Up on the Rumpus

If you click over to TheRumpus.net (and why wouldn't you? It's the sexiest magazine on the internet), you can read my short review (well, not a review, really. an "appreciation") of Rachel Loden's latest collection of poems, Dick of the Dead.

T. J. DiFrancesco, Jr. interviews Loden, and there's also a new Rachel Loden poem. Three tastes of Loden for the price of internet service.

What, you're waiting for an invitation? Check it out...

Collaborations

Sometimes when I want to step outside of my own concerns and conventions, collaborative writing can open up new ideas. The oldest poetry was collaborative. There was no "Homer." Rather, Homer was a series of poets who memorized and revised the hymns and epics. New language was added; portions were lost. What remains is the effort of not a single poet but a community. I imagine even the whims of the audiences helped shape the poems.

A collaboration is a kind of relationship. When the writers are listening to one another, bringing seriousness, honesty and a healthy dose of play to the work, it can feel wonderfully alive. And if the collaboration isn't working, one or the other should recognize that and have the good sense to talk about it.

I've co-written with some wonderful writers: Rachel Zucker, Mark Bibbins, David Trinidad and Jeffery Conway, Luke Sykora, Ryan Courtwright and T.J. DiFrancesco. Each of them delightful to work with; each of them willing to discard the chaff (whether mine or theirs or both) and to concentrate on the serious play of writing.

Recently, David Trinidad and I finished a short chapbook, a memoir constructed out of sentences from other people's memoirs. I'm very proud of the result--which shows how much a good partner in rhyme matters--and Turtle Point Press has done a beautiful job of designing it and printing it.

It's so satisfying to work with a fellow poet when you feel that poet feeds the creativity. I've had other experiences with collaborators (not the ones mentioned above) where they just wanted credit for showing up. Some of those poems turned out fine anyway. But it's so much nicer to work with the poets who surprise, delight and challenge us to be at our 'A' game.

The Kids Are Alright

One of the great things about teaching is having students who spur ones own imagination and invention. Gwendolyn Brooks is perhaps the best example of a teacher whose work was profoundly changed by the stylistic innovations of her pupils. One need only look at poems such as "Sermon on the Warpland" or "Riot," to see how much her style was liberated by the possibilities presented by the young people in her classes in Chicago.

A few years ago, David Bromige, who had been my mentor for many years, wrote a note to me in a volume of his poems: "For D. A., who went through so much w/ me that I think I learned something." I have been thinking lately about how much I owe to my own students. They are as much an inspiration to me as any anthology or volume I could peruse.

[For example, last time I was at the Tin House Writers Conference, a talented student--Timothy O'Keefe--had written a poem with the phrase "chia pet" in it. There was much discussion revolving around whether someone could or couldn't use the phrase "chia pet." The question seemed interesting enough that I grappled with the problem myself on paper. The resultant poem was directly indebted to Timothy and to the class.]

At Tin House, Provincetown, the Lambda Retreat, Harvard, Columbia, Iowa, New England College, San Francisco State, Sonoma State, University of San Francisco...all told, I've been fortunate to have had an astounding list of students whose work sustains me, asks me to see poetry in a new way. Though it's not the only marker of how good a poet is, I am proud of those who have gone on to publish books and chapbooks. Their success rarely had anything to do with me. Rather, I was lucky enough to meet them early on; to watch them emerge as writers. Alex Lemon, Richard St. John, Lily Brown, Lucy Ives, Ely Shipley, G. C. Waldrep, Anne Haines, Carol Peters, Scott Inguito, Shira Dentz, Joanne Straley, Michael Montlack, Kathryn Pringle, Justin Dodd, Andrea Rexilius, Kiki Petrosino, Craig Morgan Teicher, Greg Wrenn...these are a few of the students who come immediately to mind. Some are still on their way, publishing in magazines and working on those first manuscripts. I have been buoyed by their craft; inspired by their fresh use of language.

Zach Savich sat in my modernism seminar at University of Iowa with a big, happy grin. He was writing poems that burst with energy from the beginning, like Berryman or Dean Young, and I remember reading a few of his poems and thinking "there's little for me to do here. I'm just a reader, my duty is to simply catch the spirit and say amen."

Zach's first book came out earlier this year, and it is every bit as funny, eclectic, and moving as I would have imagined. He's a poet I'm reading in order to catch up with the art. To quote Bromige, "I think I learned something."

On a Pose of Virgil's

Near its peak, the mountain requires nearly no

effort to climb. There is no sky behind the flags,
barges of pretty silt. Some wrestlers oil themselves

to prevent a grip, others rub grit on their skin

to help it. In the cartoon, Orpheus puts glasses on the back

of his head and walks in reverse. The pastor's white

collar is a foam neck brace. I am sorry to hear,

this morning, as I can't see the mug top through

the pouring steam, that there is nothing new in

philosophy: I meant to tell you a story but cannot

keep myself interested long enough to describe

the pinewoods exactly. I can never remember jokes,

but there were twenty-four flavors of syrup for

the soft-serve, as for an entire day of ice cream,

and a man near the summit holding his palms fast to

the grass, waiting for dew to come so he could wash.


Zach Savich, from Full Catastrophe Living

Goodbye to All That

Photo by Donald Haines Eason, III

The Talented Mr. Ripley

I'm reading Patricia Highsmith's Ripley novels this summer, which I apparently keep refering to under the collective title The Incredible Mr. Ripley. It's wonderful to be swept away into this world of subtrafuge, in which a charming young man connives and lies his way into people's lives.

Also on my list this summer: Robinson Jeffers, Brad Watson, Stephen Elliott, Percival Everett, George Barker, Brenda Shaughnessy, Jonathan Swift. Odd assortment, I know. Just finished a Nathanael West novel and the manuscripts for Jim Ellidge's and Pimone Triplett's next books.

It's actually quite a good reading summer for me. Amazing how much free time one can have once one is divested of a relationship.

It was good to be in a relationship. It was bad to be in a relationship with someone who was an incredibly Ripleyesque creature. But wonderful to have something to write about. Have finished several new poems, including one called "Narcissus in St. Louis" and one called "Do the Hustle." Neither of which is particularly apropos of anything. When life is not poetry, it is fiction. Always sad to near the end of either, even if the subjects pain you.