READING

Through a NY State grant for the arts, the Chautauqua County Arts Council and Ripley Central School have been able to work together for four years on a program called, creatively, Ripley Writes! As a teaching artist this year, I worked with kids in grades 6-8. Some of them hate poetry. Some of them love it. Some of them love it and don't want anyone to know.

In any case, David Schein, the director of the Arts Council, has snagged some poets from Buffalo to come down to Ripley Central for a free public reading. Bios and other info is below.

Press Release: Buffalo Poets Read at Ripley Central School: Date, March 18thTime: 7PMPlace, Ripley Central School, 12 N. State St., Ripley, NY. This event is free to the publicFor information call David Schein at 716-664-2464 ext 6 Ripley Writes Poet Night Featuring Buffalo Poets;Celeste Lawson, Edreys Wajed and Janna Willoughby. The Arts Council for Chautauqua County and Ripley Schools invite the general public to a poetry reading at Ripley Schools on featuring Buffalo Poets. The reading is part of the Ripley Writes program, an ongoing collaboration between the Council and Ripley Schools. Now in its fourth year, RipleyWrites seeks to integrate creative writing into the curriculum of Ripley School's upper elementary and middle school grades. Professional writers who are teaching artists work with students and teachers to improve thewriting skills of students, injecting techniques from poetry and fiction to make student's writing more imaginative, technically proficient, and fun. Imparting a love of writing is a key element of Ripley Writes. The Ripley Writes program has to date produced six Young Author's Nights in which students and teaching artists read their work. This event,featuring poets from Buffalo, is the first in which outside writers havebeen invited to read to students and members of the community. Later thisy ear as part of the Ripley Writes, the Ripley Public Library will featureChautauqua County writer and Ripley Writes teaching artist Paul Leone, at apublic reading. The Poets:

CELESTE LAWSON has a long history as an artist and prominent arts advocate.Presently she serves as the Director of the Erie County Arts Council inBuffalo Ms. Lawson's work in the field of art and culture has taken herEurope and Asia where in 1994 i was part of the Western New York delegationthat presented to the Region Five European Economic Commission in Vienna,Austria as part of the United Nations/NGO preparatory conference for theFourth World Conference on Women, and in 1995 as part of a delegation fromWestern New York who presented at the United Nations Fourth World Conferenceon Women held in Beijing, China, chaired by then U.S. First Lady HillaryRodham Clinton. Lawson, herself, is a poet and published author. Her poems,essays and articles have appeared in the Buffalo News, Artvoice, BuffaloBeat, Her Magazine, Earth's Daughters and a host of other regional publications. She is also featured columnist with After50 News a monthlymagazine circulated throughout Western New York; and for three years was acolumnist with Artvoice. Lawson was also featured in the Earth'sDaughters/Hallwalls Contemporary Arts Center Gray Hair Poetry series thispast Fall; and is often a featured reader with programs of Just BuffaloLiterary Center, The Center for inquiry and The Screening Room. Lawson asalso been commissioned to write special occasion poems for events such asthe annual Juneteenth Festival in Buffalo and the 20th Anniversary of HOME(Housing Opportunities Made Equal).

EDREYS WAJED, whose name translates to one who writes or masters the pen, lives his life according to that definition, which almost rings as a creed. Born, raised, and educated in Buffalo, NY, Edreys discovered his many talents early in life. He started his own barbering business at the age of 14 and made his first professional studio recording at age 15. Those early experiences set the stage for his entrepreneurial endeavors as well ashis musical aspirations, not to mention his accomplishments as a visual artist.Edreys lends his skills to the Buffalo and Greater Niagara/WNY areas byserving as a visiting artist, educator and mentor through the non-profitorganization that he co-founded with his friend Brian Anderson, called Village's Children. Through his art, music and spoken word, he is able toeffectively empower and encourage students to tailor their thoughts forsuccess, by providing them with a fresh perspective on the importance oflife skills, decision-making, entrepreneurial aspirations, health and highereducation. Edreys is a partner and recording artist on Buffalo based indierecord label DTR. With a poetry book in the works, tour dates in Europe and Spain, one professionally shot video with two other underway, an album dueout Fall 2008, along with his non-profit work, Edreys is literally poetry in motion. Accomplishments:1999: Buffalo Music Awards winner for "Best Hip Hop Artist"2004: Coordinated and performed in FIRST ever Hip-Hop event at the worldrenown Albright-Knox Art Gallery "The Art of Hip Hop"2004: Starred in Documentary by Ivan Rodriguez. "The Art of Hip Hop: AShort"2007: Coordinated and performed in heavily sought after Hip-Hop event at theworld renown Albright-Knox Art Gallery "The Art of Hip Hop 2"

JANNA WILLOUGHBY was born and raised in Buffalo, NY. She started writing poetry when she was five, was nationally published in Earth's Daughters wheni was 16 and has been published in many different publications since then. She has been performing her work for over 12 years. She has been doing poetry slams for six years, and has been a part of the National Slam Teamfrom Buffalo for the past two years. She also write and perform music andsongs and makes art, particularly handmade books.

ULTRASOUND

This week my wife and I went to get an ultrasound to see our baby. We found out that we are having a little girl. Nothing can prepare you for seeing YOUR child up there. It wasn't in 3D and reading an ultrasound is a tough business with shadows and shifting movements of the baby, but seeing her face, her little hands and feet, it took my breath away.

I am a quiet person by nature. In the last few days, I have said less than usual, lost in my own world.

This is a blog about poetry. That was my intention when I began. For a year now I have been trying to finish up my first book of poems, a manuscript called POSTAGE. With the birth of my child coming, I have done it and there's not much that you can say to equate that for someone who isn't a poet. It took a long time, I guess, you might say.

When I found we were going to get an ultrasound last week, it struck me how strange that is. You "see" essentially what is heard. You "see" the vibration of all the water in the mother splashing against the organs and a picture is transmitted.

Raymond Carver's short story "Cathedral," which I reread today, always surprises me even though I know how it ends. Seeing is believing for someone us. For others, it is only a starting place.

THE ELECTROMAGNETIC FIELD OF DREAMS

Here's a question for you. Can one person have another person's dreams?

On one of my favorite TV shows, Northern Exposure, they did a show about how the Northern lights got everyone's internal electro-synaptic brainwaves all crossed. Of course, it's not scientific gold, but it begs some speculation due to examples we all experience in our own lives. Hasn't everyone had a dream and woken immediately saying, "Whoa, that's weird!" It's not weird; it's someone else's obsessions.

Last night I dreamed about stamps, flipping through a giant book of stamps. Thrilling, I know. Apparently, stamps will one day be 47 cents.

But Natasha, my wife, sleeping in the same bed, seemed to dream a "Jae" dream. You'll see why I call it this in a second.

So, is it possible? It's certainly plausible that if two people are close and think about each other's pains and losses that eventually there's some context for a mixed signal to go somewhere else. Here's what she dreamed.

Natasha dreamed that we were living in Korea and that we were happy. My mother and father (adoptive parents) came over to visit me. They "were" qualities that I associate with them: my mother was sad and detached; my father was talking about money and telling jokes that aren't funny. Anyway, it made me sad and upset and this is what Natasha is feeling in her dream. Then we are in this open market. It's an auction and there's thousands of people there. The auction is a fundraiser for the orphange where I had a short stint. Suddenly, she becomes aware that we are separted. I'm in with the crowd and she can't find me. I start yelling, "Mama, Daddy," obviously looking for my Korean parents. She knows, instinctually, that I won't find them. Running through the crowd in a white dress, she finds me crying, confused. Jumping into my arms, I feel whole.

Okay, that's a "Jae" dream if I ever heard one. It is specific and symbolically charged. That's how the dream ends, except in Natasha's dream, since that's where it all went down, Celine Dion appears and starts singing, "My Heart Will Go On." And what do you do with that? I mean, yes, it's pure-top-level cheese, but also, it's the score to a movie about a ship going down and hundreds of people dying in the ocean. You're writers and perceptive people. You know where I'm going with this.

So, do me a favor and go take a nap. Right now. Sleep and if you have one of my dreams, email it to me because it's mine, I need them, and I will do the same.

ONE-LINERS

Have you seen these things? One line poems. They exist.

I read my first one (that I remember, anyway) a few months ago in a Franz Wright book called The Beforelife. It was kind of dark, but I liked the sort of tension evoked in such a short, all-or-nothing poem. The Franz Wright poem, by the way, was called "Body bag."

And then, yesterday, I found another one liner by A.R. Ammons. A poem entitled "Coward," from Ammons' book Diversifications, knocked my proverbial socks off. Here it is. Don't blink: "Bravery runs in my family."

That's it.

I started thinking about this poem. I think anything that you eventually are going to like, say you like anyway, these things have to pass through a series of rigorous tests. The things we love often have to be hated first and right now, I hate these little poems. Are they even real poems?

Sure, we could go all deconstructionist on ourselves and say, well, anything can technically be a poem. But that kind of logic doesn't hold up. It's why Jewel's book of poetry isn't really considered real poetry. You can think you have written a poem, then, but have actually? This is a tough question and I'm not sure any of us are apt to answer it entirely.

In my investigation of these one-line poems, I have come to some mixed results. That's why I'm creating a prompt.

Write a one line poem. Here's the rules.

1. Title and poem can't be longer than 18 words.

2. There is no rule number two.


I think we'll see some interesting stuff. And hey, now, people, start voting for your favorite sijo.

JUST FOR FUN

Richard Cecil gave his 06 Fall workshop members a publicaiton handout. Just for fun, I thought it would be fun to compare rejections, eh.

Here's the list. Those with an asterik(*) were journals I landed a rare acceptance. Those with (r) are a rejections. Whoever responds with the most rejections by April 1 gets a prize.

5 AM, *
Another Chicago Magazine
Agni, (r)
Alaska Quarterly Review, (r)
The Atlanta Review
Antioch Review
The Bellingham Review, *
The Beloit Poetry Journal
Black Warrior Review, (r)
Boulevard
The Carolina Quarterly
The Chariton Review
Chelsea
Chicago Review, (r)
Cimmarron Review
Colorado Review, (r)
Columbia, (r)
Conjunctions, (r)
The Connecticut Review
Cream City Review
Cut Bank, (r)
Denver Quarterly, (r)
Diner
Epoch
Field, (r)
Fine Madness
The Florida Review
The Greensboro Review, (r)
Hanging Loose
Hawaii Review
Hadyen's Ferry Review
The Hudson Review
Indiana Review, (r)
The Iowa Review, (r)
Kansas Quarterly, (r)
The Kenyon Review, (r)
The Laurel Review
Manoa
The Massachusetts Review
Michigan Quarterly Review, (r)
Mississippi Review
Mudfish
New England Review
New Letters
New Orleans Review, (r, and no, it was not a Katrina poem)
Nimrod, (r)
The North American Review, (r)
North Dakota Quarterly
Ontario Review
Painted Bride Quarterly, (r)
The Plum Review
The Paris Review
Passages North, (r)
Ploughshares
Poetry East, (r)
Poetry Northwest
Prairie Schooner, (r)
Puerto Del Sol
Quarterly West
River Styx, (r)
Seneca Review
Southern Poetry Review
The Southern Review
The Southwest Review
Spoon River Poetry Review
Sycamore Review, (r)
Tar River Poetry, (r)
The Tampa Review
Willow Springs

And let us not forget this paying journals:

The American Poetry Review, (r)
Poetry, (r)
The Missouri Review
The Georgia Review, (r)
The Virginia Quarterly Review, (r)
The Gettysburg Review, (r)
The Journal, (r)
Crab Orchard Review, (r)
Three Penny Review

So count up your (r)'s and submit your badge of rejection proudly: mine says 34!

Creative Writing Talk

I went back to my highschool this week and gave a little creative writing talk to a class of tenth-grade kids.

I think they thought I was going to be boring and were mildly surprised when they were laughing. I told them about my experiences at Spalding, getting things published, and how to deal with getting rejected.

They asked a lot of questions and it was kind of fun. I ended by reading a few poems, one of which prompted a boy to run out of the class after I left into the parkinglot to ask me a question about the poem and if he had figured out what it meant.

What does any poem mean? I didn't have the heart to tell him that poems don't have meanings, not always. I told him each poet creates his/her own lexicon and bends language to their own end.

He seemed satisfied with that. And I walked to the car and left.

IDEE FIXE

I'm going to weave a few random thoughts together.

One:
I read quite a bit of Roland Barthes in college and, occasionally, when I should be relaxing or just being present, I find myself retreating back to that place where a writer must be in order to 1) sustain his/her order, 2) be located--mentally--in order to write. If you never read the essay I'm talking about, it's in a book called Mythlogies. Barthes takes on a series of topics, including professional wrestling as a form of greek drama.

But it's this notion that a writer never can take a "holiday" or a vacation, as I think everyone says nowadays, that's alarming to me.

Two:
Can Poetry Matter? is a book I have often wanted to read, but always held myself back from purchasing. It seems silly to buy a book and question if what you do matters, as if you need permission from someone to help you cross your t's and dot your i's in order to come to some logical paradise where it's okay.

Three:
I learned a new word yesterday: idee fixe. It's an obsession. I'll write an authobiographical sentence to show its usuage.

"I lay awake at night unable to satifsy the demands of an idee fixe that's taxing me."

Okay, so that's a horrible sentence but you get the idea.


The Big Finish: 1+2+3= ?

There's a sort of give-and-take involved in writing. Give an hour of your day reading the dictionary, find three words that help you to write a poem. Obviously, there's a more dramatic form.

Say, you give praise to your God and He takes it.

Say, He gives you the hope of thinking you and your wife were expecting, then He takes it away.

This happened and though I know I should be taking the time to be human, to just reflect, I find myself in a frenzy to compose, to take what is broken or stolen and possess something of it.

In this way, since I don't know how to take a "holiday" from writing, and since I am always desperate to prove that poetry does matter, I find that my idee fixe isn't poetry, faith, or even myself. I have come to realization that what I seek to prove can not be tested, not really. And so I write. These poems are a way of coping, a form of therapy I'm not sure is healthy or unhealthy but somehow necessary.

I hope you can appreciate them. They are hard-earned and for an unborn child.


SNOWGLOBE

White flakes hovering like suspended birds—

Shake me today, watch the sky
turn pink.



WOMAN ON A BICYCLE IN FEBRUARY

Tensing her jaw
she doesn’t know me and looks down
as I pass in the car

exaggerated space between us




SUBWAY

No. Not that one.
I’m waiting
for the slow train.
The one
appearing
in the middle
of a dream,
the one
where everyone I love
is waving

cold steel rushing by



CELL PHONE

Stop it. I tell myself the phone’s not ringing

but I hear it

and don’t tell me you don’t know

who’s trying to call




THREE DAYS LATER

I don’t know if you’re in pain
or what the policy is for the miscarried.

If you’re in heaven, now, three days later,
missing something

don’t worry. I’ve been missing that, too,
my whole life.




THE HIDDEN DOOR

Waking early,
headed into the city on a Saturday morning,

she puts her chin on my chest, asks

if I will ride to Nazareth with her.

Arriving in the dark,
to a campus we’ve never seen, it was raining

as I scanned the campus

tracked a woman in a blue slicker

who pointed us
in the right direction before disappearing

in the rain.

*
Following signs to Smyth Hall,

I held her close
as I am apt to do whenever we’re together

in the lamplight of a campus,

strolling, holding hands.

*
Opening the door,
I took the umbrella, shook it, then

opened a second door, kissed you

wished you luck as you hurried to the exam

behind a third.

*
In a tiny lobby with two chairs in adjacent corners,

I picked the green one

and sat facing a slumbering sky.

Reading a few poems,
thirty minutes passed as the clouds parted,

as the sun began to rise.

Starting out both sets of beautiful wooden doors,

I noticed
how the stained-glass of the outer door began

to reflect light

through dozens of tiny squares catching the tint

before it was lost.

*

Looking up, I saw a wave in the woodwork splash

along the ceiling, revolve

around the room.

This is a church, I said.
Delighted, I ran my hand along the brass railing, paced

the room reading college trivia

when a color wheel entered the room,

suddenly,
filled with knowledge for what this time is for,

I touched the light in half-stride

revealing a hidden door into a church for one.

*

Taking out my pen,
I’m sorry Mr. Merwin, but I needed paper

and it was snowing and the bench outside
blazed in the hope of my kaleidoscopic eyelash

believing everything it saw,
the world expanding to absorb the light rising

on the tips of snow-brushed trees.

*

Turning my hand
over to receive something

it startled me

to see a berry-shaped glow on my palm.

A raspberry,
I say, hearing my wife’s voice from nights before

say, Honey it’s the size of a raspberry,

my joy, exploding through my body,

shaking me.

*

Writing on the leaves of raspberry cane, I find

the boy who disappeared in snow

has returned from a field where the sun was endless

in the land
that is no longer the land but a seed between my teeth,

a memory in my fingernails.

My whole life—

How long
I shivered wondering if the storm within me

would ever allow me to touch a reflection

of my blood. This love I have to give, child—
only you,
specifically you could find me here and end my winter,

tether me down from the flight of wandering,

from wishing I were a bird.




MUSEUM OF SCIENCE

Outside past the parking lot

there’s two red circular domes,
two plastic phones

fifty feet apart. I don’t know

how it works, but know
how it feels to be a father listening

for his child on the other end.