Speaking (of) Poetry

Tea: Mixed Berry Green

Music: Evanescence, "Bring Me to Life"

Time: Almost midnight.

I can't sleep. So instead of reading myself into dreamland, I'm going to a late night poetry reading and recital at a friend's apartment.

It starts at midnight. Who knows when it will end?

I need verse more than sleep right now, though. There's a piece, taken from a walk in a vineyard, that hasn't been spoken aloud in years.

I think it's time.

Re-Versifying

Tea: Mandarin Green

Music: A Flock of Seagulls, "Space Age Love Song"

Time: Night.

I've had a lot of words in my life lately -- but precious little poetry. I haven't been reading it much, haven't been hearing it much, and definitely haven't been writing it much.

That has to change. Poetry does things for me that no other form of writing does. Whether I'm appreciating someone else's or trying to create my own, poetry gets my mind working in unexpected directions.

It leaps and fidgets, paces and dances, walks half-lit streets and throws burned-out light bulbs into Dumpsters just to hear the glass shatter.

And I miss that ...

So, today, I started workshopping poetry. Nothing huge, just two writers sending words to each other. Over the coming weeks, we'll play with themes and forms and imagery. We'll tear things up, mix the scraps and stitch them back together.

It won't always be fun. Writing is a joy, but it isn't always fun. But when it works -- especially when poetry works -- it's nothing short of amazing.

So ... let the re-versifying begin.

Welcome to the Reading Room

Tea: Christmas.

Music: Big Country, "Where the Rose is Sown"

Time: Night.

My earache is back ... so this will be brief.

If you like good poetry, and illuminating and interesting comment thereon, go here.

That should hold you until tomorrow (at the very least), by which time my head -- or the leftmost opening on it -- is clear again.

This Post is No Longer Blank.

Tea: Candy Cane

Music: 8mm, "Stunning"

Time: Night

Ever done that? Hit the "Publish" button when you've said absolutely nothing?

That's what I did tonight, and I'm (bad word)ed if I can find the "Delete Post" button.

Oh, well. At least I had the chance to go back and put in some words, maybe a link or two, so the post wouldn't be a total loss.

Either that, or I could go back and wipe out all the words and call the whole thing a koan (What is the sound of eight fingers and a thumb not typing?) Bill Bruford, one of the world's best drummers, once contributed several minutes of "creative silence" to a King Crimson composition, after all.

Maybe I just need some more tea.

Or maybe I should give you what I usually give you when my brain turns to (steel-cut) oatmeal (with real maple syrup, maybe some dried cranberries and a bit of ginger): Other people's poetry.

Tonight, Adelaide Crapsey (stop snickering), deviser of the cinquain form:

Night Winds

The old
Old winds that blew
When chaos was, what do
They tell the clattered trees that I
Should weep?

Loose Words

Tea: Lapsang Souchong

Music: Nik Kershaw, "Wouldn't It Be Good"

Time: Night.

Occasionally, I find myself bereft of original thought. Good thing there's this little thing called "other people's poetry."

So, tonight, I give you Allen Heinrich, the Poet of Loose Park.

Company Man

Much as I make
of being moved
by the way light
will bend around
a certain curve
you possess;
of being animated
to the point of
aerodynamics
by a specific
shifting muscle
stress or shiver
of skin, I’m no
anatomist within,
as every minute
of your absence
has plainly shown—

It’s your company
I miss
most whenever
I breathe alone:
in essence:
an intimacy
too large, too warm,
too bright to rest
in merest flesh
and bone …

-Allen Heinrich

Want to see more? Allen writes on the sidewalks at Loose Park, usually on the east side near the ponds, and on the blackboard at Muddy's Coffeehouse.

And if you ever get a chance to hear him recite ... take it.

Three by Threes

Tea: Arctic Storm

Music: Keiko Matsui, "Water Lily", "Forever Forever" and "Wildflower"

Time: Night.

It's Thursday, which means it was teaching day with the fourth graders.

Today's theme: Haiku. And not that tensionless 5-7-5 crap, written by textbook writers. The biggies, as translated by Robert Hass.

One by Basho:

A caterpillar,
this deep in fall --
still not a butterfly.

One by Buson:

Green plum --
it draws her eyebrows
together.

And one by Issa:

I envy
that child being scolded:
end of the year.

"So what," I asked, "do all three of these poems have in common?"

Hands shot up at almost every desk, with the same answer: "They don't make sense."

Oh, fun. Time to earn my volunteer's pay.

We started with the basics: Three lines (actually, two and one); no more than 17 syllables; and some sort of seasonal reference.

Then, the payoff point: "Each of these poems uses a few words to tell a much bigger story."

More blank looks. But we -- and I do mean we -- worked through it. And one by one, the light bulbs went on.

(No, I'm not going to spell out the stories. You're bright, or you wouldn't be here.)

So was the whole lesson -- including an assignment/exhortation to observe the world for a week and come up with at least one haiku based on that observation -- a bit heavy for nine- and ten-year-olds?

I don't think so. Kids are smarter than textbook writers think. Fourth graders get that seasons change, that moments happen and then are gone and that the stories are in the details.

And they can count to 17. They'll be fine.

Words and Music

Tea: Assam Melody with wildflower honey

Music: Ronald Sell, "Fear No More"

Time: Night.

Tonight's music (on the last night of my first visit to New York) is from the musical "The Frogs." I'm still more a Bob Walkenhorst guy than a Stephen Sondheim guy, but who can go wrong with Aristophanes or William Shakespeare?

See, Will's the lyricist here, although Sondheim did the music. The words are from "Cymbeline." It's the second time I've heard them tonight.

The first time, they were read by John Lithgow, who has edited a solid book of other people's poetry. He read from the book (and did a great recitation of "The Deacon's Masterpiece or The Wonderful 'One-Hoss Shay' " by Oliver Wendell Holmes). It reminded me of Dr. Seuss, which is never a bad thing.

My point? Do I need one? Can't it be enough sometimes to get lost in words and have that be the point?

Cup XLIII: "Haiku!" "Gesundheit!"

Tea: Arctic Storm

Music: Guitarcraft Circle of Seattle, "Ikada Jima"

Time: Evening

Yet one more possibly significant development, as the days shorten and grow cooler: Haiku (the sensibility, not merely the form) seems to have re-entered my life.

It's a hesitant re-entry, one foot only halfway over the threshold. I get the feeling that if I move too quickly toward it, I'll scare it away.

It started in September, on the first day I sat in with the high school English class.

morning lessons;
crawling across my black boot,
a black cricket

And then, for weeks ... nothing. Not so much writer's block as insight block.

I used to get haiku moments much more regularly. Had a few of the results published here and there under the primary pen name, which was kind of cool, and took part in several online discussion groups on the topic.

Oh, and on the topic of 5/7/5 (syllables, that is): Used to write that way all the time. Still do sometimes. More often than not, I don't.

Then the moments ... well, went away. More likely, they were there and I just wasn't paying attention. But of late, I've tried to be more of the momentarian I used to try to be.

Last night, out of town and alone at dinner (except for the moments when my booth was co-occupied by the resident elf, who is six years old and likes Junie B. Jones and eats her dinner from her "funny bowl with a nose on it") , I began rereading "The Essential Haiku: Versions of Basho, Buson and Issa," edited by Robert Hass.

(And yes, the funny bowl does have a nose on it. "What are you eating?" I asked. "I don't know," she said. "I've never had it before.")

I skipped Basho, although I'll go back to him later. I spent most of the time on Buson, then got about halfway through Issa. Three different styles, each with much to recommend it. I leave it to you to find your own favorite(s).

Then, I read a haiku-infused post in Midnight Anchorage, which is a young blog (and already one of my favorites) filled with words both old and new. Synchronicity.

Maybe it was the reacquaintance with the classics. Maybe I'm just paying more attention. But on the way to a harp concert this evening, there it was:

thin autumn light;
how will the squirrel stay warm
with half a tail?

If nothing else, it's good practice in awareness. If something else ... well, I suppose that's not entirely up to me to define.

Tonight's story:

Lafcadio Hearn, "Yuki-Onna"