There is a long-standing metaphorical marriage of rain and sorrow. Painters, film-makers, musical artists — they have all used tempestuous imagery to denote loss, grief, and sadness. In 1933 Harold Arlen and Ted Koehler penned “Stormy Weather, ” the quintessential breakup song first performed by Ethel Waters. Covered by greats like Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, […]
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August Rain: The Decisive Moment
As a boy, I lived a spell in East Texas. Somewhere on the edge of the urban sprawl, my sister and I ran barefooted down dirt roads, sat under the shade of mesquite groves, and tromped through fields of briars to the neighbor-lady’s house with all the aquariums. We were home on the range and […]
Caught Flashing
Everyone knows writing conferences can get a little crazy. In fact, this normally prim poet was just caught flashing at the Midwest Writers Workshop. Fiction flashing, that is. I should have seen it coming. I hadn’t written fiction in nearly two decades, was let loose in Muncie, Indiana, without my husband and kids, and was […]
August Rain: Introduction (and a bit of spiny poetry)
The heartland is ablaze. The five-o’clock news anchor tells us that Tower Mountain was kissed by lightning, that it went up like a harvest bonfire before emergency crews responded. “There have been more than 1, 000 wildfires in Arkansas this year, ” he says, “mostly in rural portions of the state.” He makes some awkward […]
The Anthologist: Motion
I found Paul Chowder at the Tip O’Neill building. He was in the passport office cajoling the bureaucrats into renewing his travel documents just days before his departure to Switzerland for some big international poetry doings because he didn’t realize he’d expired. I was there for my once-a-decade passport renewal even though I had no […]
The Anthologist: Pluck the Day
I scheduled a date with Paul Chowder on Friday. We were supposed to hang out and talk about Sara Teasdale. He’d been going on about how some poets spend too much time thinking about death, like going to a movie and just waiting for the credits, which my dad taught me are very interesting if you […]
July Mosaics: Concrete Poetry
In the summer of 2008, the local Barnes & Noble invited Geoffrey Brock to read from his first book of Poetry, Weighing Light. Metal folding chairs were placed between the do-it-your self section and the clearance picture-book aisle. I’m not sure whether it was the ideal spot for a poetry reading, what with patrons whizzing through […]
The Anthologist: Conversation in a Laundromat
I moved upstairs to the kitchen to work. I don’t like the kitchen much. It reminds me of all the times I have to cook, and cooking is not something I enjoy. Sometimes when I cook, there’s a fire, and I’m not sure the fire extinguisher was recharged after the last one. It wasn’t my […]
July Mosaics: Juxtaposition
Years ago, I had the privilege of rubbing eyeballs with royalty. Flanked by an impressive retinue of distinguished figure heads, the fair-skinned and curly-haired king stood before a hushed audience at my university and delivered a cultural manifesto on the artist’s role in creating the juxtaposition of political and religious imagery to benefit and protect society.
But I was more interested in his shoes.
The Anthologist: Book Club Invitation
Paul Chowder is a lonely writer who would have an anthology of poetry to his credit, if he could just get the introduction written and submitted to his editor. It seems, however, that this self-proclaimed “study in failure” cannot. His longtime girlfriend has left him and he is alone in the barn, trying to write […]
Patchwork: A Story
Our theme for July is The Cento—a put-together poem, a patchwork if you will, of words from others. What follows is not a Cento and will not tell you what a Cento is, but we’re okay with that. We tell our writers to “be creative, ” and that’s what Karen Swallow Prior has been by […]
The Artist’s Way: Conclusion
The Artist’s Way: If growth “is a spiral process, doubling back on itself, ” we don’t need to eat a whole carp in a day.
May Play: Results
May Play began with a chance conversation with the owner of a candy shop.
The Artist’s Way: Morning Pages
At the root of a successful recovery is the commitment to puncture our denial, to stop saying, “It’s okay” when in fact it’s something else. The morning pages press us to answer what else.
Guaranteed Disease-Resistant
There was nothing like roses. I was addicted.
May Play: Stretching
Sometimes we start poetry with a history of strains and tight muscles. For many of us, this month’s May Play felt like therapy, a chance to purge ourselves of some lactic acid and develop more elasticity.
The Artist’s Way: Safety
One of our chief needs as creative beings is support. Unfortunately, this can be hard to come by.
By Any Other Name
My interest in roses took a turn three years ago, however, when Sharon and I lost our home to a wildfire on the outskirts of Santa Barbara and temporarily rented a place in town near the old mission.
Image-ine: Roses
Can you find a poem in this photo? If I were to find one, it might be in those hands, the blue shadows, or the three roses.
Rumors of Water: Play
With Spring coming into full bloom, I’m still doing all the same serious things I did all winter long. But I get up a little earlier and I read a poem (or two) every day.