursday, I share my appreciation for the small things:

How to Make A Living As A Poet
The fact that this book even exists makes me happy. The inspired ideas (poet-in-hotel residence, blurb-for-pay) and author interviews are quirky and fun. And the author, Gary Glazner, founded the Alzheimer's Poetry Project, so he clearly has a good heart.

 

 

Killer horoscopes
I've had some poetic and powerful astrology lines this week:

Go to a park and gawk.

You could lead a beautiful revolution, if you wanted to.

The more you indulge, the worse you'll feel.

(After reading the above-mentioned book, it occurs to me that I would be an excellent horoscope writer. In fact, I've written a squall of horoscope poems. Want your own? Zip me a line.)

Trader Joe's Oatmeal Cookie Recipe
Found on the back of the oatmeal bag, this recipe is fantastic, and it fits all my baking criteria:
- Cheap
- Easy
- Produces a gluten-free treat without sandpaper texture or cardboard taste.

Gingham
I love a deal, and I love clothes, so it's only natural that I love a great second-hand store. This week my $10 fashion find is small red checks with three-quarter sleeves. This could easily go fashion disaster so I'll minimize the bumpkin with heavy doses of camel or black — and call it country-modern.

 

It's Thankful Thursday! Gratitude. Appreciation. Praise. Please join me in a weekly pause to appreciate the people, places & things that bring joy. What are you thankful for today?


Lift a line


Go ahead, lift that line. Take it. Use it as your own.

I know, I know. We've been taught "Do not steal."  But I'm breaking the rules and I'm giving you permission to do the same. I gather lines from magazines, horoscopes, and even phrases of poetry and prose. I cut them out, or write them down, and paste them in my journal. I use the words of others as my own springboard. Try it!

There are rules, of course. Well, just one: You must attribute. You gotta give credit to whom and where it's due.

Comb and cull: Thumbing through a magazine the other day, I was drawn to a photograph of a woman wearing a mid-thigh skirt, paired with over-the-knee socks — the very same outfit I wore on my first date with my now-husband! (I loved those socks and felt a bit racy wearing them). The image, and the memory, struck a chord so I clipped the words beneath the photo: I Am The Coat. There's gotta be a poem in there somewhere.

Let words work: I recently read "Resume of Failures," an essay by Kim Stafford that appeared in Oregon Humanities magazine. One particular line grabbed me, and I used it as a writing prompt. The line became my title. Here's the work in progress:

You may think failure is your story *

Let’s say you see us. Our conversation does not stumble or stalk.
There is a lilt in my voice, brightness in his eyes. You see wide
smiles, hear quick laughs. You’d say, happiness.

You wouldn’t know we spend hours pressed against water —
rivers, lakes, sometimes oceans, tears — studying
rain
to understand cement skies and uncertainty.

Every graveled edge is for sale or forgotten. There are no bargains.
All appearances are flimsy replicas, cheap wine in plastic cups.
I’ll pay extra to feel full-priced joy.

* A line from an essay by Kim Stafford, Oregon Humanities, Spring 2011.


Try this: 
Lift a line — from anywhere, anything. Can't find a line? Use a line or phrase from this post. I'd love to read what you create. Share your work here.

 

Build a new dictionary


lex·i·cog·ra·phy

noun
1.  the writing, editing, or compiling of a dictionary.

 

Word lovers, please join me in building a new lexicon. Ink and Famine is redefining the world — and it's great fun. 

"A new world demands a new lexicon," explain the anonymous lexicographers heading the redefinition revolution. "Each round we choose four words to interpret in as many new poetic iterations as we please."

Readers are encouraged to submit their definitions in poems of seven lines or less. Every week (or so), a selection of entries are posted, along with four new words.

The last round of words included carapace and caravan. I didn't know the definition of carapace  so I looked it up in my trusty, albeit traditional, dictionary, and then rewrote what it means to me in the form of a lune (3-5-3 words):

car·a·pace

[kar-uh-peys] 

mildewed shame carried

in my body's every dark

and secret cell.                  


And I reinvented caravan, as a haiku (5-7-5ish syllables):

car·a·van

   [kar-uh-van]

a reckless train rams

anger against intellect

into endlessness        

 

Isn't this fun? Now, it's your turn. Go to Ink and Famine — and redefine the world.