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June 2006
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first-book & other interviews:


$650 apartment for $650
aaron mccollough
ada limon
al filreis
almost i rushed from home
adam clay
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amy king's blog
annandale dream gazette
a peek of reach
a sad day for sad birds
asthma chronicles
attention without a me
a tonalist notes
a view from the potholes
a walk around the lake
bemsha swing
bewilderment inc.
big window
black and white
the blind chatelaine's keys
bob marcacci
both both
brandon brown
bread and jam for frances
the brother swimming beneath me
the burning chair
cahiers de corey
can of corn
catherine daly's blog
chicago postmodern poetry
chicana poetics
chicks dig poetry
clay matthews

collin kelley
critical fiction
culture industry
dbqp: visualizing poetics
delirious hem
the desert city
the dishwasher's tears
DIY poetics
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do gummi bears dream
effing blog
elective annoyance
elephant seals negate
esther press
eyeball hatred 
fait accompli
fewer & further
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fringe matters
geneva convention
goodness gracious
harlequin knights
here comes everybody
hg poetics
home-schooled by a cackling jackal
human's animal
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i'll show you mine
in place of chairs
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iron caisson
ironstone whirlygig
isola di rifiuti
ivy is here
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jane dark's sugarhigh!
jeannine blogs
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lance phillips
leftover flying
lemon hound
lime tree
little red's recovery room
love and coffee
the lovely arc
lovers' last go around
lutheran surrealism
maryrose larkin
mindful ramblings
minimalist concrete poetry
minor american
modern americans
mr. tong bliss' journal
the neglectorino project
nervous unto thirst
never mind the beasts

nice guy syndrome
nothing to say and saying it
now then
omnidawn blog
paul hoover's poetry blog
the pangrammaticon
peek thru the pines
philly sound
poetry hut
poesy galore
poets' corner
poet with a day job
pshares blog
pudgy pigeon enterprises
pugnacious pinoy
qbdp: the mailartworks
radish king
reader of depressing books
reli[e]able signs
reginald shepherd's blog
rob mclennan's blog
rocket kids
rue hazard
samizdat blog
sandra alland's blog-like entity
sandra simonds swims and swims
say something wonderful
serif of nottingham
shanna compton's blog
silliman's blog
slicker chumway's
slim windows
spoke to the world on the phone
spooks by me
stamped & metered flying fish
the steinach operation
stephen vincent
texfiles in bahrain
they shoot poets don't they
third factory
this is all your fault
this morning in poetry
tom raworth's notes
twenty thousand thousand
the unquiet grave
unreliable narrator
virgin formica
voices in utter dark
voix off
the well-nourished moon
what an errand knave
wild horses of fire
wind meals
wood s lot
the word cage
yes, starlings! yes!

you are here
ysleta poeta
zach barocas

journals/small press/reviews:

6 X 6
abraham lincoln
above/ground press
absent magazine
action yes
ahsahta press
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big game
bird dog
black lodge press
black ocean press
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cy gist press
cy press
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faux press e chapbooks
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g o n g press
half empty/half full
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horse less press
house press
how2/barbara guest memory bank
katalanche press
kitchen press
konundrum engine literary review
la petite zine
lame house press
little red leaves
new pages
no tell motel

omg press
the page
phylum press

poetry 365
the poker
portable press at yo-yo labs
rain taxi
rhubarb is susan
rose metal press
rust buckle
skanky possum
sona books
tool a magazine
three candles
transmission press
ugly duckling presse
wintered press
wire sandwich
word for/word

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The Continental Review
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miPOradio POdcast
Naropa archives
Rabbit Light Movies
to the sound
a voice box




every other day

29 JUNE 06

How has your first book changed your life?

14.  Juliet Patterson

The Truant Lover

Had you send out your manuscript often before you won the Nightboat contest?

I submitted this particular manuscript to six contests, so I was incredibly lucky! I had another manuscript that I circulated pretty widely. When nothing happened with it, I decided to take some time off from contest submissions and just focus on writing. For the next eight years, I didn't submit the manuscript. I just thought about how I could make the poems better. When I finally felt like it was ready, I sent it off to a limited number of contests. I thought carefully about the presses that might be interested in my work and also paid close attention to judges who might be sympathetic to my style.

What do you remember about the day when you saw your finished book for the first time?

Publicly speaking, it wasn't a very extraordinary moment. A box was delivered to my office, like any other box. It was a cloudy day. I was alone in the office. I opened the box as casually as the mail. But, privately, I experienced a wide range of emotions: joy, anxiety, pride, fear. It's a wonderful moment (of course) to hold the book, feel the heft of it in your hands, to smell the pages. But there's also something very strange about it--a kind of detached feeling--as though you had nothing to do with it. As if the book (as object) now had its own life completely separate from you. How could I have made this book? It didn't seem possible. I know that sounds rather dramatic, but it's really true. At the same time, I was very aware of how much work had gone into the book--years of writing (not to mention a rather intense editing process) and the amount of perseverance required to live a life that can sustain creative practice, and I couldn't help but feel some kind of spiritual joy in the book as a testament to my life lived.

I've heard a lot of people say that the day the book arrives is the worst day for the writer: that makes some sense to me. Publishing is really different from writing. And most writers, I think, are really driven by the act of writing, not publishing. Certainly, I think that's true in the realm of poetry. Paradoxically, I can't think of one writer who doesn't want to also publish. So the feelings that surround the first book are complicated. However big and important to your life the book seems to be, the truth is it's just 60 pages of writing that won't really change the immediate conditions of your life and there will (hopefully) be other books and a life of writing.

Getting back to the moment of first seeing the book, I can say that I was struck by its physical beauty--really just kind of bowled over by how gorgeous the book was, thanks to the good work of Tim Roberts, who did the design. I felt humbled by the amount of attention he gave not only to the cover but to the interior of the book and felt as though his work really brought a new life and dimension to my poems. More joy.

Before that day, did you imagine your life would change because of it?

Spiritually speaking: yes. In the "dally through daily-ness": no.

Did the book change a lot after it was chosen?

I added a few new poems and omitted others--but I wouldn't say the book went through an overhaul--the intense editing process I mentioned really refers to the years I spent mulling over each of the poems. I will say however that Nightboat editor Jennifer Chapis gave the book a shrewd reading and gave me some things to think about in terms of the final version of the book. She's a very intelligent reader and I felt really lucky to work with her.

Did you have (while writing and, later, sending out the manuscript) an image in mind of what the book cover would look like, one that the finished design reflects or replaced?

It's curious that I really didn't have a visual image for the book until after it was accepted for publication. Nightboat graciously solicited my input on the cover design and I really almost panicked, because I didn't have a lot of particular ideas. I went back and forth about the use of a photograph, but in the end, it felt like it reflected the tone and energy of the poems. I submitted three or four images to be considered for the cover and the people at Nightboat and I all made a decision collectively. The photo we used is taken by a Minneapolis photographer I love, Celeste Nelms. She works exclusively in self-portraits, which seemed fitting, since that's a running theme for the book.

As I've said, the finished design really brought the poems to life in a way I didn't expect. I think the designer, Tim Roberts, understood my poems better than I did in a way, which was a little bit shocking and embarrassing, but ultimately I'm so grateful he understood the work so deeply, because the book we made is really a beautiful object.

How has your life been different since your book came out?

The main difference is: work.

The book enabled me to be hired to teach poetry workshops and creative writing classes at the university level, and also to be more securely employed on a part-time basis as a teacher. Previous to publishing the book, I was teaching a lot as an artist-in-residence in the schools (primary and secondary education) and at the Loft Literary Center. I really enjoy teaching outside of academia, but I also wanted to have the experience of teaching poetry at the college or graduate level. The book has afforded me this opportunity, but of course, there's also a "rub" there because I'm not sure that publishing a book has made me a better teacher. It's unfortunate that the academy seems to measure qualifications based on these terms, but it's just the truth of how the system operates.

I'd also say that the book has brought me out into the world a little more. I'm a fairly introverted person and need a lot of solitude and time for contemplation. Publishing a book has caused me to travel a bit for readings, workshops, etc. and keep a rather "public" schedule (relative to how I've been living my life). I've met some really amazing people and have had some great experiences seeing different parts of the country. It's been a bit exhausting, but it's changed me in the sense that I have been thinking about how we really are all connected, you know? People, in general, of course, but poets in particular. There are threads made between us that are seemingly invisible, but deeply intricate and beautiful.

I've seen your reading schedule at your site. How did you manage to plan such a well-organized tour? Where did you start--do you have any advice?

I won $1,000 with the Nightboat Prize and made the decision early on to hire a free-lance publicist. I really did want to throw myself into the promotion of the book, give it some energy, etc. and knew that I couldn't do it alone. I worked with Jana Robbins (formerly of Graywolf Press) and she handled almost all of the tour logistics and organization. Working with Jana has been wonderful and she made the potentially overwhelming task of planning a tour very easy. I don't have any solid advice about how to approach a reading tour--so much depends on what
you want personally from the experience and from your book. I made the decision to pour a lot of my own resources into the book in part because I've worked in the publishing industry (for a sales rep group) for the last ten years and understand the impact publicity and promotion can make. Paradoxically, I'm not sure it matters that much in the realm of poetry. Good books of poetry will find their audience, eventually.

What advice do you wish someone had given you before your book came out?

1) You don't have to be well-connected for a book to do well--a book can find its way into the world without you.

2) Do what you can for the book--but don't overwhelm yourself.

3) Don't worry about public reaction and love the poems as much as you can.

4) Give books away to people who love to talk.

What was the best advice you got?

1) Be clear about what you might want to happen from your book. Do you want to find a job? Connect with other poets? Reach ordinary people in your community? Make plans accordingly.

2) Read publicly as much as you can.

3) Think outside the box; find an audience for your book in ways that are authentic to you and the material.

4) Leave your ego at the door.

Were there things you thought would happen that didn't?

Things I imagined would happen, but so far haven't:

1) Fan letters
2) Bad reviews
3) Local fame


1) Second-hand fan letters
2) A lovely review in Publishers Weekly
3) Number of copies my mother purchased

Second-hand fan letters?

Not second-hand letters...but praise. I've received some really positive comments about the book from people indirectly: a friend of a friend says something about the book in a bar or someone forwards me an e-mail they received which mentions something about a reading I gave that they attended. I've had very few people contact me directly, but I'm getting some positive
feedback through indirect sources.

What influence has the book's publication had on your subsequent writing?

I've been resting a bit from writing. I didn't have a second book really started when my first book was published and I think there's a gift in being immersed in a project when your book is finally published--I found myself stalling out a little in generating new work. It's sometimes a little frightening to think about and I'm a little disappointed that publication hasn't somehow inspired me to write more. But the truth is, it's been very difficult to manage the more "public" side of life that the book has created (readings, teaching, etc.) and the more private and solitary side that my writing practice seems to require. I also really threw myself into the promotion end of the book as a kind of experiment--and have had a pretty heavy reading schedule, so I sort of let go of writing for awhile. Reading and touring has taken an enormous amount of energy--much more than I expected (the curse of being an introvert, I guess) and I really haven't felt capable of writing, lately. I hope that will change soon.

Aesthetically speaking, I'd also say that publishing the book caused me to think more deeply about some of the strategies and techniques I've been using. The book is very spare and economical in its language--the hope was to create work where no word is lost or wasted. It's a high ambition and probably is one of the book's mistakes--like many first books, the work IS ambitious. Does that make sense? In any of the new writing I'm doing, I can feel myself trying to loosen up the syntax and create a more baggy atmosphere for the voice of the poem. This impulse is directly related to the experience of the first book--which reminds me of something one of my teachers once said: "You're writing this poem to write the next poem."

I saw at The Lovely Arc and Yes, Starlings! Yes! wonderful descriptions of your recent reading in Nebraska with Paula Cisewski and Sarah Fox. Reading each other's poems, reading multi-voice poems together, weaving in & out of each other's sets--sounded great! Have you read with these women before? Or is this something you put together on the fly?

I'm so blessed to live in a community full of writers. Minneapolis is really an amazing literary town and there are so many amazing poets and writers here. I had been a fan of Sarah and Paula's work for awhile--it was just a coincidence that we all published our first books at the same time. I think I approached Sarah about trying some events together and she suggested adding Paula to the line-up. It's been a wonderful experience, because I feel a deep kinship with their work. I think we feel a lot of respect for each other and there doesn't seem to be a lot of competition among us--which is so refreshing. We took a trip to Fargo, North Dakota, and I think Sarah suggested that we read from each others' work. From there, our "set" has just developed organically. As we do more readings together, I think the performances become more dynamic--so I hope we'll continue.

Do you believe that poetry can create change in the world?

Yes, because of the way poetry engages, incites and changes our thinking individually, I do think it can create change in the world; one person at a time. It's a very subtle and slow-growth kind of change--perhaps akin to mediation or prayer--and perhaps it's the kind of influence that is often difficult to measure or see, particularly in a capitalist society, where the measure of success or change is made in economic terms.

What did Wallace Stevens say? Something like: "Poets are the priests of the invisible." I think about this phrase a lot--as both a comment on the task of poetry to attempt to know what's unknowable and as the poet's role in the society. Sam Hamill has a nice phrase for it, "shadow work"--the job of the poet is integral to the health of any given community, though often unseen.

Poetry, at its best, galvanizes and shatters the spirit. I can't think of a better agent of change.


A poem from The Truant Lover by Juliet Patterson:

From the Velocities

If the Polaroid yellows in time,
not history. If the face is composed
of fourteen bones. The essence, face, the enemy,
arms. If muscle extends the wrist and abducts
the hand, without politic as our engagement.
The index finger can be extended or pointed
while others flex. If the artery is exposed
by making an incision
scattering pigeons. If the city stands on a single finger, a dirty
window. We hang something in its dark little cubes:
the track, the spur & rusty ends of space,
grease. If fingers on the bundled throats of wheat
sweep the fence line, words in a book, a shot.
If action of the muscle is therefore to throw
forearm and hand into position they naturally occupy
when placed across the chest. If our hands, likewise fall
underneath the tree, a pulse in a thumb of a map
composing field. If wind seizes the tree
& ha ha if the heart
lies obliquely in the chest,
a mind which is our being,
wrong & wrong.

. . .

read more first-book interviews

. . .


27 JUNE 06

Week 18, 14 sentences:

We had so many dogs and cats in our apartment! And we needed one more cat to make something happen. Then somebody came--to give us that extra cat we needed--and she seemed impressed by all the animals we had. But that's when a dog started biting my toe and I realized that one or two of these dogs we didn't know very well.

What is faith but a picture that we carry with us? They all caught the same disease, most survived. "Ink or chicken. Chuck?"

Right about then they got the idea to set the town on fire. I have the feeling that he set to work. It took him years. Disappointed, always feeling like a disappointment. Hiding that. I always liked him but, you know, I wasn't that much of a fan.


25 JUNE 06

He threw this blue blanket over our heads so we were in a tent of blue and the light was very blue. So we were looking at each other in this tent and I said, "I love you." And he laughed, a kind of short laugh, and said, "Spoken like a true Christian," which didn't seem too romantic of him.

I wondered if he would die in my arms. And I wondered if I'd understand the evidence. I wondered what I would do if he didn't die. This went on for quite a while.

I understood it as the part of our mind that we don't really know about--where dreams come from, and where the memories of everyone are stored. From the beginning of time.

There are rooftops wherever you go. Trees, almost everywhere around here. I miss you.


23 JUNE 06

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