One of the most surprising blogging relationships is my unlikely friendship with Dana and Liz Elayne of Poetry Thursday.  I say “unlikely” because they are both creative women very much in touch with their emotions and inner selves, and I live my life to avoid those things.   I really enjoyed their Poetry Thursday blog.   Sadly, they recently stopped publishing the site in order to focus their energies elsewhere. 

From day one, I appreciated the way these two women weren’t snotty about poetry.  They told me that reading poetry was good for the soul and the brain.  They used every trick in the book to seduce me into the world of poetry.  They introduced me to Billy Collins, to funny poets, and to poets who wrote love sonnets to women’s breasts.  They appealed to my interests and soon I was even reading poems about things foreign to me, like trees and animals.

Today, I was feeling sad about the destruction caused by the California wild fires.  The sadness made me think of poetry, and poetry made me think of Dana and Liz. 

A few months ago, Dana and Liz asked me to write a column for Poetry Thursday titled “Confessions of a Poemphobe.” I only had the chance to write three columns.  I don’t know how long Poetry Thursday will be archived online, so I’m republishing them here on Citizen of the Month.  Re-reading the posts reminds me how lucky I’ve been to meet such wonderful people like Dana and Liz.

* * *
confessions of a poemphobe — poetry for men

My Russian-born wife loves to watch professional figure skating. Together, we’ve watched countless competitions on TV and I’ve even been dragged to few World Championships. Whenever we’re sitting in the arena, watching all the lifts, axels and flamboyant costumes, we end up having the same discussion — why do Russian male figure skaters look so “masculine” and athletic, while the American men look so … hmm, how can I say this while remaining politically correct … like interior designers from West Hollywood? Why does each country attract such different types of men?

I think the answer lies in cultural differences. In the Russian culture, it is considered manly to figure skate, to dance ballet and to write poetry. I’ve attended Russian dinners where it is almost an obligation for the men to recite poetry to the hostess, while drinking vodka, of course.

I know I’m skating on thin ice here (ha!), but most American men are leery of artistic expression that is considered “too feminine.” While any ballet dancer is probably more athletic and stronger than a typical soccer player, how many fathers would want to hear that their son is interested in taking ballet lessons?

I think the TV networks and the U.S. Figure Skating Federation are fully aware of how figure skating is perceived by the average American man. When Michael Weiss, one of the few “manly”-looking American figure-skating competitors had a child, the ESPN cameras were all too eager to show him holding his baby in the air and kissing his blond model-type wife, as if to announce to America, “Hey men, he’s a figure skater AND a hot-blooded American man. It’s OK for YOU to watch the coverage with your wife!”

This ridiculous type of masculine/feminine stereotyping has affected my own enjoyment of poetry. I write fiction, screenplays, nonfiction. But poetry … what would my friends think?

What makes this especially sad is that I’m not some macho guy who watches football on Sunday or even fixes his own car. I’m an English major from an Ivy League university. I’m knowledgeable about the Western canon, from Blake to T.S. Eliot. I even enjoy reading poetry. But the truth is, poetry makes me feel awkward. Fiction feels more “masculine” to me. With fiction, there’s a plot — a thrust from point A to point B. Narrative deals with ideas and action. Can it be that this fear of poetry boils down to another cliché about men — the fear of expressing emotion and revealing vulnerability?

Of course, fiction requires emotion, but it is easier for the writer to hide behind a plot, a character or a concept. Writing poetry makes me feel naked, and no man wants to be seen naked, unless he works out at the gym first.

Like many men, I’m also more “practical” than my wife. It took me years to understand why a woman would want to get flowers. After all, they just die in a few days. Wouldn’t a blender be a better Valentine’s Day gift? Like flowers, poetry isn’t always meant to be practical, and this is sometimes hard for me to “get.” Sometimes there isn’t even a “point” to a poem other than it being an expression of emotion. I’m always looking for “meaning,” rather than taking the emotion in. The words, the image provoked or the music of the poem should be just enough to make a piece of writing special.

I’m learning to appreciate poetry more by reading poems, including many of the poems I see here on Poetry Thursday. It is good to be reminded that not all poems are about flowers or “girly” things, or topics that make you go out and buy a black beret. You can write poems about baseball games and pissing in the forest, and it can still be considered a poem.

Did anyone see the Rich Snyder poem “How Are You Doing?” reprinted in last week’s “American Life in Poetry?”

Rich Snyder is my new Michael Weiss. His poem reads like the poem of a regular hot-blooded American man.

How Are You Doing?

As much as you deserve it,
I wouldn’t wish this
Sunday night on you—
not the Osco at closing,
not its two tired women
and shaky security guard,
not its bin of flip-flops
and Tasmanian Devil
baseball caps,
not its freshly mopped floors
and fluorescent lights,
not its endless James Taylor
song on the intercom,
and not its last pint of
chocolate mint ice cream,
which I carried
down Milwaukee Ave.
past a man in an unbuttoned
baseball shirt, who stepped
out of a shadow to whisper,
How are you doing?

Reprinted from “Barrow Street,” Winter, 2005, by permission of the author. Copyright © 2005 by Rick Snyder. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

* * *
confessions of a poemphobe — ‘wow! you are good!’

Lately, on my personal blog, I’ve been complaining about the whole system of “commenting” on blogs. After a while, these short little back-and-forth statements seem superficial, even frustrating. I wish I could be there with you, sharing a cup of coffee, rather than writing three sentences of encouragement. At other times, if you are having a bad day, I just want to hug you. Writing a comment saying, Don’t worry. Things will be OK! just seems phony and is NOT what I really want to say to you.

I find it especially difficult to comment on a poem. What is the appropriate response? I love the poetry of the Poetry Thursday participants, but how many times can I write Wow! You are good!

I come from a family of gabbers and kvetchers — so I love to talk. I can talk for hours about any subject, even those I know nothing about. Surprisingly, words frequently fail me when I experience something artistic. If I see a really great film, I want to keep the experience floating in my brain, not analyze the director’s vision or the acting of a new starlet. You can imagine the trouble I had dating when I was in film school. Brainy female film student always wanted to talk about the movie! Not now! I would say. It’s still fresh in my mind!

Language cannot always capture my true feelings about art. What is there to say the first time you see a famous painting, like Mona Lisa? It’s nice, but it looks smaller than I imagined just doesn’t cut it.

For me, poetry is the most difficult subject to discuss. In a novel or a film, I can talk about the narrative or characters. In a painting, I can talk about the color and movement. But how do you find the right words to talk about words that are more beautiful than yours?

If I like a Poetry Thursday poem, I usually write a variation of That’s wonderful! I know it’s lame, but I feel it is important to connect with the writer. (And frankly, everyone likes comments, even the dumb ones!)

I would like to write better comments. Maybe as I learn more about poetry, I can feel more confident in my ideas about poetic expression. I feel intimidated about saying what’s on my mind, particularly if I don’t understand a poem. For instance, I love the images in the first stanza of Carolyn Kizer’s “On a Line from Valery.”

The whole green sky is dying. The last tree flares
With a great burst of supernatural rose
Under a canopy of poisonous airs.

Do I really understand what she is describing? Not really. Under a canopy of poisonous airs? Huh? Is she talking about a forest fire? Now, honestly, if you were the poet, would you want me to ask you in the comments to explain this to me? I probably wouldn’t have the nerve to do it. Am I an idiot? I might ask myself, or is everyone just too afraid to ask the same question?

I understand that it is not a requirement to “understand” a poem completely. The poem can still work and be a little mysterious. But what can I say that sounds intelligent? How can I match the beauty of a poem with the appropriate response? Some of you are trained poets and can talk about the line breaks. I’m sometimes interested in mundane things — Is this autobiographical? How long did it take you to write this? Did you really write this in the bathtub?

Are these legitimate questions?

I think there are a lot of people like me — they enjoy poetry but are unsure how to participate in the discussion of it. I have no dreams of becoming a professional poet, but you want readers like me to keep poetry vibrant. I think poetry is too insular lately, with poets mostly writing for other poets. Any suggestions for how a layman like me can better participate in the conversation? Do poets actually want to know if someone doesn’t understand their poem? I hate saying Wow, nice! all the time.

* * *
confessions of a poemphobe — anger management, poetry style

Last night, I think I wrote my first real poem. By saying that, I mean that I expressed some emotion on paper that was consuming me, rather than just trying to be clever or witty with words. Unfortunately, this emotion was a negative one, and I’m not sure I enjoyed the experience of dealing with it. I’m certainly not ready to show YOU the result.

There’s been a lot of tension in my household over the upcoming surgery of my wife, and if life was high school, I would get a failing grade in “Handling Stress.” I had trouble sleeping last night. I tossed and turned, and had an unpleasant dream about being in a bloody fistfight in an alley. This was an unusual dream, because I’ve never been in a fistfight and I rarely go into alleys. I even punched the bedroom wall while sleeping, jarring myself awake and scaring the hell out of my wife.

It was four in the morning and I was wide awake, so I went to my office to write “something” on my computer. What that “something” was, I wasn’t sure. At first I was going to write a post for my personal blog about punching the wall, but I found myself getting lost in unknowns of the narrative.

Why was I angry? “I’m not sure.” Who was I angry at? “?????.” Time to look into therapy.

I decided to write a poem. Actually, I didn’t really “decide,” I just did it. It was a primitive poem, but since there was no narrative, the writing came easy. No characters. No story. Just an expression of the emotion named anger. It was a poem about a bloody fistfight in some unnamed alley. It was a bad poem, but it was cathartic.

But afterwards, I felt a little dirty. It was uncomfortable expressing anger ― even to myself. It’s not something you do in my family.

But back to poetry.

Poetry is an ancient literary form. It is a form that many use to express themselves with more intensity than other types of writing. Is that why I ran to “poetry” to deal with some unpleasant emotion? Has this happened to you? Does writing about your unpleasant emotions make you uncomfortable? Do you try to push them onto the page for your art or for your own therapy? Do you get worried about what others might think if they saw this part of you?

And most importantly, if you read an angry poem about a bloody fistfight in an alley, would you cross to the other side of the street if you encountered this “poet” walking in your city?

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  What Did You Have for Lunch?

For which website am I LEAST likely to have written a post today?

A) ebony-ivory.oregon.gov — African-Americans Who Love Portland

B) do-svidanya.ru — The Self-Help Site for Separated Men with Foreign-Born Wives

C) members-only.biz — A Forum for Co-Dependent Men and Their Co-Dependent Penises

D) poetrythursday.org — An online project that builds community by encouraging bloggers to read and enjoy poetry, as well as sharing it with others.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Teacher of the Year

I was very upset yesterday when I got an email from Lynn at Sprigs that she was closing her blog.  

I met Lynn (Dana) online last December when I was writing some posts for Blogebrity.  Before meeting her, I interacted mostly with bloggers who were like me in writing style.   Lynn introduced me to a new group of bloggers  — those who wrote poetry and “Sunday Scribblings” and made jewelry and talked about creativity and did yoga and were into stuff that I would have made fun of a year ago.  Bloggers like Blue Poppy, Be Present, Be Here, Ink on My Fingers, and so many others I now read all the time.  

I’m not going to lie and say I don’t roll my eyes at times when some poem gets all “new agey” or emotional, but I’m not intimidated anymore by these creative writers.  These are EXACTLY the type of women that I would be afraid of talking to in my college English classes, thinking I was too lowbrow.  But I was an idiot.  There is no single TYPE of person.   And just because you’re artsy doesn’t mean you can’t have a sense of humor — even if you do spend a lot of time meditating in the nude under the night moon.  Sometimes, an artsy woman can even surprise you (like finding out one participates in roller derby). 

Lynn helped me “class up” my blog up.  I wrote a few bad poems.  Without her, I would be writing about my penis in every post.  Instead, I’m now writing weepy, unfunny posts like this which are only going to get me a lower rating with Bloglaughs. 

Thanks a lot, Lynn!   Keep in touch.

Over lunch today, I told a friend of mine about being upset over Lynn and her blog. 

“Over some blogger?” he asked.  “What’s the big deal?  You don’t even KNOW this person!”

That’s true.  I don’t really know most of you. 

But that didn’t stop someone as cool as Jody from Lindbergh’s Crossing from sending me some Fall leaves. 

No, I don’t mean photos of Fall leaves.  I mean real live GEORGIA FALL LEAVES in the mail!

(a little Georgia Fall in Los Angeles)

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Second Base With Sophia

The Ballad of Seth Blackwell

When I was younger,
So much younger than today,
I had long hair and oval specs,
“Like John Lennon,” they would say.

When I got much older,
And started having dates,
“Hey, look at you, said women,
“You look just like Bill Gates.”

Now I’m old and grizzled,
I’m only known as Seth,
When people choose to see me,
They see a man near death.

(written in IHOP after this)

Poetry Thursday

This week’s Poetry Thursday assignment was to read your poem out loud. I read my poem to a few women in my neighborhood, and they all hated it. For some reason, it made me like it even more.

Everybody Loves a Baby

Everybody loves a baby
That’s the title of this piece
I heard this conversation (maybe)
While visiting my niece:

“Look at my little Beatrice
Isn’t she a gem?
She’s really quite angelic
She’ll surely voting Dem.

Her hair’s just like the hubby’s,
So fiery and red.
And don’t you love the Yankees cap
That’s sitting on her head?”

Now, as I watched this drama
I bit my lower lip.
I prayed for the overpriced stroller
To hit a rock and flip.

You see: I hate all babies,
And I mean every single tot!
All they’re really good for
Is dripping yucky snot.

That Beatrice, she looked stupid
I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.
And in that NY Yankees cap
She was ugly as Babe Ruth.

Babies are like homeless
They beg and beg for more
They don’t pay any taxes
They puke all over the floor.

I know I sound grouchy
With this tantrum, with my snit.
But my mother gave me formula
And this little brat gets tit.

I had just taken a shower tonight and was toweling off when I heard his voice.

Neil’s Penis: “Where are you going tonight?”

Neil: “I’m going to a poetry reading.”

Neil’s Penis: “Aha! So that’s why you bought that beret at Macy’s yesterday! Hot babe?”

Neil: “No. Just going for the poetry.”

Neil’s Penis: “You’re really into this poetry crap.”

Neil: “It’s interesting. It’s been a while since I’ve done anything literary.”

Neil’s Penis: “Hey, I’m a poet too –

A girl might like a guy with wit,
But she likes it better
When he can find her clit.”

Neil: “Penis, that’s very immature.”

Neil’s Penis: “Ooh, big poet with the beret thinks I’m immature.”

Neil: “Penis, we need to talk. I think this might be the last time we talk on this blog.”

Neil’s Penis: “What?!”

Neil: “I think it might be time to start making this blog a little more sophisticated. We have some poet-bloggers coming over here now, and they’re way classier than the perverts and crazy people who used to come to this blog.”

Neil’s Penis: “Those are your readers!”

Neil: “Eh.”

Neil’s Penis: “What about me? You need me. I’m your bread and butter!”

Neil: “I can handle this blog on my own.”

Neil’s Penis: “Yeah, you’ll be as good as Garfunkel after Paul Simon left.”

Neil: “Well, I’d like to try. I’m serious. This joke is getting old and a lot of people think this whole “talking penis” thing is very childish.”

Neil’s Penis: “They do not!”

Neil: “Listen, on Tuesday, I had coffee with Communicatrix at the Farmers’ Market.”

Neil’s Penis: “She’s really cool.”

Neil: “Yeah, but even she said she skips over all the dumb sex stuff here.”

Neil’s Penis: “Maybe she doesn’t want to fall under our sensual spell.”

Neil: “Penis, not every woman in the world is going to want us. You have to accept that.”

Neil’s Penis: “Yeah, right.”

Neil: “Just focus on the blog. Think of my religious readers. I’m making them sin just by reading this stuff.”

Neil’s Penis: “Ha, where have you been? Those religious babes are the kinkiest ones around! Remember that rabbi’s daughter.”

Neil: “Let me try this another way. Maybe it’s just time to be practical. Maybe it’s time for this blog to go mainstream…”

Neil’s Penis: “I see. So, you’re selling out. To the Man. The emasculating Man. Soon, there’s going to be ads all over the page. And no more “dirty” words. And you’re going to be using fancy words all the time instead, like onomatopoeia. And the only people on your blogroll will be NPR, the New York Times, and Dooce. Well, cock cock cock cock cock cock cock cock cock cock…”

Neil: “Stop it! Stop it!

Neil’s Penis: “OK, OK, I stopped.”

Neil: “If you thought about it for a second, you’d see that I’m right. What’s so wrong with wanting to better yourself? To climb the ladder of success. To wear a nice cotton turtleneck and brown tailored jacket. My hair trimmed and neat. A copy of David Sedaris under my arm. My beret on my head, tilted just so. Laughing heartily when my poet friend makes some inside joke about Baudelaire. Ah, yes, I read that in Harper’s last week! American Idol? What is that? — a euphemism for the Bush Administration’s idolization of Halliburton’s profits? Sophisticated humor.”

Neil’s Penis: “Neilochka, do what you want. If you want me out of the blog, I’ll do it.”

Neil: “That’s it? You’re giving in just like that? No more arguments?”

Neil’s Penis: “You’re the boss. The brains of the organization. The CEO of Neilochka. If you think you can “make it” out there alone, more power to you. ”

Neil: “That’s very gentlemanly of you, Penis.”

Neil’s Penis: “I care about you, Neilochka. I can see your point. You don’t want to go around the rest of your life known as “The Guy with the Talking Penis Blog.”

Neil: “Exactly. I went to college. Even grad school, for god’s sake.”

Neil’s Penis: “OK, fine. So, from now on, I guess the world will know this guy as “The Guy with the Talking Penis Blog.”

Neil: “Holy crap! Is it possible? This guy has a talking Penis, too?!”

Neil’s Penis: “What’s the big deal. If you don’t care…”

Neil: “How dare he! The son of a…”

My Penis chuckles.

Neil’s Penis: “Still going to that poetry reading?”

Neil: “Hell no!”

I tossed my beret onto the floor.

Neil: “We’re going back to the gym and lifting some weights. Both of us. We need to get into shape!”

Neil’s Penis: “I hear you, Neilochka! Cock fight! Cock fight!”

My Penis turns to the audience.

Neil’s Penis:

“Said Keats to Shelly on a warm summer’s eve
A truly great poet must always believe
As sure as a leaf will change in September
A man shalt always be a slave to his member.”

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: What I Had for Breakfast Today

Part One — Car Poetry

This week’s Poetry Thursday assignment was to be inspired by a single line from another blogger’s poem. I picked “A Morning By the Sea” by Susannah of Ink on My Fingers.

The line that inspired me was:

The computer hums,
the kettle rumbles.

Why this line? Her poem is wonderful, filled with wonderful images. This is probably — content-wise — one of the least important lines. But that’s exactly what inspired me about it. Its importance is more than just the content, or the onomatopoeia of “hum” and “rumble.” I like the way the line rolls off your tongue, like a good song lyric.

The computer hums,
the kettle rumbles.

I think one reason I find it poetry difficult is because I’m always focusing on the “meaning” of the words. Poetry, more than fiction, is about the music of the words themselves.

I have a comedian friend who is always rewriting his material to make it funnier by using “funnier” words. These are words that start with a “hard” letter. So, a “Crazy Cat” is theoretically funnier than a “Weird Worm.” It’s his own way of using the “poetry” of words to enhance his routine. In a way, Susannah’s poem helped me to remember my love of words — words for their own sake.

In my ideal world, Elliot Yamin would have won “American Idol,” not because he has the best voice, or a doting Jewish mother, but because he has the coolest sounding name.

Elliot Yamin.

Taylor Hicks? Not poetry.

As I was driving on the 10 Freeway today, I thought about how much the big auto companies must spend to come up with their “poetic” sounding names for their cars.

I wonder if they hire poets.

Chevrolet Cabriolet
Toyota Corolla
Ford Focus
Hyundai Santa Fe
Mercedes
Rolls Royce

I like the way all of these car names “sound.”

I’m driving on the freeway
In my Hyundai Santa Fe
Zooming past a Corolla
and a Chevy Cabriolet

I know my car ain’t a Mercedes
Or a beautiful Rolls Royce
But it’s better than that Ford Focus
Now that was one BAD choice.

I know, I know. A fourth grade poem. But it was fun.

Part Two — Overheard in LA

As most people know, Los Angeles is a driving town.  What you drive matters.  Since I first met Sophia, she’s had four completely different types of cars — each one evoking a wildly different negative response from some other driver. 

1) 1996 —

As we entered the parking lot of Campanile Restaurant, an upscale restaurant, a friend told Sophia, who was driving a five year old Honda Accord:

“I’d be embarrassed to give this piece of junk into the valet.”

2) 1999 —

After a motorcycle cut us off in Beverly Hills, Sophia blinked her lights at him.  The motorcyclist turned to Sophia, who was now leasing a Infiniti i30, and yelled:

“Screw you, you rich bitch!”

3) 2001 —

As we left a coffee shop in Redondo Beach, an environmental activist was putting a flyer on a windshield of Sophia’s new Hyundai Santa Fe SUV:

“Do you morons know what you’re doing to the environment with this monstrosity?”

4) 2006 —

As (Republican) Sophia pulled away from an IHOP, after having breakfast with me, in her new Toyota Prius Hybrid, I heard two men talking about the special DMV stickers that allow some hybrid owners to drive alone in the carpool lane:

“What gives these liberal treehugging assholes the right to use the carpool lane when we can’t?!”

Moral of the story:  You can’t win driving in LA.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: 90 Million Women Wear Wrong Size Bra

I think I made a giant step forward in my appreciation of poetry today (as a participant in Lynn and Liz’s Poetry Thursday).  I was asleep this morning; it was about 6AM.  The morning light drizzled through the blinds and rested on my naked body sprawled across my bed like the Roman God of Virility announcing to the world, “I am Man.” 

“Damn alarm clock!” I said, as this annoying sound pounded into my ear.  I slammed the alarm clock into “snooze” mode.  But the sound continued.  It was not my alarm clock.  It was some stupid bird outside in a tree (a crow, perhaps?).

To me, this crow sounded like an alarm clock.

Now, what does this have to do with poetry?

On Monday night, I went to the Beverly Hills Library and skimmed through some poetry books.  I noticed that poets are always using nature as a way of describing their lives.

“She was as angry as a tornado.”

“Her green eyes were like leaves of grass.”

Etc.

Now, I grew up in New York, and spent much of my adult life in Los Angeles.   I love nature as much as the next guy (despite being allergic to most of it).  I’ve seen the greatness of Yosemite — and even got a cool Ansel Adams poster at the gift shop.   I love the sound of rivers flowing.  I’ve enjoyed Vermont and her colorful Fall.  

But I’m not really at home with nature.  It doesn’t really feel natural for me to describe Sophia as “a tiger in the bedroom,” because I have no idea what a real tiger would do in a bedroom.  I’ve seen tigers in the zoo.  I’ve seen tigers at the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus. I know a tiger mauled Siegfried — or was it Roy?

So, as I woke up this morning, I gave some thought to the statement:

“That annoying crow sounds like my alarm clock.”

I’m sure if Yeats was alive today and living in my crappy apartment instead of me, and the alarm clock would go off, he would have look over at the clock and say:

“That weird clock with a smiling face sounds just like a crow!”

He knows about crows, but nothing about alarm clocks.  I know about alarm clocks, but nothing about crows. 

Maybe I would enjoy poetry more if I can find some poems that related to me in a more personal way — more about how crows sound like alarm clocks rather than how alarm clocks sound like crows.   You know, the way women eat up all those chick lit novels because it relates to their own lives. 

So, today I searched around for poems that focused more on the urban experience, and I found quite a few.

I particularly liked the following poem by Amy Lowell (February 9, 1874 – May 12, 1925).  Lowell, was an American poet of the imagist school, who posthumously won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1926.  Many of her poems have lesbian themes, but this poem focuses on the darkness of Industrial Age New York City.

New York at Night by Amy Lowell

A near horizon whose sharp jags
Cut brutally into a sky
Of leaden heaviness, and crags
Of houses lift their masonry
Ugly and foul, and chimneys lie
And snort, outlined against the gray
Of lowhung cloud.  I hear the sigh
The goaded city gives, not day
Nor night can ease her heart, her anguished labours stay.
Below, straight streets, monotonous,
From north and south, from east and west,
Stretch glittering; and luminous
Above, one tower tops the rest
And holds aloft man’s constant quest:
Time!  Joyless emblem of the greed
Of millions, robber of the best
Which earth can give, the vulgar creed
Has seared upon the night its flaming ruthless screed.
O Night!  Whose soothing presence brings
The quiet shining of the stars.
O Night!  Whose cloak of darkness clings
So intimately close that scars
Are hid from our own eyes.  Beggars
By day, our wealth is having night
To burn our souls before altars
Dim and tree-shadowed, where the light
Is shed from a young moon, mysteriously bright.
Where art thou hiding, where thy peace?
This is the hour, but thou art not.
Will waking tumult never cease?
Hast thou thy votary forgot?
Nature forsakes this man-begot
And festering wilderness, and now
The long still hours are here, no jot
Of dear communing do I know;
Instead the glaring, man-filled city groans below!

A year ago on Citizen of the Month:  A Letter to Diane Keaton 

Archives now here.  Links now here. 

 
Denise Levertov - poet

My blogging pal, Lynn, from Sprigs, and Liz Elayne, of be present, be here,  have started something called Poetry Thursday.   Poetry Thursday “is an online project that encourages bloggers to read and enjoy poetry, as well as sharing it with others.”

I’ve never been a big fan of poetry.  It’s embarrassing to say, considering I was an English major in college and I like to read.  I think one of the reasons is that I feel most comfortable with traditional A-B-C storytelling.   Poetry is often about mood or language itself and it doesn’t always have the forward thrust of a narrative.  When Lynn asked if I was interested in getting involved, I sent her this email:

I’ll think about it.  To be quite honest, I do have an interest in poetry.   Maybe you can help me understand why this is, but I avoid poetry, because reading poetry frequently makes me feel nervous — almost anxious.  Is that weird to admit?  Maybe because I’m so used to words and sentences having a structure and making a concrete point - providing information in a story that I can focus on –  I’m not really sure what to do with just words and emotion?  Maybe it’s a male thing, like not asking for directions.  I mean, does poetry have tits I can play with?

Her response:

It depends on the poems. Some have tits and ass that don’t mind being played with, but others are terribly prude.

I don’t know how fully I’m going to participate, but I thought I’d take a cue from Sophia, and be brave.  Look fear in the eye.  And actually read some poetry.

I went to the Index of Modern American Poets and spent the next couple of hours just reading different poems. 

I wish I had the literary skills of an arts critic.  I’m terrible in explaining why I like one piece of art better than another.  Why do I love watching “24,” but fall asleep watching “CSI?”  Is there a specific reason I like one book over another?  Why do I relate to one blogger’s writing more than another, especially when I don’t know really know any of you.

Maybe if I keep on reading poetry for a while, I’ll be better prepared to explain why I liked this following poem the best out of the dozens I read.  It’s not particularly a “big” poem, or about anything dramatic.  It’s written by Denise Levertov, who died in 1997.  This is supposedly the last poem she ever wrote.

Aware

When I found the door
I found the vine leaves
speaking among themselves in abundant
whispers.
My presence made them
hush their green breath,
embarrassed, the way
humans stand up, buttoning their jackets,
acting as if they were leaving anyway, as if
the conversation had ended
just before you arrived.
I liked
the glimpse I had, though,
of their obscure
gestures. I liked the sound
of such private voices. Next time
I’ll move like cautious sunlight, open
the door by fractions, eavesdrop
peacefully.

(Denise Levertov. “The Great Unknowing: Last Poems.”

Copyright 1999 by the Denise Levertov Property Trust. 
Publisher:  New Directions.)

Today I wrote a poem titled “Supper Party.”   I have heard some criticism that my poem is nothing but a plagiarized version of Lynn’s poem titled “Dinner Party,” which she wrote on her blog, Sprigs.  

That is absolutely ridiculous.  I know plagiarism is all in the news today because Harvard student, Kaavya Viswanathan, “supposedly” copied a large portion of her book, “How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life” from a book by Megan McCafferty. 

So, now it’s witch hunt time.  Frankly, I think everyone is just jealous of Ms. Viswanathan because she was written about in the New York Times, received a two-book deal worth $500,000, and Dreamworks bought the film rights.

And now the green-eyed monster of envy is focused on me!

This is my poem, not Lynn’s. 

Don’t you people understand writers and writing?  While it is true that there are many similarities, so what?  Don’t you realize that there are only six original stories out there?  How many novels begin with “It’s a dark and stormy night…?”  Is that so-called “plagiarism” also?”  How many times during a movie chase scene do the bad guys fall off a cliff into the water?  Or into a fruit stand?  Plagiarism?  Of course not.

I think Ms. Viswanathan clearly explained it all in her touching public comment:

“While the central stories of my book and hers are completely different, I wasn’t aware of how much I may have internalized Ms. McCafferty’s words. I am a huge fan of her work and can honestly say that any phrasing similarities between her works and mine were completely unintentional and unconscious. [note:  many of the paragraphs were stolen verbatim]  My publisher and I plan to revise my novel for future printings to eliminate any inappropriate similarities.  I sincerely apologize to Megan McCafferty and to any who feel they have been misled by these unintentional errors on my part.”

Case closed. 

I am a big fan of Lynn and her poetry.  Perhaps I “internalized” some of her words, but this poem is ALL MINE.  Please enjoy it.

SUPPER PARTY

They don’t know she can hear them.
Drunk in the next room, they
think she’s playing in the FRONT yard.
But she’s slipped in through the sliding
glass doors and listens to their every word.

She loves to eavesdrop on adults.
Makes her feel grown up just listening.
Usually they complain about the President
or taxes. Sometimes her father entertains
the guests with stories about Korea
or, if drunk enough, by singing a ELVIS tune.

See for yourself how completely different Lynn’s poem is from my poem (and to be perfectly honest, much inferior to mine).

As for Kaavya Viswanathan, how much do you want to bet that this notoriety will only help her sell books?

Moral of the story:  Deceit and lying is morally OK, but only if you’re young, hot, and from an Ivy League school.