More About Red Lion Sq.

Just another reminder to check out this new force in poetry-- a force for hearing the words, not just reading them.  Wouldn't our new poet laureate be proud?  I remember him saying that young poets don't "hear" their poems.  Hopefully, we can set about rectifying that.  If you need extra incentive, know that Matt's poem is featured in the most recent podcast and that one of mine-- "Night Journey in France"-- will be featured soon.  I recorded it on my brother's new Mac, and it was so much fun that we are going to do it again.  Who knows, if I am really lucky, I might end up in one of his shows. 

Happy summer.  Thanks for reading.

Jill

Poem at Literary Mama

Online literary magazine Literary Mama has been kind enough to publish my poem "Libation" in the June (Father's day) issue. The magazine, which "features writing by mother writers about the complexities and many faces of motherhood," inspires me because the editors welcome literature which is somehow outside the normative or typical accounts of parenthood which are so prevalent in mainstream media. Literary Mama asks for writing that "may be too long, too complex, too ambiguous, too deep, too raw, too irreverent, too ironic, and too body conscious for other publications" (About Us). You can access "Libation" here, but please look around the website and explore some of the mag's other features. Thanks to the editors for accepting my work again this year. 

Matthew

Marvell's Mower and Me

As I was mowing the grass tonight, I started thinking about Marvell and his mower poems, and I wanted to reread them.  I used to hate mowing the grass.  My sister and I both did-- the stink of the gasoline, the itch of the grass blades, hidden perils like anthills and bees-- all conspired to make us fight over who had to mow.  To solve the problem, my parents fairly and squarely decided we'd set the timer (oh, the timer) and each mow ten minutes so that neither would become too fatigued.  Being the oldest, I went first, which suited me.  I got my first shift out of the way, then relaxed while Natalie toiled.  Clutching my lemonade, I thought I'd check on her progress, so I peeked out the kitchen window, and what I saw is forever etched in my mind.  There was Natalie, practically dragged by the mower, her too-big safety goggles askance, her too-big hand-me-down mowing shoes nearly falling off, crying so hard she could barely see (if seeing were even a possibility through those "safety" goggles we had to wear).  It occurred to me to laugh, but I didn't.  I was just so shocked that a person could be so upset over mowing the lawn.  Even though I hated it, too, I realized at that moment that it couldn't really be that bad.

I don't know what this has to do with the poem, except to explain that I now love to mow.  It helps a lot that we now have a reel mower (non-gasoline powered).  And I am the opposite of Marvell's speaker; to me, contemplation and mowing go hand in hand.  And, most importantly, if I am mowing, no one can mow me.  My husband tried to take over for me tonight, but I shooed him away.  "That's my job!" I said, directing him to the baby, who stood at the precipice of a newly-dug compost hole, hoe in hand.  Out there, it's just me and the grass.  Push, push, turn, push.  I love the rhythm and the exertion of it.  And I love when it's finished.  Such a clear goal with a clear endpoint.

And so, for your mowing, I mean, reading pleasure, I present Andrew Marvell's "The Mower's Song":

My mind was once the true survey

      Of all these meadows fresh and gay,

      And in the greenness of the grass

      Did see its hopes as in a glass;

      When Juliana came, and she

What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.

      But these, while I with sorrow pine,

      Grew more luxuriant still and fine,

      That not one blade of grass you spy’d

      But had a flower on either side;

      When Juliana came, and she

What I do to the grass, does to me thoughts and me.

      Unthankful meadows, could you so

      A fellowship so true forgo?

      And in your gaudy May-games meet

      While I lay trodden under feet?

      When Juliana came, and she

What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.

      But what you in compassion ought,

      Shall now by my revenge be wrought;

      And flow’rs, and grass, and I and all,

      Will in one common ruin fall.

      For Juliana comes, and she

What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.

      And thus, ye meadows, which have been

      Companions of my thoughts more green,

      Shall now the heraldry become

      With which I shall adorn my tomb;

      For Juliana comes, and she

What I do to the grass, does to my thoughts and me.

(from The Poetry Foundation website)

Red Lion Sq.

Dear readers,

I hope you'll go check out Red Lion Sq.,

 a new venue for poetry co-edited by two Spalding MFA graduates- Amy Watkins and Jae Newman. What makes this publication so special? Format. As a "weekly podcast," the magazine's mission is to "bring the oral element back into literary poetry, making it more accessible and friendlier to a general audience." Launch date June 1. If you're a poet, consider submitting to this exciting project. If you enjoy reading poetry, you can already read some fine work on the "poems" page. Literary mags come and go, but the talent, motivation, and design behind this project make it clear that Red Lion Sq. will be an amazing magazine, as well as a significant force in spreading poetry to new audiences.






-Matthew

Creative Slam at the Bird House

Last Sunday, my husband and I moseyed over to The Bird House, a nature store in downtown Madison, for a "Creative Slam." It was our first time, and not sure what to expect, we brought our dish to share (cookies) and discovered that everyone else had also brought dessert. Except for the baked beans, but those were so sweet they counted as dessert too.

Anyway, it was great. Davy Crockett came and told his story, and his ghost came too, and updated us on the outcome at the Alamo. Several poets from the Green River Writers were there as well, including Anna Lucas, Ernie O'Dell, and Barb McMakin. I read three poems at first, then one more during the second hour. Paul Kelly (my dad) closed with juggling lessons. Graeme Fothegill MC'ed, and host and bird lady Kelly Misamore read a poem (by her sister) at the end. What a delight to discover this monthly event going on within walking distance of my house! If you're ever in the area, it's the second Sunday of every month.

In other news, I just found out that my poem "Hanging Laundry While Hoping for Heaven" is forthcoming in The Louisville Review. So that's exciting.

And I've been working on a novel about the Sarah Mitchell story (see earlier posts). So far, it's still in its infancy, but I love discovering the characters. Writing a novel is like walking through a maze. I have no idea where I am going while I am in it, but I know where it leads. It's just a matter of wandering through. And I'm fascinated with the issue of slavery and how it will play out: Sarah owned slaves, then became one herself, then went back to "owning" them. I look forward to exploring that psychological territory.

Finally, for inspiration and structural guidance (and just plain good company), I'm reading Sena's Four Spirits. And loving it. But more on that in a future post.

Hoping the cruelest month has not been too much so,
Jill

Essay at Eagle Lake

The warmer weather here in Kentucky is allowing my boys and I to get out and take long walks in the woods. Sometimes those walks inspire poems, as this one, written towards the end of last summer, when everything was at its peak. Essay at Eagle Lake is forthcoming in Inscape, Morehead State University's Literary Journal. You can also read more of my published work here. Enjoy!

-Matt


Essay at Eagle Lake
Morehead, Kentucky

Twice the doe has strayed to the bottom of the hollow,

where chicory and goldenrod grow,
where tree line meets path,
and path meets water.

And twice have I met her, and once looked for her.

I have found geese as well.
I run at them just to see their excited departure.
I want to watch them fly away from my simple violence.

Of course I stumble and fall.
I’m afraid I am as my father: impatient for the infinite.

I hunger.

I look for the doe and I look at her long.
I feed on her soft doe-eyes.

I brush the gnat from my eye.
as she twitches her ear,
and stamps her hind leg to shake off the horsefly.

I never stop looking.
I cannot let go of the strange, bestial embrace of our gaze.
I fill myself like a tick until I am
satisfied as if

my blood-gorged body hung
from the white fur of her belly.

We are in this world together for a moment
and then she is gone,
bounding away like she was made for this dream.

I must return, too.
Of course I recite these lines to myself along the way.
I do not want to forget them.

These things are valuable to me:
the doe, the geese, the purple and yellow of the chicory and the goldenrod.

It is because I can use them again and again
that I emerge from the woods like a madman, a gadabout, a poetaster,
dirt-drenched and sweating, mumbling, always
mumbling to myself.

New Poem

We missed February (well it was short and snowy, what can I say?), but I have high hopes for March.

I thought I'd just post my brand newest poem, which is always a risky venture, but it has been vetted by my brand newest writing partner. We meet Monday mornings and share whatever's presentable or new and exciting. So here it is, after one round of revisions. Thoughts and comments are welcome and appreciated.

Happy almost-Spring!!
jk


In The Moment Before The Teacup Hits the Floor, I Think of Lao Tzu

Just like that I dropped it
almost like I meant to do it
the teacup from my grandfather’s house

It probably belonged to my grandmother,
though. It was an M. A. Hadley,
sort of special, not too fancy, just homey.

In fact, there was a picture of a little home
painted on it in blues and greens.
The cloud next to the little home

was loopy and swirly in its porcelain sky.
At the bottom of the cup, it said,
“The End.”

I was thinking all of this as I mourned
for that little cup,
on its way down, containing

a column of clear air,
cupping cups-full in infinitely
minute spaces of time and then

letting each go, infinitely.
I suppose I felt a small—tiny, imperceptible maybe—
surge of relief as it smashed

a satisfying noise and a satisfying
pattern: the shards exploded radially
as petals from their stamen.

“Oh wait!” I said, trying to ward off
my oncoming thirteen month old daughter
“Wait! Mommy needs to clean this up.”

But she didn’t listen. “Uh-oh,”
she said. “I know, it’s sad,” I said.
“Hug,” she said, and did.

For a moment, I held two big pieces
together, contemplating crazy glue
but I didn’t want to be reminded

of my failure to hold on
or of my grandfather’s gap-toothed mouth
so I dropped the pieces

into a plastic bag and tied them up tight
so as not to cut the hands
of the men who collect our trash.