memorial for a brilliant woman

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

So many words! So much writing!

I spent July writing. Seriously writing. Taking a memoir writing class from Doug Jones at the Visual Arts center on Tuesday nights, attending the West Virginia Writers Woekshop at West Virginia University in Morgantown, and moving words all over the page, then the screen for the entire month. I highly recommend the activity. In the meantime, I won some books from Coffee House Books. I'm really looking forward to their arrival. Not to mention the stack of books from WVA - more about those later. Also taking a slow read thru the Mary Jo Bang translation of Dante's Inferno AND the Exegesis of Philip K. Dick. I can never read just one measly book at a time!

Monday, July 09, 2012

KIN: Songs by Mary Karr and Rodney Crowell

Who doesn't love Mary Karr, her novels and poetry? If you're from Texas it's a done deal. If you and you're people are from East Texas, I don't even know what to say. I'm writing my story- this is some of my soundtrack. Rodney Crowell grew up not too far from where I did. If I close my eyes it's like hearing family talking. I'm hungry for home. Sadly, all I have is what's in my mind.

Wednesday, July 04, 2012

Poetry Magazine and Tony

no, I didn't get a poem accepted because I didn't submit one.

But those of you who know me know how much I adore the way Tony Hoagland
puts words down that seem as though he can read my mind and codify what I need to say.  I don't know why I feel this link to him- it came to me the second I met him, though I had criticised viciously a poem posted at Slate magazine many years ago. Another friend was severly wounded by him and did not write for three years after we encounteered him (in a workshop). I love both of them and this is inexplicable to me.

Hoagland has three poems in the latest issue of Poetry Magazine, the most uneven publication I know.

The first one makes me ache with recognition- There is no word. I have been writing this for years.

The second is Note to Reality and holds the final twist that I find so fascinating about his poetry.

The last is called Don't Tell Anyone and so squarely captures the secrets I carry I wept when I read it.

I know some people like Mary Oliver and her deep nature, or the Dickman's and their cruel humor, but Tony Hoagland and I seem to share a loving cynicism that is only tamped by how we cling to life and all it's disturbing wonders.

My absolute favorite poet, besides myself.