Things I Love (v-day, a day late)

Fontina cheese. Talking Heads. Kurt Schwitters. Kalamata olives. David Markson. Peonies. Santa Fe. The Greatest. The oceans. Bidú Sayao. Villette. Rioja. Gingham. Good Reads. Paul Klee. Almonds. Dusk Litany. Black-eyed Susans. Titled. Lichtenberg. Brown paper. Brattleboro. Mairead Byrne. 72 Fahrenheit. Candles. Babies. Dachshunds. My Dead Friends. Fernando Pessoa. Fondue. Rucola. BWV 82. Norman Dubie. Teal. Marimekko. Fireplaces. Affentor. Tapioca pudding. Brittany. Chanel 5. Garamond. Meryl Streep. German. Acorns. Daunt Books. Lavender. Bath bombs. Barrister bookcases. MoMA. Collage. Garlic. Satie. Street cars. Tidiness. The glottal stop. Book art. Complex plots. Warm washcloths on airplanes. Adjectives. Szymborska. Steak. Alexievich. The Jackson 5. Birdsong. Kimonos. Wooden matches. Emily Dickinson. Naples. Calligraphy. Upscale hotels. Aspirin. Lake Constance. Breast feeding. Spoons. Pocket knives. WS Merwin. Snow. Persimmons. Apollinaire. Burt Bacharach. Camper shoes. The Owl and the Pussycat. Pipe tobacco. Bright Pittsburgh Morning. Licorice. Wattwandern. Popcorn. Aprons. Hans Arp. Swann’s Way. Dark blue velvet. Chai latte. Chuang Tzu. Lord of the Rings. Pocket watches. Clouds.

Valentine is the patron saint of epilepsy

Charles Dickens wanted a woman with oomph on his arm, but his wife Catherine was reserved and rather a homebody. You might excuse her considering she had 10 children. One would have hoped Charles could have set her up and parted amicably so he could court Ellen Terry, the young actress; instead he belittled and exiled Catherine, and blamed her for so much birthing. Though history points to the contrary, I like to think she was relieved to be rid of him.

Abraham Lincoln remained loyal to Mary, although she was less competent than Catherine Dickens and as dowdy. And Hilary Clinton remains loyal to Bill, despite his womanizing. There’s more to love than sex, the saints say. 

The less you know about people’s relationships, the better the relationships seem. Anyone care for more Sylvia & Ted?

“We’ve Only Just Begun,” the Carpenters’ song played at millions of weddings including my aunt’s (later legally terminated), was originally written for a bank commercial. Karen Carpenter, coincidentally, died the day her divorce went through. 

John Keats might have happily wedded Fanny Brawne if he hadn’t wasted away from TB. Fanny’s own brother also died of TB a few years later. TB is an ardent suitor. Which reminds me to read The Magic Mountain. 

Fernando Pessoa seems to have never loved anyone at all, on purpose. 

Erik Satie, too, made a clean break. His one love affair, with Suzanne Valadon, left him heartbroken, and Satie abandoned romance. He died of cirrhosis, and the posthumous excavation of his lodgings revealed excrement on the living room floor. Perhaps he didn’t want to venture too far from the piano? Which remained true to him?

20-minute story

This takes 20 minutes, a long time on the internet, but is very enjoyable and engaging, especially if you've read Paul Bowles' "The Sheltering Sky." I read it last year and admired but also hated it, and I appreciated this storyteller, Edgar Oliver, recounting his trip to Morocco to Paul Bowles' bedside.

Lodgings to remember

A tidy room in the soot and collapsing labyrinth of Naples where I sang “On the Street Where You Live” in the marble bathroom because I was infatuated.

A powdery flowery hotel room in Paris with two double beds and a TV on the bureau where my friend Carle and I watched Saddam Hussein crawl out of his hole.

The Silver Saddle motel in Santa Fe where I stayed twice - first on my maiden voyage to NM where I met a rancher from Telluride who asked to come in, and second with my friend Amy on a road trip from eastern Kansas to Taos.

The Hotel Manin in Milan where I lived with my husband and two toddlers for six weeks in utter misery while we looked for permanent quarters.

Stranded in Japan in the smallest room imaginable where you could touch the opposite walls with your arms outstretched and the only place to keep your suitcase was with you on the bed.

In Vienna in an attic room of the Hotel Regina, a dim room like a maid’s quarters with a slanted roof but very pleasant in the grey rain all quilted and muffled and far away.

The beautiful Hotel Bad Schachen on Lake Constance where I was for work, unfortunately. I attempted writing a poem, which failed, and didn’t try again for more than 10 years. 

The Beijing dormitory I had to walk 3-4 miles to get to in the bitter cold in shoes too small in a relationship of unreciprocated love which my superhuman efforts failed to change. 

The Presidential Suite of the Watergate Hotel where due to a hotel flub we were upgraded to expansive living quarters and a panoramic view and what struck me most at the time (I was 11 or 12) was the phone installed next to the toilet. 

A motel on the Canadian border on the way to Montreal where I stayed with a boyfriend I didn’t love anymore and indeed he too appeared very weary.

june '74

Why is the owl & pussycat's boat pea-green? Is it made of bamboo? Has moss grown on it?

What is a bong tree? Is it in the south pacific? Is it gong-like, or hollow like a hookah? 

Why honey? With what? 

If there’s plenty of money, why offer the piggy-wig just a shilling for the ring? There seems little else to spend it on.

Why did they sail for a year and a day, or 366 days? Is it because even numbers are more harmonious?

With the delightful picture of marriage portrayed in the owl and pussycat, why did Edward Lear never marry? Is it because he entertained a number of pet peeves, including noise, gaiety, and hens? "When I go to heaven, if indeed I go -and am surrounded by thousands of polite angels- I shall say courteously, 'please leave me alone.'"

Crush

As if writing a poem weren't hard enough, then comes submitting. Sometimes, despite having some favorite zines, I don't know where to begin. A good way out of the 'where to?' question can be to find a poet you like, find out where their new poems are, and try there, too. I do this!

I find Duotrope also a big help. I look at "recent responses" for new publications and also to refresh my memory. Recently I saw Birdfeast start up, and I thought, oh, not another zine with a bird name. But I checked it out and the 'bird' referred to 'flipping the bird,' and it just seemed a desirable home for a poem, and I was lucky to have one accepted. Funny enough, I also checked out Thrush, yet another bird name, and thought it would be girly love and nature poetry but looks (and names) deceive and it is full of terrific poems. They rejected me, but I will try again.

Then come the cases of cool-sounding zines that have sleek and savvy layouts, and are full of poetry you think is bad! Not 'not my thing' bad but downright weak. This is disappointing.

Considering all the time and thought that goes into submitting, beyond writing the poem, I think I'll just lie back and suck plastic grapes and wait until the publications come knocking at my door. Um, more plastic grapes please...

For those who celebrate, V-Day is a week or so away, and Poetry Crush has a feature up on erotic poems. They asked the writers who are publishing with Hyacinth Girl Press to choose a favorite and write a little intro. Mine is ee cummings, and there is a rich and varied selection of other poets too. Enjoy.

Sans serif

Like many people, I got my first look at the 9/11 memorial today - on the internet, of course. What I especially like about it is the sans serif typeface, which is simple and on the heavy side, but with good balance. I find it impressive. I've googled up and down but can't find the name of it. I did find a lot of other information, including how the names are arranged using algorhythmics - by relationship, and/or location. That was a great idea.

Look at this kid doing an etching of the engraving of his father's name. The first thing I thought of when I saw it was how I used to do those etchings on old gravestones. And then it struck me that that memorial is his father's gravestone.

I'm looking forward to visiting the memorial in October. If anyone figures out the typeface before then, tip me off.

you see she is yet young

I recently saw that Jane Eyre is being made into a movie. Being made into a movie “again” seems to be more correct, but I never saw a Jane Eyre movie, so it’s all news to me. I have read the book, however, though I remember little about it – just a few of the Mr. Rochester bits, the psychopath in the attic, and the BOOM sentence: ‘Reader, I ....’

I do enjoy a good British period film with costumes and rain-slapped trees and fireplaces and overcooked porridge. So after I saw the trailer, I pulled the book off the shelf to reacquaint myself. Honestly I thought the reacquaintance would last four minutes, but soon I was on page 8, then page 11, then page 16 and by then I’d committed to re-reading it.

I know that re-reading books is enriching and often necessary but I confess I rarely do it, mostly because there are so many books I haven’t read, ‘important’ books, supposedly ‘great’ books, supposedly delightful books, books with “the answer” that has hitherto been hidden from me! Poetry! Memoirs of suffering! Considering I have to work and sleep and walk the dog, I’m kind of stingy about my reading time.

Still, it’s wonderful re-reading Jane Eyre. I’m sure it kicks the ass of Super Sad True Love Story and Mr. Peanut and all the other flotsam out there. I’m really enjoying it. Suddenly I’m an unloved, unattractive 10-year old orphan girl again, no matter that I was never an unloved orphan girl. I am now.

The whole cult of the Brontes went by me, but it’s never too late. And I seem to be enjoying a British era. The other day I did one of those “favorite character” surveys and the top spots went to a trinity of Dickens boys – Oliver Twist, David Copperfield and Tiny Tim. I was as surprised as anyone, not considering myself any kind of diehard Dickens fan. Most surprising was the appearance of Tiny Tim. I was never a declared admirer of his, but being a huge emotional sucker, and with Christmas around the corner, he simply materialized there on Throne #3. I think he’s there more for what he represents than for what he is, which is kind of cardboard.

So may I now address your attention to the butterfly collection? I fell hard for the graphic whimsy of this. The UK artist, with the unlikely moniker of TerrorDome, has done pieces like this Lady Chatterly’s Lover, Alice in Wonderland and other books as well as maps. I took a shot at it myself, and now have a butterfly box for Oliver Twist. It’s hardly as lovely as this, but it’s sweet, and Oliver was my first crush.

i heart chinese

Happy Valentine's day.