To Pee on the Tree or Not to Pee?

When I walk Duncan the Dog, he reads tree bark the way I read books. He’s not interested in the tree itself, only the messages left by his canine tribe. I don’t know what he learns from his sniffing, maybe something like “Oh, that old lab was here today and that little Pomeranian is pregnant. Wow!” His own signature is writ in urine.

Critiquing poetry is much the same, though we write in ink and sweat, not pee. We don’t judge the poet, only the work. We neither defend nor prosecute the “tree.” It’s what’s on the bark that matters.

Today the critique group to which I belong, Gamuts, will share a potluck lunch and review a poetry manuscript. It works this way: the poet du jour has assembled her manuscript to the best of her ability. She has included a title page, a table of contents and the full text of each poem on a separate page. She has numbered the pages. She will have handed out print copies of the manuscript weeks ago. The rest of us will have read the work at least twice and written comments on the pages.

First we talk about the collection as a whole: the themes, style, structure of the book. We pretend the writer is not at the table, sipping her wine and crunching her salad. She’s eating and she’s listening and taking notes. After discussing the larger elements, we work through the poems one at a time, looking for fresh, precise language, rhythm, structure within the poem. What I like someone else mourns. We look for leaners–poems too weak to stand alone outside this manuscript. We name the keepers and the cuts, the pets and the mutts. We remain civil and somewhat objective. Objectivity challenges us because we often know the backstory of a piece and may not be alert to what a stranger needs to get the news.

Most of all we don’t lift a leg to offend the poet because each of us at some point will be the tree.

The Distraction Factor

This summer I spent a week in the company of Marge Piercy and twelve other talented and dedicated poets. At the end of our week Marge asked us to commit openly, in writing, to our writing, to keep it first on our to-do list. My promise to myself has two parts: get back to submitting work regularly and reduce outside commitments. This week I have done a lousy job of keeping that promise. Too many outside events have drawn me away from my desk.

And what have I done? Chastised and berated myself for my slothfulness and wailed like a three year old about what a failure I am as a writer. Well, wake up, child. This past week I’ve attended a day-long poetry festival, taken part in a public reading to celebrate National Translation Month, volunteered as  writing coach at our local mental health service, taught two classes on creative writing, attended a talk on cliche at a local library and today I’m off to the first seasonal meeting of CIPA (Colorado Independent Publishers’ Assoc.) Oh, and spent a valuable hour yesterday with one of my writing partners. This, my dear self, is not sloth.

It’s distraction from the individual aspects of writing. So right here in front of everyone, I forgive myself for losing focus, dropping the reins, wallowing in remorse, all those things that would, if I let them, keep me mired in regret. I’ve just put three little stickies on the edge of my monitor to remind me that here, at the desk is my next destination.

Read for Equality

What Words Can’t Say

As you read this, I am driving away from Wellfleet, Massachusetts, or maybe I’m in Logan International waiting to board a flight home to Colorado. I cannot give you the whole week I’ve just spent on Cape Cod. Only certain details and they may not be the ones you would like to hear. Generalities like intense or fast moving won’t do. I’d like to give you the sight of Wellfleet Harbor every morning where I sat with my coffee, watching the light play with the water, the occasional boat head toward the open ocean, the sea roses, the exact color of the beach sand. But you’ll see only what you know of these images. If you have never tasted lobster or fried clams, I can only tell you that they are worth the cost and the calories.

You will have to imagine thirteen women clustered around a table in a conference room and breathing in poetry. One of those women was, of course, Marge Piercy, an energetic and clear-headed poet, novelist, teacher, who challenged us with daily assignments and who expected us to rise to the challenge of the poetry techniques that she focused on each day. You missed a fine, fast-paced poetry reading Thursday night at the Wellfleet Library. And the after party with six flavors of ice cream and several rounds of impromptu poetry.

I’m sorry you couldn’t be at the party at Marge’s house on Friday night. Sorry to be sketchy and a little insular. This pocket of time is gone and won’t come back. Oh, the participants who connected will stay in touch, will share news and poems via email or Face Book, those alternatives to the handwritten letters that once upon a time ended up in collections or memoirs. The memories are our souvenirs, better than a t-shirt or book bag, much better than not having spent the money and time and effort to be here. Thanks Marge, Wendy, Jen, Janine, Leslie, Wilderness, Susan, Norma, Dana, Stacey, Sherine and Marianne. Safe home.

When Is Enough Time Not Enough?

I’m pretty much faithful to this blog; most Saturdays there’s something new related to the world of books, writing them, reading them, loving or hating them. I almost missed today because I have been 1. Hospice sitting a family dog and 2. Working on remembering what day it is. Hey, it’s Saturday! How did that happen? Well, Karen, Saturday always comes between Friday and Sunday. Oh, right. Truth is, I’m focused on tomorrow because that’s the day I go to Cape Cod in order to become part of a week-long poetry workshop under the guidance of one of my favorite writers, Marge Piercy.
In fact, I’ve had my eye on this date in the calendar for over a year now, since Ms. Piercy first agreed to include me this year. You’ll just have to imagine my mind set. Pack–be sure to take the right notebook, don’t forget the copies of poems for the Monday morning start, remember how chilly it gets in New England even in June. Leave the house in Maine and dogs and cat in good order. Find the BnB without getting lost. (Siri has been a little unreliable this week, with several instances of “No service, Siri is not available, I’m sorry, but I cannot connect to the internet.”
You get my point? Siri’s fickle and I’m not myself today. I’m a writer about to dive into deep water and I might be over my head. See, I’m already flailing around with cliched prose. So, wish me luck, no wish me hard work, good attention and dedicated listening. Next Saturday I will leave the Cape to fly back to Colorado, but I might be clear headed enough to use the long layover that afternoon to let you know how things went this week. Bye for now.