If you’re interested in a little Friday night poetry, please check out one of these streams. Karen Head (Birthday Girl!) and I are reading tonight at 8 p.m. ET.
Right now, with the Corona Virus going on, it’s hard to think about anything besides that people are dying and the only thing we can really do is socially isolate ourselves and wash our hands to the Alphabet Song (or Happy Birthday, twice). But while that is true, it’s also important that we don’t lose sight of what makes us us—whatever it is that makes us feel humanity, we should try to continue to do it, even as we make health and safety of ourselves and others a priority.
For me, that’s writing. The last few months at work, I was putting sometimes 50-60 hours a week trying to get everything done, and unfortunately, what had to give was my writing. I was just too tired to work on poems, after I had been in the salt mines, and I realize now that more than just what I thought I lost (some sanity and true connection to my inner world), I temporarily lost some of my humanity. Not surprising, when you become an automaton for work. But not writing—not connecting—contributed to my anxiety and worsened my already pretty heavy depression, and frankly, no job is worth that.
I am sorry that it’s come down to a pandemic to allow me to write again—but I also feel better for the first time in several months. I’ve been writing, revising, and sending out poems to journals, and it feels like me again, a re-centering. Usually, the nudge that AWP provides in the Spring also helps my productivity, but this year the Ed. decided (rightly) that we should probably forego AWP since both of us tend to be immunocompromised. (Everyone knows all you have to do is sneeze my way and I pick up a respiratory infection.) But it was hard, not getting to chat with writers I know as well as visiting with the people tabling in the Book Fair. The energy from that is so motivating. So, I’ve just been reading the journals that have stacked up around my house, and I’ve been combing Submittable’s Discover tab, looking for new journals to explore and possibly to submit to. And, I’m finally connecting to the project I’ve been batting around in my head for months, and that feels good too.
In related news, I’m looking forward to my official release date for What Magick May Not Alter, which is April 17th. So, that makes my book an Aries (and you know how Aries and Taurus don’t mix too well 😊). But I’m excited for my book to be out in the world. I’ve sent ARCs out to several people, with the hope that they would kindly write a review, no matter their opinion. I know for a fact that one person has written one—she’s just waiting to share it a little closer to its birthday. And another person is in the process of making a YouTube review and told me that he “damn near couldn’t put it down,” so that is great news. I’m still looking for some readers/ reviewers, so if anyone is interested, please let me know and let’s figure out how we can get a copy of What Magick May Not Alter in your hands!
I know this was a short post—I’ll try to do better than write one post a year! Maybe I’ll even get back to my Wednesday posts, who knows? Until then, be safe, sequester yourself, and wash your hands. And if you believe, pray.
OMGWTFBBQ! Wonderful news, everyone! After 45 rejections, give or take, my full-length collection of narrative poetry, What Magick May Not Alter, has found a home at Madville Publishing and will be released in 2020!
Being as you are one of my Five Loyal Readers, you might remember I wrote about the collection in a 2015 blog post, after my Mom had read it and was horrified. I had no idea that it would be a full three-and-a-half years later before it would get accepted at a reputable press. (Which is to admit, it got accepted at a couple of other presses, but I didn’t have a good feeling about them, not for this book, anyway, so I passed.) Considering that I wrote the earliest poems in 2012—the book will be 8 years old when it comes out next year. I’m so in a different head space now. (But I can slip back into that world, don’t worry.)
It has been an excruciating process, over all, submitting and submitting and submitting some more, only to have the rejections pile up (not to mention all the money I spent on contest and submission fees). Anyone who’s a writer is familiar with this repeated anguish of submission and rejection—I know this isn’t unique to me. A bright spot was the 2015 Hillary Gravendyk Poetry Prize, for which it was a finalist, but even that was a long time ago.
I really had gotten to the point of abandoning it—how many times did I hear, “It’s too long” or “No one wants to read a verse novel” or some version of “It’s unwieldy—weird—just a tough sell.” (Like anyone “sells” poetry anyway.)
Even after the divinely generous, brilliant poet Ilya Kaminsky (basically a living patron saint of poetry) read through it and offered suggestions, I was ready to hang it up. I just thought that nobody really understood what I was trying to do, and maybe I should try to publish a more conventional collection of poems first. Heaven knows I have poems enough to spare to create a couple of (oddball) collections. And, I thought, maybe in a few years, WMMNA would be of interest to someone. After I had “proved” myself with a traditional book of poems.
But fortunately Madville came along—it’s absolutely been worth the wait. I’m so excited to be working with Kim Davis, the publisher. She’s been so positive and supportive and I have such a good feeling about this book coming out under her aegis. I’m just so happy.
And I can’t wait for you to read it in April next year…in the cruelest month that will no longer ever be the cruelest month for me!
P.S. I’m available for bar mitzvahs, birthday parties, and you know, just hanging-out-spontaneous-type readings… Just invite me!
P.S. #2 I still have to do a clean edit, and maybe rethink some organization, so it still needs some work, but OMG! So Awesome! Yay!
It’s the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. Sunset tonight is technically 8:51 p.m., but of course it will still be light out closer to 10 (for a total of 14 hours and 24 minutes of sunshine). It’s the kind of day I could imagine myself being out by the ocean for as long as possible—you know, if Atlanta was on the coast. Which alas, it is not.
I simultaneously love and hate this day—I love it because it’s high summer and there’s something interesting about the sun being out as I’m (supposed to be) readying myself for sleep. But I also hate it because it means the days will now get progressively shorter, creeping as they do towards the fall and a new school term. (I’ve had this love-hate thing with the day since I was little.)
Anyway, here is a poem I wrote several years ago commemorating the summer solstice. Initially I planned to write something New Agey and mystical—but then I defaulted to funny. This poem has always been one of my favorites, and it always makes me laugh.
Tonight is the shortest of the year,
not enough time to break into Mr. Next Door’s
shed and rearrange his tools,
hide the scotch he keeps on a ledge
beside the coiled snake of orange power cord,
let the air out of the tires of his ’87 Impala,
fray his collection of ropes,
steal the front wheel of his Schwinn
and replace it with a stale doughnut,
spill turpentine into his jug of marbles,
stuff his sleeping bag with twigs and old leaves,
or tangle his fishing wire into knots
not even the navy knows about.
Tomorrow, the night is two minutes longer.
If you like this poem, you might like the others in my collection, La Petite Mort.
It’s June, which means I’m hip deep in my annual summer doldrums, and not feeling particularly writerly—an unfortunate circumstance, because with things a little on the quieter side (not teaching summer classes, for instance), you’d think I’d be writing up a storm.
Alas, I’m too undone, wishing I was anywhere but in Atlanta (like these great ladies in this stereograph of Coney Island), and I’m so anguished about our current immigrant crisis (and general Washington, D.C. chaos) I can’t even really focus enough to write anyway. I keep telling myself just hang on until the middle of July—which is when I’ll go away for a couple of weeks to the coast and hopefully rejuvenate my flagging spirit, but that’s still so far away. Meanwhile, I’m melting into the pavement—and worrying about what new horror will assail us in the next hour of the news cycle.
Anyway, existential poor-me’s aside, I have a couple of poems/ nonfictions (depending on what you call them…I like to think of them as “poemeditations”) in the most recent issue (2017/2018) of Grubb Street. (Scroll through the online journal to p. 3 and 4.) These are more from my Venice collection, which will someday find a home, I hope.
And I’ve got five poems in the July issue of The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. Actually, it turns out these poems were supposed to come out in last November’s issue, but somehow there was a snafu and the submission disappeared (on their end) in Submittable. It was lucky I followed up with Dead Mule, because the editor was mystified at how the poems had gone astray, but she was great and fixed it and now the poems are there for you to read.
If you like my work, feel free to leave a comment. If you don’t, leave a comment anyway, and give me something else to brood about.
“Canali” is another one of my Venice poems, and I was so happy when Picaroon Poetry took it. (You have to scroll through to page 35 to read it.) This brings my published Venice poem total up to 13 out of 22, or a 59% published rating.
You may wonder why I offer that metric—who cares? But I share it because collections these days seem to list so many previously published poems on their respective acknowledgments pages—and manuscripts with multiply “vetted” poems seem to have a better chance of becoming books. I know for a fact that some book publishers say that writers shouldn’t even submit a book to them for consideration unless 25% of the poems in the collection have been published already. So my hope is, that with a 59% (or more) published rating, my chapbook will someday find a home. (I still have the rest of the poems from the chapbook out circulating, and hope that a few more will “land.”)
Of course, my full collection is 23% published, and it’s still homeless. Which just goes to prove publishing will always be a crapshoot. *sob*
Recently, I received a smack-down from a Brand Name Poet (who evaluated a packet of my poems for a fee) because one of the poems I’d given her was a narrative ghazal—that’s right, in other words, I’d employed the ghazal form to tell a story—and I was told “no way, you can’t do it, it’s wrong.” It was, I thought, a harsh rebuke—I mean, calling a poem “wrong”? Just because I had used the spirit of a form to organize the poem? What if I had replaced the word “Poem” instead of “Ghazal” in the title, I wondered? Would that have made the other poet happier?
I know what a traditional ghazal looks like. I’ve written (and published) them before. I’m a firm believer in the adage, “Follow writing rules until you have enough maturity and experience to break them.” Because sometimes playing with a form is a good thing—it shows that form can be flexible. Form is like a corset—it restricts the shape of a poem, but there should always be breathing room.
Result: “Ghazal for My Father,” published a few days ago in Amaryllis. I hope you like it.
In Tuesday’s mail came the May 2017 issue of POEM. POEM is a journal of the Huntsville Literary Association, and has been continuously published since 1967—fifty years. They publish perfect little poems—the journal itself is not quite 5”x7”—and I had submitted a pack of poems to them just to say I tried.
So when I got the acceptance last year, I was thrilled—especially because it was one of the Moon Poems from my narrative manuscript (you know, the one I’ve submitted like 50 places). The Moon Poems, with maybe two exceptions, are “perfect little” 15-line lyrics, that appear throughout the manuscript and (at least in my mind anyway), represent the poetic output of one of the main characters, thought the voice in this particular poem is Vidalia’s, not Tallulah’s.
I’ve been trying to remember what initiated my interest in writing the Moon Poems. While it may be true that I wanted to demonstrate a range of my writing ability (that I can write something other than narrative), it seemed important to incorporate the moon almost as a character in the manuscript, especially as it is about witches and women who harness energy and strength from the moon in order to enact their spells.
The poems each take as their title one of the (many) colloquial/ northern Algonquin names for each month’s full moon—though the February full moon is technically the “Snow Moon”—but of course, there’s no such thing as snow storms in February in Louisiana, but there is rain, so I fudged a little, and made the poem “Storm.” (Actually, this poem could also represent July—which is the month of the “Thunder Moon” as well as “Buck Moon” but I believe I meant it for February. But the word “thunder” appears in the poem itself…maybe the connection to February is wrong?) As I think about it, February actually has two poems in the manuscript, this one and “Hunger Moon.” Anyway, writing about the moon felt authentic to me, and authentic to the experience of all the women characters in the manuscript. (Not surprising—as Marge Piercy reminds us, “The Moon Is Always Female.”)
With this publication, the total number of poems in the manuscript that have been published in journals comes to 11—when the manuscript is 83 poems, my publication rate looks feeble, a mere 13%. But it has been difficult to publish poems from this collection because it’s narrative (the Moon Poems not withstanding), and they are interdependent, and how do you take individual poems which all contribute to a story out of their milieu and make them make sense as stand-alones?
I’d very much like to have at least 20 poems from this collection published—that seems like a reasonable goal—then I would feel like maybe the manuscript would finally have a chance. And getting the rest of the Moon Poems published might be the way to accomplish that goal.
On the other hand, there is still the other idea I have been kicking around in my head…taking out the line breaks in nearly all of the manuscript poems (except the Moon Poems), and trying to get it published as a hybrid flash fiction/poetry work. So far I’m not that desperate—I mean, I conceived the book as poetry, and would hate to lose the beauty of well-wrought-lines, so I’m going to hold out the hope until I get the next batch of manuscript rejections that it will get published as the verse novel it is.
But the line break removal thing is still a possibility… because it has worked for me before, transforming what I thought were poems into flash fiction and flash nonfiction—or rather, perhaps the conversion process only revealed what their true form meant them to be. And in many cases, these erstwhile poems found homes in journals like right away.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy “Storm Moon.” Let me know what you think.
I started writing the post about poetry below (after the horizontal line) a few days ago. It’s still worth sharing, because it’s about writing meaningfully when all of this tragedy is happening. But I have to have to say that now, with the death of the African American man hanging from a tree in Piedmont Park (Atlanta’s “back yard”), which the Atlanta Police Department called a “suicide,” I’m at such a loss—I don’t even know that I could write any poetry about the insanity of death and violence that are perpetrated against American citizens because they’re black and brown. (Does anything I’d have to say even matter?)
If calling this particular death a “suicide” is not an example of institutional racism, if that’s not racist “criminal justice” and a racist “law enforcement” system at work, I don’t what is. What African American would choose to hang himself from a tree? What African American would choose to commit “suicide” through a method that clearly smacks of historical racism and slavery? The answer: no one. The night before the murdered man was found, Klan members were seen hanging fliers in Piedmont Park. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. Thank heavens, the FBI is now investigating this death—but only because Atlanta’s African American mayor Kasim Reed referred the case to them, not because the police did—and let’s not forget that the FBI is also part of a racist criminal justice system. If they agree with the Atlanta coroner and the APD that this man’s death was indeed “suicide,” I wouldn’t be remotely surprised. Devastated yes, but not surprised.
And let’s talk about Dallas. Yes, it’s awful and horrifying that five Dallas officers were shot and killed at an anti-violence rally. No, these officers didn’t “deserve” to die. But let me tell you, I can sympathize with the shooters’ anger and frustration. Maybe these five particular cops didn’t deserve to die. Maybe these five particular cops were upstanding citizens who would never use their power against African Americans to harass and murder them. But other police officers every day act on their racism and abuse and kill African Americans with impunity.
The fact is, the attack on these cops is an emblematic strike—it’s the way these suspects felt that they had to deal with constant, racist murders of other African Americans by police departments. It’s fighting the system, when no one else will. President Obama has said that there is no possible justification for the attack, but it’s hard to deny that “law enforcement” doesn’t profile and target and harass and murder black and brown suspects just because they can get away with it. When our lawmakers and President can’t seem to get a hold on the police department’s institutionalized illegal acts perpetrated against African American citizens (and other minority groups, such as Latinx, who are also targets of racism), it doesn’t surprise me that African Americans turn to vigilantism for justice.
In an earlier interview about the slaying of Alton Sterling and Philando Castile the President said, “’All of us as Americans should be troubled by these shootings,” he continued. “These are not isolated incidents, they are symptomatic of a broader set of racial disparities that exist in our criminal justice system.’” Yeah? Then do something about the shootings. Our society has never been less civil. Mr. Obama, you’re the President. You have Executive Power. Do something. Demilitarize the police. Take down the NRA. Take guns away from people. Please, I beg you.
If you’re like me and feeling especially helpless and sick right now about all this violence, here are some things worth reading/ doing: writer Justin C. Cohen’s Advice for White Folks in the Wake of the Police Murder of a Black Person, former police officer Reddit Hudson’s I’m a Black Ex-Cop, and This Is the Real Truth about Race and Policing, faith-based consultant Joshua Dubois’ letter to police chiefs (in .docx form, so you can cut and paste when you download it), and psychologist Karyn Hall’s suggestions for self-soothing (because we need to take care of ourselves in the midst of all this tragedy).
Anyway, with these latest murders in mind, like anything I say is worth a damn, here is the original post…
I am struggling lately with poetry. Call it a genuine crisis of faith—or aesthetics.
I am trying to reconcile what I think art should do—which is comment on our time, take a stand, reflect reality and emotions and rage—with what my art is doing—or rather not doing. That is to say, in the light of the constant stream of mass shootings, and shooting violence in domestic relationships, and officer involved shootings (so many of which our white justice system just gives a pass to), how can I write poetry that is meaningful and worthwhile? How can I make art that responds to the insanity of murder and the American adoration of and addiction to gun-enhanced power that we see every day reported in the media? How do I respond to that?
When I consider the writing I have done lately, it seems vacuous and crass that I have not responded to these constant shootings. It seems so much the purview of academic poets (a group I belong to) wrapped in their laurels of white privilege to ignore what is happening around us. Do we white academic poets need to be shot or to see someone we love shot before we are galvanized to action? Do we have to live through the horror (if we’re lucky) of gun violence before we use our art for good? What is art for if not to rally people around a cause, if not to comment on and critique the way we are living our lives? What is art, if it doesn’t challenge us to change?
I think academic poets are averse to risk and to reaching out in their poetry, and they take a dim view of political poetry as a genre. Maybe it’s something to do with the perceived sanctity and safety of the ivory tower that we are privileged to write little lyrics about our families or the natural world or trips we’ve taken oversees—but where’s the risk in that? Where is the connection to the greater world? I see plenty of poet friends on Twitter tweeting their outrage at every example of injustice and murder perpetrated by cops against minorities—but what are they writing? What are they doing to stop this? How are they using their art to say no more? How am I?
Maybe it’s a class issue—maybe academic poets think political poetry is the work of the laboring classes, or the work of oppressed groups, or maybe the work of spoken word and hip hop artists. Maybe those of us in the ivory tower are just closing our eyes and pretending we don’t see what is happening around us—because we don’t have to. Because we believe in the myth of NIMBY. But even in the ivory tower, we can still be taken out by a sniper or a bomb. So why are we silent? Why am I?
Which brings me back to my struggle with poetry. I can’t think I was ever taught in any of my writing classes about how to write political poetry—I think, maybe, while it was never stated overtly, it was certainly implied, that art was “above the fray.” I barely even read any political poetry—at best, the political poetry I read was women’s poetry, and just reading women’s writing, by virtue of writing the very fact of their lives was theoretically a political act (i.e. the personal is political), maybe I thought that was good enough.
And maybe because it’s white privilege that tells us art should be beautiful, and art is “universal,” that I didn’t ever think I needed to use poetry to discuss politics. As if you could ever divorce art from politics. The very choice in deciding what to write about reveals our politics, aesthetics, and values.
I find that my own writing—which honestly, I generally think is pretty good—strikes me now as deliberately obtuse, privileged, and empty. As I said in my last blog post, people are dying—we do nothing. Poets have power—so why haven’t I written about this constant barrage of death? Why haven’t I used my anguish and anger to write poetry that matters, that speaks to these atrocities? Poetry that pleads for change?
Part of it is, I don’t know how to write it. I don’t know how to express my fear and distrust with our “justice” system, I don’t know how to say “these deaths are wrong” and “guns are killing us” and “fuck tha police” (N.W.A. said that first, to be fair) and that “racism is evil”…in an artful, meaningful way. I don’t know how to write about those things so that it won’t come across as facile or false or like I’m an ignorant white liberal who is trying to write Meaningful Poetry So We Can All Learn a Lesson at best—or at worst, write poetry that somehow appropriates the experiences of oppressed groups, a type of colonizing act, making their pain all about me. I don’t know how to express these things.
Part of me feels that maybe I don’t have a right to write about these things. Who am I, but a privileged woman with a Ph.D., an academic poet whose life in every way is impacted by and benefits from my whiteness? If I get pulled over, I don’t fear for my life. So how can any poetry I write even speak to the horror that is everyday experience for African Americans who get stopped because they’re missing a license plate? They know one “wrong” word, one quick movement, and the cop who is stopping them will escalate this moment to death. I can never know this.
And maybe I really don’t have the right to write about these things like racism—because I don’t suffer its effects, though I sure as hell benefit from white privilege. Still, every day there’s another murder (euphemistically called an “officer involved shooting”). Every day someone dies; Alton Sterling died on Tuesday, Philando Castile died on Wednesday. And every day I feel sick. I feel like I have to express my pain about these deaths. I want to use my art to do so.
And I know these deaths are not about me. And nobody wants to hear about a white person’s pain—because it can never compare to the pain of racism and its effects on society. It can never compare to the quotidian fear for one’s life that African Americans suffer. And yet here I am, poor me-ing about my feelings of artistic impotence, anyway…when people are dying because they are people of color. Dying every day because of the color of their skin. I can’t wrap my head around that. I can never wrap my head around that.
Maybe it’s white privilege again that makes me think I should use my art “for good”—maybe it’s the white savior complex rearing its ugly head that lets me believe that if I wrote a political poem about gun violence—gun violence on a large scale, and this incessant disgusting racism that is killing African Americans in “routine traffic stops”—that anyone would care.
Not writing about it seems wrong. But I come back to those voices of recrimination in my head that say, Who am I to think any poem I’d write about this subject matter is worthwhile or right? Who am I to speak about this? What right does any white person have to express her pain about these murders?
My pain can never compare. It’s just so much white noise.
But I had a great time at AWP. While I missed some interesting panels (being married to the booth for the entire time), I made up for it by being excellent at getting people to subscribe to the Atlanta Review. Among the three of us—Dan Veach (now Editor Emeritus of AR), Karen (the new Editor), and me—we sold 42 or 43 subscriptions, sold out of all the journals that Dan brought with him (he brought 120 copies!), and met and encouraged lots of poets to send us their work. I expect we’ll have quite the slush pile once Karen and I take over! And that’s good because the more people who know about the Atlanta Review, the more we can spread our influence and get new readers and conquer the poetry world, Mwahahahah! (Ah, sorry, I lost my head for a minute. But you take my point.) We want to continue Dan’s success with the journal, and between Karen and me, I think we waded into this new endeavor with aplomb. And Collin Kelley was at the table off-and-on, and he is always one of my favorite people.
Of course, what I always forget about AWP is how much fun the Book Fair is. Especially when the swag is so good. And it was pretty good this year. The hot giveaway was buttons—everyone was giving away buttons, and so my AWP lanyard was bespangled with them from all manner of journals, the London Review of Books, PoetLore, Five Points, Sierra Nevada College’s “This Sh*t Is Lit,” “Poetry Changes Everything,” and nearly two dozen more. (I was all about the buttons—and even got several compliments from random peeps about my lanyard. The best one sported a picture of a catalope (cat with antlers)—of course I can’t remember what journal I picked that one up at—I really wanted to buy a tee shirt from them, but they were out.) (Also, we’re totally giving away buttons next year at the AR table—we totally need to swag it up.)
Other swag of note: Poetry gave away car air fresheners. I am totally mystified by this choice. It smells vaguely piney, and also like antiseptic. And ass. Not really the smell your car longs for. But on the back is the poem “Trees” by Joyce Kilmer, published in Poetry in August 1913, which is kind of nice. Permafrost gave away a squishy stress-ball in the shape of a polar bear (awesome) as well as free copies of their journal. There was one booth that as I was leaving the Book Fair for the day had some earbuds lying around. I’m pretty sure they were giving them away…they had several pairs sitting on the table… but if not—if I accidentally liberated them—then I can add kleptomania to my list of skills, along with poetry and sarcasm. (It’s good to diversify, you know.)
Then there was the booth with this one woman who apparently is a self-publishing machine. (I’m withholding her name in case my ridicule gets out of hand—but she shares a name with a famous early 20th century woman poet.) I mean, she was probably 80, wizened like the Southwest—she looked like New Mexico—and draped in scarves and flowing skirts, and had stacks of her books in front of her like a fortress—all published through Amazon. No matter how I tried to extricate myself from her clutches, she would not let me leave—she kept wanting me to purchase her books.
As soon as I’d inch away, she’d thrust another of her books into my hands, telling me how her life had been changed and how these poems represent her experience. She gave me one book to take with me—which I totally thought was a catalogue describing her various books, with a few poems in between ads for her other books—and when I got back to the hotel, it turns out she was actually selling that book—there was a price of $18.95 stamped on the back. (I was like, dafuq? Really? Who would buy that??) Anyway, when she saw she could not entice me to purchase her whole corpus of books, she foisted her most recent one on me—which actually, from a graphic design standpoint, seems really kind of nice—the cover is lovely, and it looks like a real book of poetry, not something from a vanity press. But I mean, how good can these poems be? The first line of copy on the back cover states, “These new poems were all written during the first two months of 2016…” and the pub date is March 5. I guess I am being a poetry snob. I haven’t read the book yet—it could be wonderful. But I’m not holding my breath.
Another book that was given to me for free was Jessie Carty’s Practicing Disaster (Kelsay Books/ Aldrich Press 2014). I have a bit more faith in this book, although its title on the cover is written in shitty Comic Sans. (Really? Like who thought that was a good idea?) The inside cover has the author’s name signed and the line “Not a joke—free poetry” with a smiley face. And the acknowledgements list at the front of the book is quite impressive—among the places that Carty has published work include Eye Socket Journal, The Dead Mule, Blue Fifth Review, and Poet’s Market 2013. So, I’ll try to read through it at some point.
As far as purchased books, I bought Parades by Sara Deniz Akant (OmniDawn 2014), and Hungry Moon by Henrietta Goodman (Colorado State 2013) (which kind of got banged up on the flight home—c’est la vie). And the stack of journals I picked up is impressive—Moon City Review, New South, Southern Indiana Review, Rock and Sling, Michigan Quarterly Review, Sugar House Review (which has a beautiful cover), the Laurel Review, and several others—all of which will be seeing submissions from me in the near future—hahah.
Of course one of the things people flock to AWP for is all the famous people, as well as catching up with old friends. I didn’t meet any famousy-famous people, though I did get to meet Kelli Russel Agodon, of Two Sylvias Press (a press that makes lovely little books), who is one of my heroes (I love her as a poet and as an editor), and who tweets great material always (follow her if you don’t: @KelliAgodon). So meeting her at the Two Sylvias table was so nice—I was fulsome enough in talking to her, I think she felt like she had to hug me. But we had a nice little convo. And I did get to see some old Nebraska alums—Liz Ahl, who I always forget how divine she is (we had drinks with her at Tom’s Urban, in L.A. Live, across from the Convention Center), and Darryl Farmer, who was here at Georgia Tech too for a little while, before moving off to the wilds of Alaska. But overall, not as many Nebraska folks as I expected to see. (I went over to the Prairie Schooner table, thinking there might be someone from the old days, but I didn’t know any of those people.) I would have liked to see a few more, at least. (I did see another UNL alum, who, as always, looked right through me, the putz. I refuse to mention him by name, but a pox on his head.)
Not at the conference, I met up with my old best friend/ enemy/ boyfriend-ish/ not boyfriend-ish/ “I’m gay” “No kidding” “Why didn’t you tell me?” “I thought you knew” / best friend again from back in my USC Trojan days. We spent late Friday afternoon and Friday evening walking all over Santa Monica—we walked from Wilshire Blvd. to the Pier, and up and down the Pier, and along the beach for a long stretch (geezus, the water was cold as fuck), and then up and down the Third Street Promenade about three or four times, tried finding a movie to watch (we went to the movies all the time when I lived out there), went out to dinner, ate liquid nitrogen ice cream at Creams & Dreams, and then hung out at his place in Venice to watch Brooklyn—a great (if slow-paced slice-of-lifey movie… about 10 minutes into it, I thought, “This is so my Mom’s kind of movie”). I didn’t get back to the hotel till well after midnight. But it was so good to see him… and fun to tool around L.A. like we did when we were younger.
Anyway, I’m glad to be back, I won’t lie. I need to recharge my introvert batteries which were sadly depleted while I was away. And mostly I need to…
…And so do you.