Be Dazzled

Dazzled, by Drew Myron

Dazzled, by Drew Myron

It’s June. Summer opens and I walk in, triumphant & dazzled.

It’s a wonder, isn’t it? That the world is wide, the heart opens and expands, the sun still shines? Forgive me the Walt Whitman moment; I feel a door of darkness has closed and beyond the threshold life is bright and alive.

It’s the summer season. Bare feet and watermelon heat. Bicycle rides and river swims, my limbs moving and lungs working. Poppies, petunias, tiny wild daisies. No thing unnoticed, or unthanked.

It’s a long dark year and now, suddenly, bright sun and hot days. Excuse the exalt; like weather, my mood won’t last — even now the wind is picking up, fires will start, the virus still boils — I know this, I do. But oh, what a relief, for just a day or two or god-grant-me-a-week, to know delight, to slip into ease.

Picture a sky, a star, a universe of time

I remember how
we would listen
for the almost dark

Night always
soft and vast
a velvet voice
of lingering

By morning
eternity is broken
You wake dazzled

— Drew Myron

The world turns on words, please read & write. 

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Good Books Find You

Lately, I'm interested not just in good books but the finding.

Libraries are closed, friends are far, and buying books can be an expensive habit. Often the best books are by chance, not the ones languishing on my long books-to-read list but the novel abandoned at the airport bar, the poetry tossed aside in the hospital lobby, or the memoir discovered down the block in the little free library with the squeaky hinges and odd assortment.

Like love, good books arrive when you've given up. Across a crowded world, a good book finds you.  

Here are some of my recent keepers:

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Juliet Takes a Breath by Gabbie Rivera

How found: Mailed to me by a friend with a note that said, I wish I could send you a library.  

This is my favorite book of the year (so far). In fact, I liked it so much I had to force myself to stop racing through and instead slow down and savor. Smart writing, strong characters, and a fantastic "voice" of growing, yearning, and learning. Set in Portland, the Rose City is a character itself. Love this passage, referring to Powell's Books: 

 “It looked like the Salvation Army of bookstores, and who doesn’t

love a little dig through salvation?”

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The Magical Language of Others by E.J. Koh

How found: From the Little Free Library down the street, during a week without internet service when I had run out of books, both digital and print. (Thank you, neighbor!).

This is a beautifully spare memoir written with a powerful level of poetic detachment that provides space to breathe and hold.

"What're we doing? 

"We're arguing?" 

"We're paying attention," Joe said. 

Whenever he spoke, his words were sets of clothes that we tried on for ourselves. Sometimes they fit, and other times they were old and baggy." 

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Things I Do At Pennsylvania Rest Stops by Ashly Kim 

How found: Ordered from Rinky Dink Press, a micro-press offering palm-sized books, after watching their zoom poetry readings that felt more like backyard barbecues than stiff online lectures. 

ask strangers where i am and consider

how i got there in the first place.

auto-pilot down the weekend turnpike.

eighty-miles-per-hour-almost-ghost

with the navigation turned off.

— Ashly Kim 

See Also: 

The Golden Age of Diners by Tara Roeder

Roto: A Mex-Tape by Oscar Mancinas

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Dialogues with Rising Tides by Kelli Russell Agodon

How found: Purchased at my local bookstore, a place in which I had not lingered (because of pandemic) for over a year.  

Agodon's fourth book is my new favorite. Always a strong writer, this poetry collection sounds the alarm, piercing daily life and gathering us together in the ache.   

Magpies Recognize Themselves In The Mirror

The evening sounds like a murder
of magpies and we're replacing our cabinet knobs
because we can't change the world but we can 
change our hardware. America breaks my heart
some days and some days it breaks itself in two. 
I watched a women having a breakdown 
in the mall today, and when the security guard
tried to help her, what I felt was all of us 
peeking from her purse as she threw it 
across the floor into Forever 21. And yes, 
the walls felt like another way to hold us
and when she finally stopped crying
I heard her say to the fluorescent lighting
Some days the sky is too bright. And like that
we were her flock in our black coats
and white sweaters, some of us reaching 
our wings to her and some of us flying away. 

— Kelli Russell Agodon

Your Turn: What are your favorites lately? How do books find you?

If you like this blog, subscribe here to get it delivered directly to your email. If you like this blog post, please share on your social network of choice or forward to a friend. 

The world turns on words, please read & write.


Oh, the mother load!

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The Mom Spot, we all have one.

It’s a gape, a wound, a wanting. It’s tender or torn, full or faltering, powerful or perilous. The place where a mother is, or was, or should be.

As we approach the occasion that seems to stir sentiment and sadness in equal measure — Mother’s Day — the maternal role is a touchy issue, especially if you’re a daughter. The mother-daughter dynamic is fraught. Something about ties that bind, choke, reflect and reframe.

But, wait, you don’t have mother issues? You live among sunshine and rainbows? Good for you (but I don’t believe it). I love my mother, of course, but motherly love is rarely uncomplicated.

Years ago, in a writing workshop we were assigned a routine writing prompt. I don’t recall the assignment but I remember the results; in a room full of 10 women of various ages and backgrounds every one of us had written about our mother! The instructor rolled her eyes, sighed, and said, “Oh, the mother load.”

Pity the mothers, their wishes and wounds. Pity the daughters, the deep love and festering frustration. We are born and formed by our mothers — the presence of, the absence of. Even three years after my mother’s death, I’m still weighing who she was and who I am as a result. Every passing year, I see her with fresh eyes (and sometimes with a more generous heart).

The mother-daughter tangle can last a moment, a day, a lifetime. And yet, we love, deeply and fiercely. Still, again, and anyway.

A Few of My Favorite Mom Poems:

When I Am Asked by Lisel Mueller

Mothers by Nikki Giovanni

The Persistence of Scent by Cindy Williams Gutierrez

This Is Not A Small Voice by Sonia Sanchez

Just Before Death Comes by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer


Back to Basics: An Updated List

Yes, good books make me jump with joy.  You too?

Yes, good books make me jump with joy. You too?

As we wind down to the final days of National Poetry Month, I’m still shouting from the rooftops and blasting your mailbox and screen with poem confetti. You know, of course, that April, not Christmas, is the most wonderful time of the year (less shopping, more reading).

Years ago when a local librarian was celebrating National Poetry Month she asked what books had shaped my writing life (isn’t that great, celebrating poetry as a job? I’m both grateful and jealous). The other day I found my list and was happy to see the choices still hold. Like a good black dress and thank you notes, the classics keep their value.

Today, in encouragement of poem reading, writing & appreciating, let’s revisit (with a few updates):

Books That Shaped My Poetry Life

1.
Complete Poems by e.e. cummings

This lower-case poet showed me what language could do, what a poem could be.

love is more thicker than forget

more thinner than recall

more seldom than a wave is wet

more frequent than to fail 

2.
The Dream of a Common Language by Adrienne Rich

With a close command of language and line, Rich masterfully unspools story, feeling, fact.

A conversation begins
with a lie. And each

speaker of the so-called common language feels
the ice-floe split, the drift apart

3.
Live or Die by Anne Sexton
Through Sexton I realized sadness can be full of velocity and ferocity.

But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools. 
The never ask why build.

4.
What Narcissism Means to Me by Tony Hoagland
This book made me realize that a poem could be funny, witty, sarcastic, sad, tell a story, and all at once!

The sparrows are a kind of people
Who lost a war a thousand years ago;
As punishment all their color was taken away. 

5.
The Way It Is by William Stafford
A poet of the everyday and a model of productivity, Stafford wrote over 50 books — and his first was not published until age 46!

What can anyone give you greater than now, 
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

6.
The Beauty of the Husband by Anne Carson
Carson lifts lines from Keats and blends them with her own poem-prose mix. Is it a very long poem, or a short story? She calls it “a fictional essay.” I call it brilliant. 

A wound gives off its own light
surgeons say.
If all the lamps in the house were turned out
you could dress this wound
by what shines from it.

7.
The Book of Questions by Pablo Neruda
Yes, poems can be silly, surreal, and stirring.

And what is the name of the month
that falls between December and January?

Why didn’t they give us longer
months that last all year?

Books That Are Not Poetry But Are Poetic:

8.
Dear Diego by Elena Poniatowska
A delicate story of art and unrequited love, told through letters.

9.
Journal of a Solitude by May Sarton
An intimate diary of a year in the life of a creative woman

And it occurs to me that there is a proper balance between not asking enough of oneself and asking or expecting too much. It may be that I set my sights too high and so repeatedly end the day in depression. Not easy to find the balance, for if one does not have wild dreams of achievement there is no spur even to get the dishes washed. One must think like a hero to behave like a merely decent human being.

10.
The Lover by Marguerite Duras
Tight, lyrical prose turns this intimate story about sexual awakening into a poetic, searing novel. 

Very early in my life it was too late.

11.
Traveling Mercies by Anne Lamott
Humor, heart, wit — Lamott has all the essentials. 

Grief, as I read somewhere once, is a lazy Susan. One day it is heavy and underwater, and the next day it spins and stops at loud and rageful, and the next day at wounded keening, and the next day numbness, silence.

12.
On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong
The novel is both long poem and full sigh. Beautiful and unusual, line after beautiful line.

In Vietnamese, the word for missing someone and remembering them is the same: nhớ. Sometimes, when you ask me over the phone, Con nhớ mẹ không? I flinch, thinking you meant, Do you remember me? I miss you more than I remember you.

My Favorite Writing Resource Books:

13.
Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg
It’s 30 years since I first read this gem and it is the foundation of everything I write.

Write what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about. Be willing to be split open.

14.
poemcrazy by Susan Wooldridge
Beyond prompts, this book offers enthusiasm that moves me to write.

Poems arrive. They hide in feelings and images, in weeds and delivery vans, daring us to notice and give them form with our words. They take us to an invisible world where light and dark, inside and outside meet.

15.
The Art of Noticing by Rob Walker
Great ideas packed in this gem, reminding us that every day offers writing inspiration.

Only 15? Yes, okay, my private list is longer but I don’t want to test your patience. I want you to read — and write!

What’s on your list?


It's Not Over (and other sorrows)

Erased, by Drew Myron

Erased, by Drew Myron

It’s not over. The pandemic rages on. Science, news, first-person accounts . . . it’s so clear the virus is still full of speed. So why do I feel I’m alone in living bad news?

Because it is spring, and we stretch long and healthy beneath a healing sun.

Because we are head-back laughing, drinking in normal, trying to make our mouths move with ease.

Because most of us are healthy and cannot imagine frail bodies, faulty lungs, breathlessness. But I do. Don’t you?

In the meantime, I’m trying for happy. I plant flowers and picnic on the patio. I’m writing but every line is sad and beyond my control. Is this truth or habit? Yes, this song is old, the refrain tired.

Yet, and still  — we’re in National Poetry Month! Much to my surprise, I’m finding pleasure in poetry readings by Zoom. (Shout out to RinkyDink Press and Oregon Poetry Association). And I’m reading and listening to new-to-me poets, and savoring this poem by Lee Herrick, and this poem by Tina Cane.

As always, and again, I’m reading and writing through. How about you?

Erased

Days vanished
without wonder.
Hope seemed a
very long desert.

The worst of it
is mourning for
cheerful decency.

- Drew Myron


Fast Five with January Gill O'Neil

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"Nothing fulfills me more than putting pen to paper.”

January Gill O’Neil

Welcome to Fast Five, in which I ask my favorite writers five questions as a way to open the door to know more.

January Gill O’Neil is the author of three poetry books and is an associate professor of English at Salem State University. She was the 2019-2020 Grisham Writer in Residence at University of Mississippi and has earned fellowships from Cave Canem, and the Barbara Deming Memorial Fund. She serves on the boards of the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP), and Montserrat College of Art. January lives in Massachusetts with her two children.

1. 
Why write?

I can’t imagine not writing. Recently, I was asked what are my hobbies, and while I think of writing and, specifically, poetry as a vocation, I couldn’t come up with any. Not really. I’ve tried baking and walking and birding. And while I like all of those activities, nothing fulfills me more than sitting down and putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). 

[ Read In The Company Of Women here]

2.
What do you enjoy about writing and teaching?

Long ago, I decided that writing and family (in that order) would be at the center of my life. So the work I do is an extension of that. To talk about poetry for a living to students, to volunteer my time in the arts community, to mentor other writers — all of that fuels my writing. I may be one of the few who enjoys the business of poetry. 

The last few years have been about navigating my kids through their teenage years, which has been a joy and a pain. More joy than pain, however! It’s bittersweet to think that I am raising my kids to not need me. But I’m very proud of son Alex, 17, and daughter Ella, 15. They are finding their way in this world and I look forward to whatever their futures bring. 

As with many families, we’ve spent a lot of time together during the pandemic. In 2019-2020, we lived in Mississippi while I was on fellowship at the University of Mississippi in Oxford. It was an eye-opening experience, one that still influences our lives in Massachusetts today. 

[ Read On Being Told I Look Like FLOTUS here ]

3. 
Which non-literary piece of culture — film, tv show, painting, song — has influenced you?

Since my time in Mississippi, I have spent a great deal of time learning about the landscape, culture, legacy of slavery in the Deep South. Much of my most recent work has been about Emmett Till, a 14-year-old boy who was brutally beaten, lynched, and killed in 1955. His story grows with relevancy with each year. Till’s story is more relevant than ever before, and I believe the work of advancing racial equity through poetry and the arts is urgent and necessary.

I want to create environments of inclusion and equity on the page, in the arts, and in my local community. 

[Musically] David Byrne’s American Utopia got me through the uncertainty of 2020. Now I’m listening to Love & Hate by Michael Kiwanuka, and Cypress Grove by Jimmy “Duck” Holmes.   

4. 
Is there a book you wish you had written?

I don’t really think of books like that. I’m happy those great works are in the world. That being said, we need to decolonize the Canon.

[Note: What does this mean? Start here.]

5.
I'm a word collector — what are your favorite words? 

Let’s see . . . dark, circle, serendipity, pleasure

Also, Yo! and OK.  




Notes & Notables

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Blessing — an erasure poem by Drew Myron

Hello Reader,

It’s time for a quick spring clean with a few notes:

1. Fun Fact
When you subscribe to this blog, each post is delivered directly to your email. Go here.

2. Find Me
Already a subscriber? Great, and thank you. I've recently changed my email service and some longtime readers may find me in the Junk drawer (the nerve!). Please check your Spam folder and set me free!

If you're still not getting my emails, please send me note and we'll figure it out. Email me: dcm@drewmyron.com

3. Ask More
”Notice when you are about to make a judgment — and ask a question instead.”

I found this nuggest of wisdom in The Art of Noticing newsletter. Like most good advice, this sounds simple but it takes work. But it’s work that is worth the effort.

4. Allow Confusion
Oh Anna, yes: 

"I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions,” writes Anna Kamienska. “What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being."

5. Mask More
I’m such a broken record, I’ve worn out my voice. Still, it must be said: the pandemic is not over.

After an encouraging lull, cases of covid are up 10 percent this week, with both hospitalizations and deaths increasing as well.

Please, friends, keep wearing your mask, washing your hands, and keeping your distance. We’re close to the end but it’s too soon to travel, to throw parties, to hug our friends. Almost, almost, not yet.

6. Thank You
Have I mentioned how much I appreciate your time & attention? I do! It brings me great joy to know you are out there in your world while I’m in here in my world, and together we are reading, writing & nodding along.

With appreciation,

Drew

 

Try This: Write A Postcard

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Postcard

Lately, I am capable only of small things.

Is it enough
to feel the heart swimming?

Jim is fine. Our first
garden is thick with spinach
and white radish. Strangely,
it is summer

but also winter and fall.

In response to your asking:
I fill the hours
then lick them shut.

Today, not a single word, but the birds
quietly nodding
as if someone had suggested
moving on.

What is that perfect thing
some one who once believed in god said?

Please don’t misunderstand:
We still suffer, but we are
happy.

Olena Kalytiak Davis

The old poems hold power. Postcard appears in And Her Soul Out of Nothing a book published in 1997 and one that I return to repeatedly and appreciate more with each reading.

How timely this poem is, still and again. At the pandemic’s one year mark, I feel small still, again. And lately every action takes great effort.

The antidote? I’m writing through. You, too?

Yes? — good, let’s try something new.

No? — that’s okay, let’s use our smallness as a start.

Try This: Write a Postcard
A postcard is an ideal tool because the space is small and the pressure low. You can write a brief and breezy message, a short sassy statement, a quick observation, a poetic plea. There are no rules and you can’t mess up. The best part? Penning a postcard is a simple act that moves the hand and stirs thoughts, and together the action energizes your writing mind.

Step 1
Pick a postcard — find them at the grocery store, on amazon, thrift shops, in the back of your junk drawer. Or make your own, which is fun for you and a treat for the recipient who gets a handwritten note + homemade art!

Step 2
Write a postcard to anyone — a friend or family member, your younger self, your older self, a stranger, a lover, the mailman, your dog . . .

Need a jumpstart? Lift a line from Postcard and keep going:*:

I am capable only of small things

I fill the hours then lick them shut.

Step 3
Mail the card — or don’t. You get to choose.


* When lifting, always provide attribution or place quotation marks around the line to indicate it is not yours. Even better, follow-up your postcard with a letter that includes the full poem (Or, even more grand, purchase the book for your postcard friend).


Keep Writing!

Try This: I Remember

Try This: Word Catching

Try This: Wild Cards

Try This: Make a Scramble

Stationery

The world is full of paper.
Write to me.

Agha Shahid Ali


One Small Thing

How do you wear your dream? — a cut-up poem by drew myron

How do you wear your dream? — a cut-up poem by drew myron

Write every day.

Write when you want.

Write when you have something to say.

Write when you don’t.

All these rules and guidelines — who knows what works?

Just as we change with age and experience, surely our creative needs change, too. For a year now, I’ve urged you (and really, myself) to make something, anything. Your bed, coffee, a story, a poem, a painting, a doodle, a grocery list . . .

Make something is my prescription for despair, protection against dread, companion in loneliness. In making something, I’m engaging mind and mood. Without judgement or fix, without fuss. Just make and do. Stay active and awake.

I don’t write poetry when I wish, says Anna Kamienska, I write when I can’t, when my larynx is flooded and my throat is shut.

It’s been a difficult year. And while the days ahead offer hope, the light is faint and my fatigue still heavy. I’m making something every day, but some days this means I make the bed, I make coffee, I make do. And I often, as my mother would say, fake it ‘til I make it.

Today my greatest accomplishment was pulling weeds. Despite my disdain for yard work, this one small act was surprisingly satisfying. I made an improvement. The morning air was crisp, the sun warm, and the small effort pushed away the throb of worries.

I’ve been writing, too, but I’m out of fresh words and out of sync. I’m tired of myself and tired of trying, and so the other day I turned my junk mail into a poem. Cut, cut, snip, snip, insta-poem. And this, too, was surprisingly satisfying. And a good reminder that poems and paintings and stories are hiding, patiently waiting for us to wake up and make ‘em.


Distractions & Attractions

Oh, the restless mind! For months my focus has darted and dived — yours too? — but I recently stumbled across these excellent distractions and attractions. As usual, books and film lift & move me.

BOOKS:

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The Hare by Melanie Finn
A taut and intoxicating tale of bad decisions and precarious moments that make a life, with a claustrophobic Joyce Carol Oates-esque feel.

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Ordinary Grace by William Kent Krueger
A slow and gentle novel with poignant beauty. (Starts slow — stick with it!) 

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Just Us: An American Conversation by Claudia Rankine
This dense and stirring collection of conversational essays, fragments, poems and images (along with a running litany of fact-checked notes and comments) is a deep dive into the racism, privilege, and prejudice that beats beneath every surface. 

See also: Citizen: An American Lyric and Don't Let Me Be Lonely.


MOVIES / TELEVISION:

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Lupin
A French mystery mind-twister, with sharp writing and quick action. The first season, available on Netflix, consists of 10 episodes. A second season is in the works.

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Call My Agent!
In this rompy French series (I’ve listed two great French shows, by pure coincidence), Parisian talent agents struggle to keep their famous clients happy and their business afloat. Now in its fourth and final season, this drama-comedy is fun relief.  

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Imposters
A mad-dash addictive series with millenial humor, mystery & twists. Originally on Bravo, now on Netflix. 


Books, films, poems, art — what’s moving you?

 


 

You Haven't Aged A Bit

Thirteen, photo by drew myron

Thirteen, photo by drew myron


A baker's dozen.

Friday the 13th.

Glasses, pimples, puberty.

Nancy Drew Mystery Series 13: The Mystery of the Ivory Charm.

Thirteen is Bonne Bell Lip Smackers, Brooke Shields, and a swipe of blush. 

Thirteen is shag carpet in a wood-paneled basement, casting nervous glances while playing spin-the-bottle.

Don't you sometimes — in your deepest hidden self — still feel the queasy roil of thirteen?   

Established in 2008, this blog is now 13. Happy birthday! Oh, the agony and joy of turning a teen.

“And so, let’s go,” I wrote in my first post so many years ago, “not with the thunder of the self-absorbed, but in the same way a single word, spoken softly, carries great weight.” 

Still holds true. The more things change, the more they don’t.

Thanks for aging with me. 

I'm happy you're here.


Types of Clarity

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Types of Clarity

 1.

Winter nights, deep and still 

a well of darkness opaque 

as every unanswered call

 

2. 

Unexpected sun in mid winter 

freeze, I turn against cold, 

against wind, face to sun: 

                                                      fill me

 

3.

From winter's grim march

this blazing blue sky is a

grace I want to deserve

— Drew Myron

Hello Reader,

A sort of numb getting-through has taken over. One step, another step, press on, press on . . .

You too?

At this point, it seems we’re all hunkered down, pulling the weight of every individual and collective worry. The days are beyond heavy.

A friend is sick, a parent dies, a job lost, storms rage, depression grows. Even if covid has not touched your life directly — and I hope that’s true for you but know it’s not the case for many — the virus has intensified the grief, depriving us of the tiny things, like holding hands and gathering together, that help process pain.

How to keep on?

I had to pull off of the road and cry, a friend says, and in the telling I feel her sobs, exhaustion at the core of caring.

You have to search for beauty, says Austin Kleon.

Keep walking, says Annabel Abbs in this beautiful essay, The Body On Grief

Yesterday, a blue sky opened vivid and true. I turned to the sun and for a moment I finally felt a calm. And then wrote a few lines. It’s not a great photo, not a great poem. But it doesn’t matter. I’m making. Writing it out and getting through, one line at a time, this is how I’m keeping on.

How about you?


Hitting the Wall

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As Winter Wears On 

As winter wears on

what fate deals you 

is a window of noticing 

fogged by the familiar 

 

like a storm of worry that 

becomes its own weather, this

season is a betrayal that stays. 

 

So much is hard to know for sure: 

how to have a conversation 

how to listen for the cloud lifting

how to wake and walk and keep on.

 

Let us be faithful, you say. 

Don't draw the shade. Instead

live hungry for hope's dim glow.

 

I say, let us measure our wounds,

the shape of this ruthless subtraction.

We want a reason to trust in better days.

 

Maybe there’s power in refusal

or reckoning and release, in counting 

questions that never deliver the 

who what or how long

 

Maybe what fate deals you  

is a life of winters in a single day 

and the biggest decision is 

to trust or turn, or to simply 

 

and most painfully, 

most importantly

put on a coat and 

watch it go.  

 

— Drew Myron

 

 1. 
“a window  . . “ line is borrowed from Tom Vanderbilt, author of Beginners: The Joy and Transformative Power of Lifelong Learning, who wrote "a window of noticing fogged by familiarity” published in The Art of Noticing Newsletter.

2.
“ruthless subtraction” is a phrase borrowed from astrologer Holiday Mathis’ Pisces horoscope for January 15, 2021.

3.
I have “hit the pandemic wall,” described in The Washington Post as a “sudden feeling of spiritual and emotional exhaustion with life during covid times.”

“The pandemic wall pops up at different times for different people, but for a vast group of people, the wall has smacked them in the face within the past three weeks. . . . ‘This fear of being around one another — that that fear is not going to go away in eight months,’ he says. The realization made him pull over and start to cry. ‘Those people who I was trying to console and keep upbeat — now it’s official, I’m one of those people.’ ”


 

 

Bookish: Art In An Emergency

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When the going gets tough, we need more art — and books, and books about art.

Funny Weather: Art In An Emergency is a essay collection by art critic & culture writer Olivia Laing. Art is a source of clarity, resistance, and repair, she says, then offers sweeping examples for our salvation. She offers profiles of Jean-Michel Basquiat and Georgia O'Keeffe, explores Maggie Nelson, Sally Rooney, David Bowie, Freddie Mercury, and explores loneliness, technology, women, alcohol, sex and more.

In evocative language that sweeps across decades, Funny Weather shines a light on the lives of artists in insightful nuggets like this:

“Elegance shares a border with crankiness, independence with selfishness, and O’Keeffe was by no means a saint.”

And this:

“Here’s another kind of art I like: the anonymous, the cobbled together, the hand-me-down, the postscript; collaborations between strangers that marry jubilantly, that don’t quite fit.”

Art doesn't just happen to us, she says.

“It's work. What art does is provide material with which to think: new registers; new spaces. After that, friend, it's up to you.”

Go here to read a great INTERVIEW with Olivia Laing.

Bookish is an occasional feature to share books that hold my attention and my heart.


Practice, not precious

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Way back when the pandemic began, I joined a writing group. Every week by email the host would send a prompt to an assortment of writers, of whom I knew just one. A few days later, we’d share our work like offerings, then follow up with private notes of encouragement: I like this line or good job.

The responses were simple, easy and kind. I needed this nudge to write, and more than I’d like to admit, I needed the accolade. It felt good.

It felt needy to need but, if I’m out loud and honest, it mostly felt good.

* * *

Most of my friends have a writing group they lean on for encouragement and support. But I’ve always been a loner, not a joiner. I often lead and this was the first group I had no obligation to run or guide. Less pressure, more play.

Thanks to this somewhat anonymous and pressure-less routine, last year I wrote more than I have in years. The more I wrote the more I had to write. It was a faucet I didn’t want to turn off.

But as the summer wore on the world turned more and more grim, and we shared less and less. We were worn down with life. Weary, we took the break we all needed.

* * *

But like a run you skip just one day, and then another, I wrote less and less. I got rusty. I resented my blank pages, my dull mind, this idling blog. I grew mad at myself: what’s wrong with you? can’t you do anything? you’re so lazy!

This is normal. Writers go fallow. We need rest and restoration. But each time I hit a dry spell, my creative life feels terminal: I will never write again, I say, falling to the couch in a dramatic heap.

Of course, I always rally, I write. Life takes on a brighter hue.

* * *

Today, our writing group resumed. And I’m happy to have a structure that urges me to the page again.

But more importantly, I’m remembering — for the zillionth time, it seems — that writing is practice, not precious. My best work, and my most creative and happy self, is found through trying and messing and feeling through, without expectation or plan.

I gotta stay in the play, not in the product.

* * *

Writer-artist Austin Kleon, who modernized the erasure form with his black out poetry, blogs daily, not because he has so much to say but because “blogging is about discovering what I have to say.”

“I had no idea,” he writes, “how badly my writing muscles had atrophied. After a couple of weeks, I could feel the sentences coming easier. . . . Something small every day leads to something big.”

* * *

I’ve had seasons of daily pages, and seasons of not writing at all.

But I am reminded now of my favorite season, when I write with fever and share with abandon, when everything feels alive and abundant. I want to go back — or, rather, forward — with a loose grip.

Write more, write better, write now.

I want to bumble and flub, to kick off the rust and oil the gears. I want to write the odd phrase, the awkward break, share the almost-there line, the not-quite poem. Not to preen and gleam but to build muscle, to let go of the precious line and sacred space so that I can return again to the power and flow of making.

Years ago my first and favorite teacher, Judyth Hill, told me: Writing needs air!

Yes, yes! It needs to crackle and spit, to fire and flash. Let us not hold our poems too close, our words too dear, but instead share wildly and with great cheer.

Are you with me? Let’s go!


(Trying To) Pay Attention

Shifted, an erasure poem by Drew Myron

Shifted, an erasure poem by Drew Myron

Dear Reader,
Not a letter, or poem, not even email. I have not written.

Not because there is nothing to say but because there is too much. 

I’m still here. And you?

1.
Silence is not the absence of something but the presence of everything
, says Gordon Hempton

2.
I'm trying to pay attention. But the world is too much and my mind too heavy. This constant darting, this fatigue. You feel it too? 

I want to know know know but when I know it's not enough. I crave more details, more nuance, more information. Feed me, more more more. It's addictive, corrosive, wearing. 

3.
Full sentences are too much. The mind files only nuggets, lines, bits. I sift for words and meaning, for sense. I stand at watch, seeing chaos and rubble, seeing nothing, nothing, everything. 

4.
Teach us to care and not to care.
Teach us to sit still. 

Ash Wednesday by T.S. Eliot

5.
Phrases we never want to hear again:

Now, more than ever. . .

In this challenging time . . .

Unprecedented.

6.
This is not sadness. Not depression. Aren’t we all just so full?

Not sated. Not glowing with plentitude. The other full: flooded.

7.
The moment of change is the only poem, wrote Adrienne Rich.

The poem is in us, in action and rest, rising, forming, in this very moment, in our every now. What is your poem?

8.
How to get through?

Keep reading, writing, walking, thinking, reaching.

Keep awake.

Keep trying.

Keep going.

You, yes you, keep on.


On Seeing

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Her hair is rumpled, shirt stained, and still she is grateful when I take her picture.  

You have a beautiful smile, I say, and her eyes flutter and cheeks flush.

She looks down and back again, into my camera. The moment turns shy and empowered in equal measure, and I feel like I'm seeing a new sort of truth.

It’s an easy thing, a tossed moment, a simple photo. She is painting, something that happens routinely here in the nursing home, just another craft activity. It's nothing much, really, a blink of time. 

______

Sometimes I take a picture and later, when editing, I see a beauty I had missed: bright eyes, slight smile, a shy pride. But then I wonder, do I see the beauty in this image because I see the beauty of a moment? Will you see beauty in these ravaged faces and messy hair, in the marks and spots and displays of decay?

______

If you look at a window, you see fly-specks, dust, the crack where Junior's Frisbie hit it. If you look through a window, you see the world beyond. 

 — Frederick Buechner, Wishful Thinking

______

Scrolling through social media I often see photos of "old" people, a friend's parent, say, or some inspirational vision of age, and I pass by without emotion or second glance.

But at work, in each photo I snap, I see details that a camera can never catch: the flash of a smile, an unexpected laugh that is full and fast but too quick for capture.

Or the light of the room, how when he moved near the window, a cloud opened, a bird sang.

Or the quick smile followed by slow conversation, how the clock seems to stop because I must slow up, slow down, let my breath catch my mind. 

There is always much to do: meetings, deadlines, phone calls, photos. I keep moving, moving, moving. Even when I want to stay longer, talk more, I am conflicted with the desire to both absorb and wipe away. To lean in and to leave. 

______

When Doris fusses with her hair, I am fretting on my own appearance.

When Herman cannot be calmed, I feel a buzz of bees too.

When Pearl tells me about life on the farm — Momma had hundreds of birds and they sang every morning— I am her, dazzled by every small and simple thing.  

______

What looks bare is usually a different kind of abundance. 

— Sarah Cook, This Place is Beautiful, This Place is Gross

______

Time slows to stillness here, when I pay attention, when I slow myself. And so this exchange, of easy banter and click, click, click, is nothing much. And yet, when trust is established, time feels precious.

Each click says I see you. 

As I leave, her eyes are soft and pleading as she says thank you.


* Names and identifiers have been changed to protect privacy.

** Photo from Istockphoto.com



Good Books of 2020

All year I moaned about my lack of attention for reading. I’m too distracted, I said, with everything (insert hand sweep here to indicate: pandemic, racial injustice, election chaos, economic crisis, and crushing fatigue).

But as I look back now, I realize I enjoyed a lot of really good books, and feel encouraged to know when all else fails books can (still) change my heart, mind & mood.

Here are the Good Books I read in 2020:

FICTION

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Take Me Apart by Sara Sligar
Art, writing, mystery — all in one engaging story. I could not put this book down; read it in one riveted day.

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My Life as A Rat by Joyce Carol Oates
Whew, what a disturbing, haunting, page-turner! Written in second person "you," Joyce Carol Oates is a master of claustrophic hunger that revolts and mesmerizes all at once.

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The Nix by Nathan Hill
A funny and touching debut novel about a son, the mother who left him as a child, and how his search to uncover the secrets of her life leads him to reclaim his own. This story is chocked with great lines, like this: “Seeing ourselves clearly is the project of a lifetime.” 

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The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennett
With an unusual story set up — twin sisters are raised in a small town founded by and for light-skinned black people — this engaging novel stirs ideas on race, identity and home. 

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My Dark Vanessa by Kate Elizabeth Russell
Dark, disturbing, compelling. Extremely well-written.

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The View from Penthouse B by Elinor Lipman
Easy but not insipid. The perfect read for full and distracted minds (like mine).

POETRY

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On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong
This novel is both long poem and full sigh. Beautiful and unusual. Vivid and sensory, rich and haunted. The writing is, well, gorgeous, line after beautiful line.

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Hotel Almighty by Sarah J Sloat
These visual poems are stunning one-of-a-kind mixed-media collage, with each served on a miniature canvas. So visually evocative my only wish is that the book were a larger format so I could absorb its beauty even more.

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Gravity & Spectacle by Shawnte Orion and Jia Oak Baker
Inventive, innovative, inspired! This unusual combo of photos and poems is a powerful art project that is silly, serious, fun, sad, and strong.

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If the House by Molly Spencer
Layered, textured, rich and deep. A stunning debut. After years of quiet, thoughtful, diligent work, Molly Spencer is finally seeing well-deserved acclaim. Read also: Hinge, just published. 

HOW-TO 

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The Art of Noticing For Writers by Rob Walker
This Kindle ‘short’ is a fun and valuable nugget of inspiration for all kinds of writers. Read also: The Art of Noticing:131 Ways to Spark Creativity, Find Inspiration, and Discover Joy in the Everyday. 

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Maybe You Should Talk to Someone by Lori Gottlieb
An unexpected gem! Great writing, pacing, and character development in a self-help ‘story’ penned by an insightful doctor-writer. 

MEMOIR

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 Save Me the Plums: My Gourmet Memoir by Ruth Reichl 
Another great Ruth Reichl memoir! She's penned several and this is now among my top picks, right up there with her first (and still my favorite), Tender at the Bone.

___

Dear Readers & Writers,
In the new year, may your heart & mind make room for reading.
The world is full of good writing, read on!

With love,

Drew


Fast Five with Penelope Scambly Schott

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"I believe that every person has a true landscape of the soul and that some of us are lucky enough to find that place.”

Penelope Scambly Schott

Welcome to Fast Five, in which I ask my favorite writers five questions as a way to open the door to know more.

Penelope Scambly Schott is the author of over a dozen poetry books, a novel, and a “slightly fictional canine memoir.” She has earned an Oregon Book Award and numerous other literary achievements. She splits her time between two Oregon towns: the city of Portland to the west, and the small farm town of Dufur to the east.

1. 
Let’s start with your most pressing and poetic theme: Dufur, Oregon.

I have a love affair with the small (population: 623) central Oregon town of Dufur. I’ve had my house here for ten years and each year I become more attached to the community. (I’ve bought a plot in the local cemetery so that even though I wasn’t born here I can be dead here.) I’ve published a chapbook called Lovesong for Dufur and, just this spring, On Dufur Hill, a full-length collection of poems about the cycle of a year here.

[ Read excerpts from On Dufur Hill here.]

I believe that every person has a true landscape of the soul — be it beach, mountains, whatever — and that some of us are lucky enough to find that place. I grew up in New York City as a free range child (remember those?) but have never again felt so at home as I do here. When local kids see me walking with my dog Sophia they yell out, “Hi, Penelope,” and when the dog and I step into the post office past the “No Dogs Allowed” sign, Sophia stands up at the counter and Dave or Mike will give her a biscuit.

2.
Why write?

Because I can’t help it? Because when I was a tiny child just learning to speak I stood up in my crib and spoke sentences? Because it’s too lonesome to have words in my mind that I can’t share? I could say that I write, as in putting the words on paper, because, unlike Homer and other bards, my memory isn’t good enough to compose and recite without a crib sheet. And that’s not just a joke; I am obsessed with the sounds of language. Most of my poems originate with a line or two coming into my head as I am out walking, usually climbing Dufur Hill which I do every morning. Something about the rhythm of walking triggers spoken language. I repeat the line or lines all the way down the hill and then when I get home I write them down and continue with the rest of the poem. Maybe writing is my way of coping with noticing and feeling.

3. 
Tell us about your professional life. What do you enjoy about teaching?

I got my Ph.D. as a union card. I was a single mother with two kids and I had to do something to feed them. It was only when I started teaching that I discovered I actually liked it. I like: figuring something out clearly enough to explain it, learning from my students, making an emotional connection with each student, hoping I am useful. What I especially like about leading poetry workshops is how quickly we become a community.

 On my resume I’ve been a college professor and a workshop leader, but for many years I also had jobs on the side. I worked as an artist’s model which taught me a lot about art and also that a body is just a thing. The most meaningful non-teaching job I’ve had was the five years I worked as a home health aide. I had felt I needed to learn more about old age and dying, and I sure did. Although I was treated with more respect as Professor Schott, I may have been more useful as “the girl from the agency.”

4. 
Which non-literary piece of culture — film, tv show, painting, song — has influenced you?

I grew up without a television and never learned to watch. I see very few movies. The songs that have been important to me are not popular music but old Scottish ballads. Perhaps the biggest influence on me was the art I saw as a child when my mother took me regularly to the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan. I remember being completely freaked out by Picasso’s painting Guernica showing the consequences of war. I can still hear that horse screaming. I was also greatly affected by a Giacometti sculpture called The Palace at 4 a.m. which was full of inexplicable mystery. I think I could trace much of my writing to those two pieces of art.

5.
Is there a book you wish you had written?

When I was a girl that book was Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden for its discovery of the unknown. Now it might be any of the poets who write very short and unforgettable gems — maybe some of the Chinese poets of the Tang dynasty or the wonderful one-line pieces by the Greek poet Yannis Ritsos as translated by my friend Paul Merchant in Monochords.

Bonus Question: What are your favorite words?

Almost anything with a B or a P or a K. I love making those sounds. 

Poke, kitchen, spit, slump, noncombustible. 

Of course there are also wonderful words like interrogatory and flat. 

Hey, I guess I love ‘em all.