STRESS!!!!

Moving! It's so incredibly stressful! And sometimes I think how badly I handle stress, how small things like leaky washing machines, stoves that don't fit in the space designed, DMVs with long lines and unhelpful service agents, and well, the long list of decisions and things that must be done  . . . Seriously, these are not life-threantedning events or decisions, but they drive me nuts. And well, sometimes they make me unto someone I don't want to be  . . .  

In the midst of all this, just last week I received a wonderful collection of poems by Thomas R. Smith, and I was stopped by this one poem:

YOUR INNER FACE

     Like everyone, you have two faces: One of them others see, in restaurants and banks--it's only approximate, the probable cause when you feel misjudged by the world.

     On the inside there's another face through which you reach toward that world: Pure gesture, it registers instantaneously each nuance of feeling, like a film star of Mother Teresa, an interior sky. When you weep, clouds darken with rain: when you laugh, all the pigeons fly up in to the light. 

     It's this face you'd prefer to be known by, so true to its desires, unbelievably beautiful. When two people glimpse it in each other, we call that love--and if someone should see all the secret faces at once, heaven. 

I love this poet, Ulalume González de León!

But I wish I could find her work in English! 

Her poem, "Anatomy of Love," appearing in the long out-of-print anthology THE PROSE POEM and translated from Spanish by Linda Sheer, begins:

1

TO THINK ABOUT ONE THING

Why can't I think, with the left half of my head the same things I think with the right half?

      or why is there a thought a the nape off the neck that doesn't prop up the thought at the forehead, and belies it by making signals from behind?,

      (You ask me: what are you thinking about? --About less than one thing: about so many things!--I answer: about nothing.)

      or why do I think with more layers than an agate of an onion?

      : a thought from the inside grows and pushes until the last shell exploded, and it is also in immediate danger, made thin by another thought which pushes from further inside.

      But I think of you in the inside of the inside, with a thought that grows contrariwise, in centripetal wonder, like a figs flowers: there, where to think about one thing is more than to thing about only one.

And then there is this one . . . 

Problema

Calcular
(dado el producto de la multiplicación de las caricias
el número de golpes de ala por segundo con que la pasión
compensa el peso de los cuerpos
la velocidad adquirida al pensarnos
la resistencia del aire a todas nuestras iniciativas voladoras
el intervalo admisible entre la temperatura máxima y la
temperatura mínima del deseo
las intermitencias con que fabricamos nuestra continuidad
el margen de error tolerable para un ingreso simultáneo
en el olvido que sabes
las probabilidades de reincidir por falta de recuerdo
la mayor o menor necesidad de un postre metafísico al
banquete carnívoro
el porcentaje de limaduras virutas rebabas que pueden ser
recicladas in situ
y la fuerza de gravedad de toda alegría
y la trayectoria asíntota al más estrellado techo)
la condición necesaria y suficiente de este amor.

Even the google translator lets you see how lovely this poem is ---

Problem

Calculate (given the product of the multiplication

of caresses

the number of wing beats per second

with which passion compensates for the weight of the bodies

the speed acquired when thinking

the air resistance to all our flying

initiatives

the permissible range between the

maximum temperature and the

minimum temperature of desire

the intermittences with which we manufacture our continuity

the margin of error tolerable for simultaneous entry

in oblivion you know the chances

of reoffending due to lack of memory

the greater or lesser need for a metaphysical

dessert at carnivore feast

the percentage of filings chips

burrs that can be recycled in situ

and the force of gravity of all joy

nd the asymptotic trajectory to the most starry ceiling)

the necessary and sufficient condition of this love.

Poetry --unreal?

I keep listening to the news, thinking I should be doing something logical, something "real." But what?  Certainly not writing poems.  I so often think of poetry as unreal. And of course, in many ways, it is. I notice this esp. when I try talking about it to non-poets and well . . .

I mean, today I was talking to a repairman who asked me what I write about. I didn't want to say--- I am writing about a stink bug who turns into a man.  And the bug is horrified to be human. Yeah. Right.

But the fact is I kind of agree with my stink bug. (Losing reality here, admittedly.) But just thinking about what people do to each other and the planet, it's hard not to be horrified. And, well, like my imaginary stink bug I keep hoping I am just having a bad dream. That some day I will wake up and Trump and the KKK and the White Supremacists and Nazis and the Koch boys and  . . . yeah, so many in the current administration, will all be banished. Exiled to some distant planet where I never have to hear about them again.  I envision them on a space ship traveling to some distant galaxy.

Often at night I fall asleep, hoping I will wake up to better news. I was thinking of that and, well, Kafka, when I wrote in my piece:

"Perhaps it was just a nightmare," the stink bug reasoned, and with that, he closed his eyes, lay as still as a statue, and tried to fall back asleep.

A while later, he heard birds singing through an open window and he cringed, remembering how a bird once devoured his fellow stink bugs. But then a soft yellow light filled the room, and he felt a brief moment of peace as he remembered that he was safely indoors. 

The idea of safety, of being separated from the nightmare, is key in my psyche. As if death and evil is only out there. And reality. 

Maybe it was the thought of safety that got me wondering -- trying to decide whether I wanted to be writing about a stink bug or just a boy who suddenly wakes up as a man. Or a girl who suddenly becomes a woman--

remembering how terrifying an adult can appear to a child. And not just physically.  

I remember thinking, back when I was a kid, how creepy adults were, always obsessing about power and money and fame and I don't know--so many boring things. I hated how grownups sat around drinking, never moving much, never really playing, never being any fun, never seeming to have much fun either.  

Maybe that's one thing we get to do as poets--have fun, imagine, dream . . . I mean, seriously. I sometimes think it should be illegal to have this much fun. 

Metamorphoses

It's that time of year--stink bugs and ladybugs coming in to stay warm and to cozy up with us. Even when I close my eyes for a minute, I see stink bugs. They are so disgusting, and they plop down on my page, and one somehow managed to find its way into my printer. The stink of cardamon and bug juice, nauseating. 

They remind me of Kafka. How it might be to turn into stink bug, or vice versa. 

And how painful and exciting any metamorphoses is. And all the assumptions one has about transformation. I like how we assume the butterfly is naturally more lovely and happy than the worm. But does the worm think so? The worm might love its simple sleek and pink body. Its  moist, youthfulness. His simplicity. And being so close to the earth . . . 

Here in lovely Virginia, I think of Ohio.  

And so today, writing, I was playing with a version of Metamorphoses:

Opening his eyes one morning, a stink bug was alarmed to see that he had been transformed into a man. Clearly some terrible mistake has been made,” he thought, looking with horror at his soft skin, the huge dome of his belly, and worst of all, what hung between his thighs. What happened to his sleek rectangular form, his neat angular legs, his lovely pointy proboscis? he wondered.

Seriously Alice!

We finally moved to Virginia, and after months of planning the move--boxing our life up and then unboxing, we are finally here. And I have this feeling (fear) that I am losing touch with my creative self. Days go by and I don't get to the computer or have an interesting thought in my mind. I don't mean to complain too much. After all, so many good thing have happened this fall. We live in a magical house on top of a hill that backs up onto miles of woods. At night it's so dark, we see only the stars and the moon. No street lights, no neighbors, nada. Sometimes the coyotes howls and wake us the middle of the night. But some days, in the mornings I find myself looking in the mirror and asking, where's Alice?

Okay, that needs some explanation, but I think of Alice as my creativity, my magical side, the girl who dives down rabbit holes day after day. There's no place like a rabbit hole. But sometimes Alice goes down there alone while I go about my business. And she begins to shrink. Alice being Alice likes to shrink. 

Reading with Denise Duhamel on Monday, Oct. 16th at the KGB Bar in NYC

Okay, so this doesn't even begin to look like Denise, but . . . 

I'm so looking forward to reading with her at the KGB Bar in NYC on Monday at 7PM.  If you are in New York, please come!!

How do you process the news?

I've had a hard time working lately, and I don't think it's just because of the big move that is underway. Not to downplay how overwhelmed I feel by the prospect of starting over again. Not to mention the hours of packing up the mess in this house, and well, everything else that goes into moving. But it's also the news that I can't  process anymore. So much bad news. I find myself trying to tune it out, and feeling guilty about that. But today I turned on NPR just in time to hear Ai Weiwei talk about his new documentary, Human Flow, about the current refugee crisis, and I was so moved by his compassion and authenticity. Just his voice put me in a new place. 

Moving!!

I always knew moving would be hard, but it's mind-boggling, all that's involved. I feel completely overwhelmed! As I pack things into containers, I feel as if I am folding myself up into so many boxes, wondering how I will unpack in another place and time.

We are moving back to Virginia, the state where I grew up, and the state which is the backdrop of my latest book, Miss August--although Miss August is from another decade. I am beginning to wonder what this decade will look like to writers in the future. 

Talking about Star Maker Series on the Best American Poetry Blog

I am going to be doing a series of posts on Best American Poetry on what I call the star makers of the literary world.  My first and second posts are up now. On Monday I will be talking about the amazing Jen Campbell. 

Moving to Virginia!

We are moving next fall! This will be our backyard come October. Between then and now, we have so much work to do, but I have to keep this image in my mind--hills and fields and blue sky.

My Next Book!

My next book, Miss August, is coming out in May!  The description written up by the press:

In her latest collection, Miss August, Nin Andrews takes on difficult topics: racism, segregation, child abuse, mental illness, and sexual identity. Told from the point of view of three different characters, the poems take place in a small southern town in the Jim Crow South where opposition to racial integration is still strong. The book presents a tale of a boy’s discovery of his sexual identity, of profound love and friendship, and is also a portrait of racism in a specific time and place in American history. 

The name of the book, the inspiration for the book, comes from an experience that happened when I was eight years old and was playing at a friend's house, and we came across his father's Playboy magazine. My friend opened it to the centerfold. I still remember staring and staring, feeling suddenly nauseated and terrified. THAT is not happening to me, I announced.  To which he answered, I like Miss August. She’s what I want to be when I grow up. 

YOUTUBE REVIEWS

Who knew? I was just looking for something on the internet, and these popped up. And there are even more. I was blown away! Thank you kind reviewers! I was only aware of one of them.

YOUTUBE  2016 Reviews of Why God Is a Woman:  https://youtu.be/WbUgeb2IxmY, https://youtu.be/Fzl4sXuZdWE, https://youtu.be/Q8_fgDBB12s https://youtu.be/2WM2vLP-iWs https://youtu.be/k0u6QfxcY-4 https://youtu.be/FCYd0brRHJ8

Author Photo

Patrick Henry

"It is through… Art and Art only that we can shield ourselves from the sordid perils of actual existence. " Oscar Wilde

Reading this quote, I was reminded of an experience I had in third grade ---

One day in the middle of recess, I realized that I had forgotten to do my history homework,  a written report on Patrick Henry.  Worse, I was supposed to read my report aloud in class. In a panic, I snuck into the art room and quickly drew a picture (in crayon) of Patrick Henry in a black and gold (or rather, orange) tricorn hat, which I later presented to my teacher in place of the essay. I so admired his hat, I said, though I wasn't sure if Patrick Henry ever owned a tricorn hat. Then I added that I also liked his curly long  hair. Miraculously, my teacher, Miss Tab, was, delighted with what she called my creative spirit, and she hung the picture up for all to admire. 

Alice In Wonderland Comic

I keep thinking I am in some kind of Looking Glass world. 

Dorothy Parker Comic

I drew this comic before Christmas, but with the help of Jimmy--I've added some features. I am still learning how to draw with Flash . . . 

The Variable Foot

I had to laugh when I read this in The Oxford Book of American Poetry: "I write in the American idiom," William Carlos Williams noted, "and for many years I've been using what I call the variable foot." One of the secrets of American poetry is that no one knows what the variable foot is. 

A Few Good Reads

It's that dark time of year when I settle into writing and don't think about the outside world, and when I revisit books I love. Over Thanksgiving I found myself once again flipping through my favorite anthology, which I blogged about here 

And also discovered new books, like Dante di Stefano's Love is a Stone Endlessly in Flight, which I loved so much, I had to interview him. And Claire Bateman's Scape, which totally blew me away. 

I don’t even know how to describe Claire except to say that I remember a review (which I can't find right now) in which she was called a modern day Hopkins. Like Hopkins, she really does seem to come from another world. She loves to play with your mind, or simply illuminate it for you, as in her poem, “A Few Things to Know about Reading,” which begins:

I. If a book hasn’t shaken you up even a little after three chapters, you must lay it aside since the very purpose of reading is to set all your pervious clarities resonating at incompatible frequencies.

II. Do not mistake reading for actual life, which suffers from lack of both compression and dynamic focus; not the prolonged mundane stretches no editor would stand for, the proliferation of character and incidents that apparently do nothing to advance the plot.  Also, as you may have notices, the protagonist comes across as muddles, inept, though neither in the comedic for in the ironically reflexive post=tragic sense. The main problem with reality is that you aren’t allowed to skim it.

III. Do not mistake actual life for reading. Inside your brain, there is no homunculus waxing lyric on the events of your day, so you must quit feeding him truffles, and shoo away his attendants with their ostrich-feather fans. 

The Jumblies

Forgive the political nature of this comic. All week I have been thinking of this Edward Lear poem. And how as a girl, whenever my mother read it, I would complain that you can't possibly go to sea in a sieve--

to which she answered:

Why, there's nothing to worry about! Because you can always sleep in a crockery-jar with your feet wrapped in pinky paper, all folded neat, and fastened with a pin.

I think that's my favorite stanza of the poem:

The water it soon came in, it did,
The water it soon came in;
So to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet
In a pinky paper all folded neat,
And they fastened it down with a pin.
And they passed the night in a crockery-jar,
And each of them said, ‘How wise we are!
Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,
Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,
While round in our Sieve we spin!’
Far and few, far and few,
Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
And they went to sea in a Sieve.

What If You Slept

("What If You Slept" by Coleridge has always been one of my favorite poems.) 

 The other day I was listening to two of my poet-friends complain bitterly about their parents. Among other things, they talked of how they wished their folks had an interest in literature. No one in their families read books. I couldn’t join in. After all, I grew up in a house of wall-to-wall books. I will never be as literate as my parents, and I owe much of what I know about poetry to my mother who read aloud from my earliest memories. I used to frustrate her to no end, asking her to stop when I liked a line or poem, and read it again. And then again.

Not again? she’d say.

Just one more time, I’d say. And we’d go around and around.

And in my mind, later, I would play with the lines. So as a girl this poem might be:

What if you slept

And what if

In your sleep

You dreamed

And what if

In your dream

You went to heaven

And there—there was a rain shower

And when you awoke,

You were soaked to the bone . . .

Or:

And there—you discovered secret powers

And when you awoke

You could see through walls . . .

Or:

And there—your soul was made of sugar and flour

And when you awoke

You knew you were destined to be a baker . . .

Or:

And there—you climbed to the tip of God’s tower . . .

And when you awoke

You were still holding an angel by the finger . . .

I would keep going and going. This was one of the ways I passed my time. I called this game making-and-filling-in-the-blanks. I always liked games of fill-in-the-blank. My mother said if I continued in this way, I would never remember the correct versions of poems. She was right.